hetty gray or, nobody's bairn by rosa mulholland (lady gilbert) contents i. four years old ii. under the horses' feet iii. adopted iv. mrs. kane in trouble v. a lonely child vi. hetty and her "cousins" vii. hetty's first lessons viii. hetty desolate ix. what to do with her? x. the new home xi. hetty turns rebel xii. a cottage child again xiii. a trick on the governess xiv. hetty's constancy xv. the children's dance xvi. a trial of patience xvii. hetty's future is planned xviii. reine gaythorne xix. if she was drowned, how can she be hetty? xx. happy hetty chapter i. four years old. in all england there is not a prettier village than wavertree. it has no streets; but the cottages stand about the roads in twos and threes, with their red-tiled roofs, and their little gardens, and hedges overrun with flowering weeds. under a great sycamore tree at the foot of a hill stands the forge, a cave of fire glowing in the shadows, a favourite place for the children to linger on their way to school, watching the smith hammering at his burning bars, and hearing him ring his cheery chimes on the anvil. who shall say what mystery surrounds the big smith, as he strides about among his fires, to the wide bright eyes that peer in at him from under baby brows, or what meanings come out of his clinking music to four-year-old or eight-year-old ears? little hetty was only four years old when she stood for five or ten minutes of one long summer day looking in at the forge, and watching and listening with all the energy that belonged to her. she had a little round pink face with large brown eyes as soft as velvet, and wide open scarlet lips. her tiny pink calico frock was clean and neat, and her shoes not very much broken, though covered with dust. altogether hetty had the look of a child who was kindly cared for, though she had neither father nor mother in the world. two or three great strong horses, gray and bay, with thick manes and tails, came clattering up to the door of the forge, a man astride on one of them. hetty knew the horses, which belonged to wavertree hall, and were accustomed to draw the long carts which brought the felled trees out of the woods to the yard at the back of the hall. hetty once had thought that the trees were going to be planted again in mrs. enderby's drawing-room, and had asked why the pretty green leaves had all been taken off. she was four years old now, however, and she knew that the trees were to be chopped up for firewood. she clapped her hands in delight as the great creatures with their flowing manes came trotting up with their mighty hoofs close to her little toes. "you little one, run away," cried the man in care of the horses; and hetty stole into the forge and stood nearer to the fire than she had ever dared to do before. "hallo!" shouted big ben the smith; "if this mite hasn't got the courage of ten! be off, you little baggage, if you don't want to have those pretty curls o' yours singed away as bare as a goose at michaelmas! as for sparks in your eyes, you sha'n't have 'em, for you don't want 'em. eyes are bright enough to light up a forge for themselves." "aye," said the carter, "my missus and i often say she's too pretty a one for the likes of us to have the bringing up of on our hands. and she's a rare one for havin' her own way, she is. just bring her out by the hand, will you, ben, while i keep these horses steady till she gets away?" big ben led the little maid outside the forge, and said, "now run away and play with the other children"; and then he went back to set about the shoeing of john kane's mighty cart-horses, or rather the cart-horses of mr. enderby of wavertree hall. little hetty, thus expelled, dared not return to the forge, but she walked backwards down the road, gazing at the horses as long as she could see them. she loved the great handsome brutes, and if she had had her will would have been sitting on one of their backs with her arms around his neck. coming to a turn of the road from which a path led on to an open down, she blew a farewell kiss to the horses and skipped away across the grass among the gold-hearted, moonfaced daisies, and the black-eyed poppies in their scarlet hoods. there were no other children to be seen, but hetty made herself happy without them. a large butterfly fluttered past her, almost brushing her cheek, and hetty threw back her curly head and gazed at its beauty in astonishment. it was splendid with scarlet and brown and gold, and hetty, after a pause of delighted surprise, dashed forward with both her little fat arms extended to capture it. it slipped through her fingers; but just as she was pulling down her baby lips to cry, a flock of white and blue butterflies swept across her eyes, and made her laugh again as she pursued them in their turn. at last she stumbled into a damp hollow place where a band of golden irises stood among their tall shafts of green like royal ladies surrounded by warriors. hetty caught sight of the yellow wing-like petals of the flag-lilies and grasped them with both hands. alas! they were not alive, but pinned to the earth by their strong stems. the butterflies were gone, the flowers were not living. the little girl plucked the lilies and tried to make them fly, but their heads fell heavily to the ground. a big plough-boy came across the downs, and he said as he passed hetty, "what are you picking the heads off the flowers for, you young one?" "why won't they fly like the butterflies?" asked hetty. "because they were made to grow." "why can't i fly, too?" "because you were made to run." when hetty went into the school she had a scratch from a briar all across her cheek. "you are quite late, hetty gray," said the schoolmistress. "and what have you been doing to scratch your face?" "i was trying to make the flowers fly," said hetty; and then she was put to stand in the corner in disgrace with her face to the wall. chapter ii. under the horses' feet. mrs. kane's cottage stood on a pretty bend of one of the village roads, and belonged to an irregular cluster of little houses with red gables and green palings. it was among the poorest dwellings in wavertree, but was neat and clean. the garden was in good order, and a white climbing rose grew round the door, that sweet old-fashioned rose with its delicious scent which makes the air delightful wherever it blows. the cottage door stood open, and the afternoon sunlight fell across the old red tiles of the kitchen floor. the tiles were a little broken, and here and there they were sunk and worn; but they were as clean as hands could make them, as mrs. kane would have said. a little window at one side looked down the garden, and across it was a frilled curtain, and on the sill a geranium in full flower. on the other side was the fire-place, with chintz frill and curtains, and the grate filled with a great bush of green beech-leaves. a table set on the red tiles was spread for tea, and by it sat mrs. kane and her friend mrs. ford enjoying a friendly cup together. "she _is_ late this evening," mrs. kane was saying; "but she'll turn up all right by and by. if she's wild she's sharp, which is still something. she never gets under horses' feet, nor drops into the pond, or anything of that sort. if she did those sort of things, being such a rover, mrs. ford, you see i never should have an easy moment in my life." "i must say it's very good of you to take to do with her," said mrs. ford, "and she nobody belonging to you. if she was your own child--" "well, you see, my own two dears went to heaven with the measles," said mrs. kane, "and i felt so lonesome without them, that when john walked in with the little bundle in his arms that night, i thought he was just an angel of light." "it was on the long sands he found her, wasn't it?" asked mrs. ford, balancing her spoon on the edge of her cup. "on the long sands after the great storm," said mrs. kane; "and that's just four years ago in may gone by. how a baby ever lived through the storm to be washed in by the sea alive always beats me when i think of it, it seems so downright unnatural; and yet that's the way that providence ordered it, mrs. ford." "i suppose all her folks were drowned?" said mrs. ford. "most like they were, for it was a bad wreck, as i've heard," said mrs. kane. "leastways, nobody has ever come to claim her, and no questions have been asked. unless it was much for her good i would fain hope that nobody ever will claim her now. wild as she is, i've grown to love that little hetty, so i have. ah, here she is coming along, as hungry as a little pussy for her milk, i'll be bound!" hetty came trudging along the garden path, her curls standing up in a bush on her head, her little fat fingers stained green with grass, and her pinafore, no longer green, filled with moon-daisies. she was singing with her baby voice lifted bravely: "dust as i am i come to zee--" "dust indeed!" cried mrs. kane, "_i_ never saw such dust. only look at her shoes that i blacked this morning!" "poor dear, practising her singing," said mrs. ford. "well, little lass, and what have you been seeing and doing all day long?" "i saw big ben poking his fire," answered hetty after a moment's reflection. "he put me out, and then i saw him hurting the horses' feet with his hammer. i wanted the horses to come along with me, but they shook their heads and stayed where they were. then i tried to catch the butterflies, and they flew right past my eyes. and i thought the yellow lilies could fly too, and they wouldn't. then i pulled their heads off--" "and were you not at school at all?" asked mrs. ford. "well, well, hetty, you are wild. if you saw my little boys going so good to their school! what more did you do, hetty?" "i went into school, and schoolmistress put me in a corner. then i drew marks with my tears on the wall; and afterwards i said my spelling. and i came home and got some daisies; and i saw charlie ford standing in the pond with his shoes and stockings on." "oh my! oh my! well i never!" cried mrs. ford, snatching up her bonnet, and getting ready to go home in a hurry. "charley in the pond with his shoes and stockings on! it seems, mrs. kane, that i've been praising him too soon!" while mrs. ford was running down the road after charley, mrs. enderby, up at wavertree hall, was directing her servants to carry the table for tea out upon the lawn under the wide-spreading beech-trees; and her two little daughters, phyllis aged eight and nell aged seven, were hovering about waiting to place baskets of flowers and strawberries on the embroidered cloth. mrs. rushton, sister-in-law of mrs. enderby and aunt of the children, was spending the afternoon at the hall, having come a distance of some miles to do so. mrs. enderby was a tall graceful lady, with a pale, gentle, but rather cold face; her dress was severely simple and almost colourless; her voice was sweet. mrs. rushton was unlike her in every respect, low in size, plump, smiling, and dressed in the most becoming and elegant fashion. mrs. enderby spoke slowly and with deliberation; mrs. rushton kept chattering incessantly. "well, amy," said the former, "i hope you will talk to william about it, and perhaps he may induce you to change your mind. here he is," as a gentleman was seen coming across the lawn. mrs. rushton shrugged her shoulders. "my dear isabel," she said, "i do not see what william has to do with it. i am my own mistress, and surely old enough to judge for myself." the two little girls sprang to meet their father, and dragged him by the hands up to the tea-table. "william," said mrs. enderby, "i want you to remonstrate with amy." "it seems to me i am always remonstrating with amy," said mr. enderby smiling; "what wickedness is she meditating now?" mrs. rushton laughed gaily, dipped a fine strawberry into cream and ate it. her laugh was pleasant, and she had a general air of good humour and self-complacency about her which some people mistook for exceeding amiability. "isabel thinks i am going to destruction altogether," said she, preparing another strawberry for its bath of cream; "only because i am thinking of going abroad with lady harriet beaton. surely i have a right to arrange my own movements and to select my own friends." mr. enderby looked very grave. "no one can deny your right to do as you please," he said; "but i hope that on reflection you will not please to go abroad with lady harriet beaton." "why!" "surely you know she is not a desirable companion for you, amy. i hope you have not actually promised to accompany her." "well, i think i have, almost. she is very gay and charming, and i cannot think why you should object to her. if i were a young girl of sixteen, instead of a widow with long experience, you could not make more fuss about the matter." "as your brother i am bound to object to such a scheme," said mr. enderby. mrs. rushton pouted. "it is all very well for you and isabel to talk," she said, "you have each other and your children to interest you. if i had children--had only one child, i should not care for running about the world or making a companion of lady harriet." mrs. enderby looked at her sister-in-law sympathetically; but mr. enderby only smiled. "my dear amy," he said, "you know very well that if you had children they would be the most neglected little mortals on the face of the earth. ever since i have known you, a good many years now, i have seen you fluttering about after one whim or another, and never found you contented with anything long. if phyllis and nell here were your daughters instead of isabel's, they would be away at school somewhere, whilst their mother would be taking her turn upon all the merry-go-rounds of the world." "thank you, you are very complimentary," said mrs. rushton; and then she laughed carelessly: "after all, the merry-go-rounds, as you put it, are much better fun than sitting in a nursery or a school-room. but i assure you i am not so frivolous as you think; i have been going out distributing tracts lately with mrs. sourby." "indeed, and last winter i know you were attending lectures on cookery, and wanted to become a lecturer yourself." "yes, and only for something that happened, i forget what, i might now be a useful member of society. but chance does so rule one's affairs. at present it is fate's decree that i shall spend the next few months at pontresina." mr. enderby made a gesture as if to say that he would remonstrate no more, and went off to play lawn tennis with his little girls. mrs. rushton rose from her seat, yawned, and declared to mrs. enderby that it was six o'clock and quite time for her to return towards home, as she had a drive of two hours before her. shortly afterwards she was rolling along the avenue in her carriage, and through the village, and out by one of the roads towards the open country. now little hetty gray ought to have been in her bed by this time, or getting ready for it; but she was, as mrs. kane told mrs. ford, a very wild little girl, though sharp; and while mrs. kane was busy giving her husband his supper hetty had escaped from the cottage once more, and had skipped away from the village to have another little ramble by herself before the pretty green woods should begin to darken, and the moon to come up behind the trees. hetty had filled her lap with dog-roses out of the hedges, and wishing to arrange them in a bunch which she could carry in her hand, she sat down in the middle of the road and became absorbed in her work. near where she sat there was a sharp turning in the road, and hetty was so busy that she did not hear the sound of a carriage coming quite near her. suddenly the horses turned the corner. hetty saw them and jumped up in a fright, but too late to save herself from being hurt. she was flung down upon the road, though the coachman pulled up in time to prevent the wheels passing over her. poor hetty gave one scream and then nothing more was heard from her. the footman got down and looked at her, and then he went and told the lady in the carriage that he feared the child was badly hurt. "oh dear!" said the lady, "what brought her under the horses' feet? can you not pick her up?" the footman went back to hetty and tried to lift her in his arms, but she uttered such pitiful screams at being touched that he was obliged to lay her down again. then the lady, who was mrs. rushton, got out and looked at her. "you must put her in the carriage," she said, "and drive back to the village. i suppose she belongs to some of the people there." "i know her, ma'am," said the footman; "she is mrs. kane's little girl,--little hetty gray." mrs. rushton got into the carriage again and held the child on her lap while they were being driven back to the village to mrs. kane's cottage door. it was quite a new sensation to the whimsical lady of fashion to hold a suffering child in her arms, and she was surprised to find that, in spite of her first feelings of impatience at being stopped on the road, she rather liked it. as hetty's little fair curly head hung back helplessly over her arm, and the round soft cheek, turned so white, touched her breast, mrs. rushton felt a motherly sensation which she had never before known in all her frivolous life. mrs. kane was out at the garden gate looking up and down the road for the missing hetty. when she saw hetty lifted out of the carriage she began to cry. "oh my! my!" she sobbed, "i never thought it would come to this with her, and she so sharp. thank you, madam, thank you, i'm sure. she's not my own child, but i feel it as much as if she was." mrs. rushton then sent the carriage off for the doctor and went into the cottage with mrs. kane. the child was laid as gently as possible on a poor but clean bed covered with a patchwork quilt of many colours, and the lady of fashion sat by her side, bathing the baby forehead with eau de cologne which she happened to have with her. it was all new and unexpectedly interesting to mrs. rushton. never had she been received as a friend in a cottage home before, the only occasions when she had even seen the inside of one were those on which she had accompanied mrs. sourby on her mission of distributing tracts; and on those occasions she had felt that she was not looked on as a friend by the poor who received her, but rather as an intruder. it was evident now that good, grieved mrs. kane took her for an angel as she sat by the little one's bed, and it was new and delightful to mrs. rushton to be regarded as a benefactress by anyone. the doctor arrived, set the child's arm, which was found to be broken, and gave her something to make her fall asleep. then he charmed mrs. rushton by complimenting that lady on her goodness of heart. "remember, all the expense is to be mine," she said to him, "and i hope you will order the little one everything she can possibly require. i will come to see her to-morrow, mrs. kane, and bring her some flowers and fruit." the pretty green woods which hetty loved had grown dark, the butterflies had flown away to whatever dainty lodging butterflies inhabit during the summer nights, the yellow wings of the flag-lilies fluttered unseen in the shadows, and the moon had risen high above the tall beech-trees and the old church tower. mrs. rushton stepped into her carriage once more, and was driven rapidly through the quiet village, away towards her own luxurious home, feeling more interested and excited than she had felt for a long time. little hetty gray, her scare of fright and pain gone for the time like a bad dream, lay sound asleep upon her humble bed, and mrs. kane, trimming her night-light, paused to listen, with that fascination which many people feel at the sound, to the hoarse boom of the old church clock calling the hour of midnight, across the chimneys of the village and away over the silent solemn woods. mrs. kane felt with a sort of awe that another day had begun, but she little knew that with it a strange new leaf had been turned in the story of her little hetty's life. chapter iii. adopted. mrs. rushton returned the next day with a basket of ripe peaches and a large bouquet of lovely flowers such as hetty had never seen before. the yellow lilies might stand now in peace among their tall flag leaves without fearing to have their heads picked off, for hetty had got something newer and more delightful to admire than they. odorous golden roses and pearl-white gardenias scented and beautified the poor little room where hetty lay. where had they come from, she wondered, and who was the pretty lady who sat by her side and kept putting nice-smelling things to her nose? at first she was very shy and only looked at her with half-closed eyes, but after some time she took courage and spoke to her. "what kind lady are you?" asked hetty boldly. "i am a good fairy," said mrs. rushton, "and when you are well i am going to carry you off to see my house." "hetty has got a house," said the little girl complacently. "have you got a house too?" "a splendid large house, hetty," said mrs. kane. "_you_ never saw such a house." "is it bigger than the post-office?" said hetty doubtingly. "bigger far." "bigger than the forge?" "don't be foolish, child, and stop your biggers," said mrs. kane; "mrs. rushton's house is the size of the church and more." hetty winked with astonishment, and she lay silent for some time, till at last she said: "and do you sit in the pulpit?" mrs. rushton laughed more than she was accustomed to laugh at lady harriet beaton's comic stories. this child's prattle was amusing to her. "and do you have grave-stones growing round your door?" persisted hetty. "there, ma'am!" cried mrs. kane, "she'll worry you with questions if you give her a bit of encouragement. she'll think of things that'll put you wild for an answer, so she will. john and i give her up." mrs. rushton was not at all inclined to give her up, however, for she kept coming day after day to visit the little patient. hetty became fond of her pleasant visitor, and watched eagerly for her arrival in the long afternoons when the flies buzzed so noisily in the small cottage window-panes, and the child found it hard to lie still and hear the voices of the village children shouting and laughing at their play in the distance. as soon as mrs. rushton's bright eyes were seen in the doorway, and her gay dress fluttering across the threshold, hetty would stretch out her one little hand in welcome to the delightful visitor, and laugh to see all the pretty presents that were quickly strewn around her on the bed. after spending an afternoon with the child, mrs. rushton often went on to wavertree hall and finished the evening there with her brother's family. mr. and mrs. enderby were greatly astonished to find how completely their lively sister had interested herself in the village foundling. "take care you do not spoil her," said mr. enderby. mrs. rushton shrugged her shoulders. "i can never please you," she said. "one would suppose i had found a harmless amusement this time at least, and yet you do not approve." "i do approve," said her brother, "up to a certain point. i only warn you not to go too far and make the child unhappy by over-petting her. in a few weeks hence you will have forgotten her existence, and then the little thing will be disappointed." "but i have no intention of forgetting her in a few weeks," said mrs. rushton indignantly. "no; you have no intention--" said mr. enderby. "you certainly are a most unsympathetic person," said mrs. rushton; and she went away feeling herself much ill-used, and firmly believing herself to be the only kind-hearted member of her family. "after all, william," said mrs. enderby to her husband, "you ought not to be too hard upon amy, for you see she has given up talking of going abroad with lady harriet." "true; i have noticed that. yet i fear she will not relinquish one folly without falling into another." "her present whim is at all events an amiable one," said mrs. enderby gently. "let us hope no harm may come of it.' "i should think it all most natural and right if any other woman than amy were in question," said mr. enderby; "but one never knows to what extravagant lengths she will go." the warnings of her brother had the effect of making mrs. rushton still more eager in her attendance on the child, and a few days after she had been "lectured" by him, as she put it to herself, she astonished good mrs. kane by saying: "i think she is quite fit to be moved now, mrs. kane, and the doctor says so. i am going to take her home with me for a week for change of air." "laws, ma'am, you never mean it!" "but i do mean it. i am going to fatten her up and finish her cure." "well, ma'am, i'm sure you are the kindest of the kind. to think of you troubling yourself and putting yourself out, and all for our little hetty." "that is my affair," said mrs. rushton laughing; "i don't think a mite like that will disturb my household very much. just you pack her up, and i will carry her off with me to-morrow at three." the next day the lady carried off her prize, greatly delighted to think of how shocked her brother would be when he heard of her new "folly." as soon as she had introduced hetty to all her dogs, and cats, and rabbits, mrs. rushton went to her desk and wrote a note to her sister-in-law inviting the entire wavertree family to spend a day at amber hill, which was the name of her charming dwelling-place. when, on a certain morning, therefore, the wavertree carriage stopped at the foot of the wide flight of steps, flanked by urns of blooming flowers, which led up to mrs. rushton's great hall door, the mistress of amber hill was seen descending the stone stair leading a little child by the hand. this was hetty, dressed in a white frock of lace and muslin, and decked with rose-coloured ribbons. "isn't she a little beauty?" said mrs. rushton, smiling mischievously at her grave brother and sister-in-law. "look up, my darling, and show your pretty brown velvet eyes. did you ever see such a tint in human cheeks, isabel, or such a crop of curling hair?" "do you really mean that this is the village child, amy?" asked her brother. "yes, little hetty is here!" said amy with a gleeful laugh; "but then, william, lady harriet is gone. if i had asked you to meet her to-day instead of little miss gray from wavertree, i wonder what you would have done to find a more disagreeable expression of countenance." "do you wish us to understand that you have adopted this 'nobody's child,' amy?" said mr. enderby, looking more and more troubled. "well, to tell you the truth, i did not mean that quite," said mrs. rushton; "but now that you suggest it--" "_i_ suggest it!" cried mr. enderby. "how horrified you look! but all the same you have suggested it, and i think it is a capital idea." "do not come to any hasty conclusion, i implore you, amy. think over it well. consider the child's interests more than your own momentary self-indulgence!" mrs. rushton coloured with displeasure. "i see you are determined to be as disagreeable as usual," she said angrily. "as if the monkey could fail to be benefited by my patronage! pray, will she not be better in my drawing-room than getting under horses' feet about the wavertree roads, or losing herself in the wavertree woods?" "frankly, i think not," said mr. enderby stiffly. mrs. rushton's eyes flashed, and she did her brother the injustice of thinking that he feared her adoption of little hetty would in some way interfere with the worldly interests of his own children. she was not accustomed to seek far for other people's meanings and motives, and generally seized on the first which presented itself to her mind. she knew that she only wanted to amuse herself, and had no intention of wronging her nieces and nephew by playing with this charming babe. why, then, should william take such fancies in his head? in this flash of temper she instantly decided on keeping little hetty always with her. was there any reason in the world why she should not do just as she pleased? hetty should certainly stay with her and be as her own child from this day forth. "what have _you_ to say about my adopting little hetty?" she said, turning to her sister-in-law with a slightly defiant and wholly triumphant smile. "i shall say nothing," said mrs. enderby, "until i see how you treat her. i trust it may turn out for the best." thus, all in a moment, and merely because mrs. rushton would not be contradicted, was little hetty's future in this world decided. before her brother had spoken, the lady of amber hill had had no intention of keeping hetty for more than a week in her house. and now she felt bound (by the laws of human perversity) to take her and bring her up as her own child. in the meantime mrs. enderby's three children and hetty gray were standing by, gazing at one another. the little enderbys, mark, phyllis, and nell, had taken in the whole conversation, and understood perfectly, with the quick perception of children, the strangeness of the situation, and their own peculiar position with regard to mrs. kane's little girl from wavertree. the little enderbys were thinking how very odd it was that the little girl whom they had often seen, as they walked with their nurse or drove past in the carriage with their mother, playing on the roads in a soiled pinafore, should be now presented to them as a new cousin. phyllis, the eldest, was much displeased, for pride was her ruling fault. mark and nell were charmed with the transformation in hetty and very much disposed to accept her as a playfellow, though they remembered all the time that she was not their equal. hetty, being only four years old, was supremely unconscious of all that was being said, and meant, and thought over her curly head. she gazed at the three other children, and, repelled by phyllis's cold gaze, turned to mark and nell, and stretched out a little fat hand to each of them. "come and see the beautiful flowers!" she said gleefully; "you never saw such lovely ones!" chapter iv. mrs. kane in trouble. "now, tell me all about it, for as i am going to be her mother in future i must know everything that concerns my child." mrs. rushton was talking to mrs. kane, having come to the cottage to announce her intention of adopting hetty. mrs. kane was crying bitterly. "you'll excuse me, ma'am. i would not stand in the way of my darling's good fortune, not for ever so, i'm sure. and yet it's hard to give her up." "i should not have thought it could make much difference to you. i believe she was generally running about the roads when not at school." "well, you see, ma'am, that is true; but at night and in the mornings she would kneel on my lap to say her prayers, and put her little soft arms round my neck. and those are the times i'll mostly miss her." mrs. rushton coughed slightly. she herself liked the sight of hetty's pretty face, and was amused by her prattle; but she was not a woman to think much about the feel of a child's arms around her neck. mrs. kane, perceiving that she was not understood, sprang up from her seat and went to fetch a parcel from an inner room. "this is the little shift she wore when i first set eyes on her. it is the only rag she brought with her; though not much of a rag, i'm bound to say; for so pretty an article of the kind i never saw," said the good woman, spreading out on the table an infant's garment of the finest cambric embroidered delicately round the neck and sleeves. in the corner was a richly wrought monogram of the initials h.g. "and that's why we called her hetty gray," said mrs. kane. "john and i made up the name to suit the letters. if ever her friends turn up they'll know the difference, but in the meantime we had to have something to call her by." "why, this is most interesting!" said mrs. rushton, examining the monogram; "she probably belonged to people of position. it is quite satisfactory that she should prove to be a gentlewoman by birth." "and that is why i feel bound to give her up, ma'am," said mrs. kane, wiping her overflowing eyes. "i've always put it before me that some day or other her folks would come wanting her, and i've said to myself that it would be terrible if she had grown up in the meantime with no better education than if she was born a village lass. and yet what better could i have done for her than i could have done for a daughter of my own if i had had one?" "just so," said mrs. rushton; "and now you may be sure that she will be educated, trained, dressed, and everything else, just as if she had been in her mother's house. as for her own people coming for her, i am not sure that i shall give her up if they do. not unless i have grown tired of her in the meantime." "tired of her!" echoed mrs. kane, looking at her visitor in great surprise; "surely, madam, you do not think you will get tired of our little hetty!" "i hope not, my good woman; but even if i do you cannot complain, as in that case i shall give her back to you; that is, if it happens before her friends come to fetch her. unless you are pretending to grieve now, you cannot be sorry at the prospect of having her again." "that's true," said the poor woman in a puzzled tone, and she still looked wistfully at the handsome visitor sitting before her. she did not know how to express herself, and she was afraid of offending the lady who was going to be hetty's mother; yet she felt eager to make some remonstrance against the injustice of the proceeding which mrs. rushton spoke of as within the bounds of possibility. she believed in her heart that a great wrong would be done if the child, having been educated and accustomed to luxury for years, were to be carelessly thrown back into a life of lowly poverty. however, the trouble that was in her heart could not find its way through her lips, and she tried to think that mrs. rushton spoke only in jest. "it is altogether like a romance," that lady was saying as she folded up the baby garment and put it away in a pretty scented satchel which she wore at her side. "i have not met with anything so interesting for years, and i promise myself a great deal of pleasure in the matter." "may hetty come to see me sometimes?" asked mrs. kane, humbly curtseying her good-bye, when her visitor was seated in her pony phaeton and gathering up the reins for flight. "oh, certainly, as often as you please," answered mrs. rushton gaily, and touching the ponies with her whip she was soon out of sight; while poor mrs. kane retreated into her cottage to have a good motherly cry over the tiny broken shoes and the little washed-out faded frocks which were now all that remained to her of her foster-daughter. chapter v. a lonely child. mrs. rushton having adopted hetty, set about extracting the utmost amount of amusement possible from the presence of the child in her home. she soon grew anxious to get away from her brother's "unpleasantly sensible remarks," and isabel's gentle excuses for her conduct, which annoyed her even more, as they always suggested motives for her actions which were far beyond her ken, and seemed far-fetched, over-strained, and absurd. so she took the child to london, where she introduced her to her friends as her latest plaything. hetty had frocks of all the colours of the rainbow, and learned to make saucy speeches which entertained mrs. rushton's visitors. she sat beside her new mamma as she drove in her victoria in the park; and on mrs. rushton's "at home" days was noticed and petted by fashionable ladies and gentlemen, her beauty praised openly to her face, her pretty clothes remarked upon, and her childish prattle laughed at and applauded as the wittiest talk in the world. certainly there were many days when hetty's presence was wearisome and intolerable to her benefactress, and then she was banished to a large gloomy room at the top of the london house, and left to the tender mercies of a maid, who did not at all forget that she was only mrs. kane's little girl from the village of wavertree, and treated her accordingly. she was often left alone for hours, amusing herself as best she could, crying when she felt very lonely, or leaning far out of the window to feel nearer to the people in the street. the consequence of all this was to spoil the child's naturally sweet temper, to teach her to crave for excitement, and to suffer keenly, when, after a full feast of pleasure, she was suddenly snubbed, scolded, deserted, and forgotten. she began to hate the sight of the bare silent nursery upstairs, where there were no pretty pictures to bear her company, no pleasant little adornments, no diversions such as a mother places in the room where her darlings pass many of their baby hours. it was a motherless, blank, nursery, where the only nurse was the maid, who came and went, and looked upon hetty as a nuisance; an extra trouble for which she had not been prepared when she engaged to live with mrs. rushton. "sit down there and behave yourself properly, if you can, till i come back," she would say, and seat hetty roughly in a chair and go away and leave her there, shutting the door. at first hetty used to weep dolefully, and sometimes cried herself to sleep; but after a time she became used to her lonely life, and only thought of how she could amuse herself during her imprisonment. she counted the carriages passing the window till she was tired, and watched the little children playing in the garden of the square beyond; but at last she would get bolder, sometimes, and venture out of her nursery to take a peep at the other rooms of the house. one day she made her way down to mrs. rushton's bed-room; that lady had gone out and the servants were all downstairs. hetty contrived to pull out several drawers and played with ribbons and trinkets. at last she opened a case in which was her foster-mother's watch, and as this ticking bit of gold was like a living companion, hetty pounced upon it at once. she played all sorts of tricks with the watch, dressed it up in a towel and called it a baby; and making up her mind that baby wanted a bath, popped the watch into a basin of water and set about washing it thoroughly. just as she was working away with great energy the door opened and mrs. rushton came in. seeing what the child was doing she flew at her, snatched the watch from her hands, and slapped her violently on the arms and neck. hetty screamed, beat mrs. rushton on the face with both her little palms, and then was whirled away shrieking into the hands of the negligent maid, who shook her roughly as she carried her off to the miscalled "nursery." the little girl, who had never been instructed or talked to sensibly by any one, was quite unconscious of the mischief she had done; and only felt that big people were hateful to-day, as she lay kicking and screaming on the floor upstairs. the end of it all was, however, that, upon reflection, mrs. rushton found she did not care so much after all about the destruction of her watch, and that the whole occurrence would make a capital story to tell to her friends; and so she sent for hetty, who was then making a dismal play for herself in the twilight with two chairs turned upside down and a pinafore hung from one to another for a curtain. the child was seized by grant, the maid, dressed in one of her prettiest costumes, and taken down to the drawing-room to mrs. rushton, who had quite recovered her temper and forgotten both the beating she had given hetty and the beating hetty had given her. the culprit was overwhelmed with kisses, and praises of her pretty eyes; and soon found herself the centre of a brilliant little crowd who were listening with smiles to the story of hetty's ill-treatment of the watch. each year mrs. rushton went abroad for amusement and hetty was taken with her, and in foreign hotels was even more shown about, flattered and snubbed, petted and neglected, than she had been when at home in london. everything that could be done was done to make her vain, wilful, ill-tempered; and the little creature came to know that she might have anything she pleased if only she could make mrs. rushton laugh. four or five years passed in this way, during which time mrs. rushton had very little intercourse with her brother's family at wavertree. her country house had been shut up and her time had been spent between london, brighton, and fashionable resorts on the continent. in the meantime the education which she had promised mrs. kane should be given to her nursling had not been even begun. mrs. rushton had had no leisure to think of it. she looked upon hetty as still only a babe, a marmoset born to amuse her own hours of ennui. in her brother's occasional letters he sometimes devoted a line to hetty. "i hope you are not spoiling the little girl," he would add as a postscript; or, "i hope the child is learning something besides monkey-tricks." these insinuations always annoyed mrs. rushton, and she never condescended to answer them. the suggestion that she had incurred a great responsibility by adopting hetty was highly disagreeable to her. it is hard to say how long this state of things might have gone on had not mrs. rushton's health become delicate. she suddenly found herself unable to enjoy the gay life which was so much to her natural taste. the doctors recommended her a quiet sojourn in her native air, and warned her that she ought to live near friends who felt a real interest in her. of what these hints might mean mrs rushton did not choose to think, but physical weakness made her long for the rest of her own country home. chapter vi. hetty and her "cousins" one cool fresh evening in october mrs. rushton, hetty, grant the maid, and an old man-servant who followed his mistress everywhere, arrived at the railway-station near wavertree, and were driven along the old familiar country road with the soft purpled woods on one side, and the green plains and distant view of the sea on the other. they arrived at amber hill just as lights began to spring up in the long narrow windows of the comfortable old gray house, lights more near and bright than the stars burning dimly above the ancient cedar-trees in the avenue. hetty, dressed in a costly pelisse trimmed with fur, leaned forward, looking eagerly for the first glimpse of her new home. the child had now only faint recollections of wavertree, and of her life with mrs. kane in the village, and except for grant's ill-natured remarks from time to time she would have forgotten them altogether and imagined herself to be mrs. rushton's niece, as that lady called her when speaking of her to strangers. hetty hated grant, who always took a delight in lowering her pride, for by this time, it must be owned, pride had become hetty's besetting sin. mrs. rushton had perceived grant's disposition to snub and annoy the child, and with her usual determination to uphold and justify her own conduct and disappoint those who disapproved of her views, she had put down the maid's impertinence with a high hand, and had grown more and more careful of late to protect hetty's dignity before the servants. "i hope miss gray's room is as nice as i desired you to make it," she said to the housekeeper who was welcoming her in the hall. "i hope you have engaged a maid from the village to attend on her. i require all grant's attentions now myself," she added wearily, falling into a chair in a state of exhaustion. "hetty, my love, give me a kiss, and go and have a pretty frock put on for dinner." polly, the new maid, had already unpacked the little girl's trunks and was waiting in her room to dress her in white muslin and lace and arrange her soft dark curls in a charming wreath round her head. hetty's room was an exquisite little nest draped in pale blue chintz covered with roses, and with fantastic little brackets here and there bearing pretty statuettes and baskets of flowers. the housekeeper had not indeed neglected mrs. rushton's instructions with regard to the decoration of this apartment. "my, miss, but you have grown a fine tall girl!" said polly admiringly; "and won't mrs. kane be glad to see you again? i suppose you will be going to see her to-morrow?" "i am not sure," said hetty; "i don't remember mrs. kane." "don't you, miss? then you ought to, i am sure, for it was she that took care of you before mrs. rushton had you." "yes, i believe so," said hetty frowning, for she dreaded that polly was going to make a practice of taunting her with being a foundling, just as grant had always done. "and you ought to be very thankful to her," persisted polly, "although you are such a grand young lady now." "please to mind your own business," said hetty proudly; "you were engaged by mrs. rushton to dress me and not to give me lectures." polly was astonished and aggrieved. she did not know how hetty had been goaded on the subject of her past life by grant, and had fancied that as she had only a child to deal with she could say anything she chose quite freely. but though hetty was only nine, her experiences of the world had made her old beyond her years. polly only thought her a hard-hearted, haughty little wretch, too proud to be grateful to those who had been good to her. "far be it from me to think of lecturing you, miss hetty," she said; "but mind, i tell you, pride always gets a fall." "be silent!" cried hetty, stamping her small foot imperiously; "if mrs. rushton knew of your impertinence she would send you away to-night." it was thus that poor hetty already began to make enemies, while much requiring friends. next morning mrs. rushton and hetty drove over to wavertree to spend a few days at the hall, and on the way the lady stopped at mrs. kane's door in the village, and bade hetty alight and go in to pay a visit to her old protectress. with grant's taunts rankling in her memory and polly's reproaches fresh in her mind, hetty got out of the carriage reluctantly and went up to the door with a slow step. mrs. kane was busy over a tub in her little wash-house, and came out into the kitchen on hearing some one at the door. she wore a print short-gown and petticoat, and a poky sun-bonnet; and her bare arms were reeking with soap-suds. hetty shrank from her a little, and could not realize that she had ever belonged to a person with such an appearance as this. poor mrs. kane looked at her young visitor with a stare of wonder, and could never have guessed it was hetty had she not espied mrs. rushton's face through the open doorway, nodding pleasantly at her from the carriage. "why, little miss, you're never my little hetty?" cried the good woman, wiping her hands in her apron. "my name is hetty gray," said the little girl, holding up her pretty head adorned with a handsome hat and feathers. "and don't you remember me, my darling?" said mrs. kane, extending her arms; "me that used to nurse you and take care of you like my own! oh, don't go to say you forget all about your poor old mammy!" hetty hung her head. "i don't remember you at all," she said in a low trembling voice. her pride was stung to the quick at the thought that she had belonged to this vulgar person. "well, well! you were only a baby, to be sure, when you were taken away from me. but oh, my dear, i loved you like my own that went to heaven, so i did. and my john, he loved you too. come in here till i show you the bed you used to sleep in; and always you would be happier if you had a jugful of flowers on the window-sill to look at, falling asleep and coming awake again in the morning. to think of it being full five years ago, my pretty; and you turned into an elegant young lady in the time!" "did i really ever live here?" asked hetty; "really ever sleep in that bed?" "that you did; and slept well and were happy," said mrs. kane, beginning to feel hurt at the child's coldness. "come now, have you never a kiss to give to the poor old mammy that nursed you?" hetty held up her round sweet face, as fair and fresh as a damask rose, to be kissed, and submitted to mrs. kane's caresses rather from consciousness that she ought to do so, than from any warmth of gratitude in her own heart. so far from being grateful to the homely sun-burned woman who hugged her, she felt a sort of resentment towards her for finding her on the sea-shore and making a cottage child of her. it ought to have been mrs. rushton who found her, and perhaps she might have done so if mrs. kane or her husband had not been in such a hurry to take her in. then grant could not have taunted her with being a village foundling, and nobody could have declared she was not intended to be a lady. after her one embrace mrs. kane wiped her eyes and led the child out of the cottage to the carriage door. "ah, mrs. rushton!" she said, "this is your hetty now and not mine any more. what does a fine young lady like this want to know of a poor old mammy like me? i gave her to you, body and soul, five years ago, and may the good god grant that i did right! my little hetty, that loved the big moon-daisies and the field-lilies like her life, is as dead as my other children who are in heaven. it lies in your hands, ma'am, to make good or bad out of this one." "you are a curious woman, mrs. kane. i thought you would have been delighted to see what a little queen i have made of her." "queens require kingdoms, ma'am, and i make free to wish that your little lady may sit safe on her throne. and after that i can only hope that she has more heart for you than for me." "come, come, mrs. kane! you must not expect memory from a baby. hetty will soon renew her acquaintance with you, and you and she will be excellent friends." but mrs. kane was not slow to read the expression of hetty's large dark-fringed eyes, which, with all the frankness of childhood, betrayed their owner's thoughts; and she knew that hetty would find no pleasure in learning to recall the inglorious circumstances of her infancy. hetty had still less recollection of the enderby family than of mrs. kane, but she felt very much more willing to be introduced to its members than to the cottage woman. looking upon herself as mrs. rushton's only child, she considered the wavertree children as her cousins and their father and mother as her uncle and aunt. mrs. rushton had always talked to her of them in such a way as to lead her to regard them in this light. occasionally a strange little laugh or a few sarcastic words from mrs. rushton had grated on the child's ear in the midst of her foster-mother's pleasantly expressed anticipations of hetty's future intercourse with her own relations; and the little girl had, on such occasions, felt a chill of vague fear, and a momentary pang of anxiety as to the reception she might possibly meet with from these people, none of whom had ever been found by a poor labouring man alone on a wild sea-shore, or had lived with a humble woman in a cottage. that the "disgrace" of such a past clung round herself, grant's disagreeable eyes would never allow her to forget. such were poor hetty's disordered ideas with regard to herself and her little world, when mrs. rushton's carriage drew up that day before the door of wavertree hall. mrs. enderby was seated at her embroidery in the drawing-room beside her small elegant tea-table, and looked the very ideal of an english gentlewoman in her silver-gray silk and delicate lace ruffles, and with her fair, almost colourless hair twisted in neat shining braids round the back of her head. with her own faint sweet smile she welcomed her sister-in-law and inquired kindly for her health; and then she turned to hetty, who stood gazing steadily in her face, utterly unconscious of her own look of anxious inquiry. mrs. rushton had taken pains to make the most of hetty's uncommon beauty on this occasion, determined to take her friends by surprise and force them into an acknowledgment of the superiority of her own taste in adopting such a child. hetty was dressed in a dark crimson velvet frock, trimmed with rich old yellow lace, which enhanced the warmth and richness of her complexion, and gave a reflected glow to her dark and deep-fringed eyes. a crop of crisp short curls of a dusky chestnut colour was discovered when her hat was removed. no ungenerous prejudice prevented mrs. enderby from acknowledging at the first glance that hetty had a most charming countenance. "and this is hetty! how she has grown!" said mrs. enderby, taking the child's little hand between her own and looking at her in a friendly manner. with a swift pain, however, hetty remarked that she did not kiss her; but she was not aware that mrs. enderby, though a kind, was not a demonstrative woman, and that kisses were rarely bestowed by her on anyone. if hetty had put up her little face for a caress, mrs. enderby would have been very well pleased to lay her own cool cheek against the child's scarlet lips; but hetty's was one of those natures that desire tokens of love and are yet too proud to seek for them. she flushed to her hair, therefore, with mortification as mrs. enderby dropped her hand and turned away once more to her sister-in-law. "how tired you are! you look quite faint. allow me to take your bonnet; and do lie down on this couch while i make you a cup of tea. hetty must amuse herself with a piece of cake till my little girls come in from their walk. i have got such a nice governess for them, amy. mark, you know, is gone to eton." the ladies continued to converse, and hetty sat forgotten for the moment, eating her cake. she ate it very slowly, anxious to make it last as long as possible, for she felt that when it was finished she should not know what to do with herself. when even the crumbs were gone she folded her hands and counted the flowers on the wall-paper, and discovered among them a grinning face which certainly had been no acquaintance of the designer's, but had started suddenly out of the pattern merely to make cruel fun of hetty's uneasiness. at last, after some time which seemed to the little girl quite a year at least, mrs. enderby rang the bell and asked if the young ladies had come in from walking. the servant said they were just going to tea in the school-room, and mrs enderby turned to hetty, saying: "go, my dear, with peter, and he will show you the school-room. tell phyllis and nell that i sent you to play with them." hetty followed the servant; but as she went across the hall and up the staircase she felt with a swelling heart that had she been the real cousin of these children, and not an "upstart" (grant's favourite word), they would perhaps have been sent for to the drawing-room to be presented to her. accustomed as she was to be alternately petted and snubbed, she had acquired the habit of watching the movements of her elders with suspicion, and now concluded that because no fuss was made about her she must therefore be despised. a hard proud spirit entered into her on the moment, and she resolved that though she had been humble in her demeanour towards mrs. enderby she would hold her head high with girls who were not very much older than herself. peter was a young footman who had been brought up in the village and trained by the butler at the hall, and who consequently knew all about hetty's history. he did not intend to do more than just show the little girl which was the school-room door, and was amused and surprised when the child said to him with great dignity, "please announce miss gray." peter hid his smile, and throwing open the door very wide he pronounced her name, as she desired, in an unusually loud tone of voice. miss davis, the governess, had just raised the tea-pot in her hand to fill the cups, and her two pupils had each a thick piece of bread and butter in hand, when the door was flung open as described and hetty in all her magnificence appeared on the threshold. "my mamma has brought me to see you," said hetty boldly, her chin very high, "and mrs. enderby sent me here to you"; and she remarked as she spoke that the enderby girls wore plain holland dresses with little aprons and narrow tuckers, no style or elegance whatever about their attire. miss davis looked in surprise at the young stranger, not knowing her story, and thinking her a very handsome, but haughty looking little girl, while phyllis and nell put down their bread and butter on their plates, and rose slowly from their seats. "how do you do?" they said, each just touching her hand, and then the three girls stood looking at one another. the words "my mamma" had already annoyed phyllis, who was one of those persons who even from childhood cherish an extraordinary degree of quiet pride in their good birth. she was willing that hetty should be treated with kindness, but had often told herself that she would never be persuaded to look upon her as her own cousin. nell only thought of how pretty their new playfellow was, and how nice it would be to have her sometimes with them. "i am very glad you have come," she said, looking at hetty with welcoming eyes. "nell, you ought not to speak before your elder sister," said miss davis, who, though an excellent lady, was rather prim in her ways and ideas. "i hope you are quite well," said phyllis politely; "will you take some tea?" "i have just had some," said hetty, "thank you. do you never have tea with your mamma?" "oh, no," said the girls, with a smile of surprise. "little girls never do," said miss davis emphatically. "i do always," said hetty; she might have added, "except when she forgets all about me," but she did not think of that now. "i did not know you had any mamma," said phyllis coldly, not exactly meaning to be cruel, but feeling that hetty was pretentious, and therefore vulgar, and that she ought to be kept down. "how odd that you should not know your own aunt," said hetty, a warm crimson rising in her cheeks, and her eyes kindling. "my aunt never had a child," said phyllis quietly. "not till she got hetty," broke in nell. "phyllis, how can you be so unkind?" "my dear nell, i am not unkind, i only meant to correct miss gray's mistake." "you had better go into the drawing-room and correct mrs. rushton's mistakes," said hetty angrily. "it is by her desire that i call her my mother." by this time miss davis knew who hetty was, as she had heard something about mrs. rushton's having adopted a village child. "my dears," she said, "don't let us be unkind to each other. come, we must have our tea, and miss gray will be social and join us, even though she has had some before." and she handed a cup to the little visitor. "now, hetty," continued miss davis, "i suppose i may call you hetty, instead of miss gray, as you are only a little girl?" "yes," said hetty slowly, half liking miss davis, but feeling afraid she was laughing at her. tea was finished almost in silence, not all miss davis's efforts making hetty and phyllis feel at ease with each other. nell, being rather in awe of her elder sister, of whose general propriety of conduct and good sense she had a high opinion, was not very successful in her attempts at conversation. when the meal was over miss davis proposed a walk in the garden before study time. "can you play lawn tennis?" asked nell as they walked towards the tennis-ground. "no, i never play at anything," said hetty sadly, "when not with--_my mamma_," she said with a flash of the eyes at seeing phyllis looking at her, "i have always been alone." miss davis glanced at the child with pity, but hetty, catching her eye, would not bear to be pitied. "it is much pleasanter to be with grown people in the drawing-room," she said. "i should not like at all to live as you do." "do you always wear such splendid frocks?" asked phyllis, examining her from head to foot with critical eyes. "yes," said hetty. "i have much finer ones than this; i am always dressed like a lady. how can you bear to be such a sight in that ugly linen thing?" "my dear, simple clothes are more becoming to children," said miss davis, while phyllis only curled her lip. "if you lived more among those of your own age," continued the governess, "as i hope you will henceforth do, you would find that little girls are much happier and more free to amuse themselves when dressed suitably to their age. you shall see how we enjoy ourselves at tennis, as we could not do in dresses as rich as yours." miss davis and her pupils began to play tennis, and hetty tried to join; but her dress was too warm and too tight to allow of her making much exertion, and so she was obliged to stand by and watch the game. seeing the great enjoyment of the players, hetty began to feel the spirit of the game, and remembered how she had often longed to be one of the happy children whom she had seen at play in other scenes than this. however, her belief that phyllis was unfriendly towards her prevented her acknowledging what she felt. had only nell and miss davis been present she would have begged the loan of a holland blouse and joined in the game with all her heart. but phyllis had a freezing effect upon her. when the game was over they went indoors and hetty was shown the pretty room prepared for her. polly had already unpacked her things, and on the bed were laid the handsome gifts which mrs. rushton had bought for hetty to present to "her cousins." hetty was now glad to see these presents which she had for a time forgotten, and thought she had now a good opportunity for making friends with the two girls. she was really pleased to give pleasure to nell, whom she liked, and was not sorry that phyllis would be obliged to receive something from her hands. the presents were both beautiful and both useful. one was a desk, the case delicately inlaid, and the interior perfectly fitted up. the other was an exquisitely carved and furnished work-box. "oh, give the desk to phyllis; she is so much more clever than i am, and writes so well. and i am fond of work. oh, you are a dear to give me such a charming present," said nell affectionately, examining the beautiful work-box with sparkling eyes. hetty was delighted. "i chose them myself," she said with some pride; and then she took the desk in her arms and asked nell to show her the way to phyllis's room. "it is down at the end of this passage. i will show you. and you must not mind phyllis if she does not go into raptures like me. she is always so well-behaved, and takes everything so quietly." phyllis looked greatly surprised, and not quite pleased, when, having heard a knock at her door and said "come in," she saw hetty invade her room. her first thought was, "this foundling girl is going to be forward and troublesome"; and hetty was not slow to read her glance. "i have brought you a present," she said, in quite a different tone from that in which she had made her little speech to nell. phyllis took the desk slowly, and looked at it as if she wished it had not been offered. "it is very handsome," she said, "and my aunt was very good to think of it. please give her my best thanks." and then phyllis deposited the present on a table, and turned away and began to change her shoes. nell looked at hetty, but could not see the expression of her face; for she had turned as quickly as phyllis and was already vanishing through the door. chapter vii. hetty's first lessons. hetty's bed-room being over the school-room, she was wakened the next morning by somebody practising on the piano, the sound from which ascended through the floor. "how well they play, and how early they rise!" thought hetty. "i wonder whether it is nell or phyllis who is at the piano? oh, dear! i do not know even a note." she longed to ask polly at what hour the miss enderbys had got up, and which of them was practising on the piano, but as she had begun by snubbing polly she could not now descend from her dignity so far as to ask her questions. polly on her side was always silent when attending on miss gray, and never ventured upon the least freedom with the haughty little foundling. when hetty descended to the breakfast-room she found only mr. and mrs. enderby at the table. mrs. rushton was still in her room, and was having her breakfast there. "this is little hetty," said mrs. enderby, presenting her to her husband. mr. enderby put down his paper and looked at hetty gravely and critically, hetty thought pityingly. "how do you do, my dear?" he said, patting her shoulder. "i see you have not been accustomed to early hours." hetty hung her head and sat down at the table. mrs. enderby supplied her wants and then went on reading her letters; and hetty ate in silence, wondering why she was not called on to talk and amuse these people as she had been accustomed to amuse mrs. rushton's fashionable friends. this quiet wise-looking lady and gentleman seemed to look on her with quite different eyes from those with which the rest of the world regarded her. they neither snubbed nor petted her, only seemed satisfied to allow her to be comfortable beside them. presently she plucked up courage to ask: "are phyllis and nell not coming to breakfast?" mrs. enderby smiled. "no, my dear, they never breakfast here. they breakfasted an hour ago in the school-room. they are busy at their studies at present." "are they always busy at studies?" asked hetty. "a great part of the day they are." "as all little girls ought to be who wish to be educated women some day," said mr. enderby, looking over the edge of his newspaper. "your education has hardly begun yet i fear," said mrs. enderby. "mrs. rushton"--something withheld hetty from saying "my mamma" before mr. and mrs. enderby--"always says it is time enough for that," said hetty. mr. and mrs. enderby exchanged glances, and mr. enderby shifted in his seat and shook the newspaper impatiently. mrs. enderby said: "what would you think of joining my girls at their lessons while you stay here? i fear that if you do not you will find yourself very lonely." "i am often very lonely," said hetty simply; and again her host and hostess looked at each other. "well, which do you prefer?" said the latter; "to be very lonely going about the house and gardens by yourself, or to spend your time usefully with the other children in the school-room?" "i would rather be with the girls, if they would like to have me," said hetty after a few moments' reflection. "but i think phyllis would rather i stayed away." "oh, i think not," said mrs. enderby; "phyllis never makes a fuss about anything, but i will answer for her that she will welcome you." "i think she does not like me," said hetty, looking steadily at her hostess with large serious eyes. "take care you do not dislike her," said mr. enderby, with a slight look of displeasure. "in this house we do not indulge such fancies." "my dear, you must not think that because our manners here in the country may be quieter and perhaps less warm than those of some of the people you have lived with abroad, our hearts are therefore cold. come, then, if you have finished breakfast, i will take you myself into the school-room." half pleased and half unwilling hetty suffered herself to be led away, and her heart beat fast as she crossed the school-room threshold. miss davis sat at the end of the table with an open exercise book before her, and a severely businesslike look upon her face. phyllis and nell bent over their books at either side of the same table. maps hung on the walls and books lay about everywhere. hetty instantly, and for the first time in her life, felt keenly that she was a dunce. "miss davis, i have brought you another pupil," said mrs. enderby; "i am sure you will not mind the trouble of having one more than usual for a little while. i think hetty will be happier for having something to do." "i shall be very pleased if she will join us," said miss davis; and then mrs. enderby left the room, and hetty was asked to take a seat at the foot of the table. "what have you been learning, my dear?" asked miss davis. "nothing," said hetty; "i can read a little; but that is all." phyllis and nell had not spoken to her, and had looked at her only with sidelong glances. this was because it was their study hour and speaking was not allowed; but hetty thought it was because they were not glad to see her coming to join them, and she therefore felt all the more careless about trying to make the best of herself. if nobody cared about her, what did it matter whether she was a dunce or not? so she said boldly that she had been learning nothing; and then the two enderby girls lifted up their heads and stared at her in sheer amazement. hetty's face grew crimson, and her pride arose within her. "after all," she said, "it is much better fun to play and amuse yourself all day than to sit poring over books. study does not make people prettier or pleasanter." this last sentence was an echo from one of mrs. rushton's silly speeches. when people would ask her about hetty's education, she was wont to declare that the child was prettier and pleasanter without it. phyllis, listening, merely curled her lip, and bent lower in silence over her book. nell remained looking at hetty with a wondering expression in her eyes. miss davis drew herself up and looked much displeased. "i hope you are doing yourself great injustice," she said; "i cannot believe you really mean what you say. study not make people prettier or pleasanter! i scarcely believe that my ears have not deceived me." "it does not make you prettier or pleasanter," said hetty persistently. "you were much nicer yesterday when you were playing and running about. your face is not the same at all now." phyllis opened her eyes wide and turned them on miss davis, as if to ask, "is not this too much?" nell, on the contrary, began to smile as though she thought hetty's impudence capital fun; and this encouraged hetty, who had been taught to love to amuse people at any cost. miss davis coloured with surprise and annoyance. "it is of no consequence, my dear, how we look when we are doing our duty," she said, controlling herself. "then i hope i shall never do my duty," said hetty coolly; "nobody loves people who do not look gay." phyllis turned to miss davis and said, "will you not send her away now? mother never meant us to be interrupted like this." "patience, my dear!" said miss davis; "hetty is perhaps giving us the worst side of her character only to startle us. i am sure there is a better side somewhere. come over here to me, hetty, and let me hear you read." hetty obeyed, and took the book miss davis placed in her hand. holding herself very erect and looking very serious she began, after a glance over the paragraph that had been marked for her:-- "leonora walked on her head, a little higher than usual." "my dear!" interrupted miss davis hastily; and nell vainly tried to smother a burst of laughter. "that is what is printed here," said hetty gravely, but the corners of her mouth twitched. miss davis did not notice this as she took the book and prepared to examine the text so startlingly given forth; but phyllis and nell saw at once that hetty was making fun. "ah!" said miss davis, "it is your punctuation that is at fault. the sentence runs: 'leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual.' you see one little comma makes all the difference in the world." "i wondered how she could manage to walk on her head," said hetty in the most serious manner; "and why, if she did manage it, it should make her higher. she would be the same length in any case, would she not, miss davis?" nell laughed again, and phyllis looked more and more contemptuous. miss davis said, "read on please!" rather severely, at the same time giving nell a glance of warning. hetty read on, making deliberately the most laughable blunders, at some of which miss davis herself had to smile. even phyllis had to give way on one occasion, and in the midst of a chorus of laughter hetty stood making a piteous face, pretending not to know what they were laughing at. "i told you i could read only a little," she said, but at the same time she gave nell a knowing glance which phyllis caught. "she could read better if she pleased. she is only amusing herself," said phyllis to miss davis. "i hope not, my dear," said the governess; "do not be uncharitable. well, hetty, you may put aside your book for to-day. i hope to improve you before your visit is over. do you know anything of geography? come, i will give you an easy question. where is england situated on the map?" "in the middle of the red sea," said hetty briskly. "my dear! why do you suppose so?" "i see it up there on the map," said hetty; "the sea is marked in red all round it." nell tittered again. phyllis put her fingers in her ears, determined to hear no more of hetty's absurdities. "you make a great mistake," said miss davis, and spreading a map before hetty, the governess gave her a lesson on the position of the red sea and the relative position of england. "have you learned anything at all of numbers?" "i can count on my fingers," said hetty; "i add up the fives and i can reckon up to a hundred that way." "you must learn a better way of counting than that. have you never learned the multiplication table?" "my mamma's tables are all ebony or marble," said hetty, putting on a bewildered air, "but i will count them up if you like. there are six in the drawing-room," she continued, holding up all the fingers of her left hand, and the thumb of the right. "you ridiculous child! you misunderstand me quite. the multiplication table is an arrangement of numbers. i will give it to you to study. in the meantime, come, how many do three threes make when they are added together?" "i don't know anything about threes," said hetty; "i only know about fives." "i think i must give you up for to-day," said miss davis in despair. "phyllis is waiting with her french exercise. can you read french at all, hetty?" "i can talk french," said hetty; "but i don't want to read it; 'tis quite bad enough to have to read english, i think. talking is so much pleasanter than reading." "you can talk it, can you? let me hear," and miss davis addressed a question to her in french. in answer to it hetty poured forth a perfect flood of french, spoken with a pretty accent and grammatically correct. in truth she spoke like a little frenchwoman, and completely surprised her listeners. she had been asked some question about walking in the champs elysees and now gave a vivid description of the scene there on a fine morning, the people who frequented it, their dress, their manners, their conversation. miss davis put down the multiplication table which she had been turning over and stared at the little frenchwoman chattering and gesticulating before her. "there, my dear," she said presently, "that will do; i see you can make use of your tongue. take this book now and study quietly for half an hour." hetty felt that she had had her little triumph at last. neither phyllis nor nell could speak french like that. she took the table-book obediently and sat down with it, while phyllis made an effort to get over the shock of surprise given her by hetty's clever exhibition, and proceeded to attend to miss davis's correction of her french exercise. that afternoon hetty was dressed in a holland frock of nell's, which, though nell was a year older, was not too large for her, and joined heartily in a game of lawn tennis. her little success of the morning, when she had surprised her companions and their governess by her cleverness at french, had raised her spirits, and she enjoyed herself as she had never done in her life before, feeling that she could afford to do without phyllis' good opinion, and taking more and more pleasure in showing how little she cared to have it. after this the days that remained of her visit passed pleasantly enough. hetty contrived to turn her lessons into a sort of burlesque, and to impose a good deal on miss davis, who was not a humorous, but indeed a most matter-of-fact person. every day phyllis grew more and more disgusted with their visitor, who interrupted the even course of their studies and "made fools," as she considered, of miss davis and nell. she thought hetty's pretentiousness became greater and greater as her first slight shyness wore away and she grew perfectly familiar with every one in the house. phyllis was sufficiently generous to refrain from complaining of hetty to her mother or father, but she privately found fault with nell for encouraging her too much. "you laugh at her so absurdly that she grows more impudent every day," she said; "she could not dare to give herself such airs only for you." "but, phyllis dear, i can't help laughing at her, and indeed i think you make her proud by being so hard upon her; she is not so proud with me." "she is ridiculous," said phyllis; "such pretension in a girl of her age is utterly absurd. besides, it is so vulgar. well-born people are not always trying to force their importance on you as she does; if i did not try to keep her down a little she would be quite unbearable." "perhaps if you did not try to keep her down so much she would not set herself up so much," persisted nell. "i am older and wiser than you," said phyllis coldly. "yes, i know you are," said nell regretfully. "and i ought to be a better judge of people's conduct. i am not going to complain of her to father or mother; but as she will be coming here again, i suppose, we ought to try to manage her a little ourselves." nell did not dare to say any more to phyllis, but ran away as soon as she could get an opportunity, to play with hetty and laugh admiringly at all her droll remarks. one more triumph hetty enjoyed before her visit to wavertree came to an end. on a certain evening there was a dinner-party at the hall, and some one who had been expected to sing and amuse the company failed to appear. after dinner mrs. rushton fancied that the party had grown very dull, and a brilliant idea for entertaining the guests occurred to her. she left the drawing-room and went upstairs to where the little girls were preparing for bed. "come, hetty," she said, "i want you to make yourself agreeable. every one is going to sleep down-stairs and carriages will not arrive till eleven. i have rung for polly to dress you. phyllis and nell can come down also if they please." the enderby girls concluded from this speech that their mother had sent for them, and in a short time mrs. rushton returned to the drawing-room, accompanied by the three children. mrs. enderby looked exceedingly surprised and not quite pleased, but mrs. rushton said, "i have provided some amusement for your people. hetty will make them laugh." hetty was flushed and trembling with excitement, and at a signal from her adopted mother she stepped into the middle of the room and began her entertainment; mrs. rushton having walked about among the guests beforehand, telling them that the child was going to give them some sketches of character, the result of her own observations. hetty began with a conversation between a mincing and lackadaisical young lady and a bouncing one who talked noisily; and she changed her attitudes, her accent, the expressions of her face in such droll ways, and altogether contrasted the two characters so well, that a round of applause and laughter greeted and encouraged her. then followed a ridiculous scene between a cross old lady and an amiable old gentleman in a hotel; and so on. every odd character hetty had ever met was reproduced for the amusement of the company. most of the guests laughed heartily and lavished praises on hetty's talent and beauty. only a few looked shocked, and shook their heads, saying it was sad to see a child so precocious and cynical. mr. and mrs. enderby, though disliking the exhibition and thinking it very bad for the little girl, were obliged to laugh with the rest, and mrs. rushton was delighted and triumphant. nell laughed more than any one and clapped her hands wildly, but phyllis looked on all the time with a disdainful smile. "my girls are up too late," said mrs. enderby, as she bade them good night. "why did you send for us, then, mother?" said phyllis. "i did not, my dear, it was quite your aunt's doing. she wished to amuse you, i believe." "then i wish i had known," said phyllis, "i would rather have gone to bed. i did not want to see that ridiculous performance." "hetty took some trouble to make us laugh. and if she has not been very wisely brought up we must not blame her too much for that." "i do not like her; i wish she would go away," said phyllis with quiet determination. "she is going to-morrow," said mrs. enderby. "she is not a lady, mother, and i am quite tired of her restless ways," persisted phyllis. "i hope she will never come back here." mrs. enderby in her heart echoed this hope, but she controlled her feeling against hetty and said: "i fear your aunt is not the sort of person to understand the bringing up of a girl; but remember, phyllis, that i rely on you to help me to be of service to this poor child. go to bed now, my daughter, and be wise, as you usually are." phyllis looked troubled, and thought over her mother's words as she lay in bed. but hers was not one of those natures that relent easily. she tried to satisfy her conscience by assuring herself that she wished no ill to hetty, but quite the reverse. "only she is different from us," she reflected, "and she ought to keep away with the people who suit her. i hope aunt amy will not bring her here again." chapter viii. hetty desolate. mrs. rushton and hetty departed. phyllis was satisfied, and everything went on as usual at wavertree hall. no one was sorry to lose the visitors, except nell, who was secretly rather fond of hetty. she was not a very brave child, and was much influenced by the opinion of others, especially of those whom she loved and admired; so, though there was a soft corner in her heart for hetty, she was a little ashamed of the fact, seeing that none of the rest of the family shared her feeling. with phyllis especially she was careful to be silent about hetty, having a high opinion of her sister's good sense, and being greatly afraid of her contempt. and so it came that after a few days had passed hetty's name was mentioned no more in the house. meantime hetty at amber hill was enjoying her life more than she had ever enjoyed it before. she had her own pony, and went out to ride as often as, and at any hour she pleased. half-a-dozen dogs and as many cats belonged to her, and they all loved her. almost her entire time was spent out of doors, for mrs. rushton was too great an invalid now to care for much of her company. grant was almost always in attendance on her mistress, and so had very little opportunity for interference with hetty. polly was easily kept in order, and the housekeeper always took the child's part if any of the other servants annoyed or neglected her. this wild uncontrolled life, spent chiefly in the open air, wandering through the woods, running races with the dogs, or galloping up hill and down hill with them all flying after the pony's heels, suited hetty exactly. she thought the world delightful because she was allowed to live a healthy active life, and nobody thwarted her. when mrs. rushton sent for her to the drawing-room or to her bed-room hetty would steal in quietly, and, bringing a story-book with her, would sit down at her adopted mother's feet, and remain buried in her book till notice was given her that it was time for her to depart. in this way she gave very little trouble, and mrs. rushton was more than ever convinced that she had made an excellent choice in adopting hetty, and that she was the most satisfactory child in the world. one day hetty had come in from her ride, and was sitting in her own room with her story-book waiting for the usual evening summons from mrs. rushton. the days were now very short, and the little girl's head was close to the window-pane as she tried to read. the door opened and she started up, shutting the book and preparing to go down-stairs; but there was something unusual about polly's look and manner as she came into the room. "mrs. rushton is taken very ill," she said, "and the doctor is sent for. so you will please come down and have your tea in the drawing-room by yourself, miss hetty." "is she more ill than usual? much more?" asked hetty. "the doctor was here this morning." "she's as ill as can be," said polly, "and all of a sudden. but you can't do her any good. and you'd better come down to your tea." hetty followed polly without saying more, though she felt too anxious to care about her tea. she was greatly frightened, yet hardly knew why, as mrs. rushton was often ill, and the doctor was often sent for. there was a general impression in the household that the mistress sometimes made a great fuss about nothing, fainted, and thought she was going to die, and in a few hours was as well as usual. but no one in the house felt as anxious about her as hetty. during the pleasant weeks that had lately passed over her head hetty had been more drawn to her benefactress than she had ever been before. no longer snubbed and neglected in strange uncomfortable places, she had, in becoming more happy, also become more loving. she knew that she owed all the enjoyments of her present life to mrs. rushton, and if she was not allowed to be much in the company of her adopted mother she thought it was not because she was forgotten, but because mrs. rushton was too ill to see her. she believed herself really very greatly beloved by her benefactress, and had begun to love her very much in return. seeing her lying on her couch, quiet and gentle, making no cruel remarks and laughing no cynical laughs, hetty had constructed a sort of ideal mother out of the invalid, and endowed her with every lovable and admirable quality. this comfortable little dream had added much to the child's happiness in her life of late; and now she felt a wild alarm at the thought of the increased illness of her protectress. the doctor came and was shut up in the sick-room, and after some time grant came out and spoke to the housekeeper, and a messenger was sent off on horseback to wavertree hall. when grant came back to mrs. rushton's door hetty was there with her face against the panel. "oh, grant, do tell me what is the matter!" she whispered. "illness is the matter," said grant. "there! we don't want children in the way at such times. go up to your bed, miss. you'll be better there than here." "i can't go to bed till i know if she is better," said hetty. "why have you sent a message to wavertree?" but grant pursed up her lips and would say no more, and hetty saw her pass into mrs. rushton's room and close the door. the child crept back to the drawing-room, where no lamps had been lighted and there was only a little firelight to make the darkness and emptiness of the large room more noticeable. she knelt down on the hearth-rug and buried her face in the seat of mrs. rushton's favourite arm-chair. the dearest of all her dear dogs, scamp, came and laid his black muzzle beside her ear, as if he knew the whole case and wanted to mourn with her. two hours passed; hetty listened intently for every sound, and wondered impatiently why mr. and mrs. enderby did not arrive. she got up and carefully placed some lumps of coal on the fire, making no noise lest some one should come and order her off to bed. she was resolved to stay there all night rather than go to bed without learning something more. at last a sound of wheels was heard, and hetty went and peeped out of the drawing-room door and saw mr. and mrs. enderby taking off their wraps in the hall. their faces were very solemn and they spoke in whispers. she saw them go upstairs, and though longing to follow them, did not dare. then she retreated back into the drawing-room and buried her face once more in the depths of the chair. in this position, with scamp's rough head close to hers, she cried herself to sleep. the wintry dawn was just beginning to show faintly in the room when she was awakened by the sound of voices near her. chilled and stiff she gathered herself up and rose to her feet; and scamp also got up and shook himself. then hetty saw mr. and mrs. enderby standing in earnest conversation at the window. they started when they saw her as if she had been a ghost, and mrs. enderby exclaimed in a low voice: "the child! i had quite forgotten her!" "yes, there will be trouble here," muttered mr. enderby; while hetty came forward, her face pale and stained with crying, her dress disordered, and her curly hair wild and disarranged. she looked so altered that they scarcely knew her. "how is she? oh, mrs. enderby, say she is better," cried hetty, swallowing a sob. "my dear child," said mrs. enderby, "how have you come to be forgotten here, have you not been in bed all night?" "i stayed here," said hetty, "i wanted to know; will you not tell me how she is?" "my child, she is well, i hope, though not as you would wish to see her. it has pleased god to take her away from you." "do you mean that she is dead?" "yes, my poor hetty, i am grieved to tell you it is so." hetty uttered a sharp cry and turned her back on her friends standing in the window. the gesture was an unmistakable one, and touched the husband and wife. it seemed to say so plainly that she expected nothing from them. she retreated into the furthest corner of the room and flung herself on the floor, and scamp, hanging his head and wagging his tail, followed her mournfully, and lay down as close to her as he could. "leave her alone awhile," said mr. enderby, for his wife had made a movement as if she would follow her; "she is a strange child, and we will give her time to take in the fact of her loss. you must not be hurried into making rash promises through pity; all this brings a great change to the girl, and it is better she should feel it from the first." the truth was mrs. rushton had been dead when her brother and sister-in-law arrived. a sudden attack of fainting had resulted in death. this abrupt termination of her illness was not quite unexpected by herself or her friends, as it was known she had disease of the heart, and the doctors had given warning that such might be her end. however, she herself had not liked to look this probability in the face, and had preferred to dwell on the faint hope held out to her that she might linger on as an invalid for many a year. chapter ix. what to do with her? after mrs. rushton had been laid to rest in her grave her worldly affairs had to be looked into. she had died possessed of a great deal of property, and her relations were well aware that she had never made a will. her brother had lately urged her to make a will, but she had always put off the unpleasant task. now there was nothing to be done but to divide the property among the relatives to whom it reverted by law. after the funeral her late husband's relations and mr. enderby met at amber hill and discussed these matters of business. in the meantime hetty had been left at amber hill in the care of the housekeeper, for mr. enderby would not allow his wife to carry her off to wavertree. "it would be a mistake," he said, "to begin what we may not think proper to go on with afterwards. if the child comes home with us now she may feel herself aggrieved, later, at being sent away. to act with prudence is our first duty towards her." so hetty had been left with the housekeeper, who, being a kind woman in her way, tried to comfort her with cakes and jam. her only real comfort was her darling scamp, and with her arms round his shaggy neck she shed many a tear of loneliness and terror. her heart was full of anxious fears as to what was going to become of her. she had stolen into the room where the dead woman lay to take her last farewell of her benefactress. nobody watched there, and hetty easily found an opportunity for paying her tearful visit. scamp, who never left her side, accompanied her with a sad solemnity in his countenance, and these were perhaps the two most real mourners whom the wealthy lady had left behind her. now all was over, and mrs. rushton's room looked vacant and with as little sign of her presence as if she had never inhabited it. the wintry sunshine smiled in at all the windows of her handsome house, and made it cheerful even though the blinds were drawn down. the robins twittered in the evergreens outside, and the maids had their little jokes as usual over their sewing, though they spoke in lowered tones. no great and terrible change seemed to have happened to any one but hetty, except indeed to scamp, and it was plain that he suffered only for hetty's sake. on the day when mrs. rushton's relations met at amber hill hetty sat in the housekeeper's room in a little straw chair at the fire, with scamp clasped in her arms and her head resting against his. she felt instinctively that her fate was being sealed upstairs. indeed a few words which had passed between grant and the housekeeper, and which she had accidentally overheard, assured her that such would be the case. "if mrs. rushton has left her nothing," said grant, "she'll be out on the world again, as she was before. mrs. kane may take her, unless the gentlemen do something for her." "mr. enderby will never allow her to go back to poor anne kane," said the housekeeper. "there's many a cheap way of providing for a friendless child, and it wouldn't be fair to put her on a woman that can hardly keep her own little home together." hetty's anguish was unspeakable as these words sank into her heart, each one making a wound. she shuddered at the thought of going back to mrs. kane, but felt even more horror of those unknown "cheap ways of providing for a friendless child," alluded to by the housekeeper. a perfect sea of tribulation rolled over her head as she bent it in despair, and wept forlornly on scamp's comfortable neck. in the meantime, as hetty surmised, her fate was being decided upstairs. no provision had been made by mrs. rushton for the child whom she had taken into her home, petted and indulged, and accustomed to every luxury. the relations of mrs. rushton's late husband, who lived at a great distance and had not been on intimate terms with her, were not much impressed by the lady's carelessness of hetty. but mr. enderby, who knew all the circumstances, felt that a wrong had been done. "some provision ought to be made for the child," he said; "that is a matter about which there can be no doubt." "certainly," said mr. rushton, who had inherited most of his sister-in-law's property. "there are cheap schools where girls in her position can be educated according to their station. afterwards we can see about giving her a trade, millinery and dressmaking, i suppose, or something of that kind." mr. enderby looked troubled. "i do not think that would be quite fair," he said, "i would urge that she should receive a good education. she ought to be brought up a lady, having been so long accustomed to expect it." "i quite disagree with you," said mr. rushton; "there are too many idle ladies in the world. and who is to support her when she is grown up?" "i do not wish to make her an idle lady," said mr. enderby, "but i would fit her to be a governess." "there are too many governesses; better keep her down to a lower level and teach her to be content to be a tradeswoman. as far as i am concerned, i will consent to nothing better than this for the girl." "then we need not speak of it any more," returned mr. enderby. "i will take the responsibility of the child upon myself." mr. rushton shrugged his shoulders. "do as you please," he said, "but remember it is your own choice. if you change your mind, call upon me." so the matter ended. when the library door opened, and the gentlemen were heard preparing to depart, hetty flew upstairs and stole into the hall, where mr. enderby, who was the last to go, suddenly saw her little white face gazing at him with a dumb anxiety. "well, my dear," he said kindly, "how are you getting on?" "oh sir, will you please tell me where i am to go to?" implored hetty. "don't fret yourself about that," said mr. enderby, buttoning up his coat. "we are not going to let you be lost. you just stay patiently with mrs. benson till you hear again from me." and then he nodded to her and took his departure. that evening he had a serious conversation with his wife about hetty gray. "i have made up my mind it will be better to bring her here," he said abruptly. "my dear! is that wise?" exclaimed his wife, thinking with sudden anxiety of phyllis's great dislike to hetty, and hetty's uncompromising pride. "it is the best plan i can think of, but do not mistake me. if hetty comes here it will be expressly understood by her and others that she is not to be brought up as my own daughter. she will merely enjoy the security of the shelter of our roof, and will receive a good education such as will fit her to provide, later, for herself." "will it be easy to carry out this plan?" asked mrs. enderby. "that i must leave to you, my dear. you are firm enough and wise enough to succeed where others would probably fail. the only alternative that i can think of is to send her to an expensive school where she will certainly not be prepared for the battle of life. as for sending her to a lower style of place, and making a charity girl of her after all that has been done to accustom her to the society of well-bred people, the bare thought of such injustice makes me angry." mrs. enderby looked admiringly at her husband. "you are right," she said; "and i will try to carry out your plan. it will add greatly to my cares, for i fear hetty's will be a difficult nature to deal with, especially when she finds herself in so uncertain a position in our house." the next day mrs. enderby drove over to amber hill and desired mrs. benson to send hetty to her in the morning-room. when the child appeared she was greatly struck by the traces of suffering on her countenance, and felt renewed anxiety as to the difficulty of carrying out her husband's wishes. "my child," she said kindly, taking the little girl's hand and drawing her to her knees, "i have a good deal to say to you, and i hope you will try to understand me perfectly." hetty gave her one swift upward glance in which there was keen expectation, mingled with more of fear than hope. "i will try," she whispered. "you know, my dear, that mrs. rushton was very good to you while she lived, yet you had no real claim on her, and now that she is gone you are as much alone as if you had never seen her." mrs. enderby was surprised by hetty's swift answer. "more alone," she said, with a stern look in her young face; "for if she had not taken me i could have stayed with mrs. kane. i should have loved mrs. kane, and now i do not love her." "there is some truth in all that," said mrs. enderby; "but at all events, my dear, you have enjoyed many advantages during the last five or six years. there is no question now of your going back to mrs. kane. mr. enderby will not allow it." "grant says there are cheap ways of providing for friendless children," said hetty, whose tongue had become dry in her mouth with fear of what might come next. "never mind what grant says," said mrs. enderby; "attend only to what i tell you. mr. enderby and i have thought deeply over your future, hetty, and we are really anxious to do what is best for you." hetty said nothing. all the powers of her mind were strained in wondering expectation of what she was now going to hear. "we have been advised to send you to a school where you would be made fit to provide for yourself when you become a woman," continued the lady, "but we have decided to take you into our own house instead; on condition, however, that you try to be industrious and studious. by the time you have grown up, i hope you will be able to make use of the good education we shall give you, and will have learned the value of independence. do you understand me completely, hetty? we are going to educate you to be a governess. you shall live in our house and join in the studies of our children, and enjoy the comfort and protection of our home. but of course you cannot look forward to sharing the future of our daughters." "i understand," said hetty slowly; and the whole state of the case, in all its bearings, appeared in true colours before her intelligent mind. "i hope you are satisfied also," said mrs. enderby, who was determined, even at the risk of being a little hard, that the child should thoroughly know her place, and learn to be grateful for the protection afforded her. "when you are older, my child, you will comprehend what your elders now know, that my poor sister, mrs. rushton, made a great mistake in raising you from the station in which she found you, and showering luxuries upon you as she did. we also see, however, that an injustice was done to you, and that we whom she has left behind her are bound to make amends to you for that. therefore it is that we are keeping you with ourselves, instead of allowing you to run the risk of being made unhappy by strangers." for all answer to this hetty burst into a fit of wild weeping. her proud little heart was broken at the prospect of returning to wavertree to be snubbed and humbled by phyllis, and possibly by servants of the same disposition as grant. for the moment she could not remember all those worse horrors which her imagination had been conjuring up, and from which she was actually saved. she stood trembling and shaking in the storm of her grief, trying to stem her floods of tears with her quivering little hands, and unable to keep them from raining through her fingers on to the floor. mrs. enderby sighed. though she could not know all hetty's thoughts, she guessed some of them, and her heart sank lower than ever at the thought of the trouble which might come of the introduction of so stormy an element into her hitherto peaceful household. however, she was not a woman to flinch from a duty, when once she had made up her mind to recognize it. "come, come, my child!" she said, "you have been passing through a great trial, but you must try to be brave and make yourself happy with us." had mrs. enderby taken poor hetty in her arms and given her a motherly kiss, much would have been done to heal the wounds made in the child's sensitive heart. but it was part of her plan, conscientiously made, that she must not accustom hetty to caresses, such as she could not expect to receive later in life. so she only patted her on the shoulder, and, when her passion of crying had a little subsided, bade her run away and get on her things, and be ready as soon as possible to come with her to wavertree hall. chapter x. the new home. before going to amber hill that day, mrs. enderby had sent for her two girls to come to her in her room, where she informed them of the fact that hetty was coming to the hall. "i am going to tell you some news, my children, and i hope you will feel it to be good news. i know my little daughters have kind hearts, and i am sure they will pity one even younger than themselves who has been left without home or protection." "i suppose you are speaking of hetty, mother?" said phyllis. "yes, dear. your father and i have arranged to bring her here." a faint colour passed over phyllis's fair pale face, and she said: "did aunt amy not leave her any money, mother?" "no; i am sorry to say she did not leave her anything." "she ought to have done so," said phyllis. "your aunt amy was a very peculiar person, phyllis, and nothing would induce her to make a will. she put off the task too long, and died without fulfilling it." "could those who have got her money now not make it all right?" said phyllis. "could they not settle some money on her?" "that would be a difficult matter to arrange, dear. almost all mrs. rushton's property has gone to her husband's brother, who is not a very generous man, i fear, and the rest, which returns to your father, is in trust for his children. he does not feel himself called upon to deprive you of what is lawfully yours in order to give a fortune to a foundling child." "i would rather give her some of my money than have her here," said phyllis bluntly. "you must get over that feeling, phyllis. it is perhaps a little trial to us all to have a stranger among us, but we will endeavour to be kind, and all will be for the best." "and is hetty to be our own, own sister?" said nell, fixing her blue eyes on her mother's face and speaking for the first time. "no, my love, not quite. that would not be fair to hetty, as we cannot make her one of our own children. she will be a companion for you and join in all your studies. but it is to be understood that such advantages are to be given to her only to fit her to be a governess. i am anxious that every one should be good to her, but i do not intend her to have such luxuries as would but prepare her for great unhappiness later on in her life." "hetty will never get on with that sort of thing," said phyllis. "she is too proud and too impertinent." "my dear phyllis, i believe she has a good heart; and she has been, and will be, severely tried. any failure of generosity on the part of my good little girl will disappoint me sadly." phyllis closed her lips with an expression which meant that for reasons of propriety she would say no more, but that nothing could prevent her from feeling that justice and right were on her side; that she had a better apprehension of the matter in question than mother or father, or any one in the world. when hetty arrived that afternoon she was led straight into the school-room, where tea was just ready, mrs. enderby judging that it would be well to set her to work at once, giving her no time for moping. when she appeared, looking pale and sad in her black frock, her eyes heavy and red with weeping, even phyllis was touched, and the school-room tea was partaken of in peace and almost in silence. hetty was so full of the recollection of the last time she had been brought in here by mrs. enderby, and so conscious of the change that had come upon her since then, that she could scarcely raise her eyes for fear of crying. nell kept pushing cakes and bread and butter before her, phyllis made general remarks in a softer tone than usual, and miss davis, who perhaps understood hetty's position better, and sympathized more with her, than any of the rest, could think of nothing better to say to the forlorn child than to ask her occasionally if she would like some more sugar in her tea. after tea phyllis and nell set to work to prepare their lessons for the next day, and hetty was thankful to have a book placed before her, and a lesson appointed for her to learn. it was a page in the very beginning of a child's english history, and hetty read it over and over again till she had the words almost by heart without in the least having taken in their sense. her thoughts were busy all the time with the looks and words of her companions, and with going back over all that had occurred that day. phyllis had been gentler than she expected. perhaps she was not going to be unkind any more. it was a good thing after all to be obliged to sit over books, as it would prevent her being talked to more than she could bear. nell was very kind. would phyllis allow her to be always kind? she had remarked at the first moment that the frocks of the two other girls were made of finer stuff than hers, and were trimmed with crape. mrs. benson had got her her mourning-frock, and had got it, of course, as inexpensive as she thought fit under the circumstances. "of course they wear crape," thought hetty, "because mrs. rushton was their aunt. she was nothing to me, after all, except my mistress. grant used to say things like that and i would not believe her. she was right when she said i was only a charity child." phyllis and nell were accustomed to go to the drawing-room for an hour or two in the evening after their father and mother had dined, and on this occasion hetty was invited to accompany them. it was not mrs. enderby's intention that she should always do so, but she considered that it would be well to include her to-night. the last evening spent by hetty in the drawing-room at the hall was that one on which she had entertained the company with her mimicries. then, full of pride and delight in her own powers of giving amusement, she had felt herself in a position to despise all disapproval and dislike. now, how was she fallen! yet mr. and mrs. enderby received her kindly, and paid her as much attention as if she had been an ordinary visitor. when bed-time came she was taken, not to the pretty room she had occupied when last in the house, but to a neat little plain chamber which was to be henceforth her own. it was not on the same landing with the bed-rooms of phyllis and nell, as she was quick to remark, but at the end of a long passage off which were the upper maids' bed-rooms, a fact which stabbed her pride. it was, however, a nice little room, placed above the passage and ascended to by a few steps, and it had a picturesque lattice window, embowered in ivy and passion-flowers. she had hardly comforted herself by observing this when she was overcast again by a fresh and unpleasant discovery. her trunk, which had been sent after her by mrs. benson, had already been unpacked and her things disposed of in a wardrobe. but, alas! all her handsome clothing had disappeared. her velvet and silk frocks trimmed with lace and fur, her sashes and necklaces, silk stockings and shoes with fantastic rosettes, these and numbers of other treasures were no longer to be seen in her room. a sufficient quantity of plain underclothing, a black frock to change the one she wore, a black hat and jacket, and one or two of her plainest white frocks, these were all that remained of the possessions which had but yesterday been hers. when she had recovered herself sufficiently after this disappointment to be able to look around the chamber, she saw that her desk and work-box, and some of her favourite story-books, had been placed on a table at the window. these she was glad to see, and recovering her spirits began to remember that after all she had now no right to any of those costly articles which she had been allowed to use during mrs. rushton's lifetime. as she was to live henceforth a humble dependent in this house she could have no further need of such luxuries. she had remarked that phyllis and nell were always simply dressed, and yet they had more right to finery than she had. hetty had sufficient good sense to know all this without being told. her peculiar experiences had sharpened her reasoning faculties and made her keenly observant of what passed before her, and had also given her an unusually acute perception of the meanings and influences floating in the atmosphere about her from other people's thoughts and words. child as she was, she was able to take, for a moment, mrs. enderby's view of her own position, and admitted that the kind yet cold lady had acted justly in depriving her of useless things. yet her wilful heart longed for the prettinesses that she loved, and she wept herself to sleep grieving for their loss, and for the greater loss which it typified. the next morning her head was aching and her eyes redder than ever when she appeared in the school-room, and she seemed more sullen and less meek than she had been yesterday. she could not fix her mind on the lesson miss davis gave her to learn, and made a great display of her ignorance when questioned on general subjects. all this was not improving to her spirits, and in becoming more unhappy she grew more irritable. miss davis felt her patience tried by the troublesome new pupil, and phyllis eyed her with strong disapproval over the edges of her book. phyllis loved order, regularity, good conduct, and in her opinion hetty was an intolerably disagreeable interruption of the routine of their school-room life. that was a bad day altogether. some friends of mr. and mrs. enderby were dining with them, and when the school-room tea was over phyllis and nell told miss davis that their mother wished them to come to the drawing-room for a short time. hetty looked up, as she thought herself included in the invitation; but miss davis, who had received general instructions from mrs. enderby, said to her quietly: "you will stay here with me, hetty, for this evening." hetty flushed crimson and her pride was kindled in an instant. she was not to go to the drawing-room any more, because she was only a charity child. tears rushed into her eyes, but she forced them back and pretended to be very busy with a book. after the other girls had been gone some time miss davis said: "i am going to my own room for half an hour, hetty, and i suppose you can amuse yourself with your book till i come back." when left alone hetty flung away her book, went down on her face on the hearth-rug, and cried with all her might. she thought of evenings when she had tripped about gaily in mrs. rushton's drawing-room and every one was glad to see her. now, it seemed, she must live all alone in a school-room. she forgot that she had ever been unhappy with mrs. rushton, ever been left alone, or snubbed or neglected in her house; for hetty, like many other people, old and young, lost all her excellent power of reasoning when overmastered by passion. in the old time she had been happy, she thought, cared for, loved, made much of. now she was beloved by nobody, not even for an hour. in her desolation she could not think of any creature that loved her except scamp, the dog who had been her only comfort since this trouble had befallen her; and he was left behind at amber hill. she had begged to be allowed to bring him with her to wavertree, but mr. enderby objected, saying that there were already too many dogs about the place. as soon as miss davis returned to the school-room hetty asked to be allowed to go to bed. "i have just been looking out some materials for needlework for you," said miss davis. "it is quite time you learned to sew; i hope you will find amusement in the occupation. however, if you are tired you may go to bed. as a rule the girls do not go to bed till nine o'clock." hetty shuddered as she looked at the needle-work which was prepared for her. in her eyes it was only a new instrument of torture. she did not even know how to hold a needle; she did not want to know. mrs. rushton had never been seen sewing; it was only the maids who had any occasion to sew. "i hate sewing," said hetty despairingly. "then you must learn to like it," said miss davis briskly; "little girls are not allowed to hate anything that is useful, especially little girls who must look forward to providing for themselves in the world by their own exertions. but go to bed now. tomorrow i hope you will be in a better humour." and hetty vanished. chapter xi. hetty turns rebel. hetty cried herself to sleep as she had done the night before, and her last thought was of scamp. about the middle of the night she had a dream in which she fancied that scamp's paws were round her neck, and that he was barking in her ear his delight at seeing her. the barking went on so long that it wakened her, for it was real barking that had caused the dream. hetty sat up in her bed and listened. surely that was scamp's bark, loud, sharp, and impatient, as if he was saying, "where's hetty? i want hetty. i will not go away till i have found hetty." in the stillness of the night it sounded to the lonely child like the voice of a dear friend longing to comfort her. she jumped out of bed, threw open the window, and listened again. could it be that he had found the way from amber hill, and come so many miles to look for her? darling old scamp, was it possible he loved her so much? yes, it was indeed his voice; he was outside the house, almost under her window, and she must and would go down and take him in. she opened the door cautiously and went out into the passage. the barking was not heard so distinctly here, and she hoped that no one would hear it but herself. how dreadful if somebody should go and beat him away before she could reach him! she pattered down-stairs with her little bare feet and made her way through the darkness to the great hall door. but she had forgotten how great and heavy that door was, and had not thought of the chain that hung across it at night, and the big lock in which she could not turn the key. scamp heard her trying to open the door, and barked more joyfully. unable to unfasten this door she made her way to another at the back of the house, and, withdrawing a bolt, she stood in the doorway, her little white night-dress blowing in the winter's night air, and her bare feet on the stones of the threshold. "scamp, scamp!" she called in a soft voice, and, wonderful to tell, he heard her and came flying round the house. "oh, scampie, dear, _have_ you come, and do you really love me still?" whispered hetty as the dog leaped into her arms, and she clasped his paws round her neck and kissed his shaggy head. scamp uttered a few short rapturous exclamations and licked her face and hands all over. "but you must be very quiet," she said, "or you will wake the house and we shall be caught. come now, lovie, and i'll hide you in my own room." she closed the door as quietly as possible and crept upstairs again, carrying the dog hugged in her arms. as she stole along the passage to her room, one of the maids whispered to another who was sleeping in the room with her: "oh, i have heard a great noise down-stairs, and one of the dogs was barking. and just now i am sure i heard feet in the passage." "some one has got into the house then," said the other maid listening. "oh, lie still, don't get up!" said the first maid. "it must be burglars." "i will go and waken the men," said the other courageously. and down-stairs she went and wakened the butler and footman. soon they were all searching the house, the butler armed with a gun, the others with large pokers. no burglars were to be found, and the butler was very cross at having been called out of his bed for nothing at all. the maids persisted that some one had been in the house, some one who must have escaped while they were giving the alarm. mr. enderby heard the noise and came out of his room and learned the whole story. after an hour of searching and questioning and discussion all went to bed again, everybody blaming everybody else for the silly mistake that had been made. next morning hetty slept long and soundly after her midnight adventure, and when the maid who called her went into her room she was astonished to see a dog's head on the pillow by the sleeping child. scamp put up his nose and barked at the intruder, and hetty wakened. "laws, miss hetty, you are a strange little girl," said the maid, who was the very girl who had alarmed the house during the night. "how ever did you get a dog into your room?" "it's only scamp, my own scamp, and he wouldn't hurt anybody," said hetty; "please don't beat him away, lucy. he came in the middle of the night trying to find me, and i took him in. perhaps mrs. enderby will let me keep him now." "that i am sure she will not," said lucy. "you naughty little girl. and so it was you who disturbed the house last night, frightening us all out of our senses, and getting me scolded for giving an alarm. wait till mr. enderby hears about it." "you are _very_ unkind," said hetty; "as if i could help his coming in the night-time!" "and i suppose you could not help letting him into the house and taking him into your bed?" said lucy scornfully. "no, i couldn't," said hetty. "and you can go and tell mr. enderby as soon as you please." at this lucy flounced out of the room quite determined to complain of the enormity of hetty's conduct. when the little girl appeared in the school-room with scamp following at her heels she was not in the best of tempers, and held her chin very high in the air. miss davis met her with a stern face. "hetty, what is this i hear of you? how could you dare to bring a strange dog into the house in the middle of the night?" "it wasn't a strange dog; it was scamp," said hetty, putting on her most defiant air. "i don't think it was any harm to let him in." "not, though i tell you it was?" said miss davis. "no," said hetty. "then i must ask mrs. enderby to talk to you," said miss davis. "meantime the dog cannot stay here while we are at breakfast." and she rang the bell. "tell thomas to come and fetch this dog away to the stable-yard," she said to the maid who answered the bell. "scamp always stayed in the room with me at amber hill," said hetty, two red spots burning in her cheeks. "you must learn to remember that you are no longer at amber hill," said miss davis. phyllis and nell now came into the school-room and looked greatly surprised at sight of the dog, hetty's angry face, and miss davis's looks of high displeasure. they took their places in silence at the breakfast table. "i am not likely to forget it," retorted hetty bitterly. "at amber hill everybody was kind to me. nobody is kind here." "you are a most ungrateful girl," said miss davis. "what would have become of you if mr. and mrs. enderby had not been kind?" at this moment thomas entered. "take away that dog to the stable-yard," said miss davis. hetty threw her arms round scamp's neck and clung to him. "you shall not turn him out," she cried. "he came and found me, and i will not give him up." "do as i have told you, thomas," said miss davis; and thomas seized scamp in spite of hetty's struggles, and carried him off, howling dismally. "now, you naughty girl, you may go back to your own room, and stay there till you are ready to apologize to me for your conduct," said miss davis. "oh, please don't send hetty away without her breakfast," pleaded nell. "i will go. i will not stay here. i will run away!" cried hetty wildly. "let her go, nell," said phyllis, giving her sister a warning look; and miss davis said: "when she is hungry she can apologize for her conduct. in the meantime she had better go away and be left alone till she recovers her senses." hetty fled out of the room and away to her own little chamber, where she locked herself in and flung herself in a passion of rage and grief on the floor. "i _will_ go away," she sobbed. "i will run away with scamp and seek my fortune. miss davis is going to be as bad as grant, reminding me that i am a charity child. oh, why was i not born like phyllis and nell, with people to love me and a home to belong to? it is easy for them to be good. but i shall never be good. i know, i know i never shall!" after half an hour had passed a knock came to the door, and lucy demanded to be admitted. "go away, you cruel creature!" cried hetty. "i will not have you here." lucy went away, and after some time hetty heard mrs. enderby's voice at the door. "i hope you will not refuse to let me in," she said. "i request that you will open the door." hetty rose from the floor very unwillingly and opened the door, and mrs. enderby came in. "hetty, what is the meaning of this strange conduct?" she said, looking at the marks of wild weeping on the child's swollen face. "everybody's conduct has been bad to me," wailed hetty. "what has been done to you?" asked mrs. enderby. "everyone hates scamp, and they have taken him away. and i have no one to love me but him." "perhaps people would love you if you were not so fierce and wild, hetty," said mrs. enderby. "now, try and listen to me while i talk to you. it was very wrong of you to get up in the night and open the door, so as to alarm the house by the noise. and it was very wrong of you to take a dog into your room and into your bed." "it was scamp," mourned hetty. "scamp loves me. and how could i leave him outside when he wanted to be with me?" "you could have done so because it would have been right," said mrs. enderby. "you knew that mr. enderby had refused to allow the dog to come here. you ought to have remembered his wishes. he has been very good to you, and you must learn to obey him." "it is cruel of him not to let me have scamp," persisted hetty; "he never bites anyone, and he is better than the other dogs. why can i not have him for my own?" "i will not answer that question, hetty; it must be enough for you that you are to obey. you must stay here by yourself till you are in a better state of mind." then mrs. enderby went away, and hetty fell into another agony of grief, thinking about scamp. she forgot the breakfast which she had not yet tasted, and felt every moment a greater longing to see her dog again. where had they taken him? she wondered. was he still in the stable-yard? perhaps they would drown him to get rid of him. possessed by this fear she seized her hat and flew out of the room, quite reckless of consequences, and as it chanced, she met no one on her way down-stairs and along all the back passages leading towards the stable-yard. arrived there she was guided by his barking to the spot where scamp was. he was chained in a kennel in a corner of the yard, where it was intended he should remain till a new master or mistress could be found for him. hetty watched her opportunity, and when there was no one about flew into the yard, slipped the chain off his neck, and sped out of the place again, with the dog following joyfully at her heels. in acting thus the little girl had merely followed a wild impulse, and had formed no plan for her future conduct with regard to scamp. finding herself in his company now, she thought only of prolonging the pleasure and escaping with him somewhere out of the reach of unfriendly eyes. she darted through the outer gate of the stable-yard just as the great clock above the archway was striking ten; and was soon plunging through a copse on the outskirts of the village, and making for the open country. scamp snuffed the breeze and barked for joy, and hetty danced along over the grass and through trees, forgetting everything but her own intense enjoyment of freedom in the open air that she loved. over yonder lay the forge, where, as a baby of four, she had watched the great horses being shod, and the sparks flying from their feet; and further on were the fields and the bit of wood where she had roamed alone, up to her eyes in the tall flag leaves and mistaking the yellow lilies for butterflies of a larger growth. she did not remember all that now, but some pleasant consciousness of a former free happy existence in the midst of this fresh peaceful landscape came across her mind at moments, like gales of hawthorn-scented air. mrs. enderby's mild lectures, phyllis's contempt, miss davis's shocked propriety, even nell's easily snubbed efforts to stand her friend, all vanished out of her memory as she went skimming along the grass like a swallow, thrilling in all her young nerves with the freshness and wildness of the breeze of heaven, and the vigour and buoyancy of the life within her veins. five miles into the open country went hetty, by a road she had never seen before. she knew not, nor did she think at all of where she was going; she only had a delightful sense of exploring new worlds. however, about the middle of the day she felt very hungry. she began to remember then that she could not keep on roving for ever, and that there was probably trouble before her at wavertree, waiting for her return. she sat down on a bank to rest, and scamp nestled beside her, alternately looking in her face and licking her hands. it occurred to hetty that perhaps he was hungry too, and that if she had left him in the stable-yard he would at least have got his dinner. remorse troubled her, and she cast about to try and discover something they two could eat. a tempting-looking bunch of berries hung from a tree near her, and she thought that if she could reach them they might be of some slight use in allaying the pangs of hunger felt by both her and her dog. she was at once on her feet, and straining all her limbs to reach the berries. they were caught, the branch broke, and hetty fell down the bank, twisting her foot and spraining her ankle badly. after the first cry wrung from her by the shock she was very silent; and having gathered herself up as well as she could, she sat on the ground, unable to attempt to stand. the pain was excessive, and great tears rolled down her cheeks as she endured it. scamp gazed at her piteously, snuffed all round her, and looked as if he would like to take her on his back and carry her home. she threw her arms round his neck and hugged him. "no, you can't help me, scampie, dear, and i don't know what is to become of us. i can't move, and nobody knows where i have gone to. of course it is all my fault, for i know i have been very disobedient. but i didn't feel wicked, not a bit." scamp licked her face and huffed and snuffed all round her. then he made several discontented remarks which hetty understood quite well, though it is not easy to translate them here. then he hustled round her, and scurried up and down the road looking for help; and finally sat on his tail on the top of the bank, and pointing his nose up at the unlucky tree on which the berries had hung, howled out dismally to the world in general that hetty was in real trouble now, and somebody had better come and look to it. after a long time some one did come at last. the wintry evening was just beginning to close in and the short twilight to fall on the lonely road, blotting out the red berries on the trees, when a sound of wheels and the cracking of a carter's whip struck upon hetty's ears. scamp had heard them first and rushed away barking joyfully in the direction of the sound, to meet the carter, whoever he might be, and to tell him to come on fast and take up hetty in his cart and bring her safely home. presently scamp came frolicking back, and soon after came a great team of powerful horses, drawing a long cart laden with trunks of trees, which john kane, the carter, was bringing from the woods to be chopped up for firewood for the use of the hall. at this sight a dim recollection of the past arose in hetty's brain. had she not seen this great cart and horses long ago, and was not the face of the man like a face she had seen in a dream? she had not had time to think of all this when john kane pulled up his team before her and spoke to her. "be you hurt, little miss?" he said good-naturedly; "i thought something was wrong by the bark of your dog. he told me as plain as print that i was wanted. 'look sharp, john kane!' he said; and how he knows my name i can't tell. there, let me sit you in the cart, and i'll jolt you as little as may be." hetty was thankful to be put in the cart, and it seemed to her a very strange chance that had brought john kane a second time in her life to rescue her. he did not know her at all, and she did not like to tell him who she was. "now, where can i take you to?" he said, as they neared the village. "i came from wavertree hall," said hetty, hanging her head, "and," she added with a great throb of her heart, "my name is hetty gray." "law, you don't say so!" said honest john; "our little hetty that is turned into a lady! well, child, it's not the first time you have got a ride in john kane's cart. you cannot remember, but you used to be main fond of these very horses, watching them getting shod and running among their feet. however, bygones is bygones, and you won't want to hear anything of all that. now, i can't drive you up to the door of the hall in this lumbering big vehicle; but if you'll condescend to come to our cottage for an hour, i'll take a message to say where you are, and mrs. enderby will send for you properly, no doubt." hetty's heart was full as she thanked john kane for his kindness. she had almost been afraid that he would break out into raptures and want to hug her as mrs. kane had done; but when she found him so cold and respectful a lump rose in her throat, and something seemed to tell her that as she had pushed away from her the love of these good honest people, she deserved to be as lonely and unloved as she was. fortunately it was quite dark when the cart passed through the village, so that no one noticed whom john kane had got cowering down in his cart behind the logs of timber. when he stopped at his own door his wife came out, and he said to her in a low voice: "look you here, anne, if i haven't brought you home little hetty a second time out of trouble. found her on the road i did, with her ankle sprained. we'll take her in for the present, and i'll go to the hall and tell the gentlefolks." mrs. kane had just been making ready her husband's tea, and the fire was burning brightly in her tidy kitchen, making it look pretty and homelike. she was greatly astonished at her husband's news, and came to the cart at once, though with a soreness at heart, remembering her last meeting with hetty, and thinking how little pleasure the child would find in this enforced visit to her early home. "now hurry away to the hall and give the message," said mrs. kane; "your tea will keep till you come back. little miss gray will be anxious to get home to those who are expecting her." "oh, please let him take his tea first," cried hetty; "there will be no hurry to get me back. i have been very naughty and everyone will be angry with me. please, mr. kane, take your tea before you go." john kane smiled. "thank you, little maid; but you see the horses are wanting to go home to their stable. and i'd rather finish all my work before i sit down." he went away and hetty was left alone in the firelight with her first foster-mother. "perhaps you are hungry, little miss," said anne. "you have had a long walk, maybe, with your dog." scamp had curled himself up on the "settle" at hetty's feet. hetty felt a pang at the words "little miss," but she knew it was her own pride that had brought this treatment upon her. perhaps mrs. kane had once loved her as scamp did now; but of course she would never love her again. at all events she was dear and good for taking scamp in without a word of objection, and allowing him to rest himself comfortably at her fireside. "i am _dreadfully_ hungry," said hetty, in a low ashamed voice, and looking up at mrs. kane with serious eyes. "i have not eaten anything to-day. i sprained my ankle getting the berries, and they fell so far away i could not pick them up." "not eaten to-day? what,--no breakfast even?" "no," said hetty. "i was bad in the morning, or i should have got some. at least they said i was bad, but i did not feel it." "what did you do?" "i took in scamp in the night when he barked at the window, and i wanted to keep him, though mr. enderby would not have him about the place; and i fought to get him. and i told mrs. enderby that i ought to have him. and then i took him out of the stable-yard and ran away with him." "i'm afraid that was badness in the end," said mrs. kane. "it began with goodness, but it ran to badness. deary me, it's often the same with myself. i think i'm so right that i can't go wrong. but all comes straight again when we're sorry for a fault." "but i can't be sorry for keeping scamp when he loves me so. nobody else loves me," cried hetty, with a burst of tears. mrs. kane was by her side in a minute. "not love you! don't they, my dear? well, there's somebody that loves you more than scamp, _that_ i know. come, now, dry your eyes and eat a bit. there's a nicer cup of tea than they'd give you at the hall; for the little brown pot on the hearth makes better tea than ever comes out of silver. i was a maid in a big house once myself, and i know the difference." in answer to this hetty sat up as well as the pain of her foot would allow, and flung her arms round mrs. kane's neck. "oh, keep me here with you!" she cried. "i am tired of being grand. i will stay with you and learn to be a useful girl, if only you will love me." mrs. kane heaved a long sigh as hetty's arms fastened round her neck. now she felt rewarded for all the love and care she had poured out on the child during the three years she had had her for her own. a little bit of hard ice that had always been lying at the bottom of her heart ever since hetty had left her, now melted away, and she said, half laughing and half crying: "come now, deary, don't be talking nonsense. nice and fit you'd be to bear with a cottage life after all you've been seeing. don't you think the gentlefolks would give you up so easily as that. but whenever you want a word of love and a heart to rest your bit of a head upon like this, mind you remember where they're always waiting for you, hetty." hetty sobbed and clung to her more closely, and it was some time before she could be induced to eat and drink. when she did so the homely meal set before her seemed to her the most delicious she had ever tasted. "oh i am so glad i have found my way back to you," she said; "i never should have done it if i hadn't got into such trouble. oh, you don't know how proud and bad i have been! i know i've been bad, now that you are so good to me." after about an hour john kane came back. he had been obliged to wait to put up his horses and see to their wants for the night before he could come home. the message he brought from the hall was that hetty must stay where she was till her foot was better, as moving about was so bad for a sprain. mrs. enderby would see mrs. kane about her to-morrow. the tiny whitewashed room where she slept that night was the one in which she had slept when a toddling baby, and hetty wondered at herself as she looked round it thankfully. a patchwork quilt covered the bed, and a flower-pot in the one small window, and some coloured prints on the wall, were its only adornments. but it was extremely clean and neat, and, in spite of the pain in her foot, hetty felt more content as she laid her head on the coarse pillow than she had felt for a great many weeks past. chapter xii. a cottage child again. some time passed before hetty saw any of the family at the hall again. mr. enderby was much displeased at her escapade, and resolved she should be punished. he thought the best way to punish her was to leave her in the care of mrs. kane. the hard and lowly living she would have to endure there would, he thought, subdue her pride and teach her to be meek and grateful on her return to a more comfortable home. by his desire mrs. enderby refrained from going to see the child. mrs. kane was sent for to the hall and directed to take every care of her charge; but on no account whatever to pamper her. at first hetty was startled to find how very ready they were at the hall to let her completely drop out of their lives, and at times she repined, but on the whole she was happier, and every day seemed to arouse her more and more to a better sense of the duties that lay round her in life, while seated on her old settle she watched mrs. kane sweeping and washing the floor, polishing up the windows and bits of furniture, and making the humble home shine. hetty longed to be able to take broom and scrubbing-brush from her hands and help her with the troublesome work. when she found that by learning to hold her needle she could help to darn and mend for her dear friend, she eagerly gave her mind to acquiring the necessary knowledge. books were scarce in john kane's house, but hetty did not miss them. at this time of her life all books, except stories, were hateful to her, and she thought she had read enough stories. it became a perfect delight to her to see mrs. kane shake out an old flannel jacket and hold it up to the light and declare that hetty had mended it as well as she could have done it herself. "and that will save my eyes to-night," she would say, to hetty's intense pleasure, who, now for the first time in her young life, tasted the joy of being useful to others. when her foot was sufficiently better to allow her to limp about, john kane made her a crutch, and hetty felt more gladness at receiving this present than mrs. rushton's expensive gifts had ever given her. after this she used to hop about the cottage, dusting and polishing, and doing many little "turns" which were a great help to mrs. kane. she soon knew how to cook the dinner and make the tea, and when mrs. kane was busy or had to go out, it was hetty's delight to have everything ready for her return. to save her black frock from being spoiled by work she had learned to make herself a large gingham blouse, in which she felt free to do anything she pleased without harming her clothes. in this simple active life hetty developed a new spirit which surprised herself as much as it astonished her humble friends. she worked in the garden and tended the poultry, besides performing various tasks which she took upon herself indoors. and in this sort of happy industry several weeks flew, almost uncounted, away. one evening mrs. kane and hetty were sitting at the fire waiting for john to come in. they were both tired after their day's work. mrs. kane was sitting in a straw arm-chair and hetty rested with her feet up on the settle. the little brown tea-pot was on the red tiles by the hearth, and the firelight blinked on the tea-cups. "mrs. kane," said hetty, "will you let me call you mammy?" "will i?" said mrs. kane. "to be sure i will, darling, and glad to hear you. but wouldn't mother be a prettier word in your mouth?" "phyllis calls mrs. enderby mother," said hetty, "and it sounds cold. mammy will be a little word of our own." "and when you go back to the hall you will sometimes come to see your old mammy?" "i think i am going to ask you to let me stay here always," said hetty. "nay, dear, that wouldn't be right. you've got to get educated and grow up a lady." "i could go to the village school," said hetty; "i'm not clever at books, and they could teach me there all i want to learn. when i grow up i might be the village teacher. and you and mr. kane could live with me in the school-house when you are old." "bless the child's heart! how she has planned it all out. but don't be thinking of such foolishness, my hetty. providence has other doings in store for you." one of the happiest things about this time was that scamp was as welcome in the cottage as hetty was herself. he slept by the kitchen fire every night, and shared all hetty's work and play during the daytime. indeed, nothing could be more satisfactory than the child's life in these days with mrs. kane. what in the meantime had become of her extraordinary pride? love and service seemed to have completely destroyed it. one day, however, there came an interruption to her peace. lucy, the maid, arrived with a message to know when hetty would be able and willing to return to the hall. mrs. kane was out and hetty was sitting in the sun at the back-garden door with one of john kane's huge worsted stockings pulled over one little hand, while she darned away at it with the other. at sight of lucy her pride instantly waked up within her and rose in arms. hetty stared in dismay at smart flippant lucy, and felt the old bad feelings rush back on her. tears started to her eyes as she saw all her lately acquired goodness flying away down the garden path, as it seemed to her, and out at the little garden gate. "i don't think i am ready to go yet," said she; "but i will write to mrs. enderby myself. would you like to see scamp, lucy? he has grown so fat and looks so well." hetty could not resist saying this little triumphant word about the dog. however, lucy was ready with a retort. "i suppose he was used to cottages," she said. "people generally do best with what they have been accustomed to." hetty's ears burned with the implied taunt to herself, but she said with great dignity: "you can go now, lucy. i don't think i have anything more to say to you." and lucy found herself willing to go, though she had intended saying a great many more sharp things to the child, whom she, like grant, regarded as an impertinent little upstart. that evening hetty made a tremendous effort and wrote a letter to mrs. enderby. "deer madam,--my foot is well, but mrs. kane is making me good and i would like to stay with her. i am sorry for badness and giving trubbel. i could lern to work and be mrs. kane's child. yours obeedyentley, hetty." mr. and mrs. enderby smiled over this letter together that evening. "poor little monkey," said the former, "there is more in her than i imagined. but what spelling for a girl of her age!" "might it not do to allow her to stay where she is, coming up here for lessons, and to walk occasionally with the girls?" "i do not like the idea of it," said mr. enderby. "i would rather she stayed here and went as often as she pleased to see her early friends. it is evident they have a good influence upon her. yet it would not be fair to let her grow up with their manners if she is to earn her bread among people of a higher class." so when mrs. enderby went next day to visit hetty she was firm in her decision that the little girl should return to the hall. she discovered hetty busy sweeping up the cottage hearth in her gingham blouse. hetty dropped her broom and hung her head. "i was pleased to get your letter, hetty. i am glad you are sorry for what occurred." "i am sorry," said the little girl looking up frankly. "i am very sorry while i am here. but i might not be so sorry up at the hall. the sorryness went away when i saw lucy. afterwards it came back when mrs. kane came in." "and that is why you want to stay here? because mrs. kane makes you feel good? it is an excellent reason; but why can you not learn to be good at the hall too? what has mrs. kane done to make you good?" "oh! she loves me, for one thing," said hetty; "and then she makes me pray to god. i never heard about god at mrs. rushton's; and miss davis always told me i made him angry. mrs. kane's god is so kind. i would like to make him fond of me." "you have a strange startling way of saying things, hetty. you must try and be more like other children. mrs. kane's god is mine, and yours, and every one's, and we must all try to please him. but if you like her way of speaking of him you can come here as often as you please and talk to mrs. kane." "then i must go back to the hall?" said hetty. "i am sorry you look on it as a hardship, hetty. mr. enderby and i think it will be more for your good than staying here." "i am only afraid of being bad," said hetty simply. "oh! come, you will say your prayers and learn to be a good child," said mrs. enderby cheerfully; and then she went away, having settled the matter. she was more than ever convinced that hetty's was a curious and troublesome nature; but she had not sounded the depths of feeling in the child, nor did she guess how ardently she desired to be good and worthy of love, how painfully she dreaded a relapse into the old state of pride and wilfulness which seemed to shut her out from the sympathies of others. after mrs. enderby was gone, hetty sat for a long time with her chin in her little hand looking out of the cottage door, and seeing nothing but her own trouble. how was she to try and be like other children? could she ever learn to be like phyllis, always cold and well-behaved, and never the least hot about anything; or could she grow quiet and sweet and so easily silenced as nell? how was she to hinder her tongue from saying out things just in the words that came to her? she wished she could say things differently, for people so seldom seemed to understand what she meant. tears began to drip down her cheeks as she thought of returning to her corner in the stately hall, where she felt so chilled and lonely, of sitting no more at the snug homely hearth where there was always a spark of love burning for her. as she wiped her eyes a gleam of early spring sunshine struck upon an old beech-tree at the lower end of the garden, and turned all its young green into gold. the glorified bough waved like a banner in the breeze, and seemed to bring some beautiful message to hetty which she could not quite catch. the charm of colour fascinated her eye, the graceful movement had a meaning for her. springing up from her despondent attitude she leaned from the doorway, and felt a flush of joy glow in her heavy little heart. the same thrill of delight that had enraptured her when, as a babe not higher than the flag leaves, she stretched her hands towards the yellow lilies, pierced her now, but with a stronger, more conscious joy. when mrs. kane returned she found her ready to take a more hopeful view of the future that was at hand. "i have got to go," she said; "and i am going. but i may come to you when i like. and when the pride gets bad i will always come." mrs. kane promised to keep scamp for her own, and so hetty could see all her friends at once when she visited the cottage. chapter xiii. a trick on the governess. two years passed over hetty's head, during which she had plenty of storms and struggles, with times of peace coming in between. there were days when, but for mrs. kane's good advice, she would have run away to escape from her trials; and yet she had known some happy hours too, and had gained many a little victory over her temper and her pride. the pleasantest days had been those when mark enderby, brother of phyllis and nell, was at home for his holidays, for he always took hetty's part, not in an uncertain way like nell's, but boldly and openly, and often with the most successful results. he was the only boy hetty had ever known, and she thought him delightful; though like most boys he would be a little rough sometimes, and would expect her to be able to do all that he could do, and to understand all that he talked about. he sometimes, indeed, got her into trouble; but hetty did not grudge any little pain he cost her in return for the protection which he often so frankly afforded her. not that anyone meant to be unkind to her. mr. and mrs. enderby continued to take a friendly interest in everything that concerned her, though strictly following their well-meant plan of not showing her any particular personal affection. "we must not bring her up in a hothouse," they said, "only to put her out in the cold afterwards." in this they thought themselves exceptionally wise people; and who shall say whether they were or not? it suited phyllis admirably to follow in the footsteps of her father and mother; but what was merely prudence on the part of her elder benefactors often appeared something much more unamiable when practised towards hetty by a girl not many years her senior. miss davis, who was a rigid disciplinarian and trusted as such by her employers, thought chiefly of breaking down the pride and temper of the child, and of bending her character so as to fit her for the hard life that was before her; a life whose difficulties and trials had been bitterly experienced, and not yet all conquered or outlived by the conscientious governess herself. nellie, who was hetty's only comfort in the great and, as it seemed to her, unfriendly house, too often showed her sympathy in a covert way which made hetty feel she was half ashamed of her affection; and this deprived such tenderness of the value it would otherwise have had. hetty, now above eleven years old, was very much grown and altered. her once short curly hair was long, and tied back from her face with a plain black ribbon. her face was singularly intelligent, her voice clear and quick, her eyes often much too mournful for the eyes of a child, but sometimes flashing with fun, as, for instance, when mark engaged her in some piece of drollery. then the old spirit that she used to display when she performed her little mimicries for mrs. rushton's amusement would spring up in her again, and she would take great delight in seeing mark roll about with laughing, and hearing him declare that she was the jolliest girl in the world. one easter time, just two years after hetty's return to the hall, when mark was at home for his holidays, he proposed to hetty to play a trick on miss davis. hetty's eyes danced at the thought of a trick of any kind. she did not have much fun as a rule, and mark's tricks were always so funny. "it isn't to be a bad trick, i hope," she said, however. "oh! no, not at all. only to dress up and pretend to be people from her own part of the world coming to see her and to bring her news. we will be an old couple who know her friends, and are passing this way." "she will find us out." "no; we must come in the twilight and go away very soon. she will be so astounded by what i shall tell her that she won't think about us at all." "what will you tell her?" "oh! news about her old uncle. she has a rich uncle and she expects to be his heiress. somebody told me of it. i will tell her he is married, and you will see what a state she will be in." "i don't believe miss davis wants anybody's money," said hetty; "she works hard for herself, and i think she supports her mother. _i_ shall have to work some day as she does, and i mean to copy her. only i shall have no mother to support," said hetty, swallowing a little sigh because mark could not bear her to be sentimental. "oh! well, we shall have some fun at all events," said mark; "and don't you go spoiling it, proving that miss davis is a saint." "where can we get clothes to dress up in?" asked hetty. "farmer dawson's son is going to bring them to me, and you will find yours in your room just at dusk. hurry them on fast and i shall be waiting in the passage." that evening two rather puny figures of an old man and woman were shown up into the school-room where miss davis was sitting alone, looking into the fire and thinking of her distant home. hetty was supposed to be arranging her wardrobe in her own room, and the other girls were with their mother. the governess was enjoying the treat of an hour of leisure alone, when she was informed that mr. and mrs. crawford from oldtown, sheepshire, wished to see her. "show them up," said miss davis, and waited in surprised expectation. "who are they?" she thought; "i do not know the name. but any one from dear sheepshire--ah, what a strange-looking pair!" they were odd-looking indeed. mark was tall enough to dress up as a man, and he wore a rough greatcoat, and a white wig, and spectacles. hetty had little gray curls, and gray eyebrows under a deep bonnet, and was wrapped in a cloak with many capes. in the uncertain light their disguise was complete. "i have not the pleasure--" began miss davis. "no, you don't know us," said mark, "but your friends do, and we know all about you. we were passing this way and have brought you a message from your mother." "indeed!" said miss davis, and her heart sank. a letter she had been expecting all the week had not arrived. her mother was sick and poor. what dreadful thing had happened at home? "oh, she is not worse than usual," put in hetty, in the shrill piping tone which she chose to give to mrs. crawford. "don't be alarmed." miss davis did not easily recover from her first shock of alarm. she remained quite pale, and hetty wondered to see so much feeling in a person whom she had often thought to be almost a mere teaching-machine. "the news is about your uncle," went on mark. "perhaps you have not heard that he is married." "no, i had not heard," murmured miss davis; and she looked as if this indeed was a terrible blow to her. hetty was immediately annoyed at her and disappointed in her. was mark right in his estimate of her character? hetty had thought her a wonder of high-mindedness and independence of spirit, if very formal and cold. was she now going to be proved mercenary and mean? "your mother did not write to you about it, fearing it would be a disappointment to you." "my uncle has a right to do as he pleases," said miss davis, "and i hope he will be happy"; but her lips were trembling and she looked pained and anxious. "i thank you very much for your trouble in coming to tell me. i daresay my mother will write immediately." now mark was not satisfied with the result of his trick. he had hoped that miss davis would have got very angry, and have said some amusing things. her quiet dignity disappointed him, and with an impulse of wild boyish mischief he resolved to try if he could not startle her. "i am sorry to say i have not told you everything," he blurted out suddenly. "i ought to prepare you for the worst, but i don't know how." "speak, i beg of you," faltered miss davis. "your uncle is dead, and has left all his fortune, every penny, to his wife." a look came over miss davis's face which the children could not understand. "my brother!" she said, "can you tell me what has become of my little brother?" "run away," said mark, who had not known till this moment that she had a brother. miss davis gasped and leaned her face forward on the table. the next moment they saw her slip away off her chair to the floor. she had fainted. mark was greatly alarmed, and struck with sudden remorse. hetty sprang up crying, "oh, mark, how could you?" "what are we to do?" said mark in despair. "here," said hetty, "take away all this rubbish of clothes, and hide them." and she pulled off her disguise and flew to raise miss davis from the floor. "no, lay her flat," said mark; "and here is some water, dash it on her well. i will come back in a few moments." he cast off his own disguise and vanished with his arms full of the articles he and hetty had worn. when he returned he found miss davis beginning to breathe again, and hetty crying over her. "oh! mark, i will never play a trick again as long as i live," whispered hetty; "we were near killing her. how could we dare to meddle with her affairs?" "how was i to know she had a brother?" grumbled mark under his breath. "and what has he to do with the joke of her uncle's marrying?" "and dying?" said hetty. "but that's just it, you see, we don't know anything about it." "children," murmured miss davis, "what has happened to me? give me your hands, mark, and help me to rise." they raised her up and laid her on the sofa. "what was the matter?" repeated miss davis, seeing the tears flowing down hetty's cheeks. "oh! two nasty old people came to see you and frightened you," said mark, "and then they walked off, and hetty and i found you on the floor." hetty gave mark a reproachful look, coloured deeply, and hung her head. mark cast a warning glance at her over miss davis's shoulder. he did not want to be discovered. "oh! i remember," moaned miss davis. "my poor mother!" mark could not bear the unhappy tone of her voice, and turned and fled out of the room. "don't believe any news those people brought you, miss davis," said hetty. "i am sure they were impostors." she was longing to say, "mark and i played a trick for fun," but did not dare until she had first spoken to mark. "why do you think so? hetty, is it possible you are crying for me? i did not think you cared so much about me, my dear." "i am sorry, i am sorry," cried hetty, bursting into a fresh fit of crying; "i did not know you had a little brother, miss davis." "i have, hetty; next to my mother he is the dearest care of my life. i could not have told you this but for your tears. my mother and i are very poor, hetty, and my uncle had lately taken my boy and promised to put him forward in the world. he is rather a wilful lad, my poor darling, and is very delicate besides. now, it seems, by my uncle's marriage and death he has lost all the prospect he had in life. and worst of all he has run away. and my mother is so ill. it will kill her." miss davis bowed her pale worn face on her hands, and hetty, young as she was, seemed to feel the whole meaning of this poor woman's life, her struggles to help others, her unselfish anxieties, her love of her mother and brother hidden away under a quiet, grave exterior. what a brave part she was playing in life, in spite of her prim looks and methodical ways. hetty was completely carried away by the sight of her suffering, and could no longer contain her secret. she forgot mark's warning looks, and his sovereign contempt, always freely expressed, for those who would blab; and she said in a low eager voice: "oh, miss davis, i _must_ tell the truth. it was all a trick of me and mark. he made it up out of his head, without really knowing anything about your people. only for fun, you know." "what do you mean, hetty?" "we were the old man and woman, mr. and mrs. crawford. indeed we were, and there are no such people. and your uncle is neither married nor dead. and your brother has not run away. and your mother will be all right; and do not grieve any more, dear miss davis." hetty put her arms round the governess's neck as she spoke, and laughed and sobbed together. miss davis seemed quite stunned with the revelation. "are you sure you are not dreaming, hetty? i want a few moments to think it all over. none of these dreadful things have really happened! well, my dear, i must first thank god." "oh, miss davis, i wish you would beat me." "no, dear, i won't beat you. only don't another time think it good fun to cut a poor governess to the heart. perhaps you thought i had not much feeling in me." "not very much," said hetty. "i knew you were very good, and strong, and wise, and learned; but i did not know you could love people." "you know it now. for the future do not think that because people are colder in their manner than you are they are therefore heartless. persons who lead the life that i lead, have to keep many feelings shut up within themselves, and to accustom themselves to do without sympathy." hetty pondered over these words. she wanted to say that she thought it would do quite as well to show more feeling, and look for a little more sympathy. she was now sure that she could always have loved miss davis, had she only known her from the first to be so warm-hearted and so truly affectionate. but she did not know how to express herself and remained silent. "miss davis," she said presently; "must governesses always keep their hearts shut up, and try to look as if they loved nobody? you know i am going to be a governess some day, and that is why i ask." miss davis was startled. "do i look as if i loved nobody?" she asked. "a little," said hetty. "then i must be wrong. it cannot be good to look as if one loved nobody. at the same time it _is_ very necessary to curb all one's feelings. phyllis, for instance, would not respect me if she thought me what she would call sentimental. and even nell would perhaps smile at me as a simpleton if she saw me looking for particular affection. even you, hetty--you who think so much about love!--could i manage you at all if i did not know how to look stern?" "you could," said hetty; "you could manage me better by smiling at me; just try, miss davis. but oh, i forgot; i have got to be a governess too, and perhaps i had better be hardened up." miss davis was silent, thinking over hetty's words. that this ardent child found her "hardened up" was an unpleasant surprise to her; but she was not above taking a hint even from one so young and faulty as hetty. she would try to be warmer, brighter with this girl. and then she reflected sadly on the prospect before hetty. with a nature like hers, how would she ever become sufficiently disciplined to be fit for the life of toil and self-repression that lay before her? the next day hetty looked out anxiously for an opportunity of speaking privately to mark. "i have something to say to you, mark," she said; "i had to tell miss davis that we played the trick." "you had to tell her!" said mark scornfully; "well, if ever i trust a tell-tale of a girl again. you are just as sneaky as nell after all." "nell is not sneaky; and you ought not to call me a tell-tale. you ran away and left me with all miss davis's trouble on my shoulders. i didn't want to tell; but it was better than having her suffer so dreadfully." "oh, very well. you can make a friend of her. go away and sit up prim like phyllis. you shall have no more fun with me, i can tell you." a lump came in hetty's throat. she knew mark was in the wrong, and was very unkind besides; but still he had so often been good to her that she could not bear to quarrel with him. "i am very sorry," she said; "but i don't think you need be afraid that miss davis will complain to anyone about us." this made mark more angry; for he did not like to hear the word "afraid" applied to himself; and yet his chief uneasiness had been lest the occurrence of last evening should come to the ears of his father, who had a great dislike for practical jokes. "afraid? i am not afraid of anything, you little duffer. she can tell all about it to the whole house if she likes," he said, and turning on his heel went off whistling. hetty was right in the guess she had made regarding miss davis, who did not say a word to anyone about the trick that had been played on her. she was too thankful to know that she had suffered from a false alarm, that her beloved brother was safe under the protection of the uncle who had promised to befriend him, and that her dear mother was spared the terrible anxiety that had seemed to have overtaken her; she was much too glad thinking of all this to feel disposed to be angry with anyone. besides, this accident had brought to light a side of hetty's character which she had hardly got a glimpse of before. the child had evinced a warmth of feeling towards herself which neither of her other two pupils had ever shown her, and this in forgetfulness of the somewhat hard demeanour with which she had been hitherto treated. the little girl was, it appeared, capable of knowing that certain things she did not like were yet for her good, and of respecting the persons who were to her rather a stern providence. her extreme sorrow for giving pain was also to be noted, and the fact that she had realized the work that was before her in life. all these things sank deeply into miss davis's mind, and made her feel far more interested in hetty than she had ever felt before. but hetty did not know anything of all this. she saw miss davis precise and cold-looking as ever, going through the day's routine as if the events of that memorable evening had never happened; and she thought that everything was just as it had been before, except that mark had quarrelled with her and would scarcely speak to her. she felt this a heavy trial, and but for occasional visits to mrs. kane and scamp would have found it harder than she could bear. chapter xiv. hetty's constancy. "i hope hetty is getting on better in the school-room now," said mrs. enderby to phyllis one day; "i have not heard any complaints for some time." "i think she is doing pretty well, mother; at least she behaves better to miss davis. as for me, i have very little to do with her. i notice, however, that she has quarrelled with mark. he and she used to be great friends, because she is such a romp and ready for any rough play. but now he does not speak to her." "that does not matter much," said mrs. enderby smiling; "she will be better with miss davis and you. you must continue to take an interest in the poor child, dear phyllis. i wish she gave as little trouble as you do." phyllis was one of those girls for whom mothers ought to be more uneasy than for the wilder and naughtier children who cause them perpetual annoyance. she was so proper in all her ways, and so well-behaved as never to seem in fault. her reasons for everything she said and did were so ready and so plausible, that it required a rather clever and far-seeing person to detect the deep-rooted pride and self-complacency that lay beneath them. to manage all things quietly her own way, to be accounted wise and good, and greatly superior to ordinary girls of her age, was as the breath of life to phyllis. to have to stand morally or actually in the corner with other naughty children was a humiliation she had unfortunately never experienced, but was one which would have done her a world of good. all those early storms of remorse, repentance, compunction, which do so much to prepare the ground for a growth of virtue in children's hearts, were an unknown experience to her. she believed in herself, and she expected others, young and old, to believe in her. such characters, if not discovered and humbled in time, are likely to have a terrible future, and to grow up the unconscious enemies of their own happiness and that of the people who live around them. mark kept up his indignation towards hetty for a week. he did not grieve over the quarrel as she did, but he missed her sadly in his games. however, an accident soon occurred which made them friends again. mark had had a piece of land given to him in a retired part of the grounds, and he was full of the project of making a garden of his own, according to his own particular fancy. his father was pleased to allow him to do this, being glad of anything that would occupy the restless lad while at home for his holidays. "i will draw all the beds geometrically myself," said mark, "and make it quite different from anything you have ever seen. and then i will build a tea-house all of fir, and line it with cones, and it will have a delightful perfume." then he said to himself that if hetty had not turned out so badly he would have asked her to make tea very often in his nice house among his flowers. but, of course, he could not ask a tell-tale duffer of a girl to do anything for him. he set to work to plan his beds, and one afternoon was busy marking off spaces with wooden pegs and a long line of cord. after working some time he came to the end of his pegs, and was annoyed to find that he had not enough to finish the particular figure he was planning. he did not like to drop his line to go for more pegs, as he feared his work was not secure enough, and would fall astray if the string was not held taut till the end should be properly secured. just as he looked around impatiently, not knowing what to do, he saw hetty coming along the path above him, walking slowly and reading. she was very often reduced to the necessity of taking a story-book as companion of her leisure hours, now that mark would have nothing to do with her. this afternoon phyllis and nell were out driving with their mother, and miss davis had seized the opportunity to write letters. hetty was therefore thrown on her own resources and was roaming about with a book. she would have rushed away to mrs. kane's at once, but she knew that this was john kane's dinner hour. but half an hour hence she would set off for the village, and have a nice long chat with her foster-mother. hetty descended the winding path with her eyes on her book, and before she saw him, nearly stumbled against mark. "do you mean to walk over a fellow?" said mark in an aggrieved tone. "oh, mark, i beg your pardon. i did not know you were here. now," she added, looking round wistfully, "if you wouldn't be cross with me what a nice time we could have working at your garden together." "if you weren't disagreeable, i suppose you mean. well, yes, we could. but you see we're not friends." "and you won't, won't be?" said hetty anxiously. "well, look here, if you hold this string for me a bit i'll think about it. my pegs are shaky until the string is fastened up tight, and i can't drop it, and i must go to the stable-yard for some more pegs. if you hold this string till i come back, perhaps i will forgive you." "oh yes, i will hold it," said hetty; and down went her book on the grass, and she took the cord and held it as mark directed. "be sure to keep steady till i come back," he said; "and you mustn't mind if i am kept a little while. i may have to look for jack, who has the key of the storehouse where the pegs are kept." and off he went. when he got to the stable-yard he met a groom who was coming to look for him, saying that his father wanted him to go out riding. mr. enderby was already in the saddle, and mark's pony was waiting beside him at the door. mark, who loved a ride, especially in company with his father, at once vaulted on the pony's back and was soon trotting out of the gates, laughing and chatting with his papa. he had completely forgotten hetty, and the pegs, and the cord that had to be held taut till he should come back. in the meantime hetty was standing just where he had left her, looking in the direction from which he was to return. a quarter of an hour passed, and her finger and thumb, which held the string exactly as mark had directed, were a little stiff. another quarter passed, and lest the cord should relax she changed it from one hand to the other. "jack must have gone out," she thought, "and mark is waiting for him. i wish he would come back, for i do want to see mrs. kane." however, another quarter passed and mark did not appear. hetty was very cold, for it was damp wintry weather with a sharp wind, and one gets chilly standing perfectly still so long in the open air. she felt tempted to put down the string and go to look for mark, but on reflection thought it would be disloyal to do so. he should not be disappointed in her again. something extraordinary had happened to keep him away, but he should find her at her post when he came back. then he would be sure to forgive her, and she would be happy again. another half-hour passed and her toes were half-frozen, and her fingers and her little nose pinched and red. she wished she had put on her gloves before she took the cord in her hands. now she could not drop it to put them on. the jacket she wore was not a very warm one. oh, why did not mark come back? it occurred to her that perhaps he might be playing a trick to punish her; but she could not believe he would be so cruel. should she drop the string at last, and tell him afterwards that she had held it as long as she could endure the cold? no, she would go on holding it. he should see that she could bear something for his sake. hetty had been about an hour shivering at her post when mark, riding gaily along the road many miles from home, suddenly remembered hetty and the cord. he felt greatly startled and shocked at his carelessness. "i ought to have sent jack with the pegs to finish the work, and to tell her i was going to ride," he reflected; "but it can't be helped now. she will never be such a goose as to stay there long." and he felt more sorry thinking of how the string would be lying slack until his return than for treating hetty so inconsiderately. trying to put the whole thing out of his head he began to chatter to his father about something that had happened at school, and thought no more about the matter till he had returned home an hour later. then he sprang from his pony and ran off to his garden to see if he could tighten up the string before it became quite dark night. could he believe his eyes? there was hetty holding the string as he had left her. "do you mean to say you have been there ever since?" he said in utter amazement. "yes," said hetty, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "you told me not to mind if you were kept a while. and i did not mind." "but do you know that i have been two hours away, and have had a long ride with father?" said mark. "it seemed a long time," said hetty; "but i did not know what you were doing. i promised to stay and i stayed." "well, you were a precious goose," he said, taking the string out of her hand. "nobody but a stupid of a girl would do such a thing." hetty said nothing, but slapped her hands together, and tried to keep the tears of disappointment from coming into her eyes. "here, hold the string a moment longer while i put this peg properly into the ground. can't you catch it tight? oh, your fingers are stiff. there, that will do for to-night now, come home and get warm again." they walked up to the house together. hetty was too cold, and tired, and hurt to speak again, and mark was too much annoyed at his own carelessness, and what he called hetty's stupidity, to be able to thank her, and offer to make friends with her. hetty went up to her own room to take off her things, and when she came down to the school-room she found that the tea was over and she was in disgrace for staying out so long. phyllis cast a disapproving glance at her as she entered. punctuality was one of phyllis's virtues. miss davis rebuked hetty for staying out alone so late. "i must tell mrs. kane," she said, "not to keep you so late when you go to see her." then hetty was obliged to say that she had not been to see mrs. kane. "where, then, can you have been for two hours all alone?" "i was all the time in the grounds," said hetty. she had made up her mind that she would not "tell" this time of mark, and the consciousness that she was in an awkward position made her colour up and look as if guilty of some fault she did not wish to own. phyllis looked at her narrowly and glanced at miss davis, who had a pained expression on her face, but who said nothing more at the time, being willing to screen hetty if she could. "hetty, i am sure you have got cold," said nell after some time; "you are all shivery-shuddery." "my head is aching," said hetty; "i don't feel well." "i suppose you were sitting all the time reading a story-book," said phyllis, "that would give you cold in weather like this." "no, i was not reading, at least not long," said hetty. "but were you sitting?" "no." "walking?" "no, not much." "my dear, you must not cross-question like that," said miss davis. "perhaps hetty will tell me by and by what she was doing." a frown gathered on phyllis's fair brows and she turned coldly to her lesson book which she was studying for the next day. she could not bear even so slight a rebuke as this, but she knew how to reserve the expression of her displeasure to a fitting time. she herself believed that she bore an undeserved reproof with dignity, but some day in the future the governess would be made to suffer some petty annoyance or disappointment in atonement for her misconduct in finding fault with her pattern pupil. hetty raised her eyes with a thankful glance at miss davis, who saw that they were full of tears. a sudden warmth kindled in miss davis's heart as she saw that hetty trusted in her forbearance, and she said presently: "i think you had better go to bed now, hetty. you look unwell; and bed is the best place for a cold." "may i go with her, and see that she is covered up warm?" said nell. "yes," said miss davis, "certainly." and the two little girls left the room together, hetty squeezing nell's hand in gratitude for her kindness. when they got up to hetty's room nell's curiosity could no longer restrain itself. "oh, hetty," she said, "will you tell me what you were doing? i can see it is a great secret. and i won't tell anybody." "neither will i," said hetty laughing; "but i was not hurting anyone, nor breaking the laws." "now, you are making fun of me," said nell; "it is too bad not to tell me. and phyllis will be cool with me to-night for running after you." "then why did you not stay in the school-room?" said hetty sadly. "i don't want to make coolness between you and phyllis." "i shouldn't mind phyllis if you would let me have a secret with you. it is so nice to have a secret, and it is so hard to get one. everybody knows all about everything." "i don't agree with you; i hate secrets," said hetty. "this is not much of one, i think, but it is somebody else's affair, and i will not tell it." having wrung so much as this from hetty, nell grew wildly excited over the matter, and was so annoyed at not having her curiosity gratified that she went away out of the room in a hurry without having seen whether hetty was warm enough or not. on her return to the school-room she announced that hetty could not tell anything about how she had passed the afternoon, because it was somebody else's secret. "perhaps she has been bringing some village girl or boy into the grounds," said phyllis quietly. "i will talk to her myself about this," said miss davis; "pray attend to your studies." miss davis on reflection thought phyllis might be right, and that having made acquaintance with some young companion in mrs. kane's cottage, hetty might have been induced to admit her or him to the grounds so as to give pleasure. she knew how strongly the child was influenced by her likings and lovings, and feared that this might be the case of scamp over again, with the important difference that hetty was now a girl in her twelfth year, and that her new favourite might prove to be a human being instead of a dog. the next day hetty was seriously ill. she had caught a severe cold and lay tossing feverishly in her bed. miss davis came up to see her in the afternoon and sat at her bedside for half an hour. "hetty," she said, "i fear you must have been very foolish yesterday, and that your cold is the consequence. now that we are alone i expect you will tell me exactly all that you did." "i can't indeed, miss davis." "you disappoint me exceedingly. i had been thinking so much better of you; i conclude you were not alone yesterday." "not all the time, but most of it." "who was with you when you were not alone?" hetty hesitated, and then said, "mark." "but mark was out riding with his father." "yes." "and you were alone all that time." "yes." "and yet there is something behind that you will not tell. hetty, i always thought you frank till now. why are you making a mystery?" "i can't tell you, miss davis; i was not doing any harm." "how am i to believe that?" said miss davis. "oh, my head!" moaned hetty, as the pain seemed crushing it. she thought that if she were to die for it she would not tell that mark had treated her badly. miss davis went away hurt and displeased, and hetty was very much alone for several days, being too ill to leave her room, and too deeply in disgrace to be petted by anyone. she was very unhappy, and lay wondering how it was that with a strong desire to do right she seemed always going wrong. if she had dropped the string, gone away to see mrs. kane as she had been longing to do, and returned in good time to the school-room to tea, mark would perhaps have been better pleased with her than he actually was. he had not guessed that she had meant to please him, to make up for telling miss davis that they two had played her a trick. he did not ask about her now she was ill, or notice that she was keeping silence and allowing herself to be misunderstood in order that he might not be blamed. if all were told he could not be much blamed, it was true, for what was a mere piece of forgetfulness. but that carelessness of his was a fault of which his father was very impatient, and which always brought on him a severe reprimand. "and i will not tell this time," said hetty to herself, as her eyes feverishly danced after the spots on the wall-paper. "when i told before, it was to save miss davis from suffering, this time there is nobody to suffer but myself." in the meantime mark was spending a few days with a school-fellow at a distance of some miles, and had gone away without hearing about hetty's illness. as soon as he returned home he missed her, and learned that she was shut up in her room. he immediately went to inquire for her, and met miss davis on the stairs. "i'm sure i don't wonder she got a cold," he said, "but i never meant her to do it." "to do what?" asked miss davis. "why, did she not tell you?" "i have not been able to get her to tell me what she was about that day for two hours alone in the grounds. she has not behaved well, i am sorry to say; she has been in disgrace as well as ill." "then it was a jolly shame!" burst forth mark. "i left her to hold a string for me, and i forgot all about her, and went away to ride. and she stood holding the string for two hours in the cold. and i called her a duffer for not running away and letting all my pegs go crooked in the ground. oh, i say, miss davis, it makes a fellow feel awfully ashamed of himself." "so it ought," said miss davis, who now understood the whole thing. "she would not tell for fear of getting you blamed." "and i called her a tell-tale before," said mark, "because she told you about the trick. i've been punishing her for weeks about that. miss davis, can't i go in and see her and beg her pardon?" "certainly," said miss davis; "she is sitting at the fire, and her eyes are red with crying. come in with me and we will try to make her happy again." "why, hetty, you do look miserable!" cried mark, coming into the room and looking ruefully at her pale cheeks and the black shadows round her eyes. "and to think of you never telling after all i made you suffer!" "i wanted to show you that i am not a tell-tale, mark; but oh, i am so glad you have come. i thought you were never going to be friends with me again." "i was away four days," said mark; "and of course i thought you knew. but hetty, you are a jolly queer girl i can tell you, and i can't half understand you. think of anyone standing two hours to be pierced through and through with cold, rather than drop a fellow's string and run away!" hetty looked at him wistfully, recognizing the truth that he never could understand the sort of feeling that led her into making, as he considered, such a fool of herself. miss davis gazed at her kindly and pityingly, thinking of how many hard blows she would get in the future, in return for acts like that which had so puzzled mark. and she resolved that another time she would be slow in blaming any eccentric conduct in hetty, and would wait till she could get at the motive which inspired it. chapter xv. the children's dance. one day during these christmas holidays a lady came to visit at wavertree hall, bringing her two little girls. phyllis and nell had gone with miss davis to see some other young friends in the neighbourhood, and hetty, who was spending one of her lonely afternoons in the school-room with her books and work, was sent for to take the little visitors for a walk in the grounds, while their mother had tea with mrs. enderby. hetty was pleased at being wanted, and soon felt at home with the strange little girls, who at once took a great fancy to her. seeing she could give pleasure her spirits rose high, and she became exceedingly merry, and said some very amusing things. "i think," said edith, the elder of the young visitors, "that you must be the girl who told such funny stories one evening when mamma dined here. she said it was as good as going to the theatre." "that was a long time ago," said hetty; "i am not funny now. at least, very seldom." "i think you are funny to-day," said grace, the second sister; "i wish you would come to our house and act for us, as you did then." "i don't go to houses," said hetty, shaking her head; "i belonged to mrs. rushton then, and she meant me to be a lady. but now she is dead, and it is settled that i am not to be a lady when i am grown up. i am only to be a governess, and work for myself." "but governesses are ladies," said edith; "a dear friend of ours is a governess, and there never was a nicer lady." "oh, i know," said hetty; "miss davis is quite the same. but i mean, i am not to be the kind of lady that goes out to parties." "well, i will try and get you leave to come to our party," said edith. "we are going to have one before the holidays are over." "i don't think you will get leave from mrs. enderby," said hetty; "and then i have no frock." "they must get you a frock somewhere," said grace; "i could send you one of mine." "that would give offence, i am sure," said hetty smiling. "it is not for the trouble of getting the frock that mrs. enderby would keep me from going. she does not wish me to get accustomed to such things." "then she is horrid," cried edith; "making you just like cinderella." "no, no," said hetty, "you must not say that. cinderella was a daughter of the house, and i am nobody's child. that is what the village people say. and only think if they had sent me to a charity school!" edith and grace gazed at her gravely. hetty stood with her hands behind her back, looking them in the eyes as she stated her own case. "and you have nobody belonging to you, really, in the whole world?" said edith. "nobody," said hetty, "and nothing. at least nothing but a tiny linen chemise." "did you drop down out of the clouds in that?" asked grace with widening eyes. "no," said hetty laughing; "but i came out of the sea in it. i was washed up as a baby on the long sands. there were great storms at the time and a great many shipwrecks. and nobody ever asked about me. they must have been all drowned. john kane, one of mr enderby's carters, picked me up. so you see i am not the kind of girl to be going out to parties." "you will have to be very learned if you are going to be a governess," said grace; "i suppose you are always studying." "i work pretty hard at my books," said hetty; "but i am not clever. and how i am ever to be as well informed as miss davis i don't know. some things i remember quite well, and other things i am always forgetting. i am sure if i ever get any pupils they will laugh at me. i wish i could live in a little cottage in the fields, and work in a garden and sell my flowers." "i should always come and buy from you," said grace; "what kind of flowers would you keep?" "oh, roses," said hetty; "roses and violets. when i was in london i saw people selling them in the streets. i would send them to london and get money back." "i think i will come and live with you," said grace eagerly. "grace, don't be a goose," saith edith; "hetty has not got a cottage, and she is going to be a governess." "yes," sighed hetty; "but i shall never remember my dates." a few days after this conversation occurred, an invitation to a children's party came from edith and grace to all the children at wavertree hall, including hetty gray. mrs. enderby did not wish hetty to know that she had been invited, but nell whispered the news to her. "mamma and phyllis think you ought not to go," said nell; "but mark and i intend to fight for you. mark says he was so nasty to you lately that he wants to make up." hetty's eyes sparkled at the idea of having this pleasant variety. "i shall never be allowed to go," she said. "oh, if it is only a frock, you can have one of mine," said nell; "i got a new one for the last party, and my one before is not so bad." "it isn't the frock, i am sure," said hetty; "it is because i am not to be a lady. at least," she added, remembering edith's rebuke, "i am not to be a party-lady, not a dancing-and-dressing-lady. i am only to be a book-lady, a penwiper-lady, a needle-and-thread-lady, you know, nell." "oh, hetty! a penwiper-lady!" "yes, haven't you seen them at bazaars?" said hetty, screwing up her little nose to keep from laughing. "i never know whether you are in earnest when you begin like that," said nell pouting; "i suppose you don't want to come with us." however, when hetty heard that she had really got leave to go "for this once, because edith and grace had made such a point of it," there was no mistake about her gladness to join in the fun. "how will you ever keep me at home after this?" she said, as phyllis and nell stood surveying her dressed in one of their cast-off frocks, of a rose-coloured tint which suited her brunette complexion. "i shall be getting into your pockets the next time, and tumbling out in the ball-room with your pocket-handkerchief." "no one wants to keep you at home, except for your own good," said phyllis with an air of wisdom. "never mind, phyllis, it won't be into your pocket that i shall creep," said hetty gaily. phyllis did not feel like herself that evening, and was dissatisfied about she knew not what. she could not admit to herself that she was displeased because another was to enjoy a treat, even though she thought she had a right to her belief that it would have been better if hetty had been made to stay at home. "of course, as mother consents, it is all right," she had said; but still she did not feel as much enjoyment as usual in dressing for the party. half suspecting the cause of this, and willing to restore her good opinion of her own virtue, she brought a pretty fan to hetty and offered to lend it to her. hetty took it with a look and exclamation of thanks; but phyllis thought she hardly expressed her gratitude with sufficient humbleness. however, phyllis had now soothed away that faint doubt in her own mind as to her own kindness and generosity, and took no further notice of her unwelcome companion. arrived at the ball, hetty was warmly received by edith and grace, and was soon in a whirl of delightful excitement. she had "as many partners as she could use," as a tiny girl once expressed it, and she was not, like cinderella, afraid that her frock would turn to rags, or anxious to run home before the other dancers. everybody was very kind to her, and if anyone said, "that is the little girl whom mr. enderby is bringing up for charity," hetty did not hear it, and so did not care. "oh, hetty, you do look so nice!" said nell, dancing up to her. "a gentleman over there asked me if you were my sister. and i did not tell him you were going to be a governess." "you might have told him," said hetty. "i don't care. i have been speaking to such a nice governess. she is here in care of some little children. i think she is the prettiest lady in the room; and she looks quite happy. i wish i could turn out something like her. only i shall never remember the dates." hetty sighed, and the next minute was whirled away into the dance again. now phyllis had told herself over and over again in the course of the evening that she was very pleased poor hetty should be enjoying the pleasure of this party, always adding a reflection, however, that she hoped she might not be spoiled by so foolish an indulgence. "if i were going to be a governess," thought she, "i should try to fit myself for the position. of course it is father's and mother's affair, but when one has a little brains one can't help thinking, i believe if i were in mother's position i should be wiser; but then, of course, i cannot have any things or people to manage till i am grown up. it is the duty of a girl to do what she is told; afterwards people will have to do what she tells them. when the time comes for me to be a mistress i shall take good care that everybody does what is right." these reflections occurred to phyllis while she was sitting out a dance for which hetty had got a partner. soon afterwards, while the breathless flock of young dancers were fanning themselves on the sofas, the lady of the house requested hetty to recite or act something to amuse the company. at this proposal hetty was startled and dismayed. it was a very long time since she had done anything of the kind, except for the amusement of mark and nell, and she had forgotten all the old stories and characters that used to be found so entertaining by grown people. she felt a shyness amounting to terror at being obliged to come forward and perform before this company; and, besides, she was very sure that mrs. enderby would disapprove of her doing so. she therefore begged earnestly to be excused, and retreated into a corner. the lady of the house desisted for a time from her persuasions, but after another dance was finished she renewed her request. hetty's distress increased, but she felt quite unable to explain to her hostess the reasons why it was impossible she could comply with her wishes. she could only repeat: "i forget how to do it; indeed i do. and mrs. enderby does not like it." "mrs. enderby would like you to please me," said the hostess. "and i cannot think you forget. my daughters tell me you were most amusing last week when they saw you." "was i?" said hetty, dismayed. "but that was in the garden and came by accident. i could not do anything before all this crowd." "well, if you were a shy child i could understand," said the lady; "but you know i heard you long ago when you were much younger. if you were not shy then you cannot be so now." hetty could not explain that it was just because she was older now that she was shy. long ago she had been too small to realize the position she was placed in. she felt ready to weep at being found so disobliging, yet when she thought of the performance required of her, her tongue clove to her mouth with fright. the hostess now crossed the room to phyllis, who had been watching what had passed between her and hetty from a distance. "i have been trying to persuade little miss gray to recite for us, or to do some of her amusing characters, but she has all sorts of reasons why she cannot oblige me. is she always so obstinate?" phyllis hesitated. "i think she has a pretty strong will of her own," she said. "i am afraid she will not yield." "well, my dear, you know her better than i do, and it is nice of you not to be too ready to blame her. but i like little girls who do as their elders bid them. and i confess i expected to find her agreeable when i invited her here this evening." now if phyllis had been as generous as she would have liked to believe herself she would have said, "i know my mother does not approve of hetty's performances, and hetty knows it too. perhaps this is why she refuses." but phyllis, quite unconsciously to herself, was pleased to hear hetty blamed, and was willing to think that she ought to have put all her scruples aside in order to oblige mrs. enderby's friend. while she considered about what it would be pretty to say, her hostess went on: "i suppose she is a little conceited and spoiled. she is certainly exceedingly pretty and clever." it was much more difficult now for phyllis to make her amiable speech; yet she had not the least idea that she was a jealous or an envious girl. she always felt so good, and everybody said she was so. jealous people are always making disturbance. therefore it was quite impossible that phyllis could be jealous. "i will go and speak to her," she said to the lady of the house, and crossed the room to where hetty sat, looking unhappy. "hetty," said phyllis, "i think you ought to do as you are asked. it was exceedingly kind of mrs. cartwright to invite you here. of course she expected you to be obliging." "you mean that she asked me, thinking i would amuse the company?" said hetty quickly. "then i am very sorry you have told me so, phyllis, for i should never have guessed it. and now i shall feel miserable till i get away." "can't you be agreeable?" "no, i can't. just think of trying it yourself." "of course it would not be suitable for me," said phyllis. "our positions are different. however, if you choose to be ungrateful you must." and she walked away, leaving hetty sitting alone reflecting sadly on her words. so after all it was not kindness and liking for her that had made these people include her in their invitation. it was only the desire to have their party made more amusing by her performance. she wished she could do what was required of her, so that she need owe them nothing. but she could not; and how hateful she must seem. all her pleasure was over now, and she was glad when the moment came to get away. her silence was not noticed during the drive home, for every one else was too sleepy to talk. but hetty was too unhappy to be sleepy. the next morning miss davis asked at breakfast if the party had been enjoyable. "it was all very nice," said phyllis, "until towards the end, when hetty put on fine airs and refused to be obliging. after that we all felt uncomfortable." "that is not true, miss davis," said hetty bluntly. her temper had suddenly got the better of her. phyllis's blue eyes contracted, and her lip curled. "please send her out of the room, miss davis," she said. "hetty, i am sorry for this," said miss davis, "i could not have believed you would speak so rudely." "you have not heard the story, miss davis." "i have heard you put yourself very much in the wrong. phyllis would not tell an untruth of you, i am sure." "she said i put on fine airs," said hetty, trembling with indignation. "i did not put on airs. they wanted me to perform, and i could not do it. if i had done it phyllis would have been the first to blame me. i remember how she scorned me for doing it long ago." "i hope you will make her apologize to me, miss davis," said phyllis quietly. the more excited poor hetty became, the quieter grew the other girl. "she is ungenerous," continued hetty, striving valiantly to keep back her tears; "she knew her mother would not approve of my performing; and besides, i told her i was afraid. if i had done it she would have complained to mrs. enderby of my doing it." this passionate accusation hit phyllis home. she knew it was true--so true that though she had arraigned hetty before miss davis for the pleasure of humbling her, she yet had no intention of carrying the tale to her mother, fearing that mrs. enderby would say that hetty had been right. had hetty made "a show of herself" by performing, phyllis would perhaps have made a grievance of it to her parents. stung for a moment with the consciousness that this was true, before she had had time to persuade herself of the contrary, phyllis grew white with anger. the injury she could least forgive was a hurt to her self-complacency. "she must apologize, miss davis, or i will go to papa," said phyllis, disdaining to glance at hetty, but looking at her governess. miss davis was troubled. "this is all very painful," she said. "hetty, you had better go to your room till you have recovered your composure. whatever may have been your motives last night you have now put yourself in the wrong by speaking so rudely." hetty flashed out of the room, and phyllis, quiet and triumphant, turned to her lesson-books with a most virtuous expression upon her placid face. hetty wept for an hour in her own room. looking back on her conduct she could not see that she had been more to blame than phyllis. oh, how was it that phyllis was always proved to be so good while she was always forced into the wrong? she remembered a prayer asking for meekness which mrs. kane had taught her, and she knelt by her bedside and said it aloud; and just then she heard miss davis calling to her to open the door. "my dear," said the governess, "i have come to tell you that you really must apologize to phyllis. it was exceedingly rude of you to tell her so flatly that her words were untrue." hetty flushed up to the roots of her hair and for a few moments could not speak. she had just been on her knees asking for strength from god to overcome her pride, and here was an opportunity for practising meekness. but it was dreadfully hard, thought hetty. "i will try and do it, miss davis. but may i write a letter in my own way?" "certainly, my dear. i am glad to find you so willing to acknowledge yourself in fault." left alone to perform her task hetty opened her desk and sat biting her pen. at last she wrote: "dear phyllis,--i am very sorry i said so rudely that you did not tell the truth. but oh, why did you not tell it, and then there need not have been any trouble? "hetty." hetty brought this note herself into the school-room, and in presence of miss davis handed it to phyllis. "do you call that an apology?" said phyllis, handing the note to miss davis. "i don't think you have made things any better, hetty," said miss davis. "i said what i could, miss davis. phyllis ought to apologize to me now." phyllis gave her a look of cold surprise, and took up a book. "pray, miss davis, do not mind," said she over the edges of her book. "i expect nothing but insolence from hetty gray. mother little knew what she was providing for us when she brought her here." hetty turned wildly to the governess. "miss davis," she cried, "can i not go away somewhere, away from here? is there not some place in the world where they would give a girl like me work to do? how can i go on living here, to be treated as phyllis treats me?" miss davis took her by the hand and led her out of the room and upstairs to her own chamber. having closed the door she sat down and talked to her. "hetty," she said, "when you give way to your pride in passions like this you forget things. you asked me just now, is there any place where people would give work to a girl like you to do? i don't think there is--no place such as you could go to." "i would go anywhere," moaned hetty. "anywhere is nowhere," said miss davis. "just look round you and see all that is given to you in this house. there is your comfortable bed to sleep in, you have your meals when you are hungry, you have good clothing, you have a warm fireside to sit at, you have the protection of an honourable home. yet you would fling away all these advantages because of a few wounds to your pride. phyllis is trying, i admit--i have to suffer from her at times myself--but you and i must bear with something for the sake of what we receive." hetty raised her eyes and looked at miss davis's worn face and the line of pain that had come out sharply across her brow, and forgot herself for the moment, thinking of the governess's patient life. "but, miss davis, _you_ need not suffer from phyllis; you are not like me. any people would be glad to get you, who are so clever and so good. you could complain of her to her mother, and if she did not get better you could go away." "should i be any more safe from annoyance in another family? hetty, my dear, there are always thorns in the path of those who are poor and dependent on others, and our wisest course is to make the best of things. i might say to you, _you_ have no one to think of but yourself. for me, i have a mother to support, and i have to think of my dear young brother, who is not too wise for his own interests, and whose prospects are at the mercy of a rather capricious old uncle." "oh that i had a mother and a brother to work for!" cried hetty passionately. "perhaps that would teach you wisdom, my dear. however, profit by my experience and be cheered up. take no notice if phyllis is unkind. it is better to be here, even with her unkindness, than straying about the world alone, meeting with such misfortunes as you never dreamed of." after miss davis had left her, hetty sat a long time pondering over that lady's words. it seemed to her that the governess, good and patient as she was, had no motive for her conduct high enough to carry her through the trials of her life. it was certainly an excellent thing to be prudent for the sake of her mother and brother; to bear with present evils for fear of worse evils that might come. but yet--but yet, was there not a higher motive than all this for learning to be meek and humble of heart? looking into her own proud and stubborn nature, the little girl assured herself that miss davis's motives would never be in themselves enough for her, hetty--never sufficiently strong to crush the rebellion of self in her stormy young soul. instinctively her thoughts flew to mrs. kane, and seizing her hat and cloak she flew out of the house, and away down the road to the labourer's cottage. fortunately it was a good hour for her visit. john had gone out after his dinner. the cottage kitchen was tidied up, the fire shining, the two old straw arm-chairs drawn up by the hearth. mrs. kane was just screwing up her eyes, trying to thread a needle, when hetty dashed in and flung her arms around her neck. "oh, mrs. kane, the pride has got so bad again; and i have been quarrelling with phyllis and wanting to run away." "run away!" said mrs. kane; "oh, no, dearie, never run away from your post." "what is my post?" said hetty weeping; "i have no post. i am only a charity girl and in everybody's way. phyllis hints it to me in every way she can, even when she does not say it outright. oh, how can i have patience to grow up? why does it take so long to get old?" mrs. kane sighed. "it doesn't take long to grow old, dear, once you are fairly in the tracks of the years. but it does take a while to grow up. and you must have patience, hetty. there's nothing else for it but the patience and meekness of god." hetty drew a long breath. all that was spiritual within her hung now on mrs. kane's words. the patience of god was such a different thing from the prudence of this world. that was the difference between miss davis and mrs. kane. "there was something beautiful you said one day," said hetty in a whisper; "say it again. it was, 'learn of me--'" "learn of me; for i am meek and lowly of heart," said mrs. kane. "that is the word you want, my darling, and it was said for such as you." hetty's tears fell fast, but they were no longer angry tears. she was crying now with longing to be good. "there was something else," she said presently, when she could find her voice; "something that was spoken for me too." "blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," said mrs. kane, stroking her head. and then hetty cried more wildly, thinking with remorse of her own pride. "if he is for you, my dear, you needn't care who is against you," continued mrs. kane; "take that into your heart and keep it there." after that they had a long talk about all hetty's difficulties, and when at last the little girl left the cottage, it was with a lighter step than had brought her there. when she walked into the school-room just in time for tea the signs of woe were gone from her countenance, and she looked even brighter than usual. without giving herself time to think, or to observe the looks of those in the room, she went straight up to phyllis and said cheerfully: "phyllis, i am sorry i gave you offence. i hope you will forget it and be friends with me"; and then she took her seat at the table as if nothing had happened. miss davis, who had been rather dreading her appearance, fearing a renewal of the quarrel, looked up at her and actually coloured all over her faded face with pleasure and surprise. hetty had really taken her lessons to heart, and was going to be a wise and prudent girl after all. she little thought that a far higher spirit actuated the girl than had at all entered into her teachings. phyllis glanced round with a triumphant air as if saying, "now i am indeed proved in the right. she herself has acknowledged it!" and then she said gently: "i accept your apology, hetty, and i will not say anything of the matter to my mother." "is not phyllis good," whispered nell afterwards, "not to tell mamma? because you know, you were very naughty to her, hetty, and she is papa's daughter and the eldest." nell's friendly speeches were sometimes hard to bear, as well as phyllis's unfriendly ones. hetty would have been glad if the whole affair could have been laid before mrs. enderby, and saw no reason to congratulate herself on phyllis's silence to her mother as to the quarrel and its cause. but the others judged differently. miss davis was pleased that by her own tact she had been able to arrange matters without calling in the aid of mrs. enderby, who, she was aware, liked a governess to have judgment and decision sufficient to keep the mistress of the house out of school-room squabbles. nell was delighted that there was to be no more "fuss." phyllis above all was pleased, for now she felt no more necessity for questioning her own motives and conduct, no more danger of being told by her mother that hetty had in the beginning been in the right, while she, by opposing her, had brought on the wrong which had followed. falling back upon her own doctrine, that she must be right because her judgment told her so, phyllis was coldly amiable to hetty for the rest of the evening; while hetty, having made her act of humility, rather suffered from a reaction of feeling, and had to struggle hard to keep the moral vantage-ground she had gained. chapter xvi. a trial of patience. two more years passed over hetty's head. she had grown tall and looked old for her age, her large gray eyes were full of serious thought, her brow was grave, and the expression of her mouth touched with sadness. the haughtiness and mirth of her childhood were alike gone. earnest desire to attain to a difficult end was the one force that moved her, and this had become visible in her every word and glance. she was painfully aware that the time was approaching when she must go forth to battle with the world for herself, and that on her own qualifications for fighting that battle her position in the world must depend. that she had not sufficient aptitude for learning out of books, or for remembering readily all that she gathered from them, she greatly feared. her memory gave her back in pictures whatever had engaged her imagination; but much that was useful and necessary was wont to pass away out of her grasp. thorough determination, close application, did not remove this difficulty, and she was warned by those around her that unless she could make better use for study of the three years yet before her than she had made of those that lay behind her, she could never be a teacher of a very high order. of all that this failure meant, hetty understood more clearly now than when she had wished to live with mrs. kane and be the village schoolmistress. loving all that was beautiful and refined in life, she had learned to dread, from another motive than pride, the fate of being thrown upon a lower social level. and yet this was a fate which seemed now to stare her in the face. mr. enderby, who had of late taken a personal interest in her studies, examining her from time to time on various subjects, said to her: "my little girl, if you do not wake up and work harder i fear you will have to take an inferior position in life to that which i desired for you." poor hetty! was she not wide awake? so wide awake that when he and all the household were asleep she lay staring her misfortune in the face. and how could she work harder than she did, weeping in secret over the dry facts that would not leave their mark upon her brain? thus it was that life looked dreary to her, and her face was grave and pale. phyllis and nell, who were three and two years older than herself, had begun to talk of the joys which the magic age of eighteen had in store for them. they would leave off study and go forth into the enjoyment of their youth in a flattering world. idleness, pleasure, happiness awaited them. no one could say they were not sufficiently well educated to take that graceful place in life which providence had assigned to them; hetty was rebuked for being less learned than she ought to be, because for her there was no graceful place prepared; only a difficult and narrow path leading away she knew not where. of the difference between their position and hers she could not help thinking, but she had been so long accustomed to realize it that she did not dwell upon it much. miss davis was the person on whom her eyes were fixed as an image of what she ought to hope to become. to be exactly like miss davis. to look like her, think like her, be as well informed, as independent, as much respected; to teach as well, speak as wisely, be called an admirable woman who had fought her own way against poverty in the world, this was what hetty had been assured by mr. and mrs. enderby ought to be the object of her ambition and the end of all her hopes. and hetty tried honestly to will as they willed for her good. but her face was not less sad on that account. things were in this state when one day, a day never to be forgotten by her, hetty was feeling more than usually unhappy. only the evening before mr. enderby had examined her on several subjects, and had found her wanting. he had spoken to her with a little severity, and at the same time looked at her pityingly, and the girl had felt more miserable than can be told at having disappointed him. to-day she was left to spend a long afternoon by herself, as miss davis had taken phyllis and nell to visit some friends, and, though her morning's work ought to have been over, she still sat at her lessons, labouring diligently. at last becoming thoroughly tired she closed her book and raised her eyes wearily, when they fell on a jar of wild flowers which yesterday she had arranged and placed upon a bracket against the wall. it was spring, and in the jar was a cluster of pale wood-anemones with some sprays of bramble newly leafed. hetty's eyes brightened at the sight of these flowers, and noted keenly every exquisite outline and delicate hue of the group. it seemed to her at the moment that she had never seen anything so beautiful before. mechanically she took up her pencil and began to imitate on a piece of paper the waving line of the bramble wreath, and the graceful curves of the leaves. to her own great surprise something very like the bramble soon began to appear upon the paper. a sharp touch here, a little shadow there, and her drawing looked vigorous and true. after working in great excitement for some time hetty got up and pinned her drawing to the wall, and stood some way off looking at it. where had it come from? she asked herself. she had never learned to draw. she had not known that she could draw. oh, how delightful it would be if she could reproduce the flowers as they grew! not quite able to believe in the new power she had discovered in herself, she set again to work, altering the arrangement of the flowers in the jar, and taking a larger sheet of paper. it was only ruled exercise paper, but that did not seem to matter when the flowers blossomed all over it. the second drawing was even better than the first; and hetty stood looking at it with flushed cheeks and throbbing heart, wondering what was this new rapture that had suddenly sprung up in her life. as her work was done, and the afternoon was all her own, she was able to give herself up to this unexpected delight, and spent many hours composing new groups of flowers, and arranging them in fanciful designs. when a maid brought up her solitary tea she lifted her flushed face and murmured, "oh, can it be tea-time?" and then spread out all her drawings against the wall, and stared at them while she ate her bread and butter. she felt nervous at the thought of letting anybody see them, and locked them up in her desk before miss davis and the other girls came home. in earliest dawn of the next morning, however, she was out of bed and studying the drawings as she stood in her night-dress and with bare feet. were they really good, she asked herself, or were her eyes bewitched; and would mr. enderby laugh at them if he saw them? anguish seized on her at the thought, and she dressed herself with trembling hands. a new idea, striving in her mind, seemed to set all nature thrilling with a meaning it had never borne for her before. there had been great painters on the earth, as she knew full well, whose existence had been made beautiful and glorious by their genius; and there were artists living in the present day, small and great, who must surely be the happiest beings in the world. their days were spent, not in drudgery, and lecturing, and primness, but in the study and reproduction of the beauty lying round them. oh, if god should have intended her to be one of these! when the maids came to dust the school-room they found hetty hard at work upon a new wreath of ivy which she had hastily snatched from the garden wall and hung against the curtain, and they thought she was doing some penance at miss davis's bidding. by eight o'clock the drawings were hid away, the flowers and wreaths disposed of in the jars, and hetty was sitting at the table with a book in her hand. no one need know, she thought, of how she spent those early hours when everybody else was in bed. and so day after day she worked on steadily with her pencil, and there was a strange and unutterable hope in her heart, and a new light of happiness in her eyes. after some time she became more daring and attempted to bring colour into her designs. using her school-room box of paints, the paints intended only for the drawing of maps, she placed washes of colour on her leaves and along her stems, making the whole composition more effective and complete. day by day she improved on her first ideas, till she had stored up a collection of really beautiful sketches. with this new joy tingling through her young veins from morning till night, and from night till morning again, hetty began to look so glad and bright that everyone remarked it. miss davis looked on approvingly, thinking that her own excellent discipline of the girl was having an effect she had scarcely dared to hope for. nell was full of curiosity to know why hetty had become so gay. "may i not have the liberty to be gay as well as you?" said hetty laughing. "of course; but then you are so suddenly changed. miss davis says it is only because you are growing good. but i think there must be something that is making you good." "i am glad to hear i am growing good. something is making me very happy, but i cannot tell you what it is." nell, always on the look-out for a secret, opened her eyes very wide, but could get no further satisfaction from hetty, who only laughed at her appeals to be taken into confidence. that evening, however, she told miss davis that hetty had admitted that there was _something_ that was making her so happy. "i knew she had a secret," said nell mysteriously. "then it is the secret of doing her duty," said miss davis. "she has made great improvement in every respect during the last few weeks." "i know she gets up earlier in the mornings than she used to do," said nell, "and i don't think she is at her lessons all the time." "i hope she has not been making any more friends in the village," said phyllis. "i am sorry such thoughts have come into your minds, children," said miss davis; "i see nothing amiss about hetty. if she is happier than she used to be, we ought all to feel glad." phyllis did not like the implied rebuke, and at once began to hope that she might be able to prove miss davis in the wrong. if hetty could be found to have a secret, as nell supposed, phyllis decided that it ought to be found out. her mother did not approve of children having secrets. even if there was no harm in a thing in itself, there was a certain harm in making a mystery of it. so, having arranged her motive satisfactorily in her mind, phyllis, feeling more virtuous than ever, resolved to observe what hetty was about. the next morning she got up early and came down to the school-room an hour before her usual time. and there was hetty working away at her drawing with a wreath of flowers pinned before her on the wall. phyllis came behind her and was astonished to see what she had accomplished with her pencil; and hetty started and coloured up to her hair, as if she had been caught in a fault. "well, you are a strange girl," said phyllis; "i did not know drawing was a sin, that you should make such a mystery over it." "i hope it is not a sin," said hetty in a low voice. she felt grieved at having her efforts discovered in this way. she wished now that she had told miss davis all about it. phyllis opened the piano and began to practise without having said one word of praise of hetty's work; and the poor little artist felt her heart sink like lead. perhaps the beauty that she saw in her designs existed only in her own foolish eyes. she worked on silently for about half an hour, and then put away her drawing materials and her flowers, and began to study her lessons for the day. "of course you do not expect me to keep your secret from miss davis," said phyllis, looking over her shoulder. "i have been always taught to hate secrets, and my conscience will not allow me to encourage you in this." "do exactly as you please," said hetty; "i shall be quite satisfied to let miss davis know what i have been doing." "then why did you not tell her before?" asked phyllis. "i am not bound to explain that to you," said hetty; but finding her temper was rising she added more gently, "i am willing to give an account of my conduct to any one who may be scandalized by it"; and then, fearing to trust herself further, she went out of the room. on the stairs she met miss davis, and stopped her, saying: "phyllis has a complaint to make of me. i shall be back in the school-room presently after she has made it." "what is it about, my dear?" "she can tell you better than i can," said hetty. "please go down now, miss davis, and then we can have it over before breakfast." "miss davis, i find nell was right in thinking that hetty was doing something sly," began phyllis, as the governess entered the school-room. "i am sorry to hear it. what can it be?" "nothing very dreadful in itself perhaps. it is the secrecy that is so ugly, especially as there was no reason for it in the world." "what has hetty done?" repeated miss davis. "why, she has been getting up early in the mornings to draw flowers," said phyllis, unwillingly perceiving that the fault seemed a very small one when plainly described. "i did not know she could draw," said miss davis; "but, if she can, i see no harm in her doing it." "i think she ought to spend the time at the studies father is so anxious she should improve in," said phyllis; "and i imagine she knows it too, or she would not have been so secret." "there is something in that, phyllis; though i would rather you had not been so quick to perceive it." phyllis curled her lip slightly. "intelligence is given us that we may use it, i suppose," she said coldly; "but i have done my duty, and i have nothing more to say in the matter." breakfast passed over without anything being said on the subject of the great discovery; but after the meal was finished, miss davis desired hetty to fetch her her drawings that she might see them. hetty went to her own room immediately, and returned bringing about a dozen drawings in a very primitive portfolio made of several newspapers gummed together. miss davis was no artist, but she felt that the designs were good, and remarkable as having been executed by a girl so untaught as hetty. they increased her opinion of her pupil's abilities, yet she looked on them chiefly from the point of view phyllis had suggested to her, and considered them in the light of follies upon which valuable time had been expended. "my dear," she said, "these are really very pretty, and i am sure they have given you a great deal of pleasure. but i cannot countenance your going on with this sort of employment. think of how usefully you might have employed at your books the hours you have spent upon these trifles. i presume you were aware of this from the first yourself, and that this is why you have been so silent as to your new accomplishment." "no," said hetty decidedly; "i did not feel that i was wasting time. on the contrary, my drawing gave me better courage to work at my lessons. the hours i spent were taken from my sleep. i was always at my books before phyllis was at hers." "phyllis is not to be made a rule for you, my dear. she has not the same necessity to exert her powers to the utmost. if you can do without part of your sleeping time, you ought to devote it to your books. and pray, if you did not think you were committing some fault, why did you say nothing to anyone of what you were about?" "i cannot tell you that, miss davis," said hetty, her eyes filling with tears; "i mean i cannot explain it properly. i could not bring myself to show what i had done; but i had no idea of _wrongness_ about the matter." "well, my dear, we will say no more about it. take the drawings away; and in future work at your lessons every moment of your time. i will put you on your word of honour, hetty, not to do any more of this kind of thing." "do not ask me to give you such a promise, miss davis." "but hetty, i must, and i do." "then, miss davis, i will speak to mr. enderby." the governess and her two pupils gazed at hetty in amazement. "i mean," hetty went on, "that i hope he will think drawing a useful study for me. will you allow me to speak to him this evening, miss davis?" "certainly, my dear," said miss davis stiffly. "there is nothing to hinder you from consulting mr. enderby on any subject. i am sure he will be kind enough to give you his advice. only i think i know what it will be beforehand; and i would rather you had shown more confidence in me." hetty could not give her mind to her lessons that day, nor get rid of the feeling that she was in disgrace. when evening came, the hour when mr. enderby was usually to be found in his study, she asked miss davis's permission to go to him, and with her portfolio in her hand presented herself at his door. "come in, hetty," said mr. enderby; "what is this you have got to show me? maps, plans, or what? why, drawings!" hetty's mouth grew dry, and her heart beat violently. the tone of his voice betrayed that the master of wavertree had no more sympathy for art, or anything connected with it, than had miss davis. he was an accurate methodical man with a taste for mathematics, who believed in the power conferred by knowledge on man and woman; but who had little respect for those who concerned themselves with only the beauties and graces of life. art was to him a trifle, and devotion to it a folly. therefore hetty with her trembling hopes was not likely to find favour at his hands. "my child, i am sure they are very pretty; but this sort of thing will not advance you in the world." "but, mr. enderby,--i have been thinking--artists get on as well as governesses. i do these more easily than i learn my dates. if i could only learn to be an artist." mr. enderby put his eye-glass to his eye, and gazed at her a little pityingly, a little severely, with a look that hetty knew. "you would like to become an artist? well, my girl, i must tell you to put that foolish idea out of your head. in the first place, you are not to imagine that because you can sketch a flower prettily, you have therefore a genius for painting; and such fancies are only calculated to distract your mind from the real business of your life. besides, remember this, i have given, am giving, you a good education as a means of providing for you in life. having bestowed one profession upon you already, i am not prepared to enter into the expense and inconvenience of a second. so run away like a sensible girl and stick to your books. you had better leave these drawings with me and think no more about them." saying this, mr. enderby opened a drawer and locked up hetty's designs within it; and, humbled and despairing, hetty returned to the school-room. her face of grief and her empty hands told sufficiently what the result of her errand had been. no remark was made by miss davis or the girls, though nell, who thought the drawings wonderfully pretty, was impatient to know what her papa had said of them. she was too much in awe of miss davis to seek to have her curiosity gratified just then; and the evening study went on as if nothing had happened. chapter xvii. hetty's future is planned. this was the severest trial hetty had ever encountered. longing for special love, and delight in reproducing the beautiful, were part of one and the same impulse in her nature, and, crushed in the one, all her heart had gone forth in the other direction. now both had been equally condemned in her as faults, and she fell back, as before, on the mere dull effort towards submission which had already carried her surely, if joylessly, over so many difficult years of her young life. she worked patiently at her books and fulfilled her duties; and she grew thinner and paler, and the old sad look became habitual to her lips and eyes. another year passed, and as phyllis and nell approached nearer and nearer to the period for "coming out" they were more frequently absent from the school-room, and hetty's days were more solitary than they used to be. all her mind was now fixed on the idea of fitting herself as soon as possible for some sort of post as governess. she knew she never could take such a position as that which miss davis filled, and had meekly admitted to herself that a humble situation must content her. she often wondered how it would be with her when the enderby girls should no longer need miss davis; and decided according to her own judgment that she ought to be ready to seek a place for herself in the world as soon as the elder girls should have completed their studies. one evening she sat opposite to miss davis at the school-room fireside. phyllis and nell were in the drawing-room with their mother. miss davis was netting energetically, and hetty, who had been studying busily, dropped her book and was gazing absently into the fire. "hetty," said miss davis presently, "put away your book, i want to talk to you." hetty obeyed, and looked at her governess expectantly. "my dear, you know very well that in another year i shall no longer be needed here. phyllis and nell will then be eighteen and seventeen, and their mother has decided that they shall come out at the same time. when i am gone there will no longer be any object in your staying in this house. and yet, as you will then be only sixteen, you will be young to begin your life among strangers." "yes," said hetty with a sinking of the heart; "but it is very good of you to think about me like this. of course i shall have to go. i suppose i can get in somewhere as a nursery governess." "i have been thinking of something else. of course it will remain for yourself to decide." hetty's heart leaped. a wild idea crossed her mind that perhaps miss davis was going to suggest some way by which she might study to be an artist. though she had never spoken on the subject since mr. enderby had pronounced sentence upon her hopes, still the dear dream of a possible beautiful future had always lain hidden somewhere in the most distant recesses of her brain. now a sudden bright light shone into that darkened chamber. what delightful plan had miss davis been marking out for her? "i have made up my mind," said miss davis, "that instead of entering another family i will open a school in the town where i was born. my mother is getting old and she is lonely. if i succeed in my project i shall be able to live with her and continue to make an income at the same time." "how delightful!" murmured hetty. miss davis smiled sadly. "i don't know about that. the plan will have its advantages, but there are many difficulties. however, i think it is worth a trial." hetty said nothing, only wondered why miss davis was not more wildly glad at the thought of being always with her mother. she could not realize how long years of trial and disappointment had made it impossible to the governess to feel vivid anticipations of delight. "now as regards you--" hetty started. she had so completely thrown herself into miss davis's personality for the moment that she had entirely forgotten her own. "as regards you, i have been thinking that you might come with me and help me as an under teacher. in this way you might begin to be independent at the age of sixteen, and at the same time continue your own studies under my superintendence. later, when you were more thoroughly fitted to be a governess, i could endeavour to place you out in the world." "oh, how good of you to think of it! you are very, very kind!" said hetty, though tears of disappointment rushed to her eyes. she crushed back the ungrateful feeling of dismay which pressed upon her at the thought of trying to teach in school. her common-sense told her that nothing could be more advantageous for her interests than the plan miss davis had sketched for her. and she keenly appreciated the thoughtfulness for her welfare which had led the governess to include her in the scheme for her own future. "you would only have little children to teach at first," miss davis went on, "until you grow accustomed to the work and gain confidence in yourself. of course this is only a suggestion which i make to you, that you may turn it over in your thoughts and be ready to make arrangements when the moment shall arrive. perhaps by that time, however, mr. enderby will be able to provide you with a pleasanter home." "i do not think so," said hetty. "he could recommend me only as a nursery governess, and if i were once in that position i could never have any further opportunity to improve. with you i can continue my studies." "this is precisely what i think," said miss davis, "and i am glad you take such a sensible view of the matter. however, we need not speak of this for a year to come." and so the conversation ended. hetty longed to put her arms round miss davis's neck and thank her warmly for her kindness, but she felt instinctively that the governess would rather she abstained from all such demonstrations. it was only when she went up to bed that she allowed her thoughts to go back to the beautiful moment when she had fancied miss davis might have been thinking of making her an artist; and then she cried sadly as she thought of how foolish she had been in imagining even for a second that such a wild improbability had come true. however, hetty awakened next morning with a wholesome feeling of satisfaction in her mind which she could not at first account for. in a few moments the conversation with miss davis rushed back upon her memory, and she knew that her contentment was due to the prospect of independence that had been put before her as so real and so near. once installed under miss davis's roof, teaching in school and earning the bread she ate, neither servants nor companions could taunt her with being a charity girl any more, mr. enderby's fears for her would then be laid to rest, and the dread of disappointing him would be lifted off her mind. in miss davis's school she could live and work until she had acquired all that learning which to her was so hard to attain. with a sweet and brave, if not a glad, look on her face, hetty came into the school-room that morning and found phyllis and nell chatting more gaily than usual at the fire. "oh, hetty," cried nell, "you must hear our news! we are going to have such a delightful visitor in the house." "how you rush to conclusions, nell!" said her sister. "you have not seen her yet, and you pronounce her delightful." "i know from what mamma told us," cried nell. "she is pretty, amiable, clever--and ever so rich. only think, hetty--to be an heiress at twenty-one without anyone to keep you from doing just as you please! she has a country house in france, and a house in london, with a good old lady to take care of her, who does exactly what she bids her." "mother did not say all that," said phyllis. "oh! but i gathered it all from what she did say." "is she an orphan then?" asked hetty. "she has neither father, nor mother, nor brother, nor sister. now, hetty, don't look as if that was a misfortune. it is natural for you to feel it, of course. but if you had houses, and horses, and carriages, and money, you would not think it so bad to be able to do what you liked." "nell, i am shocked at you," said miss davis. "would you give up your parents for such selfish advantages as you describe?" "oh dear no!" cried nell. "but if i never had had them, like reine gaythorne, and did not know anything about them, i daresay i could manage to amuse myself in the world." this was the first mention of the name of reine gaythorne in the wavertree school-room, and it was certainly far from the last. mrs. enderby had met the young lady at a neighbouring country house, and had thought she would be a desirable acquaintance for her daughters. there was something interesting about the circumstances which had placed a young, beautiful, and wealthy girl alone, and her own mistress, in the world. mr. and mrs. enderby had been greatly attracted by her, and had invited her to pay a visit at their house. in the course of a few days she arrived at the hall, and then phyllis and nell were but little in the school-room. hetty and miss davis went on as usual filling their quiet hours with work in their secluded corner of the house. a week passed away during the visit of the charming stranger, and hetty had never once seen miss gaythorne. chapter xviii. reine gaythorne. mrs. enderby, her visitor, and her two daughters were sitting together one morning at needlework in the pretty morning-room looking out on an old walled garden, at wavertree hall. the distant ends of this old garden, draped with ivy and creepers, had been made into a tennis ground, a smooth trim green chamber lying behind the brilliant beds of flowers. sitting near the window the figures of the girls looked charming against so picturesque a background. miss gaythorne's face, upraised to the light, was full of goodness, sweetness, and intelligence. a low broad brow, soft bright dark eyes, a rich brunette complexion, and red brown hair, so curly as to be gathered with difficulty into a knot at the back of her neck, were some of this girl's beauties which the eye could take in at a glance. a longer time was necessary to discern all the fine traits of character that were so artlessly expressed in turn by her speaking countenance. she wore a pretty dress of maroon cashmere and velvet, with delicate ruffles of rich old yellow lace. her dainty little french shoes and fine gold ornaments were immensely admired by the two young girls beside her, who were not yet "out," and were accustomed to be clothed in the simplest attire. not only her dress, but her accent, which was slightly foreign, her peculiarly winning smiles, her merry little laugh and graceful movements all seemed to the enderbys more charming than could be described. even phyllis, usually so critical, was taken captive by their new friend, reine. miss gaythorne was just finishing a piece of embroidery. she was very skilful with her needle, and her work was pronounced perfection by phyllis and nell. mrs. enderby joined her daughters in warm praise of the delicate production to which their visitor was just now putting the last touches. "i could so easily work one like it for you while i am here," said reine, "if i had only a new design. i do not like repeating the same design." "i am sure hetty could draw one for you," said nell. "but i mean something original." "oh! hetty's drawings are original. she gathers a few flowers, and that is all she wants to begin with." "she must be very clever. who is hetty, if i may ask?" "oh! hetty is--hetty gray. she lives in this house. she is an orphan girl whom papa is educating to be a governess. she is always in the school-room with miss davis." "can she draw so cleverly?" "yes; it comes to her naturally. i will get a bundle of her drawings from papa to show you. he locked them up because she wanted to be an artist and he did not approve of it." "it is well she did not want to go on the stage," said phyllis. "she used to be an extraordinary actress. however, she gave that up and took a dislike to it. perhaps she has now taken a dislike to drawing, and will not care to make a design for reine." "i am sure she will," said nell. "drawing is different from acting. people don't feel shy about drawing. i will go directly and ask her." "perhaps you would let me see her drawings first," said miss gaythorne. "certainly," said nell; "papa is in his study, and i will go and fetch them." mr. enderby willingly surrendered the drawings to amuse and oblige the cherished guest, and hetty's work was spread out on a table before reine. "why, these are beautiful," cried she; "and they are really done by a girl of fourteen who never learned to draw!" "really," said nell, enjoying miss gaythorne's surprise. "and now, may i ask hetty to make you a design?" "if she would be so very good. if it would not give her too much trouble--" "why, hetty will be simply enchanted at the request. she is not allowed to draw, and of course the permission to do so will be delightful." "not allowed to draw?" exclaimed reine in astonishment. "nell, how strangely you put things!" said phyllis. "father warned her not to squander her time in drawing, while she has so much need to study." nell shrugged her shoulders. "put it as you like, phyllis," she said; "hetty is a born artist, and she is going to be thrust into the harness of a governess." "it is well neither father nor mother is in the room," said phyllis. "they would be much grieved to hear you make such a speech. i don't know where you get such ideas." "i don't know," said nell; "they come to me sometimes." reine listened in silence while she studied the drawings more closely. she was something of an artist herself, and had a cultivated taste; and a keen interest in the orphan girl who had a talent like this, and could not be allowed to draw, was springing up within her. nell soon danced off to tell hetty what was required of her. "miss gaythorne wants you to make a design for her, of the size and style of this, and you can use any flowers or foliage you please. mother hopes miss davis will allow you time to do it." hetty felt a rush of delight, which made the colour mount to her forehead. "thank you, dear nell," she said; "i know it is you who have got me this piece of good fortune. i shall have some delicious hours over the work." "now, mind you make it beautiful," cried nell; "for i have staked my reputation on you!" hetty thought she had never been so happy in her life before, as she went out to pick and choose among the flowers, looking for a theme for her composition. at last she satisfied herself, and came back to the school-room, and went to work. miss davis, who had been much pleased with her of late, looked on with approval. she thought the girl had fairly earned a holiday and a treat. hetty was more nervous over this drawing than she had been over any of the others. with them she had been only working to please herself, and of her own free will; but now it seemed as if the eyes of the world were upon every line she drew. she spoiled several beginnings; and at last, flushed and feverish, had to put away the work till to-morrow. "drawing seems to be not all unmixed happiness any more than dates," said miss davis, smiling at her anxious face. "come now and have some tea, or you will get a headache." the next day hetty went to work again, and succeeded at last in producing a striking and beautiful design. she was far from satisfied with it herself, and said to nell, "i fear your friend will not think it good enough, but it is the best i can do." "i think it is lovely," said nell; "and what trouble you have taken with it! she will be hard to please if she does not like it." and then nell fled away with it, and hetty turned to her books again with a happy feeling at her heart. it seemed to her that she had never before had an opportunity of performing any voluntary service for those who had been so generous towards her, but now she had been able to do something which would really give pleasure to the guest in their house. and then she wished she could see that charming miss gaythorne, who was said to be fond of drawing, and to know a great deal about it. she dreamed that night that she was walking through a picture-gallery with the girl called reine, who was pointing out all the beauties to her as they went. in the meantime reine was greatly delighted with the drawing. "the girl is really a little genius," she said; "will you not allow me to make her acquaintance?" "i will ask mamma to invite her to the drawing-room some evening," said nell. "mother does not like her to come often, for fear of spoiling her. phyllis has an idea that hetty needs a great deal of keeping down; but i think it is only because phyllis is so good herself that she thinks so badly of hetty." reine laughed, and a look of fun remained in her eyes a few moments after this naive speech of nell's. the peculiarities of phyllis's style of goodness had not escaped miss gaythorne's quick intelligence. "and mother minds what phyllis thinks a great deal more than she minds me; because phyllis is so wise, and never gives her any trouble." the next morning at breakfast reine said: "do you know, mr. enderby, little miss gray has made me such a beautiful drawing. she has a great talent. i can't help wishing you would let her be an artist." "has she been enlisting you against me?" said mr. enderby, with half a smile and half a frown. "i have never even seen her," said reine; "but i am greatly struck with her work." "it is clever," assented the master of wavertree; "but pray do not arouse foolish ideas in the child's head--ideas which have been fortunately laid to rest. i have great faith in the old warning, 'beware of the man of one book'; and i think hetty will do better to stick to what she has begun with. under miss davis she has excellent opportunities of becoming fitted to be a governess, which, after all, is the safest career for a friendless woman. she lives in a respectable home and is saved from many dangers. i do not hold with the new-fangled notion of letting girls run about the world picking up professions." and then mr. enderby deliberately changed the conversation. however, reine could not forget the little artist; and that evening, being dressed for dinner rather early, she suddenly bethought her of making her way uninvited to the school-room. "i really must see her and thank her," she reflected; "and i will ask pardon of mrs. enderby afterwards for the liberty." and then she set out to look for the school-room. it happened that hetty was sitting all alone at the school-room table; her chin in her hand, her eyes fixed on the pages of a book. a window behind her, framing golden sky and deep-coloured foliage, made her the foreground figure of a striking picture. her dark head and flowing hair, her pale but richly-tinted face with its thoughtful brow and intelligent mouth, her little warm brown hand and wrist were all softly and distinctly defined against the glories of the distance. as reine opened the door and came in, hetty looked up as much startled as if an angel had come to visit her. reine was dressed all in white shimmering silk, which enhanced the beauty of her bright brunette face. her soft luminous eyes beamed on hetty as she advanced to her with outstretched hands. "i came to see you and thank you," she began; "i am reine gaythorne and--" suddenly, as hetty sprang to her feet and came forward smiling and facing the light, reine's little speech died on her tongue, and a sharp cry broke from her. "my mother!" she exclaimed in a tone of deep feeling, and stood gazing at hetty as if a ghost had risen up before her. hetty retreated a step, and the two girls stood gazing at each other. miss gaythorne recovered herself quickly, but her hands and voice were trembling as she took hetty's fingers in her own. "have i frightened you, dear?" she said; "but oh, if you knew how strangely, how wonderfully like you are to my darling mother." "your mother?" stammered hetty. "such a sweet beauty of a young mother she was as i remember her--and i have a likeness of her at your age;--it seems to me that you are the living image of it." "how very strange!" said hetty, with a thrill of delight at the thought that she was like anybody belonging to this charming girl, especially her mother. hetty had fascinating fancies of her own about an ideal mother; no real mother she had known had ever reached her standard. but reine's mother must surely have been up to the mark. and to be told that she, hetty, was like her! she drew nearer to reine, who put her arms round her neck and kissed her. "i can't tell you how i feel," said reine, holding her off and looking at her. "i feel as if you belonged to me someway." "don't turn my head," pleaded hetty wistfully. "please remember i have no relations and must not expect to be loved. i have had great trouble about that; and it has been very hard for them to manage me." "has it?" said reine doubtfully. "as i'm now nearly grown up," said hetty, "of course i have had to learn to behave myself; so don't spoil me." "i wish i could," said reine. "i mean i wish i could get the chance. oh, don't look at me like that. but yes, do. oh, hetty, my mother, my mother!" and reine leaned her arms on the table, and laid her head on them, and wept. hetty stood by wondering, and stroked her head timidly for sympathy. "don't think me a great goose," said reine, looking up. and then suddenly silent again she sat staring at hetty. after a few moments she sprang up and folded her arms round her and held her close. "you strange darling, where have you come from; and how am i ever to let you go again?" a step was heard at the door, and reine and hetty instinctively withdrew from each other's embrace. there was something sacred about the feeling which had so suddenly and unexpectedly overpowered them both. nell came in. "reine, i have been looking for you everywhere." "i came here to thank miss gray for her design," said reine, "and i don't think i have even mentioned it yet." "you are as pale as death," said nell. "what has hetty been saying to you?" "nothing," said reine absently, her eyes going back to hetty's face and fixing themselves there. "how you stare at each other!" said nell, "and i declare your two faces are almost the same this moment." "nell!" "i always said you were like each other, though phyllis could not see it. now i am sure of it." a wild look came into reine's face. "that would be too strange," she said; "for she is so like--so like--some one--oh, nell, she is the very image of my mother!" "your mother!" echoed nell, gazing at hetty and thinking she did not look like anybody's mother, with her short frock and flowing hair. "but there is the dinner-bell!" she cried, glad of the interruption; for nell had a great dislike of anything like a sentimental scene. "you must talk about all this afterwards, for we must not be late." "i will come," said reine, passing her handkerchief over her face. "do i look as if i had been crying." "your nose is a little red," said nell; "but they will think it is the cold." "then don't say anything about this," said reine; "but i must come and see hetty again. goodnight, darling little mother!" "reine, all my respect for you is gone," said nell as they hastened toward the dining-room. "i thought you were as wise as phyllis. and to think of you crying and kissing like that because hetty reminds you of--" "don't, nell," said reine. "i can't bear any more just now." chapter xix. if she was drowned, how can she be hetty? a few friends had joined the wavertree family circle that evening, and reine had no further opportunity of speaking about hetty. she was absent and thoughtful; but wakened up when asked to sing, and sang a thrilling little love song with such power and sweetness as went to everybody's heart. she was thinking as she sang of hetty's face, and it was her strange yearning for hetty's love that inspired her to sing as she did. that night she could not sleep. her mother's eyes, with the loving look she remembered so well, were gazing at her from all the corners of the room. her mind went back over the recollections of her childhood; and her father's voice and her mother's smiles were with her as though she had only said good-night to both parents an hour ago. the lonely girl, who had everything that the world could offer her, except that which she longed for most, the affection of family and kindred, felt the very depths of her heart shaken by the experience of the past evening. that a girl who seemed so much a part of herself should have risen up beside her, and yet be nothing to her, seemed something too curious to be understood. her imagination went to work upon the possibilities of mr. enderby's being induced to give hetty up to her altogether, to be her adopted sister and to live with her for evermore. she was aware that people would distrust this sudden fancy for a stranger, and that opposition would probably be offered to her plan; but then she was not her own mistress; and by perseverance she must surely succeed in the end. oh, the delight of having a sister! reine had had a sister, a baby sister lost in infancy, and had often taken a sad pleasure in fancying what that sister might have been like if she had lived. she had been six years younger than reine. hetty was fifteen, about the age that the little sister might now have been. reine sat up in her bed and counted the years between fifteen and twenty-one twice over on her fingers to make perfectly sure. hetty was the very age of the little sister. and so like her mother! if the baby sister of whom she had been bereft could be still alive, then reine would have declared she must be hetty. she was now in a fever of excitement. her curly brown hair had risen in a mop of rings and ringlets around her head with tossing on her pillow, her eyes were round and bright, and a burning spot was on each of her cheeks. at last she sprang out of bed and in a minute was at nell's bed-room door. nell was awakened out of a sound sleep by the opening of her door. "don't be frightened, nell; i'm not a burglar--only reine." "what's the matter?" said nell, rubbing her eyes. "have you got the toothache?" "i never had toothache. i want to know something." "i often want to know things," said nell, now sitting bolt upright in her little bed; "i'm sometimes _dying_ of curiosity. but it never routed me out of my sleep in the middle of the night." "it's about hetty," said reine, sitting on the floor in a faint streak of moonlight, and looking like a spirit--if spirits have curly hair. "you've gone hetty-mad!" said nell; "wouldn't hetty keep till morning? we're not going to transport her or lock her up. you will have all next week to sit looking at her." "where did you get her?" asked reine. "i know she is a foundling; but she must have had a beginning somewhere." "of course she had; and a most peculiar one. she was found on the long sands. that is a place three miles from wavertree on the sea-shore, where wrecks often come in. john kane, one of the carters, found her, and mrs. kane took her home. then aunt amy, who is dead, fancied her and adopted her. when aunt amy died she was left unprovided for, and papa brought her here; and here she is." "found on the shore where wrecks come in! and she is just fifteen. oh, nell, are you sure you are telling the truth?" there was a sound in reine's voice that startled nell. "the plain truth. every village child knows it. what has it got to do with you?" "i don't know. i don't know. i am afraid to think. why, nell, listen to me. when i was a child of seven years old, my mother and father took me to france. they had inherited a property there and were going to take possession of it. they were fond of the sea, and they long travelled by sea. while still near this coast the vessel was overtaken by storm and wrecked. my father, mother, and myself were saved. but my little baby sister was washed out of my mother's arms and drowned." "well?" "well!" "if she was drowned how can she be hetty, if that is what you mean?" "they thought she was drowned. we were taken into another vessel and carried on to france." "and never asked any more questions about the baby?" "i don't know. my father and mother are both dead," said reine pathetically; "i am sure they did all they could. but i know they thought they saw her drowned before their eyes." "and i suppose they did. reine, stop walking about the floor like crazy jane, in your bare feet, and either come into my bed or go back to your own." "i am going," said reine; "please forgive me, nell, for spoiling your sleep." "don't mention it. we can talk all the rest in the morning. if you are allowed to go on any more now, you will be mad to-morrow, and, what is worse, you will have a cold in your head." nell curled herself up in her pillows again, and was soon fast asleep. but reine could not sleep; and came down to breakfast next morning looking as pale as a ghost. after mr. enderby had gone to his study nell began: "mamma, do you know reine has got a bee in her bonnet!" "my dear, where did you get such an expression?" "never mind. it is quite accurate. she believes that hetty is her sister who was drowned when she was a baby." mrs. enderby looked at reine with a face of extreme surprise. "nell talks so much nonsense," she said, "that i scarcely know what to think of her speeches sometimes." and then seeing reine's eyes full of tears, she added kindly: "dear child, is there any grain of truth in what this wild little scatter-brain has said?" reine burst into tears. "don't mind me, mrs. enderby, please; i have been awake all night, and i don't feel like myself. it is only that hetty gray is so--so _distressingly_ like my mother. and nell says she was found on the sea-shore after a storm and wrecks. and it is fourteen years ago. and that is the very time when our vessel was wrecked, and my father and mother believed that our baby was drowned. oh, mrs. enderby, only think! is it not enough to turn my head?" "it is a very remarkable coincidence at least," said mrs. enderby; "but, dear reine, try to compose your thoughts. you must not jump too hastily at conclusions. at the end of fourteen years it will be very difficult to find evidence to prove or disprove what you imagine may be true." reine shook her head. "i have thought of that; i have thought of it all night." "in the first place, are you quite sure about the dates?" "quite, on my own side. i have a little new testament in which my father wrote down, the day after our rescue, the date of the wreck and a record of the baby's death." "we must send for mrs. kane," said mrs. enderby; "and hear what she has to say before we allow our imaginations to run away with us." "and oh, mrs. enderby,--if you saw the likeness of my mother at just hetty's age! may i telegraph for it at once--to let you see it?" "certainly, my dear; for it and that copy of the testament. but not a word to hetty. it would be cruel to run the risk of subjecting her to a heavy disappointment" the telegram was sent; and mrs. kane appeared, wondering greatly why she was wanted at the hall in such a hurry. "now, mrs. kane," said mrs. enderby, "here is a young lady who is greatly interested in the story of the finding of hetty gray on the long sands by your husband, and i have promised she shall hear of it from your own lips." they were all gathered round a sunny window in the great brown hall, lined with carved oak and decorated with armour and antlers. mrs. enderby herself pushed a stately old oaken chair towards the rose-framed sash and said encouragingly: "sit down, mrs. kane, and make yourself comfortable. there is nothing to be nervous about. you know we are all friends of your favourite, hetty." mrs. kane was trembling with some curious excitement, and could not remove her eyes from reine gaythorne's face. "i do not know who the young lady may be, ma'am," she said, "but this i will say, that she is as like my hetty as if she was her own born sister." a flood of colour rushed over reine's pale face, and she clasped her hands and fixed her eyes on mrs. enderby. "never mind that," said mrs. enderby, "tell the young lady what you remember." "there's but little to tell," said mrs. kane, "beyond what everybody knows. john happened to be down upon the sands that night, and he got the baby lying at his feet. he brought her to me wrapped in his coat, and says he, 'anne, here's god has sent us a little one.' and we kept it for our own, seeing that nobody asked for it. i have the day and the year written in my prayer-book; for i said to myself, some day, may-be, her friends will come looking for her--out of the sea, or over the land, or whatever way providence will send them. and for one whole week we called her nothing but 'h.g.'" "h.g.!" echoed reine. "those were the letters wrought upon the shoulder of her beautiful little shift," said mrs. kane. "and afterwards we made out that they stood for hetty gray." "she had on a little shift?" "mrs. rushton got it," said mrs. kane. "the finest bit of baby clothes i ever set my eyes on." reine had come close to mrs. kane, and her lips were trembling as she went on questioning her: "were the letters in white embroidery--satin stitch they call it? were they all formed of little flowers curling in and out about the letters; and was the chemise of fine cambric with a narrow hem?" "that's the description as plain as if you were looking at it," said mrs. kane. "i have half a dozen like it at home in one of my mother's drawers," said reine turning red and pale. "where is this little garment? is it not to be found?" "i have it, dear," said mrs. enderby quietly. "after mrs. rushton's death i took possession of it. i hardly anticipated so happy a day as this for poor hetty, but i thought it my duty to take care of it." the little chemise was produced, and reine identified it as one of the set belonging to her baby sister supposed to have been drowned, and marked with her initials standing for helen gaythorne. "my mother marked them herself," said reine, examining the embroidery as well as she could through eyes blinded by tears. "she was wonderfully skilful with her needle, and took a pride in marking all our things with initials designed by herself. oh, mrs. enderby, is not this evidence enough?" "it seems to me so," said mrs. enderby, "especially taken with the dates and the likeness to your family. when your mother's portrait comes----" "i must send for the little baby-garments too," said reine; "but oh, why need we wait for anything more? may i not run to my sister, mrs. enderby?" "calm yourself, my dear reine, and be persuaded to take my advice. we must consult a lawyer and get information as to the wrecking of the vessel, and the place where the shipwreck occurred. it will then be seen whether it was possible for a child lost on the occasion to have lived to be washed in upon this shore." "possible or not, it happened!" cried reine. "oh, mrs. enderby, unless you can make me sleep through the interval i shall never have patience to wait." the portrait of reine's mother taken at fifteen years of age and the packet of tiny embroidered chemises arrived the next morning from london. the former looked exactly like a picture of hetty; the latter was the counterpart of the baby-garment produced by mrs. enderby from a drawer of her own. mr. enderby was then consulted, and admitted that the case seemed established in hetty's favour. however, prudent like his wife, he insisted that nothing should be said to hetty till lawyers had been consulted, and information about the wreck of the vessel obtained. in the meantime reine was abruptly sent home to london. "she will make herself ill if she is allowed to stay in the house with hetty, and obliged to be silent towards her as to her discovery," said mr. enderby. "when the chain of evidence is complete, we can think of what to do." so mr. enderby himself carried off reine to london that very night. "it will be necessary to come, my dear," he said, "and make inquiries at once. you will thus arrive more quickly at your end. now just run into the school-room for a minute and say good-bye to hetty. but if you love her, say nothing to disturb the child's peace." it cost reine a great struggle to obey these sudden orders; but she saw their drift, and was wise enough not to oppose them. in her travelling dress she appeared in the school-room, where hetty, all unconscious of the wonderful change for her that was hanging in the balance of fate, sat at work as usual with miss davis. "i have come to say good-bye," said reine; "i am called off to london in a hurry. but you must not forget me. we shall surely meet again." hetty's heart sank with bitter disappointment she had been living in a sort of dream since yesterday, a dream of happiness at being so suddenly and unexpectedly loved by this sweet girl who had risen up like an angel in her path. the hope of seeing her again and enjoying her friendship had kept a glow of joy within her, which now went out and left darkness in its place. she strove to keep her face from showing how deeply she felt what seemed like caprice in reine. reine looked in her face with that long strange gaze which had so impressed hetty's heart and imagination, smothered a sob, snatched a kiss from her sister's quivering lips, held her a moment in a close embrace, and then turned abruptly and was gone. "miss gaythorne seems a rather impulsive young lady," said miss davis disapprovingly. "i wish she had taken a fancy to some one else than my pupil. you must try to forget her, hetty. girls like her, with wealth and power and nobody to control them, are apt to become capricious, and work mischief with people who have business to attend to. i hope you understand me, hetty." "yes," said hetty with a long sigh. "you must not expect to see miss gaythorne again. she will probably have forgotten you to-morrow." miss davis was not in the secret which was occupying the minds of several of the inmates of wavertree hall. chapter xx. happy hetty. about three weeks had passed away. hetty had endured the worst throes of her disappointment, and had almost succeeded in banishing reine out of her thoughts. she had steadily turned away her eyes from looking back at that beautiful evening, when, as if by enchantment, a girl who looked and spoke like a sister had held her in a loving embrace, lavishing kisses and loving words upon her, hetty, who was known to be nobody's child. the quiet studious days went on as if no brilliant interruption had ever flashed in upon them. miss davis, at mrs. enderby's desire, kept hetty more than ordinarily busy, and hindered her from paying her customary visits to mrs. kane. mrs. enderby distrusted the good woman's ability to keep a secret, and, with that prudence which had always distinguished her in her dealings with hetty, she was resolved that the girl should hear no whisper to disturb her tranquillity till such time as her identity should be considered satisfactorily proved. at the end of three weeks' time, however, news came from london to mr. enderby which placed it beyond a doubt that hetty was helen gaythorne, the baby who had been supposed to be drowned. although mrs. enderby and her daughters had been prepared for this result of the inquiries that had been on foot, yet the established fact, with its tremendous importance for hetty, seemed to come on them with a shock. the child who had been protected in their house, no longer needed their protection. the girl who was to have been sent out soon as a governess to earn her bread, would henceforth have pleasant bread to eat in a sister's luxurious home. the dependant, whom it had been thought judicious to snub, was now the equal of those who had so prudently dealt with her according to their lights. mr. and mrs. enderby were extremely pleased at the child's good fortune, and thankful that they had not been induced to send her to a charity school. "you are always right, dear," said mrs. enderby, looking at her husband with pride. "when i was a coward in the matter you insisted on having her here. and if she had gone elsewhere she would never have met reine, and her identity could hardly have been discovered." "and her sister may thank you that she does not receive her a spoiled, passionate, unmanageable monkey. your prudent treatment of the girl has had admirable results. her demeanour has pleased me very much of late. meekness and obedience have taken the place of her wilfulness and pride." nell was perfectly wild with excitement and delight, clapped her hands over her head and danced about the room. "i was always the one who liked hetty the best," she said triumphantly, "and now she will remember it. she will ask me to france to stay with her. and nobody can warn me any more not to give her too much encouragement. i can be allowed to make a companion of miss helen gaythorne." "what a very unpleasant way you always have of twisting things!" said phyllis, who had been remarkably silent all along as to the change in hetty's circumstances. "i am as glad as anyone of hetty's discovery; but i do not see why it should make any difference to us." "phyllis takes a more disinterested view of the matter than you do, nell," said mrs. enderby smiling; "but then my phyllis was always a wise little girl." nell pouted, and phyllis held her head high. mrs. enderby thought she knew the hearts of both. but the woman who could be so exceedingly prudent in the management of "nobody's child" was blind to a great deal that required skilful treatment in the characters and dispositions of her own daughters. miss davis was more affected than anyone in the house by the news of hetty's extraordinary good fortune. unconsciously to herself she had learned to love the girl, whom she had counted upon having by her side for many years to come, and it was not without a pang that she saw the young figure disappear suddenly out of her future. hetty alone knew nothing of the change that had befallen her. "no, my dear," said mrs. enderby to nell, "i will not allow you to tell her. indeed, i am a little nervous about the matter, for hetty is such a strangely impressionable girl one never knows what way she will take things. i must break the truth to her myself." so hetty was sent for to mrs. enderby's dressing-room, and went with rather a heavy heart, thinking some complaint had been made of her. she had never been so sent for except when trouble was impending. "i must try to be patient," she was thinking as she went up the stairs. "i do not know what i can have done so very wrong, but i suppose there must be something." but her sadness was soon turned into amazement and joy. "hetty," said mrs. enderby, "miss gaythorne wishes to have you with her in london, on a visit. mr. enderby and i have consented to allow you to go; and i suppose you will not object to give her pleasure." "miss gaythorne!" exclaimed hetty, scarcely believing she had heard rightly. "she has taken a fancy to you, and wishes to have you with her. she is a charming girl, and i am sure she will make you happy." hetty's face, glowing with delight, sufficiently answered this last speech; but her tongue could find no words. "in fact, i may as well tell you," continued mrs. enderby, "that reine has discovered you are some kind of relation of hers; and, as she is her own mistress and very independent, she will be disposed to make the most of the relationship." hetty was turning slowly pale. "relationship!" she murmured. "am i really related to miss gaythorne?" and reine's cry, "my mother, oh, my mother!" seemed to ring again in her ears. "i believe so, my dear. there, do not think too much of it. at all events, you are to go to her now, and she will tell you all about it. but mind, you and she are to come back and spend christmas with us. mark will be at home then, and he will be anxious to see his old playfellow." "christmas!" echoed hetty, in new astonishment. this was only the end of september. "you see, i fancy reine will not let you go in a hurry once she has got you," said mrs. enderby; "and now, my dear, don't stand there in a dream any longer, but run away and get ready for the mid-day train. mr. enderby has to do some business in london, and he will leave you in portland place. no, you will not have time to go to see mrs. kane. i will give her your love, and tell her you will see her when you come back." "i am not going to have her told till she is in her sister's house," reflected mrs. enderby; "and mrs. kane would be sure to pour out everything suddenly. the child is of so excitable a nature, i do not know what might be the consequences to her." that she could not say good-bye to mrs. kane made the only flaw in hetty's happiness; but she left a little note for her with miss davis, who promised to have it safely delivered. and then, with smiles and good wishes from everyone, and pondering over a few mysterious glances which she caught passing from one person to another over her head, hetty took her place by mr. enderby in his trap, and was whirled away to the railway-station. mr. enderby talked to her kindly as they went along, about the pleasures in store for her in london, especially in the picture-galleries, as she had a taste for art. "and always remember, my dear," he said, "that in the rules i laid down for your education with a view to your future, i acted as i thought best for your good." hetty said warmly, "i know--i am sure of that"; and then she began to wonder at his curious manner of speaking, as if all his dealings with her were in the past, and he had no longer any control over her. could it be, she asked herself, that reine was going to take her and have her taught to be an artist? the thought was too delightful to be borne with, considering the likelihood of disappointment. she tried to put it out of her head, and listened to mr. enderby as he talked to her of westminster abbey and the tower. that afternoon about five o'clock, in a certain handsome drawing-room in portland place, reine was flitting about restlessly with flushed cheeks, now re-arranging the roses in some jar, now picking up her embroidery and putting a few stitches in it, then going to the window and looking out. the afternoon tea equipage was on a little table beside her, but she did not help herself to a cup. she was evidently waiting for some one. at last there was a sound of wheels stopping, and reine's trembling hands dropped her work into her basket. a ring came to the door, and reine was in the middle of the room, pressing her hands together, and listening to the closing of the door with impatient delight. "miss helen gaythorne!" announced the servant, who knew that his mistress's young sister was expected, and who had not asked hetty for her name. in the excitement of the moment hetty heard, but hardly understood the announcement. she thought the servant had made a curious blunder. "mr. enderby will come in the evening," began hetty advancing shyly, and then, as the servant disappeared, she raised her eyes and saw reine. "hetty--helen! my darling! my sister!" cried reine, snatching her into her arms and laughing and crying on her shoulder. "sister?" murmured hetty breathlessly, feeling quite stunned. "oh, miss gaythorne, what are you saying?" "do you mean that they have not told you?" cried reine, covering her face with kisses. "some kind of a relation," murmured hetty, "that was what they told me. oh, miss gaythorne, think of what you have said! do not make fun of me, i cannot bear it." "fun of you! why, hetty, helen! i tell you, you are my sister. my ownest, dearest, darlingest daughter of my mother--the mother you are so like!" "but how--how can it be?" asked hetty with a look almost of terror on her face. "you are our baby who was supposed to have been drowned," said reine. _"that's_ how it comes to be. we were wrecked going to france, and you were washed out of my mother's arms. and we thought you were drowned. but god was keeping you safe for me at wavertree." "how have you found it all out?" said hetty, still holding fast by her doubt, which seemed the only plank that could save her from destruction in case this enchanting story should prove to be all a dream. "it is completely proved, you little sceptic!" cried reine. "mr. enderby would not have you told till the lawyers had pronounced you to be helen gaythorne. so ask me no more questions at present, but give me back some of my kisses. you and i are never going to part any more; are we?" hetty gave her a long, strange, troubled look, and then suddenly broke out into wild weeping. "oh, is it true? is it really true? oh, reine, my sister; if, after this, it comes to be false--i shall die!" "it cannot come to be false, because it is reality," insisted reine, as she rocked her weeping sister in her arms. "i shall be mother and sister and all to you, helen--my poor little motherless darling! cry away, my dearest, for this once, and then you shall have some tea. and after that you are never to cry any more. you and i will have a great deal too much to say and do together to spend our time over crying. but oh, hetty--helen--if mother and father were only here this day!" and then reine cried again herself, and hetty was the comforter. they sat with their young heads together and their warm cheeks touching, and told as much of their life's stories to each other as they could think of at the moment. to reine the great discovery had come gradually, and so the present hour was not so strange as it was to hetty. for hetty the world seemed to have got suddenly under a spell of enchantment. she could not believe in herself as helen gaythorne--could not get accustomed to her new vision of life. "and i shall not need to be a governess. and perhaps i may be an artist if i like." "you will not need to be either. there is enough of wealth for both of us," said reine. "but you can study art to your heart's content. and we will go to italy. and you shall be as happy as a queen." * * * * * and here i think we may take leave of hetty gray, in the fulness of her happiness, and in reine's loving arms. when i last heard of the sisters they were leading a busy, active, and joyous life. john kane having died, mrs. kane has found a home with them; and scamp, who is now quite an old dog, spends his days in tranquil ease at hetty's feet. international children's digital library (http://www.childrenslibrary.org/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through international children's digital library. see http://www.childrenslibrary.org/icdl/savebook?bookid=cupcarr_ &lang=english carry's rose; or, the magic of kindness. a tale for the young. by mrs. george cupples, author of "the story of our doll," "the little captain," etc. etc. [illustration: the birthday picnic] london: t. nelson and sons, paternoster row. edinburgh; and new york. . carry's rose. caroline ashcroft stood by the trellised arbour on the lawn, along with daisy, her pet lamb, watching for the approach of the carriage which had been sent to the railway-station to meet her papa and her only brother, herbert. this was the first time that caroline had been separated from her brother, who had been sent to school at a distance some months before this; and as she had no sister or companion of her own age, she had felt very lonely during his absence. in honour of his return nurse had dressed caroline in her new white muslin; and daisy, after being carefully washed till her soft fleece was as white as snow, had been decorated with a beautiful wreath of flowers. she was so anxious to pull it off, that caroline was obliged to hold her head very firm, in case she should eat it up before herbert arrived. [illustration: the pet lamb.] "now, daisy," said caroline to the lamb, "just have a few minutes more patience. i'm certain i hear the sound of wheels. there!" she cried, clapping her hands, as the carriage turned in at the avenue gate. daisy, feeling herself at liberty, ran away across the lawn, tossing her head and tearing the wreath to pieces; but caroline was so eager to catch the first glimpse of herbert, who she felt sure would be looking out of the window for her, that she did not notice how soon her morning's labour had been destroyed. caroline was a sweet-dispositioned child, affectionate and very warm-hearted; at least nurse thought so, as she dressed her that morning, and listened to her plans for herbert's amusement during his holidays. she had banished from her mind all recollection of his wayward temper, and the delight he always seemed to take in tormenting her and teasing her in every way in his power, and only thought how nice it would be to have him at home once more. "ah, miss caroline," nurse had said, "i'm thinking you will be even more pleased to see him set off for school again, unless he is much improved." "but herbert is a big boy now, nurse," caroline had replied; "only think what nice letters he writes from school, telling how he longs to be beside us again, and always speaks so kindly of me. i know he will be good." nurse made no further remark, except to say "she hoped it would turn out so;" for she did not want to cast a shadow over caroline's happiness. certainly, when herbert jumped out of the carriage, he seemed as glad to see his sister as she was to see him; and though the wreath on daisy's neck was gone, he admired the white fleece very much, and said that they would go together some day to gather wild flowers to make another. then he had so many amusing stories to relate about his adventures at school, that caroline thought there could not be a better brother found anywhere. her mamma had often said that herbert had a good heart if he would just control his temper, and had often told caroline to be very gentle with him, for nothing but gentleness would soften him. it was late in the afternoon when herbert returned, so that bed-time arrived long before the stories were exhausted; and the brother and sister parted for the night with the understanding that they should set out early after breakfast for a long walk, and to pay some visits to old friends and neighbours. the next morning, when caroline awoke, the first thing she did was to jump out of bed and run to the window to see what sort of a day it was; when, much to her vexation, she found the rain was descending in torrents. she was far more sorry for herbert's disappointment than for her own; for she remembered how he disliked a wet day, and how difficult it always was for him to spend it comfortably. still herbert might not be so foolish now, she thought, and she would try all she could to amuse him. "well, i must say this is too bad," said herbert, as he entered the breakfast-room the next morning. "what is too bad?" inquired his mamma, as she poured out the coffee. "why, the rain, to be sure, mamma," replied herbert. "hasn't it stopped our plans for the day?" "they were of such consequence, i suppose," said mrs. ashcroft, laughing. "here have i been hearing from every quarter that rain is greatly needed to help on the crops; and now when it has come, and all the farmers' hearts will be filled with rejoicing, my boy is filled with dismay!" "oh, but, mamma, you must own it is very provoking to have a wet day the very first one on my return," said herbert. "well, perhaps it is vexatious, when we think of you as an individual, and banish from our minds the thousands it will benefit." "now, you are laughing at me, mamma," said herbert sulkily. "nay, my son," said mrs. ashcroft, "i am sorry for you. but let me see if nothing can be done to make a wet day pleasant in-doors. i'm sure carry will do her best to help." "might we make soap-bubbles, mamma?" said caroline; "you said i might try to do it some day with the pipe uncle gave me." "well, i daresay you may, dear, if you put on an apron, and don't wet yourself." after breakfast caroline was not long in getting the soap and water ready, which she carried off to the school-room; and though herbert at first called it a babyish game, and stood apart by the window watching the rain, he could not help joining his sister in the end. "oh, if you had only seen what lovely ones uncle made," said caroline, "and how beautifully he tossed them up, making them float up to the very roof without bursting sometimes!" "that is not a very difficult process, i should say," replied herbert. "give me the pipe, and i will show you i can do it as well as uncle." [illustration: blowing bubbles.] caroline at once gave up the pipe, and good-naturedly held the dish while herbert blew the soap-bubbles; and even he became fascinated with the sport, and sat blowing away so long that lunch-hour arrived and poor caroline hadn't had a chance to make another, though she wanted to do it ever so much. as the day advanced, and the novelty of being at home wore off, herbert began to return to his old habit of teasing his inoffensive sister. they were sitting beside their mamma, who was sewing, while she listened with as much delight almost as caroline did to herbert's stories of his life at school. caroline was on the floor dressing her doll, while herbert sat on a low stool at his mother's feet; but unable to behave himself longer, he rolled over on to the floor, and, with his head in caroline's lap, snatched the doll out of her hands. "oh, do give me my doll," said caroline, as gently as she could; "see, her poor arm is broken, and the sawdust is coming out." "what a baby you are, carry!" said herbert, paying no attention to her request. "no girl of your age plays with dolls nowadays. stop; let me show you how the jugglers do. they toss up a ball on their feet so," and herbert flung the doll up in the air and caught it upon his feet, then sent it spinning to the roof again, while he laughed at caroline's look of distress. [illustration: herbert teasing his sister.] their mamma now interposed, and bade herbert give the doll back at once, telling him at the same time that he ought to be ashamed of himself for tormenting his sister in such a way, and warned him that though it was his holidays she would punish him most severely if he annoyed her again. herbert went off to his own room and got into bed, where he lay till dinner-time. it was doubtful, however, whether he or caroline really suffered most. "o mamma, it was my fault," she said, while the tears stood in her eyes; "i know herbert was just in fun; i daresay he would not have done it any harm if i had trusted it to him. he has often said it was the sight of my frightened face that made him wish to go on; for it looks so funny to see me so frightened, he says, about such a trifle." "that may be all very true, dear," said her mamma, "but i do not like to see herbert giving way to such a disposition. it has grieved both papa and me many a time to see our boy growing up with that constant wish to tease and torment any helpless creature he meets, more especially his own sister. we sent him to school to see if it would do him good; but i fear, if it has checked him it has not cured him. i should like to see my boy grow up manly and courageous; for it is only a cowardly disposition that tries to tease a little girl or torment a dumb animal." still caroline could not help being sorry for herbert, and when she saw him looking, as she fancied, very dull during dinner, she slipped away after him, thinking that he must be very unhappy, though all the time he was just indulging himself in a fit of the sulks. at first he was inclined to treat caroline's advances to friendship in a surly manner, but a glance at her earnest, gentle eyes made him feel ashamed of himself; and being at the same time tired of his solitude, he at length consented to play a game at bagatelle. he even went so far as to say, "well, after all carry, you are a good little thing; i do annoy you terribly, which is not fair, because you are so forgiving. well, to make up for it, i'll be very kind to you to-morrow." when herbert came to bid his mamma good-night in her room, he had quite forgotten that she had been angry with him during the day. he was very much surprised, therefore, when, instead of kissing him, she pushed him back from her knee, saying, "i fear i have no good-night kiss for you, my boy, at present." "why, mamma, what have i done?" said herbert, the tears starting to his eyes, for he knew that if his mamma refused to kiss him she must indeed be angry. "you surely have not forgotten how displeased i was with you this forenoon for teasing your sister!" said mrs. ashcroft in a tone of severity. "but, mamma, carry has forgotten it now; and i told her i was sorry," said herbert eagerly. "i'm sure all i did to her couldn't hurt her so very much." [illustration: herbert and his mamma.] "perhaps not, my son," said mrs. ashcroft; "but you remember the reason why we sent you away to school was to see if this bad habit of teasing could be cured. if i had thought you were to begin the very first day you were at home, i should have allowed you to stay at school during the holidays also." "but there wasn't one boy stayed behind at school this half," said herbert; "you surely wouldn't have left me all alone, mamma!" "indeed i would, herbert," replied his mamma firmly; "and what is more, if you persevere in this bad habit, i shall speak to papa as to whether it would not be advisable to send you back to school even yet." herbert could not help seeing that his mamma really meant what she said, and this threat frightened him so much that he wept bitterly. "mamma," he said, "if you will only forgive me this once, i will try very hard not to tease carry all the time i am at home." "well, my boy," said mrs. ashcroft kindly, "we will give you one more trial, and i hope you will not only try very hard, but ask god to help you to be a good boy." herbert, before he went to his own room, opened his sister's door very carefully to see if she were in bed. carry did not hear him, she was so intent looking out of the window at the rain. "i like to see the rain," she was saying to herself; "but i do hope it will pour itself out during the night, for herbert's sake; it is very hard for him, poor fellow." [illustration: watching the rain.] herbert pulled to the door very gently, and retired to his own room, with the feeling stronger than ever that his sister was really "a good little thing." [illustration: neptune.] the next morning was as bright as a morning could well be, with everything out-of-doors looking fresh after the rain, so that when breakfast was over, herbert and caroline, with the large dog neptune, lost not a moment in setting out for a long ramble into the country. at first herbert seemed to remember his words of the previous evening, and was very kind to caroline, helping her carefully over the stepping-stones at the river, instead of frightening her as he used to do. then he always held open the gates of the different fields they passed through, shutting them after her, instead of making her do it. he even stopped throwing stones at a wounded bird in a field when he saw it distressed her, though he laughed at her for being such a simpleton as to care for a half-dead bird. this recalled to his mind a circumstance that had happened at school, when he and some of his schoolfellows had gone for a walk into the country one half-holiday; and he began to relate how they had caught a pigeon sitting on its nest up a tree, and how, regardless of its fluttering and piteous cries, they had carried it off, and its nest also. then he told with much laughter how they had unearthed a mole, and how they had tied it to a stick and made it a target to fling stones at, till it had died by inches; no doubt, as caroline supposed, having suffered great torture. losing all command of herself, she cried out, "o herbert, how could you, could you be so cruel! it is quite true what mamma says, you are nothing but a coward, to hunt a dumb creature, a poor blind animal, so." [illustration: a mischievous pair.] at these words herbert flew into a passion, and told caroline she might find her way home the best way she could, for that he would not walk any more with her; and away he ran, with neptune at his heels. when he was a few yards off, he turned and cried out, "i hope you won't meet with farmer brown's bull, that's all; and that you won't find the stepping-stones difficult, now that your coward isn't there to help you." caroline thought that he was only doing this to frighten her, and expecting he would return in a short time, she sat down by the brink of the river, wondering how boys could be so cruel to god's creatures. boys were taught by their parents to be kind to animals, just as their sisters were; yet, as they grew up, they forgot all about it,--at least, very many of them did; and they seemed to try who would do the most cruel thing. she sat trying to think of a plan to make her brother herbert kind and gentle; and again it came into her mind how by her own hastiness she had made him angry just when he was doing everything to please her. "it was so very dreadful of him to hurt the poor blind mole," she said aloud; "i could not help speaking out; only i need not have called him a coward. i might have shown him how bad his conduct was in a gentler way; but, as nurse and mamma say, i am always so hasty." caroline having sat a long time, began to think that herbert really did not mean to come for her; and fearing her mamma would be alarmed if she did not return with herbert in time for dinner, she turned back along the path they had come, walking as fast as she could. after passing through two fields, and managing to open and shut the gates with some difficulty, she was alarmed by hearing a loud roar, which she guessed must come from farmer brown's bull. she nearly fell down with terror, for the bull had a very bad character for goring people, and had only the week before hurt a little boy very seriously. collecting all her courage, she crept round by the side of the hedge. fortunately the bull had his head turned in the opposite direction, so that she managed to pass him and get out of the field without being seen by him. at the stepping-stones she stopped, afraid to venture over; but a man came up, who kindly offered to take her across. going round by a field-path that led to her home past farmer brown's farm, she saw a little girl sitting under a tree, whom she at once guessed must be little martha, the farmer's only child. she was gazing up at a flight of pigeons that went fluttering over the houses before they lighted down upon the roof of the barn. caroline had often seen martha at church, and once or twice nurse had taken her to the farm, when she had gone to see mrs. brown; so she stopped to ask the little girl what she was looking at so earnestly. "i'm looking at the pigeons, miss," said little martha, rising to drop a courtesy to the young lady from the hall. "they seem to be all pure white," said caroline, sitting down on the roots of the tree, and bidding martha take her seat again. "they are very pretty." [illustration: little martha.] "yes, miss, they are pretty," said martha, looking with pride at her favourites; "but they are not all white; there be two of them blue, and i'm so sorry for it." "why, what makes you sorry for the blue ones?" said caroline, smiling. "don't you like blue ones?" "oh yes, i like them very much," said martha, "but father doesn't; and he's going to shoot them to-night." "oh, how cruel of him," said caroline; "you must ask him not to do it, martha. they cannot help being blue, you know." martha looked a little distressed at the idea of her kind father being considered cruel by the young lady, but she didn't know very well how to answer her. "father doesn't mean to be cruel, miss," said martha; "but he likes all the pigeons to be white; and if a blue one comes he shoots it. i will ask father not to shoot them, and perhaps he won't." "oh yes, please do ask him," replied caroline; "and tell him if he only could catch them, and send them down to me, i would give him my new shilling papa gave me on my birth-day. tell him to be sure and not to shoot them." martha went off at once to look for her father, but as he had gone away to a distant part of the farm, caroline had to be content to await his return, and leaving the matter in martha's hands for the present, proceeded on her way homewards. when she arrived at home, she was very glad to find that her mamma had not returned from town; so that, unless caroline told her, she could not know of herbert's bad behaviour; and caroline was determined to keep it secret. if mrs. ashcroft saw that the children were not such good friends as they had been that morning, she took no notice of it, and during dinner spoke more to their papa than to them. but towards the end she turned to caroline and said, "who do you think is coming to pay you a visit of a few days? well, i shall tell you, as i see you cannot guess. your two cousins, lizzie and charles." caroline was very much pleased to hear this, for she loved her cousins very much; but her brother did not, for charles was a well-behaved boy, one or two years younger than herbert, and would never join in any of his tricks against the girls. when they arrived next morning, they went off at once to see caroline's pet hen and chickens; and though herbert went with them, he stood aside with his hoop dangling on his arm, and with a look of contempt on his face at his cousin charlie's delight at the sight of the chickens. living in a town as charles and lizzie did, everything belonging to the country was new and delightful; and it was not till all the poultry-sheds, and rabbit-hutches, and the very stables and cow-houses had been visited, that charles would consent to join herbert in a game on the lawn. [illustration: charles and the chickens.] "i never saw any one like you, charles," said herbert, with a sneer; "one would think you never had seen a hen or a cow before. if you were at our school they would call you 'lady;' for you clap your hands just as a girl does over these things. i like horses and dogs, but who cares for a hen and chicks?" "well, now," said charles, "can there be a prettier sight than a hen with her chickens peeping out under her wings?" herbert made no reply, and the boys now set about having a game at cricket, the girls good-naturedly agreeing to join in it, though they ran some risk of being hurt; for herbert often tried to strike the ball in their direction, that he might enjoy the fun of seeing them run out of its way lest it should hurt them. however, nothing of the kind happened; but both lizzie and caroline were very glad when their brothers proposed to put away the bat and wickets, and have a game at hide-and-seek down at the great stack-yard. all that day and the next herbert made himself very agreeable, and a very happy time the four children had. on the third day they paid a visit to old mary watkins, who lived in a little cottage on the borders of mr. ashcroft's property, and was a great favourite both with the children and their parents. old mary had not been very well, and caroline and lizzie were to take her some strong soup and some jelly, and they were all to be allowed to stay and drink tea with her, if she was able to have them. this was always considered a great treat, and no one enjoyed it more than herbert; for old mary had such lots of stories to tell, especially about her two sons, who were both sailors, but who had not been heard of for some years. when they reached mary's cottage, they found the old woman quite pleased to see them; and as she was not able to set her best cups out on the tray with the large ship in full sail painted on it, the girls were allowed to do it for her. the boys were very active also in getting water from the spring to fill the kettle, which they lifted up on to the large hook that hung so strangely down the chimney over the fire. mrs. ashcroft had taken care to send a good supply of provisions in another basket, in case mary should not be prepared for such a large party; and they made a most hearty tea after their long walk. when the cups had been washed and put away, and the tray admired once more before it was placed up against the wall, there was still time to hear a good many of mary's best stories before the hour fixed for their return home. the next day the children were obliged to keep within doors, as it was very wet; and, as usual, herbert came in to breakfast looking as gloomy as the weather, while his cousin charles evidently intended to make the best of matters, and was quite cheerful. "come, girls," he cried, when they had gone up to the empty schoolroom, "let us have a game at playing at school. don't you remember how we enjoyed it last time?" herbert flung himself down on the floor in a pet at the idea of being asked to play such a childish game; but though he tried hard to enjoy his favourite book, and not to listen to their mirth, when lizzie purposely made such absurd mistakes, he was compelled at last to join in the laughter, and then in the game itself. afterwards they played a game at bagatelle, but it took all their patience to stand herbert's whims and tricks. he did not interfere with lizzie, for she was on his side, but when caroline and charles were going to play, he would stagger up against them and cause them to play badly; or, if he saw that the ball was likely to go into a large number, he would slyly lift up the board and make it roll away. "you said the other day that they would call me 'lady' at your school," said charles, "but i know what they would call you at ours." [illustration: the schoolroom] "what's that, pray?" replied herbert, coming up close to his cousin with a scowl on his face and his hand clenched behind his back. charles was not in the least afraid of herbert's threatening appearance, but answered stoutly,--"they would call you 'cheat;' and of the two names i'd prefer 'lady.'" herbert was neither restrained by the fact that his cousin was a guest in the house nor by the difference in their age, a double reason for treating him with forbearance. before caroline had time to prevent him, herbert had struck charles a severe blow on the head, which knocked him down; and as he lay for some minutes almost senseless, the girls thought he was going to die, and screamed out for help. fortunately, nurse was passing the schoolroom door at the time, and hearing the noise, came in. charles's face and head having been bathed, he soon recovered; and as herbert seemed to have got a terrible fright, and to be truly sorry for his conduct, charles was quite willing to forgive him, and to shake hands in token of friendship. during the remainder of their visit herbert was very attentive to his cousins; and if any game was proposed by them, whether he thought it babyish or not, he never raised the least objection, but joined quite heartily in it. yet he had not given up his bad habits altogether; for he still went on with his teasing ways to his sister caroline, both before his cousins' face and behind their back, till she began to think that, after all, as nurse had said, she would be glad when his holidays came to an end. a few mornings after this, the children set out to fish in the river, and while walking round by the common they came upon a donkey standing all alone, without a bridle or even a rope on it. it was close to a large juicy thistle, but it did not seem to be eating it, and every minute or two it shook and trembled. [illustration: the donkey.] lizzie was the first to notice it, and going closer, exclaimed, "i am afraid the poor beast must be ill." "tuts, what nonsense!" said herbert; "donkeys are never ill. don't you know they live for ever, cousin lizzie?" "well, i don't know about that," said charles, going close up to the donkey and looking into its face; "all i can say is, if this poor beast isn't ill it looks very like it." "it's nothing but a stubborn fit," said herbert; and before any one could stop him he gave the donkey a lash with a switch he held in his hand, calling out at the same time, "gee up, teddy! come, get out of your sulks, sir!" the donkey's flesh seemed to shiver, and he breathed harder, but his heavy eye never brightened. "i tell you what it is, herbert, i'll not see that poor animal ill-used in that manner," said charles; "he's not sulky, he's ill!" [illustration: the cowherd.] herbert felt inclined to quarrel with charles for his reproof, but charles had spied a little boy sitting on a gate herding a cow, and he ran over to him to make inquiries who the donkey belonged to. "well, sir, the poor beast belongs to some travelling gipsies who are living t'other side of the common, and they left it here this morning because it couldn't go no further, and there it has stood before that 'ere thistle ever since." caroline now came up, and hearing that the donkey was ill beyond a doubt, she proposed they should go home and ask their mamma to send the stable lad with a hot drink to the poor animal. "i know when our pony was ill one day he got a hot drink and some medicine, and he very soon was all right again." "i'm not going back, for one," said herbert; "the idea of making such a fuss about a donkey; it's quite ridiculous!" "nobody is forcing you, my dear cousin," replied charles cheerily; "you may go on to the river by yourself; but i for one couldn't enjoy myself, unless i had done something to help this poor animal in its distress." "well, i don't see why we all should stay because you choose to doctor an old donkey," said herbert peevishly. "come along, lizzie and carry; if you don't come at once we'll lose the best part of the day, and get no fish." the girls, however, were quite as anxious about the welfare of the poor donkey, and declared their intention to stay with charlie. they even did more, for they volunteered to go back to the house to get what was necessary for the animal, while charlie and the herd-boy watched by him, ready to render any assistance if he should turn worse. caroline was fortunate in finding stephens the gardener, who was considered very skilful in doctoring sick animals; at anyrate, he had set the leg of one of her chickens when it was broken, and managed to bring neptune through a severe illness, therefore it was to be supposed he could cure the donkey also. "well, miss, i'll come and see him," said stephens; "but if he is as bad as you say, i fear it's little i can do." to their great delight, however, when stephens had examined him, he gave it as his decided opinion that the animal was suffering from a severe cold and over-work. "if we had him put into a warm house for a night, and gave him something warm to eat, i think he would soon be all right," said stephens. "i might manage to make him up a bed in the root-house, if your mamma would have no objections." [illustration: the gipsy encampment.] caroline and lizzie ran back to the house again, and after telling the story, mrs. ashcroft gave permission that all attention should be paid to the sick animal; and while charles and the herd-boy went over to the gipsy encampment to tell where their donkey had disappeared to, caroline and lizzie helped stephens to make the donkey comfortable. even in the short time they were beside him the poor animal seemed to be much relieved; and though at first he could scarcely open his mouth to eat the warm, soft mash stephens had prepared for him, before they left he was beginning to nibble at a tuft of hay that had been placed for his use. "oh, i do wish herbert had stayed to help us," said caroline; "i really cannot understand why he doesn't take an interest in dumb animals. i wonder why he is so different from charles. your brother is seldom cross with you, not even when you are cross with him." "no," said lizzie; "he is really a good kind boy; but i know somebody, not very far off, who is just as good and gentle as my brother charles,--and that is yourself, you patient little puss." "oh, don't say that, lizzie dear," said caroline, with flushed cheeks. "i'm often hasty and ill-tempered, and make herbert worse than he might be if i left him alone." "well," replied lizzie, "all i can say is, if herbert were my brother, i should be twice as hasty and five times as ill-tempered, for he is about the most provoking boy i know." charles returned in due time from the gipsy encampment, quite delighted with all he had seen of the people, and reported they had given up their donkey for lost; and, of course, they had been much gratified to hear it was likely to be restored to health and strength. "i made them promise to leave the poor animal with us for a week," said charlie; "and they say that they are quite willing, and mean to go on to the market-town, and return again for him." "oh, i was hoping they would remain in the wood for some time," said lizzie. "i should like to see a gipsy encampment so much." "and so should i," said carry. "nurse is always so frightened for the gipsies, she won't allow us ever to go near them. but, perhaps, when we take the donkey back they will be civil, and not steal our clothes from us." "does nurse say they will do that?" said charlie. "oh, what a shame! i wouldn't believe it. they were so polite to me; and one old woman insisted upon telling me my fortune, and when i offered her a sixpence she wouldn't have it." "and i suppose she told you some rubbish," said herbert; "sent you riding off in a coach-and-four with your pockets full of money and your barrels full of beer?" "i beg your pardon, sir," said charlie, "she wasn't half so kind. she said i would grow up to be more than six feet high; that i would be a soldier or a sailor, which i don't intend to be; and that, after a great many difficulties, i would succeed in the world, and mumbled something about a clear opening and a straight uprising." "that's because you didn't give her any money," said herbert, laughing. "well, when they come back we'll have her to tell us ours," said lizzie, "and see if the coach-and-four is to fall to our lot." "but i don't think mamma would like us to have our fortunes told. i know she was very much displeased with one of the servants allowing the gipsy woman to tell her hers. if we want to see the encampment, we had better not have anything to do with the fortune-teller. mamma says it is not only silly but wicked to inquire into futurity." in about a week the gipsies returned; and the donkey being much better, he was taken over and restored to his rightful owners. he was so much improved with his rest and good treatment that they hardly knew him, and the whole of the gipsy children belonging to the encampment gathered round to see their old friend and companion. when the children from the hall left, after inspecting the queer tents and everything else, they turned to look once more at the donkey and wave a good-bye to the gipsy man; and, as carry said, poor punch--that was the name of the donkey--was looking wistfully after them, and if the man hadn't held him firm, he seemed almost inclined to run after them. "poor beast," as charlie said, "after all his hard years of labour it was no wonder if he wanted a rest now." [illustration: punch and his owners.] the morning after lizzie and charles left, caroline was unable to get out of bed with a sick headache, but was able to be down to dinner, where she found herbert with rather a grave face, which did not escape the notice of his mamma; but as he always said, in answer to her question, there was nothing the matter, she thought he was only in one of his bad humours. she then told caroline that she had seen little blind susan, who was asking when she was to get another flower. "i was just waiting for my china-rose to come out," said caroline; "there is one bud on it, and you know i said susan was to have the first rose, mamma." if caroline had looked at herbert she would have been surprised to see his face become suddenly red; for the truth was, the rose-bud that caroline had watched so carefully was hanging from the stem broken; and more than that, a great many flowers in her garden had been destroyed. it had happened in this way. finding that his mamma had gone out, herbert went into the garden with neptune following closely at his heels. he had been forbidden to take the dog into the garden, but, trusting to neptune's obedient disposition, he thought he could keep him on the walks. he did not expect to find a cat lying asleep under one of the garden-seats, else he would have acted differently; for neptune had a terrible hatred to cats, and nothing could cure him of it. therefore, when his eye fell upon the cat, he bounded off after it, and, regardless of the flowers, chased it right through caroline's little border. herbert was very sorry, more so when he remembered how his sister had not told of his bad treatment during their walk by the river; but he was so afraid of his papa's displeasure, when it became known that he had taken the dog into the garden, that he made up his mind he would deny all knowledge of it. he was startled to hear his mamma telling caroline it would be better to pull the rosebud now, as it would come out just as well in water, and last longer than if it were full-blown; so that if she liked to get it now, she might go with nurse, who was going to take some medicine to susan's sick mother. caroline, who was always glad to pay a visit to blind susan, went away at once into the garden, where she found stephens the gardener leaning on his spade and rake, and gazing down in dismay at the broken and crushed flowers. "o stephens, who has done this?" said caroline, almost ready to cry. "my beautiful rosebud broken, my poor flowers destroyed!" [illustration: the broken rosebud.] then stephens told how he had seen master herbert walking about the garden with neptune, and that, as he was at a distance, the flowers had been destroyed before he got up to the place. "but master herbert shall suffer for this," said stephens; "i mean to tell his papa about it this very night." caroline knew well how severely herbert would be punished, and her heart softened towards her brother. "has neptune done any harm to the other flowers?" she asked stephens. "no, miss," said stephens; "for, do you see, the cat ran up that tree there, and got over the wall, and the dog kept dancing about among the flowers, trying to get his heavy body up after it." "well, stephens," said caroline, "since only my flowers have suffered, will you please not tell papa this time? i can get up early in the morning and tie them up a little, if you could help to rake it smooth for me." "that is very kind of you, miss," replied stephens, admiringly; "but what about the rose you have been watching so carefully all this week?" "isn't it strange?" said caroline; "i came to pull it at mamma's request, and see, it is only broken with quite a long stem to it." to herbert's great surprise, caroline returned with a bright smiling face, and said nothing about the state she had found her garden in. the next morning caroline got up much earlier than her usual time for rising, but not so early as she intended, for there was a good deal of hard work before her garden could be made neat again. dressing herself quickly, she ran out, not even taking time to put on her bonnet, so eager was she to begin; when to her surprise, there was herbert busy at work with a trowel smoothing the ground and propping up the earth round the crushed flowers. she stood for some time scarcely believing it possible, half thinking she must be dreaming; for herbert was so fond of his bed, once he was in it, that it was always a very difficult matter to get him out of it. now here he was, at six o'clock in the morning, hard at work, as if his very life depended upon it. she ventured at last to step close up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder, not very sure whether he would feel angry or pleased to be caught at his novel employment. she did not notice that her mamma was standing by the garden gate; for mrs. ashcroft, having a bad headache, had got up early also, and had come out, in the hope that the morning air would take it away. "it is very good of you, dear herbert," said caroline, while their mamma paused to look at her children. "i was just coming to arrange them, when i find you, like that kind fairy-man in my new book, setting everything in order." [illustration: surprised at work.] the idea passed through herbert's mind for a moment that perhaps caroline did not know how her flowers had been broken, and so he need not tell her he had had anything to do with it. he had felt very miserable ever since it happened, thinking that his papa would be certain to find it out and punish him, and at the same time he was ashamed when he thought of his unkind treatment of his sister. it was only for a moment he hesitated, however; then turning frankly round, he said, "i am very sorry, carry, your garden has been destroyed. it was all my fault, but i did not mean it. i took--" "yes, i know," said caroline, interrupting him; "but don't say any more about it, we can easily get it put right again; indeed, you have done a great deal already. how early you must have been up!" "yes," said herbert, with a smile; "i was down here when the clock struck four. i was up even before the sun. but i must say, carry, it is good of you to pass it over. i won't forget it in a hurry, i can tell you." caroline asked him not to say another word about it, and, as she turned to go to the tool-house, she saw her mamma looking at them very seriously. herbert, with downcast face, was compelled to tell how disobedient he had been in breaking through his papa's express order not to take neptune into the garden. his mamma was very angry with him, but after giving him a severe scolding, she said she would not punish him this time, as he had tried to repair the damage done by getting up so early, and also because carry had made the request after being the chief sufferer. as it was still early, their mamma bade them run for their hats, and she would take them a walk till breakfast was ready. before they set out, she gave each of them a drink of milk and some biscuits, as they were not accustomed to be out so early. it was a lovely morning, and the children enjoyed the walk very much. as they were returning home, they passed by a part of the park where their papa allowed a number of sheep to graze; and as they were looking over the paling, one of the sheep came close up to them and began to bleat. "i am sure, mamma," cried caroline, "that must be my pet lamb's mother; can she be wanting me to bring daisy back again to her, do you think?" "well, i scarcely think it is likely, dear," replied her mamma; "but how do you know it is daisy's mother?" "because she has a queer sort of tuft of wool on her forehead," said caroline, while both her mamma and herbert laughed at her for supposing that no other sheep but daisy's mother had a tuft. "it really is," she said decidedly, though joining in the laugh. "oh," she continued, "what a pity a pet lamb grows up into a sheep. only think of my poor daisy's white face getting dirty and torn like that great stupid-looking sheep over there!" [illustration: the sheep.] "yes, i used to think so too," said her mamma, "when i had a pet lamb." as they came round by the wood on their way home, caroline said she would like so much to get some of the beautiful wild-flowers for her garden. herbert did not say anything at the time, but he determined to get up early the next morning also, and give her a pleasant surprise by getting a basketful for her. one might have expected that before the next morning came he would have quite forgotten all about it; but no; when the servant called him at six o'clock, as he had requested her to do the night before, he jumped out of bed at once. he knew of a deep dingle at some distance from the house, where many kinds of wild-flowers were to be found; so he made up his mind to go there instead of to the wood. the dingle was down in a woody hollow, such as the "babes in the wood" might have been lost in; and there were so many plants and ferns, that herbert was often at a loss what to choose. however, his basket was full at last, and he hurried home, hoping to have them all planted before caroline came down-stairs. when he was planting them it came into his mind how much improved caroline's garden would be if there were a small arbour at the side of it; and he determined to ask his mamma's permission to get the wood, and make it during his holidays. when he went into the dining-room, after carefully washing his face and hands and changing his muddy boots, he found his mamma standing with an open letter in her hand, reading it aloud to his papa. [illustration: gathering the wild-flowers.] it was from his grandmamma, who lived some miles from them, and who had written to ask if caroline might be allowed to spend a few days with her, to help to entertain their two cousins, harry and maud, who had just arrived from australia. herbert had got into disgrace during the last visit he paid his grandmamma; but still he felt vexed at being left out of the invitation, as he was curious to see these new cousins. his regret was softened, however, when he thought there would now be a good opportunity for making the arbour, so as to repay carry for the injury done to her garden. this thought made him very glad. it was decided that caroline should go that same day, and as she had a great deal to do in helping nurse to pack her little trunk, and give directions about her numerous pets, she did not once go near her garden. herbert could not help saying before she left, "i am so sorry i am not a kinder brother to you, carry; i do mean, however, to be better to you in the future." "oh, don't say that, herbert," replied carry; "i know it's just in fun, and i am so stupid to look vexed. i love you dearly, for you are my own kind good brother," and she clasped her arms round him in a fond embrace. "that's all very well," said herbert, returning the affectionate pressure; "but i am sure i am not like cousin charlie. he is a kind brother really, and always seems to be able to do and say the right thing at the proper time; and as for being cross with lizzie, he would sooner think of flying." "well, we shall say nothing more about it, dear," said caroline kindly. "all i have to say is, i'd rather have you for my brother, though charlie is as good a boy as ever lived, i do think. let us forget everything disagreeable to-day, as i am to leave home so soon. oh dear! i was forgetting; i promised daisy, my lamb, i would have a romp with her before dinner, and the bell will ring very soon!" they at once ran off, and getting the lamb from its snug house, proceeded to the wood, their favourite resort. "i wonder whether she will know you when you return," said herbert, as he stood watching his sister tying a bright piece of ribbon round her lamb's neck. "o herbert, please don't say that!--what a dreadful idea!" replied caroline. "i really don't think she will ever be so ungrateful!--indeed, i am sure she will know me if i stayed away ever so long. now, daisy, am i not right?" she continued, kneeling down before her pet; "you will love me always, even after you are a great fat sheep, and i have grown up into quite a big girl." daisy seemed to be quite impressed with the solemnity of the occasion, and put out her black tongue to lick her mistress's hand, as much as to say, i will never forget you--never. [illustration: caroline and herbert.] "now, herbert, you see i have tied the little bell round her neck, and if miss daisy goes where she ought not to go, you will hear her and can put her out; but i hope she will be a very good lamb, and trouble nobody." "i'll look after her, never you fear," said herbert cheerily; and hearing the dinner-bell, they returned to the house. when she was safely off, herbert told his mamma of the plan he had in his mind; and as she was very much pleased to see that her boy was trying to "turn over a new leaf," she gave her consent at once, and said that stephens might take the pony-cart and help him to get the poles and wood he required from the saw-mill. early and late herbert was at work, and so diligent was he that his mamma had often to stop him, in case he should hurt himself. "i am afraid," he would say, "carry will be home before it is done. i do so wish to surprise her. i can't help thinking, as i work here by myself, mamma, what a kind-hearted, good little thing carry is; and i hate myself when i think how i have vexed and teased her all her life." his mamma spoke very seriously to him, pointing out how much happier he must feel by trying to please his sister than by vexing her; and saying that poor carry's sweet, gentle disposition might have been spoiled altogether, if he had not been sent away from her to school. "ah," said mrs. ashcroft, "you ought to have seen how she missed you, and how she wandered about for days after you left, with such an unhappy little face! you ought indeed to love her, herbert, and be proud to do her a service, because she is a good sister to you." herbert manfully said he meant to be a good brother for the future, and never to tease her any more, for he saw he had been nothing but a coward all along. the day before caroline returned, the arbour was quite finished--a perfect model of its kind. there was a walk up to it, and a little flight of steps; and stephens had transplanted a beautiful clematis, and, as the weather was very favourable, it had grown quite large, and gave herbert a great deal of work training it. there was a seat inside all round, and a little table in the centre for caroline to put her work-basket on; and on the table was painted, in bright red letters, "a token of love to my gentle sister." [illustration: the arbour.] and now it was herbert's turn to watch for the arrival of the carriage; and when it drew up at the front steps, he found not only carry's face looking out for him, but there were his new cousins, maud and harry also; and, though he could not see him, he heard the well-known voice of his cousin charles, and the merry laughter of lizzie also. there never was a happier meeting of girls and boys, and while charles as usual ran off to pay a visit to the various animals, taking harry with him, herbert carried the three girls away to see the new arbour. though herbert had not done it for praise, he got plenty of it, for every one pronounced it a perfect beauty; and maud, who did not of course know herbert, said he must be the kindest of brothers, to take so much trouble; and though lizzie might have told her it was quite a new thing for herbert to be kind, she kept her knowledge to herself, only saying it was a perfect beauty. stephens, of course, was praised for his share in the labour; and the two boys were as delighted with it as the girls were, and only wished they could make one also when they went home. [illustration: brother and sister.] when caroline got herbert by himself for a few minutes she thanked him very much for his gift, for she alone knew what had prompted him to make it; and ever after the warm affection herbert showed for his sister was remarked upon by all who knew them. while caroline had been staying with her grandmamma, the gardener had caught a young starling, which he had tamed, and seeing that the young lady was very fond of birds and beasts, he asked her if she would accept of the starling to take home with her. caroline, as may be supposed, was delighted with the offer, and thanking the gardener for his kindness, ran off to ask her grandmamma if she might be allowed to take it. of course it was a mere form, for she might have known her kind grandmamma would never say no to any request of the kind. only caroline was a polite little girl, and always asked her parents' permission first. she did not, when they considered it necessary to refuse any request she made, keep saying, "ah! you might, mamma," or, "but why, papa?" as i have heard many children do. no; she was certain the refusal came for some wise object, and she tried to bear the disappointment bravely. "oh, certainly, dear," said her grandmamma on this occasion; "you may have the bird, if you can manage to find time to take care of it; but i think you have too many pets already." "what a funny idea, grandma," said caroline. "i couldn't have too many pets. but i will tell you what i mean to do with it. i am going to take great care of it till herbert's birth-day, and then i am going to give it to him." "but you will have to look after it all the same," said her grandmamma, laughing; "for herbert will go to school immediately after his birth-day." "i shall like to do it, though, very much, grandma. i take care of his rabbits, and neptune, you know," said caroline; "and he said i had managed them beautifully." carry got the bird, it was taken home, and every day she hung the cage out of her bed-room window, and gave him a bit of nice sugar, and the starling became very tame. at night it was always taken into the housekeeper's room, and hung upon the wall there; and the good mrs. trigg was very kind to it, though a starling was by no means the cleanest bird that one could have. "you don't think tom will touch it?" said caroline, the first night the bird was there. tom was mrs. trigg's favourite tabby cat; and really, to look at him lying on the rug, winking and blinking before the fire, paying more attention to the kettle hissing and boiling away than to any bird, caroline could not help feeling a little ashamed of the question. [illustration: carry and the starling.] "oh, tom has got over all that kind of wild pranks, miss carry," said mrs. trigg. "he is wondering why i am delaying to infuse my tea, for tom likes his drop tea as well as his mistress." "then i must not detain you longer," said caroline, knowing that mrs. trigg did not like to be put past her tea-hour. "mamma says that, if convenient, we are to drink tea with you some night soon, and my cousins are quite anxious to be invited also." [illustration: tom at his ease.] "i would be a little nervous, miss, at entertaining such a large party," said mrs. trigg, but looking quite pleased nevertheless. "oh, you must ask us all," said caroline, laughing; "when shall i come to write the invitations for you? to-morrow night?" "well, miss, if you think you could be happy in my room, we will say to-morrow night." the invitations were duly sent out, mrs. trigg requesting the pleasure of their company on the next week; and each of the children received a separate note of invitation--and each, of course, had to reply, accepting the invitation, in the same manner. but on the very morning of the tea-party, when caroline rose from her bed a little earlier than usual--as she had promised to help mrs. trigg to prepare for the great event--and when she had dressed and gone down to the housekeeper's room, what was her horror to see tom, the tabby cat, on the top of the table, ready to spring upon the cage where the unfortunate bird was. she gave a terrible scream, which had the effect of scaring away the wicked cat; but the poor bird had evidently been so frightened at the glaring green eyes that tried to fascinate it and lure it to its ruin as a serpent does its prey, that it fell down to the bottom of its cage in a fit. "oh, my poor bird," cried caroline; "it's dead. oh, do come quick and help me." mrs. trigg was not far distant, and hearing the cries of distress, hastened to her room, crying, "what's the matter, miss carry? oh, have you hurt yourself?" "no, no," said caroline; "it's my bird. tom has killed the poor thing. oh, what am i to do?" [illustration: after prey.] the bird fluttered at this moment, and mrs. trigg took it out of the cage, and holding it before the fire, declared it was still alive, and might recover. everything was done for it that could be thought of to restore the poor bird, but all to no effect, for during luncheon it died. caroline was terribly grieved, and declared that the tea-party must be put off, for it was impossible she could join in any game after such a sad event. but then, when mrs. trigg mentioned that she had made a great many cakes, and that they would be quite spoiled even if allowed to stay till the next night, and also that she was going to be very busy preserving her fruit for the winter, caroline thought she must try to go to the party. "i needn't play, you know, mrs. trigg," she had said. "i can just sit and look on; for, of course, the others didn't know what a dear good bird my starling was." after tea, caroline curled herself up into mrs. trigg's chair, and sat watching the others while they played. pincher, maud's dog, who had come with them, was very troublesome, and would hunt after the slipper as eagerly as the boys did, poking his nose into their faces, and sometimes even licking their ears with his tongue; and as they had their hands tucked under them, they could not stop him. then, when herbert flung the slipper over to the other side, and harry made a grasp at it to get it out of sight before charlie could get round, pincher made a rush after it too, barking and yelping in his determination to catch this extraordinary rat or rabbit. "i tell you what it is," said herbert, "we must have pincher put out of the room." "oh, don't put him out," pleaded maud; "let us tie him up with his ribbons. perhaps, carry dear, you wouldn't mind holding him?" [illustration: pincher.] caroline was very happy to be of use, and held pincher very securely. the poor dog often looked up in her face as if to say, are you being punished too? and then, while still looking at her, made little springs and barked, as if to encourage her to rise in rebellion and escape from her persecutors. he was really so droll that caroline could not help laughing very heartily at him, and herbert and her cousins were so glad when they heard it, that they left off their game at once, and came over beside her. "i say, carry, do come and play," said charlie; "we can't feel happy without you." "it is very sad about the bird," said harry. "i know when my green parrakeets died on the voyage home from australia, i was so sorry that i actually went to bed. but i'll tell you what we shall do: herbert and charlie and i will catch another starling, and then you can tame him, and keep him out of tom's reach for the future. mrs. trigg says there are lots to be had in the steeple of the old church." it was not till next morning that harry discovered why caroline wanted to have the starling; and no sooner did he understand that she wanted it for a present for her brother, than he said in his prompt way, "will nothing else do? i tell you what, i saw a splendid thing that i am sure he will like quite as well. if aunt would only let us go to the town we could get it without him knowing." caroline gladly promised to ask her mamma's consent, but when she inquired what this wonderful thing was, harry only laughed and said, "no; i'll keep it secret till to-morrow. it is enough to ask a girl to keep one thing secret at a time. remember, if aunt consents, we must set out to-morrow before anybody is up." [illustration: the journey.] mrs. ashcroft having given her consent, harry and caroline set out the next morning, followed by neptune, who insisted upon accompanying them. "you had better take my arm, caroline," said harry; "and let me carry your basket, too. we have rather a long walk." at the town, harry went straight to a shop where they sold all sorts of animals both alive and stuffed, and when they had gone inside, harry pointed to a beautiful stuffed squirrel, and said, "that's the thing that will please herbert." [illustration: the squirrel.] though the squirrel was only stuffed, it looked so like a real live one, that caroline too was quite delighted with it, and said she would be so glad to have it, only she hadn't so much money of her own. "oh, never mind about money," said harry, "to tell you the truth, i meant to have bought it for you the other day when i was here with charlie. now, if you like to give it to herbert on his birth-day, why, there's nobody will find fault." accordingly the squirrel was bought, and carried home without any of the other children having seen it, and with harry's assistance it was safely hidden away till herbert's birth-day; and caroline ceased to mourn for the bird, though she was often sorry for its sad end. herbert's birth-day happened during the time their cousins were with them, and, as was the custom, they had a picnic to a ruined castle a few miles distant. the day was beautiful all throughout, and a happier company of children could not have been found than those that set out that morning along with mr. and mrs. ashcroft in the waggonette. the table-cloth was laid on the bright green turf before the castle, under the shade of a large sycamore, and when the ruins had been inspected they all sat down and enjoyed a hearty meal. then, while the girls gathered wild-flowers, the boys went off with mr. ashcroft on what charles called "an exploring expedition;" and on their return they climbed up the wild cherry-trees that grew in abundance in the neighbourhood, and shook down the ripe fruit upon the girls' heads, who managed to fill their baskets amidst much fun. after this, and while mrs. ashcroft rested, the children joined hands and danced round in a ring, as may be seen by turning over to the first picture in this book, which is called "the frontispiece." there had been much laughter before the ring could be formed so that each girl should be separated from her brother, and stand between two cousins; but once this was arranged, off they danced, round and round, till their feet could not dance any longer. they then flung themselves down where mrs. ashcroft was sitting, and had a quiet but happy hour's rest before going home. the day had passed so pleasantly as to be long remembered by them all; and herbert experienced during these holidays, for the first time in his life, that the truest pleasure consists, not in gratifying one's own wishes, but in trying to make others happy. working in the shade; or, lowly sowing brings glorious reaping by the reverend theodore p wilson ________________________________________________________________ when he wrote "frank oldfield" some ten years before this book, and won a literary prize with it, wilson showed that he was an author who could write a good story round a moral theme, and hold his readers' attention. this is just such a book. you could look at it as no more than a very hard-hitting sermon on the theme of selfishness, but it is well-written enough, with various episodes of selfishness leading to disaster, and unselfishness leading heavenwards. it is not a long book, and it will not take you long to read this book, or listen to it. it is well-written, and it will surely make a good impression upon you, and give you food for thought. nh ________________________________________________________________ working in the shade; or, lowly sowing brings glorious reaping by the reverend theodore p wilson chapter one. the new-comer. curiosity was on tiptoe in the small country-town of franchope and the neighbourhood when it was settled without a doubt that riverton park was to be occupied once more. park house, which was the name of the mansion belonging to the riverton estate, was a fine, old, substantial structure, which stood upon a rising ground, and looked out upon a richly undulating country, a considerable portion of which belonged to the property. the house was situated in the centre of an extensive park, whose groups and avenues of venerable trees made it plain that persons of consideration had long been holders of the estate. but for the last twenty years riverton park had been a mystery and a desolation. no one had occupied the house during that time, except an old man and his wife, who pottered about the place, and just contrived to keep the buildings from tumbling into ruin. the shutters were always closed, as though the mansion were in a state of chronic mourning for a race of proprietors now become extinct, except that now and then, in summer-time, a niggardly amount of fresh air and sunshine was allowed to find its way into the interior of the dwelling. as for the grounds and the park, they were _overlooked_ in more senses than one by a labourer and his sons, who lived in a hamlet called bridgepath, which was situated on the estate, about a mile from the house, in the rear, and contained some five hundred people. john willis and his sons were paid by somebody to look after the gardens and drives; and as they got their money regularly, and no one ever came to inspect their work, they just gave a turn at the old place now and then at odd times, and neither asked questions nor answered any, and allowed the grass and weeds to have their own way, till the whole domain became little better than an unsightly wilderness. everybody said it was a shame, but as no one had a right to interfere, the broad, white front of park house continued to look across the public road to franchope through its surroundings of noble trees, with a sort of pensive dignity, its walls being more or less discoloured and scarred, while creepers straggled across the windows, looking like so many wrinkles indicative of decrepitude and decay. but why did no one purchase it? simply because its present owner, who was abroad somewhere, had no intention of selling it. at last, however, a change had come. riverton park was to be tenanted again. but by whom? not by its former occupier; that was ascertained beyond doubt by those who had sufficient leisure and benevolence to find out other people's business for the gratification of the general public. it was not so clear who was to be the new-comer. some said a retired tradesman; others, a foreign princess; others, the proprietor of a private lunatic asylum. these and other rumours were afloat, but none of them came to an anchor. it was on a quiet summer's evening in july that mary stansfield was walking leisurely homeward along the highroad which passed through the riverton estate and skirted the park. miss stansfield was the orphan child of an officer who had perished, with his wife and other children, in the indian mutiny. she had been left behind in england, in the family of a maiden aunt, her father's sister, who lived on her own property, which was situated between the riverton estate and the town of franchope. she had inherited from her father a small independence, and from both parents the priceless legacy of a truly christian example, and the grace that rests on the child in answer to the prayers of faith and love. the world considered her position a highly-favoured one, for her aunt would no doubt leave her her fortune and estate when she died; for she had already as good as adopted her niece, from whom she received all the attention and watchful tenderness which she needed continually, by reason of age and manifold infirmities. but while our life has its outer convex side, which magnifies its advantages before the world, it has its inner concave side also, which reduces the outer circumstances of prosperity into littleness, when "the heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its joy." so it was with mary stansfield. she had a refined and luxurious home, and all her wants supplied. she was practically mistress of the household, and had many friends and acquaintances in the families of the neighbouring gentry, several of whom had country seats within easy walk or drive of her home. yet there was a heavy cross in her lot, and its edges were very sharp. in her aged aunt, with whom she lived, there were a harshness of character, and an inability to appreciate or sympathise with her niece, which would have made mary stansfield's life a burden to her had it not been for her high sense of duty, her patient charity, and god's abiding-grace in her heart. misunderstood, thwarted at every turn, her attentions misinterpreted, her gentle forbearance made the object of keen and relentless sarcasm or lofty reproof, her supposed failings and shortcomings exposed and commented upon with ruthless bitterness, while yet the tongue which wounded never transgressed the bounds imposed by politeness, but rather chose the blandest terms wherewith to stab the deepest,--hers was indeed a life whose daily strain taxed the unostentatious grace of patience to the utmost, and made her heart often waver, while yet the settled will never lost its foothold. how gladly, had she consulted self, would she have left her gilded prison and joined some congenial sister, as her own means would have permitted her to do, in work for god, where, after toiling abroad, she could come back to a humble home, in which her heart would be free, and generous love would answer love. but duty said "no," as she believed. the cold, hard woman who so cruelly repulsed her was her beloved father's only sister, and she had resolved that while her aunt claimed or desired her services no personal considerations should withdraw her from that house of restraint and humiliation. pondering the difficulties of her trying position, yet in no murmuring spirit, mary stansfield, on this quiet summer's evening, was just passing the boundary wall which separated riverton park from the adjoining property, when, to her surprise and partly amusement also, she noticed a venerable-looking old gentleman seated school-boy fashion on the top rail of a five-barred gate. the contrast between his patriarchal appearance and his attitude and position made her find it difficult to keep her countenance; so, turning her head away lest he should see the smile on her face, she was quickening her pace, when she became aware that he had jumped down from his elevated seat and was advancing towards her. "miss stansfield, i suppose?" he asked, as she hesitated for a moment in her walk, at the same time raising his hat respectfully. surprised at this salutation, but pleased with the voice and manner of the stranger, she stopped, and replied to his question in the affirmative, and was moving on, when he added,-- "i am a stranger to you at present, my dear young lady; but i hope not to be so long. i daresay you will guess that i am the new occupier of riverton park. i suppose i ought properly to wait for a formal introduction before making your acquaintance; but i have lived abroad in the colonies for some years past, and colonial life makes one disposed at times to set aside or disregard some of those social barriers which are, i know, necessary in the old country; so you must excuse an old man for introducing himself, and will permit him, i am sure, to accompany you as far as your aunt's lodge." there was something so frank, and at the same time so thoroughly courteous, about the old gentleman's address that miss stansfield could not be offended with him; while his age and bearing prevented her feeling that there was any impropriety in her permitting him to be her companion on the public road till she should reach the drive-gate leading up to her home. she therefore bowed her assent, and the two walked slowly forward. "you must know, miss stansfield," proceeded the stranger, "that i have both seen you before and have also heard a good deal about you, though we have never met till to-day.--ah, i know what you would say," he added, with a smile, as he noticed her look of extreme surprise and her blush of bewilderment. "you are thinking, what can i have heard about one who is leading such a commonplace, retired life as yours? i will tell you. i have been rather anxious to know what sort of neighbours i shall have round me here, so i have been getting a little reliable information on the subject--where from it matters not; and my informant has told me about an old lady whose estate adjoins riverton park, and who has a niece living with her who belongs to a class for which i have a special respect, and which i may call `workers in the shade.' do you understand me?" "perfectly," replied his companion; "only i feel utterly unworthy of being included in such a class." "of course you do. and just for this reason, because you're in the habit of burning candles instead of letting off fireworks; and so you think your humble candles aren't of much service because they don't go off with a rush and a fizz. is that it?" "perhaps it may be so," said the other, laughing. "well, do you remember what shakespeare says?" asked the old man. "`how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world.' "now, i want you kindly to answer me a question. it is this, are there any unselfish people in franchope or the neighbourhood?" the question was put so abruptly, and was so odd in itself, that mary stansfield looked in her companion's face with a half misgiving. he noticed it instantly. "you're a little doubtful as to the old gentleman's vanity?" he said, laughing; "but i'm quite sane and quite in earnest; and i repeat my question." "really," said the other, much amused, "it is a very difficult question to answer. i hope and believe that there are many unselfish persons in our neighbourhood, or it would be sad indeed." "ah! true," was his reply, "but hoping is one thing, and believing is another. now, i've been half over the world, and have come back to my own country with the settled conviction that selfishness is the great crying sin of our day; and it seems to me to have increased tenfold in my own native land since i last left it. so i should very much like to meet with a specimen or two of genuine unselfish people; for i have some important work to do here, and i shall stand in need of truly unselfish helpers. can you name me one or two?" "well, sir, if you mean by unselfish persons those who really work for god's glory and not their own, i freely admit that they are, and i suppose always must be, comparatively rare." "that is exactly what i _do_ mean, my dear young lady; can you help me to find a few such unselfish workers in your own rank of life, and of your own sex?" his companion was silent for a few moments, then she said slowly and timidly, "i judge, dear sir, from the tone of your questions that you are a follower of that saviour who has set us the only perfect example of unselfishness." "i trust so, my young friend," was the other's reply; "i wish at least to be so. well, i see we have only a few more steps to bring us to your aunt's lodge. we shall meet again, i have no doubt, before long; and perhaps when we do i shall have more to say to you on the same subject. farewell, and thank you." and with a courteous salutation he parted from her. chapter two. settling down. restoration and improvement went on vigorously at riverton park. the front of the house soon lost its careworn appearance; the walks laid aside their weeds, and shone with a lively surface of fresh gravel; the shutters ceased to exclude the daylight; while painters and paperers, masons and carpenters, decorators and upholsterers soon brought the interior of the dwelling into a becoming state of beauty, order, and comfort. and now the new proprietor was looked for with anxious expectation. his name had already got abroad, and all the gentry round were prepared to welcome colonel dawson when he should take possession of his newly acquired property. the colonel was an old retired officer, who had spent many years since leaving the army in one or more of the colonies. and now he was come home again, and intended to pass the rest of his days at riverton. this was all that report could confidently affirm at present. was he an old bachelor or married? and if the latter, was his wife still living, and was there any family? very conflicting rumours got abroad on this subject, but very little satisfaction came of them. all that could conclusively be gathered was that park house was to have a lady inhabitant as well as the colonel; but that only a portion of the house was to be fully furnished. the appearance of a coachman daily exercising two noble carriage-horses was also hailed as a sign that the colonel did not mean to lead an unsociable life. so franchope and its neighbourhood were content, and watched the arrivals at the station day by day with patient interest. at length, in the first week in august, it was observed that the colonel's carriage drew up at the railway office to meet the evening train from london. from a first-class carriage there emerged three persons--the colonel, an elderly lady, and a young man who might be some twenty years of age; a footman and a lady's-maid also made their appearance; and all drove off for riverton park. who could count the pairs of eyes that looked out from various windows in franchope as the carriage drove rapidly through the town? a glance, a flash, and the new-comers were gone. and now, in a few days, the whole household having twice occupied the family pews in the old parish church on the lord's day, the neighbouring gentry began to make their calls. the first to do so were lady willerly and her daughter. her ladyship had discovered that she was distantly connected with the colonel, and hastened to show her interest in him as speedily as possible. having cordially shaken hands with her and her daughter. colonel dawson turned to the lady and young man by his side and introduced them as, "my sister miss dawson; my nephew mr horace jackson." so the relationships were settled, and public curiosity set at rest. numerous other callers followed, and by all it was agreed that the family was a decided acquisition; a pity perhaps that there was not a mrs dawson and a few more young people to fill the roomy old house and add liveliness to the various parties and social gatherings among the gentry. a younger man than the colonel would undoubtedly have been more to the general taste, especially as it was soon found that the family at park house neither accepted nor gave dinner invitations, nor indeed invitations to any gatherings except quiet afternoon friendly meetings, where intercourse with a few neighbours could be enjoyed without mixing with the gaieties of the fashionable world. so good society shrugged its shoulders, and raised its eyebrows, and regretted that the colonel, who doubtless was a good man, should have taken up such strict and strange notions. however, people must please themselves; and so it came to pass that the family at riverton park was soon left pretty much to itself, just exchanging civil calls now and then with the principal neighbours, and being left out of the circle of fashionable intimacy. three families, however, kept up a closer acquaintance, which ripened, more or less, into friendship. about a mile and a half from the park, on the side that was farthest from franchope, lived mr arthur wilder, a gentleman of independent means, with a wife, a grown-up son, and three daughters. horace jackson was soon on the most intimate terms with young wilder, and with his sisters, who had the reputation of being the most earnest workers in all good and benevolent schemes, so that in them the clergyman of their parish had the benefit of three additional right hands; while their parents and brother gave time, money, and influence to many a good cause and useful institution. adjoining the riverton estate, in the direction of franchope, was, as has been already stated, the property of the elderly miss stansfield, whose niece, mary, has been introduced to our readers. the old lady was an early caller on the colonel's family, having made a special effort to rouse herself to pay the call, as she rarely left her own grounds. she at once took to colonel dawson; and, whether or no the liking was returned on his part, he frequently visited his infirm neighbour, and would spend many a quiet hour with her, to her great satisfaction. the old lady was one who wished to do good, and did it, but not graciously. so she had won respect and a good name among her dependants, but not love. the world called her selfish, but the world was wrong. she was self-absorbed, but not selfish in the ordinary sense of the term. she acted upon principle of the highest kind; her religion was a reality, but she had been used ever to have her own way, and could not brook thwarting or contradiction; while her ailments and infirmities had clustered her thoughts too much round herself, and had generated a bitterness in her manner and speech, which made the lot of her niece, who was her constant companion, a very trying one. to the north of riverton park was the estate of lady willerly. her ladyship was one of those impetuous characters who are never content unless they are taking castles by storm; she must use a hatchet where a penknife would answer equally well or better. she was a widow, and dwelt with her only child grace, a grown-up daughter, in her fine old family mansion, in the midst of her tenants and the poor, who lived in a state of chronic alarm lest she should be coming down upon them with some new and vigorous alteration or improvement. her daughter was in some respects like her mother, as full of energy, but with a little more discretion; bright as a sunbeam, and honest as the day; abounding also in good works. such were the three families who maintained an intimacy with colonel dawson, when the rest of the neighbouring gentry dropped off into ordinary acquaintances. chapter three. "the new school." when the family had occupied park house about four months, a great deal of curiosity and excitement was felt by the inhabitants of bridgepath, the little hamlet of five hundred persons in the rear of riverton park, in consequence of sundry cart-loads of bricks, stone, and lime being deposited on a field which was situated a few yards from the principal beer-shop. the colonel was going to build, it seemed,--but what? possibly a full-grown public-house. well, that would be a very questionable improvement. was it to be a school, or a reading-room? there was a school already, held in the parlour of the blacksmith's cottage, where a master attended on week-days, weather permitting, and imparted as much of the three r's as the children, whose parents thought it worth while to send them, could be induced to acquire under the pressure of a moderate amount of persuasion and an immoderate amount of castigation. the master came in a pony-cart from franchope, and returned in the same the moment the afternoon school broke up, so that his scholars had ample opportunity, when he was fairly gone, to settle any little disputes which might have arisen during school hours by vigorous fights on the open green, the combatants being usually encouraged to prolong their encounters to the utmost by the cheers of the men who gathered round them out of the neighbouring beer-shops. as for religious instruction, the master, it is true, made his scholars read a portion of the scriptures twice a week, and learn a few verses. but they would have been almost better without this; for the hard, matter-of-fact way in which he dealt with the holy book and its teachings would make the children rather hate than love their bible lesson. and what was done for the improvement, mental or spiritual, of the grown-up people? nothing. neither church nor chapel existed in the place. a few old and middle-aged people walked occasionally to the nearest place of worship, some two miles off; but nine-tenths of the villagers went nowhere on a sunday--that is to say, nowhere where they could hear anything to do them good, though they were ready enough to leave their homes on the sabbath to congregate where they could drink and game together, and sing profane and immoral songs. so bridgepath was rightly called "a lost place;" and indeed it had been "lost" for so many years, that there seemed scarcely the remotest prospect of its being "found" by any one disposed to do it good. however, even in this dark spot there was a corner from which there shone a little flickering light. john price and his family tenanted a tolerably roomy cottage at the entrance to the village, close to the horse-pond. the poor man had seen better days, having acted as steward to the young squire from the time he came into the property till he disappeared with his infant son and an old nurse who had lived for nearly two generations on the riverton estate. poor john had served the squire's father also as steward, and loved the young master as if he had been his own child; and it was known that, when ruin fell on the young man, the poor steward was dragged down also to poverty, having been somehow or other involved in his employer's ruin. but never did john price utter a word that would throw light on this subject to anyone outside his own family. all he would let people know was, that the squire had left him his cottage rent-free for his life,--which was, indeed, all that the master had to leave his faithful servant. the worthy man had struggled hard to keep himself and his family; but now he was bed-ridden, and had been so for some five or six years past. however, he had a patient wife, who made the most and best of a very little, and loving children, some of them in service, who helped him through. and he found a measure of peace in studying his old, well-worn bible, though he read it as yet but ignorantly. still, what light he had he strove to impart to those of the villagers who came to sit and condole with him; while his wife, and an unmarried daughter who lived at home, both deploring the wickedness of bridgepath, tried to throw in a word of scriptural truth now and then, for the sake of instructing and improving their heathenish neighbours. it may be well imagined, then, with what interest all the villagers, but especially the prices, including john himself, as he was propped up in bed and gazed through the casement, marked the numerous carts bringing building materials of all kinds to the village. all doubts on the subject, however, were soon brought to an end by a call from the colonel at john's house in the early part of november. after a few kind inquiries about his health and family, colonel dawson informed him that he was going to build at once a school and master's house in bridgepath, with a reading-room attached to it, and to place there a married man of thorough christian principles; one who would not only look after the ordinary teaching of the children, but would also, under the superintendence of the vicar, conduct a simple religious service on sundays for the instruction of the villagers. bridgepath had from time immemorial been under the special supervision of the proprietors of riverton park, the whole hamlet being a portion of the property. the parish to which it belonged was extensive, and the parish church some five miles distant, bridgepath being just on the borders of the next parish, in which parish the park itself was situated. so, in former days, the chaplain at the house used to look after the people of the hamlet in a good-natured sort of way, by taking food and clothing to the sick and destitute, and saying a kind word, and giving a little wholesome advice, where he thought they were needed. but being himself unhappily possessed of but little light, he was unable to impart much to others, and the spiritual destitution of poor bridgepath never seemed to occur to his mind at all. but now, for the last twenty years, neither squire nor chaplain had resided at riverton; so that a very occasional visit from the vicar--who had more on his hands nearer home than he could well accomplish, and who, with others, was living in constant expectation of some one coming to the property and bringing about a change--was all that had been done directly for the scriptural instruction and eternal welfare of the benighted inhabitants of bridgepath. now, however, a mighty change was coming, and the dwellers in the hamlet were supposed to be highly delighted, as a matter of course, with the prospect. and, certainly, the hearts of old john price and his wife and daughter did rejoice; but not so the hearts of most of the inhabitants, for they were thoroughly conscious that much of the goings on in their village would not bear looking into by those who feared god and respected human law. bridgepath had been now for a good many years a _privileged_ place in the eyes of poachers, gamblers, and sabbath- breakers, where the devil's active servants could hold their festivals, especially on the lord's day, without fear of interruption from policeman or preacher. and the women were as bad as the men; they "loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil." so the new school and reading-room arose amidst the sneers and loudly- expressed disgust of the majority of the population; the proprietors of the beer-shops being specially bitter in their denunciations of this uncalled-for innovation on the good old times and habits, so long the favoured lot of a primitive and unsophisticated people, who had been quite content when left to their own devices, and could do perfectly well without these new-fashioned schemes, if only good people would just let them alone. the good people, however, saw the matter in a different light; and so, spite of all the grumbling and outspoken dissatisfaction, the buildings were completed in the spring, and the new schoolmaster and his wife took up their abode in bridgepath. colonel dawson had chosen his man carefully, and duly warned him that he would find his post at first no bed of roses. to which the master replied that he was not afraid of encountering his share of thorns; and that he doubted not but that with prayer, patience, and perseverance, there would be both flowers and fruit in bridgepath in due time. as for opposition, he rather enjoyed a little of it, and trusted to be enabled to live it down. the colonel was satisfied, for he knew that he had chosen a man who had already proved himself to be no mere talker. so bridgepath looked on in sulky wonder; but soon was constrained to acknowledge that, in their new schoolmaster, the right man had been put into the right place. and now the colonel was very anxious to get the help of some earnest- hearted christian lady, who would visit the sick and needy in the neglected hamlet, carrying with her christ in her heart and on her lips; for his sister was too old to undertake such a work. his thoughts turned to mary stansfield. he would go and have a talk with the old lady her aunt about it. chapter four. what is unselfishness? colonel dawson took a deep interest both in miss stansfield and her niece. he understood them both, and pitied them both, but for very different reasons. he pitied the old lady because she was throwing away her own happiness and crippling her own usefulness. he pitied her because she was not what she might so easily have been; because she was storing up vinegar where she might have gathered honey; and was one of those of whom dr south says that "they tell the truth, but tell it with the tongue of a viper." he pitied mary stansfield, but with a pity mingled with profound respect and admiration. he pitied her that she should have to bear those daily raspings of the spirit which her aunt, half unconsciously, perpetually inflicted on her. and yet he could not altogether regret the discipline, when he marked how the trial was daily burnishing the fine gold of her character. still, he pitied both, and was a frequent visitor at morewood court, partly because he marked how few were the friends who cared to stay at the house, and, more still, because he hoped to be of use in lightening the burden of both aunt and niece. colonel dawson was one of those who love "working in the shade." not that he was ashamed or afraid of working in the light, but he was content to pursue the less attractive and less ornamental paths of usefulness, which few comparatively cared to follow. and so he had set himself resolutely and prayerfully to the task of rearranging the character of one who, he was persuaded, was capable and desirous of doing good and great things, could she only be got to hold herself at arm's-length from herself for a little while, and see herself in the glass of god's word, and as others saw her. he felt sure that there was good, practical sense enough in her mind, and grace enough in her heart, to make her yield to conviction when he should draw her on to see and acknowledge a better way; and then he knew that, when she should have been drawn out of the old self into a better self, she would duly appreciate and love her long-suffering niece. but he was well aware that the old self would not surrender its throne without a severe struggle, and he was therefore not surprised to find the old lady's bitterness rather increase than diminish as through their conversations she was learning to become more and more dissatisfied with herself. her poor niece had to bear in consequence the burden of an increased irritability in her aunt's addresses to her. but she was greatly cheered when the colonel took an opportunity of seeing her alone, and assuring her that, spite of appearances to the contrary, the clouds were beginning to break, and that light and peace would shortly follow. it was now the month of june; the school and reading-room at bridgepath had got fairly established; the growlers and grumblers had nearly all of them subsided; and many long-benighted souls were receiving light with gladness. "pray excuse my calling so early," said the colonel, as he took his seat beside the elder miss stansfield, on a bright sunny morning. the drawing-room window was open, and the ladies were seated on either side of it--the aunt half reclining on an easy-chair, the other occupying a low stool, with the open bible from which she had been reading aloud on her lap. miss stansfield received her visitor very cordially, but it was plain that the reading of the holy book had not imparted any sunshine to her spirit, and there were traces of recent tears in her niece's eyes. the colonel saw this, but made no remark on it. for a few moments he gazed on the lovely garden, visible through the open window, without speaking; then he said abruptly, "i was thinking how selfish we naturally are; those beautiful flowers reminded me of it, and seemed to reproach me. god gives us such a profusion of colour, and harmonises it so marvellously to delight us; and yet how ready we are to pick out, as it were, the sombrest tints in his dealings with us, and to keep our eyes fixed on them." miss stansfield coloured slightly, and then said, after a pause, during which her niece did not look up, but nervously moved the leaves of her bible, "yes, i quite agree with you, colonel dawson; there is abundance of selfishness in our days, especially among young people. they seem to think of nothing but having their own way, and seldom condescend to admit that those who have been brought up in less enlightened days can have gained any wisdom by experience." "ah! i dare say," replied the other; "i've no doubt that young people, many of them at least, have a large share of this very unlovable quality. perhaps we have all of us more of it than we should like to admit to ourselves. but now, to tell the truth, i am on the look-out for one or two unselfish people;--can either of you, my dear friends, help me to find them?" "i think you will search in vain in _this_ neighbourhood," said the old lady dryly. "nay, my dear miss stansfield, are you not a little uncharitable? surely you can point me to some who love doing good, and forget themselves in doing it." "i can say `yes' to the first but not to the last part of your question," was the reply. "there are plenty who love doing good, according to the popular estimate of goodness; but they love still more to be known and praised as the doer of it." "well," rejoined her visitor, "granting this in a measure, i should still like to know of some of these popular good-doers. we must make considerable allowance for human frailty. perhaps i shall be able to pick out a real jewel, where you have believed them to be only coloured glass and tinsel." "i fear not, colonel dawson. however, i will mention a few of what i believe to be but counterfeit gems. there are the wilders, for instance. those girls are always doing good, and their brother too. you have only to look into the local papers to see what a broad stream of good works is perpetually flowing from that family. what with ecclesiastical decorations, sunday-school and day-school _fetes_, dancing at charity balls, managing coal and clothing clubs, and a hundred other things in which the world and the church get their alternate share pretty evenly, that family is a perfect pattern of good deeds for everybody to look at,--like the children's samplers, which their mothers point to with so much pride, as they hang up framed in their cottages." the colonel looked grave, and said, "then you do not consider that there are likely to be any unselfish workers in the wilder family?" "you had better ask my niece, colonel. she will give you an unprejudiced opinion." the other looked towards the younger lady, and said, "i am asking now in confidence, and with an object, not from mere idle curiosity, far less from any wish to pick holes in the characters and conduct of any of my neighbours. so, miss mary, kindly give me your opinion." thus appealed to, the younger lady replied, but evidently with much reluctance, "i fear that my aunt is right in her judgment of the wilders. i dare not recommend them to you as likely to prove, in the truest sense, unselfish workers. they are very kind and good-natured, and no one can help liking them; but--" and she hesitated. "i understand you," said the colonel; "they would not come up to my standard, you think?" "i fear not; but then i should be sorry to judge them harshly, only you asked my honest opinion." "oh, speak out, my dear, speak out," said her aunt; "they are but afflicted with the epidemic which has attacked all ranks in our day. thus, where will you find a really unselfish servant nowadays? the old- fashioned domestics who would live a generation in a family, mourn over an accidental breakage committed once in a quarter of a century, and count their employer's interest as their own, are creatures entirely of the past. and as with maid and man, so with mistress and master, old or young. `what am i to get as an equivalent if i do this or that?' seems the prevailing thought now with workers of every kind." "ah yes," said the colonel thoughtfully, "there is too much truth in what you say; only, in the darkest night we may detect a few stars, and some very bright ones too, if we will only look for them. and i am looking for stars now, but i shall be quite content to get one or two of the second or third magnitude." "i'm afraid you'll hardly be able to find any in this neighbourhood, for the clouds," said the old lady, with a smile, in which the bitter prevailed over the sweet. "nay, nay, my dear friend," cried the colonel cheerily, "don't let us talk about clouds this lovely june morning. i fear, however, that i must not look for what i want among the wilders. i can readily understand that they might be unwilling to work in the shade, where there would be nothing to repay them except the smile of him who will not let even the cup of cold water rightly given go unrewarded. what do you say to lady willerly's daughter? i have heard great things of her. they tell me she is one of the most unselfish creatures under the sun." "ay," said the old lady dryly, "when the sun shines on her; but you want workers in the shade. grace willerly will not do for that." "you think not? well, let me tell you what i have heard of her. those who know her well say that she never seems so happy as when she is doing good and making others happy. her mother calls her `my sunbeam.' she seems to take a pleasure in thwarting herself in order to gratify others. if she wants to go out for a walk, and some tiresome visitor comes in, she will laugh, and say, `i was just wanting some one to come and keep me in, for i dare say i should have caught cold if i had gone out just now.' or it may be quite the other way. she is just sitting down to draw or play, and some one calls and asks her to take a walk, and she at once leaves her occupation, jumps up, and says, `ah, how nice this is! i ought to take exercise, but felt disinclined; and you've come at the very right time, to entice me out.' in fact, her greatest pleasure seems to be to cross her own will and inclinations, that she may do what will give pleasure to others. such is the picture that intimate friends have drawn of her; and certainly it is a very charming one. what say you to it, miss mary?" "it is very beautiful, colonel dawson--" and she hesitated. "ah, then, too highly coloured, i suppose you would say. give me your candid opinion." "it is very difficult to say what i feel," replied mary stansfield, "without seeming to lay myself open to the charge of censoriousness or captiousness; and yet i cannot help seeing a shade of unreality, and even insincerity, on that bright and beautiful character,--that it wants, in fact, one essential element of genuine unselfishness." "of course it does," broke in the elder lady; "you mean that it is not free from self-consciousness and, more or less, of parade." "i fear so, dear aunt. i cannot help thinking that, as some one has said of faith, so it may be said of true unselfishness, that `it is colourless like water,'--it makes no show nor assertion of itself. but dear grace willerly is a sterling character for all that." "so then," said the colonel, after a pause, "i must give up in despair, must i? no, that will never do. now, i am wanting a quiet worker in the shade for poor bridgepath,--some young lady friend who has a little leisure time, and will go now and then and read in the cottages there the word of god, and give some loving counsel to those who need it so much. i have the good vicar's full consent and approbation; he will gladly welcome any such helper as i may find for the post. it will be a true labour of love; and, without any more words i am come to ask miss stansfield if she will spare her niece for the good work, and miss mary if she will be willing to undertake it." the reply of the two ladies, who were equally taken by surprise, was in each case made in a single word, and that word very characteristic. "impossible!" cried the old lady. "me!" exclaimed the younger one. "nay, not impossible, dear friend," said the colonel gently. "i want this service of love only once a week for an hour or two, and i am sure you can spare my young friend for that time.--and as for yourself, miss mary, i believe, from what i have seen of you, that you are just fitted for the work; and i am sure that you are too sincere to excuse yourself on the ground of an unfitness which you do not really feel." "and what am i to do?" asked the old lady bitterly. "exercise a little of this true unselfishness, dear friend. you see there are many ways in which you too can show true unselfishness in the cause of that master whom i know you truly love, though he has laid you aside from much active work for him." miss stansfield did not answer for a time; she looked pained, but the bitterness had passed away from her countenance. evading an immediate reply, she said, "i don't understand these many ways in which i can show unselfishness, colonel dawson." "do you not? may i mention some?" "yes, do," she replied earnestly. "well, bear with me then, while i make one or two suggestions which our late conversations have been leading up to. i will imagine myself in your place, and looking out to see where i may best put the stamp of the cross on my life. i am wishing to do good, i am trying to do good: but may it not be that my benevolence is sometimes rendered so ungraciously that it gives more pain than pleasure to those who receive it? ah, then, i will put the stamp of the cross here. i will try, not only to do good, but to do it graciously. perhaps, again, i am looking upon suffering and natural infirmity of temper as an excuse for harshness and hard judgment, and not as a call to exercise charity, patience, and forbearance. then let me put the stamp of the cross here also. or, once more, perhaps i am in the habit of looking for the weeds rather than the flowers, for the shadows rather than the sunshine, in my lot. well, then, here again i may place the stamp of the cross, by exercising quiet, unostentatious self-denial and unselfishness before the loving eyes of him who has made us for himself, and redeemed us that we might in all things glorify him. might i not thus, dear friend, exhibit true unselfishness, and at the same time brighten my own heart, and also the hearts of others?" no one spoke for a few moments, but the old lady bowed her head upon her hands and wept silently. then she stretched out a hand to the colonel, without raising her head, and said in a half-stifled whisper, "thank you, thank you, faithful friend. mary shall undertake the post if she will." ah yes! light had shone into that clouded spirit; the shadows were passing away. mary stansfield knelt her down by the old lady's side, and in one loving, tearful embrace, such as they had never known before, the icy barrier that had so long chilled that young and loving heart was melted, and there was peace. the colonel was more than satisfied. he knew, as he quietly stole out of the room without a further word, that he had been privileged to gain that morning two like-minded workers in the shade, instead of one. chapter five. the stamp of the cross. a few days after colonel dawson's happy interview with miss stansfield and her niece, a _fete_ was given by the wilders at their residence, holly house, partly for the entertainment of the children who belonged to the sunday-school classes taught by the misses wilder, and partly also as a means of gathering together as many neighbouring friends and acquaintances as might be at leisure to come. colonel dawson and his nephew had received a pressing invitation; and also lady willerly and her daughter, though the latter was hardly expected, as it was known how many engagements she had to tie her at home. the invitation, however, decided grace willerly to write at once and say that, although she had a very pressing engagement, she would arrange to put it off, as she felt that a good game of play with the dear children on the lawn at holly house would be just the very thing she wanted to do her good and freshen her up. so a large party assembled on the day appointed, and among them the colonel and his nephew--the former because he wished to keep on friendly terms with his neighbours, though he anticipated but little pleasure from this particular gathering. besides this, he was a little anxious to see to what extent the intimacy between the young wilders and his nephew had gone; for he had something of a misgiving that the young man might be getting entangled in the attractions of one of the young ladies, and this was the last thing he would have desired for him. as for horace jackson himself, his impression concerning the younger members of the wilder family was that they were decidedly "jolly." he had not yet consciously arrived at a warmer stage of feeling in regard to any one of them, and his estimate was tolerably correct. somebody had characterised the young ladies of holly house as "dashing girls," and such they certainly were. the eldest was now about one and twenty, a fine _manly_ young woman, with a loud voice, and very demonstrative manners, who seemed inclined to do good in the spirit of a prize-fighter, by attacking the evils which she sought to remedy with a masculine vigour, such as would drive them in terror off the field. the second daughter, clara, was of a rather less commanding appearance than her elder sister, but dressed and talked pretty much in the same fashion. the third, millicent, would naturally have been quiet and retiring, but had constrained herself to imitate her sisters. she had, however, only so far succeeded as to acquire an abrupt and off-hand style of speaking, which was calculated to shut up old-fashioned people, who had been brought up under the impression that young ladies should belong to the feminine gender. indeed, when the three misses wilder were met on the public road in their walking attire, with natty little hats on their heads, ulsters down to their feet, turn-down collars round their necks, and riding- whips or walking-sticks in their hands, it would have been very difficult for an unpractised observer to determine to what particular sex they belonged. their brother was proud of his sisters, and matched them admirably. he was a kind-hearted, outspoken, generous young man, up to anything, from a midnight spree to a special religious service; hating everything like cant as decidedly "low," and going in for sincerity, truth, and free- thought. moreover, he spent his money, or, more strictly speaking, his father's money as well as his own, on horses, dogs, and guns, and left sundry little bills to stand over till the poor creditors had lost both hope and patience. it was now four o'clock, and the children were assembling for tea, after a series of games, in which they had been joined by grace willerly with an unflagging energy, and been occasionally encouraged by a kind word from mr and mrs wilder and their daughters. "what a charming sight, isn't it?" said mrs wilder to colonel dawson, as they strolled up to the tea-tables, which had been set out under the shade of some huge elms. "how happy the dear children seem!" "yes," replied her guest; "it is indeed a pleasant sight, and i am sure we may well learn a lesson of contentment with simple pleasures from the hearty enjoyment of these young ones. what a pity that the world and its attractions should ever get a place in the hearts of these or of any of us, since god has made us for purer and higher things!" "ah! very true, colonel;--but won't you come into the house? i see our friends are gathering in the drawing-room. we shall find tea there; and clara and millicent, with grace willerly, will see that their little friends want for nothing. oh! here is your nephew.--pray, mr jackson, come in with us; i am sure you will be glad of a little refreshment." so the elder guests assembled in the drawing-room, and got through an hour of miscellaneous gossip very creditably; at the end of which all adjourned to the garden again, and strolled about in twos and threes till the school children were dismissed and it was time for the visitors to take their leave. "what a relief!" exclaimed the colonel to his nephew, as they trotted on side by side on their ride homewards. "well, it was dull work, uncle, i allow," said the young man, laughing. "but these gatherings are, i suppose, useful and necessary, if people are to keep up friendly acquaintance with one another, and do what is civil and neighbourly." "yes, perhaps so," replied his uncle; "but such an afternoon is little better than bondage and lost time--at any rate to a man of my colonial habits. however, it has given me an opportunity of seeing more of the young ladies at holly house." "and i am afraid, uncle, that you do not find them improve upon acquaintance." "just so, horace; they don't suit my taste at all." "and yet, dear uncle, with all their dash, and _brusquerie_, and fastness, they really are most kind-hearted and unselfish girls." "kind-hearted, i allow, but i doubt their unselfishness." "but why, uncle? what would you have more? they certainly don't spare themselves. they are here, there, and everywhere, when any good is to be done, and think nothing of spending any amount of time and money in making other people happy." "true, horace, but there is a pleasurable excitement in all this which more than overbalances any trouble it may cost, especially when the world's applause for their good deeds is thrown into the same scale." "but," remonstrated the young man, in rather a disturbed and anxious tone, "is not this dealing them a little hard measure? where shall we find anything that will deserve the name of unselfishness, if we weigh people's actions too rigorously?" "ah! you think me severe and uncharitable, horace. but now, it just comes to this. what do the misses wilder and their brother (for i suppose we must take him into consideration too), really forsake or give up in order to do good? i don't pretend to know the private affairs of the family generally, but certainly there are strong rumours afloat that the maxim, `be just before you are generous,' is not acted upon by the young people in their money concerns. i allowed just now that they are good-natured, but good-nature is a very different thing from unselfishness. what personal gratification do they surrender in order to do good? what worldly pleasure or amusement do they deny themselves? what extravagance do they curtail?" "i can't say much for them in that respect, certainly," replied the young man thoughtfully; "indeed, i must frankly confess that i have heard more than once from the eldest miss wilder the expression of her hope and conviction that the united good deeds of the family would be accepted, by the world at any rate, as a sort of atonement for follies and excesses which clearly could not be justified in themselves." "i can well believe it, my dear nephew: but i have something much weightier to say on the subject, and it is this. there is manifestly one great want in all the doings of these kind-hearted people at holly house, which would make me at once deny the character of unselfishness to their best deeds." "and what is that, dear uncle?" "the stamp of the cross, horace. i know that there are plenty of crosses about them,--crosses on their prayer-books, crosses round their necks, crosses on their writing-cases and on their furniture; but _the_ cross is wanting. in a word, they are not denying self, and seeking to do good to others from love to that saviour who gave up so much for them. i know that they are not without religion in the eyes of the world; but i cannot, i dare not believe that they are really actuated by love to the great master in what they may do to make others happy. am i wrong, horace?" "no, uncle, i cannot say that you are. much as i like the girls on many accounts, i should not be speaking my honest sentiments were i to say that i believed them to be doing good to others from real christian motives. and yet--" "ah, my dear nephew, i know what you would say. i know that the world would embrace such as these within its elastic band as among genuine unselfish workers, though avowedly on a lower level than that adopted by the true christian. but, after all, can god, the searcher of hearts, approve of anything as being truly unselfish which does not bear the stamp of the cross? and can anything of which he does not approve be a reality?" "i suppose not," said the other reluctantly. "still, it is difficult not to be dazzled by what looks like a reflection from the true light; and difficult, too, to detect a sham where we are willing to see a reality." "very difficult," replied colonel dawson: "and yet the world abounds in shams, and cant, and hypocrisy. the world commonly lays these things at the door of religious professors; but the truth all the while is that the sham, and the cant, and the hypocrisy are really in those who take or gain credit for a character--unselfishness, for example--which is only to be found in true christians, and hold themselves back from that genuine devotion, and self-sacrifice, and coming out to christ, without which their boasted and lauded excellences are nothing better than a delusion and an empty name." the young man did not reply, and the subject was dropped for the remainder of the ride home. chapter six. duty. mary stansfield and grace willerly were sitting together, about three weeks after the above conversation, in an arbour in the garden attached to lady willerly's house. miss stansfield had come to spend a day or two by special invitation, by way of getting a little change, which she much needed; her aunt having spared her without a murmur, and having accepted the services of a former domestic in her place. "how very kind of your aunt to spare you!" said grace to her friend; "i hardly expected it, knowing how much she depends upon you." "oh yes!" was the reply: "you cannot tell, dear grace, what a wonderful change has come over my dear aunt. and it is all owing, under god, to the loving faithfulness of our kind friend colonel dawson. i scarcely ever get a harsh word or a hard look now; and when i do, my aunt at once calls me to her, and asks me to forgive her. oh, is it not wonderful? i am sure i blush with shame to think how little i deserve it." "yes, it is very wonderful, dear mary. certainly our new neighbour is a most earnest and useful man; and he has shown his discernment, too, in getting hold of yourself to work for him in bridgepath. but i am afraid you will find it very up-hill work; you'll want the strength of a horse, the patience of job, and the zeal of an apostle in such a place as that." "certainly, i shall want the grace of an apostle," said the other quietly; "but the work is very delightful, and is more than repaying me already for any little trouble or self-denial it may cost me." "it is very good of you to say so, mary; i am afraid the work wouldn't suit me. i don't mind making sacrifices--indeed, i think i can truly say it is one of my chief pleasures to make them; but there must be something very depressing in the jog-trot sort of work you are called on to do. i don't mind anything, so long as it has a little bit of dash in it; but i am afraid i should soon grow weary of a regular grind like yours." "oh, but you are quite mistaken about my work at bridgepath," said the other, laughing. "there is nothing dull or monotonous about it; and it is such a happiness to see the light of god's truth beginning to dawn on dark and troubled hearts. and there is one particularly interesting family--i mean john price's. you have heard, i dare say, that he was steward to the squire, and that he lost almost everything by his poor master's extravagance. poor man, he is bed-ridden now, and i fear had little comfort even from his bible, for he seemed to have learned little from it but patience. but, oh! how he has brightened up, and his wife and daughter, too, now that they have been led to see that it is their privilege to work and suffer _from_ salvation instead of _for_ salvation." "i don't understand you," interrupted miss willerly. "don't you? oh, it makes all the difference. poor john price has been reading his bible, and bearing his troubles patiently, in the hope that at the end he may be accepted and saved through his saviour's merits. that is what i mean by working _for_ salvation." "and what else, dear mary, would you have him do?" "o grace! this is poor work indeed, working in view of a merely possible salvation. no! what he has learned now is to see that his saviour, in whom he humbly and truly believes, has given him a present salvation; so that he, and his wife and daughter too, can now say, `we love him, because he first loved us.' and so they work and suffer cheerfully, and even thankfully, from love to that saviour who has already received them as his own. this is what i mean by working _from_ salvation. surely we shall work more heartily for one of whom we know that he _has_ saved us, than for one of whom we know only that he has saved others, and may perhaps save us also in the end." "i see what you mean, dear mary, but i never saw it so before. such a view of god's love to us personally must take the selfishness out of our good works, because what we do will be done just simply from love to christ. it is a beautiful way of looking at god's dealings with us." "yes, grace; and as true and scriptural as it is beautiful. it is just what god sees that we need, and furnishes us with the most constraining motive to serve him, and to deny self in his service." "i see it," said miss willerly sadly and thoughtfully, after a pause. "i very much fear, dear mary, that i have been greatly deceiving myself. i have been just simply building up a monument to my own honour and glory out of my heap of little daily crosses." "nay, dear grace, you are dealing too severely with yourself." "no, i think not. at any rate, i am sadly aware that not the love of christ, but the love of human applause, has been the constraining motive in my acts of self-denial. i have made such a parade of my willingness to thwart my own will that i might please others, so that while i should have been startled to see a full-grown trumpeter at my side proclaiming my unselfishness, i have all the while been keeping in my service a little dwarf page, who has been sounding out my praises on his shrill whistle." "you judge yourself hardly, dear grace; and yet, no doubt, self does enter largely even into our unselfishness. i am sure i have felt it, oh, how deeply! and specially just lately, since i have undertaken this work at bridgepath." "you, dear mary!" "yes, indeed. and i see now how wisely our heavenly father ordered his discipline in my case. there was indeed a `needs-be' in my dear aunt's former harshness and irritability to me; but for that, and for her disparaging remarks on my conduct, i might have been more self-seeking than i am. but the discipline has been changed now, and i trust that the chastisement has not been wholly in vain. what we all want, i am sure, if we are to be true workers for god, is to lift our eyes from self, and keep them steadily fixed on him who has done so much for us." "i am sure you are right," said the other. "i know i wish to do right, and i feel a pleasure in crossing my own inclination when it will gratify others; but then my inmost look has been to the world and its approbation. `what will people say? what will people think?' or, at any rate, `what will good people say and think?' this has been the prominent thought in my heart, i fear." "well, dear grace, i suppose this is so, more or less, with us all. what we want, i think, and comparatively seldom find in these showy and surface days, is a high sense of duty, so that we just act as duty calls, let the world, or good people even, judge of us or speak of us as they please." "and yet, dear mary, i think i see a little crevice through which self may creep in even there. i have met some of your `duty' people who have flung themselves so violently against the prejudices of society, or, at any rate, of good people, crying out all the time, `duty, duty! it don't matter to us what the world thinks,' that they have given great offence where they might have avoided giving any, and have set up people's backs against what is good and true." "i dare say you have met such, dear grace, and i think you may be talking to one of the class now," said miss stansfield, laughing; "at least, my character and principles would naturally lead me in that direction, for, of course, we are all disposed to carry out our own views to an extreme, if we do not let common sense, enlightened by grace, preserve a proper balance. but, spite of this, i still feel that a high sense of duty in those who love our saviour is the surest preservative against being carried away by a subtle selfishness, and is the making of the finest and most truly self-denying characters. if i am manifestly in the path of duty, what matters it what is said of me, or who says it? i may then go forward, not, indeed, arrogantly or defiantly--that would be unlike the great master--but yet firmly and confidently, and god will set me right with the world and with his people in his own good time." "ah! i believe you are right," said her friend, with a sigh. "i wish there were more of such true unselfishness amongst us; i wish i were such a character myself." "and so you are, dear grace, in the main. no one can possibly doubt your genuineness and sincerity. you have only just to step up on to the higher platform, and, as your heart's gaze becomes more fixed on a saviour known and loved, you will cease to think about how your self- denial looks in the eyes of others, and will feel the cross which you carry after christ in the path of duty to be easy and his burden light." "i shall not forget our conversation on this subject," said miss willerly with tears in her eyes. "i always thought that i hated selfishness, but now i see that i have been blinded to my own. i suppose it is very difficult for us to see it in ourselves as it really is, especially in these days when there are so many attractive forms of self-denial. it occurred to me the other day what an odd thing it would be to see how a number of utterly selfish people would get on if thrown together for some weeks, with not a single unselfish person amongst them, and unable to get rid of one another's company. i feel sure the result would teach an admirable lesson on the misery of a thoroughly selfish disposition." "i think so too, grace," said her companion, much amused. "what do you say to putting a story or allegory together on the subject." "capital!" cried miss willerly; "it will be something quite in my line i will set about it at once. i shall be able to give myself some very seasonable raps on the knuckles as i go on, and perhaps i may be of use to some of my acquaintance, who might be induced to look through my performance in a friendly way." "you must let me be the first to see it," said her friend. "oh, certainly; and you must give me your free and candid criticisms." "yes, i will do so; and i don't doubt i shall find profit in the reading of it, and a little bit of myself in more than one of your characters." a fortnight after this conversation miss stansfield received from her friend the promised story, which we give in the following chapter. chapter seven. the selfish islands. a certain eastern despot, whose attention had been painfully drawn to the odious character of selfishness, by finding it exhibited in a very marked manner towards himself by some who had, in looking after their own interests, ventured to thwart the royal will, was resolved to get rid of all the most selfish people out of his capital. to that end he made proclamation that on a certain day he would give a grand banquet to all the _un_selfish people in the metropolis, nothing being needed for admittance to the feast but the personal application of any one laying claim to unselfishness to the lord chancellor for a ticket. the king took this course under the firm conviction that all the most selfish people, being utterly blinded by self-esteem to their own failing, would be the very persons most ready to claim admittance to the banquet; and in this expectation he was not disappointed. but he was a little staggered to find that about a thousand persons, of both sexes and of nearly all ages, applied at the office for tickets of admission and many of them such as had not made their appearance in public for many long years past. thus, when the feast-day came, bed-ridden men and women arrived at the palace dressed out in silks and satins; gouty men hobbled in without their crutches; and multitudes who had long been incapacitated from doing anything but try the patience of their friends and indulge their own whims, made no difficulty of appearing among the guests. and it was strange, too, to see at the king's table delicate ladies and chronic invalids, who were never met with at places of worship or benevolent meetings, because the cold or the heat, or their nerves or their lungs made it a duty for them to be keepers at home. there were also present about two hundred spoilt children, whose mothers considered them to be "dear unselfish little darlings," and about an equal number of young ladies and young gentlemen, whose chief delight had consisted in spending their fathers' money, and studying their own sweet persons in the looking-glass. of course, the company behaved with due decorum at the banquet, especially as the king did them the honour of sitting down to table with them, the only exception being on the part of the spoilt children, whom not even the presence of royalty itself could restrain from personal encounters over the more attractive-looking dishes. the banquet over, the king rose and thus addressed his astonished guests:-- "i have ascertained from my lord chancellor, whose secretary took down the names and addresses of you all when you applied for your tickets, that he has made careful inquiry into your several characters, and finds that you all belong to a class of persons who greatly trouble our city. you have accepted my invitation professedly as unselfish people, but your estimate of yourselves is the very reverse of that which is held by those who know you best. i have therefore resolved, for the good of the community generally, to transport the whole of you, for a period of six months, to the uninhabited island of comoro, situate in the midst of the great lake, where you will find ample means for living in health, peace, and comfort, provided you are all and each willing to lay aside your selfishness, and to find your happiness in living for the good of others. and i trust that at the end of the six months, when steamers shall call for you at comoro, you may all be spared to return to your homes improved in character, more useful members of society, and more fitted to contribute to the real prosperity of this kingdom." without waiting for a reply, which was not indeed attempted by any of the guests--for they remained for some moments speechless with amazement--the king retired from the banqueting hall; and the lord chancellor, motioning with his hand for attention, proceeded to state that each of the guests would be expected to be at the station on a day and at an hour specified on a ticket which each would receive; and that every one would be allowed to take with him or her a reasonable but limited amount of personal luggage, but no furniture or heavy and bulky articles. steamers would be in readiness, at the lakeside terminus, to convey the passengers and their goods to the island; and, as no one would be permitted to decline the journey--for all knew that the king's will was law--the guests would best consult their own interests and comfort by preparing for the removal with as little delay as possible. having made this statement, the lord chancellor withdrew, leaving the company staring one at another in blank dismay. what was to be done? nothing but to make the best of it; as for resistance, all knew that it would be useless, and remonstrance equally so. even the infirm and sickly could hope for no exemption; for as their maladies had not hindered their attendance at the banquet, these could not be now admitted as a plea for excusing them from the removal. many, indeed, of the young people were highly delighted with the prospect before them, especially the children, who were anxious to be off for comoro there and then. as for their elders, they retired from the palace with varied feelings; some indignant, some conscience-stricken, and most prepared to lay the blame on some one or more of their neighbours. indeed, two old gentlemen, who had been lodgers on different floors in the same house for years, but, in consequence of an old quarrel, had never spoken to one another for the greater part of that time, now blocked up one of the exits from the palace, as they stood face to face, furiously charging each other with being the guilty cause of the terrible calamity which had now fallen on themselves and on so many of their fellow-citizens. and now the day of departure had arrived, and the trains for the lake were duly filled with passengers; not, however, till many heartrending scenes had occurred in connection with the luggage. two young ladies, bosom friends, having hired a van to convey their joint wardrobe and other ornamental effects to the station, were informed, to their tearful despair, that only about one-tenth of the goods could be conveyed to the island. similarly, three or four fast young men entered the train in a state of desperation bordering on collapse, because the officials had peremptorily turned back a stud of hunters and half-a-dozen sporting dogs. but the most exciting scene of all occurred in the case of an old maiden lady, who, having brought a cart-load of personal necessaries and comforts, which were positively essential to her continued existence, and having been firmly refused the transmission of the greater part of them, declared with the utmost positiveness that the lord chancellor had himself expressly informed all the guests at the banquet that each was at liberty to take an unlimited quantity of goods; nor could any explanation convince her of her mistake. let them say what they pleased, she had heard the word _un_limited with her own ears: and hearing was believing. the last case which caused any serious difficulty, and which really excited the pity of the porters, was that of an elderly gentleman unfortunate enough to be troubled with a liver, who changed various colours when informed that he must leave behind him an iron-bound box containing some four or five hundredweight of patent and other medicines. at length, all the trains having reached the lakeside terminus, the entire party of temporary exiles were duly and speedily conveyed in steamers to the island of comoro, where they were put on shore with their goods. the climate of the island was delightful, and subject to but few variations, so that nothing was to be feared by the new-comers from inclemency of weather. care had been also taken by the lord chancellor, to whom the carrying out of the details had been committed, that a sufficient number of tents should be ready for the use of those who chose to avail themselves of them, while building materials and tools had been duly provided, as well as an ample store of provisions. when the last steamer had discharged its passengers and cargo, proclamation was made by a herald that a commissioner from the king would visit comoro once a month, to hear any complaints and record any misconduct; and that those who should be found guilty of any grave offence would receive condign punishment at the close of the term of banishment. the community was then left to follow its own devices. and what would these be? of course the obvious thing was for each to look after "number one;" but he soon became painfully conscious that he could not do this without the help of "number two," and that to obtain this help he must be willing to do his own part. one gentleman, indeed, apparently entirely unconscious of any other duty than that of taking care of himself, set to work at once to make himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit. having selected the most roomy and convenient tent he could find, he removed his most easily portable possessions into it, and proceeded to regale himself on some cold provisions which he had brought with him. after these were finished, he rang violently several times a hand-bell which he had brought with him, expecting that his valet would at once answer the summons; but he soon found that he could not calculate on his servant's attendance in comoro. it was true that the man had come on the same steamer as his master, having been one of the guests at the royal banquet; but he had no thought now of looking after any one but himself, and was, when his master rang for him, busily engaged in a drinking-bout with a few like- minded companions. and what could the females do? the spoilt children had, of course, their mothers with them--for none but selfish mothers would spoil their children--and these mothers with their little ones were preparing to form themselves into a distinct community; but such a frightful contention and uproar arose amongst the children themselves, that before nightfall their parents had to abandon their original idea and seek separate homes among their neighbours. as for the young ladies, they soon managed to enlist the services of the female domestics who had come to the island, and then placed themselves under the protection of two elderly maiden sisters, on the express understanding that their guardians were to be handsomely remunerated for looking after them. the young gentlemen, having no intention to exert themselves unnecessarily, lounged about with cigars in their mouths, and voted the whole thing "a bore;" while several of the elders of both sexes, suppressing for the time the exhibition of their specialities of selfishness, indulged in a prolonged chorus of grumbling and mutual condolence. but, in one way or other, all had been fed and housed before midnight, and sleep buried for a while in forgetfulness the troubles of the bewildered settlers on comoro. we pass over the first month, and how does the commissioner, on his arrival at the island, find the exiles bearing their lot? proclamation was at once made that those who had anything to complain of should meet him in a spacious marquee which he had caused to be set up on a large open piece of ground near the shore, immediately on his arrival. he was rather dismayed, however, when he found the place of hearing crowded without a moment's delay by nine-tenths of the islanders, while many were clamouring outside because unable to obtain admission. after a few moments' consideration, he ordered his officers to clear the marquee, and then to admit a hundred of the more elderly of each sex. this was done with some considerable difficulty, and the commissioner then addressed himself to a crabbed-looking old gentleman, who had elbowed his way to the front with a vigour hardly to have been looked for in one of his years and apparent infirmities. "may i request, sir, to be informed what it is you have to complain of?" asked the commissioner. "i complain of everything and everybody," was the reply. "is that _all_ you have to complain of?" the commissioner then asked. before the old gentleman could frame an answer to this second question, the judge, having paused to give a few moments for reply, exclaimed, "officer, dismiss this complainant;" and the old man was forthwith removed from the tent in a state of boiling indignation. "and now, madam," continued the commissioner, addressing a middle-aged lady of dignified mien and commanding stature, "may i ask what is your complaint?" "i complain, sir," replied the lady sternly, "of general neglect and ill-treatment." "excuse me, madam," was the judge's reply, "but i can see no evidence of this in your personal appearance. so far from it, that, having met you not unfrequently in the streets of our city, i am constrained to congratulate you on the manifest improvement in health which you have gained from a month's residence in this delightful climate.--officer, conduct this lady with all due ceremony to the outside of our court." "and you, sir," speaking to a gentleman of very severe countenance, who had been used at home to "show his slaves how choleric he was, and make his bondmen tremble,"--"let me hear what charge you have to allege." "charge, mr commissioner! charge enough, i'm sure! why, i can't get any one to mind a word that i say." "then, i am sure, sir, the fault must be wholly or for the most part your own.--officer, remove him." "has no one anything more definite to complain of?" he again asked, looking round the assembly, which by this time had begun to thin, as it became obvious to all present that no attention would be given to mere vague grumblings. "i'm sure it's very hard," sighed a knot of young ladies, who had listened from the outside to what had been going on, and were afraid to speak out more plainly. "we shall be moped to death if we're kept here any longer," muttered one or two fast young men, shrugging their shoulders. but to these remarks the commissioner turned a deaf ear; and no one coming forward to lodge any distinct charge against another, the court broke up, and the commissioner proceeded to make a tour of inspection among the islanders. he found, as he had indeed expected to find, that the necessity for exertion, and the peculiarity of the circumstances in which they were now placed, had already got rid of a good deal of the selfishness which had only formed a sort of crust over the characters of many who, in the main, were not without kind and generous feelings; so that the looking after the due supply of provisions, and the cooking of them and serving them to the different families, had been cheerfully undertaken by a duly organised body of young and middle-aged workers of both sexes,--the result of which was, not only an improvement in character in the workers themselves, but also a drawing forth of expressions of gratitude from some who formerly took all attentions as a right, but now had been made to feel their dependence on their fellows. and it was pleasant to see how cordially working men and women were united in striving for the good of the community in conjunction with those who had hitherto occupied a higher social position than themselves. some, indeed, of the lower orders, whose tastes had been of an utterly low and degraded cast, had been summarily ejected from the island after they had more than once endangered the lives and stores of the islanders in their brutal drunken sprees. they had talked big, indeed, and made at first a show of resistance; but the general body of the exiles had authorised a powerful force of young and middle-aged men to take them into custody, and convey them on a raft, constructed for the purpose, to an island some ten miles distant. here the rioters were left with a sufficient supply of provisions; a warning being given them that, should they attempt to return to comoro, they would be put in irons, and kept in custody till they could be brought up before the commissioner. the island being thus happily rid of this disturbing element, there was, at any rate, outward peace among the inhabitants of comoro, though, of course, there was yet abundance of discontent and bitterness beneath the surface in the hearts of many. as the commissioner was making his way to the shore preparatory to his return to the mainland, he passed a tent from which there issued such deep-fetched sighs that, having obtained permission to enter, he inquired of the inmate the cause of so much trouble. "ah, sir!" replied the poor sufferer, who was a man some sixty years of age, with grey hair, and a countenance whose expression was one of mingled shrewdness, discontent, and ill-temper, "our sovereign little knows the cruelty he has been guilty of in sending me all alone to a place like this." "how alone, my friend?" asked the other; "you have plenty of companions within reach." "why, sir," was the poor man's reply, "i have been torn from the best and most loving of wives--i who am so entirely dependent on her for my happiness--i who love her so tenderly;--alas! wretched man that i am, what shall i do?" "do you know this gentleman?" said the commissioner, turning to his secretary, who had accompanied him into the tent. "i know him well, your excellency," was the reply; "and a more selfish man does not exist. he tells the truth, however, when he says that he is entirely dependent on his wife for his happiness; but it was impossible for her to accompany him hither, as she is the most unselfish of women. on her he has ever made it a practice to vent his chief spleen and bitterness, exacting from her at the same time perpetual service, and rarely repaying her with anything but sneers and insults, holding her up even to the scorn and ridicule of his acquaintance." as the secretary uttered these words, a burning blush covered the face of the unhappy man, who ceased his sighs and bent his head upon his hands. "my friend," said the commissioner gently, "i am truly sorry for you; but i am in hopes that your solitude will work for your good. think over the past with contrition, and be up and joining in some useful work for the good of others; and when you return home, treat your injured, long-suffering, and admirable wife as a human being, a lady, a companion, a friend, an equal, and not, as you have hitherto done, like a slave or a brute beast." there was no reply, and the commissioner hastened to the shore. he was about to step into the boat that was to convey him to the steamer, when a young man of dandified appearance and affected manner requested to know whether he could have one moment's private interview with the commissioner before his departure. "well, sir," said the other, somewhat impatiently, "you must be brief, for i am anxious to lose no time, as business matters at home are pressing." "sir," said the young man, dropping, at the same time, his affected drawl, "my case is a hard one, and i would ask if you could not grant me a passage home in the vessel by which you are returning." "on what grounds?" asked the commissioner. "why, sir, i have an old mother and a sister, both in infirm health, who can hardly get on without me; and it is only just that i should be allowed to return, as my mother, who is a widow, has no other son." "do you know this young man?" inquired the commissioner, turning to his secretary. "far too well, your excellency; he is the clog of his home, the laughing-stock of his companions behind his back, and is despised by all wise and sensible people. he has had situation after situation offered him, in which he could have earned an honest and respectable livelihood, but he has declined one after another as not to his taste. he is far too much of a gentleman, in his own estimation, to enter upon any work that will involve any steady exertion; but he does not scruple to sponge upon his poor mother, to whose support he contributes nothing, and who has barely enough to meet her own needs, while he borrows--that is, appropriates--the savings of his delicate sister, who, though in feeble health, has undertaken tuition, because this brother of hers is too fine a gentleman to live in anything but idleness, and spends those hard- earned savings of hers as pocket-money on his own elegant pleasures and follies." "contemptible wretch!" exclaimed the commissioner with flashing eyes; "stay where you are, and learn, if it is possible, by the end of these six months, to see that you have a duty to others as well as to your own despicable self." amazed at this exposure and reply, the young man dropped his eye-glass from his eye, and his cigar from his mouth, and stood staring in bewilderment at the commissioner as he sprang into the boat and made for the steamer which was to convey him home. only one other incident worth recording happened during the commissioner's subsequent visits; for the discipline involved in their banishment had produced the good result of making the various exiles feel the necessity of bearing and forbearing, giving and taking, and of each doing his and her part in contributing to the comfort and happiness of the whole. the incident referred to happened during the commissioner's third monthly visit. soon after his arrival he received a respectful note from the secretary of a ladies' working committee, requesting him to receive a deputation from their society at the place of audience. this request having been graciously acceded to, and the deputation received by his excellency in due form, the spokeswoman of the party, a young lady in spectacles, expressed the conviction, on behalf of herself and companions, that a sad but no doubt unintentional mistake had been made by his majesty in including themselves in the party sent to comoro. they were associated, and had been so for years past, as workers together for many benevolent objects and therefore this sending of them to the "selfish island" was a double wrong; for it not only threw a slur on their society, whose members were banded together for the purpose of working for the good of others, but it also deprived many suffering ones at home of the help and comfort they had been used to derive from the united and self-denying efforts of these their true and loving friends. the commissioner having listened with due politeness and attention to this address, assured the deputation that the king would be sorry to have done them any wrong, should such prove to have been the case, and that he would duly report the matter to his majesty. he could not, however, release them on the present occasion; but he hoped, after having made full inquiry into the case on his return, that he should be able to bring them, on his next monthly visit, the welcome permission to leave the island. having returned to comoro in due time, his first care was to request the ladies' working committee to meet him again by deputation. this was accordingly done, and the commissioner addressed them as follows:-- "i exceedingly regret, ladies, that i cannot promise you any shortening of your time of banishment. his majesty has received your complaint, and has caused due investigation to be made; and the result of that investigation has not led him to make any relaxation in your case. for it has been clearly ascertained that the good works and charitable deeds of which you informed me on my last visit, consisted in your attending to work to which you were not called, to the neglect of duties which plainly belonged to you; and that for any seeming sacrifice you made in the bestowal of your time and labour, you more than repaid yourselves in the applause which you managed to obtain from a troop of ignorant or interested admirers. it would, in fact, appear that your benevolence and labour for others involved no real self-denial in it, but was only, after all, another but less obvious form of selfishness. his majesty admires and respects nothing more than genuine co-operation in working for the benefit of the suffering and the needy; but in your case this stamp of genuineness is found to be wanting. we trust, however, that your present work may prove to be of a better character, and that at the expiry of your exile you will return home prepared to do good from truly pure and unselfish motives." murmurs followed, as they had accompanied, this speech, but the commissioner was inexorable. and now at last the six months had come to an end, and the exiles of comoro flocked to the steamers which were to convey them back to the mainland. the discipline had been with most very salutary. roughing it for the first time in their lives had been the means with many of smoothing out the wrinkles of grosser selfishness from their characters. others had learned to look at things through their neighbours' eyes, and thus had come to think less about themselves and about consulting their own pleasure merely. some also who had moved up and down in a groove all their previous lives, and had made all about them miserable or uncomfortable by their unbending and ungracious habits, had learned the wisdom, and happiness, too, of bending aside a little from the path of their own prejudices to accommodate a neighbour. many likewise, having been forced to do things of which, on their first landing on comoro, they had loudly proclaimed themselves physically incapable, now found, to no one's surprise so much as their own, that their former impossibilities could henceforth be performed by themselves with ease. while a few, who had been in the habit of glorying in unselfishness as their strong point, had come to detect their own weakness when they got little or no credit from their neighbours for their ambitious acts of self-denial. and one thing was specially worthy of remark,--so far from suffering in health, everyone returned home greatly improved in looks and vigour by this compulsory stay in the clear and bracing atmosphere of comoro. as for the hypochondriacal gentleman, who had felt so keenly the refusal to be allowed to take his packing-case of medicines with him, he had returned in such a state of spirits that he at once sold his extensive stock of drugs by auction, and gave the money to an hospital for incurables. and, indeed, so great was the gain to the metropolis, in the first place by the absence of the exiles, and afterwards by their altered character, for the most part, on their return to their homes, that the king, when talking over the matter with the commissioner,--whom he had selected for the post as, by general acknowledgment, the most upright, downright, straightforward, honest-minded man in his kingdom,-- declared that he should like to try the atmosphere of comoro himself some day, as it was proved to be so healthy and improving. "i most heartily advise your majesty to do so," said the commissioner, somewhat bluntly; "and if your majesty will only take the entire cabinet with you, i have little doubt but that the benefit to yourself and your ministers will be most heartily acknowledged and thoroughly appreciated by your subjects on your majesty's auspicious return." chapter eight. a little mysterious. mary stansfield pursued her quiet work at bridgepath amongst the poor, being welcomed by all, but by none so cordially as by john price and his family, who seemed quite different people now from what they used to be. and why? just because they had exchanged resignation for god's peace. their characters and conduct were outwardly the same; but there was a new light in them and reflected from them, even the light that shines in hearts where jesus dwells as a saviour known and loved, a light which brightens the heavy clouds of earthly sadness and spans them with a rainbow of immortal hope. and not only so, but, in consequence of the entrance of this purer light, a change for the better was taking place in the bodily health of the poor bed-ridden man--for a wounded spirit had had a good deal to do with his physical infirmities--so that there seemed a likelihood that he would be able in time to leave his sick-bed and go forth once more, not indeed to laborious work, but to fill some light post which the colonel had in store for him. it was on a lovely afternoon that he was sitting up in his arm-chair, dressed in clothes which he had never thought to put on again. he was listening to the gentle but earnest voice of mary stansfield, as she read to him from the word of god, and spoke a few loving and cheering words of her own upon the passage she had selected. a shadow fell across her book; she looked up. the colonel and his nephew stood in the open doorway. "don't let us interrupt you, miss stansfield," said the former; "i was only looking round with my nephew, who has not been here before, to see how things are going on in bridgepath. we will call again!" they passed on, and miss stansfield resumed her reading. but somehow or other john price's attention seemed to wander--he looked disturbed, and fidgeted in his chair; and so his visitor, thinking that he had been read to as long as he could hear with comfort and profit in his weak state, closed the book, and rose to leave. "oh, don't go, miss!" cried the old man in a distressed voice. "i'm so sorry; but something as i can't exactly explain just took away my thoughts and troubled me when the colonel came to the door. but go on, go on, miss; i'm never tired of hearing the good news from your lips." "no, john," replied miss stansfield; "i think we shall do for to-day. you are not strong enough yet to bear much strain of mind or body; and colonel dawson will be coming in directly, and will like to have a word with you, and so, i am sure, will mr horace; so i will say good-bye." the other looked scared and bewildered, and made no reply. "poor john!" said his kind visitor to herself, as she left the cottage and went on her way; "i am afraid i have tired him. and yet i think there must be something more than that which troubles him." a few minutes later the colonel and his nephew entered john price's house. "come in, horace," said colonel dawson; "you have not yet been introduced to one who will, i hope, be spared to be a great helper in the good work in bridgepath, though he does not look much like a worker at present. but the lord has been doing great things for him already, and, i doubt not, means to do greater things for him yet." the young man stepped forward up to the old man's chair, and held out his hand to him. john price grasped it eagerly with both his own thin, wasted hands, and looking at him with a half-astonished, half-distressed gaze, said abruptly, in a hoarse, choking voice, "what's your name?" "my name?" said the young man, smiling at his earnestness. "my name, old friend, is horace jackson." "horace--horace!" muttered the other in a tone of great excitement; "it must be--nay, it cannot be--and yet it must be. are you sure, sir, your name's jackson?" the young man, surprised at such a question, was about to reply, when the colonel, coming forward, stooped over the old man and whispered a few words in his ear. the poor invalid immediately sank back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment; then he sat up again, and took part in the conversation, but in a dreamy sort of way, keeping his face steadily turned away from his younger visitor. but as the colonel and his nephew were leaving the cottage, he fixed upon the latter a look so full of anxiety and interest, that it was quite clear that horace jackson had opened unwittingly a deep spring of feeling in john price's heart, which the old man found it almost impossible to repress. as his visitors retired, colonel dawson, looking back, put his finger on his lips, to which sign john price slowly bent his head. in a few minutes the colonel returned alone. "i have left my nephew at the school," he said, "to give the children a questioning on what they have been lately learning; and now, john, i shall be able to clear up your doubts and fears, and to set your mind at rest on a subject which i see affects you deeply." a long and interesting communication was then made by the colonel to his humble friend, at the close of which the invalid seemed as if he could have sprung out of his chair for very gladness, while the tears poured from his eyes, and his lips murmured words of thankfulness. as colonel dawson was leaving, he turned and said with a smile, "remember, john, not a word to any one at present--not till i give you leave." "all right, sir; you may depend upon me. the lord be praised!" was the reply; and as the old man said the words, every wrinkle in his careworn face seemed running over with light. but for the present horace jackson did not call at his cottage again, though he now and then appeared in the village, and was to be seen on more than one occasion accompanying miss stansfield on her return from bridgepath. and now it began to be rumoured about in the neighbourhood that an attachment was springing up between the colonel's nephew and mary stansfield; and all true-hearted people rejoiced, knowing what a blessing the union of two such earnest workers would prove, as, of course, they would one day, if spared, succeed to the riverton estate. the world, however, was both surprised and disgusted, having hoped "better things" of the young man. as for the wilders, they were full of dark and bitter sayings on the subject--the younger mr wilder especially, who was never tired of remarking to his acquaintance, when the subject was broached, that "miss stansfield had contrived to play her cards well." this observation was not lost on the busy-bodies and scandal-mongers who abounded in franchope, as they do in most country- towns, where there is not so much of active business stirring as will furnish sufficient material for gossip to those who love to act as unpaid news-agents in publishing their neighbours' real or supposed more private doings from house to house. there happened to live at the outskirts of the little town an elderly lady possessed of singular activity in all her members, especially that most unruly one, the tongue. give her a little bit of local news or a hard saying to report, and she would never rest till she had distributed the information throughout her entire acquaintance, with a little garnish of her own to the savoury dish, according to the taste or appetite of her hearers. loved by none, feared by all, her calls were received with apparent cordiality, partly from a natural relish in many for questionable news, and partly from a desire to stand well with one who had the reputations of her neighbours and associates more or less in her power. young wilder's remark on miss stansfield's engagement was a choice morsel of scandal to old mrs tinderley, and was duly reported in every house to which she had access. but that was not all. meeting mary stansfield herself one day near her aunt's house, mrs tinderley grasped her warmly by the hand--though hitherto they had never done more than just exchange civil greetings by word of mouth--and congratulated her upon her happy prospects. miss stansfield, who knew the old lady's character well, was about to pass on, after a word or two of civil acknowledgment, but the other would not let her part from her so hastily. "my dear," she exclaimed in an earnest half-whisper, "isn't it really shameful that people should say the ill-natured things they do, calling you a hypocrite, and selfish of all things in the world? and young mr wilder too--to think of his saying that `you've played your cards well.' really, it's too bad. but, my dear miss stansfield, if i were you i wouldn't mind it." the old lady paused, expecting to see a blush of vexation and annoyance on her young companion's face; but she was disappointed. "thank you, mrs tinderley," replied mary stansfield. "i suppose you mean well by repeating to me these foolish remarks. i can assure you that i do _not_ mind them, as my conscience quite acquits me in the matter, and my happiness in no degree depends on the judgment of those who have made or reported them." so saying, she went quietly on her way, leaving poor mrs tinderley in a state of utter bewilderment. to colonel dawson the attachment, which was soon avowed on his nephew's part, was a matter of the sincerest satisfaction; as it was also to the elder miss stansfield, who had learned to take great pleasure in the society of horace jackson, and to see in him those excellences of a true christian character which would make him a suitable husband to her invaluable niece. she was pained, however, at the hard things which had been said on the subject, as reported to her by an acquaintance of mrs tinderley's, and spoke to the colonel on the subject. "i am sure, colonel dawson," she said, "dear mary is without blame in this matter. the idea of _her_ acting selfishly or `playing her cards,' such a thing is altogether preposterous. i cannot imagine how people can be so wicked as to make such cruel and unjust remarks." "ah, my dear friend," replied the colonel, smiling, "let it pass, the world will have its say. i am sure your dear niece will have no wish, as i know she has no need, to vindicate her character from such aspersions. she has just gone straight forward in the path of duty, and has met horace while in that path; and to my mind there would be somewhat of selfishness, or, at any rate, of undue self-consciousness, on her part were she to trouble herself, or to allow her friends to trouble themselves, to defend her conduct in this matter. we are, of course, as christians, to abstain from all appearance of evil, and to give no handle to the enemies of the truth against us or our profession; but it does not, therefore, follow that we are to decline a path which plainly opens before us in god's providence, just because that path may be a smooth one, or may lead to a position of wealth and influence. to choose another path which will gain us high credit for self-denial, because we turn away from that which is naturally more attractive to ourselves, may after all be only another though subtler form of selfishness. surely the right course is just to go in honesty of purpose unreservedly where god's hand is plainly guiding us and he will take care both of our character and of his own cause in connection with that character, as he orders everything else that is really essential to the welfare and usefulness of each of his own dear children." chapter nine. ruby grigg. horace jackson had come to take a deep interest in the inhabitants of bridgepath, especially since his engagement; for mary stansfield's heart was thoroughly in her work in that once benighted place, and she was only too glad to lead one now so dear to her to concern himself in the truest welfare of those in bridgepath who were still living without thought of any world but this. things had indeed greatly improved through the diligent and loving exertions of the excellent schoolmaster, who was evidently determined to tread down all opposition that came in his way by the firm and weighty, though gentle, steps of a steady and consistent christian walk. his task, it is true, was no easy one, for parents and scholars seemed for a time to be in league against all endeavours on his part to remove existing abuses. it was all very right, they allowed, that he should teach the children head-knowledge--this they were content to put up with; but as for his influencing the heart, or inducing them to change their conduct, and thereby to give up the pleasures of sin in which they had so long delighted, this was not to be tolerated; they were determined not to submit to it. and so the boys, when they could no longer carry on their encounters and settle their differences with the fist after school without interruption and remonstrance from the master, revenged themselves for this interference with their privileges by a thousand little sly tricks and bits of mischief at his expense, and with the full approbation, or, at any rate, connivance, of their friends. as for the grown-up people generally, they gave the good master and his loving wife to understand, when they paid friendly visits to the parents of the scholars, that the inhabitants of the hamlet could do just as well if left to themselves; that they were too old now to go to school; and as for the master's religious teaching, they had already quite as much religion amongst them as was necessary for their comfort and well- being: in fact, the schoolmaster and his wife would best consult their own interests and the peace of the place by being keepers at home and looking after their own household out of school hours. nor was this all. the good man having, in one of his sunday evening addresses in the schoolroom, spoken some very plain though kindly words against sinful courses too prevalent in bridgepath, an assault was made on his little garden one night during the following week, so that when he looked over his flower-beds next morning he found them all trampled over, his rose-trees cut down, and the flower roots torn up and thrown about in all directions. as he rose from the examination of what remained of a favourite tree, his eyes encountered those of one of his most determined opponents in the village. the man was staring over the wall, and when his eyes met those of the schoolmaster, he inquired with a grin how his roses were getting on. with a slight flush on his face, but yet with a smile on his lips, the master replied very slowly, "i shall have to kill some of you for this." before the evening this little sentence had been reported in every house in bridgepath. "so you're a-going to kill some of us, master. i thought you was one of them peaceable christians," sneered a man to the schoolmaster as he was passing by the door of one of the beer-shops, before which a number of men were assembled with their pipes and pots. there was a general scornful laugh at this speech. nothing dismayed, however, the schoolmaster stood still, and facing his opponent, said, "yes, i said i would kill some of you, and i mean it; and if you will come up to the schoolroom to-night at eight o'clock, i will tell you all how and why." "let's go and hear him," said one of the drinkers. "ay, let us," said another. by eight o'clock the schoolroom was half filled with men, women, and children. the master was standing at his desk ready to receive them, and when the school clock had struck the hour, began as follows:-- "now, my friends and neighbours, i feel sure that you'll give me a quiet hearing, as you have come that you may know why i said i must kill some of you. you've done me harm, some of you, but i've done you none; so the least you can do is to listen to me patiently." "ay, ay," said one or two voices, and there was a hush of earnest attention. the master then unlocked his desk, and taking out a printed paper, read it out clearly and with due spirit and emphasis. it was the admirable tract entitled "the man who killed his neighbour." when he had finished reading there was a general murmur of satisfaction, and all were deeply attentive as he went on to say, "now, dear friends, that's the way i mean to kill some of you: i mean to do it by patience, by kindness, and by returning good for evil, as the good man in the tract did. i'm sorry of course, that my roses have been cut down and my flower-beds trampled on. but let that pass; i shan't fret over it, nor try to find out who did it. but i do want to get you to believe that my great desire and aim is to do you good; and if i can manage, by god's help, to persuade you of this, i shall have killed the enemy that is living in your hearts against me, and we shall be happy and good friends." no one offered any reply, and the meeting broke up; but the master had gained his object. many who had been set against him were now thoroughly ashamed of themselves; nearly every door was gladly opened to himself and his wife; and one morning, when he came out into his garden, he found that some unknown hands had planted new rose-trees in the place of those which had been destroyed. so the good man was making a way steadily for the spread of the truth. nevertheless, the evil one had still many devoted followers, especially among the tipplers. as one of these unhappy men was one day emerging from a beer-shop in bridgepath, with flushed face and uncertain step, he ran against horace jackson, who was just then passing through the village. uttering a loud oath, the man was about to move on, when horace, catching him by the arm, compelled him to stand still, while he sharply reproved him for his drunkenness and profanity. a little staggered and abashed, the man muttered something that sounded half like an apology; and then, shaking himself free from horace's grasp, pointed with his pipe across the green, and said scoffingly, "'tain't of no use speaking to me. if you wants a good hard piece to try your hand on, see what you can do with ruby grigg yonder;" saying which, he plunged back into the beer-shop. vexed and annoyed at this encounter, horace was just about to hasten on, when his eyes fell on the man to whom the poor drunkard had referred him; and who was seated not far-off on the other side of the green, upon the steps of a large travelling van. the young man's heart died within him as he gazed at the strange uncouth being to whom he was invited to try and do some good. reuben gregson, popularly known as "ruby grigg," was anything but a jewel in appearance. he wore at this time a very long coat, whose original colour, whatever it might have been, had now faded into a yellowish dirty brown in those parts which still remained unpatched. trousers just reaching a little below the knee, and repaired here and there with remnants of staring blue cloth of various shapes and sizes, were succeeded by yellowish grey stockings, and by shoes which, if they ever enjoyed the luxury of blacking, must have last done so at a very remote period. a hat, which had once been black and of some definite shape, but was now rimless, distorted, and of the same faded hue as the coat, being stuck on one side, only partially covered a tangled mass of greyish hair, which radiated wildly in every direction. beneath the foremost locks were two eyeballs, the one sightless, the other black and piercing, and ever on the move, having to do double duty. a rough, stubbly, and anything but cleanly beard, which was submitted to the razor only on festal occasions, gave an additional wildness to a countenance which was furrowed across the forehead and down either cheek with deep lines blotched and freckled. as for the mouth, it was a perfect study in itself. usually pretty tightly closed, it displayed when open a small remnant of teeth at irregular intervals, and now grown old and decayed by long service. but, whether open or shut, there was an expression of amused consciousness and cunning about that mouth, as though the owner were living in a chronic state of self-satisfaction at having fairly outwitted somebody. such was ruby grigg in his personal appearance. his caravan, also, was a very original and peculiar structure, manifestly built more for use than ornament, and combining both shop and dwelling. it was formed of boards of various lengths and widths, some painted and others bare, the business part being in front, and arched over with a stout framework which was covered with a tight-fitting tarpaulin; while at the back a square little house, painted uniformly a sober green, and protected by a sloping roof of brown-coloured wood- work, and lighted by two little windows, served as parlour, bedroom, and kitchen to ruby and his wife. mrs gregson, or sally grigg as she was usually styled, was not a noticeable person, keeping out of the way as much as possible; and devoting her time and energies to seeing to the due feeding of her husband, his horse and dog, and herself--these forming the entire family, for they had no children--and also to taking care of, and tidying up from time to time, the very miscellaneous wares which were offered for sale in the caravan. ruby's affections seemed pretty equally divided between his horse, his dog, and his wife--the two first having probably the best place in his heart. the horse, like its owner, had no external beauty to boast of, and must have numbered many years since the days of its foalhood. there was something rather knowing about its appearance, as though it had contracted a measure of cunning from constant companionship with its master. the dog, whose name was grip, was one of those nondescript animals which seem to have inherited a mixture of half-a-dozen different breeds, and had a temper as uncertain as its pedigree. while journeying, his place was beneath the caravan, to which he was attached by a light chain, in which position he was a terror to all who might venture near the caravan without his master's company or permission. when the little party rested for a day or so, grip had his liberty; which he occasionally abused by appropriating to himself the meals intended for his fellow-dogs, none of whom, however superior to him in size or strength, durst for a moment resist him. such were the old man and his establishment. his business was that of a miscellaneous salesman, the difficulty being rather to say what he did not than what he did offer to his various customers. the front part of his van was hung with all sorts of hardware, inside and out; but, besides this, there were, within, secret drawers and cupboards containing articles which would not bear exhibition to the public--such as smuggled goods, both wearable and drinkable, which ruby knew how to procure at a very low price, and could always part with confidentially for a sum which both suited the pockets of the purchasers, and also brought considerable profit to himself. among his secret wares were also immoral songs, and impure and infidel books, for which he had many eager buyers, especially in such places as bridgepath. he had his regular rounds, and his special customers, and was in the habit of attending all the feasts and fairs for many miles round. it need hardly be said that poor ruby knew nothing and cared nothing about better things; his heart was wholly in the world, and in making money as fast as he could, by hook or by crook,--and in this he was succeeding. for though the poor man and his wife were utterly godless, and even profane, yet ruby was no drunkard; he loved his glass, it is true, but he loved money more, and so he always contrived to keep a clear head and a steady eye and hand. he also took good care of his horse and dog for his own sake, as he wanted to make the best and the longest of their services, and was shrewd enough to know that you cannot get out of anything, whether animate or inanimate, more than is put into it. so self and wife, and horse and dog were all well fed and cared for, and worked harmoniously together. this was the man to whom the poor drunkard pointed his pipe and sneeringly invited horace jackson to try and do him good. the young man shrunk at first instinctively from coming in contact with old reuben. surely there was abundance of self-denying work in looking after the inhabitants of the hamlet itself; why then need he concern himself about a man who was only a passer through, and had no special claim on his attention? half-satisfied with these thoughts, horace jackson was about to proceed homewards, when it seemed to him that a voice, as it were, said within him, "accept the work; it may not be in vain." though still reluctant, he now felt that he could no longer hang back; so he crossed the green, and greeted the old hawker kindly. ruby looked up at him with a comical twinkle in his one eye, and, knocking out the ashes from his pipe, observed, "so you be the young gent as is turning all things topsy-turvy in this here village--you and the colonel between you. i've heard all about it; and a precious mess you'll make of it, i doubt." "my friend," said horace, now perfectly relieved from all feeling of disinclination to encounter the old man, "you make a little mistake there: when we came here we _found_ things topsy-turvy already, and we are just trying, by god's help, to set them upright and straight." "and i suppose you think as you're going to do it," said the other scornfully. "yes, i hope so," was the reply. "come, my friend, now tell me honestly, isn't it happier for the people of this village to have a good school and a good schoolmaster set down amongst them than to be living as they used to do, without proper instruction for the children, and without any knowledge of god and a better world?" "can't say as to that," said ruby grigg doubtfully, and a little sulkily; "there's lots of people here as likes the old ways better." "perhaps so," said horace; "but they may be wrong in what they like. now, i ask you again--tell me honestly--don't you see a change for the better yourself in bridgepath?" "well, i don't know," replied the old man, fidgeting about; "it's been a worse change for me. i ain't done anything like the business this time as i use doing here, leastways in some things." horace had now seated himself by the old man, spite of a deep growl from grip, whose nearer approach was cut short by a backhanded slap from his master. "look there now, old friend," continued the young man. at this moment the school doors were thrown open, and out poured a stream of boys and girls, tumbling one over another in their excitement, and singing gaily as they began to disperse over the green. but all suddenly stopped, for the schoolmaster made his appearance, and all clustered round him. school was over, and what was going to happen now? in former days the sight of the master would have been a signal for every boy and girl to slink out of reach of his observation; but now the master's coming was hailed with a happy shout, and the young ones vied with one another in getting near him, while the youngest clung to his dress, and all looked up at him with bright and happy smiles. horace turned towards the old man, and marked a flush on his worn and weather-beaten features. "that's a sight worth seeing, my friend," he added; "i think it used not to be so." reuben made no answer. his eye seemed to be gazing at something beyond the busy scene before him. "you've never had any children of your own, it may be," said horace, noticing his absent look. slowly the old man turned towards his companion, his face was now quite pale, and tears began to steal down its deep furrows. "i've never a child now," he said in a hoarse and troubled voice, "but i had once--a blessed little 'un she were, but she died." "it may be, friend," said the young man gently, "that the lord took her in mercy from the evil to come. did she die very young?" reuben gregson seemed unable to reply for a while, then he said slowly, and apparently with a great effort, "ay, sir, very young, and she were all the boys and girls i ever had. she were but five year old when she died, but she died happy, poor thing. it's more nor thirty years now since she left us." "and she died happy, you say?" asked horace, deeply touched. "did she know anything of her saviour?" "i believe you," replied the other earnestly, "yes. there were a good young lady--she ain't living now--as seed her playing about by the roadside one day, and gave her this book." ruby drew out from his breast-pocket a large faded leathern case, and from its inmost depths brought out a small picture-book full of coloured scripture prints. the frontispiece represented our saviour hanging on the cross, and was much worn, as with the pressure of little fingers. "there, sir," continued the old man, "the young lady showed her them pictures, and talked to her about 'em, and particular about him as was nailed to the cross. we was staying on a common near her house for a week or more, and each day that young lady came and had a talk to our little bessy. and she never forgot what the lady said to her. and so, when she were took with the fever, some weeks arter that, when we was far-off from where the lady lived, her last words was, `daddy, i'm going to jesus, 'cos he said, "suffer the little children to come to me."' there, sir, i've told you now what i haven't spoken to nobody else these thirty years." "and won't you follow your dear child to the better land?" asked horace kindly; "there's room in our saviour's heart and home for you too." "i don't know, i don't know," said the other gloomily; "these things ain't in my line. besides, i'm too old and too hard now; it's no use for such as me to think about 'em." horace said nothing immediately, but taking out a little new testament, he read out, without any comment, the parables of the lost sheep and the lost piece of silver. then he said, "old friend, i am so glad we have met. will you accept this little book from me? it will tell you better than i can all about the loving saviour, who has taken that dear child to himself, and wants you and your wife to follow her." without saying a word ruby clutched the testament, thrust it into his breast-pocket and then, rising hastily, said, "i wish you good day, sir; maybe we shall meet again. thank you kindly for the little book." "farewell for the present," said horace. "yes, i believe we shall meet again," and he turned his steps homewards, deeply thankful that he had not declined the work which was so unexpectedly thrust upon him. chapter ten. a rough jewel polished. some months had passed since horace jackson's brief conversation with ruby grigg on the green at bridgepath, and the good work was making steady progress in that hamlet. a few of the adversaries continued rather noisy and troublesome; but it was observable that these avoided, as by common consent, one particular beer-shop, which used to be a favourite resort of the roughest and most dissolute characters, while the publican himself who kept this house was to be seen, at first occasionally, and now regularly at the service which was held in the schoolroom on the sunday evenings. news of this happy change had reached horace from several quarters, and gave the sincerest pleasure to himself and his uncle. meditating thankfully on these things, the young man was passing one afternoon down a by-lane which led to bridgepath. it was a lonely spot, far from any house. on either hand the lane was closed in by tall hedges, and a broad belt of turf skirted the rugged road on each side, affording pasture to any stray beasts which might wander thither unbidden. wild flowers and singing birds filled the untrimmed bushes; while the lowing of cattle, faintly heard from some far-off farm or pasture, added depth to the solitude. with his face turned in the direction of bridgepath, horace had just crossed the top of another and narrower lane, which joined at right angles that along which he was walking, and had passed the opening about a hundred yards, when he was startled by hearing a voice behind him shouting out, "hi! hi! hi! mister!" he looked back, and the sight that met his eye was not reassuring. a tall figure, bare- headed and without a coat, was striding after him, tossing its arms about, and brandishing in the right hand a long whip. the thought at once suggested itself to horace that this must be some poor lunatic escaped from an asylum, and the idea of a solitary encounter in that lonely spot was not an agreeable one, especially as the young man had no other weapon with him than a thin walking-cane, and he was well aware that these poor creatures, when excited and at liberty, often exhibited great strength of limb, and made use of it without scruple to the detriment of any they might fall in with; so he took no heed of the outcry, and hastened his pace onwards. but this had only the effect of exasperating his pursuer, who bawled out to him to stop, and then began to make after him with a shuffling sort of run. so when horace looked back, and saw the presumed lunatic thus quickening his speed, and also wildly flourishing his whip, he fairly broke into a run himself, considering that, under the circumstances, "discretion was," undoubtedly, "the better part of valour." he was, however, arrested in his flight by a roaring burst of laughter from the supposed madman, which made him pause for a moment and turn full round; and then he became convinced that the cause of his anxiety, who was now leaning his back against a bank, and still laughing vociferously, was none other than the old caravan hawker, ruby grigg. as soon as he could recover himself, the old man began to walk quietly forward, motioning to the other to come and meet him. horace did this, though with some little reluctance, not feeling sure that the old man's excitement might not be caused by either insanity or drink. but he was soon satisfied that all was right on that score, as the two drew nearer together. "so you took me for a highwayman or a madman, mr horace!" said the old man, still laughing. "eh! i don't wonder; you must have thought it very strange. but i never thought how it'd look when i hollered arter you; i were only afeard you'd get out of hearing, and i've something to tell you as'll make your heart right glad, i know." "what is it, my friend?" "well, can you spare me a few minutes, and i'll tell you? my van's just a few yards down the lane you crossed a minute ago. you didn't look that way as you passed, and i didn't take it in at first that it was yourself; and when my wife said, `there's mr horace jackson just gone by,' i ran to the top of the lane just as i was, whip and all, and shouted arter you. can you come with me for a minute?" "with all my heart," replied the other. so they turned back, and soon reached the van, which was drawn up by the hedge-side, grip and the old horse strolling about at leisure, and mrs gregson being engaged in cooking something savoury in an iron pot which was suspended over an open-air fire, gipsy fashion. when horace had seated himself on the bank, the old hawker plunged into his travelling shop, and having returned with something in his right hand, seated himself by his young companion. "it's this here little testament as has been and gone and done it," he said abruptly, opening his hand at the same time and disclosing the book which horace had given him at their last meeting. greatly surprised and touched at these words, horace looked earnestly into reuben's face for an explanation, and as he did so, it struck him that the old expression of cunning had given place to one of gentleness and peace. "i'll tell you all about it, sir," proceeded the other. "you must know as i haven't been easy in my mind for some time past--never since that new schoolmaster at bridgepath said a few words to me last feast-day. you know i often come to the village, 'cos i've some good customers there, and i never used to miss the feast. well, i'd heard a deal about the new goings on there long afore i set my own eyes on any on 'em, and i weren't best pleased, nor weren't my best customers neither, you may be sure. but still, down in my heart, i couldn't help feeling as things were being changed for the better; yet it didn't quite suit my pocket that they should be, and so i were very cross, and ready to take everything by the wrong handle. so when the schoolmaster came and spoke to me, i were as grumpy at first as a bear with a sore head, as the saying is. but he wouldn't see it--no, not a bit, and talked to me as pleasant as if i'd been all the while looking sugar and honey at him; and i began to feel very uneasy all over. then, too, i couldn't help seeing as the boys and girls were as different as possible from what they used to be. many was the time as i've sworn with a big ugly oath as i'd set grip at them, when they came up and plagued me and wanted to meddle with my goods. but there weren't no need for it now. yet i stuck out for all that, and talked it over with the keepers of the beer- shops; and we all agreed as it were a great nuisance setting up this new school and reading-room. but we didn't really think so, except that it began to hurt our trade; for this was where the shoe pinched. and then it was, when my mind was a-playing at `see-saw,' first up on this side, and then up on the other, that you was sent that day to have a talk about the children and my own blessed little 'un, and to give me the testament. when you was gone, i grumbled to myself at first, `precious humbug this! what's the use of a testament to me? i ain't a-going to pull a long face and sing psalms,' and i were half in the mind to throw it away." "and what stopped you, old friend?" asked horace. "i'll just tell you, sir," replied the other. "when you gave it me, i stuck it in my coat-pocket, next my little girl's picture-book: and when i took it out again, t'other little book came with it, and i couldn't for the life of me do it any harm. so i put 'em both back again side by side; and the next time as we camped in a quiet place, i took the testament out and began to read a bit out loud. and sally heard me, and she came and listened with her mouth and eyes wide open, and then asked me what the book was and where i'd got it. i told her all about it; and then she asked me if i thought i could find in the book them last words which our dear little 'un spoke. i told you, sir, you'll remember, as she said, `jesus said, "suffer the little children to come unto me."' them was her last words, poor thing! well, we sat on these steps day after day and hunted for them words between us; and we found 'em at last. but we found something else as we hadn't been looking for. we found a couple of miserable old sinners, ruby and sally grigg, as was going along the broad road to destruction." he paused, for his voice had become choked and troubled. "and did you find nothing more?" asked horace, deeply interested. "ay, to be sure we did, sir. we found jesus christ was willing to have us; and we found peace--not at first, nor all at once, but by degrees, and after a while. sally were the first to get a firm hold: but i believe i've grasped it myself now, and by god's help i mean not to let go." "this is indeed joyful news, dear friend," said horace jackson, when he could trust himself to speak. "who would have thought it?" "ay, who indeed?" said reuben warmly. "and now," he added, "i want a bit of advice, sir, from you, for it ain't all grass and gravel with me now; there's some deepish ruts and some stony roads before me, and that's why i were so anxious to stop you just now, sir, that i might tell you all about it, and get a word or two from yourself to give us a bit of encouragement." "i am truly thankful--i can't tell you how thankful," replied the young man. "the lord has indeed done great things for you, and i shall be only too happy to be helpful to you in any way that i can." "thank you, sir, kindly; 'tain't worldly help as i wants from you. i've earned enough for me and sally to last us as long as we live; and it's almost time as i sold the old van, and settled down somewheres for the rest of my days. but it's just this, sir--i want to do some work for the lord, who's been and done so much for sally and me. now i could, as i said just now, sell the old van and settle down; but then i mightn't be able to do much good, and my old limbs would get stiff for want of my regular exercise, and i should just be snoozing away the rest of my time in a big arm-chair. now i ain't quite used up, nor sally neither. so i could keep on the move from place to place, dropping a word for christ here, and a word there, where i've been used to drop scores of words for the devil; and if you'd put me in the way, i could take a lot of testaments and other good books with me, and sell 'em instead of the poisonous trash as i used to carry. now, what do you advise me?" "you couldn't do better, old friend," replied horace; "you would be showing then your colours, and doing real work for the master--better far than you could if you settled down." "well, i think so too, sir; and you must know that i've begun to do a bit for the lord already, though in a poor sort of way. i used to sell smuggled goods on the sly, and bad songs and bad books, but i've dropped all that now. you may look my van through, drawers and cupboards and all, every corner of it, and you'll not find a scrap of the bad sort now. eh! how some of my old customers do stare, and how some on 'em do jeer, when i tells 'em as i've done selling the old things as they delight in. but it don't matter. i've made up my mind, and they're beginning to find that out. they call me an old humbug, and tell me as sally and i shall end our days in the union. but i ain't afeard; it ain't the likes of them as can send me there, and i know i'm safe in the lord's hands." "that's very true," said horace; "you'll be taken good care of while you are in the path of duty, and you will have many a noble opportunity of helping on the good cause as you go from place to place. many will get a word from you which they might not be in the way of hearing otherwise, and the very fact of such a change in the hearts and lives of your wife and yourself must tell on the consciences of many who see what you are now and know what you were in times past." "i believe you sir," said the old man. "now, there's one who's been touched already--jim grimes, who keeps `the old fighting-cocks' at bridgepath. he were mightily surprised at first when he seed as i'd given up my old ways; he wouldn't believe as it were the true thing, and he were for chaffing me out of it. but he found out after a bit as i was real. 'tain't for me to boast--it were the lord's doings, not mine--but when he came to be persuaded as i had taken to the better way in earnest, he couldn't make it out at first; but now he has come to set his feet on the right road, too, i trust, and this has made me think as there's work for the lord for me to do in a quiet way without giving up the van--in a quiet way, i say, sir, for i don't want to be put in a `mag.'" "put in a `mug,' old friend!" exclaimed horace, in amused surprise; "what can you mean? is it slang for putting you in prison? why should any one put you in prison for such a work as you are purposing to carry on? if any one tries to get you into trouble, come or send to me; they shan't interfere with you." "nay, nay, sir," replied ruby grigg, with a laugh. "thank you kindly for what you say; but you've not got hold of my meaning. what i'm driving at is this: i don't want people to put me in a `mag,'--mag's short for `magazine,'--one of them monthly or weekly papers as is full of pictures, and serves as town-crier to all the good deeds as is being done." "ah, i understand you now," said horace, smiling in return; "you want to work quietly for christ in the shade, and not to be made a public character of." "that's just it, sir; i wouldn't be put in a `mag' for all the world. i've knowed many a good man spoilt by being put in a `mag.' it blows 'em up with pride; and then them as don't get put in the `mag' is fit to burst with envy and jealousy." "i believe, my friend," said horace, "that there may be a great deal of truth in what you say. a good man's usefulness may be injured by his being dragged into public notice; for no sin needs such watchfulness on the part of christians, especially those at the beginning of their course, as pride. there is too much of this trumpeting in our day; it spoils the simplicity and reality of many a character." "i've seen it, sir," replied reuben. "i used to laugh at it formerly, but i grieve over it now. at any rate i'm sure, sir, as you won't put me in a `mag.' i don't want to see myself in a couple of picturs, one with me and my van as they was, and t'other with the likeness of mister reuben gregson in a brand new suit of clothes and a white choker, looking for all the world like a regular parson. 'twouldn't do me no good. i just want to do a little work in a quiet way--to jog along, telling how the lord has done great things for me, and just to mix up a few bibles, and testaments, and tracts as i'm selling my goods. and i don't want no reward here, and no notice, leastways no public notice. i've had more reward nor i deserve already; and if i make a few kind friends, such as yourself and the colonel maybe, i'd rather do it, mr horace, in a quiet way, and then i shall feel as i'm doing the work for the lord himself out and out." "well, dear old friend," said horace, "it shall be as you say, so far as i am concerned, and i can answer for my uncle too. and i feel sure that you are right, i understand now how the change has taken place in james grimes. yes, the lord honours steady consistent example, and i do heartily thank him that he has seen fit to enlist you in the increasing and noble army of `workers in the shade.'" chapter eleven. a surprise. mr horace jackson has completed his twenty-first year, and the day is to be marked by a grand gathering in the grounds in front of park house. the persons invited on the occasion were all the tenants on the estate, the two misses stansfield, and lady willerly and her daughter. ruby grigg also and his wife sally were present by special invitation. the colonel had never formally declared that his nephew was to be his heir, though it had been generally understood that such was to be the case. and now the proceedings at riverton park were to be of so quiet a character, that people began to question whether after all this celebration of the young man's coming of age might not merely be an ordinary keeping of the majority of one who might not in the end turn out to be the real heir to the property. such was the conjecture of the public as the preparations were watched and commented upon. "and yet who can tell?" exclaimed ungratified curiosity reproachfully, "for the colonel never does anything like other people." there was, however, one person who was abundantly satisfied, and that was old john price; but nothing could be got from him, though a host of questioners assailed him as he made his way down to the house, on the morning of the birthday gathering, seated on an old pony as prudent and impenetrable as himself. it was a glorious day, and, after a hearty noonday meal, all the guests were collected on the lawn in front of the mansion. the colonel, his sister, and their nephew, having dined with the company, now occupied the centre of a group which had gathered on the steps of park house, consisting of the ladies invited and old john price. scarce a sound was heard but the rustling of the leaves of some of the noble trees, as all sat waiting for what was to come next, for certainly something special was expected by all, though they could scarce have told why. at last the colonel stood forward, and, raising his hat from his venerable head, just closed his eyes for a moment and murmured a few words to himself and then, his voice trembling at first with emotion, spoke as follows-- "my dear friends, i am about to bring strange things to your ears, but i trust not disagreeable ones. and first of all, let me introduce to you, under a new name, mr horace walters, the only son and only child of your late squire, and the present and, i trust for many happy years to come, future proprietor of the riverton estate." he paused as the whole company rose to their feet and vociferously cheered the young master. looks of astonishment and perplexity were then exchanged by many as they resumed their seats, but these soon gave place to most earnest attention to colonel dawson, who thus proceeded-- "you may some of you be wondering, dear friends, how i can have permitted your dear young squire to have assumed and carried with my sanction a name among you that is not really his own; but i shall soon show you what will, i am sure, be perfectly satisfactory to you all on this point. what i am now going to tell you is not a mere tale to gratify curiosity. i have a sacred duty to perform in telling it; for it was the earnest request that i should do so of one who had a right to claim it of me--i mean your late squire, the father of my dear young friend here, whom i shall never cease to call my dear nephew. "you must know, then, that some twenty-five years have now passed since i retired from the army. i was living at that time in a quiet way in my native county, when a cousin of mine, who used to be my special companion and friend when we were boys, died, and left me, to my considerable surprise, a large property in australia, in which country he had been living for many years as an extensive sheep-farmer. believing that property has its duties as well as its profits, i resolved to go over and see what my new acquisition was like, and what i had best do with it. i had no thoughts at first of settling in the colony. but i found when i got there a great deal to do and a great deal to undo before things could be set properly in order; and by the time i had got things into shape i had got so used to colonial life, and so well satisfied with its freedom from many of those fetters which society imposes on us in many of her usages in the old mother country, that i made up my mind to settle, for a time at any rate, in my adopted land. "i had a house of my own in melbourne, and used to visit my country estate from time to time as i found it necessary. one day, as i was walking along one of the principal streets of the city, when i had been settled in the colony a few years, i noticed a little boy of rather superior appearance, who was neatly but plainly dressed, walking slowly past the shops with a very sad expression on his face and his poor eyes full of tears. i stopped him, and asked what was the matter. he was reluctant at first to tell me; but on my getting his confidence by the sincere interest he saw i took in him, the little fellow told me that his dear old nurse was very ill, and he was afraid she would die before his father came back. "i went with him at once to his home, which was a very humble one in a side street, and found the poor woman, the child's nurse, quite sensible, yet manifestly near her end. the neighbours had been kind, and had done what they could; but it was too plain that human skill would not avail to restore the old woman to health or prolong her life. but she was quite able to listen to me; and when i had offered a prayer by her bedside, she evidently felt that she could confide her sorrows and troubles to me. "she told me that her master, the little boy's father, was called william jackson; that he had come from england a few years before, after the death of his wife, to try his fortune in the colony, having lost his property in england. she herself, having known him from his infancy, and always having lived in his family, came with him to australia to take care of horace, his only child, who was then an infant. her master had found employment in the city, but was anxious to see if he could not meet with success at the gold-diggings. he therefore had left her and his little son three months since, and they had only heard from him once. horace was now six years old, and was going to a day-school in the city; and as mr jackson had left a sum of money with her which was not yet exhausted, she was not in want as regarded herself or the child, and was now anxiously looking for the father's return. but it had pleased god to lay her low with sickness; and feeling that her time must be short, she was deeply concerned as to what was to become of her little charge, whom she loved as dearly as if he had been her own. "i told her not to distress herself on this subject, but to cast this burden on the lord, and that i would see what could be done. her poor face lighted up when i said these words; and from the reply which she made, i concluded that she was a pious woman and knew where to lay her cares. so i went home, and after giving the necessary directions for the poor nurse's comfort, i began seriously to consider what was to be done for the poor child; and after putting the matter before the lord, i resolved to take him into my own house, and treat him as my own till his father should turn up. and so a week later, when the faithful old nurse was buried, i took the little horace to live with me, and we have never been long separated from that day to this. "but what of william jackson, his father? months rolled on, and no tidings--a year, and no tidings. horace had learned to call me uncle, and i to call him and speak of him as nephew: and though friends and neighbours at first perfectly understood that this was only a loving mode of address, not at all intended to deceive anybody, yet in process of time it became so completely a matter of course with us, that we can hardly either of us believe that this relationship does not really exist between us, and so i shall be `uncle dawson' to him, and he will be `nephew horace' to me till death parts us. horace was now seven years old, and i felt only too thankful to mark in him the evidences of a real love to that saviour whom his good old nurse had taught him to know and serve in his childish way. and so the boy was twining himself tight round my heart, and, to tell the honest truth, i began to dread the father's return, and almost to hope he might never come back to claim his child. "it was one beautiful day in february. you must remember, dear friends, that february is one of our hot months in the southern hemisphere. horace was at school, and i was sitting by an open window in my private room, which looked on to the garden at the back of my town house. something came between me and the light. i looked up from my writing. a man stood by the open window, and did not move away as he saw my eyes fixed on him. he wore a broad palm leaf hat, which rather shaded from my view his full features; but i could see a noble countenance, which was rendered strikingly picturesque by the profusion of beard and moustache, which had evidently been long untrimmed. his upper clothing consisted of a faded blouse, fastened round the neck by a black silk handkerchief. he had also coarse duck trousers on, bound round his waist by a leathern belt, and well-made boots on his feet, which were remarkably small for one of his robust make. "my heart sank within me for a moment or two, for i divined at once who he must be; but, recovering myself, i asked him if he wished to speak with me. `yes; he should be glad to do so,' he replied in a sad voice, but with the greatest courtesy of manner. "he was soon seated opposite to me, and came at once to the point by saying, `how can i ever discharge my debt of gratitude to you, colonel dawson, for your most generous treatment of my poor boy, who might have been lost or ruined but for your kindness?' "`pray, don't say anything more on the subject, mr jackson,' i replied. `it has been a happiness to me to have been led to befriend your child; and, indeed, he has become so dear to me, that i know not how to part with him. but, of course, as he is yours, not mine, you are at liberty to take him when you will, or to leave him with me till you can provide a settled home for him.' "my visitor was greatly moved, and grasped my hand most warmly. `i know,' he said, `the best recompense i can make to one who has acted towards me as you have done, is to lay myself under still deeper obligation to you; and i will do so. i may tell you thus much about myself--i am not what i seem. i have a great object which i am seeking to accomplish, and i am, i think, on the road to success. i shall be most thankful to leave my boy in your hands, at any rate, for the present, and shall be most happy to charge myself with all his expenses at home and at school.' "`nay, mr jackson,' i replied; `while he remains with me it shall be my privilege to supply him with all that he needs, as i can well afford to do, and i shall be further truly happy to be of personal service to yourself if i can.' "`i accept your offer with gratitude,' he replied. `you _can_ help me, i dare say. i want employment as a clerk or book-keeper. dare you trust me yourself, or dare you recommend me to another? i dare myself affirm that i will not disappoint an employer who may trust me.' "there was a frankness and sincerity in his manner which completely disarmed me of all suspicion or hesitation; whatever colonial _prudence_ might suggest, i _could_ not distrust him. so i offered him at once a place in my own office with a moderate stipend. he accepted it without hesitation, and lived in my house as a member of the family; and never did employer have a more intelligent and faithful worker. as for the child, his father never in the least interfered with my management of him, though i brought him up after my own utterly unfashionable, or perhaps more properly speaking, old-fashioned ideas. on the contrary, he warmly approved of my system. "`i cannot tell you,' he said one day, soon after he had come to live with me, `how truly grateful i am to see you forming my dear boy's character in the way you are doing. i want him to be the very opposite to what i was myself at his age, and to what the generality of children are now. i was brought up just to please myself and to have my own way--to be, in fact, a little incarnation of self-will and selfishness. i was allowed to ask for everything i liked at the table, no restriction being put upon my self-indulgence. i went where i liked, and did what i liked, and was never checked except when i was in the way, or had become intolerably troublesome. i was placed under no regular discipline, and was allowed to thrust myself and my opinions forward amongst my seniors and those who were my superiors in everything but worldly position; and as i grew older, and became inconveniently self-asserting, i was alternately snubbed and humoured according to the whim or temper of those who claimed authority over me. and what was the result? alas! early reckless extravagance followed by ruin, and a character which might have been moulded into something noble, now for a long time shapeless and distorted. and my boy--well, i am only too thankful that he has fallen into your hands out of his unworthy father's.' he spoke these words with deep emotion. "`i am truly glad, mr jackson,' i said, `that you are able to look at things in this better and clearer light. i quite agree with you about the present bringing up of children. for a few years they are treated as little idols by parents, who are too selfish to give themselves the pain and trouble of correcting and disciplining them, and this, too, even in cases where the parents themselves are true christians; and then, when they begin to get unbearable, and have passed out of the winning ways of early childhood, they are too often thrown back upon themselves, and made to suffer the penalty of neglect of discipline and training, which ought properly to be inflicted on the parents, who have not done their duty towards them.' "`it is so. i have seen it; i have felt it, colonel dawson,' he replied warmly; `and so i just leave horace's education entirely in your hands.' "and thus it was that i brought up my dear nephew, as i still continued to call him, in my own way--that is to say, to eat what was given him, to do what was told him, to go where i allowed him, and to have as much liberty as i thought good for him; to listen when his elders were speaking, to be diligent in his lessons, early in his hours of rising and going to bed, and regular in all his habits. and he will tell you himself, i don't doubt, as he has told me over and over again, that, so far from feeling this discipline and these wholesome restraints a bondage, he was as happy as the day was long under them. and i am sure of this, dear friends, that the little, stuck-up, pampered, self-willed, selfish children which abound in our day, who are supposed to rejoice in having their own way, are really slaves to themselves, as well as a burden to their friends, and are strangers to that vigorous enjoyment which is the privilege of a childhood passed under judicious and even discipline. "well, so it was with horace; and so his father rejoiced to find it. and what made me rejoice still more was the happy conviction that a deeper work still was beginning to manifest itself in the heart and life of the dear boy. yes, you may think it strange, dear friends that i am entering into all these particulars on an occasion so public as the present, and with your young squire by my side; but i have a reason for it, as you will see by-and-by, and i am doing it with the full consent and approval of my dear nephew himself. let me, then, proceed with my story. "when horace was sixteen years of age he expressed to me his earnest desire to engage in some special work for the spread of the gospel, which he had learned himself to prize above all earthly things. his father at this time was not residing with me in the town, but held the post of manager of my country estate and sheep-farm, which flourished admirably under his most vigorous and faithful superintendence; for he was a born ruler of others, and a man of such decision of character that everything he laid his hands to fell, as it were, into order under his unflagging and indomitable energy. i knew that i had `the right man in the right place,' and was satisfied. however, when his son expressed this his heart's desire to me, we rode up together to my country house and laid the matter before mr jackson. "he seemed at first confused and embarrassed when i mentioned the subject to him, and asked me to wait for his views upon it till the following day. so we spent the night at the farm; and the next day the father and myself walked towards the neighbouring hills, and then he told me, what you may be sure i was deeply thankful to hear, that what he was pleased to call the consistent christianity which he had witnessed in our household had been blessed to himself, and that he trusted that he was now endeavouring to live as a true follower of his saviour. "`you will approve, then,' i said, `of horace's wish to be trained for direct gospel work.' "`yes and no,' he replied. `by _no_,' he added, `i mean that i do not wish him to enter the ministry. i have reasons of my own for this which just now i would rather keep to myself; but one day, and it may be before very long, i should like you to know them.' "`and what would you wish, then, horace to do?' i asked. "`i will talk the matter over with him,' he said. and he did so that day; and the result was that the young man proposed, with his father's full approbation, to pass through a course of training in medicine and surgery with a view to his becoming qualified for the post of medical missionary. so, on our return to melbourne, the necessary steps were taken; and two years ago my nephew left us for a short experimental trip to one of the islands of the pacific ocean, under the guidance of an excellent and experienced missionary. "and now i am coming to a very sad and wonderful part of my story; but as i have talked long enough now to weary myself if not to weary you, i will ask you to amuse yourselves for a while among the grounds and in the park till tea-time, and after tea i shall be happy to conclude my story, the most important part of which is yet to come." chapter twelve. cloud and sunshine. there was clearly much anxiety on the part of the guests to hear the conclusion of colonel dawson's narrative. so the bountiful tea which had been provided was speedily despatched, and every eye fixed intently on the speaker when he resumed his address, after the tables had been withdrawn and the hearers settled in their old places. "you will remember," began the colonel, "that i had sorrowful things to tell you in continuing my story: and sorrowful indeed they are, though not without a mixture of brightness. horace had been gone from the colony, on what i might call his missionary trial-trip, about a month, when i was one day sitting alone under the veranda of my country house, thinking over many things, and specially pondering the wonderful way in which i had gained two so dear to me as horace and his father. then my thoughts and heart went across the sea to my dear nephew,--when i was suddenly aroused from my day-dream by seeing just before me a stranger, who must have come up very silently, for i was quite unaware of his approach till i looked up and saw him gazing very keenly and not very pleasantly at me. it was now evening, and twilight, of which there is very little in those parts, would speedily be followed by darkness. the new-comer was dressed in bush fashion, and carried a rifle, and i could see the stocks of a brace of pistols peeping out from his blouse. the man's features and appearance altogether were most forbidding; and though a military man myself, i felt anything but comfortable with these ferocious eyes staring full upon me. however, in the bush open house is more or less a rule, and rough-looking fellows often turn up and request a night's lodging and food, which we do not think of refusing them. besides which, the wild-looking outside not unfrequently covers an honest heart beneath. so, while i did not at all like the looks of my visitor, i asked him what he wanted, and if he would sit down and take some refreshment. he replied, in a voice as rough as his appearance, that he was looking after some horses which had strayed as he was bringing them overland, and that he should be glad of a mouthful of bread and cheese and a drink. the refreshment was brought him by one of my men, whom he eyed all over; while all the time he was eating, those same fierce and restless eyes were taking in everything about the place, till he rose to go, with a muttered word or two which hardly sounded like thanks. "no sooner was he out of sight than horace's father joined me in the veranda. his voice was agitated as he asked,-- "`do you know that man?' "`not that i am aware of,' i replied; `indeed i may say, certainly not; for once seen, such a man is not easily forgotten. a more villainous face i never beheld.' "`you may well say so,' said my friend. `i know that man too well; he nearly succeeded in taking my life at the diggings,--he is somewhat older-looking, of course, but there is no mistaking him. he was an escaped convict when i knew him, and belonged to the most dangerous set in the place where i was working. i don't at all like his lurking about here. you may depend upon it, his presence bodes no good.' "`i can well believe that,' i said; `so we must take proper precautions, and see that the men are on the look-out.' "`yes,' he replied, `i will see to that; and it will be as well to send a messenger to-night over to melbourne to give the police a hint, as i fancy they would not be sorry to come across this fellow, as his doings are no doubt pretty well known to them.' "nothing more occurred that night to disturb us; but the following day four horsemen might be seen riding up towards the house at a dashing gallop, just about noon. i was prepared, however, for their coming and had caused all the men about the place to take refuge in my own house, which i had made provision for barricading if necessary. i had only three or four men on the place at that time, and their wives and children. these last i brought into an inner room when i saw the horsemen in the distance. though a soldier by profession, i was exceedingly reluctant to shed blood, and had resolved on the present occasion not to do so if it could possibly be avoided. "the strangers were soon at the veranda, evidently resolved to take us by storm. foremost among them was my visitor of the day before. he sprang down from his horse in the most reckless manner, and began thundering at the door with the butt end of his rifle. my house had not been built with the view of its sustaining a siege at any time, but was constructed of rather light materials, so that the door began to groan and creak under the assaults of the bushranger, whose every movement i could see through a small opening in the shutters. "`what do you want here, friend?' i asked. "`open the door,' was the only reply. "`tell me what you want,' i said again. "`open the door,' was all that was returned in answer; and then came a thundering blow, which fairly crushed in one of the panels. "`shall i fire?' asked mr jackson, in a hoarse whisper. "`no, no! not yet, not yet,' i cried. "then came a united rush of three of the men, and the door came crashing into the outer room. the foremost villain then sprang at me, and we wrestled together, after i had knocked up his revolver. in a few minutes i had hurled him back from me, and he fell to the ground and was seized by one of my men. gasping for breath, i paused and looked about me. a pistol was presented at me by another bushranger, but before it could be fired horace's poor father had thrown himself in front of me; he received the bullet in his own breast, and fell to the ground grievously wounded. but now help was at hand; alas that it did not come sooner! a strong body of mounted police came up, and having secured all the robbers, carried them off in triumph. "but what was to be done with my dear wounded friend, who had saved my life by perilling his own? i knew enough of surgical matters to ascertain by inspection that the injury, though severe, was not likely to be mortal. so, having bandaged up the wound with the best appliances i had at hand, i drove my friend as rapidly as he could bear it to my town house, where he was at once placed under the care of the best medical skill in the city. and for some time i had every hope that he would recover, and earnestly did i pray that it might be so, if it were the lord's will. but it was not so to be. a constitution once strong, but impaired in early youth, and much tried when he was at the diggings, had not sufficient vigour remaining to enable my poor friend to regain health and strength. but he did not pass away rapidly, nor did he lose any of his power of mind in his last days. and then it was, on his dying-bed, that he opened his whole heart to me, and told me what i am about to tell you, and, as nearly as i can remember, in these words:-- "`my name is really horace walters, and i am the owner of an estate called riverton park in my dear native country. but i ruined myself by my mad love for gambling, and when my poor wife died, and left me with horace a baby, and my estate was become sadly encumbered, i resolved at once that i would leave my native land, go over to australia, live a life of hard work and self-denial, and not come back again until, by the accumulated rents and by what i could earn, i could make my property absolutely and honestly my own, and leave it unencumbered to my dear child. you have seen enough of me to know that i have some strength of will in my character; and so, when i had made this resolution, i began immediately to carry it out. taking with me our old nurse, whom i bound to secrecy, i came over to this colony, got employment, and then went to the diggings. there, by diligence, perseverance, and self-denial, i managed to accumulate a large sum, which is safely deposited in the bank. i had some thoughts of going back at once to england; but on learning what had happened to horace, and about your noble and loving- care of him, i resolved to wait a while, and to get employment in your neighbourhood--at any rate, for a time. and that resolution i have never repented of; indeed, i have felt _my_ dear horace's--ay, i will say _our_ dear horace's--position in your house such a privileged one, that i have gladly delayed taking any further steps homeward, wishing to see him all that we both could desire him to be before i let him know his real name and position. you can easily understand why i changed my name to jackson. i felt that i had brought shame and dishonour on my own name in my native land and i resolved that in this distant country i would change it for another, and not take it back again till i could do so with honour and credit to myself and my child.' "and then, dear friends, he told me how he blessed god for bringing himself to the knowledge of his truth, and me for having been the instrument--an unworthy one indeed i was--of leading him to that knowledge. of course, i told him what a privilege i felt it to have been permitted to guide him to his saviour; and i added that i would gladly do anything i could to show my gratitude to him for having sacrificed himself to save my life. "`you have done more than enough already,' was his reply; `and yet i will take you at your word. horace knows nothing yet of his real name and prospects; i had made up my mind lately that i would wait till he came of age to tell him. and now i would ask you, dear friend, to take horace with you to england and see him settled in his property when i am gone, which will be, i know, before very long. i have ample means in the bank here to meet all expenses, and will give you full power to act for me. you will understand now why i did not wish horace to be a minister. i think godly laymen are as much needed as godly clergymen; and, as he in god's providence inherits an important property, i have a strong impression that he will be more free to do his duty to his tenantry and his estate as a christian country squire, than he would be if he had taken upon himself the charge of a special sphere or parish at home or abroad. and my earnest wish and prayer is that he may soon, by his conduct as a christian landlord, blot out altogether the memory of his unworthy father.' "i stopped him here and told him that he was nobly redeeming the past, so far as it was possible for man to do so, and that i would gladly carry out what he desired. this seemed to make him quite happy; and his one great wish now was to see his son once more, and this was granted to him. horace returned to comfort him in his dying hours, and to receive his blessing, with his expressed wish that he should accompany me to england, whither i was going on his account to settle some matters of business for him. he said nothing further to his son, having already expressed his wish to me that i should first set the riverton estate in thorough order, according to my own views of what was right--with one special injunction, that i should do everything that might be in my power to recompense john price and his family for the loss they had suffered on his account. "so, after my poor friend's departure to his better inheritance, we have come over here to carry out his wishes and instructions; and you have seen, and can now see, the results. my dear nephew has been kept in ignorance of his real name and prospects till yesterday, when i laid the whole matter before him; and it is by his father's earnest dying request that i have given you this full and minute history. to-day horace walters is of full age, and to-day i surrender up all to him. "i would just add a word or two more. i have gone so fully into my story, not only because mr walters urged me to do so, but still more for two special reasons: first, because i know that rumour and fancy would be sure to put their heads together and circulate all sorts of foolish stories about your late squire, and about his dear son, your present squire, and some of these stories probably to the discredit of one or both. now i have given you the true account of all, so that you can safely put down all slanderers' gossip and tittle-tattle on the subject. and further, i have gone thus particularly into my story, because it will show you what rare jewels there were in your late squire's character, and how brightly those shone out when the black crust of evil habits had fallen away from them. and, lastly, i have wished to show you how graciously god has been ordering things for the good of you all, and has brought blessings and peace out of a strange tangle of circumstances which he has unravelled for your happiness. "and now, dear friends, having accomplished the work for which i came back to the old country, i am returning to the land of my adoption for a time. i think it will be only for a time; for my dear nephew here has got such a hold upon my heart, that i think i shall have to come back and settle near him, if i am spared. however, i have the satisfaction of knowing that i am leaving behind me two earnest, like-minded servants of the great master to preside over the good work at riverton and bridgepath. i shall not leave the country till i have seen them made one; and then i shall feel assured that in horace walters and her who will, i trust, soon become his wife, i shall leave you those who, having long been working for god separately in the shade, will work together as devotedly, hand in hand, and heart in heart, in the light." the end. the lamplighter by maria s. cummins author of "mabel vaughan," "el fureidis," "haunted hearts." a. l. burt, publisher - duane street new york the lamplighter chapter i. light in darkness. "good god! to think upon a child that has no childish days, no careless play, no frolics wild, no words of prayer and praise." --landon. it was growing dark in the city. out in the open country it would be light for half-an-hour or more; but in the streets it was already dusk. upon the wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking house, sat a little girl, earnestly gazing up the street. the house-door behind her was close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so low that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. it was a chilly evening in november, and a light fall of snow had made the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever. many people were passing, but no one noticed the little girl, for no one in the world cared for her. she was clad in the poorest of garments; her hair was long, thick, and uncombed, and her complexion was sallow, and her whole appearance was unhealthy. she had fine dark eyes; but so large did they seem, in contrast to her thin, puny face that they increased its peculiarity without increasing its beauty. had she had a mother (which, alas! she had not), those friendly eyes would have found something in her to praise. but the poor little thing was told, a dozen times a-day, that she was the worst-looking child in the world, and the worst-behaved. no one loved her, and she loved no one; no one tried to make her happy, or cared whether she was so. she was but eight years old, and alone in the world. she loved to watch for the coming of the old man who lit the street-lamp in front of the house where she lived; to see his bright torch flicker in the wind; and then when he so quickly ran up his ladder, lit the lamp, and made the place cheerful, a gleam of joy was shed on a little desolate heart, to which gladness was a stranger; and though he had never seemed to see, and had never spoken to her, she felt, as she watched for the old lamplighter, as if he were a friend. "gerty," exclaimed a harsh voice within, "have you been for the milk?" the child made no answer, but gliding off the door-step, ran quickly round the corner of the house, and hid a little out of sight. "what's become of that child?" said the woman who spoke, and who now showed herself at the door. a boy who was passing, and had seen gerty run, and who looked upon her as a spirit of evil, laughed aloud, pointed to the corner which concealed her, and walking off with his head over his shoulders, to see what would happen next, said to himself, "she'll catch it!" gerty was dragged from her hiding-place, and with one blow for her ugliness and another for her impudence (for she was making faces at nan grant), was despatched down a neighbouring alley for the milk. she ran fast, fearing the lamplighter would come and go in her absence, and was rejoiced, on her return, to catch a sight of him just going up his ladder. she stood at the foot of it, and was so engaged in watching the bright flame, that she did not observe the descent of the man; and, as she was directly in his way, he struck against her, and she fell upon the pavement. "hallo, my little one!" exclaimed he, "how's this?" as he stooped to lift her up. she was on her feet in an instant; for she was used to hard knocks, and did not mind a few bruises. but the milk was all spilt. "well! now, i declare!" said the man, "that's too bad!--what'll mammy say?" and looking into gerty's face, he exclaimed, "my, what an odd-faced child!--looks like a witch!" then, seeing that she looked sadly at the spilt milk, he kindly said, "she won't be hard on such a mite as you are, will she? cheer up, my ducky! never mind if she does scold you a little. i'll bring you something to-morrow that you'll like; you're such a lonely-looking thing. and if the old woman makes a row, tell her i did it.--but didn't i hurt you? what were you doing with my ladder?" "i was seeing you light the lamp," said gerty, "and i an't hurt a bit; but i wish i hadn't spilt the milk." just then nan grant came to the door, saw what had happened, and pulled the child into the house, amidst blows and profane, brutal language. the lamplighter tried to appease her, but she shut the door in his face. gerty was scolded, beaten, deprived of her usual crust for her supper, and shut up in her dark attic for the night. poor little child! her mother had died in nan grant's house five years before; and she had been tolerated there since, not so much because when ben grant went to sea he bade his wife to keep the child until his return--he had been gone so long that no one thought he would ever come back--but because nan had reasons of her own for doing so, and, though she considered gerty a dead weight upon her hands, she did not care to excite inquiries by trying to dispose of her elsewhere. when gerty found herself locked up for the night in the dark garret--gerty hated and feared the dark--she stood for a minute perfectly still, then suddenly began to stamp and scream, tried to beat open the door, and shouted, "i hate you, nan grant! old nan grant, i hate you!" but nobody came near her; and she grew more quiet, lay down on her miserable bed, covered her face with her little thin hands, and sobbed as if her heart would break. she wept until she was exhausted; and then gradually she became still. by-and-by she took her hands from her face, clasped them together convulsively, and looked up at a little glazed window near the bed. it was but three panes of glass unevenly stuck together. there was no moon; but as gerty looked up, she saw shining upon her _one_ bright star. she thought she had never seen anything half so beautiful. she had often been out of doors when the sky was full of stars, and had not noticed them much; but this one, all alone, so large, so bright, and yet so soft and pleasant-looking, seemed to speak to her; to say, "gerty! gerty! _poor_ little gerty!" she thought it seemed like a kind face, such as she had a long time ago seen or dreamt about. suddenly she asked herself, "who lit it? somebody lit it! some good person, i know. oh! how could he get up so high?" and gerty fell asleep, wondering who lit the star. poor little, untaught, benighted soul! who shall enlighten thee? thou art god's child, little one! christ died for thee. will he not send man or angel to light up the darkness within, to kindle a light that shall never go out, the light that shall shine through all eternity! gerty awoke the next morning, not as children wake who are roused by merry voices, or by a parent's kiss, who have kind hands to help them dress, and knowing that a nice breakfast awaits them; but she heard harsh voices below; nan's son, and two or three boarders had come in to breakfast, and gerty's only chance of obtaining any share of the meal was to be on the spot when they had finished, to take that portion of what remained which nan might shove towards her. so she crept downstairs, waited a little till they had all gone out, and then she slid into the room. she met with a rough greeting from nan, who told her she had better drop that ugly, sour look; eat some breakfast, if she wanted it, but keep out of her way, and not come near the fire, where she was at work, or she'd get another dressing, worse than she had last night. gerty had not looked for any other treatment, so she was not disappointed; but, glad of the miserable food left for her on the table, she swallowed it eagerly, and she took her little old hood, threw on a ragged shawl, which had belonged to her mother, and ran out of the house. back of nan grant's house was a large wood and coal-yard, and beyond that a wharf, and the thick, muddy water of a dock. gerty might have found many playmates in this place. she sometimes did mingle with the boys and girls, ragged like herself, who played in the yard; but not often--there was a league against her among the children of the place. poor, ragged, and miserably cared for, as they were, they knew that gerty was more neglected and abused. they had often seen her beaten, and daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child; told that she belonged to nobody, and had no business in any one's house. thus they felt their advantage, and scorned the little outcast. perhaps this would not have been the case if gerty had mingled freely with them, and tried to be on friendly terms; but, while her mother lived, she did her best to keep her little girl away from the rude herd. perhaps that habit of avoidance, but still more a something in the child's nature, kept her from joining in their rough sports, after her mother's death had left her to do as she liked. she seldom had any intercourse with them. nor did they abuse her except in words; for, singly, they dared not cope with her--spirited, sudden, and violent, she had made herself feared as well as disliked. once a band of them had united to vex her; but, nan grant coming up just when one of the girls was throwing the shoes, which she had pulled from gerty's feet, into the dock, had given the girl a sound whipping, and put them all to flight. gerty had not had a pair of shoes since; but nan grant, for once, had done her a good service, and the children now left her in peace. it was a sunshiny, though a cold day, when gerty sought shelter in the wood-yard. there was an immense pile of timber in one corner of the yard, almost out of sight of any of the houses. of different lengths, the planks formed, on one side, a series of irregular steps. near the top was a little sheltered recess, overhung by some long planks, and forming a miniature shed, protected by the wood on all sides but one, and from that looking out upon the water. this was gerty's haven of rest, and the only place from which she never was expelled. here, during the long summer days, the little lonesome child sat brooding over her griefs, her wrongs, and her ugliness; sometimes weeping for hours. now and then she would get a little more cheerful, and enjoy watching the sailors as they laboured on board their vessels, or rowed to and fro in little boats. the warm sunshine was so pleasant, and the men's voices so lively, that the poor little thing sometimes forgot her woes. but summer was gone, and the schooner and the sailors were gone too. the weather was cold, and for a few days had been so stormy, that gerty had to stay in the house. now, however, she made the best of her way to her little hiding-place; and, to her joy, the sunshine had dried up the boards, so that they felt warm to her bare feet, and was still shining so bright and pleasant, that gerty forgot nan grant, forgot how cold she had been, and how much she dreaded the long winter. her thoughts rambled about sometime; but, at last, fixed upon the kind look and voice of the old lamplighter; and then, for the first time since the promise was made, it came into her mind that he had engaged to bring her something the next time he came. she could not believe he would remember it; but still he might--he seemed to be so sorry for her fall. what would he bring? would it be something to eat? oh, if it were only some shoes! perhaps he did not notice that she had none? gerty resolved to go for her milk in season to be back before it was time to light the lamp, so that nothing should prevent her seeing him. the day seemed very long, but darkness came at last; and with it came true--or rather trueman flint, for that was the lamplighter's name. gerty was on the spot, though she took good care to elude nan grant's observation. true was late about his work that night, and in a great hurry. he had only time to speak a few words to gerty; but they were words coming straight from a good and honest heart. he put his great, smutty hand on her head in the kindest way, told her how sorry he was she got hurt, and said. "it was a plaguy shame she should have been whipped, too, and all for a spill o' milk, that was a misfortin', and no crime." "but here," added he, diving into one of his huge pockets, "here's the critter i promised you. take good care on't; don't 'buse it; and i'm thinking, if it's like the mother i've got at home, 'twon't be a little ye'll be likin' it, 'fore you're done. good-bye, my little gal;" and he shouldered his ladder and went off, leaving in gerty's hands a little grey-and-white kitten. gerty was so taken by surprise on finding in her arms a live kitten, something so different from what she had anticipated, that she stood irresolute what to do with it. there were a many cats, of all sizes and colours, inhabitants of the neighbouring houses and yard; frightened-looking creatures, which, like gerty herself, ran about, and hid themselves among the wood and coal, seeming to feel, as she did, great doubts about their having a right to be anywhere. gerty had often felt a sympathy for them, but never thought of trying to catch one, and carry it home; for she knew that food and shelter were grudgingly accorded to herself, and would not be extended to her pets. her first thought, therefore, was to throw the kitten down, and let it run away. but while she was hesitating, the little animal pleaded for itself in a way she could not resist. frightened by its long journey in true flint's pocket, it crept from gerty's arms up to her neck, clung there, and, with feeble cries, seemed to ask her to take care of it. its eloquence prevailed over all fear of nan grant's anger. she hugged pussy to her bosom, and resolved to love and feed it, and keep it out of nan's sight. how much she came in time to love that kitten no words can tell. her little, fierce, untamed, impetuous nature had hitherto expressed itself only in angry passion, sullen obstinacy, and hatred. but there were in her soul fountains of warm affection, a depth of tenderness never yet called out, and a warmth and devotion of nature that wanted only an object upon which to expend themselves. so she poured out such wealth of love on the poor kitten as only such a desolate little heart has to spare. she loved the kitten all the more for the care she was obliged to take of it, and the trouble it gave her. she kept it, as much as possible, out among the boards, in her favourite haunts. she found an old hat, in which she placed her hood, to make a bed for pussy. she carried it a part of her scanty meals; she braved for it what she would not have done for herself--for almost every day she abstracted from the kettle, when she returned with the milk for nan grant, enough for pussy's supper, at the risk of being discovered and punished, the only risk of harm the poor ignorant child knew or thought of, in connection with the theft; for her ideas of abstract right and wrong were utterly undeveloped. so she would play with her kitten for hours among the boards, talk to it, and tell it how much she loved it. but in very cold days she was puzzled to know how to keep herself warm out of doors, and the risk of bringing the kitten into the house was great. she would then hide it in her bosom, and run with it into her little garret. once or twice, when she had been off her guard, her little playful pet had escaped from her, and scampered through the lower room and passage. once nan drove it out with a broom; but there cats and kittens were not so uncommon as to excite inquiry. how was it that gerty had leisure to spend all her time at play? most children of the poorer class learn to be useful while they are young. nan grant had no babies; and being a very active woman, with but a poor opinion of children's services, she never tried to find employment for gerty, much better satisfied for her to keep out of her sight; so that, except her daily errand for the milk, gerty was always idle--a fruitful source of unhappiness and discontent. nan was a scotchwoman, not young, and with a temper which, never good, became worse as she grew older. she had seen life's roughest side, and had always been a hard-working woman. her husband was a carpenter, but she made his house so uncomfortable, that for years he had followed the sea. she took in washing, and had a few boarders; by which she earned what might have been an ample support for herself, had it not been for her son, a disorderly young man, spoilt in early life by his mother's management, and who, though a skilful workman, squandered his own and a large part of his mother's earnings. nan had reason for keeping gerty, though they were not so strong as to prevent her often being inclined to get rid of the encumbrance. chapter ii. comfort and affliction. "mercy and love have met thee on thy road, thou wretched outcast!" --wordsworth. gerty had had her kitten about a month, when she took a violent cold from exposure to damp and rain; and nan, fearing she should have trouble with her if she became seriously ill, bade her stay in the house, and keep in the warm room. gerty's cough was fearful; and she would have sat by the fire all day, had it not been for her anxiety about the kitten. towards night the men were heard coming in to supper. just as they entered the door of the room where nan and gerty were, one of them stumbled over the kitten, which had slyly come in with them. "cracky! what's this 'ere?" said the man whom they called jemmy; "a cat, i vow! why, nan, i thought you hated cats!" "well, 'tan't none o' mine; drive it out," said nan. jemmy tried to do so; but puss, making a circuit round his legs, sprang forward into the arms of gerty. "whose kitten's that, gerty?" said nan. "mine!" said gerty, bravely. "well, how long have you kept cats?" asked nan. "speak! how came you by this?" gerty was afraid of the men. she did not like to confess to whom she was indebted for the kitten; she knew it would only make matters worse, for nan had never forgiven true flint's rough expostulation against her cruelty in beating the child for spilling the milk, and gerty could not think of any other source to which she could ascribe the kitten's presence, or she would not have hesitated to tell a falsehood; for her limited education had not taught her a love or habit of truth where a lie would better serve her turn, and save her from punishment. she was silent, and burst into tears. "come," said jemmy, "give us some supper, nan, and let the gal alone." nan complied, ominously muttering, however. the supper just finished, an organ-grinder began to play at the door. the men stepped out to join the crowd, who were watching the motions of a monkey that danced to the music. gerty ran to the window to look out. delighted with the gambols of the creature, she gazed until the man and monkey moved off--so intently, that she did not miss the kitten which had crept down from her arms, and, springing upon the table, began to devour the remnants of the repast. the organ-grinder was not out of sight when gerty saw the old lamplighter coming up the street. she resolved to watch him light his lamp, when she was startled by a sharp and angry exclamation from nan, and turned just in time to see her snatch her darling kitten from the table. gerty sprang to the rescue, jumped into a chair, and caught nan by the arm; but she firmly pushed her back, and threw the kitten half across the room. gerty heard a sudden splash and a piercing cry. nan had flung the poor creature into a large vessel of steaming hot water. the poor animal writhed an instant, then died in torture. gerty's anger was aroused. without hesitation, she lifted a stick of wood, and violently flung it at nan, and it struck the woman on the head. the blood started from the wound; but nan hardly felt the blow, so greatly was she excited against the child. she sprang upon her, caught her by the shoulder, and opening the house-door, thrust her out. "ye'll never darken my doors again, yer imp of wickedness!" said she, leaving the child alone in the cold night. when gerty was angry, she always cried aloud--uttering a succession of piercing shrieks, until she sometimes quite exhausted her strength. when she found herself in the street she commenced screaming--not from fear of being turned away from her only home, and left alone at nightfall to wander about the city, and perhaps freeze before morning--she did not think of herself for a moment. horror and grief at the dreadful fate of the only thing she loved in the world entirely filled her little soul. so she crouched down against the side of the house, her face hid in her hands, unconscious of the noise she was making. suddenly she found herself placed on trueman flint's ladder, which leaned against the lamp-post. true held her high enough to bring her face opposite his, and saw his old acquaintance, and kindly asked her what was the matter. but gerty could only gasp and say, "oh, my kitten! my kitten!" "what! the kitten i gave you? well, have you lost it? don't cry! there--don't cry!" "oh, no! not lost! oh, poor kitty!" and gerty cried louder and coughed so dreadfully, that true was frightened for the child. making every effort to soothe her, he told her she would catch her death o' cold, and she must go into the house. "oh, she won't let me in!" said gerty "and i wouldn't go if she would." "who won't let you in?--your mother?" "no! nan grant?" "who's nan grant?" "she's a horrid, wicked woman, that drowned my kitten in bilin' water." "but where's your mother?" "i ha'n't got none." "who do you belong to, you poor little thing?" "nobody; and i've no business anywhere!" "with whom do you live, and who takes care of you?" "oh, i lived with nan grant; but i hate her. i threw a stick of wood at her head, and i wish i had killed her!" "hush! hush! you musn't say that! i'll go and speak to her." true moved to the door, trying to draw gerty in; but she resisted so forcibly that he left her outside, and, walking into the room, where nan was binding up her head with a handkerchief, told her she had better call her little girl in, for she would freeze to death out there. "she's no child of mine," said nan; "she's the worst little creature that ever lived; it's a wonder i've kept her so long; and now i hope i'll never lay eyes on her agin--and, what's more, i don't mean. she ought to be hung for breaking my head! i believe she's got an ill spirit in her!" "but what'll become of her?" said true. "it's a fearful cold night. how'd you feel, marm, if she were found to-morrow morning all _friz_ up on your door-step!" "how'd i feel! that's your business, is it? s'posen you take care on her yourself! yer make a mighty deal o' fuss about the brat. carry her home, and try how yer like her. yer've been here a talkin' to me about her once afore, and i won't hear a word more. let other folks see to her, i say; i've had more'n my share, and as to her freezin', or dyin' anyhow, i'll risk her. them children that comes into the world, nobody knows how, don't go out of it in a hurry. she's the city's property--let 'em look out for her; and you'd better go, and not meddle with what don't consarn you." true did not wait to hear more. he was not used to an angry woman, who was the most formidable thing to him in the world. nan's flashing eyes and menacing attitude warned him of the coming tempest, and he hastened away. gerty had ceased crying when he came out, and looked into his face with the greatest interest. "well," said he, "she says you shan't come back." "oh, i'm so glad!" said gerty. "but where'll you go to?" "i don't know! p'raps i'll go with you, and see you light the lamps." "but where'll you sleep to-night?" "i don't know where; i haven't got any home. i'll sleep out where i can see the stars. but it'll be cold, won't it?" "my goodness! you'll freeze to death, child." "well, what'll become of me, then?" "the lord only knows!" true looked at gerty in perfect wonder. he could not leave her there on such a cold night; but he hardly knew what he could do with her at home, for he lived alone, and was poor. but another violent coughing decided him to share with her his shelter, fire, and food, for one night, at least. "come," said he, "with me;" and gerty ran along by his side, never asking whither. true had a dozen lamps to light before his round was finished. gerty watched him light each with as keen an interest as if that were the only object for which she was in his company; and it was only after they had walked on for some distance without stopping, that she inquired where they were going. "going home," said true. "am i going to your home?" said gerty. "yes," said true, "and here it is." he opened a little gate leading into a small yard, which stretched along the whole length of a two-storied house. true lived in the back part of it; and both went in. gerty was trembling with the cold; her little bare feet were quite blue with walking on the pavements. there was a stove in the room, but no fire in it. true immediately disposed of his ladder, torch, etc., in an adjoining shed, and bringing in a handful of wood, he lit a fire. drawing an old wooden settle up to the fire, he threw his great-coat over it, and lifting little gerty up, he placed her gently upon the seat. he then prepared supper; for true was an old bachelor, and did everything for himself. he made tea; then, mixing a great mugful for gerty, with plenty of sugar and all his milk, he brought a loaf of bread, cut her a large slice, and pressed her to eat and drink as much as she could; for he concluded, from her looks, that she had not been well fed; and so much pleased did he feel in her enjoyment of the best meal she had ever had, that he forgot to partake of it himself, but sat watching her with a tenderness which proved that he was a friend to everybody, even to the most forlorn little girl in the world. trueman flint was born in new hampshire; but, when fifteen years old, being left an orphan, he had made his way to boston, where he supported himself by whatever employment he could obtain; having been a newspaper-carrier, a cab-driver, a porter, a wood-cutter, indeed, a jack-at-all-trades; and so honest, capable, and good-tempered had he always shown himself, that he everywhere won a good name, and had sometimes continued for years in the same employ. previous to his entering upon the service in which we find him, he had been a porter in a large store, owned by a wealthy and generous merchant. being one day engaged in removing some casks, he was severely injured by one of them falling upon his chest. for a long time no hope was entertained of his recovery; and when he began to mend, his health returned so gradually that it was a year before he was able to be at work again. this sickness swallowed up the savings of years; but his late employer never allowed him to want for any comforts, provided an excellent physician, and saw that he was well taken care of. but true had never been the same man since. he rose from his sick-bed debilitated, and apparently ten years older, and his strength so much enfeebled, that he was only fit for some comparatively light employment. it was then that his kind master obtained for him the situation of lamplighter; and he frequently earned considerable sums by sawing wood, shovelling snow, and other jobs. he was now between fifty and sixty years old, a stoutly-built man, with features cut in one of nature's rough moulds, but expressive of much good nature. he was naturally reserved, lived much by himself, was little known, and had only one crony, the sexton of a neighbouring church. but we left gertie finishing her supper, and now she is stretched upon the wide settle, sound asleep, covered up with a warm blanket, and her head resting upon a pillow. true sits beside her; her little, thin hand lies in his great palm--occasionally he draws the blanket closer around her. she breathes hard; suddenly she gives a nervous start, then speaks quickly; her dreams are evidently troubled. true listens intently to her words, as she exclaims eagerly, "oh, don't! don't drown my kitty!" and then, again, in a voice of fear, "oh, she'll catch me! she'll catch me!" once more; and now her tones are touchingly plaintive and earnest--"dear, dear, good old man! let me stay with you; do let me stay!" tears are in trueman flint's eyes; he lays his great head on the pillow and draws gerty's little face close to his; at the same time smoothing her long, uncombed hair with his hand. he, too, is thinking aloud--what does _he_ say? "catch you!--no, she _shan't_! stay with _me_!--so you shall, i promise you, poor little birdie! all alone in this big world--and so am i. please god, we'll bide together." chapter iii. the law of kindness. little gerty had found a friend and a protector; and it was well she had, for neglect and suffering had well-nigh cut short her sad existence. the morning after true took her home, she woke in a high fever. she looked around, and found she was alone in the room; but there was a good fire, and preparation for breakfast. for a moment or two she was puzzled to know where she was, and what had happened to her; for the room seemed quite strange, it now being daylight. a smile passed over her face when she recalled the events of the previous night, and thought of kind old true, and the new home she had found with him. she went to the window to look out, though her head was giddy, and she could hardly walk. the ground was covered with snow, and which dazzled gerty's eyes, for she suddenly found herself quite blinded--her head grew dizzy, she staggered and fell. trueman came in a moment after, and was frightened at seeing gerty stretched upon the floor, and was not surprised that she had fainted in trying to walk. he placed her in bed, and soon succeeded in restoring her to consciousness; but for three weeks she never sat up, except when true held her in his arms. true was a rough and clumsy man about most things; but not so in the care of his little charge. he was something of a doctor and nurse in his simple way; and, though he had never had much to do with children, his warm heart taught him all that was necessary for gerty's comfort. gerty was patient; but would lie awake whole nights suffering from pain and weariness through long confinement to a sick-bed, without uttering a groan, lest she might waken true, who slept on the floor beside her, when he could so far forget his anxiety about her as to sleep at all. sometimes, when in great pain, true carried her in his arms for hours; but gerty would try to appear relieved before she was so, and feign sleep that he might put her to bed again and take some rest himself. her little heart was full of love and gratitude to her kind protector, and she spent much time in thinking what she could do for him when she got well. true was often obliged to leave her to attend to his work; and during the first week she was much alone, though everything she could possibly want was put within her reach. at last she became delirious, and for some days had no knowledge how she was taken care of. one day, after a long sleep, she woke restored to consciousness, and saw a woman sitting by her bedside sewing. she sprang up in bed to look at the stranger, who had not observed her open her eyes, but who started when she heard her move, and exclaimed, "oh, lie down, my child! lie down!" laying her hand gently upon her. "i don't know you," said gerty; "where's my uncle true?" for that was the name by which true had told her to call him. "he's gone out, dear; he'll be home soon. how do you feel--better?" "oh, yes! much better. have i been asleep long?" "some time; lie down now, and i'll bring you some gruel--it will be good for you." "does uncle true know you are here?" "yes. i came in to sit with you while he was away." "come in?--from where?" "from my room. i live in the other part of the house." "i think you're very good," said gerty. "i like you. i wonder why i did not see you when you came in." "you were too sick, dear, to notice; but i think you'll soon be better now." the woman prepared the gruel, and, after gerty had taken it, reseated herself at her work. gerty laid down in bed, with her face towards her new friend, and, fixing her large eyes upon her, watched her while she sat sewing. at last the woman looked up, and said, "well, what do you think i am making?" "i don't know," said gerty; "what are you?" the woman held up her work, so that gerty could see that it was a dark calico frock for a child. "oh! what a nice gown!" said gerty. "who it is for?--your little girl?" "no," said the woman, "i haven't got any little girl; i've only got one child, my boy willie." "willie; that's a pretty name," said gerty. "is he a good boy?" "good? he's the best boy in the world, and the handsomest!" answered the woman. gerty turned away, and a look so sad came over her countenance, that the woman thought she was getting tired, and ought to be kept very quiet. she told her so, and bade her to go to sleep again. gerty lay still, and then true came in. "oh, mrs. sullivan," said he, "you're here still! i'm very much obleeged to you for stayin'; i hadn't calkerlated to be gone so long. and how does the child seem to be, marm?" "much better, mr. flint. she's come to her reason, and i think, with care, will do well now. oh, she's awake," he added, seeing gerty open her eyes. true came to the bedside, stroked back her hair, now cut short, and felt her pulse, and nodded his head satisfactorily. gerty caught his great hand between both of hers, and held it tight. he sat down on the side of the bed, and said, "i shouldn't be surprised if she needed her new clothes sooner than we thought of, marm. it's my opinion we'll have her up and about afore many days." "so i was thinking," said mrs. sullivan; "but don't be in too great a hurry. she's had a very severe sickness, and her recovery must be gradual. did you see miss graham to-day?" "yes, i did see her, poor thing! the lord bless her sweet face! she axed a sight o' questions about little gerty here, and gave me this parcel of _arrer-root_, i think she called it. she says it's excellent in sickness. did you ever fix any, mrs. sullivan, so that you can jist show me how, if you'll be so good; for i declare i don't remember, though she took a deal o' pains to tell me." "oh, yes; it's very easy. i'll come in and prepare some by-and-by. i don't think gerty'll want any at present; she's just had some gruel. but father has come home, and i must be seeing about our tea. i'll come in again this evening, mr. flint." "thank you, marm, thank you; you're very kind." during the few following days mrs. sullivan came in and sat with gerty several times. she was a gentle woman, with a placid face, very refreshing to a child that had long lived in fear, and suffered a great deal of abuse. one evening, when gerty had nearly recovered, she was sitting in true's lap by the fire, carefully wrapped in a blanket. she had been talking to him about her new acquaintance and friend, when suddenly she said, "uncle true, do you know what little girl she's making a gown for?" "for a little girl," said true, "that needs a frock and a many other things; for she hasn't got any clothes, except a few old rags. do you know any such little girl, gerty?" "i guess i do," said gerty, with a very knowing look. "well, where is she?" "an't she in your lap?" "what, you!--why, do you think mrs. sullivan would spend her time making clothes for you?" "well," said gerty hanging her head, "i shouldn't _think_ she would, but then you _said_----" "well, what did i say?" "something about new clothes for me." "so i did," said true; "they _are_ for you--two whole suits, with shoes and stockings." gerty opened her large eyes in amazement, and clapped her hands, and true laughed too. "did she buy them, uncle true? is she rich?" asked gerty. "mrs. sullivan?--no, indeed!" said true. "miss graham bought 'em, and is going to pay mrs. sullivan for making them." "who is miss graham?" "she's a lady too good for this world--that's sartin. i'll tell you about her some time; but better not now, for it's time you were abed and asleep." one sabbath, after gerty was nearly well, she was so much fatigued that she went to bed before dark, and for three hours slept soundly. on awaking, she saw that true had company. an old man, much older than true, was sitting on the opposite side of the stove, smoking a pipe. his dress, though ancient and homely, was neat; and his hair was white. he had sharp features, and gerty thought from his looks he could say sharp things. she rightly conjectured that he was mrs. sullivan's father, mr. cooper; and she did not widely differ from most other people who knew the old church-sexton. but both his own face and public opinion somewhat wronged him. his nature was not a genial one. domestic trials, and the fickleness of fortune, had caused him to look on the dark side of life--to dwell upon its sorrows, and frown upon the bright hopes of the young and the gay. his occupation did not counteract a disposition to melancholy; his duties in the church were solitary, and in his old age he had little intercourse with the world, had become severe toward its follies, and unforgiving toward its crimes. there was much that was good and benevolent in him, however; and true flint knew it. true liked the old man's sincerity; and many a sabbath evening had they sat by that same fireside, and discussed questions of public policy, national institutions, and individual rights. trueman flint was the reverse of paul cooper in disposition and temper, being very sanguine, always disposed to look upon the bright side of things, and ever averring that it was his opinion 'twould all come out right at last. on this evening they had been talking on several of such topics; but when gerty awoke she found herself the subject of conversation. "where," asked mr. cooper, "did you say you picked her up?" "at nan grant's," said true. "don't you remember her? she's the same woman whose son you were called up to witness against, at the time the church-windows were broken. you can't have forgotten her at the trial, cooper; for she blew you up with a vengeance, and didn't spare his honour the judge either. well, 'twas just such a rage she was in with this 'ere child the first time i saw her; and the _second_ time she'd just turned her out o' doors." "ah, yes, i remember the she-bear. i shouldn't suppose she'd be any too gentle to her own child, much less a stranger's; but what are you going to do with the foundling, flint?" "do with her?--keep her, to be sure, and take care on her." cooper laughed rather sarcastically. "well, now, i s'pose, neighbour, you think it's rather freakish in me to be adoptin' a child at my time o' life; and pr'haps it is; but i'll explain. she'd a died that night i tell yer on, if i hadn't brought her home with me; and many times since, what's more, if i, with the help o' your darter, hadn't took good care on her. well, she took on so in her sleep, the first night ever she came, and cried out to me all as if she never had a friend afore (and probably she never had), that i resolved then she should stay, at any rate, and i'd take care on her, and share my last crust with the wee thing, come what might. the lord's been very marciful to me, mr. cooper, very marciful! he's raised me up friends in my deep distress. i knew, when i was a little shaver, what a lonesome thing it was to be fatherless and motherless; and when i see this little sufferin' human bein' i felt as if, all friendless as she seemed, she was more specially the lord's, and as if i could not sarve him more, and ought not to sarve him less, than to share with her the blessings he had bestowed on me. you look round, neighbour, as if you thought 'twan't much to share with any one; and 'tan't much there is here, to be sure; but it's a _home_,--yes, a _home_; and that's a great thing to her that never had one. i've got my hands yet, and a stout heart, and a willin' mind. with god's help, i'll be a father to the child; and the time may come when she'll be god's embodied blessin' to me." mr. cooper shook his head doubtfully, and muttered something about children, even one's own, not being apt to prove blessings. trueman added, "oh, neighbour cooper, if i had not made up my mind the night gerty came here, i wouldn't have sent her away after the next day; for the lord, i think, spoke to me by the mouth of one of his holy angels, and bade me persevere in my resolution. you've seen miss graham. she goes to your church regular, with the fine old gentleman her father. i was at their house shovelling snow, after the great storm three weeks since, and she sent for me to come into the kitchen. well may i bless her angel face, poor thing!--if the world is dark to her she makes it light to other folks. she cannot see heaven's sunshine outside, but she's better off than most people, for she's got it in her, i do believe, and when she smiles it lets the glory out, and looks like god's rainbow in the clouds. she's done me many a kindness since i got hurt so bad in her father's store, now five years gone; and she sent for me that day, to ask how i did, and if there was anything i wanted that she could speak to the master about. so i told her all about little gerty; and, i tell you, she and i both cried 'fore i'd done. she put some money into my hand, and told me to get mrs. sullivan to make some clothes for gerty; more than that, she promised to help me if i got into trouble with the care of her; and when i was going away, she said, 'i'm sure you've done quite right, true; the lord will bless and reward your kindness to that poor child.'" true was so excited that he did not notice what the sexton had observed. gerty had risen from her bed and was standing beside true, her eyes fixed upon his face, breathless with the interest she felt in his words. she touched his shoulder; he looked round, saw her, and stretched out his arms. she sprang into them, buried her face in his bosom, and, bursting into tears, exclaimed, "shall i stay with you always?" "yes, just as long as i live," said true, "you shall be my child." chapter iv. first steps to improvement. it was a stormy evening. gerty was standing at the window, watching for true's returning from his lamplighting. she was neatly dressed, her hair smooth, her face and hands clean. she was now quite well--better than for years before her sickness; a pale, slender-looking child, with eyes and mouth disproportionately large to her other features; her look of suffering had given place to a happy though rather grave expression. on the wide window-sill in front of her sat a plump and venerable cat, parent to gerty's lost darling, and for that reason very dear to her; she was quietly stroking its back, while the constant purring that the old veteran kept up proved her satisfaction at the arrangement. suddenly a rumbling, tumbling sound was heard in the wall. the house was old, and furnished with ample accommodation for rats. one would have thought a chimney was falling brick by brick. but it did not alarm gerty; she was used to rat-inhabited walls, and accustomed to hearing such sounds all her life, when she slept in the garret at nan grant's. not so, however, with the ancient grimalkin, who pricked up her ears, and gave every sign of a disposition to rush into battle. gerty glanced round the room with an air of satisfaction; then, clambering upon the window-sill, where she could see the lamplighter as he entered the gate, she took the cat in her arms, smoothed her dress, and gave a look of pride at her shoes and stockings, and strove to become patient. but it would not do; she could not be patient; it seemed to her that he never came so late before, and she was beginning to think he never would come at all, when he turned into the gate. he had brought some person with him. he did not look tall enough to be mr. cooper, but she concluded it must be he, for whoever it was stopped at his door further up the yard and went it. impatient as gerty had been for true's arrival, she did not run to meet him as usual, but waited until she heard him come in through the shed, where he was in the habit of stopping to hang up his ladder and lantern. she then ran and hid behind the door by which he must enter the room. she evidently had some great surprise in store for him. the cat was more mindful of her manners, and went to meet him, rubbing her head against his legs, which was her customary welcome. "hollo, whiskers," said true, "where's my little gal?" he shut the door behind him as he spoke, thus disclosing gerty to view. she sprang forward with a bound, laughed, and looked first at her own clothes and then in true's face, to see what he would think of her appearance. "well, i declare!" said he, lifting her up in his arms, and carrying her nearer to the light; "little folks do look famous! new frock, apron, shoes! got 'em all on! and who fixed your hair? my! you an't none too handsome, sartain, but you do look famous nice!" "mrs. sullivan dressed me all up, and brushed my hair; and _more too_--don't you see what _else_ she has done?" true followed gerty's eyes as they wandered around the room. he looked amazed to satisfy her anticipations, great as they had been. he had been gone since morning, and things had indeed undergone a transformation. woman's hands had evidently been at work clearing up and setting to rights. until gerty came to live with true his home had never been subjected to female intrusion. living alone, and entertaining scarcely any visitors, he tried to make himself comfortable in his own way, regardless of appearances. in his humble apartment sweeping day came but seldom, and spring-cleaning was unknown. the corners of the ceiling were festooned with cob-webs; the mantle-piece had accumulated a curious medley of things, while there was no end to the rubbish that had collected under the grate. during gerty's illness, a bed made up on the floor for true, and the various articles required in her sick-room, had increased the clutter to such an extent that one almost needed a pilot to conduct him in safety through the apartment. mrs. sullivan was the soul of neatness in her rooms, in her own dress for simplicity, and freedom from the least speck or stain. it was to nurse gerty, and take care of her in true's absence, that she first entered a room the reverse of her own; the contrast was painful to her, and it would have been a real pleasure to clear up and put it to rights; and she resolved as soon as gerty got well, to exert herself in the cause of cleanliness and order, which was, in her eyes, the cause of virtue and happiness, so completely did she identify outward neatness and purity with inward peace. on the day previous to that on which the great cleaning operations took place, gerty was observed by mrs. sullivan standing in the passage near her door, and looking wistfully in. "come in, gerty," said the kind little woman; "come in and see me.--here," added she, seeing how timid the child felt in intruding into a strange room; "you may sit up here by the table and see me iron. this is your little dress. i am smoothing it out, and then your things will all be done! you'll be glad of some new clothes, shan't you?" "very glad, marm," said gerty. "am i to take them away, and keep them all myself?" "yes, indeed," said mrs. sullivan. "i don't know where i'll put 'em all; there an't no place in our room--at least, no very nice place," said gerty, glancing at the open drawer, in which mrs. sullivan was placing the little dress, adding it to a pile of neatly-folded garments. "why, part of them, you know, you'll be wearing," said mrs. sullivan; "and we must find some good place for the rest." "you've got good places for things," said gerty, looking round the room; "this is a beautiful room." "why, it isn't very different from mr. flint's. it's just the same size, and two front windows like his. my cupboard is the best; yours is only a three-cornered one; but that's all the difference." "oh, but yours don't look a bit like ours. you haven't got any bed here, and all the chairs stand in a row, and the table shines, and the floor is so clean, and the stove is new, and the sun comes in so bright! i wish our room was like this! i think ours is not half so big. why, uncle true stumbled over the tongs this morning, and he said there wasn't room to swing a cat." "where were the tongs?" said mrs. sullivan. "about the middle of the floor, marm." "well, you see i don't keep things in the middle of the floor. i think if your room were all cleaned up, and places found for everything, it would look almost as well as mine." "i wish it could be made as nice," said gerty; "but what could be done with those beds?" "i've been thinking about that. there's that little pantry--or bathing-room, i think it must have been when this house was new, and rich people lived in it; that's large enough to hold a small bedstead and a chair or two; 'twould be quite a comfortable little chamber for you. the rubbish in it might just as well be thrown away." "oh, that'll be nice!" said gerty; "then uncle true can have his bed back again, and i'll sleep on the floor in there." "no," said mrs. sullivan; "you shan't sleep on the floor. i've got a very good little cross-legged bedstead that my willie slept on when he lived at home; and i'll lend it to you, if you'll take good care of it and of everything else that is put into your room." "oh, i will," said gerty. "but can i?" added she, hesitating; "do you think i can? i don't know how to do anything." "you never have been taught to do anything, my child; but a girl eight years old can do many things if she is patient and tries to learn. i could teach you to do a great deal that would be useful, and that would help your uncle true very much." "what could i do?" "you could sweep the room every day, you could make the beds, with a little help in turning them; you could set the table, toast the bread, and wash the dishes. perhaps you would not do these things so well at first; but you would keep improving, and get to be a nice little housekeeper." "oh, i wish i could do something for uncle true!" said gerty; "but how could i ever begin?" "in the first place, you must have things cleaned up for you. if i thought mr. flint would like it, i'd get kate m'carty to come in some day and help us; and i think we could greatly improve his home." "oh, i know he'd like it," said gerty; "'twould be grand! may i help?" "yes, you may do what you can; but kate'll be the best hand; she's strong, and knows how to do cleaning very well." "who's she?" said gerty. "kate?--she's mrs. m'carty's daughter in the next house. mr. flint does them many a good turn--saws wood, and so on. they do most of his washing; but they can't half pay him all the kindness he's done that family. kate's a clever girl; she'll be glad to come and work for him any day. i'll ask her." "will she come to-morrow?" "perhaps she will." "uncle true's going to be gone all day to-morrow," said gerty; "he's going to get in mr. eustace's coal. wouldn't it be a good time?" "very," said mrs. sullivan. "i'll try and get kate to come to-morrow." kate came. the room was thoroughly cleaned and put in order. gerty's new clothes were delivered to her own keeping; she was neatly dressed in one suit, the other placed in a little chest found in the pantry, and which accommodated her small wardrobe very well. it was the result of mrs. sullivan's, kate's, and gerty's combined labour which astonished true on his return from his work; and the pleasure he manifested made the day a memorable one in gerty's life, one to be marked in her memory as long as she lived, as being the first in which she had known _that_ happiness--perhaps the highest earth, affords--of feeling that she had been instrumental in giving joy to another. gerty had entered heart and soul into the work, when she had been allowed. she could say with truth, "_we_ did it--mrs. sullivan, kate, and _i_." none but a loving heart like mrs. sullivan's would have sympathized in the feeling which made gerty so eager to help. but _she_ did, and allotted to her many little services, which the child felt herself more blessed in being permitted to perform than she would have done at almost any gift bestowed upon her. she led true about to show him how cleverly mrs. sullivan had made the most of the room and the furniture; how, by moving the bed into a recess, she had reserved the whole square-area, and made a parlour of it. it was some time before he could be made to believe that half of his property had not been spirited away, so incomprehensible was it to him that so much additional space and comfort could be acquired by a little system. but his astonishment and gerty's delight reached their climax when she took him into the lumber-closet, now transformed into a snug and comfortable bed-room. "well, i declare! well, i declare!" was all the old man could say. he sat down beside the stove, now polished, and made, as gerty declared, new, just like mrs. sullivan's; warmed his hands, for they were cold with being out in the frosty evening, and then took a general view of his reformed domicile, and of gerty, who was about to set the table, and toast the bread for supper. standing on a chair, she was taking down the cups and saucers from among the regular rows of dishes shining in three-cornered cupboard, being deposited on the lower shelf, where she could reach them from the floor, a plate containing some smoothly cut slices of bread, which the thoughtful mrs. sullivan had prepared for her. true watched her motions for a minute or two, and then indulged in a short soliloquy. "mrs. sullivan's a clever woman, sartain, and they've made my old house here complete, and gerty's getting to be like the apple of my eye, and i'm as happy a man as----" chapter v. where is heaven? here true was interrupted by a sudden and unceremonious opening of the door. "here, uncle true, here's your package. you forgot all about it, i guess; and i forgot it, too, till mother saw it on the table, where i'd laid it down. i was so taken up with just coming home, you know." "of course--of course!" said true. "much obleeged to you, willie, for fetchin' it for me. it's brittle stuff it's made of, and most likely i should have smashed it 'fore i got it home." "what is it?--i've been wondering." "why, it's a little knick-knack i've brought home for gerty here, that----" "willie! willie!" called mrs. sullivan from the opposite room, "have you been to tea, dear?" "no, indeed, mother; have you?" "why, yes; but i'll get you some." "no, no," said true; "stay and take tea with us, willie; take tea here, my boy. my little gerty is making some famous toast, and i'll have the tea presently." "so i will," said willie! "no matter about any supper for me, mother, i'm going to have my tea here with uncle true. come, now, let's see what's in the bundle; but first i want to see little gerty; mother's been telling me about her. where is she? has she got well? she's been very sick, hasn't she?" "oh, yes, she's nicely now," said true. "here, gerty, look here. why, where is she?" "there she is, hiding behind the settle," said willie, laughing. "she ain't afraid of me, is she?" "well, i didn't know as she was shy," said true; "you silly little girl," added he, "come out here and see willie. this is willie sullivan." "i don't want to see him," said gerty. "don't want to see willie!" said true; "why, you don't know what you're sayin'. willie's the best boy that ever was; i 'spect you and he'll be great friends by-and-by." "he won't like me," said gerty; "i know he won't." "why shan't i like you?" said willie, approaching the corner where gerty had hid herself. her face was covered with her hands. "i guess i shall like you first-rate when i see you." he stooped down, and, taking her hands from her face and holding them in his own, he fixed his eyes full upon her, and pleasantly said, "how are you, cousin gerty--how do you do?" "i an't your cousin!" said gerty. "yes, you are," said willie; "uncle true's your uncle, and mine too!--so we're cousins--don't you see?--and i want to get acquainted." gerty could not resist willie's good-natured words and manner. she suffered him to draw her out of the corner towards the lighter end of the room. as she came near the lamp, she tried to free her hands in order to cover her face up again; but willie would not let her, and, attracting her attention to the unopened package, he succeeded in diverting her thoughts from herself, and in a few minutes she was quite at her ease. "there, uncle true says it's for you," said willie; "and i can't think what 'tis, can you?" gerty felt, and looked wonderingly in true's face. "undo it, willie," said true. willie produced a knife, cut the string, took off the paper, and disclosed one of those white plaster images, so familiar to every one, representing the little samuel in an attitude of devotion. "oh, how pretty!" exclaimed gerty, full of delight. "why didn't i think?" said willie; "i might have known what 'twas by feeling." "why! did you ever see it before?" said gerty. "not this same one; but i've seen lots just like it." "have you?" said gerty. "i never did. i think it's the beautifullest thing that ever was. uncle true, did you say it was for me? where did you get it?" "it was by an accident i got it. a few minutes before i met you, willie, i was stoppin' at the corner to light my lamp, when i saw one of those _furrin_ boys with a sight o' these things, and some black ones too, all set up on a board, and he was walking with 'em a-top of his head. i was just a wonderin how he kept 'em there, when he hit the board agin my lamp-post, and the first thing i knew, whack they all went! he'd spilt them everyone. lucky enough for him, there was a great bank of soft snow close to the side-walk, and the most of 'em fell into that and wasn't hurt. some went on to the bricks, and were smashed. well, i kind o' pitied the feller; for it was late, and i thought like enough he hadn't had much luck sellin' of 'em, to have so many left on his hands----" "on his head, you mean," said willie. "yes, master willie, or on the snow," said true; "any way you've a mind to have it." "and i know what you did, uncle true, just as well as if i'd seen you," said willie; "you set your ladder and lantern right down, and helped him to pick 'em all up--that's just what you'd be sure to do for anybody." "this feller, willie, didn't wait for me to get into trouble; he made return right off. when they were all set right, he bowed and scraped, and touched his hat to me, as if i'd been the biggest gentleman in the land; talkin,' too, he was, all the time, though i couldn't make out a word of his lingo; and then he insisted on my takin' one o' the figurs. i wasn't agoin' to take it, for i didn't want it; but i happened to think little gerty might like it." "oh, i shall like it!" said gerty. "i shall like it better than--no, not better, but almost _as well_ as my kitten; not _quite_ as well, because that was alive, and this isn't; but _almost_. oh, an't he a cunning boy?" true, finding that gerty was wholly taken up with the image, walked away and began to get the tea, leaving the two children to entertain each other. "you must take care and not break it, gerty," said willie. "we had a samuel once, just like it, in the shop; and i dropped it out of my hand on to the counter, and broke it into a million pieces." "what did you call it?" asked gerty. "a samuel; they're all samuels." "what are _sammles_?" inquired gerty. "why, that's the name of the child they're taken for." "what do you s'pose he's sittin' on his knee for?" willie laughed. "why, don't you know?" said he. "no," said gerty; "what is he?" "he's praying," said willie. "is that what he's got his eyes turned up for, too?" "yes, of course; he looks up to heaven when he prays." "up to where?" "to heaven." gerty looked up at the ceiling in the direction in which the eyes were turned, then at the figure. she seemed very much dissatisfied and puzzled. "why, gerty," said willie, "i shouldn't think you knew what praying was." "i don't," said gerty; "tell me." "don't you ever pray--pray to god?" "no, i don't.--who is god? where is god?" willie looked inexpressibly shocked at gerty's ignorance, and answered reverently, "god is in heaven, gerty." "i don't know where that is," said gerty. "i believe i don't know nothin' about it." "i shouldn't think you did," said willie. "i _believe_ heaven is up in the sky; but my sunday-school teacher says, 'heaven is anywhere where goodness is,' or some such thing," he said. "are the stars in heaven?" asked gerty. "they look so, don't they?" said willie. "they're in the sky, where i always used to think heaven was." "i should like to go to heaven," said gerty. "perhaps, if you're good, you will go some time." "can't any but good folks go?" "no." "then i can't ever go," said gerty, mournfully. "why not?" asked willie; "an't you good." "oh no! i'm very bad." "what a queer child!" said willie. "what makes you think yourself so very bad?" "oh, i _am_," said gerty, in a very sad tone; "i'm the worst of all. i'm the worst child in the world." "who told you so?" "everybody. nan grant says so, and she says everybody thinks so; i know it too, myself." "is nan grant the cross old woman you used to live with?" "yes. how did you know she was cross?" "oh, my mother's been telling me about her. well, i want to know if she didn't send you to school, or teach you anything?" gerty shook her head. "why, what lots you've got to learn! what did you used to do when you lived there?" "nothing." "never did anything; don't know anything; my gracious!" "yes, i do know one thing," said gerty. "i know how to toast bread;--your mother taught me;--she let me toast some by the fire." as she spoke, she thought of her own neglected toast, and turned towards the stove; but she was too late--the toast was made, the supper ready, and true was just putting it on the table. "oh, uncle true," said she, "i meant to get the tea." "i know it," said true, "but it's no matter; you can get it to-morrow." the tears came into gerty's eyes; she looked very much disappointed, but said nothing. they all sat down to supper. willie put the samuel in the middle of the table for a centre ornament, and told so many funny stories that gerty laughed heartily, forgot that she did not make the toast herself, forgot her sadness, and showed herself, for once, a merry child. after tea, she sat beside willie on the great settle, and, in her peculiar way, gave him a description of her life at nan grant's, winding up with a touching account of the death of her kitten. the two children were in a fair way to become as good friends as true could possibly wish. true sat on the opposite side of the stove, smoking his pipe; his elbows on his knees, his eyes bent on the children, and his ears drinking in all their conversation. he laughed when they laughed; took long whiffs at his pipe when they talked quietly; ceased smoking entirely, letting his pipe rest on his knee, and secretly wiping away a tear, when gerty recounted her childish griefs. he often heard it afterwards, but never _without crying_. after gerty had closed her tale of sorrows, she sat for a moment without speaking, then becoming excited, as her ungoverned and easily roused nature dwelt upon its wrongs, she burst forth in a very different tone, and began uttering the most bitter invectives against nan grant. the child's language expressed unmitigated hatred, and even a hope of future revenge. true looked troubled at hearing her talk so angrily. since he brought her home he had never witnessed such a display of temper, and had fondly believed that she would always be as quiet and gentle as during her illness and the few weeks subsequent to it. true's own disposition was so amiable and forgiving, that he could not imagine that anyone, and especially a little child, should long retain feelings of anger and bitterness. gerty had shown herself so mild and patient since she had been with him, that it had never occurred to him to dread any difficulty in the management of the child. now, however, as he observed her flashing eyes, and noticed the doubling of her little fist as she menaced nan with her future wrath, he had an undefined, half-formed presentiment of coming trouble in the control of his little charge. for the moment she ceased, in his eyes, to be the pet and plaything he had hitherto considered her. he saw in her something which needed a check, and felt himself unfit to apply it. he _was_ totally unfit to cope with a spirit like gerty's. it was true he possessed over her one mighty influence--her strong affection for him, which he could not doubt. it was that which made her so submissive and patient in her sickness, so grateful for his care and kindness, so anxious to do something in return. it was that love, illumined by a higher light, which came in time to sanctify it, that gave her, while yet a mere girl, a woman's courage, a woman's strength of heart and self-denial. it was that which cheered the old man's latter years, and shed joy on his dying bed. willie tried once or twice to stop the current of her abusive language; but soon desisted, for she did not pay the least attention to him. he could not help smiling at her childish wrath, nor could he resist sympathising with her in a degree. but he was conscious that gerty was exhibiting a very hot temper, and began to understand what made everybody think her so bad. after gerty had railed about nan a little while, she stopped of her own accord; though an unpleasant look remained on her countenance. it soon passed away, however; and when, a little later in the evening, mrs. sullivan appeared at the door, gerty looked bright and happy, listened with evident delight while true uttered warm expressions of thanks for the labour which had been undertaken in his behalf, and, when willie went away with his mother, said her good night, and asked him to come again so pleasantly, and her eyes looked so bright, that willie said, as soon as they were out of hearing, "she's a queer little thing, an't she, mother? but i kind o' like her." chapter vi. the first prayer. it would have been difficult to find two children of the poorer class whose situations in life had presented a greater contrast than those of gerty and willie. gerty was a neglected orphan; she had received little of that care, and still less of that love, which willie had enjoyed. mrs. sullivan's husband was an intelligent country clergyman; but as he died when willie was a baby, leaving little property for the support of his family, the widow and her child went home to her father. the old man needed his daughter; for death had made sad inroads in his household since she left it, and he was alone. from that time the three had lived together in humble comfort, for, though poor, industry and frugality secured them from want. willie was his mother's pride, her hope, her constant thought. she spared no care to provide for his physical comfort, his happiness, and his education and virtue. she might well be proud of a boy whose uncommon beauty, winning disposition, and early evidences of a noble nature, won him friends even among strangers. it was his broad, open forehead, the clearness and calmness of his full grey eye, the expressive mouth, so determined and yet so mild, the well-developed figure and ruddy complexion, proclaiming high health, which gave promise of power to the future man. no one could have been in the boy's company half an hour without loving and admiring him. he had a warm-hearted, affectionate disposition, which his mother's love and the world's smiles had fostered; an unusual flow of animal spirits, tempered by a natural politeness towards his superiors; a quick apprehension; a ready command of language; and a sincere sympathy in others' pleasures and pains. he was fond of study, and until his twelfth year his mother kept him constantly at school. at that time he had an opportunity to enter into the service of an apothecary, who did an extensive business, and wanted a boy to assist in the shop. the wages offered by mr. bray were not great, but there was a prospect of an increased salary; and it was not a chance to be overlooked. fond as he was of his books, he had long been eager to be at work, helping to bear the burden of labour in the family. his mother and grandfather consented to the plan, and he gladly accepted mr. bray's proposals. he was sadly missed at home; for, as he slept at his employer's during the week, he rarely could make a passing visit to his mother, except on saturday, when he came home at night and passed sunday. so saturday night was mrs. sullivan's happy night, and the sabbath became a more blessed day than ever. when willie reached his mother's room on the evening of which we have been speaking, he sat down with her and mr. cooper, and for an hour conversation was brisk with them. willie had always much to relate concerning the occurrences of the week. mrs. sullivan was interested in everything that interested willie, and it was easy to see that the old grandfather was more entertained by the boy than he was willing to appear; for though he sat with his eyes upon the floor, and did not seem to listen, he usually heard all that was said. he seldom made comments, but would occasionally utter an impatient or contemptuous expression regarding individuals or the world in general; thereby evidencing want of confidence in men's honesty and virtue, and this formed a marked trait in his character. willie's spirits would receive a momentary check, for _he_ loved and trusted _everybody_. willie did not fear his grandfather, who had never been severe to him, or interfered with mrs. sullivan's management; but he sometimes felt chilled, though he hardly knew why, by his want of sympathy with his own warm-heartedness. on the present occasion the conversation turned upon true flint and his adopted child. mr. cooper had been unusually bitter, and, as he took his lamp to go to bed, declared that gerty would never be anything but a trouble to flint, who was a fool not to send her to the almshouse at once. there was a pause after the old man left the room; then willie exclaimed, "mother, what makes grandfather hate folks?" "why, he don't, willie." "i don't mean exactly _hate_--i don't suppose he does _that, quite_; but he don't seem to think a great deal of anybody--do you think he does?" "oh yes; he does not show it much," said mrs. sullivan, "but he thinks a great deal of you, willie, and he wouldn't have anything happen to me for the world; and he likes mr. flint, and----" "oh yes; but i don't mean that; he doesn't think there's much goodness in folks, nor to think anybody's going to turn out well, and----" "you're thinking of what he said about little gerty." "well, she an't the only one. that's what made me speak of it now, but i've often noticed it before, particularly since i went away from home, and am only here once a week. now i think everything of mr. bray; and when i was telling how much good he did, and how kind he was to old mrs. morris and her sick daughter, grandfather looked just as if he didn't believe it, or didn't think much of it." "oh, well, willie, you mustn't wonder much at that. grandpa's had many disappointments. you know he thought everything of uncle richard, and there was no end to the trouble he had with him; and there was aunt sarah's husband--he seemed to be such a fine fellow when sally married him, but he cheated father at last, so that he had to mortgage his house in high street, and finally gave it up entirely. he's dead now, and i don't want to say anything against him; but he didn't prove what we expected, and it broke sally's heart. that was a dreadful trial to father, for she was the youngest, and his pet. and just after that, mother was taken down with her death-stroke, and a quack doctor prescribed for her, and father always thought that did her more hurt than good. so that he has had a great deal to make him look on the dark side now, but you mustn't mind it, willie; you must take care and turn out well yourself, my son, and then he'll be proud enough; he's as pleased as he can be when he hears you praised, and expects great things of you one of these days." here the conversation ended; but willie added another to his many resolves, that, if his health and strength were spared, he would prove to his grandfather that hopes were not always deceitful, and that fears were sometimes groundless. oh, what a glorious thing it is for a youth when he has ever present with him a high, a noble, and unselfish motive! what an incentive to exertion, perseverance, and self-denial! fears that would otherwise appal, discouragements that would dishearten, labours that would weary, opposition that would crush, temptation that would overcome, all, all lie powerless, when, with a single-hearted and worthy aim, he struggles for the victory! persons born in wealth and luxury seldom achieve greatness. they were not born for labour; and, without labour, nothing that is worth having can be won. a motive willie had long had. his grandfather was old, his mother weak, and both poor. he must be the staff of their old age; must labour for their support and comfort; he must do _more_:--they hoped great things of him; they _must_ not be disappointed. he did not, however, while arming himself for future conflict with the world, forget the present, but sat down and learned his sunday-school lessons. after which, according to custom, he read aloud in the bible; and then mrs. sullivan, laying her hand on the head of her son, offered up a simple, heart-felt prayer for the boy--one of those mother's prayers which the child listens to with reverence and love, and remembers for life. after willie went home that evening, and gerty was left alone with true, she sat beside him for some time without speaking. her eyes were intently fixed upon the white image which lay in her lap. true was not the first to speak; but finding gerty unusually quiet, he looked inquiringly in her face, and said--"well, willie's a pretty clever sort of a boy, isn't he?" gerty answered "yes" without, however, seeming to know what she was saying. "you like him, don't you?" said true. "very much," said gerty, in the same absent way. it was not willie she was thinking of. true waited for gerty to talk about her new acquaintance; but she did not speak for a minute or two. then looking up suddenly, she said--"uncle true, what does samuel pray to god for?" true stared. "samuel!--pray!--i guess i don't know exactly what you're saying." "why," said gerty, holding up the image, "willie says this little boy's name is samuel; and that he sits on his knees, and puts his hands on his breast _so_, and looks up, because he's praying to god, that lives up in the sky. i don't know what he means--_way_ up in the sky--do you?" true took the image and looked at it attentively; scratched his head, and said--"well, i s'pose he's about right. this 'ere child is prayin', sartain, though i didn't think on it afore. but i don't jist know what he calls it a samuel for. we'll ask him sometime." "well, what does he pray for, uncle true?" "oh, he prays to make him good: it makes folks good to pray to god." "can god make folks good?" "yes. god is very great; he can do anything." "how can he _hear_?" "he hears and sees everything in the world." "and does he live in the sky?" "yes," said true--"in heaven." many more questions gerty asked, which true could not answer; many questions that he had never asked himself. true had a humble, loving heart, and a child-like faith; he had enjoyed but little religious instruction, but he earnestly tried to live up to the light he had. true had never inquired into the sources of belief, and he was not prepared to answer the questions suggested by the inquisitive mind of little gerty. he answered her as well as he could, however; and, where he was at fault, referred her to willie, who, he told her, went to sunday-school, and knew a great deal about such things. all the information that gerty could gain amounted to the knowledge of these facts: that god was in heaven; that his power was great; and that people were made better by prayer. but her mind was so intent upon the subject, that the thought even of sleeping in her new room could not efface it. after she had gone to bed, with the white image hugged close to her bosom, and true had taken away the lamp, she lay for a long time with her eyes wide open. just at the foot of the bed was the window. the sky was bright with stars; and they revived her old wonder and curiosity as to the author of such distant and brilliant lights. as she gazed, there darted through her mind the thought, "god lit them! oh, how great he must be! but a _child_ might pray to him!" she rose from her little bed, approached the window, and, falling on her knees and clasping her hands precisely in the attitude of samuel, she looked up to heaven. she spoke no word, but her eyes glistened with a tear that stood in each. was not each tear a prayer? she breathed no petition, but she longed for god and virtue. was not that very wish a prayer? her little, uplifted heart throbbed vehemently. was not each throb a prayer? and did not god in heaven, without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, hear and accept that first homage of a little, untaught child; and did it not call a blessing down? chapter vii. treasured wrongs. "revenge, at first though sweet, bitter ere long back on itself recoils."--milton. the next day was sunday. true generally went to church half the day at least, with the sexton's family; but gerty having no bonnet could not go, and true would not leave her. so they spent the morning wandering round among the wharves and looking at the ships, gerty wearing her old shawl over her head. willie came in the evening to say good-bye before returning to mr. bray's. he was in a hurry, for his master had his doors closed early, especially on a sunday night. but mr. cooper made his usual visit; and when he had gone, true, finding gerty sound asleep on the settle, thought it a pity to wake her, and laid her in bed with her clothes on. she did not wake until morning; and then, surprised and amused at finding herself dressed, ran out to ask true how it happened. true was making the fire; and gerty having been told all about it, helped to get the breakfast ready, and to put the room in order. she followed mrs. sullivan's instructions, and in a few weeks she learned to make herself useful in many ways, and, as mrs. sullivan had prophesied, gave promise of becoming a clever little housekeeper. her active and willing feet saved true many steps, and she was of essential aid in keeping the rooms neat, that being her especial ambition. mrs. sullivan looked in occasionally, to praise and assist her; and nothing made gerty happier than learning how to do some new thing. she met with a few trials and discouragements, to be sure. kate m'carty thought her the smartest child in the world, and would oft come in and wash the floor, or do some other work which required more strength than gerty possessed. one sunday gerty, who had a nice little hood, bought by true, was returning with mr. cooper, mr. flint, and willie, from the afternoon service at church. the two old men were engaged in discussion, and the children talked earnestly about the church, the minister, the people, and the music, all of which were new to gerty, and greatly excited her wonder. as they drew near home, willie remarked how dark it was growing in the streets; and then, looking down at gerty, whom he held by the hand, he said, "gerty, do you ever go out with uncle true, and see him light the lamps?" "no, i never did," said gerty, "since the first night i came. i've wanted, but it's been so cold, he would not let me; he said i'd have the fever again." "it won't be cold this evening," said willie; "it'll be a beautiful night; and, if uncle true's willing, we will go with him. i've often been; you can look into the windows and see folks drinking tea, and sitting round the fire in their parlours." "and i like to see him light those great lamps," said gerty; "they make it look so bright and beautiful all around. i hope he'll let us go; i'll ask him; come," said she, pulling him by the hand. "no--wait," said willie; "he's busy talking with grandpa--we can ask him at home." as soon as they reached the gate she broke away from him, and, rushing up to true, made known her request. he readily consented, and the three soon started on the rounds. for a time gerty's attention was so engrossed by the lamplighting that she could see and enjoy nothing else. but when they reached the corner of the street, and came in sight of a large apothecary's shop, her delight knew no bounds. the brilliant colours displayed in the windows captivated her fancy; and when willie told her that his master's shop was similar she thought it must be a fine place to spend one's life in. then she wondered why this was open on sunday, when all the other stores were closed, and willie, stopping to explain, they found that true was some distance in advance. he hurried gerty along, telling her that they were now in the finest street they should pass through, and they must haste, for they had nearly reached the house he most wanted her to see. when they came up with true, he was placing his ladder against a post opposite a fine block of buildings. many of the front windows were shaded, so that the children could not see in; but some had no curtains, or they had not yet been drawn. in one parlour there was a pleasant wood-fire, around which a group were gathered; and here gerty would fain have lingered. in another, a brilliant chandelier was lit, and though the room was vacant, the furniture was so showy, and the whole so brilliant, that the child clapped her hands in delight, and willie could not prevail upon her to leave the spot, until he told her that farther down the street was another house, equally attractive, where she would perhaps see some beautiful children. "how do you know there'll be children there?" said she, as they walked along. "i don't know, certainly," said willie; "but i think there will. they used always to be up at the window when i came with uncle true, last winter." "how many?" asked gerty. "three, i believe; there was one little girl with such beautiful curls, and such a sweet, cunning little face. she looked like a wax doll, only a great deal prettier." "oh, i hope we shall see her!" said gerty, dancing along on the tops of her toes. "there they are!" exclaimed willie; "all three, i declare, just as they used to be!" "where?" said gerty; "where?" "over opposite, in the great stone house. here, let's cross over. it's muddy; i'll carry you." willie lifted gerty carefully over the mud, and they stood in front of the house. true had not yet come up. it was he that the children were watching for. gerty was not the only child that loved to see the lamps lit. it was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could not see any one out of doors; but willie and gerty had so much better chance to look in. the mansion was a fine one, evidently the home of wealth. a clear coal fire, and a bright lamp in the centre of the room, shed abroad their cheerful blaze. rich carpets, deeply-tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames, and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave gerty her first impressions of luxurious life. there was an air of comfort combined with all this elegance, which made it still more fascinating to the child of poverty and want. a table was bountifully spread for tea; the cloth of snow-white damask, the shining plate, above all, the home-like hissing tea-kettle, had a most inviting look. a gentleman in gay slippers was in an easy chair by the fire; a lady in a gay cap was superintending a servant-girl's arrangements at the tea-table; and the children of the household, smiling and happy, were crowded together on a window-seat, looking out, as we have just narrated. they were sweet, lovely-looking little creatures; especially a girl, of the same age as gerty, the eldest of the three. her fair hair fell in long ringlets over a neck as white as snow; she had blue eyes, a cherub face, and a little round plump figure. gerty's admiration and rapture were such, that she could find no expression for them, and directing willie's notice first to one thing and then another; "oh, willie, isn't she a darling? and see what a beautiful fire--what a splendid lady! what is that on the table? i guess it's good! there's a big looking-glass; and oh, willie! an't they dear, handsome children?" true now came up, and as his torch-light swept along the side-walk gerty and willie became the subjects of notice and conversation. the curly-haired girl saw them, and pointed them out to the notice of the other two. though gerty could not know what they were saying, she did not like being stared at and talked about; and hiding behind the post, she would not move or look up, though willie laughed at her, and told her it was now her _turn_ to be looked at. when true moved off, she began to run, so as to escape observation; but willie calling to her, and saying that the children were gone from the window, she ran back to have one more look, and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table. then the servant-girl drew down the window-blinds. gerty then took willie's hand, and they tried to overtake true. "shouldn't you like to live in such a house as that, gerty!" said willie. "yes, indeed," said gerty; "an't it splendid?" "i wish i had just such a house," said willie. "i mean one of these days." "where will you get it?" exclaimed gerty, much amazed at so bold a declaration. "oh, i shall work, and grow rich, and buy it." "you can't; it would take a lot o' money!" "i know it; but i can earn a lot, and i will, too. the gentleman that lives in that grand house was a poor boy when he first came to boston; and why can't one poor boy get rich as well an another?" "how do you suppose he got so much money?" "i don't know how _he_ did; there are a great many ways. some people think it's all luck, but i guess it's as much smartness as anything." "are you smart?" willie laughed. "an't i?" said he. "if i don't turn out a rich man one of these days, you may say i an't." "i know what i'd do if i was rich," said gerty. "what?" asked willie. "first, i'd buy a great nice chair for uncle true, with cushions all in the inside, and bright flowers on it--just exactly like that one the gentleman was sitting in; and next, i'd have great big lamps, ever so many all in a bunch, so as to make the room as _light_--as _light_ as it could be!" "seems to me you're mighty fond of lights, gerty," said willie. "i be," said the child. "i hate old, dark, black places; i like stars, and sunshine, and fires, and uncle true's torch----" "and i like bright eyes!" interrupted willie; "yours look just like stars, they shine so to-night. an't we having a good time?" "yes, real." and so they went on--gerty dancing along the side-walk, willie sharing in her gaiety and joy, and glorying in the responsibility of entertaining and protecting the wild little creature. they talked of how they would spend that future wealth which they both calculated upon one day possessing; for gerty had caught willie's spirit, and she, too, meant to work and grow rich. willie said his mother was to wear a gay cap, like that of the lady they had seen; this made gerty laugh. she thought that demure little widow would be ridiculous in a flowered headgear. good taste is inborn, and gerty had it in her. she felt that mrs. sullivan, attired in anything that was not simple, neat, and sober-looking, would altogether lose her identity. willie had no selfish schemes; the generous boy suggested nothing for his own gratification; it was for the rest he meant to labor, and in and through them that he looked for his reward. happy children! what do they want of wealth? what of anything, material or tangible, more than they now possess? they have what is worth more than riches or fame--they are full of childhood's faith and hope. with a fancy and imagination unchecked by disappointment, they are building those same castles that so many thousand children have built before, that children will always be building to the end of time. far off in the distance they see bright things, and know not what myths they are. undeceive not the little believers, ye wise ones! check not that god-given hopefulness, which will, perhaps, in its airy flight, lift them in safety over many a rough spot in life's road. it lasts not long at the best; then check it not, for as it dies out the way grows hard. they had reached the last lamp-post in the street, but scarcely had they gone a dozen steps before gerty stopped short, and, positively refusing to proceed any further, pulled hard at willie's hand, and tried to induce him to retrace his steps. "what's the matter, gerty?" said he, "are you tired?" "no, oh no! but i can't go any further." "why not?" "oh, because--because--" and here gerty putting her mouth close to willie's ear, whispered, "there is nan grant's; i see the house! i had forgot uncle true went there; and i am afraid!" "oho!" said willie, drawing himself up with dignity, "i should like to know what you're afraid of, when i'm with you! let her touch you if she dares! and uncle true, too!--i _should_ laugh." very kindly did willie plead with the child, telling her that nan would not be likely to see _them_, but they might see _her_; and that was just what he wanted--nothing he should like better. gerty's fears were soon allayed. when they stood in front of the house, gerty was rather hoping than otherwise to catch sight of nan. nan was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated dispute with one of her neighbours. her countenance expressed great anger, and her face was now so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could see her thus and afterwards question her right to the title of vixen, virago, or scold. "which is she?" said willie; "the tall one, swinging the coffee-pot in her hand? i guess she'll break the handle off, if she don't look out." "yes," said gerty, "that's nan." "what's she doing?" "oh, she's fighting with mrs. birch; she does always with somebody. she don't see us, does she?" "no, she's too busy. come, don't let's stop; she's an ugly-looking woman, just as i knew she was. i've seen enough of her, and i'm sure you have--come." gerty lingered. courageous in the knowledge that she was safe and unseen, she was gazing at nan, and her eyes glistened, not with the innocent excitement of a cheerful heart, but with the fire of kindled passion--a fire that nan had kindled long ago, which had not yet gone out, and which the sight of nan had now revived in full force. willie, thinking it was time to be at home, and perceiving mr. flint and his torch far down the street, left gerty, and started himself, to draw her on, saying, "come, gerty, i can't wait." gerty turned, saw that he was going, then, quick as lightning, stooped, and picking up a stone, flung it at the window. there was a crash of broken glass, and an exclamation in nan's well-known voice; but gerty was not there to see the result. the instant she heard the crash her fears returned, and flying past willie, she paused not until she was safe by the side of true. willie did not overtake them until they were nearly home, and then came running up, exclaiming, breathlessly, "why, gerty, do you know what you did?--you broke the window!" gerty jerked her shoulders from side to side to avoid willie, pouted, and declared that was what she meant to do. true inquired what window? and gerty acknowledged what she had done, and avowed that she did it on purpose. true and willie were shocked and silent. gerty was silent too, for the rest of the walk; there were clouds on her face, and she felt unhappy in her little heart. willie bade them good night at the house door, and as usual they saw no more of him for a week. chapter viii. a new friend. "father," said mrs. sullivan, one afternoon, as he was preparing to take a number of articles which he wanted for his saturday's work in the church, "why don't you get little gerty to go with you, and carry some of your things? you can't take them all at once; and she'd like to go, i know." "she'd only be in the way," said mr. cooper; "i can take them myself." but when he had swung a lantern and an empty coal hod on one arm, taken a little hatchet and a basket of chips in his hand, and hoisted a small ladder over his shoulder, he was fain to acknowledge that there was no accommodation for his hammer and a large paper of nails. mrs. sullivan called gerty, and asked her to go and help him carry his tools. gerty was pleased with the proposal, and started off with great alacrity. when they reached the church the old sexton took them from her hands, and telling her she could play about until he went home, but to be sure and do no mischief, he went into the vestry to commence sweeping, dusting, and building fires. gerty had ample amusement for some time, to wander round among the empty aisles and pews, and examine closely what, hitherto, she had only viewed from a corner of the gallery. then she ascended the pulpit, and in imagination addressed a large audience. she was growing weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had entered unseen, commenced playing some low, sweet music; and gerty, seating herself on the pulpit stairs, listened with the greatest pleasure. he had not played long before the door opened and two visitors entered. one was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman, with hair thin and grey, and features rather sharp; but remarkable for his benignant expression of countenance. a young lady, apparently about twenty-five years of age, was leaning on his arm. she was attired with great simplicity, wearing a dark brown cloak, and a bonnet of the same colour, relieved by some light-blue ribbon about the face. she was somewhat below the middle size, but had a good figure. her features were small and regular; her complexion clear but pale; and her light-brown hair was neatly arranged. she never lifted her eyes as she walked slowly up the aisle. the two approached the spot where gerty sat, but without perceiving her. "i am glad you like the organ," said the gentleman; "i am not much of a judge of music, but they say it is a superior instrument, and that hermann plays it remarkably well." "nor is my opinion of any value," said the lady; "for i have little knowledge of music, much as i love it. but that symphony sounds very delightful to me; it is a long time since i have heard such touching strains; or, it may be partly owing to their striking so sweetly on the solemn quiet of the church this afternoon. i love to go into a large church on a week-day. it was very kind of you to call for me this afternoon. how came you to think of it?" "i thought you would enjoy it, my dear. i knew hermann would be playing about this time; and, besides, when i saw how pale you were looking i knew the walk would do you good." "it has done me good. i was not feeling well, and the clear, cold air was just what i needed; i knew it would refresh me; but mrs. ellis was busy, and i could not go out alone." "i thought i should find the sexton here," said the gentleman. "i want to speak to him about the light; the afternoons are so short now, and it is dark so early, i must ask him to open more of the blinds, or i cannot see to read my sermon to-morrow. he may be in the vestry-room; he is always about here on saturday; i will go and look for him." just then mr. cooper entered the church, and, seeing the clergyman, came up, and after receiving his directions about the light, requested him to go with him somewhere, for the gentleman hesitated, glanced at the young lady, and then said, "i suppose i ought to go to-day; and, as you say you are at leisure, it is a pity i should not; but i don't know----" then, turning to the lady, he said, "emily, mr. cooper wants me to go to mrs. glass's with him; and i shall be absent some time. should you mind waiting here until i return? she lives in the next street; but i may be detained, for it's about the library-books being so mischievously defaced, and i am afraid that her oldest boy had something to do with it. it ought to be inquired into before to-morrow." "oh, go, by all means," said emily; "don't mind me; it will be a pleasure to sit here and listen to the music. mr. hermann's playing is a great treat to me, and i don't care how long i wait; so do not hurry on my account, mr. arnold." thus assured, mr. arnold led the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, and went with mr. cooper. all this time gerty had been unnoticed, and had remained very quiet on the upper stair, secured from sight by the pulpit. hardly had the doors closed, however, with a loud bang, when the child got up, and began to descend the stairs. the moment she moved, the lady, whose seat was very near, started, and exclaimed, "who's that?" gerty stood still, and made no reply. strange the lady did not look up, though she must have perceived that the movement was above her head. there was a moment's pause, and then gerty began again to run down the stairs. the lady sprang up, and, stretching out her hand, said, "who is it?" "me," said gerty, looking up in the lady's face; "it's only me." "will you stop and speak to me?" said the lady. gerty not only stopped, but came close up to emily's chair, irresistibly attracted by the sweetest voice she had ever heard. the lady placed her hand on gerty's head, and said, "who are you?" "gerty." "gerty who?" "nothing else but gerty." "have you forgotten your other name?" "i haven't got any other name." "how came you here?" "i came with mr. cooper, to help him to bring his things." "and he's left you here to wait for him, and i'm left too; so we must take care of each other, mustn't we?" gerty laughed at this. "where were you?--on the stairs?" "yes." "suppose you sit down on this step by my chair, and talk with me a little while: i want to see if we can't find out what your other name is. where do you say you live?" "with uncle true." "true?" "yes. mr. true flint i live with now. he took me home to his house one night, when nan grant put me out on the side-walk." "why, are you that little girl? then i've heard of you before. mr. flint told me all about you." "do you know my uncle true?" "yes, very well." "what's your name?" "my name is emily graham." "o! i know," said gerty, springing suddenly up, and clapping her hands together; "i know. you asked him to keep me; he said so--i _heard_ him say so; and you gave me my clothes; and you're beautiful; and you're good; and i love you! o! i love you ever so much!" as gerty spoke with a voice full of excitement, a strange look passed over miss graham's face, a most inquiring and restless look, as if the tones of the voice had vibrated on a chord of her memory. she did not speak, but, passing her arm around the child's waist, drew her closer to her. as the peculiar expression passed from her face, and her features assumed their usual calmness, gerty, as she gazed at her with a look of wonder, exclaimed, "are you going to sleep?" "no.--why?" "because your eyes are shut." "they are always shut, my child." "always shut!--what for?" "i am blind, gerty; i can see nothing." "not see!" said gerty; "can't you see anything? can't you see me now?" "no," said miss graham. "o!" exclaimed gerty, drawing a long breath, "_i'm so glad_." "_glad!_" said miss graham, in the saddest voice that ever was heard. "o yes!" said gerty, "so glad you can't see me!--because now, perhaps, you'll love me." "and shouldn't i love you if i saw you?" said emily, passing her hand softly and slowly over the child's features. "oh, no!" answered gerty, "i'm so ugly! i'm glad you can't see how ugly i am." "but just think, gerty," said emily, in the same sad voice, "how would you feel if you could not see the light, could not see anything in the world?" "can't you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and the church we're in? are you in the dark?" "in the dark all the time--day and night in the dark." gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. "oh!" exclaimed she, as soon as she could find voice amid her sobs, "it's too bad! it's too bad!" the child's grief was contagious; and, for the first time for years, emily wept bitterly for her blindness. it was but for a few moments, however. quickly recovering herself, she tried to compose the child also, saying, "hush! hush! don't cry; and don't say it's too bad! it's not too bad; i can bear it very well. i'm used to it, and am quite happy." "i shouldn't be happy in the dark; i should _hate_ to be!" said gerty. "i _an't_ glad you're blind; i'm really _sorry_. i wish you could see me and everything. can't your eyes be opened, any way?" "no," said emily; "never; but we won't talk about that any more; we will talk about you. i want to know what makes you think yourself so very ugly." "because folks say that i am an ugly child, and that nobody loves ugly children." "yes, people do," said emily, "love ugly children, if they are good." "but i an't good," said gerty, "i'm really bad!" "but you _can be good_," said emily, "and then everybody will love you." "do you think i can be good?" "yes, if you try." "i will try." "i _hope_ you will," said emily. "mr. flint thinks a great deal of his little girl, and she must do all she can to please him." she then asked concerning gerty's former way of life, and became so interested in the recital of the little girl's early sorrows and trials, that she was unconscious of the flight of time, and quite unobservant of the departure of the organist, who had ceased playing, closed his instrument, and gone away. gerty was very communicative. the sweet voice and sympathetic tones of emily went straight to her heart, and though her whole life had been passed among the poorer and lowest classes of people, she felt no awe and constraint on her encountering, for the first time, a lady of polished mind and manners. on the contrary, gerty clung to emily as affectionately, and stroked her soft boa with as much freedom, as if she had herself been born in a palace. once or twice she took emily's nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight; her favourite mode of expressing her warmth of gratitude and admiration. the excitable but interesting child took no less strong a hold upon miss graham's feelings. the latter perceived how neglected the little one had been, and the importance of her being educated, lest early abuse, acting upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destructive to a nature capable of the best attainments. the two were still entertaining each other, when mr. arnold entered the church hastily. as he came up the aisle, he called to emily, saying, "emily; dear, i fear you thought i had forgotten you. i have been longer than i intended. were you not tired of waiting?" "i thought it was but a very little while. i have had company, you see." "what, little folks," said mr. arnold, good-naturedly. "where did this little body come from?" "she came to the church this afternoon with mr. cooper. isn't he here for her?" "cooper?--no: he went straight home after he left me; he's probably forgotten all about the child. what's to be done?" "can't we take her home? is it far?" "it is two or three streets from here, and directly out of our way; altogether too far for you to walk." "oh, no, it won't tire me; i'm quite strong now, and i would know she was safe home." if emily could but have seen gerty's grateful face that moment, she would indeed have felt repaid for almost any amount of weariness. chapter ix. mental darkness. the blind girl did not forget little gerty. emily graham never forgot the sufferings, the wants, the necessities of others. she could not see the world without, but there was a world of love and sympathy within her, which manifested itself in abundant charity, both of heart and deed. she loved god with her whole heart, and her neighbour as herself. her own great misfortunes and trials were borne without repining; but the misfortunes and trials of others became her care, the alleviation of them her greatest delight. emily was never weary of doing good. but never had she been so affected as now by any tale of sorrow. children were born into the world amid poverty and privation. she could not account to herself for the interest she felt in the little stranger; but the impulse to know more of her was irresistible, and sending for true, she talked a long time with him about the child. true was highly gratified by miss graham's account of the meeting in the church, and of the interest the little girl had inspired in one for whom he felt the greatest admiration and respect. gerty had previously told him how she had seen miss graham, and had spoken in the most glowing terms of the dear lady who was so kind to her, and brought her home when mr. cooper had forgotten her, but it had not occurred to the old man that the fancy was mutual. emily asked him if he didn't intend to send her to school? "well, i don't know," said he; "she's a little thing, and an't much used to being with other children. besides, i don't exactly like to spare her." emily suggested that it was time she was learning to read and write; and that the sooner she went among other children, the easier it would be to her. "very true, miss emily, very true," said mr. flint. "i dare say you're right; and if you think she'd better go, i'll ask her, and see what she says." "i would," said emily. "i think she might enjoy it, besides improving very much; and, about her clothes, if there's any deficiency, i'll----" "oh, no, no, miss emily!" interrupted true; "there's no necessity; she's very well on't now, thanks to your kindness." "well," said emily, "if she should have any wants, you must apply to me. you know we adopted her jointly, and i agreed to do anything i could for her; so you must never hesitate--it will be a pleasure to serve either of you. my father always feels under obligations to you, mr. flint, for faithful service that cost you dear in the end." "oh, miss emily," said true, "mr. graham has always been my best friend; and as to that 'ere accident that happened when i was in his employ, it was nobody's fault but my own; it was my own carelessness, and nobody's else." "i know you say so," said emily, "but we regretted it very much; and you mustn't forget what i tell you, that i shall delight in doing anything for gerty. i should like to have her come and see me, some day, if she would like, and you'll let her." "sartain, sartain," said true, "and thank you kindly; she'd be glad to come." a few days after gerty went with true to see miss graham, but the housekeeper, whom they met in the hall, told them that she was ill and could see no one. so they went away full of disappointment and regret. emily had taken a severe cold the day she sat so long in the church, and was suffering with it when they called; but, though confined to her room, she would have been glad to have a visit from gerty, and was sorry that mrs. ellis should have sent them away. on saturday evening, when willie was present, true broached the subject of gerty's going to school. gerty was much displeased with the idea; but it met with willie's approbation; and when gerty learned that miss graham also wished it, she consented, though reluctantly, to begin the next week, and try how she liked it. so next monday gerty went with true to one of the primary schools, was admitted, and her education began. when willie came home the next sunday, he rushed into true's room, eager to hear how gerty liked going to school. she was seated at the table, with her spelling-book; and she exclaimed, "oh, willie! willie! come and hear me read!" her performance could hardly be called reading. she had not got beyond the alphabet, and a few syllables she had learned to spell; but willie bestowed upon her much well-merited praise, she had been very diligent. he was astonished to hear that gerty liked going to school, liked the teachers and the scholars, and had a fine time at recess. he had fully expected that she would dislike the whole business, and go into tantrums about it--which was the expression he used to denote her fits of ill-temper. willie promised to assist her in her studies; and the two children's literary plans soon became as high-flown as if one had been a poet-laureate and the other a philosopher. for two or three weeks all appeared to go on smoothly. gerty went regularly to school, and made rapid progress. every saturday willie heard her read and spell, assisted, praised, and encouraged her. but he had heard that, on two occasions, she had nearly had a brush with some large girls, for whom she began to show symptoms of dislike. this soon reached a crisis. one day, when the children were in the school-yard, during recess, gerty saw true in his working-dress, passing down the street, with his ladder and lamp-filler. shouting and laughing, she pursued and overtook him. she came back in a few minutes, seeming much delighted, and ran into the yard full of happy excitement. the troop of large girls, whom gerty had already had some reason to distrust, had been observing her, and one of them called out saying---- "who's that man?" "that's my uncle true," said gerty. "your what?" "my uncle, mr. flint, that i live with." "so you belong to him, do you?" said the girl, in an insolent tone of voice. "ha! ha! ha!" "what are you laughing at?" said gerty, fiercely. "ugh! before i'd live with him!" said the girl--"old smutty!" the others caught it up, and the laugh and epithet old smutty circulated freely in the corner of the yard where gerty was standing. gerty was furious. her eyes glistened, she doubled her little fist, and, without hesitation, came down in battle upon the crowd. but they were too many for her, and, helpless as she was with passion, they drove her out of the yard. she started for home on a full run, screaming with all her might. as she flew along the side-walk, she brushed stiffly against a tall, stiff-looking lady, who was walking slowly in the same direction, with a much smaller person leaning on her arm. "bless me!" said the tall lady, who had almost lost her equilibrium from the suddenness of the shock. "why, you horrid little creature!" as she spoke, she grasped gerty by the shoulder, and, before she could break away, gave her a slight shake. this served to increase gerty's anger, and, her speed gaining in proportion, it was but a few minutes before she was crouched in a corner of true's room behind the bed, her face to the wall, and covered with both her hands. here she was free to cry as loud as she pleased; for mrs. sullivan was gone out, and there was no one in the house to hear her. but she had not indulged long in her tantrum when the gate at the end of the yard closed with a bang, and footsteps were heard coming towards mr. flint's door. gerty's attention was arrested, for she knew by the sound that a stranger was approaching. with a strong effort she controlled herself so as to keep quiet. there was a knock at the door, but gerty did not reply to it, remaining concealed behind the bed. the knock was not repeated, but the stranger lifted the latch and walked in. "there doesn't seem to be any one at home," said a female voice, "what a pity." "isn't there? i'm sorry," replied another, in the sweet musical tones of miss graham. gerty knew the voice at once. "i thought you'd better not come here yourself," rejoined the first speaker, who was no other than mrs. ellis, the identical lady whom gerty had so frightened and disconcerted. "oh, i don't regret coming," said emily. "you can leave me here while you go to your sister's, and very likely mr. flint or the little girl will come home in the meantime." "it don't become you, miss emily, to be carried round everywhere, and left, like an express parcel, till called for. you caught a horrid cold that you're hardly well of now, waiting there in the church for the minister; and mr. graham will be finding fault next." "oh, no, mrs. ellis; it's very comfortable here; the church must have been damp, i think. come, put me in mr. flint's arm-chair, and i can make myself quite contented." "well, at any rate," said mrs. ellis, "i'll make up a good fire in this stove before i go." as she spoke, the energetic housekeeper seized the poker, and, after stirring up the coals, and making free with all true's kindlewood, waited till the fire burnt up, and then, having laid aside emily's cloak, went away with the same firm step with which she had come, and which had so overpowered emily's noiseless tread, that gerty had only anticipated the arrival of a single guest. as soon as gerty knew that mrs. ellis had really departed, she suspended her efforts at self-control, and, with a deep-drawn sigh, gasped out, "o dear! o dear!" "why, gerty!" exclaimed emily, "is that you?" "yes," sobbed gerty. "come here." the child waited no second bidding, but, starting up, ran, threw herself on the floor by the side of emily, buried her face in the blind girl's lap, and once more commenced crying aloud. her whole frame was agitated. "why, gerty," said emily, "what is the matter?" but gerty could not reply; and emily desisted from her inquiries until the little one should be somewhat composed. she lifted gerty up into her lap, laid her head upon her shoulder, and with her handkerchief wiped the tears from her face. her soothing words and caresses soon quieted the child, and when she was calm, emily, instead of recurring at once to the cause of her grief, questioned her upon other topics. at last, however, she asked her if she went to school. "i _have been_," said gerty, raising her head from emily's shoulder; "but i won't ever go again!" "what!--why not!" "because," said gerty, angrily, "i hate those girls; yes, i hate 'em! ugly things!" "gerty," said emily, "don't say that; you shouldn't hate anybody." "why shouldn't i?" said gerty. "because it's wrong." "no, it's not _wrong_; i say it _isn't_!" said gerty; "and i do hate 'em; and i hate nan grant, and i always shall! don't _you_ hate anybody?" "no," answered emily, "_i don't._" "did anybody ever drown your kitten? did anybody ever call your father old smutty?" said gerty. "if they had, i know you'd hate 'em just as i do." "gerty," said emily, solemnly, "didn't you tell me, the other day, that you were a naughty child, but that you wished to be good, and would try!" "yes," said gerty. "if you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must forgive others." gerty said nothing. "do you not wish god to forgive and love you?" "god, who lives in heaven--who made the stars?" said gerty. "yes." "will he love me, and let me some time go to heaven?" "yes, if you try to be good and love everybody." "miss emily," said gerty, after a moment's pause, "i can't do it, so i s'pose i can't go." just at this moment a tear fell upon gerty's forehead. she looked thoughtfully up into emily's face, then said-- "dear miss emily, are you going there?" "i am trying." "i should like to go with you," said gerty. still emily did not speak. she left the child to the working of her own thoughts. "miss emily," said gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, "i mean to _try_, but i don't think i _can_." "god bless you, and help you, my child!" said emily, laying her hand upon gerty's head. for fifteen minutes or more not a word was spoken by either. gerty lay perfectly still in emily's lap. by-and-by the latter perceived, by the child's breathing, that, worn out with the fever and excitement of all she had gone through, she had dropped into a quiet sleep. when mrs. ellis returned, emily pointed to the sleeping child, and asked her to place her on the bed. she did so, and turning to emily, exclaimed, "my word, miss emily, that's the same rude, bawling little creature that came so near being the death of us!" emily smiled at the idea of a child eight years old overthrowing a woman of mrs. ellis' inches, but said nothing. why did emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene of the morning? why did she, on bended knees, wrestle so vehemently with a mighty sorrow? why did she pray so earnestly for new strength and heavenly aid? why did she so beseechingly ask of god his blessing on the little child? because she had felt, in many a year of darkness and bereavement, in many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of despair, how a temper like that of gerty's might, in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of early joy. and so she prayed to heaven for strength to keep her firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to cure that child of her dark infirmity. chapter x. an earthly messenger of peace. the next sabbath afternoon found gerty seated on a stool in emily's room. her large eyes were fixed on emily's face, which always seemed to fascinate the little girl; so attentively did she watch her features, the charm of which many an older person than gerty had felt, but could not describe. it was not beauty; though once her face was illumined by beautiful hazel eyes: nor was it fascination of manner, for emily's manner and voice were so soft and unassuming that they never took the fancy by storm. it was not compassion for her blindness, though that might well excite sympathy. but it was hard to realise that emily was blind. it was a fact never forced upon her friend's recollection by any repining or selfish indulgence on the part of the sufferer; and, as there was nothing painful in the appearance of her closed lids, shaded and fringed as they were by her long eyelashes, it was not unusual for persons to converse upon things which could only be evident to the sense of sight, and even direct her attention to one object and another, quite forgetting, for the moment, her sad deprivation: and emily never sighed, never seemed hurt at their want of consideration, or showed any lack of interest in objects thus shut from her gaze, but quite satisfied with the pictures which she formed in her imagination, would talk pleasantly upon whatever was uppermost in the minds of her companions. some said that emily had the sweetest mouth in the world, and they loved to watch its ever varying expression. but true christians knew the source whence she derived that power by which her face and voice stole into the hearts of young and old, and won their love--_they_ would have said the same as gerty did, when she sat gazing so earnestly at emily on the very sunday afternoon of which we speak, "miss emily, i know you've been with god." gerty was a strange child; but she had felt emily's superiority to any being she had ever seen; and she reposed confidence in what she told her, allowed herself to be guided by one whom she felt loved her and sought her good; and, as she sat at her feet, and listened to her gentle voice while she gave her first lesson upon the distinction between right and wrong, emily, though she could not see the little thoughtful face, knew, by her earnest attention, and by the little hand which had sought hers, and held it tight, that one great point was won. gerty had not been to school since the day of her battle with the girls. true's persuasions had failed; she would not go. but emily understood the child's nature better than true did, and urged upon her more forcible motives than the old man had thought of employing, that _she_ succeeded where _he_ had failed. gerty considered that her old friend had been insulted, and that was the chief cause of her indignation with her schoolmates; but emily placed the matter in a different light, and convincing her at last that, if she loved uncle true, she would show it much better by obeying his wishes than by retaining her foolish anger, she finally obtained gerty's promise that she would go to school the next morning. the next morning true, much pleased, went with her, and inquiring for the teacher, stated the case to her in his blunt, honest way, and then left gerty in her special charge. miss browne, who was a young woman of good sense and good feelings, saw the matter in the right light; and taking an opportunity to speak privately to the girls who had excited gerty's temper by their rudeness, made them so ashamed of their conduct, that they ceased to molest the child. the winter passed away, and spring days came, when gerty could sit at the open window, when birds sang in the morning among the trees, and the sun at evening threw bright rays across true's great room, and gerty could see to read almost until bed-time. she had been to school steadily all winter, and had improved rapidly. she was healthy and well; her clothes were clean and neat, for her wardrobe was well stocked by emily, and the care of it superintended by mrs. sullivan. she was bright and happy too, and tripped round the house so joyously, that true declared his birdie knew not what it was to touch her heel to the ground, but flew about on the tips of her toes. the old man could not have loved her better had she been his own child; and he sat by her side on the wide settle, which, in warm weather, was moved outside the door, and listened patiently and attentively while she read various pleasing stories. the old man's interest in the story-books was as keen as if he had been a child himself. emily, who gave these books, knew their influence on the hearts of children, and most judiciously did she select them. gerty's life was now as happy as it had been wretched and miserable. all the days in the week were joyous; but saturday and sunday were marked days; for saturday brought willie home to hear her recite her lessons, walk, laugh, and play with her. he had so many pleasant things to tell, was so full of life, so ready to enter into all her plans, and promote her amusement, that on monday morning she began to count the days until saturday would come again. sunday afternoon gerty always spent with emily, listening to her sweet voice, and imbibing a portion of her sweet spirit. emily preached no sermons, nor did she weary the child with precepts. it did not occur to gerty that she went there to be _taught_ anything; but gradually the blind girl imparted light to the child's dark soul, and the lessons that are divine were implanted in her so naturally, that she realized not the work that was going on, but long after--when goodness had grown strong within her, and her first feeble resistance of evil, her first attempts to keep her childish resolves, had matured into deeply-rooted principles--she felt, as she looked back, that on those blessed sabbaths, sitting at emily's knee, she had received into her heart the first beams of that immortal light that never could be quenched. it was a grievous trial to gerty to learn that the graham's were about to go into the country for the summer. mr. graham had a pleasant residence about six miles from boston, to which he resorted as soon as the planting season commenced; for though devoted to business during the winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation during the summer; and ledgers and day-books were to be supplanted by the delights of gardening. emily promised gerty that she should pass a day with her when the weather was fine; a visit which gerty enjoyed three months in anticipation, and more than three in retrospection. it was some compensation for emily's absence that, as the days got long, willie was often able to leave the shop and come home for an hour or two in the evening; and willie's visits always tended to comfort gerty. chapter xi. progress of knowledge. it was one pleasant evening in april that gerty, who had been to see miss graham and bid her good-bye, before her departure for the country, stood at the back part of the yard, weeping bitterly. she held in her hand a book and a new slate, emily's parting gifts; but she had not removed the wrapper from the one, and the other was bedewed with tears. she was so full of grief that she did not hear any one approach, until a hand was placed upon each of her shoulders; and, as she turned round, she found herself encircled by willie's arms, and face to face with willie's sunny countenance. "why, gerty!" said he, "this is no welcome, when i've come home on a week-night to stay with you all the evening. mother and grandfather are gone out, and when i come to look for you, you're crying so i can't see your face for tears. come, come! _do_ leave off; you don't know how you look!" "willie!", sobbed she, "do you know miss emily's gone?" "gone where?" "way off, six miles, to stay all summer!" but willie only laughed. "six miles!" said he; "that's a terrible way, certainly!" "but i can't see her any more!" said gerty. "you can see her next winter," rejoined willie. "oh, but that's so long!" said the child. "what makes you think so much of her?" "she thinks much of me; she can't see me, and she likes me better than anybody, but uncle true." "i don't believe it; i don't believe she likes you half as well as i do. i _know_ she don't! how can she, when she's blind, and never saw you in her life, and i see you all the time, and love you better than i do anybody in the world, except my mother." "do you _really_, willie?" "yes, i do. i always think, when i come home--now i'm going to see gerty; and everything that happens all the week, i think to myself--i shall tell gerty that." "i shouldn't think you'd like me so well." "why not?" "oh, because you're so handsome, and i an't handsome a bit. i heard ellen chase tell lucretia davis, the other day, that she thought gerty flint was the worst-looking girl in the school." "then she ought to be ashamed of herself," said willie, "i guess she an't very good-looking. i should hate the looks of _her_ or any _other_ girl that said that." "oh, willie!" exclaimed gerty, "it's true." "no, it an't _true_," said willie. "to be sure, you haven't got long curls, and a round face, and blue eyes, like belle clinton's, and nobody'd think of setting you up for a beauty; but when you've been running, and have rosy cheeks, and your great black eyes shine, and you laugh so heartily, i often think you're the brightest-looking girl i ever saw in my life: and i don't care what other folks think, as long as i like your looks. i feel just as bad when you cry, or anything's the matter with you, as if it were myself, and worse." such professions of affection by willie were frequent, and always responded to by a like declaration from gerty. nor were they mere professions. the two children loved each other dearly. that they loved _each other_ there could be no doubt; and if in the spring the bond between them was already strong, autumn found it cemented by still firmer ties; for, during emily's absence, willie filled her place, and his own too; and though gerty did not forget her blind friend, she passed a most happy summer, and made such progress in her studies at school that, when emily returned in october, she could hardly understand how so much had been accomplished in so short a time. miss graham's kindly feeling towards her little _protégé_ had increased by time and absence, and gerty's visits to emily became more frequent than ever. the profit derived from these visits was not all on gerty's part. emily had, during the previous winter, heard her read occasionally, that she might judge of her proficiency; now she had discovered that the little girl had attained to a much greater degree of excellence. she read understandingly, and her accent and intonations were so admirable that emily found rare pleasure in listening to her. for the child's benefit, and for her own gratification, she proposed that gerty should come every day and read to her for an hour. gerty was only too happy to oblige her dear miss emily, who, in making the proposal, represented it as a personal favour to herself, and a plan by which gerty's eyes could serve for them both. it was agreed that when true started on his lamplighting expeditions he should take gerty to mr. graham's, and call for her on his return. thus gerty was punctual in her attendance at the appointed time; and none but those who have tried it are aware what a large amount of reading may be effected in six months, if an hour is devoted to it each day. emily, in her choice of books, did not confine herself to such as came strictly within a child's comprehension. she judged that a girl of such keen intelligence as gerty was naturally endowed with would be benefited by what was beyond her comprehension; but that, in the effort she would be called upon to make, would enlarge her capacity, and be an incentive to her genius. so history, biography, and books of travels were perused by gerty at an age when most children's literary pursuits are confined to stories and pictures. the child gave the preference to this comparatively solid reading; and, aided by emily's explanations, she stored up in her mind much useful information. from the time gerty was first admitted until she was twelve years old, she attended the public schools, and was rapidly promoted; but what she learned with miss graham, and acquired by study with willie at home, formed nearly as important a part of her education. willie was very fond of study, and was delighted at gerty's participation in his favourite pursuit. they were a great advantage to each other, for each found encouragement in the other's sympathy and co-operation. after the first year or two of their acquaintance, willie was in his fifteenth year, and beginning to look quite manly. but gerty's eagerness for knowledge had all the more influence upon him; for if the little girl of ten years was patient and willing to labour at her books until after nine o'clock, the youth of fifteen must not rub his eyes and plead weariness. when they had reached these ages, they began to study french together. willie's former teacher continued to feel a kindly interest in the boy who had long been his best scholar, and who would certainly have borne away from his class the first prizes, had not a higher duty called him to inferior labours previous to the public exhibition. finding that willie had much spare time, he advised him to learn the french language, which would prove useful to him--and offered to lend him such books as he would need at the commencement. willie availed himself of his teacher's advice and his kind offer, and began to study in good earnest. when he was at home in the evening, he came into true's room, partly for the sake of quiet and partly for the sake of being with gerty, who was at the time occupied with her books. gerty had a strong desire to learn french too. willie wished her to try, but thought she would not persevere. but to his surprise, she discovered a wonderful determination, and a decided talent for language; and as emily furnished her with books like willie's, she kept pace with him, oftentimes translating more during the week than he could find time to do. on saturday evening, when they had always had a fine study-time together, true would sit on his old settle watching willie and gerty side by side, at the table, with their eyes bent on the page, which to him seemed a labyrinth. gerty looked out the words with great skill, her bright eyes diving, as if by magic, into the dictionary, and transfixing the right word at a glance, while willie's province was to make sense. almost the only occasion when true disturbed them was when he heard willie talk about making sense. "making sense, willie!" said the old man; "is that what ye're after? well, you couldn't do a better business. i'll warrant you a market for it; there's want enough on't in the world!" it was but natural that, with emily to advise and direct, and willie to aid and encourage, her intellect should rapidly expand and strengthen. but how is it with that little heart of hers, that, at once warm and affectionate, impulsive, sensitive, and passionate, now throbs with love and gratitude, and now again burns as vehemently with the consuming fire that a sense of wrong, a consciousness of injury to herself or her friends, would at any moment enkindle? has she, in two years of happy childhood, learned self-control? has she also attained to an enlightened sense of the distinction between right and wrong, truth and falsehood? in short, has emily been true to her self-imposed trust, her high resolve, to soften the heart and instruct the soul of the little ignorant one? has gerty learned religion? has she found out god, and begun to walk patiently in that path which is lit by a holy light and leads to rest? she has _begun_; and though her footsteps often falter, though she sometimes turns aside, and, impatient of the narrow way, gives the rein to her old irritability, she is yet but a child, and there is a foundation for hopefulness in the sincerity of her good intentions, and the depth of her contrition when wrong has had the mastery. emily has taught her where to place her strong reliance, and gerty looks to higher aid than emily's, and she leans on a mightier arm. how much gerty had improved in the two years that had passed since she first began to be so carefully instructed and provided for, the course of our story must develop. we cannot pause to dwell upon the trials and struggles, the failures and victories, that she experienced. it is sufficient to say that miss graham was satisfied and hopeful, true proud and over-joyed, while mrs. sullivan, and even old mr. cooper, declared she had improved wonderfully in her behaviour and her looks. chapter xii. an adventure and a misfortune. one saturday evening in december willie came in with his french books under his arm, and, after the first salutations, exclaimed, as he put the grammar and dictionary on the table, "oh, gerty! before we begin to study, i _must_ tell you and uncle true the funniest thing that happened to-day; i have been laughing so at home, as i was telling mother about it!" "i heard you laugh," said gerty. "if i had not been so busy, i should have come in to hear what it was that was so very droll. but do tell us!" "why, you will not think it's anything like a joke when i begin, and i should not be much amused, if she hadn't been the very queerest old woman that ever i saw in my life." "old woman!--you haven't told us about one!" "but i'm going to," said willie. "you noticed how everything was covered with ice this morning. how splendidly it looked, didn't it? i declare, when the sun shone on that great elm-tree in front of our shop, i thought i never saw anything so handsome in my life. but, there, that's nothing to do with my old woman--only that the side-walks were just like everything else, a perfect glare." "i want to hear about your old woman," said gerty. "i was standing at the shop-door, about eleven o'clock, looking out, when i saw the strangest-looking figure coming down the street. she had on some kind of a black silk or satin gown, made very scant, and trimmed all round with some brownish-looking lace--black it had been once, but it isn't now--then she had a grey cloak, of silk material, that you certainly would have said came out of the ark, if it hadn't been for a little cape, of a different colour, that she wore outside of it, and which must have been dated a generation further back. her bonnet! oh dear! it was twice as big as anybody's else, and she had a figured lace veil thrown over one side, that reached nearly to her feet. but her goggles crowned all; such immense horrid-looking things i never saw. she had a work-bag made of black silk, with pieces of cloth of all the colours in the rainbow sewed on to it, zigzag: then her pocket-handkerchief was pinned to her bag, and a great feather fan--at this season of the year!--that was pinned on somewhere--by a string, i suppose--and a bundle-handkerchief, and a newspaper! oh, gracious! i can't think of half the things; but they were all pinned together with great brass pins, and hung in a body on her left arm. her dress, though, wasn't the strangest thing about her. what made it funny was her way of walking: she looked quite old and infirm, and it was evident she could hardly keep her footing on the ice; and yet she walked with such a consequential little air! oh, gerty, it's lucky you didn't see her! you'd have laughed from then till this time." "some poor, crazy crittur, wasn't she?" asked true. "oh, no!" said willie, "i don't think she was; though queer enough, but not crazy. just as she got opposite the shop door her feet slipped, and she fell flat on the pavement. i rushed out, for i thought the fall might have killed the poor little thing; and mr. bray, and a gentleman whom he was waiting upon, followed me. she did appear stunned at first; but we carried her into the shop and she came to her senses in a minute or two. crazy you asked if she were, uncle true! no, not she! she's as bright as you are! as soon as she opened her eyes, and seemed to know what she was about, she felt for her work-bag and all its appendages; counted them up, to see if the number were right, and then nodded her head very satisfactorily. mr. bray poured out a glass of cordial and offered it to her. by this time she had got her airs and graces back again; so when he recommended her to swallow the cordial, she retreated with a little old-fashioned curtsey, and put up both her hands to express her horror at the idea of such a thing. the gentleman standing by smiled, and advised her to take it, as it would do her no harm. she turned round, made another curtsey to him, and asked, in a little cracked voice, 'can you assure me, sir, as a gentleman of candour and gallantry, that it is not an exhilarating potion?' the gentleman could hardly keep from laughing; but he told her it was nothing that would hurt her. 'then,' said she, 'i will venture to sip the beverage; it has most aromatic fragrance.' she seemed to like the taste as well as the smell, for she drank every drop of it; she turned to me and said, 'except upon this gentleman's assurance of the harmlessness of the liquid, i would not have swallowed it in your presence, my young master, if it were only for the _example_. i have set my seal to no temperance pledge, but i am abstemious because it becomes a lady; it is with me a matter of choice, a matter of _taste_.' she now seemed quite restored, and talked of starting again on her walk; but it was not safe for her to go alone on the ice, and mr. bray thought so, for he asked her where she was going? she told him, in her roundabout way, that she was going to pass the day with mistress somebody, that lived near the common. i touched mr. bray's arm, and said, in a low voice, that if he could spare me, i'd go with her. he said he shouldn't want me for an hour; so i offered her my arm and told her i should be happy to wait upon her. you ought to have seen her then. if i had been a grownup man, and she a young lady, she couldn't have tossed her head or giggled more. but she took my arm and we started off. i knew mr. bray and the gentleman were laughing to see us, but i didn't care; i pitied the old lady, and i did not mean she should get another tumble. "every person we met stared at us; we were such a grotesque looking couple. she accepted my proffered arm, and clasped her hands together round it, making a complete handle of her two arms; and so she hung on with all her might. but i ought not to laugh at the poor thing, for she needed somebody to help her along, and i'm sure she wasn't heavy enough to tire me out, if she did make the most of herself. i wonder who she belongs to. i shouldn't think her friends would let her go about the streets so, especially such walking as it is to-day." "what's her name?" inquired gerty. "didn't you find out?" "no," answered willie; "she wouldn't tell me. i asked her, but she only said, in her little cracked voice (and here willie began to laugh immoderately), that she was the _incognito_, and that it was the part of a true and gallant knight to discover the name of his fair lady. oh, i promise you she was a case! why, you never heard anyone talk so ridiculously as she did! i asked her how old she was. mother said that was very impolite, but it's the only uncivil thing i did or said, as the old lady would testify herself if she were here." "how old is she?" said gerty. "sixteen." "why, willie, what do you mean?" "that's what she told me," said willie; "and a true and gallant knight must believe his fair lady." "poor body!" said true; "she's childish!" "no, she isn't uncle true," said willie; "you'd think so part of the time, to hear her run on with her nonsense; and then, the next minute, she'd speak as sensible as anybody, and say how much obliged she was to me for being willing to put myself to so much trouble for the sake of an old woman like her. just as we turned into beacon street we met a school of girls, blooming beauties, handsome enough to kill, my old lady called them; and when they came in sight, she seemed to take it for granted i should get away from her, and run after some of them. but she held on with a vengeance! it's lucky i had no idea of forsaking her, for it would have been impossible! some of them stopped and stared at us--of course i didn't care how much they stared; but she seemed to think i should be terribly mortified; and when we had passed them all, she complimented me again and again on my spirit of conformity, her favourite expression." here willie was out of breath. true clapped him upon the shoulder. "good boy, willie?" said he, "clever boy! you always look out for the old folks, and that's right. respect for the aged is a good thing; though your grandfather says it's very much out of fashion." "i don't know much about fashion, uncle true; but i should think it was a pretty mean sort of a boy that would see an old lady get one fall on the ice, and not save her from another by seeing her safe home." "willie's always kind to everybody," said gerty. "willie's either a hero," said the boy, "or else he has got two pretty good friends--i rather think it's the latter. but, come, gerty, charles the twelfth is waiting for us, and we must study as much as we can to-night. we may not have another chance very soon, for mr. bray isn't well this evening; he seems threatened with a fever, and i promised to go back to the shop after dinner to-morrow. if he should be sick, i shall have plenty to do without coming home at all." "oh, i hope mr. bray is not going to have a fever," said true and gerty, in the same breath. "he's such a clever man!" said true. "he's so good to you, willie!" added gerty. willie hoped not, too; but his hopes gave way to his fears, when he found on the following day that his kind master was not able to leave his bed, and the doctor pronounced his symptoms alarming. a typhoid fever set in, which in a few days terminated the life of the excellent apothecary. the death of mr. bray was a dreadful blow to willie. the shop was closed, the widow having decided to dispose of the stock, and remove into the country. willie was thus left without employment, and deprived of mr. bray's valuable assistance. his earnings had promoted the comfort of his mother and grandfather, who had thus been enabled to relax their own labours. the thought of being a burden to them was intolerable to the independent spirit of the boy; and he tried to obtain another place. he applied to the different apothecaries in the city, but none of them wanted a youth of his age. he returned home at night, disappointed, but not discouraged. if he could not obtain employment with an apothecary, he would do something else. but what should he do? that was the question. he had long talks with his mother about it. she felt that his talents and education entitled him to fill a position equal to that he had already occupied; and could not endure the thought of his descending to more menial service. willie, without pride, thought so too. he knew he could give satisfaction in a station which required more business talent than his situation at mr. bray's had ever given scope to. so he had made every possible inquiry, but he had no one to speak a good word for him, and so he met with no success, and day after day returned home silent and depressed. chapter xiii. brightening prospects. this was altogether a new experience to willie, and a very trying one. but he bore it bravely; kept all his worst struggles from his anxious mother and desponding grandfather, and resolved to hope against hope. gerty was now his chief comforter. he told her all his troubles, and, young as she was, she was a wonderful consoler. always looking on the bright side, she did much towards keeping up his hopes and strengthening his resolutions. she knew more than most children of the various ways, in which she sometimes made valuable suggestions to willie, of which he gladly availed himself. among others, she one day asked him if he had applied at the agency offices. he had never thought of it--wondered he had not, but would try. he did so, and for a time was buoyed up with hopes held out to him; but they proved fleeting, and he was now almost in despair, when his eye fell upon an advertisement in a newspaper, which seemed to afford another chance. he showed it to gerty. it was just the thing. gerty was so sanguine, that willie presented himself the next day at the place specified with a more eager countenance than he had ever yet worn. the gentleman talked with him some time; asked a great many questions, hinted his doubts about his capability, and finally declared he was not eligible. he returned with such a heavy heart that he could not meet his mother, and so he went to true's room. it was the night before christmas. true had gone out, and gerty was alone. she was preparing a cake for tea--one of the few branches of the cooking department in which she had acquired some skill. she was just coming from the pantry, with a scoop-full of meal in her hand, when willie entered. he tossed his cap upon the settle, and leaned his head upon his hands, and this betrayed the defeat the poor boy had met with. it was so unlike willie to come in without speaking--it was such a strange thing to see his bright young head bowed down with care, and his elastic figure looking tired and old, that gerty knew at once his brave heart had given way. she laid down the scoop, and walking up to him, touched his arm with her hand, and looked up anxiously into his face. her sympathetic look was more than he could bear. he laid his head on the table, and in a minute more gerty heard great heavy sobs, each one of which sank deep into her soul. she often cried herself--it seemed only natural; but willie--the laughing, happy, light-hearted willie--she had never seen _him_ cry; she didn't know he _could_. she crept up on the rounds of his chair, and putting her arm round his neck, whispered, "i shouldn't mind, willie, if i didn't get the place; i don't believe it's a _good_ place." "i don't believe it is, either," said willie, lifting up his head; "but what shall i do? i can't get any place, and i can't stay here doing nothing." "we like to have you at home," said gerty. "it's pleasant enough to be at home. i was always glad enough to come when i lived at mr. bray's and was earning something, and could feel as if anybody was glad to see me." "_everybody_ is glad to see you _now_." "but not as they were _then_," said willie; "mother always looks as if she expected to hear i'd got something to do; and grandfather, i believe, never thought i should be good for much; and now, as i was beginning to earn something, and be a help to them, i've lost my chance!" "but that an't your fault, willie; you couldn't help mr. bray's dying. i shouldn't think mr. cooper would blame you for not having anything to do _now_." "he don't _blame_ me; but if you were in my place you'd feel just as i do, to see him sit in his arm-chair in the evening, and groan and look up at me, as much as to say, 'it's _you_ i'm groaning about.'" "have heart," said gerty; "i think you'll be rich, some time--and _then_ won't he be astonished!" "oh, gerty! you're a nice child, and i think i can do anything. if ever i am rich, i promise to go shares with you; but 'tan't so easy. i used to think i could make money when i grew up; but it's pretty slow business." here he was on the point of leaning down upon the table again, and giving himself up to melancholy; but gerty caught hold of his hands. "come," said she, "willie, don't think any more about it. people have troubles always, but they get over 'em; perhaps next week you'll be in a better shop than mr. bray's, and we shall be as happy as ever. do you know," said she, changing the subject, "it's just two years to-night since i came here?" "is it?" said willie. "did uncle true bring you home with him the night before christmas?" "yes." "why, that was santa claus carrying you to good things, instead of bringing good things to you, wasn't it?" gerty did not know anything about santa claus, that special friend of children; and willie, who had only lately read about him in some book, undertook to tell her what he knew of the veteran toy-dealer. finding the interest of the subject had engaged his thoughts, gerty returned to her cooking, listening attentively to his story. when he had finished, she was kneeling by the stove; her eyes twinkled with such a merry look, that willie exclaimed, "what are you thinking of, gerty, that makes you look so sly?" "i was thinking that perhaps santa clans would come for you to-night. if he comes for folks that need something, i expect he'll come for you, and carry you to some place where you'll have a chance to grow rich." "very likely," said willie; "he'll clap me into his bag and trudge off with me as a present to somebody--some old cr[oe]sus, that will give me a fortune for the asking. i do hope he will; for, if i don't get something to do soon, i shall despair." true now came in, and interrupted the conversation by the display of a fine turkey, a christmas present from mr. graham. he had also a book for gerty, a gift from emily. "isn't that queer," exclaimed gerty. "willie was just saying you were my santa clans, uncle true; and i do believe you are." as she spoke she opened the book, and in the frontispiece was a portrait of that individual. "it looks like him, willie, i declare it does!" shouted she; "a fur cap, a pipe, and just such a pleasant face; oh, uncle true, if you only had a sack full of toys over your shoulder, instead of your lantern and that great turkey, you would be a complete santa claus. haven't you got anything for willie, uncle true?" "yes, i've got a little something; but i'm afeared he won't think much on't. it's only a bit of a note." "a note for me?" inquired willie. "who can it be from?" "can't say," said true, fumbling in his pockets; "only just round the corner i met a man who stopped me to inquire where mrs. sullivan lived. i told him she lived jist here, and i'd show him the house. when he saw i lived here too, he gave me this little scrap o' paper, and asked me to hand it to master william sullivan. i s'pose that's you, an't it?" he handed willie the slip of paper; and the boy, taking true's lantern in his hand, and holding the note up to the light, read aloud:--"r. h. clinton would like to see william sullivan on thursday morning, between ten and eleven o'clock, at no. ---- wharf." willie looked up in amazement. "what does it mean?"? said he; "i don't know any such person." "i know who he is," said true; "why, it's he that lives in the great stone house in ---- street. he's a rich man, and that's the number of his store--his counting-room rather--on ---- wharf!" "what! father to those pretty children we used to see in the window?" "the very same." "what can he want of me?" "very likely he wants your sarvices," suggested true. "then it's a place!" cried gerty, "a real good one, and santa claus came and brought it: i said he would! oh, willie, i'm so glad!" willie did not know whether to be glad or not. he could not but hope, as gerty and true did, that it might prove the dawning of some good fortune; but he had reasons for believing that no offer from this quarter could be available to him, and therefore made them both promise to give no hint of the matter to his mother or mr. cooper. on thursday willie presented himself at the appointed time and place. mr. clinton, a gentlemanly man, received him kindly, asked but few questions, and telling him that he was in want of a young man to fill the place of junior clerk in his counting-room, offered him the situation. willie hesitated; for, though the offer was most encouraging, mr. clinton made no mention of any salary; and that was a thing the youth could not dispense with. seeing that he was undecided, mr. clinton said, "perhaps you do not like my proposal, or have made some other engagement?" "no, indeed," answered willie, quickly. "you are very kind to feel so much confidence in a stranger as to be willing to receive me, and your offer is a most welcome one; but i have been in a retail store, where i obtained regular earnings, which were very important to my mother and grandfather. i had far rather be in a counting-room like yours, sir, and i think i might learn to be of use; but i think there are numbers of boys, sons of rich men, who would be glad to be employed by you, and would ask no compensation for their services, so that i could not expect any salary, at least for some years. i should indeed, be well repaid, at the end of that time, by the knowledge i might gain of mercantile affairs; but, unfortunately, sir, i can no more afford it than i could afford to go to college." the gentleman smiled. "how did you know so much of these matters, my young friend?" "i have heard, sir, from boys who were at school with me, and are now clerks in mercantile houses, that they received no pay, and i always considered it a perfectly fair arrangement; but it was the reason why i felt bound to content myself with the position i held in an apothecary's shop, which, though it was not suited to my taste, enabled me to support myself, and to relieve my mother, who is a widow, and my grandfather, who is old and poor." "your grandfather is----" "mr. cooper, sexton of mr. arnold's church." "aha!" said mr. clinton, "i know him. what you say, william, is true. we do not pay any salary to our young clerks, and are overrun with applications at that rate; but i have heard good accounts of you, my boy (i shan't tell you where i had my information, though i see you look very curious), and, moreover, i like your countenance, and believe you will serve me faithfully. so, if you will tell me what you received from mr. bray, i will pay you the same next year, and after that increase your salary, if i find you deserve it; and you may commence with me on the first of january." willie thanked mr. clinton and departed. the merchant was reminded of the time when he too, the only son of his mother, and she a widow, had come alone to the city, sought long for employment, and finding it at last, had sat down to write and tell her how he hoped soon to earn enough for himself and her. and the spirits of those mothers who have wept, prayed, and thanked god over similar communications from much-loved sons, may know how to sympathise with good mrs. sullivan, when she heard from willie the joyful tidings. true exclaimed, "ah! master willie, they needn't have worried about yon, need they? i've told your grandfather more than once, that i was of the 'pinion 'twould all come out right at last." chapter xiv. the ministering angel. "i wonder," said miss peekout, as she leaned on the sill of the front window, and looked up and down the street--"i wonder who that slender girl is that walks by here every morning, with that feeble-looking old man leaning on her arm? i always see them at just about this time, when the weather permits. she's a nice child, and seems to be very fond of the old man--probably her grandfather. i notice she's careful to leave the best side of the walk for him, and she watches every step he takes; she needs to do so, for he totters sadly. poor little thing! she looks pale and anxious; i wonder if she takes all the care of the old man!" but they are now quite out of sight. "i _wonder_," said old mrs. grumble, as she sat at her window, a little further down the street, "if i should live to be old and infirm--(mrs. grumble was over seventy, but as yet suffered from no infirmity but that of a very irritable temper)--i _wonder_ if anybody would wait upon me, and take care of me as that little girl does of her grandfather! no, i'll warrant not! who can she be?" "there, look, belle!" said one young girl to another, on their way to school; "there's the girl that we meet every day with the old man. how can you say you don't think she's pretty? i admire her looks!" "you always do manage, kitty, to _admire_ people that everybody else thinks are horrid-looking." "horrid-looking!" replied kitty; "she's anything but _horrid-looking_! do notice, now, belle, when we meet them, she has the _sweetest_ way of looking up in the old man's face, and talking to him. i _wonder_ what is the matter with him! do see how his arm shakes--the one that's passed through hers!" the two couples are now close to each other, and they pass in silence. "_don't you_ think that she has an interesting face?" said kitty, eagerly, as soon as they were out of hearing. "she's got handsome eyes," answered belle. "i don't see anything else that looks interesting about her. i _wonder_ if she don't hate to walk in the street with that old grandfather; trudging along so slow, with the sun shining in her face, and he leaning on her arm, and shaking so that he can hardly keep on his feet! catch me doing it." "why, belle!" exclaimed kitty, "how can you talk so? i'm sure i pity that old man dreadfully." "lor!" said belle, "what's the use of pitying? if you are going to begin to pity, you'll have to do it all the time. look,"--belle touched her companion's elbow--"there's willie sullivan, father's clerk: an't he a beauty? i want to speak to him." but before she could address a word to him, willie, who was walking very fast, passed her with a bow, and a pleasant "good morning, miss isabel;" and ere she had recovered from the surprise and disappointment, was some rods down the street. "polite!" muttered the pretty isabel. "why, belle! do see," said kitty, who was looking back over her shoulder, "he's overtaken the old man and my interesting little girl. look--look! he's put the old man's other arm through his, and they are all three walking off together. isn't that quite a coincidence?" "nothing very remarkable," replied belle, who seemed a little annoyed. "i suppose they are persons he's acquainted with. come, make haste; we shall be late at school." reader! do _you wonder_ who they are, the girl and the old man? or have you already conjectured that they are gerty and trueman flint? true is no longer the brave, strong, sturdy protector of the lonely child. true has had a paralytic stroke. his strength is gone, his power even to walk alone. he sits all day in his arm-chair, or on the old settle, when he is not out walking with gerty. the blow suddenly struck down the robust man, and left him feeble as a child. and the little orphan girl who, in her weakness, her loneliness, and her poverty, found in him a father and a mother, she now is all the world to him--his staff, his comfort, and his hope. during four or five years that he has cherished the frail blossom, she has been gaining strength for the time when _he_ should be the leaning, _she_ the sustaining power; and when the time came, she was ready to respond to the call. with the simplicity of a child, but a woman's firmness; with the stature of a child, but a woman's capacity; the earnestness of a child, but a woman's perseverance--from morning till night, the faithful little nurse and housekeeper labours untiringly in the service of her first, her best friend. ever at his side, ever attending to his wants, and yet most wonderfully accomplishing many things which he never sees her do, she seems, indeed, to the fond old man, what he once prophesied she would become--god's embodied blessing to his latter years, cheering his pathway to the grave. though disease had robbed true's limbs of their power, the blast had spared his mind, which was clear and tranquil as ever; while his pious heart was fixed in humble trust on that god whose presence and love he had ever acknowledged, and on whom he so fully relied, that even in this bitter trial he was able to say, in perfect submission, "thy will, not mine, be done!" only about two months previous to the morning of which we have been speaking had true been stricken down. he had been in failing health, but had still been able to attend to his duties until one day in june, when gerty went into his room, and found, to her surprise, that he had not risen, although it was much later than his usual hour. on going to the bedside and speaking to him, she saw that he looked strangely, and had lost the power of speech. bewildered and frightened, she ran to call mrs. sullivan. a physician was summoned, the case pronounced one of paralysis, and for a time it was feared that it would prove fatal. he soon, however, began to amend, recovered his speech, and in a week or two was well enough to walk about with gerty's assistance. the doctor had recommended as much gentle exercise as possible, and every pleasant morning, before the day grew warm, gerty presented herself equipped for those walks, which excited so much observation. at the same time she made such little household purchases as were necessary, that she might not go out again and leave true alone. on the occasion alluded to, willie accompanied them as far as the provision shop; and, having seen true comfortably seated, proceeded to the wharf, while gerty stepped up to the counter to bargain for the dinner. she purchased a bit of veal suitable for broth, gazed wistfully at some tempting summer vegetables, turned away and sighed. she held in her hand the wallet which contained all their money; it had now been in her keeping for some weeks, and was growing light; it was no use to think about the vegetables; and she sighed, for she remembered how true enjoyed the green peas last year. "how much is the meat?" asked she of the butcher, who named the sum. it was _so little_ that it almost seemed to gerty as if he had seen into her purse, and her thoughts too, and knew how glad she would be that it did not cost any more. as he handed her the change, he leaned over the counter, and asked, in an undertone, what kind of nourishment mr. flint was able to take. "the doctor said any wholesome food." "don't you think he'd relish some green peas? i've got some first-rate ones, fresh from the country; and, if you'd think he'd eat 'em, i should like to send you some. my boy shall take round half-a-peck or so, and i'll put the meat right in the same basket." "thank you," said gerty; "he likes green peas." "very well! then i'll send him some beauties;" and he turned away to wait upon another customer, so quick that gerty thought he did not see how the colour came into her face and the tears into her eyes. but he _did_ see, and that was the _reason_ he turned away so quickly. true had an excellent appetite, enjoyed and praised the dinner exceedingly, and, after eating heartily of it, fell asleep in his chair. the moment he awoke, gerty sprung to his side, exclaiming, "uncle true, here's miss emily!--here's dear miss emily come to visit you." "the lord bless you, my dear, dear young lady!" said true, trying to rise from his chair and go towards her. "don't rise, mr. flint; i beg you will not," said emily, whose quick ear perceived the motion. "from what gerty tells me, i fear you are not able. please give me a chair, gerty, nearer to mr. flint." she drew near, took true's hand, but looked inexpressibly shocked as she observed how tremulous it had become. "ah, miss emily," said he, "i'm not the same man as when i saw you last; the lord has given me a warning, and i shan't be here long." "i am so sorry i did not know of this!" said emily. "i should have come to see you before, but i never heard of your illness until to-day. george, my father's man, saw you and gertrude at a shop this morning, and he told me. gertrude should have sent me word." gerty was standing by true's chair, smoothing his grey locks with her slender fingers. as emily mentioned her name, he turned and looked at her. o what a look of love he gave her! gerty never forgot it. "miss emily," said he, "'twas no need for anybody to be troubled. the lord provided for me his own self. all the doctors and nurses in the land couldn't have done half so much for me as this little gal o' mine. it wa'nt at all in my mind, some four or five years gone--when i brought the little barefoot mite of a thing to my home, and when she was sick and e'en a'most dyin' in this very room, and i carried her in my arms night and day--that her turn would come so soon. ah! i little thought then, miss emily, how the lord would lay me low--how those same feet would run about in my service, how her bit of a hand would come in the dark nights to smooth my pillow, and i'd go about daytimes leaning on her little arm. truly god's ways are not like our ways, nor his thoughts like our thoughts." "oh, uncle true!" said gerty, "i don't do much for you, i wish i could do a great deal more. i wish i could make you strong again." "i dare say you do, my darlin', but that can't be in this world; you've given me what's far better than strength o' body. yes, miss emily," added he, "it's you we have to thank for all the comfort we enjoy. i loved my little birdie; but i was a foolish man, and i should ha' spiled her. you knew better what was for her good, and mine too. you made her what she is now, one of the lambs of christ, a handmaiden of the lord. if anybody'd told me, six months ago, that i should become a poor cripple, and sit in my chair all day, and not know who was going to furnish a living for me or birdie either, i should ha' said i never could bear my lot with patience, or keep up any heart at all. but i've learned a lesson from this little one. when i first got so i could speak, after the shock, and tell what was in my mind, i was so troubled a' thinkin' of my sad case, and gerty with nobody to work or do anything for her, that i said, 'what shall we do now?--what shall we do now?' and then she whispered in my ear, 'god will take care of us, uncle true!' and when i forgot the sayin', and asked, 'who will feed and clothe us now!' she said again, 'the lord will provide.' and, in my deepest distress, when one night i was full of anxiety about my child, i said aloud, 'if i die, who will take care of gerty?' the little thing that i supposed was sound asleep in her bed, laid her head down beside me, and said, 'uncle true, when i was turned out into the dark street all alone, and had no friends nor any home, my heavenly father sent you to me; and now, if he wants you to come to him, and is not ready to take me too, he will send somebody else to take care of me the rest of my life.' after that, miss emily, i gave up worryin' any more. her words, and the blessed teachin's of the holy book that she reads every day, have sunk deep into my heart, and i'm at peace. "i used to think that, if i lived and had my strength spared me, gerty would be able to go to school and get a sight o' larnin', for she has a nateral liking for it, and it comes easy to her. she's but a slender child, and i never could bear the thought of her bein' driv to hard work for a livin'; she don't seem made for it, somehow. i hoped, when she grew up, to see her a school-mistress, like miss browne, or somethin' in that line; but i've done bein' vexed about it now. i know, as she says, it's all for the best, or it wouldn't be." gerty, whose face had been hid against his shoulder, looked up, and said bravely, "oh, uncle true, i'm sure i can do almost any kind of work. mrs. sullivan says i sew very well, and i can learn to be a milliner or a dressmaker; that isn't hard work." "mr. flint," said emily, "would you be willing to trust your child with me? if you should die, would you feel as if she were safe in my charge?" "miss emily," said true, "would i think her safe in angel-keepin'? i should believe her in little short o' that, if she could have you to watch over her." "oh, do not say that," said miss emily, "or i shall fear to undertake so solemn a trust. i know that my want of sight, my ill-health, and my inexperience, almost unfit me for the care of a child like gerty. but, since you approve of the teaching i have already given her, and are so kind as to think a great deal better of me than i deserve, i know you will at least believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her; and if it will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death i will gladly take gerty to my home, see that she is well educated, and, as long as i live, provide for and take care of her, you have my solemn assurance (and here she laid her hand on his) that it shall be done, and that to the best of my ability i will try to make her happy." gerty's first impulse was to rush towards emily, and fling her arms around her neck; but she was arrested in the act, for she observed that true was weeping like an infant. in an instant his feeble head was resting upon her bosom; her hand was wiping away the great tears that had rushed to his eyes. it was an easy task, for they were tears of joy--of a joy that had quite unnerved him in his present state of prostration and weakness. the proposal was so utterly foreign to his thoughts or expectations, that it seemed to him a hope too bright to be relied upon; and, after a moment's pause, an idea occurring to him which seemed to increase his doubts, he gave utterance to it in the words--"but your father, miss emily!--mr. graham!--he's partickler, and not over-young now. i'm afeard he wouldn't like a little gal in the house." "my father if indulgent to _me_," replied emily; "he would not object to any plan i had at heart, and i have become so much attached to gertrude that she would be of great use and comfort to me. i trust, mr. flint, that you will recover a portion, at least, of your health and strength, and be spared to her for many a year yet; but, in order that you may in no case feel any anxiety on her account, i take this opportunity to tell you that, if i should outlive you, she will be sure of a home with me." "ah, miss emily!" said the old man, "my time's about out, i feel right sure o' that; and, since you're willin', you'll soon be called to take charge on her. i haven't forgot how tossed i was in my mind the day after i brought her home with me, with thinkin' that p'raps i wasn't fit to undertake the care of such a little thing, and hadn't ways to make her comfortable; and then, miss emily, do you remember you said to me, 'you've done quite right; the lord will bless and reward you?' i've thought many a time since that you was a true prophet, and that your words were, what i thought 'em then, a whisper right from heaven! and now you talk o' doing the same thing yourself; and i, that am just goin' home to god, and feel as if i read his ways clearer than ever afore, _i tell you_, miss emily, that you're doin' right, too; and, if the lord rewards you as he has done me, there'll come a time when this child will pay you back in love and care all you ever do for her.--gerty?" "she's not here," said emily; "i heard her run into her own room." "poor birdie!" said true, "she doesn't like to hear o' my leavin' her; i'm sad to think how some day soon she'll almost sob her heart away over her old uncle. never mind now! i was goin' to bid her be a good child to you; but i think she will, without biddin'; and i can say my say to her another time. good-bye, my dear young lady;"--for emily had risen to go, and george, the man-servant, was waiting at the door for her--"if i never see you again, remember that you made an old man so happy that he's nothing in this world left to wish for; and that you carry with you a dyin' man's best blessin', and his prayer that god may grant such perfect peace to your last days as now he does to mine." that evening, when true had already retired to rest, and gerty had finished reading aloud in her little bible, as she always did at bed-time, true called her to him, and asked her, as he had often done of late, to repeat his favourite prayer for the sick. she knelt at his bedside, and with a solemn and touching earnestness fulfilled his request. "now, darlin', the prayer for the dyin';--isn't there such a one in your little book?" gerty trembled. there _was_ such a prayer, a beautiful one; and the thoughtful child, to whom the idea of death was familiar, knew it by heart--but could she repeat the words? could she command her voice? her whole frame shook with agitation; but uncle true wished to hear it, it would be a comfort to him, and she would try. concentrating all her energy and self-command, she began; and, gaining strength as she proceeded, went on to the end. once or twice her voice faltered, but with new effort she succeeded, in spite of the great bunches in her throat; and her voice sounded so clear and calm, that uncle true's devotional spirit was not once disturbed by the thought of the girl's sufferings; for, fortunately, he could not hear how her heart beat and throbbed, and threatened to burst. she did not rise at the conclusion of the prayer--she could not--but remained kneeling, her head buried in the bedclothes. for a few moments there was a solemn stillness in the room; then the old man laid his hand upon her head. she looked up. "you love miss emily, don't you, birdie?" "yes, indeed." "you'll be a good child to her when i'm gone?" "o, uncle true!" sobbed gerty, "you mustn't leave me! i can't live without you, _dear_ uncle true!" "it is god's will to take me, gerty; he has always been good to us, and we mustn't doubt him now. miss emily can do more for you than i could, and you'll be very happy with her." "no, i shan't--i shan't ever be happy again in this world! i never was happy until i came to you; and now, if you die, i wish i could die too!" "you mustn't wish that, darlin'; you are young, and must try to do good in the world, and bide your time. i'm an old man, and only a trouble now." "no, no, uncle true!" said gerty, earnestly; "you are not a trouble--you never could be a trouble! i wish _i'd_ never been so much trouble to _you_." "so far from that, birdie, god knows you've long been my heart's delight! it only pains me now to think that you're a spendin' all your time, and slavin' here at home, instead of goin' to school, as you used to; but, o! we all depend on each other so!--first on god, and then on each other! and that 'minds me, gerty, of what i was goin' to say. i feel as if the lord would call me soon, sooner than you think for now; and, at first, you'll cry, and be sore vexed, no doubt; but miss emily will take you with her, and she'll tell you blessed things to comfort you;--how we shall all meet again and be happy in that world where there's no partin's; and willie'll do everything he can to help you in your sorrer; and in time you'll be able to smile again. at first, and p'raps for a long time, gerty, you'll be a care to miss emily, and she'll have to do a deal for you in the way o' schoolin', clothin', and so on; and what i want to tell you is, that uncle true expects you'll be as good as can be, and do just what miss emily says; and, by-and-by, may be, when you're bigger and older, you'll be able to do somethin' for her. she's blind, you know, and you must be eyes for her; and she's not over strong, and you must lend a helpin' hand to her weakness, just as you do to mine; and, if you're good and patient, god will make your heart light at last, while you're only tryin' to make other folks happy; and when you're sad troubled (for everybody is sometimes), then think of old uncle true, and how he used to say, 'cheer up, birdie, for i'm of the 'pinion 'twill all come out right at last.' there, don't feel bad about it; go to bed, darlin', and to-morrow we'll have a nice walk--and willie's goin' with us, you know." gerty tried to cheer up, for true's sake, and went to bed. she did not sleep for some hours; but when, at last, she did fall into a quiet slumber, it continued unbroken until morning. she dreamed that morning was already come; that she and uncle true and willie were taking a pleasant walk; that uncle true was strong and well again--his eye bright, his step firm, and willie and herself laughing and happy. and, while she dreamed the beautiful dream, little thinking that her first friend and she should no longer tread life's paths together, the messenger came--a gentle, noiseless messenger--and, in the still night, while the world was asleep, took the soul of good old true, and carried it home to god! chapter xv. a new home. two months have passed since trueman flint's death, and gertrude has for a week been domesticated in mr. graham's family. it was through the newspaper that emily first heard of the little girl's sudden loss, and, acquainting her father with her plans concerning the child, she found no opposition to fear from him. he reminded her, however, of the inconvenience that would attend gertrude's coming to them at once, as they were soon to start on a visit to some distant relatives, and would not return until near the time to remove to the city for the winter. emily felt the force of this objection; for, although mrs. ellis would be at home during their absence, she knew that she would be a very unfit person to console gertrude in her time of sorrow. this thought troubled emily; and she regretted much that this unusual journey should take place so inopportunely. but there was no help for it; for mr. graham's plans were arranged, unless she would make gertrude's coming, at the very outset, disagreeable. she started for town, therefore, the next morning, quite undecided what course to pursue. the day was sunday, but emily's errand was one of charity and love, and would not admit of delay; and an hour before the time for morning service mrs. sullivan saw mr. graham's carriage stop at the door. she ran to meet emily, and guided her into her neat parlour to a comfortable seat, placed in her hand a fan (for the weather was very warm), and then told her how thankful she was to see her, and how sorry she felt that gertrude was not at home. emily wonderingly asked where gertrude was, and learned that she was out walking with willie. a succession of inquiries followed, and a touching story was told by mrs. sullivan of gertrude's agony of grief, and the fears she had entertained lest the girl would die of sorrow. "i couldn't do anything with her myself," said she. "there she sat, day after day, last week, on her little stool, by uncle true's easy-chair, with her head on the cushion, and i couldn't get her to move or eat a thing. she didn't appear to hear me when i spoke to her; and if i tried to move her, she didn't struggle, but she seemed just like a dead weight in my hands: and i couldn't bear to make her come away into my room, though i knew it would change the scene, and be better for her. if it hadn't been for willie, i don't know what i should have done, i was getting so worried about the poor child; but he knows how to manage her better than i do. when he is at home we get along very well, for he takes her right up in his arms (he's very strong, and she's as light as a feather), and either carries her into some other room, or out in the yard; and he contrives to cheer her wonderfully. he persuades her to eat, and in the evenings, when he comes home from the store, takes long walks with her. last evening they went over chelsea bridge, where it was cool and pleasant; and i suppose he diverted her attention and amused her, for she came home brighter than i've seen her, and quite tired. i got her to go to bed in my room, and she slept soundly all night, so that she really looks like herself to-day. they've gone out again this morning, and, being sunday, and willie at home all day, i've no doubt he'll keep her spirits up, if anybody can." "willie shows very good judgment," said emily, "in trying to change the scene for her, and divert her thoughts. i'm thankful she has had such kind friends. i promised mr. flint she should have a home with me when he was taken away, and not knowing of his death until now, i consider it a great favour to myself, as well as her, that you have taken such excellent care of her. i felt sure you have been all goodness, or it would have given me great regret that i had not heard of true's death before." "o, miss emily!" said mrs. sullivan, "gertrude is so dear to us, and we have suffered so much in seeing her suffer, that it was a kindness to ourselves to do all we could to comfort her. why, i think she and willie could not love each other better if they were own brother and sister: and willie and uncle true were great friends! indeed, we shall all miss him very much. my old father doesn't say much about it, but i can see he's very downhearted." mrs. sullivan now informed emily that a cousin of hers, a farmer's wife, living about twenty miles from boston, had invited them all to pass a week or two with her at the farm; and, as willie was now to enjoy his usual summer vacation, they proposed accepting the invitation. she spoke of gertrude's accompanying them, and enlarged upon the advantage it would be to her to breathe the country air, and ramble about the fields and woods, after all the fatigue and confinement she had endured. emily, finding that gertrude would be a welcome guest, cordially approved of the visit, and also arranged with mrs. sullivan that she should remain under her care until mr. graham removed to boston for the winter. she was then obliged to leave, without waiting for gertrude's return, though she left many a kind message for her, and placed in mrs. sullivan's hands a sufficient sum of money to provide for all her wants. gertrude went into the country, and abundance of novelty, country fare, healthful exercise, and kindness and sympathy, brought the colour into her cheek, and calmness and happiness into her heart. soon after the sullivan's return from their excursion, the grahams removed to the city, and gertrude had now been with them about a week. "are you still standing at the window, gertrude. what are you doing, dear?" "i'm watching to see the lamps lit, miss emily." "but they will not be lit at all. the moon will rise at eight o'clock, and light the streets sufficiently for the rest of the night." "i don't mean the street-lamps." "what do you mean, my child?" said emily, coming towards the window, and lightly resting a hand on gertrude's shoulders. "i mean the stars, dear miss emily. oh, how i wish you could see them, too!" "are they very bright?" "o, they are beautiful! and there are so many! the sky is as full as it can be." "how well i remember when i used to stand at this very window, and look at them as you are doing now! it seems to me as if i saw them this moment, i know so well how they look." "i love the stars--all of them," said gertrude; "but my own star i love the best." "which do you call yours?" "that splendid one over the church-steeple; it shines into my room every night, and looks me in the face. miss emily (and she spoke in a whisper), it seems to me as if that star were lit on purpose for me. i think uncle true lights it every night. i always feel as if he were smiling up there, and saying, 'see, gerty, i'm lighting the lamp for you.' dear uncle true! miss emily, do you think he loves me now?" "i do, indeed, gertrude; and i think, if you make him an example, and try to live as good and patient a life as he did, that he will really be a lamp to your feet, and as bright a light to your path as if his face were shining down upon you through the star." "i was patient and good when i lived with him; at least, i almost always was; and i'm good when i'm with you; but i don't like mrs. ellis. she tries to plague me, and she makes me angry, and i don't know what i do or say. i did not mean to be impertinent to her to-day, and i wish i hadn't slammed the door; but how could i help it, miss emily, when she told me before mr. graham, that i tore up the last night's _journal_, and i _know_ that i did not. it was an old paper that she saw me tying your slippers up in, and i am almost sure that she lit the library fire with the _journal_ herself; but mr. graham will always think i did it." "i have no doubt, gertrude, that you had reason to feel provoked, and i believe you when you say that you were not to blame for the loss of the newspaper. but remember, my dear, that there is no merit in being patient and good-tempered, when there is nothing to irritate you. i want you to learn to bear even injustice, without losing your self-control. mrs. ellis has been here a number of years; she has had everything her own way, and is not used to young people. she felt, when you came, that it was bringing new care and trouble upon her, and it is not strange that when things go wrong she should sometimes think you in fault. she is a very faithful woman, very kind and attentive to me, and very important to my father. it will make me unhappy if i have any reason to fear that you and she will not live pleasantly together." "i do not want to make you unhappy; i do not want to be a trouble to anybody," said gertrude, with some excitement; "i'll go away! i'll go off somewhere, where you will never see me again!" "gertrude!" said emily, seriously and sadly. her hands were still upon the young girl's shoulders, and, as she spoke, she turned her round, and brought her face to face with herself. "gertrude, do you wish to leave your blind friend? do you not love me?" so touchingly grieved was the expression of the countenance that met her gaze, that gertrude's proud spirit was subdued. she threw her arms round emily's neck, and exclaimed, "no! dear miss emily, i would not leave you for all the world! i will do just as you wish. i will never be angry with mrs. ellis again for your sake." "not for _my_ sake, gertrude," replied emily, "for your own sake; for the sake of duty and of god. a few years ago i should not have expected you to have been pleasant and amiable towards anyone whom you felt ill-treated you; but now that you know so well what is right; now that you are familiar with the life of that blessed master who, when he was reviled, reviled not again; now that you have learned faithfully to fulfil so many important duties; i had hoped that you had learned also to be forbearing under the most trying circumstances. but do not think, gertrude, because i remind you when you have done wrong i despair of your becoming one day all i wish to see you. what you are experiencing now being a new trial, you must bring new strength to bear upon it; and i have such confidence in you as to believe that, knowing my wishes, you will try to behave properly to mrs. ellis on all occasions." "i will, miss emily, i will. i'll not answer her back when she's ugly to me, if i have to bite my lips to keep them together." "o, i do not believe it will be so bad as that," said emily, smiling. "mrs. ellis's manner is rather rough, but you will get used to her." just then a voice was heard in the entry, "to see _miss flint_! really! well, _miss flint_ is in miss emily's room. she's going to entertain company, is she?" gertrude coloured, for it was mrs. ellis's voice, and her tone was very derisive. emily stepped to the door, and opened it.--"mrs.ellis." "what say, emily?" "is there anyone below?" "yes; a young man wants to see gertrude; it's that young sullivan, i believe." "willie!" exclaimed gertrude, starting forward. "you can go down and see him, gertrude," said emily, "come back here when he's gone; and, mrs. ellis, i wish you would step in and put my room a little in order. i think you will find plenty of pieces for your rag-bag about the carpet--miss randolph always scatters so many when she is engaged with her dressmaking." mrs. ellis made her collection, and then, seating herself on a couch at the side of the fire-place, with her coloured rags in one hand and the white in the other, commenced speaking of gertrude. "what are you going to do with her, emily?" said she; "send her to school?" "yes. she will go to mr. w.'s this winter." "why! isn't that a very expensive school for a child like her?" "it is expensive, certainly; but i wish her to be with the best teacher i know of, and father makes no objection to the terms. he thinks as i do, that if we undertake to fit her to instruct others, she must be thoroughly taught herself. i talked with him about it the first night after we came into town for the season, and he agreed with me that we had better put her out to learn a trade at once, than half-educate, make a fine lady of her, and so unfit her for anything. he was willing i should manage the matter as i pleased, and i resolved to send her to mr. w.'s. so she will remain with us for the present. i wish to keep her with me as long as i can, not only because i am fond of the child, but she is delicate and sensitive; and now that she is so sad about old mr. flint's death, i think we ought to do all we can to make her happy; don't you, mrs. ellis?" "i always calculate to do my duty," said mrs. ellis, rather stiffly. "where is she going to sleep when we get settled?" "in the little room at the end of the passage." "then, where shall i keep the linen press?" "can't it stand in the back entry? i should think the space between the windows would accommodate it." "i suppose it must," said mrs. ellis, flouncing out of the room, and muttering to herself, "everything turned topsy-turvy for the sake of that little upstart!" mrs. ellis was vexed. she had long had her own way in the management of all household matters at mr. graham's, and had become rather tyrannical. she was capable, methodical, and neat; accustomed to a small family, and now for many years quite _unaccustomed_ to children; gertrude was in her eyes an intruder--one who must of necessity be in mischief, continually deranging her most cherished plans. she saw in the new inmate a formidable rival to herself in miss graham's affections; and mrs. ellis could not brook the idea of being second in the regard of miss emily, who, owing to her peculiar misfortune, and to her delicate health, had long been her special charge, and for whom she felt the greatest tenderness. owing to these circumstances, mrs. ellis was not favourably disposed towards gertrude; and gertrude was not yet prepared to love mrs. ellis very cordially. chapter xvi. who are happy? emily sat alone in her room. mr. graham had gone to a meeting of bank-directors. mrs. ellis was stoning raisins in the dining-room. willie detained gertrude in the little library, and emily was indulging in a long train of meditation. her head rested on her hand; her face, usually so placid, was sad; and her whole appearance denoted despondency. as thought pressed upon thought, and past sorrows arose in quick succession, her head gradually sank upon the cushions of the couch where she sat, and tears slowly trickled through her fingers. suddenly a hand was laid softly upon hers. she gave a quick start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual pre-occupation of mind had made gertrude's approaching step unheard. "is anything the matter, miss emily?" said gertrude. "do you like best to be alone, or may i stay?" the sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child's question, touched emily. she drew her towards her, saying, as she did so, "o, yes, stay with me;" then observing, as she passed an arm round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated, she added, "but what is the matter with you, gerty? what makes you tremble and sob so?" at this, gertrude broke forth with, "o, miss emily, i thought you were crying when i came in, and i hoped you would let me come and cry with you; for i'm so miserable i can't do anything else." calmed herself by the agitation of the child, emily tried to discover the cause of this new affliction. willie had been to tell her that he was going away, going out of the country; as gertrude expressed it, to the other end of the world--to india. mr. clinton was interested in a mercantile house in calcutta, and had offered william the most favourable terms to go abroad as clerk to the establishment. the prospect was far better than he could hope for by remaining at home; the salary was sufficient to defray all his own expenses, and provide for the wants of those who were now becoming more dependent upon him. the chance, too, of future advancement was great; though the young man's affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and interest prompted. he agreed to the proposal, and whatever his own struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years' banishment, he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully about it to his mother and grandfather. "miss emily," said gertrude, when she had acquainted her with the news, "how can i bear to have willie go away? how can i live without willie? he is so kind, and loves me so much! he was always better than any brother, and, since uncle true died, he has done everything in the world for me. i believe i could not have borne uncle true's death if it had not been for willie; and now how can i let him go away?" "it is hard, gertrude," said emily, kindly, "but it is no doubt for his advantage; you must try and think of that." "i know it," replied gertrude--"i suppose it is; but, miss emily, you do not know how i love willie. we were so much together; and there were only us two, and we thought everything of each other; he was so much older than i, and always took such good care of me. o, i don't think you have any idea what friends we are!" gertrude had unconsciously touched a chord that vibrated through emily's whole frame. her voice trembled as she answered, "_i_, gertrude! _not know_, my child! i know better than you imagine, how dear he must be to you. i, too, had----" then she paused abruptly, and there were a few moments' silence, during which emily got up, walked hastily to the window, pressed her aching head against the frosty glass, and then returning, said, in a low voice which had recovered its usual calmness, "o gertrude! in the grief that oppresses you now, you little realise how much you have to be thankful for. think, my dear, what a blessing it is that willie will be where you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant news of his friends." "yes," replied gerty; "he says he shall write to me and his mother very often." "then, too," said emily, "you ought to rejoice at the good opinion mr. clinton must have of willie: the confidence he must feel in his uprightness, to place in him so much trust. i think that is very flattering." "so it is," said gerty; "i did not think of that." "and you have lived so happily together," continued emily, "and will part in such perfect peace. o gertrude! gertrude! such a parting as that should not make you sad; there are so much worse things in the world. be patient, my dear child; do your duty, and perhaps there will some day be a happy meeting, that will repay you for all you suffer in the separation." emily's voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. gertrude's eyes were fixed upon her friend with a puzzled expression. "miss emily," said she, "i begin to think that everything has trouble." "certainly, gertrude; can you doubt it?" "i did not use to think so. i knew i had, but i thought other folks were more fortunate. i fancied that rich people were all very happy; and, though you are blind, and that is a dreadful thing, i supposed you were used to it; and you always looked so pleasant and quiet, i took it for granted nothing ever vexed you now. and then, willie!--i believed once that nothing could make him look sad, he was always so gay; but when he hadn't any place, i saw him really cry; and then, when uncle true died, and now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, he could hardly speak, he felt so badly. and so, miss emily, since i see that you and willie have troubles, and that tears will come, though you try to keep them back, i think the world is full of trials, and that every one gets a share." "it is the lot of humanity, gertrude, and we must not expect it to be otherwise." "then, who can be happy, miss emily?" "those, only, my child, who have learned submission; those who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving father, and obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod." "it is very hard, miss emily." "it is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can rightly be called happy; but if, even in the midst of our distress, we can look to god in faith and love, we may, when the world is dark around, experience a peace that is a foretaste of heaven." willie's departure was sudden, and mrs. sullivan had only a week in which to make those arrangements which a mother's thoughtfulness deems necessary. her hands were therefore full of work, and gerty, whom emily at once relinquished for the short time previous to the vessel's sailing, was of great assistance to her. willie was very busy during the day, but was always with them in the evening. on one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and his mother and grandfather both being out, and gertrude having just put aside her sewing, he said to her, "come, gerty, if you are not afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as we used to do in old times; there will be no more such warm days as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner." "o willie!" said gertrude, "do not speak of our never being together in the old place again! i cannot bear the thought; there is not a house in boston i could ever love as i do this." "nor i," replied willie; "but there is one chance in a hundred if i should be gone five years that there would not be a block of brick stores in this spot when i come to look for it. i wish i did not think so, for i shall have many a longing after the old home." "but what will become of your mother and grandfather if this house is torn down?" "it is not easy to tell, gerty, what will become of any of us by that time; but, if there is any necessity for their moving, i hope i shall be able to provide a better house than this for them." "you won't be here, willie." "i know it, but i shall be always hearing from you, and we can talk about it by letters, and arrange everything. the idea of any such changes, after all," added he, "is what troubles me most in going away; i think they would miss me and need me so much. gertrude, you will take care of them, won't you?" "i!" said gertrude, in amazement; "such a child as i!--what can i do?" "if i am gone five or ten years, gerty, you will not be a child all that time, and a woman is often a better dependence than a man, especially such a good brave woman as you will be. i have not forgotten the beautiful care you took of uncle true; and, whenever i imagine grandfather or mother old and helpless, i always think of you, and hope you will be near them; for i know if you are, you will be a greater help than i could be. so i leave them in your care, gerty, though you _are_ only a child yet." "thank you, willie," said gertrude, "for believing i shall do everything i can for them. i certainly will, as long as i live. but, willie, _they_ may be strong and well all the time you are gone; and i, although i am so young, may be sick and die--nobody knows." "that is true enough," said willie, sadly; "and i may die myself; but it will not do to think of that. it seems to me i never should have courage to go, if i didn't hope to find you all well and happy when i come home. you must write to me every month, for it will be a much greater task to mother, and i am sure she will want you to do nearly all the writing; and, whether my letters come directed to her or you, it will be all the same, you know. and, gerty, you must not forget me, darling; you must love me just as much when i am gone--won't you?" "forget you, willie! i shall be always thinking of you, and loving you the same as ever. what else shall i have to do? but you will be off in a strange country, where everything will be different, and you will not think half as much of me, i know." "if you believe that, gertrude, it is because you do _not_ know. you will have friends all around you and i shall be alone in a foreign land; but every day of my life my heart will be with you and my mother." they were now interrupted by mr. cooper's return, nor did they afterwards renew the conversation; but the morning willie left them, when mrs. sullivan was leaning over a neatly-packed trunk in the next room, trying to hide her tears, and mr. cooper's head was bowed lower than usual, willie whispered to gerty, "gerty, dear, for my sake take good care of _our_ mother and grandfather--they are _yours_ almost as much as mine." on willie's thus leaving home, for the first time, to struggle and strive among men, mr. cooper, who could not yet believe that the boy would be successful in the war with fortune, gave him many a caution against indulgent hopes which never would be realised. and mrs. sullivan, with tears, said, "love and fear god, willie, and do not disappoint your mother." we pause not to dwell upon the last night the youth spent at his home, his mother's last evening prayer, her last morning benediction, the last breakfast they all took together (gertrude among the rest), or the final farewell embrace. and willie went to sea. and the pious, loving, hopeful woman, who for eighteen years had cherished her boy with tenderness and pride, maintained now her wonted spirit of self-sacrifice, and gave him up without a murmur. none knew how she struggled with her aching heart, or whence came the power that sustained her. and now began gertrude's residence at mr. graham's, hitherto in various ways interrupted. she attended school, and laboured diligently at her studies. her life was varied by few incidents, for emily never entertained much company, and in the winter scarcely any, and gertrude formed no intimate acquaintance among her companions. with emily she passed many happy hours; they took walks, read books, and talked much with each other, and miss graham found that in gertrude's observing eyes, and her feeling and glowing descriptions of everything that came within their gaze, she was herself renewing her acquaintance with the outer world. in errands of charity and mercy gertude was either her attendant or her messenger; and all the dependants of the family, from the cook to the little boy who called at the door for the fragments of broken bread, agreed in loving and praising the child, who, though neither beautiful nor elegantly dressed, had a fairy lightness of step, a grace of movement, and a dignity of bearing which impressed them all with the conviction that she was no beggar in spirit, whatever might be her birth or fortune. mrs. ellis's prejudices against her was still strong; but, as gertrude was always civil, and emily prudently kept them much apart, no unhappy result ensued. she went often to see mrs. sullivan, and, as the spring advanced, they began to look for news of willie. no tidings had come, however, when the season arrived for the grahams to remove into the country for the summer. a letter written by gertrude to willie, soon after they were established there, will give some idea of her situation and mode of life. after dwelling upon the disappointment of having not yet heard from him, and giving an account of the last visit she had made to his mother before leaving the city, she wrote: "but you made me promise, willie, to write about myself, and said you should wish to hear everything that occurred at mr. graham's which concerned me in anyway; so if my letter is more tedious than usual, it is your own fault, for i have much to tell of our removal to d----, and of the way in which we live here, so different from our life in boston. i think i hear you say, when you have read so far, 'o dear! now gerty is going to give me a description of mr. graham's country-house!'--but you need not be afraid; i have not forgotten how, the last time i undertook to do so, you placed your hand over my mouth to stop me, and assured me you knew the place as well as if you had lived there all your life, for i oft described it to you. everything looks smaller and less beautiful than it seemed to me then; and, though i will not describe it to you again, i must just tell you that the entry and piazzas are much narrower than i expected, the rooms lower, and the garden and summer-houses not nearly so large. miss emily asked me, a day or two ago, how i liked the place, and if it looked as it used formerly. i told her the truth; and she was not at all displeased, but laughed at my old recollections of the house and grounds, and said it was always so with things we had seen when we were little children. "i need not tell you that miss emily is kind to me as ever; for nobody who knows her as you do would suppose she could ever be anything but the best and loveliest person in the world. i can never do half enough, willie, to repay her for all her goodness to me; and yet, she is so pleased with little gifts, and so grateful for trifling attentions, that it seems as if everybody might do something to make her happy. i found a few violets in the grass yesterday, and when i brought them to her she kissed and thanked me as if they had been so many diamonds; and little ben gately, who picked a hatful of dandelion-blossoms, without a single stem, and then rang at the front-door bell, and asked for miss ga'am, so as to give them to her himself, got a sweet smile for his trouble, and a 'thank you, bennie,' that he will not soon forget. wasn't it pleasant in miss emily, willie? "mr. graham has given me a garden, and i mean to have plenty of flowers for her by-and-by--that is, if mrs. ellis doesn't interfere; but i expect she will, for she does in almost everything. willie, mrs. ellis is my _great_ trial. she is just the kind of person i cannot endure. i believe there are some people that other people _can't_ like--and she is just the sort i can't. i would not tell anybody else so, because it would not be right, and i do not know that it is right to mention it at all; but i always tell you everything. miss emily talks to me about her, and says i must learn to love her, and _when i do_ i shall be an angel. "there, i know you will think that is some of gerty's old temper; and perhaps it is, but you don't know how she tries me; it is in little things that i cannot tell very easily, and i would not plague you with them if i could, so i won't write about her any more--i will try to love her dearly. "you will think that now, while i am not going to school, i shall hardly know what to do with my time; but i have plenty to do. the first week after we came here i found the mornings very dull. you know i am always an early riser; but, as it does not agree with miss emily to keep early hours, i never see her until eight o'clock, full two hours after i am up and dressed. when we were in boston, i always spent that time studying; but this spring, miss emily, who noticed that i was growing fast, and heard mr. arnold notice how pale i looked, fancied it would not do for me to spend so much time at my books; and so, when we came to d----, she planned my study-hours, which are very few, and arranged that they should take place after breakfast, and in her own room. she always advised me, if i could, to sleep later in the morning; but i could not, and was up at my usual time, wandering around the garden. one day i was quite surprised to find mr. graham at work, for it was not like his winter habits; but he is a queer man. he asked me to come and help him plant onion-seeds, and i rather think i did it pretty well; for after that he let me plant a number of things, and label little sticks to put down by the side of them. at last, to my joy, he offered to give me a piece of ground for a garden, where i might raise flowers. and so i am to have a garden. but i am making a very long story, willie, and have not time to say a thousand other things that i want to. o! if i could see you, i could tell you in an hour more than i could write in a week. in five minutes i expect to hear miss emily's bell, and then she will send for me to come and read to her. "i long to hear from you, dear willie, and pray to god morning and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of you to your loving gerty." chapter xvii. the ruling passion controlled. a few weeks after the date of this letter, gerty learned through george, who went daily to the city to attend to the marketing, that mrs. sullivan had left word at the shop of our old acquaintance, the butcher, that she had received a letter from willie, and wanted gerty to come into town and see it. emily was willing to let her go, but afraid it would be impossible to arrange it, as charlie, the only horse mr. graham kept, was in use, and she saw no other way of sending her. "why don't you let her go in the omnibus?" asked mrs. ellis. gerty looked gratefully at mrs. ellis; it was the first time that lady had ever seemed anxious to promote her views. "i don't think it's safe for her to go alone in the coach," said emily. "safe!--what, for that great girl!" said mrs. ellis, whose position in the family had no forms of restraint with miss graham. "do you think it is?" inquired emily. "she seems a child to me, to be sure; but as you say, she is almost grown up, and i dare say is capable of taking care of herself. gertrude, are you sure you know the way from the omnibus-office in boston to mrs. sullivan's?" "perfectly well, miss emily." a place was therefore secured, and gertrude set forth on her expedition with beaming eyes and a full heart. she found mrs. sullivan and mr. cooper well, and rejoicing over the tidings from willie, who, after a long but agreeable voyage, had reached calcutta in health and safety. a description of his new home, his new duties and employers, filled all the rest of the letter, except what was devoted to affectionate messages and inquiries, a large share of which were for gerty. gertrude dined with mrs. sullivan, and then hastened to the omnibus. she took her seat, and as she waited for the coach to start, amused herself with the passers-by. it was nearly three o'clock, and she began to think she should be the only passenger, when she heard a strange voice proceeding from a person whose approach she had not perceived. she moved towards the door, and saw, standing at the back of the coach, the most singular-looking being she had ever beheld. it was an old lady, small, and considerably bent with years. she had been vainly endeavouring to mount the inconvenient vehicle, and now, with one foot upon the lower step, was calling to the driver to help her. "sir," said she, in measured tones, "is this travelling equipage under your honourable charge?" "what say, marm?--yes, i'm the driver;" saying which, he came up to the door, opened it, and without waiting for the polite request which was on the old lady's lips, placed his hand beneath her elbow, and lifted her into the coach and shut the door. "bless me!" ejaculated she, as she seated herself opposite gertrude, and began to arrange her veil and other draperies, "that individual is not versed in the art of assisting a lady, without detriment to her habiliments. o dear, o dear!" added she, "i've lost my parasol." she rose as she spoke; but the sudden starting of the coach threw her off her balance, and she would have fallen, had it not been for gertrude, who caught her by the arm, and reseated her, saying as she did so, "do not be alarmed, madam; here is the parasol." as she spoke she drew into view the missing article, which, though nearly the size of an umbrella, was fastened to the old lady's waist by a green ribbon, and, having slipped out of place, was supposed lost. and not a parasol only did she bring to light; numerous other articles, connected with the same green string--a large reticule of various colours, a black lace cap, a large feather fan, and other articles. they were partly hidden under a thin black silk shawl, and gertrude began to think her companion had been on a pilfering expedition. if so, however, the culprit seemed remarkably at ease, for, before the coach had gone many steps, she deliberately placed her feet on the opposite seat, and proceeded to make herself comfortable. in the first place, much to gertrude's horror, she took out all her teeth, and put them in her work-bag; then drew off a pair of black silk gloves, and replaced them by cotton ones; removed her lace veil, folded and pinned it to the green string. she next untied her bonnet, threw over it, as a protection from the dust, a large cotton handkerchief, and loosing her fan, applied herself diligently to the use of it, closing her eyes as she did so, evidently intending to go to sleep. she did fall into a doze, for she was very quiet, and gertrude, occupied with observing some heavy clouds that were rising from the west, forgot to observe her fellow traveller, until she was startled by a hand suddenly laid upon her own, and an abrupt exclamation of "my dear young damsel, do not those dark shadows betoken adverse weather?" "i think it will rain very soon," replied gertrude. "this morn, when i ventured forth," soliloquised the old lady, "the sun was bright, the sky serene; even the winged songsters took part in the universal joy; and now before i get home, my delicate lace flounces (glancing at the skirt of her dress) will prove a sacrifice to the pitiless storm." "does the coach pass your door?" asked gertrude. "no; oh, no! not within half-a-mile. does it better accommodate you, my young miss?" "no. i shall have a mile to walk." the coach had reached its destination, and the two passengers alighted. gertrude would have started at once on her walk, but was prevented by the old lady, who begged her to wait, as she was going the same way. the old lady refused to pay the fare demanded by the driver; and declared it was not the regular fare, and accused the man of an intention to put the excess into his pocket. gertrude was impatient, for she was every moment expecting to see the rain pour in torrents; but the matter being compromised, she was permitted to proceed. they had walked about a quarter-of-a-mile, and at a very slow rate, when the rain fell; and now gertrude was asked to unloose the huge parasol, and carry it over her companion and herself. in this way they had walked nearly as much more of the distance, when the waters began to descend as if all the reservoirs of heaven were thrown open. just then gertrude heard a step behind them, and, turning, she saw george, mr. graham's man, running in the direction of the house. he recognised her at once, and exclaimed, "miss gertrude, you'll be wet through; and miss pace too. sure, and ye'd better baith hasten to her house, where ye'll be secure." so saying, he caught miss pace in his arms, and signing to gertrude to follow, rushed across the street, and hurrying on to a cottage near by, did not stop until he had placed the old lady in safety beneath her own porch; and gerty also gained its shelter. miss pace was so bewildered that it took her some minutes to recover her consciousness; and it was arranged that gertrude should stop where she was for an hour or two, and that george should call for her when he passed that way with the carriage on his return from the depot. miss patty pace was not a person of much hospitality. she owned the cottage which she occupied and lived alone, keeping no servants and entertaining no visitors. she was herself a famous visitor; and, as but a small part of her life had been passed in d----, and all her friends and connexions lived either in boston or at a much greater distance, she was a constant frequenter of omnibuses. but though, through her travelling propensities and her regular attendance at church, she was well known, gertrude was perhaps the first visitor who had ever entered her house. even when she was at her door, she had to take the old lady's key, unlock and open it herself, and finally lead her hostess into the parlour, and help her off with her innumerable capes, shawls, and veils. once come to a distinct consciousness of her situation, however, and miss patty pace conducted herself with all the elegant politeness for which she was remarkable. suffering a thousand regrets at the trying experience her own clothes had sustained, she expressed nearly as many fears lest gertrude had ruined every article of her dress. it was only after many assurances from the latter that her boots were scarcely wet at all, her gingham dress and cape not hurt by rain, and her nice straw bonnet safe under the scarf she had thrown over it, that miss patty could be prevailed upon to so far forget the duties of a hostess as to retire, and change her lace flounces for something more suitable for home wear. as soon as she left the room, gertrude, whose curiosity was excited, took a nearer view of many articles, both of ornament and use, which had attracted her attention, from their singular appearance. miss pace's room was remarkable as its owner. its furniture, like her apparel, was made up of the gleanings of every age and fashion. gertrude's quick eye was revelling amid the few relics of ancient eloquence, and the numerous specimens of folly and bad taste, when the old lady returned. a neat though quaint black dress having taken the place of the much-valued flounces, she now looked more lady-like. she held in her hand a tumbler of pepper and water, and begged her visitor to drink, assuring her it would warm her stomach and prevent her taking cold; and when gertrude, who could scarcely keep from laughing in her face, declined the beverage, miss patty seated herself, and, while enjoying the refreshment, carried on a conversation which at one moment satisfied her visitor she was a women of sense, and the next that she was either foolish or insane. the impression which gertrude made upon miss patty was more decided. miss patty was delighted with the young miss, and declared she had an intellect that would do honour to a queen, a figure that was airy as a gazelle, and motions more graceful than those of a swan. when george came for gertrude, miss pace was sorry to part with her, invited her to come again, and she promised to do so. the satisfactory news from willie, and the amusing adventures of the afternoon, had given to gertrude such a feeling of buoyancy, that she bounded into the house, and up the stairs, with that fairy quickness uncle true had so loved to see in her, and which, since his death, her subdued spirits had rarely permitted her to exercise. at the door of her room she met bridget, the housemaid. on inquiring what was going on there, she learned that during her absence her room had received a thorough cleaning. alarmed at the idea of mrs. ellis having invaded her premises, she surveyed the apartment with a slight feeling of agitation, which, as she continued her observations, swelled into angry excitement. when gertrude went from mrs. sullivan's to mr. graham's house in the city, she took with her a trunk containing her wardrobe, an old bandbox, which she put on the shelf of a closet in her chamber. there it remained during the winter, unpacked, and when the family went into the country, the box went also, carefully protected by its owner, who had put it in a corner behind the bed, and the evening before her expedition to the city had been engaged in inspecting its contents, endeared to her by the charm of old association, and many a tear had the little maiden shed over her stock of valuables. there was the figure of the samuel, uncle true's first gift, defaced by time and accident. there, too, were his pipes, dark with smoke and age; but as she thought what comfort they had been to him, she felt them a consolation to her. she had also his lantern, for she had not forgotten its pleasant light, the first that ever fell upon the darkness of her life; also his fur cap, beneath which she had often seen the kindly smile, and could hardly realise that there was not one for her still hidden beneath its crown. all these things, excepting the lantern and cap, gertrude had left upon the mantel-piece; and on entering the room, her eye sought her treasures. they were gone. the mantel-piece was empty. she ran towards the corner for the old box. it was gone. to rush after the housemaid and question her was but the work of an instant. bridget was a new-comer, a stupid specimen, but gertrude obtained from her all the information she needed. the image, the pipes, and the lantern were thrown among a heap of broken glass and crockery, and smashed to atoms. the cap, said to be moth-eaten, and the other articles had been cast into the fire at mrs. ellis's orders. gertrude allowed bridget to depart, unaware of the greatness of her loss; then, shutting the door, she wept. she rose from the bed suddenly, and started for the door; then, some new thought seeming to check her, she returned again to the bedside, and, with a loud sob, fell upon her knees, and buried her face in her hands. once or twice she lifted her head, and seemed on the point of rising and going to face her enemy; but each time something came across her mind and detained her. it was not fear; oh, no! gertrude was not afraid of anybody. it must have been some stronger motive than that. whatever it might be, it was something that had a soothing influence, for, after every fresh struggle, she grew calmer, and rising, seated herself in a chair by the window, leaned her head on her hand, and looked out. the shower was over, and the smiles of the refreshed earth were reflected in a glowing rainbow. a little bird came and perched on a branch of a tree close to the window, and shouted forth a _te deum_. a persian lilac-bush, in full bloom, sent up a delicious fragrance. a wonderful calm stole into gertrude's heart, and she felt "the grace that brings peace succeed to the passions that produce trouble." she had conquered; she had achieved the greatest of earth's victories, a victory over herself. the brilliant rainbow, the carol of the bird, the fragrance of the blossoms, all the bright things that gladdened the earth after the storm, were not half so beautiful as the light that overspread the face of the young girl when, the storm within her laid at rest, she looked up to heaven and her heart sent forth its silent offering of praise. the sound of the tea-bell startled her. she bathed her face and brushed her hair, and went downstairs. there was no one in the dining-room but mrs. ellis; mr. graham had been detained in town, and emily was suffering severe headache. gertrude took tea alone with mrs. ellis, who, unaware of the great value gertrude attached to her old relics, was conscious she had done an unkind thing. next day mrs. prime, the cook, came to emily's room, and produced the little basket, made of a nut, saying, "i wonder now, miss emily, where miss gertrude is; for i've found her little basket in the coal-hole, and i guess she'll be right glad on't--'tan't hurt a mite." emily inquired, "what basket?" and the cook, placing it in her hands, gave an account of the destruction of gertrude's property, which she had herself witnessed with indignation. she described the distress of gertrude when questioning bridget, which the sympathising cook had heard from her chamber. as emily listened to the story, she thought the previous afternoon she heard gertrude sobbing in her room, but that she concluded that she mistook. "go," said she, "and carry the basket to gertrude; she is in the little library; but please, mrs. prime, don't tell her that you have mentioned the matter to me." emily expected for several days, to hear from gertrude the story of her injuries; but gertrude kept her trouble to herself. this was the first instance of complete self-control to gerty. from this time she experienced more and more the power of governing herself; and, with each new effort gaining new strength, became at last a wonder to those who knew the temperament she had had to contend with. she was now nearly fourteen years old, and so rapid had been her recent growth that, instead of being below the usual stature, she was taller than most girls of her age. freedom from study, and plenty of air and exercise, prevented her, however, from suffering from this circumstance. her garden was a source of great pleasure to her, and flowers prospering under her careful training, she had always a bouquet ready to place by emily's plate at breakfast-time. chapter xviii. the nurse. mr. graham's garden was very beautiful, abounding in rich shrubbery, summer houses, and arbours covered with grape-vines; but a high, broad fence hid it from public view, and the house, standing back from the road, was old-fashioned in its appearance. the summer was passing most happily, and gertrude, in the enjoyment of emily's society, and in the consciousness that she was rendering herself useful and important to this excellent friend, was finding in every day new causes of contentment and rejoicing, when a stop was suddenly put to all her pleasure. emily was taken ill with a fever, and gertrude, on her entering the sick-room, to share in its duties, was rudely repulsed by mrs. ellis, who had constituted herself sole nurse, and who declared that the fever was catching, and miss emily did not want her there. for three or four days gertrude wandered about the house, inconsolable. on the fifth morning after her banishment from the room, she saw mrs. prime, the cook, going upstairs with some gruel; and, giving her some beautiful rose-buds which she had gathered, she begged her to give them to emily, and ask if she might not come in and see her. she lingered about the kitchen awaiting mrs. prime's return, in hopes of some message, at least, from the sufferer. but when the cook came down the flowers were still in her hand, and as she threw them on the table, the kind-hearted woman gave vent to her feelings. "well! folks do say that first-rate cooks and nurses are allers as cross as bears! 'tan't for me to say whether it's so 'bout cooks, but 'bout nurses there an't no sort o'doubt! i would not want to go there, miss gertrude; i'm sure she'd bit your head off." "wouldn't miss emily take the flowers?" asked gertrude, looking quite grieved. "well, she hadn't no word in the matter. you know she couldn't see what they were; and mrs. ellis flung 'em outside the door, vowin' i might as well bring pison into the room with a fever as roses. i tried to speak to miss emily, but mrs. ellis set up such a hush-sh-sh i s'posed she was goin' to sleep, and jest made the best o' my way out. ugh! don't she begin to scold when there's anybody taken sick!" gertrude sauntered out into the garden. she had nothing to do but think anxiously about emily, who, she feared, was very ill. her work and her books were all in emily's room, where they were usually kept; the library might have furnished amusement, but it was locked up. so the garden was the only thing left for her, and there she spent the rest of the morning; and many others, for emily grew worse, and a fortnight passed away without gertrude's seeing her, or having any other intimation regarding her health than mrs. ellis's occasional report to mr. graham, who, as he saw the physician every day, and made frequent visits to his daughter, did not require that particular information which gertrude was eager to obtain. once or twice she had asked mrs. ellis, who replied, "don't bother me with questions! what do you know about sickness?" one afternoon gertrude was sitting in a large summer-house at the end of the garden; her own piece of ground, fragrant with mignonette and verbena, was close by, and she was busily engaged in tying up some little papers of seeds, when she was startled by hearing a step beside her, and looking up, saw dr. jeremy, the family physician, entering the building. "ah! what are you doing?" said the doctor, in a quick manner peculiar to him. "sorting seeds, eh?" "yes, sir," replied gerty, blushing, as she saw the doctor's keen black eyes scrutinising her face! "where have i seen you before?" asked he, in the same blunt way. "at mr. flint's." "ah! true flint's! i remember all about it. you're his girl! nice girl, too! and poor true, he's dead! well, he's a loss to the community! so this is the little nurse i used to see there. bless me! how children do grow!" "doctor jeremy," asked gertrude, in an earnest voice, "will you please to tell me how miss emily is?" "emily! she an't very well just now." "do you think she'll die?" "die! no! what should she die for? i won't let her die, if you'll help me to keep her alive. why an't you in the house taking care of her?" "i wish i might!" exclaimed gertrude, starting up; "i wish i might!" "what's to hinder?" "mrs. ellis, sir; she won't let me in; she says miss emily doesn't want anybody but her." "she's nothing to say about it, or emily either; it's my business, and i want you. i'd rather have you to take care of my patients than all the mrs. ellises in the world. she knows nothing about nursing; let her stick to her cranberry-sauce and squash-pies. so, mind, to-morrow you're to begin." "o, thank you, doctor." "don't thank me yet; wait till you've tried it--it's hard work taking care of sick folks. whose orchard is that?" "mrs. bruce's." "is that her pear-tree?" "yes, sir." "by george, mrs. bruce, i'll try your pears for you!" as he spoke, the doctor, a man some sixty-five years of age, stout and active, sprung over a stone wall, which separated them from the orchard, and reached the foot of the tree almost at a bound. as gertrude watched the proceeding, she observed the doctor stumble over some obstacle, and only saved himself from falling by stretching forth both hands, and sustaining himself against the trunk of the tree. at the same instant a head, adorned with a velvet smoking-cap, was slowly lifted from the long grass, and a youth, about sixteen or seventeen years of age, stared at the intruder. nothing daunted, the doctor at once took the offensive ground towards the occupant of the place, saying, "get up, lazy bones! what do you lie there for, tripping up honest folks?" "whom do you call honest folks, sir?" inquired the youth, apparently undisturbed by the doctor's epithet and inquiry. he showed much _sang froid_. "i call myself and my little friend here remarkably honest people," replied the doctor, winking at gertrude, who, standing behind the wall and looking over, was laughing at the way in which the doctor had got caught. the young man turned, and gave a broad stare at gertrude's merry face. "can i do anything for you, sir?" asked he. "yes, certainly," replied the doctor. "i came here to help myself to pears; but you are taller than i--perhaps, with the help of that crooked-handled cane of yours, you can reach that best branch." "a remarkably honourable and honest errand!" muttered the young man. "i shall be happy to be engaged in so good a cause." and, drawing down the branch, so that he could reach it with his hand, shook it vigorously. the ripe fruit fell on every side; and the doctor, having filled his pockets, and both his hands, started for the other side of the wall. "have you got enough?" asked the youth, in a very lazy tone of voice. "plenty, plenty," said the doctor. "glad of it," said the boy, indolently throwing himself on the grass, and still staring at gertrude. "you must be very tired," said the doctor, stepping back a pace or two; "i'm a physician, and should advise a nap." "are you, indeed!" replied the youth, in the same half-drawling, half-ironical tone of voice; "then i think i'll take your advice;" and he threw himself upon the grass, and closed his eyes. having emptied his pockets upon the seat of the summer-house, and invited gertrude to partake, the doctor, still laughing at his boyish feat, looked at his watch. "half-past four! the cars go in ten minutes. who's going to drive me down to the depot?" "i don't know, sir," replied gertrude. "where's george?" "he's gone to the meadow to get in some hay, but he left white charlie harnessed in the yard; i saw him fasten him to the chain, after he drove you up from the cars." "ah! then you can drive me down to the depot." "i can't, sir; i don't know how." "but you must; i'll show you how. you're not afraid?" "o, no, sir; but mr. graham----" "never you mind mr. graham--do you mind me. i'll answer for your coming back safe enough." gertrude was naturally courageous; she had never driven before, but, having no fears, she succeeded admirably, and, being often afterwards called upon by dr. jeremy to perform the same service, she soon became skilful in the use of the reins. dr. jeremy was true to his promise of installing gertrude in emily's sick room. the next visit he made to his patient, he spoke in terms of the highest praise of gertrude's devotion to her old uncle, and her capability as a nurse, and asked why she had been expelled from the chamber. "she is timid," said emily, "and is afraid of catching the fever." "don't believe it," said dr. jeremy; "'tan't like her." "do you think not?" inquired emily, earnestly. "mrs. ellis----" "told a lie," interrupted the doctor. "gerty wants to come and take care of you, and she knows how as well as mrs. ellis any day; it isn't much you need done. you want quiet, and that's what you can't have with that great talking woman about. so i'll send her to jericho to-day, and bring my little gertrude up here. she's a quiet little mouse, and has got a head on her shoulders." it is not to be supposed that gertrude could provide for emily's wants any better than mrs. ellis; and emily, knowing this, took care that the housekeeper should not be sent to jericho; for, though dr. jeremy, a man of strong prejudices, did not like her, she was excellent in her department, and could not be dispensed with. so, though emily, dr. jeremy, and gertrude were all made happy by the free admission of the latter to the sick-room, the housekeeper was never conscious that anyone knew her ill-will to gertrude. there were care and tenderness in gertrude, which only the warmest love could have dictated. when emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep, she found a cooling draught ready at her lips, and knew from mrs. ellis's deep snoring that it was not her hand that held it--when she observed that all day long no troublesome fly was ever permitted to approach her pillow, her aching head was relieved by hours of patient bathing, and the little feet that were never weary were always noiseless--she realised the truth that dr. jeremy had brought her a most excellent medicine. a week or two passed away, and she was able to sit up, though not yet able to leave her room. a few weeks more, and the doctor began to insist upon air and exercise. "drive out two or three times every day," said he. "how can i?" said emily. "george has so much to do, it will be very inconvenient." "let gertrude drive you; she is a capital hand." "gertrude," said emily, smiling, "i believe you are a great favourite of the doctor's; he thinks you can do anything. you never drove, did you?" "hasn't she driven me to the depot every day for these six weeks?" inquired the doctor. "is it possible?" asked emily. upon her being assured this was the case, and the doctor insisting that there was no danger, charlie was harnessed into the carriage, and emily and mrs. ellis went out to drive with gertrude, an experiment which, being often repeated, was a source of health to the invalid, and pleasure to them all. in the early autumn, when emily's health was restored, old charlie was daily called into requisition; sometimes mrs. ellis accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged in household duties, they oft went by themselves, in a large, old-fashioned buggy, and emily declared that gertrude's learning to drive had proved a great source of happiness. once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, gertrude saw again the lazy youth whom dr. jeremy had stumbled over when he went to steal pears. once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in her garden, professed himself astonished at her activity, talked a little with her about her flowers, asked some questions concerning her friend dr. jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her name. gertrude blushed; she was sensitive about her name, and, though she went by that of flint, and did not think much about it, she could not fail to remember, when the question was put to her point-blank, that she had no surname of her own. emily had tried to find nan grant, in order to learn from her something of gertrude's early history; but nan had left her old habitation, and for years nothing had been heard of her. chapter xix. changes. it was the twilight of a sultry september day, and, wearied by excessive heat, emily sat on the front piazza of her father's house, inhaling a delicious and refreshing breeze. the western sky was still streaked with brilliant lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of day and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams upon emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, which, escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of her rustic arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble. ten years had passed since emily was introduced to the reader; and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time, that she looked little older than on her first meeting gertrude in mr. arnold's church. she had even then experienced much of the sorrows of life, and learned how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for every pain. even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge she had gained from it, had both stamped themselves upon her countenance; therefore, time had little power upon her; as she was then so was she now; lovely in her outward appearance, and still more lovely in heart and life. still a close observer might perceive in her a greater degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of interest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of life, and this was due, as emily acknowledged, to her recent close companionship with one to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation of the entertaining and the ludicrous, and the beautiful and true, and her unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed, had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost dormant, and become, what uncle true bade her be, eyes to her benefactor. on the present occasion, as emily sat alone, her thoughts were sad. she held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and, as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, she would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would cross her features. at length, some one approaches the gate. none but emily's quick ear could have distinguished the light step; but she hears it at once, and, rising, goes to meet the new comer, whom we must pause to introduce, for, though an old acquaintance, time has not left her unchanged, and it would be hard to recognize in her our little quondam gertrude, for she has now become a young lady. she is some inches taller than emily, and her figure is slight and delicate. her complexion is dark, but clear, and rendered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks; but that may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station. gertrude's eyes have retained their old lustre, and do not now look too large for her face; and, if her mouth be less classically formed than the strict rule of beauty would commend, it is atoned for by two rows of small pearly teeth, which are as regular as a string of beads. her neat dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her black mantle does not hide the roundness of her taper waist. is gertrude a beauty? by no means. hers is a face and form about which there would be a thousand different opinions, and few would pronounce her beautiful. but there are faces whose ever-varying expression one loves to watch--tell-tale faces, that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within; faces that now light up with intelligence, now beam with mirth, now sadden at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that which the soul abhors, and faces sanctified by the divine presence, when the heart turns from the world and itself, and looks upward in the spirit of devotion. such a face was gertrude's. there are forms which, though neither dignified nor fairy-like, possess a grace, an ease, a power of moving airily in their sphere--and such a form was gertrude's. whatever charm these attractions might give her--and many estimated it highly--it was greatly enhanced by an utter unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing any attractions at all. as she perceived miss graham coming to meet her, she quickened her pace, and joining her near the door-step, where a path led into the garden, passed her arm affectionately over emily's shoulder, in a manner which the latter's blindness, and gertrude's superior height and ability to act as guide, had rendered usual, and said, while she drew the shawl closer around her blind friend, "here i am again, miss emily! have you been alone since i went away?" "yes, dear, most of the time, and have been worried to think you were travelling about in boston this excessive warm day." "it has not hurt me in the least; i only enjoy this cool breeze all the more--it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the city!" "but, gerty," said emily, stopping short in their walk, "what are you coming away from the house for? you have not been to tea, my child." "i know it, emily, but i don't want any supper." they walked slowly and in perfect silence. at last emily said, "well, gertrude, have you nothing to tell me?" "o yes, a great deal, but----" "but you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don't like to speak it; is it not so?" "i ought not to have the vanity, dear emily, to think it would trouble you very much; but ever since last evening, when i told you what mr. w. said, and what i had in my mind, and you seemed to feel so badly at the thought of our being separated, i have felt almost doubtful what it was right for me to do." "and i, on the other hand, gertrude, have been reproaching myself for allowing you to have any knowledge of my feeling in the matter, lest i should be influencing you against your duty. i feel that you are right, gertrude, and that, instead of opposing, i ought to do everything i can to forward your plans." "dear emily!" said gertrude, "if you thought so from what i told you yesterday, you would be convinced had you observed all that i have to-day." "why! are matters any worse than they were at mrs. sullivan's?" "much worse than i described to you. i did not then know all that she had to contend with; but i have been at their house since i left home this morning (for mr. w. did not detain me five minutes), and it does not seem safe for such a delicate woman as mrs. sullivan to be alone with mr. cooper, now that his mind is in such a state." "but do you think you can do any good?" "i know i can, dear emily; i can manage him much better than she can, and do more for his comfort. he is like a child now, and full of whims. when he can be indulged, mrs. sullivan will please him at any amount of inconvenience, and even danger to herself, not only because he is her father, and she feels it her duty, but she is afraid of him, he is so irritable and violent. she tells me he often takes it into his head to do the strangest things, such as going out late at night, when it is unsafe, and sleeping with his window wide open." "poor woman!" exclaimed emily; "what does she do in such cases?" "i can tell you, emily, for i saw an instance of it to-day. when i went in this morning, he was preparing to make a coal-fire in the grate, notwithstanding the heat, which was becoming intense in the city." "and mrs. sullivan?" said emily. "was sitting on the lower stair, in the front entry, crying." "poor thing!" murmured emily. "she could do nothing with him," continued gertrude, "and had given up in despair." "she ought to have a strong woman or a man to take care of him." "that is what she dreads worse than anything. she says it would kill her to see him unkindly treated, as he would be sure to be by a stranger; and, besides, she shrinks from the idea of having anyone in the house to whom she is unaccustomed. she is very neat and particular in all her arrangements, has always done her work herself; and declares she would sooner admit a wild beast into her family than an irish girl." "her new house has not been a source of much pleasure to her yet, has it?" "oh, no. she was saying to-day how strange it seemed when she had been looking forward so long to the comfort of a new tenement, that, just as she had moved in and got everything furnished to her mind, she should have this great trial." "it seems strange to me," said emily, "that she did not sooner perceive its approach. i noticed when i went with you the failure in the old man's intellect." "i had observed it for a long time," remarked gertrude, "but never spoke of it to her; and i do not think she was in the least aware of it, until about their removal, when the breaking-up of old associations affected his mind." "sad thing!" said emily. "how old is he?" "i believe he is very old; i remember mrs. sullivan's telling me some time ago that he was near eighty." "is he so old as that? then i am not surprised that these changes have made him childish." "oh, no. melancholy, as it is, we may come to the same if we live to his age; and as he seems generally contented, i do not lament it so much on his own account as mrs. sullivan's." "does it seem hard for her to bear up under it?" "i think it would not be if she were well; but there is something the matter with her, and i fear it is more serious than she allows, for she looks very pale, and has had several alarming ill turns lately." "has she consulted a physician?" "no; she doesn't wish for one, and says she shall soon be better; but i do not feel sure that she will, especially as she takes no care of herself; and that is one reason i wish to be in town as soon as possible. i am anxious to have dr. jeremy see her, and i can bring it about without her knowing that he comes on her account." "you speak confidently of being in town, gertrude; so i suppose it is all arranged." "oh, i have not told you, have i, about my visit to mr. w.? dear, good man, how grateful i ought to be to him! he has promised me the situation." "i had no doubt he would, from what you told me he said to you at mrs. bruce's." "you hadn't, really! why, emily, i was almost afraid to mention it to him. i couldn't believe he would have sufficient confidence in me; but he was so kind! i hardly dare tell you what he said about my capacity to teach, you will think me so vain." "you need not tell me, my darling; i know from his own lips how highly he appreciates your ability." "dear uncle true always wanted me to be a teacher; it was the height of his ambition. he would be pleased, wouldn't he, dear emily?" "yes, proud to see you assistant in a school like mr. w.'s. but he would think as i do, that you are undertaking too much. you expect to be occupied in the school the greater part of every morning, and yet you propose to be nurse to mrs. sullivan, and guardian to her poor old father. my dear child, you are not used to so much care, and i shall be constantly troubled for you, lest your own health and strength give way." "oh, dear emily, there is no cause for any anxiety on my account. i am well and strong, and capable of all that i have planned for myself. my only trouble is in leaving you; and i fear you will miss me, and perhaps feel as if----" "i know what you would say, gertrude. you need not fear that; i am sure of your affection. i am sure you love me next to your duty, and i would not that you should give me the preference. so dismiss that thought from your mind, and do not believe that i would be selfish enough to desire to retain you. i only wish, my dear, that for the present you had not thought of entering the school. you might then have gone to mrs. sullivan's, stayed as long as needed, and perhaps found, by the time we are ready to start on our southern tour, that your services could be dispensed with; in which case you could accompany us on a journey which i am sure your health will by that time require." "but, dear emily, how could i do that? i could not propose myself as a visitor to mrs. sullivan, however useful i might intend to be to her; nor could i speak of nursing to a woman who will not confess that she is ill. it seemed to me impossible, with all the delicacy and tact in the world, to bring it about; for i have been with you so long that mrs. sullivan thinks me entirely unfitted for her primitive way of life. it was only when mr. w. spoke of his wanting an assistant, and hinted that he should like to employ me in that capacity, that the present plan occurred to me. i knew if i told mrs. sullivan that i was engaged to teach there, and that you were not coming to town, and represented to her that i wanted a boarding-place for the winter, she would insist that i should go nowhere else." "and it proved as you expected?" "exactly; and she showed so much pleasure at the thought of my being with her, that i realised still more how much she needed some one." "she will have a treasure in you, gertrude." "no, indeed! the feeling i have is, that however little i may be able to accomplish, it will be more than anyone else could do for mrs. sullivan. she has lived so retired that she has not an intimate friend in the city, and i do not know of anyone, except myself, whom she would willingly admit under her roof. she is used to me, and loves me; i am no restraint upon her, and she allows me to assist in whatever she is doing, although she often says i live a lady's life now, and am not used to work. she knows, too, that i have an influence over her father; and i _have_--strange as it may seem to you--i _have_ more than i know how to account for myself. i think it is partly because i am not afraid of him, and am firm in opposing his unreasonable fancies, and partly because i am more of a stranger than mrs. sullivan. but there is another cause; he associates me in his mind with willie; for we were for some years constantly together, both left the house at the same time, and he knows that it is through me that the correspondence with him is carried on. since his mind has been so weak, he thinks continually of willie, and i can at any moment, however irritable he may be, make him calm and quiet, by proposing to tell him the latest news from his grandson. it does not matter how often i repeat the contents of the last letter, it is always new to him; and you have no idea, emily, what power this gives me. mrs. sullivan sees how easily i can guide his thoughts, and i noticed what a load of care was taken from her mind by having me there to-day. she looked so happy when i came away to-night, and spoke so hopefully of the comfort it would be during the winter to have me with her, that i felt repaid for any sacrifice it has been to me. but when i came home, and saw you, and thought of your going so far away, and of the length of time it might be before i should live with you again, i felt as if----" gerty could say no more. she laid her head on emily's shoulder, and wept. emily soothed her with the greatest tenderness. "we have been very happy together, gerty," said she, "and i shall miss you sadly; half the enjoyment of my life has of late years been borrowed from you. but i never loved you half so well as i do now, at the time we must part; for i see in the sacrifice you are making of yourself one of the noblest and most important traits of character a woman can possess. i know how much you love the sullivans, and you have certainly every reason for being attached to them; but your leaving us at this time, and renouncing without a murmur the southern tour from which you expected so much pleasure, proves that my gerty is the brave, good girl i always hoped and prayed she might become. you are in the path of duty, gertrude, and will be rewarded by the approbation of your own conscience, if in no other way." as emily finished speaking, they reached a corner of the garden, and were met by a servant-girl, who announced that mrs. bruce and her son were in the parlour, and had asked for them both. "did you get her buttons in town, gertrude?" inquired emily. "yes, i found some that were an excellent match for the dress; she probably wants to know what success i had; but how can i go in?" "i will return to the house with kate, and you can go in at the side-door, and reach your own room without being seen. i will excuse you to mrs. bruce for the present; and when you have bathed your eyes, and feel composed, you can come in and report concerning the errand she entrusted to you." chapter xx. frustrated plans. when gertrude entered the room in half-an-hour, her face showed no mental distress. mrs. bruce nodded to her good naturedly from a corner of the sofa. mr. bruce rose and offered his chair at the same time that mr. graham pointed to a vacant window-seat near him, and said kindly, "here is a place for you, gertrude." declining these civilities, she withdrew to an ottoman near an open glass door, where she was immediately joined by mr. bruce, who, seating himself in an indolent attitude upon the upper row of a flight of steps which led from the window to the garden, commenced conversation with her. mr. bruce--the gentleman who, some years before, wore a velvet smoking-cap, and took afternoon naps in the grass--had recently returned from europe, and, glorifying in the renown acquired from a moustache, a french tailor, and the possession of a handsome property in his own right, now viewed himself with more complacency than ever. "so you've been in boston all day, miss flint?" "yes, nearly all day." "didn't you find it distressingly warm?" "somewhat so." "i tried to go in to attend to some business that mother was anxious about, and even went down to the depot; but i had to give it up." "were you overpowered by the heat?" "i was." "how unfortunate!" remarked gertrude, in a half-compassionate, half-ironical tone of voice. mr. bruce looked up, to judge from her countenance whether she were serious or not; but there being little light in the room, on account of the warmth of the evening, he could not decide the question, and therefore replied, "i dislike the heat, miss gertrude, and why should i expose myself to it unnecessarily?" "oh, i beg your pardon; i thought you spoke of important business." "only some affair of my mother's. nothing i felt any interest in, and she took the state of the weather for an excuse. if i had known that you were in the cars, as i have since heard, i should certainly have persevered, in order to have had the pleasure of walking down washington street with you." "i did not go down washington street." "but you would have done so with a suitable escort," suggested the young man. "if i had gone out of my way for the sake of accompanying my escort, the escort would have been a very doubtful advantage," said gertrude, laughing. "how very practical you are, miss gertrude! do you mean to say that, when you go to the city, you always have a settled plan of operations, and never swerve from your course?" "by no means. i trust i am not difficult to influence when there is a sufficient motive." the young man bit his lip. "then you never act without a motive; pray, what is your motive in wearing that broad-brimmed hat when you are at work in the garden?" "it is an old habit, adopted some years ago from motives of convenience, and still adhered to, in spite of later inventions, which would certainly be a better protection from the sun. i must plead guilty, i fear, to a little obstinacy in my partiality for that old hat." "why not confess, miss gertrude, that you wear it in order to look fanciful and picturesque, so that the neighbours' slumbers are disturbed by the thoughts of it? my own morning dreams, for instance, are so haunted by that hat, as seen in company with its owner, that i am daily drawn, as if by magnetic attraction, in the direction of the garden. you will have a heavy account to settle with morpheus, one of these days, for defrauding him of his rights; and your conscience too will suffer for injuries to my health, sustained by continued exposure to early dews." "it is hard to condemn me for such unintentional mischief; but since i am to experience so much future remorse on account of your morning visits, i shall take upon myself the responsibility of forbidding them." "oh, you wouldn't be so unkind!--especially after all the pains i have taken to impart to you the little i know of horticulture." "very little i think it must have been; or i have but a poor memory," said gertrude, laughing. "have you forgotten the pains i took yesterday to acquaint you with the different varieties of roses? don't you remember how much i had to say of damask roses and damask bloom; and how before i finished, i could not find words enough in praise of blushes, especially such sweet and natural ones as met my eyes while i was speaking?" "i know you talked a great deal of nonsense. i hope you don't think i listened to it all." "oh, miss gertrude! it is of no use to say flattering things to you; you always regard my compliments as jokes." "i have told you, several times, that it was most useless to waste so much flattery upon me. i am glad you are beginning to realise it." "well, then, to ask a serious question, where were you this morning at half-past seven?" "on my way to boston in the cars." "is it possible?--so early! why, i thought you went at ten. then, all the time i was watching by the garden wall to say good-morning, you were half-a-dozen miles away. i wish i had not wasted that hour so; i might have spent it in sleeping." "very true, it is a great pity." "and then half-an-hour more here this evening! how came you to keep me waiting so long?" "i was not aware of doing so. i certainly did not take your visit to myself." "my visit certainly was not meant for anyone else." "ben," said mr. graham, approaching rather abruptly, and taking part in the conversation, "are you fond of gardening? i thought i heard you just now speaking of roses?" "yes, sir; miss flint and i were having quite a discussion upon flowers--roses especially." gertrude, availing herself of mr. graham's approach, tried to escape and join the ladies at the sofa; but mr. bruce, who had risen on mr. graham's addressing him, saw her intention, and frustrated it by placing himself in the way, so that she could not pass him without positive rudeness. mr. graham continued, "i propose placing a small fountain in the vicinity of miss flint's flower garden; won't you walk down with me, and give your opinion of my plan?" "isn't it too dark, sir, to----" "no, no, not at all; there is ample light for our purpose. this way, if you please;" and mr. bruce was compelled to follow where mr. graham led, though, in spite of his acquaintance with paris manners, he made a wry face, and shook his head menacingly. gertrude was now permitted to relate to mrs. bruce the results of the shopping which she had undertaken on her account, and display the buttons, which proved very satisfactory. the gentlemen, soon returning, took seats near the sofa, and the conversation became general. "mr. graham," said mrs. bruce, "i have been asking emily about your visit to the south; and i think it will be a charming trip." "i hope so, madame; it will be an excellent thing for emily, and as gertrude has never travelled, i anticipate a great deal of pleasure for her." "ah! then you are to be of the party, miss flint?" "of course," said mr. graham, without giving gertrude a chance to speak for herself; "we depend upon gertrude; couldn't get along without her." "it will be delightful for you," continued mrs. bruce, her eyes still fixed on gertrude. "i did expect to go with mr. and miss graham," answered gertrude, "and looked forward to the journey with the greatest eagerness; but i have just decided that i must remain in boston this winter." "what are you talking about, gertrude?" asked mr. graham. "what do you mean? this is all news to me." "and to me, too, sir, or i should have informed you of it before. i supposed you expected me to accompany you, and there is nothing i should like so much. i should have told you before of the circumstances that now make it impossible; but they are of quite recent occurrence." "but we can't give you up, gertrude; i won't hear of such a thing; you must go with us in spite of circumstances." "i fear i shall not be able," said gertrude, smiling pleasantly, but still retaining her firmness of expression; "you're very kind, sir, to wish it." "wish it!--i tell you i insist upon it. you are under my care, child, and i have a right to say what you shall do." mr. graham was excited. gertrude and emily looked troubled, but neither spoke. "give me your reasons, if you have any," said mr. graham, vehemently, "and let me know what has put this strange notion into your head." "i will explain it to you to-morrow, sir." "to-morrow! i want to know now. tell me what all this means? here i plan my business, and make all my arrangements, to give up this winter to travelling--not so much on my own account as to please both of you, and, just as all is settled, and we are on the point of starting, gertrude says that she has concluded not to go." emily undertook to explain gertrude's motives, and ended by expressing her approbation of her course. as soon as she had finished, mr. graham, who had listened very impatiently, and interrupted her with many a "pish!" and "pshaw!" burst forth with redoubled indignation. "so gerty prefers the sullivans to us, and you seem to encourage her in it! i should like to know what they have ever done for her, compared with what i have done." "they have been friends of hers for years, and now that they are in great distress, she does not feel as if she could leave them, and i confess i do not wonder at her decision." "i do. she prefers to make a slave of herself in mr. w.'s school, and a greater slave in mrs. sullivan's family, instead of staying with us, where she has been treated like a lady, and like one of our own family." "oh, mr. graham!" said gertrude, earnestly, "it is not a matter of choice, except as i feel it to be a duty." "and what makes it a duty? just because you used to live with them, and that boy out in calcutta has sent you home a camel's-hair scarf and a cage full of miserable little birds, and written you letters, you must forfeit your own interest to take care of his sick relations! can their claim compare with mine? haven't i given you the best of educations, and spared not expense for your improvement and happiness?" "i did not think, sir," said gertrude, humbly, and yet with dignity, "of counting up the favours i had received, and measuring my conduct accordingly. in that case my obligations to you are immense, and you would certainly have the greatest claim upon my services." "services! i don't want your _services_, child. mrs. ellis can do quite as well as you can for emily, or me either; but i like your _company_, and think it is very ungrateful in you to leave us, as you talk of doing." "father," said emily, "i thought the object in giving gertrude a good education was to make her independent of all the world, and not simply dependent upon us." "emily," said mr. graham, "i tell you it is a matter of feeling--you don't seem to look upon the thing in the light i do; but you are both against me, and i won't talk any more about it." so saying, mr. graham went to his study, and was seen no more that night. poor gertrude! mr. graham, who had been so generous, who had seldom or ever spoken harshly to her, and had always treated her with great indulgence, was now deeply offended. he had called her ungrateful; he felt that she had abused his kindness, and believed that he and emily stood in her imagination secondary to other far less warm-hearted friends. deeply wounded, she hastened to say good-night to the no less afflicted emily, and, seeking her own room, gave way to feelings that caused her a sleepless night. chapter xxi. selfishness. left at three years of age dependent upon the charity of a world in which she was friendless and alone, gertrude had, during her residence at nan grant's, found little of that charity. but, although her turbulent spirit rebelled at the treatment she received, she was then too young to reason upon the subject, or come to any conclusions upon the hardness and cruelty of humanity; and, had she done so, such impressions would have been effaced in the home of her kind foster-father. and having, through a similar providence, found in emily additional proof of the fact that the tie of kindred blood is not always needed to bind heart to heart in the closest bonds of sympathy and affection, she had hitherto, in her unusually happy experience, felt none of the evils that spring from dependence upon the bounty of strangers. from mr. graham she had until now experienced only kindness. on her first coming to live with them, he had taken little notice of her, so long as she was quiet, well-mannered, and no trouble to anybody, had been indifferent about her. he observed that emily was fond of the girl, and, though he wondered at her taste, was glad that she should be indulged. but he soon noticed in his daughter's favourite a quickness of mind and propriety of deportment which created an interest in her that soon increased to positive partiality, especially when he discovered her taste for gardening and her love of flowers. emily formed no plan as to gertrude's education to which she did not obtain a ready assent from her father; and gertrude, grateful for so much bounty, spared no pains to evidence her sense of obligation and regard, by treating mr. graham with the greatest respect. but, unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable relations, mr. graham had neither the disinterested forbearing spirit of uncle true, nor the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of emily. mr. graham was a liberal and highly respectable man; he had the reputation of being a high-minded and honourable man; and his conduct justified this report of him. but he was a _selfish_ man, and often took one-sided views. he had supported and educated gertrude--he liked her--she was the person whom he preferred for a travelling companion for himself and emily--and he either _could_ not or _would_ not see that her duty lay in any other direction. during a wakeful and restless night, gertrude reviewed and considered her own circumstances. at first her only emotion was one of grief, but that gradually subsided, as other bitter thoughts rose up in her mind. "what right," thought she, "has mr. graham to treat me this way--to tell me i _shall_ go with him on his southern journey, and speak as if my other friends were ciphers in his estimation, and ought to be in my own? does he consider my freedom is to be the price of my education, and am i no longer able to say yes or no? emily does not think so; emily, who loves and needs me a thousand times more than mr. graham, thinks i have acted rightly, and she assured me that it was my duty to carry out the plans i had formed. and my solemn promise to willie! is that to be held for nothing? no, it would be tyranny in mr. graham to insist on my remaining with them, and i am glad i have resolved to break away from such thraldom. besides, i was educated to teach, and mr. w. says it is important to commence while my studies are fresh in my mind." so much said pride; and gertrude's heart listened awhile to such suggestions. but not long. she had accustomed herself to view the conduct of others in that spirit of charity which she desired should be exercised towards her own, and milder thoughts took the place of these excited feelings. "perhaps," said she to herself, "it is, after all, pure kindness that prompted mr. graham's interference. he may think as emily does, that i am undertaking too much. it is impossible for him to know how strong my motives are, how deep i consider my obligations to the sullivans, and how much i am needed by them at this time. i had no idea, either, that i was to be one of the party to the south; for though emily talked as if she took it for granted, mr. graham never asked me to go, and i could not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to refuse; but, after planning the journey to please us both, i do not wonder at his being annoyed. he probably feels, too, as if i had been under his guardianship so long that he has almost a right to decide upon my conduct. and he _has_ been very indulgent to me--and i a stranger with no claims! shall i then decide to give up my teaching, to go to the south, and leave mrs. sullivan to suffer, perhaps die, while i am away? no, that is impossible. i will never be such a traitor to my own heart, and my sense of right; sorry as i shall be to offend mr. graham, i must not allow his anger to turn me from my duty." having thus resolved to brave the tempest, and committed her cause to him who judgeth righteously, gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep. dreams of a painful nature started her back to consciousness. in some of these visions she beheld mr. graham angry, and threatening her with his displeasure if she dared to thwart his plans; and then she seemed to see willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted five years before, beckoning her with a sad countenance to the room where his pale mother lay in a swoon, as gertrude had a few weeks before seen her. exhausted by such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to obtain any rest, and rising, seated herself at the window, where, watching the approach of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the courage which she felt would be requisite to carry her calmly and firmly through the next day--a day destined to witness her sad separation from emily, and her farewell to mr. graham, which would probably be more distressing. the tyrannical disposition of mr. graham was well understood in his family, each member of which was accustomed to respect all his wishes and whims; and though he was always indulgent and kind, none ever braved a temper which, when excited, was so violent. it cannot, then, be surprising that gertrude's heart should have failed her when she stood, half-an-hour before breakfast-time, with the handle of the dining-room door in her hand, summoning all her energies for another meeting with the opposer of her plans. she paused but a moment, and then went in. mr. graham was sitting in his arm-chair, and on the breakfast-table lay the morning paper. it had been gertrude's habit to read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at this same hour, and it was for that purpose she had now come. she advanced toward him with her usual "good morning." the salutation was returned in a constrained voice. she seated herself, and leaned forward to take the newspaper. but he placed his hand upon it to prevent her. "i was going to read the news to you, sir." "and i do not wish to have you read, or do anything else for me, until i know whether you have concluded to treat me with the respect i have a right to demand from you." "i certainly never intended to treat you otherwise than with respect, mr. graham." "when girls or boys set themselves up in opposition to those older and wiser than themselves, they manifest the greatest disrespect they are capable of; but i am willing to forgive the past, if you assure me, as i think you will, after a night's reflection, that you have returned to a right sense of your duty." "i cannot say, sir, that i have changed my views with regard to what that duty is." "do you mean to tell me," asked mr. graham, rising from his chair, and speaking in a tone which made gerty's heart quake, "do you mean to tell me that you have an idea of persisting in your folly?" "is it folly, sir, to do right?" "right! there is a great difference of opinion between you and me as to what is right in this case." "but, mr. graham, i think if you knew all the circumstances, you would not blame my conduct. i have told emily the reasons that influence me, and she----" "don't quote emily to me!" interrupted mr. graham; "i don't doubt she'd give her head to anybody that asked for it; but i hope i know a little better what is due to myself; and i tell you plainly, miss gertrude flint, without any more words in the matter, that if you leave my house, as you propose doing, you leave it with my displeasure; and _that_, you may find one of these days, it is no light thing to have incurred--unnecessarily too, as you are doing." "i am very sorry to displease you, mr. graham, but----" "no, you're not _sorry_; if you were, you would not walk straight in the face of my wishes," said mr. graham, who began to observe the expression of gertrude's face, which, though troubled, had acquired additional firmness, instead of quailing before his severe and cutting words. "but i have said enough about a matter which is not worthy of so much notice. you can go or stay, as you please. i wish you to understand, if you go, i utterly withdraw my protection and assistance from you. you must take care of yourself, or trust to strangers. i suppose you expect your calcutta friend will support you, perhaps come home and take you under his especial care; but if you think so, you know little of the world. i dare say he is married to an indian by this time, and, if not, has forgotten you." "mr. graham," said gertrude, proudly, "mr. sullivan will not probably return to this country for many years, and i assure you i neither look to him nor anyone else for support; i intend to earn a maintenance for myself." "a heroic resolve!" said mr. graham, contemptuously, "and pronounced with a dignity i hope you will be able to maintain. am i to consider, then, that your mind is made up?" "it is, sir," said gertrude, not a little strengthened for the dreaded necessity of pronouncing her final resolution by mr. graham's sarcastic speeches. "and you go?" "i must. i believe it to be my duty, and am, therefore, willing to sacrifice my own comfort, and, what i assure you i value far more, your friendship." mr. graham did not seem to take the least notice of the latter part of her remark, and so far forgot his usual politeness as to drown her voice in the violent ringing of the table-bell. it was answered by katy with the breakfast; and emily and mrs. ellis coming, all seated themselves at the table, and the meal was commenced in unusual silence and constraint, for emily had heard the loud tones of her father's voice, while mrs. ellis plainly saw that something unpleasant had occurred. when mr. graham had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to mrs. ellis, and invited her to accompany himself and emily on their journey to the south, mentioning the probability that they should pass some weeks in havana. mrs. ellis accepted the invitation with pleasure, and asked a number of questions concerning the proposed route and length of absence; while emily hid her agitated face behind her tea-cup; and gertrude, who had lately been reading _letters from cuba_, and was aware that mr. graham knew the strong interest she felt in the place, pondered in her mind whether it could be possible that he could be guilty of the mean desire to vex and mortify her. breakfast over, emily hastily sought her room, where she was joined by gertrude. in answering emily's inquiries as to the scene which had taken place, gertrude forbore to repeat mr. graham's most bitter and wounding remarks; for she saw from her kind friend's countenance how deeply she participated in her own sense of wrong. she told her, however, that it was now well understood by mr. graham that she was to leave, and, as his sentiments towards her were far from kindly, she thought it best to go at once, especially as she could never be more needed by mrs. sullivan than at present. emily saw the reasonableness of the proposal, assented to it, and agreed to accompany her to town that afternoon; for, deeply sensitive at any unkindness manifested towards gertrude, she preferred to have her depart thus abruptly, rather than encounter her father's contemptuous neglect. the remainder of the day was spent by gertrude in packing and other preparations, while emily sat by, counselling the future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting the necessity of their separation, and exchanging with her reiterated assurances of undiminished affection. "oh, if you could only write to me, dear emily, during your long absence, what a comfort it would be," exclaimed gertrude. "with mrs. ellis's assistance, my dear," replied emily, "i will send you such news as i can of our movements; but, though you may not be able to hear much from me, you will be ever in my thoughts, and i shall never forget to commend my beloved child to the protection and care of one who will be to her a better friend than i can be." in the course of the day gertrude sought mrs. ellis, and astonished that lady by stating that she had come to have a few farewell words with her. surprise, however, was soon superseded by the housekeeper's eagerness to expatiate upon the generosity of mr. graham, and the delights of the excursion in prospect. after wishing her a great deal of pleasure, gertrude begged to hear from her by letter during her absence; to which request mrs. ellis only replied by asking if gertrude thought a thibet dress would be uncomfortable on the journey; and, when it was repeated with great earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to the suppliant for epistolary favours, begged to know how many pairs of undersleeves she would probably require. having responded to her questions, and at last gained her attention, gertrude obtained from her a promise to write _one_ letter, which would, she declared, be more than she had done for years. before leaving the house, gertrude sought mr. graham's study, in hopes that he would take a friendly leave of her; but on her telling him that she had come to bid him "good-bye," he indistinctly muttered the simple words of that universal formula--so deep in its meaning when coming from the heart; so chilling when uttered, as on the present occasion, by stern and nearly closed lips--and turning his back upon her, took up the tongs to mend his fire. so she went away, with a tear in her eye and a sadness in her heart. a far different scene awaited her in the upper kitchen, where she went to seek mrs. prime and katy. "bless yer soul, dear miss gertrude!" said the former, stumbling up the staircase which led from the lower room, and wiping her hands on her apron--"how we shall miss yer! why, the house won't be worth livin' in when you're out of it. my gracious! if you don't come back, we shall all die out in a fortnight. why, you're the life and soul of the place! but there, i guess you know what's right; so, if you must go, we must bear it--though katy and i'll cry our eyes out, for aught i know." "sure, miss gairthrue," said irish katy, "and it's right gude in you to be afther comin' to bid us good-bye. i don't see how you gets memory to think of us all, and i'm shure ye'll never be betther off than what i wish yer. i can't but think, miss, it'll go to help yer along, that everybody's gude wishes and blessin' goes with yer." "thank you, katy, thank you," said gertrude, touched by the simple earnestness of these good friends. "you must come and see me some time in boston; and you too, mrs. prime, i shall depend upon it. good-bye;" and the good-bye that _now_ fell upon gertrude's ear was a hearty and a true one; it followed her through the hall, and as the carriage drove away she heard it mingling with the rattling of the vehicle. chapter xxii. a friend in affliction. passing over gertrude's parting with emily, her cordial reception by mrs. sullivan, and her commencement of school duties, we will record the events of a day in november, about two months after she left mr. graham's. rising with the sun, she made her neat toilet in a room so cold that her hands were half benumbed; nor did she omit, ere she began the labours of the day, to supplicate heaven's blessing upon them. then, noiselessly entering the adjoining apartment, where mrs. sullivan was still sleeping, she lit a fire, and performed a similar service at the cooking-stove, which stood in a comfortable room, where, now that the weather was cold, the family took their meals. the table was set for breakfast when mrs. sullivan entered, pale, thin, and feeble in her appearance, and wrapped in a large shawl. "gertrude," said she, "why did you let me sleep so late, while you are up and at work?" "for the very best reason in the world, auntie; because i sleep all the early part of the night, and am wide awake at day-break, and with you it is quite the reverse. besides, i like to get the breakfast; i make such beautiful coffee. look!" said she, pouring some into a cup, and then lifting the lid of the coffee-pot, and pouring it back again; "see how clear it is! don't you long for some of it?" mrs. sullivan smiled, for, uncle true having always preferred tea, gertrude did not at first know how to make coffee. "now," said gertrude, "i want you to sit down here and watch the tea-kettle boil, while i run and see if mr. cooper is ready to let me tie up his cue." she went, leaving mrs. sullivan to think what a good girl she was; and presently returning with the old man, she placed a chair for him, and having waited while he seated himself, and then pinned a napkin about his throat, she proceeded to place the breakfast on the table. while mrs. sullivan poured out the coffee, gertrude removed the skin from a baked potato, and the shell from a boiled egg, and placing both on the plate destined for mr. cooper, handed him his breakfast in a state of preparation which obviated the difficulty the old man experienced in performing these tasks for himself. poor mrs. sullivan had no appetite, and it was with difficulty gertrude persuaded her to eat anything; but a few fried oysters, unexpectedly placed before her, proved such a temptation that she was induced to eat several, with a degree of relish she rarely felt for any article of food. as gertrude gazed at her languid face, she realized, more than ever, the change which had come over the active little woman; and confident that nothing but positive disease could have effected such a transformation, she resolved that not another day should pass without her seeing a physician. breakfast over, there were dishes to wash, rooms to be put in order, dinner to be partially prepared; and all this gertrude saw accomplished, chiefly through her own labour, before she went to re-arrange her dress, previous to her departure for the school where she had now been some weeks assistant teacher. a quarter before nine she looked in at the kitchen door, and said, in a cheering tone, to the old man, who was cowering gloomily over the fire--"come, mr. cooper, won't you go over and superintend the new church a little while this morning? mr. miller will be expecting you; he said yesterday that he depended on your company when at work." the old man rose, and taking his great-coat from gertrude, put it on with her assistance, and accompanied her in a mechanical sort of way, which implied great indifference about going. as they walked in silence down the street, gertrude could not but resolve in her mind the singular coincidence which had thus made her the almost daily companion of another infirm old man; nor could she fail to draw a comparison between the warm-hearted uncle true, and the gloomy paul cooper. unfavorable as the comparison was to the latter, it did not diminish the kindness of gertrude towards her present charge, who was in her eyes an object of sincere compassion. they soon reached the new church--a very handsome edifice. it was not yet finished, and a number of workmen were completing the interior. a man with a hod full of mortar preceded gertrude and her companion up the steps which led to the main entrance, but stopped inside the porch, on hearing himself addressed by name, and turned to respond to the well-known voice. "good morning, miss flint," said he. "i hope you're very well, this fine day. ah! mr. cooper, you've come to help me a little, i see--that's right. we can't go on very well without you--you're so used to the place. here, sir, if you'll come with me i'll show you what has been done since you were here last; i want to know how you think we are getting along." so saying, he was walking away with the old sexton; but gertrude asked him if he would see mr. cooper safe home when he passed mrs. sullivan's house on his way to dinner. "certainly, miss flint," replied the man, "with all pleasure; he has usually gone with me readily, when you have left him in my care." gertrude then hastened to the school, rejoicing that mr. cooper would be safe during the morning; and that mrs. sullivan would have the quiet she so much needed. this man was a respectable mason, who had often been in mr. graham's employ, and whose good-will gertrude had won by the kindness she had shown his family during the previous winter, when they were sick. in her daily walk past the church, she had oft seen mr. miller at work, and it occurred to her that, if she could awaken in mr. cooper's mind an interest in the new structure, he might find amusement in watching the workmen. she had some difficulty in persuading him to visit a building to the erection of which he had been opposed. once there, he became interested in the work, and as mr. miller tried to make him comfortable, and made him believe that he was useful, he gradually acquired a habit of passing the greater part of every morning in watching the workmen. sometimes gertrude called for him on her return from school; and sometimes mr. miller took him home. since gertrude had been at mrs. sullivan's there was a great alteration in mr. cooper. he was more manageable, and manifested less irritability, and his favourable change, together with the cheering influence of gertrude's society, had produced a beneficial effect upon mrs. sullivan; but within the last few days, her increased debility, and two sudden attacks of faintness, had awakened gertrude's fears. she determined, as soon as she should be released from her school duties, to seek dr. jeremy and request his attendance. of gertrude's school-duties, she was found by mr. w. competent to the performance of them, and that she met with those trials only which all teachers are subjected, from the idleness or stupidity of their pupils. on this day she was detained to a later hour than usual, and the clock struck two as she was ringing dr. jeremy's door-bell. the girl who opened the door knew gertrude, and telling her that, although the doctor was just going to dinner, she thought he would see her, asked her into the office. he advanced to meet gertrude, holding out both his hands. "gertrude flint, i declare!" exclaimed he. "why, i'm glad to see you, my girl. why haven't you been here before, i should like to know?" gertrude explained that she was living with friends, one of whom was very old, the other an invalid; and that so much of her time was occupied in school, that she had no opportunity for visiting. "poor excuse," said the doctor; "poor excuse. but, now we've got you here, we shan't let you go very soon!" and going to the foot of the staircase, he called out loudly, "mrs. jeremy! mrs. jeremy! come down to dinner as quick as you can, and put on your best cap--we've got company.--poor soul!" added he, in a lower tone, smiling, "she can't hurry, can she, gerty?--she's so fat." gertrude protested against staying to dinner, declaring she must hasten home, and announcing mrs. sullivan's illness and the object of her visit. "an hour can't make much difference," insisted the doctor. "you must stay and dine with me, and then i'll take you with me in the buggy." gertrude hesitated; the sky had clouded over, and a few flakes of snow were falling; she should have an uncomfortable walk; and, moreover, it would be better for her to accompany the doctor, as the street in which she lived was principally composed of new houses, not yet numbered, and he might have some difficulty in finding the right tenement. mrs. jeremy now entered. fat she certainly was, uncommonly fat, and flushed with the excitement of dressing. she kissed gertrude, and then, seeing that no one else was present, exclaimed, glancing reproachfully at the doctor--"why, dr. jeremy!--an't you ashamed of yourself? i never will believe you again; you made me think there was some great stranger here." "and pray, mrs. jeremy, who's a greater stranger in this house than gerty flint?" "sure enough!" said mrs. jeremy. "gertrude _is_ a stranger, and i've got a scolding in store for her on that very account; but, you know, dr. jeremy, i shouldn't have put on my lilac-and-pink for gertrude to see; she likes me just as well in my old yellow, if she did tell me, when i bought it, the saucy girl, that i'd selected the ugliest cap in boston. do you remember that gerty?" gerty laughed heartily at the recollection of an amusing scene that took place when she went shopping with mrs. jeremy. "but come, gerty, dinner's ready; take off your cloak and bonnet, and come into the dining-room; the doctor has much to say, and has been wanting dreadfully to see you." they had been sitting some minutes without a word having been spoken, when the doctor suddenly commenced laughing till tears came into his eyes. gertrude looked at him, inquiringly, and mrs. jeremy said, "there, gertrude!--for a whole week he had just such a laughing fit, two or three times a-day. i was as much astonished at first as you are; and i don't understand now what could have happened between him and mr. graham that was so very funny." "come, wife," said the doctor, "don't you forestall my communication. i want to tell the story myself. i don't suppose, gertrude, you've lived five years at mr. graham's without finding out what a cantankerous, opinionative, obstinate old hulk he is!" "doctor!" said mrs. jeremy, "be careful." "i don't care, wife; i'll speak my mind with regard to mr. graham; and gertrude, here, has done the same, i haven't a particle of doubt, only she's a good girl, and won't say so." "i never saw anything that looked like it," said mrs. jeremy; "i've seen as much of him as most folks. i meet him in the street almost every day, and he looks as smiling as a basket of chips, and makes a beautiful bow." "i dare say," said the doctor; "gertrude and i know what gentlemanly manners he has when one does not walk in the very teeth of his opinions--eh, gertrude!--but when one does----" "in talking politics, for instance," suggested mrs. jeremy. "it's your differences with him on politics that have set you against him so." "no, it isn't," replied the doctor. "a man may get angry talking politics, and be a good-natured man too. i get angry _myself_ on _politics_, but that isn't the sort of thing i refer to. it's graham's wanting to lay down the law to everybody that comes within ten miles of him that i can't endure; his dictatorial way of acting as if he were the grand mogul of cochin china. i thought he'd improved of late years; he had a serious lesson enough in that sad affair of poor philip amory's; but i believe he's been trying the old game again. ha! ha! ha!" shouted the good doctor, leaning forward and giving gertrude a light tap on the shoulder--"wasn't i glad when i found he'd met at last with a reasonable opposition! and that, too, where he least expected it!" gertrude looked her astonishment at his evident knowledge of the misunderstanding between herself and mr. graham. "you wonder where i got my information; i'll tell you. it was partly from graham himself; and what diverts me is to think how hard the old chap tried to hide his defeat, and persuade me that he'd had his own way, when i saw through him, and knew that he'd found his match in you." "dr. jeremy," said gertrude, "i hope you don't think----" "no, my dear, i _don't_ think you a _professional pugilist_; but i consider you a girl of sense--one who knows what's right--and will do what's right, in spite of mr. graham; and when you hear my story you will know the grounds on which i formed my opinion with regard to the course things had taken. one day--about two months ago--i was summoned to go and see one of mr. w.'s children, who had an attack of croup. mr. w. was talking with me, when he was called away to see a visitor, and on his return he mentioned that he had secured your services in his school. i knew emily intended you for a teacher, and i was thankful you had got so good a situation. at mr. w.'s door i encountered mr. graham, and he entertained me as we went down the street with an account of his plan for the winter. 'but gertrude flint is not going with you,' said i.--'gertrude!' said he; 'certainly she is.'--'are you sure of that?' i asked. 'have you invited her?'--'invited her! no,' was his answer; 'but, of course, i know she will go, and be glad of the opportunity; it isn't every girl that is so fortunate.' now, gerty, i felt provoked at his way of speaking, and i answered, in as confident a tone as his own, 'i doubt whether she will accept the invitation.' upon that, mr. dignity straightened up, and such a speech as he made! i never can recall it without being amused, especially when i think of the come-down that followed so soon after. i can't repeat it; but one would have thought to hear him that it was not only impossible you should oppose his wishes, but actual treason in me to suggest such a thing. i knew better than to tell what i had just heard from mr. w., but i never felt a greater curiosity about anything than i did to know how the matter would end. two or three times i planned to drive to see emily, and hear the result; but a doctor never can call a day his own, and i got prevented. on sunday i heard mrs. prime's voice in the kitchen (her niece lives here), and down i went to make my inquiries. she told me the truth, i rather think; though not, perhaps, all the particulars. it was not more than a day or two after that before i saw graham. 'ah,' said i; 'when do you start?'--'to-morrow,' replied he. 'really,' i exclaimed; 'then i shan't see your ladies again. will you take a little package from me to gertrude?'--'i know nothing about gertrude,' said he, stiffly.--'what!' rejoined i, affecting great surprise, 'has gertrude left you?'--'she has,' answered he. 'and dared,' continued i, 'to treat you with such disrespect--to trifle so with your dignity?'--'dr. jeremy!' exclaimed he, 'i don't wish to hear her mentioned; she has behaved as ungratefully as she has unwisely.'--'why, about the gratitude, graham,' said i, 'i believe you said it would only be an additional favour on your part if you took her with you, and i think it is wisdom in her to make herself independent at home. but i really am sorry for you and emily; you will miss her so much.'--'we can dispense with your sympathy, sir,' answered he; 'for that which is no loss.'--'ah! really,' i replied; 'now, i was thinking gertrude's society would be quite a loss.'--'_mrs. ellis_ goes with us,' said he, with emphasis, that seemed to say her company compensated for all deficiencies.--'ah!' said i, 'charming woman, mrs. ellis!' graham looked annoyed, for he is aware that mrs. ellis is my antipathy." "well, you ought to have known better, dr. jeremy," said his kind-hearted wife, "than to have attacked a man so on his weak point: it was only exciting his temper for nothing." "i was taking up the cudgels for gertrude, wife." "and i don't believe gertrude wants you to take up the cudgels for her. i have no manner of doubts that she has the kindest of feelings towards mr. graham, this blessed minute." "i have, mrs. jeremy," said gertrude; "he has been a most generous and indulgent friend to me." "except when you wanted to have your own way," suggested the doctor. "which i seldom did when it was in opposition to his wishes. i always considered it my duty to submit to him, until at last a higher duty compelled me to do otherwise." "and then, my dear," said mrs. jeremy, "i dare say it pained you to displease him; and that is a right woman's feeling, and one that dr. jeremy, in his own heart, can't but approve of, though one would think, to hear him talk, that he considered it pretty in a young girl to take satisfaction in browbeating an old gentleman. but don't let us talk any more about it; he has had his say, and now it's my turn. i want to hear how you are situated, gerty, where you live, and how you like teaching." gertrude answered all these questions: and the doctor, who had heard mrs. sullivan spoken of as a friend of true's and gerty's, made many inquiries as to her health. it was now snowing fast, and gertrude's anxiety to return home in good season being very manifest to her kind host and hostess, they urged no further delay, and, after she had promised to repeat her visit, she drove away with the doctor. chapter xxiii. cares multiplied. "i have been thinking," said gertrude, as she drew near home, "how we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm mrs. sullivan." "what's going to alarm her?" asked the doctor. "you, if she knows at once you are a physician. i think i had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home in the storm." "oh! so we are going to act a little farce, are we? stage manager, gertrude flint--unknown stranger, dr. jeremy. i'm ready. what shall i say first?" "i leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a physician." "ah, yes! pretend at first to be only a private individual of an inquiring mind. i can manage it." as they opened the door, mrs. sullivan rose from her chair with a troubled countenance, and hardly waited for the introduction to gertrude's friend before she asked if mr. cooper were not with them. "no, indeed," replied gertrude. "hasn't he come home?" upon mrs. sullivan saying that she had not seen him since morning, gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far from feeling, that mr. miller had undertaken the care of him, and could, undoubtedly, account for his absence. she would seek him at once. "oh, i'm so sorry," said mrs. sullivan, "that you should have to go out again in such a storm; but i feel very anxious about grandpa--don't you, gerty?" "not very: i think he's safe in the church. but i'll go for him at once; you know, auntie, i never mind the weather." "then take my great shawl, dear." and mrs. sullivan went to the closet for her shawl, giving gertrude an opportunity to beg of dr. jeremy that he would await her return; for she knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often cause an attack of faintness in mrs. sullivan, and was afraid to have her left alone, to dwell with alarm upon mr. cooper's prolonged absence. it was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing dark. gertrude hastened along the wet footpath, exposed to the blinding storm, and, after passing through several streets, gained the church. she went into the building, now nearly deserted by workmen, saw that mr. cooper was not there, and began to fear she should gain no information concerning him, when she met mr. miller coming from the gallery. he looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if mr. cooper had not returned home. she answered in the negative, and he informed her that his efforts were insufficient to persuade the old man to go home at dinner-time, and that he had therefore taken him to his own house; he had supposed that long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one of the children to accompany him to mrs. sullivan's. as it seemed probable that he was still at mr. miller's, gertrude proceeded thither at once. after an uncomfortable walk, she reached her destination. she knocked at the door, but there was no response, and after waiting a moment, she opened it, and went in. through another door there was the sound of children's voices, and so much noise that she believed it impossible to make herself heard, and, therefore, without further ceremony, entered the room. a band of startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and ensconced themselves in corners; and mrs. miller, in dismay at the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a clothes-horse against the wall, thereby disclosing to view the very person gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding attitude, sat cowering over the fire. but, before she could advance to speak to him, her attention was arrested by a most unexpected sight. placed against the side of the room, opposite the door, was a narrow bed, in which some person seemed to be sleeping. hardly, however, had gertrude presented herself in the doorway before the figure suddenly raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off her approach, and uttered a piercing shriek. the voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and gertrude, pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her old dread as she beheld the well-known features of nan grant. "go away! go _away_!" cried nan, as gertrude advanced into the room. again gertrude paused, for the wildness of nan's eyes and the excitement of her countenance were such that she feared to excite her further. mrs. miller now came forward and said, "why, aunt nancy! what is the matter? this is miss flint, one of the best young ladies in the land." "no, 'tan't!" said nan. "i know better." mrs. miller now drew gertrude aside into the shadow of the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an undertone, while nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them, maintained a watchful, listening attitude. gertrude was informed that mrs. miller was a niece of ben grant's, but had seen nothing of him or his wife for years, until, a few days previous. nan had come there in a state of the greatest destitution, and threatened with the fever under which she was now suffering. "i could not refuse her a shelter," said mrs. miller; "but, as you see, i have no accommodation for her; and it's not only bad for me to have her sick here in the kitchen, but, what with the noise of the children, and all the other discomforts, i'm afraid the poor old thing will die." "have you a room that you could spare above-stairs?" asked gertrude. "why, there's our jane," answered mrs. miller; "she's a good-hearted girl as ever lived; she said, right off, she'd give up her room to poor aunt nancy, and she'd sleep in with the other children. i don't feel, though, as if we could afford to keep another fire agoing, and so i thought we'd put a bed here for a day or two, and just see how she got along. but she's looked pretty bad to-day; and now, i'm thinking from her actions that she's considerable out of her head." "she ought to be kept quiet," said gertrude; "and, if you will have a fire in jane's room at my expense, and do what you can to make her comfortable, i'll send a physician here to see her." mrs. miller was beginning to express the warmest gratitude, but gertrude interrupted her with saying, "don't thank me, mrs. miller; nancy is not a stranger to me; i have known her before, and, perhaps, feel more interested in her than you do yourself." mrs. miller looked surprised; but gertrude could not stop to enter into a further explanation. anxious to speak to nan, and assure her of her friendly intentions, she went up to the side of the bed, in spite of the wild and glaring eyes which were fixed steadily upon her. "nan," said she, "do you know me?" "yes! yes!" replied nan, in a half-whisper, speaking quickly, and catching her breath; "what have you come for?" "to do you good, i hope." but nan still looked incredulous, and in the same undertone, and with the same nervous accent, inquired, "have you seen gerty? where is she?" "she is well," answered gertrude, astonished at the question, for she had supposed herself recognised. "what did she say about me?" "she says that she forgives and pities you, and is in hopes to do something to help you and make you well." "did she?" said the sick woman; "then you won't kill me?" "kill you?--no, indeed. we are in hopes to make you comfortable and cure you." mrs. miller, who had been preparing a cup of tea, now drew near with it in her hand. gertrude took it and offered it to nan, who drank eagerly of it, staring at her over the edge of the cup. when she had finished, she threw herself heavily upon the pillow, and began muttering some indistinct sentences, the only distinguishable word being the name of her son stephen. finding the current of her thoughts thus apparently diverted, gertrude now feeling in haste to return and relieve dr. jeremy, who had so kindly agreed to stay with mrs. sullivan, moved a little from the bedside, saying as she did so, "good-bye, i will come and see you again." "you won't hurt me?" said nan, starting up. "oh, no. i will bring you something you will like." "don't bring gerty here with you! i don't want to see her." "i will come alone," replied gertrude. nan now laid down, and did not speak again while gertrude remained in the house, though she watched her steadily until she was outside the door. mr. cooper made no objection to accompanying his young guide, and though the severity of the storm was such that they did not escape a thorough wetting, they reached home in safety. dr. jeremy, seated with his feet upon the fender, had the contented appearance of one who is quite at home. he had been talking with mrs. sullivan about the people of a country town where they had both passed some time in their childhood, and the timid woman had come to feel so much at her ease in the society of the social and entertaining physician, that, though he had accidentally disclosed his profession, she allowed him to question her upon the state of her health, without any of the alarm she had fancied she should feel at the sight of a doctor. by the time gertrude returned, he had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared, on mrs. sullivan's leaving the room, to provide dry clothes for her father, to report to gertrude his opinion. "gertrude," said he, as soon as the door was shut, "that's a very sick woman." "do you think so, dr. jeremy?" said gertrude, much alarmed, and sinking into the nearest chair. "i do," replied he. "i wish i had seen her six months ago." "why, doctor? do you date her illness so far back as that?" "yes, and much farther. she has borne up under the gradual progress of a disease which is now, i fear, beyond the aid of medical treatment." "dr. jeremy," said gertrude, "you do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die and leave me, and her poor old father, and without ever seeing willie again, too? oh, i had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that!" "do not be alarmed, gertrude," said the doctor. "i did not mean to frighten you;--she may live some time yet. i can judge better of her case in a day or two. but it is absolutely _unsafe_ for you to be here alone with these two friends of yours--to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. has not mrs. sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? she tells me she has no one." "yes, indeed," answered gerty; "her son supplies her wants most generously. i know that she never draws nearly the whole of the amount he is anxious she should expend." "then you must speak to her about getting some one to assist you at once; for, if you do not, i shall." "i intend to do it," said gertrude. "i have seen the necessity for some time past; but she has such a dread of strangers, that i hated to propose it." "nonsense," said the doctor; "that's only imagination in her; she would soon get used to being waited upon." mrs. sullivan now returned, and gertrude, giving an account of her unexpected re-encounter with nan grant, begged dr. jeremy to go the next day and see her. "it will be a visit of charity," said she, "for she is probably penniless; and, though staying with your old patients, the millers, she is but distantly connected, and has no claim upon them. that never makes any difference with you, however, i know very well." "not a bit, not a bit," answered the doctor. "i'll go and see her to-night, if the case requires it, and to-morrow i shall look in to report how she is, and hear the rest of what mrs. sullivan was telling me about her wakeful nights. but, gertrude, do you go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings. i shall have you on my hands next." mrs. sullivan was delighted with dr. jeremy. "so different," said she, "from common doctors" (a portion of humanity for which she seemed to have an unaccountable aversion); "so social and friendly! why, i felt, gertrude, as if i could talk to him about my sickness as freely as i can to you." gertrude joined in the praises bestowed upon her much-valued friend, and it was tea-time before mrs. sullivan was weary of the subject. after the evening meal was over, and mr. cooper had been persuaded to retire to rest, while mrs. sullivan, reclining on the sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour, gertrude broached the subject recommended by dr. jeremy. contrary to her expectations, mrs. sullivan no longer objected to the proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. she was convinced of her own incompetency to perform any active labour, and was equally opposed to the exertion on gertrude's part which had, during the last week, been requisite. gertrude suggested jane miller as a girl well suited to their wants, and it was agreed that she should be applied for on the next morning. one more glance at gertrude, and we shall have followed her to the conclusion of the day. she is alone. it is ten o'clock, and the house is still. mr. cooper is sound asleep. gertrude has just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. mrs. sullivan, under the influence of a soothing draught recommended by dr. jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. the little calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in the window, are nestled side by side on their slender perch, and gertrude has thrown a warm covering over them, that they might not suffer from the cold night air. she has locked the doors, made all things safe and comfortable, and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. her trials and cares are multiplying. a great grief stares her in the face, and a great responsibility; but she shrinks not from either. no! on the contrary, she thanks god that she is here; that she had the resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and in spite of her own weakness and man's wrath, to place herself in the front of life's battle, and bravely wait its issues. she thanks god that she knows where to look for help. but, though her heart is brave and her faith firm, she has a woman's tender nature; and, as she sits alone she weeps--weeps for herself, and for him who, far away in a foreign land, is counting the days, the months, and years which shall restore him to a mother he is destined never to see again. but remembering that she is to stand in the place of a child to that parent, and that her hand must soothe the pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes the stern necessity of self-control--a necessity to which gertrude has long since learned to submit--and, rallying all her calmness and fortitude, she wipes away the tears, and commends herself to him who is strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing. chapter xxiv. the vision. it was fortunate for gertrude that the vacation at mr. w.'s school was approaching, when she would be more at leisure to attend to her multiplied cares. she considered herself favoured in obtaining the services of jane, who consented to come and help miss gertrude. she did not, she said, exactly like living out, but couldn't refuse a young lady who had been so good to them in times past. gertrude had feared that, with nan grant sick in the house, mrs. miller would not be able to give up her eldest daughter; but mary, a second girl, having returned home unexpectedly, one of them could be spared. under gertrude's tuition, jane was able to relieve mrs. sullivan of her household duties, and to leave gertrude at liberty to visit nan, whose fever rendered her claim for aid the most imperative. in gertrude's still vivid recollection of her former sufferings under nan there was no bitterness, no revenge. if she remembered the past, it was only to pity and forgive her persecutor. therefore, night after night found her watching by the bedside of the sick woman, who, still delirious, had entirely lost the dread she had at first seemed to feel at her presence. nan talked much of little gerty--sometimes in a way that led gertrude to believe herself recognised, but more frequently as if the child were supposed to be absent; and it was not until a long time after that gertrude was led to adopt the correct supposition, which was, that she had been mistaken for her mother, whom she much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last sickness by nan herself, the fevered and conscience-stricken sufferer believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. it was only the continued assurances of good-will on gertrude's part, and her unwearied efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led nan to the belief that the injured mother had found her child in safety, and was ignorant of the wrongs and unkindness she had endured. one night--it was the last of nan's life--gertrude, who had scarcely left her during the day, and was still watching, heard her own name mingled with those of others in a few rapid sentences. she listened intently, for she was always in hopes, during these ravings, to gain some information concerning her own early life. her name was not repeated, however, and for some time the muttering of nan's voice was indistinct. then, suddenly starting up and addressing herself to some imaginary person, she shouted aloud, "stephie! stephie! give me back the watch, and tell me what you did with the rings?--they will ask--those folks!--and what shall i tell them?" then, after a pause, she said, in a more feeble, but equally earnest voice, "no, no, stephie, i never'll tell--i _never, never_ will!" the moment the words had left her lips, she started, turned, saw gertrude standing by the bedside, and with a frightful look, shrieked, rather than asked, "did you hear? did you hear?--you did," continued she, "and you'll tell! oh, if you _do_!" she was here preparing to spring from the bed, but overcome with exhaustion, sunk back on the pillow. summoning mr. and mrs. miller, the agitated gertrude, believing that her own presence was too exciting, left the dying woman to their care, and sought another part of the house. learning, about an hour afterwards, from mrs. miller, that nan had become comparatively calm, but seemed near her end, gertrude thought it best not to enter the room again; and, sitting down by the kitchen fire, pondered over the strange scene she had witnessed. day was just dawning when mrs. miller came to tell her that nan had breathed her last. gerty's work of mercy, forgiveness, and christian love being thus finished, she hastened home to recruit her strength, and fortify herself for the labour and suffering yet in store for her. in three weeks from nan grant's death, paul cooper was smitten by the destroyer's hand, and he, too, was laid to his last rest; and though the deepest feelings of gertrude's heart were not in either case fully awakened, it was no slight call upon the mental and physical endurance of a girl of eighteen to bear up under the self-imposed duties caused by each event, and that, too, at a time when her mind was racked by the apprehension of a new and more intense grief. emily's absence was also a sore trial to her, for she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and counsel, and in seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and submission. only one letter had been received from the travellers, and that, written by mrs. ellis, contained little that was satisfactory. it was written from havana, where they were boarding in a house kept by an american lady, and crowded with visitors from boston, new york, and other northern cities. "it an't so very pleasant, after all, gertrude," wrote mrs. ellis, "and i wish we were safe home again; and not on my own account either, so much as emily's. she feels kind of strange here; and no wonder, for it's a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a place. the windows have no glass about them, but are grated like a prison; and there is not a carpet in the house, nor a fire-place, though sometimes the mornings are cold. there's a widow here, with a brother and some nieces. the widow is a flaunting kind of a woman, that i begin to think is either setting her cap for mr. graham, or means to make an old fool of him. she is one of your loud-talking women, that dress up a good deal, and like to take the lead; and mr. graham is silly enough to follow after her party, and go to all sorts of rides and excursions;--it's so _ridiculous_--and he over sixty-five years old! emily and i have pretty much done going into the parlour, for these gay folks don't take any sort of notice of us. emily doesn't say a word, or complain a bit, but i know she is not happy here, and would be glad to be back in boston; and so should i, if it wasn't for that horrid steamboat. i liked to have died with sea-sickness, gertrude, coming out; and i dread going home so, that i don't know what to do." * * * * * gertrude wrote frequently to emily, but, as miss graham was dependent upon mrs. ellis's eyesight, and the letters must, therefore, be subject to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost thoughts and feelings as she was wont to do in conversation with her sympathising and indulgent friend. every indian mail brought news from william sullivan, who, prosperous in business, and rendered happy even in his exile by the belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment of the fruits of his exertions, wrote always in a strain of cheerfulness. one sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after mr. cooper's death, found gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous post-marks upon the outside of which proclaimed from whence it came. it had that day been received, and mrs. sullivan, as she lay stretched upon the couch, had been listening for the third time to the reading of its contents. the bright hopes expressed by her son, and the gay tone in which he wrote, all unconscious of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for him, formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwonted degree of sadness; while gertrude, as she glanced at the passage in which willie dilated upon the "joy of once more clasping in his arms the dear mother whom he so longed to see again," and then turned her gaze upon the wasted form and cheek of that mother, felt a chill at her heart. dr. jeremy's first fears were confirmed, and, her disease still further aggravated by the anxiety which attended her father's sickness and death, mrs. sullivan was rapidly passing away. whether she was herself aware of this gertrude had not yet been able to determine. she had never spoken upon the subject, or intimated a conviction of her approaching end; and gertrude was almost inclined to believe that she was deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery. all doubt of this was soon removed; for after remaining a short time engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, mrs. sullivan opened her eyes, fixed them upon the young attendant, and said, in a calm, distinct voice--"gertrude, i shall never see willie again." gertrude made no reply. "i wish to write and tell him so myself, or, rather, if you will write for me, i should like to tell you what to say; and i feel that no time is to be lost, for i am failing fast, and may not long have strength enough to do it. it will devolve upon you, my child, to let him know when all is over; but you have had too many sad duties already, and it will spare you somewhat to have me prepare him to hear bad news. will you commence a letter to-day?" "certainly, auntie, if you think it best." "i do, gerty. what you wrote by the last mail was my father's sickness and death; and there was nothing mentioned likely to alarm him on my account, was there?" "nothing at all." "then it is time he should be forewarned, poor boy! i do not need dr. jeremy to tell me that i am dying." "did he tell you so?" asked gertrude, as she went to her desk, and began to arrange her writing materials. "no, gerty! he was too prudent for that; but i told _him_ and he did not contradict me. you have known it some time, have you not?" inquired she, gazing earnestly in the face of gertrude. "some weeks," replied gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a kiss upon the pale brow of the sufferer. "why did you not tell me?" "why should i, dear auntie?" said gertrude. "i knew the lord could never call you at a time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning." "feebly, it burns feebly!" said she. "whose, then, is bright," said gertrude, "if yours be dim! have you not, for years past, been a living lesson of piety? unless it be emily, auntie, i know of no one who seems so fit for heaven." "oh, no, gerty! i am a sinful creature, full of weakness; much as i long to meet my saviour, my earthly heart pines with the vain desire for one more sight of my boy, and all my dreams of heaven are mingled with the aching regret that the one blessing i most craved on earth has been denied me." "oh, auntie!" exclaimed gertrude, "we are all human! until the mortal puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of willie, and long for his presence in this trying hour! it cannot be a sin--that which is so natural!" "i do not know, gerty; perhaps it is not; and, if it be, i trust before i go hence, i shall be blessed with a spirit of perfect submission, to atone for the occasional murmuring of a mother's heart? read to me, my dear, some holy words of comfort; you always seem to open the good book at the passage i most need. it is sinful, indeed, to me, gertrude, to indulge the least repining, blessed as i am in the love and care of one who is dear to me as a daughter!" gertrude took her bible, and opening it at the gospel of st. mark, her eye fell upon the account of our saviour's agony in the garden of gethsemane. she rightly believed that nothing could be more appropriate to mrs. sullivan's state of mind than the touching description of the struggle of our lord's humanity; nothing more likely to sooth her spirit, and reconcile her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal nature, then the evident contest of the human with the divine so thrillingly narrated by the disciple; and that nothing could be more inspiring than the example of that holy son of god, who ever to his thrice-repeated prayer that, if possible, the cup might pass from him, added the pious ejaculation, "thy will, not mine, be done." the words were not without effect; for, when she had finished, she observed that as mrs. sullivan lay still upon her couch, her lips seemed to be repeating the saviour's prayer. not wishing to disturb her meditations, gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to willie, but sat silently, and mrs. sullivan fell asleep. it was a gentle slumber, and gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful happy expression of her features. darkness had come on before she awoke, and so shrouded the room that gertrude, who still sat there, was invisible in the gloom. she started on hearing her name, and, hastily lighting a candle, approached the couch. "o, gertrude!" said mrs. sullivan, "i have had such a beautiful dream! sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to you; it could not have been more vivid, if it had all been reality:--" * * * * * the dream:--"i thought i was sailing rapidly through the air, and for some time i seemed to float on and on, over clouds and among bright stars. the motion was so gentle that i did not grow weary, though in my journey i travelled over land and sea. at last i saw beneath me a beautiful city, with churches, towers, monuments, and throngs of gay people moving in every direction. as i drew nearer, i could distinguish the faces of these numerous men and women, and among them, in the crowded street, there was one who looked like willie. i followed him, and soon felt sure it was he. he looked older than when we saw him last, and much as i have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has given in his letters of the change that has taken place in his appearance. i followed him through several streets, and at last he turned into a fine, large building, which stood near the centre of the city. i went in also. we passed through large halls and beautifully furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-saloon, in the middle of which was a table covered with bottles, glasses, and the remains of a rich desert, such as i never saw before. there was a group of young men round the table, all well-dressed, and some of them fine-looking, so that at first i was quite charmed with their appearance. i seemed, however, to have a strange power of looking into their hearts, and detecting all the evil there was there. one had a very bright, intelligent face, and might have been thought a man of talent--and so he was; but i could see better than people usually can, and i perceived, by a sort of instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a means of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant as to be ensnared. "another seemed by his wit and drollery to be the charm of the company; but i could detect marks of intoxication. "a third was vainly attempting to look happy; but his soul was bared to my searching gaze, and i saw that he had the day before lost at the gaming-table his own and a part of his employer's money, and was tortured with anxiety lest he might not this evening win it back. "there were many others present, and all, more or less, sunk in dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to ruin. their faces, however, looked gay, and, as willie glanced from one to another, he seemed pleased and attracted. "one of them offered him a seat at the table, and all urged him to take it. he did so, and the young man at his right filled a glass with bright wine, and handed it to him. he hesitated, then took it and raised it to his lips. just then i touched him on the shoulder. he turned, saw me, and instantly the glass fell from his hand, and was broken. i beckoned, and he rose and followed me. the gay circle he had left called loudly upon him to return; one of them even laid a hand upon his arm, and tried to detain him; but he would not listen or stay--he shook off the hand, and we went on. before we had got outside the building, the man whom i had first noticed, and whom i knew to be the most artful of the company, came out from a room near the door, which he had reached by some other direction, and, approaching willie, whispered in his ear. willie faltered, turned, and would perhaps have gone back; but i stood in front of him, held up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. he hesitated no longer, but, flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door, and was instantly down the long flight of steps. i seemed to move with great rapidity, and was soon guiding my son through the intricate, crowded streets of the city. many were the snares we found laid for the unwary. more than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless boy by my side from some pitfall or danger, into which, without me, he would have fallen. occasionally i lost sight of him, and had to turn back; once he was separated from me by the crowd, and missed his way, and once he lingered to witness or join in some sinful amusements. each time, however, he listened to my warning voice, and we went on in safety. "at last, however, in passing through a brilliantly-lighted street--for it was now evening--i suddenly observed that he was absent from my side. i hunted the streets, and called him by name; but there was no answer. i then unfolded my wings, and, soaring high above the crowded town, surveyed the whole, hoping that in that one glance i might, as i had at first done, detect my boy. "i was not disappointed. in a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit, and filled with a fashionable crowd, i beheld willie. a brilliant young creature was leaning on his arm, and i saw into her heart, and knew that she was not blind to his beauty or insensible to his attractions. but, oh! i trembled for him now! she was lovely and rich, and also fashionable and admired. but i saw into her soul, and she was proud, cold-hearted, and worldly; and if she loved willie, it was his beauty, his winning manners, and his smile that pleased her--not his noble nature, which she knew not how to prize. as they promenaded through the hall, and she, whom crowds were praising, gave all her time and thoughts to him, i, descending in an invisible shape, and standing by his side, touched his shoulder. he looked around, but, before he could see his mother's face, the siren's voice attracted all his attention. again and again i endeavoured to win him away; but he heard me not. at length she spoke some word that betrayed to my high-minded boy the folly and selfishness of her worldly soul. i seized the moment when she had thus weakened her hold upon him, and, clasping him in my arms, spread my wings, and soared far, far away, bearing with me the prize i had toiled after and won. as we rose into the air, my manly son became in my encircling arms a child again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head, with its soft, silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. back we flew, over sea and land, and paused not until, on a soft, grassy slope, under the shade of green trees, i thought i saw my darling gerty, and was flying to lay my precious boy at her feet, when i awoke pronouncing your name." * * * * * "and now, gertrude, the bitterness of the cup i am called upon to drink is passed away. a blessed angel has ministered unto me. i no longer wish to see my son again on earth, for i am persuaded that my departure is in accordance with the schemes of a merciful providence. i now believe that willie's living mother might be powerless to turn him from temptation and evil; but the spirit of that mother will be mighty still, and in the thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is ever watching around his path, and striving to lead him in the narrow way, he may find a truer shield from danger, a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she could have been while on earth. now, oh, my father, i can say, from the depths of my heart, 'thy will, not mine, be done!'" from this time until her death, which took place about a month afterward, mrs. sullivan's mind remained in a state of perfect resignation. the last pang had lost its bitterness. in the letter which she dictated to willie, she expressed her trust in the goodness and wisdom of providence, and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive love for the all-wise. she reminded him of the early lessons she had taught him, the piety and self-command, which she had inculcated, and made it her dying prayer that her influence might be increased, rather than diminished, and her presence felt to be a continual reality. after gertrude had folded the letter, and left for her duties in school, mrs. sullivan re-opened the sheet, and, with her feeble hand, recounted the disinterested and loving devotion of gertrude, thus: "so long, my son, as you cherish in your heart the memory of your grandfather and mother, cease not to bestow all the gratitude of which that heart is capable upon one whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray." so slow and gradual was the decline of mrs. sullivan, that her death at last came as an unexpected blow to gertrude, who, though she saw the ravages of disease, could not realise that a termination must come to their work. in the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and encourage her but the frightened jane, did she watch the departing spirit of her much-loved friend. "are you afraid to see me die, gertrude?" asked mrs. sullivan, an hour before her death. on gertrude's answering that she was not--"then turn me a little towards you," said she, "that your face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth." it was done, and, with her hand locked fast in gertrude's, and a look that spoke the deepest affection, she expired. chapter xxv. more changes. not until her work of love was ended did gertrude become conscious that her lengthened labours by night and day had worn upon her frame, and exhausted her strength. for a week after mrs. sullivan was in her grave, dr. jeremy feared a severe illness for gertrude. but, after struggling with her dangerous symptoms for several days, she rallied; and, though still pale and worn by care and anxiety, was able to resume her school duties, and make arrangements for another home. several homes had been offered to her, with a warmth and cordiality which made it difficult to decline their acceptance; but gertrude, though deeply touched by the kindness thus manifested towards her in her loneliness, preferred to seek a permanent boarding-place, and when the grounds on which she based her decision were understood by her friends, they approved her course. mrs. jeremy at first felt hurt at gertrude's refusal to live with them for any length of time that she chose; and the doctor was so peremptory with his "come, gertrude, come right home with us--don't say a word!" that she was afraid lest, in her weak state of health, she should be carried off, without a _chance_ to remonstrate. but, after he had taken upon himself to give jane orders about packing her clothes and sending them after her, and then locking up the house, he gave gertrude an opportunity to state her reasons for wishing to decline the generous proposal. but all her reasoning upon general principles proved insufficient to convince the warm-hearted couple. "it was all nonsense about independent position. she would be perfectly independent with them, and her company would be such a pleasure that she need feel no hesitation in accepting their offer, and might be sure she would be conferring a favour, instead of being the party obliged." at last she was compelled to make use of an argument which had greatly influenced her own mind, and would, she felt sure, carry no little weight with it in the doctor's own estimation. "dr. jeremy," said she, "i hope you will not condemn in me a motive which has strengthened my firmness in this matter. i should be unwilling to mention it if i did not know that you are so far acquainted with the state of affairs between mr. graham and myself as to understand and sympathize with my feelings. you know that he was opposed to my leaving them and remaining here this winter, and must suspect that, when we parted, there was not a perfectly good understanding between us. he hinted that i should never be able to support myself, and should be driven to a life of dependence; and, since the salary which i receive from mr. w. is sufficient for all my wants, i wish to be so situated on mr. graham's return that he will perceive that my assurance that i could earn my own living was not without foundation." "so graham thought that, without his sustaining power, you would soon come to beggary--did he? with your talents, too? that's just like him!" "oh, no, no!" replied gertrude, "i did not say that; but i seemed to him a mere child, and he did not realise that in giving me an education he had paid my expenses in advance. it was very natural he should distrust my capacity--he had never seen me compelled to exert myself." "i understand--i understand," said the doctor. "he thought you would be glad enough to come back to them; yes, yes, just like him!" "well, now," said mrs. jeremy, "i don't believe he thought any such thing. he was provoked, and didn't mind what he said. ten to one he will never think of it again, and it seems to me it is only a kind of pride in gertrude to care anything about it." "i don't know that, wife," said the doctor. "if it _is_ pride, it's an honourable pride that i like; and i am not sure but, if i were in gertrude's place, i should feel just as she does; so i shan't urge her to do any other ways than she proposes. she can have a boarding-place, and yet spend much of her time with us." "yes, indeed," said mrs. jeremy; "and, if you feel set about it, gerty, dear, i am sure i shall want you to do whatever pleases you best; but one thing i do insist on, and that is, that you leave this house, which must look very dreary, this very day, go home with me, and stay until you get recruited." gertrude, gladly consenting to a short visit, compromised the matter by accompanying them without delay, and it was chiefly owing to the doctor's persevering skill and care bestowed upon his young guest, and the motherly nursing of mrs. jeremy, that she escaped the illness which had threatened her. mr. and mrs. w., who felt great sympathy for gertrude, pressed her to come to their house, and remain until the return of mr. graham and emily; but, on being assured by her that she was unaware of the period of their absence, and should not probably reside with them for the future, they were satisfied that she acted with wisdom and judgment in at once providing herself with an independent situation. mr. and mrs. arnold, who had been constant in their attentions, both to mrs. sullivan and gertrude, and were the only persons, except the physician, who had been admitted to the sick room of the invalid, felt that they had a peculiar claim to the care of the doubly-orphaned girl, and urged her to become a member of their household. mr. arnold's family being large, and his house and salary small, true benevolence alone prompted this proposal; and on gertrude's acquainting his economical and prudent wife with the ample means she enjoyed from her own exertions, and the decision she had formed of procuring an independent home, she received the warm approbation of both, and found in the latter an excellent adviser and assistant. mrs. arnold had a widowed sister who was in the habit of receiving, as boarders, a few young ladies. gertrude did not know this lady personally, but had heard her warmly praised; and she indulged the hope that through her friend, the minister's wife, she might obtain with her an agreeable and not too expensive residence. in this she was not disappointed. mrs. warren had fortunately vacant a large front chamber; and, mrs. arnold having recommended gertrude in the warmest manner, suitable terms were agreed upon, and the room placed at her disposal. mrs. sullivan had bequeathed to her all her furniture, and mrs. arnold and her daughters insisted that, in consideration of her recent fatigue and bereavement, she should attend only to her school duties, and leave to them the furnishing of her room with such articles as she preferred to have placed there, and superintended the packing away of all other movables; for gertrude was unwilling that anything should be sold. on entering the dining-room the first evening after she took up her residence at mrs. warren's, she expected to meet only strangers at the tea-table, but was agreeably disappointed at the sight of fanny bruce, who, left in boston while her mother and brother were spending the winter in travelling, had now been several weeks an inmate of mrs. warren's house. fanny was a school-girl, twelve or thirteen years of age; a near neighbour to gertrude, had been in the habit of seeing her often at mr. graham's, and had sometimes begged flowers from her, borrowed books, and obtained assistance in her fancy-work. she admired gertrude much; had hailed with delight the prospect of knowing her better, as she hoped to do at mrs. warren's; and when she met the gaze of her large, dark eyes, and saw a smile of pleasure overspread her countenance at the sight of a familiar face, she came forward to shake hands, and beg that miss flint would sit next her at the table. fanny bruce was a girl of good disposition and warm heart, but she had been much neglected by her mother, whose pride was in her son, the same ben of whom we have previously spoken. she had often been left behind in some boarding-house, while her pleasure-loving mother and indolent brother passed their time in journeying; and had not always been so fortunately situated as she was at present. gertrude had not been long at mrs. warren's before she observed that fanny occupied an isolated position in the family. she was a few years younger than her companions, three dressy misses, who could not condescend to admit her into her clique. although the privacy of her own room was pleasing to gertrude's feelings, pity for poor fanny induced her to invite her frequently to come and sit with her, and she often so far forgot her own griefs as to exert herself in providing entertainment for her young visitor, who considered it a privilege to share gertrude's retirement, read her books, and feel confident of her friendship. during the stormy month of march fanny spent almost every evening with gertrude; and she, who at first felt that she was making a sacrifice of her comfort and ease by giving another constant access to her apartment, realised the force of uncle true's prophecy, that, in her efforts for the happiness of others, she would at last find her own; for fanny's lively and amusing conversation drew gertrude from brooding over her sorrows. april arrived, and still no news from emily; gertrude's heart ached with longing to once more pour out her griefs on the bosom of that dear friend, and find her consolation and support. gertrude had written regularly, but of late she had not known where to direct her letters; and since mrs. sullivan's death there had been no communication between her and the travellers. she was sitting at her window one evening, thinking of those friends lost by absence and by death, when she was summoned to see mr. arnold and his daughter anne. after the usual civilities, miss arnold said, "of course you have heard the news, gertrude?" "no," replied gertrude. "i have heard nothing special." "what!" exclaimed mr. arnold, "have you not heard of mr. graham's marriage?" gertrude started up in surprise. "do you really mean so, mr. arnold? mr. graham married! when? to whom?" "to the widow holbrook, a sister-in-law of mr. clinton's; she has been staying at havanna, with a party from the north, and the grahams met her there." "but, gertrude," asked mr. arnold, "how does it happen you have not heard of it? it is in all the newspapers--'married in new orleans, j. h. graham, esq., to mrs. holbrook.'" "i have not seen a newspaper for a day or two," replied gertrude. "and miss graham's blindness, i suppose, prevents her writing," said anne; "but i thought mr. graham would send wedding compliments." gertrude made no reply, and miss arnold said, "i suppose his bride engrosses all his attention." "do you know anything of this mrs. holbrook?" asked gertrude. "not much," answered mr. arnold. "i have seen her occasionally at mr. clinton's. she is a handsome, showy woman, fond of society, i should think." "i have seen her very often," said anne. "she is a coarse, noisy, dashing person, just the one to make miss emily miserable." gertrude looked distressed, and mr. arnold glanced reprovingly at her. "anne," said he, "are you sure you speak advisedly?" "belle clinton is my authority, father. i only judge from what i used to hear her say at school about her aunt _bella_, as she always used to call her." "did isabel represent her aunt so unfavourably?" "not intentionally; she meant the greatest praise, but i never liked anything she told us about her." "we will not condemn her until we can decide upon acquaintance," said mr. arnold; "perhaps she will prove the reverse of what you suppose." "can you tell me anything concerning emily?" asked gertrude, "and whether mr. graham is soon to return?" "nothing," said miss arnold. "when did you hear from them yourself?" gertrude mentioned the date of the letter from mrs. ellis, the account she had given of a gay party from the north, and suggested that probably mrs. graham was the widow she had described. "the same, undoubtedly," said mr. arnold. their knowledge of facts were so slight, however, that little remained to be said concerning the marriage, and other topics of conversation were introduced. but gertrude found it impossible to think of any other subject; the matter was so vitally important to emily, that her mind constantly recurred to it. the conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of dr. and mrs. jeremy. the former held in his hand a sealed letter, directed to gertrude, in the handwriting of mr. graham; and, as he handed it to her, he rubbed his hands, and looking at anne arnold, exclaimed, "now, miss anne, we shall hear all about these famous nuptials!" finding her visitors eager to learn the contents of her letter, gertrude broke the seal, and hastily perused its contents. the envelope contained two or three pages closely written by mrs. ellis, and also a lengthy note from mr. graham. surprised as gertrude was at any communication from one who had parted from her in anger, her desire was to hear from emily, and she preferred the housekeeper's document as most likely to contain the desired information. it ran as follows:-- "new york, _march , _. "dear gertrude,--as there were plenty of boston folks at the wedding, you have heard before this of mr. graham's marriage. he married the widow holbrook, the same i wrote to you about. she was determined to have him, and she's got him. i don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain. he likes a quiet life, and he's lost the chance of that--poor man!--for she's the greatest hand for company that ever i saw. she followed mr. graham up pretty well at havanna, but i guess he thought better of it, and didn't mean to have her. but when we got to new orleans, she was there; and she carried her point, and married him. emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against it, and always treated the lady as pleasantly as could be; but, dear me! how will our emily get along with so many folks about all the time, and so much noise and confusion? for my part, i an't used to it, and it's not agreeable. the new lady is civil enough to me, now she's married. i daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as long as she's one of the family, and i've been in it so long. but i suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, gertrude, and will be surprised to find we have got so far as new york, on our way home--_my_ way home, for i'm the only one that talks of coming at present. i kept meaning to write while we were in new orleans, but there was so much going on i didn't get the chance; and, after that horrid steamboat from charleston here, i wasn't good for anything for a week. but emily was so anxious that i couldn't put off writing any longer. poor emily isn't very well; i don't mean that she's downright sick--it's low spirits more than anything. she gets tired and worried very quick, and easily disturbed, which didn't used to be the case. it may be the new wife, and all the nieces and other disagreeable things. she never complains, and nobody would know but what she was pleased to have her father married again; but she hasn't seemed happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how she looks sometimes. she talks a sight about you, and felt dreadfully not to get any more letters. but to come to the principal thing, they are all going to europe--emily and all. i take it, it's the new wife's idea. mr. graham wanted me to go, but i would as soon be hung as venture on the sea again, and i told him so. so now he has written for you to go with emily; and if you are not afraid of sea-sickness, i hope you won't refuse, for it would be dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always needs somebody on account of her blindness. i do not think she has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind, for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife. "as soon as they sail--the last of april--i shall come back to the house in d----, and see to things there while they are away. i write a postscript to you from emily, and we shall be very impatient to hear your answer; and i hope you will not refuse to go with emily. "yours very truly, "sarah h. ellis." the postscript contained the following:-- "i need not tell my darling gertrude how much i have missed her, and longed to have her with me again; how i have thought of her by night and day, and prayed god to strengthen and fit her for many trials and labours. the letter written soon after mr. cooper's death is the last that has reached me, and i do not know whether mrs. sullivan is still living. write to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. father will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to europe. my heart will be light if i can take my dear gerty with me; i trust to you, my love, to decide aright. you have heard of father's marriage. it is a great change for us all, but will, i trust, result in happiness. mrs. graham has two nieces, who are with us at the hotel. they are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, i understand, very beautiful girls, especially bella clinton, whom you saw in boston some years ago. mrs. ellis is very tired of writing, and i must close with assuring my dearest gertrude of the devoted affection of "emily graham." it was with great curiosity that gertrude unfolded mr. graham's epistle. she thought it would be awkward for him to address her, and wondered much whether he would maintain his authoritative tone, or condescend to apologise. had she known him better, she would have been assured that nothing would ever induce him to do the latter, for he was one of those persons who never believe themselves in the wrong. "miss gertrude flint,--i am married, and intend to go abroad on the th of april. my daughter will accompany us, and as mrs. ellis dreads the sea, i propose that you join us in new york, and attend the party as a companion to emily. i have not forgotten the ingratitude with which you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of emily, and a sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in my family so long that i feel a friendly interest in providing for her. by complying with our wishes, you will remove the recollection of your past behaviour; and, if you choose to return to us, i shall enable you to maintain the place and appearance of a lady. as we sail the last of the month, it is important you should write and name the day. i will meet you at the boat. mrs. ellis being anxious to return to boston, i hope you will come as soon as possible. i enclose a sum of money to cover expenses. if you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount, and i will see that all is paid before you leave. trusting you are now come to a sense of your duty, i subscribe myself your friend, "j. h. graham." gertrude was sitting near a lamp, whose light fell directly upon her face, which, as she glanced over mr. graham's note, flushed crimson with wounded pride. dr. jeremy observed her colour change, and during the few minutes that mr. and miss arnold stayed to hear the news, he gave an occasional glance of defiance at the letter, and as soon as they were gone, begged to be made acquainted with its contents. "he writes," said gertrude, "to invite me to accompany them to europe." "indeed!" said dr. jeremy, with a low whistle; "and he thinks you'll be silly enough to pack up and start off at a minute's notice!" "why, gerty," said mrs. jeremy, "you'll like to go, shan't you, dear? it will be delightful." "delightful--nonsense! mrs. jeremy," exclaimed the doctor; "what is there delightful, i want to know, in travelling about with an arrogant old tyrant, his blind daughter, upstart dashy wife, and her two fine-lady nieces? a pretty position gertrude would be in--a slave to the whims of all that company." "why, dr. jeremy," interrupted his wife, "you forget emily." "emily--to be sure, she's an angel, and never would impose upon anybody, least of all her own pet; but she'll have to play second fiddle herself, and i'm mistaken if she doesn't find it very hard to defend her rights and maintain a comfortable position in her father's enlarged family circle." "so much the more need, then," said gertrude, "that someone should be enlisted in her interests, to ward off the approach of every annoyance." "do you mean, then, to put yourself in the breach?" asked the doctor. "i mean to accept mr. graham's invitation," replied gertrude, "and join emily at once; but i trust the harmony that seems to subsist between her and her new connections will continue undisturbed, so that i shall have no cause to take up arms on _her_ account, and on _my own_ i have not a single fear." "then you think you shall go?" said mrs. jeremy. "i do," said gertrude; "nothing but my duty to mrs. sullivan and her father led me to think of leaving emily. that duty is at an end. i see from mrs. ellis's letters that emily is not happy; and nothing which i can do to make her so must be neglected. only think, mrs. jeremy, what a friend she has been to me." "i know it," said mrs. jeremy, "and i dare say you will enjoy the journey, in spite of all the scarecrows the doctor sets up to frighten you; but it does seem a sacrifice for you to leave your comforts for such an uncertain sort of life." "sacrifice!" said the doctor; "it's the greatest sacrifice that ever i heard of! it is not merely giving up a good income of her own earning, and as pleasant a home as there is in boston; it is relinquishing all the independence that she has been striving after, and which she was so anxious to maintain." "no, doctor," said gertrude, warmly; "nothing that i do for _emily's_ sake can be called a sacrifice; it is my greatest pleasure." "gerty always finds her pleasure in doing what is right," remarked mrs. jeremy. "the thought," said gertrude, "that our dear emily was dependent upon a stranger for all those little attentions that are only acceptable from those she loves, would make me miserable; our happiness for years has been in each other; and when one has suffered, the other has suffered also. i _must_ go to her; i cannot think of doing otherwise." "i wish," muttered dr. jeremy, "that your sacrifice would be half appreciated. but graham, i'll venture to say, thinks it will be the greatest favour to take you back again. perhaps he addressed you as a beggar; it wouldn't be the first time he's done such a thing. i wonder what would have induced poor philip amory to go back. has he made any apology in his letter for past unkindness?" "i do not think he considered any to be needed," replied gertrude. "then he didn't make any excuse for his ungentlemanly behaviour? i declare it's a shame you should be exposed to any more such treatment; but i always _did_ hear that women were self-forgetful in their friendship, and i believe it. gertrude makes an excellent friend. mrs. jeremy, we must cultivate her regard; and sometime or other, perhaps, make a loud call upon her services." "and if ever you do, sir, i shall be ready to respond to it; if there is a person in the world who owes a debt to society, it is myself. i hear the world called cold, selfish, and unfeeling; but it has not been so to me. i should be ungrateful if i did not cherish a spirit of universal love; how much more so, if i did not feel bound, heart and hand, to those dear friends who have bestowed upon me such affection as no orphan ever found before!" "gertrude," said mrs. jeremy, "i believe that you were right in leaving emily when you did, and that you are right in returning to her now; and, if your being such a good girl as you are is at all due to her, she certainly has a great claim upon you." "she has a claim, indeed, mrs. jeremy! it was emily who first taught me the difference between right and wrong----" "and she is going to reap the benefit of that knowledge in you," said the doctor, in continuation of her remark. "that's fair! but if you are resolved to take this european tour, you will be busy enough with your preparations. do you think mr. w. will be willing to give you up?" "i hope so," said gertrude. "i am sorry to be obliged to ask it of him, for he has been very indulgent to me, and i have been absent from school two weeks out of the winter already; but as it will shortly be the summer vacation, he will, perhaps, be able to supply my place." mrs. jeremy interested herself in gertrude's arrangements, offered an attic-room for the storage of her furniture, gave up to her a dressmaker she had engaged for herself, and a plan was laid out, by which gertrude could start for new york in less than a week. mr. w., on being applied to, relinquished gertrude, though deeply regretting to lose so valuable an assistant; and after a few days occupied in preparation, she bade farewell to the tearful fanny bruce, the bustling doctor, and his kind-hearted wife, all of whom accompanied her to the railroad station. she promised to write to the jeremys; and they agreed to forward her any letters that might arrive from willie. in less than a fortnight from the time of her departure, mrs. ellis returned to boston, and brought news of the safe conclusion of gertrude's journey. a letter received a week after by mrs. jeremy announced that they should sail in a few days. she was, therefore, surprised when a second epistle was put into her hands, dated the day succeeding that on which she supposed mr. graham's party to have left the country. it was as follows:-- "new york, _april th_. "my dear mrs. jeremy,--as yesterday was the day on which we expected to sail for europe, you will be astonished to hear that we are yet in new york, and still more so to learn that the foreign tour is now postponed. only two days since mr. graham was seized with the gout, and the attack was so violent as to threaten his life. although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer, and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable. his great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as he can bear the journey, we shall hasten to the house in d----.i enclose a note for mrs. ellis. it contains various directions which emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did not know how to address her, i have sent it to you, trusting to your kindness to see it forwarded. mrs. graham and her nieces, who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are, of course, greatly disappointed. it is particularly trying to miss clinton, as her father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to meet him in paris. "it is impossible that either me or emily should regret a journey of which we felt only dread, and, were it not for mr. graham's illness being the cause of its postponement, we should find it hard not to realise a degree of satisfaction in the prospect of returning to the dear old place in d----, where we hope to be established in the course of the next month. i say _we_, for neither mr. graham nor emily will hear of my leaving them again. "with the kindest regards to yourself, and my friend the doctor, "i am, yours very sincerely, "gertrude flint." chapter xxvi. jealousy. mr. graham's country-house boasted a fine, old fashioned entry, with a door at either end, both of which usually stood open during the warm weather, admitting a current of air, and rendering the neighbourhood of the front entrance a favourite resort of the family, during the early hours of the day, when the sun had no access to the spot. here, on a pleasant june morning, isabel clinton and her cousin, kitty ray, had made themselves comfortable. isabel had drawn a large arm-chair close to the door-sill, ensconced herself in it, and was gazing idly down the road. she was a beautiful girl, tall and well-formed, with a delicate complexion, clear blue eyes, and rich, light, flowing curls. the same lovely child, whom gertrude had gazed upon with rapture, as, leaning against the window of her father's house, she once watched old true while he lit his lamp, had ripened into an equally lovely woman. at an early age deprived of her mother, and left for some years to the care of servants, she soon learned to appreciate, at more than their true value, her outward attractions; and her aunt, under whose tutelage she had been since she left school, did not counteract this undue self-admiration. an appearance of conscious superiority which distinguished her, and her independent air, might be attributed to her conviction that belle clinton, the beauty and the heiress, attired in a blue cashmere morning-dress, richly embroidered, and open in front, for the purpose of displaying an equally rich flounced cambric petticoat. on a low step at her feet sat kitty ray, a complete contrast to her cousin in looks, manners and many points of character. she was a sweet little creature, lively, playful, and affectionate. she was so small that her childish manners became her; so full of spirits that her occasional rudeness claimed pardon on that score; and for all other faults her warm-heartedness and generous enthusiasm must plead an excuse to one who wished to love her as she wished and expected to be loved by everybody. she was a pretty girl, always bright and animated, mirthful and happy; fond of her cousin belle, and sometimes influenced by her, though often enlisting on the opposite side of some contested question. unlike belle, she was seldom well dressed, for she was very careless. on the present occasion her dark silk wrapper was half-concealed by a crimson flannel sack, which she held tightly around her, for she said it was a chilly morning, and she was half-frozen to death--she certainly would go and warm herself at the kitchen fire, if she did not fear encountering that _she-dragon_, mrs. ellis; she was sure she did not see, if they must sit in the doorway, why belle couldn't come to the side-door, where the sun shone beautifully. "o, i forgot, though," added she; "her complexion!" "complexion!" said belle; "i'm no more afraid of hurting my complexion than you are; i never freckle, or tan either." "but you burn all up, and look like a fright." "well, if i didn't, i shouldn't go there to sit; i like to be at the front of the house, where i can see the passing. i wonder who those people are coming up the road." kitty stood up, and looked as belle pointed. after observing the approaching couple for a minute or two she exclaimed, "why, that's gertrude flint! i wonder where she's been! and who can that be with her? i didn't know there was a beau to be had about here." "beau!" said belle, sneeringly. "and why not a beau, cousin belle? i'm sure he looks like one." "i wouldn't give much for any of her beaux!" said belle. "wouldn't you?" said kitty. "wait until you see who they are; you near-sighted people shouldn't decide in such a hurry. i can tell you that he is a gentleman you wouldn't object to walking with yourself; it's mr. bruce, the one we met in new orleans." "i don't believe it!" exclaimed belle, starting up. "you will soon have a chance to see for yourself; for he is coming home with her." "_he is!_ what can he be walking with her for?" "to show his taste, perhaps. i am sure he could not find more agreeable company." "you and i don't agree about that," replied belle. "i don't see anything very agreeable about her." "because you are determined not to, belle. everybody else thinks her charming, and mr. bruce is opening the gate for her as politely as if she were a queen. i like him for that." "do see," said belle; "she's got on that white cape-bonnet of hers! and that checked gingham dress! i wonder what mr. bruce thinks of her, and he such a critic in regard to ladies' dress." gertrude and her companion now drew near to the house. the former looked up, saw the young ladies in the doorway, and smiled pleasantly at kitty, who was making strange grimaces and giving insignificant glances over belle's shoulder; but mr. bruce did not observe either of them; and they heard him say, as he handed gertrude a small parcel he had been carrying for her, "i believe i won't come in; it's such a bore to have to talk to strangers. do you work in the garden, mornings, this summer?" "no," replied gertrude, "there is nothing left of my garden but the memory of it." "why, miss gertrude!" said the young man, "i hope these new-comers haven't interfered with----" here, observing the direction of gertrude's eyes, he raised his own, saw belle and kitty standing opposite to him; and compelled now to speak with them, went forward to shake hands, trusting to his remarks about strangers in general, and these new-comers in particular, not having been overheard. although overheard, the young ladies chose to take no notice of that which they supposed intended for unknown individuals. they were mistaken, however, for mr. bruce knew, perfectly well that the nieces of the present mrs. graham were the same girls whom he met at the south, and was indifferent about renewing his acquaintance. but his vanity was not proof against the evident pleasure they both manifested at seeing him again; and he soon engaged in an animated conversation with them, while gertrude entered the house. she sought emily's room, and was giving an account of her morning's expedition to the village, and how she had accomplished various commissions and errands, when mrs. ellis came, and said, with distressed voice, "hasn't gertrude?--oh, there you are! do tell me what mrs. wilkins said about the strawberries?" "i engaged three quarts; hasn't she sent them?" "no, but i'm thankful to hear they're coming; i have been so plagued about the dinner." she now came in, and seating herself, exclaimed, "i declare, emily, such an ironing as our girls have got to do to-day! you never saw anything like it! there's no end to the fine clothes mrs. graham and her nieces put into our wash. it's a shame! rich as they are, they might put out their washing. i've been helping, _myself_, as much as i could; but, as mrs. prime says, one can't do everything at once; and i've had to see the butcher, make puddings and blancmange, and been worried to death all the time, because i forgot to engage those strawberries. so mrs. wilkins hadn't sent her fruit to market when you got there?" "no, but she was in a great hurry getting ready; it would have been gone in a very short time." "well, that was lucky. i don't know what i should have done without, for i've no time to hunt up anything else for dessert. i've got just as much as i can do till dinner-time. mrs. graham never kept house before, and don't know how to make allowance for anything. she comes home from boston, expects to find everything in apple-pie order, and never asks or cares who does the work." mrs. prime called out, "mrs. ellis, the boy has brought your strawberries, and the stalks an't off; he said they hadn't no time." "that's too bad," exclaimed the tired housekeeper. "who's going to take the stalks off, i should like to know? kate is busy, and i can't do it." "i will, mrs. ellis; let _me_ do it," said gertrude, following mrs. ellis, who was now half-way downstairs. "no, no! don't you, miss gertrude," said mrs. prime; "they'll only stain your fingers all up." "no matter if they do; my hands are not made of white kid. they'll bear washing." mrs. ellis was only too thankful for gertrude's help. belle and kitty were doing their best to entertain mr. bruce, who, sitting on the door-steps, from time to time cast his eyes down the entry, and up the staircase, in hopes of gertrude's reappearance; and despairing of it, he was about to depart, when his sister fanny came running up the yard, and rushed past the assembled trio for the house. her brother, however, stretched out his arm, caught her, and before he let her go whispered something in her ear. "who is that wild indian?" asked kitty ray, as fanny ran across the entry and disappeared. "a sister of mine," answered ben, in a nonchalant manner. "why! is she?" inquired kitty, with interest; "i have seen her here several times, and never took any notice of her. i didn't know she was _your_ sister. what a pretty girl she is." "do you think so?" said ben; "sorry i can't agree with you. i think she's a fright." fanny now reappeared, and stopping a moment on her way upstairs called out, without any ceremony, "she says she can't come, she's busy." "who?" asked kitty, in her turn catching fanny and detaining her. "miss flint." mr. bruce coloured slightly, and belle clinton observed it. "what is she doing?" inquired kitty. "picking strawberries." "where are you going, fanny?" "upstairs." "do they let you go all over the house?" "miss flint said i might go up and bring down the birds." "what birds?" "her birds. i am going to hang them in the sun, and they'll sing beautifully." she went, and soon returned with a cage containing the little monias sent by willie from calcutta. "there kitty," cried belle; "those are the birds that wake us so early every morning." "very likely," said kitty; "bring them here. goodness! what little creatures they are!--do look at them, mr. bruce--they are sweetly pretty." "put them down on the door-step, fanny," said ben, "so that we can see them better." "i'm afraid you'll frighten them," replied fanny; "miss gertrude doesn't like to have them frightened." "no, we won't," said ben; "we're disposed to be very friendly to miss gertrude's birds. where did she get them? do you know, fanny?" "why, they are indian birds; mr. sullivan sent them to her." "who is he?" "oh, he is a very particular friend; she has letters from him every little while." "what mr. sullivan?" asked belle. "do you know his christian name?" "i suppose it's william," said fanny. "miss emily always calls the birds little willies." "belle!" exclaimed kitty, "that's your william sullivan." "what a favourite man he seems to be!" said mr. bruce, in a tone of sarcasm; "the property of one beautiful lady and the particular friend of another." "i don't know what you mean, kitty," said belle, tartly. "mr. sullivan is a junior partner of my father's, but i have not seen him for years." "except in your dreams, belle," suggested kitty. "you forget." "do you dream about mr. sullivan?" asked fanny, fixing her eyes on belle as she spoke. "i mean to go and ask miss gertrude if she does." "do," said kitty; "i'll go with you." they ran across the entry into the dining room, and put the question at the same time. taken by surprise, gertrude neither blushed nor looked confused, but answered, quietly, "yes, sometimes; but what do you know of mr. sullivan?" "oh, nothing," answered kitty; "only _some others do_, and we are inquiring around to see how many there are;" and she ran back in triumph to tell belle she might as well be frank, like gertrude, and plead guilty to the weakness; it looked so much better than blushing and denying it. but it would not do to joke with belle any longer; she was offended, and did not conceal the fact. mr. bruce felt annoyed, and soon left, leaving the two cousins to settle their difficulty as best they could. as soon as he had gone, belle folded up her work, and walked upstairs to her room with great dignity, while kitty stayed behind to laugh over the matter, and improve her opportunity to make friends with fanny bruce; for kitty laboured under the idea that in cultivating the acquaintance of the sister she should advance her cause. she therefore called fanny to sit beside her, put her arm round her waist, and commenced talking about gertrude, and the origin and extent of the intimacy which seemed to exist between her and the bruce family. fanny, who was always communicative, willingly informed her of the circumstances which had attached her so strongly to a friend who was some years her senior. "and your brother," said kitty, "he has known her some time, hasn't he?" "yes, i suppose so," answered fanny, carelessly. "does he like her?" "i don't know; i should think he would; i don't see how he can help it." "what did he whisper to you when you came up the steps?" "oh, he bade me ask miss gertrude if she wasn't coming back to see him again, and tell her he was tired to death waiting for her." kitty pouted and looked vexed. "has miss flint been in the habit of receiving company here, and been treated like an equal?" "of course she has," answered fanny, with spirit; "why shouldn't she? she's the most perfect lady i ever saw, and mother says she has beautiful manners, and i must take pattern by her." "oh, miss gertrude!" called she, as gertrude, who had been to place the strawberries in the refrigerator, crossed the back part of the long entry, "are you ready now?" "yes, fanny, i shall be in a moment," answered gertrude. "ready for what?" inquired kitty. "to read," said fanny. "she is going to read the rest of hamlet to miss emily; she read the first three acts yesterday, and miss emily let me sit in her room and hear it. i can't understand it when i read it myself, but when i listen to miss gertrude it seems quite plain. she's a splendid reader, and i came in to-day on purpose to hear the play finished." kitty's last companion having deserted her, she lay on the entry sofa and fell asleep. she was wakened by her aunt, who returned from the city a short time before dinner--"i say kitty ray, wake up and go dress for dinner! i saw belle at the chamber window looking like a beauty. i wish you'd take half the pains she does to improve your appearance." kitty yawned, and, after delaying a little, followed mrs. graham's directions. it was kitty's policy, after giving offence to her cousin belle, to appear utterly unconscious of the existence of any unkind feelings; and, though belle often manifested some degree of sulkiness, she was too dependent upon kitty's society to retain that disposition long. they were soon chatting together as usual. "belle," said kitty, as she stood arranging her hair at the glass, "do you remember a girl we used to meet every morning on our way to school, walking with a paralytic old man?" "yes." "do you know, i think it was gertrude flint. she has altered very much, to be sure; but the features are still the same, and there certainly never was but one such pair of eyes." "i have no doubt she is the same person," said belle, composedly. "did you think of it before?" "yes, as soon as fanny spoke of her knowing willie sullivan." "why, belle, why didn't you speak of it?" "lor', kitty, i don't feel so much interest in her as you and some others do." "what others?" "why, mr. bruce; don't you see he is half in love with her?" "no, i don't see any such thing; he has known her for a long time (fanny says so), and, of course, he feels a respect for a girl that the grahams make so much account of. but i don't believe he'd think of such a thing as being in love with a poor girl like her, with no family connections to boast of." "perhaps he didn't _think_ of being." "well, he _wouldn't_ be. she isn't the sort of person that would suit him. he has been in society a great deal, not only at home, but in paris; and he would want a wife that was very lively and fond of company, and knew how to make a show with money." "a girl, for instance, like kitty ray." "how ridiculous, belle! just as if people couldn't talk without thinking of themselves all the time! what do i care about ben bruce?" "i don't know that you care anything about him; but i wouldn't pull all the hair out of my head about it, as you are doing. there's the dinner-bell." chapter xxvii. the disappointed wooer. twilight found gertrude and emily seated at a window which commanded a delightful western view. gertrude had been describing to her blind friend the gorgeous picture presented to her vision by the masses of brilliantly-painted cloud; and emily, as she listened to the glowing description, experienced a participation in gertrude's enjoyment. the glory had now faded away, save a long strip of gold which skirted the horizon; and the stars as they came out, one by one, seemed to look in at the chamber window with a smile of recognition. in the parlour below there was company from the city, and the sound of mirth and laughter came up on the evening breeze; so mellowed, however, by distance, that it contrasted with the peace of the quiet room, without disturbing it. "you had better go down, gertrude," said emily; "they appear to be enjoying themselves, and i love to hear your laugh mingling with the rest." "oh, no, dear emily!" said gertrude; "i prefer to stay with you: they are nearly all strangers to me." "as you please, my dear; but don't let me keep you from the young people." "you can never keep me with you, dear emily, longer than i wish to stay; there is no society i love so well." and so she stayed, and they resumed their pleasant conversation. they were interrupted by katy, whom mrs. graham sent to announce a new visitor--mrs. bruce--who had inquired for emily. "i suppose i must go down," said emily; "you'll come too, gertrude?" "no, i believe not, unless she asked for me. did she, katy?" "mrs. graham was only afther mintioning miss emily," said katy. "then i will stay here," said gertrude; and emily, finding it to be her wish, went without her. there was soon another loud ring at the door-bell. it seemed to be a reception evening, and this time gertrude's presence was particularly requested, to see dr. and mrs. jeremy. when she entered the parlour a great number of guests were assembled, and every seat occupied. as she came in alone, and unexpected by most of the company, all eyes were turned upon her. contrary to the expectation of belle and kitty, who were watching her with curiosity, she manifested no embarrassment, but glancing leisurely at the various groups, until she recognised mrs. jeremy, crossed the large saloon with characteristic grace, and as much ease as if she were the only person present. after greeting that lady with her usual cordiality, she turned to speak to the doctor; but he was sitting next fanny bruce, in the window-seat, and was half-concealed by the curtain. before he came mrs. bruce nodded pleasantly from the opposite corner, and gertrude went to shake hands with her; mr. bruce, who formed one in a gay circle of young ladies and gentlemen collected in that part of the room, and who had been observing gertrude's motions so attentively as to make no reply to a question put to him by kitty ray, now offered his chair, saying, "miss gertrude, do take this seat." "thank you," said gertrude, "but i see my friend the doctor on the other side of the room; he expects me to speak to him, so don't let me disturb you." dr. jeremy now came half-way across the room to meet her, and led her into the recess formed by the window, and placed her in his own seat next to fanny bruce. to the astonishment of all who knew him, ben bruce brought his own chair, and placed it for the doctor opposite to gertrude. so much respect for age was not anticipated from the man of fashion. "is that a daughter of mr. graham's?" asked a young lady of belle clinton, who sat next her. "no, indeed," replied belle; "she is a person to whom miss graham gave an education, and now she lives here to read to her and be a sort of companion; her name is flint." "what did you say that young lady's name was?" asked a dashing lieutenant, addressing isabel. "miss flint." "flint, ah! she's a genteel-looking girl. how peculiarly she dresses her hair!" "very becoming, however, to that style of face," remarked the young lady who had first spoken. "don't you think so?" "i don't know," replied the lieutenant; "something becomes her; she makes a fine appearance. bruce," said he, as mr. bruce returned, after his unusual effort of politeness, "who is that miss flint?--i have been here two or three times, and i never saw her before." "very likely," said mr. bruce; "she won't always show herself. isn't she a fine-looking girl?" "i haven't made up my mind yet; she's got a splendid figure; but who is she?" "she's a sort of adopted daughter of mr. graham's, i believe, a _protégée_ of miss emily's." "ah, poor thing! an orphan?" "yes, i suppose so," said ben, biting his lips. "pity!" said the young man; "poor thing! but she's good-looking, particularly when she smiles; there is something very attractive about her face." there certainly was to ben, for, a moment after, kitty ray missed him from the room, and immediately espied him, standing on the piazza, and leaning through the open window to talk with gertrude, dr. jeremy, and fanny. the conversation soon became very lively; there seemed to be a war of wits going on; the doctor, especially, laughed very loud, and gertrude and fanny often joined in the merry peal. kitty endured it as long as she could, and then ran, joined the party, and heard what they were having so much fun about. but it was all an enigma to kitty. dr. jeremy was talking with mr. bruce concerning something which had happened many years ago; there was a great deal about a fool's cap, with a long tassel, and taking afternoon naps in the grass; the doctor was making queer allusions to some old pear-tree, and traps set for thieves, and kept reminding gertrude of circumstances which attended their first acquaintance with each other and with mr. bruce. kitty was beginning to feel that she had placed herself in the position of an intruder, and began to feel embarrassed, when gertrude touched her arm, and making room for her next herself, motioned to her to sit down, saying, as she did so, "dr. jeremy is speaking of the time when he (or he and i, as he chooses to have it) went fruit-stealing in mrs. bruce's orchard, and were unexpectedly caught by mr. bruce." "you mean, my dear," interrupted the doctor, "that mr. bruce was discovered by us. why, it's my opinion he would have slept until this time if i hadn't given him such a thorough waking up." "my first acquaintance with you was certainly the greatest awakening of my life," said ben, speaking as if to the doctor, but looking meaningly at gertrude; "that was not the only nap it cost me. how sorry i am, miss gertrude, that you've given up working in the garden, as you used to! pray, how does it happen?" "mrs. graham has had it remodelled," replied gertrude, "and the new gardener neither needs nor desires my services. he has his own plans, and it is not well to interfere with the professor of an art; i should be sure to do mischief." "i doubt whether his success compares with yours," said ben. "i do not see anything like the same quantity of flowers in the room that _you_ used to have." "i think," said gertrude, "that he is not as fond of cutting them as i was. i did not care so much for the appearance of the garden as for having plenty of flowers in the house; but with him it is the reverse." kitty made remark to mr. bruce on the subject of gardening, and gertrude, turning to dr. jeremy, continued in conversation with him, until mrs. jeremy rose to go, when she said, "dr. jeremy, have you given gertrude her letter?" "goodness me!" exclaimed the doctor. then feeling in his pocket, he drew forth an evidently foreign document, the envelope literally covered with various coloured post-office stamps. "see here, gerty, genuine calcutta; no mistake!" gertrude took the letter, and, as she thanked the doctor, her countenance expressed pleasure at receiving it; a pleasure, however, somewhat tempered by sadness, for she had heard from willie but once since he learned the news of his mother's death, and that letter had been such an outpouring of his vehement grief, that the sight of his handwriting almost pained her, as she anticipated something like a repetition of the outburst. mr. bruce, who kept his eyes upon her, and expected to see her change colour, and look disconcerted, on the letter being handed to her in the presence of so many witnesses, was reassured by the composure with which she took it, and held it openly in her hand, while she bade the doctor and his wife good evening. she followed them to the door, and was retreating to her own apartment, when she was met by mr. bruce, who had noticed the movement, and now entered from the piazza in time to arrest her steps, and ask if her letter was of such importance that she must deny the company the pleasure of her society in order to study its contents. "it is from a friend of whose welfare i am anxious to hear," said gertrude, gravely. "please excuse me to your mother, if she inquires for me; and, as the rest of the guests are strangers, i shall not be missed by them." "oh, miss gertrude," said mr. bruce, "it's no use coming here to see you, you are so frequently invisible. what part of the day is the most likely to find you disengaged?" "hardly any part," said gertrude. "i am always a busy character; but good night, mr. bruce--don't let me detain you from the other young ladies;" and gertrude ran upstairs, leaving mr. bruce uncertain whether to be vexed with himself or her. contrary to gerty's expectations, william sullivan's letter proved very soothing to the grief she had felt on his account. his spirit had been so crushed by the death of his grandfather, and by his second and still greater loss, that his first communication to gertrude had alarmed her, from its despairing tone; she had feared lest his christian fortitude would give way to the force of his double affliction. she was much relieved to find that he wrote in a calmer strain; that he had taken to heart his mother's last entreaty and prayer for a submissive disposition on his part; and that, although deeply afflicted, he was schooling himself to patience and resignation. the three closely-written pages were devoted to fervent expressions of gratitude to gertrude for the kindness and love which had comforted the last days of his much-regretted friends. he prayed that heaven would bless her, and reward her self-denying efforts, and closed with saying, "you are all that is left to me, gertrude. if i loved you before, my heart is now bound to you by ties stronger than those of earth; my hopes, my labours, my prayers, are all for you. god grant that we may some day meet again!" for an hour gertrude sat lost in meditation; her thoughts went back to her home at uncle true's, and the days when she and willie passed so many happy hours in close companionship, little dreaming of the long separation so soon to ensue. she was startled at last from her reverie by the voices of mrs. graham's visitors, who were now taking leave. mrs. bruce and her son lingered a little, until the carriages had left with the guests for the city, and, as they were making their farewells on the door-step, beneath gertrude's window, she heard mrs. graham say, "remember, mr. bruce, we dine at two; and, miss fanny, we shall hope to see you also." mr. bruce's attentions to her had that day been marked; and the professions of admiration he had whispered in her ear had been still more so. both these attentions and this admiration were unsought and undesired; neither were they flattering to the high-minded girl, who was superior to coquetry, and whose self-respect was wounded by the assured manner in which mr. bruce made his advances. as a youth of seventeen, she had marked him as indolent and ill-bred. her sense of justice, however, would have obliterated this recollection, had his character and manner been changed on the renewal of their acquaintance, some years after. but this was not the case, for outward polish could not cloud gertrude's discernment; and she perceived that his old characteristics remained, rendered more glaring by ill-concealed vanity. as a boy, he had stared at gertrude from impudence, and inquired her name out of idle curiosity; as a youthful coxcomb he had resolved to flirt with her, because his time hung heavy on his hands. but, to his surprise, he found the country girl quite insensible to the flattery and notice which many a city belle had coveted; and that when he tried raillery, he usually proved the disconcerted party. it was something new to mr. bruce to find any lady thus indifferent to his merits; and proved such an awakening to his ambition, that he resolved to recommend himself to gertrude, and consequently improved every opportunity of gaining admittance to her society. but while labouring to inspire her with a due appreciation of himself, he fell into his own snare; for though he failed in awakening gertrude's interest, he could not be equally insensible to her attractions. even the dull intellect of ben bruce was capable of measuring her vast superiority to most girls of her age; and her vivacious originality was a contrast to the insipidity of fashionable life, which at length completely charmed him. his earnestness and perseverance began to annoy the object of his admiration before he left mr. graham's in the autumn; and she was glad soon after to hear that he had accompanied his mother to washington, as it insured her against meeting him again for months to come. mr. bruce regretted losing sight of gertrude, but amid the gaiety of southern cities wasted his time with tolerable satisfaction. he was reminded of her again on meeting the graham party at new orleans, and it is some credit to his understanding to say, that in the comparison which he constantly drew between her and the vain daughters of fashion, she stood higher than ever in his estimation. he did not hesitate to tell her so on the morning already mentioned, when, with evident satisfaction, he had recognized and joined her; and, the increased devotion of his words and manner, which now took a tone of truth in which they had before been wanting, alarmed gertrude, and led to a serious resolve to avoid him on all possible occasions. on the day succeeding the one of which we have been speaking, mr. graham returned from the city about noon, and joined the young ladies in the entry, unfolded his newspaper, and, handing it to kitty, asked her to read the news. "what shall i read?" said kitty, taking the paper rather unwillingly. "the leading article, if you please." kitty turned the paper inside and out, looked hastily up and down its pages, and then declared her inability to find it. mr. graham was astonished, and pointed in silence to the paragraph. she began, but had scarcely read a sentence before mr. graham stopped her, saying, "don't read so fast--i can't hear a single word!" she now drawled so intolerably that he interrupted her again, and bade her give the paper to her cousin. belle took it from the pouting kitty, and finished the article--not, however, without being once or twice compelled to go back and read more intelligibly. "do you wish to hear anything more, sir?" asked she. "yes; won't you turn to the ship-news, and read me the list by the steamer?" belle, more fortunate than kitty, found the place, and commenced. "at canton, april th, ship ann maria, ray, _d-i-s-c-g_. what does that mean?" "discharging, of course; go on." "s-l-d--a-b-t th," spelt belle, looking dreadfully puzzled all the while. "stupid!" muttered mr. graham, almost snatching the paper out of her hands; "not know how to read ship-news! where's gertrude? where's gertrude flint? she's the only girl i ever saw that did know anything. won't you call her, kitty?" kitty went, though reluctantly, to call gertrude, and told her for what she was wanted. gertrude was astonished; since the day when she had persisted in leaving his house, mr. graham had never asked her to read to him; but, obedient to the summons, she presented herself, and, taking the seat which belle had vacated near the door, commenced with the ship-news, and, without asking questions, turned to various items of intelligence, taking them in the order which she knew mr. graham preferred. the old gentleman, leaning back in his easy-chair, and resting his gouty foot upon an ottoman opposite to him, looked amazingly satisfied; and when belle and kitty had gone off to their room, he remarked, "this seems like old times, doesn't it, gertrude?" he closed his eyes, and gertrude was soon aware that he had fallen asleep. seeing that, as he sat, it would be impossible for her to pass without waking him, she laid down the paper, and was preparing to draw some work from her pocket, when she observed a shadow in the doorway, and, looking up, saw the person whom she had yesterday resolved to avoid. mr. bruce was staring in her face, with an indolent air of ease and confidence, which she always found very offensive. he had in one hand a bunch of roses, which he held up to her admiring gaze. "very beautiful!" said gertrude, as she glanced at the little branches, covered with a luxurious growth of moss rose-buds, both pink and white. she spoke in a low voice, fearing to awaken mr. graham. mr. bruce, in a whisper, remarked, as he dangled them above her head, "i thought they were pretty when i gathered them, but they suffer from the comparison. miss gertrude," and he gave a meaning look at the roses in her cheeks. gertrude, to whom this was a stale compliment, coming from mr. bruce, took no notice of it, but, rising, advanced to make her exit by the front-door, saying, "i will go across the piazza, mr. bruce, and send the ladies word that you are here." "o, pray, don't!" said he, putting himself in her way. "it would be cruel; i haven't the slightest wish to see them." he so effectually prevented her, that she was unwillingly compelled to retreat from the door and resume her seat. as she did so, she took her work from her pocket, her countenance in the meantime expressing vexation. mr. bruce looked triumphant. "miss gertrude," said he, "will you oblige me by wearing these flowers in your hair to-day?" "i do not wear gay flowers," replied gertrude, without lifting her eyes from the piece of muslin on which she was employed. supposing this to be on account of her mourning (for she wore a plain black dress), he selected the white buds from the rest, and, presenting them to her, begged that, for his sake, she would display them in contrast with her dark silken braids. "i am much obliged to you," said gertrude; "i never saw more beautiful roses, but i am not accustomed to be so much dressed, and, believe me, you must excuse me." "then you won't take my flowers?" "certainly i will, with pleasure," said she, rising, "if you will let me get a glass of water, and place them in the parlour, where we can all enjoy them." "i did not cut my flowers, and bring them here for the benefit of the whole household," said ben, in a half-offended tone. "if you won't wear them, miss gertrude, i will offer them to somebody that will." this, he thought, would alarm her, for his vanity was such that he attributed her behaviour wholly to coquetry. "i will punish her," thought he, as he tied the roses together again, and arranged them for presentation to kitty, who he knew would be flattered to receive them. "where's fanny to-day," asked gertrude, anxious to divert the conversation. "i don't know," answered ben, which implied that he had no idea of talking about fanny. "how attentive you are to your work!" said he, at last: "your eyes seemed nailed to it. i wish i were as attractive as that piece of muslin!" "i wish you were as inoffensive," thought gertrude. "i do not think you take much pains to entertain me," added he, "when i've come here on purpose to see you." "i thought you came by mrs. graham's invitation," said gertrude. "and didn't i have to court kitty for an hour in order to get it?" "if you obtained it by artifice," said gertrude, smiling, "you do not deserve to be entertained." "it is much easier to please kitty than you," remarked ben. "kitty is very amiable and pleasant," said gertrude. "yes; but i'd give more for one smile from you than----" gertrude now interrupted him with, "ah! here is an old friend coming to see us; please let me pass, mr. bruce?" the gate at the end of the yard swung to as she spoke, and ben, looking in that direction, saw the person whom gertrude seemed desirous to go and meet. "don't be in such a hurry to leave me!" said ben; "that little crone, whose coming seems to give you so much satisfaction, can't get here this half hour, at the rate she is travelling." "she is an old friend," replied gertrude, "i must go and welcome her." her countenance expressed so much earnestness that mr. bruce was ashamed to persist in his incivility, and, rising, permitted her to pass. miss patty pace was over-joyed at seeing gertrude, and commenced waving, in a theatrical manner, a huge feather fan, her favourite mode of salutation. as she drew near, miss patty took her by both hands, and stood talking with her some minutes. they entered the house at the side door, and ben, thus disappointed of gertrude's return, sallied into the garden in hopes to attract the notice of kitty. ben bruce had such confidence in the power of wealth and a high station in fashionable life that it never occurred to him to doubt that gertrude would gladly accept his hand and fortune if they were placed at her disposal. many a worldly-wise mother had sought his acquaintance; many a young lady of property and rank had received his attention with favour, and believing, as he did, that he had money enough to purchase. he determined to win gertrude's good opinion and affection; and although more interested in her than he was aware of himself, he at present made that his ultimate object. he felt conscious that as yet she had given no evidence of his success; and having resolved to resort to some new means of winning her, he, with a too common baseness, fixed upon a method which was calculated, if successful, to end in the mortification, if not the unhappiness, of a third party. he intended, by marked devotion to kitty ray, to excite the jealousy of gertrude. chapter xxviii. true politeness. a half-hour before dinner mrs. graham and her nieces, mr. bruce, his sister fanny, and lieutenant osborne, as they sat in the large room, had their curiosity much excited by the merriment which existed in emily's room. gertrude's clear laugh was distinguishable, and even emily joined in the outburst, while another person appeared to be of the party, as a most singular voice mingled with the rest. kitty ran to the entry two or three times to listen, and at last returned with the announcement that gertrude was coming down stairs with the very queen of witches. presently gertrude opened the door, which kitty had slammed behind her, and ushered in miss patty pace, who advanced with measured, mincing steps to mrs. graham, and, stopping in front of her, made a low curtsey. "how do you do, ma'am?" said mrs. graham, half inclined to believe that gertrude was playing off a joke upon her. "this, i presume, is the mistress," said miss patty. mrs. graham acknowledged her claim to that title. "a lady of presence!" said miss patty, to gertrude, in an audible whisper, pronouncing each syllable with a manner and emphasis peculiar to herself. then, turning to belle, who was shrinking into the shadow of a curtain, she approached her, held up both her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, "miss isabella, as i still enjoy existence! and radiant, too, as the morning! bless my heart! how your youthful charms have expanded!" belle had recognised miss pace the moment she entered the room, but was ashamed to acknowledge the acquaintance of so eccentric an individual, and would have still feigned ignorance, but kitty now came forward, exclaiming, "why, miss pace, where did you come from?" "miss catharina," said miss pace, taking her hands in an ecstasy of astonishment, "_then you know me_! blessings on your memory of an old friend!" "certainly, i knew you in a minute; you're not so easily forgotten, i assure you. belle, don't you remember miss pace? it's at your house i've always seen her." "oh, is it she?" said belle, with a poor attempt to conceal the fact that she had any previous knowledge of a person who had been a frequent visitor at her father's house, and was held in esteem by both her parents. "i apprehend," said miss patty to kitty, in the same loud whisper, "that she carries a proud heart." then, without having appeared to notice the gentlemen, who were directly behind her, she added, "sparks, i see miss catharina, young sparks! whose?--yours or hers?" kitty laughed, for she saw that the young men heard her, and were much amused, and replied without hesitation, "o mine, miss patty, mine, both of 'em!" miss patty now looked around the room, and, missing mr. graham, advanced to his wife, saying, "and where, madam, is the bridegroom?" mrs. graham, a little confused, replied that her husband would be in presently, and invited miss pace to be seated. "no, mistress, i am obliged to you; i have an inquiring mind, and, with your leave, will take a survey of the apartment. i love to see everything that is modern." she then examined the pictures upon the walls, but had not proceeded far before she turned to gertrude and asked, loud enough to be heard, "gertrude, my dear, what have they done with the second wife?" gertrude looked surprised, and miss pace corrected her remark, saying, "oh, it is the counterfeit that i have reference to; the original, i am aware, departed long since; but where is the counterfeit of the second mrs. graham? it always hung here, if my memory serves me." gertrude whispered a reply to this question, and miss pace then uttered the following soliloquy: "the garret! well, 'tis the course of nature; what is new obliterates _the recollection, even_, of the old." she now linked her arm in gertrude's, and made her the companion of her survey. when they had completed the circuit of the room, she stopped in front of the group of young people, all of whom were eyeing her with great amusement, and claimed the acquaintance of mr. bruce, and asked to be introduced to that member of the war department, as she styled lieutenant osborne. kitty introduced her with great formality, and at the same time presented the lieutenant to gertrude. a chair was now brought, miss patty joined their circle and entertained them until dinner time. gertrude again sought emily's room. at the table, gertrude sat next to emily, whose wants she always made her care, and with miss patty on the other side, had no time or attention to bestow on anyone else; much to the chagrin of mr. bruce, who was anxious she should observe his assiduous devotion to kitty, whose hair was adorned with the moss-rose buds, and her face with smiles. belle was also made happy by the marked admiration of the young officer. occasionally, some remark made by miss pace irresistibly attracted the attention of every one at the table, and extorted either the laughter it was intended to excite, or a mirth which, though perhaps ill-timed, it was impossible to repress. mr. graham treated miss patty with politeness and attention, and mrs. graham spared no pains to bring out the old lady's conversational powers. she found that miss patty was acquainted with everybody, and made most amusing comments upon almost every person who became the topic of conversation. mr. graham at last led her to speak of herself and her lonely mode of life; and fanny bruce, who sat next, asked her bluntly, why she never got married. "ah, my young miss," said she, "we all wait our time, and i may take a companion yet." "you should," said mr. graham. "now you have property, miss pace, and ought to share it with some nice thrifty man." "i have but an insignificant trifle of worldly wealth," said miss pace, "and am not as youthful as i have been; but i may suit myself with a companion, notwithstanding. i approve of matrimony, and have my eye upon a young man." "_a young man!_" exclaimed fanny bruce, laughing. "o yes, miss frances," said miss patty; "i am an admirer of youth, and of everything that is modern. yes, i cling to life--i cling to life." "certainly," remarked mrs. graham. "miss pace must marry somebody younger than herself; someone to whom she can leave all her property, if he should happen to outlive her." "yes," said mr. graham; "at present you would not know how to make a will, unless you left all your money to gertrude, here; i rather think she would make good use of it." "that would certainly be a consideration to me," said miss pace; "i should dread the thought of having my little savings squandered. now, i know there's more than a sufficiency of pauper population; and plenty that would be glad of legacies; but i have no intention of bestowing on such. why, sir, nine-tenths of them will _always_ be poor. no, no! i shouldn't give to such! no, no! i have other intentions." "miss pace," asked mr. graham, "what has become of general pace's family?" "_all dead!_" replied miss patty, promptly, "_all dead!_ i made a pilgrimage to the grave of that branch of the family. it was a touching scene," said she in a pathetic tone. "there was a piece of grassy ground, belted about with an iron railing, and in the centre a beautiful white marble monument, in which they were all buried; it was pure as alabaster, and on it was inscribed these lines: 'pace.'" "what were the lines?" inquired mrs. graham. "pace, ma'am, pace; nothing else." solemn as was the subject, a universal titter pervaded the circle: and mrs. graham, perceiving that kitty and fanny would soon burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter, made the move for the company to quit the table. the gentlemen did not care to linger, and followed the ladies into the wide entry, the coolness of which invited every one to loiter there during the heat of the day. miss patty and fanny bruce compelled the unwilling gertrude to join the group there assembled; and mrs. graham, who could not forego her afternoon nap, was the only one who absented herself. so universal was the interest miss patty excited, that all private dialogue was suspended, and close attention given to whatever topic the old lady was discussing. belle maintained a slightly scornful expression of countenance, and tried with partial success to divert lieutenant osborne's thoughts into another channel; but kitty was so delighted with miss pace's originality, that she made no attempt at any exclusive conversation, and, with mr. bruce sitting beside her and joining in her amusement, looked more than contented. dress and fashion, two favourite themes with miss patty, were now introduced, and, after discoursing upon her love of the beautiful, as witnessed in the mantua-making and millinery arts, she deliberately left her seat, and going towards belle (who wished to avoid her), began to examine the material of her dress, and requested her to rise and permit her to further inspect the mode in which it was made, declaring the description of so modern a master-piece of art would be a feast to the ears of some of her junior acquaintances. belle indignantly refused to comply, and shook off the hand of the old lady as if there had been contamination in her touch. "do stand up, belle," said kitty, in an undertone; "don't be so cross." "why don't you stand up yourself," said belle, "and show off your own dress, for the benefit of her low associates?" "she didn't ask me," replied kitty, "but i will, with pleasure, if she will condescend to look at it. miss pace," continued she gaily, placing herself in front of the inquisitive miss patty, "do admire my gown at your leisure, and take a pattern of it, if you like, i should be proud of the honour." for a wonder, kitty's dress was pretty and well worthy of observation. miss patty made many comments, and her curiosity being satisfied, commenced retreating towards the place she had left, first glancing behind her to see if it was still vacant, and then moving towards it with a backward motion, consisting of a series of curtseys. fanny bruce, who stood near, observing that she had made an exact calculation how many steps would be required to reach her seat, placed her hand on the back of the chair, as if to draw it away; and encouraged by a look and smile from isabel, moved it, slightly, but still enough to endanger the old lady's safety. on attempting to regain it, miss pace stumbled, and would have fallen, but gertrude--who had been watching fanny's proceedings--sprang forward in time to fling an arm around her, and place her safely in the chair, casting at the same time a reproachful look at fanny, who, much confused, turned to avoid gertrude's gaze, and in doing so accidentally trod on mr. graham's gouty toes, which drew from him an exclamation of pain. "fan," said mr. bruce, who had observed the latter accident only, "i wish you could learn politeness." "whom am i to learn it from?" asked fanny, pertly,--"you?" ben looked provoked, but forbore to reply; while miss pace, who had recovered her composure, said--"politeness! ah, a lovely but rare virtue; perceptibly developed, however, in the manners of my friend gertrude, which i hesitate not to affirm would well become a princess." belle curled her lip, and smiled disdainfully. "lieutenant osborne," said she, "don't you think miss devereux has beautiful manners?" "very fine," replied the lieutenant; "the style in which she receives company, on her reception-day, is elegance itself." "who are you speaking of?" inquired kitty; "mrs. harry noble?" "miss devereux, we were remarking upon," said belle; "but mrs. noble is also very stylish." "i think she is," said mr. bruce; "do you hear, fanny?--we have found a model for you,--you must imitate mrs. noble." "i don't know anything about mrs. noble," retorted fanny; "i'd rather imitate miss flint. miss gertrude," said she, "how _shall_ i learn politeness?" "do you remember," asked gertrude, speaking low, "what your music-master told you about learning to _play_ with expression? i should give you the same rule for improvement in politeness." fanny blushed deeply. "what is that?" said mr. graham; "fanny, what is gertrude's rule for politeness." "she only said," answered fanny, "that it was the same my music-master gave me last winter." "and what did _he_ say?" inquired her brother. "i asked mr. hermann," said fanny, "how i should learn to play with expression, and he said, 'you must cultivate your _heart_, miss bruce, you must cultivate your _heart_.'" this new direction for the attainment of a great accomplishment was received with countenances that indicated as great a variety of sentiments as there was difference of character among fanny's audience. mr. graham bit his lip, and walked away; for _his_ politeness was founded on no such rule, and he knew that gertrude's _was_. belle looked glorious disdain; mr. bruce and kitty, puzzled and half amused; while lieutenant osborne proved himself not quite callous to a noble truth, by turning upon gertrude a glance of admiration. emily's face evidenced how fully she coincided in the opinion thus unintentionally made public, and miss patty expressed her approbation. "miss gertrude's remark is a verity," said she. "the only politeness which is trustworthy is the spontaneous offering of the heart. perhaps this goodly company of masters and misses would condescend to give ear to an old woman's tale of a rare instance of true politeness, and the fitting reward it met." all expressed strong desire to hear miss patty's story, and she began: "on a winter's day, some years ago, an old woman, of many foibles and weaknesses, but with a keen eye and her share of worldly wisdom--miss patty pace by name--started, by special invitation, for the house of one worshipful squire clinton, the honoured parent of miss isabella, the fair damsel yonder. every tall tree in our good city was spangled with frost work, more glittering far than gems that sparkle in golconda's mine, and the side-walk were a snare to the feet of the old and unwary. "i lost my equilibrium, and fell. two gallant gentlemen lifted and carried me to a neighboring apothecary's emporium, restored my scattered wits, and, revived me with a fragrant cordial. i went on my way with many a misgiving, however, and scarcely should i have reached my destination with bones unbroken, had it not been for a knight with a rosy countenance, who overtook me, placed my old arm within his own more strong and youthful one, and protected my steps to the end of my journey. no slight courage either, my young misses, did my noble escort need, to carry him through what he had undertaken. paint to your imagination a youth, fresh and beautiful as a sunbeam, straight as an arrow--a perfect apollo--linked to the little bent body of poor miss patty pace. i will not spare myself, young ladies; for, had you seen me then, you would have considered me now vastly ameliorated in outer presentment. my double row of teeth were stowed away in my pocket, my frisette was pushed back from my head by my recent fall, and my gogs--the same my father wore before me--covered my face, and they alone attracted attention, and created some excitement. but he went on unmoved; and, in spite of many a captivating glance and smile from rows of beautiful young maidens whom we met, and many a sneer from youths of his own age, he sustained my feeble form with as much care as if i had been an empress, and accommodated his buoyant step to the slow movement which my infirmities compelled. ah! what a spirit of conformity he manifested! my knight of the rosy countenance! could you have seen him, miss catharina, or you, miss frances, your palpitating hearts would have taken flight for ever. he was a paragon, indeed. "whither his own way tended i cannot say, for he moved in conformity to mine, and left me not until i was safe at the abode of mistress clinton. i hardly think he coveted my old heart, but i sometimes believe it followed him, for truly he is still a frequent subject of my meditations." "ah! then _that_ was his reward!" exclaimed kitty. "not so, miss kitty; guess again." "i can think of _nothing so desirable_, miss patty." "his _fortune in life_, miss catharina--that was his reward; it may be that he cannot yet estimate the full amount of his recompense." "how so?" exclaimed fanny. "i will briefly narrate the rest. mistress clinton encouraged me always to converse much in her presence. she knew my taste was disposed to humour me, and i was pleased to be indulged. i told my story, and enlarged upon the merits of my noble youth, and his wonderful spirit of conformity. the squire, a gentleman who estimates good breeding, was present, with his ears opened, when i recommended my knight, with all the eloquence i could command; he was amused, interested, pleased. he promised to see the boy, and did so; the noble features spake for themselves, and gained him a situation as clerk; from which he has since advanced in the ranks, until now he occupies the position of partner and confidential agent in a creditable and wealthy house. miss isabella, it would rejoice my heart to hear the latest tidings from mr. william sullivan." "he is well, i believe," said isabella, sulkily. "i know nothing to the contrary." "oh, gertrude knows," said fanny. "gertrude knows all about mr. sullivan; she will tell you." all turned, and looked at gertrude, who, with face flushed, and eyes glistening with the interest she felt in miss patty's narrative, stood leaning upon emily's chair. miss patty now appealed to her, much surprised, however, at her having any knowledge of her much admired young escort. gertrude drew near, and answered all her questions without the least hesitation or embarrassment. gertrude gave miss pace an account of the curiosity which willie and his friends had felt concerning the original author of his good fortune; and the old lady was so delighted at hearing the various conjectures about mr. clinton's unexpected summons, and of the matter being attributed to the agency of santa claus, that she loudly laughed. miss pace was just taxing gertrude with messages of remembrance to be despatched in her next letter to willie, when mrs. graham presented herself, and arrested the attention of the whole company by exclaiming, in her abrupt manner and loud tones--"what! are you all here? i thought you were bound for a walk in the woods. kitty, what has become of your cherished scheme of climbing sunset hill?" "i proposed it, aunt, an hour ago, but belle insisted it was too warm. _i_ think the weather is just right for a walk." "it will soon be growing cool," said mrs. graham, "and i think you had better start; it is some distance, if you go round through the woods." "who knows the way?" asked kitty. no one responded to the question, and all professed ignorance; much to the astonishment of gertrude, who believed that every part of the woody ground and hill beyond were familiar to mr. bruce. she did not stay, however, to hear any further discussion of their plans; for emily was beginning to suffer from headache and weariness, and gertrude insisted that she should seek the quiet of her own room, and she went with her. she was just closing the chamber door, when fanny called from the staircase, "miss gertrude ain't you going for a walk with us?" "no," replied gertrude; "not to-day." "then i won't go," said fanny, "if you don't. why don't you go, miss gertrude?" "i shall walk with miss emily, by-and-bye, if she is well enough; you can accompany us, if you like, but you would enjoy going to sunset hill much more." meantime a whispered consultation took place below, in which someone suggested that gertrude was well acquainted with the path which the party wished to follow through the woods. belle opposed her being invited to join them; kitty hesitated between her liking for gertrude and her fears regarding mr. bruce's allegiance; lieutenant osborne forbore to urge what belle disapproved; and mr. bruce remained silent, trusting to the final necessity of her being invited to act as guide, in which capacity he had purposely concealed his own ability to serve. this necessity was so obvious, that, as he had foreseen, kitty was at last despatched to find gertrude and make known their request. chapter xxix. hauteur. gertrude would have declined, and made her attendance upon emily an excuse for non-compliance; but emily, believing that the exercise would be beneficial to gertrude, interfered, and begged her to agree to kitty's proposal; and, on the latter declaring that the expedition must otherwise be given up, she consented to join it. to change her slippers for thick walking boots occupied a few minutes only; a few more were spent in a vain search for her flat hat, which was missing from the closet where it usually hung. "what are you looking for?" said emily, hearing gertrude twice open the door of the closet. "my hat! but i don't see it. i believe i shall have to borrow your sun-bonnet again," and she took up a white sun-bonnet, the same she had worn in the morning, and which now lay on the bed. "certainly, my dear," said emily. "i shall begin to think it mine before long," said gertrude, gaily, as she ran off, "i wear it so much more than you do." emily now called from the staircase, "gertrude, my child, have you thick shoes? it is always very wet in the meadow beyond thornton place." gertrude assured her that she had; but fearing that the others were less carefully equipped, inquired of mrs. graham whether belle and kitty were insured against the dampness they might encounter. mrs. graham declared they were not. "i have some very light india-rubbers," said gertrude; "i will take them with me, and fanny and i shall be in time to warn them before they come to the place." it was an easy matter to overtake belle and the lieutenant, for they walked very slowly, and seemed not unwilling to be left in the rear. the reverse was the case with mr. bruce and kitty, who appeared purposely to keep in advance; kitty hastening her steps from her reluctance to allow an agreeable _tête-à-tête_ to be interfered with, and ben from a desire to give gertrude a fair opportunity to observe his devotion to kitty, which increased the moment _she_ came in sight. they had now passed the thornton farm, and only one field separated them from the meadow, which was in the centre a complete quagmire, and only passable to the thickly-shod, by keeping close to the wall, and thus skirting the field. gertrude and fanny were some distance behind, and nearly out of breath with a pursuit in which the others had gained so great advantage. as they were passing the farm-house, mrs. thornton came to the door and addressed gertrude, who, foreseeing that she would be detained some minutes, bade fanny run on, acquaint her brother and kitty with the nature of the soil in advance, and begged them to wait at the bars until the rest of the party came up. fanny was too late, notwithstanding the haste she made; they were half across the meadow when she reached the bars, proceeding in perfect safety, for mr. bruce was conducting kitty by the only practicable path, close under the wall, proving to gertrude, who in a few moments joined fanny, that he was no stranger to the place. when they were half-way across, they encountered some obstacle, for kitty stood poised on one foot and clinging to the wall, while mr. bruce placed a few stepping-stones across the path. he then helped her over, and they went on, their figures soon disappearing in the grove beyond. isabel and the lieutenant were so long making their appearance that fanny became very impatient, and urged gertrude to leave them to their fate. they at last turned the corner near the farm-house, and came on, belle maintaining her leisurely pace. "are you lame, miss clinton?" called out fanny, so soon as they were within hearing. "lame!" said belle; "what do you mean?" "why, you walk so slow," said fanny; "i thought something must be the matter with your feet." belle disdained any reply, and, tossing her head, entered the damp meadow, in close conversation with her devoted young officer, not deigning even to look at gertrude, who, without appearing to notice her haughtiness, took fanny's hand, and, turning away from the direct path, to make the circuit of the field, said to belle, with calm courtesy of manner, "this way, if you please, miss clinton; we have been waiting to guide you through this wet meadow." "is it wet?" asked belle, in alarm, glancing down at her delicate slipper. she then added, in a provoked tone, "i should have thought you would have known better than to bring us this way. i shan't go across." "then you can go back," said the pert fanny; "nobody cares." "it was not my proposition," remarked gertrude, mildly, though with a heightened colour; "but i think i can help you through the difficulty. mrs. graham was afraid you had worn thin shoes, and i brought you a pair of india-rubbers." belle took them, and, without the grace to express any thanks, said, as she unfolded the paper in which they were wrapped, "whose are they?" "mine," replied gertrude. "i don't believe i can keep them on," muttered belle; "they'll be immense, i suppose." "allow me," said the lieutenant; and, taking one of the shoes, he stooped to place it on her foot, but found it difficult to do so, as it was too small. belle, perceiving it, bent down to perform, the office for herself, and treated gertrude's property with such angry violence that she snapped the strap which passed across the instep, and even then only succeeded in partially forcing her foot into the shoe. meantime, as she bent forward, fanny's attention was attracted by a very tasteful broad-brimmed hat, which she wore jauntily on one side of her head, and which fanny recognised as gertrude's. it was a somewhat fanciful article of dress, that gertrude would hardly have thought of purchasing for herself, but which mr. graham had brought home to her the previous summer to replace a common garden hat which he had accidentally crushed. as the style of it was simple and in good taste, she had been in the habit of wearing it often in her country walks, and kept it hung in the closet, where it had been found and appropriated by belle. it had been seen by fanny in gertrude's room at mrs. warren's; she had also been permitted to wear it on one occasion, when she took part in a charade. having heard gertrude say it was missing, she was astonished to see it adorning belle; and, as she stood behind her, made signs to gertrude, and performed a series of pantomimic gestures expressive of an intention to snatch it from miss clinton's head, and place it on that of its rightful owner. gertrude's gravity nearly gave way. she shook her head at fanny, held up her finger, made signs to her to forbear, and, with a face whose laughter was only concealed by the deep white bonnet which she wore, took her hand, and hastened with her along the path, leaving belle and her beau to follow. "fanny," said she, "you must not make me laugh so; if miss clinton had seen us she would have been very much hurt." "she has no business to wear your hat," said fanny, "and she shan't." "yes, she shall," replied gertrude; "she looks beautiful in it, i am delighted to have her wear it, and you must not intimate to her that it is mine." the walk through the woods was delightful, and gertrude and her young companion, in the quiet enjoyment of it, had almost forgotten that they were members of a gay party, when they suddenly came in sight of kitty and mr. bruce. they were sitting at the foot of an old oak, kitty earnestly engaged in the manufacture of an oak-wreath, which she was just fitting to her attendant's hat; while he himself, when gertrude first caught sight of him, was leaning against the tree in a careless attitude. but as soon as he perceived their approach, he bent forward, inspected kitty's work, and when they came within hearing, was uttering a profusion of thanks and compliments, which he took care should reach gertrude's ears, and kitty received with manifest pleasure--a pleasure which was still further enhanced by her perceiving that gertrude had apparently no power to withdraw his attention from her. poor, simple kitty! she believed him honest while he bought her heart with counterfeits. "miss gertrude," said fanny, "i wish we could go into some pine woods, so that i could get some cones to make baskets and frames of." "there are plenty of pines in that direction," said gertrude, pointing with her finger. "why can't we go and look for cones?" asked fanny; "we could get back by the time belle clinton reaches this place." gertrude and fanny started off, having first tied their bonnets to the branch of a tree. they were gone some time, for fanny found plenty of cones, but was at a loss how to carry them home. "i have thought," said she, at last; "i will run back and borrow brother ben's handkerchief; or, if he won't let me have it, i'll take my own bonnet and fill it full." gertrude promised to await her return, and she ran off. when she came near the spot where she had left kitty and mr. bruce, she heard several voices and loud laughter. belle and the lieutenant had arrived, and they were having great sport about something. belle was standing with the white cape bonnet in her hand. she had bent it completely out of shape, so as to give it the appearance of an old woman's cap, had adorned the front with white-weed and dandelions, and finally pinned on a handkerchief to serve as a veil. she held it up on the end of the lieutenant's cane, and was endeavouring to obtain a bid for miss flint's bridal bonnet. fanny listened a moment with an indignant countenance, then advanced with a bound, as if just running from the woods. kitty caught her frock as she passed, and exclaimed, "why, fanny, are you here? where's gertrude?" "oh, she's in the pine woods!" replied fanny, "and i'm going back; she only sent me to get her hat, the sun's so warm where we are." "ah, yes!" said belle, "her paris hat. please give it to her, with our compliments." "no, that isn't hers," said fanny; "_that_ is miss emily's. _this_ is hers;" and she laid her hand upon the straw head-dress which the gentlemen had but a moment before been assuring belle was vastly becoming, and, without ceremony, snatched it from her head. belle's eyes flashed angrily. "what do you mean?" said she; "you saucy little creature! give me that hat!" and she stretched out her hand to take it. "i shan't do any such thing!" said fanny; "it's gertrude's hat. she looked for it this afternoon, but concluded it was either lost or stolen, and so borrowed miss emily's cape-bonnet; but she'll be very glad to find it, and i'll carry it to her. i rather think," said she, looking over her shoulder, as she ran off, "i rather think miss emily would be willing you should wear her bonnet home, if you'll be careful, and not bend it." a few moments of anger to belle, laughter from kitty and mr. bruce, and concealed amusement on lieutenant osborne's part, and gertrude came hastily from the woods, with the hat in her hand, fanny following her; and, taking advantage of belle's position, with her back towards her, resumed her pantomimic threats and insinuations. "miss clinton," said gertrude, as she replaced the hat in her lap, "i am afraid fanny has been very rude in my name. i did not send her for either hat or bonnet, and shall be pleased to have you wear this as often as you like." "i don't want it," said belle, scornfully; "i'd no idea it belonged to you." "certainly not; i am aware of it," said gertrude. "but i trust that will not prevent you making use of it for to-day, at least." without urging the matter further, she proposed that they should hasten on to the top of the hill, which they could not otherwise reach before sunset; and set the example by moving forward in that direction, fanny accompanying her, and busying herself as she went by stripping the decorations from emily's despised bonnet; belle tying an embroidered handkerchief under her chin; and mr. bruce swinging on his arm the otherwise neglected hat. belle did not recover her temper during the evening; the rest found their excursion agreeable, and it was nearly dark when they reached the thornton farm on their return. here gertrude left them, telling fanny that she had promised to stop and see jenny thornton, one of her sunday-school class, who was in a fever, and refusing to let her remain, as her mother might not wish her to enter the house, where several of the family were sick. about an hour after, as gertrude was walking home in some haste, she was joined near mr. graham's house by mr. bruce, who, with her hat still hanging on his arm, seemed to have been awaiting her return. she started on his abruptly joining her, for it was so dark that she did not at once recognise him, and supposed it might be a stranger. "miss gertrude," said he, "i hope i don't alarm you." "oh no," said she, reassured by the sound of his voice; "i did not know who it was." he offered his arm, and she took it; for his recent devotion to kitty had served in some degree to relieve her of any fear she had felt lest his attentions carried meaning with them; and concluding that he liked to play beau-general, she had no objection to his escorting her home. "we had a very pleasant walk this evening," said he; "at least, i had. miss kitty is a very entertaining companion." "i think she is," replied gertrude; "i like her frank, lively manners much." "i am afraid you found fanny rather poor company. i should have joined you occasionally, but i could hardly find an opportunity to quit miss kitty, we were so much interested in what we were saying." "fanny and i are accustomed to each other, and very happy together," said gertrude. "do you know we have planned a delightful drive for to-morrow?" "no; i was not aware of it." "i suppose miss kay expects i shall ask her to go with me; but supposing, miss gertrude, i should give you the preference, and ask you, what should you say?" "that i was much obliged to you, but had an engagement to take a drive with miss emily," replied gertrude, promptly. "indeed!" said he, in a suppressed and provoked tone; "i thought you would like it; but miss kitty, i doubt not will accept. i will go in and ask her. here is your hat." "thank you," said gertrude, and would have taken it; but ben still held it by one string, and said---- "then you won't go, miss gertrude?" "my engagement with miss emily cannot be postponed on any account," answered gertrude, thankful that she had so excellent a reason for declining. "nonsense!" said mr. bruce; "you could go with me if you chose; and if you don't, i shall certainly invite miss kitty." the weight he seemed to attach to this threat astonished gertrude. "can it be possible," thought she, "that he expects thus to pique and annoy me?" and she replied by saying, "i shall be happy if my declining prove the means of kitty's enjoying a pleasant drive; she is fond of variety, and has few opportunities here to indulge her taste." they now entered the house. mr. bruce sought kitty in the recess of the window, and gertrude, not finding emily present, stayed but a short time in the room--long enough, however, to observe mr. bruce's exaggerated devotion to kitty, which was marked by others beside himself. kitty promised to accompany him the next day, and did so. mrs. graham, mrs. bruce, belle, and the lieutenant, went also in another vehicle, and emily and gertrude took a different direction, and driving white charlie in the old-fashioned buggy, rejoiced in their quiet independence. chapter xxx. vanity. days and weeks passed on, and no marked event took place in mr. graham's household. the weather became intensely warm, and no more walks and drives were planned. the lieutenant left the city, and isabel, who could neither endure with patience excessive heat nor want of society, grew more irritable than ever. to kitty, however, these summer days were fraught with interest. mr. bruce visited constantly at the house, and had great influence upon her outward demeanour and her inward happiness, which fluctuated as his attentions were freely bestowed or altogether suspended. no wonder the poor girl was puzzled to understand one whose conduct was certainly inexplicable to any but those initiated into his motives. believing, as he did, that gertrude would in time show a disposition to win him back, he was anxious only to carry his addresses to kitty to such a point as would excite a serious alarm in the mind of the poor _protégée_ of the grahams, who dared to slight his proffered advances. acting then as he did almost wholly with reference to gertrude, it was only in her presence, or under such circumstances that he was sure it would reach her ears, that he manifested a marked interest in kitty; and his behaviour was, therefore, in the highest degree, unequal, leading the warm-hearted kitty to believe one moment that he felt for her almost the tenderness of a lover, and the next to suffer under the apprehension of having unconsciously wounded or offended him. unfortunately, too, mrs. graham took every opportunity to congratulate her upon her conquest, thereby increasing the simple girl's confidence in the sincerity of mr. bruce's admiration. gertrude, whose eyes were soon opened to the existing state of things, was filled with apprehension on account of kitty, for whose peace and welfare she felt great concern. the suspicions to which mr. bruce's conduct gave rise were soon strengthened into convictions; for, on several occasions, after he had offered kitty proofs of devotion, he tested their effect upon gertrude by some attention to herself; intimating that she had it in her power to rob kitty of all claim upon his favour. gertrude availed herself of every opportunity to acquaint him with the truth, that he could not render himself more odious in her eyes than by the use of such mean attempts to mortify her; but attributing her warmth to jealousy, which he desired to excite, the selfish young man persevered in his course of wickedness. as he only proffered his attentions, and made no offer of his heart and hand, kitty, having forgotten that she had a few weeks back looked upon gertrude as a rival, now chose her for her bosom friend; and the transparency of her character was such that she betrayed her secret to gertrude. though no one but gertrude appeared to observe it, kitty was wonderfully changed;--the gay, laughing, careless kitty had now her fits of musing--her sunny face was subject to clouds, that flitted across it, and robbed it of all its brightness. if she found gertrude sitting alone in her room she would approach, throw her arm around her, and talk on her favourite topic. she would relate the complimentary speeches and polite attentions of mr. bruce, talk about him for an hour, and question gertrude as to her opinion of his merits. she would ask if gertrude really supposed he meant all he said, and add, that of course she didn't believe he did--it was all nonsense. and if gertrude avowed the same opinion, and declared it was best not to trust his flatteries, poor kitty's face would fail, and she would give her reasons for _sometimes_ thinking he was sincere--he had such a _truthful, earnest_ way of speaking. at last mr. bruce tried gertrude's firmness by offering to her acceptance a rich ring. not a little surprised at his presumption, she declined it without ceremony, and the next day saw it on the finger of kitty, who was eager to give an account of its presentation. "and did you _accept_ it?" asked gertrude, with such a look of astonishment, that kitty observed it, and evaded an acknowledgment of having done so, by saying, with a blushing countenance, that she agreed to wear it a little while. "i wouldn't," said gertrude. "why not?" "because, in the first place, i do not think it is in good taste to receive such rich gifts from gentlemen; and then, again, if strangers notice it, you may be subjected to unpleasant, significant remarks." "what would you do with it?" asked kitty. "i should give it back." kitty looked very undecided; but concluded to offer it to mr. bruce, and tell him what gertrude said. she did so, and that gentleman, little appreciating gertrude's motives, and believing her only desirous of making difficulty between him and kitty, jumped at the conclusion that her heart was won at last. he was disappointed, therefore, when, on his next meeting with her, she treated him as she had invariably done of late, with cool civility; indeed, it seemed to him that she was more insensible than ever to his attractions, and hastily quitted the house, much to the distress of kitty. "shall i," thought he, "marry this poor girl? shall i, who have a handsome fortune, and additional expectations to make a brilliant alliance, condescend to share my wealth with this adopted child of the grahams? if she were one atom less charming, i would disappoint her, after all! i wonder how she'd feel if i should marry kitty! i dare say that she would come to my wedding, bend her slender neck as gracefully as ever, and say, '_good evening, mr. bruce_,' as calmly as she does now, every time i go to the house! but, as _mrs. bruce_, i should be proud of that manner, certainly. i wonder how i ever got in love with her; i'm sure i don't know. she isn't handsome; mother thinks she isn't, and so does belle clinton. but lieutenant osborne noticed her the minute she came into the room; and fan raves about her beauty. i don't know what i think myself; i believe she's bewitched me, so that i'm not capable of judging; but, if it isn't beauty, it's something more than mere good looks." about this time, mrs. graham and mrs. bruce, with their families, received cards for a _levée_ at the house of an acquaintance five miles distant. mrs. bruce, who had a close carriage, invited both the cousins to go; and, as mr. graham's carriage, when closed, would only accommodate himself and lady, the proposal was acceded to. the prospect of a gay assembly revived isabel's drooping spirits. her rich evening dresses were brought out, and she stood before her mirror, and tied on first one wreath, and then another, and looked so beautiful in each that it was difficult to choose. kitty, who stood by, went to consult gertrude. "gertrude," said kitty, "what shall i wear this evening? i've been trying to get belle to tell me, but she never will hear what i ask her, when she's thinking about her own dress! she's dreadfully selfish." "who advises _her_?" asked gertrude. "oh, nobody; she always decides for herself; but then she has so much taste, and i haven't the least in the world! so do tell me, gertrude, what had i better wear to-night?" "i'm the last person you should ask, kitty; i never went to a fashionable party in my life." "that doesn't make any difference. i'm sure if you did go, you'd look better than any of us; and i'm not afraid to trust to your opinion, for i never in my life saw you wear anything that didn't look genteel--even your gingham morning-gown has a sort of stylish air." "stop, stop, kitty; you are going too far; you must keep within bounds if you want me to believe you." "well then," said kitty, "to say nothing of yourself (for you're superior to flattery, gertrude--_somebody_ told me so)--who furnishes miss emily's wardrobe? who selects her dresses?" "i have done so lately, but----" "i thought so!--i thought so!" interrupted kitty. "i knew poor miss emily was indebted to you for always looking so nice and so beautiful." "no, indeed, kitty, you are mistaken; i have never seen emily better dressed than she was the first time i met her; and her beauty is not borrowed from art--it is all her own." "oh, i know she is lovely, and everybody admires her; but no one can suppose she would take pains to wear such pretty things, and put them on so gracefully, just to please herself." "it is not done merely to please herself; it was to please her father that emily first made the exertion to dress with taste as well as neatness. i have heard that, for some time after she lost her eyesight, she was disposed to be very careless; but, having accidentally discovered that it was an additional cause of sorrow to him, she roused herself at once, and, with mrs. ellis's assistance, contrived always afterwards to please him in that particular. but you observe, kitty, she never wears anything showy or conspicuous." "no, indeed, that is what i like; but, gertrude, hasn't she always been blind?" "no; until she was sixteen she had beautiful eyes, and could see as well as you can." "what happened to her? how did she lose them?" "i don't know." "didn't you ever ask?" "no." "why not?--how queer!" "i heard that she didn't like to speak of it." "but she would have told you; she worships you." "if she had wished me to know, she would have told without my asking." kitty stared at gertrude, wondering much at such unusual delicacy and consideration, and instinctively admiring a forbearance of which she was conscious she should herself have been incapable. "but your dress!" said gertrude, smiling at kitty's abstraction. "oh, yes! i had almost forgotten what i came here for," said kitty. "what shall it be, then--thick or thin; pink, blue, or white?" "what has isabel decided upon?" "blue--a rich blue silk; that is her favourite colour, always; but it doesn't become me." "no, i should think not," said gertrude; "but come, kitty, we will go to your room and see the dresses, and i will give my opinion." kitty's wardrobe having been inspected, a delicate white crape was fixed upon. and now her head-dresses did not prove satisfactory. "i cannot wear any of them," said kitty; "they look so mean by the side of isabel's; but oh!" exclaimed she, glancing at a box which lay on the dressing-table, "these are just what i should like! oh, isabel, where did you get these beautiful carnations?" and she took up some flowers which were, indeed, a rare imitation of nature, and, displaying them to gertrude, added that they were just what she wanted. "oh, kitty," said isabel, angrily, "don't touch my flowers! you will spoil them!" and snatching them from her, she replaced them in the box, and deposited them in the bureau, and locked them up--an action which gertrude witnessed with astonishment, mingled with indignation. "kitty," said she, "i will arrange a wreath of natural flowers for you, if you wish." "will you, gertrude?" said the disappointed and provoked kitty. "oh that will be delightful. i should like it of all things! and, isabel, you cross old miser, you can keep all your wreaths to yourself!" gertrude prepared a head-dress for kitty; and tastefully mingled the choicest productions of the garden, that, when isabel saw her cousin look so beautiful with it, she felt a sharp pang of jealousy of kitty and dislike to gertrude. chapter xxxi. the rejected. emily was not well this evening. it was often the case, lately, that headache, weariness, or a nervous shrinking from noise and excitement sent her to her own room or to her couch at an early hour. after mrs. graham and her nieces had gone downstairs to await mr. graham's pleasure, and mrs. bruce's arrival, gertrude returned to emily, and found her suffering more than usual from her head. she was easily induced to seek the only infallible cure--sleep; and gertrude, seating herself on the bedside, as she was frequently in the habit of doing, bathed her temples until she fell into a quiet slumber. the noise of mrs. bruce's carriage disturbed her a little; but she was soon in so sound a sleep that, when mr. and mrs. graham departed, the loud voice of the latter did not startle her in the least. gertrude sat some time longer without changing her position, then, quietly rising, and arranging everything for the night, according to emily's wishes, she closed the door, sought a book in her own room, and, entering the parlour, seated herself at a table to enjoy the rare opportunity for stillness and repose. but she soon left her seat, and going towards the glass doors and leaning her head upon her hands, was absorbed in meditation. she had not long sat thus when she heard a footstep in the room, and, turning, saw mr. bruce beside her. she started, and exclaimed, "mr. bruce! is it possible? i thought you had gone to the wedding." "no, there were greater attractions for me at home. could you believe, miss gertrude, i should find any pleasure in a party which did not include yourself?" "i certainly should not have the vanity to suppose the reverse?" replied gertrude. "i wish you had a little more vanity, miss gertrude. perhaps then you would believe what i say." "i am glad you have the candour to acknowledge, mr. bruce, that, without that requisite, one would find it impossible to put faith in your fair speeches." "i acknowledge no such thing. i only say to you what any other girl but yourself would be willing enough to believe; but how shall i convince you that i am serious, and wish to be so understood?" "by addressing me with simple truthfulness, and sparing me those words and attentions which i wish to convince you are unacceptable to me and unworthy of yourself." "but i have a meaning, gertrude, a _deep_ meaning. i have been trying long to find an opportunity to tell you of my resolve, and you _must_ listen to me now;" for he saw her change colour and look anxious and uneasy. "you must give me an answer at once, and one that will, i trust, be favourable to my wishes. you like plain speaking; and i will be plain enough, now that my mind is made up. my relatives and friends may talk and wonder as much as they please at my choosing a wife who has neither money nor family to boast of; but i will defy them all, and offer without hesitation to share my prospects with you. what is money good for, if it does not make a man independent to do as he pleases? and, as to the world, i don't see but that you can hold your head as high as anybody, gertrude; so, if you've no objection to make, we'll play at cross purposes no longer;" and he endeavoured to take her hand. but gertrude drew back; the colour flushed her cheeks, and her eyes glistened as she fixed them upon his face, with an expression of astonishment and pride. the penetrating look of those dark eyes spoke volumes, and mr. bruce replied to their inquiring gaze in these words: "i hope you are not displeased at my frankness." "with your frankness," said gertrude, calmly; "no, that is a thing that never displeases me. but what i have unconsciously done to inspire you with so much confidence, that, while you defend yourself for defying the wishes of your friends, you hardly give me a voice in the matter?" "nothing," said bruce; "but i thought you had laboured under the impression that i was disposed to trifle with your affections, and had therefore kept aloof and maintained a distance towards me which you would not have done had you known i was in earnest; but, believe me, i only admired you the more for behaving with so much dignity, and if i have presumed upon your favour, you must forgive me." the expression of wounded pride vanished from gertrude's face. "he knows no better," thought she; "i should pity his vanity and ignorance, and sympathize in his disappointment; and, in disclaiming with a positiveness which left no room for self-deception, any interest in mr. bruce beyond that of an old acquaintance and well-wisher, she nevertheless softened her refusal by the choice of the mildest language. she felt gratitude and consideration were due to the man who, however little she might esteem _him_, had paid _her_ the highest honour;" and, though her regret in the matter was tempered by the thought of kitty, and the strangeness of mr. bruce's conduct towards her, now rendered doubly inexplicable, she did not permit that reflection to prevent her from maintaining the demeanour of a perfect lady, who, in giving pain to another, laments the necessity of so doing. but she almost felt as if her thoughtfulness for his feelings had been thrown away, when she perceived the spirit in which he received her refusal. "gertrude," said he, "you are either trifling with me or yourself. if you are still disposed to coquet with me, i shall not humble myself to urge you further; but if, on the other hand, you are so far forgetful of your own interests as deliberately to refuse such a fortune as mine, i think it's a pity you haven't got some friend to advise you. such a chance doesn't occur every day, especially to poor school-mistresses; and if you are so foolish as to overlook it, you'll never have another." gertrude's _old temper_ rose at this insulting language; but her feelings had been too long under strict regulation to yield, and she replied in a tone which, though slightly agitated, was far from being angry, "allowing i could so far forget _myself_, mr. bruce, i would not do _you_ such an injustice as to marry you for your fortune. i do not despise wealth, for i know the blessing it may often be; but my affections cannot be bought with gold;" and as she spoke she moved towards the door. "stay!" said mr. bruce, catching her hand; "listen to me one moment; let me ask you one question. are you jealous of my late attentions to another?" "no," answered gertrude; "but i confess i have not understood your motives." "did you think," asked he, "that i care for silly kitty? did you believe that i had any other desire than to show you that my devotion was acceptable elsewhere? no, i never had the least particle of regard for her; my heart has been yours all the time, and i only danced attendance upon _her_, in hopes to win a glance from _you_--an _anxious_ glance, if might be. oh, i have wished that you would show only one quarter of the pleasure that she did in my society; would blush and smile as she did; would look sad when i was dull, and laugh when i was merry; so that i might flatter myself that your heart was won. but as to _loving_ her,--pooh! mrs. graham's poodle-dog might as well try to rival you as that soft----" "stop! stop!" exclaimed gertrude; "for _my_ sake, if not for your _own_! oh, how----" she could say no more; but, sinking into a seat, burst into tears, and hiding her face in her hands, as had been her habit in childhood, wept without restraint. mr. bruce stood by in utter amazement; at last he approached her, and asked, in a low voice, "what is the matter? what have i done?" it was some minutes before she could reply; then, lifting her head, and tossing the hair from her forehead, she displayed features expressive only of the deepest grief, and said, in broken accents, "what have you done? oh, how can you ask? she is gentle, and amiable, and affectionate. she loves everybody, and trusts everybody. you have _deceived_ her, and _i_ was the cause of it. oh, how, how could you do it!" ben exclaimed, "she will get over it." "get over _what_!" said gertrude; "her love for you? perhaps so; i know not how deep it is. but, think of her happy, trusting nature, and how it has been betrayed! think how she believed your flattering words, and how hollow they were, all the while! think how her confidence has been abused! how that fatherless and motherless girl, who had a claim to the sympathy of all the world, has been taught a lesson of distrust." "i didn't think you would take it so," said ben. "how else could i view it?" asked gertrude; "could you expect that such a course would win my respect?" "you take it very seriously, gertrude; such flirtations are common." "i am sorry to hear it," said gertrude. "to my mind, unversed in the ways of society, it is a dreadful thing to trifle thus with a human heart. whether kitty loves you is not for me to say; but what opinion, alas! will she have of your sincerity?" "i think you're rather hard, miss gertrude, when it was my love for you that prompted my conduct." "perhaps i am," said gertrude. "it is not my place to censure; i speak only from the impulse of my heart. one orphan girl's warm defence of another is but natural. perhaps she views the thing lightly, and does not _need_ an advocate; but, oh, mr. bruce, do not think so meanly of my sex as to believe that one woman's heart can be won to love and reverence by the author of another's betrayal! she were less than woman who could be so false to her sense of right and honour." "betrayal!--nonsense! you are very high-flown." "so much so, mr. bruce, that half-an-hour ago i could have wept that you should have bestowed your affection where it met with no requital; and if now i wept for the sake of her whose ears have listened to false professions, and whose peace has, to say the least, been _threatened_ on my account, you should attribute it to the fact that my sympathies have not been exhausted by contact with the world." a short silence ensued. ben went a step or two towards the door, then stopped, came back, and said, "after all, gertrude flint, i believe the time will come when your notions will grow less romantic, and you will look back to this night and wish you had acted differently." he immediately left the room, and gertrude heard him shut the hall-door with a bang. a moment after the silence that ensued was disturbed by a slight sound which seemed to proceed from the recess in the window. gertrude started, and, as she went towards the spot, heard a smothered sob. she lifted a curtain, and there, upon the window-seat, her head buried in the cushions, and her little slender form distorted into a strange attitude, sat, or rather crouched, poor kitty ray. "kitty?" cried gertrude. at the sound of her voice kitty sprung suddenly from her recumbent posture, threw herself into gertrude's arms, laid her head upon her shoulder, and though she did not, _could_ not weep, shook with an agitation uncontrollable. her hand which grasped gertrude's was cold; her eyes fixed; and at intervals the same hysterical sound which had at first betrayed her in her hiding-place alarmed her young protector, to whom she clung. gertrude supported her to a seat, and then, folding the slight form to her bosom, chafed the cold hands, and again and again kissing the rigid lips, succeeded in restoring her to something like composure. for an hour she lay thus, receiving gertrude's caresses with evident pleasure, and now and then returning them convulsively, but speaking no word and making no noise. gertrude, with the truest delicacy, refrained from asking questions, or recurring to a conversation, the whole of which had been thus overheard and comprehended; but, patiently waiting until kitty grew more calm, prepared for her a soothing draught; and then, finding her completely prostrated, both in mind and body, passed her arm around her waist, guided her upstairs, and took her into her own room, where, if she proved wakeful, she would be spared the scrutiny of isabel. still clinging to gertrude, the poor girl, to whose relief tears came at last, sobbed herself to sleep. gertrude, though nearly the same age as kitty, had seen too much trouble to enjoy in times of disquiet the privilege of sinking easily to repose. she felt under the necessity, too, of remaining awake until isabel's return, that she might inform her what had become of kitty, whom she would be sure to miss from the room which they both occupied. it was past midnight when mrs. graham and her niece returned home, and gertrude went immediately to inform the latter that her cousin was asleep in her room. the noise of the carriage, however, had awakened the sleeper, and when gertrude returned she was rubbing her eyes, and trying to collect her thoughts. suddenly the recollection of the scene of the evening flashed upon her, and with a deep sigh she exclaimed, "oh, gertrude, i have been dreaming of mr. bruce! should you have thought he would have treated me so?" "no, i should not," said gertrude; "but i wouldn't dream about him, kitty, nor think of him any more; we will both go to sleep and forget him." "it is different with you," said kitty, with simplicity. "he loves you, and you do not care for him; but i--i----" here her feelings overpowered her, and she buried her face in her pillow. gertrude approached, laid her hand kindly upon the head of the poor girl, and finished the sentence for her. "you have such a large heart, kitty, that he found some place there, perhaps; but it is too good a heart to be shared by the mean and base. you must think no more of him--he is not worthy of your regard." "i can't help it," said kitty; "i am silly, just as he said." "no, you are not," said gertrude, encouragingly; "and you must prove it to him." "how?" "let him see that, with all her softness, kitty ray is brave; that she believes not his flattery, and values his professions at just what they are worth." "will you help me, gertrude? you are my best friend; you took my part, and told him how wicked he had been to me. may i come to you for comfort when i can't make believe happy any longer to him, and my aunt, and isabel?" gertrude's fervent embrace assured her. "you will be as bright and as happy as ever in a few weeks," said she; "you will soon cease to care for a person whom you no longer respect." kitty disclaimed the possibility of ever being happy again; but gertrude was more hopeful. she saw that kitty's outburst of sobs and tears was like an impetuous grief, but that the deepest recesses of her nature were safe. she felt a deep compassion for her, and many fears lest she would want sufficient strength of mind to behave with dignity and womanly pride in her future intercourse with mr. bruce. fortunately, the trial was spared her by mr. bruce's absenting himself from the house, and in a few days leaving home for the remainder of the summer; and, as this circumstance involved his own and mrs. graham's family in wonder as to the cause of his sudden departure, kitty's trials were in the perpetual questionings from her aunt and cousin as to her share in this occurrence. had she quarrelled with him?--and why? kitty denied that she had; but she was not believed. mrs. graham and isabel were aware that kitty's refusing at the last moment to attend the wedding _levée_ was owing to her having learned, just before the carriage drove to the door, that mr. bruce was not to be one of the party; and, as they got her to confess that he had passed a part of the evening at the house, they came to the conclusion that some misunderstanding had arisen between the lovers. isabel was too well acquainted with kitty's sentiments to believe she had voluntarily relinquished an admirer who had evidently been highly prized; and she also saw that the sensitive girl winced under every allusion to the deserter. where was her affection? for she made mr. bruce and his disappearance her constant topic; and, on the slightest difference between herself and kitty, she distressed the latter by cutting sarcasm relative to her late love-affair. kitty would then seek refuge with gertrude, and claim her sympathy; and she not only found in her a friendly listener to her woes, but invariably acquired in her society greater strength and cheerfulness than she could elsewhere rally to her aid. many a time, when isabel had been tantalising kitty beyond what her patience could endure, a little figure would present itself at the door of miss graham's room, and with the sweetest of voices say, "i hear you, kitty; come in, my dear; we shall be glad of your pleasant company;" and seated by the side of gertrude, learning from her some little art in needlework, listening to an agreeable book, or emily's more agreeable conversation, kitty passed hours which were never forgotten, so peaceful were they, so serene, so totally unlike any she had ever spent before. none could live in familiar intercourse with emily, listen to her words, observe the radiance of her heavenly smile, and breathe in the pure atmosphere that environed her very being, and not carry away with them the _love_ of virtue and holiness, if not something of their _essence_. she was so unselfish, so patient, notwithstanding her privations, that kitty would have been ashamed to repine in her presence; and there was a contagious cheerfulness ever pervading her apartment, which, in spite of kitty's recent cause of unhappiness, often led her to forget herself, and break into her natural tone of buoyancy and glee. chapter xxxii. envy, hatred, and malice. little did gertrude imagine, while she was striving to promote the welfare of kitty, who had thrown herself upon her love and care, the jealousy and ill-will she was exciting in others. isabel, who had never liked one whose tone of action and life reproached her own vanity and selfishness, and who saw in her the additional crime of being the favoured friend of a youth of whose interesting boyhood she herself retained a sentimental recollection, was eager to render her odious to mrs. graham. she was not slow to observe the confidence that existed between kitty and gertrude; that her cousin had forsaken her own room for that of the latter the night after her probable quarrel and parting with bruce; and her resentment, excited still further by the growing friendship which her own unkindness to kitty served only to confirm, she communicated to mrs. graham her suspicion that gertrude had selfishly made a difficulty between bruce and kitty, and fostered and widened the breach, and succeeded in breaking off the match. mrs. graham readily adopted belle's opinion. "kitty," said she, "is weak-minded, and much under miss flint's influence. i shouldn't be surprised if you were right, belle!" thus they tried to entrap kitty into a confession that gertrude had driven away her lover. but kitty, while she indignantly denied gertrude's having injured her, refused to reveal the occurrences of the eventful evening. mrs. graham and belle were angry, and many were their private discussions on the subject, and as they became more and more incensed against gertrude, so they began to manifest it in their demeanour. gertrude soon perceived their incivility. with wonderful patience, however, did she preserve her equanimity. she had never looked for kindness and attention from mrs. graham and isabel. they were irritated by her calmness and patience, now made their attack in another quarter; and emily, the sweet, lovely, and unoffending emily, became the object against which they aimed many of their shafts of ill-will. gertrude could bear injury, injustice, and even cruel language, towards herself only; but her blood boiled when she perceived that her cherished emily was becoming the victim of neglect and ill-usage. to address the gentle emily in other words than those of courtesy was next to impossible; it was equally hard to find fault with the actions of one whose life was so good and beautiful; and the isolated position which she occupied on account of her blindness seemed to render her free from interference. but mrs. graham was coarse and blunt, isabel selfish and unfeeling; and long before the blind girl was aware of any unkind intention on their part, gertrude's spirit had rebelled at the knowledge of many a word and act well calculated to distress a sensitive mind. many a stroke was warded off by gertrude; many a nearly defeated plan, which emily was known to have had at heart, carried through by gertrude's perseverance and energy; and for some weeks emily was kept ignorant of the fact that many a little office formerly performed for her by a servant was now fulfilled by gertrude, who would not let her know that bridget had received from her mistress orders which were quite inconsistent with her usual attendance upon miss graham's wants. mr. graham was absent on business at new york. his presence would have been a great restraint upon his wife, who was well aware of his devoted affection for his daughter. his love for emily, and the devotion manifested towards her by every member of the household, had rendered her an object of jealousy to mrs. graham. shortly before mr. graham's return, mrs. graham and isabel were indulging themselves in an unlimited abuse of the rest of the household, when a letter was brought to mrs. graham, which proved to be from her husband. after glancing over its contents, she remarked, with an air of satisfaction, "here is good news for us, isabel, and a prospect of some pleasure in the world." and she read aloud the following--"the troublesome affair which called me here is nearly settled, and the result is very favourable to my wishes and plans. i now see nothing to prevent our starting for europe the latter part of next month, and the girls must make their arrangements accordingly. tell emily to spare nothing towards a full and complete equipment for herself and gertrude." "he speaks of gertrude," said isabel, sneeringly, "as if she were one of the family. i'm sure i don't see any very great prospect of pleasure in travelling all through europe with a blind woman, and her disagreeable appendages; i can't think what mr. graham wants to take them for." "i wish he would leave them at home," said mrs. graham; "it would be a good punishment for gertrude. but, mercy! he would as soon think of going without his right hand as without emily." "i hope, if ever i'm married," exclaimed isabel, "it won't be to a man that's got a blind daughter! such a dreadful good person, too, whom everybody has got to worship, and admire, and wait upon!" "i don't have to wait upon her," said mrs. graham; "that's gertrude's business--it's what she's going for." "that's the worst of it; a blind girl has to have a waiting-maid, and a waiting-maid is a great lady, who doesn't mind cheating your nieces out of their lovers, and even robbing them of each other's affection." "well, what can i do, belle? i'm sure i don't want gertrude's company any more than you do; but i don't see how i can get rid of her." "i should think you'd tell mr. graham some of the harm she's done already. if you have any influence over him, you might prevent her going." "it would be no more than she deserves," said mrs. graham; "and i may give him a hint of her behaviour; he'll be surprised enough when he hears of bruce's sudden flight. i knew he thought it would be a match between him and kitty." as isabel descended the staircase, to meet with smiles and compliments the guests whom in her heart she wished a thousand miles away on this intensely hot afternoon, gertrude came up from the kitchen, and passed along a passage to her own room. she carried, over one arm, a dress of white muslin, and a number of collars, sleeves, and ruffles, with other articles fresh from the ironing-board. her face was heated; she looked tired, and, as she reached her room, and deposited her burden upon the bed, she drew a long breath, as if fatigued, seated herself by a window, brushed the hair back from her face, and threw open a blind. just then mrs. prime put her head in at the door; and, seeing gertrude alone, entered the room, but stood in astonishment on observing the evidences of her recent laborious employment; then, glancing at the fruits of her diligence, she burst forth indignantly, "my sakes alive! miss gertrude, i believe you've been doin' up them muslins yourself, after all!" gertrude smiled, but did not reply. "now, if that ain't too bad!" said the kind-hearted woman; "to think you should ha' been at work down in that 'ere hot kitchen, and all the rest on us takin' a spell o' rest in the heat of the day. i'll warrant if miss emily knew it, she'd never put on that white gown!" "it hardly looks _fit_ for her to wear," said gertrude. "i'm not much used to ironing, and have had a great deal of trouble with it; one side got dry before i could smooth out the other." "it looks elegant, miss gertrude; but what should you be doin' bridget's work for, i want to know?" "bridget always has enough to do," said gertrude, evading a direct answer; "and it's very well for me to have some practice; knowledge never comes amiss, you know, mrs. prime." "'tant no kind of an afternoon for 'speriment o' that sort; and you wouldn't ha' done it, i'll venture to say, if you hadn't been afeard miss emily would want her things, and find out they wan't done. times is changed in this house, when mr. graham's own daughter, that was once the head of everything, has to have her clothes laid by to make room for other folks. bridget ought to know better than to mind these upstarters, when they tell her, as i heard miss graham yesterday, to let alone that heap o' muslins, and attend to something that was o' more consequence. our katy would ha' known better; but bridget's a new-comer like all the rest. thinks i to myself then, what would miss gertrude say, if she suspected how miss emily was bein' neglected! but i'll _tell_ miss emily, as sure as my name's prime, just how things go--you shan't get so red in the face with ironing agin, miss gertrude. if the kind o' frocks she likes to wear can't be done up at home--and yourn too, what's more--the washin' ought to be put out. there's money enough, and some of it ought to be spent for the use o' the ladies as is ladies! i wish to heart _that_ isabella would have to start round a little lively; 'twould do her good; but, lor', miss gertrude, it goes right to my heart to see all the vexatious things as is happenin' nowadays! i'll go right to miss emily this minute, and tell how things go on." "no, you won't, mrs. prime," said gertrude, persuasively; "when i ask you not. you forget how unhappy it would make her, if she knew that mrs. graham was so wanting in consideration. i would rather iron dresses every day, or do anything else for our dear miss emily, than let her _suspect_ even that anybody could willingly be unkind to her." mrs. prime hesitated. "miss gertrude, i thought i loved our dear young lady as well as anybody, but i believe you love her better still, to be so thoughtful all for her sake; and i wouldn't say nothing about it, only i think a sight o' _you_, too; you've been here ever since you was a little gal, and we all set lots by you, and i can't see them folks ride over your head, as i know they mean to." "i know you love me, mrs. prime, and emily too; so, for the sake of us both, you mustn't say a word to anybody about the change in the family arrangements. we'll all do what we can to keep emily from pain; and, as to the rest, we won't care for ourselves; if they don't pet and indulge me as much as i have been accustomed to, the easiest way is not to notice it." "lord bless yer heart, miss gertrude, them folks is lucky to have you to deal with; it isn't everybody as would put up with 'em. they don't come much in my way, thank fortin! i let miss graham see, right off, that i wouldn't put up with interference; cooks is privileged to set up for their rights, and i scared her out o' my premises pretty quick, i tell yer! it's mighty hard for me to see our own ladies imposed upon; but since you say 'mum,' miss gertrude, i'll try and hold my tongue as long as i can. it's a shame, though, i do declare." an hour after, gertrude was at the glass, braiding her long hair, when mrs. ellis, after a slight knock, entered. "well, gertrude," said she, "i didn't think it would come to this!" "why, what is the matter?" inquired gertrude, anxiously. "it seems we are going to be turned out of our rooms!" "who?" "you, and i next, for ought i know." gertrude coloured, but did not speak, and mrs. ellis related that she had received orders to fit up gertrude's room for some visitors who were expected. she was astonished to hear that gertrude had not been consulted on the subject. mrs. graham had spoken so carelessly of her removal, and seemed to think it so agreeable for emily to share her apartment with her young friend, that mrs. ellis concluded the matter had been pre-arranged. deeply wounded and vexed on her own and emily's account, gertrude stood for a moment silent. she then asked if mrs. ellis had spoken to emily on the subject. she had not. gertrude begged her to say nothing about it. "i cannot bear," said she, "to let her know that the little sanctum she fitted up so carefully has been unceremoniously taken from me. i sleep in her room more than half the time, as you know; but she always likes to have me call this chamber mine, that i may be sure of a place where i can read and study. if you will let me remove my bureau into your room, mrs. ellis, and sleep on a couch there occasionally, we need not say anything about it to emily." mrs. ellis assented. she had grown strangely humble and compliant within a few months, and gertrude had won her good-will, first by forbearance, and latterly by the frequent assistance she had rendered to the overburdened housekeeper. but, though yielding and considerate towards gertrude, whom, with emily and mrs. prime, she now considered members of the injured party to which she herself belonged, no words could express her indignation with regard to the late conduct of mrs. graham and isabel. "it is all of a piece," said she, "with the rest of their conduct! sometimes i almost feel thankful that emily is blind; it would grieve her to see the goings-on. i should have liked to box isabella's ears for taking your seat at the table so impudently as she did yesterday, and then neglecting to help emily to anything at all; and there sat dear emily, angel as she is! all unconscious of her shameful behaviour, and asking her for butter as sweetly as if it were by mere accident that you had been driven from the table, and she left to provide for herself. and all those strangers there, too! i saw it all from the china-closet! and then emily's dresses and muslins!--there they laid in the press-drawer, till i thought they would mildew. i'm glad to see bridget has been allowed to do them at last, for i began to think emily would, one of these warm days, be without a clean gown in the world. but all i wish is, that they'd all go off to europe, and leave us here to ourselves. you don't want to go, do you, gertrude?" "yes, if emily goes." "well, you're better than i am; i couldn't make such a martyr of myself even for her sake." it is needless to detail the many petty annoyances to which gertrude was daily subjected; nor with all the pains taken to prevent it, could emily be long kept in ignorance of the light estimation in which both herself and gertrude were regarded. kitty, incensed at the incivility of her aunt and isabel, and indifferent towards the visitors, hesitated not to express both to emily and gertrude her sense of the injuries they sustained. but kitty was no formidable antagonist to mrs. graham and belle, for her spirits were greatly subdued, and she no longer dared, as she would once have done, to stand between her friends and the indignities to which they were exposed. but mrs. graham became at last entangled in difficulties of her own weaving. her husband returned, and it now became necessary to set bounds to her own insolence, and, what was far more difficult, to that of isabel. mrs. graham knew just how far her husband's forbearance would extend--just the point to which his perceptions might be blinded. but in his absence she permitted belle to fill the house with her lively young acquaintances, and winked at the many flagrant violations of politeness manifested by the young people towards the daughter of their absent host, and their youthful friend and attendant. but now a check must be put to all indecorous proceedings; and, unfortunately for the execution of the wife's precautions, the head of the family returned unexpectedly, and under circumstances which forestalled any preparation. he arrived just at dusk, having come from town in an omnibus. it was a cool evening, the windows and doors were closed, and the drawing-room was so brilliantly lighted that he suspected that a large company was being entertained there. he felt vexed, for it was saturday night, and, in accordance with new england customs, mr. graham loved to see his household quiet on that evening. he was also suffering from a violent headache, and, avoiding the drawing-room, passed on to the library, and then to the dining-room. he then went upstairs, walked through several rooms, glanced indignantly at their slovenly appearance, and finally gained emily's chamber. a bright wood fire burned upon the hearth; a couch was drawn up beside it, on which emily was sitting; and gertrude's little rocking-chair occupied the opposite corner. the peaceful face of emily, and the radiant expression of gertrude's countenance, as she saw the father of her blind friend looking pleasantly in upon them, proved such a charming contrast to the scenes presented in other parts of the house, that the old gentleman, warmed to more than usual satisfaction with both of the inmates, greeted his surprised daughter with a hearty paternal embrace, and gave gertrude an equally affectionate greeting, exclaiming, as he took the arm-chair, "now, girls, this looks pleasant and home-like! what in the world is going on downstairs?" emily explained that there was company staying in the house. "ugh! company!" grunted mr. graham, in a dissatisfied tone. "i think so! been emptying rag-bags about the chambers, i should say, from the looks." gertrude asked if he had been to tea. he had not, and should be thankful for some; he was tired. "don't tell anybody that i've got home, gerty," called he, as she left the room; "i want to be left in peace _to-night_, at least." while gertrude was gone, mr. graham questioned emily as to her preparations for the european tour. to his surprise, he learned that she had never received his message communicated in the letter to mrs. graham, and knew nothing of his plans. astonished and angry, he restrained his temper; he did not like to acknowledge to himself, far less to his daughter, that his commands had been disregarded by his wife. after he had enjoyed a comfortable repast, at which gertrude presided, they both returned to emily's room; and now mr. graham's first inquiry was for the _evening transcript_. "i will go for it," said gertrude, rising. "ring!" said mr. graham, imperatively. he had observed that gertrude's ringing was disregarded, and wished to know the cause of so strange a piece of neglect. gertrude rang several times, but obtained no answer to the bell. at last she heard bridget's step in the entry, and, opening the door, said to her, "bridget, won't you find the _transcript_, and bring it to miss emily's room?" bridget soon returned with the announcement that miss isabella was reading it, and declined to give it up. a storm gathered on mr. graham's brow. "such a message to _my daughter_!" he exclaimed. "gertrude, go yourself and tell the impertinent girl that _i_ want the paper! what sort of behaviour is this?" he muttered. gertrude entered the drawing-room with great composure, and, amid the stares of the company, spoke in a low tone to belle, who immediately yielded up the paper, looking much confused as she did so. belle was afraid of mr. graham; and, on her informing her aunt of his return, that lady was also disconcerted. she had fully calculated upon seeing her husband before he had access to emily. but it was too late now, but she used all her tact to disperse her friends at an early hour, and then found mr. graham smoking in the dining-room. he was in an unpleasant mood; but she contrived to conciliate rather than irritate him, avoided all discordant subjects, and the next morning introduced to her friends an apparently affable host. but this serenity was disturbed long before the sabbath drew to a close. as he walked up the aisle, before morning service, with emily, according to custom, leaning upon his arm, his brow darkened at seeing isabel complacently seated in that corner of the old fashioned pew which had for years been sacred to his blind daughter. mrs. graham winked at her niece, but isabel was mentally rather obtuse, and was subjected to the mortification of having mr. graham remove her from the seat, in which he placed emily, while the displaced occupant, who had been so mean for the last three sundays to deprive miss graham of this old-established right, was compelled to sit in the only vacant place, beside mr. graham, with her back to the pulpit. and very angry was she at observing the smiles visible upon many countenances in the neighboring pews. mr. graham had not been at home a week before he understood the state of feeling in the mind of his wife and isabel, and the manner in which it was likely to act upon the happiness of the household. he saw that emily was superior to complaint; she had never in her life complained; he observed, too, gertrude's devotion to his much-loved child, and it stamped her in his mind as one who had a claim to his regard which should never be disputed. it is not, then, to be wondered at, that when mrs. graham made her intended insinuations against his youthful _protégée_, mr. graham treated them with contempt. he had known gertrude from a child. she was high-spirited--he had sometimes thought her wilful--but _never_ mean or false. it was no use to tell him all that nonsense;--he was glad that it was all off between kitty and bruce; for ben was an idle fellow, and would never make a good husband; and, as to kitty, he thought her much improved of late, and if it were owing to gertrude's influence, the more they saw of each other the better. mrs. graham was in despair. "it is all settled," said she to isabel. "it is no use to contest the point; mr. graham is firm as a rock, and as sure as _we_ go to europe, emily and gertrude will go _too_." she was almost startled; therefore, by an excess of good-luck, when informed, a few days afterwards, that the couple she had so dreaded to have of the party were to be left behind, at miss graham's special request. emily's scruples with regard to mentioning to her father the little prospect of pleasure the tour was likely to afford her all vanished when she found that gertrude would be a still greater sufferer from the society to which she would be subjected. blind as she was, emily understood and perceived almost everything that was passing around her. quick of perception, and with a hearing rendered doubly intense by her want of sight, the events of the summer were, perhaps, more familiar to her than to any other member of the family. she more than suspected the exact state of matters betwixt mr. bruce and gertrude, though the latter had never spoken to her on the subject. she imagined how kitty was involved in the affair (no very difficult thing to conceive by one who enjoyed the confidence which the simple-hearted girl unconsciously made during her intercourse with her). as mrs. graham's and isabel's abuse of power became more open, mrs. ellis and mrs. prime considered the embargo upon free speech in miss graham's presence wholly removed; and any pain which the knowledge of their neglect might have caused her was more than compensated to emily by the proofs it had called forth of devoted attachment and willing service on the part of her adopted child, as she loved to consider gertrude. calmly and promptly did she resolve to adopt a course which should free gertrude from her self-sacrificing service. she encountered much opposition from her father; but he had seen, during the previous winter at the south, how emily's infirmity unfitted her for travelling, especially when deprived of gertrude's attendant eyes; he now realised how contrary to her tastes and habits were those of his new wife and her nieces; and, unwilling to be convinced of the folly of his sudden choice, and probably of unhappiness from it, he appreciated the wisdom of emily's proposal, and felt relief in the adoption of a course which would satisfy all parties. chapter xxxiii. travel and a mystery. mrs. warren's pleasant boarding-house was chosen by emily for her own and gertrude's winter home; and one month from the time of mr. graham's return from new york his country-house was closed; he, his wife, isabel, and kitty went to havre; mrs. ellis went to enjoy a little rest from care with some cousins at the eastward; and mrs. prime was established as cook in mrs. warren's household. although ample arrangements were made by mr. graham, and sufficient means provided for the support of both emily and gertrude, the latter was anxious to be usefully employed, and, therefore, resumed a portion of her school duties at mr. w's. much as emily loved gertrude's constant presence, she gladly resigned her for a few hours every day, rejoiced in the spirit which prompted her exertions, and rewarded her with praise. in the undisturbed enjoyment of each other's society, and in their intercourse with a small, intelligent circle of friends, they passed a season of sweet tranquility. they read, walked, and communed, as in times long past. together they attended lectures, concerts, and galleries of art. it was a blissful and an improving winter which they passed together. they lived not for themselves alone; the poor blessed them, the sorrowful came to them for sympathy, and the affection which they inspired in the family circle was boundless. spring came and passed while there, and they were loth to leave a place where they had been so happy; at last a sudden failure in emily's health occurred, and dr. jeremy's peremptory command caused them to seek the country air. added to her anxiety about emily, gertrude began to feel much troubled at willie sullivan's long silence; no word from him for two or three months. willie could not have forgotten or meant to neglect her. that was impossible. she tried, however, not to feel disturbed about it, and gave all her care to emily, who now began indeed to require it. they went to the sea-side for a few weeks; but the bracing atmosphere brought no strength to the blind girl's feeble frame. she was obliged to give up her daily walks; a continued weariness robbed her step of its elasticity, and her mind became subject to depression, while her nervous temperament became so susceptible that the utmost care was requisite to preserve her from all excitement. the doctor often came to see his favourite patient; but as she got worse instead of better, he ordered her back to the city, declaring that mrs. jeremy's front chamber was as cool and comfortable as the contracted apartments of the crowded boarding-house at nahant, and he insisted upon both her and gertrude to take up their quarters for a week or two; and then, if emily were no better, he hoped to have leisure to start off with them in search of health. emily thought she was doing very well where she was, and was afraid to be troublesome to mrs. jeremy. "don't talk about trouble, emily; you ought to know mrs. jeremy better by this time. come up to-morrow; i'll meet you at the cars! good-bye!" gertrude followed him. "i see, doctor, you think emily is not so well." "no; how should she be? what with the sea roaring on one side, and mrs. fellows's babies on the other, it's enough to wear away her strength. i won't have it so! this isn't the place for her, and do you bring her up to my house to-morrow." "the babies don't usually cry as much as they have to-day," said gertrude, smiling; "and as to the ocean, emily loves dearly to hear the waves rolling in." "knew she did!" said the doctor. "shan't do it; bad for her; it makes her sad, without her knowing why. bring her up to boston, as i tell you." it was three weeks after the arrival of his visitors before the popular physician could steal away from his patients to enjoy a few weeks' recreation in travelling. for his own sake he would hardly have thought of attempting so unusual a thing as a journey; and his wife, too, loved home so much better than any other place that she was loth to start for parts unknown; but both were willing to sacrifice their long-indulged habits for the advantage of their young friends. emily was decidedly better; and viewed with pleasure the prospect of visiting west point, catskill, and saratoga, even on her own account; and when she reflected upon the probable enjoyment the trip would afford gertrude, she felt herself endowed with new strength for the undertaking. gertrude needed change of scene and diversion of mind almost as much as emily. the excessive heat, and her constant attendance in the invalid's room, had paled the roses in her cheeks, while care and anxiety had weighed upon her mind. new york was their first destination; but the heat and dust of the city were almost insufferable, and during the day they passed there only dr. jeremy ventured out of the hotel except once, when mrs. jeremy and gertrude went in search of dress-caps. but the doctor passed the whole day in the revival of old acquaintances, and some of these warm-hearted friends having presented themselves at the hotel in the evening to be introduced to mrs. jeremy and her companions, their room was enlivened until a late hour by the cheerful conversation of a group of elderly men, who, as they recalled the scenes and incidents of their youthful days, seemed to renew their youthful spirits. the conversation, however, was not of a character to exclude the ladies from participating in as well as enjoying it. emily listened with delight to a conversation which had such varied charms, and shared with gertrude the admiration of the doctor's friends, who were all excited to the warmest sympathy for her misfortune. upon hearing that dr. jeremy's party was going up the hudson next morning, dr. gryseworth, of philadelphia, who had been a student of our good doctor's, expressed his pleasure to meet them on the boat, and to introduce to gertrude his two daughters, whom he was to accompany to saratoga to meet their grandmother. gertrude, who slept soundly until wakened by miss graham, started up in astonishment on seeing her dressed and standing by the bedside--a most unusual circumstance, as gertrude's morning kiss was wont to be emily's first intimation of daylight. "six o'clock, gerty, and the boat starts at seven! the doctor has knocked at our door." "how soundly i have slept!" exclaimed gertrude. "i wonder if it's a pleasant day." "beautiful!" replied emily, "but very warm. the sun was shining so brightly that i had to close the blinds on account of the heat." gertrude made haste, but was not quite dressed when they were summoned to breakfast. she had trunks to lock, and therefore insisted upon the others preceding her to the breakfast-hall. the company was small, consisting only of two parties besides dr. jeremy's, and a few gentlemen, most of them business men. of those who still lingered at the table when gerty made her appearance, there was only one whom she particularly observed during the few moments allowed for breakfast. this was a gentleman who sat at some distance from her, idly balancing his tea-spoon on the edge of his cup. he seemed quite at his leisure, and previous to gertrude's entrance had won mrs. jeremy's animadversions by a slight propensity to make a more critical survey of her party than she found agreeable. "do, pray," said she to the doctor, "send the waiter to ask that man to take something himself; i can't bear to have anybody looking at me so when i'm eating!" "he isn't looking at you, wife; it's emily that has taken his fancy. emily, my dear, there's a gentleman, over opposite, who admires you exceedingly." "is there?" said emily, smiling, "i am very much obliged to him. may i venture to return the compliment?" "yes. he's a fine-looking fellow, though wife, here, doesn't seem to like him very well." gertrude now joined them, and, as she made her morning salutions to the doctor and his wife, and gaily apologised to the former for her tardiness, the fine colour which mantled her countenance, and the deep brilliancy of her eyes, drew affectionate admiration from the kind old couple, and were, perhaps, the cause of the stranger's attention being transferred from the lovely face of emily to the more youthful and eloquent features of gertrude. taking her seat, she soon perceived the notice she was attracting. it embarrassed her, and she was glad to see, in a few minutes, the gentleman rise and depart. as he passed out, she had an opportunity of observing him, which she had not done while he sat opposite to her. he was above the middle height, slender, but finely formed, and of a dignified bearing. his features were rather sharp, but expressive, and even handsome; his dark eyes were most penetrating, while his compressed lips indicated strength of resolution and will. his hair was peculiar; it was deeply tinged with grey, and in the vicinity of his temples, white. this was strikingly in contrast with the youthful fire of his eye, and the lightness of his step, that instead of seeming the effect of age, it enhanced the contradictory claims of his otherwise apparent youth and vigour. "what a queer-looking man," exclaimed mrs. jeremy, when he had passed out. "an elegant-looking man, isn't he?" said gertrude. "elegant?" rejoined mrs. jeremy. "what! with that grey head?" "i think it's beautiful," said gertrude; "but i wish he didn't look so melancholy; it makes me quite sad to see him." "how old should you think he was?" asked dr. jeremy. "about fifty," said mrs. jeremy. "about thirty," said gertrude. "a wide difference," remarked emily. "doctor, you must decide the point." "impossible! i wouldn't venture to tell that man's age within ten years, at least. wife has got him old enough, certainly; perhaps i might see him as low as gertrude's mark. age never turned _his_ hair grey!--that is certain." chapter xxxiv. a new acquaintance. to travellers in the united states, a trip from boston into new york state is an everyday affair, scarce worth calling a journey; but to dr. jeremy it was a momentous event, calling the good physician out of a routine of daily professional visits, which, for twenty years, had not been interrupted by a week's absence from home, and plunging him at once into that whirl of hurry, tumult, and excitement, which exists on all our great routes, especially in the summer season. the doctor was by nature and habit a social being; never shrinking from intercourse with his fellow-men, but seeking and enjoying their companionship. he knew how to adapt himself to the taste of young and old, rich and poor, and was well acquainted with city life in all its forms. in the art of travelling, however, he was totally unversed. thankful were the party when they were safe on the steamboat; and were congratulating themselves and each other, when the doctor called from the other end of the saloon--"come, come, wife--gertrude, emily! what are you staying down in this confined place for? you'll lose the best view;" and, coming toward them, he took gertrude's arm, and would have hurried her away, leaving mrs. jeremy and emily to follow; but gertrude would not trust emily to ascend the cabin-stairs under any guardianship but her own, and mrs. jeremy immediately engaged the doctor in an animated discussion as to the advisability of his adopting a straw hat, which the thoughtful wife had brought from home. by the time the question was settled, and emily, at gertrude's persuasion, had been induced to change her thin mantilla for a light travelling-cloak, the boat had proceeded some distance, and when our party gained the head of the stairs, and looked about them for seats on deck, not a single vacant bench was to be seen. there was a large number of passengers, nearly all of whom were collected at the stern of the boat. dr. jeremy went in search of chairs. "don't let us stay here," whispered mrs. jeremy to gertrude and emily. "let's go right back before the doctor comes! there are beautiful great rocking-chairs down in the cabin, without a soul to sit in them, and i'm sure we ain't wanted here to make up a company. i hate to stand with all these people staring at us, and crowing to think they've got such nice places; don't you, emily?" mrs. jeremy just then forgot that emily could not see. but gertrude never forgot it; and, as she stood with her arm lightly pressed around her friend's waist, to prevent the motion of the boat from throwing her off her balance, they attracted attention; the one so bright, erect, and strong with youth and health, that she seemed a fit protector for the other, who, in her sweet and gentle helplessness, leaned upon her so trustingly. here mrs. jeremy was interrupted by the salutation of dr. gryseworth, who insisted upon giving up his seat to mrs. jeremy; and another gentleman, till now unnoticed by our party, rose, and bowing politely, placed his own chair for emily, and walked quickly away. it was the stranger whom they had seen at breakfast. gertrude recognised his keen, dark eye, and his singular hair; and, as she thanked him, and placed emily in the seat, she coloured under his earnest glance. but dr. gryseworth soon claimed her attention for the introduction to his daughters, and all thoughts of the retreating stranger were banished for the present. the misses gryseworth were intelligent-looking girls; the eldest, lately returned from europe, where she had been travelling with her father, was considered a very elegant and superior person, and gertrude was charmed with the lady-like cordiality with which they both made her acquaintance, and still more with the sympathising attentions which they paid to emily. by the time that dr. jeremy returned with a chair he found gertrude and dr. gryseworth comfortably accommodated, and was thus enabled to sink at once into his seat, and into that state of easy unconcern which became his pleasant, genial temperament. long before the boat reached west point, where the jeremys were to land, an excellent understanding subsisted between gertrude and the misses gryseworth. they had been about an hour in each other's society, when netta gryseworth, glancing towards another part of the boat, said in an undertone, "ellen, do invite mr. phillips to come back and be introduced to miss flint!--see how lonesome the poor man looks." gertrude followed the direction of netta's eye, and saw the stranger of the morning at some distance, slowly pacing up and down, with a serious and distracted air. "he has not been near us for an hour," said netta. "i hope we have not frightened your friend away," said gertrude. "oh, no, indeed!" replied ellen. "although mr. phillips is but a recent acquaintance, we have found him so independent, and sometimes so whimsical, that i am never astonished at being suddenly forsaken by him. there are some people, you know, for whom it is always sufficient excuse to say, _it is their way_. i wish he would condescend to join us again, however; i should like to introduce him to you, miss flint." "you wouldn't like him," said netta. "now, that is not fair, netta!" said her sister, "to prejudice miss flint against my friend. you mustn't let her influence you," said she to gertrude. "she hasn't known him half as long as i have; and i do not dislike him. my straightforward sister never likes odd people, and i must confess that mr. phillips is eccentric; but he interests me all the more on that account, and i am sure he and you would have many ideas and sentiments in common." "how can you say so, ellen?" said netta. "i think they are totally different." "you must consider netta's remark complimentary, miss flint," said ellen; "it would not be quite so much so if it had come from me." "but you wished me to become acquainted with your oddity," said gertrude. "i suspect you act on the principle that one's misfortunes should be shared by one's friends." netta laughed. "not exactly," said she; "it was compassion _for him_ that moved me. i can't help pitying him when he looks so home-sick, and i thought your society would brighten him up and do him good." "ah, netta!" said her sister, "he has excited your sympathy, i see. a few days more, and i shouldn't be surprised if you went beyond me in your admiration of him. if so, take care, you transparent creature, not to betray your inconsistency." then she said to gertrude, "netta met mr. phillips only yesterday and has not seemed very favourably impressed. father and i were passengers in the same steamer in which he came from liverpool a few weeks ago. he had an ill turn in the early part of the voyage, and it was in a professional way that father first made his acquaintance. i was surprised at seeing him on board to-day, for he mentioned no such intention yesterday." gertrude suspected that the young lady might herself be the cause of his journey; but she did not say so, and the conversation taking another turn, mr. phillips was not again adverted to, though gertrude observed, just before the boat stopped at west point, that dr. jeremy and dr. gryseworth had joined him, and that the trio were engaged in a colloquy which seemed to interest them all. at west point, gertrude parted from her new friends, who expressed a wish to meet in saratoga. our travellers passed one night only at west point. the weather continued hot, and dr. jeremy, perceiving that emily drooped under the oppressive atmosphere, was desirous to reach the summit of catskill mountain before the coming sabbath. one solitary moonlight evening sufficed to give gertrude some idea of the beauties of the place. she could not observe it in detail, only as a whole; but, thus presented in all the dreamy loveliness of a summer's night, it left on her mind a vague sentiment of wonder and delight at the surpassing sweetness of what seemed rather a glimpse of paradise than an actual show of earth, so harmonious was the scene, so still, so peaceful. "emily, darling," said she, as they stood together in a rustic arbour, commanding the most striking prospect both of the river and the shore, "it looks like you; you ought to live here and be the priestess of such a temple;" and, locking her hand in that of emily, she poured into her ear the holy and elevated sentiments to which the time and the place gave birth. at an early hour in the morning they steamed up the river. but west point was hardly passed before gertrude's watchful eye detected in emily's countenance signs of weariness and debility. sacrificing, without hesitation, the pleasure she was herself deriving from beautiful scenes through which the boat was passing, she proposed that they should seek the cabin, where miss graham might rest in greater stillness. but emily would not listen to the proposal; would not think of depriving gertrude of the pleasure she knew she must be experiencing. "the prospect is all lost upon me now, emily," said gertrude. "i see only your tired face. do go and lie down, if it be only to please me; you hardly slept at all last night." "are you talking of going below?" exclaimed mrs. jeremy. "i, for one, shall be thankful, too; it's as comfortable again, and we can see all we want to from the cabin windows; can't we, emily?" "should you really prefer it?" inquired emily. "indeed, i should!" said mrs. jeremy, with such emphasis that her sincerity could not be doubted. "then, if you will promise to stay here, gertrude," said emily, "i will go with mrs. jeremy." gertrude assented to the plan; but insisted upon first accompanying them, to find a vacant berth for emily, and see her under circumstances which would promise repose. emily was too weak to endure the noise on deck, and after she had laid down in the quiet saloon, gertrude stood smoothing back her hair, and watching her pale countenance, until she was accused of violating the agreement, and was at last sent off by the good-natured doctor's lady, who declared herself perfectly well able to take care of emily. "you'd better make haste back," she said, "before you lose your seat; and, gerty, don't let the doctor come near us; he'll be teasing us to go back again, and we shall not." mrs. jeremy untied her bonnet-strings, put her feet up in the opposite chair, clapped her hands at gertrude, and bade her begone. gertrude ran off laughing, and a smile was on her face when she reached the staircase. as she came up with her quick and light step, a tall figure moved aside to let her pass. it was mr. phillips. he bowed, and gertrude, returning the salutation, passed on to the place she had left, wondering how he came to be again their travelling companion. he could not have been on board previously to her going below with emily. gertrude had sat about five minutes, when a shadow passed before her, and looking up, she betrayed a little confusion at again encountering a pair of eyes, whose magnetic gaze bewildered her. she was turning away, when the stranger spoke. "good morning, young lady! our paths still lie in the same direction, i see. will you honour me by making use of my guide-book?" as he spoke he offered her a little book containing a map of the river, and the shores on either side. gertrude took it, and thanked him. as she unfolded the map he stationed himself a few steps distant, and leaned over the railing, in an apparently absent state of mind; nor did he speak to her again for some minutes. then, suddenly turning towards her, he said, "you like this very much?" "very much," said gertrude. "you have never seen anything so beautiful before in your life." he did not seem to question her; he spoke as if he knew. "it is an old story to you, i suppose," said gertrude. "what makes you think so?" asked he, smiling. gertrude was disconcerted by his look, and still more by his smile; it changed his whole face so--it made him look so handsome, and yet so melancholy. she blushed and could not reply; he saved her the trouble. "that is hardly a fair question, is it? you probably think you have as much reason for your opinion as i had for mine. you are wrong, however; i never was here before; but i am too old a traveller to carry my enthusiasm in my eyes--as you do," added he, after a moment's pause, during which he looked her full in the face. then seeming to perceive the embarrassment which his scrutiny of her features caused, he turned away, and a shadow passed over his fine countenance, lending it for a moment an expression of mingled bitterness and pathos, which served to disarm gertrude's confusion. presently, taking a vacant chair next hers, he directed his attention to a beautiful country residence on their right, spoke of its former owner, whom he had met in a foreign land, and related some interesting anecdotes concerning a journey which they had taken together. this introduced other topics, chiefly connected with wanderings in countries almost unknown; and so rich and varied was the stranger's conversation, so graphic were his descriptions, so exuberant his imagination, and so powerful his command of words and his gift of expressing his thoughts, that his listener sat entranced with delight. when dr. jeremy came in search of his young charge, conversation between her and the stranger had assumed so much ease and freedom that the doctor opened his eyes in astonishment, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaimed, "this is pretty well, i declare!" gertrude did not see the doctor approach, but looked up at the sound of his voice. conscious of the surprise it must be to find her talking so familiarly with a stranger, she coloured slightly; but observing that her companion only smiled, she felt rather amused than embarrassed; and she began to feel confidence in her fellow-traveller, who rose, shook hands with dr. jeremy, to whom he had, the previous day, been introduced, and said, with perfect composure, "will you have the kindness, sir, to present me to this lady? we have already had some conversation together, but do not yet know by what name we may address each other." dr. jeremy having performed the ceremony of introduction, mr. phillips bowed gracefully, and looked at gertrude in such a benignant, fatherly way, that she hesitated not to take his offered hand. he detained hers a moment while he said, "do not be afraid of me when we meet again;" and then walked away, and paced slowly up and down the deck until passengers for catskill were summoned to dinner, when he, dr. jeremy, and gertrude went below. the doctor tried to rally gertrude about her grey-headed beau, declaring that he was yet young and handsome, and that she could have his hair dyed any colour she pleased. but he could not succeed in annoying her in that way, for her interest in him, which she could not deny, was quite independent of his personal appearance. the bustle, however, of dinner, and going on shore at catskill, banished from the doctor's head all thought of everything except the safety of himself, his ladies, and their baggage. emily, whose nervous system was somewhat disordered, clung tremblingly to gertrude; and gertrude found herself, she knew not how, leaning on the arm of mr. phillips, to whose silent exertions they were both indebted for their safety in disembarking. mrs. jeremy was counting up the trunks, while her husband was loudly denouncing the steamboat, its conductors, and the whole hurrying, skurrying yankee nation. two stage-coaches were waiting at the wharf to take passengers up the mountain, and before dr. jeremy had turned his back upon the river, emily and gertrude were placed in one of them by mr. phillips, who, without speaking, took this office upon himself, and then went to inform the doctor of their whereabouts, and the doctor and his wife soon joined them. chapter xxxv. the rock of ages. before they had gained the road leading to the mountain house, they became conscious of the vast difference between the temperature of the river and that of the inland country, and, in being suddenly deprived of the refreshing breeze they had enjoyed on board the boat, they fully realised the extreme heat of the weather. for the first few miles gertrude's care was required to shield emily and herself from the rays of the burning sun; and it was a great relief when they reached the beautifully-shaded road which led up the side of the mountain. the atmosphere being clear, the gradually widening prospect was beautiful, and gertrude's delight was such that the restraint imposed by stage-coach decorum was almost insupportable. when, therefore, the ascent became so laborious that the gentlemen alighted to relieve the weary horses, gertrude gladly accepted dr. jeremy's proposal that she should accompany him on a walk of a mile or two. gertrude was an excellent walker, and she and the active doctor soon left the coaches far behind. at a sudden turn in the road they stopped to view the scene below, and stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of the spot, when they were startled by hearing a voice, saying, "a fine landscape, certainly!" it came from mr. phillips, seated upon a moss-grown rock, against which gertrude was leaning. his attitude was easy and careless, his broad-brimmed straw hat lay on the ground, and his snow-besprinkled hair was tossed back from his high and expanded forehead. he immediately joined dr. jeremy and gertrude. "you have got the start of us, sir," said the former. "yes; i have walked from the village--my practice always when the roads are such that no time can be gained by riding." as he spoke, he placed in gertrude's hand, without looking at her, or seeming conscious what he was doing, a bouquet of rich laurel blossoms. she would have thanked him, but his absent manner was such that it afforded her no opportunity, especially as he went on talking with the doctor, as if she had not been present. all three resumed their walk. mr. phillips and dr. jeremy conversed in an animated manner, and gertrude, content to be a listener, soon perceived that she was not the only person to whom the stranger had power to render himself agreeable. dr. jeremy engaged him upon a variety of subjects, upon all of which he appeared equally well informed; and gertrude smiled to see her old friend rub his hands together--his mode of expressing satisfaction. gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a botanist by profession, so versed was he in everything relating to that science. again, she was sure that geology must have been with him an absorbed study, so intimate seemed his acquaintance with mother earth; and both of these impressions were in turn dispelled when he talked of the ocean like a sailor, of the counting-house like a merchant, of paris like a man of fashion and the world. in the meantime she walked beside him, silent but not unnoticed; for, as they approached a rough and steep ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should become fatigued. dr. jeremy declared his belief that gerty could outwalk them both; and, thus satisfied, mr. phillips resumed the broken thread of their discourse, into which gertrude was drawn almost unawares. mr. phillips no longer seemed in gertrude's eyes a stranger--he was a mystery, but not a forbidding one. she longed to learn the history of a life which many an incident of his own narrating proved to have been made up of strange and mingled experience; especially did her sympathetic nature desire to fathom the cause of that deep-seated melancholy which shadowed and darkened his noble countenance, and made his very smile a sorrowful thing. dr. jeremy, who shared her curiosity, asked a few questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend's history; but in vain. mr. phillips' lips were sealed on the subject. the doctor now felt very weary, and seating themselves by the roadside, they awaited the arrival of the coach. there had been a short silence, when the doctor, looking at gertrude, remarked, "there will be no church for us to-morrow, gerty." "no church," exclaimed gerty, gazing about her with a look of reverence; "how _can_ you say so?" mr. phillips smiled, and said in a peculiar tone, "there is no sunday here, miss flint; it doesn't come up so high." he spoke lightly--too lightly, gertrude thought--and she replied with some seriousness and much sweetness, "i have often rejoiced that the sabbath has been sent _down_ into the _lower_ earth; the higher we go the nearer we come, i trust, to the eternal sabbath." mr. phillips bit his lip, and turned away without replying. there was an expression about his mouth which gertrude did not like; but she could not find it in her heart to reproach him for the slight sneer which his manner, rather than his look, implied; for as he gazed a moment or two into vacancy there was in his absent countenance such a look of sorrow that she could only pity and wonder. the coaches now came up, and, as he placed her in her former seat, he resumed his wonted serene and kind expression, and she felt convinced that it was only doing justice to his frank and open face to believe that nothing was hid behind it that would not do honour to the man. an hour brought them to the mountain house, and to their joy they were shown to some of the most excellent rooms the hotel afforded. as gertrude stood at the window of the chamber allotted to herself and emily, and heard the loud murmurs of some of her fellow-travellers who were denied any tolerable accommodation, she could not but be astonished at dr. jeremy's unusual good fortune. emily, being greatly fatigued with the toilsome journey, had supper brought to her own room, and gertrude partaking of it with her, neither of them sought other society that night, but at an early hour went to rest. the last thing that gertrude heard before falling asleep was the voice of dr. jeremy saying, as he passed their door, "take care, gerty, and be up in time to see the sun rise." but she was not up in time, nor was the doctor; neither of them had calculated upon the sun being such an early riser; and though gertrude sprang up almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was pouring in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which banished regret at having overslept herself, since nothing, she thought, could be more glorious than that which now lay outspread before her. far out to the distant horizon nothing was to be seen but a sea of snowy clouds, which wholly overshadowed the lower earth and hid it from view. vast, solid, and of the most perfect whiteness, they stretched on every side, forming, as they lay in thick masses, between which not a crevice was discernible, an unbroken curtain, dividing the heavens from the earth. the foliage of the oaks, the pines, and the maples, which had found root in this lofty region, was rich in varied hues, and tame and fearless birds of various note were singing in the branches. gertrude gave one long look, then hastened to dress herself and go out upon the platform. she was soon joined by dr. and mrs. jeremy, the former full of life, and dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance proclaimed how unwillingly she had forgone her morning nap. the doctor rubbed his hands as they joined gertrude. "very fine, this, gerty! a touch beyond anything i had calculated upon," gertrude turned upon him her beaming eyes, but did not speak. the doctor stepped to the edge of the flat rock upon which they stood, placed his hands beneath his coat tails, and indulged in a soliloquy, made up of short exclamations and interjectional phrases, expressive of his approbation. "why, this looks queer, doesn't it?" said mrs. jeremy, rubbing her eyes, and gazing about her; "but i daresay it would be just so an hour or two hence. i don't see what the doctor would make me get up so early for." then she darted forward, exclaiming, "dr. jeremy, for mercy's sake, don't stand so near the edge of that precipice! why, are you crazy, man? you frighten me to death! you'll fall over and break your neck!" finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, mrs. jeremy grew so disturbed by his dangerous position that, looking most imploringly at gertrude, she begged her to get the doctor away, for the poor man was so venturesome he would surely be killed. "suppose we explore that little path at the right of the house," suggested gertrude; "it looks attractive." "so it does," said mrs. jeremy; "beautiful little shady path. come, doctor, gerty and i are going to walk up here--come!" the doctor looked in the direction in which she pointed. "ah!" said he, "that is the path the man at the office spoke about; it leads up to the pine gardens. we'll climb up, by all means, and see what sort of a place it is." gertrude led the way, all walking in single file, for the path was a mere foot-track. the ascent was very steep, and they had not proceeded far before mrs. jeremy, panting with heat and fatigue, stopped short, and declared her inability to reach the top; she would not have come if she had known what a hard hill she would have to climb. encouraged and assisted by her husband and gertrude, she was induced to make a further attempt; and they had gone on some distance, when gertrude, who was some steps in advance, heard mrs. jeremy give a slight scream. she looked back; the doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the picture of consternation, was trying to pass him and retrace her steps down the hill. "what is the matter?" asked gertrude. "matter!" cried mrs. jeremy; "why, this hill is covered with rattlesnakes; and here we are all going up to be bitten to death!" "no such thing, gerty!" said the doctor, still laughing. "i only told her there had been one killed here this summer, and now she's making it an excuse for turning back." "i don't care!" said the good-natured lady, half laughing herself, in spite of her fears; "if there's been one, there may be another; and i won't stay a minute longer! i thought it was a bad enough place before, and now i am going down faster than i came up." finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her, calling to gertrude and assuring her there was no danger, and begging her wait for him at the top of the hill, where he would join her after he left his wife in safety at the hotel. gertrude, therefore, went on alone. for the first few yards she looked about her, and thought of rattlesnakes; but the path was so well worn that she felt sure it must be often trod, and was probably safe; and the beauty of the place engrossed all her attention. after active climbing, she reached the highest point of ground, and found herself once more on the elevated platform, from which she could look forth upon the unbroken sea of clouds. she seated herself at the foot of an immense pine-tree, removed her bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise; and she inhaled the refreshing mountain breeze. she had sat thus but a moment when a slight rustling noise startled her; she remembered the rattlesnakes, and was springing to her feet; but hearing a low sound, as of some one breathing, turned her eyes in the direction from which it came, and saw, only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the ground, apparently asleep. she went towards it with a careful step, and before she could see the face, the large straw hat and the long, blanched, wavy hair betrayed the identity of the individual. mr. phillips was, or appeared to be, sleeping; his head was pillowed upon his arm, his eyes were closed, and his attitude denoted perfect repose. gertrude stood still and looked at him. as she did so, his countenance suddenly changed; the peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy look which had at first excited her sympathy. his lips moved, and in his dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, "no! no! no!" each time that he repeated the word pronouncing it with more emphasis; then wildly throwing one arm above his head he let it fall heavily upon the ground, and, the excitement subsiding from his face, he uttered the simply words, "_oh, dear!_" much as a grieved and tired child might do as he leans his head upon his mother's knee. gertrude was deeply touched. she forgot that he was a stranger; she only saw a sufferer. an insect lit upon his fair, open forehead; she leaned over him, brushed it away, and, as she did so, one of her tears fell upon his cheek. he awoke, and looked full in the face of the embarrassed girl, who started, and would have hastened away; but, leaning on his elbow, he caught her hand and detained her. he gazed at her a moment without speaking; then said, in a grave voice, "my child, did you shed that tear for me?" she did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glistening with the dew of sympathy. "i believe you _did_," said he, "and from my heart i bless you! but never again weep for a stranger. you will have woes enough of your own if you live to be my age." "if i had not had sorrows," said gertrude, "i should not know how to feel for others; if i had not often wept for myself i should not weep now for you." "but you are happy?" "yes." "some find it easy to forget the past." "_i_ have not forgotten it." "children's griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce more than a child." "i _never_ was a child," said gertrude. "strange girl!" soliloquised her companion. "will you sit down and talk with me a few minutes?" gertrude hesitated. "do not refuse; i am an old man, and very harmless. take a seat here under this tree, and tell me what you think of the prospect." gertrude smiled inwardly at the idea of his being such an old man, and calling her a child; but, old or young, she had it not in her heart to fear him, or refuse his request. she sat down, and he seated himself beside her, but did not speak of the prospect, or of anything, for a moment or two; then turning to her abruptly, he said, "so you never were unhappy in your life?" "never?" exclaimed gertrude. "oh, yes; often." "but never long?" "yes, i can remember whole years when happiness was a thing i had never even dreamed of." "but comfort came at last. what do you think of those to whom it never comes?" "i know enough of sorrow to pity and wish to help them." "what can you do for them?" "_hope_ for them--_pray_ for them!" said gertrude, with a voice full of feeling. "what if they be past hope--beyond the influence of prayer?" "there are no such," said gertrude, with decision. "do you see," said mr. phillips, "this curtain of thick clouds, now overshadowing the world? even so many a heart is weighed down and overshadowed by thick and impenetrable darkness." "but the light shines brightly above the clouds," said gertrude. "above! well, that may be; but what avails it to those who see it not?" "it is sometimes a weary and toilsome road that leads to the mountain-top; but the pilgrim is well repaid for the trouble which brings him _above the clouds_," replied gertrude, with enthusiasm. "few ever find the road that leads so high," responded her melancholy companion; "and those who do cannot live long in so elevated an atmosphere. they must come down from their height, and again dwell among the common herd; again mingle in the warfare with the mean, the base, and the cruel." "but they have seen the glory; they know that the light is ever burning on high, and will have faith to believe it will pierce the gloom at last. see, see," said she, her eyes glowing with the fervour with which she spoke--"even now the heaviest clouds are parting; the sun will soon light up the valley!" she pointed as she spoke to a wide fissure which was gradually disclosing itself, as the hitherto solid mass of clouds separated on either side, and then turned to the stranger to see if he observed the change; but, with the same smile upon his unmoved countenance, he was watching, not the display of nature in the distance, but that close at his side. he was gazing with intense interest upon the young and ardent worshipper of the beautiful and the true; and, in studying her features and observing the play of her countenance, he seemed so wholly absorbed that gertrude--believing he was not listening to her words, but had fallen into one of his absent moods--ceased speaking, rather abruptly, and was turning away, when he said---- "go on, happy child! teach _me_, if you can, to see the world tinged with the rosy colouring it wears for _you_; teach me to love and pity as you do that miserable thing called _man_. i warn you that you have a difficult task, but you seem to be very hopeful." "do you hate the world?" asked gertrude, with straightforward simplicity. "almost," was mr. phillips' answer. "_i_ did _once_," said gertrude, musingly. "and will again, perhaps." "no, that would be impossible; it has been a good foster mother to its orphan child, and now i love it dearly." "have they been kind to you?" asked he, with eagerness. "have heartless strangers deserved the love you seem to feel for them?" "heartless strangers!" exclaimed gertrude, the tears rushing to her eyes. "oh, sir, i wish you could have known my uncle true, and emily, dear, blind emily! you would think better of the world for their sakes." "tell me about them," said he, and he looked fixedly down into the precipice which yawned at his feet. "there is not much to tell, only that one was old and poor, and the other wholly blind; and yet they made everything rich, and bright, and beautiful to me--a poor, desolate, injured child." "injured! then you acknowledge that you had previously met with wrong and injustice?" "i!" exclaimed gertrude; "my earliest recollections are only of want, suffering, and much unkindness." "and these friends took pity on you?" "yes. one became an earthly father to me, and the other taught me where to find a heavenly one." "and ever since then you have been free and light as air, without a wish or care in the world." "no, indeed, i did not say so--i do not mean so," said gertrude. "i have had to part from uncle true, and to give up other dear friends, some for years and some forever; i have had many trials, many lonely, solitary hours, and even now am oppressed by more than one subject of anxiety and dread." "how, then, so cheerful and happy?" asked mr. phillips. gertrude had risen, for she saw dr. jeremy approaching. she smiled at mr. phillips' question; and after looking into the deep valley beneath her, gave him a look of holy faith, and said, in a low but fervent tone, "i see the gulf yawning beneath me, but i lean upon the rock of ages." gertrude had spoken truly when she said that more than one anxiety and dread oppressed her; for, mingled with a fear lest the time was fast approaching when emily would be taken from her, she had of late been grieved by the thought that willie sullivan, towards whom her heart yearned with more than a sister's love, was forgetting the friend of his childhood, or ceasing to regard her with the love of former years. it was now some months since she had received a letter from india; the last was short, and written in a haste which willie apologised for on the score of business duties; and gertrude was compelled unwillingly to admit the chilling presentiment that, now that his mother and grandfather were no more, the ties which bound the exile to his native home were sensibly weakened. nothing would have induced her to hint, even to emily, a suspicion of neglect on willie's part; nothing would have shocked her more than hearing such neglect imputed to him by another; and still, in the depths of her heart, she sometimes mused with wonder upon his long silence, and his strange diminution of intercourse between herself and him. during several weeks, in which she had received no tidings, she had still continued to write as usual, and felt sure that such reminders must have reached him by every mail. what, then, but illness or indifference could excuse his never replying to her faithfully-despatched missives? dr. jeremy's approach was the signal for hearty congratulations between himself and mr. phillips; the doctor began to converse in his animated manner, spoke with hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that bright sabbath morning in the mountains; and mr. phillips, compelled to exert himself and conceal the gloom which weighed upon his mind, talked with an ease, and even playfulness, which astonished gertrude, who walked back to the house wondering at this strange and inconsistent man. she did not see him at breakfast, and at dinner he sat at some distance from dr. jeremy's party, and merely gave a graceful salutation to gertrude as she left the dining-hall. the jeremys stayed two days longer at the mountain house; the invigorating air benefited emily, who appeared stronger than she had done for weeks past, and was able to take many a little stroll in the neighborhood of the house. gertrude was never weary of the glorious prospect; and an excursion which she and the doctor made on foot to the cleft in the heart of the mountain, where a narrow stream leaps a distance of two hundred feet into the valley below, furnished the theme for many a descriptive reverie, of which emily reaped a part of the enjoyment. they saw no more of their new acquaintance, who had disappeared. dr. jeremy inquired of their host concerning him, and learned that he left at an early hour on monday, and took up a pedestrian course down the mountain. the doctor was disappointed, for he liked mr. phillips much, and had flattered himself, from some particular inquiries he had made concerning their proposed route, that he had an idea of attaching himself to their party. "never mind, gertie," said he, "i daresay we shall come across him yet some time when we least expect it." chapter xxxvi. the invisible charm. from catskill dr. jeremy proceeded directly to saratoga. the place was crowded with visitors, for the season was at its height, and the improvident travellers having neglected to secure rooms, they had no right to expect any accommodation. "where do you propose stopping?" inquired an acquaintance of the doctor's, whom they met in the cars. "at congress hall," was the reply. "it will be a quiet place for us old folks, and more agreeable than any other house to miss graham, who is an invalid." "you are expected, i conclude?" "expected?--no; who should be expecting us?" "your landlord. if you have not engaged rooms you will fare badly, for every hotel is crowded." "we must take our chance then," said the doctor, with indifference; but arriving at his destination, he found his friend's words were true. "i don't know what we are going to do," said he, as he joined the ladies; "they say every house is full; and, if so, we'd better take the next train of cars and be off, for we can't sleep in the street." "carriage, sir?" shouted a cabman, a few steps distant, and beckoning to the doctor, while another tapped his shoulder, and made a similar suggestion. "carriage!" repeated the doctor, angrily. "what for? where would you carry us, for mercy's sake? there isn't a garret to be had in your town, for love or money." "well, sir," said the last petitioner, "the houses are pretty full just now, to be sure, but may be you can get colonised out." "_colonised out!_" said the doctor, in a tone of vexation. "that's what i think we are already; what i want is to get _in_ somewhere. where do you usually drive your coach?" "to congress hall." "drive up, then, and let us get in; and, mind, if they don't take us at congress hall, we shall expect you to keep us until we find accommodation." mrs. jeremy, emily, and gertrude were assisted into a small omnibus. the doctor took a seat on the outside, and, the moment the vehicle stopped, hastened to the landlord. there was not a vacant corner in the house. wishing to accommodate him, the office-keeper said that he might be able before night to furnish him with one room in a house in the next street. "one room! in the next street!" cried the doctor. "ah, that's being colonised out, is it? well, sir, it won't do for me; i must have a place to put my ladies in at once. why, in conscience, don't you have hotels enough for your visitors?" "it is the height of the season, sir, and----" "why, dr. jeremy!" exclaimed the youthful voice of netta gryseworth, who was passing through the hall with her grandmother. "how do you do, sir? are miss graham and miss flint with you? have you come to stay?" before the doctor could answer her questions and pay his respects to madam gryseworth, a venerable old lady whom he had known for thirty years, the landlord of the hotel accosted him. "dr. jeremy?" said he. "excuse me, i did not know you. dr. jeremy, of boston?" "the same," said the doctor, bowing. "ah, we are all right, then. your rooms are reserved, and will be made ready in a few minutes; they were vacated two days ago, and have not been occupied since." "what is all this?" exclaimed the honest doctor. "i engaged no rooms." "a friend did it for you, then, sir; a fortunate circumstance, especially as you have ladies with you. saratoga is very crowded at this season; there were seven thousand strangers in the town yesterday." the doctor thanked his unknown friend, and summoned the ladies to enjoy their good fortune. "why, now, ain't we lucky?" said mrs. jeremy, as she glanced around the comfortable room allotted to herself, and then she took a survey of emily's and gertrude's apartment. the doctor, having attended to the baggage, approached the door and heard his wife's last remark, and entering with his finger on his lip, exclaimed, in a low voice, "hush! hush! don't say too much about it! we are profiting by a glorious mistake on the part of our good landlord. these rooms were engaged for somebody, that's certain, but not for us. however, they can't do no more than turn us out when the right folks come, and until then we have a prospect of very good lodgings." but if they were not the right folks, the right folks never came, and, in the course of a week, our party not only ceased to be conscious of their precarious footing in the house, but obtained a favourable exchange for emily to a bed-room upon the first floor, which opened directly into the drawing-room, and saved her from passing up and down the often crowded staircases. it was nearly tea-time on the day of their arrival, and emily and gertrude had just completed their toilet, when there was a light rap upon their door. gertrude opened it, and admitted ellen gryseworth, who, while she saluted her with southern warmth of manner, hesitated, saying, "i am afraid you will think me an intruder, but netta told me you had arrived, and hearing from the chamber-maid that you had the next room to mine, i could not forbear stopping a moment as i passed to tell you how very glad i am to see you again." gertrude and emily expressed their pleasure at the meeting, urged her to come in and remain until the gong sounded for tea. she accepted the invitation, and, taking a seat upon the nearest trunk, inquired concerning their travels and emily's health since they parted at west point. among other adventures, gertrude mentioned their having again encountered mr. phillips. "indeed!" said miss gryseworth; "he seems to be an ubiquitous individual. he was in saratoga a day or two ago, and sat opposite to me at our dinner-table, but i have not seen him since. did you become acquainted with him, miss graham?" "i am sorry to say i did not," replied emily; then, looking smilingly at gertrude, she added, "gerty was so anxious for an opportunity to introduce me that i was quite grieved for her disappointment." "then you liked him?" miss gryseworth asked gertrude, and speaking with great earnestness. "i knew you would." "he interested me much," replied gertrude. "he is very agreeable, very peculiar, and to me rather incomprehensible." "non-committal, i see," said miss gryseworth, archly. "i hope you will have a chance to make up your mind; it is more than i can do, i confess, for every time i am in his company i recognise some new trait of character. he got so angry at one of the waiters the day he dined with us in new york, that i was frightened. but i believe my fears were groundless, for he is too much of a gentleman to bandy words with an inferior, and though his eyes flashed like coals of fire, he kept his temper from blazing forth. i will do him the justice to say that this great indignation did not spring from any neglect he had himself received, but from the man's inattention to two dowdy-looking women from the country, who had never thought of seeing him, and therefore got nothing to eat until everybody else had finished, and looked all the time as disappointed as if they were just out of the state prison." "too bad!" exclaimed gertrude, energetically. "i don't wonder mr. phillips felt provoked with the mercenary fellow. i like him for that." "it _was_ too bad," said miss gryseworth; "i couldn't help pitying them myself. one of them--a young girl, fresh from the churn, who had worn her best white gown on purpose to make a figure in the city--was near weeping." "i hope such instances of neglect are not very common," said gertrude. "i am afraid, if they are, emily and i shall be on the crying list, for dr. jeremy will not fee the waiters beforehand; he says it is a mean thing, and he will not command attention in that way." "oh, you need have no such fear," said miss gryseworth. "persons accustomed to hotel life can always command attention, especially in so well-regulated an establishment as this. grandmamma shares the doctor's views with regard to bargaining for it beforehand, but no one ever sees her neglected here." another light tap at the door, and this time it was netta gryseworth who entered, exclaiming, "i hear ellen's voice, so i must come in. i am provoked," added she, as she kissed emily's hand, and shook gertrude's with a freedom which seemed to spring from girlish hoydenism and high-bred independence of manner, "to think that while i have been watching about the drawing-room doors for this last half-hour, so as to see you the first minute you came in, ellen has been sitting here on a trunk, as sociable as all the world, enjoying your society, and telling you every bit of the news." "not every bit, netta," said ellen; "i have left several choice little morsels for you." "have you told miss flint about the foxes and the coxes that were here yesterday?--has she, miss flint?" "not a word about them," said gertrude. "nor about the fright we had on board the steamboat?" "no." "nor about mr. phillips being here?" "oh, yes, she told us that." "ah, she did!" exclaimed netta, with an arch look which called up her sister's blushes. "and did she tell you how he occupied this room, and how we heard him through the thin partition pacing up and down all night, and how it kept me from sleeping, and gave me a terrible headache all the next day?" "no, she did not tell me that," said gertrude. "you don't either of you walk all night, do you?" asked netta. "not often." "oh, how thankful we ought to be to have you for neighbours!" replied netta. "if that horrible man had stayed here and kept up that measured tread, there would have been a suicide either in this room or ours before many nights." "do you think he was ill?" asked gertrude. "no, indeed," said ellen; "it was nothing very remarkable--not for him, at least--all his habits are peculiar; but it kept netta awake an hour or two, and made her fidgety." "an hour or two, ellen!" cried netta. "it was the whole night." "my dear sister," said ellen, "you don't know what a whole night is." a little sisterly discussion might have ensued about the length of mr. phillips' walk and netta's consequent wakefulness, but, fortunately, the gong sounded for tea. saratoga is a queer place. one sees congregated there, at the height of the season, delegates from every part of the world. fashion's ladder is transplanted thither, and all its rounds are filled. beauty, wealth, pride, and folly are well represented; also wit, genius, and learning. idleness reigns supreme, and no one, not even the most active and industrious citizens of our working land, dares, in this her legitimate province, to dispute her temporary sway. every rank of society, every profession, and almost every trade, meet each other on an easy and friendly footing. the acknowledged belle, the bearer of an aristocratic name, the owner of a well-filled purse, the renowned scholar, artist, or poet, have all a conspicuous sphere to shine in. it was a new experience to gertrude, and although in the congress hall she saw only the reflection of saratoga gaiety, and heard only the echo of its distant hum, there was enough of novelty and excitement to entertain and surprise one who was a novice in fashionable life. in the circle of high-bred, polished, literary, and talented persons whom madam gryseworth drew about her, and into which dr. jeremy's party were admitted, gertrude found much that was congenial to her cultivated taste, and she soon was appreciated as she deserved. madam gryseworth was a lady of the old school--one who had all her life been accustomed to the best society, and who continued, in spite of her advanced years, to enjoy and to adorn it. for the first day or two mrs. jeremy stood much in awe of her, and could not feel quite at ease in her presence; but this feeling wore off, and the stout little doctor's lady soon became confiding and chatty towards the august dame. one evening, when the jeremys had been a week at saratoga, as emily and gertrude were leaving the tea-table, they were joined by netta gryseworth, who, linking her arm in gertrude's, exclaimed, in her usual gay manner, "gertrude, i shall quarrel with you soon!" "indeed!" said gertrude; "on what grounds?" "jealousy." gertrude blushed slightly. "oh, you needn't turn so red; it is not on account of any grey-headed gentleman staring at you all dinner-time from the other end of the table. no; i'm indifferent on that score. ellen and you may disagree about mr. phillips' attentions, but i'm jealous of those of another person." "i hope gertrude isn't interfering with your happiness in any way," said emily, smiling. "she is, though," replied netta. "my happiness, my pride, my comfort; she is undermining them all. she would not dare to so conduct herself, miss graham, if you could see her behaviour." "tell me all about it," said emily, coaxingly, "and i will promise to interest myself for you." "i doubt that," answered netta; "i am not sure but you are a coadjutor with her. however, i will state my grievance. do you not see how entirely she engrosses the attention of an important personage? are you not aware that peter has ceased to have eyes for anyone else? for my own part, i can get nothing to eat or drink until miss flint is served, and i'm determined to ask papa to change our seats at the table. it isn't that i care about my food; but i feel insulted--my pride is essentially wounded. a few days ago i was a great favourite with peter, and all my pet dishes were sure to be placed in front of me; but now the tune is changed, and this very evening i saw him pass gertrude the blackberries, which the creature knows i delight in, while he pushed a dish of blues towards me in a contemptuous manner, which seemed to imply, 'blueberries are good enough for _you_, miss!'" "i have noticed that the waiters are very attentive to us," said emily; "do you suppose gertrude has been secretly bribing them?" "she says not," replied netta. "didn't you tell me so yesterday, gertrude, when i was drawing a similar comparison between their devotion to you and to our party? didn't you tell me that neither the doctor nor any of you ever gave peter anything?" "certainly," answered gertrude; "his attentions are all voluntary; but i attribute them entirely to emily's influence and his desire to serve her." "it is no such thing," said netta; "it's sorcery, i'm sure of it; you've been practising the black art, gertrude, and i'll warn peter this very day." they now went to the corner of the drawing-room where the old ladies of gryseworth and jeremy were sitting upon a sofa, engaged in earnest conversation, while ellen, who had just returned from a drive with her father, stood talking with him and a mr. petrancourt, who had just arrived from new york. the ladies on the sofa made room for emily, and netta and gertrude seated themselves. madame gryseworth was annoyed by a group of children on the other side of the room, who by their shouts interrupted her remarks, and prevented her understanding those of her neighbour. gertrude's attention was attracted by them to such a degree that she did not hear half of the sallies of wit and nonsense which netta continued to pour forth. "do go and play with those children, gertrude," said netta at last; "i know you're longing to go." "i'm longing to stop their play!" said gertrude. some half-dozen gaily-dressed children had collected around a strange little new-comer, whom they were subjecting to every species of persecution. her clothes, though of rich materials, were mostly untidily arranged, and soiled by travelling. her little black silk frock (for the child was clad in mourning) was quite outgrown, being much shorter than some of her other garments, and her whole appearance denoted great neglect. gertrude saw the little girl standing in their midst, looking wildly about her, as if to escape; but this the children prevented, and continued to ply her with questions, each of which called forth their derisive shouts, which made her cry. whether the scene reminded gertrude of some of her own experiences, or merely touched the chord of sympathy for the injured, she could not keep her eyes from the little party; and just as netta was upon one of her favourite topics--namely, mr. phillips and his unaccountable conduct--she sprang from her seat, exclaiming, "they shan't torment that child so!" and hastily crossed the room. netta burst into a hearty laugh at gertrude's excited manner of starting on her benevolent errand; and this, together with her so hastily crossing the large and crowded room, drew the inquiries of all the circle whom she had left, and during her absence she became the subject of discussion and remark. "what is the matter, netta?" asked madame gryseworth. "where has gertrude gone?" "to offer herself as a champion, grandmamma, for that little rowdy-dowdy looking child." "is she the one who has been making all this noise?" "no, indeed; but i believe she is the cause of it." "it isn't every girl," said ellen, "who could cross a room like this so gracefully as gertrude can." "she has a remarkably good figure," said madame gryseworth, "and knows how to walk." "she is a very well-formed girl," remarked dr. gryseworth, "but the true secret of her looking so completely the lady lies in her having uncommon dignity of character, being wholly unconscious of observation and independent of the wish to attract it. she dresses well, too; ellen, i wish you would imitate miss flint's style of dress; nothing could be in better taste." "or a greater saving to your purse, papa," whispered netta. "gertrude dresses very simply." "miss flint's style of dress would not become miss gryseworth," said mrs. petrancourt, who approached in time to hear the doctor's remark. "your daughter, sir, is a noble, showy-looking girl, and can carry off a great deal of dress." "so can a milliner's doll, mrs. petrancourt. however, i suppose, in a certain sense, you are right. the two girls are not sufficiently alike to resemble each other, if their dresses were matched with chinese exactness." "resemble each other! you surely would not wish to see your beautiful daughter the counterpart of one who has not half her attractions." "are you much acquainted with miss flint?" "not at all; but netta pointed her out to me at the tea-table as being a particular friend." "then you must excuse me, ma'am, if i remark that it is impossible you should have any idea of her attractions, as they do not lie on the surface." "you confess, then, that you do not think her handsome, sir?" "to tell you the truth, i never thought anything about it. ask petrancourt; he is an acknowledged judge;" and the doctor bowed in a flattering manner to the lady who had been the belle of the season at the time her husband paid his addresses to her. "i will, when i can get a chance; but he is standing too near the blind lady--miss flint's aunt, is she not?" "particular friend; not her aunt." this conversation had been carried on in a low voice, that emily might not hear it. others, however, were either more careless or more indifferent to her presence; for madam gryseworth began to speak of gertrude without restraint, and she was at this moment saying, "one must see her under peculiar circumstances to be struck with her beauty at once; for instance, as i did yesterday, when she had just returned from riding, and her face was in a glow from exercise and excitement; or as she looks when animated by her intense interest in some glowing and eloquent speaker, or when her feelings are suddenly touched and the tears start into her eyes, and her whole soul shines out through them!" "why, grandmamma," cries netta, "you are really eloquent!" "so is gertrude, at such times as those i speak of. oh, she is a girl after my own heart!" "she must be a very agreeable young lady, from your account," said mr. petrancourt. "we must know her." "you will not find her of the same stamp as most of the agreeable young ladies whom you meet in gay circles. i must tell you what horace willard said of her. he is an accomplished man and a scholar--his opinion is worth something. he had been staying a fortnight at the united states hotel, and used to call occasionally to see us. the day he left he came to me and said--'where is miss flint? i must have one more refreshing conversation with her before i go. it is a perfect rest to be in that young lady's society, for she never seems to be making the least effort to talk with me, or to expect any attempt on my part; she is one of a few girls who never speak unless they have something to say.' how she has contrived to quiet those children!" mr. petrancourt followed the direction of madame gryseworth's eyes. "is that the young lady you were speaking of?" asked he. "the one with great dark eyes, and such a splendid head of hair? i have been noticing her for some time." "yes, that is she, talking to the little girl in black." "madame gryseworth," said dr. jeremy, through the long, open window, and stepping inside as he spoke, "i see you appreciate our gerty; i did not say too much in praise of her good sense, did i?" "not half enough, doctor; she is a very bright girl, and a very good one, i believe." "good!" exclaimed the doctor; "i didn't know that goodness counted in these places; but if goodness is worth speaking of, i should like to tell you a little of what i know of that girl;" and, without going closely into particulars, he commenced dilating enthusiastically upon gertrude's noble and disinterested conduct under trying circumstances, and had recounted, in a touching manner, her devotion to one old paralytic--to another infirm and ill-tempered old man and his slowly-declining daughter--and would have proceeded to speak of her recent self-sacrificing labours in emily's service; but miss graham touched his arm, spoke in a low voice, and interrupted him. he stopped abruptly. "emily, my dear," said he, "i beg your pardon; i didn't know you were here; but what you say is very true. gertrude is a private character, and i have no right to bring her before the public. i am an old fool, certainly; but there, we are all friends." and he looked around the circle a little anxiously, casting a slightly suspicious glance at the petrancourts, and finally rested his gaze upon a figure behind ellen gryseworth. the latter turned, not having been previously aware that any stranger was near, and, to her surprise, found herself face to face with mr. phillips! "good evening, sir," said she, on recognising him; but he did not seem to hear her. madam gryseworth, who had never seen him before, looked up inquiringly. "mr. phillips," said ellen, "shall i make you acquainted with mrs. gryseworth, my----" but before she could complete the introduction he had darted through the window, and was walking across the piazza with hasty strides. chapter xxxvii. a surprise. later in the evening, when gertrude, having resigned her little charge to the nurse who came to seek her, had again joined her party, the attention of every one assembled in the drawing-room was attracted by the entrance of a beautiful and showily-dressed young lady, attended by two or three gentlemen. after glancing round the room for the person whom she came to seek, she advanced towards mrs. petrancourt, who rose to receive her young visitor. unexpected as the meeting was to gertrude, she recognized isabel clinton, who passed both her and emily without observing them, and, there being no vacant chair near at hand, seated herself with mrs. petrancourt on a couch a little farther up the room, and entered into earnest conversation; nor did she change her position or look in the direction of dr. jeremy's party until she was taking leave. she would have passed them then without noticing their presence, but hearing dr. gryseworth address miss flint by name, she half turned, caught gertrude's eye, spoke a careless "how do you do?" with that indifference with which one salutes a very slight acquaintance, cast a look back at emily, surveyed with an impertinent air of curiosity the rest of the circle to which they belonged, and unceremoniously walked off, whispering to her companions some satirical comments upon the place and the company. "oh, what a beauty!" exclaimed netta to mrs. petrancourt. "who is she?" mrs. petrancourt related what she knew of miss clinton, told how she had travelled with her in switzerland, and met her in paris, where she was universally admired; then, turning to gertrude, she remarked, "you are acquainted with her, i see, miss flint." gertrude replied that she knew her before she went abroad, but had seen nothing of her since her return. "she has just arrived," said mrs. petrancourt; "she came with her father in the last steamer, and has been in saratoga but a day or two. she is making a great sensation at the 'united states,' and has troops of beaux." "most of whom are probably aware," remarked mr. petrancourt, "that she will have plenty of money one of these days." emily's attention was by this time attracted. she had been conversing with ellen gryseworth, but now turned to ask gertrude if they were speaking of isabel clinton. "yes," said dr. jeremy, "and if she were not the rudest girl in the world, my dear, you would not have remained so long in ignorance of her having been here." emily forbore to make any comment. gertrude was silent also; but she burned inwardly, as she always did, at any slights being offered to the gentle emily. gertrude and dr. jeremy were always among the earliest morning visitors at the spring. the doctor enjoyed drinking the water at this hour; and, as gertrude was fond of walking before breakfast, he made it a point that she should accompany him, partake of the beverage of which he was so fond, and afterwards join him in brisk pedestrian exercise till near breakfast time. on the morning succeeding the evening of which we have been speaking, they had presented themselves at the spring. gertrude had gratified the doctor, and made a martyr of herself by imbibing a tumblerful of water which she found very unpalatable; and he having quaffed his seventh glass, they had both proceeded some distance on one more walk around the grounds when he suddenly missed his cane, and believing that he had left it at the spring, declared his intention to return and look for it. gertrude would have gone back also, but, as there might be some difficulty in recovering it, he insisted upon her continuing her walk in the direction of the circular railway, promising to come round the other way and meet her. she had proceeded some little distance, and was walking thoughtfully along, when, at an abrupt winding in the path, she observed a couple approaching her--a young lady leaning on the arm of a gentleman. a straw hat partly concealed the face of the latter, but in the former she recognised bella clinton. it was evident that bella saw gertrude, and knew her, but did not mean to acknowledge her acquaintance; for, after the first glance, she kept her eyes obstinately fixed either upon her companion or the ground. this conduct did not disturb gertrude in the least; bella could not feel more indifferent about the acquaintance than she did; but being thus saved the necessity of awaiting and returning any salutation from that quarter, she naturally bestows her passing glance upon the gentleman who accompanied miss clinton. he looked up at the same instant, fixed his full grey eyes upon her, with that careless look with which one stranger regards another, then, turning as carelessly away, made some slight remark to his companion. they pass on. they have gone some steps--but gertrude stands fixed to the spot. she feels a great throbbing at her heart. she knows that look, that voice, as well as if she had seen and heard them yesterday. could gertrude forget willie sullivan? but he has forgotten her. shall she run after him and stop him, and catch both his hands in hers, and compel him to see, and know, and speak to her? she started one step forward in the direction he had taken, then suddenly paused and hesitated. a crowd of emotions choked, blinded, suffocated her, and while she wrestled with them, and they with her, he turned the corner and passed out of sight. she covered her face with her hands and leaned against a tree. it was willie. there was no doubt of that; but not her willie--the _boy_ willie. it was true time had added but little to his height or breadth of figure, for he was a well-grown youth when he went away. but six years of eastern life, including no small amount of travel, care, exposure, and suffering, had done the work that time would ordinarily have accomplished. the winning attractiveness of the boy had but given place to equal, if not superior, qualities in the man, who was still very handsome, and gifted with that natural grace and ease of deportment which win universal commendation. the broad, open forehead, the lines of mild but firm decision about the mouth, the frank, fearless manner, were as marked as ever, and were alone sufficient to betray his identity to one upon whose memory these and all his other characteristics were indelibly stamped; and gertrude needed not the sound of his well-known voice, that too fell upon her ear, to proclaim to her beating heart that willie sullivan had met her face to face, had passed on, and that she was left alone, unrecognised, unknown, unthought of, and uncared for! for a time this bitter thought, "he does not know me," was present to her mind; it engrossed her entire imagination, and sent a thrill of surprise and agony through her whole frame. she did not stop to reflect upon the fact that she was but a child when she parted from him, and that the change in her appearance must be immense. the one painful idea, that she was forgotten and lost to the dear friend of her childhood, obliterated every other recollection. other feelings, too, soon crowded into her mind. why was willie here, and with isabel clinton leaning on his arm? how came he on this side the ocean? and why had he not immediately sought herself, the earliest and, as she had supposed, almost the only friend, to welcome him back to his native land? why had he not written and warned her of his coming? how should she account for his strange silence, and the still stranger circumstance of his hurrying at once to the haunts of fashion, without once visiting the city of his birth and the sister of his adoption? but among all her visions there had been none which approached the reality of this painful experience that had suddenly plunged her into sorrow. her darkest dreams had never pictured a meeting so chilling; her most fearful forebodings had never prefigured anything so heart-rending as this seemingly annihilation of all the sweet and cherished relations that had subsisted between herself and the long-absent wanderer. no wonder, then, that she forgot the place, the time, everything but her own overwhelming grief; and that, as she stood leaning against the old tree, her chest heaved with sobs too deep for utterance, and great tears trickled from her eyes and between the little taper fingers that vainly sought to hide her disturbed countenance. she was startled from her position by the sound of a footstep. hastily starting forward, without looking in the direction from which it came, and throwing her veil so as to hide her face, she wiped away her fast-flowing tears and hastened on, to avoid being observed by any of the numerous strangers who frequented the grounds at this hour. half-blinded, however, by the thick folds of the veil, and her sight rendered dim by the tears which filled her eyes, she was scarcely conscious of the unsteady course she was pursuing, when suddenly a loud, whizzing noise close to her ears frightened and confused her so that she knew not which way to turn; at the same instant an arm was suddenly flung round her waist, she was forcibly lifted from her feet as if she had been a little child, and found herself detained and supported by the same strong arm, while just in front of her a little hand-car, containing two persons, was whirling by at full speed. one step more and she would have reached the track of the miniature railway, and been exposed to fatal injury from the rapidly-moving vehicle. flinging back her veil, she perceived her fortunate escape; and being released from the firm grasp of her rescuer, she turned upon him a half-confused, half-grateful face. mr. phillips--for it was he--looked upon her in the most tender and pitying manner. "poor child!" said he soothingly, at the same time drawing her arm through his, "you were very much frightened. here, sit down upon this bench," and he would have drawn her towards a seat, but she shook her head and signified by a movement her wish to proceed towards the hotel. she could not speak; the kindness of his look and voice only served to increase her trouble and rob her of the power to articulate. so he walked on in silence, supporting her with the greatest care and bestowing upon her many an anxious glance. at last making a great effort to recover her calmness, she partially succeeded--so much so that he ventured to speak again, and asked, "did _i_ frighten you?" "you!" replied she, in a low and somewhat unsteady voice. "oh no! you are very kind." "i am sorry you are so disturbed," said he; "those little cars are troublesome things; i wish they'd put a stop to them." "the car!" said gertrude, in an absent way; "oh, yes, i forgot." "you are a little nervous, i fear; can't you get dr. jeremy to prescribe for you?" "the doctor! he went back for his cane, i believe." mr. phillips saw that she was bewildered. he forbore any conversation, and they continued their walk to the hotel in silence. just before leaving her he said, in a tone of the deepest interest, as he held her hand for a moment at parting, "can i do anything for you? can i help you?" gertrude looked up at him. she saw that he understood that she was unhappy, not nervous. her eyes thanked him as they glistened behind a shower of tears. "no, no," gasped she, "but you are very good;" and she hastened into the house, leaving him gazing at the door, as if she was still in sight and he were watching her. gertrude's first thought was how she might best conceal all her fears, and especially from miss graham any knowledge of her grief. that she would receive sympathy from emily there could be no doubt; but as she loved her benefactress, did she shrink from any disclosure which was calculated to lessen willie sullivan in the estimation of one in whose opinion she was anxious that he should sustain the high place to which her own praises had exalted him. the chief knowledge that emily had of willie was derived from gertrude, and with a mingled feeling of tenderness for him and pride on her own account did the latter dread to disclose the fact that he had returned, and that she had met him at saratoga, and that he had passed her carelessly by. it was very hard for her to appear as usual and elude the vigilance of emily, who was keenly alive to every sensation experienced by gertrude. gertrude's love for willie was undying, and she could not think that he would attach himself to one so worldly, vain, and selfish as isabel clinton. true, she was the daughter of willie's early and generous employer, now the senior partner in the mercantile house to which he belonged, and would be expected to pay her every polite attention; but still gertrude could not but feel a greater sense of estrangement, a chilling presentiment of sorrow, from seeing him thus familiarly associated with one who had treated her with scorn. she had to summon all her self-command, and endeavour to behave with serenity and composure. gertrude compelled herself to enter the room where emily was awaiting her, bid her a cheerful "good morning," and assist in her toilet. her face bore indications of recent tears, but that emily could not see, and by breakfast-time even they were effectually removed. new trials too awaited her, for dr. jeremy, according to his promise, after recovering his cane, went to meet her as agreed upon, and, finding her false to her appointment, was full of inquiries as to the path she had taken. the truth was, that when gertrude heard mr. phillips approaching in the direction she should have taken, she, in her eagerness to avoid meeting any one, took the contrary path to that she had been pursuing, and, after he joined her, retraced her steps to the hotel the same way she had come, consequently eluding the search of the doctor. but before she could plead any excuse netta gryseworth came up, full of pleasantry and fun, and leaning over gertrude's shoulder, said, in a whisper loud enough to be heard by all the little circle, who were being delayed on their way to breakfast by the doctor's demand for an explanation, "gertrude, my dear, such affecting partings ought to be private; i wonder you allow them to take place directly at the door-step." this remark did not lessen gertrude's discomfiture, which became extreme on dr. jeremy's taking netta by the arm and insisting upon knowing her meaning, declaring that he always had suspicions of gertrude, and wanted to know with whom she had been walking. "oh, a certain tall young beau of hers, who stood gazing after her when she left him, until i began to fear the cruel creature had turned him into stone. what did you do to him, gertrude?" "nothing," replied gertrude. "he saved me from being thrown down by the little rail-car, and afterwards walked home with me." gertrude answered seriously; she could have laughed and joked with netta at any other time, but now her heart was too heavy. the doctor did not perceive her agitation, and pushed the matter further. "quite romantic! imminent danger! providential rescue! _tête-à-tête_ walk home, carefully avoiding the old doctor, who might prove an interruption!--i understand!" poor gertrude, blushing and distressed, tried to offer some explanation and stammered out, with a faltering voice, that she did not notice--she didn't remember. at breakfast she could not conceal her want of appetite, and was glad when emily went with her to their own room, where, after relating her escape from accident, and mr. phillips' agency in that escape, she was permitted by her apparently satisfied hearer to sit down and read to her in a book lent them by that gentleman, to whom, however, no opportunity had yet occurred of introducing emily. the whole morning passed away, and nothing was heard from willie. every time a servant passed, gertrude was on the tiptoe of expectation; and when she heard a tap at the door she trembled so that she could hardly lift the latch. but there was no summons to the parlour, and by noon the excitement had brought a deep flush into her face, and she had a severe headache. conscious, however, of the wrong construction put upon her conduct if she absented herself from the dinner-table, she made the effort to dress with as much care as usual; and, as she passed up the hall to her seat, it was not strange that, though suffering herself, the rich glow that mantled her cheeks, and the brilliancy which excitement had given to her dark eyes, attracted the notice of others besides mr. phillips. chapter xxxviii. the stricken deer. when gertrude went to her room after dinner, which she did as soon as she had seen emily comfortably established in the drawing-room in conversation with madam gryseworth, she found there a beautiful bouquet of the choicest flowers, which the chamber-maid said she had been commissioned to deliver to herself. she rightly imagined the source from whence they came, divined the motives of kindness which had prompted the donor of so acceptable a gift, and felt that, if she must accept pity from any quarter, mr. phillips was one from whom she could more easily bear to receive it than from any other. notwithstanding netta's intimations, she did not suspect that any other motives than those of kindness had prompted the offering of the beautiful flowers. nor had she reason to do so; mr. phillips' manner towards her was rather fatherly than lover-like, and though she began to regard him as a valuable friend, that was the only light in which she had ever thought of him or believed that he ever regarded her. she placed the flowers in water, returned to the parlour, and constrained herself to talk on indifferent subjects until the breaking up of the circle--part to ride, part to take a drive, and the rest a nap. among these last was gertrude, who made her headache as an excuse to emily for this unwonted indulgence. in the evening she had an urgent invitation to accompany dr. gryseworth, his daughters, and the petrancourts to a concert at the united states hotel. this she declined. she felt that she could not undergo another such encounter as that of the morning--she should be sure to betray herself; and now that the whole day had passed and willie had made no attempt to see her, she felt that she would not, for the world, put herself in his way and run the risk of being recognised by him in a crowded concert-room. thus the parlour, being half deserted, was very quiet--a great relief to gertrude's aching head and troubled mind. later in the evening an elderly man, a clergyman, had been introduced to emily, and was talking with her; madam gryseworth and dr. jeremy were entertaining each other, mrs. jeremy was nodding, and gertrude, believing that she should not be missed, was gliding out of the room to sit in the moonlight when she met mr. phillips in the hall. "what are you here all alone for?" asked he. "why didn't you go to the concert?" "i have a headache." "i saw you had at dinner. is it no better?" "no. i believe not." "come and walk with me on the piazza a little while. it will do you good." she went; and he talked very entertainingly to her, told her a great many amusing anecdotes, succeeded in making her smile, and even laugh, and seemed pleased at having done so. he related many amusing things he had seen and heard since he had been staying at saratoga in the character of a spectator, and ended by asking her if she didn't think it was a heartless show. gertrude asked his meaning. "don't you think it is ridiculous in so many thousand people coming here to enjoy themselves?" "i don't know," answered gertrude; "but it has not seemed so to me. i think it's an excellent thing for those who do enjoy themselves." "and how many do?" "the greater part, i suppose." "pshaw! no they don't. more than half go away miserable, and nearly all the rest dissatisfied." "do you think so? now, i thought the charm of the place was seeing so many happy faces; they have nearly all looked happy to me." "oh, that's all on the surface; and, if you'll notice, those who look happy one day are wretched enough the next. yours was one of the happy faces yesterday, but it isn't to-day, my poor child." then, perceiving that his remark caused the hand which rested on his arm to tremble, while the eyes which had been raised to his suddenly fell and hid themselves under their long lashes, he said, "however, we will trust soon to see it as bright as ever. but they should not have brought you here. catskill mountain was a fitter place for your lively imagination and reflecting mind." "oh!" exclaimed gertrude, imagining that mr. phillips suspected her to be smarting under some neglect, feeling of wounded pride, or, perhaps, serious injury, "you speak harshly; all are not selfish, all are not unkind." "ah! you are young, and full of faith. trust whom you can, and as long as you can. _i_ trust _no one_." "no one! are there none, then, in the whole world whom you love and confide in?" "scarcely; certainly not more than one. whom should i trust?" "the good, the pure, the truly great." "and who are they? how shall we distinguish them? i tell you, my young friend, that in my experience--and it has been rich, ay, very rich"--and he set his teeth and spoke with bitterness--"the so-called good, the honourable, the upright man, has proved but the varnished hypocrite, the highly finished and polished sinner. yes," continued he, his voice growing deeper, his manner more excited, "i can think of one, a respectable man, a church-member, whose injustice and cruelty made my life what it has been--a desert, a blank, or worse than that; and i can think of another, an old, rough, intemperate sailor, over whose head a day never passed that he did not take the name of his god in vain, yet had at the bottom of his heart a drop of such pure, unsullied essence of virtue as could not be distilled from the souls of ten thousand of your polished rogues. which, then, shall i trust--the good religious men, or the low, profane, and abject ones?" "trust in _goodness_, wherever it be found," answered gertrude; "but oh, trust _all_ rather than _none_." "your world, your religion, draws a closer line. you are a good child, and full of hope and charity," said mr. phillips, pressing her arm closely to his side. "i will try and have faith in _you_. but see! our friends have returned from the concert." alboni had excelled herself; and they were so sorry gertrude did not go. "but, perhaps," whispered netta, "you have enjoyed yourself more at home." but gertrude, as she stood leaning unconcernedly upon mr. phillips' arm, looked so innocent of confusion or embarrassment, that her manner refuted netta's suspicions. "miss clinton was there," continued netta, "and looked beautiful. she had a crowd of gentlemen about her; but didn't you notice (and she turned to mrs. petrancourt) that one met with such marked favour that i wonder the rest were not discouraged. i mean that tall, handsome young man who waited upon her into the hall and went out soon after. she devoted herself to him while he stayed." "the same one, was it not," asked ellen, "who towards the close of the concert came in and stood leaning against the wall for some minutes?" "yes," answered netta; "but he only waited for alboni to finish singing, and then approaching miss clinton, whispered in her ear. after that she got up, left her seat, and they both went off, rather to the mortification of the other gentlemen." "oh, it is not strange, under the circumstances," said mr. petrancourt, "that miss clinton should prefer a walk with mr. sullivan to the best music in the world." "why?" asked netta. "is he very agreeable? is he supposed to be the favoured one?" "i should think there was no doubt of it," answered mr. petrancourt. "i believe it is generally thought to be an engagement. he was in paris with them during the spring, and they all came home in the same steamer. everybody knows it is the wish of mr. clinton's heart, and miss isabel makes no secret of her preference." "oh, certainly," interposed mrs. pentracourt; "it is an understood thing." what became of gertrude all this time? could she, who for six years had nursed the fond idea that to willie she was, and should still continue to be, all in all--could she stand patiently by and hear him thus disposed of and given to another? she did do it; not consciously, however, for her head swam round, and she would have fallen but for the firm support of mr. phillips, who held her arm so tightly that, though he felt, the rest could not see how she trembled. fortunately, too, none but he saw her blanched face; and, as she stood in the shadow, he alone was watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips, the death-like pallor of her countenance. standing there with her heart beating, and almost believing herself in a horrid dream, she listened, heard, and comprehended every word. she could not, however, have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant more accident might have betrayed her excited condition. but mr. phillips acted, spoke, and moved for her, and she was spared an exposure from which her sensitive spirit would have shrunk. "mr. sullivan!" said he. "ah! a fine fellow; i know him. miss gertrude, i must tell you an anecdote about that young man;" and moving forward in the direction in which they had been walking when they met the party from the concert, he related that he and mr. sullivan were, a few years previous, travelling across an arabian desert, when the latter proved of signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering tribe of bedouins. he stopped in his narration and perceived that all danger of observation was passed, and without ceremony placed her in an arm-chair just by. "sit here," said he, "while i bring you a glass of water." he wrapped her mantle tightly about her and walked quickly away. oh, how gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus considerately leaving her and giving her time to recover herself! it was the most judicious thing he could have done, and the kindest. he saw that she would not faint, and knew that left alone she would soon rally her powers. when here returned she was perfectly calm. she tasted the water, but he did not urge her to drink it; he knew she did not require it. "i have kept you out too long," said he; "come, you had better go in now." she rose; he put her arm once more through his, guided her feeble steps to a window which opened into her and emily's room; and then, pausing a moment, said in a meaning tone, at the same time enforcing his words by the fixed glance of his piercing eye, "you exhort me, miss gertrude, to have faith in everybody; but i bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to beware lest you believe too much. where you have good foundation for confidence, abide by it, if you can, firmly, but trust nothing which you have not fairly tested, and rest assured that the idle gossip of a place like this is utterly unworthy of credit. good night." what an utter revulsion of feeling these words occasioned gertrude! they came to her with all the force of a prophecy, and struck deep into her heart. during their long and regular correspondence no letter had come from willie that did not breathe a devoted affection for gertrude--an exclusive affection, in which there could be no rivalship. all his thoughts of home and future happy days were inseparably associated with her; and although mrs. sullivan, with that instinctive reserve which was one of her characteristics, never broached the subject to gertrude, her whole treatment of the latter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. the bold declaration on willie's part, conveyed in the letter received by gertrude soon after his mother's death, that his hopes, his prayers, his labours were now all for her, was not a more convincing proof of the tender light in which he regarded her than all their previous intercourse had been. should gertrude, then, distrust him? should she at once set aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence to his prompt desertion of his early friend? no! she resolved to banish the unworthy thought; to cherish still the firm belief that some explanation would shortly offer itself which would yet satisfy her aching heart. gertrude continued during the remainder of the evening in an elevated frame of mind, and she was able to go back to the drawing-room for emily, say good night to her friends with a cheerful voice, and before midnight she sought her pillow and went quietly to sleep. but this calmness of mind, however, was the result of strong excitement, and therefore could not last. the next morning she yielded to depressed spirits, and the effort which she made to rise, dress, and go to breakfast was almost mechanical. she excused herself from her customary walk with the doctor, for to that she felt unequal. her first wish was to leave saratoga; she longed to go home, to be in a quiet place, where so many eyes would not be upon her; and when the doctor came in with the letters which had arrived by the early mail, she looked at them so eagerly that he observed it, and said, smilingly, "none for you, gerty; but one for emily, which is the next best thing, i suppose." to gertrude this was the _very_ best thing, for it was a long-expected letter from mr. graham, who had arrived at new york, and desired them to join him there the following day. gertrude could hardly conceal her satisfaction, and emily, delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting her father, was eager to prepare for leaving. they retired to their own room, and gertrude's time until dinner was occupied in packing. during the whole of the previous day she had been anxiously hoping that willie would make his appearance at their hotel; now she dreaded such an event. to meet him in so public a manner, too, as must here be inevitable, would be insupportable; she would prefer to be in boston when he should first recognize her; and, if she tormented herself yesterday with the fear that he would not come, the dread that he might do so was a still greater cause of distress to her to-day. she was therefore relieved when, after dinner, mr. phillips proposed to drive to the lake. dr. gryseworth and one of his daughters had agreed to take seats in a carriage he had provided, and he hoped she would not refuse to occupy the fourth. at the lake dr. gryseworth and his daughter ellen had been persuaded by a party whom they had met there to engage in bowling. mr. phillips and gertrude declined taking part, and stood looking on. as they sat thus, surveying the beautiful sheet of water, a couple approached and took up a position near them. mr. phillips was screened from their observation by the trunk of a tree, and gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed, yet the paleness of her face as they drew near indicated that she saw and recognized william sullivan and isabel clinton. the words which they spoke fell distinctly upon her ear. "shall i then be so much missed?" asked isabel, looking earnestly into the face of her companion, who, with a serious air, was gazing out upon the water. "missed!" replied he, turning towards her and speaking in a slightly reproachful voice; "how can it be otherwise? who can supply your place?" "but it will be only two days." "a short time under ordinary circumstances," said willie, "but an eternity----" he here checked himself and made a sudden motion to proceed on their walk. isabel followed him, saying, "but you will wait here until my return?" he turned to reply, and this time the reproachful look of his features was visible to gertrude as he said, with earnestness, "certainly; can you doubt it?" the strange, fixed, unnatural expression of gertrude's countenance as she listened to this conversation, to her so deeply fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness. "gertrude!" exclaimed mr. phillips, after watching her for a moment; "gertrude, for heaven's sake do not look so! speak, gertrude! what is the matter?" but she did not turn her eyes, did not move a feature of that stony face; she evidently did not hear him. he took her hand. it was cold as marble. his face now wore an appearance of distress almost equal to her own; great tears rolled down his cheeks. once he stretched forth his arms as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe her like a little child, but he repressed the emotion. "gertrude," said he, leaning forward and fixing his eyes full upon hers, "what have these people done to you? why do you care for them? if that young man has injured you--the rascal!--he shall answer for it;" and he sprung to his feet. the words and the action brought gertrude to herself. "no, no!" said she, "he is not that. i am better now. do not speak of it; don't tell," and she looked anxiously in the direction of the bowling-alley. "i am a great deal better;" and to his astonishment--for the fearful, rigid look upon her face had frightened him--she rose with composure and proposed going home. he accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way up the hill, where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken by the rest of their party, driving toward saratoga. during the whole drive and the evening which followed gertrude preserved this same unnatural composure. once or twice before they reached the hotel dr. gryseworth asked her if she felt ill. the very tones of her voice were constrained--so much so that emily asked, "what is the matter, my dear child?" but she declared herself quite well, and went through all the duties of the evening, bidding farewell to many of her friends, and arranged with the gryseworths to see them in the morning. emily was the more troubled of the two, for she could not be deceived, and reflected back, in her whole demeanour, the better concealed sufferings of gertrude. gertrude neither knew at the time, nor could afterwards recall, one-half the occurrences of that evening. she never could understand what it was that sustained her and enabled her, half unconsciously, to perform her part in them. how she so successfully concealed her misery she never could comprehend or explain. that willie was faithless to his first love she could not doubt; and with this conviction she realised that the stay of her life had fallen. uncle true and mrs. sullivan were both her benefactors, and emily was still a dear and steadfast friend; but all of these had been more or less dependent upon gertrude, and although she could ever repose in the assurance of their love, two had, long before they passed away, come to lean wholly upon her youthful arm; and the other trusted to her to guide her uncertain steps, but those steps were tending downwards to the grave. upon whom, then, should gertrude lean? to whom could she with confidence turn for counsel, protection, support, and love? to whom but willie? and willie had given his heart to another--and gertrude would soon be left alone! no wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted weep, wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself sick, faint, and exhausted. and then she thought she heard voices, as in her childhood, whispering, "gerty!--gerty!--poor little gerty!" she sank upon her knees, her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the sweet resignation of her countenance gave evidence that in her prayer to god her soul held deep communion with its maker, and once more her spirit was uttering the simple words, "here am i, lord!" oh, blessed religion, which can sustain the heart in such an hour as this! oh, blessed faith and trust which, when earthly support fails us, and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, lifts the soul above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its god! and now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. she turns and sees emily, whom she believed to be asleep, but from whom anxiety and the sobs of gertrude banished slumber, is standing by her side. "gertrude," said she, "are you in trouble, and did you seek to hide it from me? do not turn from me, gertrude!" and, throwing her arms around her, she drew her head close to her bosom, and whispered, "tell me all, my darling! what is the matter with my poor child?" and gertrude unburdened her heart to emily, disclosing to her the only secret she had ever kept from her; and emily wept as she listened, and when gertrude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart, exclaiming with an excitement which gertrude had never before witnessed in the usually placid blind girl, "strange, strange, that you, too, should be thus doomed! oh, gertrude, my darling, we may well weep together; but still, believe me, your sorrow is less bitter than mine!" and then in the darkness of that midnight hour was gertrude's confidence rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and woe which twenty years before had blighted emily's youth, and which was still vivid to her recollection casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her blindness was but a single feature. chapter xxxix. a tale of sorrow. "i was younger than you, gertrude," said she, "when my trial came, and hardly the same person in any respect that i have been since you first knew me. my mother died when i was too young to retain any recollection of her; but my father soon married again, and in that step-parent i found a love and care which fully compensated my loss. i can recall her now as she looked towards the latter part of her life--a tall, delicate, feeble woman, with a very sweet face. she was a widow when my father married her, and had one son, who became my sole companion, the partner of all my youthful pleasures. you told me, many years ago, that i could not imagine how much you loved willie, and i then had nearly confided to you my early history, and to convince you that my own experience taught me how to understand such a love; but i checked myself, for you were too young then to know so sad a story as mine. how dear my young playmate became to me no words can express. the office which each filled, the influence which each of us exerted upon the other, created mutual dependence; for though his was the leading spirit, the strong and determined will, and i was ever submissive to a rule which to my easily influenced nature was never irksome, there was one respect in which my bold young protector and ruler ever looked to me for aid. it was to act as mediator between him and my father; for while the boy was almost an idol to his mother, he was ever treated with coldness and distrust by my father, who never appreciated his noble qualities, but seemed always to regard him with dislike. "that my father's sternness towards her son was distressing to our mother i doubt not; for i remember the anxiety with which she strove to conceal his faults and the frequent occasions on which she instructed me to propitiate the parent, who, for my sake, would often forgive the boy, whose adventurous disposition was continually bringing him into collision with one of whose severity, when displeased, you can judge. my step-mother had been poor in her widowhood, and her child having inherited nothing which he could call his own, was wholly dependent upon my father's bounty. this was a stinging cause of mortification to the pride of which even as a boy he had an unusual share; and often have i seen him irritated at the reception of favours which he well understood were far from being awarded by a paternal hand. "while our mother was spared to us we lived in comparative harmony, but when i was sixteen years old she suddenly died. well do i remember the last night of her life, her calling me to her bedside and saying, 'emily, my dying prayer is that you will be a guardian angel to my boy!' god forgive me," ejaculated the tearful blind girl, "if i have been faithless in the trust! "he of whom i am telling you was then about eighteen. he had lately become a clerk in my father's employ against his will, for he desired a collegiate education; but my father was determined, and at his mother's and my persuasion he was induced to submit. my step-mother's death knit the tie between her son and myself more closely than ever. he continued an inmate of our house, and we passed a deal of time in the enjoyment of each other's society; for my father was much from home, and when there, retired to his library, leaving us to entertain each other. i was then a school-girl, fond of books, and an excellent student. how often, when you have spoken of the help willie was in your studies, have i been reminded of the time when i received similar encouragement and aid from my youthful friend, who was ever ready to exert hand and brain in my behalf! but we were not invariably happy. often did my father's face wear a frown which i dreaded to see; while the disturbed and occasionally angry countenance of his step-son denoted that some storm had occurred, probably at the counting-house, of which i had no knowledge, except from its after effects. my office of mediator, too, was suspended from the fact that the censure arose concerning some supposed mismanagement of business matters by the young and inexperienced clerk. matters went on thus for six months, when it became evident that my father had either been influenced by insinuations from some foreign quarter, or had himself conceived a new idea. he is honest and straightforward in his purposes, whatever they may be, and incapable of carrying out any species of artifice. we saw that he was resolved to put a check upon the freedom of intercourse which had subsisted between the two youthful inmates of the house, to forward which purpose he introduced in the position of housekeeper mrs. ellis, who has continued with us ever since. the almost constant presence of this stranger, and the interference of my father with his step-son's familiar intimacy with me, indicated his intention to destroy the closeness of our friendship. "it is true, i lent myself unhesitatingly to a species of petty deception to elude the vigilance which would have kept us apart. my father, however, saw more of our man[oe]uvring than we were aware of, and imagined far more than ever in reality existed. he watched us carefully, and, contrary to his usual course of proceeding, forbore for a time any interference. i have since been led to think that he designed to wean us from each other in a less unnatural manner than that which he had at first attempted, by taking the earliest opportunity to transfer his step-son to a situation connected with his own mercantile establishment in a foreign country, or a distant part of our own; and forbore, until his plans were ripe, to distress me by giving way to the feelings of displeasure which were burning within him--for he was, and had ever been, as kind and indulgent towards his undeserving child as was consistent with a due maintenance to his authority. "before such a course could be carried out, however, circumstances occurred, and suspicions became aroused, which destroyed one of their victims, and plunged the other----" here emily's voice failed her. she laid her head upon gertrude's shoulder and sobbed bitterly. "do not try to tell me the rest, dear emily," said gertrude. "it is enough for me to know that you are so unhappy. do not distress yourself by dwelling, for my sake, upon past sorrows." "past!" replied emily, recovering her voice and wiping away her tears. "no, they are never past. nor am i unhappy, gertrude. it is but rarely that my peace is shaken; nor would i now allow my weak nerves to be unstrung by imparting to another the secrets of that never-to-be-forgotten time of trial, were it not that, since you know so well how harmoniously and sweetly my life is passing on to its great and eternal awakening, i desire to prove to my darling child the power of that heavenly faith which has turned my darkness into marvellous light, and made afflictions such as mine the blessed harbingers of ever-during joy. "i was suddenly taken ill with a fever. mrs. ellis, whom i had always treated with coldness, and often with disdain, nursed me by night and day with a care and devotion which i did not expect, and under her nursing, and the skilful treatment of dr. jeremy, i began to recover. one day, when i was able to be up and dressed for several hours at a time, i went for change of air and scene into my father's library, and there lay half reclining upon the sofa. mrs. ellis had gone to attend to household duties, but before she left me she placed within my reach a small table, upon which were arranged various phials, glasses, etc., and other things which i might require before her return. it was in an evening in june, and i lay watching the approach of sunset from an opposite window. i was oppressed, with a sad sense of loneliness, for during the past six weeks i had enjoyed no society but that of my nurse and periodical visits from my father; and felt, therefore, no common pleasure when my most congenial but now nearly forbidden associate entered the room. he had not seen me since my illness, and after this protracted and painful separation our meeting was tender and affectionate. he had, with all the fire of a hot and ungoverned temper, a woman's depth of feeling, warmth of heart, and sympathising sweetness of manner. well do i remember the expression of his noble face, the manly tones of his voice, as, seated beside me on the wide couch, he bathed the temples of my aching head with eau-de-cologne, which he took from the table near by, at the same time expressing again and again his joy at once more seeing me. "how long we had sat thus i cannot tell, but the twilight was deepening in the room when we were suddenly interrupted by my father, who entered abruptly, came towards us with hasty steps, but stopping short when within a yard or two, confronted his step-son with such a look of angry contempt as i had never before seen upon his face. the latter rose and stood before him with a glance of proud defiance, and then ensued a scene which i have neither the wish nor power to describe. "it is sufficient to say that in the double accusation which my excited parent now brought against the object of his wrath, he urged the fact of his seeking by mean, base, and contemptible artifice to win the affections, and with them the expected fortune, of his only child as a secondary and pardonable crime compared with his deeper, darker, and just but detected guilt of forgery--forgery of a large amount, and upon his benefactor's name. "to this day, so far as i know," said emily, with feeling, "that charge remains uncontradicted; but i did not then, i do not now, and i never _can_ believe it. whatever were his faults--and his impetuous temper betrayed him into many--of this dark crime--though i have not even his own word of attestation--i dare pronounce him innocent. "you cannot wonder, gertrude, that in my feeble condition i was hardly capable of realising at the time, far less of retaining, any distinct recollection of the circumstances that followed my father's words. a few dim pictures, however, the last my poor eyes ever beheld, are still engraved upon my memory and visible to my imagination. my father stood with his back to the light, and from the first moment of his entering the room i never saw his face again; but the countenance of the object of his accusation, illumined as it was by the last rays of the golden sunset, stands ever in the foreground of my recollection. his head was thrown proudly back; conscious innocence proclaimed itself in his clear, calm eye, which shrunk not from the closest scrutiny; his hand was clenched, as if he were vainly striving to repress the passion which proclaimed itself in the compressed lips, the set teeth, the deep and angry indignation which overspread his face. he did not speak--apparently he could not command voice to do so; but my father continued to upbraid him in language cutting and severe, though i remember not a word of it. it was fearful to watch the working of the young man's face, while he stood there listening to taunts and enduring reproaches which were believed by him who uttered them to be just and merited, but which wrought the youth to a degree of frenzy which it was terrible to witness. suddenly he took one step forward, slowly lifted the clenched hand which had hitherto hung at his side. i know not whether he might then have intended to call heaven to witness his innocence of the crime, or whether he might have designed to strike my father; for i sprang from my seat prepared to rush between them, and implore them for my sake, to desist; but my strength failed me, and, with a shriek, i sunk back in a fainting fit. "oh, the horror of my awakening! how shall i find words to tell it?--and yet i must! listen, gertrude. he--the poor, ruined boy--sprung to help me; and, maddened by injustice, he knew not what he did. heaven is my witness, i never blamed him; and if, in my agony, i uttered words that seemed like a reproach, it was because i was too frantic, and knew not what i said!" "what!" exclaimed gertrude, "he did not----" "no, no! he did not--he did _not put_ out my eyes!" exclaimed emily; "it was an accident. he reached forward for the eau-de-cologne, which he had just had in his hand. there were several bottles, and in his haste he seized one containing a powerful acid which mrs. ellis had found occasion to use in my sick-room. it had a heavy glass stopper--and he--his hand being unsteady, and he spilt it all----" "on your eyes?" shrieked gertrude. emily bowed her head. "oh, poor emily!" cried gertrude, "and wretched, wretched young man!" "wretched indeed!" ejaculated emily. "bestow all your pity on him, gertrude, for his was the harder fate of the two." "oh, emily! how intense must have been the pain you endured! how could you suffer so, and live?" "do you mean the pain from my eyes? that was severe indeed, but the mental agony was worse!" "what became of him?" said gertrude. "i cannot give you an exact account of what followed. i was in no state to know anything of my father's treatment of his step-son. he banished him from his sight and knowledge for ever; and it is easy to believe it was with no added gentleness, since he had now, besides the other crimes imputed to him, been the cause of his daughter's blindness." "and did you never hear from him again?" "yes. through the good doctor--who alone knew all the circumstances--i learned that he had sailed for south america; and in the hope of once more communicating with the poor exile, and assuring him of my continued love, i rallied from the sickness, fever, and blindness into which i had fallen; the doctor had even a thought of restoring sight to my eyes. several months passed, and my kind friend, who was persevering in his inquiries, having learned the residence and address of the ill-fated youth, i was commencing, through the aid of mrs. ellis (whom pity had now won to my service), a letter of love, and an entreaty for his return, when a fatal seal was put to all my earthly hopes. he died in a foreign land, alone, unnursed, and uncared for; he died of that southern disease which takes the stranger for its victim; and i, on hearing the news of it, sunk back into a more pitiable malady; and--and alas, for the encouragement of the good doctor had held out of my gradual restoration to sight!--i wept all his hopes away!" emily paused. gertrude put her arms around her, and they clung closely to each other; grief and sorrow made their union dearer than ever. "i was then, gertrude," continued emily, "a child of the world, eager for worldly pleasures, and ignorant of any other. for a time, therefore, i dwelt in utter darkness--the darkness of despair. i began, too, again to feel my bodily strength restored, and to look forward to a useless and miserable life. you can form no idea of the utter wretchedness in which my days were passed. "but at last a dawn came to my dark night. it came in the shape of a minister of christ, our own dear mr. arnold, who opened the eyes of my understanding, lit the lamp of religion in my now softened soul, taught me the way to peace, and led my feeble steps into that blessed rest which even on earth remaineth to the people of god. "in the eyes of the world i am still the unfortunate blind girl; cut off from every enjoyment; but so great is the awakening i have experienced that to me it is far otherwise, and i am ready to exclaim, like him who in old time experienced his saviour's healing power, 'once i was blind, but now i see!'" gertrude half forgot her own troubles while listening to emily's sad story; and when the latter laid her hand upon her head, and prayed that she too might be fitted for a patient endurance of trial, and be made stronger and better thereby, she felt her heart penetrated with that deep love and trust which seldom come to us except in the hour of sorrow, and prove that it is through suffering only we are made perfect. chapter xl. the hour of peril. as mr. graham had expressed in his letter the intention of being at the steamboat wharf in new york to meet his daughter and gertrude on their arrival, dr. jeremy thought it unnecessary to accompany his charges further than albany, where he could see them safely on their way, and then proceed to boston with his wife over the western railroad. "good-bye, gerty," said the doctor, as he bade them farewell on the deck of one of the hudson river-boats. "i'm afraid you've lost your heart in saratoga; you don't look quite so bright as you did when we first arrived there. it can't have strayed far, however, i think, in such a place as that; so be sure and find it before i see you in boston." it wanted a few minutes only of the time for the boat to start, when a gay group of fashionables appeared talking and laughing. among them was miss clinton, whose companions were making her the object of a great deal of wit and pleasantry, by which, although she feigned to be teased, her smiling face gave evidence that she felt flattered and pleased. at length the significant gesture of some of the party, and a half-smothered hush-h! indicated the approach of some one, and presently william sullivan, with a travelling-bag in his hand, a heavy shawl thrown over one arm, and his grave face, as if he had not recovered from the chagrin of the previous evening, appeared, passed gertrude, whose veil was drawn over her face, and joined isabel, placing his burden on a chair which stood near. just then the violent ringing of the bell gave notice to all but the passengers to quit the boat, and he was compelled to make haste to depart. as he did so he drew a step nearer gertrude, a step further from her whom he was addressing, and the former distinguished the words: "then, if you will do your best to return on thursday i will try not to be impatient in the meantime." a moment more and the boat was on its way; just then a tall figure, who reached the landing just as she started, had, to the horror of the spectators, daringly leaped the gap that already divided her from the shore; after which he sought the gentlemen's saloon, threw himself upon a couch, drew a book from his pocket, and commenced reading. as soon as the boat was fairly under weigh and quiet prevailed in the neighbourhood, emily spoke softly to gertrude, and said---- "didn't i just now hear isabel clinton's voice?" "she is here," replied gertrude, "on the opposite side of the deck, but sitting with her back towards us." "didn't she see us?" "i believe she did," answered gertrude. "she stood looking this way while her party were arranging their seats." "perhaps she is going to new york to meet mrs. graham." "very possible," replied gertrude. "i didn't think of it before." "who was the gentleman who spoke to her just before the boat started?" "willie," was the tremulous response. emily pressed gertrude's hand and was silent. she, too, had overheard his farewell remark, and felt its significance. several hours passed, and they had proceeded some distance down the river; for the motion of the boat was rapid--too rapid, as it seemed to gertrude, for safety. she observed several circumstances, which excited so much alarm, that, effectually aroused from her train of reflection, she had leisure only to take into view her own and emily's situation, and its probable consequence. several times, since they left albany, had the boat passed and repassed another of similar size, with living freight, and bound in the same direction. occasionally, during their headlong course, the contiguity of the two boats excited serious alarm. they were racing, and racing desperately. some few, regardless of danger, watched with pleased eagerness the mad career of rival ambition; but by far the majority of the company, who had reason and sense, looked on in indignation and fear. the usual stopping places on the river were either recklessly passed by, or only paused at, while, with indecent haste, passengers were shuffled backwards and forwards at the risk of life and limb, their baggage (or somebody's else) unceremoniously flung after them, the panting, snorting engine in the meantime bellowing with rage at the check thus unwillingly imposed upon its freedom. gertrude sat with her hand locked in emily's, anxiously watching every indication of terror, and endeavouring to judge from the countenances and words of her most intelligent-looking fellow-travellers the actual degree of their insecurity. emily, rendered through her acute hearing, conscious of the prevailing alarm, was calm, though very pale, and from time to time questioned gertrude concerning the vicinity of the other boat, a collision with which was the principal cause of fear. at length their boat for a few moments distanced its competitor; the assurance of perfect safety was impressively asserted; anxiety began to be relieved, and most of the passengers gained their wonted composure. emily looked pallid, and, as gertrude fancied, a little faint. "let us go below, emily," she said; "it appears now to be very quiet and safe." gertrude opened her travelling-basket, which contained their luncheon. it consisted merely of such dry morsels as had been hastily collected and put up at their hotel, in albany, by dr. jeremy's direction. gertrude was hesitating which she could recommend to emily, when a waiter appeared, bearing a tray of refreshments, which he placed upon the table. "this is not for us," said gertrude. "you have made a mistake." "no mistake," replied the man. "orders was for de blind lady and hansum young miss. i only 'beys orders. anything furder, miss?" gertrude dismissed the man with the assurance that they wanted nothing more, and then, turning to emily, asked, with an attempt at cheerfulness, what they should do with this aladdin-like repast. "eat it, my dear, if you can," said emily; "it is no doubt meant for us." "but to whom are we indebted for it?" "to my blindness and your beauty, i suppose," said emily, smiling. "perhaps the chief steward, or master of ceremonies, took pity on our inability to come to dinner, and so sent the dinner to us." the sable waiter, when he came to remove the dishes, really looked sad to see how little they had eaten. gertrude drew out her purse, and after bestowing a fee upon the man, inquired whom she should pay for the meal. "pay, miss!" said the man, grinning. "bless my stars! de gentleman pays for all!" "who? what gentleman?" asked gertrude, in surprise. but before he could reply another waiter appeared and beckoned to his fellow-waiter, who snatched up his tray and trotted off, leaving gertrude and emily to wonder who the gentleman might be. * * * * * "what time is it?" asked she, on awaking. "nearly a quarter past three," replied gertrude, glancing at her watch (a beautiful gift from a class of her former pupils). emily started up. "we can't be far from new york," said she; "where are we now?" "i think we must be near the palisades;" said gertrude; "stay here, i will go and see." she passed across the saloon, and was ascending the staircase, when she was alarmed by a rushing sound, mingled with hurried steps. she kept on, however, and had gained the head of the stairway, when a man rushed past gasping for breath, and shrieking, "fire! fire!" a scene of dismay and confusion ensued too terrible for description. shrieks rose upon the air, groans and cries of despair burst from hearts that were breaking with fear for others, or maddened at the certainty of their own destruction. those who had never prayed before poured out their souls in the fervent ejaculation, "oh, my god!" gertrude gazed around upon every side. towards the centre of the boat, where the machinery, heated to the last degree, had fired the vessel, a huge volume of flame was visible, darting out its fiery fangs, and causing the stoutest hearts to shrink and crouch in horror. she gave but one glance; then bounded down the stairs to save emily. but she was arrested at the very onset. one step only had she taken when she was encircled by two powerful arms, and a movement made to rush with her upon deck: while a familiar voice gasped forth, "gertrude, my child! my own darling! be quiet--be quiet!--i will save you!" she was struggling madly. "no, no!" shouted she; "emily! emily! let me die! but i must find emily!" "where is she?" asked mr. phillips; for it was he. "there, there," pointed gertrude--"in the cabin. let me go! let me go!" he cast one look around him; then said, in a firm tone, "be calm, my child! i can save you both; follow me closely!" with a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the cabin. in the furthest corner knelt emily, her hands clasped, and her face like that of an angel. gertrude and mr. phillips were by her side in an instant. he stooped to lift her in his arms, gertrude at the same time exclaiming, "come, emily, come! he will save us!" but emily resisted. "leave me, gertrude--leave me, and save yourselves! oh!" said she, imploringly, "leave me, and save my child." but ere the words had left her lips she was borne half way across the saloon; gertrude followed closely. "if we can cross to the bows of the boat we are safe!" said mr. phillips, in a husky voice. to do so, however, proved impossible. the centre of the boat was now one sheet of flame. "good heavens!" exclaimed he, "we are too late! we must go back!" with much difficulty they regained the saloon. the boat, as soon as the fire was discovered, had been turned towards the shore, struck upon the rocks, and parted in the middle. her bows were brought near to the land, near enough to almost ensure the safety of such persons as were at the top part of the vessel. but, alas for those near the stern! mr. phillips' first thought was to beat down a window-sash, spring upon the guards, and drag emily and gertrude after him. some ropes hung upon the guards; he seized one and made it fast to the boat; then turned to gertrude, who stood firm by his side. "gertrude," said he, "i shall swim to the shore with emily. if the fire comes too near, cling to the guards; as a last chance hold on to the rope. keep your veil flying; i shall return." "no, no!" cried emily. "gertrude, go first." "hush, emily!" exclaimed gertrude; "we shall both be saved." "cling to my shoulder in the water, emily," said mr. phillips, utterly regardless of her protestations. he took her once more in his arms; there was a splash, and they were gone. at the same instant gertrude was seized from behind. she turned and found herself grasped by isabel clinton, who, kneeling upon the platform, and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely to her as utterly to disable them both; she shrieked out, "oh, gertrude! gertrude! save me!" but gertrude thus imprisoned, she was powerless to do anything for her own or isabel's salvation. she looked forth in the direction mr. phillips had taken, and, to her joy, she saw him returning. he had deposited emily on board a boat, and was now approaching to claim another burden. a volume of flame swept so near the spot where the two alarmed girls were stationed that gertrude felt the scorching heat, and both were almost suffocated with smoke. an heroic resolution was now displayed by gertrude. one of them could be saved; for mr. phillips was within a few rods of the wreck. it should be isabel! she had called on her for protection, and it should not be denied! moreover, willie loved isabel. willie would weep for her loss, and that must not be. he would not weep for gertrude--at least, not much; and, if one must die, it should be she. "isabel," said she--"isabel, do you hear me? stand up on your feet; do as i tell you, and you shall be saved. do you hear me, isabel?" she heard, shuddered; but did not move. gertrude stooped down, and wrenching apart the hands which were convulsively clenched, said sternly, "isabel, if you do as i tell you, you will be on shore in five minutes, safe and well; but if you stay there we shall both be burned to death. for mercy's sake, get up quickly, and listen to me!" isabel rose, fixed her eyes upon gertrude's calm, steadfast face, and said, "what must i do? i will try." "do you see that person swimming this way?" "yes." "he will come to this spot. hold fast to that piece of rope, and i will let you gradually down to the water. but, stay!"--and, snatching the deep blue veil from her own head she tied it round the neck and flung it over the fair hair of isabel. mr. phillips was within a rod or two. "now, isabel, now!" exclaimed gertrude, "or you will be too late!" isabel took the rope, but shrunk back, appalled at the sight of the water. one more hot burst of fire gave her renewed courage to brave a mere seeming danger; and aided by gertrude, who helped her over the guards, she allowed herself to be let down to the water's edge. mr. phillips was just in time to receive her, for she was so utterly exhausted that she could not have clung long to the rope. gertrude had no opportunity to follow them with her eye; her own situation was now all-engrossing. the flames had reached her. she could hardly breathe. she could hesitate no longer. she seized the piece of rope, and grasping it with all nor might, leaped over the side of the vessel. how long her strength would have enabled her thus to cling--how long the guards, as yet unapproached by the fire, would have continued a sure support for the cable--there was no opportunity to test; for, just as her feet touched the cold surface of the water, the huge wheel, which was but a little distance from where she hung, gave one sudden revolution, sounding like a death-dirge through the water, which came foaming and dashing up against the boat, and, as it swept away again, bore with it the light form of gertrude! chapter xli. suspense. let us now revisit the country seat of mr. graham. the old gentleman, wearied with travels and society not congenial to his years, is pacing up and down his garden walks; his countenance denoting plainly enough how glad he is to find himself once more in his cherished homestead. it is supposed that such satisfaction arose from the circumstance that the repose of his household is rendered complete by the absence of its excitable mistress, whom he has left in new york. this was like the good old times. emily and gertrude, too, are closely associated with those good old times; and it adds greatly to the delusion of his fancy to dwell upon the certainty that they are both in the house, and that he shall see them both at dinner. yes, gertrude is there, as well as the rest, saved--she hardly knew how--from a watery grave that almost engulfed her, and established once more in the peaceful and endeared spot, now the dearest to her on earth. when, with some difficulty, restored to consciousness, she was informed that she had been picked up by some humane persons who had pushed a boat from the shore to rescue the sufferers; that she was clinging to the chair, which she had probably grasped when washed away by the sudden rushing of the water, and that her situation was such that, a moment more, and it would have been impossible to save her from the flames, close to which she was drifting. but of all this she had herself no recollection. from the moment when she committed her light weight to the frail tenure of the rope until she opened her eyes in a quiet spot, and saw emily leaning anxiously over the bed upon which she lay, all had been a blank to her senses. a few hours from the time of the terrible catastrophe brought mr. graham to the scene, and the next day restored all three in safety to the old mansion-house in d----. this venerable habitation, and its adjoining grounds, wore nearly the same aspect as when they met the admiring eyes of gerty on the first visit that she made miss graham in her early childhood--that long-expected and keenly-enjoyed visit, which proved a lasting topic for her young mind to dwell upon. the old house had a look of contentment and repose. the hall door stood wide open. mr. graham's arm-chair was in its usual place; gertrude's birds, of which mrs. ellis had taken excellent care, were hopping about on the slender perches of the great indian cage which hung on the wide piazza. the old house-dog lay stretched in the sun. plenty of flowers graced the parlour, and all was very comfortable. mr. graham thought so as he came up the steps, patted the dog, whistled to the birds, sat down in the arm-chair, and took the morning paper from the hand of the neat housemaid. the dear old place was the dear old place still. mr. graham has been having new experiences; and he is, in many respects, a changed man. emily is sitting in her own room. she is paler than ever, and her face has an anxious expression. every time the door opens she starts, trembles, a sudden flush overspreads her face, and twice during the morning she has suddenly burst into tears. every exertion, even that of dressing, seems a labour to her; she cannot listen to gertrude's reading, but will constantly interrupt her to ask questions concerning the burning boat, her own and others' rescue, and every circumstance connected with the late terrible scene of agony and death. her nervous system is shattered, and gertrude looks at her and weeps. gertrude withdrew, but returned in an hour to help her to dress for dinner--a ceremony which miss graham would never omit, her chief desire seeming to be to maintain the appearance of health and happiness in the presence of her father. gertrude retired to her own room, leaving emily to bow her head upon her hands, and utter a few hysterical sobs. gertrude is followed by mrs. ellis, who seats herself, and in her exciting style adds to the poor girl's fear and distress by stating the dreadful effect the recollection of that shocking accident is having upon poor emily. "she's completely upset, and if she don't begin to mend in a day or two there's no knowing what the consequences may be. emily is feeble, and not fit to travel; i wish she had stayed at home." gertrude is again interrupted. the housemaid brought her a letter! with a trembling hand she receives it, fearing to look at the writing or post-mark. her first thought is of willie; but before she could indulge either a hope or a fear on that score the illusion is dispelled, for, though the post-mark is new york, and he might be there, the handwriting is wholly strange. she breaks the seal, and reads:-- "my darling gertrude,--my much-loved child--for such you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone wrung from me the words that claimed you. it was no madness that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to my heart, and call you mine. a dozen times before had i been seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued and smothered. and even now i would crush the promptings of nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone; but the voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced. had i seen you happy, gay, and light-hearted, i would not have asked to share your joy, far less would i have cast a shadow on your path; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of kindred, and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for i am a wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others' woe. "you have a kind and a gentle heart, my child. you have wept once for the stranger's sorrows--will you now refuse to pity, if you cannot love, the solitary parent, who, with a breaking heart and a trembling hand, writes the ill-fated word that dooms him, perhaps, to the hatred and contempt of the only being on earth with whom he can claim the fellowship of a natural tie? twice before have i striven to utter it, and, laying down my pen, have shrunk from the cruel task. but, hard as it is to speak, i find it harder to still the beating of my restless heart; therefore, listen to me, though it may be for the last time. is there one being on earth whom you shudder to think of? is there one associated only in your mind with deeds of darkness and of shame? is there one name which you have from your childhood learned to abhor and hate; and, in proportion as you love your best friend, have you been taught to shrink from and despise her worst enemy? it cannot be otherwise. ah! i tremble to think how my child will recoil from her father when she learns the secret, so long preserved, so sorrowfully revealed, that he is "phillip amory!" as gertrude finished reading this strange and unintelligible letter her countenance expressed complete bewilderment--her eyes glistened with tears, her face was flushed with excitement; but she was evidently at a total loss to account for the meaning of the stranger's words. she sat for an instant wildly gazing into vacancy; then, springing suddenly up, with the letter grasped in one hand, ran to emily's room, to read the wonderful contents, and ask her opinion of their hidden meaning. she stopped, however, when her hand was on the door-lock. emily was already ill--it would not do to distress or even disturb her; and, retreating to her own room, gertrude sat down to re-peruse the singular letter. that mr. phillips and the letter-writer were identical she at once perceived. it was no slight impression that his exclamation and conduct during the time of their imminent danger on board the boat had left upon the mind of gertrude. during the three days that succeeded the accident the words, "my child! my own darling!" had been continually ringing in her ears, and haunting her imagination. now the blissful idea would flash upon her, that the noble, disinterested stranger, who had risked his life in her own and emily's cause, might indeed be her father; and every fibre of her being had thrilled at the thought, while her head grew dizzy and confused with the strong sensation of hope that almost overwhelmed her brain. her first inquiries, on recovering consciousness, had been for the preserver of emily and isabel, but he had disappeared; no trace of him could be obtained, and mr. graham arriving and hurrying them from the neighbourhood, she had been compelled to abandon the hope of seeing him again. the same motives which induced her not to consult emily concerning the mysterious epistle had hitherto prevented her from imparting the secret of mr. phillips' inexplicable language and manner; but she had dwelt upon them none the less. the first perusal of the letter served only to excite and alarm her. but as she sat for an hour gazing upon the page, which she read and re-read until it was blistered with the varying expression of her face denoted the emotions that, one after another, possessed her; and which at last, snatching a sheet of paper, she committed to writing with a feverish rapidity that betrayed how she staggered beneath the weight of contending hopes and gloomy fears. "my dear, dear father,--if i may dare to believe that you are so, and if not that, my best of friends--how shall i write to you, and what shall i say, since all your words are a mystery? father! blessed word. oh, that my noble friend were indeed my father! yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? alas! i feel a sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error. i never before remember to have heard the name of phillip amory. my sweet, pure, and gentle emily has taught me to love all the world; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, i trust, to my own. moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide world, never had, or could have. one might as well war with an angel of heaven as with a creature so holy and lovely as she. "nor bid me think of yourself as a man of sin and crime. it cannot be. it would be wronging a noble nature to believe it, and i say again it cannot be. gladly would i trust myself to repose on the bosom of such a parent; gladly would i hail the sweet duty of consoling the sorrows of one so self-sacrificing, so kind, so generous; whose life has been so freely offered for me, and for others whose existence was dearer to me than my own. when you took me in your arms and called me your child, your darling child, i fancied that the excitement of that dreadful scene had for the moment disturbed your mind and brain so far as to invest me with a false identity--perhaps confound my image with that of some loved and absent one. i now believe that it was no sudden madness, but rather that i have been all along mistaken for another, whose glad office it may perhaps be to cheer a father's saddened life, while i remain unrecognized, unsought--the fatherless, motherless one, i am accustomed to consider myself. if you have lost a daughter, god grant she may be restored to you, to love you as i would do, were i so blessed as to be that daughter! and i--consider me not a stranger; let me be your child in heart; let me love, pray, and weep for you; let me pour out my soul in thankfulness for the kind care and sympathy you have already given me. and yet, though i disclaim it all, and dare not, yes, dare not, dwell for a moment on the thought that you are otherwise than deceived in believing me your child, my heart leaps up in spite of me, and i tremble and almost cease to breathe as there flashes upon me the possibility, the blissful god-given hopes! no, no! i will not think of it, lest i could not bear to have it crushed! oh, what am i writing? i know not. i cannot endure the suspense long; write quickly, or come to me, my father--for i will call you so once, though perhaps never again. "gertrude." mr. phillips--or rather mr. amory, for we shall call him by his true name--had neglected to mention his address. gertrude did not observe this circumstance until she was preparing to direct her letter. she for a moment experienced a severe pang in the thought that her communication would never reach him. but she was reassured on examining the post-mark, which was evidently new york, to which she addressed her missive; and then, unwilling to trust it to other hands, tied on her bonnet, caught up a veil with which to conceal her agitated face, deposited the letter herself in the village post-office. gertrude's case was a peculiarly trying one. she had been already, for a week past, struggling in suspense which agitated her almost beyond endurance; and now a new cause of mystery had arisen, involving an almost equal amount of self-questioning and torture. it seemed almost beyond the power of so sensitive, and so inexperienced a girl to rally such self-command as would enable her to control her emotions, disguise them from observation, and compel herself to endure alone and in silence this cruel destiny. but she did do it, and bravely too. chapter xlii. ties--not of earth. in a private room of one of those first-class hotels in which new york city abounds, phillip amory sat alone. it was evening, the curtains were drawn, the gas-lamps burning brightly and giving a cheerful glow to the room, the comfortable appearance of which contrasted strongly with the pale countenance and desponding attitude of its solitary inmate, who leaned upon a table in the centre of the apartment. he had thus sat for nearly an hour without once moving or looking up. suddenly he started up, straightened his commanding figure to its full height, and slowly paced the room. a slight knock at the door arrested his steps; a look of annoyance overspread his countenance; he again flung himself into his chair, and, in reply to the servant's announcing, "a gentleman, sir," was preparing to say, "i cannot be interrupted"--but it was too late; the visitor had advanced within the door, which the waiter quietly closed and repeated. the new-comer--a young man--stepped quickly and eagerly forward, but checked himself, abashed at the coldness of the reception by his host. "excuse me, mr. phillips," said william sullivan, for it was he; "i fear my visit is an intrusion." "do not speak of it," replied mr. amory. "i beg you to be seated;" politely handing a chair. willie availed himself of the offered seat no further than to lean lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained standing. "you have changed, sir," continued he, "since i last saw you." "changed! yes, i am," said the other, absently. "your health, i fear, is not----" "my health is excellent," said mr. amory, interrupting his remark. "it is a long time, sir, since we met. i have not yet forgotten the debt i owe you for your timely interference between me and ali, that arab traitor, with his rascally army of bedouin rogues." "do not name it, sir," said willie. "our meeting was fortunate; but the benefit was as mutual as the danger to which we were alike exposed." "i cannot think so. you seemed to have a most excellent understanding with your own party of guides and attendants, arabs though they were." "true; i have had some experience in eastern travel, and know how to manage those inflammable spirits of the desert. but at the time i joined you, i was myself entering the neighbourhood of hostile tribes, and might soon have found our party overawed but for having joined forces with yourself." "you set but a modest value upon your conciliatory powers, young man. to you, who are so well acquainted with the facts in the case, i can hardly claim the merit of frankness for the acknowledgment that it was only my own hot temper and stubborn will which exposed us both to the imminent danger which you were fortunately able to avert. no, no! i must once more express my gratitude for your invaluable aid." "you are making my visit, sir," said willie, smiling, "the very reverse of what it was intended to be. i did not come here this evening to receive but to render thanks." "for what, sir?" asked mr. amory, abruptly, almost roughly. "you owe me nothing." "the friends of isabella clinton, sir, owe you a debt of gratitude which it will be impossible for them ever to repay." "you are mistaken, mr. sullivan; i have done nothing which places that young lady's friends under a particle of obligation to me." "did you not save her life?" "yes; but nothing was further from my intention." willie smiled. "it could have been no accident, i think, which led you to risk your own life to rescue a fellow-passenger." "it was no accident which led to miss clinton's safety from destruction. i am convinced of that. but you must not thank _me_; it is due to another than myself that she does not now sleep in death." "may i ask to whom you refer?" "i refer to a dear and noble girl, to whom i swam in that burning wreck to save. her veil had been agreed upon as a signal between us. that veil, carefully thrown over the head of miss clinton, whom i found clinging to the spot assigned to--to her whom i was seeking, deceived me, and i bore in safety to the shore the burden which i had ignorantly seized from the gaping waters, leaving my own darling, who had offered her life as a sacrifice to----" "oh, not to die!" exclaimed willie. "no; to be saved by a miracle. go thank her for miss clinton's life." "i thank god," said willie, with fervour, "that the horrors of such scenes of destruction are half redeemed by heroism like that." the stern countenance of mr. amory softened as he listened to the young man's enthusiastic outburst of admiration at gertrude's noble self-devotion. "who is she? where is she?" continued willie. "ask me not!" replied mr. amory, with a gesture of impatience; "i cannot tell you if i would. i have not seen her since that ill-fated day." his manner seemed to intimate an unwillingness to enter into further explanation regarding isabel's rescue, and willie, perceiving it, stood for a moment silent and irresolute. then advancing nearer, he said, "though you so utterly disclaim, mr. phillips, any participation in miss clinton's escape, i feel that my errand would be but imperfectly fulfilled if i should fail to deliver the message which i bring to one who was the final means if not the original cause of her safety. mr. clinton, the young lady's father, desired me to tell you that, in saving the life of his only surviving child, the last of seven, all of whom but herself had an early death, you have prolonged his life, and rendered him grateful to that degree which words on his part are powerless to express; but that, as long as his feeble life is spared, he shall never cease to bless your name and pray to heaven for its choicest gifts upon you and those who dwell next your heart." there was a slight moisture in the penetrating eye of mr. amory, but a courteous smile upon his lip, as he said, "all this from mr. clinton! very gentlemanly, and equally sincere, i doubt not; but you surely do not mean to thank me wholly in his name, my young friend. have you nothing to say for your own sake?" willie looked surprised, but replied, unhesitatingly, "certainly, sir; as one of a large circle of acquaintances and friends whom miss clinton honours with her regard, my admiration and gratitude for your disinterested exertions are unbounded; and not only on her account, but on that of whom you nobly rescued from a most terrible death." "am i to understand that you speak only as a friend of humanity, and that you felt no personal interest in any of my fellow-passengers?" "i was unacquainted with nearly all of them. miss clinton was the only one i had known for any greater length of time than during two or three days of saratoga intercourse; but i should have mourned her death, since i was in the habit of meeting her familiarly in her childhood, have lately been continually in her society, and am aware that her father, my respected partner, an old and invaluable friend, who is now much enfeebled in health, could hardly have survived so severe a shock as the loss of an only child, whom he idolises." "you speak very coolly, mr. sullivan. are you aware that the prevailing belief gives you credit for feeling more than a mere friendly interest in miss clinton?" the dilating of willie's eyes, as he fixed them inquiringly upon mr. amory--the half-scrutinising expression of his face, as he seated himself in the chair, were sufficient evidence of the effect of the question unexpectedly put to him. "sir," said he, "i either misunderstood you, or the prevailing belief is a most mistaken one." "then you never before heard of your own engagement." "never, i assure you. is it possible that so idle a report has obtained an extensive circulation among miss clinton's friends!" "sufficiently extensive for me, a mere spectator of saratoga life, to hear it whispered from ear to ear, as a fact worthy of credit." "i am surprised and vexed at what you tell me," said willie. "nonsensical and false as such a rumour is, it will, if it should reach miss clinton, be a source of annoyance to her; and on that account, i regret the circumstances which have probably given rise to it." "do you refer to considerations of delicacy on the lady's part, or have you the modesty to believe that her pride would be wounded by having her name thus coupled with that of her father's junior partner, a young man hitherto unknown to fashionable circles? but, excuse me; perhaps i am stepping on dangerous ground." "by no means, sir; you wrong me if you believe my pride to be of such a nature. but i have not only reference to both the motives you name, but to many others, when i assert my opinion of the resentment miss clinton would probably cherish if your remarks should reach her ears." "mr. sullivan," said mr. amory, "are you sure you are not standing in your own light? are you aware that undue modesty with false notions of refinement has oft prevented many a man's good fortune, and is likely to interfere with your own?" "how so, sir? you speak in riddles, and i am ignorant of your meaning." "handsome young fellows, like you, can often command any amount of property for the asking; but many such chances rarely occur to one individual; and the world will laugh at you if you waste so fair an opportunity as you now have." "opportunity for what? you surely do not mean to advise me----" "i do, though. i am older than you are, and i know something of the world. a fortune is not made in a day, nor is money to be despised. mr. clinton's life is almost worn out in toiling after that wealth which will soon be the inheritance of his daughter. she is young, beautiful, and the pride of that high circle in which she moves. both father and daughter smile upon you; you need not look disconcerted--i speak as between friends, and you know the truth of that which strangers have observed, and which i have frequently heard mentioned as beyond doubt. why do you hesitate!" "mr. phillips," said willie, with embarrassment, "the comments of mere casual acquaintances, such as most of those with whom miss clinton associated in saratoga, are not to be depended upon. the relations in which i stand towards mr. clinton have been such as to draw me into constant intercourse with himself and his daughter. he is almost without relatives, has scarcely any trustworthy friend at command, and therefore appears to the world more favourably disposed towards me than would be found to be the case should i aspire to his daughter's hand. the lady, too, has so many admirers, that it would be vanity in me to believe----" "pooh, pooh!" exclaimed mr. phillips, "tell that, sullivan, to a greater novice, a more unsophisticated individual, than i am! it is very becoming in you to say so; but a few reminders will hardly harm a youth who has such a low opinion of his own merits. pray, who was the gentleman for whose society miss clinton was, a few nights since, so ready to forego the music of alboni, the crowded hall, and the smiles of a train of adorers?" willie said, "i remember!--that, then, was one of the causes of suspicion. i was then a messenger merely, to summon miss isabel to the bedside of her father, by whom i had been watching for hours, and who, on awakening from a lethargic sleep, which alarmed the physician, eagerly inquired for his daughter, that i did not hesitate to interrupt the pleasure of the evening and call her to the post of duty in the cottage occupied by mr. clinton, at the extremity of the grounds, to which i accompanied her by moonlight." mr. amory laughed, cast upon willie that look of benignity which became his fine countenance, and exclaimed, "so much for watering-place gossip! i must forbear speaking of any further evidences of a tender interest manifested by either of you. but believe, dear sullivan, that though the young lady's heart be still, like her fortune, in the united keeping of herself and her father, there is nothing easier than for you to win and claim them both. you possess business talent indispensable to the elder party; if, with your handsome face, figure, and accomplishments, you cannot render yourself equally so to the younger, there is no one to blame but yourself." willie laughed. "if i had that object in view, i know of no one to whom i would so soon come for encouragement as to you, sir; but the flattering prospect you hold out is quite wasted upon me." mr. amory said, "i cannot believe you will be so foolish as to neglect the opportunity of taking that stand in life to which your education and qualities entitle you. your father was a respectable clergyman; you profited by every advantage in your youth, and have done yourself such credit in india as would enable you, with plenty of capital at command, to take the lead in a few years among mercantile men. a man just returned from a long residence abroad is thought to be an easy prey to the charms of the first of his fair countrywomen into whose society he may be thrown; and it can scarcely be wondered at, if you are subdued by such winning attractions as are rarely to be met with in this land of beautiful women. nor can it be possible that you have for six years toiled beneath an indian sun without learning to appreciate the looked-for but happy termination of your toils, whose crowning blessing will be the possession of your beautiful bride." "mr. phillips," said willie, speaking with decision and energy, which proved how heart-felt were the words he uttered, "i have not spent many of the best years of my life toiling beneath a burning sun, and in exile from all that i held most dear, without being sustained by high hopes, aims, and aspirations. but you misjudge me greatly if you believe that the ambition that has spurred me on can find its gratification in those rewards which you have so vividly presented to my imagination. no, sir! believe me, i aspire to something higher yet, and should think my best efforts wasted if my hopes tended not to a still more glorious good." "and to what quarter do you look for the fulfilment of such prospects?" asked mr. amory. "not to the gay circles of fashion," replied willie, "nor yet to that moneyed aristocracy which awards to each man his position in life. i do not depreciate an honourable standing in the eyes of my fellow-men; i am not blind to the advantages of wealth, or to the claims of grace and beauty; but these were not the things for which i left my home, and it is not to claim them that i have returned. young as i am, i have seen enough of trial to believe that the only blessings worth striving for are something more enduring, more satisfying, than precarious wealth or fleeting smiles." "to what, then, i ask, do you look forward?" "to a _home_, and that not so much for myself as for another, with whom i hope to share it. a year since"--and willie's lip trembled, his voice faltered--"there were others, besides that dear one whose image now fills my heart, whom i had fondly hoped, and should have rejoiced, to see reaping the fruits of my exertions. but we were not permitted to meet again; and now--but pardon me, sir; i would not trouble you with my private affairs." "go on," said mr. amory; "i deserve some confidence in return for the disinterested advice i have been giving you. speak to me as to an old friend; i am much interested in what you say." "it is long since i have spoken freely of myself," said willie, "but frankness is natural to me, and, since you profess a desire to learn something of my aim in life, i know of no motive i have for reserve or concealment. but my position, sir, even as a child, was singular; and excuse me if i briefly refer to it. i could not have been more than twelve or fourteen years of age when i began to realise the necessity which rested upon me. my widowed mother and her aged father were the only relatives i knew. one was feeble, delicate, and unequal to active exertion; the other was old and poor, being wholly dependent upon a small salary for officiating as sexton of a neighbouring church. yet in spite of these circumstances they maintained me for several years in comfort and decency, and gave me an excellent education. "at an age when kites and marbles are so engrossing, i had an earnest desire to relieve my mother and grandfather of a part of their care and labour; and i obtained a situation, in which i was well treated and well paid, and which i retained until the death of my excellent master. then, for a time, i felt bitterly the want of employment, and became despondent; a state of mind which was fostered by constant association with my desponding grandfather, who, having met with great disappointment in life, encouraged me not, but was ever hinting at the probability of my failing in every scheme for advancement. "i have since thought his doubtings answered a good purpose; for nothing so urged me on to efforts as the desire to prove the mistaken nature of his gloomy predictions, and few things have given me more satisfaction than the assurances i have received during the past few years that he came at last to a full conviction that my prosperity was established, and that one of his ill-fated family was destined to escape the trials of poverty. "my mother was a quiet, gentle woman, small in person, with great simplicity, and some reserve of manner. she loved me like her own soul; she taught me everything i know of goodness; there is no sacrifice i would not have made for her happiness. i would have died to save her life; but we shall never meet again in this world, and i--i--am learning to be resigned. "for these two, and one other, whom i shall speak of presently, i was ready to go away, and strive, and suffer, and be patient. the opportunity came and i embraced it. and soon one great object of my ambition was won; i was able to earn a competency for myself and for them. and i began to look forward to a day when my long looked-for return should render our happiness complete. i little thought then that the sad tidings of my grandfather's death were on their way, and the news of my mother's slow but sure decline so soon to follow. but they are both gone; and i should now be so solitary as almost to long to follow them but for one other, whose love will bind me to earth so long as she is spared." "and she?" exclaimed mr. amory, with an eagerness which willie, engrossed with his own thoughts, did not observe. "is a young girl," continued willie, "without family, wealth, or beauty; but with a spirit so elevated as to make her great--a heart so noble as to make her rich--a soul so pure as to make her beautiful." mr. amory's fixed attention, his evident waiting to hear more, emboldened willie to add: "there lived in the same house which my grandfather occupied an old man, a city lamplighter. he was poorer even than we were, but there never was a better or a kinder-hearted person in the world. one evening, when engaged in his round of duty, he picked up and brought home a little ragged child, whom a cruel woman had thrust into the street to perish with cold, or die a more lingering death in the almshouse; for nothing but such devoted care as she received from my mother and uncle true (so we always called our old friend) could have saved the half-starved creature from the consequences of long exposure and ill-treatment. through their unwearied watching and efforts she was spared, to repay in after years more than all the love bestowed upon her. she was then miserably thin, and plain in her appearance, besides being possessed of a violent temper, which she had never been taught to restrain, and a stubbornness which resulted from her having long lived in opposition to all the world. "all this, however, did not repel uncle true, under whose loving influence new virtues and capacities soon began to manifest themselves. in the atmosphere of love in which she now lived she soon became a changed being; and when, in addition to the example and precepts taught her at home, a divine light was shed upon her life by one who, herself sitting in darkness, casts a halo forth from her own spirit to illumine those of all who are blessed with her presence, she became, what she has ever since been, a being to love and to trust for a lifetime. for myself, there were no bounds to the affection i soon came to cherish for the little girl, to whom i was first attracted by compassion merely. "we were constantly together; we had no thoughts, no studies, no pleasures, sorrows, or interests that were not shared. i was her teacher, her protector, the partner of all her childish amusements; and she was by turns an advising and sympathising friend. in this latter character she was indispensable to me, for she had a hopeful nature, and a buoyancy of spirit which imparted itself to me. i well remember when my kind employer died, and i was plunged in grief and despair, the confidence and energy with which she, then very young, inspired me. the relation between her and uncle true was beautiful. boy as i was i could not but view with admiration the old man's devoted love for the adopted darling of his latter years (his birdie, as he always called her), and the grateful affection which she bore him in return. "during the first few years she was wholly dependent upon him, and seemed only a fond, affectionate child; but a time came at last when the case was reversed, and the old man, stricken with disease, became infirm and helpless. it was then that the beauty of her woman's nature shone forth triumphant; and, oh! how gently, child as she was, she guided his steps as he descended to the grave. often have i gone to his room at midnight, fearing lest he might be in need of care which she in her youth and inexperience would be unable to render; and never shall i forget the little figure seated calmly by his bedside, at an hour when many of her years would be shrinking from fears conjured up by the night and the darkness, with a lamp dimly burning on a table before her, and she herself, with his hand in hers, sweetly soothing his wakefulness by her loving words, or with her eyes bent upon her little bible, reading to him holy lessons. but all her care could not prolong his life; and just before i went to india he died, blessing god for the peace imparted to him through his gentle nurse. "it was my task to soothe our little gerty's sorrows, and do what i could to comfort her, an office which, before i left the country, i was rejoiced to transfer to the willing hands of the excellent blind lady who had long befriended both her and uncle true. before i went away, i solemnly committed to gerty, who had in one instance proved herself both willing and able, the care of my mother and grandfather. she promised to be faithful to her trust; and nobly was that promise kept. in spite of the unkindness and deep displeasure of mr. graham (the blind lady's father), upon whose bounty she had for a long time been dependent, she devoted herself heart and hand to the fulfilment of duties which in her eyes were sacred and holy. in spite of suffering, labour, watching, and privation, she voluntarily forsook ease and pleasure, and spent day and night in the patient service of friends whom she loved with a greater love than a daughter's, for it was that of a saint." chapter xliii. the examination. "certainly," said mr. amory, "i can well understand that a man of a generous spirit could hardly fail to cherish a deep and lasting gratitude for one who devoted herself so disinterestedly to a toilsome attendance upon the last hours of beloved friends, to whose wants he himself was prevented from ministering; and the warmth with which you eulogise this girl does you credit, sullivan. she must be a young person of great excellence to have fulfilled so well a promise of such remote date that it would probably have been ignored by a less disinterested friend. "i can hardly believe that a young man who has had the ambition to mark out, and the energy to pursue, such a course on the road to fortune as you have thus far successfully followed, can have made a serious resolve to unite himself and his prospects with an insignificant little playmate, of unacknowledged birth, without beauty or fortune, unless there is already an engagement, by which he is bound, or he allows himself to be drawn on to matrimony by the belief that the highest compliment he can pay (namely, the offer of himself) will alone cancel the immense obligations under which he labours. may i ask if you are already shackled by promises?" "i am not," replied willie. "then listen a moment. my motives are friendly when i beg you not to act rashly in a matter which will affect the happiness of your own life; and to hear, with patience, too, if you can, the few words which i have to say on the subject. you must mistake, my young friend, if you believe that the happiness of gerty, as you call her--a very ugly name--can be insured, any more than your own, by an ill-assorted union, of which you will both find cause to repent. you have not seen her for six years, think then of all that has happened in the meantime, and beware of acting with precipitation. you have all this time been living abroad in active life, growing in knowledge of the world, and its various phases of society. in india you witnessed a mode of life wholly different from that which prevails with us, or in european cities; but the independence, both of character and manner, which you there acquired fitted you admirably for the polished sphere of parisian life, to which you were so suddenly introduced, and in which you met with such marked success. "notwithstanding the privilege you enjoy of being presented in polite circles as the friend of a man so well known and so much respected as mr. clinton, you cannot have been insensible to the marked attentions bestowed upon you by american residents abroad, or unaware of the advantage you enjoyed, on your return home, from having been known as the object of such favour. though i did not meet you in paris, i was there at the same time, and became acquainted with facts which you would have too much modesty to acknowledge. it is also evident that your pride must have been flattered by the favourable reception you have met, both abroad and at home, especially from the young and beautiful women who have honoured you with their smiles, and among whom she whose name the crowd already associates with your own stands preeminent. "when i think of all this, and of those pecuniary hopes you may indulge, and imagine you flinging all these aside to chivalrously throw yourself at the feet of your mother's little nurse, i find it impossible to keep silent and avoid reminding you of the disappointment that must ensue on finding yourself at once and for ever shut out from participation in pleasures which have been within your reach and voluntarily discarded. you must remember that much of the consideration which is paid to a young bachelor of growing prospects ceases to be awarded to him after marriage, and is never extended to his bride, unless she be chosen from the select circles to which he aspires. this unportioned orphan with whom you propose to share your fate--this little patient school-mistress----" "i did not tell you she had ever been a teacher!" exclaimed willie, stopping short in his walk up and down the room--"i did not tell you anything of the sort! how did you know it?" mr. amory, who had thus betrayed more knowledge than he had been supposed to possess, hesitated a moment, but quickly recovering himself answered, with apparent frankness, "to tell the truth, sullivan, i have seen the girl in company with an old doctor." "dr. jeremy?" asked willie, quickly. "the same." "when did you see her? how did it happen?" "i happened to see the old gentleman in the course of my travels, and this gertrude flint was with him. he told me a few facts concerning her; nothing to her disadvantage, however; in warning you against a misalliance, i speak only in general terms." willie looked at mr. amory wondering, and was anxious to learn further particulars. mr. amory went on without giving him a chance to speak. "this gerty, sullivan, will be a dead weight upon your hands--a constant drawback to all your efforts to attain fashionable society, in which she cannot be fitted to shine. you yourself pronounce her to be without wealth or beauty; of her family you know nothing, and have certainly little reason to expect that, if discovered, it would do her any credit. i believe, then, that i only speak from the dictates of common sense when i bid you beware how you make, in the disposal of yourself, such an unequal bargain." "i am willing to believe, sir," said willie, "that the arguments you have adduced upon a question most important to my welfare are based upon calm reasoning and a disinterested desire to promote my prosperity. i confess you are the last man, judging from our short acquaintance, from whom i should have expected such advice, for i had believed you so indifferent to the applause of the world that they would weigh but little with you in forming estimates for the guidance of others. still, though your suggestions have failed to change my sentiments or intentions, i thank you for the sincerity and earnestness with which you have sought to mould my judgment by your own, and will reply to your arguments with such frankness as will, i think, persuade you that, so far from following the impulses of a blind enthusiasm, to plunge with haste into a course of action hereafter to be deplored, i am actuated by feelings which reason approves, and which have already stood the test of experience. "you speak truly when you impute to me a natural taste for good society; a taste which poverty, and the retirement in which my boyhood was passed, gave me little opportunity to manifest, but which had some influence in determining my aims and ambition in life. the fine houses, equipages, and clothes of the rich had less charm for my fancy than the ease, refinement, and elegance of manner which distinguished some few of their owners who came under my observation; and, much as i desired the attainment of wealth for the sake of intrinsic advantages, and the means it would afford of contributing to the happiness of others, it would have seemed to me divested of its value should it fail to secure to its possessor a free admittance to the polite and polished circle upon which i looked with admiring eyes. "i needed not, therefore, the social deprivations i experienced in india to prepare me to enter with eager zest into the excitement and pleasures of parisian life, to which, through the kindness of mr. clinton, i obtained, as it seems you are aware, a free and immediate introduction. "it is true i was summoned thither at a time when my spirits had been for months struggling with depression, caused by sad news from home, and had not, therefore, the least disposition to avail myself of mr. clinton's politeness; but the feebleness of his health, and his inability to enjoy the gaieties of the place, compelled me to offer myself as an escort to his daughter, who, fond of society, accepted my services, thus drawing me into the very whirl and vortex of fashionable life, in which i soon found much to flatter, bewilder, and intoxicate. i could not be insensible to the privileges so unexpectedly accorded to me, nor could my vanity be wholly proof against the assaults made upon it. nor was my manliness of character alone at stake. but the soundness of principle and simplicity of habit implanted in me from childhood, and hitherto preserved intact, soon found themselves at stake. i had withstood every kind of gross temptation, but my new associates now presented it to me in that subtle form which often proves a snare. the wine-cup could never have enticed me to the disgusting scenes of drunken revelry; but held in the hands of the polished gentlemen, who had, but a moment before, been the recipients of popular favour and women's smiles, it sparkled with a richer lustre, and its bitter dregs were forgotten. the professed gamester would vainly have sought me for an accomplice; but i was not equally on my guard against the danger which awaited me from other unexpected quarters; for how could i believe that my friends, mr. clinton's friends, the ornaments of the sphere in which they moved, would unfairly win my money, and lead me to ruin? i wonder as i look back upon my residence in paris that i did not fall a victim to one of the snares that were on every side spread for my destruction, and into which my social disposition and unsophisticated nature rendered me prone to fall. nothing but the recollection of my pure-minded and watchful mother, whose recent death had recalled to my mind her warning counsels--deemed by me, at the time, unnecessary; but now, springing up and arming themselves with a solemn meaning--nothing but the consciousness of her gentle spirit, ever hovering around my path, saddened by my conflicts, rejoicing in my triumphs, could ever have given me courage and perseverance to resist, and finally escape, the pitfalls into which my unwary steps would have plunged me. had i approached the outskirts of fashionable life, and been compelled to linger with longing eyes at the threshold; i might even now be loitering there, a deceived spectator of joys which it was not permitted to me to enter and share; or, having gained a partial entrance, be eagerly employed, in pushing my way onward. "but admitted at once into the arcana of a sphere i was eager to penetrate, my eyes were soon opened to the vain and worthless nature of the bauble fashion. not that i did not meet within its courts the wit, talent, and refinement which i had hoped to find there, or that these were invariably accompanied by less attractive qualities. no; i truly believe there is no class which cannot boast of its heroes and heroines, and that there are, within the walks of fashionable life, men and women who would grace a wilderness. nor do i despise forms and ceremonies which are becoming in themselves, and conducive to elegance and good breeding. as long as one class is distinguished by education and refined manners, and another is marked by ignorance and vulgarity, there must be a dividing line between the two, which neither perhaps would desire to overstep." "you are young," said mr. amory, "to be such a philosopher. many a man has turned away with disgust from an aristocracy into which he could himself gain no admittance; but few renounce it voluntarily." "few, perhaps," replied willie, "few _young_ men have had to penetrate its secrets. i may say without treachery, since i speak in general terms only, that i have seen more ignorance, more ill-breeding, meanness, and immorality in the so-called aristocracy of our country than i should have believed it possible would be tolerated there. i have known instances in which the most accomplished gentleman, or the most beautiful lady, of a gay circle has given evidence of want of information on the most common topics. i have seen elegant evening assemblies disgraced by the greatest rudeness and incivility. i have seen the lavish expenditure of to-day atoned for by a despicable parsimony on the morrow; and i have seen a want of principle exhibited by both sexes, which proves that a high position is no security against such contamination of the soul as unfits it for an exalted place hereafter." "i have witnessed no less myself," said mr. amory; "but my experiences have not been like those of other men, and my sight has been sharpened by circumstances. i am still astonished that you should have been awake to these facts." "i was not at first," answered willie. "it was only gradually that i recovered from the blinding effect which the glitter and show of fashion imposed upon my perceptions. my suspicions of its falsehood and vanities were based upon instances of selfishness, folly, and cold-heartedness which came to my knowledge. i could relate thousands of mean deceits, contemptible rivalries, and neglect of sacred duties which came under my immediate observation. "especially was i astonished at the effect of an uninterrupted pursuit of pleasure upon the sensibilities, the tempers, and the domestic affections of women. though bearing within my heart an image of female goodness and purity, this sweet remembrance might possibly have been driven from its throne and supplanted by one of the lovely faces which at first bewildered me by their beauty, had these last been the index to souls of equal perfection. there may be noble and excellent women moving in the highest walks of life whose beauty and grace are less admirable than their own high natures; but among those with whom i became familiarly acquainted there was not one who could in the least compare with her who was continually present to my memory, who is still, and ever must be, a model to her sex. "gertrude flint was the standard by which each in my mind was measured. how could i help contrasting the folly, the worldliness, and the cold-heartedness around me with the cultivated mind, the self-sacrificing and affectionate disposition of one who possesses every quality that can adorn life? you failed to convince me that gertrude can in any way be a drawback to the man who shall be so fortunate as to call her his. for my own part, i desire no better, no more truly aristocratic position in life than that to which she is so well entitled, and to which she would be one of the brightest ornaments--the aristocracy of true refinement, knowledge, grace, and beauty. you talk to me of wealth. gertrude has no money in her purse, but her soul is the pure gold, tried in the furnace of sorrow and affliction, and thence come forth bright and unalloyed. you speak of family and an honourable birth. she has no family, and her birth is shrouded in mystery; but the blood that courses in her veins would never disgrace the race from which she sprung, and every throb of her unselfish heart allies her to all that is noble. "you are eloquent upon the subject of beauty. when i parted from gertrude, she was, in all but character, a mere child, being only thirteen years of age. though much altered and improved since the time when she first came among us, i scarcely think she could have been said to possess much of what the world calls beauty. it was a matter of which i seldom thought or cared; and had i been less indifferent on the subject, she was so dear to me that i should have been unable to form an impartial judgment of her claims in this respect. "i well remember, however, the indignation i once felt at hearing a fellow-clerk, who had met her in one of our walks, sneeringly contrast her personal appearance with that of our employer's handsome daughter, miss clinton; and the proportionate rapture with which i listened to the excellent teacher, miss brown, when, being present at a school examination, i overheard her commenting to a lady upon gertrude's wonderful promise in person as well as in mind. whether the first part of this promise has been fulfilled i have no means of judging; but as i recall her dignified and graceful little figure, her large, intelligent, sparkling eyes, the glow of feeling that lit up her countenance, and the peaceful, almost majestic expression which purity of soul imparted to her yet childish features, she stands forth to my remembrance the embodiment of all that i hold most dear. "six years may have outwardly changed her much; but they cannot have robbed her of what i prize the most. she has charms over which time can have no power, a grace that is a gift of heaven, a beauty that is eternal. could i ask for more? do not believe, then, that my fidelity to my early playmate is an emotion of gratitude merely. it is true i owe her much--far more than i can ever repay; but the honest warmth of my affection for the noble girl springs from the truest love of a purity of character and singleness of heart which i had never seen equalled. "what is there in the foolish walks of fashion, the glitter of wealth, the homage of an idle crowd, that could so elevate my spirit and inspire my exertions as the thought of a peaceful, happy home, blessed by a presiding spirit so formed for confidence, love, and a communion that time can never dissolve and eternity will but render more secure and unbroken?" "and she whom you love so well--are you sure----" asked mr. phillips, speaking with a visible effort, and faltering ere he had completed his sentence. "no," answered willie, anticipating the question. "i know what you would ask. i am _not_ sure. i have no reason to indulge the hopes i have been dwelling upon so fondly; but i do not regret having spoken with such candour; for, should she grieve my heart by her coldness, i should still be proud to have loved her. until this time, since i gained my native land, i have been shackled with duties which, sacred as they were, have chafed a spirit longing for freedom to follow its own impulses. in this visit to you, sir, i have fulfilled the last obligation imposed upon me by my excellent friend, and to-morrow i shall be at liberty to go where my duty alone prevented me from at once hastening." he offered his hand to mr. amory, who grasped it with a cordiality very different from the feeble greeting he had given him on his entrance, "good-bye," said he, "you carry with you my best wishes for a success which you seem to have so much at heart; but some day or other i feel sure you will be reminded of all i have said to you this evening." "strange man!" thought willie, as he walked towards his hotel. "how warmly he shook my hand at parting! and how affectionately he bade me farewell, notwithstanding the cold reception he gave me, and the pertinacity with which i rejected his opinions and repelled his advice!" chapter xliv. the long looked-for returned. "miss gertrude," said mrs. prime, opening the parlour-door, putting her head cautiously in, looking round, and then advancing with a stealthy pace--"my! how busy you are! lor's sakes alive, if you an't rippin' up them great curtains of mrs. graham's for the wash! i wouldn't be botherin' with 'em, miss gertrude; she won't be here this fortnight, and mrs. ellis will have time enough." "oh, i have nothing else to do, mrs. prime; it's no trouble." then, looking up pleasantly at the old cook, she added, "it seems very cosy for us all to be at home--doesn't it?" "it seems beautiful!" answered mrs. prime; "and i can't help thinking how nice it would be if we could all live on jist as we are now, without no more intrusions." gertrude smiled and said, "everything looks as it used to in old times, when i first came here. i was quite a child then," continued she, with a sigh. "gracious me! what are you now?" said mrs. prime. "for mercy's sake, miss gertrude, don't you begin to think about growin' old. there's nothin' like feelin' young to keep young. there's miss patty pace, now----" "i have been meaning to ask after her," exclaimed gertrude; "is she alive and well yet?" "she!" replied mrs. prime; "lor', she won't never die! old women like her, that feel themselves young gals, allers live for ever; but the baker's boy that fetched the loaves this mornin' brought an arrant from her, and she wants to see you the first chance; but i wouldn't hurry either about goin' there or anywhere, miss gertrude, till i got rested; for you an't well, you look so kind o' tired out." "did she wish to see me?" asked gertrude. "poor old thing! i'll go and see her this very afternoon; and you needn't feel anxious about me, mrs. prime--i am quite well." gertrude went. she found miss patty nearly bent double with rheumatism, dressed with less than her usual care, and crouching over a miserable fire. she was in tolerable spirits, and hailed gertrude's entrance by a cordial greeting. innumerable were the questions she put to gertrude regarding her own personal experiences during the past year. "so you have not yet chosen a companion," said she, after gertrude had responded to all her queries. "that is a circumstance to be regretted. not," continued she, with a little smirk, "that it is ever too late in life for one to meditate the conjugal tie, which is often assumed with advantage by persons of fifty or more; and certainly you, who are still in the bloom of your days, need not despair of a youthful swain. existence is twofold when it is shared with a congenial partner; and i had hoped that before now, miss gertrude, both you and myself would have formed such an alliance; for the protection of the matrimonial union is one of its greatest advantages." "i hope you have not suffered from the want of it," said gertrude. "i have, miss gertrude, suffered incalculably. but the keenest pangs have been the sensibilities; yes, the sensibilities--the finest part of our nature, and that which will least bear wounding." "i am sorry to hear that you have been thus grieved," said gertrude. "i should have supposed that, living alone, you might have been spared this trial." "oh, miss gertrude!" exclaimed the old lady, lifting up both hands, and speaking in a pitiable tone--"oh, that i had the wings of a dove, wherewith to fly away from my kindred! i fondly thought to have distanced them, but during the past year they have discovered my retreat, and i cannot elude their vigilance. hardly can i recover from the shock of one visitation--made for the sole purpose of taking an inventory of my possessions and measuring the length of my days--before the vultures are again seen hovering round my dwelling. but," exclaimed she, raising her voice and chuckling as she spoke, "they shall fall into their own snare; for i will dupe every one of them yet!" "i was not aware that you had any relations," said gertrude; "and it seems they are such only in name." "name!" said miss pace, emphatically. "i am glad at the thought that they are not honoured with a cognomen which not one of them is worthy to bear. no, they pass by a different name--a name as plebeian as their own coarse souls. three of them stand to each other in a fraternal relation, yet they are alike hateful to me. one, a contemptible coxcomb, comes here to overawe me with his presence, which he conceives to be imposing; calls me aunt--aunt; thus testifying by his speech to a consanguinity which he blindly fancies makes him nearer akin to my property!" the old lady almost shrieked the last word. "and the other two are beggars! always were--always will be; let 'em be--i'm glad of it!" "you hear me, miss gertrude; you are a young lady of quick comprehension, and i will avail myself of your contiguity, which, although you deny the charge, may shortly be interrupted by some eager lover, to request at your hands a favour, such as i little thought once i should ever feel compelled to seek. i sent for you to write (miss patty whispered) the last will and testament of miss patty pace." the poor woman's trembling voice evinced a deep compassion for herself, which gertrude could not help sharing; and she expressed a willingness to comply with her wishes as far as was in her power, at the same time declaring her utter ignorance of all the forms of law. to gertrude's astonishment, miss patty announced a perfect acquaintance with all the legal knowledge which the case demanded; and in so complete a manner did she dictate the words of the important instrument that, being afterwards properly witnessed, signed, and sealed, it was found in a few months--at which time miss patty died--free from imperfection and flaw, and proved a satisfactory direction for the disposal of the inheritance. it may be as well to state here, however, that he who was pronounced sole heir to the valuable property never availed himself of the bequest, otherwise than to make a careful bestowal of it among her relatives. the solo inheritor of her estate was william sullivan, the knight of the rosy countenance, who with chivalrous spirit captivated miss patty's virgin heart, and gained her lasting favour. but that chivalrous spirit accepted not a reward so disproportioned to the slight service he had rendered the old lady. gertrude found it no easy task to gather and transfix in writing the exact idea which the old woman's rambling dictation was intended to convey; and it was two or three hours before the manuscript was completed. the sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain began to fall, as she walked home; but the distance was not great, and the only damage she sustained was a slight dampness to her garments. emily perceived it, and said, "your dress is quite wet, you must sit by the parlour fire. i shall not go down until tea-time, but father is there, and will be glad of your company; he has been alone all the afternoon." gertrude found mr. graham sitting in front of a pleasant wood fire, half-dozing, half-reading. she took a book and a low chair and joined him. but to avoid the heat she went to the sofa. soon there was a ring at the front door bell. the housemaid, who was passing by the door, opened it, and immediately ushered in a visitor. it was willie! gertrude rose, but trembling from head to foot, so that she dared not trust herself to take a step forward. willie advanced to the centre of the room, looked at gertrude, bowed, hesitated, and said, "miss flint!--is she here?" the colour rushed into gertrude's face. she attempted to speak, but failed. it was not necessary. the blush was enough. willie recognised her, and starting forward, eagerly seized her hand. "gerty! is it possible?" the perfect naturalness and ease of his manner, the warmth with which he took and retained her hand, reassured the agitated girl. the spell seemed partially removed. for a moment he became in her eyes the willie of old, her dear friend and playmate, and she found voice to exclaim, "oh, willie, you have come at last! i am so glad to see you!" the sound of their voices disturbed mr. graham, who had fallen into a nap. he turned round in his easy chair, then rose. willie dropped gertrude's hand and stepped towards him. "mr. sullivan," said gertrude, with a feeble attempt at a suitable introduction. they shook hands, and then all three sat down. and now all gertrude's embarrassment returned. it is often the case that when the best of friends meet after a long separation they salute or embrace each other, and then, notwithstanding the weight of matter pressing on the mind of each--sufficient, perhaps, to furnish subjects of conversation for weeks to come--nothing of importance presents itself at once, and a pause ensues, which is finally filled up by some trivial question concerning the journey of the newly-arrived party. she had seen willie before; she was aware of his arrival; knew even the steamer in which he had come; but was anxious to conceal from him this knowledge. she could not tell him, since he seemed so ignorant of the fact himself, that they had met before; and she was at an utter loss what to do or say under the circumstances. her embarrassment soon communicated itself to willie; and mr. graham's presence, which was a restraint to both, made matters worse. willie, however, first broke the momentary silence. "i should hardly have known you, gertrude. i did not know you. how----" "how did you come?" asked mr. graham, abruptly, apparently unconscious that he was interrupting willie's remark. "in the _europa_," replied willie. "she got into new york about a week ago." "out here, i mean," said mr. graham, rather stiffly. "did you come out in the coach?" "oh, excuse me, sir," replied willie; "i misunderstood you. no, i drove out from boston in a chaise." "did anyone take your horse?" "i fastened him in front of the house." willie glanced out of the window (it was now nearly dusk) to see that the animal was still there. mr. graham settled himself in his easy chair and looked into the fire. "you are changed, too," said gertrude, in reply to willie's unfinished comment. then, fearing he might feel hurt at what he must know to be true in more ways than one, the colour which had retreated mounted once more to her cheeks. but he did not seem to feel hurt, but replied, "yes, an eastern climate makes great changes; but i think i can hardly have altered more than you have. why, only think, gerty, you were a child when i went away! i suppose i must have known i should find you a young lady, but i begin to think i never fully realised it." "when did you leave calcutta?" "the latter part of february. i passed the spring months in paris." "you did not write," said gertrude in a faltering voice. "no, i was expecting to come across by every steamer, and wanted to surprise you." gertrude looked confused, but replied, "i was disappointed about the letters; but i am very glad to see you again, willie." "you can't be so glad as i am," said he, lowering his voice and looking at her with great tenderness. "you seem more and more like yourself to me every minute that i see you. i begin to think, however, that i ought to have written and told you i was coming." gertrude smiled. willie's manner was so unchanged, his words so affectionate, that it seemed unkind to doubt his friendliness, although to his undivided love she felt she could have no claim. "no," said she, "i like surprises. don't you remember, i always did?" "remember? certainly," replied he; "i have never forgotten anything that you liked." just at this moment gertrude's birds, whose cage hung in the window at which willie sat, commenced a little twittering noise which they always made just at night. he looked up. "your birds," said gertrude; "the birds you sent me." "are they all alive and well?" asked he. "yes, all of them." "you have been a kind mistress to the little things. they are very tender." "i am very fond of them." "you take such care of those you love, dear gerty, that you are sure to preserve their lives as long as may be." his tone still more than his words betrayed the deep meaning with which he spoke. gertrude was silent. "is miss graham well?" asked willie. gertrude related, in reply, that her nerves had been recently much disturbed by the terrible experiences through which she had passed; and this led to the subject of the recent disaster, at which gertrude forebore to mention her having been herself present. willie spoke with feeling of the sad catastrophe, and with severity of the reckless carelessness which had been the cause of it; and said that he had valued friends on board the boat, but was unaware that miss graham, whom he loved for gertrude's sake, was among them. conversation between gertrude and willie had by this time assumed something of their former familiarity. he had taken a seat near her on the sofa, that they might talk unrestrainedly; for although mr. graham might have dropped asleep again, yet it was not easy to forget his presence. there were many subjects on which it would have seemed natural for them to speak, had not gertrude avoided them. the causes of willie's sudden return, his probable stay, his future plans in life, and his reasons for having postponed his visit until he had been in the country more than a week--all these were inquiries which curiosity would have suggested; but to gertrude they all lay under embargo. she neither felt prepared to receive nor willing to force the confidence on matters which must be influenced by his engagement with miss clinton, and therefore preserved silence on these topics. and willie, deeply grieved at this strange want of sympathy on her part, forebore to thrust upon her notice these seemingly neglected circumstances. they talked of calcutta life, of parisian novelties, of gertrude's school-keeping, and many other things, but not a word of matters nearest to the hearts of both. at length a servant announced tea. mr. graham rose and stood with his back to the fire. willie rose also and prepared to take leave. mr. graham, with frigid civility, invited him to remain, and gertrude urged him to do so; but he declined with such decision that the latter understood that he felt the neglect with which mr. graham had treated him and his visit. in addition to the fact that the old gentleman disliked young men as a class, and that willie had intruded upon the privacy in which he was indulging, there was the bitter recollection that gertrude had once forsaken himself and emily (for so he in his own mind styled her conscientious choice between conflicting duties) for the very family of which their visitor was the only remaining member--a recollection which did not tend to conciliate the prejudiced man. gertrude accompanied willie to the door. the rain had ceased, but the wind whistled across the piazza. it was growing cold. willie buttoned his coat, and promised to see gertrude on the following day. "you have no overcoat," said she; "the night is chilly, and you are accustomed to a hot climate. you had better take this shawl;" and she took from the hat-tree a heavy scotch plaid. he thanked her and threw it over his arm; then, taking both her hands in his, looked her steadily in the face for a moment, as if he would fain have spoken. but, seeing that she shrank from his affectionate gaze, he dropped her hands and, with a troubled expression, bade her good-night. gertrude stood with the handle of the door in her hand until she heard the sounds of the horse's hoofs as he drove down the road; then retired to her own room. well as she had borne up during the longed-for yet much-dreaded meeting, calmly as she had sustained her part, her courage all forsook her now, and in looking forward to days, weeks, and months of frequent intercourse, she felt that the most trying part of the struggle was yet to come. had willie changed to her? no; he had come back as he went--generous, manly, and affectionate. he had manifested the same unaffected warmth of feeling, the same thoughtful tenderness, he had ever shown. in short, he was the willie she had thought of, dreamed of, imagined, and loved. there was a light tap at her door. thinking it a summons to the tea-table, she said, "jane, i do not wish for any supper." "it isn't that," said the girl; "but i have brought you a letter." gertrude sprang up and opened the door. "a little boy handed it to me and then ran off," said the girl, placing a large package in her hand. "he told me to give it to you straight away." "bring me a light," said gertrude. the girl went for a lamp, while gertrude wondered what a package so large could contain. she thought no letter could so soon arrive from mr. amory. while she was wondering, jane brought a lamp, by the light of which she detected his handwriting; and, breaking the seal, she drew from the envelope several closely-written pages, whose contents she perused with the greatest eagerness and excitement. chapter xlv. the father's story. "my daughter,--my loving, kind-hearted girl. now that your own words encourage me with the assurance that my first fear was unfounded--now that i can appeal to you as to an impartial witness, i will disclose the story of my life; and, while i prove to you your parentage, will hope that my unprejudiced child at least will believe, love, and trust her father, in spite of a world's injustice. "i will conceal nothing. i will plunge at once into those disclosures which i most dread to utter, and trust to after explanation to palliate the darkness of my tale. "mr. graham is my step-father, and my blessed mother, long since dead, was, in all but the tie of nature, a true mother to emily. thus allied to those whom you love best, i am parted from them by a heavy curse; for, not only was mine the ill-fated hand (oh, hate me not yet, gertrude!) which locked poor emily up in darkness, but i stand accused in the eyes of my fellow-men of another crime, deep, dark, and disgraceful. and yet, though living under a ban, wandering up and down the world a doomed and broken-hearted man, i am innocent as a child of all intentional wrong, as you will learn, if you can trust to the truth of the tale i am about to tell. "nature gave and education fostered in me a rebellious spirit. i was the idol of my invalid mother, who, though she loved me with a love for which i bless her memory, had not the energy to subdue the passionate and wilful nature of her boy. but i was neither cruelly nor viciously disposed; and though my sway at home and among my school-fellows was alike indisputable, i made many friends, and not a single enemy. but a sudden check was at length put to my freedom. my mother married, and i soon came to feel bitterly the check which her husband, mr. graham, was likely to impose upon my boyish independence. had he treated me with kindness, had he won my affections (which he might easily have done, for my sensitive and impassioned nature disposed me to every tender and grateful emotion), great would have been his influence in moulding my yet unformed character. "but his behaviour towards me was that of chilling coldness and reserve. he repelled with scorn the first advance on my part which led me, at my mother's instigation, to address him by the paternal title--an offence of which i never again was guilty. and yet, while he seemed to ignore the relationship, he assumed its authority, thus wounding my pride and exciting opposition to his commands. "two things strengthened my dislike for my overbearing step-father. one was the consciousness of my dependence upon his bounty; the other a hint, which i received through a domestic, that mr. graham's dislike to me had its origin in an old enmity between himself and my own father--an honourable and high-minded man, whom it was ever my greatest pride to be told that i resembled. "great as was the warfare in my heart, power rested with mr. graham; for i was yet but a child, and necessarily subject to government--nor could i be deaf to my mother's entreaties that, for her sake, i would learn submission. it was only, therefore, when i had been most unjustly thwarted that i broke into direct rebellion; and even then there were influences ever at work to preserve outward harmony in our household. thus years passed on, and though i did not love mr. graham more, the force of habit, the interest afforded by my studies, and increasing self-control, rendered my life less obnoxious to me than it had once been. "i had one great compensation for my trials--the love i cherished for emily, who responded to it with equal warmth on her part. it was not because she stood between me and her father, a mediator and a friend; nor because she submitted to my dictation and aided me in all my plans; it was because our natures were made for each other, and, as they grew and expanded, were bound together by ties which a rude hand only could rend asunder. this tenderness and depth of affection became the life of my life. "at length my mother died. i was at that time, sorely against my will, employed in mr. graham's counting-house, and an inmate of his family. and now, without excuse, my step-father began a course of policy as unwise as it was cruel; and so irritating to my pride, and so torturing to my feelings, that it angered me almost to frenzy. he tried to rob me of the only thing that sweetened and blest my existence--the love of emily. i will not here recount the motives i imputed to him, nor the means he employed. but they were such as to change my former dislike into bitter hatred and opposition. "instead of submitting to his tyrannical interference, i sought emily's society on all occasions, and persuaded the gentle girl to lend herself to my schemes for thwarting her father's purposes. i did not speak to her of love; i did not seek to bind her to me by promises; i hinted not at marriage; a sense of honour forbade it. but, with a boyish independence, which i fear was the height of imprudence, i sought every occasion, even in her father's presence, to maintain that constant familiarity of intercourse which had been the growth of circumstances, and could not, without force, be restrained. "at length emily was taken ill, and for six weeks i was debarred her presence. when sufficiently recovered to leave her room, i sought and at last obtained an opportunity to see her. we had been together in the library more than an hour when mr. graham suddenly entered, and came towards us with a face whose severity i shall not soon forget. i did not heed an interruption, for the probable consequences of which i believed myself prepared. but i was little prepared for the attack actually made upon me. "that he would accuse me of disobedience to wishes which he had hinted in every possible way, and even intimate more plainly his resolve to place barriers between emily and myself, i fully expected, and was ready with my replies; but when he burst forth with a torrent of ungentlemanly abuse--when he imputed to me mean and selfish motives, which had never occurred to my mind--i was struck dumb with surprise and anger. "then, in the presence of the pure-minded girl whom i worshipped, he charged me with a horrid crime--the crime of forgery--asserting my guilt as recently discovered, but positive and undoubted. my spirit had raged before--now it was on fire. i lifted my hand and clenched my fist. what i would have done i know not. whether i should have found words to assert my innocence, and refute a charge utterly false--or whether, my voice failing me from passion, i should have swept mr. graham from my path, perhaps felled him to the floor, while i strode away to rally my calmness in the open air--i cannot now conjecture; for a wild shriek from emily recalled me to myself, and, turning, i saw her fall fainting upon the sofa. "forgetting everything but the apparently dying condition into which the horror of the scene had thrown her i sprang forward to her relief. there was a table beside her and some bottles upon it. i hastily snatched what i believed to be a simple restorative, and in my agitation emptied the contents of the phial in her face. i know not what the exact character of the mixture could have been; but its matters not--its effect was too awfully evident. the fatal deed was done--and mine was the hand that did it! "brought suddenly to consciousness by the intolerable torture that succeeded, the poor girl sprang screaming from the sofa, flung her arms wildly above her head, rushed in a frantic manner through the room, and crouched in a corner. i followed in an agony scarce less than her own; but she repelled me with her hands, uttering piercing shrieks. mr. graham, who for an instant had looked like one paralysed by the scene, now rushed forward like a madman. instead of aiding me in my efforts to lift poor emily from the floor, and so far from compassionating my situation, which was only less pitiable than hers, he, with a fierceness redoubled at my being the sole cause of the disaster, attacked me with a storm of cruel reproaches, declaring that i had killed his child. with words like these, which are still ringing in my ears, he drove me from the room and the house; a repulsion which i, overpowered by contrition and remorse, had neither the wish nor the strength to resist. "oh! the terrible night and day that succeeded! i wandered out into the country, spent the whole night walking beneath the open sky, endeavouring to collect my thoughts and compose my mind, and still morning found me with a fevered pulse and excited brain. with the returning light, however, i began to realise the necessity of forming some future plan of action. "emily's sad situation, and my intense anxiety to learn the worst effects of the fatal accident, urged me to hasten with the earliest morning, either openly or by stealth, to mr. graham's house. everything also which i possessed--all my money, the residue of my last quarter's allowance, my clothing, and a few valuable gifts from my mother--were in the chamber which i had occupied. there seemed to be no other course left for me than to return thither, and i retracted my steps to the city, determined, if it were necessary in order to gain the desired particulars concerning emily, to meet her father face to face. but as i drew near the house i hesitated and dared not proceed. mr. graham had exhausted upon me every angry word, had threatened even deeds of violence should i again cross his threshold; and i feared to trust my own fiery spirit to a collision in which i might be led on to an open resistance of the man whom i had already sufficiently injured. in the terrible work i had but yesterday done--a work of whose fatal effect i had even then a gloomy foreshadowing--i had blighted the existence of his worshipped child, and drawn a dark pall over his dearest hopes. it was enough. i would not for worlds be guilty of the sin of lifting my hand against the man who, unjust as he had been towards an innocent youth, had met a retaliation far too severe. "still, i knew his wrath to be unmitigated, was well aware of his power to excite my hot nature to frenzy, and resolved to beware how i crossed his path. meet him i must, to refute the false charges he had brought against me; but not within the walls of his dwelling, the home of his suffering daughter. in the counting-house, where the crime of forgery was said to have been committed, and in the presence of my fellow-clerks, i would publicly deny the deed, and dare him to its proof. but first i must either see or hear from emily before i met the father at all. i must learn the exact nature and extent of the wrong i had done him in the person of his child. for this, however, i must wait until, under cover of the next night's darkness, i could enter the house unperceived. "so i wandered about all day in torment, without having food or rest, the thought of my poor, darling, tortured emily ever present to my wretched thoughts. the hours seemed interminable. i remember that day of suspense as if it had been a whole year of misery. but night came at last, cloudy, and the air thickened with a heavy fog which, as i approached the street where mr. graham lived, concealed the house until i was opposite to it. i shuddered at the sight of the physician's chaise standing before the door; for i knew that dr. jeremy had closed his visits to emily more than a week previously, and must have been summoned to attend her since the accident. thinking it probable that mr. graham was in the house, i forbore to enter, but stood concealed by the mist, and watching my opportunity. "once or twice mrs. ellis, the housekeeper, passed up and down the staircase, as i could distinctly see through the sidelights of the door, and dr. jeremy descended, followed by mr. graham. the doctor would have passed hastily out, but mr. graham detained him, to question him regarding his patient, as i judged from the anxiety depicted on my step-father's countenance. the doctor's back was towards me, and i could only judge of his replies by the effect they produced on the questioner, whose haggard appearance became more distressed at every syllable that fell from the honest and truthful lips of the medical man, whose words were oracles to all who knew his skill. "i needed, therefore, no further testimony to force the conviction that emily's fate was sealed; and as i looked with pity upon the afflicted parent, and shudderingly thought of my agency in the work of destruction, i felt that the unhappy father could not curse me more bitterly than i cursed myself. deeply, however, as i mourned, and have never ceased to repent, my share in the exciting of that storm wherein the poor girl had been so cruelly shipwrecked, i could not forget the part that mr. graham had borne in the transaction, or forgive the wicked injustice and insults which had so unmanned me as to render my hand a fit instrument only of ruin; and as, after the doctor's departure, i watched my step-father walk away, and saw by a street-lamp that the look of pain had passed from his face, giving place to his usual composed and arrogant expression, and, understood by the loud and measured manner in which he struck his cane upon the pavement, that he was far from sharing my humble, penitent mood, i ceased to waste upon him a compassion which he seemed so little to require or deserve; and, pitying myself only, i looked upon his stern face with a soul which cherished for him no other sentiment than that of unmitigated hatred. do not shrink from me, gertrude, as you read this frank confession of my passionate and deeply stirred nature. you know not, perhaps, what it is to hate; but have you ever been tried as i was? "as mr. graham turned the corner of the street, i approached his house, drew forth a pass-key of my own, by means of which i opened the door, and went in. it was perfectly quiet, and no person was to be seen in any of the lower rooms. i passed noiselessly upstairs, and entered a little chamber at the head of the passage which communicated with emily's room. i waited here a long time, hearing no sound and seeing no one. but fearing that mr. graham would shortly return, i determined to ascend to my own room, collect my money and a few articles of value, and then make my way to the kitchen, and gain what news i could of emily from mrs. prime, the cook, a kind-hearted woman, who would, i felt sure, befriend me. "the first part of my object was accomplished; and i had descended the back staircase to gain mrs. prime's premises, when i suddenly met mrs. ellis coming from the kitchen, with a bowl of gruel in her hand. she was acquainted with all the particulars of the accident, and had been a witness to my expulsion from the house. she stopped short on seeing me, gave a slight scream, dropped the bowl of gruel, and prepared to make her escape, as if from a wild beast, which i doubt not that i resembled; since wretchedness, fasting, suffering, and desperation must all have been depicted in my features. i placed myself in her path, and compelled her to stop and listen to me. but before my eager questions could find utterance, an outburst from her confirmed my worst fears. "'let me go!' she exclaimed. 'you villain! you will be putting my eyes out next!' 'where is emily?' i cried. 'let me see her!' "'see her!' replied she. 'you horrid wretch! no! she has suffered enough from you. she is satisfied herself now.' 'what do you mean?' shouted i, shaking the housekeeper violently by the shoulder, for her words seared my very soul, and i was frantic. "'i mean that emily will never see anybody again; and if she had a thousand eyes, you are the last person upon whom she would wish to look!' "'does emily hate me, too?' burst from me then, in the form of a soliloquy rather than a question. the reply was ready, however. 'hate you? yes--more than that; she cannot find words bad enough for you! she mutters, even in her pain, 'cruel!--wicked!' she shudders at the sound of your name; and we are all forbidden to speak it in her presence.' i waited to hear no more, but rushed out of the house. that moment was the crisis of my life. the thunderbolt had fallen upon and crushed me. my hopes, my happiness, my fortune, my good name, had gone before; but one solitary light had, until now, glimmered in the darkness. it was emily's love. i had trusted in that--that only. it had passed away, and with it my youth, my faith, my hope of heaven. "from that moment i ceased to be myself. then fell upon me the cloud in which i have ever since been shrouded, and under which you have seen and known me. in that instant the blight had come, under the gnawing influence of which my happy laugh changed to the bitter smile; my frank and pleasant speech to tones of ill-concealed irony and sarcasm; my hair became prematurely grey, my features sharp and severe; my fellow-men, to whom i hoped to prove some day a benefactor, were henceforth the armed hosts of antagonists, with whom i would wage endless war--and the god whom i had worshipped--whom i had believed in, as a just and faithful friend and avenger--who was he?--where was he?--and why did he not right my cause? what direful and premeditated deed of darkness had i been guilty of that he should thus desert me? alas!--i lost my faith in heaven! "i know not what direction i took on leaving mr. graham's house. i have no recollection of any of the streets through which i passed, though doubtless they were all familiar; but i paused not until, having reached the end of a wharf, i found myself gazing down into the deep water, longing to take one mad leap and lose myself in everlasting oblivion! but for this final blow, beneath which my manhood had fallen, i would have cherished my life, at least until i could vindicate its fair fame; i would never have left a blackened memory for men to dwell upon and for emily to weep over. but now what cared i for my fellow-men! and emily!--she had ceased to love, and would not mourn; and i longed for the grave. there are moments in human life when a word, a look, or a thought, may weigh down the balance in the scales of fate and decide a destiny. "so it was with me. i was incapable of forming any plan for myself; but accident, as it were, decided for me. i was startled from the apathy into which i had fallen by the sudden splashing of oars in the water beneath, and in a moment a little boat was moored to a pier within a rod of the spot where i stood. i also heard footsteps on the wharf, and, turning, saw by the light of the moon, which was just appearing from behind a heavy cloud, a stout seafaring man, with a heavy pea-jacket under one arm and an old-fashioned carpet-bag in his left hand. he had a ruddy, good-humoured face, and as he was about to pass me and leap into the boat, where two sailors, with their oars dipped and ready for motion, were awaiting him, he slapped me on the shoulder, and exclaimed, 'well, my fine fellow, will you ship with us?' i answered as readily in the affirmative; and, with one look in my face, and a glance at my dress, which seemed to assure him of my station in life and probable ability to make compensation for the passage, he said, in a laughing tone, 'in with you, then!' "to his astonishment--for he had scarcely believed me in earnest--i sprang into the boat, and in a few moments was on board of a fine bark, bound i knew not whither. the vessel's destination was rio janeiro--a fact which i did not learn till we had been two or three days at sea, and to which i felt wholly indifferent. there was one other passenger beside myself--the captain's daughter, lucy grey, whom during the first week i scarcely noticed, but who appeared to be as much at home, whether in the cabin or on deck, as if she had passed her whole life at sea. i might have made the entire passage without giving another thought to this young girl--half child, half woman--had not my strange behaviour led her so to conduct herself which surprised and finally interested me. my wild and excited countenance, my constant restlessness, avoidance of food, and indifference to everything about me, excited her wonder and sympathy. she believed me partially deranged, and treated me accordingly. she would take a seat on deck directly opposite mine, look in my face, either ignorant or regardless of my observing her, and then walk away with a heavy sigh. occasionally she would offer me some little delicacy, begging that i would eat; and as, touched by her kindness, i took food more readily from her hand than any other, these little attentions became at last habitual. as my manners grew calmer and i settled into a melancholy which, though equally deep, was less fearful than the feverish torment under which i had laboured, she became reserved, and when i began to appear somewhat like my fellow-men, went regularly to the table, and, instead of pacing the deck all night, spent a part of it quietly in my state-room, lucy absented herself wholly from that part of the vessel where i passed the greater portion of the day, and i seldom exchanged a word with her, unless i purposely sought her society. "the stormy weather drove me to the cabin, where she usually sat on the transom reading or watching the troubled waves; and, as the voyage was long, we were thrown much in each other's way, especially as captain grey, who had invited me to ship with him, and who seemed to take an interest in my welfare, good-naturedly encouraged an intercourse by which he probably hoped i might be won from a state of melancholy that seemed to grieve the jolly ship-master almost as much as it did his kind-hearted, sensitive child. "lucy's shyness, therefore, wore gradually away, and before our tedious passage was completed i ceased to be a restraint upon her. she talked freely with me; for while i maintained a rigid silence concerning my own past experiences, of which i could scarcely endure to think, she exerted herself freely for my entertainment, and related with simple frankness almost every circumstance of her past life. sometimes i listened attentively; sometimes, absorbed in my own painful reflections, i would be deaf to her voice and forgetful of her presence. then i often observed that she had suddenly ceased speaking, and, starting from my reverie and looking quickly up, would find her eyes fixed upon me so reproachfully that, rallying my self-command, i would try to appear, and sometimes became, seriously interested in the artless narratives of my little entertainer. she told me that until she was fourteen years old she lived with her mother in a little cottage on cape cod, their home being only occasionally enlivened by the return of her father from his long absences at sea. they would visit the city where his vessel lay, pass a few weeks in great enjoyment, and then return to mourn the departure of the cheerful sea-captain, and patiently count the weeks and months until his return. she told me how her mother died; how bitterly she mourned her loss, and how her father wept when he came home and heard the news; how she had lived on shipboard ever since; and how sad and lonely she felt in time of storms when she sat alone in the cabin listening to the roar of the winds and waves. "tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of these things, and i would look upon her with pity as one whom sorrow made my sister. trial, however, had not robbed her of an elastic, buoyant spirit; and when, after the completion of some eloquent tale of early grief, the captain would approach unseen and surprise her by a sudden joke or sly piece of mischief, thus provoking her to retaliate, she was always ready for a war of wits, a laughing frolic, or even a game of romps. her tears dried up, her merry voice and playful words would delight her father, and the cabin would ring with peals of laughter; while i, shrinking from a mirth sadly at variance with my own happiness, and the sound so discordant to my sensitive nerves, would retire to brood over miseries for which it was hopeless to expect sympathy which could not be shared, and with which i must dwell alone. "such a misanthrope had my misfortunes made me that the sportive raillery between the captain and his merry daughter, and the musical laugh with which she would respond to the witticisms of two old sailors, grated upon my ears like something scarce less than personal injuries; nor could i have believed it possible that one so little able as lucy to comprehend the depth of my sufferings could feel any sincere compassion for them had i not once or twice been touched to see how her innocent mirth would give place to sudden sadness of countenance if she chanced to encounter my woe-begone face, rendered doubly gloomy when contrasted with the gaiety of herself and of her companions. "but i must not linger too long upon the details of our life on shipboard. i must forbear giving account of a terrific gale that we encountered, during which, for two days and a night, poor lucy was half frantic with fear; while i, careless of outward discomforts and indifferent to personal danger, was afforded an opportunity to requite her kindness by such protection and encouragement as i was able to render. "captain grey died. we were within a week's sail of our destination when he was taken ill, and three days before we were safely anchored in the harbour of rio he breathed his last. i shared with lucy the office of ministering to the suffering man, closed his eyes at last, and carried the fainting girl in my arms to another part of the vessel. with kind words and persuasions i restored her to her senses; and then, as the full consciousness of her desolation rushed upon her, she sunk at once into a state of hopeless despondency painful to witness. captain grey had made no provision for his daughter. well might the poor girl lament her sad fate! for she was without a relative in the world, penniless, and approaching a strange shore, which afforded no refuge to the orphan. we buried her father in the sea; and that sad office fulfilled, i sought lucy and endeavoured to arouse her to a sense of her situation and advise with her concerning the future; for we were now so near our port that in a few hours we might be compelled to leave the vessel and seek quarters in the city. she listened to me without replying. i hinted at the necessity of my leaving her, and begged to know if she had any plans for the future. she answered me only by a burst of tears. i begged her not to weep. "and then, with many sobs, and interrupting herself by frequent exclamations of vehement sorrow, she threw herself upon my compassion, and, with child-like artlessness, entreated me not to leave her or, as she termed it, to desert her. she reminded me that she was alone in the world; that the moment she stepped foot on shore she should be in a land of strangers; and, appealing to my mercy, besought me not to leave her to die alone. "what could i do? i had nothing on earth to live for. we were both alike orphaned and desolate. there was but one point of difference. i could work and protect her; she could do neither for herself. it would be something for me to live for; and for her, though but a refuge of poverty and want, it was better than the exposure and suffering that must otherwise await her. i told her how little i had to offer; that my heart even was crushed and broken; but that i was ready to labour in her behalf, to guard her from danger, to pity, and perhaps in time learn to love her. the unsophisticated girl had never thought of marriage; she had sought the protection of a friend, not a husband; but i explained to her that the latter tie only would obviate the necessity of our parting; and, in the humility of sorrow, she finally accepted my unflattering offer. "the only confidant to our sudden engagement, the only witness of the marriage, which within a few hours ensued, was an old, weather-beaten sailor, who had known and loved lucy from her childhood--ben grant. he accompanied us on shore and to the church. he followed us to the humble lodgings with which we contrived for the present to be contented, and devoted himself to lucy with self-sacrificing, but in one instance, alas! (as you will soon learn), with mistaken and fatal zeal. "after much difficulty, i obtained employment from a man in whom i accidentally recognized an old and valued friend of my father. he had been in rio several years, and was actively engaged in trade, and willingly employed me as a clerk, occasionally despatching me from home to transact business at a distance. my duties being regular and profitable, we were soon raised above want, and i was enabled to place my young wife in a situation of comfort. "the sweetness of her disposition, the cheerfulness with which she endured privation, the earnestness with which she strove to make me happy, were not without effect. i perseveringly rallied from my gloom; i succeeded in banishing the frown from my brow; and the premature wrinkles, which her hand would softly sweep away, finally ceased to return. the few months that i passed with your mother, gertrude, form a sweet episode in the memory of my stormy life. i came to love her much--not as i loved emily;--that could not be expected--but, as the solitary flower that bloomed on the grave of all my early hopes, she cast a fragrance round my path; and her child is not more dear to me, because a part of myself, than as the memento of the cherished blossom snatched hastily from my hand and rudely crushed. "about two months after your birth, my child, and before your eyes had ever learned to brighten at the sight of your father, who was necessarily much from home, the business in which i was engaged called me in the capacity of an agent to a station some distance from rio. i had been absent nearly a month, and had written regularly to lucy, informing her of all my movements (though i suspect the letters never reached her), when the neighbourhood in which i was stationed became infected with a fatal malaria. for the sake of my family i took every measure to ward off contagion, but failed. i was seized with fever, and lay for weeks near death. i was cruelly neglected during my illness; for i had no friends near me, and my slender purse held out little inducement for mercenary service; but my sufferings and forebodings on account of lucy and yourself were far greater than any which i endured from my bodily torments, although the latter were great. i had all sorts of imaginary fears; but nothing, alas! which could compare with the reality that awaited me when, after my dreadful illness, i made my way, destitute, ragged, and emaciated, back to rio. i sought my former home. it was deserted, and i was warned to flee from its vicinity, as the fearful disease of fever had nearly depopulated that and the neighbouring streets. i made every inquiry, but could obtain no intelligence of my wife and child. i hastened to the charnel-house where, during the raging of the pestilence, the unrecognized dead were exposed; but among the disfigured remains it was impossible to distinguish friends from strangers. i lingered about the city for weeks in hopes to gain some information concerning lucy; but could find no one who had ever heard of her. all day i wandered about the streets and on the wharves--the latter being places which ben grant (in whose faithful charge i had left your mother and yourself) was in the habit of frequenting--but not a syllable could i learn of any persons that answered my description. "my first thought had been that they would naturally seek my employer, to learn, if possible, the cause of my prolonged absence; and on finding my home empty i had hastened in search of him. but he too had, within a recent period, fallen a victim to the prevailing distemper. his place of business was closed and the establishment broken up. i continued my inquiries until hope died within me. i was told that scarce an inmate of the fatal neighbourhood where i had left my family had escaped; and convinced, finally, that my fate was still pursuing me with an unmitigated wrath, of which this last blow was but a single expression, that i might have foreseen and expected, i madly agreed to work my passage in the first vessel which promised me an escape from scenes so fraught with harrowing recollections. "and now commenced a course of wretched wandering. with varied ends in view, following strongly contrasted employments, and with fluctuating fortune, i have travelled over the world. my feet have trodden almost every land. i have sailed on every sea and breathed the air of every clime. i am familiar with the city and the wilderness, the civilized man and the savage. i have learned the sad lesson that peace is nowhere, and friendship, for the most part, but a name. "once during my wanderings i visited the home of my boyhood. unseen and unknown i trod a familiar ground and gazed on familiar, though time-worn faces. i stood at the window of mr. graham's library; saw the contented, happy countenance of emily--happy in her blindness and her forgetfulness of the past. a young girl sat near the fire endeavouring to read by its flickering light. i knew not then what gave such a charm to her thoughtful features, nor why my eyes dwelt upon them with a rare pleasure; for there was no voice to proclaim to the father's heart that he looked on the face of his child. i am not sure that the strong impulse which prompted me then to enter, acknowledge my identity, and beg emily to speak to me a word of forgiveness, might not have prevailed over the dread of her displeasure; but mr. graham at the moment appeared, cold and implacable as ever; i gazed an instant, then fled from the house. "although in the various labours which i was compelled to undertake to earn a decent maintenance, i had more than once met with such success as to give me temporary independence, and to enable me to indulge in expensive travelling, i had never amassed a fortune; indeed, i had not cared to do so, since i had no use for money, except to employ it in the gratification of my immediate wants. accident, however, at last thrust upon me a wealth which i could scarcely be said to have sought. "after a year spent in the wilderness of the west, amid adventures the relation of which now would seem to you almost incredible, i gradually continued my retreat across the country, and after encountering innumerable hardships, which had no other object than the indulgence of my vagrant habits, i found myself in that land which has recently been termed the land of promise, but which has proved to many a greedy emigrant a land of deceit. for me, however, who sought it not, it showered gold. i was among the earliest discoverers of its treasure-vaults--one of the most successful, though the least laborious, of the seekers after gain. nor was it merely, or indeed chiefly, at the mines that fortune favoured me. with the first results of my labours i purchased an immense tract of land, little dreaming at the time that those desert acres were destined to become the streets and squares of a great and prosperous city. so that without effort, almost without my own knowledge, i achieved the greatness which springs from untold wealth. but this was not all. the blessed accident which led me to this golden land was the means of disclosing a pearl of price--a treasure in comparison with which california and all its mines shrink, to my mind, into insignificance. you know how the war-cry went forth to all lands, and men of every name and nation brought their arms to the field of fortune. famine came next, with disease and death in its train; and many a man, hurrying on to reap the golden harvest, fell by the wayside, without once seeing the waving of the yellow grain. "half scorning the greedy rabble, i could not refuse in this, my time of prosperity, to minister to the wants of such as fell in the way; and now for once my humanity found its own reward. a miserable, ragged, half-starved, and apparently dying man crept to the door of my tent and asked in a feeble voice for charity. i did not refuse to admit him into my narrow domicile and to relieve his sufferings. he was the victim of want rather than disease, and, his hunger appeased, the savage brutality of his coarse nature soon manifested itself in the dogged indifference with which he received a stranger's bounty and the gross ingratitude with which he abused my hospitality. a few days served to restore him to his strength; and then, anxious to dismiss my visitor, whose conduct had already excited suspicions of his good faith, i gave him warning that he must depart; at the same time placing in his hand a sufficient amount of gold to insure his support until he could reach the mines which were his professed destination. "he appeared dissatisfied, and begged permission to remain until the next morning, as the night was near, and he had no shelter provided. to this i made no objection, little imagining how base a serpent i was harbouring. at midnight i was awakened from my light and easily-disturbed sleep to find my lodger busily engaged in rifling my property and preparing to take an unceremonious leave of my dwelling. nor did his villainy end here. upon my seizing and charging him with the theft, he snatched a weapon and attempted the life of his benefactor. but i was prepared to ward off the stroke, and succeeded in a few moments in subduing my desperate antagonist. he now crouched at my feet in such abject submission as might be expected from so vile a knave. well might he tremble with fear; for the lynch-law was then in full force for criminals like him. i should probably have handed the traitor over to his fate; but, ere i had time to do so, he held out to my cupidity a bribe so tempting that i forgot the deservings of my knavish guest in the eagerness with which i bartered his freedom as the price of its possession. "he freely emptied his pockets at my bidding, and restored to me the gold, for the loss of which i never should have repined. as the base metal rolled at my feet, there glittered among the coins a jewel as truly _mine_ as any of the rest, but which, as it met my sight, filled me with greater surprise than if it had been a new-fallen star. "it was a ring of peculiar design and workmanship, which had once been the property of my father, and after his death had been worn by my mother until the time of her marriage with mr. graham, when it was transferred to myself. i had ever prized it as a precious heirloom, and it was one of the few valuables which i took with me when i fled from my step-father's house. this ring, with a watch and some other trinkets, had been left in the possession of lucy when i parted with her at rio, and the sight of it once more seemed to me like a voice from the grave. i eagerly sought to learn from my prisoner the source whence it had been obtained, but he maintained an obstinate silence. it was now my turn to plead; and at length the promise of instant permission to depart, 'unwhipped by justice,' at the conclusion of his tale, wrung from him a secret fraught to me with vital interest. "this man was stephen grant, the son of my old friend ben. he had heard from his father's lips the story of your mother's misfortunes; and the circumstance of a violent quarrel which arose between ben and his vixen wife at the young stranger's introduction to their household impressed the tale upon his recollection. from his account it appeared that my long-continued absence from lucy, during the time of my illness, was construed by her honest but distrustful counsellor and friend into cruel desertion. the poor girl, to whom my early life was all a mystery which she had never shared, and to whom much of my character and conduct was inexplicable, began soon to feel convinced of the correctness of the old sailor's suspicions and fears. she had already applied to my employer for information concerning me; but he, who had heard of the pestilence to which i was exposed, and fully believed me to be among the dead, forbore to distress her by a communication of his belief, and replied to her questionings with an obscurity which served to give new force to her hitherto uncertain surmises. she positively refused, however, to leave our home; and, clinging to the hope of my final return thither, remained where i had left her until the terrible fever began its ravages. her small stock of money was by this time consumed; her strength both of mind and body gave way; and ben, becoming every day more confident that the simple-hearted lucy had been betrayed and forsaken, persuaded her at last to sell her furniture, and with the sum thus raised flee the infected country before it should be too late. she sailed for boston in the same vessel in which ben shipped before the mast; and on reaching that port her humble protector took her to the only home he had to offer. "there your mother's sad fate found a mournful termination; and you, her infant child, were left to the mercy of the cruel woman who, but for consciousness of guilt and her fear of its betrayal, would doubtless have thrust you at once from the miserable shelter her dwelling afforded. this guilt consisted in a foul robbery committed by nan and her infamous son upon your innocent mother, now rendered, through her feebleness, an easy prey to their rapacity. the fruits of this vile theft, however, were not participated in by nan, whose promising son so far exceeded her in duplicity and craft that, having obtained possession of the jewels for the alleged purpose of bartering them away, he reserved such as he thought proper, and appropriated to his own use the proceeds of the remainder. "the antique ring which i now hold in my possession, the priceless relic of a mournful tragedy, would have shared the fate of the rest but for its apparent worthlessness. to the luckless stephen, however, it proved at last a temporary salvation from the felon's doom which must finally await that hardened sinner; and to me--ah! to _me_--it remains to be proved whether the knowledge of the secrets to which it has been the key will bless my future life or darken it with a heavier curse! notwithstanding the information thus gained, and the exciting idea to which it gave rise, that my child might be still living and finally restored to me, i could not yet feel any security that these daring hopes were not destined to be crushed in their infancy, and that my newly-found treasure might not again elude my eager search. to my inquiries concerning you, gertrude, stephen, who had no longer any motives for concealing the truth, declared his inability to acquaint me with any particulars of a later period than the time of your residence with trueman flint. he knew that the lamplighter had taken you to his home, and was accidentally made aware, a few months later, of your continuance in that place of refuge from the old man's being such a fool as to call upon his mother and voluntarily make compensation for the injury done to her windows in your outburst of childish revenge. "i could learn nothing more; but it was enough to inspire all my energies to recover my child. i hastened to boston, had no difficulty in tracing your benefactor, and, though he had been long dead, found many a truthful witness to his well-known virtues. nor, when i asked for his adopted child, did i find her forgotten in the quarter of the city where she had passed her childhood. more than one grateful voice was ready to respond to my questioning, and to proclaim the cause they had to remember the girl who, having experienced the trials of poverty, made it both her duty and her pleasure of prosperity to administer to the wants of a neighbourhood whose sufferings she had aforetime both witnessed and shared. but, alas! to complete the sum of sad vicissitudes with which my unhappy destiny was already crowded, at the moment when i was assured of my daughter's safety, and my ears were greeted with the sweet praises that accompanied the mention of her name, there fell upon me like a thunderbolt the startling words, 'she is now the adopted child of sweet emily graham, the blind girl.' "oh, strange coincidence! oh, righteous retribution! which, at the very moment when i was picturing to myself the consummation of my cherished hopes, crushed me once more beneath the iron hand of a destiny that would not be cheated of its victim! my child, my only child, bound by the gratitude and love of years to one in whose face i scarcely dared to look, lest my soul should be withered by the expression of condemnation which the consciousness of my presence would inspire! "the seas and lands which had hitherto divided us seemed not, to my tortured fancy, so insurmountable a barrier between myself and my long-lost daughter as the dreadful reflection that the only earthly being whose love i had hoped in time to win had been reared from her infancy in a household where my name was a thing abhorred. "stung to the quick by the harrowing thought that all my prayers, entreaties, and explanations could never undo her early impressions, and that all my labours and all my love could never call forth other than a cold and formal recognition of my claims, i half resolved to leave my child in ignorance of her birth and never seek to look upon her face, rather than subject her to the terrible necessity of choosing between the friend whom she loved and the father from whose crimes she had learned to shrink with horror and dread. after struggling long with contending emotions, i resolved to make one effort to see and recognize you, gertrude, and at the same time guard myself from discovery. i trusted to the change which time had wrought in my appearance to conceal me effectually from all eyes but those which had known me intimately, and therefore approached mr. graham's house without the slightest fear of betrayal. i found it empty and apparently deserted. "i now directed my steps to the well-remembered counting-house, and here learned from the clerk that the whole household, including yourself, had been passing the winter in paris, and were at present at a german watering-place. without further inquiry i took the steamer to liverpool, thence hastened to baden-baden--a trifling excursion in the eyes of a traveller of my experience. without risking myself in the presence of my step-father, i took an early opportunity to obtain an introduction to mrs. graham, and, thanks to her unreserved conversation, learned that emily and yourself were left in boston, and were under the care of dr. jeremy. "on my return voyage, immediately undertaken, i made the acquaintance of dr. gryseworth and his daughter--an acquaintance which proved of great value in facilitating my intercourse with yourself. once more arrived in boston, dr. jeremy's house looked as if closed for the season. a man making some repairs about the door-step informed me that the family were absent from town. he was not aware of the direction they had taken, but the servants were at home and might acquaint me with their route. upon this i boldly rung the door-bell. it was answered by mrs. ellis, who nearly twenty years ago had cruelly sounded in my ears the death-knell of all my hopes in life. i saw that my incognito was secure, as she met my piercing glance without shrinking or taking flight, as i fully expected she would do at sight of the ghost of my former self. "she replied to my queries as coolly as she had done during the day to some dozen of the doctor's disappointed patients--telling me that he had left that morning for new york, and would not be back for two or three weeks. nothing could have been more favourable to my wishes than the chance thus afforded of overtaking your party and, as a travelling companion, introducing myself gradually to your notice. "you know how this purpose was effected; how, now in the rear, and now in advance, i nevertheless maintained a constant proximity to your footsteps. to add to the comfort of yourself and emily, to learn your plans, forestall your wishes, secure to your use the best of rooms, and bribe to your service the most devoted of attendants--i spared neither pains, trouble, nor expense. for much of the freedom with which i approached you and made myself an occasional member of your circle, i was indebted to emily's blindness; for i could not doubt that otherwise time and its changes would fail to conceal from her my identity, and i should meet with a premature recognition. nor until the final act of the drama, when death stared us all in the face, and concealment became impossible, did i once trust my voice to her hearing. "how closely, during those few weeks, i watched and weighed your every word and action, seeking even to read your thoughts in your face, none can tell whose acuteness is not sharpened and vivified by motives so all-engrossing as mine; and who can measure the anguish of the fond father who day by day learned to worship his child with a more absorbing idolatry, and yet dared not clasp her to his heart? "especially when i saw you the victim of grief and trouble did i long to assert a claim to your confidence; and more than once my self-control would have given way but for the dread inspired by the gentle emily--gentle to all but me. i could not brook the thought that with my confession i should cease to be the trusted friend and become the abhorred parent. i preferred to maintain my distant and unacknowledged guardianship of my child rather than that she should behold in me the dreaded tyrant who might tear her from the home from which he himself had been driven. "and so i kept silent; and sometimes present to your sight, but still oftener hid from view, i hovered around your path until that dreadful day, which you will long remember, when, everything forgotten but the safety of yourself and emily, my heart spoke out and betrayed my secret. and now you know all--my follies, misfortunes, sufferings, and sins! "can you love me, gertrude? it is all i ask. i seek not to steal you from your present home--to rob poor emily of a child whom she values perhaps as much as i. the only balm my wounded spirit seeks is the simple, guileless confession that you will at least try to love your father. "i have no hope in this world, and none, alas! beyond, but in yourself. could you feel my heart now beating against its prison bars, you would realize, as i do, that unless soothed it will burst ere long. will you soothe it by your pity, my sweet, my darling child? will you bless it by your love? if so, come, clasp your arms around me, and whisper to me words of peace. within sight of your window, in the old summer-house at the end of the garden, with straining ear, i wait listening for your footsteps." chapter xlvi. the reunion. as gertrude's eyes, after greedily devouring the manuscript, fell upon its closing words she sprang to her feet, and the next instant she has run down the staircase, run out of the hall door, and approached the summer-house from the opposite entrance to that at which mr. amory, with folded arms and a fixed countenance, is watching for her coming. so noiseless is her light step, that before he is conscious of her presence, she has thrown herself upon his bosom and, her whole frame trembling with the vehemence of long-suppressed agitation, burst into a torrent of passionate tears, interrupted only by frequent sobs, so deep and so exhausting that her father, with his arms folded around her, and clasping her so closely to his heart that she feels its irregular beating, endeavours to still the tempest of her grief, whispering softly, as to an infant, "hush! hush, my child! you frighten me!" and, gradually soothed by his gentle caresses, her excitement subsides, and she is able to lift her face to his and smile upon him through her tears. they stand thus for many minutes in a silence that speaks far more than words. wrapped in the folds of his heavy cloak to preserve her from the evening air, and still encircled in his strong embrace, gertrude feels that their union of spirit is not less complete; while the long-banished man, who for years has never felt the sweet influence of a kindly smile, glows with a melting tenderness which hardening solitude has not the power to subdue. at length mr. amory, lifting his daughter's face and gazing into her glistening eyes, while he gently strokes the disordered hair from her forehead, asks, in an accent of touching appeal, "you will love me, then?" "oh, i do! i do!" exclaimed gertrude, sealing his lips with kisses. his hitherto unmoved countenance relaxes at this fervent assurance. he bows his head upon her shoulder, and the strong man weeps. her self-possession all restored, at seeing him thus overcome, gertrude places her hand in his, and startles him from his position by the firm and decided tone with which she whispers, "come!" "whither?" exclaims he, looking up in surprise. "to emily." with a half shudder and a mournful shake of the head, he retreats instead of advancing in the direction in which she would lead him--"i cannot." "but she waits for you; she, too, weeps and longs and prays for your coming." "emily!--you know not what you are saying!" "indeed, my father; it is you who are deceived. emily does not hate you; she never did. she believed you dead long ago; but your voice, though heard but once, has half robbed her of her reason so entirely does she love you still. come, and she will tell you, better than i can, what a wretched mistake has made martyrs of you both." emily, who had heard the voice of willie sullivan, as he bade gertrude farewell on the door-step, and rightly conjectured that it was he, forbore making any inquiries for the absent girl at the tea-table, and thinking it probable that she preferred to remain undisturbed, retired to the sitting-room at the conclusion of the meal, where (as mr. graham sought the library) she remained alone for more than an hour. the refined taste which always made emily's dress an index to the soft purity of her character was never more strikingly developed than when she wore, as on the present occasion, a flowing robe of white cashmere, fastened at the waist with a silken girdle, and with full drapery sleeves, whose lining and border of snowy silk could only have been rivalled by the delicate hand and wrist which had escaped from beneath their folds, and somewhat nervously played with the crimson fringe of a shawl, worn in the chilly dining-room, and thrown carelessly over the arm of the sofa. supporting herself upon her elbow, she sat with her head bent forward, and apparently deep in thought. once mrs. prime opened the door, looked around the room in search of the housekeeper, and, not finding her, retreated, saying to herself, "law! dear sakes alive! i wish she only had eyes now, to see how like a picter she looks!" a low, quick bark from the house-dog attracted her attention, and steps were heard crossing the piazza. before they had gained the door, emily was standing upright, straining her ear to catch the sound of every footfall; and, when gertrude and mr. amory entered, she looked more like a statue than a living figure, as with clasped hands, parted lips, and one foot slightly advanced, she silently awaited their approach. one glance at emily's face, another at that of her agitated father, and gertrude was gone. she saw the completeness of their mutual recognition, and with instinctive delicacy, forbore to mar by her presence the sacredness of so holy an interview. as the door closed upon her retreating figure, emily parted her clasped hands, stretched them forth into the dim vacancy, and murmured, "philip!" he seized them between both of his, and with one step forward, fell upon his knees. as he did so, the half-fainting emily dropped upon the seat. mr. amory bowed his head upon the hands which, still held tightly between his own, now rested on her lap, and, hiding his face upon her slender fingers, tremblingly uttered her name. "the grave has given up its dead!" exclaimed emily. "my god, i thank thee!" and she flung her arms around his neck, rested her head upon his bosom, and whispered, in a voice half choked with emotion, "philip!--dear, dear philip! am i dreaming, or have you come back again?" she and philip had loved each other in their childhood; before that childhood was passed they had parted; and as children they met again. during the lapse of many years she had lived among the cherished memories of the past, she had been safe from worldly contagion, and had retained all the guileless simplicity of girlhood--all the freshness of her spring-time; and philip, who had never willingly bound himself by any ties save those imposed upon him by necessity, felt his boyhood come rushing upon him, as, with emily's soft hand resting on his head, she blessed heaven for his safe return. she could not see how time had silvered his hair and sobered and shaded the face that she loved. and to him, as he beheld the face he had half dreaded to encounter beaming with the holy light of sympathy and love, the blind girl's countenance seemed encircled with a halo not of earth. and, therefore, this union had in it less of earth than heaven. not until, seated beside each other, with their hands still fondly clasped, philip had heard from emily's lips the history of her hopes, her fears, her prayers, and her despair; and she, while listening to the sad incidents of his life, had dropped upon the hand she held many a kiss and tear of sympathy, did either fully realise the mercy so long delayed, so fully accorded now, which promised even on earth to crown their days. emily wept at the tale of lucy's trials and her early death, and when she learned that it was hers and philip's child whom she had taken to her heart, and fostered with the truest affection, she sent up her silent praise that it had been allotted to her apparently bereaved and darkened destiny to fulfil so blessed a mission. "if i could love her more, dear philip," said she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks, "i would do so, for your sake, and that of her sweet, innocent, suffering mother." "and you forgive me, then, emily?" said philip, as both having finished their sad recitals of the past, they gave themselves up to the sweet reflection of their present joy. "forgive? oh, philip! what have i to forgive?" "the deed that locked you in prison darkness," he mournfully replied. "philip!" exclaimed emily, "could you for one moment believe that i attributed that to you?--that i blamed you, for an instant?" "not willingly, i am sure, dear emily. but, oh, you have forgotten that in your time of anguish, not only the obtruding thought but the lip that gave utterance to it, proclaimed how you refused to forgive the cruel hand that wrought you so much woe!" "you cruel, philip! never did i so abuse and wrong you. if my unfilial heart sinfully railed against the cruel injustice of my father, it was never guilty of such treachery towards you." "that fiendish woman lied, then, when she told me that you shuddered at my very name?" "if i shuddered, philip, it was because i recoiled at the thought of the wrong you had sustained; and oh, believe me, if she gave you any other assurance than of my continued love, it was because she laboured under a sad error." "good heavens!" ejaculated philip; "how wickedly have i been deceived!" "not wickedly," replied emily. "mrs. ellis was in that instance the victim of circumstances. she was a stranger among us, and believed you other than you were; but, had you seen her a few weeks later, sobbing over her share in the unhappy transaction which drove you to desperation, and as we then supposed to death, you would have felt that we had misjudged her, and that she carried a heart of flesh beneath a stony disguise. the bitterness of her grief was united with remorse at the recollection of her own harshness. let us forget the sad events of the past, and trust that the loving hand which has thus far shaped our course has but afflicted us in mercy." "in mercy!" exclaimed philip. "what mercy does my past experience give evidence of, or your life of everlasting darkness? can you believe it a loving hand which made me the ill-fated instrument, and you the life-long sufferer, from one of the dreariest misfortunes that can afflict humanity?" "speak not of my blindness as a misfortune," answered emily; "i have long ceased to think it such. it is only through the darkness of the night that we discern the lights of heaven, and only when shut out from earth that we enter the gates of paradise. with eyes to see the wonderful working of nature and nature's god, i nevertheless closed them to the evidences of almighty love that were around me on every side. while enjoying the beautiful gifts that were showered on my pathway, i forgot to praise the giver; but, with an ungrateful heart, walked sinfully on, little dreaming of the deceitful snares which entangle the footsteps of youth. and therefore did he, who is ever over us for good, arrest with fatherly hand the child who was wandering from the road that leads to peace; and, though the discipline of his chastening rod was sudden and severe, mercy tempered justice. from the tomb of my buried joys sprang hopes that will bloom in immortality. from the clouds and the darkness broke forth a glorious light. then grieve not, dear philip, over the fate that is far from sad; but rejoice with me in the thought of that blessed and not far distant awakening, when, with restored and beautiful vision, i shall stand before god's throne, in full view of that glorious presence, from which, but for the guiding light which has burst upon my spirit through the veil of earthly darkness, i might have been eternally shut out." as emily finished speaking, and philip, gazing with awe upon the rapt expression of her soul-illumined face, beheld the triumph of an immortal mind, and pondered on the might, the majesty, and power of the influence wrought by simple piety, the door of the room opened abruptly and mr. graham entered. the sound of the well-known footstep disturbed the soaring thoughts of both, and the flush of excitement which had mounted into emily's cheeks subsided into more than her wonted paleness as philip, rising slowly from her side, stood face to face with her father. mr. graham approached with the scrutinizing air of one called upon to greet a visitor who, though an apparent stranger, may possibly have claims to recognition, and glanced at his daughter as if hoping she would relieve the awkwardness by an introduction. but the agitated emily maintained perfect silence, and every feature of philip's countenance remained immovable as mr. graham slowly came forward. he had advanced within one step of the spot where philip stood waiting to receive him, when, struck by the stern look and attitude of the latter, he stopped short, gazed one moment into the eagle eyes of his step-son, then staggered, grasped at the mantel-piece, and would have fallen, but philip, starting forward, helped him to his arm-chair. and yet no word was spoken. at length mr. graham, who, having fallen into the seat, sat still gazing into the face of mr. amory, ejaculated in a tone of wondering excitement, "philip amory! oh, my god!" "yes, father," exclaimed emily, suddenly rising and grasping her father's arm; "it is philip; he whom we have so long believed among the dead, restored to us in health and safety!" mr. graham rose from his chair and, leaning heavily on emily's shoulder, again approached mr. amory, who, with folded arms, stood fixed as marble. his step tottered with a feebleness never before observable in the sturdy frame of the old man, and the hand which he extended to philip was marked by an unusual tremulousness. but philip did not offer to receive the proffered hand, or reply by word to the rejected salutation. mr. graham turned towards emily and, forgetting that this neglect was shut from her sight, exclaimed half-bitterly, half-sadly, "i cannot blame him! god knows i wronged the boy!" "wronged him!" cried philip, in a voice almost fearful. "yes, wronged him, indeed! blighted his life, crushed his youth, half broke his heart, and wholly blighted his reputation!" "no," exclaimed mr. graham, who had quailed beneath these accusations, until he reached the final one; "not that, philip!--not that! i never harmed you there; i discovered my error before i had doomed you to infamy in the eyes of one of your fellow-men." "you acknowledge, then, the error?" "i do, i do! i imputed to you the deed which proved to have been accomplished through the agency of my most confidential clerk. i learned the truth almost immediately; but too late, alas! to recall you. then came the news of your death, and i felt that the injury had been irreparable. but it was not strange, philip; you must allow that. archer had been in my employment more than twenty years. i believed him trustworthy." "no! oh, no!" replied philip. "it was nothing strange that, a crime committed, you should have readily ascribed it to me. you thought me capable only of evil." "i was unjust, philip," answered mr. graham, with an attempt to rally his dignity; "but i had some cause." "perhaps so," responded philip; "i am willing to grant that." "let us shake hands upon it, then," said mr. graham, "and endeavour to forget the past." philip acceded to this request, though there was but little warmth in the manner of his compliance. mr. graham looked relieved from a burden which had been oppressing his conscience for years, and, subsiding into his arm-chair, begged the particulars of philip's experience during the last twenty years. the outline of the story was soon told, mr. graham listening to it with attention, and inquiring into its particulars with an interest which proved that, during a lengthened period of regret and remorse, his feelings had sensibly softened towards the step-son, with every memory of whom there had come to his heart a pang of self-reproach. mr. amory was unable to afford any satisfactory explanation of the report of his own death which had been confidently affirmed by dr. jeremy's correspondent at rio. upon a comparison of dates, however, it seemed probable that the doctor's agent had obtained this information from philip's employer, who had every reason to believe that the young man had perished of the prevailing infection. to philip himself it was almost an equal matter of wonder that his friends should ever have obtained knowledge of his flight and destination. but this was easily accounted for, since the vessel in which he had embarked returned directly to boston, and there were among her crew and officers those who could reply to the inquiries which the benevolent doctor had set on foot some months before, accompanied by the offer of a liberal reward. notwithstanding the many romantic incidents which were unfolding themselves, none seemed to produce so great an impression upon mr. graham's mind as the singular circumstance that the child who had been reared under his roof, and endeared herself to him, in spite of some clashing of interests and opinions, should prove to be philip's daughter. as he left the room at the conclusion of the tale, and sought the solitude of his library, he muttered to himself, "singular coincidence! very singular! very!" hardly had he departed before another door was timidly opened, and gertrude looked cautiously in. her father went quickly towards her, and, passing his arm around her waist, drew her towards emily, and clasped them both in a long and silent embrace. "philip," exclaimed emily, "can you doubt the mercy which has spared us for such a meeting?" "oh, emily!" replied he, "i am deeply grateful. teach me how and where to bestow my tribute of praise." on the hour of sweet communion which succeeded we forbear to dwell--the silent rapture of emily, the passionately-expressed joy of philip, or the trusting, loving glances which gertrude cast upon both. it was nearly midnight when mr. amory rose to depart. emily, who had not thought of his leaving the spot which she hoped he would now consider his home, entreated him to remain; and gertrude, with her eyes, joined in the eager petition. but he persisted in his resolution with firmness and seriousness. "philip," said emily, laying her hand upon his arm, "you have not yet forgiven my father." she had divined his thoughts. he shrank under her reproachful tones, and made no answer. "but you _will_, dear philip--you _will_," continued she, in a pleading voice. he hesitated, then glanced at her once more, and replied, "i will, dearest emily, i will--in time." when he had gone, gertrude lingered a moment at the door, to watch his retreating figure, just visible in the light of the waning moon, then returned to the parlour, and saying, "oh, what a day this has been!" but checked herself, at the sight of emily, who, kneeling by the sofa with clasped hands, and with her white garments sweeping the floor, looked the very impersonation of purity and prayer. throwing one arm around her neck, gertrude knelt on the floor beside her, and together they sent up to the throne of god the incense of thanksgiving and praise! chapter xlvii. the recompense. when uncle true died, mr. cooper buried his old friend in the ancient graveyard which adjoined the church where he had long officiated as sexton. but long before the time-worn building gave place to a modern structure the hallowed remains of uncle true had found a quieter resting-place--even a beautiful piece of undulating woodland in the neighbourhood of mr. graham's country residence, which had been consecrated as a rural cemetery; and in the loveliest nook of this beautiful spot the ashes of the good old lamplighter found their final repose. this lot of land, which had been purchased by willie's liberality, selected by gertrude, and by her made fragrant with summer rose and winter ivy, now enclosed also the forms of mr. cooper and mrs. sullivan; and over these three graves gertrude had planted many a flower and watered it with her tears. especially did she view it as a sacred duty and privilege to mark the anniversary of the death of each by a tribute of fresh garlands; and, with this pious purpose in view, she left mr. graham's house one beautiful afternoon about a week after the events narrated in the previous chapter. she carried on her arm a basket, containing her offering of flowers; and, as she had a long walk before her, started at a rapid pace. let us follow her, and briefly pursue the train of thought which accompanied her on her way. she had left her father with emily. she would not ask him to join her in her walk, though he had once expressed a desire to visit the grave of uncle true, for he and emily were talking together so contentedly, it would have been a pity to disturb them; and gertrude's reflections were engrossed by the thought of their tranquil happiness. she thought of herself, too, as associated with them both; of the deep and long-tried love of emily, and of the fond outpourings of affection daily and hourly lavished upon her by her newly-found parent, and felt that she could scarcely repay their kindness by the devotion of a lifetime. she tried to banish the remembrance of willie's faithlessness and desertion. but the painful recollection presented itself continually, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to repress it; and at last, ceasing the struggle, she gave herself up for the time to a deep and saddening reverie. she had received two visits from willie since the first; but the second meeting had been in its character very similar, and on the succeeding occasion the constraint had increased instead of diminishing. several times willie had made an effort to speak and act with the freedom of former days; but a sudden blush, or sign of confusion and distress, on gertrude's part, deterred him from any further attempt to put to flight the reserve which subsisted in their intercourse. again, gertrude, who had resolved, previous to his last visit, to meet him with frankness, smiled upon him affectionately at his coming, and offered her hand with such sisterly freedom, that he was emboldened to take and retain in his grasp, and was on the point of unburdening his mind of some weighty secret, when she turned abruptly away, took up some trivial piece of work, and while she seemed absorbed in it, addressed to him an unimportant question--a course of conduct which disconcerted him for the remainder of his stay. as gertrude pondered the distressing results of every visit, she half hoped he would discontinue them, believing that their feelings would be less wounded by a total separation than by interviews which must leave on the mind of each a still greater sense of estrangement. strange, she had not yet acquainted him with the event so interesting to herself--the discovery of her dearly-loved father. once she tried to speak of it, but was so overcome at the idea of imparting to the confidant of her childhood an experience of which she could scarcely yet think without emotion, that she paused in the attempt, fearing that, should she on any topic give way to her sensibilities, she should lose all restraint over her feelings and lay open her whole heart to willie. but one thing distressed her more than all others. in his first attempt to throw off all disguise, willie had more than intimated to her his own unhappiness; and ere she could find an opportunity to change the subject and repel a confidence for which she still felt herself unprepared, he had spoken mournfully over his future prospects in life. the only construction which gertrude could give to this confession was that it had reference to his engagement with isabel, and it gave rise to the suspicion that, infatuated by her beauty, he had impulsively bound himself to one who could never make him happy. the little scenes to which she herself had been a witness corroborated this idea, as, on both occasions of her seeing the lovers and overhearing their words, some cause of vexation seemed to exist on willie's part. "he loves her," thought gertrude, "and is also bound to her in honour; but he sees already the want of harmony in their natures. poor willie! it is impossible he should ever be happy with isabel." and gertrude's sympathising heart mourned not more deeply over her own griefs than over the disappointment that willie must be experiencing, if he had ever hoped to find peace in a union with so overbearing, ill-humoured, and unreasonable a girl. wholly occupied with these and similar musings, she walked on with a quickness she was scarcely herself aware of, and soon gained the shelter of the heavy pines which bordered the entrance to the cemetery. here she paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze that played beneath the branches; and, passing through the gateway, entered a carriage-road at the right, and proceeded slowly up the ascent. the place, always quiet and peaceful, seemed unusually still and secluded, and save the occasional carol of a bird, there was no sound to disturb the perfect silence and repose. as gertrude gazed upon the familiar beauties of those sacred grounds which had been her frequent resort during several years--as she walked between beds of flowers, inhaled the fragrant and balmy air, and felt the solemn appeal, the spiritual breathings, that haunted the holy place--every motion that was not in harmony with the scene gradually took its flight, and she experienced only that sensation of sweet and half-joyful melancholy which was awakened by the thought of the happy dead. after a while she left the broad road and turned into a little bypath, and then again to a narrower foot-track, and gained the shady and retired spot which had recommended itself to her choice. it was situated on the slope of a little hill; a huge rock protected it on one side from the observation of the passer-by, and a fine old oak overshadowed it upon the other. the iron enclosure, of simple workmanship, was nearly overgrown by the green ivy, which had been planted there by gertrude's hand, and the moss-grown rock was festooned by its tendrils. upon a jutting stone beside the grave of uncle true gertrude seated herself, and after a few moments of contemplation sighed heavily, emptied her flowers upon the grass, and commenced weaving a graceful chaplet, which, when completed, she placed upon the grave at her feet. with the remainder of the blossoms she strewed the other mounds; and then, drawing forth a pair of gardening gloves and a little trowel, she employed herself for nearly an hour among the flowers and vines with which she had embowered the spot. her work finished, she again placed herself at the foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back from her forehead the braids of her hair, and appeared to be resting from her labours. it was seven years that day since uncle true died, but gertrude had not forgotten the kind old man. as she gazed upon the grassy mound that covered him, and scene after scene rose up before her in which that earliest friend and herself had whiled away the happy hours, there came, to embitter the cherished remembrance, the recollection of that third and seldom absent one who completed the memory of their fireside joys; and gertrude, while yielding to the inward reflection, unconsciously exclaimed aloud, "oh, uncle true! you and i are not parted yet; but willie is not of us!" "oh, gertrude," said a reproachful voice close at her side, "is willie to blame for that?" she started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts with his mild sad eye fixed inquiringly upon her, and, without replying to his question, buried her face in her hands. he threw himself upon the ground at her feet, and, as on the occasion of their first childish interview, gently lifted her bowed head from the hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her to look him in the face, saying at the same time in the most imploring accents, "tell me, gerty, in pity tell me, why i am excluded from your sympathy?" but still she made no answer, except by the tears that coursed down her cheeks. "you make me miserable," continued he. "what have i done that you have so shut me out of your affection? why do you look so coldly upon me--and even shrink from my sight?" added he, as gertrude, unable to endure his searching look, turned her eyes in another direction and strove to free her hands from his grasp. "i am not cold--i do not mean to be," said she, her voice half-choked with emotion. "oh, gertrude," replied he, relinquishing her hands and turning away, "i see you have ceased to love me. i trembled when i first beheld you, so lovely, so beautiful, and so beloved by all, and feared lest some fortunate rival had stolen your heart from its boyish keeper. but even then i did not deem that you would refuse me, at least, a _brother's_ claim to your affection." "i will not," exclaimed gertrude eagerly. "oh, willie, you must not be angry with me! let me be your sister!" he smiled a most mournful smile, and said, "i was right, then; you feared lest i should claim too much, and discouraged my presumption by awarding me nothing. be it so. perhaps your prudence was for the best; but, oh gertrude, it has made me heartbroken." "willie!" exclaimed gertrude, with excitement, "do you know how strangely you are speaking?" "strangely?" responded willie, in a half-offended tone. "is it so strange that i should love you? have i not for years cherished the remembrance of our past affection, and looked forward to our reunion as my only hope of happiness? has not this fond expectation inspired my labours, and cheered my toils, and endeared to me my life, in spite of its bereavements? and can you, in the very sight of these cold mounds, beneath which lie buried all else that i held dear on earth, crush and destroy without compassion this solitary but all-engrossing----" "willie," interrupted gertrude, her calmness suddenly restored, and speaking in a kind but serious tone, "is it honourable for you to address me thus? have you forgotten----" "no, i have _not_ forgotten," exclaimed he vehemently. "i have not forgotten that i have no right to distress or annoy you, and i will do so no more. but oh, gerty! my sister gerty (since all hope of a nearer tie is at an end), blame me not, and wonder not, if i fail at present to perform a brother's part. i cannot stay in this neighbourhood. i cannot be the patient witness of another's happiness. my services, my time, my life, you may command, and in my far-distant home i will never cease to pray that the husband you have chosen, whoever he be, may prove himself worthy of my noble gertrude, and love her one-half as well as i do!" "willie!" said gertrude, "what madness is this? i am bound by no such tie as you describe; but what shall i think of your treachery to isabel?" "to isabel!" cried willie, starting up, as if seized with a new idea; "and has that silly rumour reached _you_ too? and did you put faith in the falsehood?" "falsehood!" exclaimed gertrude, lifting her hitherto drooping eyelids and casting upon him, through their wet lashes, a look of earnest scrutiny. calmly returning a glance which he had neither avoided nor quailed under, willie responded unhesitatingly, and with a tone of astonishment not unmingled with reproach, "falsehood! yes. with the knowledge you have both of her and myself, could you doubt its being such for a moment?" "oh, willie!" cried gertrude, "could i doubt the evidence of my own eyes and ears? had i trusted to less faithful witnesses, i might have been deceived. do not attempt to conceal from me the truth, to which my own observation can testify. treat me with frankness, willie! indeed, indeed, i deserve it at your hands!" "frankness, gertrude! it is you only who are mysterious. could i lay my whole soul bare to your gaze, you would be convinced of its truth, its perfect truth, to its first affection. and as to isabel clinton, if it is to her that you have reference, your eyes and your ears have both played you false, if----" "oh, willie! willie!" exclaimed gertrude, interrupting him; "have you so soon forgotten your devotion to the belle of saratoga, your unwillingness to sanction her temporary absence from your sight, the pain which the mere suggestion of the journey caused you, and the fond impatience which threatened to render those few days an eternity?" "stop! stop!" cried willie, a new light breaking in upon him, "and tell me where you learned all this?" "in the very spot where you spoke and acted. mr. graham's parlour did not witness our first meeting. in the public promenade-ground, on the shore of saratoga lake, and on board the steamboat at albany, did i both see and recognize you--myself unknown. there, too, did your own words serve to convince me of the truth of that which from other lips i had refused to believe." "listen to me, gertrude," said he, in a fervent and almost solemn tone, "and believe that in sight of my mother's grave, and in the presence of that pure spirit (and he looked reverently upward) who taught me the love of truth, i speak with such sincerity and candour as are fitting for the ears of angels. i do not question the accuracy with which you overheard my expostulations and entreaties on the subject of miss clinton's proposed journey, or the impatience i expressed at parting for her speedy return. i will not pause either to inquire where the object of all my thoughts could have been at the time that, notwithstanding the changes of years, she escaped my eager eyes. let me first clear myself of the imputation, and then there will be room for all further explanations. "i did feel pain at miss clinton's sudden departure for new york, under a pretext which ought not to have weighed with her for a moment. i did employ every argument to dissuade her from her purpose; and when my eloquence had failed to induce the abandonment of the scheme, i availed myself of every suggestion and motive which possibly might influence her to shorten her absence. not because the society of the selfish girl was essential, or even conducive, to my happiness--far from it--but because her excellent father, who so worshipped and idolized his only child that he would have thought no sacrifice too great to promote her enjoyment, was at the very time, amid all the discomfort of a crowded watering-place, hovering between life and death, and i was disgusted at the heartlessness which voluntarily left the fondest of parents deprived of all female tending, to the charge of a hired nurse and an unskillful though willing youth like myself. that eternity might, in miss clinton's absence, set a seal to the life of her father was a thought which in my indignation i was on the point of uttering, but i checked myself, unwilling to interfere too far in a matter which came not within my rightful province, and perhaps excite unnecessary alarm in isabel. if selfishness mingled at all in my views, dear gerty, and made me over-impatient for the return of the daughter to her post of duty, it was that i might be released from almost constant attendance upon my invalid friend, and hasten to her from whom i hoped such warmth of greeting as i was only eager to bestow. can you wonder, then, that your reception struck cold upon my throbbing heart?" "but you understand the cause of that coldness now," said gertrude, looking up at him through a rain of tears, which like a summer sun-shower reflected itself in rainbow smiles upon her happy countenance. "you know now why i dared not let my heart speak out." "and this was all, then?" cried willie; "and you are free, and i may love you still?" "free from all bonds, dear willie, but those which you yourself clasped around me, and which have encircled me from my childhood." and now, with heart pressed to heart, they pour in each other's ear the tale of mutual affection, planted in infancy, nourished in youth, fostered and strengthened amid separation and absence, and perfected through trial, to bless and sanctify every year of their after life. "but, gerty," exclaimed willie as, confidence restored, they sat side by side conversing freely of the past, "how could you think for an instant that isabel clinton would have power to displace you in my regard? i was not guilty of so great an injustice towards you; for even when i believed myself supplanted by another, i fancied that other hero of such shining qualities as could scarcely be surpassed." "and who could surpass isabel?" inquired gerty. "can you wonder that i trembled for your allegiance when i thought of her beauty, her fashion, her family, and her wealth, and remembered the forcible manner in which all these were presented to your sight and knowledge?" "but what are all these, gerty, to one who knows her as we do? do not a proud eye and a scornful lip destroy the effect of beauty? can fashion excuse rudeness, or noble birth cover natural deficiencies? and as to money, what did i ever want of that, except to employ it for the happiness of yourself--and them?" and he glanced at the graves of his mother and grandfather. "oh, willie! you are so disinterested." "not in this case. had isabel possessed the beauty of a venus and the wisdom of a minerva, i could not have forgotten how little happiness there could be with one who, while devoting herself to the pursuit of pleasure, had become dead to natural affections and indifferent to the holiest of duties. could i see her flee from the bedside of her father to engage in the frivolities and drink in the flatteries of an idle crowd--or, when unwillingly summoned thither, shrink from the toils and watchings imposed by his feebleness--and still imagine that such a woman could bless and adorn a fireside? could i fail to contrast her unfeeling neglect, ill-concealed petulance, flagrant levity, and irreverence of spirit, with the sweet and loving devotion, the saintly patience, and the deep and fervent piety of my own gertrude? i should have been false to myself, as well as to you, dearest, if such traits of character as miss clinton constantly evinced could have ever weakened my love and admiration for yourself. and now, to see the little playmate whose image i cherished so fondly matured into the lovely and graceful woman, her sweet attractions crowned by so much beauty as to place her beyond recognition, and still her heart as much my own as ever! oh, gerty, it is too much happiness! would that i could impart a share of it to those who loved us both so well!" and who can say that they did not share it?--that the spirit of uncle true was not there to witness the completion of his many hopeful prophecies? that the old grandfather was not there to see all his doubts and fears giving place to joyful certainties? and that the soul of the gentle mother whose rapt slumbers had even in life foreshadowed such a meeting, and who, by the lessons she had given her child in his boyhood, the warnings spoken to his later years, and the ministering guidance of her disembodied spirit, had fitted him for the struggle with temptation, sustained him through its trials, and restored him triumphant to the sweet friend of his infancy--who shall say that even now she hovered not over them with parted wings, realising the joy prefigured in that dreamy vision which pictured to her sight the union between the son and the daughter of her love, when the one, shielded by her fond care from every danger and snatched, from the power of temptation, should be restored to the arms of the other who, by a long and patient continuance in well-doing, had earned so full a recompense, so all-sufficient a reward? chapter xlviii. anchors for world-tried souls. the sunset hour was near when gertrude and willie rose to depart. they left the cemetery by a different gateway, and in the opposite direction to that by which gertrude had entered. here willie found the chaise in which he had come, though the horse had contrived to loosen the bridle by which he was fastened, had strayed to the side of the road, eaten as much grass as he wished, and was now sniffing the air, looking up and down the road, and, despairing of his master's return, seemed on the point of taking his departure. he was reclaimed, however, without difficulty, and, as if glad after his long rest to be again in motion, brought them in half-an-hour to mr. graham's door. as soon as they came in sight of the house, gertrude, familiar with the customary ways of the family, perceived that something unusual was going forward. lamps were moving about in every direction; the front door stood wide open; there was, what she had never seen before, the blaze of a bright fire discernible through the windows of the best chamber; and as they drew still nearer she observed that the piazza was half covered with trunks. all these appearances, as she rightly conjectured, betokened the arrival of mrs. graham, and possibly of other company. she might perhaps have regretted the ill-timed coming of this bustling lady at the moment when she was eager for a quiet opportunity to present willie to emily and her father, and communicate to them her own happiness; but if such a thought presented itself it vanished in a moment. her joy was too complete to be marred by so trifling a disappointment. "let us drive up the avenue, willie," said she, "to the side-door, so that george may see us and take your horse to the stable." "no," said willie, as he stopped opposite the front gate; "i can't come in now--there seems to be a house full of company, and besides i have an appointment in town at eight o'clock, and promised to be punctual;"--he glanced at his watch and added, "it is near that already. i did not think of its being so late; but i shall see you to-morrow morning, may i not?" she looked her assent, and, with a warm grasp of the hand as he helped her from the chaise, and a mutual smile of confidence and love, they separated. he drove rapidly towards boston, and she, opening the gate, found herself in the arms of fanny bruce, who had been impatiently waiting the departure of willie to seize her dear miss gertrude and, between tears and kisses, pour out her congratulations and thanks for her happy escape from that horrid steamboat--for this was the first time they had met since the accident. "has mrs. graham come, fanny?" asked gertrude, as they walked up to the house together. "yes, indeed; mrs. graham, and kitty, and isabel, and a little girl, and a sick gentleman--mr. clinton, i believe; and another gentleman--but _he's_ gone." "who has gone?" "oh, a tall, dignified-looking man, with black eyes, and a beautiful face, and hair as white as if he were old--and he isn't old either." "and do you say he has gone?" "yes; he didn't come with the rest. he was here when i came, and he went away about an hour ago. i heard him tell miss emily that he had agreed to meet a friend in boston, but perhaps he'd come back this evening. i hope he will, miss gertrude; you ought to see him." they had now reached the house, and through the open door gertrude could plainly distinguish the loud tones of mrs. graham's voice proceeding from the parlour on the right. she was talking to her husband and emily, and was just saying as gertrude entered, "oh, it was the most awful thing i ever heard of in my life! and to think, emily, of your being on board, and our isabel! poor child! she hasn't got her colour back yet after the fright. and gertrude flint, too! by the way, they say gertrude behaved very well. where is the child?" turning round, she now saw gertrude, who was just entering the room, and, going towards her, she kissed her with considerable heartiness and sincerity; for mrs. graham, though somewhat coarse and blunt, was not without good feelings when the occasion was such as to awaken them. gertrude's entrance having served to interrupt the stream of exclamatory remarks in which the excitable lady had been indulging for ten minutes or more, she now bethought herself of the necessity of removing her bonnet and outside garments, a part of which, being loosed from their fastenings, she had been dragging after her about the floor. "well!" exclaimed she, "i suppose i had better follow the girls' example and get some of the dust off from me! i'm half buried, i believe! but there, that's better than coming on in the horrid steamboat last night, as my brother clinton was so crazy as to propose. where's bridget? i want her to take up some of my things." "i will assist you," said gertrude, taking up a little carpet-bag, throwing a scarf, which had been stretching across the room, over her arm, and then following mrs. graham closely, in order to support the heavy travelling-shawl which was hanging half off that lady's shoulders. at the first landing-place, however, she found herself suddenly encircled in kitty's warm embrace, and, laying down her burdens, gave herself up for a few moments to the hugging and kissing that succeeded. at the head of the staircase she met isabel, wrapped in a dressing gown, with a large pitcher in her hand, and a most discontented expression of countenance. she set the pitcher on the floor, however, and saluted gertrude with a good grace. "i'm glad to see you alive," said she, "though i cannot look at you without shuddering; it reminds me so of that dreadful day when we were in such frightful danger. how lucky we were to be saved, when there were so many drowned! i've wondered ever since, gertrude, how you could be so calm; i'm sure i shouldn't have known what to do if you hadn't been there to suggest. but, oh dear! don't let us speak of it; it's a thing i cant' bear to think of!" and with a shudder and shrug of the shoulders, isabel dismissed the subject and called somewhat pettishly to kitty--"kitty, i thought you went to get our pitcher filled!" kitty, who, in obedience to a loud call and demand from her aunt, had hastily run to her room with the little travelling-bag which gertrude had dropped on the staircase, now came back quite out of breath, saying, "i did ring the bell twice. hasn't anybody come?" "no!" replied belle! "and i should like to wash my face and curl my hair before tea, if i could." "let me take the pitcher," said gertrude; "i am going downstairs, and will send jane up with the water." "thank you," said belle, rather feebly; while kitty exclaimed, "no, no, gertrude; i'll go myself." but it was too late; gertrude had gone. gertrude found mrs. ellis full of troubles and perplexities. "only think," said the astonished housekeeper, "of their coming, five of them, without the least warning in the world; and here i've nothing in the house fit for tea; not a bit of rich cake, not a scrap of cold ham. and of course they're hungry after their long journey, and will want something nice." "oh, if they are very hungry, mrs. ellis, they can eat dried beef and fresh biscuit and plain cake; and if you will give me the keys i will get out the preserves and the best silver, and see that the table is set properly." nothing was a trouble to gertrude that night. everything that she touched went right. jane caught her spirit and became astonishingly active; and when the really bountiful table was spread, and mrs. ellis, after glancing around and seeing that all was as it should be, looked into the beaming eyes and observed the glowing cheek and sunny smile of the happy girl, she exclaimed, in her ignorance, "good gracious, gertrude, anybody would think you were over-joyed to see all these folks back again!" it wanted but a few moments to tea-time, and gertrude was selecting fresh napkins from a drawer in the china-closet, when kitty ray peeped in at the door and finally entered, leading by the hand a little girl neatly dressed in black. her face was at first full of smiles; but the moment she attempted to speak she burst into tears, and throwing her arms round gertrude's neck, whispered in her ear, "oh, gertrude, i'm so happy! i came to tell you!" "happy?" replied gertrude; "then you mustn't cry." upon this kitty laughed, and then cried again, and then laughed once more, and in the interval explained to gertrude that she was engaged--had been engaged a week to the best man in the world--and that the child she held by the hand was his orphan niece, and just like a daughter to him. "and only think," continued she, "it's all owing to you." "to me?" said the astonished gertrude. "yes; because i was so vain and silly, you know, and liked folks that were not worth liking, and didn't care much for anybody's comfort but my own; and, if you hadn't taught me to be something better than that, and set me a good example, which i've tried to follow ever since, he never would have thought of looking at me, much less loving me, and believing i should be a fit mother for little gracie here," and she looked down affectionately at the child, who was clinging fondly to her. "he is a minister, gertrude, and very good. only think of such a childish creature as i am being a minister's wife!" the sympathy which kitty came to claim was not denied her, and gertrude, with her own eyes brimming with tears, assured her of her participation in her joy. in the meantime little gracie, who still clung to kitty with one hand, had gently inserted the other within that of gertrude, who, looking down upon her for the first time, recognized the child whom she had rescued from persecution in the drawing-room at saratoga. kitty was charmed with the coincidence, and gertrude, as she remarked the happy transformation which had already been effected in the countenance and dress of the little girl, who had been so sadly in want of female superintendence, felt an added conviction of the wisdom of the young clergyman's choice. mr. graham's cheerful parlour had never looked so cheerful as on that evening. the weather was mild, but a light fire, which had been kindled on mr. clinton's account, did not render the room too warm. it had, however, driven the young people into a remote corner, leaving the neighbourhood of the fire-place to mrs. graham and emily, who occupied the sofa, and mr. clinton and mr. graham, whose arm-chairs were placed on the opposite side. this arrangement enabled mr. graham to converse freely and uninterruptedly with his guest upon some grave topic of interest, while his talkative wife entertained herself and emily by a recapitulation of her travels and adventures. on a table, at the further extremity of the room, was placed a huge portfolio of beautiful engravings, recently purchased and brought home by mr. graham, and representing a series of european views. gertrude and kitty were turning them carefully over; and little gracie, who was sitting in kitty's lap, and fanny, who was leaning over gertrude's shoulder, were listening eagerly to the young ladies' explanations and comments. occasionally isabel, the only restless or unoccupied person present, would lean over the table to glance at the likeness of some familiar spot, and exclaim, "kitty, there's the shop where i bought my blue silk!" or, "kitty, there's the waterfall that we visited in company with the russian officers." and now the door opened, and, without any announcement, mr. amory and william sullivan entered. had either made his appearance singly, he would have been looked upon with astonishment by the majority of the company; but coming together, and with an apparently good understanding existing between them, there was no countenance present which expressed any emotion but that of surprise. mr. and mrs. graham, however, were too much accustomed to society to betray any further evidence of that sentiment than was contained in a momentary glance, and, rising, received their visitors with due politeness and propriety. the former nodded carelessly to mr. amory, whom he had seen in the morning, presented him to mr. clinton (without, however, mentioning the existing connection with himself), and was preparing to go through the same ceremony to mrs. graham, but was saved the trouble as she had not forgotten the acquaintance formed at baden-baden. willie's knowledge of the company also spared the necessity of introduction to all but emily; and that being accidentally omitted, he gave an arch glance at gertrude, and, taking an offered seat near isabel, entered into conversation with her, mr. amory being in like manner engrossed by mrs. graham. "miss gertrude," whispered fanny, as soon as the interrupted composure of the party was once more restored, and glancing at willie as she spoke, "that's the gentleman you were out driving with this afternoon. i know it is," continued she, as she observed gertrude change colour and endeavour to hush her, while she looked anxiously round as if the remark had been overheard; "is it willie, gertrude? is it mr. sullivan?" gertrude became more and more embarrassed, while the mischievous fanny continued to ply her with such questions; and isabel, who had jealously noticed that willie's eyes wandered more than once to the table, turned on her such a scrutinizing look as rendered her confusion distressing. accident came to her relief, however. the housemaid, with the evening paper, endeavoured to open the door, against which her chair was placed, thus giving her an opportunity to rise, receive the paper, and at the same time an unimportant message. while she was thus engaged, mr. clinton left his chair with the feeble step of an invalid, crossed the room, addressed a question in a low voice to willie, and receiving an affirmatory reply, took isabel by the hand, and approaching mr. amory, exclaimed, with deep emotion, "sir, mr. sullivan tells me you are the person who saved the life of my daughter; and here she is to thank you." mr. amory rose and flung his arm over the shoulder and around the waist of gertrude, who was passing on her way to hand the newspaper to mr. graham, and who, not having heard the remark of mr. clinton, received the caress with a sweet smile and an upturned face. "here," said he, "mr. clinton, is the person who saved the life of your daughter. it is true that i swam with her to the shore; but it was under the mistaken impression that i was bearing to a place of safety my own darling child, whom i little suspected then of having voluntarily relinquished to another her only apparent chance of rescue." "just like you, gertrude! just like you!" shouted kitty and fanny in a breath, each struggling to obtain a foremost place in the little circle that had gathered round her. "my own noble gertrude!" whispered emily, as, leaning on mr. amory's arm, she pressed gertrude's hand to her lips. "oh, gertrude!" exclaimed isabel, with tears in her eyes, "i didn't know. i never thought----" "your child?" cried mrs. graham's loud voice, interrupting isabel's unfinished exclamation. "yes, my child, thank god!" said mr. amory, reverently; "restored at last to her unworthy father, and--you have no secrets here, my darling?"--gertrude shook her head, and glanced at willie, who now stood at her side "and gladly bestowed by him upon her faithful and far more deserving lover." and he placed her hand in willie's. there was a moment's pause. all were impressed with the solemnity of the action. then mr. graham came forward, shook each of the young couple heartily by the hand, and, passing his sleeve hastily across his eyes, sought his customary refuge in the library. "gertrude," said fanny, pulling gertrude's dress to attract her attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, "are you engaged?--are you engaged to him?" "yes," whispered gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify fanny's curiosity and silence her questioning. "oh, i'm so glad! i'm so glad!" shouted fanny, dancing round the room and flinging up her arms. "and i'm glad, too!" said gracie, catching the tone of congratulation, and putting her mouth up to gertrude for a kiss. "and _i_ am glad," said mr. clinton, placing his hands upon those of willie and gertrude, which were still clasped together, "that the noble and self-sacrificing girl, whom i have no words to thank, and no power to repay, has reaped a worthy reward in the love of one of the few men with whom a fond father may venture wholly to trust the happiness of his child." exhausted by so much excitement, mr. clinton now complained of sudden faintness, and was assisted to his room by willie, who, after waiting to see him fully restored, returned to receive the blessing of emily upon his new hopes, and hear with wonder and delight the circumstances which attended the discovery of gertrude's parentage. for although it was an appointment to meet mr. amory which had summoned him back to boston, and he had in the course of their interview acquainted him with the happy termination of a lover's doubts, he had not, until the disclosure took place in mr. graham's parlour, received in return the slightest hint of the great surprise which awaited him. he had felt a little astonishment at his friend's express desire to join him at once in a visit to mr. graham's; but on being informed that he had made the acquaintance of mrs. graham in germany, he concluded that a desire to renew his intercourse with the family, and possibly a slight curiosity to see the lady of his own choice, were the only motives that had influenced him. and now, amid retrospections of the past, thanksgiving for the present, and hopes and aspirations for the future, the evening passed rapidly away. * * * * * "come here, gerty!" said willie, "come to the window, and see what a beautiful night it is." it was indeed a glorious night. snow lay on the ground. the air was intensely cold without, as might be judged from the quick movements of the pedestrians and the brilliant icicles with which everything that had an edge was fringed. the stars were glittering too as they never glitter, except on the most intense of winter nights. the moon was just peeping above an old brown building--the same old corner building which had been visible from the door-step where willie and gerty were wont to sit in their childhood, and from behind which they had often watched the coming of the same round moon. leaning on willie's shoulder, gertrude stood gazing until the full circle was visible in a space of clear and cloudless ether. neither of them spoke, but their hearts throbbed with the same emotion as they thought of the days that were past. just then the gasman came quickly up the street, lit, as by an electric touch, the bright burners that in close ranks lined either side-walk, and in a moment more was out of sight. gertrude sighed. "it was no such easy task for poor old uncle true," said she; "there have been great improvements since his time." "there have, indeed!" said willie, glancing round the well-lit, warm, and pleasantly-furnished rooms of his own and gertrude's home, and resting his eyes at last upon the beloved one by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happiness--"such improvements, gerty, as we only dreamt of once! i wish the dear old man could be here and share them!" a tear started to gertrude's eye; but, pressing willie's arm, she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful, bright star just breaking forth from a silvery film which had hitherto half overshadowed it; the star through which gertrude had ever fancied she could discern the smile of the kind old man. "dear uncle true!" said she; "his lamp still burns brightly in heaven, willie; and its light is not yet gone out on earth!" * * * * * in a beautiful town about thirty miles from boston, and on the shore of those hill-embosomed ponds which would be immortalized by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such sheets of blue transparent water, there stood a mansion-house of solid though ancient architecture. it had been the property of philip amory's paternal grandparents, and the early home and sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it was only with great reluctance, and when driven to the act by the spur of poverty, that he was induced to part with the much-valued estate. to reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was a favourite scheme with philip. his ample means now rendered it practicable; he lost no time in putting it into execution, and the spring after he returned from his wanderings saw the work in a fair way to be speedily completed. in the meantime gertrude's marriage had taken place; the grahams had removed to their house in town (which, out of compliment to isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was more than ever crowded with gay company), and the bustling mistress was already projecting changes in her husband's country-seat. and emily, who had parted with her greatest treasure, and found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with her spirit, murmured not; but, contented with her lot, neither dreamed of nor asked for outward change until philip came to her one day and, taking her by the hand, said gently-- "this is no home for you, emily. you are as much alone as i in my solitary farm-house. we loved each other in childhood, our hearts became one youth, and have continued so until now. why should we be longer parted? your father will not now oppose our wishes; and will you, dearest, refuse to bless and gladden the lonely life of your grey-haired lover?" but emily shook her head, while she answered, with her smile of ineffable sweetness-- "oh no, philip! do not speak of it! think of my frail health and my helplessness." "your health, dear emily, is improving. the roses are already coming back to your cheeks; and for your helplessness, what task can be so sweet to me as teaching you, through my devotion, to forget it! oh, do not send me away disappointed, emily! a cruel fate divided us for years; do not by your own act prolong that separation! believe me, a union with my early love is my brightest, my only hope of happiness!" and she did not withdraw the hand which he held, but yielded the other also to his fervent clasp. "my only thought had been, dear philip," said she, "that ere this i should have been called to my father's home; and even now i feel many a warning that i cannot be very long for earth; but while i stay, be it longer or shorter, it shall be as you wish. no word of mine shall part hearts so truly one, your home shall be mine." and when the grass turned green, and the flowers sent up their fragrance, and the birds sang in the branches, and the spring gales blew soft and made a gentle ripple on the water, emily came to live on the hillside with philip; and mrs. ellis came too to superintend all things, and especially the dairy, which became henceforth her pride. she had long since tearfully implored, and easily obtained, the forgiveness of the much-wronged philip; and proved, by the humility of her voluntary confession, that she was not without a woman's heart. mrs. prime pleaded hard for the cook's situation at the farm, but emily kindly expostulated with her, saying-- "we cannot all leave my father, mrs. prime. who would see to his hot toast, and the fire in the library?" and the good old woman saw the matter in the right light and submitted. and is the long-wandering, much-suffering, and deeply-sorrowing exile happy now? he is; but his peace springs not from his beautiful home, his wide possessions, an honourable repute among his fellow-men, or even the love of the gentle emily. all these are blessings that he well knows how to prize; but his world-tried soul has found a deeper anchor yet--a surer refuge from the tempest and the storm; for, through the power of a living faith, he has laid hold on eternal life. the blind girl's prayers are answered; her last, best work is done; she has cast a ray from her blessed spirit into his darkened soul; and should her call to depart soon come, she will leave behind one to follow in her footsteps, fulfil her charities, and do good on earth until such time when he shall be summoned to join her again in heaven. as they go forth in the summer evening to breathe the balmy air, listen to the winged songster of the grove, and drink in the refreshing influences of a summer sunset, all things speak of a holy peace to the new-born heart of him who has so long been a man of sorrow. as the sun sinks among gorgeous clouds, as the western light grows dim, and the moon and the stars come forth in their solemn beauty, they utter a lesson to his awakened soul; and the voice of nature around, and the still, small voice within whisper in gentlest, holiest accents-- "the sun shall be no more thy light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy god thy glory." "thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended." the end. burt's home library comprising three hundred and sixty-five titles of standard works, embracing fiction, essays, poetry, history, travel, etc., selected from the world's best literature, written by authors of world-wide reputation. printed from large type on good paper, and bound in handsome uniform cloth binding. abbe constantin. by ludovic halevy. abbot, the. by sir walter scott. adam bede. by george eliot. �sop's fables. alhambra, the. by washington irving. alice in wonderland and through the looking glass. by lewis carroll. alice lorraine. by r. d. blackmore. all sorts and conditions of men. by besant and rice. amiel's journal. translated by mrs. humphrey ward. andersen's fairy tales. anne of geierstein. by sir walter scott. antiquary, the. by sir walter scott. arabian nights entertainments. ardath. by marie corelli. armadale. by wilkie collins. armorel of lyonesse. by walter besant. around the world in the yacht sunbeam. by mrs. brassey. arundel motto. by mary cecil hay. at the back of the north wind. by george macdonald. attic philosopher. by emile souvestre. auld licht idylls. by james m. barrie. aunt diana. by rosa n. carey. aurelian. by william ware. autobiography of benjamin franklin. averil. by rosa n. carey. bacon's essays. by francis bacon. barbara heathcote's trial. by rosa n. carey. barnaby rudge. by charles dickens. barrack-room ballads. by rudyard kipling. betrothed, the. by sir walter scott. black beauty. by anna sewell. black dwarf, the. by sir walter scott. bleak house. by charles dickens. bondman, the. by hall caine. bride of lammermoor. by sir walter scott. bride of the nile, the. by george ebers. browning's poems. (selections.) by robert browning. bryant's poems. (early.) by william cullen bryant. burgomaster's wife, the. by george ebers. burns' poems. by robert burns. by order of the king. by victor hugo. california and oregon trail. by francis parkman, jr. cast up by the sea. by sir samuel baker. caxtons, the. by bulwer-lytton. chandos. by "ouida." charles auchester. by e. berger. character. by samuel smiles. charles o'malley. by charles lever. children of the abbey. by regina maria roche. children of gibeon. by walter besant. child's history of england. by charles dickens. christmas stories. by charles dickens. clara vaughan. by r. d. blackmore. cloister and the hearth. by charles reade. complete angler. by walton and cotton. confessions of an opium eater. by thomas de quincey. consuelo. by george sand. corinne. by madame de stael. countess gisela, the. by e. marlitt. countess of rudolstadt. by george sand. count robert of paris. by sir walter scott. cousin pons. by honore de balzac. cradock nowell. by r. d. blackmore. cranford. by mrs. gaskell. cripps the carrier. by r. d. blackmore. crown of wild olive, the. by john ruskin. daniel deronda. by george eliot. data of ethics. by herbert spencer. daughter of an empress, the. by louisa muhlbach. daughter of heth, a. by william black. david copperfield. by charles dickens. days of bruce. by grace aguilar. deemster, the. by hall caine. deerslayer, the. by james fenimore cooper. descent of man. by charles darwin. dick sand; or, a captain at fifteen. by jules verne. discourses of epictetus. translated by george long. divine comedy, the. (dante.) translated by rev. h. f. carey. dombey & son. by charles dickens. donal grant. by george macdonald. donovan. by edna lyall. dove in the eagle's nest. by charlotte m. yonge. dream life. by ik marvel. duty. by samuel smiles. early days of christianity. by f. w. farrar. east lynne. by mrs. henry wood. education. by herbert spencer. egoist, the. by george meredith. egyptian princess, an. by george ebers. eight hundred leagues on the amazon. by jules verne. emerson's essays. (complete.) by ralph waldo emerson. emperor, the. by george ebers. essays of elia. by charles lamb. esther. by rosa n. carey. executor, the. by mrs. alexander. fair maid of perth. by sir walter scott. fairy land of science. by arabella b. buckley. far from the madding crowd. by thomas hardy. faust. (goethe.) translated by anna swanwick. felix holt. by george eliot. fifteen decisive battles of the world. by e. s. creasy. file no. . by emile gaboriau. firm of girdlestone. by a. conan doyle. first principles. by herbert spencer. first violin. by jessie fothergill. for faith and freedom. by walter besant. fortunes of nigel. by sir walter scott. fragments of science. by john tyndall. frederick the great and his court. by louisa muhlbach. french revolution. by thos. carlyle. from the earth to the moon. by jules verne. goethe and schiller. by louisa muhlbach. gold bug, the, and other tales, by edgar a. poe. gold elsie. by e. marlitt. good luck. by e. werner. grandfather's chair. by nathaniel hawthorne. great expectations. by chas. dickens. great taboo, the. by grant allen. great treason, a. by mary hoppus. greek heroes. fairy tales for my children. by charles kingsley. green mountain boys, the. by d. p. thompson. grimm's household tales. by the brothers grimm. grimm's popular tales. by the brothers grimm. gulliver's travels by dean swift. guy mannering. by sir walter scott. handy andy. by samuel lover. hardy norseman. a. by edna lyall. harold. by bulwer-lytton. harry lorrequer. by charles lever. heart of midlothian. by sir walter scott. heir of redclyffe. by charlotte m. yonge. henry esmond. by wm. m. thackeray. her dearest foe. by mrs. alexander. heriot's choice. by rosa n. carey. heroes and hero worship. by thomas carlyle. history of a crime. by victor hugo. history of civilization in europe. by guizot. holy roman empire. by james bryce. homo sum. by george ebers. house of the seven gables. by nathaniel hawthorne. hunchback of notre dame. by victor hugo. hypatia. by charles kingsley. idle thoughts of an idle fellow. by jerome k. jerome. iliad, the. pope's translation. initials, the. by the baroness tautphoeus. in the counselor's house. by e. marlitt. in the golden days. by edna lyall. in the schillingscourt. by e. marlitt. it is never too late to mend. by charles reade. ivanhoe. by sir walter scott. jack's courtship. by w. clark russell. jack hinton. by charles lever. jane eyre. by charlotte bronte. john halifax, gentleman. by miss mulock. joshua. by george ebers. kenilworth. by sir walter scott. kidnapped. by r. l. stevenson. kit and kitty. by r. d. blackmore. kith and kin. by jessie fothergill. knickerbocker's history of new york. by washington irving. knight errant. by edna lyall. koran, the. translated by george sale. lamplighter, the. by maria s. cummins. lady with the rubies. by e. marlitt. last days of pompeii. by bulwer-lytton. last of the barons. by bulwer-lytton. last of the mohicans. by james fenimore cooper. lena rivers. by mary j. holmes. life of christ. by frederic w. farrar. light of asia, the. by sir edwin arnold. light that failed, the. by rudyard kipling. little dorrit. by charles dickens. longfellow's poems. (early.) lorna doone. by r. d. blackmore. louise de la valliere. by alexandre dumas. love me little, love me long, by charles reade. lover or friend? by rosa n. carey. lucile. by owen meredith. maid of sker. by r. d. blackmore. makers of florence. by mrs. oliphant. makers of venice. by mrs. oliphant. man and wife. by wilkie collins. man in the iron mask. by alexandre dumas. marquis of lossie. by george macdonald. martin chuzzlewit. by charles dickens. mary anerley. by r. d. blackmore. mary st. john. by rosa n. carey. master of ballantrae, the. by r. l. stevenson. masterman ready. by captain marryat. meditations of marcus aurelius. translated by george long. merle's crusade. by rosa n. carey micah clarke. by a. conan doyle. michael strogoff. by jules verne. middlemarch. by george eliot. midshipman easy. by captain marryat. mill on the floss. by george eliot. milton's poems. by john milton. mine own people. by rudyard kipling. molly bawn. by "the duchess." monastery, the. by sir walter scott. moonstone, the. by wilkie collins. mosses from an old manse. by nathaniel hawthorne. mysterious island, the. by jules verne. natural law in the spiritual world. by henry drummond. nellie's memories. by rosa n. carey. newcomes, the. by william m. thackeray. nicholas nickleby. by charles dickens. ninety-three. by victor hugo. no name. by wilkie collins. not like other girls. by rosa n. carey. odyssey, the. pope's translation. old curiosity shop. by charles dickens. old mam'selle's secret. by e. marlitt. old mortality. by sir walter scott. old myddleton's money. by mary cecil hay. oliver twist. by charles dickens. only a word. by george ebers. only the governess. by rosa n. carey. on the heights. by berthold auerbach. origin of species. by charles darwin. other worlds than ours. by richard proctor. our bessie by rosa n. carey. our mutual friend. by charles dickens. pair of blue eyes, a. by thos. hardy. past and present. by thomas carlyle. pathfinder, the. by james fenimore cooper. pendennis. by william m. thackeray. pere goriot. by honore de balzac. peveril of the peak. by sir walter scott. phantom rickshaw, the. by rudyard kipling. phra, the phoenician. by edwin l. arnold. picciola. by x. b. saintine. pickwick papers. by charles dickens. pilgrim's progress. by john bunyan. pilot, the. by james fenimore cooper. pioneers, the. by james fenimore cooper. pirate, the. by sir walter scott. plain tales from the hills. by rudyard kipling. prairie, the. by james fenimore cooper. pride and prejudice. by jane austen. prime minister, the. by anthony trollope. prince of the house of david. by rev. j. h. ingraham. princess of the moor. by e. marlitt. princess of thule, a. by william black. professor, the. by charlotte bronte. prue and i. by george william curtis. queen hortense. by louisa muhlbach. queenie's whim. by rosa n. carey. quentin durward. by sir walter scott. redgauntlet. by sir walter scott. red rover. by james fenimore cooper. reign of law. by duke of argyle. reveries of a bachelor. by ik marvel. rhoda fleming. by george meredith. rienzi. by bulwer-lytton. robert ord's atonement. by rosa n. carey. robinson crusoe. by daniel defoe. rob roy. by sir walter scott. romance of two worlds. by marie corelli. romola. by george eliot. rory o'more. by samuel lover. saint michael. by e. werner. schonberg-cotta family. by mrs. andrew charles. sartor resartus. by thomas carlyle. scarlet letter, the. by nathaniel hawthorne. schopenhauer's essays. translated by t. b. saunders. scottish chiefs. by jane porter. scott's poems. by sir walter scott. search for basil lyndhurst. by rosa n. carey. second wife, the. by e. marlitt. seekers after god. by f. w. farrar. self-help. by samuel smiles. sense and sensibility. by jane austen. sesame and lilies. by john ruskin. seven lamps of architecture. by john ruskin. shadow of a crime. by hall caine. shadow of the sword. by robert buchanan. shirley. by charlotte bronte. silas marner. by george eliot. silence of dean maitland. by maxwell grey. sin of joost avelingh. by maaren maartens. sir gibbie. by george macdonald. sketch book, the. by washington irving. social departure, a. by sarah jeannette duncan. soldiers, three, etc. by rudyard kipling. son of hagar, a. by hall caine. springhaven. by r. d. blackmore. spy, the. by james fenimore cooper. story of an african farm. by olive schreiner. story of john g. paton. told for young folks. by rev. james paton. strathmore. by "ouida." st. ronan's well. by sir walter scott. study in scarlet, a. by a. conan doyle. surgeon's daughter, the. by sir walter scott. swiss family robinson. by jean rudolph wyss. tale of two cities. by charles dickens. tales from shakespeare. by charles and mary lamb. talisman, the. by sir walter scott. tanglewood tales. by nathaniel hawthorne. tempest and sunshine. by mary j. holmes. tempest tossed. by theodore tilton. ten nights in a barroom. by t. s. arthur. tennyson's poems. by alfred tennyson. ten years later. by alexandre dumas. terrible temptation, a. by charles reade. thaddeus of warsaw. by jane porter. thelma. by marie corelli. thirty years' war. by frederick schiller. thousand miles up the nile. by amelia b. edwards. three guardsmen. by alexandre dumas. three men in a boat. by jerome k. jerome. thrift. by samuel smiles. toilers of the sea. by victor hugo. tom brown at oxford. by thomas hughes. tom brown's school days. by thomas hughes. tom burke of "ours." by charles lever. tom cringle's log. by michael scott. tour of the world in eighty days, a. by jules verne treasure island. by robert louis stevenson. twenty thousand leagues under the sea. by jules verne. twenty years after. by alexandre dumas. twice told tales. by nathaniel hawthorne. two admirals. by james fenimore cooper. two years before the mast. by r. h. dana, jr. uarda. by george ebers. uncle max. by rosa n. carey. uncle tom's cabin. by harriet beecher stowe. undine and other tales. by de la motte fouque. unity of nature. by duke of argyle. vanity fair. by wm. m. thackeray. vendetta. by marie corelli. vicar of wakefield. by oliver goldsmith. vicomte de bragelonne. by alexander dumas. vilette. by charlotte bronte. virginians, the. by wm. m. thackeray. water babies, the. by charles kingsley. water witch, the. by james fenimore cooper. waverley. by sir walter scott. wee wifie. by rosa n. carey. westward ho! by charles kingsley. we two. by edna lyall. what's mine's mine. by george macdonald. when a man's single. by j. m. barrie. white company, the. by a. conan doyle. whittier's poems. (early). wide, wide world. by susan warner. widow lerouge, the. by emile gaboriau. window in thrums. by j. m. barrie. wing and wing. by james fenimore cooper. woman in white, the. by wilkie collins. won by waiting. by edna lyall. wonder book, a, for boys and girls. by nathaniel hawthorne. woodstock. by sir walter scott. wooed and married. by rosa n. carey. wooing o't. by mrs. alexander. world went very well then, the. by walter besant. wormwood. by marie corelli. wreck of the grosvenor, the by w. clark russell. zenobia. by william ware. a little dusky hero by harriet t. comstock _author of "cedric the saxon," "tower or throne," etc._ new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & company. this little book is lovingly dedicated to philip and albert by their mother [illustration: colonel austin staggered to his feet, leaning upon the little shoulder.] contents i. george washington mckinley jones ii. the box from up north iii. the little gauntlet and sword iv. waiting in the turret chamber v. the boy up north vi. "war, g. w.!" vii. the battle on the hill-top viii. the colonel's body-guard ix. "i'se got de colonel!" x. in the tent hospital xi. "it's all yours, g. w.!" xii. a history-evening at oakwood a little dusky hero. i. george washington mckinley jones. scratch! scratch! scratch! went colonel austin's pen over the smooth white sheets of paper, sheet after sheet. the dead heat of tampa hung heavy within the tent; the buzz of the flies was most distressing; but the reports must be got off, and after them there were letters to be written to "the boy and his mother" up north, telling them--especially the boy--what a glorious thing it is to serve one's country under _any_ circumstances. the present circumstances were extremely trying, to be sure, but the firm brown hand glided back and forth over the long pages in a determined manner that showed how colonel austin believed in doing his duty. scratch! scratch! scratch! buzz! buzz! buzz! "good-mornin', sah!" it was a soft little voice, and it droned away into the buzz of the flies and the scratching of the pen so that the writer at the rough table took no heed. "good mornin', sah!" this time colonel austin turned. he was a firm believer in discipline, and the unannounced arrival annoyed him. he swung around and gazed sternly about six feet from the ground. there was nothing there! his eyes dropped and finally rested upon the very smallest, dirtiest, raggedest black boy he had ever seen. but the beautiful great eyes of the forlorn mite looked trustingly up at the surprised officer, and colonel austin noticed that the grimy cheeks were tear-stained though the childish lips were smiling bravely. "good mornin', sah!" again piped the soft voice. "why, good morning to you!" the colonel replied. he was always tender with sick soldiers, women, and children, and the pathetic little figure before him touched his sympathy. "who are you, my small friend?" "george washington mckinley jones, sah." "just so; and where are your folks?" "no folks any more, sah. daddy he done got put in prison fur life, sah, 'cos he killed a frien' of his, an' my mammy she done died yesterday. i jus' come from her buryin', sah." two slow tears fell from the soft brown eyes and rolled over the stained cheeks. colonel austin's throat grew dry, as it always did when he looked upon suffering things bearing pain and trouble bravely. "and why do you come here, my child?" he asked kindly. "i likes de look ob your face, sah, an' i'se hungry--i'se starved, i is--an' 'sides i want work!" the boy certainly was not over nine, and was undersized and childish-looking even for that. "work!" smiled the grave colonel, "what in the world can you do?" "why, sah, i'se de best shot you ebber saw; i reckon i'se what you call a real crack shot; dat's what i am, sah!" the ring of pride in the piping voice reached the colonel's heart. "oh! i see," he nodded. "you wish to be a soldier boy, is that it?" the grimy little applicant drew himself up to his extreme height, and replied with magnificent scorn. "no, sah! i does _not_ wish to be a sojer boy. i wish ter be one ob dem heroes, sah!" a joke was a rare thing in those dull, waiting days, and george washington mckinley jones was delicious. the colonel smoothed the smiles from his mouth as best he could. but not a quiver of mirth ruffled the dirt-stained countenance of the child. his severe stare sobered the colonel, and he asked in a gentle tone, "do you know what a hero is, my boy?" george washington drew his ragged coat about him with a gesture of patient pity, then answered with a slow, pained dignity. "co'se i knows what a hero is, sah. how could i know dat i wanted ter be one if i didn't? a hero is a pusson, sah, what ain't afraid to tackle a job too big fur other folks, an' goes right froo wid it or dies a-doin' it!" something in the quiet words drove all desire to laugh for good and all from the listening officer. "i have a character on my hands, evidently," he thought; aloud he said, "george washington mckinley jones, i presume you haven't any particular job in heroism in sight at present?" "no, sah. i jes' wants to go 'long wid de boys, an' watch out fur my chance. mammy done tole me heaps ob times dat if i jes' was wid sojers, i was boun'ter be a hero some day, shore. she 'lowed she had visions." "you shall have your chance, comrade!" the colonel got up and took the thin little hand in his. "if you have told me the truth, my boy, i will take you along with my regiment and give you a show." he called to an officer who was passing the tent. "martin!" the man stopped and touched his cap. "martin, we have a young volunteer here. he's no common soldier, please understand; he's enlisted as a hero. feed him up, give him all that he can hold, and let him report to me later." lieutenant martin's face never changed expression; he simply held out his hand gravely to george washington mckinley jones, saluted his superior officer, and led the volunteer out of the tent. while george washington ate, solemnly and long, investigations were made as to the truth of his story. colonel austin made them himself. he wished to make sure, for his sympathy was deeply enlisted, and he did not intend to be deceived. he found the little fellow had not departed from the facts in the least particular. he belonged to nobody; but every one who knew him had a kindly word for him. he was known as an honest, good-natured little waif, with a reputation for hitting the bull's-eye every time any one would lend him a gun at a rifle-match. upon the evidence gathered the boy was taken into the army as the "mascot of the ninth," and before long he was the pet of the men in that city of white tents, and became known as "g. w.," for who in that hot, lazy place could waste time in calling him all of his various historical national names? it was "g. w." here and "g. w." there. he danced for them and sang for them, and was never weary, never ill-tempered. when once he had had enough to eat--and for many days the men thought that he never could get enough--he became the healthiest and ruggedest of boys, and beyond doubt one of the happiest that ever breathed. ii. the box from up north. one day a box came from the north. it was addressed to "george washington mckinley jones, care of colonel austin;" but as g. w. was incapable of reading he sharply questioned the messenger who delivered it. "how you know dis 'blongs ter me?" asked he. "there's your name," said the messenger. "whar?" the patient messenger traced the boy's illustrious name. "what's dar 'sides my name?" "care of colonel austin." "oh!" said g. w., understandingly, "dat means i'se got ter take care ob it fur my colonel! i reckon dey needn't took all de trouble to write dat foolishness out! co'se i'll take care of it." g. w. ran straight to colonel austin's tent. the officer was sitting inside, and, as it happened, alone. "hello, g. w., what have you there?" the boy held the big box out gravely. colonel austin read the address. "it's for you, my boy," he said. "open it and let us see what is inside. here, let us drop the tent-flap and keep the surprise to ourselves." when the colonel said the package was for him all doubt fled from g. w.'s heart. others might step from truth's narrow way--but his colonel? oh, never! the exciting thought that the box was really for himself made the sturdy little form quiver. his hands shook, and the big brown eyes stood open, as round as full moons. the heavy papers were off at last. upon the box itself lay a square white envelope, breathing forth a fragrance of violets, and stating as plainly as could be, in delicate lettering, that the contents of the envelope were also for g. w. "there's something for you in the letter--open that first," said the colonel. he was eyeing the scene with a strange look upon his face. "shall i read it for you, g. w.?" he added. "yes, sah! i guess you'll have to, sah, sump-in' seems de matter wid my eyes," said g. w. "you jes' read it, colonel. read it slow an' _exactly_ what it done say, kase i doan't want any mistake, sah, 'bout dis sort ob thing." "all right, old man,--just tell me if i go too fast." then the colonel began: "to george washington mckinley jones, _private in the ninth infantry_: "dear sir: the enclosed are for you. they were made in uncle sam's workshop, just where all the brave boys have theirs made"-- "you reads too fast, colonel!" gasped g. w., tiny drops of perspiration standing out on his face. the colonel began again at the beginning, and then went on, reading slowly: "i am sure they will fit, because a little messenger brought me the measurements. accept them with our love, and wear them like the hero you will certainly be some day. there is just one way you can thank us; bring colonel austin home to us safe and sound, well and strong. see that he obeys you where this is concerned. we wish him to do his duty, but do not let anything happen to him. "god bless you, little soldier! that is the daily wish of "the boy and his mother." there was silence in the tent. then said the colonel, "well, why don't you open the box, g. w.?" the boy was kneeling before the box, but his eyes were fastened upon a photograph on the rude table. it was a photograph of "the boy and his mother," g. w. felt certain; and he was realizing that these two, far away in the unknown, had spoken to him. "open it, g. w.," again the colonel said. "you do it, sah! i clar i doan't dare!" the officer laughed, and cut the string. within the box, neatly folded, but in such a way as to hide none of their charms, lay trousers and jacket of army blue resplendent with flashing buttons. colonel austin took the garments out, and held them up at arms' length. they were small, but perfect. "lawd!" gasped g. w.; "for de lawd's sake!" a moment of breathless silence followed; then colonel austin said, "they are yours, g. w., try them on! you are 'one of the boys' now for sure and certain, buttons and all! see, there is a ' ' on every button!" slowly the surprise cleared away in g. w.'s brain. he gave a low whistle, like the note of a bird, and struggled to his feet, for he was still on his knees by the box. "colonel," he whispered, "you ain't never tole me a lie--but dis here 'sperience done tries my mind! turn away yo' head, sah." colonel austin turned away his head and waited. behind his back arose a rustling, with mutters of impatience, as buttons refused to comply with the nervous efforts of awkward and trembling fingers. then came a long breath of content, as things began to run smoother, and presently a sigh of superhuman bliss; then a voice, new and deep, gasped forth: "look at me!" the colonel turned. there, his face and hands in a tremble, but all exultant, stood g. w. in the uniform of the ninth. the coat was buttoned crooked, the cap, which g. w. had discovered at the bottom of the box, was hind part before--but what of that? in all the army of the great republic was no manlier soldier than the little fellow who now faced his colonel with a look of rapture on his round, dusky face. "comrade, give us your hand!" there was a mistiness in the colonel's eyes, a queer chokiness in his voice. "you'll never disgrace the uniform, my boy,--it isn't in you to do it!" g. w. saluted, and then gravely placed his hand in colonel austin's. "dese clo'es," he said, "are jes' goin' to help make me a hero for sho! an', colonel, i'se goin' ter take care ob you jis' like de boy an' his mother tole me. i is sho! nothin' ain't goin' to happen 'long o' you while george washington mckinley jones knows what hisself am about! i'se goin' ter put dis letter in my breas'-pocket, an' it's goin' ter stay right plumb ober my heart, till i take yer back to dem two all right! now, sah, let me show de boys. lawd! i clar if my mammy"--the proud smile quivered--"should see me, i jes' reckon de visions she'd have would make her trimble!" iii. the little gauntlet and sword. the sunlight beat down upon tampa until every man in camp shed his coat in despair, but not one button did g. w. unfasten! he strutted and sweltered, and complained not. he gave daily exhibitions of his sharp-shooting--which, by the way, was an accomplishment truly remarkable. for the first time in his life he was absolutely and perfectly happy. while all "the boys" felt a personal interest in the child, it was a well-understood fact that he belonged to colonel austin. to that officer alone did g. w. report, and from him alone did he accept orders as to his outgoings and incomings. as the long languid weeks dragged on, g. w. became the life of the camp. his "break-downs," danced with wondrous grace and skill, set many a lazy foot shuffling in sympathy. he sang songs to a banjo accompaniment which made the listeners forget their pipes and cards, and set them to thinking of home--and other things. he appeared to be singularly innocent and child-like for such an uncared-for waif. he seemed to have gathered only good nature and a love for the brave and noble from his starved, cruel years. as colonel austin watched him from day to day he became more interested in him, and began to wonder what he should do with the odd little chap when the business with spain was settled, and life assumed its ordinary aspect once more. perhaps the colonel's hunger for the boy up north made him glad of the companionship; perhaps it was only his noble heart always yearning over the needy. be that as it may, the little black boy and the handsome young colonel became daily closer comrades. there was one regulation which colonel austin had insisted upon from the first. g. w., who was to sleep upon a mattress in his tent, was to go to bed early, as a child should. the men might bribe or coax him for a dance or a song during the day; but the little soldier had his orders to "turn in" at eight-thirty, and although g. w. often longed for an hour more, he obeyed like the hero he meant some day to be. love and a strong sense of duty governed the heart beating faithfully under the hot, trimly-buttoned uniform. he might wish to stay where the fun was, but he never varied his obedience by an extra five minutes. when it was possible the colonel took a few moments from duty or pleasure at the twilight hour, and followed g. w. into the tent. when the flap fell to after the pair, not a soldier but knew that the colonel was not to be disturbed except upon the most urgent business. when the colonel came out of the tent the look in his eyes made more than one man remember it. old general wallace was once known to have taken off his hat as he came face to face with g. w.'s colonel at the tent door, after one of those mysterious twilight talks. when the older man realized what he had done he jammed his hat down over his eyes, and, with an impatient laugh, said, "what in thunder is the matter with you, austin? you look like a methodist camp-meeting!" g. w.'s colonel saluted and passed on. one night when he went into the tent after g. w., he found the boy divested of his splendid regimentals, kneeling in a very scant and child-like costume before the table--which, by the way, was composed of two soap-boxes covered with a flag--and scanning the faces of "the boy and his mother." a strange yearning in g. w.'s eyes caused the officer to speak very gently. "what is it, old fellow? surely you are not envying the boy up north? you, a full-fledged soldier of uncle sam!" envy! why g. w.'s heart just then was filled with pity for that boy nearly as old as he, who was obliged to wear humiliating garments. actually there was lace on his collar. and the boy wore curls! not long ones, but curls nevertheless. g. w. had by this time acquired tact sufficient to forbid mention of these pitiful details, but he said slowly, "i'se right sorry fur de boy, colonel, kase he's 'bliged to stay away frum being wid you!" g. w. was too sincere to be laughed at, and the boy's father replied gently: "well, you see, comrade, it is this way: the boy is serving his country as well as you. he'd like to be here first-rate,--a drum-call sets him prancing like a war horse,--but there's the mother, you know. it would never do to leave her quite alone--he's taking my place by her side until the country needs me no longer and i may go home. there are a good many ways of serving, old man. "g. w., once i was walking through a gallery of an ancient castle, and i noticed among the armor and weapons which lined the walls a little gauntlet and sword. so very small were they that i questioned the guide, and he told me this story: 'in the dark days of long ago, when a man's castle had to be defended from his foes, and every one was on guard against an attack, there was a knight who had four sons and one fair daughter. three of the sons were great stalwart fellows, but the fourth was a crippled lad who lay upon his bed in the turret chamber week after week, dreaming his dreams and looking out across the wide parks over which he was never to ride to wage war against a cruel foe. the pretty sister sat much with him and wove wondrous stories from her busy brain to help while away the weary hours; and she got the father to have the slender gauntlet and sword made, so that the patient soldier upon the bed might the better believe himself like the strong, brave heroes of her tales. 'now it came to pass that a very wicked lord of an adjoining country wished to marry the pretty sister, and take her to his gloomy castle. to that the father and brothers said, "no!" they vowed that they would fight to the end rather than that the wicked lord should have his way. and soon they saw that they must indeed fight if they would keep her, for rumor reached them that the lord had raised a mighty company and was nearing their castle. then every man prepared himself for battle, and in the turret room the small warrior lay upon his bed with the gauntlet upon his hand, and the keen sword ready in case the foe should enter. day by day the fair sister, white and full of fear, knelt beside him, and tried to be brave for his dear sake. 'at length the day of conflict came. the two in the high room saw the banners of the wicked lord advancing, and the little brother said valiantly, "i will defend you!" 'the struggle came on. long and nobly did the knight and his men strive to keep back the terrible lord, and many fell in court-yard and hall. but at last the wicked lord and his followers triumphed, and with shouts of victory strode to the turret-room. 'there knelt the maid, her golden head bowed beside her brother. his left hand pressed her fair curls, but his right hand was ready for its task. the lord bent to grasp the prize for which he had fought, little heeding the crippled boy; but as his fingers were about to close upon the girl's arm the keen slender sword was raised in a hand made strong for the deed, and a desperate blow fell upon the wrist of the lord, and his hand was nearly severed from the arm. an awed silence followed the doughty deed. then out spoke the lord: "let no man touch the pair. of all warriors this cripple is the greatest, because in his weakness he has dared all things for love!"' "so you see, g. w., the poor young stay-at-home was a soldier, too!" said the colonel. "i have always loved to remember the story. and now i often think of the boy up north defending his mother from loneliness and foreboding--he is doing his share, g. w." g. w.'s soft, big, brown eyes were fixed upon his colonel's face. the great hero-tales of legend and history were new to his empty childhood, and this one thrilled him to his heart's core. "dat's a mighty fine story!" he mused. "when you was telling me dat story, colonel, it done seem as if nothing was mean in all de world; it seems like every one was brave!" "never reckon out any honest service, old man," the colonel went on; "very little things count in this world, and oftentimes the weakest do the greatest deeds. that little hero of long ago stretches forth a hand to every child who tries to do his part!" a gleam of admiration flashed into g. w.'s eyes. "well, i 'low dat de boy up north is a bigger soldier dan i 'magined. i knowed from de fust i done got to take care ob _you_, colonel, but now i jis' feel like i 'd be glad to do something fur de boy hisself!" colonel austin seemed to understand. "well," said he, "you and he are both taking care of me. you are helping him and he is helping you, and maybe some day you may tell each other all about it." there was surely one thing the colonel's two "boys" had in common: they both had the same devouring passion for hero-stories. during almost every spring evening of that year, by a bedside in a cool northern home, a pretty young mother had sat and told to an eager little lad thrilling tales of bravery and courage. always she began with the one the colonel had told to g. w.--the story of the crippled boy in the old castle turret. there was something in that legend that stirred jack austin in a wonderful manner. it had been hard for jack to be separated from his father from the first; but now, whenever he heard from his father's letters about g. w., and realized that among war's perils there could be a place for a small boy, his heart simply ached with longing. g. w., a boy little older than himself, was there beside daddy! but at this point jack always recalled the story of the gauntlet and the small sword, and stifled back the tears and looked lovingly at his pretty mother. no matter how he envied g. w., he would stay, patient, in his "turret chamber." his place was beside his mother until daddy came marching home. how many times his father had sent him that message! jack dreamed almost every night of his father coming home, keeping step to the cheerful drum; so he had marched away, and so he would return, with g. w. at his side! near his bed, at night, always lay jack's own splendid suit of make-believe soldier clothes. it was hard sometimes for him to think that they were make-believe clothes, while the suit of blue his mother had sent to g. w. were real, true ones, and worn by the dusky little soldier who lived in his dear father's tent. there often seemed to him an unendurable difference between g. w. and himself. poor little jack! he was braver than he realized when he turned away from this feeling and smiled up into his mother's face. but jack's mother knew all about this feeling. "and so you see, dear," the stories for jack always ended, "that though you are but mother's obedient little boy now, your chance in the great world's work will come!" and in the tent, beneath the glorious sunsets of tampa, at about the same time "daddy" would be sitting and smoking beside a small mattress bed, urging the same line of conduct upon another boy "hero" with a heart under the brown skin as pure and innocent as the one throbbing beneath the snowy night-gown so far away. "your chance will come, g. w.!" and both boys generally fell asleep with the resolve that they would do the things and bear the things of the present, and "wait" without a murmur, because heroes had done the same since the world began. iv. waiting in the turret chamber. it was never clear to g. w. why the "boys" were always anxious to be "going." for him the lazy, fun-loving life was never tedious or unpleasant. from all that he could gather by endless questioning, war was not half so agreeable, although he granted it must certainly be more exciting. "when will the order come for us to move?" that was the daily question in camp. at last it came! they were to sail at once. of course the president of the united states, whose illustrious name g. w. bore himself, meant all the thousands who were encamped in tampa; but to g. w. the order meant that _he_ and "de colonel" were to "pull up stakes" and sail away to that strange, mysterious cuba, and face war! the little dusky fellow in blue suddenly felt that his hands were pretty full. he it was who packed all the colonel's belongings, giving special care to the photograph. he polished up the guns and swords, and even his own buttons. he meant at least to command the respect of the foe. he often grew hot and tired, during those days, but never made a complaint. and when the hurried camp preparations were completed, it was g. w. and "de colonel" who marched down the long pier to the waiting transports. to g. w.'s mind, it was for them the cheers rang out, and for them did the band play the inspiring music that set his feet dancing. oh, it was the proudest moment of g. w.'s life so far. his buttons almost burst over his swelling chest. he was marching straight into the glorious future. he was going to be a hero without further delay. he saw "visions," like his mammy. somewhere, off in the misty distance, his "chance" was waiting for him; he felt as certain of it as he was that under his beloved uniform he was surely melting. the days in the crowded transport put little g. w.'s endurance to the test. but during the wretched hours one glance at the colonel's face gave him courage to suffer and be--still! his colonel saw it all. "bear up, old chap! heroes grin--and conquer things," said the officer, while his heart ached for the silent child; and in the end, through sea-sickness and a longing for old easy days, g. w. did grin and "conquer things." then they came to cuba! under the dark palms and cacti, once more the white tents were pitched; and facing the fact of approaching battles, the men made ready, but still lightened the heavy hours by song and joke, and boisterously welcomed the old comradeship of g. w. g. w. revived when once his feet touched solid land. "i doan't like de water," he explained; "it's shaky an' onsartain an'--an'--wet! dere's too much ob it too, an' when it gets wobbly, whar are yo?" so the boy cheerfully took up again his dancing and singing. war grew again to seem to him a matter of some other day. the regiment seemed merely to have shifted its pleasure-ground. to be sure, there were fewer hours alone with the colonel, for he was very busy, but g. w. followed him about at a distance whenever and wherever he could. if love could shield the young officer from harm, surely never was he safer. but presently g. w. began to form new and more personal ideas of war; his imagination, fed by the stories he had heard, sprang to life. perhaps war wasn't anything they would know about beforehand. that might be the reason for the look of anxiety he had noticed upon the face of his colonel. possibly war was like a great cloud hurled along by the hurricane--g. w. knew how _that_ looked. they might all be sitting by the camp-fire some night, when suddenly war would descend upon them and find them unprepared. with that thought g. w.'s face took on an expression of anxiety. he clung closer to his colonel; he did not intend that war should find his colonel unattended by body-guard. colonel austin often took heed of the faithful little shadow, and began to fear anew for the time when he might be obliged to "go to the front" and leave the boy behind. "g. w., you must never go beyond that point alone," he said one day, naming a hill a half mile or so distant. "these are not play-days, comrade; i want to feel that you are safe. i cannot afford to worry about you now. obedience first, old man, you know, and then you are on the way to being a hero." "yes, sah!" the small black hand gave the salute gravely. g. w. never by any possible chance forgot his military training. "but, colonel, you goes furder dan de hill right often." "that's true, g. w., but my duty calls _me_ beyond; _your_ duty bids you stay this side of the hill--that's the difference, g. w." "yes, sah! but how is i goin' ter take care ob you, wid you trapesing off de lawd knows whar?" colonel austin smiled. "you must try to be willing to trust me out of your sight, my boy," he said, "just as i have to trust you when you stay behind." "but, colonel, jes' 'spose war should attack you, wid me fur off? how does yo' 'spec i 'se goin' ter report to de boy an' his mother?" colonel austin saw trouble ahead unless he got g. w. into shape. "look here, old fellow," he replied, taking the young body-guard between his knees. "war isn't going to catch us napping. we'll know at what minute to point our guns at the enemy. we shall know and we shall obey our orders. and you'll know, and _you_ must obey _your_ orders, comrade. you must stay in your turret chamber, like the brave boy of old. you mustn't follow me past that point. if you do, g. w.,"--colonel austin had never threatened the boy before,--"unless you promise me, g. w., i'll tie the flaps of the tent upon you every time i leave it." the childish lips quivered in an un-soldier-like way. "i'll promise, colonel!" "all right, then, and give us your hand. comrade, you've taken a load from my mind." the days following grew to be hard days for the boy, so long petted by the regiment. food was scarce, and when there was plenty it was often of a kind that he turned from. the evenings in the tent were very long and lonely before he fell asleep. no stories now. his colonel's absences grew more frequent and more prolonged. g. w.'s only solace was to gaze at the picture of the boy and his mother. the half-mile hill became more and more every day a dread landmark. from that hated point of view he had to watch the colonel's tall figure disappear only too often, while he stayed behind to return ingloriously to the tent. where was the "chance" that was going to make him a hero if he must always stay behind in the place of safety? did the colonel think heroes were made on hill-tops a half mile from camp? g. w. grew sarcastic. he kept his buttons bright and his uniform brushed and trim; not because he loved it as when he expected to soon wear it as a hero, but because the colonel kept himself in order--his faithful g. w. could at least follow him in that. but at last came a thing that roused him from this mood. fever broke out in camp, and g. w. developed into a nurse of no mean order. he carried water and bathed aching heads. hot hands clung to him, forgetting how very small and weak he was. "sing to us, g. w.," often those weary, suffering fellows said, "and don't give us the jig-tunes, old man, but something soft." with his brown, childish face upraised g. w. would sing the old camp-meeting songs that his mother used to sing in the days of long ago before he had dreamed of being a hero. was it the religious thought in the quaint words, or the tender quality of the airs, or was it g. w.'s pathetic voice that had the power to quiet the delirium and make it possible for the tired sick men to rest? how can one tell? but as the boy sang stillness settled down over the rough hospital, and many a "god bless you, g. w.!" came from thankful lips. colonel austin watched the little comforter bustling to and fro, and with a grim smile he thought that the hero-side of g. w. was developing fast. the boy had grown thin, and an anxious, worn look made the small dusky face very touching; but weariness, disappointment, and bodily discomfort never dragged a complaint from the firm lips. v. the boy up north. just before the colonel and g. w. had been ordered by president mckinley to "move on," colonel austin had had the dear dusky little attendant photographed, dazzling uniform and all and had sent it to little jack who was playing his harder part away up in the northern home. underneath he had written, "my body-guard." after mrs. austin had gazed long and searchingly at the radiant little soldier, she had surprised her son by suddenly bursting into tears. "why, mamma-dear!" cried jack, "don't you like his looks?" "oh! i do indeed, jack; i like his looks so well that it almost breaks my heart--poor little fellow!" "poor little fellow?" jack fell to pondering. he examined every detail of the fascinating photograph--the suit of "real" soldier clothes, the straight, proud wearer with that look of exultation upon his round face. why "poor little fellow"? jacky would have given anything in the world--except his mother--to have been in his place. "mamma-dear," he sighed at last, "i'd rather be g. w. than president of the united states!" mrs. austin laughed and wiped away her tears. "that's because you are daddy's boy," she replied; "but poor g. w. has a hard way to travel through life, and your mother was wondering just where he will fit in when heroes are not required." "heroes are always required," jack answered sagely, "and i bet g. w. will be brave anywhere. he's got brave eyes." "i believe you are right, jack," said his mother. "put his photograph upon your table, and try to be the same kind of boy you think he is. he certainly is a dear little chap!" so upon the table in jack's room g. w.'s photograph was placed; and often and often when he was quite alone colonel austin's son visited with his father's small dusky body-guard until, on jack's side at least, the two became intimate friends. then into the northern home came daddy's letters telling of the approach of battle and the change of scene. nothing of g. w.'s doings was ever omitted by the colonel; he knew jack's hunger for hero-news. the little mother was less gay during those early days of summer; a shadow rested upon her sweet face, and she clung to jack with a sort of passion. jack was full of comfort and cheer when he was with her, but he had his hours of unhappiness too, and then he used to go into his room and stay with g. w. one day mrs. austin went to drive with a friend, and jack took that opportunity for a private drill, with g. w. to look on. up in his bright sunlit room he put on his soldier suit and marched to and fro with swelling chest and mighty stride. oh! if he were only to be with his father in the battles to come! he might keep danger away if he were with him. no one would hurt a little boy--he would go, in every battle, in front of his father! at last he went to the table and kneeling down scanned the likeness of g. w.--the boy who was filling his place, daddy's body-guard! he grew very unhappy as he looked at the small colored boy. "i'm a toy boy," he faltered, "and g. w. is a live soldier!" then he thought of daddy's last letter, in which he had written of the hill which marked g. w.'s boundary. "i bet that makes you turn hot and cold, g. w.," he mused. "oh, i know just how you feel!" the blue eyes searched deep into the pictured ones of brown. "oh! g. w., i wish you knew how to manage daddy as mamma-dear and i do! daddy'll let you do what's necessary always, if you just know how, but he's awful particular about being obeyed. i wish you could make him change his mind about that hill. of course they won't fight a battle _there_; if there was any danger of that daddy'd set your limit at camp! but, g. w., if you should go ahead and do a brave thing, like saving a life, he'd forgive you; he'd punish you, i guess, but he'd forgive you--mamma-dear and i'd make him, anyway. if _i_ were in your place, in the very clothes of the ninth, i'd dare a good sound punishing to be by daddy's side. i'd just ask him what he called me a body-guard for." the tears blinded jack's eyes, and through their gleam g. w.'s face seemed to grow rigid with disapproval. "i know," half sobbed jack, wiping his tears upon the sleeve of his blue "make-believe" coat; "daddy's trained you to think you _must_ obey; but, oh, i wish that particular old hill wasn't in cuba! "i'm going to tell you something, g. w.," jack went on. "once, the summer before daddy went away, i had a 'sperience with him. i was a year littler than i am now. he told me not on any account to go down to the river without him. i wanted to, for daddy had taught me how to swim and i wanted to float about and practise. every day i went near, to look at the water, and every night daddy would say, 'now remember, jack, for no reason go to the river without me.' but i went nearer and nearer, until one day i could see the other boys in, and then--i pulled off my clothes and in i went, too! i hadn't been in long when don grover--he's my best friend, but a year littler--got out further than any one else, and suddenly he put his arms right up in the air and screamed that he was a-drowning. we were all scared, and the other boys swam to the shore to get help. i couldn't think of anything but don, and i swam right out to him, and he didn't grab hold of me or anything, but let me kind of tow him in; and course it was awful far and we were nearly dead, and i kept thinking how i had disobeyed daddy, and seeing mamma-dear's mournful eyes. but don and i didn't talk, only just swam. when we got to the shore we crawled out and lay down and went to sleep, but when the boys came back with some men i waked up and told them to take don home and i could go alone. g. w., i was terribly fearful to go, for you know how particular daddy is about obeying and waiting in your own place of duty. "i ached, and my knees just fluttered. when i got there daddy and mamma-dear were sitting on the piazza, and the minute i looked at daddy i was sure he knew i had disobeyed. 'where have you been, jack?' he said, solemn. i said, 'swimming.' he got up, and mamma-dear began to cry, but daddy took me in the study and he--he whipped me, g. w., like anything, for disobedience. i wouldn't cry, because i _had_ been disobedient. "that evening don's father came over and told daddy how i tugged don in, and i saw daddy's eyes looking like two big steady stars, and the whipping was just nothing, and mamma-dear cried the same as if don and i were drowned dead. and, g. w., what do you think daddy did? when don's father finished, daddy came and said, 'you deserved the thrashing, jack, for not obeying, you know; but let me shake hands with you because you are a brave fellow,' and i almost choked. i said, 'don't mention it!' but i shook his hand like anything. oh, g. w., if only i could make you know just how to be a true body-guard to daddy! if you should go over that hill he'd punish you for disobeying, sure, but if some time you just _had_ to do it for a brave reason, he'd shake your hand, g. w." the boy in the photograph seemed to be listening to jack, and trying to understand him, and to be thinking about it, as if he knew that jack's very heart was in what he said. presently a slow smile lit up the features of the make-believe boy in blue. "g. w.," he whispered, "i'm not going to worry any more about daddy! you'll do the right thing by him, i'll bet! when you come home, g. w., you shall have half of everything i own. we're going to be brothers!" little jack austin ran down to meet his mother when she returned, with a cheery smile, because he had in his heart a sure trust that g. w. would save the day, no matter what the danger that threatened daddy! vi. "war, g. w.!" g. w.'s wanderings from camp became less and less frequent. he thought no longer of going anywhere but to the hill-top; and that detested limit became more hated as oftener and oftener the colonel passed beyond the faithful little guardian's gaze. "i'd jes' like to know whar de colonel goes _all_ de time!" sighed g. w. colonel austin was not unmindful of the boy, but evidently he was deep in business and anxiety. an occasional pat upon the little woolly head, or a word of cheer, was all the devoted comrade received; yet, with only that to feed upon, the childish devotion continually grew. he took to talking aloud to the boy and his mother, in the long silent hours of evening. they became as alive and intimate to him as he, all unknown to himself, had become to jack. he made solemn promises regarding the colonel which, had jack heard, would have set to rest any doubt as to g. w.'s capabilities of "managing the colonel." "doan you-uns be frettin'," he whispered one night when his own heart was like lead in his body; "you kin jes' keep on a-smilin' an' a-smilin'--i 'low i can take care ob de colonel. dat hill gets de best ob me, jes' fur de minute, but you min' i'm a-thinkin' 'bout dat ar hill! i'se goin' git de bes' ob dat der hill, yit!" one hot day when g. w. had smothered as usual his loathing for his limit, and followed at a respectful distance the tall, well-beloved figure of his colonel, he had a hard fit of sighing. "i reckon if de colonel knew 'bout how i is feelin' dis minute," he said, wiping the perspiration from his face, "he'd jes' holler back 'howdy' ter me." but the colonel not knowing of the faithful little henchman's nearness, sent back no word of loving cheer--did not once turn. the two were plodding along the road called the santiago road at the time, and the long strides of the officer presently put him beyond g. w.'s vision. suddenly g. w. sighed aloud. "he's gone!" there was a break in the soft voice. "i clar ter goodness, he's always gone! i'm bressed if i doan't wish de war would come an' be done wid! dese days done w'ar me to frazzles!" a low, deep, rumbling sound made g. w. start. by instinct, he crouched under some nearby bushes. "what's dat?" he muttered, his eyes growing round and full of inquiry. "dat ain't thunder!" the ominous, threatening sounds were drawing nearer, approaching over the road along which he had come, and along which he must return to camp. "lawd!" gasped g. w.; "jes' 'spose dat is war a-comin' an' a-ketchin' me alone by myself; good lawd!" the small face became terror-stricken. he clutched his hands in the pockets of his trousers. the rumble grew louder. suddenly the sun flashed upon a strange object being drawn up the rough trail. "cannoneers, forward!" came a full loud cry that echoed and re-echoed in g. w.'s brain. then the boy perceived, as far as his gaze could travel, soldiers and cannon filling the familiar road. he forgot his terror, and thrilled and palpitated as he gazed from his leaf-covered hiding-spot. then a new thought made him reel backward. was the entire american army marching away from camp, leaving him behind who was bound to return there? the colonel had left no orders for him; and the hill stood, as ever, between him and any following of the soldiers. then came a thought that relieved him--there would be the sick in camp; surely they could not join this rushing company and he would remain with them until the colonel remembered him. back toward camp he sped, keeping within the tangle of bushes and out of sight of the oncoming men; pushing and tumbling, he made his way as fast as his uniformed legs would carry him. when he reached camp, panting and heated, he found a scene of great excitement; and as far as he could judge, the men, both sick and well, were all there! the ninth, at least, had not gone over the hill-top! "what's goin' ter happen?" g. w. gasped. a boyish soldier who was writing a letter home looked up and answered, "war, g. w.! that's what's going to happen, and mighty quick, too." "and is us all goin' to de war?" g. w. sat down beside the soldier; indeed, his legs could hold him up no longer. "there are no orders yet, but i reckon we'll get our chance. two more transports are in, and a lot of guns." "i saw dem," said g. w., thrilling again. "miles ob dem an' millions of men! lawd, corporal!" then, after a pause, and very softly, he said, "say, corporal jack, if--if my colonel don't send orders back fur me to come ter him, an' if youse all get orders ter go on, will yer jes' fur my sake try ter find de colonel an' tell him a message? jes' tell him not ter fret 'bout me, cos i'se goin' ter remember de hill!" g. w. had never humiliated himself by allowing any one to suppose he cared to go beyond the hill-top. "an' jes' tell him i'll take care ob de picture!" there were tears rolling down g. w.'s upturned face. corporal jack laid down his pen and pad. "well!" he cried, "you're a brick, g. w. but the colonel is not going to forget you, g. w. brace up and hold on. and just give us your hand, comrade!" the two clasped hands gravely; then corporal jack went on with his letter, and g. w. passed into colonel austin's tent, to have all things ready in case there came an order to march. late that night, as g. w. lay upon his camp-bed (for he had been promoted from the humble mattress) in the dismantled tent, colonel austin entered. he was very weary, very pale. the boy upon the bed watched him silently. the moonlight was streaming in the opening, and the tall figure was distinctly outlined as the colonel paused within the doorway and glanced about the bare, disordered place. all at once he seemed to understand; a smile flitted across his worn face. he went over to the soapbox table, shorn of its gorgeous cover, the photograph alone adorning it. he took the picture, looked long and tenderly at the two faces, then slipping the card out of the frame he put it in his breast pocket. a moment later he came over to g. w.'s bed. the boy looked up trustingly. "i'se awake, colonel." "good for you, comrade. i want to have a little talk with you." a thin brown little hand slipped itself into the large firm one, and g. w. sat up. "g. w.," said the colonel, "i'm going to the front. you know what that means?" "i 'low i does, colonel. when does we start? i'se been a-workin' ter get ready." "but, comrade, _you_ are not to go!" the poor little body-guard had feared this. in his misery he looked up into the colonel's face and gulped helplessly. "don't take it that way, my child," said the colonel, smoothing the little woolly head burrowing back in the pillow; "it would be impossible for me to take a little fellow like you along. there's just a chance, you know, g. w., that i may not get back. i've thought lately that i did wrong to bring you from tampa; but you had nothing there, and we have had each other here, comrade, and _that_ ought to count for something." a tightening of the little hand replied. "if i shouldn't come back, my child," the colonel continued, "i want you to know that i have made all arrangements for you to be sent up to the boy and his mother. they'll look out for you, comrade, for they know that you are my little body-guard, and they will adopt you in their home--for your own sake too, g. w.; there's the making of a man in you, g. w., and you will not ever disappoint anybody, no matter what happens to me. during the coming days here, keep within your limits, my boy. obey orders, and you will be a hero indeed, for i know how much you want to go along to take care of me. by staying right here you are doing a harder thing." g. w. was sobbing forlornly. the colonel got up and paced the tent for a silent moment or two. "you've been the best kind of a comrade, g. w.," he went on, as he came back, while the listener drew his legs up and down under the coarse gray blanket, in an agony of sorrow. "and you're not going to fail me now, old fellow." "yes, sah! no, sah!" the pillow half stifled the words. presently poor g. w. sat up in bed again. "colonel," he said, "you jes' banish me out yo' mind! you do your work, an' be keerful to take keer ob yo'self. i'se goin' ter do what yo want an' keep in dem limits--but if yo' does _not_ come back frum dat front, i doan' think i can face dem two up norf! i'd jes' feel dat i hadn't done been no body-guard--fo de lawd, colonel austin, doan't ask me ter face de boy an' his mother 'thout you! i ain't goin' ebber ter forget what you don teach me, an' i'se nebber goin' ter shame yer while i lib, but i can't go 'thout you to dem--de lawd knows i can't." "under those circumstances i'll be obliged to come back, g. w." something choked the soldier's voice. then bending down he kissed the boy's dusky brow, as often he had kissed the white one of his own little son. "god bless you, comrade!" he whispered. "you've lightened many a burden for us all since you came among us. i trust you and i may be spared to meet again." then g. w. saw the tall form of the best friend he had on earth pass out of the tent, and fade away into the confusion and unreality of the moonlit night. vii. the battle on the hill-top. a strange atmosphere hung over the camp, an air of expectant waiting. the sick men tossed upon their beds bewailing their inability to be up and doing, and calling feverishly for "news!" but no news came; nothing to break the dismal monotony. everybody utilized g. w. the cook taught him to cook, and the nurses made him useful. the sick men smiled up at him as their only diversion. it was well for the boy that his days were filled with labor, and that he was too utterly weary at night to stay awake long. his dreams were filled far oftener than his waking thoughts with visions of the colonel. his dreams were always happy ones--then the colonel appeared well and jolly as g. w. had first known him. the little fellow hailed bed-time as the release from wretchedness. "now, then!" he would say to himself, as his lids grew heavy, "now i'se goin' ter see my colonel austin!" sometimes he would laugh aloud in his sleep, so very jolly was he, but there was no one to hear the sound in the empty tent. little g. w. had no folks now. his only good-night was the bugle-call, "all lights out!" but in the trenches at the front a brave man always included g. w. in his loving thoughts of home and dear ones; and up north the mother and the boy ended their evening prayer, "god bless daddy and g. w. keep them safe and bring them home to us very soon!" no one questioned g. w.'s goings and comings. if any thought was given, it was that he was probably obeying orders which colonel austin had left, and that he was proving himself a blessing where most boys would have been an annoyance and burden. so one day when he sauntered away from the cluster of tents, no one asked him where he was bound, or how soon he would be back. he passed along walking very straight as became a uniformed soldier, whistling a march-tune, now and then interrupting himself to introduce a clear flute-like note. something had happened to g. w. the day was oppressively hot, but his languor and sadness had vanished. he felt strong and happy; everything was beautiful, life was full of keen interest. "i 'low somethin' is goin' ter occur!" he said to himself; "i has feelin's like my mammy used ter have. sure's i'se a-walkin' here, the front is off dere 'yond de hill! dat's whar de colonel always went, an' dat's why he fix de top like a stun wall fur me. i 'clar i'se goin' up ter jes' look. what's i worth if i doan't take some chances ter find out news 'bout my colonel austin? lawd! it seems like forty-seben years since he done walk away like a dream!" now, strange to say, before g. w. had started on this tramp, besides donning his entire uniform, he had taken his gun, a small but perfect one that some of the officers had given him as a reward for excellent target-shooting; and also he had filled his canteen with water in true soldier fashion. under the blazing sun his hot coat and trousers became almost unendurable, and except for his new feeling of strength and joyousness, his precious gun would have become a burden. suddenly he stood still, and his face became rapt and eager. he gazed up to the tall trees under which he stood. "i'se clean forgot 'bout dat 'chance' ob mine fur ages; but, lawd! jes' s'pose it should come to-day!" he gasped. the remembrance that his mammy had said that if he wanted to be a hero he would have the "chance" filled him with a wild delight. for a moment he could not move, so great was his glad feeling--then with a cheery whistle he plodded on straight toward his hill-top. it was an unlikely spot for "chances." it was too near camp for the foe to be there; but irresistibly g. w.'s feet carried him forward. overcome at length by the heat, g. w. reached the summit, only to sink down at once in the tangle of bushes and pant and puff. but after a while he revived; and then peering through the undergrowth he gazed down upon the plain below that stretched beyond his limit. what had happened since last he had seen the spot? was he dreaming, or actually looking down upon something that was really taking place? g. w. stood up and steadying himself against a tree continued to gaze and gaze below. there was a big rude tent, with all sides open. within was a long table around which figures moved restlessly or stood strangely still. wagons were rolling up to this tent bringing burdens which turned poor little g. w. ill as he realized what they were. they were men! sick or wounded men! ready hands lifted the limp forms from the carts and laid them in long rows upon the ground; then, over and over again, as the fear-filled little watcher on the hill strained his eyes, he saw a man singled out from the lines and borne to the table. g. w. grew chill under the blazing sun as he looked, not comprehending what it meant. "i can't--think--what--dat--means!" he said aloud; "'pears like i am habin' a dream standin' up out-doors wid my clo'es on. lawd! how--i--does--wish--i--knew--what--dat--dar--means!" the poor little fellow rubbed his head in a hopeless, forlorn way, while his heart beat fast and chokingly. suddenly it came to him; like a flash the meaning became clear. there had been a battle! they were bringing in the dead and wounded from the front to that fearsome spot below. then g. w. shuddered as a new thought broke upon his brain. perhaps his colonel was there! the sudden idea took the form of a frenzy. he flung his arms up with a wild gesture, and then, alone on the hill-top, there was a battle on for g. w.--an exceedingly hard battle. "obey!" cried honor; "'tis the thing you are called to do! 'tis the thing you have promised!" "but the colonel may lie in the long row," pleaded love; "no one near him to tend just him; no one to give him a drink or hold his head or his hand; to follow him and stay by him. he is just one of a row!" g. w.'s sad little face turned gray. "you promised!" honor admonished. "he trusted you, with no doubt of your obedience!" "but they may have forgotten him. he may be lying out on the battle-field--and no one could find him as surely as you!" love sobbed in his ears. with a pitiful moan, the little body-guard gave up his promise! a disobedient, loving little black boy sped down from the hill-top, on the forbidden side, sobbing and crying. he flung all but his love for the colonel to the hot winds. he might be shot, he might lose his way endlessly, but he must go. with a bitter cry he flung off his coat and cap as he ran. the honor of a soldier's uniform was no longer for him. he paused only to take the precious up-north letter out of the pocket and crush it into his shirt front. viii. the colonel's body-guard tossing his canteen across his shoulder, and seizing his gun, g. w. tore on down the hill straight toward the gruesome place below, and right into it. no one noticed him. the surgeons were too busy to look up as he ran around the table scanning the faces upon the boards. the men carrying the helpless burdens, or ministering to their wants, had no time to question why a little black boy should suddenly be in among them. he made sure that he had looked into every face, and then, with a feeling of relief, was about to turn away from the sad scene, when a weak voice stopped him. "g. w.! thank god! come here!" g. w. turned; there upon a blanket under a tree waiting for his turn to be taken to the table was the boy who but a few days before in camp had told him that war was "mighty near." war had indeed drawn near in haste, and poor young corporal jack had gone down before the enemy's fire. "the colonel," gasped corporal jack, as g. w. came and bent over him; "he was shot, too. we fell side by side. we crawled back, but when the wagon came he made them take me; there was only room for one. he's a mile back on the roadside. g. w., get help and go for him, and tell him god bless him!" the weak voice ceased, for the men had come to carry him to the table. he tried to wave cheerfully to g. w., but the effort caused him to faint, and g. w. started away, trying to comprehend what he had heard. "my colonel's a mile back on the roadside!" that was all little g. w. had for a guide. but had his colonel been a hundred miles back, it would have made no difference to his body-guard. there was but one aim in g. w.'s heart: to reach his colonel, and save him for the boy and the mother up north! on he ran, grasping his little gun in a rigid clutch. he forgot to implore aid from those he met as he rushed. over the rough trail he sped like a deer. the fearful, ugly, swarming land-crabs scurried away from before him. "colonel!" he sobbed, "fore de lawd, colonel, where is you? i'se a-comin', colonel!--jes' you hold on!" a wagon bearing another pitiful load came by. "is colonel austin in dar?" he cried. some one knew him and called an answer: "no, g. w., your colonel isn't here!" on, on, again. what was that? a roar of cannon! g. w. shuddered, but gripped his gun and kept on, making forward. presently he began to meet more wounded men, singly, or in groups of two or three, trying with what strength remained in them to reach the rear. occasionally a man knew the boy, and gave him a friendly smile; once one asked him for a drink. "don't youse take much of it, captain," g. w. pleaded, holding the canteen to the parched lips, "cose dis is fur my colonel austin." be it to the man's eternal credit that, almost dying of thirst as he was, he handed back all but a mouthful of the blessed water. "thank you; that will help me to the camp. colonel austin is to the right of the road, a little further back, behind some bushes; he tried to come on with me, but fell. i'll send you help, for he cannot walk. god bless you, g. w." on through awful scenes the little black boy went. no one looked upon him with surprise. the small, familiar figure was part of the camp-life and war. again the little rescuer dashed on. and oh, go quickly now, g. w.! among the tangled bushes is a slinking, leaf-covered figure running as rapidly as you! hurry, tired feet! steady, little dusky hand! there is a deed for you to do which will make your name blessed up north, if only you are in time! ah, hist! a crackling among the bushes made g. w. pause. what was it? with a sudden impulse the boy crouched in the jungle and listened. after a moment a form, covered with leaves, half crawled, half ran, near where he was hidden. g. w. held his breath, and got his gun in position. he understood. he had heard of the foes' trick of covering themselves with leaves to escape attention, and he knew at once what he had to deal with. never was he calmer than he grew at that moment. but oh, look! the crawling form, in the open now, stopped, raised his gun, and took deliberate aim at something beyond. g. w. was as quick; and before there was time for the leafy form to draw the trigger, his own small sure hand had flashed forth a bullet! with a cry the wretched creature flung up his arms and fell back. g. w. stood up and wiped the perspiration from his cold, drawn face. his eyes were blazing, but the strange new calmness still possessed him. he pushed forward to find the object at which the spaniard's gun had been aimed. that it was "one of our boys" little g. w. of course knew; but he was _not_ prepared for the sight that presently rose before him. a bit beyond, leaning against a tree, bloodstained, dirt-begrimed, and faint, sat his colonel. at the first glimpse of him something like the ice of winter gave way in g. w.'s breast. the blood began to flow through his veins; the past was but a bad dream--he was once more a glad and loving little fellow. "colonel!" he whispered, like one coming out of sleep. "colonel, i'se here!" but colonel austin took no heed of the tender voice. ix. "i'se got de colonel!" g. w. stumbled onward and reached the tree, put his arm about the officer, and carefully held the canteen to his lips. a gurgle, the water was drained to the last drop; and then, oh, joy! the heavy eyes opened. it did not seem strange to colonel austin to see g. w.'s dusky face. it was but part of the troubled dream that held his heated brain. "hello, comrade!" he said. "just tell them i couldn't see the little corporal die. there was only room for one. he was crying for his mother, and he had been brave all day. the boy and his mother will--understand--by and by." "now you see heah, colonel," said poor little g. w. "you jes' stop dat kind ob talk. your laigs ain't hurt--it's your chist, an' you'se got ter git up an' come along!" g. w.'s voice was full of fright and determination combined. "no use, g. w.," groaned the colonel. "i tried it, and fell. help will be sent back, but it will be too late, my boy." "you get up, sah!" persisted g. w. "you'se got ter make a move fur de boy an' his mother! i'se goin' ter sabe yo' fur dem, sah, like i swar to. now stan' up, sah!" colonel austin staggered to his feet, leaning upon the little shoulder. the water had revived him, and g. w.'s words had recalled him to a sacred duty. the wound in his breast began to bleed again, and the crimson drops fell upon g. w. the man's weight, too, almost bowed the little boy down. but he set his teeth and smiled grimly. the undertaking seemed nearly big enough for a hero to tackle--and here he was just a disobedient, dishonored little black boy! "you'se doin' fine!" g. w. said, whenever colonel austin's steps flagged; "you'se done a mile _mos'_, colonel; dere ain't but a step or two furder. lean heavy, colonel,--yo' jes' ain't no heft at all!" and all the while the keen eyes were searching the underbrush for another leaf-clothed foe. once they stopped so that g. w. might tear his shirt in strips and bind it roughly over the bleeding wound. the blessed letter from up north fell out upon the ground. g. w. clutched it and put it in his trousers pocket; the sight of it gave him fresh strength. stumbling and swaying, the two went on again. no help came along the road. but dust-covered and near to death, the comrades at length reached the field hospital. it was growing dark when they came into the open space. lanterns were hanging around the great rough table, and the restless figures were still moving about. with rising hope little g. w. made a last rally. "come on, colonel," he panted; "you jes' hang on to me. we'se all right now. only you jes' come faster, colonel! you jes' _run_ now, colonel,--dere ain't no call ter act so back'ard here,--you'se on de road home!" the fainting man heard the brave soft voice, and he braced up and struggled yet again. they were nearing the tent opening, the lanterns flashed, and the moonlight fell full upon their faces. a soldier among the many who were lying out under the stars saw them and cried out: "look, boys! it's colonel austin and g. w." "yes, sah!" the boy said simply. "i'se got de colonel! here's de colonel!" "three cheers for g. w!" cried a weak voice. "g. w.'s saved the colonel!" the crowd of sufferers took up the quivering cry, and all around the tent spread the story of g. w.'s bravery. a surgeon glanced up--then with an exclamation rushed forward. "austin!" he shouted. "austin, let go of him, the boy is fainting! here, some one, lift g. w.! i've got the colonel!" that was all. for little g. w. the lights went out. the voices melted into silence. the colonel was safe! all was right. x. in the tent hospital. there were long, troubled dreams for little g. w.--dreams that were unlike those which used to come and cheer him in camp before he had given up his hopes of being a hero. these were full of terror--a longing for water, and visions of his dear colonel wounded and dying. sometimes a skulking figure, leaf-covered and terrible, stalked through those pain-filled visions. then he would shout for his gun. but always when he cried aloud, a voice familiar but distant called upon him to be calm and trust some one, whose name he had forgotten. at last there came a day when the dreams began to fade. voices not so distant reached him. then he tasted water, for the first time, he thought, in years! "thank you!" he said to some one holding the glass to his lips, but did not open his eyes. he was very tired. "g. w. is coming around all right," said a grave, quiet voice. "plenty of nourishment, nurse,--all that you can get for him. that boy mustn't slip through our fingers." the boy heard, but he did not stir. a new voice broke in upon the strange calm. "can't you speak to me, my child?" the simple question sent a thrill through the faithful heart. g. w. faintly unclosed his eyes. he must see who was speaking in that dear, dear voice. "colonel!" he whispered. "oh! my colonel!" then g. w.'s eyes opened wide. on the pillow of the bed next his own--for they were both lying in the tent hospital--he saw the face of colonel austin. the one face in the world that g. w. longed to see, and the one that he had dreamed and dreamed and dreamed was gone forever! little g. w. opened his lips with a gasp and an effort to speak. but memory rushed upon him. in that glance of recognition he remembered what he had done. "i done broke my word, colonel!" was what he said. two slow tears rolled down the dusky cheeks. "yes, g. w." "an' i follered you, colonel, like you tole me not to." "i know it--thank god!" if poor little g. w. had not been so weak he would have sprung up; he tried to, but fell limply back. "g. w., my child," said the colonel, moving a little nearer, "if you had not disobeyed and come after me i would not have been here. you took your orders from some one higher in command, g. w. we're going home soon, going home together. do you know what i am saying, g. w.? just as soon as we can travel we are going up north together to the boy and his mother!" things happened for dear little g. w. in snatches after that. pain-filled pauses and unconscious lapses and short, sudden, sharp throbs of happiness, made up life. the colonel gained his strength far sooner than g. w. he could have travelled, but he would not leave his little comrade. "i'll stay by the little chap until the end, or i'll take him home with me," he said to the doctor who urged his departure. "i'll never desert him." the "end" did not come to g. w., however. all at once he began to mend. white and weak, his eyes too large for his face, for fever had worn him to a shadow, colonel austin sat beside his bed retelling the old hero-stories, while g. w. smiled with closed eyes. sometimes the boy roused and asked a series of questions. "when is we goin' home, colonel?" "on the next transport, comrade." "i s'pose we has ter live in jes a house when we goes home?" sighed the boy. "why, g. w., a house isn't a bad thing--do you think so?" "i likes tents mighty well, i does!" said g. w. "well, old man, don't lose heart; you're not going to live in a house right away." "i spect de uniform wasn't nebber found up on de hill-top, colonel?" "no, my boy. there was no time to hunt up lost uniforms; it was all the boys could do to hunt up lost men." "colonel, what is i goin' ter do when dat transport comes in? no cloes, no nothin'!" colonel austin laughed, and many a sick man's face relaxed at the sound. "the colonel is laughing--g. w.'s better," murmured a weak voice, and the good news travelled around the hospital tent. "the boy and his mother are having a new suit made for you, g. w.," the colonel said. "the boy thought of it the first thing." when the transport came that was to carry the colonel, g. w., and several hundred others home, it had among its stores the new suit of blue for the destitute little soldier. if anything, it was more splendid than the first one, but it was wofully large for the poor little body-guard. when he first appeared in it the men were about to laugh, then grew suddenly silent as they saw the gray little dusky face, and remembered _why_ g. w. had so shrunk. but even g. w. smiled after a moment. he stood up by his cot, and put his hands in the pockets and spread wide the almost empty trouser-legs of the fine uniform. "i clar," said he, "if you'se all didn't see me a standin' on my feet, yo nebber would say dere were legs 'tached to my body!" "never mind, g. w.!" it was corporal jack who spoke. he, too, was going home on the transport, and the knowledge had put a pound or so of flesh on his bones. "never you care, g. w.! those shanks'll get you into god's country; and your rightful legs will grow again up there. lordy, g. w., if you only knew what is a-waiting for you!" g. w. smiled inquiringly. something was going to happen, as every one seemed to know. it was evidently an army secret, and the gossip of all the men, until g. w. drew near! then, smiling silence. xi. "it's all yours, g. w.!" the cool air was sweeping, like a breath of paradise, over the face of little g. w. they had brought him up on deck, for the transport was nearing home. colonel austin stood by, anxious; he did not like the look upon the thin, drawn countenance. "take a brace, g. w.!" he said, while he laid his fingers upon the weak pulse in the tiny wrist. sea-sickness had reduced the child to a mere skeleton. it had been worse than the fever. not even the thought that "up north" was within sight could arouse him now. "i see a long stretch of land, my boy," colonel austin went on, "and a fine white light-house on the farthest point. g. w., i'll bet you don't know what this light-house looks like!" "i bet i doesn't!" g. w. spoke in a whisper, his eyes shut. "in a few hours, g. w., we will swing into the bay." g. w. shuddered. the idea of _swinging_ into anything made him ill afresh. "and then they will put you on a litter, old man, and i will walk beside you up to--up to--are you listening, g. w.?" "yes, sah!" then a quiver passed over g. w.'s face. "i thought," he whispered, "i done thought i smelled land!" "and so you do, old fellow," said the colonel, cheerily. "here, let me lift you up. now, g. w., open your eyes! see the light-house shining like a slim white finger? that's montauk point, comrade, stretching along in the sea. they are going to land us here to rest a bit before we go home. are you understanding, my child?" g. w. lay staring at the scene with his great, round, soft eyes. the smell of the land was in his nostrils and presently he smiled a beautiful, satisfied smile, and colonel austin whispered, "thank god!" under breath. "colonel," g. w. said, low, "you jes' fetch my clo'es! i'se goin' ter land wid my soldier-clo'es all on. dat smell done cure me for sure! dat's a mighty fine smell, colonel, dat is!" some hours later the transport cast anchor in the lovely bay. in the early morning, when the sunlight danced upon the shining waves, never was there a fairer sight to greet sick, home-longing eyes. at last it was g. w.'s turn to be carried up the gang-plank. very gently they placed him upon the litter, and his colonel walked beside it and held the small, weak hand. g. w. closed his eyes, for the excitement made him tremble, and lately he had had trouble with growing tearful on every possible occasion, and had had to squeeze his eyelids together hard. they were carrying him along up somewhere--g. w. felt the upward motion. and now they were walking on even ground. presently the shouting he had noticed before began again. it came nearer and words became distinct. comrade was greeting comrade. there were welcomes for his colonel, a welcome to corporal jack--his mother was there, some one said; she was up in the general's tent. suddenly a few words startled g. w. they seemed to him to ring out of the confusion of greetings like an alarm: "oh, look! there are colonel austin and his little hero!" it was a woman's voice. the heavy brown eyes of the little fellow in blue on the litter opened. the procession of sick men was passing between lines of sympathizing people, but to g. w. they faded like visions. he turned his head and fixed his solemn gaze upon the one face in all the world dear to him. "colonel!" he gasped, "did yo' hear dem words--dem hero-words? yo' better tell dem dat it ain't so!" "why, my child, they know all about it. you are as big a hero as ever was brought home--didn't you know it?" "no, sah!" again the lids closed--the battle with tears was renewed. the next stage of little g. w.'s journey was made in an army ambulance. over the hills and down the sandy valleys the big wagon went softly until it stopped before the long hospital tent on the hill overlooking the merry waves. then g. w. was carried in and placed upon a bed, and a woman with a wonderful face came and bent over him. she wore a blue gown and a snowy cap and apron and kerchief. g. w. had never seen anybody in the world in the least like her. she stood and smiled down at him, and he smiled weakly up at her. "well, my little hero," she laughed in the most cheerful manner, as if it were quite a joke to see heroes carried about like babies, "it isn't so very bad! i think i can get you on your feet in--let me see--well, three days at the farthest." three days! if she had said three years the boy would have felt doubtful, for his legs were but waving strings. this smiling woman in blue and white fed him--about every two minutes, he thought; as soon as he had swallowed one thing she went away for another, and came back and fed him again; and he swallowed all the things down, and began soon to laugh as merrily as she. sure enough, upon the third day, and in the morning, too, she came walking up to g. w.'s cot with colonel austin, and over her arm hung the fine new uniform. "my boy," she laughed,--she always laughed,--and drew a screen about the bed, "we're going to put your clothes on you, and if you lean upon both colonel austin and me, i think you can manage to take a bit of a walk. we have something very important to show you." how he got into his dear blue clothes, g. w. never knew; but at length, and rather unsteadily, he was walking between the nurse and his colonel down the aisle of the tent. weak cheers followed him from rows of cots. thin hands waved him salutes. on the whole, it was rather jolly and inspiring. by the time he reached the door g. w. was walking more steadily, and the strong salt air put life into him at the first breath as he came outside in the sunlight. "just up this hill, now, g. w.,--can you make it?" asked the colonel. "take breath, go slowly, lean heavily. the last time you and i took a walk, comrade, i nearly bent you double. we're going to my tent." g. w. gazed about him. a city of snowy tents under a blue, blue sky. water everywhere round about, dancing in the sunlight and making a great roar as if constantly saluting the brave soldier boys who had come home to rest. down a hillside a troop of cavalry came galloping. the horses were to take a plunge in the ocean, and oh! how they loved the sport. g. w. shouted out weakly in pure delight. "dat's fine! dat's fine!" he gasped, waving his thin little brown hand as horses and riders tore past. then g. w. wearily asked, "whar did you say yo' tent is, colonel?" "right there, my boy." g. w. looked. "what's dat little tent fur, by de side ob it?" "that's yours, g. w." the nurse tightened her grasp of the trembling arm. "mine! dere's a flag a-flying on top, colonel! an' dere's a little horse a-pawin' in de front ob de tent-do', colonel!" "all yours, g. w! let's get on if you can, my boy!" at last the tents were reached. they entered g. w.'s. it was perfect. camp bed, soapbox table, flag-draped, a folding stool and all; and in the corner stood the little gun--the precious gun that had done such brave service for the colonel. "lie down now, g. w.," said the nurse; and the child promptly obeyed. he could take in the great scene just as well from the bed, and there was less danger of falling all in a heap if it got too overpowering. "my boy, there is some one waiting who wishes to see you," said colonel austin, presently; "may i bring the person in?" five minutes later two persons instead of one entered with g. w.'s colonel. one glance--and g. w. knew that he was in the presence of the boy and his mother! he struggled to get upon his feet, but the nurse's hand held him back; he merely gave a wan smile, and saluted gravely. "oh, g. w.!" cried the mother, holding her hands toward him from where she stood, the tears raining down from her bright eyes. "oh, g. w., you brave child, i did not know you were so _very_ small!" g. w. had never seen such a vision of loveliness as the lady was; but he was afraid of her. "how can i help kissing you, you blessed child!" she went on, coming close. kissing him! g. w. glanced about wildly. the lady's eyes filled up with bright tears anew. "no, i will not kiss you, g. w. of course not. you see i do not know very well just what it is safe to do with such small-sized heroes as you and jack!" she turned to the boy, who had stood motionless, looking on. "jack," she said, "it _is_ our g. w., daddy's body-guard." jack came forward. there was a suggestion of lace and curls about him perhaps, but his face gave g. w. a feeling of firm ground under his feet at last. "hello!" said jack, and held out a plump white hand. "hello!" g. w. replied, and laid his thin brown fingers slowly in the other's grasp. the moment while jack stood by the little soldier's bed was long enough for the two boys to eye each other well. jack spoke first. "you saved my father, g. w.,--you are a brick! whatever i've got, you can have half of it." "did you see dat hoss by de do'?" said g. w., after a moment. "dat hoss is mine! you--can--take--de fust ride! an' dis is my tent, my colonel give it to me, an' dis an' all dat i'se got b'longs ter you half!" then they smiled broadly into each other's faces, forgetting the onlookers. "we're going to be just like brothers," whispered jack austin. that was the thought that floated through the dusky little bodyguard's dreams that night as he slept in the little tent beside the colonel's. and the mother's words to the colonel mingled with jack's: "the boys'll have a good time!" and the tall light-house on the point blazed out its message to the sailors upon the sea, "all's well! all's well!" and to the brave soldier-boys sleeping within its shadow it sent down soft rays of light that breathed, "all's well! all's well!" on his cot poor weak little g. w., waking in the moonlight, smiled and sighed with content, then smiled again. xii. a history-evening at oakwood. "g. w., stand up in front of me, and answer!" g. w. took position and looked unflinchingly into the eyes of his colonel. the rapturous life at montauk was a thing of the past--the little body-guard never could think of it without his heart aching with happiness. it was the most glorious experience a boy ever had. the colonel wondered how g. w. had escaped being utterly ruined, for people had lost their heads over him, and even stern army men had shown a soft side toward the dusky little fellow. however, g. w. was a real hero, and such you simply cannot ruin. now the scene was changed. the colonel and g. w. were in the library of the home "up north;" they wore citizen's clothes and looked well and hearty. "g. w., do you remember what you once told me a hero was?" "yes, sah." "well, you proved yourself one, on a certain occasion, and i reckon you and i will never forget it." "no, sah!" "but, g. w., there are many kinds of heroes, as i have often told you. a fellow that can be a hero under _all_ circumstances is a chap worth knowing." "yes, sah!" all this sounded ominous, and g. w. pulled himself together. "well, my boy, you've got to go into a conflict again, another sort of a conflict, and i wish to heaven i could prepare you; but you'll have to battle it out, according to what is in you, as you did before, on the hill-top in cuba. i'm going to send you to school, my boy, with jack. it's a military school and the head master knows all about you, and _wants_ you there. the others don't know." "yes, sah!" the low voice had a tone that always unnerved the colonel--a tone of complete obedience, of complete understanding, and complete resignation. "you see, g. w., i want to fit you for life," the colonel went on. "i'm going to give you your chance. it's going to be a hard pull. the odds will be against you. it isn't just that it should be so, but it is so. your color, comrade, often will go against you, though your heart is the pure heart of a brave, honest child." "yes, sah." "of course," the deep voice went on, "i could buy favor for you at the school, by telling the story of your bravery--a sort of honor for you; but, g. w., i want you to win your own position there, just as you always have, so far. it will be a tussle, but i think you'd like to make the try?" "yes, sah." "because you'll have to tussle and try through life, you know, comrade." "yes, sah!" the firm white hand took the little brown one in a warm hold. "and i shan't bind you with any promises this time, g. w.," the colonel said. a warm color stole over g. w.'s dusky cheeks. he looked up and spoke unexpectedly to the colonel. "dere was two promises, colonel. i kep' de promise to de boy and his mother, sah. i kep' de promise to take care ob you, sah." the poor little body-guard, so long sick and torn with shame over his disobedience and tarnished honor, had thought the whole matter out to the comfort of his soul. he looked up fearlessly into his colonel's eyes. "so you did, g. w.," said the officer, humbly, but with a lighted face. "and god bless you, comrade!" the whole matter was clear to them both forever. * * * * * a week later the two boys went with colonel austin to enter the famous school where little g. w., as a private citizen of the republic he had served according to his strength, was to begin to hew out his fortunes, with the odds, as his colonel had said, against him. the head master greeted him cordially, and the other teachers followed the example. at the very outset the pupils were divided among themselves and withheld their verdict. the open comradeship of colonel austin's son was the thing that counted in the matter for the time being. the outcome of this school-life--not for their own boy, but for g. w.--was a grave matter with the colonel and the colonel's wife for those first weeks. "no one can hold out against his merry sweetness," said mrs. austin again and again. the question with the colonel was whether the little fellow had the sort of heroism to endure what he could not help. g. w. was undoubtedly "sweet," undoubtedly brave, but he was not "merry" those first months of school life. the work of lessons was bitter-hard for him, and the school routine most painful. never in his life before had he given a thought to his color. in the tampa days, before he had entered colonel austin's tent to "offer himself up on the altar of his country," there had never been a question as to his "position;" he had been just a "waif." his "army career" had placed him upon a pinacle where his color had served but to add to his glory. here, on the playground, except for jack and three or four others, g. w. was quietly ignored, and in a helpless way the little fellow felt it keenly, despite the colonel's warning. he tried to look ahead. he studied more and more diligently. he meant to be all the kinds of hero that colonel austin desired. "fo' de lawd!" he said one day in his room, as he scanned his trim figure in the gray school uniform before the glass. "fo' de lawd! i can't understand it." (g. w. was beginning to put the "d's" and "g's" on words now.) "i don't lie, and i ain't afraid of nothing--and i wouldn't do a mean thing any sooner dan dey! it's jes' my skin, and my skin's only a different color on the _outside_, de inside is jes'--is just de same." poor little g. w. "an' i'se getting 'long fine in my classes." (so he was, and at the cost of terrific strain and study.) "an' i likes--i like the--boys first rate--but nawthing in dis education's going to git de black off dis skin!" there was one hour in the school-day that george jones--he was "g. w." only to jack austin, and that in private--enjoyed thoroughly. this was an evening hour when one of the younger professors took the smaller pupils into a library and told them history stories; stories dealing with valiant deeds. there was a flavor of camp life and soldiering about many of the tales that george jones understood far better than the other boys. in the glow of his interest he generally forgot to notice if any boy edged away from him when he chanced to forget his "color" and drew too near; but colonel austin's son always noticed it, and his loyal heart ached. "oh! if i were only sure that daddy would think this was a good time to speak out!" jack often muttered between his teeth. "i wish these fellows knew how awfully white g. w. is inside!" but the colonel had warned jack against "speaking out" unless indignities to little g. w. should become unendurable. during one of these story hours in the library, g. w. had remained in the study-room to conquer a particularly knotty problem in addition, while jack, eager for the tale, which was to be an unusually splendid one, ran on ahead. it happened that when g. w. reached the room he was the last, and the others were clustered around professor catherwood. g. w. paused a moment to look for jack, but among those dark and light heads grouped close he could not distinguish him. just then the story plunged into the thick of interest, and g. w. took the nearest empty chair. unfortunately it was beside tom harding, a very quick-tempered but warm-hearted boy, who had, perhaps, more than any other pupil, made g. w.'s life at "oakwood" a grim experience. he glanced around as g. w. sat down. "please take another seat!" he said. for a moment the silence vibrated. g. w. arose and stood rigid, with downcast eyes. the master, too much disturbed to speak, was silent. but jack austin arose. "tom harding!" he said with flashing eyes, "george jones has a white heart and he is the bravest boy in this room! if you knew"-- at this point g. w. went to jack's side. "don't you tell dat, jack!" he said. "don't yer! you know what de--the colonel said. don' yer displease de colonel!" but jack's blood was up. there was something in his young voice that quieted even g. w. he put his hand upon g. w.'s shoulder and kept it there while he spoke. "george is my legally adopted brother, boys. he saved my father's life down in cuba." then came the whole brave, pathetic story, broken here and there by a shake in jack's voice. "and when g. w."--jack had forgotten the more dignified name--"made up his mind on the hill-top to go down after my father, he plunged off where spaniards were hidden thick and bullets flying. he went alone, and he was awful little. and he went on, and wounded soldiers met him and told him my father was off helpless on the ground in some bushes, and he got near there and he saw a spaniard aiming his gun and g. w. aimed his and shot true, and the soldier the spaniard was going to shoot--was my father! and g. w. got my own father back to the tent hospital all alone and no one else on earth did it. my father says g. w. had a glorious, glorious hero-strength. my father and my mother and myself are never, never going to forget what g. w. did! and g. w. is going to have the best life my father can help him get! now isn't he brave and fine enough to be respected? is any one going to mind his brown color when his soul is as white--as white as snow? what would you have of a boy?" jack's voice failed him. g. w., by his side, stood with his back to the boys, even yet as rigid as a statue. for a second--stillness; then a stir in the group. tom harding came forward, his fine young face quivering with emotion. "i beg your pardon, george," he said. "_i_ will never make your life hard again!" "nor i! nor i! nor any of us!" it came like a shout. a smile beamed upon the face of little g. w. his simple, strong, sunny nature responded to the honest outburst. he turned to the boys. "i'se sorry about my skin," he said slowly, "since you-all don't like de color; but i like de--the color of yours, and i'se goin'--going ter learn all that de colonel wants me ter learn! i'se never going to disappoint de colonel!" professor catherwood raised his hand. "three cheers for _our_ hero!" said he. "i think," he went on, when the hurrahing had died down, "that two hero stories are almost too many for one evening; besides you've got a chance to know a live hero. i am sure no boy of oakwood will ever again fail to recognize the real article in the hero line, when he sees it. good-night!" since that evening g. w.'s only battles have been with his school-books. and but for the manly help of his honest school-mates, the far-off victory would seem even dimmer than it does to george washington mckinley jones. the golden hour series _a new series of books for young people, bound in extra cloth, with illuminated designs, illustrations, and title-pages made especially for each volume_ a little dusky hero. by harriet t. comstock. the caxton club. by amos r. wells. the child and the tree. by bessie kenyon ulrich. daisies and diggleses. by evelyn raymond. how the twins captured a hessian. by james otis. the i can school. by eva a. madden. master frisky. by clarence w. hawkes. miss de peyster's boy. by etheldred b. barry. molly. by barbara yechton. the wonder ship. by sophie swett. whispering tongues. by homer greene. none mountain moggy; the stoning of the witch, by william h g kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ this is quite a short book, taking only . hours to read, yet it packs quite a punch. it is devoted to the theme of forgiveness. on a remote mountainside in wales there dwells a broken-down old woman, whom the local children believe to be a witch. as such she will live for ever, and cannot be hurt, so they amuse themselves by going to her hut, taunting her, and throwing stones at the hut. one evening one of these stones knocks a burning stick from the fire, and sets fire to the old woman, but by chance a young midshipman who has lost his way, is nearby, helps her, and takes word to the village that she is badly hurt. the local clergyman had previously been a medical doctor, and rushes up to the hut to see what can be done. one of the local women helps with old mountain moggy as well. old moggy shows true forgiveness to william, one of the doctor's sons, even though he had been one of the ringleaders in taunting her. william is very much moved by this. time goes on, and on his next leave the young midshipman brings one of his shipmates, tom, to share his holiday with him. tom tells the story of how he had been brought up, and mountain moggy tells her story, as well. the story has a happy ending, after a fashion, literally on the very last page of the book. ________________________________________________________________________ mountain moggy; the stoning of the witch, by william h g kingston. chapter one. the succession of mountain ranges, precipitous and rugged, which extend from the shores of the irish sea to the boundaries of england, rising tier above tier, and culminating, at different points, in the heights of snowdon, cader idris, and plinlimmon, gives to wild wales that romantic beauty for which it is so justly celebrated. that mountain region, too, guarded by the strong arms and undaunted hearts of its heroic sons, formed an impassable bulwark against the advance of barbarian invaders, and remained for many years, while saxon england was yet pagan, the main refuge of that christian religion to which britain owes its present greatness. yet subsequently, on account of the inaccessible nature of the country, the inhabitants, separated from their more enlightened fellow-subjects, remained for a long period almost as ignorant as their ancestors in the dark ages; and, till of late years, retained many of the grosser superstitions and customs of those times. a young traveller was climbing the side of one of these mountain ranges facing the ocean, the silvery waters of which could be discerned in the distance, when he observed, far up, a hut. solitary and cheerless it looked, scarcely to be distinguished from the sombre colouring of the surrounding ground and the rocks and bushes amid which it stood. it was weather-worn and dilapidated, and appeared altogether unfit to be the abode of a human being; indeed, a thin wreath of peat smoke ascending from an aperture in the roof alone made it likely that it was inhabited. its appearance offered no temptation to the young stranger to turn aside from the path he was pursuing, and he continued his ascent till he gained a rocky pinnacle, from whence he could watch the sun dipping into the ocean; and hence he could look down, on one side, over a confused mass of barren hills and fertile valleys, rocks, and precipices, heights crowned with trees, peaks bare and rugged, and glens with sparkling torrents dashing and foaming amid them; while on the other side, towards the ocean, he saw before him a wide and smiling valley, with a stream meandering through it, and green meadows and groves of trees, from among which a church spire reared its pointed summit; and near it a cheerful village of white-washed cottages and other dwellings of more pretension; and there were sheep feeding, and cattle wending their way slowly homeward, all speaking of peace and security. "i could not have selected a more lovely spot to spend an evening in, had i been allowed a choice," said the young traveller to himself, as he took his seat on the highest point he could find. "as i cannot find my home, i could not be better off. i thought that i knew perfectly well the place my family have got to, but i am fairly puzzled with the welsh names. i ought to have kept my brother's letters in which he had clearly written it down. whether it is twrog-y-bwlch, or llwyd-y-cynfael, or dwyryd-y-ffetiog, i am sure i don't know. i hit the right post-town, of that i am nearly certain. there's a village in the bottom. i might go down and inquire, but then i probably should not find my way back again over the mountain to the inn where i left my traps. i hope that i may hit it off to-morrow. it's very tantalising, and provoking too, to be so near home, and yet not able to find it. it was very stupid to lose the letter. they do say midshipmen are very careless chaps, and that i am no exception to the rule. well, i have no reason to grumble. i haven't enjoyed such a sight as this for many a day, though it's something like being mast-headed, except with the difference that i may go down when i like. i should enjoy it more if i had a messmate to talk to about it. the air is wonderfully fine up here. it makes me feel inclined to shout out at the top of my voice, `rule, britannia, britannia rules the waves, and britons never, never, never will be slaves,' hurra! that's it. hurra, boys! `we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.'" thus the happy young midshipman gave full scope to the exuberance of his spirits, feeling very sure that no one was listening to him. as he ceased, a curiously wild, mournful strain struck his ear, ascending from below him on the west, and forming a strange contrast to the merry notes he had been singing. it was like the noonday song of the joyous lark, as he soars into the blue sky, answered by the midnight croak of the raven as he sits on the old abbey's ivy-covered wall. he listened. it seemed rather like a continued shriek than a song, or the fearful cry of the fabled banshee as she flits by the family mansion in ireland, to warn the inmates, as is ignorantly supposed, that one of their number must prepare to quit the world, its pleasures and its sorrows. the young midshipman's mind was, however, too well trained to indulge even for a moment in any such fancies, for he owed his education to a wise, religious, and loving father. yet he was sorely puzzled at first to account for the wild strains which floated through the air, till he caught sight of the ruined hut he had observed on his way up, and discerned a large rent in the roof, through which he supposed the sounds uttered by its inmate must be ascending. he was too far off to distinguish the words; but that there were words uttered, and probably as strange as the music itself, if music he could call it, he was very certain. now the strains rose to a high pitch, now they swelled, now decreased into a low moan scarcely audible. "some poor mad creature," said the midshipman to himself. "i should think nobody but a mad person would live in such a place as that; in truth, if anybody had to live there, its solitude and its forlorn condition would be enough to drive them out of their senses; it would me, i know; only i should forthwith set to work to make it habitable. to be sure, i shouldn't be worse off than tom and i were when we were cast away on that coral island in the pacific, except that there we had summer all the year round and abundance of food of one sort or another. here it must be terribly cold in winter, and as for food, a person would soon starve if he were compelled to live only on what the hillside produces." the young midshipman had got into the habit of talking to himself, either during his night watches, or, it is just possible, while at the mast-head, at which post of honour, in some ships, the young gentlemen of his rank used to spend a considerable portion of their existence. the strange singing continued for some time. as he looked down from his rocky height he saw a number of persons coming up the hill, apparently from the village towards the hut. they appeared from their movements to be children. they got close to the hut, and were hid from his sight. now they seemed to be running away--now they returned, leaping and shouting, so that their shrill young voices reached to where he sat. suddenly he saw them all running down the hill, just as children run, jumping and pushing against each other, and evidently in high glee. the midshipman was considering that it was time for him to return to his inn for the night, when a loud shriek, which came from the direction of the hut, struck his ear, and he saw a bright light streaming through the aperture in the roof. "something is the matter," he exclaimed, as jumping from his seat he ran down the mountain towards the hut: "the cottage or its inmate is on fire; i must do my best to put out the flame, at all events." chapter two. an old woman was the sole occupant of that cheerless hut on the bleak hillside just described. she sat, on that evening, on a low stool before the hearth, on which a few clods of peat, smouldering slowly with some scarcely dry sticks on the top of them, served as an apology for a fire, and threw out the smallest possible heat to warm the shrivelled palms held up ever and anon before it. as she sat, occasionally rocking herself backwards and forwards, she sang, in a voice which sometimes sounded high and shrill, till it rose into almost a shriek, and then again sank down into a long-continued moan. she uttered words often with great rapidity, though even the poor creature herself might scarcely have been able to explain the burden of her song. the gentle breeze, pleasant in the cheerful sunshine, sighed through the rents in the tottering walls, and amid the branches of the solitary, crooked pine-tree, which bent its riven head over the building, its distorted limbs creaking and groaning as they swayed to and fro; while an owl shrieked his twit-to-hoo to the departing sun, as he prepared to go abroad with other creatures of the night in search of prey; and cold grey twilight covered the mountain-side. there still sat the lone old woman, crouching over the mocking fire. dark and drear was the hovel-- floor it had none, save the damp, cold earth--nor was there a chimney or other outlet for the smoke, except a hole which a branch of the ill-favoured pine-tree had made in the roof, in one of his most restless moods. more light came through this hole than through the window, the broken panes of which were stuffed with rags, dry grass, and heather, though not tight enough to prevent the wind from whistling, and the rain, snow, and sleet from driving in upon the wretched inmate. except where the solitary gleam of cold evening light fell upon the crouching figure of poor mountain moggy, all else in the hovel was gloom and obscurity. little, however, did moggy heed the weather. winter or summer, chilling blasts or warm sunshine, the changeful seasons brought no change to her. her brain was on fire, her heart cold and forlorn, "icy cold, utterly forlorn and deserted," so she says, and all feeling for outward things has long since departed. why does moggy start, clasp her bony hands, open wide her almost sightless eyes, and mutter, "yes, yes--that's it. forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. but it's hard, very hard to forgive our foes. does god find it so hard to forgive me?" then again she starts off in her wild song. once more she is silent, and listens to some noises outside. she seems sorely distressed. again and again she starts. the noises increase, children's feet and voices are heard around the hut, and--is it possible?--a stone comes whizzing through the glassless window across the darkened space, and a heavy thump announces that it has found a destination; another, and another follows--some come in sideways, and one striking the window bar glances off and reaches the hearth, whence it drives before it a lighted stick which sends out sparks on every side and causes a faint gleam of light in the hitherto gloomy room. shouts of laughter accompany each stone; but the sun has set, the sonorous bell of the distant church gives notice, too, that evening has arrived. the children's ears catch the sound. "away, away! home, home!" they shout, as they run off from the solitary hut. out of its window at that moment a bright light shone forth, but they did not heed it as they chased each other down the steep mountain-side, crying out, "good-night, old witch. we'll stone you again, old polly forty rags. if we hear any more of your witcheries we'll make you wish you'd kept out of this country. good-night, and bad luck to you, old mog." notwithstanding the words they used, there was terror in the voices of most of the children. some of them shouted, "she's coming after us! the witch is coming after us! she's mounting her broom, and out she'll ride. run--run--run!" on this the urchins shrieked louder, and ran faster and faster down the slope. one boy, more daring than the rest, and superior in appearance to most of them, lingered behind, and finding a stone remaining in his pocket of those with which he had, like his companions, provided himself to attack the old woman, he turned round once more, and flung it in the direction of the hut, saying, as he did so, "that's my parting gift, old moggy. ha, ha! i see the old lady is going to have a feast tonight, for she has lighted up her banqueting-hall. but i would rather not be one of the guests, though." pleased with what he considered his own wit, he shouted out again, and ran after his idle companions, a prolonged cry which came from the hut hastening his steps, for he was in no degree free from the ignorant superstition of the rest of the urchin troop. chapter three. a good log was burning brightly on the hearth, and filling with its glowing, cheerful light the dining-room of dr morgan, the new rector of the parish, where he with his wife and the younger members of his family were collected. the rector sat in his easy-chair, his book had fallen from his hand, for he was dozing after a hard day's work of physical and mental labour in the abodes of the sick and afflicted of his widely-scattered parish. his wife had a cradle by her side, but she held its usual occupant in her arms, putting it to sleep with a low lullaby, while a group of older children, boys and girls, sat at the table variously occupied. charles and anna having some fresh foreign postage-stamps, arranged them in a book according to the different countries from whence they came, and were preparing a short account of each--a plan their father had recommended, so as to give an interest to this otherwise very useless pursuit. "this must surely be american," said anna, holding up a stamp. "how like a well-done photograph is the head. can it be that of washington?" on this william, who was engaged professedly in learning his lessons for the next day, looked up. the rest decided that although the stamp was american, as it was the head of a somewhat sour-looking old gentleman it could not be that of the great washington, but of one of the later presidents of the united states. the children were talking in an undertone, so as not to disturb their father. "old polly forty rags, the witch, came from america," said william. "but it was from some place which the english don't know about; a wild, barren sea-coast, just like the mountain-side up there, where they say that she used to practise her witch tricks on the vessels which came near, and many and many's the one she has sent to the bottom or driven on the rocks." "how did she practise her witch tricks?" asked arthur, who did not very clearly understand his brother's meaning. "how!" exclaimed william. "that's more than i can tell. i'm only repeating what those who know all about the matter say." "isn't she a very wicked old woman then?" asked mabel, with simplicity. "wicked? i should think so! as wicked an old hag as you ever heard of," answered william. "it would be a good thing to rid the world of such a monster; but they say she can't be killed; not if she was soused over head and ears in the river or thrown into the fire. that's the nature of witches." anna, who was giving the finishing rub to a stamp just put in, heard the last words, and, looking up, inquired with a slight tone of irony in her voice, "what did you say about witches, willie? who has been telling you those remarkably wise things about them?" "oh, the people about here, and the other fellows at school," answered willie in a low tone and somewhat hesitating manner, for he was not fond of having to reply to his sister's pointed questions. "oh, the people about here," said anna, repeating his words. "is it possible they can believe such nonsense?" willie did not reply. "anna wouldn't think it nonsense if she was to see old polly forty rags," he muttered. after being silent for some time he added, "if ever there was an old witch she is one." "you said she came from america, willie. why, that's where frank's ship has been to, isn't it?" said arthur. "of course it is," cried willie, as if a bright thought had occurred to him. "i wonder whether he heard anything of her there? he'll soon be at home, and then he'll tell us." "if she didn't send his ship on the rocks," remarked arthur. "she'd better not have tried to do it, or we'd pay her off for it," said willie, as if speaking of some heroic purpose. "but i thought you said that she couldn't be killed; and if she couldn't be killed, she couldn't be hurt, i should think," observed arthur, who was called the philosopher of the family. "well, i don't know: they say witches can't be killed, and that old polly forty rags has lived hundreds and hundreds of years," said willie, justly considered the most thoughtless of the family. "nothing does hurt her either. you can't think what fun it is to hear the stones bounce against her, just as if she was made of straw. if anything could hurt her, i know a big stone i sent in at her window this evening would have given her a cracker she wouldn't forget in a hurry. it's my belief that she didn't care for it more than she would if it had been a pea out of a pea-shooter." anna's attention was again drawn to her brother's whispered conversation. "what are you saying about throwing stones?" she asked. "at whom have you been throwing stones?" "why at old mountain moggy, of course, or polly forty rags as they call her. who else should i throw at? she's as hard as she is wicked; and they say she has a whole suit of elephant's skin under her rags, and that's one of the reasons the stones don't hurt her." anna had been so busy examining some little three-cornered cape of good hope stamps, that she had not till now clearly comprehended what willie was speaking about. "you throw stones at mountain moggy!" she said in an incredulous tone. "of course we do, and awful fun we had this very evening," answered william, boldly. "we heard them go in at the window and thump against the old witch. the clock struck, and we had to run away, or we should have given her more of it. but it was just as well that we were off, for some of the fellows saw her lighting up her house for her witcheries, and there's no doubt but that she'd have sent down some of her imps after us if we hadn't made good use of our legs to get off." "what do you really mean, willie?" said anna, now quite interested. "you cannot tell me that you have been stoning that poor miserable old woman on the mountain?" "haven't we though," said willie, carelessly, crossing his arms on the table and beginning to pore over his book. "willie says that she's a wicked black witch, with red eyes and a blue tongue," remarked little mabel. "don't stuff the little ones' heads with such abominable nonsense, will," said charles, looking up from his book. "there's nothing i hate to hear so much; it's wrong, and you have no business to do it." "no, indeed; it's very wrong to tell stories about her, even in fun," remarked anna. "nonsense and stories, indeed!" cried willie, indignantly. "they are neither one nor the other. if she isn't black she's near it; and i never said she had red eyes and a blue tongue; but if you two were to hear her screech and howl, as i have, you'd confess fast enough that she was a witch." and willie turned back to his book with the air of an injured person. poor boy, he had not had the advantages of his brothers and sisters, though worldly people would have said that his prospects were far better than theirs. they had been carefully trained in the way they should walk from their earliest days by their parents, who, though not possessed of worldly wealth, felt that they might yet give them the richest of heritages. william had not, like the others, been brought up entirely by his parents. his godmother, miss ap reece, had offered to leave him her property, provided she might have entire charge of him, and his parents somewhat hastily consented. by her he had been well fed and well clothed, but not well educated. she was capricious, fond of gossip, and self-indulgent; and continually she would, in order to be rid of him, send him down amongst the servants, who, as her country residence was in a remote village, were more than usually ignorant. there he imbibed many of their prejudices, and learned to believe in many of their superstitions. meanwhile, happily, the good seed sown in his earlier days was not entirely eradicated, though he and his brothers and sisters always exhibited in their subsequent lives the different systems of cultivation to which they had been subjected. the residence of william with miss ap reece was brought to an abrupt termination by the failure of the county bank, in which most of her money was placed. her means were in consequence so straitened that she was obliged to ask dr morgan to take william home. it was soon after this that the conversation took place which we have already recorded. mrs morgan had been too much absorbed with her infant, and a book she occasionally read, to listen to the undertone conversation carried on by the rest of her children. her husband continued dozing in his chair, but his sleep was soon interrupted, as was the conversation of the young people, by the violent ringing of the hall-door bell. a servant came in directly afterwards to say that the doctor was wanted immediately. dr morgan at once left the room, and when william, sent by mrs morgan, went out to inquire why he was summoned, it was found that he had quitted the house without leaving any message to say where he had gone. so startled were the younger ones by the sudden noise, that arthur upset the gum-bottle over the beautiful new stamp-book. the little fellow looked very much alarmed at what he had done, and possibly in some families angry words and blows would have warned him to be more careful for the future; but charles and anna had learned that "he that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city"; and the constant practice of this principle made it now easy for them to say to their brother, who sat crying and looking very sorrowful, "never mind, little fellow; we shall soon make it clean." then warm water had to be procured, and the injured book cleansed, and a few more stamps stuck in, and the rest put away, and scraps and writing materials cleared off the table. books were then got out, and lessons looked over for the next day. mrs morgan left the room for some time to hear the younger children say their prayers, and to see them put to bed. when she re-entered the room, dr morgan had not returned. dr morgan's prolonged absence did not create any alarm. he was a doctor of divinity, but he had also, in his younger days, devoted much time to the study of medicine and surgery, so that he was qualified to become a regular practitioner. however, he had taken orders in the church of england, but he never regretted the time he had spent in walking the hospitals, for, biding his time, he had now a means of access, which he otherwise might have lacked, to even the most hardened and profligate. those who would not have called him in as a christian minister to advise them regarding their souls, were thankful to get him to attend to the ailments of their bodies. once in a house he never left it without making himself beloved and respected by its inmates, and insuring for himself, and for his glad tidings, a favourable reception. although he was not looked upon as a popular preacher, it was observed that wherever he went there was a marked change in the religious conduct of the people. such was dr morgan. his great difficulty was to give that superintendence to the education of his children which he felt they required, without at the same time neglecting the multifarious duties of his position. his parishioners gained what his family lost. but the strict discipline by which he endeavoured to make amends for the want of that constant watchfulness so important in training the youthful mind did not answer the same purpose. yet after all he could do, he knew that he must fail altogether, had he not gone daily, constantly, to the throne of grace for strength and wisdom for himself, and for protection and guidance for those committed to his charge. mrs morgan had returned to the sitting-room; the elder children had put down their books. it was bed-time. they always waited for family prayers. when the doctor was absent mrs morgan or charles read them, but as he was momentarily expected, his wife and son were unwilling to usurp his office. at length the hall-door bell rang. it was the doctor. he appeared unusually sad and serious. the family assembled. his voice, generally so firm, trembled as he prayed. when he rose from his knees, shading his eyes with his hand, he said, after he had given them his blessing-- "go to bed immediately, and be up betimes, for i wish you to breakfast an hour earlier than usual, and to accompany me directly afterwards to visit a sick, and i fear a dying person." the younger children would all have been well pleased at this invitation, had it not been for their father's very grave manner; yet no one ventured to ask him the cause of this, and it was, perhaps, not without a slight misgiving that some of the party laid their heads on their pillows that night. chapter four. dr morgan gave no explanation of what had occurred till charles and anna had left the room. he then called his anxious and ever helpful wife to his side. "i much want your assistance, dearest maria," he said in a tone which showed the depressed state of his feelings; "i was summoned just now to visit a person in a most melancholy condition. you have heard of the forlorn old creature--moggy, she is called by the country people--who lives in that wretched hovel we can see high up on the side of the mountain. she has been dreadfully burnt." the doctor's wife, ever ready with help and sympathy, in spite of the numerous maternal cares to which she had to attend, immediately exclaimed, "poor old creature! i am sure that she much wants comforts. shall i not at once send up some sheets and cotton wool? and is there anything else you can think of?" "the comfort that is wanted, dear maria, is nearer home," answered the doctor, taking his wife's hand. "i have a sad story to tell you. on reaching old moggy's hovel i found her with her hands and feet horribly burnt; so much so, that, should she survive, which i think it possible she may not, she will, i fear, never recover their use. i found that sturdy old welshwoman, jenny davis, watching by her, and tending her with the care of a daughter. after i had dressed the poor creature's burnt limbs, and done all i could to alleviate her sufferings, jenny told me that when crossing the mountain that evening on her way home, and having nearly reached the bottom, she observed an unusual light streaming out of the window of old mountain moggy's hovel. believing that the hut must be on fire, she hurried up towards it, though she feared that she should be too late to render any effectual assistance to its half-witted inmate. so indeed she would, had not another person most providentially arrived before her. on looking in at the window as she passed she saw a young gentleman--a tourist, she supposed--kneeling down by the side of the poor creature; his great-coat was off, he having with it extinguished the flames with which he said that he had found her almost surrounded. happily, from the great number of under-garments she wore, only the outer rags had caught. he had been sitting on a rock above the hovel, and hearing a scream, and seeing a light break forth through a hole in the roof, he ran down, on the chance of something being wrong, and was undoubtedly the means of saving the poor creature from instant destruction. he and jenny together lifted moggy on to her straw bed, and in so doing a piece of burnt stick still smouldering fell out from among her clothes. this was evidently what had set her on fire, but how it had come there, was the question. jenny was loud in her praise of the young gentleman. he was so gentle, and kind, and didn't mind touching the dirty old creature, and helping to place her in an easy position. he took out his purse, and observing that he hadn't much money, he gave her a handful of shillings, as he said, to help to pay the doctor and to buy her some proper food and clothing. fortunately he saw a boy crossing the mountain, and running after him he gave him a shilling to go and call a doctor. the lad naturally came to me. the young gentleman would not tell jenny his name, saying, `names don't signify.' he had to get back to his inn on the other side of the mountain, and as it was growing dark he could wait no longer; but, as jenny said, ran off as fast as a deer up the steep, singing and jumping as merry as a lark. he told jenny that, if he could, he would come back to learn how the poor old creature might be getting on, but that he feared he should be living too far off to reach her on foot. this account was, i own, like a gleam of sunshine, though it threw into a yet darker shade the sad account of an act of which i am compelled to tell you. having dressed old moggy's hurts, i observed several stones, some lying on the bed, and others scattered about the floor of the hut. a large one i especially remarked on the hearth, and which i had no doubt had struck the embers of the fire, and been the immediate cause of its bursting into a flame, and igniting the poor creature's clothes. i asked jenny if she could account for the stones being, as they were, scattered about in every direction; and she then gave me a history of a piece of barbarous cruelty, the result of a thoughtlessness and an amount of ignorance i should scarcely have expected in the actors. jenny, though in most respects a true welshwoman, is free from the ignorant superstition which forms so sad an ingredient in the character of the uneducated peasants of these mountain districts, and was grieved when she found that poor old moggy had become the victim of the gross superstition of her neighbours, by whom she is reputed to be a witch who has flown across the sea from distant parts for the purpose of taking possession of the wretched hovel on the mountain. `i do think, sir,' said jenny, `if the poor creature had had the power of flying, she'd have flown to a better sort of a place than this poor shed, scarcely fit to shelter a gipsy's donkey from a snow-storm. when once the mind strays away from the truth, it's impossible to say what follies it won't believe. people don't seem to see the foolishness and nonsense of their own stones. if they'd seen her, as i have, in her right mind, they'd know that a friend of the evil one couldn't talk as she talks; and as for flying, poor old creature! she can scarcely drag one foot after the other,' jenny davis is a thoughtful and sensible woman, though her exterior is somewhat rough," observed the doctor, who was evidently unwilling, sooner than he could, to repeat the story he had heard. he continued, however: "jenny gave little heed to these foolish stories, till one day one of her boys came from playing on the mountain-side, with a scared look, and almost breathless, saying that the witch had run after him, shrieking out, and uttering the most dreadful threats. on cross-questioning the child, she found that he did not actually see moggy running after him, but that his companions said she was, while the shrieks and cries were the result of his imagination. she determined, however, to go and see the old woman herself. being a woman of action, she immediately set off. when she got near the hovel she found a number of boys yelling, hooting, and throwing stones at it. on her demanding why they did so, they said that the old witch was within, and had done them all some mischief. she had stolen the ducks of the mother of one of them, had milked the cows of a second, and a third declared that she had prevented the butter from coming in his mother's churn. one urchin asserted that his father's horse had died in consequence of her incantations, and another, that she had given his younger brother the croup; indeed, every one had some sort of complaint to make, and vehemently declared that they would pay her out. whilst she was arguing with them the door opened, and old moggy appeared, an unattractive figure, bent with age, covered with rags, and her countenance weather-beaten and scared, and expressive of a melancholy, wild, and restless spirit. the boys, on catching a momentary glimpse of her (for she instantly again closed the door), turned round, and scampered down the mountain. jenny confessed that she at first felt inclined to follow them, but once more the door slowly opened, and the poor creature looked out to ascertain if her tormentors had gone off. not seeing them she came out, and jenny heard her in a plaintive voice thanking god for having delivered her from her enemies; then she broke into a low wail, the words she uttered being disconnected and incoherent. she was on her knees, with her hands clasped and her countenance upturned towards heaven. jenny's heart was more touched than she had expected. going up to the old woman, she said, `these bad boys have been teasing you sadly, i fear, moggy.' a vacant stare was at first the only reply she received, but on repeating her words moggy seemed to gather their meaning, and answered, `ay, sadly, sadly; but ye knows what we have been taught to say by one who loved us, and died for us. "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." so ye see that i forgive them, and i pray for them. i pray that they may never be poor and helpless as i am, that they may never be so afflicted in mind and body, and that no evil may fall on their heads; and god will hear my prayers just as much as he will the prayers of the great, and wealthy, and learned, and young, and strong, and happy,' then she suddenly stopped, and began to shriek wildly and wring her hands, moaning out, `no father, no husband, no child--all, all gone. oh, my child, my boy, my hope, my pride!' jenny tried to soothe and comfort her, and after a long time succeeded in leading her back into the hut, where she became more tranquil, but still apparently was unable to give any connected account of herself. jenny then, from the basket she was carrying to market, gave her some food, for which she looked grateful, but said nothing. after this, by little acts of kindness, jenny gradually obtained the helpless creature's confidence; and daily, whenever able, went at the same hour to disperse the boys, who after school hours have, it sterns, been in the habit of assembling, for their amusement, to torment her. jenny had often threatened to complain to the parents of the boys, and, should they not attend to her complaints, to place the whole case before the magistrates. she had complained to several whose children she recognised, but they either took no notice of what she said, or were very angry with her; and she had therefore resolved, the next time she found any boys ill-treating the old woman, to put her threat into execution. `yes, sir, and that i must do, even though some be gentlefolks' sons; one be your son, sir, and sorry i have to speak it. it's that young master william of yours, and he is the most daring and outrageous of the lot,' she added. `it's a shame, sir, i'm sure you'll allow, that they should go on so; for a more harmless sorrow-stricken soul i have never met in my life than poor old moggy here. all she's gone through would make a book, and it's not to be wondered at that with all her trials, and care, and the cruelty she meets, she is often crazy like. maybe she's listening now, and knows what i say, for at times she has got as much sense as any one; and it's then that she feels her loneliness, and poverty, and wretchedness, and that makes her go off again as bad as ever, so it seems to me, sir.' i would not at first believe the truth of the accusation brought against william, but on closely questioning jenny, i found that, without doubt, it is unfortunately the fact that one of our children is capable of thus cruelly ill-treating one of his fellow-creatures; and that he is so ignorant as not to be aware of his crime; indeed he has a vague idea that he was rather performing a meritorious act." after sitting silent for some time, and grieving over the delinquencies of her son, mrs morgan, like a tender mother, endeavoured to find some excuse for his conduct; for one of the hardest trials which parents--who have learned to look upon sin in its true light--have to bear, is to discover that any one of their children is guilty of a crime. the doctor, however, upright himself, and having a clear and distinct view of right and wrong, would not allow himself to find any excuses for the crime, though anxious as his wife for the good of the criminal; nor did he fail to blame himself, as mrs morgan blamed herself, for allowing their child, during the most impressible years of his life, to go from under their charge. "still," argued the doctor, "william has been told what is right and wrong; he has read the scriptures. he has infringed one of the chief commandments in a most cruel and cowardly manner. i must not be indulgent towards a crime which, if his victim dies, the legal authority of his country will pronounce to be manslaughter. i will endeavour, however, first to ascertain how far he is sensible of his fault by showing him its consequence. should he give no proof of penitence i must resort to severer measures. i purpose to take all the children with me to-morrow morning to old moggy's hut, and i trust that the sight william will there witness will prove, as it must if his heart is not hardened, a sufficient punishment for his act." "i hope and pray it may," said mrs morgan. "i fear, though, that miss ap reece was most injudicious in her management of him, and that he has now been allowed a long course of self-indulgence; and i believe that nothing more effectually hardens the heart and makes it indifferent to the feelings of others, to their sorrows and physical sufferings, than such a mode of treatment." long did the doctor and his wife talk over the subject, and then kneeling, they earnestly placed the matter before the throne of grace, seeking from thence guidance and strength. how little, in many instances, are prosperous, healthy, happy children aware that the chief cause of their prosperity, health, and happiness, is to be found in the earnest, trustful prayers of god-fearing parents. unhappy the children who have not praying parents! thrice blessed those who have, and who, at the same time, set high value on their parents' prayers, and learn betimes to pray aright, and to pray for them as well as for themselves. chapter five. the sky was bright and blue; a fresh breeze, invigorating and pure, came from the distant sea; the sun, just risen above the mountain tops, shone down with undiminished lustre on the smiling valley, and all nature sparkled with life and light, as the young morgans, having finished breakfast, assembled at the hall-door to accompany their father on his proposed walk. the elder ones remarked that he looked graver than usual, but hoped that the fresh air and exercise would soon restore his spirits. they all enjoyed a walk with him, for he generally took care to make it interesting, by giving them information on one or more of the various natural objects they met with. there was not a tree, a flower, or a stone, about which he had not something to say which was well worth hearing. charles called them "father's peripatetic lectures." this morning, however, the doctor was unusually silent. his daughter anna walked by his side, affectionately waiting, in the hopes of an opportunity to bring forward some subject to enliven him. charles also accompanied him. the rest of the children kept behind, wondering where he was going; willie especially sauntering at some distance, and thinking that he would rather have been out by himself or with some of the boys with whom he had lately associated. charles, finding that his father was not inclined to give one of his lectures, bethought him of a subject likely to interest him. "i say, father, i wonder when frank will be here. his ship was expected at plymouth every day. i sent a letter for him to fox, giving him full directions how he was to find his way here, so that if he could get leave he might come up at once. my only fear is that he may not have any cash for his journey. i begged fox to advance it, but frank may not think of asking him. he'll have a great deal to tell us about the pacific and the coral islands, the sandwich islanders, and the other natives, once horrible savages, now mostly christians. and those people of fiji--the black cannibals of the pacific as they were called--i want to know if they are as bad as has been represented." "yes, your brother frank will have much to say," remarked the doctor, and again relapsed into silence. "i hope he may bring tom holman with him. i should like to see the man who saved his life, that i might thank him as he deserves for his bravery," said anna. "dear frank, if it had not been for holman we might never have seen him again." "yes, indeed, i should like to see holman, the fine and gallant fellow," exclaimed charles. "the puzzle will be how to get him here. i know that seamen have difficulty in obtaining leave till their ship is paid off, and then there is the expense of the journey. however, i will do my best to manage that." "and i will help you," said anna. "i will sell some of my fowls, and the egg money of last year, which i have never spent, and old mrs taffety's present, which mamma says i have a right to do just what i like with. oh, there will be no difficulty about money matters if frank can get leave for tom holman. it will be very nice to see him and to thank him, though it will be difficult to thank him enough." dr morgan had not joined in the conversation of his elder children. he appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. once or twice he glanced round to ascertain if william was following. he continued for some time along the road leading to the village, and then suddenly turned into a path leading up the mountain. william began to feel not very comfortable when he saw this. still his father might possibly intend to cross over the mountain. he lingered still farther behind, and when he saw him turn off again up the uneven path which led to poor old moggy's hut he was strongly inclined to run away. surely his father would not wish to go inside the hut. what could he have to say to the old woman? however, go on he must. fortunately, charles dropped behind the doctor, and anna and william hurried up to him. "charley, is papa really going into the witch's den?" he exclaimed in a tone of alarm. "she will be doing him some harm, i am sure." "nonsense, willie," answered charles. "i did not fancy that a fellow with a head on his shoulders could be such a goose." "goose or no goose, i don't wish to fall into the old witch's clutches, nor papa, nor any of us either," muttered william, as charles walked on again rapidly to catch up their father, and to give a helping hand to the two younger ones. willie's foolish fears increased when he saw his father walk up to the door of the hut, and still more alarmed did he become when the doctor, lifting the latch, went in, and then turned round and beckoned to him to enter, though arthur and mabel were allowed to remain outside. most unwillingly he obeyed; but when he got inside the door, not a step farther could he bring himself to advance, and from the furtive glances which he ever and anon cast through the doorway, it was very evident that he would make his escape if he dared. even charles and anna drew back from the pitiable object which met their sight. the light streaming through the window fell on a low pallet, on which, covered with a sheet, lay the form of mountain moggy. by her side sat jenny davis, whom william recognised as her champion who had threatened him and his companions with condign punishment if they ever again attacked the old woman. something dreadful was going to happen-- william scarcely knew what. a glance his father cast at him made him understand that he must not move. of course jenny davis had told everything. after exchanging a few words with jenny, the doctor lifted the sheet from off moggy's feet. "william, come here and witness the effects of your cruelty," he said in a stern voice, very unlike that in which he was accustomed to address his children. "now look at those poor burnt hands. you, and those with you, i have no doubt, caused all the pain this poor woman is now suffering; and should she die, at whose door, think you, will the guilt lie?" william could not answer. the doctor, taking out some salves he had brought with him, began to dress the poor creature's limbs. anna could not refrain from tears, while she went forward to assist her father and kind jenny. william stood by without uttering a word, and feeling as he had never felt before. when the sufferer's hands and feet were once more covered up, the doctor directed charles to call in the younger children. "listen to what jenny davis will tell you," he said, when they were all assembled round the bed. "ah, sir, i have a tale to tell which would soften a heart of stone; but i hope none of these young people have hearts of that sort," remarked jenny, fixing her eyes on william. "she has told me how it all happened, and it may be a warning to that young gentleman never to throw stones at any human being, even though they may be deserted; or, for that matter, at any living creature. they cannot tell where the stone may strike, and what harm it may do. well, sir, old moggy was sitting at her poor fire when those cruel boys came up here again to play off their cowardly tricks. they talk of her imps doing mischief, though they were the imps, and they were doing the mischief, i'm thinking. stone after stone was thrown in on her. at last one struck the hearth and sent a burning stick under her feet. while she stooped down to remove it, another large one gave her a blow on the head which must have stunned her, for she fell to the ground and her clothes began to burn. the agony she was suffering brought her in some degree to her senses again, when she found herself surrounded by flames, and believed that she was going to be burnt to death. there was nobody near that she knew of to help her, and she couldn't help herself; she knew that, so she prayed for the help of god. just then the door burst open, and the young gentleman i told you of ran in, and throwing his coat over her, put out the fire. i came in soon after, and helped to put her on the bed. i think that the young gentleman burnt his own hands not a little in tearing off the burning clothes which his coat couldn't cover, but he said it was just nothing, and wouldn't let me look at them even before he went away." "what a brave, noble fellow!" exclaimed charles. "i should like to have made his acquaintance." "so indeed should i," cried anna. "do not you know his name, jenny?" "no, my sweet miss, i don't," answered the welshwoman. "but i think i know where it's written, and that's where the names of the cruel, and selfish, and heartless will never be found." "god bless him! god bless him!" said a deep voice from the bed. the children started; it was the voice of old moggy. they had not supposed she was listening, much less that she was capable of speaking. the rest of the children remembered william's remarks on the previous evening, and all eyes were turned on him. he stood white as ashes, and trembling in every limb. while they had before been speaking, the window had been darkened by a person passing before it. william had remarked it, and he had taken it into his head that it was that of a person come to carry him off to prison for his misdeeds. the rest had been so interested in what they were hearing that they had not observed that a stranger was near them. "ye said that she knows the truth; ay, that she does, and practises what the word of truth tells us; for instead of railing she blesses, and from her heart forgives them who have ill-treated her," said jenny. "poor, harmless, weary soul that she is! those young ones who stand there can know little of the sorrows and trials she has been called on to endure. she has seen loss of parents, and property, and husband, and child, and her good name, and all that we think makes life pleasant; and now that she has found her way to this lone place, to die in peace, the evil one has made these lads come up here to mock and torment her. i mind reading of a good prophet going to a certain village in a foreign land, and the lads came out and mocked him, and called him old bald-head, and what do ye think happened? why, two she-bears came out of a wood and destroyed forty and two of them. i don't mean to say that old moggy is like the old prophet, but yet she is aged and friendless; and those who abuse and ill-treat her are, in the eyes of the almighty, doing a great wickedness; that they are, i'm sure." while jenny was speaking, the lips of the sufferer were seen to move; and in the same deep tones which had before been heard, the words came forth, "but forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. yes, yes: oh, i forgive them; they didn't know any better; they thought i was a witch; they thought i could work charms, and had bad power. oh! they would not have done as they did if they had known of my weary, weary, aching heart; my poor boy underneath the sea--my husband drowned before my eyes--my sad, sad days, my sleepless nights-- my wandering brain--my hunger and thirst--my wretched, wretched life for long, long lonesome years. all these things you did not know of, young gentleman, when you and your companions threw stones at me. don't think i would curse you for it. no, no. come near, my children. i bless you, ay! from my heart, all of you. you who ill-treated me and you who never did me harm." slowly and reluctantly, with awe in their countenances, the children drew still nearer to the bed. the old woman's voice had dropped through weakness and exhaustion, yet she continued-- "my lot has been very hard, very hard; yet i have had a friend above who has upheld and comforted me. and yet i have had many trials, many trials, many trials. my brain reels and wanders. i think of my husband and my boy, my only boy, many fathoms deep beneath the cold, cold waves, and then my head turns and my heart changes into stone, and i forget where i am and what has happened." the old woman began to ramble, and suddenly burst forth in the wild song which she had been singing on the previous evening. jenny davis shook her head, observing, "she'll not be right after this for some time. when the fit comes on her there's no more sense to be looked for till she has had some rest." "i will send her up a quieting draught and some wholesome food, which will probably do her more good than any medicine," said the doctor, taking anna's hand, and motioning the others to move towards the door. william had hitherto not spoken a word. "papa, may i take her up the medicine and food?" he said, and big tears rolled down his cheeks. "yes, william, you may," was the answer. dr morgan and his children had got outside the hut, and were on their way down the steep side of the mountain, when they heard a cheery shout behind them. turning round, anna instantly sprang up the hill, and in another moment was in the arms of a young gentleman who was running down to meet them. "it is frank! it is frank!" burst from the lips of the rest. "why, father! charley! who would have thought it?" cried the young stranger, warmly greeting them; "and willie, and mabel, and arthur! what big people they have become! i little expected to have found you so soon; and you were in that poor old woman's hut, too! well, that is curious! the truth is, i am lost, or rather i couldn't find you. i mislaid charley's letter, and though i thought i knew the name of the place, i found, when i got into the country, that i hadn't the slightest notion of what it was; and after wandering about for a couple of days, i determined to write to old evans, at bangor, and to await his answer at the inn on the other side of the mountain." "then, frank, you are the young gentleman who saved old moggy's life," said anna. "how delightful!" "oh, did i? i merely threw my jacket over the poor creature's legs, and put out the fire which had caught her clothes and would have burnt her," answered the midshipman. "i am very glad i was of use, though it's not a thing to be proud of. it was very fortunate, however, for me, for i don't know how otherwise i should have found you. there is one thing i should like to do, and that is to thrash the heartless young monkeys who threw stones at the poor woman. if i can find them i will." william looked down, overwhelmed with shame, and almost wished that frank _would_ thrash him. "then what brought you back to the hut, my boy?" asked the doctor. "oh, to look after the poor old woman," said frank, "i understood from the nurse--jenny davis she told me was her name--that she has no friends, and so i thought it was but right and proper to come back and see how she was getting on. i dropped a bundle with some old shirts and other things in at the window; but seeing some people there, not dreaming that they were all of you, i of course wouldn't go in. i waited, expecting you soon to go away, and fortunately i made you out, or i should have gone back to my inn, and not known that i had been close to you." "bless you, my boy, bless you! may you ever act in the same way from principle, and not merely from the impulse of the heart, good as that may be," said the doctor, warmly, pressing frank's hand, and undoubtedly feeling the contrast between his conduct and that of william. "and now let us hear something about yourself," he continued, in a more cheerful tone than he had hitherto been speaking in. the young sailor had plenty to talk about, though, as he remarked, he found his words apt to block up the hatchway, he was in such a hurry to get them out of the hold. charles and anna were eager to hear about tom holman, and william would have liked to hear what his brother was saying, but, in shame, he hung back some way behind the rest, and when they reached the house his father told him to go to his room, and wait there till summoned frank saw that there was something wrong, but forbore to inquire, hoping soon to have an opportunity of pleading for the culprit. "ah, that comes, whatever it is, of his being brought up by old becky ap reece," he thought to himself. "i am heartily glad he is free of her, though he may never get a farthing of her money. he was a plucky little chap, and with good training something might be made of him; but she treated him like one of her poodles, and would soon have made him of no more use in the world than a puppy dog." though frank morgan was thoughtful, he was one of the merriest fellows under the sun, and among the lightest of heart though not of head. frank's return brought life and spirit into the house; for charles, though highly esteemed, was grave and somewhat reserved; anna was sedate and quiet; and william, since his return home, had been very troublesome, and was looked upon generally as an arrant pickle; while the doctor and mrs morgan were so much occupied that they were unable to think of amusements for their children. everything, however, was to give way in order to make frank enjoy his short visit at home; and picnics and several pleasant excursions were planned that he might find the time as pleasant as possible. chapter six. dr morgan loved william fully as much as he did the rest of his children, but he saw that correction was necessary to cure him. instead of being allowed to welcome frank with the rest of the family, william was sent to his room, where he remained by himself, not knowing what was next to happen. he was very sorry for what he had done; he had seen the fearful consequences of his cruelty, by which he might have deprived a fellow-creature of life; indeed, he knew not even now whether old moggy might not die; and he also saw his own folly in believing that a poor weak old creature, who could not preserve herself from injury, could injure others in the way she was accused of doing, and he wished that he had not thrown stones at her. these thoughts made him very uncomfortable, and he would have been glad to go anywhere, or do anything which would enable him to cast them away from him. it was a great relief when his father came with the medicine and other things for old moggy, and told him that he might take them to her, but must return immediately to his room, without stopping to talk to any one. "solitude is good for our spiritual welfare, to allow of reflection, but we must not permit it to hinder us in the performance of the active duties of life," observed the doctor to his wife, when he told her how he purposed treating william. "he wished to take the things to her, and he is the fittest person to do so. it is well that he should feel that he is useful and doing his duty; but at the same time it is necessary that he should understand that the so doing cannot exonerate him from the consequences of his transgressions." william hastened out of the house with his basket. he knew that if he met any of his school companions they would ask him how long he had turned apothecary's boy, what wages he got, and whether he made the pills as well. he determined not to mind. still he anxiously looked about, fearing some might appear. he ran on, therefore, till he reached the steep part of the path up the mountain. as he climbed up his heart again failed him, for he began to fear that jenny davis would at all events scold him, and that perhaps moggy, seeing him alone, would say something disagreeable. still, as he had volunteered to go, it would be arrant cowardice if he turned back. he reached the hut and looked in at the window. jenny saw him, and saw that he had a basket in his hand. "come in, come in, my good young sir," she exclaimed. the words encouraged william, and he entered. "it's like your father's son to come and visit the poor and the afflicted," she added. "i'm sure i thank ye, and so does she who lies there, though she's ill able to speak now." moggy, whose senses had by this time returned, heard her. "ay--bless you, young gentleman! bless you!" she muttered. "i forgive you, and thank you, and am your debtor; and there's one above who'll forgive you if you go to him." it surprised and puzzled him that moggy bore him no ill-will, after all the injury he had inflicted on her. he did not stop to inquire how this was, but, having left the contents of his basket, bent his steps homeward. as he wound his way by the path down the mountain-side, at a far more sedate pace than was his wont, he thought over the matter. suddenly the words of the lord's prayer occurred to him--"forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." "that's it; she has been very wicked, and so she forgives me that she may be forgiven," he said to himself. "but then i have been very wicked too, and i have nobody to forgive. i don't know anybody who has done me harm; i wish that somebody would, and then i might forgive them." he reached home, and made his way to his room again. no one came near him all day. at dinner-time anna stole up with a plate of meat and vegetables. she placed it before him, but he felt very little inclination to eat. anna was about to quit the room; willie stopped her. "i know i am very wicked, but i don't know what to do!" he exclaimed, sobbing. "i wish that papa would come and tell me." anna reported these words to their father. the doctor might have hastened at once to willie, but he judged it wiser to allow the good impression that had been formed to take root. he therefore sent him up the bible, by anna, and begged him to read the answer of paul to the gaoler at philippi. anna showed him other texts of scripture--"blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy"; and then pointed out warnings against those who wrong and oppress the poor and the afflicted. "i know, i know that i have done very wrong, and am very wicked," sobbed william. "do you think god will pardon me? i do not feel as if i could do anything to make god forgive me, or love me, or be kind to me again." anna stopped to collect her thoughts before she spoke; she then said-- "i am very sure that you never can do anything to make god forgive you, dear willie; and yet i am sure that god _will_ forgive you if you seek him through the mediator he has given us. god loves to be gracious. if you really are sorry for what you have done, if you repent, not because your fault has brought you into trouble and disgrace, but because you have offended god, then god will assuredly pardon you, for he has promised in his holy word to do so. he says `knock and it shall be opened to you, seek and ye shall find'; so you see, dear willie, you may be pardoned if you seek it in the right way." and she spoke of god's love in sending his blessed son to save us from our sins, and of the holy spirit that he gives us to soften our hard hearts and make them tender, as well as to teach us always what we ought to do. when she ceased speaking he was sobbing, but not bitterly. "pray for me, anna," said he; "i am not able to pray for myself." "oh, be sure all those who love you will pray for you," she answered, kissing him. "papa and mamma pray for us night and morning, i am certain of that; and it makes me very happy and confident to think so. but still, dear willie, remember always that we must pray for ourselves." "yes, i know, and i will try," said william, as his sister left the room. the evening approached. charles brought him up some tea and bread-and-butter, but said nothing. no one else came near him, not even frank. he thought that frank might have come, but still he could not complain. how different had been his brother's conduct and his own towards poor old moggy! he had thought her a witch, and thrown stones at her, and called her all sorts of bad names; while brave frank had risked burning himself to save her, and had kindly treated her, and given her money, and come back to see how she was faring. "and they say that there are no such things as witches, or ugly ghosts wandering about, or such-like creatures," he thought to himself. "i always fancied there were, but papa must be right, and i am sure i hope that there are not. and as god loves us i don't think he would let such things be, to come and frighten us, certainly not to harm or frighten those who love him. how very, very foolish i have been, to believe all the nonsense i have heard." with these thoughts, repentant willie fell asleep. he did not see that his parents entered, when the rest of the family were gone to bed, and bending over him observed how placidly he slept. then they knelt down together and earnestly prayed for his spiritual welfare. he had sorely felt their absence all day, and was inclined to believe that their love was estranged from him. how far was this from the truth! thus it is that our heavenly father deals with his erring children. he shuts himself out from them. he allows evil to overtake them, but not the less does he love them. he thus afflicts them that they may more fully feel their dependence on him, and return like the prodigal to his arms. chapter seven. frank had to return to his ship, but after a short cruise he wrote word that he had again got leave to go home; and this time he hoped to be accompanied by his shipmate, the preserver of his life, tom holman. the family at the rectory were as eager to see tom as they were before. some changes had taken place among them. willie was very different to what he had been. his masters remarked that he was much improved. from being the most idle, he was now one of the most attentive and obedient of their scholars. his parents, too, believed that they had discovered a real change of heart. his godmother, miss becky ap reece, had died and left him her heir, her property realising a far larger sum than had been expected; indeed, it was surmised that the poor lady must have lost a considerable portion of her income at cards, or she would have been able to live in better style, or have done more good with it than she had done. as soon as william heard that cousin becky's property had been left to him, though of course he was ignorant of its value, he entreated that he might give it to old moggy to make her comfortable. "what, all, willie? all your fortune?" asked his father, with a feeling of pleasure about his heart. "o yes, papa, i do not think that i have a right to spend any of it on myself, while she is suffering in consequence of my wickedness," answered willie, with perfect sincerity. "i rejoice to hear you say so, my dear boy, but the matter is not left in your power, nor indeed in mine. until you are of age, the interest of the capital can alone be spent; and i, as your guardian, have authority only to expend it on your proper maintenance and education. it is only, therefore, by denying yourself all luxuries and amusements, and by saving pocket-money, with which i am directed to supply you, that you can help poor moggy as you desire." "oh then, that is what i will do," exclaimed willie. "don't give me any pocket-money, or let me have any amusements which cost money. that's almost what i wanted to do; though i should like to set her up as a lady, or in a comfortable house, with a servant to attend on her." "that would not be wise, willie," remarked dr morgan. "you would expend all your means on one person, giving her more than she requires; and though it would save you trouble, you would be prevented from benefiting others; whereas you should calculate the means at your disposal, and take trouble to ascertain how much good you can possibly do with it. i am also bound to give you your pocket-money, provided i do not find that you make a bad use of it. you must decide how it is to be spent, and of course you are at liberty to return it to me to spend for you." "oh, that will do, that will do!" exclaimed willie, with pleasure in his tone. "but you will help me, papa, in doing what is best with it?" "i have already anticipated some of your wishes with respect to poor moggy, and we will see what more can be done to make her comfortable. she says that she prefers windyside to any other spot on earth, and has no wish to move from it." on a fine day, when the sun was shining brightly over mountain and moor, and his beams were lighting up the pine-trees and the once dark, ruinous hovel on the hillside, dr morgan with most of his children took their way towards old moggy's abode. it was greatly changed for the better. a chimney was now to be seen rising above the roof, which had been fresh tiled; there was glass in the window, a latch on the door, which had been repaired, and the lichen-covered walls had been scraped, fresh pointed, and white-washed. when the party got inside they discovered an equally agreeable change. a thick curtain divided the room; a screen kept off the draught when the door was opened; the walls were whitened, and there was a cupboard, and a table and chairs, and several shelves, on which rested some neat crockery. on the inside of the curtain there was a comfortable bed, and some thick matting on the floor. old moggy was seated in a large easy-chair, with her feet on the old stool, which before was one of her sole articles of furniture, and good jenny davis was making up a nice fire of coals, on which to cook some wholesome meat and vegetables which she had just brought from the market. "she's getting quite strong and hearty, with the good food and kindness," answered jenny to the doctor's question, "how is moggy to-day?" "she can talk to ye as clear and sensibly as any one; ay, and there are some glorious things she has been saying to me, which have done my soul a world of good." "ay, doctor morgan, in one thing jenny speaks truth. i don't feel the poor demented creature i was a few short months ago," said moggy; "and it's your tender kindness, and that of your dear boy, master willie, and the rest of your children, has brought about the change which ye see in me. i am clothed, and in my right mind; and yet, through the mercy of god, i never, even when my mind was wrong, was cast out from him. i still sought him, and found him. he watched over me and protected me." "be assured, moggy," said the doctor, "that we are well repaid for what we have done for you. but i must not stay. i came up with my children to-day to see how you were. you require no doctoring, and so i must away. anna, however, will remain with the rest, as she has brought up a book to read, which may interest you." when the doctor had gone anna took a seat by moggy's side, and willie begged jenny to give him some employment which might be of use. "there's little enough, my sweet young master, that is fit for you to do," answered jenny. "there are those few pots and pans to clean, and some cups and saucers, and plates and spoons, and knives and forks, but sure that's not work fit for a young gentleman's hands." "oh, any work is fit for me, if it is to serve moggy," said william, rubbing away at the articles which were placed by his side. anna read on in her sweet, low voice. the book contained a true history of one who bore suffering and affliction with patience and perfect resignation to the divine will for long, long years, till health came back and she enjoyed peace and happiness in this world, and departed full of joy and hope. moggy, who seemed deeply interested, instantly applied the history to herself. "that's me, that's me," she muttered. "i have got peace and comfort, and it's a happiness to have all these loving, dear children round me." she paused and sighed deeply, as if a recollection of the past had come suddenly on her, for she added, "but ah, who can bring back the dead-- those who lie far, far away in their ocean grave? no joy for me here till i know that i am departing to meet them." "dear moggy," said anna, interrupting her gently, and fearing that she might give way to her feelings too much, "you have more than once promised that you would give us some of your past history. we should very much like to hear it, provided you do not dwell too long on the more painful portions." moggy looked up at her with a sad expression in her eyes. "ah, sweet miss anna, you do not know what you ask," she answered. "if i were to tell you my history without the sad portions there truly would be little to tell; but i will not therefore deny you. it will do me good, maybe, to know that those i love are acquainted with my griefs, and can pity me, and as it were share them with me." "we know that you have had sore troubles, and we pity you for them, and we have all learned to love you because you bear them so patiently," said anna; "therefore if it gives you pain do not talk of your past history." "ay, that is kind in you, miss anna, to say, but i have the wish now to tell you all; what i have been, and how i came to be as i am," said moggy. "master willie, ask master charles to come in (charles had returned outside the cottage to botanise), then i'll tell ye all, yes, all. often and often i've thought of the past, so it does not seem strange to me as it will to you, dear miss anna, but ye will not weep for me, for it's long, long since i wept for myself." a shout from william made anna run to the door, and from thence she saw charley shaking hands with their brother frank, and willie running down the hill towards them. another person stood by, who must be, she was certain, tom holman. looking into the cottage again, and crying out, "frank has come! frank has come!" she also ran down the hill towards her brothers. there were warm greetings, and smiles, and laughter; and then frank sang out, "hillo, tom, come up here. my brothers and sister want to thank you for enabling me to get back and see them; and tell them how you picked me out of the water and saved my life, and have taken such good care of me ever since." tom had, with true politeness, gone some way off out of ear-shot of the brothers and sister when they met. the latter words were addressed to him, and with the activity of a seaman he sprang up the hill towards them. he did not quite come up to the idea anna had formed of him. though dressed as a seaman, he was somewhat different to the commonly-received notions of what a british tar is like; still less could he be compared to a refined pirate or dashing rover of romance. he was an ordinary sized, sunburnt, darkish man of middle age, with a somewhat grave expression of countenance. when he spoke, however, a pleasant smile lit up his firm mouth, and his eyes beamed with intelligence. anna, charles, and willie went forward, and putting out their hands one after the other, shook his cordially, and thanked him, in a few simple words, for the manly services he had rendered frank; each hoping to find means of proving their gratitude in a more substantial way than by words alone. tom answered them in a pleasant voice, evidently gratified by the way they had treated him. "why you see, miss morgan and young gentlemen, it was your brother first did me a service, and a very great one too, and so i felt very grateful, and a liking to him, and that made me have my eye oftener on him when there was any danger abroad, and be oftener talking to him; and so, do ye see, all the rest followed in course." "we never heard of frank doing anything for you," answered anna. "we thought that the obligation was all on his side." "come, tom, don't talk about that just now," cried frank. "i say, anna, how's old moggy? i'm glad to see that you have painted up her abode. i must go up and see her at once, and introduce tom to her; she'll like to hear about the foreign parts he has been to." saying this, he ran up the hill towards the hut. the rest of the party followed more slowly. tom remained outside; the young morgans entered. they found frank seated opposite to moggy, talking away to her, and telling her how happy he was to see her so comfortable. the poor old woman was much gratified with the attention paid her. "but where is tom?" cried frank. "willie, tell him to come in. i want to introduce him to moggy. he will be interested in her, for a kinder heart than his does not beat in the bosom of any man, woman, or child that i know of." tom soon made his appearance, doffing his tarpauling as he entered, and taking a seat to which frank pointed, nearly opposite moggy. for a minute or more after tom had taken his seat moggy was silent, when bending forward, and shrouding her grey eyebrows with her withered hand, with unexpected suddenness she said, in a deep, low voice, and a strange inquiring expression in her countenance-- "who are you, and where do you come from?" "a seaman, mother," answered tom, "and shipmate for many a year with young mister morgan here." the old woman scarcely seemed to understand what was said, but kept muttering to herself, and intently gazing at tom. "come, moggy, you'll stare my shipmate out of countenance, for he's a bashful man, though a brave one," cried frank, who fancied that his friend did not like the scrutiny he was undergoing. frank produced the effect he wished, and moggy at once resumed the placid manner she had of late exhibited. "your pardon, sir; strange fancies come over me at times, though it's seldom now i get as bad as i used to be," said moggy. "i forgot how time passes, ay, and what changes time works, but i will not trouble you with my wild fancies. your honoured father has shown me how i may put them to flight by prayer, by looking to him who died for us, and then all becomes peace, and joy, and contentment." "moggy was just going to give me an account of her early days when you arrived," said anna. "i shall like very much to hear all about her, if moggy will put off her history till another day," remarked frank. "i promised to return home again without delay, so we must not remain any longer." "remember, children dear, time is in god's hand, not ours. we propose, but he disposes as he knows best. he may think fit to let me live, to enjoy the comforts you have provided for me in my old age, or he may think fit to call me home; but while i live my wish will be to please you if i can benefit you, and my last prayers will be for your welfare." "oh, you must live on for many a day, and we must hear your story over and over again, till we know it by heart," cried frank, about to go. "once for me to tell and once for you to hear would be enough, my dear lad," said moggy, shaking her head. "good-bye, mother, good-bye," said tom, his heart evidently touched by the poor old woman's condition. "fare thee well, my son, fare thee well. may heaven prosper thee and guard thee on the perilous waters," answered moggy, gazing intently at him as before. "so like thy countenance, and thy manners." the rest of the party uttered their farewells, and leaving the hut, took their way down the mountain. chapter eight. frank was the life of the family in the drawing-room, and tom interested and astonished the inmates of the kitchen with the accounts he gave them of his own adventures and his young officer's exploits and gallant deeds. it is possible that some of his companions might have preferred hearing him sing a rollicking sea song, and seeing him dance a hornpipe, as most seamen are represented as doing on all possible occasions; but they soon found out that such was not tom holman's way. he could talk, though, and laugh, and be very merry at times, and never seemed unhappy; and mary jones, mrs morgan's old nurse, declared that he was the pleasantest, and nicest, and quietest, ay, and more than that, the best young man she had seen for many a day. not that he was very young, for he was certainly over forty. tom holman was more than pleasant--he was an earnest, christian seaman. happily there are many such now-a-days, both in the royal navy and in the merchant service--men who are not ashamed of the cross of christ. tom and mrs jones soon became fast friends, and it was through her that the way in which he and frank first became intimate was known to mrs morgan and the rest of the family. "you see, mrs jones," said tom, as he sat with her in the housekeeper's room, "i was pretty well a castaway, without friends, without home, without any one to care for me, or show me the right course to sail on. i had got hold of some books, all about the rights of man, sneering at religion, and everything that was right, and noble, and holy; and in my ignorance i thought it all very fine, and had become a perfect infidel. all that sort of books writ by the devil's devices have brought countless beings to destruction--of body as well as of soul. our ship was on the coast of africa, employed in looking after slavers, to try and put a stop to the slave trade. i entered warmly into the work, for i thought that it was a cruel shame that men, because they had white skins, more power, and maybe, more sense, should be allowed to carry off their fellow-men and hold them in bondage. i was appointed as coxswain of the boat commanded by mr morgan. often we used to be sent away in her for days together from the ship, to lie in wait for slavers. the officers on such occasions used to allow us to talk pretty freely to one another and to express our minds. one day i said something which showed mr morgan what was in my mind--how dark and ignorant it was. he questioned me further, and found that i was an infidel, that i had no belief in god or in goodness, and that i was unhappy. some officers would have cared nothing for this, or just abused me, called me a fool, and let me alone; others, who called themselves religious, would have cast me off as a reprobate. but mr morgan, whom i always thought only a good-natured, merry young gentleman, did neither; but he stuck to me like a friend. day after day, and night after night, he talked to me, and reasoned with me, and read to me out of the blessed gospel, for he never was without the book of life in all our expedition. [see note .] whenever he could get me alone he pleaded earnestly with me, as a friend, nay, as affectionately as a brother. in spite of myself, he made me listen to him, and i learned to love and respect him, even when i thought myself far wiser than he was. he persevered. i began to see how vile i was, how unlike a pure and holy god; and then he showed me the only way by which i could become fit to dwell with god. it seemed so plain, so simple, so beautiful, so unlike any idea man could conceive, that i, as it were, sprang to it, just as a drowning man springs to a rock, and clutching it, lifts himself up clear of the tangled weeds which are dragging him to destruction. from that moment i became a changed man, and gained a peace and happiness of which i knew nothing before." "dr morgan's regards, and he hopes you'll step into the dining-room, mr holman," said the parlour-maid, opening the door. tom was soon seated among the family circle, his manner showing that he was perfectly at his ease without the slightest show of presumption. "tom, they want to hear about our adventures, and i've told them that i must have you present to confirm my account, lest they should suppose i am romancing," said frank, as tom entered. "they wouldn't think that, mr morgan," answered tom. "but, however, i'll take the helm for a spell if you get out of your right course." "i don't doubt you, old shipmate," said frank. "but before i get under weigh with my yarn i want you to give them a few pages out of your log before you and i sailed together." tom guessed what this request meant. "well, sir, if your honourable father and mother and you wish it, i'll tell you all i know about myself. for what i know to the contrary, i was born at sea. my first recollections were of a fearful storm on the ocean. we were tossing about in a boat. one of them, whom i for a long time afterwards thought was my father, had charge of me. he was a kind-hearted man, and looked after me most carefully. he went by the name of jack johnson, but sailors often change their names, especially if they have deserted, or have done anything for which they think that they may be punished. he always called me tom, and i didn't know that i had any other name till he told me that my name was holman, that he had known my father, who was a very respectable man, who, with my mother, and many other people, had been lost at sea. he said that he had saved me, and that we, with a few others, were the only people who had escaped from the wreck. we had been picked up by a ship outward bound round the horn. two of the men died, the rest entered on board the whaler, and as the captain could not well pitch me overboard he was obliged to take me; for indeed jack, who was the best seaman of the lot, refused to do duty unless i was put on the ship's books for rations. it was a rough school for a child, but i throve in it, and learned many things, though some of them i had better not have learned. the captain seemed a stern and morose man, and for many months he took no notice of me; but one day as i was trying to climb up the rattlins of the lower shrouds i fell to the deck. he ran to me, lifted me up, and carrying me to his cabin, placed me on his own bed, and with an anxious countenance examined me all over to find where i was hurt. he rubbed my temples and hands, and jack, who followed him into the cabin, said he looked quite pleased when i came to again. i was some weeks recovering, and he watched over me all the time with as much care as if i had been his own child. "`ah! the man's heart is in the right place, and i'd sooner sail with him than with many another softer-spoken gentleman i've fallen in with,' remarked jack one day after i had recovered. "we heard from one of the crew, who had before sailed with the captain, that he had a little son of his own killed from falling on deck, and this it was which made him take to me." "yes, god has implanted right and good feelings in the bosoms of all his creatures," observed the doctor. "but when they are neglected, and sin is allowed to get the better of them, they are destroyed. none of our hearts are in their right place, as the saying is. they are all by nature prone to ill. the same man who was doing you the kindness might in other ways have been grievously offending god." "ay, sir, it might have been; but it would not become me to find fault with one who had rendered me so great a service," said tom. "after i was well, he used to have me into his cabin every day to teach me to read and write, and the little learning i ever had i gained from him. we had been out four years, and the ship had at last got a full cargo, and was on the point of returning home, when we fell in with another ship belonging to the same owners. the captain of her had died, and the first mate had been washed overboard, and so the supercargo invited our captain to take charge of her. as he had no wife nor children living at home, this he consented to do, and thus it happened that i remained out in the pacific another four years. tom for my sake went with him to the other ship. we were nearly full. "`one more fish, and then hurrah for old england, lads,' sung out the captain, as three sperm whales were seen spouting from the mast-head. "all the boats were immediately lowered. jack was in the captain's boat. away they pulled from the ship in chase. those sperm whales are sometimes dangerous creatures to hunt. we saw that the captain's boat was fast, that is to say, he had struck the whale. away went the boat, towed at a great rate. suddenly she stopped--the whale rose. the captain pulled in to strike another harpoon into her. the monster reared her powerful tail and struck the boat a blow which split her clean in two. we had not a boat left to go to our shipmates' assistance; the other boats were far away in other directions. the wind was light, but we were able to lay up towards the spot where the accident had occurred. we could at length see the wreck of the boat and two men clinging to her. i hoped that one might be jack and the other the captain; for they were, i may well say, the only two people i cared for in the world, or who cared for me. eagerly i looked out. `it's jem rawlins and peter garvin,' i heard some one say. my heart sank within me. jem and peter were got on board. they were, of all the crew, those i had the least reason to like. they told us that the poor captain had got the line entangled round his leg, and had been drawn down when the whale sounded, and that jack had been killed by a blow from her tail. it seemed wonderful that they themselves should have escaped, considering the fury with which the whale attacked the boat. thus was the last link broken which, as it were, connected me with my lost relations, and i might say that i had not a friend in the world. all i knew about myself was that jack had saved me from the wreck of a ship called the `dove,' which, with my name, `tom holman,' he had tattooed on my arm. he had also put into a tin case the belt i had on and one or two other little articles, which tin case was in his chest. it was unanimously agreed on board that i should be his heir, so i succeeded to the chest, the chief article of value in which was the tin case. i took it out, and have ever since preserved it carefully, though with little hope of finding it of use. i had become very fond of reading, and had read all the books in the captain's cabin. there were not many of them, and there was not one which had religion in it, and i am very certain that there was not a bible on board. i only knew that there was such a book from the captain, who had read it at home, and i heard him only a few days before his death regretting that he had not got one. i believe our ship was not worse than others, and to the best of my belief not one of the south sea whalers we fell in with had a bible on board. the crews, as a rule, were lawless reprobates, and the masters petty tyrants, who cared nothing for the men, provided they would work to get their ships full. we sailed for england by the way of cape horn. i wished to go there because i wished to see what sort of a country it was, and to enjoy the amusements of which i heard the men talking. we had a prosperous passage till we were in the latitude of the falkland islands, when we were caught in a heavy gale, and after knocking about for some time in thick weather, when no observation could be obtained, we found ourselves with breakers under our lee, and a rocky shore beyond. the masts were cut away and anchors let go, but to no purpose; the ship parting from her anchors was driven on the rocks. nearly half the crew were washed away, and the rest of us succeeded in gaining the shore, soon after which the ship went to pieces, and all the cargo which we had toiled so hard to collect was returned to the sea from whence it was obtained. very few provisions came on shore, but there was a fair supply of canvas and plenty of ropes. we at once therefore put up a tent for ourselves, and placed all our more valuable possessions under cover. with some spars which came on shore we formed a lofty flagstaff, on which we hoisted a flag, in the hope that it might be seen by some passing vessel. there were springs of good water near the shore, and as long as our provisions lasted we got on pretty well, but when they began to fail the men looked at each other and asked, `what next?' "`oh, some ship must be passing soon, and will take us off,' cried out two or three, who were unwilling to be placed on reduced rations. "`but suppose no ship does pass, lads, what will you do? i have to tell you that, with the greatest economy, our provisions will not last another ten days,' said the first mate, who was now captain. `it is barren and sandy here, but maybe, if we push our way across the island, we may find a richer country, and some animals on which we may live.' "some agreed to the mate's proposal, others determined to remain on the sea-shore. i accompanied the mate. the provisions were equally divided, and those who remained said they would try and catch some fish, in case theirs ran short. "`try and catch them at once, then,' said the mate; `don't wait till you are starving.' "in our party was a man who had been in south america, and could use the lasso with dexterity. he and another man fitted two lines for the purpose, in the hope of finding some wild animals. the rest laughed at them, declaring that in an island where there was not a tree to be seen, and only some long tufts of grass, it was not likely that we should find anything but snakes and lizards. we had made good some ten miles or so, when we came upon a scene of desolation such as i have seldom elsewhere met with. far as the eye could reach the surface of the ground was one black mass of cinders. the men looked at each other. "`little prospect of finding any animals hereabouts,' observed one of the men. "`not so sure of that,' said the mate, kicking up the ashes with his foot. under them appeared some blades of green grass just springing up. "`to my mind the fire has run across the island at this part, which seems to be somewhat narrow, for from the top of that rock i climbed i could make out the sea on either hand; and thus, you understand, it may have driven the animals, if there are any, over to the other parts beyond, where i hope we may find them.' "`but how is it that the animals didn't run our way?' asked one of the men. "`because the country where we have been is barren and sandy, and they have gone to the opposite side, which is very different. to the best of my belief we shall find herds of wild cattle feeding on the other side if we bravely push on. here goes, who'll follow?' "saying this, the mate walked on quickly into the sea of cinders. i ran after him, and the rest followed. the mate supposed that the fire had occurred only a short time before we reached the island, and had been put out by the storm which had driven us on shore, or rather by the rain which accompanied it. we had to sleep that night in the middle of the cinders, without a drop of water to drink. some of the men grumbled, but the mate told them that they ought to be thankful, because there was no chance of our being burned, which there might be if we were sleeping in the long grass. "`ah, lads, every situation has its advantages, if we will but look for them,' he remarked; and i have often since thought of that saying of his. "on we went, the mate leading, the men often unwilling to proceed till he uttered a few words of encouragement. at last the sun's rays, bursting out from between the clouds, fell on some green grass which clothed the side of a hill before us. it was a welcome sight; and still more welcome was the sight of a herd of cattle which appeared before us as we got clear of the burnt district. it was important not to frighten them. we advanced carefully, the two men with lassoes leading, hiding ourselves among rocks and bushes, and keeping to leeward of the herd. to our great satisfaction, the animals as they fed moved on towards us. suddenly the men with the lassoes threw them round the neck of a cow, the nearest animal to us. we sprang forward, laying hold of the ends, one party hauling one way, one the other. in spite of all her violent struggles, we had her fast, and one of the men, rushing in, hamstrung her, and she was in our power. this capture raised our spirits, for we felt sure that we should never want food on the island, as we might catch the oxen in pitfalls if not with lassoes. the mate was asked how he came to suppose that there were cattle on the island. "`just because a shipmate, in whose word i could trust, told me he had seen them,' was the answer. `what better reason for believing a thing would you require?' "we camped where we were, and the south american showed us how to cut up the heifer and to dry the meat in the sun, so that we had as much pure meat as each of us could carry. as our companions had enough food for some days longer, the mate wished to see more of the island before returning. we saw several large herds of cattle, which fed on the long grass covering the face of the country, which was generally undulating. we were several days away, and as we caught sight of the flagstaff, we thought of the pleasure the supply of meat we had brought would afford our companions. we saw the tents, but no one came to meet us. we shouted, but there was no shout in return. we feared that they might be ill, or even dead. we reached the tent, but no one was within; we looked about, we could find no one. the mate was looking seaward. he pointed to the offing, where, sinking below the horizon, the white sail of a ship was seen. it was more than probable that our shipmates had gone in her, but whether with their own will or carried off by force we could not conjecture. some of the men were very angry, but the mate observed that was wrong. our shipmates, probably, could not help themselves. they might have supposed we should not return, and, if they had gone with their own will, might have been unable to leave any message for us. the mate was a truly charitable man, for he was anxious to put the best construction on the conduct of our shipmates. there, however, we were left, with a diminished party, with the possibility that another ship might not approach the coast for many months to come. the summer was drawing to a close. it had been somewhat damp and cold, and we expected that the winter would be proportionally severe. "`we may get off, but we may possibly have to stay; and if we are wise, lads, we shall prepare for the worst,' said the mate; and telling the men what would be wanted, forthwith began the work he advised. "we were to build a couple of huts, to cut and dry turf for fuel, and to kill some cattle and prepare the flesh; to hunt for vegetables or herbs, which might keep off scurvy, and to do various other things. "`example is better than precept, tom, as you will find,' observed the mate to me. `i never tell men to do what i am not ready to do myself. that's the reason they obey me so willingly.' "i've ever since remembered the mate's words, and told them to mr morgan; and i am sure he never orders men to do what he is not ready to try and do himself if necessary. it was fortunate for all that the mate's advice was followed. some comfortable huts were got up, and a store of provisions and fuel collected before the winter began. it set in with unusual seventy, and i believe that we should all have perished from cold, and damp, and snow, had we not been prepared, though i do not remember that the frost was hard at any time. "some of the men abused their companions for going away without them. "`let be,' said the mate; `all's for the best. we don't know where they are now, but we do know that we are not badly off, with a house, clothing, food, and firing. these islands are not so much out of the way, but what we are certain to get off some day or other, and in the meantime we have no cause to complain. let us rather be thankful, and rejoice that we are so well off.' "i remembered those words of the mate afterwards. it is now my belief that the mate was a god-fearing man, but religion had been so unpopular among those with whom he had sailed, that he was afraid of declaring his opinions, and just went and hid his light under a bushel. what a world of good he might have done us all if he had spoken out manfully! as it was, all that precious time was lost. the mate did speak to me occasionally, but timidly, and i did not understand him. how should i? it was not till long afterwards, as mr morgan knows, that i became acquainted with christianity. before that i was as a heathen; i knew nothing of christ, nothing of god. the winter passed away, the spring returned, and the summer drew on, and not a sail had been seen. all hands became anxious to get off, and from early dawn till nightfall the flag was kept flying, and one or more of the party were on the lookout from flagstaff hill. at length a sail hove in sight. nearer and nearer she came. `would our flag be seen?' was now the question. the wind was off the shore, she tacked, she was beating up towards us. from her white canvas and the length of her yards she was pronounced to be a man-of-war corvette, and her ensign showed us that she was english. some of the men declared that they would rather live the rest of their days on the island than go on board a man-of-war; but the mate told them that they were very foolish, and that if they did their duty they would be better treated than on board most merchantmen. i shared their fears, for i had heard all sorts of stones about the treatment of men on board men-of-war, which i have since found to be absurdly false. the end was that we all stood ready to receive the boat when she reached the beach. a lieutenant with a midshipman came in her. they were very much surprised to hear that we had been a whole year on shore, observing that we must have saved a good supply of provisions from the wreck. when the mate told them of the wild cattle, and that we could catch some, they begged us to do so, saying that the purser would purchase the meat from us for the ship's company. they accordingly returned on board, but soon came back with the butcher, and by the next day we had six or eight fine animals ready for them. the officer kindly gave us permission to carry off any of our property which could be stowed away on board. from the considerate treatment the men received, they all volunteered into the service, and i was rated as a ship's boy, and from that day to this have belonged to the royal navy of england. the mate was promised promotion if he would join. "`at all events i do not wish to eat the bread of idleness,' was his answer. `i'll do duty in any station to which i am appointed.' "the corvette was bound round the horn, so back again into the pacific i went. we touched at many places in chili and peru, and then stood to the west to visit some of the many islands in those seas. i had been about a year on board when one day an object was seen from the mast-head, which was made out to be a boat. "there was one man sitting up in her, but three others lay dead under the thwarts. the man was brought on board more dead than alive, and had it not been for the watchful care of our surgeon he could not have long survived. at first he was nothing but skin and bone, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, but when he got some flesh on him i recognised him as one of my shipmates who had deserted us on the falkland islands. he had not, it seemed, discovered any of us, and of course in two years i was so grown that he did not know me. so one day, sitting by him, i asked him how it was he came into the plight in which we found him. he told me many circumstances of which i was cognisant, and how the ship was wrecked on the falklands, and how part of the people had gone off into the interior, and deserted those who wisely remained on the sea-shore. `never mind, they must have got their deserts, and perished,' he added; and then he told me a ship appearing the day after we left, they had all gone on board. they soon found that the crew had been guilty of some foul deed; the captain and mate had been killed, with some others, and the rest had determined to turn pirates. my shipmate was asked if he would do so. they swore if he did not that he must die. to save his life, he with the rest consented to join them. i will not repeat the account he gave of all the crimes which he and his companions had committed. he said that he had protested against them, and excused himself. from bad they went on to worse, and frequently quarrelling, murdered each other. the end was that this ship was cast away on a reef, one boat only escaping, and of the people in her, after she had been nearly a month drifting over the ocean, he alone survived. we who had been left alone on the falklands had reason to be thankful that we had not gone off in the pirate ship. had we done so, who among us could have said that we should have escaped the terrible fate which overtook our shipmates? from the time i learned the lord's prayer, there is no part i have repeated more earnestly than `lead us not into temptation.' my poor shipmate never completely recovered from the hardships to which he had been exposed; his mind, too, was always haunted with the dreadful scenes he had witnessed, and he often told me that he never could show his face in england, lest he should be recognised by those he had wronged. he died the day before we made the coast of england. the ship was paid off, but i found the naval service so much to my taste, and there was so little on shore to attract me, that i the next day joined another fitting out for the indian station. after this, i visited in one ship or another most parts of the world. but i think, doctor morgan, you and your lady and the young gentlefolks will be getting tired, so i'll put off an account of my adventures till another evening. one thing i must say now, though. i looked upon it as a blessed day on which i joined the `rover,' where i met mister morgan, and yet there was a day which i have reason to call still more blessed, when we were off the coast of africa." "well, well, tom. don't talk of that now," said frank. "i just did what every christian man should do. i put the truth before you, and you believed it. i did not put myself to any inconvenience even to serve tom, while he risked his life to save mine. that was after the `rover' had come home and been paid off, and we belonged to the `kestrel,' and were sent out to the pacific. i had an idea before we went there that we were to find at all times calm seas and sunshine. i soon discovered my mistake. we were caught in a terrific gale when in the neighbourhood of coral islands and reefs. i had gone aloft to shorten sail, when the ship gave an unexpected lurch, and i was sent clean overboard. i felt that i must be lost, for the ship was driving away from me, and darkness was not far off, when i saw that some one had thrown a grating into the sea, and immediately afterwards a man leaped in after it. he was swimming towards me. there seemed a prospect of my being saved. still, how the man who had thus nobly risked his life for my sake, and i could ever regain the ship, i could not tell. i struck out with all my strength to support myself, and prayed heartily. i soon recognised tom holman's voice, cheering me up. he clutched me by the collar, and aided by him i gained the grating. two or three spars had been thrown in after it, and, getting hold of them we formed a raft which supported us both. by the time we were seated on it the ship was far away, and it seemed impossible that in the dangerous neighbourhood in which i knew that we were, the captain would venture to return on the mere chance of finding us, should we indeed be alive. our prospect outwardly was gloomy indeed, though we kept up hope. i was sorry when i thought that we should be lost; that tom had, as i fancied, thrown away his life for my sake. however, we will not talk of that now. we were drifting, that was certain, and might drift on shore, or we might be driven against a reef, when we must be lost. it was now night, though there was light enough to distinguish the dark white-crested seas rising up around us, and the inky sky overhead. still we knew that there was the eye of love looking down on us through that inky sky, and that though the rest of the world was shut out from us, we were not shut out from him, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground. i say this to you, dear father and mother, because i wish to show my brothers and sisters the effect of your teaching. i wished to live, but i was prepared to die. the water was warm, and as we had had supper just before i fell overboard we were not hungry, so that our physical sufferings were as yet not great. hour after hour passed by; the raft drove on before the wind and sea. we supposed that it must be near dawn, for it seemed as if we had been two whole nights on the raft, when we both heard the sound of breakers. our fate would soon thus be decided. as far as we were able, we gazed around when we reached the summit of a sea. there were the breakers; we could see the white foam flying up like a vast waterspout against the leaden sky. we were passing it though, not driving against it. a current was sweeping us on. the dawn broke. as the light increased our eyes fell on a grove of cocoa-nut trees, rising it seemed directly out of the water. the current was driving us near them. we sat up and eagerly watched the shore; we had of ourselves no means of forcing on the raft a point towards it, or in any degree faster than we were going. had we been driven directly towards it, on the weather side, which, in our eagerness, we might have wished, we should probably have been dashed to pieces; but the current took us round to the lee side, and finally drifted us into a little bay where we safely got on shore. you already know how we lived luxuriously on cocoa-nuts and shell-fish, and about the clear fountain which rushed up out of the rock in the centre of our island, and how our ship came back after some weeks to water at that very fountain, and found us safe and well; and so i will bring my yarn to an end." "we cannot be too thankful that you were preserved, my dear boy, when we hear of the terrific dangers to which you and your brave friend were exposed," exclaimed dr morgan. "i will not now speak of our debt to him, never properly to be repaid, but i would point out to you all, my children (what struck me as frank was speaking), how like the way in which he and tom were preserved, is that in which god deals with his people who put their trust in him. we are in an ocean of troubles, with darkness around us. we dimly discern breakers rising up on one side, breakers ahead. we can do nothing to help ourselves, except pray on and trust in him. we see at length a haven of safety before us. our eagerness gets the better of our faith, but the current of his mercy drifts round and away from what is really a peril, and we are carried on into calm waters, and find shelter and rest from danger and trouble." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the author has a dear friend, a naval officer, who was, as is here described, the instrument of bringing some of his shipmates to a knowledge and acceptance of the truth; one especially, from being an infidel, became a faithful follower of christ. his bones lie sepulchred under the eternal snows of the arctic pole. how consolatory to believe, that amid the fearful sufferings that gallant band was called on to endure, he, with many others--it may be all--were supported by faith and hope to the last. we say all, for we cannot say what influence he and other christian men may have exerted over their companions during the long, long years they passed in those arctic regions ere they perished. chapter nine. several circumstances had prevented the young morgans from paying a sufficiently long visit to old moggy to enable her to give them her promised history. jenny reported that she was better in mind and body than she had ever known her, and as the time for frank and tom's departure was drawing near, the whole party resolved to go up to hear her tale. they did not fail to carry a few little luxuries which were likely to please her. they found her as usual, seated before her fire, for even in the summer she seemed to enjoy its warmth, on that bleak hill's side. what with chairs, benches, and stools, a log of wood, a pile of turf, and a boulder which charley rolled in, all found seats. anna had to exercise a little diplomacy to induce moggy to begin before so formidable an audience. the poor creature was inclined to chide tom for not having come up oftener to see her, when she discovered that he was going away. "i took a liking to your face and your manner my son, from the first minute my eyes fell on you; and it would have been a slight thing for ye to have come up and cheered the old woman's well-nigh withered heart," she observed, in a more testy tone than she was accustomed to use. "well, mother, don't blame me," answered tom. "many's the time i've come round this way, but feared to intrude, or i would have come in, and i'll not now miss the chance another time." this promise seemed to satisfy moggy, and after a little hesitation she began. "once i was blithe and gay as any of you dear young people. i had a home, and parents, and sisters. there were three of us, as pretty and as merry as any to be found in the country around. we merrily grew up into happy maidens, as merry as could be found, and the glass told us, even if others had been silent, that we were as pretty too. we sang and laughed from morn till night, and, alack, were somewhat thoughtless too; but we were not idle. our parents had a farm, and we helped our mother in the dairy, and there was plenty of work for us. it was a pleasant life. we were up with the lark and to bed in summer with the sun, and in winter we sat by the fire when the cows were housed and the milk was set in the pans, and all our out-door work was done, and knitted or spun, or plied our needles, and chatted and sung; and guests came in, and some of them came to woo; and we thought not of the morrow, and taught ourselves to believe that the pleasant life we led would never have an end. ah! we were foolish--like the foolish virgins who had no oil for their lamps, as all are foolish who think only of the present, and prepare not for the future. bad times were in store for us, such as all farmers must be ready to encounter. storms injured the crops, and disease attacked our cattle; a fire broke out in the farm buildings; and the end was that father had to throw up the farm, to sell his remaining stock, and to go forth almost penniless into the world. barely enough remained to pay our passage to america. i was about to go with the rest of my family, when one i had loved right well, an honest, steady youth, entreated me to remain. he might soon have enough to wed. he had a sick mother whom he could not leave, or he would have gone with us. if i went we might never meet again. i consented to remain, so that i could obtain service in which to support myself. a kind, good mistress engaged me. she was more than kind, she was wise; not worldly wise, but her wisdom was from above. she taught me that wisdom. by her means my eyes were opened to things about which i before knew nothing. i saw that god had dealt mercifully with me; that what i thought was a misfortune was a blessing. i was thus led out of darkness into light. i was happy, with a new happiness of which i before knew nothing. my intended husband enjoyed it likewise; we both embraced the truth--my only sorrow being that those who had gone away knew nothing of it. thomas lived at a distance, but whenever he could he came over to see me. my kind, good mistress often spoke to him, and approved of my choice. time wore on. we waited to hear of those who had crossed the sea. sad tidings came at length. my mother had died on the voyage. my father, heart-broken, and my sisters had landed and found a home, but they missed her who had been their guide and their friend; and they wanted me to go out and join them, and some cousins who lived a few miles off from where i was at service, and thomas also, if he would marry me. i told my kind mistress. "`if thomas loves you, and will take you to that foreign land, i will not say you nay,' was her reply. "she gave me leave to go and deliver the message to my cousins, charging me soon to return. my cousins were not averse to my sister's proposal, and talked with pleasure of the many kindred who would meet in that far-off settlement, for far off it seemed to them. on my return i found the front door of my mistress's house closed. i went round and gained an entrance through a window at the back. what was my horror to find her bathed in blood, fallen from the arm-chair in which she sat before the fire. i kneeled down to examine where she had been hurt, and was about to raise her up when the door was burst open; some men rushed in; i was seized. no one aided my dear mistress. a surgeon at length came. he pronounced her dead. these cruel men had allowed her to die unaided. i was accused of being her murderess. my horror, my indignation, at the way she had been treated, my grief, my agitation, impressed them with the conviction that i was guilty of the foul crime which had been committed; for murdered she had been, of that there was no doubt. branded as a murderess i was borne off to prison. many thought me guilty. it was cruelly said that i was found red-handed by the side of my victim. but even in prison i sought support, and obtained it whence alone it was to be afforded. as king david, i could say, `i have washed my hands in innocency. i cried unto the lord and he heard me.' oh, my young friends, keep innocency. do what is right in the sight of the lord, and never need you fear what man can do unto you. there was one, however, on earth who knew me to be innocent--my thomas. he obtained leave to visit me in prison, obtained the best legal aid by the sacrifice of his savings, and the evidence against me broke completely down. i was acquitted. i scarcely knew how, or what occurred. i entreated thomas to let me become his wife, that i might repay him by devoting my life to his service. we married; we were happy; and by watchful care i was enabled to make his wages go farther than before his marriage. more than a year had passed away; we had a child born, a son. we believed that he would prove a blessing to us. some few more years had fled by. again and again my sisters urged that we would go out to join them. at length they were both about to marry, and our father would be left alone. thomas agreed to go. i thought with delight of showing my young son to my father, of assisting and supporting him in his old age, and more than all, of imparting to him those blessed truths which i myself had found such a comfort to my soul. we sailed in as fine a ship as ever put to sea, with many others about to seek their fortunes in the new world; but scarcely had we left the shores of england a hundred leagues astern than we encountered a fearful gale, which washed away the bulwarks and some of our boats, strained the hull, and shattered our masts and spars. it was but the beginning of disasters. but, dear young people, i cannot dwell on that most grievous period of my existence. the storm had injured our provisions. after the storm came a calm, more dreadful than the storm; our water began to run short. did any of you ever feel the pangs of thirst? day after day our shattered bark lay rolling on the burning ocean. there was the constant gush of water to tantalise us, for by undiscovered leaks the sea had found an entrance, and in every watch the pumps were kept at work. we were thankful when a breeze came, and once more the ship moved across the ocean; but the breeze increased into a gale more fearful than the first. on, on we drove; the leaks again increased. day and night the men were kept toiling at the pumps; my husband worked like the rest. in vain, in vain; they could work no longer; the water was gaining on us; the raging seas were washing over our decks. the strength of the men was exhausted. some of the women offered to try and work the pumps. the night was coming on. i resolved to labour, that i might aid to save my husband's life, our boy's, my own. "my boy had clung to me. i gave him, so i thought, to his father, to watch over, while i laboured like the rest. would you hear what occurred? my heart has grown into stone, or i could not bear to tell it. the raging seas broke more and more frequently over the ship. the dreadful cry arose, `the ship is sinking, the ship is sinking!' i flew towards my husband--my child was not with him. he had not received him from me. frantically i rushed along the deck; it was with no hope of safety, but to die with my boy in my arms. once more i was approaching my husband; a flash of lightning revealed him to me at the moment that a vast sea came sweeping down on the ship. it seized him in its cruel embrace, and bore him far, far away, with many other helpless, shrieking beings. thankfully would i have followed, but i sought my boy. in vain, in vain! i felt myself seized by a strong arm, and lifted into a boat. i lost all consciousness for the next instant, it seemed. i found the boat floating alone amid the tumultuous waves. my husband and my boy were gone. they said there were other boats, and that some might have been saved in them. i know not if any were saved. neither my husband nor our child did i ever again see; the cold, cruel waves had claimed them. for many days we lay tossed about on the foaming waters. we were more dead than alive when a sail appeared in sight. how i lived i know not; it was, i believe, because all my feelings were dead. i felt nothing, thought of nothing; i was in a dream, a cold, heavy weight lay on my heart and brain. i knew not what was going on; the past was a blank, the future was darkness. we were lifted on board--carefully tended. the ship was bound, with settlers, to the same port to which i was going. those who had been saved with me told my story. some of the passengers were going to the far-off west, to the very spot where my father and sisters had settled. their hearts were touched with compassion by my misfortunes, and they bore me with them. truly they were followers of the good samaritan. day after day we journeyed on towards the setting sun. at length we reached my father's house; he and my sisters scarcely knew me, so great was the havoc grief had wrought. kind and gentle treatment by degrees thawed my long frozen faculties, and i began to take an interest in the affairs of the farm. in that region the native tribes, the red men of the prairie, were fierce and warlike, and often were engaged in deadly contests with the whites. years--many years, passed by, during which our people enjoyed peace. a storm, however, was brewing, to burst with fury on our heads. it came; in the dead of night the dreadful war-whoop of the red men was heard. on every side arose those horrid cries. our village was surrounded; young and old, men and maidens, were ruthlessly murdered. my old father and sisters were among the first slain. some few bravely made a stand. they fought their way out through the savages. i felt my arm seized by some friendly hand, and was borne on amid them. armed friends came to our assistance, and the savages were driven back through the smoking ruins of our home. all, all were gone; relatives, friends, and property. those who had accompanied me to the country, all, all were gone. i was among strangers; they pitied me, but pity cannot last long in the human breast. there is only one whose tender pity never wanes; and it is only that human pity which arises from love of him which can stand all tests, and can endure for ever. i was left alone, alone in that far-off land. my reason gave way. an idea had seized me--it was to visit that mighty ocean beneath which slept my husband and my child. i wandered on. i know not how i found my way, often through vast solitudes where foot of man but rarely trod, till i reached the more settled states. food and shelter were rarely denied to the poor mad woman, though of the roughest sort. at length i reached the eastern cities; scant was the charity i found within them, i gained the sea-coast; i gazed upon the ocean, with its majestic billows rolling up from the far-off east. they seemed to me like mighty monuments raised to the memory of those who slept beneath. for many years i had lived on that wild sea waste, when i was seized and carried to a prison. i demanded to know my crime. i heard myself branded as a pauper lunatic, and was placed on board a ship to be returned to my native land. sad, sad was my heart. i had many companions in my misery--helpless beings whom the strong new world would not receive. we were placed on shore to starve, or live as best we could. i wandered on towards the spot where long, long years before, i had lived a happy maiden. no one knew me; i was branded as a witch, and fled away. should i go to the relatives of my husband? thomas had spoken of them as kind and charitable. i reached the village; every one looked at me with suspicion as a vagrant. well they might, for a vagrant i was, poor, wretched, and despised. i had been there in my happy days with thomas; but the place itself looked strange. i inquired for his father, farmer holman. `dead many a year ago; all the rest gone away; never held up his head since his son went off with that jade who murdered her mistress.' such was the answer i received. the words fell like molten lead upon my brain. i fled away. i wandered on, not knowing whither i was going, till i reached these sheltering walls on the mountain-side." tom had been greatly agitated on hearing the name of holman. frank and anna had exchanged surprised glances with each other. "dame, do you remember the name of jack johnson on board the ship which foundered with so many on board?" asked tom. "ay, that i do. he was one who took a great fancy to my precious boy," answered moggy, gazing earnestly at tom. "it is strange, mother, but such was the name of a kind seaman who for many years acted as a second father to me; and still stranger, that he always called me tom holman," exclaimed tom, as he sat himself down on the stool at her feet, and drawing a tin case from his pocket, took from it a variety of small articles, which he placed in her lap. she gazed at them with a fixed, earnest look for some moments, and then, stretching out her arms, she exclaimed, "come to me, my son, my boy-- long lost, now found! i cried unto the lord, and he heard me out of my deep distress. you bear your father's name, you have your father's looks. wonderful are the ways of the lord. the lord giveth and the lord taketh away. the lord hath restored me tenfold into my bosom. blessed be the name of the lord!" tom threw his arms round the old woman, and sobbed like a child. "mother, mother, i have found you, i have found you!" he cried out, as he kissed her withered cheek. what mattered it to him that she was aged and infirm, poor and despised? she was his mother, of whom he had dreamed in his youth whom he had always longed to find. he would now devote himself to cherish and support her, and cheer her few remaining days on earth. "my dear children," said dr morgan, who had entered soon after moggy had begun her history, "let us learn, from what we have heard, never to cease to put our whole trust and confidence in god. whatever happens, let us go on praying to god and trusting in god, for let us be assured that he always careth for us." the end. [illustration: "i say, pollie, how many have yer sold?" page .] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- little pollie or a bunch of violets by gertrude p. dyer author of "armour clad," "how hettie caught the sunbeams," etc. new edition john f. shaw & co., ltd., publishers, , pilgrim street, london, e.c. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- contents. page i. pollie starts in business ii. who had the violets? iii. how pollie spent her money iv. mrs. flanagan v. the kingdom of heaven vi. on waterloo bridge vii. the lost one found viii. sally's first sunday at church ix. crippled jimmy x. nora xi. christmas eve xii. in the spring-time ----------------------------------------------------------------------- little pollie. chapter i. pollie starts in business. "a penny a bunch; only a penny, sweet violets," cried a soft little voice, just outside the bank of england, one morning in early spring; "only a penny a bunch!" but the throng of busy clerks hurrying on to their various places of business heard not that childish voice amidst the confused din of omnibus and cabs, and so she stood, timidly uttering her cry--"sweet violets!"--unheeded by the passers-by. she was a fragile little creature of about ten years old, small for her age, with shy yet trustful eyes, and soft, brown, curly hair; and as she stood there, clad in a black frock and a straw hat, well worn, it is true, but free from tatters, with a piece of crape neatly fastened around it, had any one amidst that busy multitude paused to look at the little flower-seller, they would have wondered why so young a child was trusted alone in that noisy, bustling place. "i say, pollie, how many have yer sold, eh?" exclaimed another girl, coming up to her--quite a different type of girlhood, a regular london arab, one who from her very cradle (if ever she possessed such a luxury) had battled through life heedless of all rubs and bruises, ready to hold her own against the entire world, and yet with much of hidden goodness beneath the rugged surface. "only two bunches," replied little pollie, somewhat sadly. "only two!" repeated the other. "my eye! yer won't make a fortin, that's sartin!" "the people don't seem to see me, not even hear me," said the child. "'cos why, you don't shout loud enuff," explained the bigger girl. "if yer wants to get on in the world, yer must make a noise somehow. make the folks hear; never minds if yer deafens 'em, they'll pay 'tention to yer then. see how i does it." at that moment four smart youths came strolling leisurely along arm-in-arm, trying to appear as though merely out on pleasure, though they knew full well they must be in their office and at their desks before the clock struck ten. these were just the customers for sally grimes, and away she rushed full upon them, her thin ragged shawl flying in the wind, and her rough hair, from which the net had fallen, following the example of the shawl; and as she reached the somewhat startled youths, who almost stumbled over her, she held her only remaining posy right in their faces, screaming out in a harsh grating voice, rendered harsh by her street training-- "now, then, gents, this last bunch--only a penny!" polly looked on in utter amazement. it is true she did not understand sally's logic, but she saw plainly that the sweet violets were sold, for presently back came the girl, crying out-- "that's the way to do it. i've sold all mine; now let's see what you've got left. why, ten more bunches! come, give us two or three, i'll get rid of 'em for yer; i'll bring yer back the money. look sharp, i see some folks a-comin'." and without further parley she snatched up several of the dainty little bunches tied up so neatly by pollie's mother, and rushed off in pursuit of purchasers. she was certainly very fortunate, for in spite of a stern-looking policeman who was watching her movements, she sold them, speedily returning with the money to little pollie, who by this time was getting almost bewildered with the noise around. "there, my gal," said the kind girl, "there's the money for yer; look, six pennies. my! ain't yer rich. now i'm off to covent garding to the old 'ooman--mother, i means, yer know. there st. poll's a-strikin' ten; good-bye." so saying, the friendly sally grimes darted off amidst the crowd, leaving the child to manage for herself, and very lonely she felt after her good-natured ally was gone. it was pollie turner's first attempt at selling flowers, and this her first day. no wonder the poor child felt shy and sad, for she could remember the time when "father" used to come home at eventide to the small but cosy cottage in that green lane, far, far away in the pleasant country; and she used to stand at the gate to watch for his coming, sometimes running half-way up the lane to meet him, and he would perch her on his shoulder, where she felt, oh! so safe, and bring her home to mother. or she would climb his knee as he sat by the fire, and watch dear mother get the nice supper; but father was dead now. she had seen the pretty daisies growing above his grassy grave in that distant churchyard; and the mother, who had come up to london hoping to do better, was so ill and weak, scarcely able to do the needlework with which to gain food for them both. and mrs. flanagan had proposed the plan of pollie starting in business. so this is how it had all come about. pollie stood silently thinking over these events of the happy times gone by, when some one touched her arm softly, and then she looked up into the sweet face of a lady, whose kind eyes were bent half-sadly, half-pityingly upon her. "are you selling these violets, my child?" she asked; and her voice was so sweet. "yes, ma'am." "then will you let me have three bunches?" pollie with a smile put them into her hand, and the lady, after thanking her, placed the money for them in the child's basket, and went towards a carriage that was drawn up near the royal exchange. the child, lost in admiration at such a nice lady, followed her with her eyes, never thinking to look at the money she had given for the flowers, until glancing into the basket to see how many bunches were still left, she beheld a shilling shining amidst the dingy coppers. eager to return the money to its rightful owner, little pollie darted amongst the people who thronged the pavement, ran across the road at the risk of being run over, and reached the lady just as she was stepping into her carriage. "please, ma'am, please," she faltered quite out of breath, and at the same time pulling her violently by the dress. "let go, you little vagabond!" exclaimed the indignant footman, taking pollie by the arm to pull her away. fortunately the lady turned on hearing her servant speak thus, and saw the child struggling in his grip. "what is the matter?" she asked. "please, ma'am, this," cried pollie, holding up the shilling. "that is for the violets you sold to me." "oh no, ma'am, it is all wrong," exclaimed the child excitedly; "those flowers are but three-pence--a penny a bunch; that's all. here is your money, ma'am!" the lady gazed earnestly into the little girl's flushed face, as she asked-- "why did you not keep that shilling?" "because it was not mine," was the answer. "i should not have known but that the money was correct. you did not say the price of your flowers, my child." "god knew the price," said pollie reverentially, "and he would have been angry with me for cheating you, ma'am." "who taught you of god?" asked the lady softly, as she bent down to the little one. "mother!" was the reply. "and is your mother dead?" she questioned, perceiving for the first time the child's poor mourning. "no, ma'am, but father is, and mother is so ill and weak," and the shy brown eyes filled with tears. "poor child, poor little child," murmured the lady compassionately. "what is your name?" she asked after a pause, "and where do you live?" pollie gave the desired information. "well then, pollie," said her new friend kindly, "here is the money for the violets; and take this shilling: it will buy something for your mother, perhaps. i shall come and see you one day." so saying she patted pollie's thin cheeks with a soft loving touch; then stepping into the carriage was driven away, leaving pollie in a state of wonderful happiness at so much kindness from so nice a lady. "oh dear!" she thought, "i am rich now. i must make haste home to mother, and i've two bunches of violets still left. mother shall have one and mrs. flanagan the other." chapter ii. who had the violets! pollie tied up the money securely in the corner of her clean pocket-handkerchief, and with a light heart proceeded towards "home," which was situated in the neighbourhood of drury lane. it was a long way for so young a child to traverse alone; but the children of the poor early learn to be self-reliant. therefore she heeded not the dangers of the london streets, but threaded her way along; and if at times she felt afraid of a crossing, or some hurried foot-passenger hustled her roughly, a sweet text, taught by her dearly-loved mother, came to her mind, bringing a feeling of safety along with it. this was little pollie's comfort--"fear thou not, for i am with thee; be not dismayed, for i am thy god: i will strengthen thee; yea, i will help thee; yea, i will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." and so she pursued her onward way, in her child's faith, trusting in him to safely guide. as she was turning up drury court she met lizzie stevens, a young woman who lived opposite to them, and who earned a scanty living by working for cheap tailors. often had the child looked from the window, and across the court watched the poor girl bending her pale face over her work, never pausing to rest, but for ever stitch, stitch. however, the young seamstress had seen her little neighbour watching her, and once or twice had nodded to her, and so a sort of acquaintance had sprung up between them; indeed, on several occasions they had met, and the child's prattle had cheered the lonely work-girl. "where have you been, pollie?" she asked as they went up drury court together, the poor girl staggering under the weight of a huge bundle--the child kindly keeping pace with her, though longing to run home with her budget of good news to mother. "i've been selling violets. mrs. flanagan got them for me, and i've sold them all but two bunches--see!" and she lifted up a cloth which she had placed over the sweet flowers to prevent them fading too quickly. "oh, how sweet they are!" exclaimed lizzie stevens, and she stopped, and putting her heavy bundle down on a door-step, bent her pale face over the flowers to inhale their perfume. when she raised her face it was whiter than before, and on the violets something was glistening. pollie at first thought it was a dew-drop, but when she looked up into her neighbour's eyes she saw they were full of tears--_one_ was resting on the flowers! "why are you crying?" asked the child softly; "are you ill?" "oh no, pollie," she sobbed forth; "but those sweet flowers recall the time when i was a little girl like you, and gathered them in the lanes near my happy home--before mother died." "is your mother dead, then? oh dear, i am so sorry," said the child with earnest pity. "yes, i am all alone in the world; no one to love or care for me," she exclaimed passionately. "ah, i wish i was dead too." "don't say so," said pollie soothingly; "god cares for you, and loves you dearly." "i sometimes think even he forgets me," moaned the poor girl, "when i see rich folks having all things they desire, and such as me almost starving, working night and day for a mere crust." "i once said so to mother," remarked the child, "but she opened our bible, and bade me read a verse she pointed out. shall i tell you what it was?" "yes," was the reply. pollie folded her hands, and repeated-- "give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me, lest i be full and deny thee, and say, who is the lord? or lest i be poor and steal, and take the name of my god in vain." and then she turned to another to comfort me, and this is it-- "be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto god. and the peace of god, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through christ jesus." when the child ceased speaking, she looked up into the face of her listener, whose head was bent in reverence to god. "o pollie!" she said at last, as again taking up her heavy load she proceeded slowly onwards, "i wish i had a good mother." "come over to us sometimes," said the child, eagerly. "will your mother let me?" was the question. "yes, i am sure she will; she is so good," was the reply. and then the two friends went on up drury lane, not speaking much; but as they were parting lizzie stooped down, and kissing the child lovingly, said softly-- "good-bye, and thank you, little pollie." "would you like a bunch of violets?" she asked. "i can divide the other between mother and mrs flanagan." the poor seamstress was unable to speak from emotion, but held out her hand with trembling eagerness for the flowers. how glad was the child in being able to give a pleasure to her lonely neighbour. she felt more joy in seeing lizzie stevens' glad smile than even in the magnificent sum of money wrapped in her handkerchief; for she experienced "it is more blessed to give than to receive;" and after seeing her friend disappear through the dingy doorway which led to the garret called her "home," she turned with a light heart into the entry which led to her own place, eager to see mother and tell her all; but in doing so almost fell over a little cripple boy who sat crouched on the door-steps. "o jimmy! did i hurt you?" she asked in alarm. "no. everybody knocks me about; i'se used to it," was his answer. "poor jimmy!" said the little girl. "where's your mother?" "down there, drunk again," he replied, pointing his thin finger in the direction of what in other houses would be the kitchen, but which was his "home," if it could be dignified by so sacred a name. pollie looked sorrowfully on the poor boy, whose thin, wizened face, with large, hungry eyes, was placed on a shrunk and distorted body. his mother was the pest of the court, always drunk, and in her drunken fury beating her wretched offspring. half-starved and half-clothed, he passed his time on the door-step, gazing vacantly at the passers-by, uncared for, unloved amidst the many. "poor jimmy!" repeated the little girl. "would you like some of my sweet violets?" the boy, unused to even a breath of kindness, gazed some few seconds at her with his eager eyes. "you be pollie turner, bain't yer, what lives upstairs with yer mother?" he asked at last. "yes," she replied, and repeated her question, as she took some of the flowers from her last bunch. "would you like these?" he held out his claw-like hand--so dirty that pollie almost shrank from touching it as she gave him the violets. he took them without a word of thanks, but as she was moving away he called out-- "i say, did yer make these?" "no, jimmy," she replied, as she came back to him; "god made them." "god!" he repeated, "who's he; him's mighty clever to fix up these little bits of things, bain't he?" the little girl was for a moment shocked, then she felt a tender pity for the poor boy. "o jimmy, don't you know who god is?" she gently asked. he shook his head; so she went on-- "god is our father in heaven," and she pointed upwards. "he made these sweet flowers, and us also, and he sent his dear son to die for us, so that all our sins should be taken away. and when jesus (that is the name of god's dear son) was here on earth, he gave sight to the blind, healed the sick, and was for ever doing good; but now he is in heaven, and still he loves us, oh, so dearly, and wishes us all to come to him." "does he want me?" asked the outcast doubtfully; "he don't know me." "oh yes, he knows you, jimmy, and loves you too; once jesus blessed little children like you and me, and said, 'suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'" "the kingdom of heaven!" repeated poor benighted jimmy musingly--it was the first time he had ever heard those blessed words--"where be that, polly?" "it is where god lives, and where we shall go when we die if we believe in the saviour and love and pray to god." "how do you pray?" he asked, fixing his keen eyes upon her, as though hungering for the bread of life. but before she could reply, a loud, harsh voice was heard uttering frightful oaths, and a lumbering tread came stumbling up the cellar stairs. the poor boy knew full well who was coming, and with a terrified look started up and hobbled off, supported by his clumsy crutches, round the corner of the house, whilst pollie, who went in terror of the drunken woman, ran hastily up the dirty staircase, which served for all the inmates of the crowded house. chapter iii. how polly spent her money. the first two or three flights of stairs were thickly strewn with mud and dust from the feet of the different lodgers; but when pollie reached the last landing she felt it was home indeed. the stairs were as clean and white as hands could scrub them--no dirt was to be seen here,--and outside her mother's door was a little mat on which to rub the shoes before entering. it was quite a relief to reach this part of the house. there were only two rooms at the top part of the tenement--one inhabited by good mrs flanagan, the other by pollie and her mother; and though the apartments were small, and the narrow windows overlooked the chimney-pots and tiles, yet they felt it such an advantage to be up here, removed, as it were, from the noisy people who lived in the same dwelling; each room, in fact, was let out to separate families, some of them very rough and boisterous. pollie tapped at her mother's door, and then peeped merrily in. there sat that good and gentle woman, busily working close by the narrow window, so as to get as much light as possible for her delicate needlework. the tea-things were already on the table, which was spread with a clean white cloth, and the kettle sang a cheery welcome to little pollie; for though it was only three o'clock, it was tea-time for them, since dinner was an almost unknown luxury to this poor mother and child. "here i am, mother dear!" she cried, putting in her bright face, which was as sunshine to the lonely widow's heart. "o pollie, i am so glad you have come home; i was getting so anxious and afraid, and the time seemed so long without you, my child." then the little girl ran in and threw her arms around her mother's neck. "only look here!" she cried delightedly, when after a loving kiss she proceeded to display her riches; "see, mother," she said, arranging the money all in a row on the table, the bright shilling flanked on either side by five brown pennies; "are we not rich now? sixpence must be paid to kind mrs. flanagan for the sweet violets she got for me, and then we shall have one shilling and fourpence left, and i shall buy lots of things for you, mother darling," she concluded, clapping her hands in glee. the widow smiled cheerfully as she folded up her work, and prepared to get their simple meal of tea and bread, listening the while as the child related the events of the morning. "and now, mother," she pursued, "i must divide these dear sweet violets between you and mrs. flanagan." "then here are two little cups which will be just the thing for them," said the happy mother, whose pale face grew brighter as she gazed on the delighted child. with the greatest care pollie divided the flowers equally, and when putting theirs in the window, so that they might still see some of the blue sky, as she expressed it, she looked across the court towards lizzie stevens' home. yes, there she was, pollie could see, busy plying her needle, and there were the violets also, in a broken jam jar close by her as she sat at work; and raising her pale face towards them, as though they were old friends returned to her, she caught sight of little pollie arranging _her_ bouquet in the window; so with a bright smile (unwonted visitor to those wan lips) kissed her hand in token of recognition, and then pointed to the flowers. pollie quite understood this little pantomime, and nodded her curly head a great many times to her opposite neighbour in proof of her so doing. "come to tea, my child," said the mother, who had cut some slices of bread for the frugal repast, but which she had no appetite to eat. "wait a bit, mammie dear, i must do some shopping first," exclaimed pollie; "i shall not be long." and away she ran, gaily laughing at her mother's look of surprise. down the stairs she went, then out into the court; and just round the corner in drury lane was a greengrocer's shop, in the window of which hung a label "new-laid eggs." i fear that label told a fiction, but pollie believed in it, and thought the eggs were laid by the identical hens she saw earning a scanty living by pecking in the gutters and among the cabs and carts; so with a feeling of being very womanly, and tightly grasping the precious shilling in her hand, she took courage to approach the shopkeeper, who stood with arms akimbo in the doorway, flanked on one side by potatoes in bins, and on the other by cabbages and turnips in huge baskets. "please, ma'am," said pollie, "will you let me have a new-laid egg for mother?" the woman took an egg from a basket and gave it to her. "if you please, is it quite fresh? because mother is so poorly, and i want it to do her good." the shopkeeper looked at the earnest little face, and somehow felt she could not tell an untruth to the child, the brown eyes were raised so trustingly. "well, my little gal, i can't say as it be quite fresh, but it's as good as any you'll get about here." "then i'd better not have it," said the child, giving it back to the woman again; "only i did so want to get her something nice for her tea,--she can't eat much." and the lips quivered with suppressed sorrow at the disappointment. "why don't you get her a bit of meat instead?" asked the woman; "that'll do her good, i warrant!" "will this buy some?" questioned the child with brightened eyes, and opening her hand she showed the shilling. "to be sure it will. here, give it to me; i'll go and get you one pound of nice pieces at my brother's next door, if you'll just mind the shop till i come back; you can be trusted, i see," replied the mistress of the place, whose woman's heart was touched by the little girl's distress. pollie stood where she was left, guarding the baskets with watchful eyes. fortunately no mischievous people were about, so the vegetables were safe, though it was with no small relief she saw their owner return with such nice pieces of meat wrapped up in clean paper. "there," said the greengrocer's wife (whose name was mrs. smith, by the way), "these are good and fresh; my brother let me choose them, and have them cheap too, only fourpence a pound!" "oh, thank you, thank you, ma'am!" cried pollie, holding up her face to kiss the kind woman, who, totally unused to such affectionate gratitude in the poor little waifs about drury lane, bent down and returned the caress with a feeling of unwonted tenderness tugging at her heart. "and now, please, i should like a bunch of water-cresses for mrs. flanagan," said the child. "i know she is very fond of them with her tea." "what are you going to buy for yourself?" asked the shopkeeper, as, after handing pollie the freshest bunch in the basket, she stood watching her tiny customer. the little girl hesitated; at length she said-- "well, if i don't get something, mother will want me to eat this meat, and i mean her to have it all; so i'll buy two little pies in russell court,--one for me, and one for poor little crippled jimmy." "you're a good gal," exclaimed the woman. "here, put these taters in your basket; maybe your mother would like 'em with the meat, they boil nice and mealy." pollie was so grateful to mrs. smith for the kind thought, and held out her money to pay for this luxury; but to her surprise she told her to put it back into her pocket--the "taters" were a gift for her mother, and patting her cheek, bade her run home quickly, and always "be a good gal." chapter iv. mrs flanagan. as pollie reached her mother's door at last, after all this amount of shopping had been accomplished, she heard a well-known voice inside, and knew that mrs. flanagan had returned from work, and was now having her usual little chat with mrs. turner. good mrs. flanagan, who had been so kind to the widow and her child from the first moment they came to lodge in the room opposite to hers--good old woman, with a heart as noble and true as the finest lady's in the land--a gentlewoman in every sense, though not of the form or manner in which we are accustomed to associate that word. years ago she had been a servant in a farmhouse, where she was valued and esteemed by all as a sincere though humble friend; but mike flanagan won her heart, and she joined her fate to his, leaving the sweet, fresh country in which she had always lived, and cheerfully giving up all the old familiar ties of home and kindred for his dear sake. mike had constant work in london, with good wages too, as a carpenter, so though at first london and london ways sadly puzzled her, yet she soon became used to the change, and they were so happy--he in his clean, tidy wife, she in her honest, sober husband. but one day, through the carelessness of a drunken fellow-workman, some heavy timber fell upon poor mike, crushing him beneath its weight, and when next martha flanagan looked on her husband's face, she know he was past all suffering, and that she was destitute, and her sweet baby nora fatherless. but time soothed her anguish; she must be up and doing, and for many years she struggled on, working to keep a home for herself and child; and proud she was of her darling, her beautiful nora, who grew up a sweet flower of loveliness from a rugged parent stem, with all the beauty of her father's nation and something of the sweetness of english grace. well might the poor mother be proud of her only treasure. what delight it was to see this rare beauty brightening the lowly home! but the mother's idol was of clay; in worshipping the creature with such fond idolatry, she almost forgot the merciful creator. one sad night, on returning home from covent garden, where she was constantly employed by a fruiterer and florist, she found the place empty, no one to greet her now. nora was gone, lost in that turbid stream which flows through our city. oftentimes, as the lonely mother wended her way at night through the streets on her return from work, would she look with a shudder into the faces of those poor wretches who flaunted by fearing yet hoping to see her lost child. but the name of nora never passed her lips. no one who knew mrs. flanagan imagined of this canker at her heart; that page of her life was folded down, and closed to prying eyes; it was only when alone with god that on bended knees she prayed him to bring the poor wanderer home. "ah, my bird!" she cried, as pollie came joyfully dancing into the room. "here you are, then; i thought from what your mother said that such a lot of money had turned you a bit crazed." pollie did not reply, but pursed up her lips with a look of supreme importance as she placed her basket on the table, and proceeded to take out its contents. "there, mother dearie," she exclaimed with delight as she displayed the meat; "that's for you. you must eat every tiny bit of it, so let us try some directly. see, dear mrs flanagan, i bought these water-cresses for you. shall i fetch your tea-pot? for let us all have tea together to-day, like on sundays; this is such a happy day." and she ran across the landing without waiting for a reply, to bring the little brown tea-pot, which on the sabbath always found a place on mrs. turner's table; for that day was hailed as a peaceful festival by these two lonely widows, who kept god's day in sincerity and truth. when the busy child came back, she set to work to carefully wash the cresses, arranging them afterwards in a pretty plate of her own, and then, placing them and the violets she had saved in front of the kind old woman, lifted up her bright face for a kiss. but mrs flanagan was unable even to say "thank you, my bird." her face was buried in her blue checked apron. she muttered something about her eyes being weak, and when after a little while she looked up, and lovingly kissed the child, pollie feared they must be very bad indeed, they were so red, just as though she had been crying. "ah, my little one," she said in a husky voice "may god ever keep you pure and simple in heart; yea, even as a little child!" by this time the meat was fried, the tea made, and everything in readiness for this wonderful banquet--at least so pollie deemed it. how happy they were! mrs flanagan had recovered her usual spirits, and indulged in many a hearty laugh at the child's plans of what she should now do for mother, and the widow looked on with her quiet smile, happy in her child's happiness, glad because she was listening to her merry prattle; and though the meal was but scanty, no dainty dishes to tempt the appetite, yet the wisest man has said,-- "better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." chapter v. the kingdom of heaven. well, the days passed on, and little pollie pursued her work of selling violets; for those sweet flowers are a long time in season, bearing bravely the march winds and april showers, as though desirous of gladdening the earth as long as possible. all honour, then, to these hardy little blossoms. so day after day found pollie in the same spot where we first saw her, until at last the little brown-eyed girl became well known to the passers-by. kind old gentlemen, fathers, or it may be grandfathers some of them, thought of their own more fortunate children, whose lives were so much easier, and so thinking, stopped and bought of the shy little maiden, speaking kindly to her the while; girls on their way to the city workrooms gladly spent a hard-earned penny for violets, and worked more cheerfully afterwards, gladdened by the mere remembrance of pollie's grateful thanks. a sturdy policeman, too, whose beat was at that place, and where he seemed to hold stern sway over all the omnibus and cab drivers, took her, as it were, under his lordly care (perhaps he had a little girl of his own), and would shield her many times from the jostling crowd, or take her safely over the crossings. indeed, he was so kind, that one day, when she was going home, she summoned up courage enough to overcome her shyness, and offer him some of the violets she had not sold. to her great delight he accepted them, saying kindly,-- "thank you, my little woman." and all through that day he kept them in his pocket, sometimes, however, taking them out to smell their fragrance, and then, somehow, the remembrance of pollie's wee face as she looked when timidly offering the flowers, carried him back to the days of "auld lang syne," those happy days when he and his little sister (long since dead) had rambled through the green lanes of his native village, searching for sweet violets, and this memory cheered the poor tired policeman, made him forget the ceaseless din around and the never-ending wilderness of bricks. even the london sparrows looked less dingy, and the sunbeams falling across the dusty pavement recalled to his mind how fresh the green was where he used to play when a boy, and how the shadows seemed to chase the sunshine over the uplands on such an april day as this. yes, pollie's violets were not useless, they were speaking with their mute voices----speaking of the past with its brightest memories to this poor man. not that sally grimes had deserted her little friend, far from that, for somehow she "took to her," as she herself expressed it, and was always hovering about the child in case she needed protection. but sally's movements were inclined to be erratic; she dashed in and out among all sorts of vehicles in search of customers so recklessly, any one less experienced would have trembled for her safety; but she knew no fear, and dared the dangers of the streets most bravely. sometimes lizzie stevens would walk with pollie as far as the bank, then leaving the child to sell her flowers, would proceed to the east end with her own work; but on her return, the little girl was always ready to join her, and they would all three go home together. a great friendship existed between the hitherto lonely seamstress and pollie's mother, whose kind heart was touched by the account the child gave of their friendless young neighbour; so she sought her out, and finding how good she was, and how bravely she struggled to earn her daily bread honestjly, gradually won her confidence; so that now lizzie felt she was not _quite_ alone in this wide wide world. there _was_ a kind motherly love in which she could rest, and life was made brighter for her; even the days were less dreary than before, for as mrs. turner's room was nicer than hers, she invited her to bring her work over, and they stitched hour after hour at their ceaseless work, yet still they did not feel their loneliness so much, and were a comfort and help to one another. all this was a happiness to pollie, as she felt her mother would not be sad during her absence (as she very often was), for the child's "business" had become more extensive, her ally, sally, having persuaded her to sell flowers in the evening also; and as her mother and mrs. flanagan had offered no objection to this plan, pollie was only too glad to earn more; indeed the little girl's gains, small though they were, helped to get many simple comforts for the humble home. one evening about six o'clock she came home, swinging her empty basket in her hand and singing softly a merry song from sheer gladness thinking also of the dear face upstairs that would brighten up to welcome her, as it ever did, when, as she entered the doorway, she stumbled over poor little jimmy, crouching as usual just inside the entrance. "there ain't nobody at home, pollie," he said; "yer mother has gone to help lizzie stevens carry to the shop a real heap of work." "i daresay mrs. flanagan is in her room," said the child. "no, she ain't neither," replied jimmy, "for i see'd her go out to the market; i know, 'cos she took her great basket with her." "oh then!" exclaimed pollie, laughing, "i must just let myself in, and wait for mother; i know where she puts our key. good-night, jimmy dear." and she was going up the stairs when she felt the little cripple boy gently pull her frock to detain her. "i say, pollie," he said hesitatingly, "i be so lonesome here, will yer mind biding with me and telling me about the kingdom of heaven, and that good man what took such as you and me in his arms--like you told me t'other day?" "oh yes, jimmy, that i will," cried the little girl; "here, let us sit on this lowest stair; i don't think many people will be passing up now, and then i shall see mother when she comes in." the poor ragged outcast crept near to his tiny friend as she requested, and then sat looking up into her bright face, whilst in simple words such as a child would use she told him that sweet story of old--of our saviour, a babe in the manger of bethlehem--his loving tenderness to us--of his death upon the cross for our redemption--of his glorious resurrection and ascension to heaven, whither he has gone to prepare a place for those who love and believe him. "and does he want me in that beautiful land?" asked the awe-struck boy, almost in a whisper. "yes, jimmy, even you," was the reply. "but i be so dirty and ugly," he said. "god made you, dear, and he makes nothing ugly," replied the little girl soothingly. "and you say we shall never hunger or thirst in heaven, and never feel pain any more. o pollie, i wish i was there; nobody wants me here." his little friend took his claw-like hand tenderly in hers and stroked it gently. she knew what a wretched life was his, and could not wonder at what he said--"nobody wants me here"--but her heart was full of sympathy for his loneliness. "shall i teach you a prayer to say to jesus, jimmy?" she asked after a pause of some length, during which her companion had been silently gazing up at the only piece of sky that was visible in that narrow court, as though trying to imagine where heaven really was, the child having pointed upwards whilst speaking of the home beyond the grave. "what is prayer?" he asked. pollie could not explain it correctly, but she did her best to make it easy to his benighted mind. she gave him _her_ idea of what prayer is. "it is speaking to god," she said with reverence. "and will he listen to the likes of me?" was the question. "oh yes, if you pray to him with your whole heart," was her reply. the boy paused awhile, as though musing upon what she had said. "pollie," he presently entreated in hushed tones, "please teach me to pray." and then at the foot of the stairs knelt those two children--children of the same heavenly father, lambs of the dear saviour's fold--alike and yet so unlike; and the poor outcast cripple, following the actions of the little girl, meekly folded his hands as she clasped hers, and with eyes raised heavenward to where a few stars were now softly shining, he repeated after her-- "consider and hear me, o lord my god! lighten mine eyes, lest i sleep the sleep of death; for jesus' sake!" he murmured the blessed words over two or three times after she had ceased to speak; then in silence they sat down upon the stair again, to wait for mother. the daylight faded quite away, only the stars were shining. the court at this time of the evening was always very quiet, and the peace of god was resting on those little ones. by degrees a calm had fallen upon the poor boy's soul. never, never so happy before, he laid his weary head upon the little girl's lap with a feeling of perfect rest, murmuring to himself-- "for jesus' sake." and so pollie's mother found them fast asleep, with the star-light shining on their upturned faces. "of such is the kingdom of heaven." chapter vi. on waterloo bridge. "i say, why don't yer come with me on saturdays, pollie?" asked sally grimes one thursday evening as they wended their way homewards. it was opera night, and the sale of their flowers had been very good, so that sally, who had "cleared out," as she termed it, was elated with success. even pollie had only a small bunch left. truth to tell, she always liked to keep a few buds to take home with her--just a few to brighten up their room, or those of their two dear friends. she was tying up her blossoms, which had become unfastened, so that for the moment she did not reply to her companion's question, who asked again-- "why don't yer come on saturdays, eh? i allers does a good trade then." "mother likes to get ready for the sabbath on that day. so we clean our room right out, so as to make it nice and tidy. then i learn my hymns and texts for the sunday-school, and then mother hears me say them over, so as to be sure i know them well; and oh, it's so happy!" "sunday-school!" repeated sally; "is that where yer goes on sundays? i see yer sometimes with books, eh? lord do yer go there?" "yes; would you like to go with me?" pollie suddenly asked, looking up at her friend with delight at the mere idea. but sally rubbed her nose thoughtfully with a corner of her apron, uncertain what to say on the subject. "don't they whop yer at school?" she asked, after deliberating. to her astonishment, quiet little pollie burst into such a merry laugh. "no, indeed!" she exclaimed, when her mirth had subsided. "the teachers are far too kind for that. oh, i know you would like it, so do come." "well, i'll see about it," was the rejoinder. "my gown ain't special, but i've got such a hat! i bought it in clare market, with red, blue, and yaller flowers in it--so smart!" "oh, never mind your clothes," said pollie, somewhat doubtful as to the effect such a hat would have on the teachers and pupils; "come as you are, only clean and tidy--that is all they want." for some time they walked on in silence, but their thoughts must have been on the same subject, for suddenly sally asked-- "what do you do at sunday-school?" "we read the bible, repeat our texts and hymns. shall i say the one i am learning for next sunday to you?" "well, i should like to hear it," was the reply. "suppose we go and sit on waterloo bridge--it's nice and quiet there--i'll pay the toll." pollie, however, would not consent to her friend's extravagance on her behalf, so the two children paid each their halfpenny and passed on to the bridge. it was a lovely evening, and though april, yet it was not too cold, so they seated themselves in one of the recesses, and for a time were amused by watching the boats on the river, chatting merrily, as only children can. "now, then, tell me yer pretty hymn," said sally, when at last they had exhausted their stock of fun, and putting her arm around her little friend's neck, they cuddled up lovingly together--the gentle little pollie, and sturdy, rugged sally. then the child repeated to her listening companion-- "abide with me! fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens; lord, with me abide," &c. she went on unto the end, the bigger girl listening the while with almost breathless eagerness, and when it was finished they both remained silent. evidently those beautiful verses had struck a chord hitherto mute in the heart of the poor untaught london waif. "oh, but that's fine!" she murmured at last in hushed tones. "tell me something else, pollie." however, just at that moment the attention of the children was arrested by a young woman who came and sat down in the recess opposite them. they had both noticed her pass and repass several times, but as they were almost hidden by the stone coping of the bridge, she had not observed them. with wild gestures she threw herself upon the stone seat, and imagining she was alone, burst into piteous moans, alternately clasping her hands tightly together, as though in pain, then hiding her pale but lovely face, which showed traces of agony; swaying backwards and forwards, but with ever the same ceaseless moaning cry. "oh, poor lady!" whispered pollie to her friend. "she ain't no lady, though she be so smart in a silk gown and rings on her fingers," replied her companion in the same low tone. "what is she then?" asked the child. poor sally grimes! her education had hitherto been confined to the london streets, and that training had made her but too well acquainted with life in its worst phases; so she replied-- "she's only some poor creature---- i say!" was her exclamation, as suddenly she started up, "what be yer going to do?" the latter part of this sentence was addressed to the stranger, who had sprung upon the stone parapet, and was about to throw herself into the deep waters beneath. "let me die! let me die!" she cried, wildly struggling to free herself from sturdy sally's strong grasp. "no, i won't!" was the reply. "here, pollie, you hold hard too." "oh, in mercy, in pity, let me die!" sobbed the unhappy creature in her agony. "oh, if you only knew how i want to be at rest for ever!" and again she struggled franticly to escape from the saving hands that held her. "now, if yer don't get down and sit quiet on this seat, i'll call that there peeler, and then he'll take yer to bow street," exclaimed the undaunted sally. "ain't yer 'shamed to talk like that? now, come, i'll call him if yer don't do what i say." frightened by this threat, or perhaps seeing how fruitless were her feeble struggles against the strong grasp of her preserver, the unhappy girl--she was but a girl--shrank down submissively on to the seat, still trembling and moaning, whilst brave-hearted sally stood over her to prevent any further attempt at self-destruction. pollie looked on in bewildered surprise at this sad scene, not knowing what to make of it; but she still kept her hold on the woman's dress, as if her small strength could be of any service; but sally had told her to "hold on," and so she obeyed. the woman was now sobbing bitterly. it was more than the child could bear to see any one in tears, so laying her little hand tenderly upon the sorrow-bowed head, she said very gently-- "please don't cry, ma'am; it makes sally and me so sad." at that soft touch and soothing voice the woman looked up, and then the two children saw that she was very beautiful even now,--mere wreck as she seemed to be of all that is pure and lovely. "child!" she cried, "do you know what you touch?--a wretch not fit to crawl the earth much less be touched by innocent hands like yours." pollie shrank back in terror at these words, and the tone in which they were uttered, but sally was equal to any emergency. "come, come," she exclaimed, "don't yer talk like that, frightening this little gal in that way; you just quiet yourself, and then we'll see yer safe home." "home!" was the response. "i have none, only the streets or the river." "stuff and nonsense!" cried practical sally. "no home!" repeated little pollie; "how sad!" "now what's to be done?" debated the elder girl, somewhat puzzled as to the course to be pursued; "here's night coming on, and we can't leave you here, yer know." "let us take her home to my mother," exclaimed the child; "mother will know what to do." but sally hesitated. "perhaps she might not like it," she observed. "oh, i am sure mother won't mind, she is so good and so kind." all the time the children were discussing what was to be done, the unhappy creature sat there, never heeding what was said, but still sobbing and moaning, and apparently utterly exhausted. "well, then, there's nothing else to be done that i see, so come along, young woman;" and so saying, sally grimes grasped her firmly by the arm, thus forcing her to rise. "where are you taking me?" she asked, gazing wildly around. "to pollie's mother," was the reply. but the woman hung back and strove to free herself. "i will not go!" she cried; "let me stay here, leave me to myself." however, there is much to be said in favour of strength of will. sally grimes, young as she was, possessed it in a wonderful degree; therefore, without wasting another word, she compelled the forlorn creature to go with her, little pollie still keeping hold of the poor thing's dress. chapter vii. the lost one found. mrs. turner sat alone, busily sewing, but she heard her darling's well-known step come pattering up the stairs; so she put on the tea-kettle directly, for she knew the little one would be tired and hungry; and forthwith it began to sing cheerily, filling the room with its homely melody, as though it would say "pollie is coming," "pollie is coming;" and somehow the mother felt cheered. it may be the kettle's fancied greeting was but the echo of her own loving heart. time was too precious to be wasted, so the widow continued her work, and the light from the one candle being centred to the spot where she sat, the entry was consequently dark; but on looking up with a smile of greeting, expecting only to see pollie, she was surprised to see her hesitate on the threshold, apparently clutching some one tightly by the dress: but directly she saw her mother, she seemed to feel she might let go her hold, her charge was safe; so running in, she threw her arms around her neck and whispered-- "o mother, darling, this poor lady has no home; let her stay here to-night." the widow rose from her seat in some surprise, but before she could say a word, trusty sally grimes led in the woman, and then in a moment mrs. turner comprehended it all. she saw a poor lost girl, and she thought of her own innocent little one; then came into her heart those merciful words-- "neither do i condemn thee; go, and sin no more." with womanly tenderness she took the poor shivering creature by the hand, seated her close to the fire, saying gently-- "god help you, my poor child, you are welcome here." then the flood-gates of the unhappy girl's heart were opened, and leaning her head on the widow's shoulder she sobbed aloud. meanwhile pollie, assisted by her faithful friend, was busy getting the tea ready, thinking it would refresh their strange visitor; and whilst sally cut some bread-and-butter the child arranged her violets in a cup, to make, as she said, "the table look pretty." but the stranger was unable to partake of the simple meal; she seemed utterly worn and weary, for, leaning her head upon the arm of the chair, she lapsed into an apathetic sleep, as though completely exhausted. whilst she thus slept, sally grimes (who had been invited to remain) told mrs. turner in a whisper all that had taken place that evening. "may god bless you, my dear," said the widow fervently; "you are indeed a good girl." "but pollie helped me," exclaimed the warm-hearted girl. the mother looked at her delicate little child, and smiled to think of those tiny hands doing their part in saving this woman. then she turned for counsel to sally. "i have but this one bed," she said hesitatingly, "and--and--i should not like her to sleep with pollie; what shall i do?" "let us make her a nice bed on the floor," suggested the child. "that's the thing!" assented sally, and the widow agreeing to the plan, they soon had a comfortable bed ready for the stranger. the poor creature suffered them to remove her hat and dress, then they laid her down, and she rested, thankful for the shelter so cheerfully given, humble though it was. she was still very beautiful. her golden brown hair, released from its massive braids, fell in rippling waves around her; the long black lashes, now that the eyes were closed, lay like a silken fringe upon the pale and wasted cheeks. yes, she was very beautiful; and as the good samaritans stood looking at her (the children with wondering pity), the widow thought of the time when this lost girl was tenderly loved by parents, who perhaps were even now sorrowing for their erring child. it was getting late, and as it was pollie's bedtime the mother and child prepared to read their evening chapter. sally, too, sat down by the fire to listen, wondering in her own mind what they were about. it was all so strange to this poor london waif, this cleanly, peaceful home, this simple worship. the appointed chapter for this evening was the parable of the good shepherd, and the girl's attention was riveted by those words of divine love and mercy. "and other sheep i have, which are not of this fold: them also i must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd." would _she_ be gathered into that fold also? could there be room for _her_? yes; the seed was sown on that hitherto rugged soil; it would take root and bring forth fruit for the lord of the harvest. * * * * * just as sally had put on her time-worn shawl, and was bidding her kind friends "good-night" before going home, heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soon the portly form of mrs. flanagan entered the room. "well, here i am again," she exclaimed, "and right-down tired, i can tell you; why don't cooks know what they want, and order things in the morning? dear, dear! what a walk i've had, to be sure--all the way to grosvenor square, and with such a load too!" "hush, please," whispered mrs. turner, pointing to the sleeper. "who have you got there?" she asked in surprise. in a few words, spoken in a subdued voice, the widow told the sad tale, and also of the two children's brave conduct. "what be she like?" was the natural question; "is it right to have her here, think ye?" she added. then, as if to satisfy herself on the first point, she stole softly to where the poor wanderer lay sleeping. the light on the table was but dim, not sufficient to enable her to see distinctly, so that she was compelled to kneel down to scan the face of the sleeping girl. at that moment a bright flame shot up from the flickering fire, and lighted the corner where the bed had been made for the stranger. there was a quick convulsive gasp. "my god! oh, can it be?" the old woman cried in a hushed voice. "no, no, i've been deceived too often. quick! quick! a light!" mrs. turner hurried with it to her side. she almost snatched it from her in her eagerness; she gazed long and earnestly upon those wasted features, her breath coming thick and fast, almost as though her very heart was bursting. in silence she gave the light back into the hands of her wondering friend, then laying her head down on the pillow beside the fallen girl, and folding her arms around her, she sobbed out-- "my darling, my nora! you've come back at last to your poor old mother! nothing but death shall part us now!" chapter viii. sally's first sunday at church. a feeling of sabbath peace stole over little pollie as she issued forth from her humble home on her way to sunday-school. all was still, so quiet; the very court, usually noisy, seemed hushed. none of its uproarious inhabitants were about, only poor crippled jimmy was sitting on the door-step warming himself in the feeble sunlight that flickered down from among the crowded chimneys. the little girl paused to speak a few kind words to him. "i wish you could come with me," she said; "it is so nice." "what! be school nice?" repeated the boy, who seemed to have the same horror of learning as the more enlightened sally grimes. "yes," she replied; "indeed it is. they are all so kind to us there, and teach us such beautiful verses and texts about god and our saviour." "be that him you told me on?" he asked. "i ain't forgot what you told me afore--'consider, and hear me, o lord my god! lighten mine eyes, lest i sleep the sleep of death.'" "oh, you are a good boy!" exclaimed the child encouragingly. "now i will tell you my text for to-day, and when i come back you shall hear what my teacher says about 'the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want.'" "'the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want,'" repeated the crippled boy with reverence. "i'll not forget it, pollie," he added, as the little girl prepared to start again, fearing to be late for school. as she turned into drury lane, to her great surprise there stood sally grimes, looking strangely shy, but tidily and, above all, neatly dressed. the well-worn cotton gown was perfectly clean; indeed, for the last two days sally had been wearing a jacket over a petticoat whilst the dress was being washed and dried. her hair, usually rough, was now smoothly brushed behind her ears, and her face and hands were as clean as soap-and-water could make them. evidently she had given up the idea of the gaudy hat, for a neat bonnet covered her head. altogether she looked quite neat and respectable. "good morning," cried pollie, joyously glad to see her kind friend. "where are you going?" sally hesitated "may i come with you?" she stammered bashfully. for the moment little pollie could not reply; she felt too happy to speak. "oh, i'm so glad!" she said at last, and taking her friend's hand in hers, she proceeded onwards, the happiest little girl in the world. what a contrast they were!--the sturdy, self-reliant london arab, willing, ay, and able, to battle through the world unaided; the timid, fragile pollie, strong only in her efforts after good, firm only in her love of truth. you may imagine with what delight and pride she introduced sally to her kind teacher; what happiness it was to have her sitting by her side, to see her rapt attention as the text was explained in simple words suitable to the comprehension of the listening children; and when was read the parable of the good shepherd, which had been the lesson on that memorable evening when sally first felt the eager longing to be gathered into the saviour's fold, pollie instinctively grasped her friend's hand, as once again the blessed message was repeated. happy indeed are they who gather his children in, shielding his little ones from future harm, feeding his lambs with the bread of life. for sally grimes this was all so new: the quiet sabbath school, those happy children; a light was dawming upon her hitherto clouded mind as she heard of jesus, who came on earth as a little child, endured a life of poverty and sorrow, then died a cruel death to save us from eternal misery. never before had she heard the glad tidings of great joy, and her heart was filled with unexpressed thankfulness and peace. when class was over, the little scholars went their way to church, happy pollie with her friend's hand still clasped in hers; and the bells rang out their peaceful chime, "it is the sabbath! it is the sabbath!" even the usual noisy bustle of the strand was hushed in deference to god's holy day. the busy world was calmed to celebrate the day of rest; the peace of god seemed resting upon the earth. how beautiful the church appeared to sally, who had never until this day entered a house of prayer (dear old st. clement's danes, hallowed to us by many memories), and when the organ pealed forth, and the voices sang "i will arise," she thought, "this must be god's house, and those the angels singing." there was some one else in the church that sabbath-day who also thought it must be heaven of which little pollie had-spoken, and that was poor crippled jimmy. mrs. turner on coming downstairs to go to church had found the neglected boy as usual lonely and desolate. his drunken mother had gone in a pleasure-van with a party of friends like herself to hampton court, leaving her child to amuse himself as he could; and kindly mrs. turner had carried him up to her own room, washed and dressed him in one of pollie's clean frocks, given him some wholesome bread-and-butter, then brought him with her to church. he sat so still and quiet by the widow's side, his eyes intently fixed upon the clergyman, listening eagerly to every word that was spoken, every hymn that was sung, realising in his untutored mind a foretaste of that heaven of which his earliest friend had told, where hunger was unknown, and where sorrow and sighing should flee away. once only, when the rector gave forth his text, "consider the lilies of the field," the boy grasped the widow's hand, and whispered-- "be they the flowers pollie give me?" heaven and pollie's violets filled his heart. * * * * * many were the happy children who issued forth from st. clement's on that sabbath noon; some hand-in-hand with loving parents, wending their way to homes of plenty, where kindly faces would be waiting to greet them; but of the many, none were or could be happier than those three little ones who gathered round mrs. turner when service was over, and, walking side by side, went home to squalid drury lane. no well-filled table awaited _their_ coming, only the plain and scanty fare the poor widow could offer to her child's young friends; but one hath said-- "whosoever giveth a cup of water to one of these little ones in my name, verily i say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward." and this was sally's first sunday at church. chapter ix. crippled jimmy. many days and weeks had passed away, much as life does with us all. we heed not its passing, and forget in the turmoil of worldly cares to scatter seed for the great husbandman, to reap when he cometh. and little pollie? she had been busy as usual selling her flowers, and as usual scattering, in her simple way, the golden grain. gently had she led sally grimes to seek for higher things, and every sabbath they were now to be seen sitting side by side, learning of the life that is to come. and at home? affairs there had become much brighter, for mrs. turner's work had greatly increased, her quiet, unpretending manner having won for her many kind friends, who kept her fully employed--indeed so much that lizzie stevens had given up her hard labour of working for the slopshops, and now helped the widow in her lighter and more remunerative toil. it is true they had to work early and late to keep the house (such as it was) above them--the wolf from the door; but they were not so lonely as heretofore. the widow found comfort in the companionship of the hitherto friendless girl, and it was such a happiness for lizzie to have one so motherly in whom to confide, and of whom she could ask counsel and advice. then when pollie came in from her daily toil, cheering them both like a very sunbeam, how they would pause in their work to watch her as she merrily counted over her money, and brushed out her empty basket in readiness for the morrow, chatting gaily the while. and then to see that active little figure so noiselessly busy getting the tea-dinner, which she always insisted on doing to save "mother" the trouble; indeed, i think the tea would have lost its flavour for that dear mother had pollie's hands not prepared it. sometimes, during the hot july days, the child would persuade them to take a rest; and when it became too dark to see their work without the help of a candle, they would walk out of drury lane for a while, and go down one of the streets leading to the thames, where the air felt purer and fresher, and sitting down would watch the boats on the river. sally usually joined them, and these little rests from toil constituted their simple pleasures. how deliciously cool the breezes felt, so different to the heated atmosphere of their own neighbourhood! both mrs. turner and lizzie used to feel revived by the change. no wonder then that the two children should decide on living near the river when they grew rich, for with the hopefulness of youth they planned great things for the future. so the summer passed by, and autumn came, and now, instead of roses or pinks, pollie's basket was filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias. she often wondered what she should do when winter came and there were no sweet flowers to sell. it grieved her to think she should not then be able to help her dear mother, and as usual she opened her heart to that loving parent. "ah, my pollie!" said the mother, as she smoothed back the curls from the anxious little face, "have you forgotten? 'the lord will provide.'" then the child was comforted, for she remembered that "there is no want to them that fear him." one october evening she turned up russell court, tired and anxious to get home, for it had been a dull, dark day in the city, and she had not succeeded in disposing of her flowers there. the old bankers and merchants seemed not disposed for purchasing bouquets that day. even sally's basket still remained filled, and she was always a more successful seller than timid little pollie; so the elder girl had proposed trying westward for better luck. better luck they certainly had, for their baskets became empty at last, but they walked many a mile during the day, and pollie's tiny feet were very, very weary, as bidding her friend a loving "good-night" she turned her steps towards home, eagerly longing for its rest and shelter. the gas was flaring in drury lane, so that russell court looked dark by comparison; but as she approached the house in which they lived, she was surprised to see a dense crowd gathered around the door. men were there speaking in hoarse whispers, women talking with bated breath as though afraid to speak aloud, and the bewildered child could hardly fancy it was the same place, there was such a hushed commotion as it were; the crowd swaying to and fro, to give place to others who came to swell the excited throng. little pollie stood amidst the people who were hustling each other to get as near the door as possible. what was to be done? how was she to get into the house? and oh, how anxious her mother would be at her long absence! the poor child became frightened, almost to tears, totally unable to force her way through the mob, which was increasing every moment, when looking round for some friendly aid, she saw to her delight mrs. smith, the greengrocer's wife, standing close by, with a shawl thrown over her head, talking to a policeman, and pointing excitedly towards the house. pollie went up to her and ventured timidly to touch her arm. "please, mrs. smith," she began. "lor' bless me, child, what are you doing out so late, and in this crowd too?" was her exclamation. "i can't get in," pollie sobbed; "oh, what is the matter?" "what! don't you know? lor', it's awful," she replied; "here, policeman, do get this poor child through that there mob; i guess her mother is in a way about her." "all right, mrs. s----," said the man, and to pollie's astonishment he took her up in his arms, to carry her through the crowd, who made way for him to pass with his light burden. tallow candles were flaring in the narrow passage, people with pallid, haggard faces looked out from open room doors; yet with all this unwonted stir, there seemed to be a strange hushed awe upon them, as though they were calmed by the mysterious presence of a great calamity. when the man put pollie down she glanced from one to another in trembling alarm, still clinging to her protector's hand. "here she is at last," cried a voice; and turning to the speaker she recognised a woman who lived in the house, and whom she had often met on the stairs. "is it my mother?" asked the child, with undefined dread at her poor little heart. "no, no, come with me; he keeps calling for you." then, still holding the policeman's hand closely clasped in hers, she followed the woman down the dirty dark stairs which led to the cellar where jimmy lived. the door of the squalid room stood wide open; two tallow candles stuck in empty bottles flared on the broken mantel-shelf above the rusty fireless grate; a battered old chair and a rickety table constituted the entire furniture of the room (if such it could be called), for on a heap of dirty rags lay little jimmy. by his side, holding him in her arms, knelt mrs. turner, whilst a gentleman, evidently the parish doctor, was bathing his head, from which the blood was flowing. lizzie stevens was there, steeping linen in a basin for the doctor, and another policeman, no one else. i forgot. crouching in the farthest corner, and glaring in drunken stupor around her, was the poor dying child's wretched mother. a broken bottle tightly grasped in her hands, fragments of which lay about the dirt-encrusted floor, told the tale, alas! too plainly. in her drunken fury she had slain her child! pollie felt safe directly she saw her own loved mother. "o mother, what is it?" she whispered. the dying boy heard her, softly as she had spoken. "little pollie," he feebly murmured, and turned his dim eyes up to her. "dear jimmy," she said, kneeling down beside him. he smiled as though at peace, and yet the life-blood was ebbing slowly away. "pollie," he said, "shall i go to the kingdom of heaven? will jesus put his hands on me, and bless me also?" the little girl could not speak for sobbing, but she laid her soft cheek upon his clay-cold hand. "you've been very good to me," he rambled on, "you told me of the good shepherd"---- there was silence, broken only by the choking sobs of the listeners; even the policemen, used as they were to similar scenes, were deeply moved at the dying boy's love for his little friend. his eyes were closed, but his disengaged hand wandered feebly over the horse-rug that covered him, until at last he laid it on pollie's bowed head. there it rested; his eyes unclosed, and he gazed wildly round, saying excitedly-- "pollie, pollie, it's so dark. is it night coming on? don't go, little pollie. let me say the prayer you taught me." he tried to fold his hands as _she_ had always done. in vain--they fell upon the coverlet, weak and nerveless. "lighten mine eyes, lest i sleep the sleep of death," he murmured falteringly. the voice ceased! crippled jimmy had passed away safely into the fold of the good shepherd! ah! who would wish him back again? misery exchanged for perfect bliss--sorrow and sighing for eternal joy. they all gazed upon the sharp pinched features, now gradually settling into the calm repose of death. what in life was almost painful to look upon, with the touch of immortality became lovely; for the dead child's face bore the impress of an angel's smile, as though he had caught a glimpse of heaven's happiness whilst passing through the dark valley of the shadow of death. little pollie clung to her mother, sobbing convulsively and hiding her face in her dress. "hush, my darling," soothed the widow; "poor jimmy is now with god, free from all sorrow or pain. think what his joy must be!" they were startled by a harsh voice screeching out-- "that ain't my jimmy! let me get at him! i say, what be you folks doing here?" it was the drunken creature, who, unnoticed by any of them, had approached the spot where the dead child lay. she darted forward, crying out, whilst she brandished the bottle-- "i'll wake him, never fear; like i've done many a time before, i warrant ye!" fortunately the policeman saw her in time to prevent her doing further mischief, or even touching the boy, for, laying his firm grasp upon her arm, he exclaimed authoritatively-- "come, none of this, my good woman. i must take you to bow street, to answer the charge of killing that poor little chap." then ensued a scene too terrible to describe. the wretched woman was taken away from the place, shrieking and swearing, leaving her dead child to be tended by strangers, kinder far than she had ever been. chapter x. nora. a drizzling rain kept falling the day on which little jimmy was to be laid in his narrow home. they had found beneath his ragged jacket a little packet, carefully tied with a piece of thread, and on opening it, something dried and shrivelled fell to the ground. it was the bunch of violets, now withered, pollie's first gift to him--the only gift he had ever received, and which came fraught with such peace to him. with tender pity mrs. turner refolded the tiny packet, and placed the faded flowers again where they had been so carefully treasured. his unhappy mother was in prison, which place she only quitted to be confined for life in a criminal lunatic asylum, driven mad by that fearful curse of england--drink! drink! so that there would have been no one to follow him to his last resting-place had not good mrs. turner offered to go. she could not bear to think of the poor child being laid to rest so friendlessly, and little pollie pleaded to be taken. then lizzie stevens begged to be allowed to accompany the widow in her pious task, and just as the humble parish funeral was leaving the house, which had been but a miserable home for the dead child, sally grimes came up, and, taking lizzie's hand silently, joined the three mourners. a large black cloak covered her patched but clean frock, and she wore an old black bonnet of her mother's, which had outlived many fashions. it was the only outward semblance of mourning she could get, but her heart sorrowed sincerely for the crippled boy whom she had seen for many years, desolate and uncared for, crouching in the dingy doorway--desolate until little pollie found him there, and shed some brightness around his hitherto lonely life; and another thing, he was a sort of link between her and pollie. the london streets looked dismal and dirty on this autumn afternoon with the pitiless rain and murky sky; but when the little party reached the quiet suburban cemetery, the clouds had somewhat dispersed, though the late flowers which yet remained to gladden the earth drooped with the heavy moisture; and when the last words were spoken, and all that remained of crippled jimmy had been laid in his narrow bed, the four kindly mourners turned tearfully from the spot, leaving him alone in his poor humble grave. at that moment a robin perched himself on a bush close by, and warbled forth such a hymn, so full of gladness, it seemed as though the bird sang the echo of those joyful words-- "i am the resurrection and the life." * * * * * and so they left little jimmy. nothing could harm him now. twas but his frail mortality they mourned; his blest spirit, freed from earthly stains, was now with his saviour and god. * * * * * on their return home they found that mrs. flanagan had prepared a comfortable tea for them all in mrs. turner's room; and it looked so cosy and home-like, humble though it was, with mrs. flanagan's kindly face to greet them. poor mrs. flanagan--she was greatly changed; no longer the same cheerful person, but calm and subdued, as if she dwelt beneath some dark shadow that clouded her existence. she did not now, when her day's work was ended, come into mrs. turner's room to have a friendly chat, or interest herself in pollie's fortune-making, as she used to do. it is true, she still brought the flowers for the child, but her whole mind seemed too absorbed to dwell on these trivial matters which formerly possessed such an interest for her. her entire thoughts were centred on nora. no one, save good mrs. turner, had seen the poor girl since the evening pollie had brought the lost one home. the poor mother hid, as it were, her recovered treasure, fearful that even the mere passing glance of scorn should for a moment rest on her blighted child. so up in that little room, away from prying eyes, lived the mother and daughter. nora was not idle. not for worlds would she have rested dependent on that dear forgiving mother's hard earnings for her daily food; therefore, whilst mrs. flanagan toiled in covent garden market, her daughter's slender fingers diligently laboured at bookbinding, the trade she had pursued years ago, in the time when her heart was innocent and happy. on the evening of which we write, when sally grimes and lizzie stevens had gone to their own homes after the peaceful hours spent with mrs. turner, the old woman sat for some time silent and sad, with elbows resting on the table, and her face buried in her hands. at length she looked up. "my nora's very sadly," she observed. the widow paused in her needlework, and gazed at the troubled countenance of her old friend. "she is not ill, is she?" was the question: "i saw her this morning, and then she seemed pretty much the same." "no, not ill in body, at least not much," replied the poor mother; "but oh! mrs. turner, my nora is not like my nora of days gone by." and the grey head bent low upon the table, and the worn wrinkled face was hidden, to hide the bitter tears which fell. her sympathising listener put down her work, and rising softly, laid her hand gently upon her neighbour's sorrow-bent head. "take heart, mrs. flanagan," she soothed; "it will all come right at last, in god's own time. just think how once you feared you should never see your daughter again, and then"---- "oh, but she's not the same; no longer gay, or even cheerful, as she used to be," was sobbed forth; "sits for hours looking far-away like, as if she saw me not; yet once i was all to her. ah, woe is me that i should be sorry she was not laid to rest years ago, when a sinless child, like little jimmy was to-day!" whilst the unhappy mother was thus pouring out her heart sorrow, pollie had crept up, and in loving pity had slidden her small hand into her aged friend's in token of sympathy with her grief. for some time mrs. flanagan was too absorbed with her great woe to heed that gentle caress, but when alluding to the dead boy she raised her head, and saw the little girl's tearful eyes lifted to hers. "please, don't cry, dear mrs. flanagan," she said timidly. "nora will soon be like she once was; won't she, mother?" "bless you, my precious," cried the poor old woman, laying her hand lovingly on the child's curly head, "you're a real comfort to me." "o mother," murmured a soft voice, "have patience with me, dearest; i am still your own nora; only--oh, so worn and sin-stained!" they started in surprise. unseen she had entered the room, and had overheard her poor mother mourning for her child. meekly she knelt at her parent's feet, with tearless eyes upraised, but clasping the hard rough hand that had so toiled for her in the years gone by, and was willing still to toil, could it but bring back some few gleams of former brightness to her child. "i am not changed in heart to you, dear mother," she continued, "but when i sit and think, my sad thoughts fly back over the dreary desert of the past; and i know what i am, and what i might have been." all trembling with emotion, the poor old woman held out her arms to clasp her penitent child; then laying her head upon her bosom, she smoothed the beautiful hair caressingly, as in the days when as an infant she nestled there. "yes, yes, dear mother," pursued the poor girl; "let me lay my weary head where i can hear the beating of your heart, whose every throb, i know, is full of love for me. i will pray to forget the sad, sad past, and be to you once more your nora of the long ago. we were so happy then!" "yes, we were happy in those days," murmured the mother, to herself as it were; "though often hungry, and often cold; but the wide world was our garden, and we had to pluck what flowers we could from it. you, my poor child, passed by the blossoms, and gathered only weeds; but take heart, my darling, there are yet some bonnie buds to cull, and life after all will not be quite a barren wilderness to you and your poor old mother." then mrs. flanagan fairly broke down. but the icy barrier which had divided the mother and daughter was fallen, and they now knew what they were--all in all--to each other once again. chapter xi. christmas eve. christmas eve! what memories revive at those two almost hallowed words! we think upon the _first_ christmas eve,--of the manger at bethlehem, the redeemer's humble cradle-bed; the star, guiding his first worshippers to his poor abode,--and we recall in imagination that glorious anthem sung by the heavenly host to those simple awe-struck shepherds whilst guarding their flocks by night! yes; those words, "christmas eve," carry our thoughts, for a time at least, far from the cares of this transient world; and strangely cold must be the heart that does not echo the glad tidings, "on earth, peace, goodwill toward men." but on the christmas eve of which we speak the holy stars were shining above a far different scene than those peaceful plains of bethlehem--on london, that wilderness to the poor and sad, that golden city for the rich and gay, and in a district of which (drury lane) little star-light could be discerned through the murky air of its crowded streets. drury lane was now at the height of its business: flaring gas-jets flamed at the open shop-fronts, whilst tradesmen and costermongers seemed to vie with each other as to which could shout the loudest to attract customers. there were butchers urging passers-by to purchase joints of animals hanging up in the shops, decked with rosettes and bows of coloured ribbon in honour of christmas; greengrocers, gay with holly and mistletoe, interspersed with mottoes wishing every one the "compliments of the season." bakers, too, were doing a thriving trade in cakes of all sizes; whilst down the centre of the street, lining each side of the roadway, were vendors of all sorts of things, whose stalls were brightened either by oil-lamps or else the more humble candle stuck in a paper lantern. i care not to speak of gin-palaces, filled by poor wretches buying poison for soul and body. would to god our loved country could be free from its curse of drunkenness! and yet the poor denizens of this pent-up neighbourhood appeared more cheerful and better-tempered than they usually seem to be. jokes were bandied freely between tradesmen and customers, and kindly greetings exchanged in honour of christmas. occasionally, it is true, a shivering creature would be seen shuffling along through the busy crowd, glancing with furtive hungry eyes at the food exposed for sale, but unable to buy even a loaf of bread. the generality, however, had anticipated the coming festive season, and had saved the wherewith to keep christmas. it was a relief to turn from the noisy din of drury lane up russell court, and thence to the quiet of mrs. turner's room. yes; there they were all to be seen, a happy family party, preparing, too, to keep christmas. at the one end of the table, close to the candle (they could only afford one), sat mrs. turner and lizzie, busily stitching away, anxious to do as much work as they possibly could, as it was intended to celebrate the next day as an entire rest and holiday. on the floor was sally grimes stoning some raisins into a basin for the plum-pudding, and by her side, at nora's feet, sat pollie, helping her trusty friend in her important work. mrs. flanagan was standing at the other end of the table, busily mixing the various ingredients requisite for this crowning dish of the unwonted feast, and there also was mrs. grimes (sally's mother) chopping up the seasoning for a goose, which mrs. flanagan's employers had given her as a christmas gift, and on which they were all to dine. mrs. smith had also contributed something to this festival in the shape of oranges and nuts, and had also given pollie a few sprigs of holly with which to deck their room. seated on a low chair, her lap filled with holly leaves and bright berries, sat nora, and her slender fingers were busy twining them into little garlands to brighten up their poor abode. very pale and fragile looked the girl, almost too fragile to struggle with the world, but her sweet face was happier than when last we saw her kneeling at her mother's feet. it was as though the storm of life had buffeted her until almost crushed, and having vented its utmost fury, had passed away, leaving her at rest at last, but oh! so worn and weary with the strife. poor old mrs. flanagan! every thought of her heart turned to nora. when her daughter was sometimes gay with a touch of the light-heartedness of other days, the gaiety would find an echo with her, and she would strive to be merry for that dear one's sake. and if, as was more frequently the case, the girl was sad, the shadow rested on the mother also. she seemed now but to live in the reflection of her daughter's life. even now, whilst busy with the morrow's good cheer, she would ever and anon pause to glance at her child; and if the girl chanced to look up, and met the mother's eyes with a smile, what intense joy spread over that mother's careworn face, lighting it up with the sunshine of love. ah me! we can never fathom the depth of a mother's tenderness. who in the whole world cares for us as she does? pitiful to our faults, sorrowing with our griefs, rejoicing in our joys. who so unselfish? who so true? happy the child who can _truthfully_ say, "never has sin of mine furrowed thy brow, or silvered thy hair, my darling." but to return to our story. pollie, seated as before mentioned at nora's feet, was intently watching her (making very little progress, i fear, with stoning the raisins) as she daintily threaded some berries to form a word, and many a merry laugh was caused by the two children trying to guess what the word was to be. p was the letter first fixed on to the slip of cardboard, and which she held up to them, smiling brightly. "i know what it's to be!" cried sally, who was becoming quite a scholar now; "it's plum-pudding." but nora shook her head, saying-- "no, that is not the word i am going to make. can you guess, pollie?" "i don't think i can," was the reply. "is it"---- "p stands for pollie," cried out impetuous sally, in her eagerness almost upsetting her basin of raisins upon the floor. "perhaps it's that." there was much merriment over sally's guessing, and much amazement too on the part of mrs grimes, who was utterly astonished at her "gal's larning;" but still nora shook her head. no, that was not the word intended. many were the conjectures hazarded, till at last pollie resolved to try no more, but wait until the entire word or phrase was finished, both children promising not to look until at a given signal from nora they should know it was completed. then they resumed their employment, waiting very patiently for the time. at last it came. "now," said nora, and she held it up so that all could see, then she gave it into pollie's hand. the puzzle was solved. "peace on earth," read the child aloud. there was a silence, each one occupied with thoughts those words suggested. tears filled the eyes of the two widows, for they clearly understood what was in the girl's heart when tracing those letters. _her_ head was bowed; they could not see her face, but her hands were very trembling as she clasped them together as if in silent prayer. pollie broke the silence. "nora, dearie," she half whispered, "i wish we could get in the other beautiful words, 'glory to god in the highest,' because it is he who gives us this sweet peace, and i should so like to thank him." chapter xii. in the spring-time. christmas had come and gone, even the new year was becoming old; for three months had slipped by, and march winds were preparing to usher in april showers. the london shopkeepers were exhibiting their spring goods, hoping that the few gleams of sun which had contrived to make themselves seen were indeed heralds of the coming "season," which "season" was supposed to bring an increase of business with it, and, of course, as the homely adage says, "more grist to the mill." but as yet the streets were wet and sloppy, the bleak winds whistled round the corners, and london looked very dull and cheerless, even at the west end, where it is always brighter than in the busy city. far away in the country, it is true, the birds were twittering, joyfully busy in making their nests, flying hither and thither in search of materials to form their tiny homes. there were sheep, too, in the meadows, cropping the fresh young grass, whilst the lambs skipped merrily about their staid mothers, as though rejoicing in the warmer weather; for the winter had been very severe, and many a night had they huddled together beside a hedge to keep themselves warm when the snow was falling thickly around. the buds on the trees, especially the elms, were filling, so that after a few showers they would throw off their brown sheaths and put forth their delicate green leaves to court the breeze; and as to the hedges, they were already verdant. yes, all creation was awaking, eager to proclaim his praise who hath said "while the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease." in the deep sheltered copse or hedgerows, primroses and violets were to be found nestling amidst green leaves and soft moss, filling the air with perfume. it always seems a pity to gather them where they bloom so sweetly and linger so long, yet gathered they were and sent up to london; some, indeed, were to be found in sally grimes' basket as she stood outside the bank, as she was standing on the day we first saw her. she has certainly improved since then--no longer ragged or untidy, but her hair is neatly plaited beneath a decent bonnet, and her shawl is securely fastened, instead of flying in the wind as it used to do. she is still very successful in "business," although she does not now rush across the roads at peril of life or limb, nor does she thrust her flowers into the faces of the passers-by, frightening timid people by her roughness. no; all that is changed, and she has become a quiet, steady girl. truth to tell, she is beginning to dislike the life she leads--not the flowers; she loves them more than ever! and often looks after neat little servants she sometimes sees, wishing to become like one of them. patience, sally! who knows what may be by and by? but where is little pollie, that she is not with her trusty friend? poor little pollie lies sick and ill at home, so pale and thin one would scarcely recognise in that wan little face the pollie of last spring-time! a severe cold, followed by slow fever, has laid her low, and though all danger is over, she still continues so weak, too feeble to move; therefore her dear mother or lizzie stevens lifts her from her bed and lays her in an easy-chair which mrs. flanagan had borrowed, in which she reclines all the day long, very patient and uncomplaining though the poor little heart is often very sad as she watches her mother's busy fingers, and feels that she cannot help to lift the burden as she used to do; then like an angel's whisper comes the remembrance of that which cheered her the first day she started in business, "fear thou not, for i am with thee; be not dismayed, for i am thy god; i will strengthen thee; yea, i will help thee; yea, i will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness;" and so the brown eyes close, shutting up the fast-gathering tears, and she trusts in her heavenly father with all the fervour of her pure childish heart, sure that the "lord will provide." then during the evening nora comes in, and takes the little sufferer upon her lap, and sings to her so beautifully that the child gazes up into the girl's lovely eyes, now so calm and hopeful, with the dreamy fancy that the angels must look like her. there is one song, an especial favourite with them both, called "beautiful blue violets;" and very often, whilst listening to the sweet voice, pollie falls asleep, soothed by the melody. indeed, there is no lack of kind friends who love the little girl. mrs. smith brings up all sorts of nice things to tempt the child's appetite--sweet oranges and baked apples--even her brother, the butcher at whose shop pollie's first purchase of meat was made, sent a piece of mutton, "with his respects to mrs. turner, and it was just the right bit to make some broth for the little gal." the good doctor (the same who was present when crippled jimmy died), though far from being a rich man, would accept no fee for attending her, so that if kindness and love could have called back her lost health, pollie would soon have been well; but she is very, very ill, and day by day grows weaker and weaker. her poor mother watches each change in the little face so precious to her, and when she lifts her in her arms feels how light the burden is becoming; she dreads to think that god will take her only treasure from her; her lips tremble as she says, "thy will be done." but the poor have no time for repining; every idle moment is money lost, and money must be earned to buy food for the dear ones who look to them for bread; so mrs. turner was compelled to work on, though her heart was sick with sadness, and many a time gladly would she have laid it aside to take her suffering child in her arms, and soothe the languid pain as none but a mother can. the little girl seemed to guess the thought those anxious eyes revealed, and when she saw her dear mother looking wistfully upon her, she would say, striving to be gay, and hide from those loving eyes all trace of suffering-- "i'm so cosy in this nice chair, mother darling, and nora is coming in soon, you know!" and of the many who love little pollie, who so true as sally grimes? every morning before setting off for the city she comes, anxiously asking, "how's pollie?" and on her return, her first care is to inquire for her little sick friend, bringing with her a few flowers, if she has any left in the basket, or some other trifle, precious, though, to the grateful recipient, whose white lips smile gratefully at the kind sally for thus thinking of her. "ay, but i'm lonesome without you, pollie," says the girl, as she kisses the pale cheeks of the child; "and glad i'll be when you gets about again, the place don't seem the same without you; why, even that big peeler with the whiskers, who is a'most allers near the bank, he says to-day 'how's the little gal?' that he did." one evening sally came, rushing in quite breathless with excitement, startling mrs. turner and waking up pollie, who was dozing in nora's arms. "good news, good news," she cried out; "luck's come at last, hurray! there's such a lovely lady coming to see you, pollie." "to see pollie?" asked the widow in surprise; "who is she?" "i don't know," was the reply, "but she's coming; she told me so, and soon too." "who can it be?" they all questioned of each other, pausing in their work to look at the excited girl. "i'll tell you all about it," exclaimed sally, who felt herself to be of some importance as the bearer of such wonderful news; "only just let me get my breath a bit." "well," she continued, when sufficiently recovered to proceed with her story, but which, like all narrators of startling intelligence, she seemed to wish to spin out, so as to excite the curiosity of her hearers to the utmost; "well, i was standing at the top of threadneedle street, with my back to the mansion house, looking to see if any customers were coming from moorgate street way, when some one touched me on my shoulder. i turned sharp round, as i thought maybe it was a gent wanting a bunch of flowers for his coat. but instead of a gent it was, oh, such a pretty lady! not a young lady; p'raps as old as you, mrs. turner, p'raps older. she was dressed all in black, with, oh my! such crape, and jet beads; and though she smiled when she spoke, yet she seemed sad-like." "are you the little girl i saw here about a year ago?" says she. "may be i am, marm," says i; "cos i'm pretty well allers here, leastway in the mornings." she looked at me a bit, and then she says-- "'i should not have thought to find you such a big girl in so short a time. do you remember me? i bought some violets, and you told me your name, and where you lived; indeed i should have come to see you long ago as i promised, but was obliged to go abroad suddenly with my own little girl.' "and then i thought she was going to cry, she looked so sad," added sally, "and she said"---- "'but god took her home.'" "poor dear lady!" was the exclamation of sally's attentive listeners. "even the rich have troubles also," said mrs. turner with a pitying sigh. "wait a bit, i 'aint told you all yet," cried the girl; "well, i just then thought of what pollie told us about the lady who gave her a shilling the very first day she went with me selling violets. so i says-- "it warn't me, marm, you saw that day; it was little pollie!" "'yes, that was the name,' says she; 'and where is little pollie?' "with that i up and told her as how pollie wasn't well, and so she says, 'i will come to see her directly i have finished my business in the city.' oh, lor'!" cried sally, suddenly pausing in her story, "here she be, i'm sure, for there's some one coming up the stairs with mrs. flanagan, some one who don't wear big heavy boots too; can't you hear?" sally was right; for the kindly face of their neighbour appeared in the doorway, ushering in "the beautiful lady." "and so this is little pollie," the sweet voice said, as, after speaking cheerfully to the widow and the others who were in the room, she stood beside the sick child. "well, pollie, i have come to see you at last, and in return for the beautiful violets you gave me a year ago, i will, with our merciful father's blessing us, put some roses on your white cheeks." * * * * * my story is told! in a pretty lodge close to the gates of a magnificent park live pollie and her dear long-suffering mother, but now as happy as it is possible for mortals to be. the widow continues her needlework, not as formerly, "to keep the wolf from the door," but merely for their beloved lady, or what is required for the house. pollie, whose cheeks are now truly rosy, goes every day to school, and when at home helps her mother, so that in time she will become quite a useful girl to their kind and generous benefactress. but who are those two neat young girls who are coming down the path towards the lodge, looking so bright and cheerful? surely one is lizzie stevens, and the other sally grimes? yes, indeed, and the housekeeper says she "never had two better servants, so willing and steady," than our two young friends. so sally's ambition is realised; she is a servant, and a good one too, for trusty sally never did anything by halves. and mrs. flanagan? if you will walk across the meadow by that narrow raised path, you will see a cosy cottage adjoining the dairy. there is mrs. flanagan, with sleeves tucked up above her elbows, busily making butter; it reminds her of the years long ago, when she used to do the dairy-work at the farm, and had never known a care. but she is happy even now, for outside the window is nora, cheerful and contented, feeding the poultry, who gather round her, clucking noisily, while some white pigeons have flown down from the dove-cot, and one has alighted on her shoulder, and nora's merry laugh is as music to the mother's ear. there is some one scouring milk-pans in the yard, but whose features are almost hidden by a large black bonnet; who is it? the face turns towards us, and we see sally grimes' mother! so we leave all our old friends, peaceful and happy, doing their duty faithfully to the noble lady, who, though surrounded by all the world holds dear--riches--yet had sympathy for the poor ones of the earth, and pity for their sorrows. she had resided many years abroad, but on returning to england and re-forming her establishment, had chosen these honest hard-working friends of ours to serve her. she learned from others how they had striven to live, and how they had each endeavoured to do their heavenly master's work as he had appointed; patient under privations, and tender to others, doing as they would be done by. and thus sunshine had come to brighten the hitherto dreary paths of their struggling lives, though even in their darkest hours our humble friends had never forgotten that "behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face." and how gratefully did they now lift up their hearts to him who "careth for us!" and when mrs. flanagan and mrs. grimes met at mrs. turner's, as they very often did when their work was done, they would contrast their present happy lot with those sad days of the past. "and yet," as mrs. turner once said, "had it not been for our troubles we should never have known each other, for it was those very sorrows that knit us together." "ay, ay," interrupted mrs. grimes, "for your pollie somehow made my gal hate the streets, else she might a run there till now, and never a been the rale good scholar she be." "ah, pollie be a comfort to you," observed the other old friend; "and how she do grow, to be sure! well, well, bless her heart, she won't have to rough it, my dear--leastways i hope not,--nor be led to go wrong like my poor nora; still she'll have her sorrows, like the rest on us." yes, that was true; she would have her share of the trials that fall to the lot of all, and so would trusty sally; but happily they knew where to take their cares, and he who had led them to this peaceful home would be with them still. and thus we leave them--living their lives in peaceful content, grateful for the memories given, and trusting in him always. * * * * * and all this happiness had been brought about by--a simple bunch of violets! marie by laura e. richards author of "captain january," "melody," "queen hildegarde," "narcissa," etc. to e. t. t. contents. chapter i. marie ii. "d'arthenay, tenez foi!" iii. abby rock iv. possession v. courtship vi. wedlock vii. looking back viii. a flower in the snow ix. madame x. de arthenay's vigil xi. vita nuova marie. chapter i. marie. marie was tired. she had been walking nearly the whole day, and now the sun was low in the west, and long level rays of yellow light were spreading over the country, striking the windows of a farmhouse here and there into sudden flame, or resting more softly on tree-tops and hanging slopes. they were like fiddle-bows, marie thought; and at the thought she held closer something that she carried in her arms, and murmured over it a little, as a mother coos over her baby. it seemed a long time since she had run away from the _troupe_: she would forget all about them soon, she thought, and their ugly faces. she shivered slightly as she recalled the face of "le boss" as it was last bent upon her, frowning and dark, and as ugly as a hundred devils, she was quite sure. ah, he would take away her violin--le boss! he would give it to his own girl, whom she, marie, had taught till she could play a very little, enough to keep the birds from flying away when they saw her, as they otherwise might; she was to have the violin, the lady, one's own heart and life, and marie was to have a fiddle that he had picked up anywhere, found on an ash-heap, most likely! ah, and now he had lost the lady and marie too, and who would play for him this evening, and draw the children out of the houses? _he_! let some one tell marie that! it had not been hard, the running away, for no one would ever have thought of marie's daring to do such a thing. she belonged to le boss, as much as the tent or the ponies, or his own ugly girl: so they all thought in the _troupe_, and so marie herself had thought till that day; that is, she had not thought at all. while she could play all the time, and had often quite enough to eat, and always something, a piece of bread in the hand if no more,--and la patronne, le boss's wife, never too unkind, and sometimes even giving her a bit of ribbon for the lady's neck when there was to be a special performance,--why, who would have thought of running away? she had been with them so long, those others, and that time in france was so long ago,--hundreds of years ago! so no one had thought of noticing when she dropped behind to tune her violin and practise by herself; it was a thing she did every day, they all knew, for she could not practise when the children pulled her gown all the time, and wanted to dance. she had chosen the place well, having been on the lookout for it all day, ever since le boss told her what he meant to do,--that infamy which the good god would never have allowed, if he had not been perhaps tired with the many infamies of le boss, and forgotten to notice this one. she had chosen the place well! a little wood dipped down to the right, with a brook running beyond, and across the brook a sudden sharp rise, crowned with a thick growth of birches. she had played steadily as she passed through the wood and over the stream, and only ceased when she gained the brow of the hill and sprang like a deer down the opposite slope. no one had seen her go, she was sure of that; and now they could never tell which way she had turned, and would be far more likely to run back along the road. how they would shout and scream, and how le boss would swear! ah, no more would he swear at marie because people did not always give money, being perhaps poor themselves, or unwilling to give to so ugly a face as his girl's, who carried round the dish. no more! and la patronne would be sorry perhaps a little,--she had the good heart, la patronne, under all the fat,--and old billy, he would be too sorry, she was sure. poor old billy! it was cruel to leave him, when he had such joy of her playing, the good old man, and a hard life taking care of the beasts, and bearing all the blame if any of them died through hunger. but it would have been sadder for old billy to see her die, marie, and she would have died, of course she would! to live without the lady, a pretty life that would be! far sooner would one go at once to the good god, where the angels played all day, even if one were not allowed to play oneself just at first. afterward, of course, when they found out how she had played down here, it would be otherwise. meanwhile, all these thoughts did not keep marie from being tired, and hungry too; and she was glad enough to see some brown roofs clustered together at a little distance, as she turned a corner of the road. a village! good! here would be children, without doubt; and where there were children, marie was among friends. she stopped for a moment, to push back her hair, which had fallen down in the course of her night, and to tie the blue handkerchief neatly over it, and shake the dust from her bare feet. they were pretty feet, so brown and slender! she had shoes, but they were in the wagon; la patronne took care of all the sunday clothes, and there had been no chance to get at anything, even if she could have been hampered by such things as shoes, with the lady to carry. it did not in the least matter about shoes, when it was summer: when the road was hot, one walked in the cool grass at the side; when there was no grass--eh, one waited till one came to some. they were only for state, these shoes. they were stiff and hard, and the heel-places hurt: it was different for la patronne, who wore stockings under hers. but here were the houses, and it was time to play. they were pleasant-looking houses, marie thought, they looked as if persons lived in them who stayed at home and spun, as the women did in brittany. ah, that it was far away, brittany! she had almost forgotten it, and now it all seemed to come back to her, as she gazed about her at the houses, some white, some brown, all with an air of thrift and comfort, as becomes a new england village. that white house there, with the bright green blinds! that pleased her eye. and see! there was a child's toy lying on the step, a child's face peeping out of the window. decidedly, she had arrived. marie took out her violin, and tuned it softly, with little rustling, whispering notes, speaking of perfect accord between owner and instrument; then she looked up at the child and smiled, and began to play "en revenant d'auvergne." it was a tune that the little people always loved, and when one heard it, the feet began to dance before the head. sure enough, the door opened in another moment, and the child came slipping out: not with flying steps, as a city child would come, to whom wandering musicians were a thing of every day; but shyly, with sidelong movements, clinging to the wall as it advanced, and only daring by stealth to lift its eyes to the strange woman with the fiddle, a sight never seen before in its little life. but marie knew all about the things that children think. what was she but a child herself? she had little knowledge of grown persons, and regarded them all as ogres, more or less, except old billy, and la patronne, who really meant to be kind. "come, lit' girl!" she said in her clear soft voice. "come and dance! for you i play, for you i sing too, if you will. ah, the pretty song, 'en revenant d'auvergne!'" and she began to sing as she played: "eh, gai, coco! eh, gai, coco! eh, venez voir la danse du petit marmot! eh, venez voir la danse du petit marmot!" the little girl pressed closer against the wall, her eyes wide open, her finger in her mouth, yet came nearer and nearer, drawn by the smile as well as the music. presently another came running up, and another; then the boys, who had just brought their cows home and were playing marbles on the sly, behind the brown barn, heard the sound of the fiddle and came running, stuffing their gains into their pockets as they ran. then mrs. piper, who was always foolish about music, her neighbors said, came to her door, and mrs. post opposite, who was as deaf as her namesake, came to see what susan piper was after, loitering round the door when the men-folks were coming in to their supper: and so with one thing and another, marie had quite a little crowd around her, and was feeling happy and pleased, and sure that when she stopped playing and carried round her handkerchief knotted at the four corners so as to form a bag, the pennies would drop into it as fast, yes, and maybe a good deal faster, than if le boss's ugly daughter was carrying it, with her nose turned up and one eye looking round the corner to see where her hair was gone to. ah, le boss, what was he doing this evening for his music, with no marie and no lady! and it was just at this triumphant moment that jacques de arthenay came round the corner and into the village street. chapter ii. "d'arthenay, tenez foi!" there had been de arthenays in the village ever since it became a village: never many of them, one or two at most in a generation; not a prolific stock, but a hardy and persistent one. no one knew when the name had dropped its soft french sound, and taken the harsh anglo-saxon accent. it had been so with all the old french names, the l'homme-dieus and des isles and beaulieus; the air, or the granite, or one knows not what, caused an ossification of the consonants, a drying up of the vowels, till these names, once soft and melodious, became more angular, more rasping in utterance, than ever smith or jones could be. they were huguenots, the d'arthenays. a friend from childhood of st. castin, jacques d'arthenay had followed his old companion to america at the time when the revocation of the edict of nantes rendered france no safe dwelling-place for those who had no hinges to their knees. a stern, silent man, this d'arthenay, like most of his race: holding in scorn the things of earthly life, brooding over grievances, given to dwelling much on heaven and hell, as became his time and class. leaving castle and lands and all earthly ties behind them, he and his wife came out of sodom, as they expressed it, and turned not their faces, looking steadfastly forward to the wilderness where they were to worship god in his own temple, the virgin forest. it had been a terrible shock to find the baron de st. castin fallen away from religion and civilisation, living in savage pomp with his savage wives, the daughters of the great chief modocawando. there could be no such companionship as this for the sieur d'arthenay and his noble wife; the friendship of half a lifetime was sternly repudiated, and d'arthenay cast in his lot with the little band of huguenot settlers who were striving to win their livelihood from the rugged soil of eastern maine. it was bitter bread that they ate, those french settlers. we read the story again and again, each time with a fresh pang of pity and regret; but it is not of them that this tale is told. jacques d'arthenay died in his wilderness, and his wife followed him quickly, leaving a son to carry on the name. the gravestone of these first d'arthenays was still to be seen in the old burying-ground: they had been the first to be buried there. the old stone was sunk half-way in the earth, and was gray with moss and lichens; but the inscription was still legible, if one looked close, and had patience to decipher the crabbed text. "jacques st. george, sieur d'arthenay et de vivonne. mort en foi et en esperance, me decembre, ." then a pair of mailed hands, clasped as in sign of friendship or loyalty, and beneath them again, the words, "d'arthenay, tenez foi!" the story was that the son of this first sieur d'arthenay had been exposed to some dire temptation, whether of love or of ambition was not clearly known, and had been in danger of turning from the faith of his people and embracing that of rome. he came one day to meditate beside his father's grave, hoping perhaps to draw some strength, some inspiration, from the memories of that stern and righteous huguenot; and as he sat beside the stone, lo! a mailed hand appeared, holding a sword, and graved with the point of the sword on the stone, the old motto of his father's house,-- "d'arthenay, tenez foi!" and he had been strengthened, and lived and died in the faith of his father. many people in the village scouted this story, and called it child's foolishness, but there were some who liked to believe it, and who pointed out that these words were not carved deeply and regularly, like the rest of the inscription, but roughly scratched, as if with a sharp point. and that although merely so scratched, they had never been effaced, but were even more easily read than the carven script. among those who held it for foolishness was the present jacques de arthenay. he was perhaps the fifth in descent from the old huguenot, but he might have been his own son or brother. the huguenot doctrines had only grown a little colder, a little harder, turned into new england orthodoxy as it was understood fifty years ago. he thought little of his french descent or his noble blood. he pronounced his name jakes, as all his neighbors did; he lived on his farm, as they lived on theirs. if it was a better farm, the land in better condition, the buildings and fences trimmer and better cared for, that was in the man, not in his circumstances. he was easily leader among the few men whose scattered dwellings made up the village of sea meadows (commonly pronounced semedders.) his house did not lie on the little "street," as that part of the road was called where some half-dozen houses were clustered together, with their farms spreading out behind them, and the post-office for the king-pin; yet no important step would be taken by the villagers without the advice and approval of jacques de arthenay. briefly, he was a born leader; a masterful man, with a habit of thinking before he spoke; and when he said a thing must be done, people were apt to do it. he was now thirty years old, without kith or kin that any one knew of; living by himself in a good house, and keeping it clean and decent, almost as a woman might; not likely ever to change his condition, it was supposed. this was the man who happened to come into the street on some errand, that soft summer evening, at the very moment when marie was feeling lifted up by the light of joy in the children's faces, and was telling herself how good it was that she had come this way. hearing the sound of the fiddle, de arthenay stopped for a moment, and his face grew dark as night. he was a religious man, as sternly so as his huguenot ancestor, but wearing his religion with a difference. he knew all music, except psalm-tunes, to be directly from the devil. even as to the psalm-tunes themselves, it seemed to him a dreadful thing that worship could not be conducted without this compromise with evil, this snare to catch the ear; and he harboured in the depth of his soul thoughts about the probable frivolity of david, which he hardly voiced even to himself. the fiddle, in particular, he held to be positively devilish, both in its origin and influence; those who played this unholy instrument were bound to no good place, and were sure to gain their port, in his opinion. being thus minded, it was with a shock of horror that he heard the sound of a fiddle in the street of his own village, not fifty yards from the meeting-house itself. after a moment's pause, he came wrathfully down the street; his height raised him a head and shoulders above the people who were ringed around the little musician, and he looked over their heads, with his arm raised to command, and his lips opened to forbid the shameful thing. then--he saw marie's face; and straightway his arm dropped to his side, and he stood without speaking. the children looked up at him, and moved away, for they were always afraid of him, and at this moment his face was dreadful to see. yet it was nothing dreadful that he looked upon. marie was standing with her head bent down over her violin, in a pretty way she had. a light, slight figure, not short, yet with a look that spoke all of youth and morning grace. she wore a little blue gown, patched and faded, and dusty enough after her day's walk; her feet were dusty too, but slender and delicately shaped. her face was like nothing that had been seen in those parts before, and the beauty of it seemed to strike cold to the man's heart, as he stood and gazed with unwilling eyes, hating the feeling that constrained him, yet unable for the moment to restrain it or to turn his eyes away. she had that clear, bright whiteness of skin that is seen only in frenchwomen, and only here and there among these; whiteness as of fire behind alabaster. her hair was black and soft, and the lashes lay like jet on her cheek, as she stood looking down, smiling a little, feeling so happy, so pleased that she was pleasing others. and now, when she raised her eyes, they were seen to be dark and soft, too; but with what fire in their depths, what sunny light of joy,--the joy of a child among children! de arthenay started, and his hands clenched themselves unconsciously. marie started, too, as she met the stern gaze fixed upon her, and the joyous light faded from her eyes. rudely it broke in upon her pleasant thoughts,--this vision of a set, bearded face, with cold blue eyes that yet had a flame in them, like a spark struck from steel. the little song died on her lips, and unconsciously she lowered her bow, and stood silent, returning helplessly the look bent so sternly upon her. when jacques de arthenay found himself able to speak at last, he started at the sound of his own voice. "who are you?" he asked. "how did you come here, young woman?" marie held out her fiddle with a pretty, appealing gesture. "i come--from away!" she said, in her broken english, that sounded soft and strange to his ears. "i do no harm. i play, to make happy the children, to get bread for me." "who came with you?" de arthenay continued. "who are your folks?" marie shook her head, and a light crept into her eyes as she thought of le boss. "i have nobodies'" she said. "i am with myself, _sauf le violon_; i mean, wiz my fiddle. monsieur likes not music, no?" she looked wistfully at him, and something seemed to rise up in the man's throat and choke him. he made a violent motion, as if to free himself from something. what had happened to him,--was he suddenly possessed, or was he losing his wits? he tried to force his voice back into its usual tone, tried even to speak gently, though his heart was beating so wildly at the way she looked, at the sweet notes of her voice, like a flute in its lower notes, that he could hardly hear his own words. "no, no music!" he said. "there must be no music here, among christian folks. put away that thing, young woman. it is an evil thing, bringing sin, and death, which is the wages of sin, with it. how came you here, if you have no one belonging to you?" falteringly, her sweet eyes dropped on the ground, with only now and then a timid, appealing glance at this terrible person, this awful judge who had suddenly dropped from the skies, marie told her little story, or as much of it as she thought needful. she had been with bad people, playing for them, a long time, she did not know how long. and then they would take away her violin, and she would not stay, and she ran away from them, and had walked all day, and--and that was all. a little sob shook her voice at the last words; she had not realised before how utterly alone she was. the delight of freedom, of getting away from her tyrants, had been enough at first, and she had been as it were on wings all day, like a bird let loose from its cage; now the little bird was weary, and the wings drooped, and there was no nest, not even a friendly cage where one would find food and drink, a sudden passion of pity--he supposed it was pity--shook the strong man. he felt a wild impulse to catch the little shrinking creature in his arms and bear her away to his own home, to warm and cheer and comfort her. was there ever before anything in the world so sweet, so helpless, so forlorn? he looked around. the children were all gone; he stood alone in the street with the foreign woman, and night was falling. it was at this moment that abby rock, who had been watching from her window for the past few minutes, opened her door and came out, stepping quietly toward them, as if they were just the people she had expected to see. de arthenay hailed her as an angel from heaven; and yet abby did not look like an angel. "abby!" he cried. "come here a minute, will you?" "good evening, jacques!" said abby, in her quiet voice. "good evening to you!" she added, speaking kindly to the little stranger. "i was coming to see if you wouldn't like to step into my house and rest you a spell. why, my heart!" she cried, as marie raised her head at the sound of the friendly voice, "you're nothing but a child. come right along with me, my dear. alone, are ye, and night coming on!" "that's right, abby!" cried de arthenay, with feverish eagerness. "yes, yes, take her home with you and make her comfortable. she is a stranger, and has no friends, so she says. i--i'll see you in the morning about her. take her! take her in where she will be comfortable, and i'll--" "i'll pay you well for it," was what he was going to say, but abby's quiet look stopped the words on his lips. why should he pay her for taking care of a stranger, of whom he knew no more than she did; whom he had never seen till this moment?--why, indeed! and she was as well able to pay for the young woman's keep as he was to say the least. all this de arthenay saw, or fancied he saw, in abby rock's glance. he turned away, muttering something about seeing them in the morning; then, with an abrupt bow, which yet was not without grace, he strode swiftly down the street and took his way home. chapter iii. abby rock. if abby rock's kitchen was not heaven, it seemed very near it to marie that evening. she found herself suddenly in an atmosphere of peace and comfort of which her life had heretofore known nothing. the evening had fallen chill outside, but here all was warm and light and cheerful, and the warmth and cheer seemed to be embodied in the person of the woman who moved quickly to and fro, stirring the fire, putting the kettle on the hob (for those were the days of the open fire, of crane and kettle, and picturesque, if not convenient, housekeeping), drawing a chair up near the cheerful blaze. marie felt herself enfolded with comfort. a shawl was thrown over her shoulders; she was lifted like a child, and placed in the chair by the fireside; and now, as she sat in a dream, fearing every moment to wake and find herself back in the old life again, a cup of tea, hot and fragrant, was set before her, and the handkerchief tenderly loosened from her neck, while a kind voice bade her drink, for it would do her good. "you look beat out, and that's the fact," said abby rock. "to-morrow you shall tell me all about it, but you no need to say a single word to-night, only just set still and rest ye. i'm a lone woman here. i buried my mother last june, and i'm right glad to have company once in a while. abby rock, my name is; and perhaps if you'd tell me yours, we should feel more comfortable like, when we come to sit down to supper. what do you say?" her glance was so kind, her voice so cordial and hearty, that marie could have knelt down to thank her. "i am marie," she said, smiling back into the kind eyes. "only marie, nossing else." "maree!" repeated abby rock. "well, it's a pretty name, sure enough; has a sound of 'mary' in it, too, and that was my mother's name. but what was your father's name, or your mother's, if so be your father ain't living now?" marie shook her head. "i never know!" she said. "all the days i lived with mere jeanne in the village, far away, oh, far, over the sea." "over the sea?" said abby. "you mean the bay, don't you,--some of those french settlements down along the shore?" but marie meant the sea, it appeared; for her village was in france, in eretagne, and there she had lived till the day when mere jeanne died, and she was left alone, with no-one belonging to her. mere jeanne was not her mother, no! nor yet her grandmother,--only her mother's aunt, but good, abby must understand, good as an angel, good as abby herself. and when she was dead, there was only her son, jeannot, and he had married a devil,--but yes!--as abby exclaimed, and held up her hands in reproof,--truly a devil of the worst kind; and one day, when jeannot was away, this wife had sold her, marie, to another devil, le boss, who made the tours in the country for to sing and to play. and he had brought her away to this country, over very dreadful seas, where one went down into the grave at every instant, and then up again to the clouds, but leaving one's stomach behind one--ah, but terrible! others were with them, oh, yes!--this in response to abby's question, for in spite of her good resolutions, curiosity was taking possession of her, and it was evidently a relief to marie to pour out her little tale in a sympathetic ear,--many others. la patronne, the wife of le boss, who was like a barrel, but not bad, when she could see through the fat, not bad in every way; and there was old billy, who took care of the horses and dogs, and he was her friend, and she loved him, and he had always the good word for her even when he was very drunk, too drunk to speak to any one else. and then there was the daughter of le boss, who would in all probability never die, for she was so ugly that she would not be admitted into the other world, where, mere jeanne said, even monsieur the great devil himself was good-looking, save for his expression. also there were the boys who tumbled and rode on the ponies, and--and--and ozer people. and with this mane's head dropped forward, and she was asleep. it seemed a pity to wake her when supper was ready, but abby knew just how good her rolls were, and knew that the child must be famished; and sure enough, after a little nap, marie was ready to wake and sit up at the little round table, and be fed like a baby with everything good that abby could think of. the fare had not been dainty in the travelling troupe of le boss. the fine white bread, the golden butter, the bit of broiled fish, smoking hot, seemed viands of paradise to the hungry girl. she laughed for pleasure, and her eyes shone like stars. it was like the chateau, she said, where everything was gold and silver,--the chateau where madame la comtesse lived. as for abby herself, marie gravely informed her that she was an angel. abby laughed, not ill pleased. "i don't look special like angels," she said; "that is, if the pictures i've seen are correct. not much wings and curls and white robes about me, maree. and who ever heard of an angel in a check apurn, i want to know?" but marie was not to be turned aside. it was well known, she said, that angels could not come to earth undisguised in these days. it had something to do with the jews, she did not know exactly what. mere jeanne had told her, but she forgot just how it was. but as to their not coming at all, that would be out of the question, for how would the good god know what was going on down here, or know who was behaving well and meriting a crown of glory, and who should go down into the pit? did not abby see that? abby privately thought that here was strange heathen talk to be going on in her kitchen; but she said nothing, only gave her guest more jam, and said she was eating nothing,--the proper formula for a good hostess, no matter how much the guest may have devoured. it was true, as has been said before, that abby rock was not fair to outward view. nature had been in a crabbed mood when she fashioned this gaunt, angular form, these gnarled, unlovely features. an uncharitable neighbour, in describing abby, once said that she looked as if she had swallowed an old cedar fence-rail and shrunk to it; and the description was apt enough so far as the body went. her skin, eyes, and hair were of different shades (yet not so very different) of greyish brown; her nose was long and knotty, her mouth and chin apparently taken at random from a box of misfits. yes, the cedar fence-rail came as near to it as anything could. yet somehow, no one who had seen the light of kindness in those faded eyes, and heard the sweet, cordial tones of that quiet voice, thought much about their owner's looks. people said it was a pity abby wasn't better favoured, and then they thought no more about it, but were simply thankful that she existed. she had led the life that many an ugly saint leads, here in new england, and the world over. nurse and drudge for the pretty younger sister, the pride and joy of her heart, till she married and went away to live in a distant state; then drudge and nurse for the invalid mother, broken down by unremitting toil. no toil would ever break abby down, for she was a strong woman; she had never worked too hard that she was aware of; but--she had always worked, and never done anything else. no lover had ever looked into her eyes or taken her hand tenderly. not likely! she would say to herself with a scornful sniff, eyeing her homely face in the glass. men weren't such fools as they looked. one or two had wanted to marry her house, as she expressed it, and had asked for herself into the bargain, not seeing how they could manage it otherwise. they were not to blame for wanting the house, she thought with some complacency, as she glanced round her sitting-room. everything in the room shone and twinkled. the rugs were beautifully made, and the floor under them in the usual dining-table condition ascribed ever since books were written to the model housewife. the corner cupboards held treasures of blue and white that it makes one ache to think of to-day, and some pieces of india china besides, brought over seas by some sea-going rock of a former generation: and there were silver spoons in the iron box under abby's bed, and the dragon tea-pot on the high narrow mantel-piece was always full, but not with tea-leaves. yes, and there was no better cow in the village than abby's, save those two fancy heifers that jacques de arthenay had lately bought. altogether, she did not wonder that some of the weaker brethren, who found their own farms "hard sledding," should think enough of her pleasant home to be willing to take her along with it, since they could do no better; but they did not get it. abby found life very pleasant, now that grief was softened down into tender recollection. to be alone, and able to do things just when she wanted to do them, and in her own way; to consider what she herself liked to eat, and to wear, and to do; to feel that she could come and go, rise up and lie down, at her own will,--was strange but pleasant to her. how long the pleasure would have lasted is another question, for the woman's nature was to love and to serve; but just now there was no doubt that she was enjoying her freedom. and now she had taken in this little stranger, just because she felt like it; it was a new luxury, a new amusement, that was all. such a pretty little creature, so soft and young, and with that brightness in her face! sister lizzie was light-complected, and this child didn't favour her, not the least mite; yet it was some like the same feeling, as if it were a kitten or a pretty bird to take care of, and feed and pet. so thought abby, as she tucked up marie in sister lizzie's little white bed, in the pink ribbon chamber, as she had named it in sport, after she had let lizzie furnish it to her taste, that last year before she was married. the child looked about her as if it were a palace, instead of a lean-to chamber with a sloping roof. she had never seen anything like this in her life, since those days when she went to the chateau. she touched the white walls softly, and passed her hand over the pink mats on the bureau with wondering awe. and then she curled up in the white bed when abby bade her, as like a kitten as anything could be. "oh, you are good, good!" cried the child, whom the warmth and comfort and kindness seemed to have lifted into another world from the cold, sordid one in which she had lived so long. she caught the kind hard knotted hand, and kissed it; but abby snatched it away, and blushed to her eyebrows, feeling that something improper had occurred. "there! there!" she said, half confused, half reproving. "you don't want to do such things as that! i've done no more than was right, and you alone and friendless, and night coming on. go to sleep now, like a good girl, and we'll see in the morning." so marie went to sleep in sister lizzie's bed, with her fiddle lying across her feet, since she could not sleep a wink otherwise, she said; and when abby went downstairs the room seemed cold, and she thought how she missed lizzie, and wondered if it wouldn't be pleasant to keep this pretty creature for a spell, and do for her a little, and make her up some portion of clothing. there was a real good dress of lizzie's, hanging this minute in the press upstairs: she had a good mind to take it out at once and see what could be done to it; perhaps--and abby did not go to bed very early herself that night. chapter iv. possession. jacques de arthenay went home that night like a man possessed. he was furious with himself, with the strange woman who had thus set his sober thoughts in a whirl, with the very children in the street who had laughed and danced and encouraged her in her sinful music, to her own peril and theirs. he thought it was only anger that so held his mind; yet once in his house, seated on the little stool before his fire, he found himself still in the street, still looking down into that lovely childish face that lifted itself so innocently to his, still smitten to the heart by the beauty of it, and by the fear that he saw in it of his own stern aspect. he had never looked upon any woman before. he had been proud of it,--proud of his strength and cleverness, that needed no meddlesome female creature coming in between him and his business, between him and his religion. he had not let his hair and beard grow, knowing nothing of such practices, but in heart he had been a nazarite from his youth up,--serving god in his harsh, unloving way; loving god, as he thought; certainly loving nothing else, if it were not the dumb creatures, to whom he was always kind and just. and now--what had happened to him? he asked himself the question sternly, sitting there before the cheerful blaze, yet neither seeing nor feeling it. the answer seemed to cry itself in his ears, to write itself before his eyes in letters of fire. the thing had happened that happens in the story books, that really comes to pass once in a hundred years, they say. he had seen the one woman in the world that he wanted for his own, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish. she was a stranger, a vagabond, trading in iniquity, and gaining her bread by the corruption of souls of men and children; and he loved her, he longed for her, and the world meant nothing to him henceforth unless he could have her. he put the thought away from him like a snake, but it came back and curled round his heart, and made him cold and then hot and then cold again. was he not a professing christian, bound by the strictest ties? yes! how she looked, standing there with the children about her, the little slender figure swaying to and fro to the music, the pretty head bent down so lovingly, the dark eyes looking here and there, bright and shy, like those of a wild creature so gentle in its nature that it knew no fear. but he had taught her fear! yes, he saw it grow under his eyes, just as the love grew in his own heart at the same moment. love! what sort of word was that for him to be using, even in his mind? to-morrow she would be gone, this wandering fiddler, and all this would be forgotten in a day, for he had the new cattle to see to, and a hundred things of importance. but was anything else of importance save just this one girl? and if he should let her go on her way, out into the world again, to certain perdition, would not the guilt be partly his? he, who saw and knew the perils and pitfalls, might he not snatch this child from the fire and save her soul alive?--no! he would begone, as soon as morning came, and take this sinful body of his away from temptation. how soon would abby get through her morning work, so that he might with some fair pretext go to the house to see how the stranger had slept, and how she had fared? it would be cowardly to drop the burden on abby's shoulders, she only a woman like the rest of them, even if she had somewhat more sense. so jacques de arthenay sat by his fire till it was cold and dead, a miserable and a wrathful man; and he too slept little that night. but marie slept long and peacefully in sister lizzie's bed, and looked so pretty in her sleep that abby came three times to wake her, and three times went away again, unable to spoil so perfect a picture. at last, however, the dark eyes opened of their own accord, and marie began to chirp and twitter, like a bird at daybreak in its nest; only instead of daybreak, it was eight o'clock in the morning, a most shocking hour for anybody to be getting up. but abby had been in the habit of spoiling her sister, who had a theory that she was never able to do anything early in the morning, and so it was much more considerate for her to stay in bed and keep out of abby's way. this is a comfortable theory. "i suppose you've been an early riser, though?" said abby, as she poured the coffee, looking meanwhile approvingly at the figure of her guest, neatly attired in a pink and white print gown, which fitted her in a truly astonishing manner, proving, abby thought in her simple way, that it had really been a "leading,"--her bringing the stranger home last night. "oh, but yes," marie answered. "i help always old billy wiz the dogs first, they must be exercise, and do their tricks, and then they are feed. so hungry they are, the dogs! it make very hard not first to feed them, _hein_?" "is--william--feeble?" abby inquired, with some hesitation. "feeble, no!" said marie, with a little laugh. "but old, you know, and when he is too much drunk it take away his mind; so then i help him, that le boss does not find out that and beat him. for he is good, you see, old billy, and we make comrades togezzer always." "dear me!" said abby, doubtfully. "it don't seem as if you ought to be going with--with that kind of person, maree. we don't associate with drinking men, here in these parts. i don't know how it is where you come from." oh, there, marie said, it was different. there the drink did not make men crazy. this was a country where the devil had so much power, you see, that it made it hard for poor folks like old billy, who would do well enough in her country, and at the worst take a little too much at a feast or a wedding. but in those cases, the saints took very good care that nothing should happen to them. she did not know what the saints did in this country, or indeed, if there were any. "oh, maree!" cried abby, scandalised. "i guess i wouldn't talk like that, if i was you. you--you, ain't a papist, are you,--a catholic?" oh, no! mere jeanne was of the reformed religion, and had brought marie up so. it was a misfortune, madame the countess always said; but marie preferred to be as mere jeanne had been. the catholic girls in the village said that mere jeanne had gone straight to the pit, but that proved that they were ignorant entirely of the things of religion. why, le boss was a catholic, he; and everybody knew that he had the evil eye, and that it was not safe to come near him without making the horns. "for the land's sake!" cried abby rock, dropping her dish-cloth into the sink, "what are you talking about, child?" "but, the horns!" marie answered innocently. "when a person has the evil eye, you not make at him the horns, so way?" and she held out the index and little finger of her right hand, bending the other fingers down. "so!" she said; "when they so are held, the evil eye has no power. what you do here to stop him?" "we don't believe in any such a thing!" abby replied, with, some severity. "why, maree, them's all the same as heathen notions, like witchcraft and such. we don't hold by none of those things in this country at all, and i guess you'd better not talk about 'em." marie's eyes opened wide. "but," she said, "_c'est une chose_,--it is a thing that all know. as for le boss, you know--listen!" she came nearer to abby, and lowered her voice. "one night old billy forgot to do, i know not what, but somesing. so when le boss found it out, he look at him, so,"--drawing her brows down and frowning horribly, with the effect of looking like an enraged kitten,--"and say noasing at all. you see?" "well," replied abby. "i suppose mebbe he thought it was an accident, and might have happened to any one." "not--at--all!" cried marie, with dramatic emphasis, throwing out her hand with a solemn gesture. "what happen that same night? old billy fall down the bank and break his leg!" she paused, and nodded like a little mandarin, to point the moral of her tale. "maree!" remonstrated abby rock, "don't tell me you believe such foolishness as that! he'd have fallen down all the same if nobody had looked anigh him. why, good land! i never heard of such notions." "so it is!" marie insisted. "le boss look at him, and he break his leg. i see the break! anozer day," she continued, "coco, he is a boy that makes tumble, and he was hungry, and he took a don't from the table to eat it--" "took a what?" asked abby. "a don't, what you call. round, wiz a hole to put your finger!" explained marie. "only in america they make zem. not of such things in bretagne, never. coco took the don't, and le boss catch him, and look at him again, so! well, yes! in two hour he is sick, that boy, and after zat for a week. a-a-a-h! yes, le boss! only at me he not dare to look, for i have the charm, and he know that, and he is afraid. aha, yes, he is afraid of marie too, when he wish to make devil work. "and here," she cried, turning suddenly upon abby, "you say you have no such thing, abiroc,"--this was the name she had given her hostess,--"and here, too, is the evil eye, first what i see in this place, except the dear little children. a man yesterday came while i played, and looked--but, frightful! ah!" she started from her seat by the window, and retreated hastily to the corner. "he comes, the same man! put me away, abiroc! put me away! he is bad, he is wicked! i die if he look at me!" and she ran hastily out of the room, just as jacques de arthenay entered it. chapter v. courtship. marie could hardly be persuaded to come back into the sitting-room; and when she did at length come, it was only to sit silent in the corner, with one hand held behind her, and her eyes fixed steadfastly on the floor. in vain abby rock tried to draw her into the conversation, telling her how she, abby, and mr. de arthenay had been talking about her, and how they thought she'd better stay right on where she was for a spell, till she was all rested up, and knew what she wanted to do. mr. de arthenay would be a friend to her, and no one could be a better one, as she'd find. but marie only said that monsieur was very kind, and never raised her eyes to his. de arthenay, on his part, was no more at ease. he could not take his eyes from the slender figure, so shrinking and modest, or the lovely downcast face. he had no words to tell her all that was in his heart, nor would he have told it if he could. it was still a thing of horror to him,--a thing that would surely be cast out as soon as he came to himself; and how better could he bring himself to his senses than by facing this dream, this possession of the night, and crushing it down, putting it out of existence? so he sat still, and gazed at the dream, and felt its reality in every fibre of his being; and poor good abby sat and talked for all three, and wondered what to goodness was coming of all this. she wondered more and more as the days went on. it became evident to her that de arthenay, her stern, silent neighbour, who had never so much as looked at a woman before, was "possessed" about her little guest. marie, on the other hand, continued to regard him with terror, and never failed to make the horns secretly when he appeared; yet day after day he came, and sat silent in the sitting-room, and gazed at marie, and wrestled with the devil within him. he never doubted that it was the devil. there was no awkwardness to him in sitting thus silent; it was the habit of his life: he spoke when he had occasion to say anything; for the rest, he considered over-much speech as one of the curses of our fallen state. but abby "felt as if she should fly," as she expressed it to herself, while he sat there. a pall of silence seemed to descend upon the room, generally so cheerful: the french girl cowered under it, and seemed to shrink visibly, like a dumb creature in fright. and when he was gone, she would spring up and run like a deer to her own little room, and seize her violin, and play passionately, the instrument crying under her hands, like a living creature, protesting against grief, against silence and darkness, and the fear of something unknown, which seemed to be growing out of the silence. sometimes abby thought the best thing to do would be to open the door of the cage, and let the little stray bird flutter out, as she had fluttered in those few days ago, by chance--was it by chance? but the bird was so willing to stay; was so happy, except when that silent shadow fell upon the cheerful house; so sweet, so grateful for little kindnesses (and who would not be kind to her, abby thought!); such a singing, light, pretty creature to look at and listen to! and the house had been so quiet since mother died; and after all, it was pleasant to have some one to do for and "putter round." the neighbours said, there! now abby rock was safe to live, for she had got another baby to take care of; she'd ha' withered up and blown away if she had gone on living alone, with no one to make of. and what talks they had, abby and marie! the latter told all about her early childhood with the good old woman whom she called mere jeanne, and explained how she came to have the lady, and to play as she did. the countess, it appeared, lived up at the castle; a great lady, oh, but very great, and beautiful as the angels. she was alone there, for the count was away on a foreign mission, and she had no child, the countess. so one day she saw marie, when the latter was bringing flowers to the gardener's wife, who was good to her; and the countess called the child to her, and took her on her knee, and talked with her. ah, she was good, the countess, and lovely! after that marie was brought to the castle every day, and the countess played to her of the violin, and marie knew all at once that this was the best thing in the world, and the dearest, and the one to die for, you understand. (but abby did not understand in the least.) so when madame the countess saw how it was, she taught marie, and got her the lady, the violin which was marie's life and soul; and she let come down from paris a great teacher, and they all played together, the countess his friend, for many years his pupil, and the great violinist, and marie, the little peasant girl in her blue gown and cap. he said she was a born musician, marie: of course, he was able to see things, being of the same nature; but mere jeanne was unhappy, and said no good would come of it. yes, well, what is to be, you know, that will be, and nossing else. the great teacher died, and there was an end of him. and after a while monsieur the count came home, and carried away the countess to live in paris, and so--and--so--that was all! "but not all!" cried the child, springing from her seat, and raising her head, which had drooped for a moment. "not all! for i have the music, see, abiroc! all days of my life i can make music, make happy, make joy of myself and ozerbodies. when i take her; madame, so, in my hand, i can do what i will, no? people have glad thinks, sorry thinks; what marie tells them to have, that have they. _ah! la tonne aventure, oh gai_!" and she would throw her head back and begin to play, and play till the chairs almost danced on their four legs. de arthenay never heard the fiddle. abby managed it somehow, she hardly knew how or why. he had never spoken about the evil thing, as he would have called it, since that first day; perhaps he thought that abby had taken it away, as a pious church member should, and destroyed it from the face of the earth. at all events there was no mention of it, and the only sound he heard when he approached the house was the whir of abby's wheel (for women still spun then, in that part of the country), or the one voice he cared to hear in the world, uplifted in some light godless song. so things went on for a while; and then came a change. one day marie came into the sitting-room, hearing abby call her. it was the hour of de arthenay's daily visit, and he sat silent in the corner, as usual; but abby had an open letter in her hand, and was crying softly, with her apron hiding her good homely face. "maree," said the good woman, "i've got bad news. my sister lizzie that i've told you so much about, she's dreadful sick, and i've got to go right out and take care of her. thank you, dear!" (as she felt marie's arms round her on the instant, and the soft voice murmured little french sympathies in her ear), "you're real good, i'm sure, and i know you feel for me. i've got to go right off to-morrow or next day, soon as i can get things to rights and see to the stock and things. but what is troubling me is you, maree. i don't see what is to become of you, poor child, unless--well, now, you come here and sit down by me, and listen to what mr. de arthenay has to say to you. you know he's ben your friend, maree, ever sence you come; so you listen to him, like a good girl." abby was in great trouble: indeed, she was the most agitated of the three, for it was with outward calm, at least, that de arthenay spoke; and marie listened quietly, too, plaiting her apron, between her fingers, and forgetting for the moment to make the horns with her left hand. briefly, he asked her to be his wife; to come home with him, and keep his house, and share good and evil with him. he would take care of her, he said, and--and--he trusted the lord would bless the union. if his voice shook now and then, if he kept his eyes lowered, that neither woman should see the light and the struggle in them, that was his own affair; he spoke quietly to the end, and then drew a long breath, feeling that he had come through better than he had expected. abby looked for an outburst of some kind from marie, whether of tears or of sudden childish fear or anger; but neither came. marie thanked monsieur, and said he was very kind, very kind indeed. she would like to think about it a little, if they pleased; she would do all she could to please them, but she was very young, and she would like to take time, if monsieur thought it not wrong: and so rising from her seat, she made a little courtesy, with her eyes still on the ground, and slipped away out of the room, and was gone. the others sat looking at each other, neither ready to speak first. finally abby reflected that jacques would not speak, at all unless she began, so she said, with a sigh between the words; "i guess it'll be all right, jacques. it's only proper that she should have time to think it over, and she such a child. not but what it's a great chance for her," she added hastily. "my! to get a good home, and a good provider, as i make no doubt you would be, after the life she's led, traipsin' here and there, and livin' with darkened heathens, or as bad. but--but--you'll be kind to her, won't you, jacques? she--she's not a woman yet, in her feelin's, as you might say. she ain't nothin' but a baby to our girls about here, that's brought up to see with their eyes and talk with their mouths. you'll have patience with her, if her ways are a good deal different from what you were used to; along back in your mother's time?" but here good abby paused, for she saw that de arthenay heard not a word of her well-meant discourse. he sat brooding in the corner, as was his wont, but with a light in his eyes and a color in his cheek that abby had never seen before. "jacques de arthenay, you are fairly possessed!" she said, in rather an awestruck voice, as he rose abruptly to bid her good-day. "i don't believe you can think of anything except that child." "so more i can!" said the man, looking at her with bright, hard eyes. "nothing else! she is my life!" and with that he turned hastily to the door and was gone. "his life!" repeated abby, gazing after him as he strode away down the street. "much like his life she is, the pretty creetur! and she saying that fiddle was her life, only yesterday! how are all these lives going to work together? that's what i want to know!" and she shook her head, and went back to her spinning. there was no doubt in abby's mind about marie's answer, when she grew a little used to the new idea. her silent suitor was many years older than she, it was true, but as she said to him, what a chance for the friendless wanderer! and if he loved her now, how much more he would love her when he came to know her well, and see all her pretty ways about the house, like a kitten or a bird. and she would respect and admire him, that was certain, abby thought. he was a pictur' of a man, when he got his store clothes on, and nobody had ever had a word to say against him. he was no talker, but some thought that was no drawback in the married state. abby remembered how sister lizzie's young husband had tormented her with foolish questions during the week he bad spent with them at the time of the marriage: a spruce young clerk from a city store, not knowing one end of a hoe from the other, and asking questions all the time, and not remembering anything you told him long enough for it to get inside his head; though there was room enough inside for consid'able many ideas, abby thought. yes, certainly, if so be one had to be portioned with a husband, the one that said least would be the least vexation in the end. so she was content, on the whole, and glad that marie took it all so quietly and sensibly, and made no doubt the girl was turning it over in her mind, and making ready a real pretty answer for jacques when he called the next day. yes, marie was turning it over in her mind, but not just in the way her good hostess supposed. only one thought came to her, but that thought filled her whole mind; she must get away,--away at once from this place, from the stern man with the evil eye, who wanted to take her and kill her slowly, that he might have the pleasure of seeing her die. ah, she knew, marie! had she not seen wicked people before? but she would not tell abiroc, for it would only grieve her, and she would talk, talk, and marie wanted no talking. she only wanted to get away, out into the open fields once more, where nobody would look at her or want to marry her, and where roads might be found leading away to golden cities, full of children who liked to hear play the violin, and who danced when one played it well. early next morning, while abby was out milking the cows, marie stole away. she put on her little blue gown again; ah! how old and faded it looked beside the fresh, pretty-prints that abby would always have her wear! but it was her own, and when she had it on, and the old handkerchief tied under her chin once more, and madame in her box, ready to go with her the world over, why, then she felt that she was marie once more; that this had all been a mistake, this sojourn among the strange, kind people who spoke so loud and through such long noses; that now her life was to begin, as she had really meant it to begin when she ran away from le boss and his hateful tyranny. out she slipped, in the sweet, fresh morning. no-one saw her go, for the village was a busy place at all times, and at this early hour every man and woman was busy in barn or kitchen. at one house a child knocked at the window, a child for whom she had played and sung many times. he stood there in his little red nightgown, and nodded and laughed; and marie nodded back, smiling, and wondered if he would ever run away, and ever know how good, how good it was, to be alone, with no one else in the world to say, "do this!" or "do that!" just as she came out, the sun rose over the hill, and looking at the fiery ball marie perceived that it danced in the sky. yes, assuredly, so it was! there was the same wavering motion that she had seen on every fair easter day that she could remember. she thought how mere jeanne had first called her attention, to it, when she was little, little, just able to toddle, and had told her that the sun danced so on easter morning, for joy that the good lord had risen from the dead; and so it was a lesson for us all, and we must dance on easter day, if we never danced all the rest of the year. ah, how they danced at home there in the village! but now, it was not easter at all, and yet the sun danced; what should it mean? and it came to marie's mind that perhaps the good lord had told it to dance, for a sign to her that all would go well, and that she was doing quite right to run away from persons with the evil eye. when you came to think of it, what was more probable? they always said, those girls in the village, that the saints did the things they asked them to do. when barbe lost her gold earring, did not saint joseph find it for her, and tell her to look among the potato-parings that had been thrown out the day before? and there, sure enough, it was, and the pigs never touching it, because they had been told not to touch! well, and if the saints could do that, it would be a pity indeed if the good lord could not make the sun dance when he felt like doing a kind thing for a poor girl. with the dazzle of that dancing sun still in her eyes, with happy thoughts filling her mind, marie turned the corner of the straggling road that was called a street by the people who lived along it,--turned the corner, and almost fell into the arms of a man, who was coming in the opposite direction. both uttered a cry at the same moment: marie first giving a little startled shriek, but her voice dying away in terrified silence as she saw the man's face; the latter uttering a shout of delight, of fierce and cruel triumph, that rang out strangely in the quiet morning air. for this was le boss! a man with a bloated, cruel face, sodden with drink and inflamed with all fierce and inhuman passions; a strong man, who held the trembling girl by the shoulder as if she were a reed, and gazed into her face with eyes of fiendish triumph; an angry man, who poured out a torrent of furious words, reproaching, threatening, by turns, as he found his victim once more within his grasp, just when he had given up all hope of finding her again. ah, but he had her now, though! let her try it again, to run away! she would find even this time that she had enough, but another time--and on and on, as a coarse and brutal man can go on to a helpless creature that is wholly in his power. marie was silent, cowering in his grasp, looking about with hunted, despairing eyes. there was nothing to do, no word to say that would help. it had all been a mistake,--the sun dancing, the heavens bending down to aid and cheer her,--all had been a mistake, a lie. there was nothing now for the rest of her life but this,--this brutality that clutched and shook her slender figure, this hatred that hissed venomous words in her ear. this was the end, forever, till death should come to set her free. but what was this? what was happening? for the hateful voice faltered, the grasp on her shoulder weakened, the blaze of the fierce eyes turned from her. a cry was heard, a wild, inarticulate cry of rage, of defiance; the next moment something rushed past her like a flash; there was a brief struggle, a shout, an oath, then a heavy fall. when the bewildered child could clear her eyes from the mist of fright that clouded them, le boss was lying on the ground; and towering over him like an avenging spirit, his blue eyes aflame, his strong hands clenched for another blow, stood jacques de arthenay. just what happened next, marie never quite knew. words were said as in a dream. was it a real voice that was saying: "this is my wife, you dog! take yourself out of my sight, before worse comes to you!" was it real? and did le boss, gathering himself up from the grass with foul curses, too horrible to think of--did he make reply that she was his property, that he had bought her, paid for her, and would have his own! and then the other voice again, saying, "i tell you she is my wife, the wife of a free man. speak, mary, and tell him you are my wife!" and did she--with those blue eyes on her, which she had never met before, but which now caught and chained her gaze, so that she could not look away, try as she might--did she of her own free will answer, "yes, monsieur, i am your wife, if you say it; if you will keep me from him, monsieur!" then--marie did not know what came then. there were more words between the two men, loud and fierce on one side, low and fierce on the other; and then le boss was gone, and she was walking back to the house with the man who had saved her, the man to whom she belonged now; the strong man, whose hand, holding hers as they walked, trembled far more than her own. but marie did not feel as if she should ever tremble again. for that one must be alive, must have strength in one's limbs; and was she dead, she wondered, or only asleep? and would she wake up some happy moment, and find herself in the little white bed at abiroc's house, or better still, out in the blessed fields, alone with the birds under the free sky? chapter vi. wedlock. they were married that very day. abby begged piteously for a little delay, that she might make clothes, and give her pretty pet a "good send-off;" but de arthenay would not hear of it. mary was his wife in the sight of god; let her become so in the sight of man! so a white gown was found and put on the little passive creature, and good abby, crying with excitement, twined some flowers in the soft dark hair, and thought that even sister lizzie, in her blue silk dress and chip bonnet, had not made so lovely a bride as this stranger, this wandering child from no one knew where. the wedding took place in abby's parlor, with only abby herself and a single neighbour for witnesses. a little crowd gathered round the door, however, to see how jacques de arthenay looked when he'd made a fool of himself, as they expressed it. they were in a merry mood, the friendly neighbours, and had sundry jests ready to crack upon the bridegroom when he should appear; but when he finally stood in the doorway, with the little pale bride on his arm, it became apparent that jests were not in order. people calc'lated that jacques was in one of his moods, and was best not to be spoke with just that moment; besides, 't was no time for them to be l'iterin' round staring, with all there was to be done. so the crowd melted away, and only abby followed the new-married couple to their own home. she, walking behind in much perturbation of spirit, noticed that on the threshold marie stumbled, and seemed about to fall, and that jacques lifted her in his arms as if she were a baby, and carried her into the room. he had not seemed to notice till that moment that the child was carrying her violin-case, though to be sure it was plain enough to see, but as he lifted her, it struck against the door-jamb, and he glanced down and saw it. when abby came in (for this was to be her good-by to them, as she was to leave that afternoon for her sister's home), de arthenay had the case in his hand, and was speaking in low, earnest tones. "you cannot have this thing, mary! it is a thing of evil, and may not be in a christian household. you are going to leave all those things behind you now, and there must be nothing to recall that life with those bad people. i will burn the evil thing now, and it shall be a sweet savour to the lord, even a marriage sacrifice." as he spoke he opened the case, and taking out the violin, laid it across his knee, intending to break it into pieces; but at this marie broke out into a cry, so wild, so piercing, that he paused, and abby ran to her and took her in, her arms, and pressed her to her kind breast, and comforted her as one comforts a little child. then she turned to the stern-eyed bridegroom. "jacques," she pleaded, "don't do it! don't do such a thing on your wedding-day, if you have a heart in you. don't you see how she feels it? put the fiddle away, if you don't want it round; put it up garret, and let it lay there, till she's wonted a little to doing without it. take it now out of her sight and your own, jacques de arthenay, or you'll be sorry for it when you have done a mischief you can't undo." abby wondered afterward what power had spoken in her voice; it must have had some unusual force, for de arthenay, after a moment's hesitation, did as she bade him,--turned slowly and left the room, and the next moment was heard mounting the garret stairs. while he was gone, she still held marie in her arms, and begged her not to tremble so, and told her that her husband was a good man, a kind man, that he had never hurt any one in his life except evil-doers, and had been a good son and a good brother to his own people while they lived. then she bade the child look around at her new home, and see how neat and good everything was, and how tastefully jacques had arranged it all for her. "why, he vallies the ground you step on, child!" she cried. "you don't want to be afraid of him, dear. you can do anything you're a mind to with him, i tell you. see them flowers there, in the chaney bowl! now he never looked at a flower in his life, jacques didn't; but knowing you set by them, he went out and picked them pretty ones o' purpose. now i call that real thoughtful, don't you, maree?" so the good soul talked on, soothing the girl, who said no word, only trembled, and gazed at her with wide, frightened eyes; but abby's heart was heavy within her, and she hardly heard her own cheery words. what kind of union was this likely to be, with such a beginning! why had she not realised, before it was too late, how set jacques was in his ways, and how he never would give in to the heathen notions and fiddling ways of the foreign child? sadly the good woman bade farewell to the bridal couple, and left them alone in their new home. on the threshold she turned back for a moment, and had a moment's comfort; for jacques had taken marie's hands in his own, and was gazing at her with such love in his eyes that it must have melted a stone, abby thought; and perhaps marie thought so too, for she forgot to make the horns, and smiled back, a little faint piteous smile, into her husband's face. so abby went away to the west, to tend her sister, and jacques and marie de arthenay began their life together. it was not so very terrible, marie found after a while. of course a person could not always help it, to have the evil eye; it had happened that even the best of persons had it, and sometimes without knowing it. the catholic girls at home in the village had a saint who always carried her eyes about in a plate because they were evil, and she was afraid of hurting some one with them. (poor saint lucia! this is a new rendering of thy martyrdom!) yes, indeed! marie was no catholic, but she had seen the picture, and knew that it was so. and oh, he did mean to be kind, her husband! that saw itself more and more plainly every day. then, there was great pleasure in the housekeeping. marie was a born housewife, with delicate french hands, and an inborn skill in cookery, the discovery of which gave her great delight. everything in the kitchen was fresh and clean and sweet, and in the garden were fruits, currants and blackberries and raspberries, and every kind of vegetable that grew in the village at home, with many more that were strange to her. she found never-ending pleasure in concocting new dishes, little triumphs of taste and daintiness, and trying them on her silent husband. sometimes he did not notice them at all, but ate straight on, not knowing a delicate fricassee from a junk of salt beef; that was very trying. but again he would take notice, and smile at her with the rare sweet smile for which she was beginning to watch, and praise the prettiness and the flavor of what was set before him. but sometimes, too, dreadful things happened. one day marie had tried her very best, and had produced a dish for supper of which she was justly proud,--a little _friture_ of lamb, delicate golden-brown, with crimson beets and golden carrots, cut in flower-shapes, neatly ranged around. such a pretty dish was never seen, she thought; and she had put it on the best platter, the blue platter with the cow and the strawberries on it; and when she set it before her husband, her dark eyes were actually shining with pleasure, and she was thinking that if he were very pleased, but very, very, she might possibly have courage to call him "mon ami," which she had thought several times of doing. it had such a friendly sound, "mon ami!" but alas! when de arthenay came to the table he was in one of his dark moods; and when his eyes fell on the festal dish, he started up, crying out that the devil was tempting him, and that he and his house should be lost through the wiles of the flesh; and so caught up the dish and flung it on the fire, and bade his trembling wife bring him a crust of dry bread. poor marie! she was too frightened to cry, though all her woman's soul was in arms at the destruction of good food, to say nothing of the wound to her house-wifely pride. she sat silent, eating nothing, only making believe, when her husband looked her way, to crumble a bit of bread. and when that wretched meal was over, jacques called her to his side, and took out the great black bible, and read three chapters of denunciation from jeremiah, that made marie's blood chill in her veins, and sent her shivering to her bed. the next day he would eat nothing but indian meal porridge, and the next; and it was a week before marie ventured to try any more experiments in cookery. marie had a great dread of the black bible. she was sure it was a different bible from the one which mere jeanne used to read at home, for that was full of lovely things, while this was terrible. sometimes jacques would call her to him and question her, and that was really too frightful for anything. perhaps he had been reading aloud, as he was fond of doing in the evenings, some denunciatory passage from the psalms or the prophets. "mary," he would say, turning to her, as she sat with her knitting in the corner, "what do you think of that passage?" "i think him horreebl'," marie would answer. "why do you read of such things, jacques! why you not have the good bible, as we have him in france, why?" "there is but one bible, mary, but one in the world; and it is all good and beautiful, only our sinful eyes cannot always see the glory of it." "ah, but no!" marie would persist, shaking her head gravely. "mere jeanne's bible was all ozer, so i tell you. not black and horreebl', no! but red, all red, wiz gold on him, and in his side pictures, all bright and preetty, and good words, good ones, what make the good feel in my side. yes, that is the bible i have liked." "mary, i tell you it was no bible, unless it was this very one. they bind it in any colour they like, don't you see, child? it isn't the cover that makes the book. i fear you weren't brought up a christian, mary. it is a terrible thing to think of, my poor little wife. you must let me teach you; you must talk with elder beach on sunday afternoons. assuredly he will help you, if i am found unworthy." but marie would have none of this. she was a christian, she maintained as stoutly as her great fear of her husband would permit. she had been baptized, and taught all that one should be taught. but it was all different. her bible told that we must love people, but love everybody, always, all times; and this black book said that we must kill them with swords, and dash them against stones, and pray bad things to happen to them. it stood to reason that it was not the same bible, _hein_? at this jacques de arthenay started, and took himself by the hair with both hands, as he did when something moved him strongly. "those were bad people, mary!" he cried. "don't you see? they withstood the elect, and they were slain. and we must think about these things, and think of our sins, and the sins of others as a warning to ourselves. sin is awful, black, horrible! and its wages is death,--death, do you hear?" when he cried out in this way, like a wild creature, marie did not dare to speak again; but she would murmur under her breath in french, as she bent lower over her knitting, "nevertheless, mere jeanne's good lord was good, and yours--"; and then she would quietly turn a hairpin upside down in her hair, for it was quite certain that if she caught jacques's eye when he was in this mood, her hand would wither, or her hair fall out, or at the very least the cream all sour in the pans; and when one's hands were righteously busy, as with knitting, one might make the horns with other things, and a hairpin was very useful. she wished she had a little coral hand, such as she had once seen at a fair, with the fingers making the horns in the proper manner; it would be a great convenience, she thought with a sigh. but he was always sorry after these dark times; and when he sat and held her hand, as he did sometimes, silent for the most part, but gazing at her with eyes of absolute, unspeakable love, marie was pleased, almost content: as nearly content as one could be with the half of one's life taken away. chapter vii. looking back. the half of a life! for so marie counted the loss of her violin. she never spoke of this--to whom should she speak? in her husband's eyes it was a thing accursed, she knew. she almost hoped he had forgotten about the precious treasure that lay so quietly in some dark nook in the lonely garret; for as long as he did not think of it, it was safe there, and she should not feel that terrible anguish that had seemed to rend body and soul when she saw him lay the violin across his knee to break it. and abby came not, and gave no sign; and there was no one else. she saw little of the neighbours at first. the women looked rather askance at her, and thought her little better than a fool, even if she had contrived to make one of jacques de arthenay. she never seemed to understand their talk, and had a way of looking past them, as if unaware of their presence, that was disconcerting, when one thought well of oneself. but marie was not a fool, only a child; and she did not look at the women simply because she was not thinking of them. with the children, however, it was different marie felt that she would have a great deal to say to the children, if only she had the half of her that could talk to them. ah, how she would speak, with madame on her arm! what wonders she could tell them, of fairies and witches, of flowers that sang and birds that danced! but this other part of her was shy, and she did not feel that she had anything worth saying to the little ones, who looked at her with half-frightened, half-inviting eyes when they passed her door. by-and-by, however, she mustered up courage, and called one or two of them to her, and gave them flowers from her little garden. also a pot of jam with a spoon in it proved an eloquent argument in favour of friendship; and after a while the children fell into a way of sauntering past with backward glances, and were always glad to come in when marie knocked on the window, or came smiling to the door, with her handkerchief tied under her chin and her knitting in her hand. it was only when her husband was away that this happened; marie would not for worlds have called a child to meet her husband's eyes, those blue eyes of which, she stood in such terror, even when she grew to love them. one little boy in particular came often, when the first shyness had worn away. he was an orphan, like marie herself: a pretty, dark-eyed little fellow, who looked, she fancied, like the children at home in france. he did not expect her to talk and answer questions, but was content to sit, as she loved to do, gazing at the trees or the clouds that went sailing by, only now and then uttering a few quiet words that seemed in harmony with the stillness all around. i have said that jacques de arthenay's house lay somewhat apart from the village street. it was a pleasant house, long and low, painted white, with vines trained over the lower part. directly opposite was a pine grove, and here marie and her little friend loved to sit, listening to the murmur of the wind in the dark feathery branches. it was the sound of the sea, marie told little petie. as to how it got there, that was another matter; but it was undoubtedly the sound of the sea, for she had been at sea, and recognised it at once. "what does it say?" asked the child one day. "of words," said marie, "i hear not any, petie. but it wants always somesing, do you hear? it is hongry always, and makes moans for the sorry thinks it has in its heart." "i am hungry in my stomach, not in my heart," objected petie. but marie nodded her head sagely. "yes," she said. "it is that you know not the deeference, petie, bit-ween those. to be hongry at the stomach, that is made better when you eat cakes, do you see, or _pot_atoes. but when the heart is hongry, then--ah, yes, that is ozer thing." and she nodded again, and glanced up at the attic window, and sighed. it was a long time before she spoke of her past life; but when she found that petie had no sharp-eyed mother at home, only a deaf great-aunt who asked no questions, she began to give him little glimpses of the circus world, which filled him with awe and rapture. it was hardly a real circus, only a little strolling _troupe_, with some performing dogs, and a few trained horses and ponies, and two tight-rope dancers; then there were two other musicians, and marie herself, besides le boss and his family, and old billy, who took care of the horses and did the dirty work. it was about the dogs that petie liked best to hear; of the wonderful feats of monsieur george, the great brindled greyhound, and the astonishing sagacity of coquelicot, the poodle. "monsieur george, he could jump over anything, yes! he was always jump, jump, all day long, to practise himself. over our heads all, that was nothing, yet he did it always when we come in the tent, _pour saluer_, to say the how you do. but one day come in a man to see le boss, very tall, oh, like mountains, and on him a tall hat. and monsieur george, he not stopped to measure with his eye, for fear he be too late with the _politesse_, and he jump, and carry away the man's hat, and knock him down and come plomp, down on him. yes, very funny! the man got a bottle in his hat, and that break, and run all over him, and he say, oh, he say all things what you think of. but monsieur george was so 'shamed, he go away and hide, and not for a week we see him again. le boss think that man poison him, and he goes to beat him; but that same day monsieur george come back, and stop outside the tent and call us all to come out. and when we come, he run back, and say, 'look here, what i do!' and he jump, and go clean over the tent, and not touch him wiz his foot. yes, i saw it: very fine dog, monsieur george! but coquelicot, he have more thinking than monsieur george. he very claiver, coquelicot! some of zem think him a witch, but i think not that. he have minds, that was all. but his legs so short, and that make him hate monsieur george." "my legs are short," objected petie, stretching out a pair of plump calves, "but that doesn't make me hate people." "ah, but if you see a little boy what can walk over the roof of the house, you want the same to do it, _n'est-ce-pas_?" cried marie. "you try, and try, and when you cannot jump, you think that not a so nize little boy as when his legs were short. so boy, so dog. coquelicot, all his life he want to jump like monsieur george, and all his life he cannot jump at all. you say to him, 'coquelicot, are you foolishness? you can do feefty things and george not one of zem: you can read the letters, and find the things in the pocket, and play the ins_tru_ment, and sing the tune to make die people of laughing, yet you are not _con_tent. let him have in peace his legs, monsieur george, then!' but no! and every time monsieur george come down from the great jump, coquelicot is ready, and bite his legs so hard what he can." petie laughed outright. "i think that's awful funny!" he said. "i say, mis' de arthenay, i'd like to seen him bite his legs. did he holler?" "monsieur george? he cry, and go to his bed. all the dogs, they afraid of coquelicot, because he have the minds. and he, coquelicot, he fear nossing, except madame when she is angry." "who was she?" asked petie,--"a big dog?" "ah, dog, no!" cried marie, her face flushing. "madame my violon, my life, my pleasure, my friend. ah, _mon dieu_, what friend have i?" her breast heaved, and she broke into a wild fit of crying, forgetting the child by her side, forgetting everything in the world save the hunger at her heart for the one creature to whom she could speak, and who could speak in turn to her. petie sat silent, frightened at the sudden storm of sobs and tears. what had he done, he wondered? at length he mustered courage to touch his friend's arm softly with his little hand. "i didn't go to do it!" he said. "don't ye cry, mis' de arthenay! i don't know what i did, but i didn't go to do it, nohow." marie turned and looked at him, and smiled through her tears. "dear little petie!" she said, stroking the curly head, "you done nossing, little petie. it was the honger, no more! oh, no more!" she caught her breath, but choked the sob back bravely, and smiled again. something woke in her child heart, and bade her not sadden the heart of the younger child with a grief which was not his. it is one of the lessons of life, and it was well with marie that she learned it early. "madame, my violon," she resumed after a pause, speaking cheerfully, and wiping her eyes with her apron, "she have many voices, petie; tousand voices, like all birds, all winds, all song in the world; and she have an angry voice, too, deep down, what make you tr-remble in your heart, if you are bad. _bien_! sometime coquelicot, he been bad, very bad. he know so much, that make him able for the bad, see, like for the good. yes! sometime, he steal the sugar; sometime he come in when we make music, and make wiz us yells, and spoil the music; sometime he make the horreebl' faces at the poppies and make scream them with fear." "kin poppies scream?" asked petie, opening great eyes of wonder. "my! ourn can't. we've got big red ones, biggest ever you see, but i never heerd a sound out of 'em." explanations ensued, and a digression in favour of the six puppies, whose noses were softer and whose tails were funnier than anything else in the known, world; and then-- "so coquelicot, he come and he sit down before the poppies, and he open his mouth, so!" here marie opened her pretty mouth, and tried to look like a malicious poodle,--with singular lack of success; but petie was delighted, and clapped his hands and laughed. "and then," marie went on, "lisette, she is the poppies' mother, and she hear them, and she come wiz yells, too, and try to drive coquelicot, but he take her wiz his teeth and shake her, and throw her away, and go on to make faces, and all is horreebl' noise, to wake deads. so old billy call me, and i come, and i go softly behind coquelicot, and down i put me, and madame speak in her angry voice justly in coquelicot's ear. 'la la! tra la li la!' deep down like so, full wiz angryness, terreebl', yes! and coquelicot he jump, oh my! oh my! never he could jump so of all his life. and the tail bit-ween his legs, and there that he run, run, as if all devils run after him. yes, funny, petie, vairy funny!" she laughed, and petie laughed in violent, noisy peals, as children love to do, each gust of merriment fanning the fire for another, till all control is lost, and the little one drops into an irrepressible fit of the "giggles." so they sat under the pine-trees, the two children, and laughed, and marie forgot the hunger at her heart; till suddenly she looked and saw her husband standing near, leaning on his rake and gazing at her with grave, uncomprehending eyes. then the laugh froze on her lips, and she rose hastily, with the little timid smile which was all she had for jacques (yet he was hungry too, so hungry! and knew not what ailed him!) and went to meet him; while petie ran away through the grove, as fast as his little legs would carry him. chapter viii. a flower in the snow. the winter, when it came, was hard for marie. she had never known severe weather before, and this season it was bitter cold. people shook their heads, and said that old times had come again, and no mistake. there was eager pride in the lowest mercury, and the man whose thermometer registered thirty degrees below zero was happier than he who could boast but of twenty-five. there was not so much snow as in milder seasons, but the cold held without breaking, week after week: clear weather; no wind, but the air taking the breath from the dryness of it, and in the evening the haze hanging blue and low that tells of intensest cold. as the snow fell, it remained. the drifts and hollows never changed their shape, as in a soft or a windy season, but seemed fixed as they were for all time. across the road from jacques de arthenay's house, a huge drift had been piled by the first snowstorm of the winter. nearly as high as the house it was, and its top combed forward, like a wave ready to break; and in the blue hollow beneath the curling crest was the likeness of a great face. a rock cropped out, and ice had formed upon its surface, so that the snow fell away from it. the explanation was simple enough; jacques de arthenay, coming and going at his work, never so much as looked at it; but to marie it was a strange and a dreadful thing to see. night and morning, in the cold blue light of the winter moon and the bright hard glitter of the winter sun, the face was always there, gazing in at her through the window, seeing everything she did, perhaps--who could tell?--seeing everything she thought. she changed her seat, and drew down the blind that faced the drift; yet it had a strange fascination for her none the less, and many times in the day she would go and peep through the blind, and shiver, and then come away moaning in a little way that she had when she was alone. it was pitiful to see how she shrank from the cold,--the tender creature who seemed born to live and bloom with the flowers, perhaps to wither with them. sometimes it seemed to her as if she could not bear it, as if she must run away and find the birds, and the green and joyous things that she loved. the pines were always green, it is true, in the little grove across the way; but it was a solemn and gloomy green, to her child's mind,--she had not yet learned to love the steadfast pines. sometimes she would open the door with a wild thought of flying out, of flying far away, as the birds did, and rejoining them in southern countries where the sun was warm, and not a fire that froze while it lighted one. so cold! so cold! but when she stood thus, the little wild heart beating fiercely in her, the icy blast would come and chill her into quiet again, and turn the blood thick, so that it ran slower in her veins; and she would think of the leagues and leagues of pitiless snow and ice that lay between her and the birds, and would close the door again, and go back to her work with that little weary moan. her husband was very kind in these days; oh, very kind and gentle. he kept the dark moods to himself, if they came upon him, and tried even to be gay, though he did not know how to set about it. if he had ever known or looked at a child, this poor man, he would have done better; but it was not a thing that he had ever thought of, and he did not yet know that marie was a child. sometimes when she saw him looking at her with the grave, loving, uncomprehending look that so often followed her as she moved about, she would come to him and lay her head against his shoulder, and remain quiet so for many minutes; but when he moved to stroke her dark head, and say, "what is it, mary? what troubles you?" she could only say that it was cold, very cold, and then go away again about her work. sometimes an anguish would seize him, when he saw how pale and thin she grew, and he would send for the village doctor, and beg him to give her some "stuff" that would make her plump and rosy again; but the good man shook his head, and said she needed nothing, only care and kindness,--kindness, he repeated, with some emphasis, after a glance at de arthenay's face, and good food. "cheerfulness," he said, buttoning up his fur coat under his chin,--"cheerfulness, mr. de arthenay, and plenty of good things to eat. that's all she needs." and he went away wondering whether the little creature would pull through the winter or not. and jacques did not throw the food into the fire any more; he even tried to think about it, and care about it. and he got out the farmer's almanac,--yes, he did,--and tried reading the jokes aloud, to see if they would amuse mary; but they did not amuse her in the least, or him either, so that was given up. and so the winter wore on. it had to end sometime; even that winter could not last forever. the iron grasp relaxed: fitfully at first, with grim clutches and snatches at its prey, gripping it the closer because it knew the time was near when all power would go, drop off like a garment, melt away like a stream. the unchanging snow-forms began to shift, the keen outlines wavered, grew indistinct, fell into ruin, as the sun grew warm again, and sent down rays that were no longer like lances of diamond. the glittering face in the hollow of the great drift lost its watchful look, softened, grew dim and blurred; one morning it was gone. that day marie sang a little song, the first she had sung through all the long, cruel season. she drew up the blind and gazed out; she wrapped a shawl round her head and went and stood at the door, afraid of nothing now, not even thinking of making those tiresome horns. she was aware of something new in the air she breathed. it was still cold, but with a difference; there was a breathing as of life, where all had been dry, cold death. there was a sense of awakening everywhere; whispers seemed to come and go in the tops of the pine-trees, telling of coming things, of songs that would be sung in their branches, as they had been sung before; of blossoms that would spring at their feet, brightening the world with gold and white and crimson. life! life stirring and waking everywhere, in sky and earth; soft clouds sweeping across the blue, softening its cold brightness, dropping rain as they go; sap creeping through the ice-bound stems, slowly at first, then running freely, bidding the tree awake and be at its work, push out the velvet pouch that holds the yellow catkin, swell and polish the pointed leaf-buds: life working silently under the ground, brown seeds opening their leaves to make way for the tender shoot that shall draw nourishment from them and push its way on and up while they die content, their work being done; roots creeping here and there, threading their way through the earth, softening, loosening, sucking up moisture and sending it aloft to carry on the great work,--life everywhere, pulsing in silent throbs, the heart-beats of nature; till at last the time is ripe, the miracle is prepared, and "in green underwood and cover blossom by blossom the spring begins." marie too, the child-woman, standing in her doorway, felt the thrill of new life; heard whispers of joy, but knew not what they meant; saw a radiance in the air that was not all sunlight; was conscious of a warmth at her heart which she had never known in her merriest days. what did it all mean? nay, she could not tell, she was not yet awake. she thought of her friend, of the silent voice that had spoken so often and so sweetly to her, and the desire grew strong upon her. if she died for it, she must play once more on her violin. there came a day in spring when the desire mastered the fear that was in her. it was a perfect afternoon, the air a-lilt with bird-songs, and full of the perfume of early flowers. her husband was ploughing in a distant field, and surely would not return for an hour or two; what might one not do in an hour? she called her little friend, petie, who was hovering about the door, watching for her. quickly, with fluttering breath, she told him what she meant to do, bade him be brave and fear nothing; locked the door, drew down the blinds, and closed the heavy wooden shutters; turned to the four corners of the room, bowing to each corner, as she muttered some words under her breath; and then, catching the child's hand in hers, began swiftly and lightly to mount the attic stairs. chapter x. de akthenay's vigil. was it a _loup-garou_ in the attic? was it a _loup-garou_ that drew that long, sighing breath, as of a soul in pain; was it a _loup-garou_ that now groped its way to the other staircase, that which led up from the woodshed, pausing now and then, and going blindly, and breathing still heavily and slow? de arthenay had come up to the attic in search of something, tools, maybe, or seeds, or the like, for many odd things were stowed away under the over-hanging rafters. he heard steps, and stood still, knowing that it must be his wife who was coming up, and thinking to have pleasure just by watching her as she went on some little household errand, such as brought himself. she would know nothing of his presence, and so she would be free, unrestrained by any shyness or--or fear; if it was fear. so he had stood in his dark corner, and had seen little, indeed, but heard all; and it was a wild and a miserable man that crept down the narrow stairway and out into the fresh air. he did not know where he was going. he wandered on and on, hearing always that sound in his ears, the soft, sweet tones of the accursed instrument that was wiling his wife, his own, his beloved, to her destruction. the child, too, how would it be for him? but the child was a smaller matter. perhaps,--who knows? a child can live down sin. but mary, whom he fancied saved, cured, the evil thing rooted out of her heart and remembrance! mary; mary! he kept saying her name over and over to himself, sometimes aloud, in a passion of reproach, sometimes softly, broodingly, with love and pathos unutterable. what power there was in that wicked voice! he had never rightly heard it before, never, save that instant when she stood playing in the village street, and he saw her for a moment and loved her forever. oh, he had heard, to be sure, this or that strolling fiddler,--godless, tippling wretches, who rarely came to the village, and never set foot there twice, he thought with pride. but this, this was different! what power! what sweetness, filling his heart with rapture even while his spirit cried out against it! what voices, entreating, commanding, uplifting! nay, what was he saying? and who did not know that satan could put on an angel's look when it pleased him? and if a look, why not a voice? when had a fiddle played godly tunes, chant or psalm? when did it do aught else but tempt the foolish to their folly, the wicked to their iniquity? mary! mary! how lovely she was, in the faint gleams of light that fell about her, there in the dim old attic! he felt her beauty, almost, more than he saw it. and all this year, while he had thought her growing in grace, silently, indeed, but he hoped truly, she had been hankering for the forbidden thing, had been planning deceit in her heart, and had led away the innocent child to follow unrighteousness with her. he would go back, and do what he should have done a year ago,--what he would have done, had he not yielded to the foolish talk of a foolish woman. he would go back, and burn the fiddle, and silence forever that sweet, insidious music, with its wicked murmurs that stole into a man's heart--even a man's, and one who knew the evil, and abhorred it. the smoke of it once gone up to heaven, there would be an end. he should have his wife again, his own, and nothing should come between them more. yes, he would go back, in a little while, as soon as those sounds had died away from his ears. what was the song she sung there? "'tis long and long i have loved thee! i'll ne'er forget thee more." she would forget it, though, surely, surely, when it was gone, breathed out in flame and ashes: when he could say to her, "there is no more any such thing in my house and yours, mary, mary." how tenderly he would tell her, though! it would hurt, yes! but not so much as her look would hurt him when he told her. ah, she loved the wooden thing best! he was dumb, and it spoke to her in a thousand tones! even he had understood some of them. there was one note that was like his mother's voice when she lifted it up in the hymn she loved best,--his gentle mother, dead so long, so long ago. she--why, she loved music; he had forgotten that. but only psalms, only godly hymns, never anything else. what devil whispered in his ear, "she never heard anything else. she would have loved this too, this too, if she had had the chance, if she had heard mary play!" he put his hands to his ears, and almost ran on. where was he going? he did not ask, did not think. he only knew that it was a relief to be walking, to get farther and farther away from what he loved and fain would cherish, from what he hated and would fain destroy. the grass grew long and rank under his feet; he stumbled, and paused for a moment, out of breath, to look about him. he was in the old burying-ground, the grey stones rearing their heads to peer at him as he hurried on. ah, there was one stone here that belonged to him. he had not been in the place since he was a child; he cared nothing about the dead of long ago: but now the memory of it all came back upon him, and he sought and found the grey sunken stone, and pulled away the grass from it, and read the legend with eyes that scarcely saw what they looked at. "d'arthenay, tenez foi!" and the place was free from moss, as they always said; the rude scratch, as of a sharp-pointed instrument. did it mean anything? he dropped beside it for a minute, and studied the stone; then rose and went his way again, still wandering on and on, he knew not whither. darkness came, and he was in the woods, stumbling here and there, driven as by a strong wind, scorched as by a flame. at last he sank down at the foot of a great oak-tree, in a place he knew well, even in the dark: he could go no farther. "d'arthenay, tenez foi!" it whispered in his ears, and seemed for a little to drown the haunting notes of the violin. he, the calvinist, the practical man, who believed in two things outside the visible world, a great hell and a small heaven, now felt spirits about him, saw visions that were not of this life. his ancestor, the huguenot, stood before him, in cloak and band; in one hand a bible, in the other a drawn dagger. his dark eyes pierced like a sword-thrust; his lips moved; and though no sound came, jacques knew the words they framed. "tenez foi! keep the faith that i brought across the sea, leaving for it fair fields and vineyards, castle and tower and town. keep the faith for which i bled, for which i died here in the wilderness, leaving only these barren acres, and the stone that bears my last word, my message to those who should come after me. keep the faith for which my fair wife faded and died, far away from home and friends! let no piping or jigging or profane sound be in thy house, but let it be the house of fasting and of prayer, even as my house was. keep faith! if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee!" who else was there,--what gentle, pallid ghost, with sad, faint eyes? the face was dim and shadowy, for he had been a little child when his mother died. she was speaking too, but what were these words she was saying? "keep faith, my son! ay! but keep it with your wife too, the child you wedded whether she would or no, and from whom you are taking the joy of childhood, the light of youth. keep faith as the sun keeps it, as the summer keeps it, not as winter and the night." what did that mean? keep faith with her, with his wife? how else should he do it but by saving her from the wrath to come, by plucking her as a flower out of the mire? "what shall i save but her soul, yea, though her body perish?" he spoke out in his trouble, and the vision seemed to shrink and waver under his gaze; but the faint voice sighed again,--or was it only the wind in the pine-trees?--"care thou for her earthly life, her earthly joy, for god is mindful of her soul." but then the deeper note struck in again,--or was it only a stronger gust, that bowed the branches, and murmured through all the airy depths above him? "keep the faith! thou art a man, and wilt thou be drawn away by women, of whom the best are a stumbling-block and a snare for the feet? destroy the evil thing! root it out from thy house! what are joys of this world, that we should think of them? do they not lead to destruction, even the flowery path of it, going down to the mouth of the pit, and with no way leading thence? who is the woman for whose sake thou wilt lose thine own soul? if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out!" so the night went on, and the voices, or the wind, or his own soul, cried, and answered, and cried again: and no peace came. the night passed. as it drew to a close, all sound, all motion, died away; the darkness folded him close, like a mantle; the silence pressed upon him like hands that held him down. like a log the man lay at the foot of the great tree, and his soul lay dead within him. at last a change came; or did he sleep, and dream of a change? a faint trembling in the air, a faint rustling that lost itself almost before it reached the ear. it was gone, and all was still once more; yet with a difference. the darkness lay less heavily: one felt that it hid many things, instead of filling the world with itself alone. hark! the murmur again, not lost this time, but coming and going, lightly, softly, brushing here and there, soft dark wings fanning the air, making it ever lighter, thinner. gradually the veil lifted; things stood out, black against black, then black against grey; straight majesty of tree-trunks, bending lines of bough and spray, tender grace of ferns. and now, what is this? a sound from the trees themselves,--no multitudinous murmur this time, but a single note, small and clear and sweet, breaking like a golden arrow of sound through the cloudy depths. chirp, twitter! and again from the next tree, and the next, and now from all the trees, short triads, broken snatches, and at last the full chorus of song, choir answering to choir, the morning hymn of the forest. now, in the very tree beneath which the man lay, chrysostom, the thrush, took up his parable, and preached his morning sermon; and if it had been set to words, they might have been something like these:-- "sing! sing, brothers, sisters, little tender ones in the nest! sing, for the morning is come, and god has made us another day. sing! for praise is sweet, and our sweetest notes must show it forth. song is the voice that god has given us to tell forth his goodness, to speak gladly of the wondrous things he hath made. sing, brothers and sisters! be joyful, be joyful in the lord! all sorrow and darkness is gone away, away, and light is here, and morning, and the world wakes with us to gladness and the new day. sing, and let your songs be all of joy, joy, lest there be in the wood any sorrowing creature, who might go sadly through the day for want of a voice of cheer, to tell him that god is love, is love. wake from thy dream, sad heart, if the friendly wood hold such an one! sorrow is night, and night is good, for rest, and for seeing of many stars, and for coolness and sweet odours; but now awake, awake, for the day is here, and the sun arises in his might,--the sun, whose name is joy, is joy, and, whose voice is praise. sing, sing, and praise the lord!" so the bird sang, praising god, and the other birds, from tree and shrub, answered as best they might, each with his song of praise; and the man, lying motionless beneath the great tree, heard, and listened, and understood. still he lay there, with wide open eyes, while the golden morning broke over him, and the light came sifting down, through the leaves, checkering all the ground with gold. the wood now glowed with colour, russet and green and brown, wine-like red of the tree-trunks where the sun struck aslant on them, soft yellow greens where the young ferns uncurled their downy heads. the air was sweet, sweet, with the smell of morning; was the whole world new since last night? suddenly from the road near by (for he had gone round in a circle, and the wooded hollow where he lay was out of sight but not out of hearing of the country road which skirted the woods for many miles), from the road near by came the sound of voices,--men's voices, which fell strange and harsh on his ears, open for the first time to the music of the world, and still ringing with the morning hymn of joy. what were these harsh voices saying? "they think she'll live now?" "yes, she'll pull through, unless she frets herself bad again about jacques. nobody'd heerd a word of him when i come away." "been out all night, has he?" "yes! went away without saying anything to her or anybody, far as i can make out. been gone since yesterday afternoon, and some say--" the voices died away, and then the footsteps, and silence fell once more. chapter xi. vita nuova. de arthenay never knew how he reached home that day. the spot where he had been lying was several miles from the white cottage, yet he was conscious of no time, no distance. it seemed one burning moment, a moment never to be forgotten while he lived, till he found himself at the foot of the outer stairway, the stair that led to the attic. she might still be living, and he would not go to her without the thing she craved, the thing which could speak to her in the voice she understood. again a moment of half-consciousness, and he was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, looking in with blind eyes of dread. what should he see? what still form might break the outline of that white bed which she always kept so smooth and trim? the silence cried out to him with a thousand voices, threatening, condemning, blasting; but the next moment it was broken. "mon ami!" said marie. the words were faint, but there was a tone in them that had never been there before. "jacques, mon ami, you are here! you did not go to leave me?" the mist cleared from the man's eyes. he did not see abby rock, sitting by the bed, crying with joyful indignation; if he had seen her, it would not have been in the least strange for her to be there. he saw nothing--the world held nothing--but the face that looked at him from the pillow, the pale face, all soft and worn, yet full of light, full--was it true, or was he dreaming in the wood?--of love, of joy. "come in, jacques!" said abby, wondering at the look of the man. "don't make a noise, but come in and sit down!" de arthenay did not move, but held out the violin in both hands with a strange gesture of submission. "i have brought it, mary!" he said. "you shall always have it now. i--i have learned a little--i know a little, now, of what it means. i hadn't understanding before, mary. i meant no unkindness to you." abby laughed softly. "jacques de arthenay, come here!" she said. "what do you suppose maree's thinking of fiddles now? come here, man alive, and see your boy!" but marie laid one hand softly on the violin, as it lay on the bed beside her,--the hand that was not patting the baby; then she laid it, still softly, shyly, on her husband's head as he knelt beside her. "jacques, mon ami," she whispered, "you are good! i too have learned. i was a child always, i knew nothing. see now, i love always madame, my friend, and she is mine; but this, this is yours too, and mine too, our life, our own. jacques, now we both know, and god, he tell us! see, the same god, only we did not know the first times. now, always we know, and not forget! not forget!" the baby woke and stirred. the tiny hand was outstretched and touched its father's hand, and a thrill ran through him from head to foot, softening the hard grain, melting, changing the fibre of his being. the husk that in those lonely hours in the forest had been loosened, broken, now fell away from him, and a new man knelt by the white bed, silent, gazing from child to wife with eyes more eloquent than any words could be. the baby's hand rested in his, and marie laid her own over it; and abby rock rose and went away, closing the door softly after her. the end. [illustration: aunt hannah and seth a story of some people and a dog. by james otis] [illustration: "'hi, limpy!' a shrill voice cried."] [illustration: _aunt hannah and seth by james otis author of "how tommy saved the barn" etc. new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers_] copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & co. contents. chapter page i.--an advertisement, ii.--the country, iii.--aunt hannah, iv.--the flight, v.--an accident, vi.--sunshine, aunt hannah. chapter i. an advertisement. a small boy with a tiny white dog in his arms stood near the new york approach to the brooklyn bridge on a certain june morning not many years since, gazing doubtfully at the living tide which flowed past him, as if questioning whether it might be safe to venture across the street. seth barrows, otherwise known by his acquaintances as limpy seth, because of what they were pleased to speak of as "a pair of legs that weren't mates," was by no means dismayed by the bustle and apparent confusion everywhere around him. such scenes were familiar, he having lived in the city, so far as he knew, from the day of his birth; but, owing to his slight lameness, it was not always a simple matter for him to cross the crowded streets. "hi, limpy!" a shrill voice cried from amid the pedestrians in the distance, and as seth looked quickly toward the direction from which had come the hail, he noted that a boy with hair of such a vivid hue of red as would attract particular attention from any person within whose range of vision he might come, was frantically trying to force a passage. seth stepped back to a partially sheltered position beneath the stairway of the overhead bridge, and awaited the coming of his friend. "out swellin', are you?" the boy with the red hair asked, as he finally approached, panting so heavily that it was with difficulty he could speak. "goin' to give up business?" "i got rid of my stock quite a while ago, an' counted on givin' snip a chance to run in the park. the poor little duffer don't have much fun down at mother hyde's while i'm workin'." "you might sell him for a pile of money, limpy, an' he's a heap of bother for you," the new-comer said reflectively, as he stroked the dog's long, silken hair. "teddy dixon says he's got good blood in him----" "look here, tim, do you think i'd sell snip, no matter how much money i might get for him? why, he's the only relation i've got in all this world!" and the boy buried his face in the dog's white hair. "it costs more to keep him than you put out for yourself." "what of that? he thinks a heap of me, snip does, an' he'd be as sorry as i would if anything happened to one of us." "yes, i reckon you are kind'er stuck on him! it's a pity, limpy, 'cause you can't hustle same's the rest of us do, an' so don't earn as much money." "snip has what milk he needs----" "an' half the time you feed him by goin' hungry yourself." "what of that?" seth cried sharply. "don't i tell you we two are the only friends each other's got! i'd a good deal rather get along without things than let him go hungry, 'cause he wouldn't know why i couldn't feed him." "a dog is only a dog, an' that's all you can make out of it. i ain't countin' but that snip is better'n the general run, 'cause, as teddy dixon says, he's blooded; but just the same it don't stand to reason you should treat him like he was as good as you." "he's a heap better'n i am, tim chandler! snip never did a mean thing in his life, an' he's the same as a whole family to me." as if understanding that he was the subject of the conversation, the dog pressed his cold nose against the boy's neck, and the latter cried triumphantly: "there, look at that! if you didn't have any folks, tim chandler, an' couldn't get 'round same as other fellers do, don't you reckon his snugglin' up like this would make you love him?" "he ain't really yours," tim said after a brief pause, whereat the lame boy cried fiercely: "what's the reason he ain't? didn't i find him 'most froze to death more'n a year ago, an' haven't i kept him in good shape ever since? of course he wasn't mine at first; but i'd like to see the chump who'd dare to say he belonged to anybody else! if you didn't own any more of a home than you could earn sellin' papers, an' if nobody cared the least little bit whether you was cold or hungry, you'd think it was mighty fine to have a chum like snip. you ought'er see him when i come in after he's been shut up in the room all the forenoon! it seems like he'd jump out of his skin, he's so glad to see me! i tell you, tim, snip loves me just like i was his mother!" master chandler shook his head doubtfully, and appeared to be on the point of indulging some disparaging remark, when his attention was diverted by a lad on the opposite side of the street, who was making the most frantic gestures, and, as might be guessed by the movement of his lips, shouting at the full strength of his lungs; but the words were drowned by the rattle of vehicles and other noises of the street. "there's pip smith, an' what do you s'pose he's got in his ear now?" tim said speculatively; but with little apparent interest in the subject. "he's allers botherin' his head 'bout somethin' that ain't any of his business. he allows he'll be a detective when he gets big enough." seth gave more attention to the caresses snip was bestowing upon him than to his acquaintance opposite, until tim exclaimed, with a sudden show of excitement: "he's yellin' for you, seth! what's he swingin' that newspaper 'round his head for?" perhaps tim might have become interested enough to venture across the street, had master smith remained on the opposite side very long; but just at that moment the tide of travel slackened sufficiently to admit of a passage, and the excited pip came toward his acquaintances at full speed. "what kind of a game have you been up to, limpy?" he demanded, waving the newspaper meanwhile. seth looked at the speaker in astonishment, but without making any reply. "anything gone wrong?" tim asked, gazing inquiringly from one to the other. "i don't know what he means," seth replied, and pip shouted wildly: "listen to him! you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' yet he's been ridin' a mighty high hoss, 'cordin' to all i can find out!" "who?" seth demanded, grown restive under pip's accusing gaze. "you, of course!" "but i haven't been up to any game." "you can't stuff me with that kind of talk, 'cause i've got it down here in black an' white." "got what down?" tim asked impatiently. "if there's anything wrong, why don't you come out with it like a man, an' not stand there like a dummy?" "seth barrows will find there's somethin' wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him," pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. "listen to this, tim chandler, an' try to figger out the kind of a game limpy's been playin'!" then, with a tragical air, master smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement: "information wanted of a boy calling himself seth barrows. said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in jersey city three years ago. he then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one richard genet. a liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. address symonds & symonds, attorneys-at-law." as he ceased reading, master smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met seth's bewildered gaze. "sellin' papers is good enough for me, though it ain't a business that brings in any too much money," he said sharply. "but i don't keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin' ain't so high." "what does it mean?" seth asked in a low tone, as he gazed alternately at tim and pip. "mean?" the latter replied scornfully. "i reckon you can answer that better'n we could. when the bank on broadway was broke into there was the same kind of notice in the papers, for i saw it with my own eyes." "but i haven't been breakin' into any bank!" seth wailed, hugging snip yet more tightly to his bosom. "then what's that advertisement there for?" and master smith looked upon his acquaintance with an air of judicial severity. "how do i know?" now it was tim's turn to gaze at seth reproachfully; and as the three stood there one and another of their acquaintances, having heard the startling news, came up eagerly curious and positive that snip's master had committed some terrible crime. the lame boy gave ample token of mental distress, as well he might after hearing that two attorneys-at-law were desirous of finding him, and more than one of the throng set down the expression of trouble on his face as strong proof of guilt. although conscious that he had committed no crime, the boy was thoroughly alarmed at being thus advertised for. he knew that rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of criminals, and never so much as dreamed that similar methods might be employed in a search for those who were innocent. there was no reason, so he might have said to himself, why any lawyer in the city of new york would care to see him, unless he had been accused of some crime, but as he revolved the matter in his mind terror took possession of him until all power of reflection had departed. the number of alleged friends or acquaintances had increased, until seth and snip were literally surrounded, and every member of the throng knew full well that the gathering would be rudely dispersed by the first policeman who chanced to come that way. therefore it was that each fellow hastened to give his opinion as to the reason why the advertisement had been inserted in the columns of the paper, and, with five or six boys speaking at the same moment, it can well be understood that no one of them succeeded in making any very great impression upon the minds of his neighbors. seth understood, however, that every boy present was agreed upon the supposed fact that a great crime had been committed, although these young merchants might, upon due reflection, come to realize how improbable was such a supposition. when little snip, seeming to understand that his master was in sore distress, licked the boy's cheek, it was to seth almost as if the dog shared in the belief of those who were so ready to accuse him, and he could restrain his feelings no longer. leaning against the iron column which supported the staircase, with his face buried in snip's silky hair, the crippled lad gave way to tears, while his companions gazed at him severely, for to their minds this show of grief was much the same as a confession of guilt. a blue-coated guardian of the peace dispersed the throng before those composing it had had time to make audible comment upon this last evidence of an accusing conscience; but seth was so bowed down by bewilderment, sorrow, and fear as not to know that he stood alone with snip, while a throng of acquaintances gazed at him from the opposite side of the street. once the officer had passed on, and was at a respectful distance, seth's friends returned, and it could be understood from their manner that some definite plan of action had been decided upon during the enforced absence. "see here, seth, we ain't such chumps as to jump on a feller when he's down. if you don't want to tell us what you've been doin'----" "i haven't done a thing, an' you know it, tim chandler," the lad moaned, speaking with difficulty because of his sobs. "then what's the notice about?" tim asked in a severe, yet friendly tone. "i don't know any more'n you do." "where's the lead nickel mickey dowd says somebody shoved on you the other day?" teddy dixon asked sharply. seth raised his head, looked about him for a moment as a shadow of fear passed over his face, and, dropping snip for an instant, plunged both hands deep in his trousers pockets. withdrawing them he displayed a small collection of silver and copper coins, which he turned over eagerly, his companions crowding yet more closely to assure themselves that the examination was thorough. "it's gone!" seth cried shrilly. "it's gone; but i'll cross my throat if i knew i was passin' it!" snip, hearing his young master's cry of fear, stood on his hind feet, scratching and clawing to attract attention, and, hardly conscious of what he did, seth took the little fellow in his arms once more. "that settles the whole business," teddy dixon cried, in the tone of one who has made an important discovery. "you shoved it on somebody who'd been lookin' for counterfeit money, an' now the detectives are after you!" seth glanced quickly and apprehensively around, as if fearing the officers of the law were already close upon him, and the seeming mystery was unravelled. from that moment there was not even the shadow of a doubt in the minds of seth's acquaintances, and, believing that he had not intended to commit such a grave crime, the sympathies of all were aroused. "you've got to skip mighty quick," tim said, after a brief pause, during which each lad had looked at his neighbor as if asking what could be done to rescue the threatened boy. "where'll i go?" seth cried tearfully. "they know what my name is, an' there ain't much use for me to hide." "you can bet i wouldn't hang 'round here many seconds," one of the group said, in a low tone, glancing around to make certain his words were not overheard by the minions of the law. "if we fellers keep our mouths shut, an' you sneak off into the country somewhere, i don't see how anybody could find you!" "but where'd i go?" seth asked, his tears checked by the great fear which came with the supposed knowledge of what he had done. "anywhere. here's snip all ready to take a journey for his health, an' in ten minutes you'll be out of the city; but it ain't safe to hang 'round thinkin' of it very long, for the detectives will be runnin' their legs off tryin' to earn the money that's promised by the advertisement." seth made no reply, and his most intimate friends understood that if he was to be saved from prison the time had arrived when they must act without waiting for his decision. they held a hurried consultation, while seth stood caressing snip, without being really conscious of what he did, and then teddy and tim ranged themselves either side of the culprit who had unwittingly brought himself under the ban of the law. seizing him by the arms they forced the lad forward in the direction of broadway, tim saying hoarsely to those who gave token of their intention to follow: "you fellers must keep away, else the cops will know we're up to somethin' crooked. wait here, an' me an' teddy'll come back as soon as we've taken care of seth." this injunction was not obeyed without considerable grumbling on the part of the more curious, and but for the efforts of two or three of the wiser heads, the fugitive and his accomplices would have aroused the suspicions of the dullest policeman in the city. "you'll get yourselves into a heap of trouble if anybody knows you helped me to run away," seth said, in a tone of faint remonstrance. "it can't be helped," teddy replied firmly, urging the hunted boy to a faster pace. "we ain't goin' to stand by an' see you lugged off to jail while there's a show of our doin' anything. keep your eye on snip so's he won't bark, an' we'll look after the rest of the business." even if seth had been averse to running away from the possible danger which threatened, he would have been forced to continue the flight so lately begun, because of the energy displayed by his friends. tim and teddy literally dragged him along, crossing the street at one point to avoid a policeman, and again dodging into a friendly doorway when the guardians of the peace came upon them suddenly. had any one observed particularly the movements of these three lads, the gravest suspicions must have been awakened, for they displayed a consciousness of guilt in every movement, and showed plainly that their great desire was to escape scrutiny. seth was so enveloped in sorrow and fear as to be ignorant of the direction in which he and snip were being forced. he understood dimly that those who had the business of escape in hand were bent on gaining the river; but to more than that he gave no heed. finally, when they were arrived at a ferry-slip, teddy paid the passage money, and seth was led to the forward end of the boat, in order, as tim explained, that he might be ready to jump ashore instantly the pier on the opposite side was gained, in case the officers of justice had tracked them thus far. now, forced to remain inactive for a certain time, seth's friends took advantage of the opportunity to give him what seemed to be much-needed advice. "the minute the boat strikes the dock you must take a sneak," teddy said impressively, clutching seth vigorously by the shoulder to insure attention. "we'll hang 'round here to make sure the detectives haven't got on to your trail, an' then we'll go back." "but what am i to do afterward?" seth asked helplessly. "there ain't any need of very much guessin' about that. you're bound to get where there'll be a chance of hidin', an' you want to be mighty lively." "snip an' i will have to earn money enough to keep us goin', an' how can it be done while i'm hidin'?" "how much have you got now?" "'bout fifty cents." tim drew from his pocket a handful of coins, mostly pennies, and, retaining only three cents with which to pay his return passage on the ferry-boat, forced them upon the fugitive, saying when the boy remonstrated: "you'll need it all, an' i can hustle a little livelier to-night, or borrow from some of the other fellers if trade don't show up as it ought'er." teddy followed his comrade's example, paying no heed to seth's expostulations, save as he said: "we're bound to give you a lift, old man, so don't say anything more about it. if you was the only feller in this city what had passed a lead nickel, perhaps this thing would look different to me; but the way i reckon it is, that the man what put the advertisement in the paper jest 'cause he'd been done out'er five cents is a mighty poor citizen, an' i stand ready to do all i can towards keepin' you away from him." "look here, fellers," seth cried in what was very like despair as the steamer neared the dock, "i don't know what to do, even after you've put up all your money. where can snip an' i go? we've got to earn our livin', an' i don't see how it's to be done if we're bound to hide all the time." "that's easy enough," and tim spoke hopefully. "the city is a fool alongside the country, an' i'm countin' on your havin' a reg'lar snap after you get settled down. when we land, you're to strike right out, an' keep on goin' till you're where there's nothin' but farms with milk, an' pie, an' stuff to eat layin' 'round loose for the first feller what comes to pick 'em up. pip smith says farmers don't do much of anything but fill theirselves with good things, an' i've allers wanted to try my hand with 'em for one summer." seth shook his head doubtfully. although he had never been in the country, it did not seem reasonable that the picture drawn by pip smith was truthful, otherwise every city boy would turn farmer's assistant, rather than remain where it cost considerable labor to provide themselves with food and a shelter. "you'll strike it rich somewhere," teddy said, with an air of conviction, "an' then you can sneak back long enough to tell us where you're hangin' out. i'll work down 'round the markets for a spell, an' p'rhaps i'll see some of the hayseeders you've run across." the conversation was brought to a close abruptly as the ferry-boat entered the dock with many a bump and reel against the heavy timbers; and seth, with snip hugged tightly to his bosom, pressed forward to the gates that he might be ready to leap ashore instantly they were opened. "keep your upper lip stiff, an' don't stop, once you've started, till you're so far from new york that the detectives can't find you," tim whispered encouragingly, and ten seconds later the fugitive was running at full speed up the gangway, snip barking shrilly at the throng on either side. tim and teddy followed their friend to the street beyond the ticket office, and there stood watching until he had disappeared from view. then the latter said, with a long-drawn sigh: "i wish it had been almost any other feller what passed the lead nickel, for seth hasn't got sand enough to do what's needed, if he counts on keepin' out'er jail." and tim replied sadly: "if a feller stuck me with a counterfeit i'd think i had a right to shove it along; but after all this scrape i'll keep my eyes open mighty wide, else it may be a case of the country for me, an' i ain't hankerin' after livin' on a farm, even if pip smith does think it's sich a soft snap." then the friends of the fugitives returned to the ferry-boat, in order that they might without delay make a report to those acquaintances whom they knew would be eagerly waiting, as to how seth had fared at the outset of his flight. chapter ii. the country. seth had little idea as to the direction he had taken, save that the street led straight away from the water, and surely he must come into the country finally by pursuing such a course. neither time nor distance gave him relief of mind; it was much as if flight served to increase the fear in his mind, and even after having come to the suburbs of the city he looked over his shoulder apprehensively from time to time, almost expecting to see the officers of the law in hot pursuit. if it had been possible for snip to understand the situation fully, he could not have behaved with more discretion, according to his master's views. instead of begging to be let down that he might enjoy a frolic on the green grass, he remained passive in seth's arms, pressing his nose up to the lad's neck now and then as if expressing sympathy. the little fellow did not so much as whine when they passed rapidly by a cool-looking, bubbling stream, even though his tongue was lolling out, red and dripping with perspiration; but seth understood that his pet would have been much refreshed with a drink of the running water, and said, in a soothing, affectionate tone: "i don't dare to stop yet a while, snippey dear, for nobody knows how near the officers may be, and you had better go thirsty a little longer, than be kicked out into the street when i'm locked up in jail." a big lump came into the fugitive's throat at the picture he had drawn, and the brook was left far behind before he could force it down sufficiently to speak. then the two were come to a small shop, in the windows of which were displayed a variety of wares, from slate pencils to mint drops, and here seth halted irresolutely. he had continued at a rapid pace, and fully an hour was passed since he parted from his friends. he was both hungry and weary; there were but few buildings to be seen ahead, and, so he argued with himself, this might be his last opportunity to purchase anything which would serve as food until he was launched into that wilderness known to him as "the country." no person could be seen in either direction, and seth persuaded himself that it might be safe to halt here for so long a time as would be necessary to select something from the varied stock to appease hunger, and at the same time be within his limited means. for the first moment since leaving the ferry-slip he allowed snip to slip out of his arms; but caught him up again very quickly as the dog gave strong evidence of a desire to spend precious time in a frolic. "you must wait a spell longer, snippey dear," he muttered. "we may have to run for it, an' i mightn't have a chance to get you in my arms again. it would be terrible if the officers got hold of you, an' i'm afraid they'd try it for the sake of catchin' me, 'cause everybody knows i wouldn't leave you, no matter what happened." then seth stole softly into the shop, as if fearing to awaken the suspicion of the proprietor by a bold approach, and once inside, gazed quickly around. two or three early, unwholesome-looking apples and a jar of ginger cakes made up the list of eatables, and his decision was quickly made. "how many of them cakes will you sell for five cents?" he asked timidly of the slovenly woman who was embroidering an odd green flower on a small square of soiled and faded red silk. she looked at him listlessly, and then gazed at the cakes meditatively. "i don't know the price of them. this shop isn't mine; i'm tendin' it for a friend." "then you can't sell things?" and seth turned to go, fearing lest he had already loitered too long. "oh, dear, yes, that's what i'm here for; but i never had a customer for cakes, an' to tell the truth i don't believe one of 'em has been sold for a month. do you know what they are worth?" "the bakers sell a doughnut as big as three of them for a cent, an' throw in an extra one if they're stale." the lady deposited her embroidery on a sheet of brown paper which covered one end of the counter, and surveyed the cakes. "it seems to me that a cent for three of them would be a fair price," she said at length, after having broken one in order to gain some idea of its age. "have you got anything else to eat?" "that candy is real good, especially the checkerberry sticks, but perhaps you rather have somethin' more fillin'." "i'll take five cents' worth of cakes," seth said hurriedly, for it seemed as if he had been inside the shop a very long while. the amateur clerk set about counting the stale dainties in a businesslike way; but at that instant snip came into view from behind his master, and she ceased the task at once to cry in delight: "what a dear little dog! did he come with you?" "yes, ma'am," seth replied hesitatingly; and he added as the woman stooped to caress snip: "we're in a big hurry, an' if you'll give me the cakes i'll thank you." "dear me, why didn't you say so at first?" and she resumed her task of counting the cakes, stopping now and then to speak to snip, who was sitting up on his hind legs begging for a bit of the stale pastry. "how far are you going?" "i don't know; you see we can't walk very fast." "got friends out this way, i take it?" "well,--yes--no--that is, i don't know. won't you please hurry?" the woman seemed to think it necessary she should feed snip with a portion of one cake that had already been counted out for seth, and to still further tempt the dog's appetite by giving him an inch or more broken from one of the checkerberry sticks, before attending to her duties as clerk, after which she concluded her portion of the transaction by holding out a not over-cleanly hand for the money. seth hurriedly gave her five pennies, and then, seizing snip in his arms, ran out of the shop regardless of the questions she literally hurled after him. his first care was to gaze down the road in the direction from which he had just come, and the relief of mind was great when he failed to see any signs of life. "they haven't caught up with us yet, snippey," he said, as if certain the officers were somewhere in the rear bent on taking him prisoner. "if they stop at the store, that woman will be sure to say we were here." having thus spurred himself on, he continued the journey half an hour longer, when they had arrived at a grove of small trees and bushes through which ran a tiny brook. "we can hide in here, an' you'll have a chance to run around on the grass till you're tired," he said, as, after making certain there was no one in sight to observe his movements, he darted amid the shrubbery. it was not difficult for a boy tired as was seth, to find a rest-inviting spot by the side of the stream where the bushes hid him from view of any who might chance to pass along the road, and without loss of time snip set himself the task of chasing every butterfly that dared come within his range of vision, ceasing only for a few seconds at a time to lick his master's hand, or take his share of the stale pastry. it was most refreshing to seth, this halt beneath the shade of the bushes where the brook sang such a song as he had never heard before, and despite the age of the cake his hunger was appeased. save for the haunting fear that the officers of the law might be close upon his heels, he would have been very happy, and even under the painful circumstances attending his departure, he enjoyed in a certain degree the unusual scene before him. then snip, wearied with his fruitless pursuit of the butterflies, crept close by his master's side for a nap, and seth yielded to the temptation to stretch himself out at full length on the soft, cool moss. there was in his mind the thought that he must resume the flight within a short time, lest he fail to find a shelter before the night had come; but the dancing waters sang a most entrancing and rest-inviting melody until his eyes closed despite his efforts to hold them open, and master and dog were wrapped in slumber. the birds gathered on the branches above the heads of the sleepers, gazing down curiously and with many an inquiring twitter, as if asking whether this boy was one who would do them a mischief if it lay in his power, and the butterflies flaunted their gaudy wings within an inch of snip's eyes; but the slumber was not broken. the sun had no more than an hour's time remaining before his day's work in that particular section of the country had come to an end, when a brown moth fluttered down upon seth's nose, where he sat pluming his wings in such an energetic manner that the boy suddenly sneezed himself into wakefulness, while snip leaped up with a chorus of shrill barks and yelps which nearly threw the curious birds into hysterics. "it's almost sunset, snippey dear, an' we've been idlin' here when we ought'er been huntin' for a house where we can stay till mornin'. it's fine, i know," he added, as he took the tiny dog in his arms; "but i don't believe it would be very jolly to hang 'round in such a place all night. besides, who knows but there are bears? we must be a terrible long way in the country, an' if the farmers are as good as pip smith tells about, we can get a chance to sleep in a house." the fear that the officers might be close upon his heels had fled; it seemed as if many, many hours had passed since he took leave of tim and teddy, and it was possible the representatives of law would not pursue him so far into the country. he had yet on hand a third of the stale cakes, and with these in his pocket as token that he would not go supperless to bed, and snip on his arm, he resumed the flight once more. after a brisk walk of half an hour, still on a course directly away from the river, as he believed, seth began to look about him for a shelter during the night. "we'll stop at the first house that looks as if the folks who live in it might be willin' to help two fellers like us along, an' ask if we can stay all night," he said to snip, speaking in a more cheery tone than he had indulged in since the fear-inspiring advertisement had been brought to his attention. he did not adhere strictly to this plan, however, for when he was come to a farmhouse which had seemed to give token of sheltering generous people, a big black dog ran out of the yard growling and snapping, much to snippey's alarm, and seth hurried on at full speed. "that wouldn't be any place for you, young man," he said, patting the dog's head. "we'll sleep out of doors rather than have you scared half to death!" ten minutes later he knocked at the door of a house, and, on making his request to a surly-looking man, was told that they "had no use for tramps." seth did not stop to explain that he could not rightly be called a tramp; but ran onward as if fearful lest the farmer might pursue to punish him for daring to ask such a favor. three times within fifteen minutes did he ask in vain for a shelter, and then his courage had oozed out at his fingers' ends. "if pip smith was here he'd see that there ain't much milk an' pie layin' 'round to be picked up, an' it begins to look, snippey, as if we'd better stayed down there by the brook." master snip growled as if to say that he too believed they had made a mistake in pushing on any farther, and the sun hid his face behind the hills as a warning for young boys and small dogs to get under cover. seth was discouraged, and very nearly frightened. he began to fear that he might get himself and snip into serious trouble by any further efforts at finding a charitably disposed farmer, and after the shadows of night had begun to lengthen until every bush and rock was distorted into some hideous or fantastic shape, he was standing opposite a small barn adjoining a yet smaller dwelling. no light could be seen from the building; it was as if the place had been deserted, and such a state of affairs seemed more promising to seth than any he had seen. "if the people are at home, an' we ask them to let us stay all night, we'll be driven away; so s'pose we creep in there, an' at the first show of mornin' we'll be off. it can't do any harm for us to sleep in a barn when the folks don't know it." the barking of a dog in the distance caused him to decide upon a course of action very quickly, and in the merest fraction of time he was inside the building, groping around the main floor on which had been thrown a sufficient amount of hay to provide a dozen boys with a comfortable bed. he could hear some animal munching its supper a short distance away, and this sound robbed the gloomy interior of half its imaginary terrors. promising himself that he would leave the place before the occupants of the house were stirring next morning, seth made his bed by burrowing into the hay, and, with snip nestling close by his side, was soon ready for another nap. the fugitive had taken many steps during his flight, and, despite the slumber indulged in by the side of the brook, his eyes were soon closed in profound sleep. many hours later the shrill barking of snip awakened seth, and he sat bolt upright on the hay, rubbing his sleepy eyes as if trying to prove that those useful members had deceived him in some way. the rays of the morning sun were streaming in through the open door in a golden flood, and with the radiance came sweet odors borne by the gentle breeze. seth gave no heed just at that moment to the wondrous beauties of nature to be seen on every hand, when even the rough barn was gilded and perfumed, for standing in the doorway, as if literally petrified with astonishment, was a motherly looking little woman whose upraised hands told of bewilderment and surprise, while from the expression on her face one could almost have believed that she was really afraid of the tiny snip. "is that animal dangerous, little boy?" she asked nervously after a brief but, to seth, painful pause. "who--what animal? oh, you mean snip? why, he couldn't harm anybody if he tried, an', besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. he always barks when strange folks come near where i am, so's to make me think he's a watch-dog. do you own this barn?" "yes--that is to say, it has always belonged to the morses, an' there are none left now except gladys an' me." "i hope you won't be mad 'cause i came in here last night. i counted on gettin' away before you waked up; but the bed was so soft that it ain't any wonder i kept right on sleepin'." "have you been here all night?" the little woman asked in surprise, advancing a pace now that snip had decided there was no longer any necessity for him to continue the shrill outcries. "i didn't have any place to sleep; there wasn't a light to be seen in your house. well, to tell the truth, i was afraid i'd be driven away, same's i had been at the other places, so sneaked in----" "aunt hannah! aunt hannah!" it was a sweet, clear, childish voice which thus interrupted the conversation, and the little woman said nervously, as she glanced suspiciously at snip: "i wish you would hold your dog, little boy. that is gladys, an' she's so reckless that i'm in fear of her life every minute she is near strange animals." seth did not have time to comply with this request before a pink-cheeked little miss of about his own age came dancing into the barn like a june wind, which burdens itself with the petals of the early roses. "oh, aunt hannah! why, where in the world did that little boy--what a perfectly lovely dog! oh, you dear!" this last exclamation was called forth by master snip himself, who bounded forward with every show of joy, and stood erect on his hind feet with both forepaws raised as if asking to be taken in her arms. "don't, gladys! you mustn't touch that animal, for nobody knows whether he may not be ferocious." the warning came too late. gladys already had snip in her arms, and as the little fellow struggled to lick her cheek in token of his desire to be on friendly terms, she said laughingly: "you poor, foolish aunt hannah! to think that a mite of a dog like this one could ever be ferocious! isn't he a perfect beauty? i never saw such a dear!" the little woman hovered helplessly around much like a sparrow whose fledglings are in danger. she feared lest the dog should do the child a mischief, and yet dared not come so near as to rescue her from the imaginary danger. there was just a tinge of jealousy in seth's heart as he gazed at snip's demonstrations of affection for this stranger. it seemed as if he had suddenly lost his only friend, and, at that moment, it was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. gladys was so occupied with the dog as to be unconscious of aunt hannah's anxiety. she admired snip's silky hair; declared that he needed a bath, and insisted on knowing how "such a treasure" had come into seth's possession. the boy was not disposed to admit that he had no real claim upon the dog, save such as might result from having found him homeless and friendless in the street; but willing that the girl should admire his pet yet more. "put him on the floor an' see how much he knows," seth said, without replying to her question. then snip was called upon to show his varied accomplishments. he sat bolt upright holding a wisp of straw in his mouth; walked on his hind feet with seth holding him by one paw; whirled around and around on being told to dance; leaped over the handle of the hay-fork, barking and yelping with excitement; and otherwise gave token of being very intelligent. gladys was in an ecstasy of delight, and even the little woman so far overcame her fear of animals as to venture to touch snip's outstretched paw when he gravely offered to "shake hands." not until at least a quarter of an hour had passed was any particular attention paid to seth, and by this time aunt hannah was willing to admit that while dogs in general frightened her, however peaceable they appeared to be, she thought a little fellow like snip might be almost as companionable as a cat. "of course you won't continue your journey until after breakfast," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and gladys will take you into the kitchen where you can wash your face and hands, while i am milking." then it was that seth observed a bright tin pail and a three-legged stool lying on the ground just outside the big door, as if they had fallen from the little woman's hands when she was alarmed by hearing snip's note of defiance and warning. gladys had the dog in her arms, and nodding to seth as if to say he should follow, she led the way to the house, while aunt hannah disappeared through a doorway opening from the main portion of the barn. "there's the towel, the soap and water," she said, pointing toward a wooden sink in one corner of what was to seth the most wonderful kitchen he had ever seen. "don't you think snippey would like some milk?" "i'm certain he would," seth replied promptly. "he hasn't had anything except dry ginger cake since yesterday mornin'." a moment later master snip had before him a saucer filled with such milk as it is safe to say he had not seen since seth took him in charge, and the eager way in which he lapped it showed that it was appreciated fully. the fugitive did not make his toilet immediately, because of the irresistible temptation to gaze about him. the walls of the kitchen were low; but in the newcomer's eyes this was an added attraction, because it gave to the room such an hospitable appearance. the floor was more cleanly than any table he had ever seen; the bricks of the fireplace, at one side of which stood a small cook-stove, were as red as if newly painted; while on the dresser and the mantel across the broad chimney were tin dishes that shone like newly polished silver. a large rocking-chair, a couch covered with chintz, and half a dozen straight-backed, spider-legged chairs were ranged methodically along the sides of the room, while in the centre of the floor, so placed that the fresh morning breeze which entered by the door would blow straight across it to the window shaded by lilac bushes, was a table covered with a snowy cloth. "well, if this is a farmer's house i wouldn't wonder if a good bit of pip smith's yarn was true," seth muttered to himself, as he turned toward the sink, over which hung a towel so white that he could hardly believe he would be allowed to dry his face and hands with it. he was alone in the kitchen. snip, having had a most satisfactory breakfast of what he must have believed was real cream, had run out of doors to chase a leaf blown by the wind, and gladys was close behind, alternately urging him in the pursuit, and showering praises upon "the sweetest dog that ever lived." "folks that live like this must be mighty rich," seth thought, as he plunged his face into a basin of clear water. "it ain't likely snip an' me will strike it so soft again, an' i expect he'll be terrible sorry to leave. i reckon it'll be all right to hang 'round an hour or so, an' then we must get out lively. i wonder if that little bit of a woman expects i'll pay for breakfast?" chapter iii. aunt hannah. with a broken comb, which he used upon snip's hair as well as his own, seth concluded his toilet, and, neither the little woman nor the girl having returned to the house, stood in the doorway gazing out upon as peaceful a scene as a boy pursued by the officers of the law could well desire to see. on either hand ran the dusty road, not unlike a yellow ribbon upon a cloth of green, and bordering it here and there were clumps of bushes or groves of pine or of oak, as if planted for the especial purpose of affording to the weary traveller a screen from the blinding sun. the little farmhouse stood upon the height of a slight elevation from which could be had a view of the country round about on either hand; and although so near to the great city, there were no settlements, villages, or towns to be seen. surely, the lad said to himself, he had at last arrived at "the country," and if all houses were as hospitable-looking, as cleanly, and as inviting in appearance as was this one, then pip smith's story had in it considerably more than a grain of truth. "it must be mighty nice to have money enough to live in a place like this," seth said to himself. "it would please snip way down to the ground; but i mustn't think of it, 'cause there's no chance for a feller like me to earn a livin' here, an' we can't always count on folks givin' us what we need to eat." then aunt hannah came out from the barn, carrying in one hand a glistening tin pail filled with foaming milk, and in the other the three-legged stool. seth ran toward her and held out his hand as if believing she would readily yield at least a portion of her burden; but she shook her head smiling. "bless your heart, my child, i ought to be able to carry one pail of milk, seeing that i've done as much or more every day since i was gladys's age." "but that's no reason why i shouldn't help along a little to make up for your not bein' mad 'cause snip an' me slept in the barn. besides, i'd like to say to the fellers that i'd carried as much milk as a whole pail full once in my life--that is, if i ever see 'em again," he added with a sigh. "then you came from the city?" "yes, an' i never got so far out in the country before. say, it's mighty fine, ain't it?" and as aunt hannah relinquished her hold on the pail, seth started toward the house without waiting for a reply to his question. after placing the stool bottom up by the side of the broad stone which served as doorstep, the little woman called to gladys: "it's time white-face was taken to pasture, child." "do you mean the cow?" seth asked. "yes, dear." "why can't i take her to the pasture; that is, if you'll tell me where to find it?" "unfasten her chain, and she will show you the way. it's only across the road over yonder." seth ran quickly to the barn, and having arrived at the doorway through which aunt hannah disappeared when she went about the task of milking, he halted in surprise and fear, looking at what seemed to him an enormous beast with long, threatening horns, which she shook now and then in what appeared to be a most vicious fashion. only once before had seth ever seen an animal of this species, and then it was when he and pip smith had travelled over to the erie yards to see a drove of oxen taken from the cars to the abattoir. it surely seemed very dangerous to turn loose such a huge beast; but seth was determined to perform whatsoever labor lay in his power, with the idea that he might not be called upon to pay quite as much for breakfast, and, summing up all his courage, he advanced toward the cow. she shook her head restively, impatient for the breakfast of sweet grass, and he leaped back suddenly, frightened as badly of her as aunt hannah had been of snip. once more he made an attempt, and once more leaped back in alarm, this time to be greeted with a peal of merry laughter, and a volley of shrill barks from snip, who probably fancied seth stood in need of his protection. "why did you jump so?" gladys asked merrily. seth's face reddened, and he stammered not a little in reply: "i reckon that cow would make it kind'er lively for strangers, wouldn't he?" "and you are really afraid of poor old white-face? why, she's as gentle as snippey, though of course you couldn't pet her so much." then gladys stepped boldly forward, and snip whined and barked in a perfect spasm of fear at being carried so near the formidable-looking animal. "now, you are just as foolish as your master," gladys said with a hearty laugh; but she allowed the dog to slip down from her arms, and as he sought safety behind his master, she unloosened the chain from the cow's neck, leading her by the horn out of the barn. then it was that snip plucked up courage to join the girl who had been so kind to him, and seth, thoroughly ashamed at having betrayed so much cowardice, followed his example. "i want to do something toward paying for my breakfast," he said hesitatingly; "but i never saw a cow before, and that one acted as if he was up to mischief. i s'pose they're a good deal like dogs--all right after a feller gets acquainted with 'em." "some cows are ugly, i suppose," gladys replied reflectively, taking snip once more in her arms as the little fellow hung back in alarm when white-face stopped to gather a tempting bunch of clover; "but aunt hannah has had this one ever since she was a calf, and we two are great friends. she's a real well-behaved cow, an' never makes any trouble about going into pasture. there, she's in now, and all we've got to do is to put up the bars. by the time we get back breakfast will be ready. did you walk all the way from the city?" there was no necessity for seth to make a reply, because at this instant an audacious wren flew past within a dozen inches of snip's nose, causing him to spring from the girl's arms in a vain pursuit, which was not ended until the children were at the kitchen door. the morning meal was prepared, and as gladys drew out a chair to show seth where he should sit, aunt hannah asked anxiously: "what does the dog do while you are eating?" "you'll see how well he can behave himself," snip's master replied proudly, as the little fellow laid down on the floor at a respectful distance from the table. much to seth's surprise, instead of immediately beginning the meal, the little woman bowed her head reverentially, gladys following the example, and for the first time in his life did the boy hear a blessing invoked upon the food of which he was about to partake. it caused him just a shade of uneasiness and perhaps awe, this "prayin' before breakfast" as he afterward expressed it while going over the events of the day with snip, and he did not feel wholly at ease until the meal had well nigh come to an end. then the little woman gave free rein to her curiosity, by asking: "where are you going, my boy?" "that's what i don't just know," seth replied, after a short pause. "pip smith, he said the country was a terrible nice place to live in, an' when snip an' i had to come away, i thought perhaps we could find a chance to earn some money." "haven't you any parents, or a home?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "i don't s'pose i have. i did live over to mr. genet's in jersey city; but he died, an' i had to hustle for myself." "had to what?" aunt hannah asked. "why, shinny 'round for money enough to pay my way. there ain't much of anything a feller like me can do but sell papers, an' i don't cut any big ice at that, 'cause i can't get 'round as fast as the other boys." "did you earn enough to provide you with food, and clothes, an' a place to sleep?" "well, sometimes. you see i ain't flashin' up very strong on clothes, an' snip an' i had a room down to mother hyde's that cost us eighty cents a week. we could most always get along, except sometimes when there was a heavy storm an' trade turned bad." "i suppose you became discouraged with that way of living?" the little woman said reflectively. "well, it ain't so awful swell; but then you can't call it so terrible bad. perhaps some time i could have got money enough to start a news-stand, an' then i'd been all right, you know." "why did you come into the country?" "you see we had to leave mighty sudden, 'cause----" seth checked himself; he had been very near to explaining exactly why he left new york so unceremoniously. perhaps but for the "prayers before breakfast" he might have told this kindly faced little woman all his troubles; now, however, he did not care to do so, believing she would consider he had committed a great crime in passing a lead nickel, even though unwittingly. neither was he willing to tell so good a woman an absolute untruth, and therefore held his peace; but the flush which had come into his cheeks was ample proof to his hostess that in his life was something which caused shame. aunt hannah looked at him for an instant, and then as if realizing that the scrutiny might cause him uneasiness, turned her eyes away as she asked in a low tone: "do you believe it would be possible for you to find such work in the country as would support you and the dog?" "i don't know anything about it, 'cause you see i never was in the country before," seth replied, decidedly relieved by this change in the subject of conversation. "pip smith thought there was milk an' pies layin' 'round to be picked up by anybody, an' accordin' to his talk it seemed as if a feller might squeak along somehow. if i could always have such a bed as i got last night, the rest of it wouldn't trouble a great deal." "but you slept in the barn!" gladys cried. "yes; it was nicer than any room mother hyde's got. don't boys like me do something to earn money out this way?" "the farmers' sons find employment enough 'round home; but i don't think you would be able to earn very much, my boy." "i might strike something," seth said reflectively. "at any rate, snip an' i'll have to keep movin'." "then you have no idea where you're going?" and aunt hannah appeared to be distressed in mind. "i wish i did," seth replied with a sigh, and gladys said quickly: "you can't keep walkin' 'round all the time, for what will you do when it rains?" "perhaps i might come across a barn, same's i did last night." "and grow to be a regular tramp?" "i wouldn't be one if i was willin' to work, would i? that's all snip an' me ask for now, is just a chance to earn what we'll eat, an' a place to sleep." aunt hannah rose from the table quickly in apparently a preoccupied manner, and the conversation was thus brought to an abrupt close. snip, who had already breakfasted most generously, scrambled to his feet for another excursion into the wonderful fields where he might chase butterflies to his heart's content, and seth lingered by the open doorway undecided as to what he should say or do. gladys began removing the dishes from the table, aunt hannah assisting now and then listlessly, as if her mind was far away; and after two or three vain efforts seth managed to ask: "how much will i have to pay for breakfast an' sleepin' in the barn?" "why, bless your heart, my boy, i wouldn't think of chargin' anything for that," the little woman said, almost sharply. "but we must pay our way, you know, though i ain't got such a dreadful pile of money. i don't want folks to think we're regular tramps." "you needn't fear anything of that kind yet a while, but if it would make you feel more comfortable in mind to do something toward payin' for the food which has been freely given, you may try your hand at clearin' up the barn. gladys an' i aim to keep it cleanly; but even at the best it doesn't look as i would like to see it." seth sat about this task with alacrity, although not knowing exactly what ought to be done; but the boy who is willing to work and eager to please will generally succeed in his efforts, even though he be ignorant as to the proper method. it was while working at that end of the barn nearest the house at a time when aunt hannah and gladys were standing at the open window washing the breakfast dishes, that he overheard, without absolutely intending to do so, a certain conversation not meant for his ears. it is true he had no right to listen, and also true that the hum of voices came to his ears several moments before he paid any attention whatsoever, or made an effort to distinguish the words. then that which he heard literally forced him to listen for more. it was aunt hannah who said, evidently in reply to a suggestion from gladys: "it is a pity and a shame to see a child like that poor little lame boy wandering about the country trying to find work, when he isn't fitted for anything of the kind. but how could we give him a home here, my dear?" "i am sure it wouldn't cost you anything, aunt hannah. with three spare rooms in the house and hardly ever a visitor to use one of them, why couldn't he have a bed here?" "he can, my dear, and it's my duty to give him a home, as i see plainly; but you can't imagine what a cross it will be for me to have a boy and a dog around the old place. i have lived here alone so many years, except after you came, that a new face, even though it be a friendly one, disturbs me." "surely you'd get used to him in a few days, and he's a boy who tries to do all he can in the way of helping." "i believe so, my dear, and, therefore, because it seems to be my duty, i'm goin' to ask him to stay, at least until he can find a better home; but at the same time i hold that it will be a dreadful cross for me to bear." seth suddenly became aware that he was playing the part of a sneak by thus listening; and although eager to hear more, turned quickly away, busying himself at the opposite side of the barn, where it would not be possible to play the eavesdropper in even so slight a degree. until now it had never come into his mind that this little woman, whose home was so exceedingly inviting, might give him an opportunity to remain, even for the space of twenty-four hours; but as it was thus suggested, he realized how happy both he and snip would be in such a place, and believed he could ask for nothing more in this world if it should be his good fortune to have an opportunity to stay. there was little probability the officers of the law would find him here, however rigorously the search might be continued, and it seemed as if every day spent in such a household must be filled with unalloyed pleasure. he stopped suddenly in his work as the thought came that it had already been decided he should have an invitation to remain, and a great joy came into his heart just for an instant, after which he forced it back resolutely, saying to himself: "a feller who would bother a good woman like aunt hannah deserves to be kicked. she's made up her mind to give me a chance jest 'cause she thinks it's something that ought'er be done; but i ain't goin' to play mean with her. it's lucky i happened to hear what was said, else i'd have jumped at the chance of stayin' when she told me i might." at that moment snip came into the barn eager to be petted by his master, and wearied with the fruitless chase after foolish and annoying birds. "it's tough on you, little man, 'cause a home like this is jest what you've been achin' for, an' they'd be awful good to you," seth whispered as he took the dog in his arms. "how would it be if i should sneak off an' leave you with 'em? i ought'er do it, snippey dear; but it would most break my heart to give up the only family i've got. an' that's where i'm mighty mean! you'd have a great time here, an' by stickin' to me there ain't much show for fun, unless things take a terribly sudden turn." snip licked his master's chin by way of reply, and seth pressed the little fellow yet more closely, saying with what was very like a sob: "i can't do it, little man, i can't do it! you must stick to me, else i'll be the lonesomest feller in all the world. we'll hold on here a spell, an' then hustle once more. it must be we'll find somebody who'll give us work, providin' the detectives don't nab me." then he turned his attention once more to the task set him by aunt hannah, and snip sat on the threshold of the door watching his master and snapping at the impudent sparrows, until gladys came out with an invitation for the dog to escort her to a neighbor's house, where she was forced to go with a message. "i'll take good care of him," she called to seth, as snip ran on joyously in advance, "and bring him back before you finish sweeping the barn." "i'm not afraid of his comin' to any harm while you keep an eye on him; but i believe he's beginnin' to like you almost better'n he does me," seth replied, with a shade of sorrow in his tone, whereat gladys laughed merrily. then the boy continued his work with a will, and ample evidence of his labor was apparent when aunt hannah came out, looking very much like the fairy godmothers of "once upon a time" stories, despite the wrinkles on her placid face. "it looks very neat," she said approvingly. "i never would have believed a boy could be so handy with a broom! last spring i hired william dean, the son of a neighbor, to tidy up the barn and the yard; but it looked worse when he had finished than before." "have i earned the breakfast snip and i ate?" seth asked, pleased with her praise. "indeed you have, child, although there was no reason for doing anything of the kind. when we share with those who are less fortunate, we are doing no more than our duty, an' i don't like to think that you feel it necessary to pay for a mouthful of food." "it was the very nicest breakfast i ever had, miss--miss----" "you may call me 'aunt hannah,' for i'm an aunt to all the children in the neighborhood, accordin' to their way of thinking. would you be contented to stay here for a while, my dear?" "indeed i would!" was the emphatic reply, and then seth added, remembering the conversation he had overheard: "that is, i would if i could; but snip an' me have got to hunt for a chance to earn our livin', an' it won't do to think of loafin' here, even though it is such a fine place." aunt hannah smiled kindly and said, with a certain show of determination, as if forcing herself to an unwelcome decision: "you an' the little dog shall stay for a while, my boy, and perhaps you can find some kind of work nearabout; but if not, surely it won't increase my cost of living, for we'll have a garden, which is what i'm not able to attend to now i've grown so old. why did you leave the city, my child?" had it not been for that "praying before breakfast" seth would have invented some excuse for his flight; but now he could not bring himself, as he gazed into the kindly eyes, either to utter a deliberate falsehood or to make an equivocal reply. "i'd like to tell you," he said hesitatingly, after a long pause, during which aunt hannah looked out across the meadow rather than at him. "i'd like to tell you, but i can't," he repeated. "i don't believe you are a bad boy, seth," she said mildly, but without glancing toward him. the lad remained silent with downcast eyes, and when it seemed to him as if many minutes had passed, the little woman added: "perhaps you will tell me after we are better acquainted. gladys declares, an' i've come quite to her way of thinking, that you should remain with us for a time. i don't believe you could find work such as would pay for your board and lodging, unless it was with an old woman like me, and so we're to consider you and snip as members of the family." seth shook his head, feebly at first, for the temptation to accept the invitation was very great, and then decidedly, as if the decision he had arrived at could not be changed. "would you rather go away?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "no, i wouldn't!" seth cried passionately, the tears coming dangerously near his eyelids. "i'd do anything in this world for the sake of havin' such a home as this; but all the same, snip an' i can't stay to bother you. we'll leave when he comes back." "listen to me, my child," and now the little woman spoke with a degree of firmness which sounded strangely from one so mild, "you are not to go away this day, no matter what may be done later. we will talk about my plan after dinner, and then perhaps you'll feel like explaining why you think it necessary to go further in search of work after i have given you a chance to earn what you and the dog may need." then gladys' voice was heard in the distance as she urged snip on in his pursuit of a butterfly, and aunt hannah went quickly into the dwelling, leaving seth gazing after her wistfully as he muttered: "i never believed there was such a good woman in this world!" chapter iv. the flight. neither gladys nor snip came into the barn immediately after their return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the message with which she had been entrusted, and seth was left alone to turn over in his mind all that aunt hannah had said. a very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he believed to be his duty and his inclination. it seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding place. as the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left new york was first told; and once aunt hannah was aware that he had transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon. he believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love, and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. so long as she could only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was worthy of confidence. "i'll come back when i'm a man, an' then she'll have to believe i didn't mean to do anything so terrible bad when i passed the lead nickel," he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution just made. "it would be mighty nice to live here, an' what a good time snip could have!" then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind; but the thought of going away from that charming home--which might have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit money--leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long day, brought the tears to his eyes again. "i'll have to take the poor little man with me, an' it'll come mighty rough on him!" he said with a sob. "i reckon he thinks this kind of fun, when he can chase butterflies an' birds to his heart's content, is goin' to last, an' he'll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave; but i couldn't get along without him!" gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy frame of mind. she and snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing seth that he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm. "if you jump like that i shall begin to think you are as nervous as aunt hannah," she cried with a merry laugh. "she insists that between snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober down very suddenly; but do you know, seth, that i've lived here with no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy. i had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the neighborhood, which isn't saying very much, in view of the fact that the two dean boys and malvinia stubbs are the only people of nearabout my age in this section of the country." "i believe snip thinks as much of you as you do of him," seth replied gloomily. "i never knew him to make friends with any one before; but perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease him. if i wasn't mighty mean, he'd stay here all the time." "of course he'll stay," gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. "aunt hannah and i have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. you two are to live here; snip's work is to enjoy himself with me, while you're to make a garden, the like of which won't be seen this side of new york. what do you think of settling down to being a farmer?" "i'd like it mighty well, but it can't be done." and seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet miss gladys' startled gaze. "wait till you've talked with aunt hannah," she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. "we've fixed everything, an' you'll find that there isn't a word for you to say." "i have talked with her," seth replied gloomily. "we'd both love to stay mighty well, but we can't." "i'd like to know why"; and now gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. "neither you nor snip have got a home, an' here's one with the best woman who ever lived--that much i know to a certainty." "i believe you, but it can't be done." and the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation. gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever. during the remainder of the forenoon neither aunt hannah, gladys, nor snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner. seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to aunt hannah's instructions. this time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her heavenly father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path. aunt hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to seth each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins. perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer why he left new york, seth would have told her everything; but no word was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him for having passed the counterfeit money. nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he should become a member of the household; but gladys gave the outlines of a journey she proposed making with snip that afternoon, and the heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return until nightfall. then aunt hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task. therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing. immediately after the meal had been brought to a close seth went out with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden. when she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to bring himself to confess why he and snip were fugitives. some of the neighbors called upon aunt hannah that afternoon, therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking land behind the barn; and he knew that gladys and snip would not return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table. his hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his ability before sunset, and then aunt hannah found time to inspect the result of his toil. "i declare you have done as well as any man i could have hired, an' a good deal better than some!" she exclaimed, and a flush of joy overspread seth's face as he arose with difficulty from the grass where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. "william dean tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. you have turned it up till it is the same as ploughed, an' we'll have a famous garden, even though it is a bit late in the season." "i'm glad you like it," the boy replied. "of course i could do such work quicker after i'd tried my hand at it two or three times." "i didn't expect you'd more than half finish it in one day, an' now there's nothing to be done but put in the seeds. we'll see to that in the morning. i must go after white-face now, or we shall have a late supper. have you seen anything of gladys?" "she hasn't been here. say, why can't i get the cow?" "i suppose you might, for she's gentle as a kitten; but you must be tired." "i reckon it won't hurt me to walk from here to the pasture." and seth started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that aunt hannah would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself willing to do whatsoever came in his way. it did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous beast of a cow; but since gladys had done so he advanced without any great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns. he led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at his own bravery. "is there anything more for me to do?" he asked, as aunt hannah came out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin pail. "you've earned a rest, my dear," the little woman said cheerily. "sit down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every one who has done a good day's work. we poor people can have what rich folks can't, or don't, which amounts to much the same thing." seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the threshold of the "tie-up" watching the little woman force out the big streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to successfully perform the same task was strong upon him. "don't you think i could do that?" he asked timidly. "i dare say you might, my child; there isn't much of a knack to it." "would you be willin' to let me try?" "of course you shall," and aunt hannah got up quickly from the stool. "be gentle, and you'll have no trouble." seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a thin stream of the foaming fluid, although white-face did not appear well pleased with his experiments. then aunt hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as gladys and snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon's frolic. bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal, and again aunt hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret satisfaction. while they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips: "you are to stay here until morning, seth, and then we will have another talk. i'm an old-fashioned old maid, an' believe in early to bed an' early to rise, therefore we don't light lamp or candle in the summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. you are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have finished supper i guess you'll be glad to lie down, for spading up a piece of grass land isn't easy work." understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire without delay, seth took snip in his arms immediately the meal had come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to his room: "you've been mighty good to us, miss--aunt hannah, an' i hope we'll have a chance to pay you back some day." "you've done that this afternoon," gladys cried laughingly. "aunt hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. all hands, including snip, will have a share in the planting, and i wouldn't be surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such work." seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed aunt hannah as she led the way to the room above the kitchen. "you won't forget to say your prayers," she said, kissing him good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and seth shook his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done such a thing. after undressing, and when snip had been provided with a comfortable bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, seth attempted to do as he had promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. there was in his heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially: "i hope aunt hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as she deserves, for she's a dandy, if there ever was one!" then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings. never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly! there were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on. snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master. the chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of leaving the morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master would remain there all their lives. weary, as seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates. perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but the temptation of getting into such a bed as aunt hannah had provided for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of dreamland. it is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe seth's condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was great. more than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell aunt hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting her friendship. to his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story, and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene. then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open; and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary to get out of bed. crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. and then, such a revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done by taking snip in his arms. the dog was sleeping soundly, and seth whispered in a voice which was far from being steady: "it's too bad, old man; but we can't help ourselves. you'll be sorry not to see gladys when you wake; but you won't feel half so bad as i shall, 'cause i know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin' another place like this." then he opened the door softly, still holding snip in his arms. not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and listened intently. it was as if he and snip were the only occupants of the house. seth had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since aunt hannah bade him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the flight at once. with his hand on snip's head as a means of preventing the dog from growling in case any unusual sound was heard, seth began the descent of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until it seemed certain both aunt hannah and gladys must be aroused. in trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the stair-rail, squeezing snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the house had been alarmed. he was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the silence was as profound as before he began to descend. never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more than half-way down. the descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world, and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring to breathe. once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door. the key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and the door swung open with never a creak. the moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why he had been forced to come away from new york; and as he turned his head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him. he saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form advancing. a cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder restrained him. "where are you going, my child?" a kindly voice asked; and he knew that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than aunt hannah. seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his knees trembled beneath him. he had been discovered while seemingly prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized in what way his actions might be misconstrued. "where are you going, seth dear?" "i wasn't--i had to run away, aunt hannah, an' that's the truth of it!" he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. "why didn't you tell me at supper-time?" "i was afraid you and gladys would try to stop me, an' perhaps i couldn't stick to what i'd agreed on." "do you really want to leave us, seth?" "indeed i don't, aunt hannah! i'd give anything in this world if i could stay, for this is the very nicest place i ever was in. oh, indeed, i don't want to go away!" "then why not stay?" "i can't! i can't, 'cause i'd have to tell----" seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in snip's silky hair. "is it because you can't tell me why you left the city?" and the little woman laid her hand on the boy's shoulder with a motion not unlike a caress. seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "then go right back to bed. you shall stay here, my dear, until the time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile i will not believe you have been guilty of any wickedness." chapter v. an accident. filled with shame and confusion, seth made no resistance when aunt hannah ordered him back to bed; but obeyed silently, moving stealthily as when he began the flight. he was trembling as with a sudden chill when he undressed and laid himself down, while snip lost no time in curling his tiny body into a good imitation of a ball, wondering, perhaps, why he had thus been needlessly disturbed in his "beauty sleep." seth was no longer capable of speculating upon the problem in which he had been involved through a lead nickel and an advertisement in the newspapers. he could only realize that aunt hannah had good reason to believe him a thief, or worse, otherwise she would not have been waiting to discover if he attempted to prowl around the house while she was supposed to be asleep, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought. he wished that the night might never come to an end, and then he would not be forced to meet her face to face, as he must when the sun rose. "of course she'll tell gladys where she found me, an' both of 'em will believe i'm the worst feller that ever lived!" he whispered to himself; and then tears, bitter and scalding, flowed down his cheeks, moistening the spotless linen, but bringing some slight degree of comfort, because sleep quickly followed in their train. seth was awakened next morning by aunt hannah's voice, as she called gently: "it's time to get up, my dear. the sun is out looking for boys an' dogs, an' you mustn't disappoint him." snip ran eagerly down the stairs as if to greet some one for whom he had a great affection, and seth heard the little woman say to him: "i really believe gladys was in the right when she said i would come to like you almost as much as if you were a cat. do you want a saucer of milk?" "she won't talk so pleasantly when i get there," seth said to himself. "i'd rather take a sound flogging than have her look at me as if i was a thief!" the lad soon came to know aunt hannah better than to accuse her of being cruel even in the slightest degree. when he entered the kitchen she greeted him with a kindly smile, and said, much as if the events of the previous night were no more than a disagreeable dream: "you see i'm beginning to depend on you already, seth. gladys isn't up yet, and i've left white-face in the barn thinkin' you'd take her to the pasture. the grass is wet with dew, an' i'm gettin' so old that i don't dare take the chances of wetting my feet." seth did not wait to make his toilet, but ran swiftly to the barn, rejoicing because of the opportunity to perform some task. when the cow had been cared for he loitered around outside, picking up a stick here and a stone there as if it was of the highest importance that the lawn in front of the house be freed from litter of every kind before breakfast. his one desire was to avoid coming face to face with aunt hannah until it should be absolutely necessary, and while he was thus inventing work gladys came out in search of snip. seth understood at once that the girl was yet ignorant of his attempt to run away, and his heart swelled with gratitude toward the little woman who had thus far kept secret what he would have been ashamed to tell. just then snip was of far more importance in the eyes of aunt hannah's niece than was his master, and after a hasty "good-morning" she ran away with the dog at her heels for the accustomed exercise before breakfast. "come in an' wash your face, my dear. breakfast will be cooked by the time you are ready to eat it, and such work as you are doing may as well be left until a more convenient season." seth felt forced to obey this summons promptly; but he did not dare meet the little woman's glance. had he observed her closely, however, it would have been seen that she studiously avoided looking toward him. aunt hannah was averse to causing pain, even to the brutes which came in her way, and at this particular time she understood very much of what was in the boy's mind. seth feared lest in the "prayer before breakfast" some reference might be made to what he had attempted to do during the night; but his fears were groundless. the little woman asked that her father's blessing might fall upon the homeless; but the words were spoken in the same fervent, kindly tone as on the evening previous, and again the boy thanked her in his heart. when the morning meal had come to an end gladys was eager seth should join her and snip on an excursion through the grove where squirrels were said to be "thick as peas," and under almost any other circumstances the guest would have been delighted to accept the invitation; but now he insisted that there was very much work to be done before nightfall, which would force him to remain near the house. "we've only to plant the garden," aunt hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees." seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds. until noon the three, with snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as aunt hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task." seth did not join gladys and snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from new york, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was. "i couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again. there was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself. during three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them. seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. he had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn. gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands. "it's no use, snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "i can't stay an' not tell aunt hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. if i could talk to her in the dark, when i couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. we must have it out mighty soon, for i can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves." he was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade aunt hannah and gladys good-night. the moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight. having repeated to snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass. only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, snip following close behind, barking shrilly. once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips. the room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay aunt hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing. it needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil. like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when dud wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water. he pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child: "don't get scared! we can't put the fire out with water; but i'll soon smother it." "you needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! it would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!" "i'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned." "there is no fire here now." and aunt hannah threw back the rugs, despite seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "for mercy's sake, save the house! it's the only home i ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if i lost it!" before she had ceased speaking seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for aunt hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings. not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe. the little woman remained upon the floor where seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise. "are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side. "never mind me until the fire is out." "there is no more fire, an' i'm bound to mind you! are you hurt?" "it doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet i can't use either ankle or wrist. of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children." seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why gladys did not make her appearance. the first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened. "what can i do? oh, what can i do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for gladys. "don't waken her!" aunt hannah cried warningly. "if you can't help me there is nothing she can do." "ain't she in the house?" seth asked nervously. he feared aunt hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible. he failed to observe that snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate. "you mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," aunt hannah said soothingly. "but for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear." "but you can't get up!" seth wailed. "that wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if i never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "but i'm not going to lie here. surely you can help me on to the couch." "tell me how to do it," seth cried eagerly, and at that moment gladys appeared in the doorway. "lean over so that i may put my arms around your neck," aunt hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm. "she fell an' hurt herself," seth said hurriedly to gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. and then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist. "if you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to gladys, who by this time was standing at his side. aunt hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor. then gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, aunt hannah had been grievously burned. "yes, i'm in some pain," she said in reply to seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved i have no right to complain. get some flour, gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps seth will run over to mrs. dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes." "where does mis' dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when gladys replied: "it's the first house past the grove where snip and i went this afternoon!" seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay aunt hannah for having given shelter to him and snip, lending speed to his feet. the dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, seth ran back to help gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing. aunt hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night. "mis' dean is comin' right away. what can i do?" "nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "you have been of such great service to me this night that i can never repay you." "please don't say that, aunt hannah," seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "if i could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think i was so awful bad." "i believe you to be a good boy, seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. even then," she added with a smile, "i fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse." the arrival of mrs. dean put an end to any further conversation, and seth was called upon to aid in carrying aunt hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind. "i am as well off in my own bed, sarah dean. don't treat me as if i was a child who didn't know what was best." "you are goin' into the foreroom, hannah morse, an' that's all there is about it. that bed hasn't been used since the year your brother benjamin was at home, an' i've always said that if anything happened to you, an' i had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. we'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'." "you can bet she does!" seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from mrs. dean's mouth. when the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and snip was ordered into the shed. aunt hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to gladys' chamber, and then mrs. dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself. seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by mr. dean, and here gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time. "how is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep. "her hands and arms are burned very badly. why, seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and mrs. dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint." "that's 'cause she's so good. if i was like her i needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after i died. it would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see aunt hannah!" "she'd have burned to death but for you." "that ain't so, gladys. i didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her." "she's just been telling mrs. dean that you saved her life, and the house." "did she really?" seth cried excitedly. "did she say it in them very same words?" "aunt hannah made it sound a good deal better than i can. she said god sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here." "wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" seth asked quickly. "i've heard mother hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad." "aunt hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for i never heard a thing till snippey came into my room barking." "i hope i did do as much; but it don't seem jest true." "don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?" "perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high." "and since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?" "i hope so." "why, seth barrows, how wicked you are!" "no, no, gladys, i didn't mean i hoped she'd have burned to death; but i hoped i really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when i tell her." "tell her what?" "why snip an' i had to run away from new york." "is it something you're ashamed of?" gladys asked quickly and in surprise. seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks. gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly: "i don't believe it. aunt hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows." "did aunt hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" and seth rose to his feet excitedly. "i hope you don't think i'd tell a lie?" "of course i don't, gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me--aunt hannah's sayin' what you claim she did--there wouldn't be any wonder i had hard work to believe it." "she said to me those very same words----" "what ones?" "that you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it." then, suddenly, to gladys' intense surprise, seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears. chapter vi. sunshine. mrs. dean had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that gladys and seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers. at midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that aunt hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, gladys, in obedience to mrs. dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but seth positively refused to leave the kitchen. "somethin' that i could do might turn up, an' i count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "snip an' i'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?" so eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve aunt hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes. with the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when mrs. dean came out from the foreroom. "well, i do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "hannah morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n i expected. i wish my william could take a few lessons from you." "i didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "if the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape." "you're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when i tell hannah morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad." seth did not venture to look up lest mrs. dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household. "is aunt hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea. "i allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. at first i was afraid she'd broken some bones; but mrs. stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. it seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. the wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground." then mrs. dean questioned seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries. then gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor. mr. dean came over to milk white-face, and seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if aunt hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as mrs. dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow. the old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that mr. dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned. very proud was seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and gladys ran to tell aunt hannah what she considered exceedingly good news. during the next two days either mrs. dean or mrs. stubbs ruled over the morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time seth had not been allowed to see the invalid. gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that aunt hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented. the neighbors sent newspapers and books for gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as aunt hannah herself would have done. then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. he had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity. it was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to seth: "aunt hannah thinks i ought to run out of doors a little while because i have stayed in the house so long. there isn't the least bit of need; but i must go, else she'll worry herself sick. she says you can sit with her, an' i'll take snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than i am." just for a moment seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that aunt hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness. gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. with snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments. aunt hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. the bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain. "i knew you would be forced to come when gladys went out, and that was why i sent her. we two--you an' i--need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house." seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed aunt hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave new york, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand. "i ought'er----" he stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart: "you have saved the old home, an' my life as well, seth. even if i had hesitated at making you one of the family, i could not do so now, after owing you so much." "don't talk like that, aunt hannah! don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" seth cried tearfully. "it's the other way, an' snip an' i are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "ever since you got hurt i've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' i promised snip an' myself that i'd do it the very first chance. if it----" "there is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. i have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over." "we shall have to go; but i'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause i know you think i was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what i've done." "my dear boy," and aunt hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "i never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly." "an' that's jest the truth. now don't say a word till i've told you all about it, an' please not look at me." then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by teddy and tim. "i didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but i reckon i'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause i couldn't afford to lose so much money. of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if i should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let gladys take care of poor little snippey?" "come here an' kiss me, seth," aunt hannah said softly. "i wish i could put my hand on your head! and you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "you poor little child! if you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. the good book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from god. but i'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. do you know, gladys read your story in the paper before i sent her for a walk, and that is why i wanted to be alone with you." seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and aunt hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower: "take up the newspaper lying on the table. i told gladys to fold it so you might find the article i wanted you to read." seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet. "can you read, dear?" "not very well, 'cause i have to spell out the big words." "hold it before my eyes while i make the attempt. there isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, i hope." seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following: messrs. symonds & symonds, the well-known attorneys of pine street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in san francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one seth barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. all the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in jersey city, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. his age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle. "it is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in new york city; but messrs. symonds & symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. as has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. the boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. the moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law." it was not until aunt hannah had concluded that seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly: "do you suppose the seth barrows told about there can be me?" "of course, my dear. isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?" "but there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, aunt hannah! there's a big mistake somewhere." "do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in california?" "indeed i don't. i thought snip was all the relation i had in the world." "why did the man in jersey city allow you to live with him?" "i don't know. i had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause i was too small." "well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "i don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but i'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from new york because of an advertisement. the money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman." "i wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me." "now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. i'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. i've sent for nathan dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work." then mrs. dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking. gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly: "what did aunt hannah say to you?" "why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?" "because i read that story in the newspaper. then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said i'd better ask mr. dean to come over this afternoon. i couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because mrs. dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. did you tell her why you and snippey ran away?" "of course i did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance i had to speak with her alone, though i made sure she'd send me away." then seth repeated that which he had told aunt hannah, and while he was thus engaged mr. dean entered the house. during the two days which followed, gladys and seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when aunt hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident. then it was that mr. dean returned from new york, and came to make his report. there was no longer any question but that it was really seth's uncle who had lately died in san francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew. it appeared, according to mr. dean's story, as learned from messrs. symonds & symonds, that daniel barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying richard genet of jersey city a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. mr. genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child. there were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir. aunt hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end mr. dean had several conferences with symonds & symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir. there is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell aunt hannah, seth, gladys, and snip after the inheritance was paid. that they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in aunt hannah's home? and in the days to come, when father time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement. the end. fred markham in russia; or, the boy travellers in the land of the czar, by w h g kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ fred and his brother have an adult friend, cousin giles, who is a naval officer who had served under the boys' father, before injury had compelled his retirement. one day cousin giles asks the boys to come with him on a visit to russia. this was . the boys' mother is glad they are not going too far, such as to the antipodes. the little party arrive in russia after some problems with their sea voyage. they tour saint petersburg, and then travel a little wider. meeting various people with a knowledge of the land and its customs, they get some good first-hand information about russia. some of their new friends tell long stories about things that have happened to them, or to their own friends, and by this device we learn much more about russia and its people, and their lives, often very difficult, under the czars. and the boys have some thrills of their own, for instance during an encounter with wolves. eventually it is time to return home, and the last two chapters are letters from fred to his mother, recounting their adventures during the last few days of their holiday. but fred must have been a remarkably well-educated boy to write in such an adult style! this book was written just after a time when it had become possible to travel to russia. many people had availed themselves of this chance, and had written of their journeys. kingston uses the device of telling us about russia as seen by the two boys, embellished with the adventures of some of the friends they make. ________________________________________________________________________ fred markham in russia; or, the boy travellers in the land of the czar, by w h g kingston. chapter one. a trip to russia proposed--cousin giles and his history--preparations for the voyage--journey to hull--the steamer described--the voyage commenced--a fog at sea. "thank you, thank you; it will be very delightful," said fred markham. "it will be jolly, that it will!" exclaimed his younger brother harry; and home they ran as fast as their legs could carry them to find their father and mother. "oh, father, father!--mother, mother!--may we go? may we go?" they exclaimed in a breath together. "cousin giles has asked us, and he says that he will take very good care of us, and that he is not joking; that he is in real earnest, and that, if you will give us leave to go, he wishes to set off immediately." "but you have not told us where you wish to go to," said captain markham. "if it should chance to be to timbuctoo, to the sandwich islands, or to the antipodes, i fear that i must refuse your request." "even should cousin giles be answerable for your safe return, i could not part with you for so long a time as would be required to go to either of those regions of the world," added their mother, smiling. "but it is not to timbuctoo, nor to the sandwich islands, nor to any place near so far off that cousin giles wants to take us," replied fred eagerly. "it is only to russia, and that is no distance at all, he says." "only to russia!" exclaimed captain markham, with an emphasis on the only. "that country used to be thought a long way off from england in my younger days; but railways and steamers have worked a great change in our notions of distances. we must, however, hear what cousin giles has to say before we decide on the subject." the lads had not to endure their uncertainty very long before cousin giles made his appearance, his somewhat weather-beaten countenance beaming with a glow of benevolence and vivacity which seldom forsook it. now it must be understood that cousin giles was not really the young markhams' cousin, any more than he was that of several other families in the county who called him by the same affectionate name. he was a lieutenant in the navy, but, having received a severe wound in battle, which incapacitated him, he considered, from doing his duty properly, he retired from the service, though he ultimately recovered sufficiently to travel about without inconvenience. as in the course of his professional career he had visited the sea-coasts of nearly every part of the world, besides taking journeys inland from them, while he made his observations on what he saw, he possessed a large fund of information. what was also of great consequence, he had a considerable talent for describing what he had seen. besides possessing these qualifications, being the life and spirit of every juvenile party, and the promoter of all sports and pastimes in-doors and out of doors, he was a welcome guest, both, with old and young, at every friend's house which he could find time to visit. more than all this, he was a religious, honourable, generous-hearted man. he could not, therefore, fail to be a most desirable travelling companion for his young friends. he had been several times to sea with their father, who was himself a captain in the navy, and who had the greatest confidence in him. "what is all this, my dear fellow, the boys are saying about russia?" asked captain markham as he entered the room. "why, that i have bethought me of paying a visit this summer to the land of the czar; that i want companions; that i like young ones, who will follow my ways better than old ones, who won't; that i enjoy fresh ideas freshly expressed, and am tired of stale platitudes; in short, if you will entrust your youngsters to me, i will take charge of them, and point out what is mostly worth seeing and remembering at the places we visit." "i cannot refuse you, fairman," replied captain markham. "you offer is a very kind one, and the boys cannot fail to benefit by the excursion." "do not talk about that," said cousin giles, interrupting him. "fred must undertake to keep a log, and note down all our adventures." fred, though somewhat diffident of his powers of composition, promised to do his best, and mrs markham begged that harry might keep another note-book for her especial edification. "all i bargain for," she added, "is to have descriptions of scenes written down as soon as visited, and ideas as soon as they occur." "by all means, freshness is what we want," said cousin giles. "a short sketch made on the spot is worth a volume of after-recollections." thus the matter was speedily arranged. before he left the house, their kind friend gave the young travellers a list of the things they would require. he would allow them only a small portmanteau apiece, which they could carry in their hands. he told them each to take a warm greatcoat, and a complete suit of waterproof clothing, including boots and hat. "thus," said he, "you will be independent of the weather, and need never be kept in the house, however hard it may rain." he told them that, although the weather is frequently much hotter during the summer in russia than in england, yet that at times it is as rainy, and cold, and variable as at that season of the year at home. their bibles, a history of russia, and a volume of travels in that country were the only books he would let them take, advising them thoroughly to master the contents of the history and travels before they reached saint petersburg. he had got, he said, a good map of russia, and a chart of the baltic, which they were to study; as also a book called, _what to observe; or, the traveller's remembrancer_, which is not only full of useful information, but also turns a travellers attention to what is most worth remarking abroad. fred markham was about fifteen; his brother, a year younger. both of them were fine, intelligent lads. cousin giles was not far removed from fifty, thin and sinewy, though strongly built, and not tall, with large hard hands, which gave a warm, cordial grasp to a friend and a firm one to a rope; his heart was like them as to size, but a great contrast to them in hardness--a more thorough-going, honest sailor never existed. no merrier party ever left london than the three travellers who started by the mail train for hull a few nights after the above conversation. they put up at the railway hotel, which cousin giles said reminded him of a spanish palace. in the centre is a large court glazed over, with an ottoman instead of a fountain in the centre, and broad flights of stairs on either side leading to the upper chambers. the younger travellers had never before been in so large and comfortable a hotel. their first care in the morning was to visit the steamer _ladoga_, in which they had taken their passage to saint petersburg. she was a gaily-painted, sharp-built, fast-looking screw. "she'll carry us there quickly enough, if at all," muttered cousin giles. "but she's not the craft i should have chosen." she had only a small part of her cargo on board, and yet the master promised to sail on the following morning. the boys were incredulous. "modern cranes, system, and activity will work wonders," said cousin giles; and he was right. by nine o'clock the next morning the vessel was ready to sail. they spent the interim in walking about the docks, full of vessels of all nations,--sixteen steamers, they heard, ran between hull and saint petersburg,--in looking at the quaint old houses of the town, and in visiting the monument raised to wilberforce,--a lofty pillar, the first object which greets the mariner as he returns home. at the base is a simple inscription: "negro emancipation, ." "how far more worthy was he of the pillar than most people who have monuments raised to them; and yet how he would have despised such an honour, unless it induces others to labour as he did for the benefit of their fellow-creatures," remarked cousin giles. "remember, my lads, this monument, and endeavour to walk in that great man's footsteps." a lovely morning found the voyagers on board the _ladoga_, and, after much pulling and hauling, clear of the docks, and steaming down the humber. cousin giles face wore an expression of dissatisfaction as he found her deck crowded with huge, heavy iron machines and bales of cotton. "this is nothing; we are often obliged to carry twice as much deck cargo," said the master. "competition is so great, we must do everything to make the vessel pay." "were a heavy gale to spring up, it is your underwriters would have to pay, i suspect," answered. cousin giles. "oh, you don't know what this vessel would go through," replied the young master. "humph!" remarked the old lieutenant; "i know where she would go to if you did not heave all this deck lumber overboard." "i presume you have been to sea before?" said the master. "at times," answered cousin giles quietly. england sends large quantities of machinery of all sorts to russia. the cotton had come from america to liverpool, had been thence sent across the country by railway to hull, and was going to supply numerous manufactories of cotton goods which have been established in russia, and fostered by high protective duties. they are chiefly managed by englishmen, and the foremen are mostly english or german. manual labour is cheaper than in england, as is the expense of erecting the buildings; but, as all other items cost much more, the russians have to pay very dearly for the cotton goods they use. even with the high duties imposed on them, they can buy english manufactures cheaper than their own. in addition to the cargo on deck, there were twelve fine horses which an english groom was taking over for a russian nobleman, who was to figure at the approaching coronation of the emperor. the russians set great value on english horses, and employ a considerable number of english grooms, many of whom raise themselves to respectable situations, as had the man who had charge of the horses in question. there were several other passengers, some of whom were english merchants who had resided in russia for many years, and from them the friends gained a considerable amount of valuable information. this cousin giles had particularly the art of eliciting from his companions, and fred and harry had abundance to do in noting it down. the cabins and saloon were both comfortable and handsome. the latter was lined with mahogany, had gilt mouldings, and the sofas which surrounded it were covered with cool, clean, antibilious-looking chintz, while in the centre there was a sociable table, with a skylight overhead. everything, also, was provided by the young master to conduce to the comfort of his passengers. on the afternoon of the day they sailed, the sky looked wildish, and the master prognosticated either wind or heavy rain. a thunder-storm played at a distance round the ship; the lightning flashed vividly, but scarcely a mutter of the clouds' artillery was heard; some heavy showers fell, then the weather cleared up. the stars shone forth brightly from the clear sky, and the waning moon arose and shed her silvery light on the calm water, over which the breeze played with just sufficient strength to crisp it into silvery wavelets. it was a night for meditation and prayer. unhappy is the state of man who can look forth from the deck of a ship on such a scene and not feel gratitude to the framer of the magnificent firmament above him,--whom it does not make more meditative, more prayerful, than his wont,--whom it does not cause to think of eternity. the next day a bright silvery fog hung over the sea, yet so dense that no eye could pierce the bowsprit's length through it. the engines were therefore put at half their power, yet even then the vessel went nearly seven knots through the water. the lads were delighted with the smooth, easy way in which the vessel glided on. they remarked it to cousin giles. "you think it is very pleasant, because you see no danger, my dear boys," he answered. "much the same aspect does vice bear to the young, while they shrink with fear from the storm of adversity. now, `a wise seaman dreads a calm near a coast where there are currents, and a fog far more than heavy gales of wind in the open ocean.' put that down in your log,--it is worth remembering, as the lesson you have learned from a calm and a fog." chapter two. cousin giles finds an old shipmate--tom puffing's account of the wreck of the _victoria_--miraculous escape of part of the crew--god's merciful providence displayed--cousin giles converses with the crew-- first sight of denmark, elsinore, and its castle--view of copenhagen-- description of the battle and its cause--sunday service on board ship--voyage up the baltic--the gulf of finland--cronstadt and its batteries--why the british did not take them--the czar's mode of manning a ship in a hurry--the russian fleet--leave their steamer and proceed towards saint petersburg. cousin giles soon found his way forward, over the bales of cotton and piles of hay, followed by fred and harry, and entered into conversation with the crew. he had not been long there when an old weather-beaten seaman put his head up the fore hatchway. "ah! tom pulling. i thought that i had caught sight of the face of an old shipmate," exclaimed cousin giles, stretching out his hand. "how fares it with you?" the old man's countenance brightened as he returned the grasp warmly. "is it you, indeed? i am glad to see you--that i am," he answered. "i've a good berth now, though i've had knocking about enough since i sailed with you last in the _juno_. i was cast away in these very parts some time back, and never had a narrower chance of losing my life, so to speak." cousin giles asked old tom how this had happened. the other seamen who were not on duty drew near to listen to the old man's oft-spun yarn, and our young friends stood by, eager to hear what he had got to say. "why, you see, sir," he replied, "after i was discharged from the old _melampus_, i thought i'd try if a short-voyage steamer would suit me better than a man-of-war, seeing that i'd got a wife and family to look after; so i shipped on board the _victoria_ steamer, running from the port of hull to saint petersburg. it was our last voyage that year. about the th of november, i think, we left the humber; but we hoped to get to cronstadt and away again before the ice set in. the weather was as fair as could be wished for, and with smooth water; so we all made up our minds that we were going to have a quick run of it. howsomever, the wind breezed up a little on the second day, and by nightfall it blew pretty freshish, with a heavyish sea on. we had much the same sort of weather on the third day, and at night it came on so thick and dark that we could not see our hands held out before us. still all seemed going on well. we supposed that we were steering a course through the skaggerack, with a good offing from the land, when, just about the middle of the first watch, as the passengers were in the cabin, maybe thinking of turning in to their warm beds all snug, and talking of what they would do next day at copenhagen, where we were to touch, without an instant's warning--bang! crash!--loud shrieks and cries of terror were heard, the ship quivered from stem to stern as if her last moment was come. it was not far off, either; the sea came roaring up abaft and made a clean sweep over her. she had struck heavily on a rock of some sort, that was certain; but where we were, or how it had happened, no one could tell. every one was running here and there, crying for help, when there was no one to help them; some took to praying, some to blaspheming; terror seemed to have taken away their senses. i did think that all of us had seen the sun rise for the last time, for it was too dark by far to allow us to try and help ourselves; and, from the way the sea kept striking the ship, i knew full well she could not long hold together. "well, mr fairman, i'm not ashamed to say i prayed as i never prayed before; and, you'll believe me, sir, i felt a comfort and an assurance of my maker's protection which also i had never felt before. as my ears caught the sound of the dreadful oaths of the blasphemers, i thought of the day of judgment. when that awful time comes, and the world breaks up like the ship, how will such men and many others, amid the clouds and thick darkness which will surround them, be able to pray? no; they'll blaspheme on, as they are doing now, to the end. the captain, to do him but justice, behaved nobly. he did his best to keep order and discipline on board. he told the people that, if they would but remain by the ship, they all might be saved. he could not say, like saint paul, they would be saved. few listened to him; some, however, stayed by his side and promised to support him. they had been on their knees asking support for themselves; whence only it can come, you know, sir. others, on the contrary, got hold of one of the boats, and began to lower her into the water. the captain prayed and begged of them to desist, but they would not hearken to him. there were some of the crew and some of the passengers, and when he tried to prevent them they threatened to heave him overboard. at last they got the boat into the water, and eight of them jumped into her and shoved off from the ship's side. in an instant, as he had told them it would be, the boat was capsized, and all hands were thrown into the raging sea. one poor wretch had on a life-preserver--he thought, at all events, that he was all safe, and that he could not drown; the rest had nothing to float them. for half a minute their cries were heard, and then they sank nearly all together, and his voice alone struck our ears, shrieking out for help, but no help could be given him. he was striking out for the ship, i judged; sometimes by his voice he seemed to have got nearer, but that might have been my fancy; then a sea came rolling by, and drove him farther off again. it was very dreadful to hear that poor dying wretch, and not be able to help him. he was a strong man, and for long struggled on; nearly an hour perhaps passed, but his voice grew fainter and fainter, and at last was no longer heard. "all this time the ship was striking heavily, hammering away on the rock as if she was pile-driving. we burned all the blue lights we had on board, in the hopes of drawing the attention of some fishermen or other passing craft; but they only enabled those on board to see the horrors of our situation. nearly four hours had thus passed, when a shout from the cook, who said he saw a signal, made us fancy help was coming to us; but in another minute we found that it was only the moon rising through a gap in the clouds. we all earnestly longed for morning, for till daylight came we could do nothing. the moon only served to show us more clearly the horrors of our situation. piece after piece of the vessel was washed away, but still all those who remained round the captain were safe. at last there was a faint light in the east; it grew stronger and stronger, and there was twilight enough to let us see to the distance of a mile or two. about a mile off appeared a rock high enough out of the water to serve us as a refuge. the captain at once ordered a boat to be lowered, and all the women and children to be put into her, with five men to pull her to the rock. it was a work of no little danger to the poor creatures, but we at last got them all safe off, and with many a prayer watched them till they reached the rock. we had another boat, and there were fourteen of us remaining on the wreck. we all got into her, but we instantly saw that thus crowded she would be swamped before she could reach the shore. `never mind, my fine fellows, i'll stay by the wreck!' exclaimed the captain, jumping on board again. `who'll follow me?' "`i'll stay by you, captain,' said i; and five others said the same. the rest shoved off, and reached the rock in safety, but the sea was too high to allow the boat to return. then we seven souls were left on the wreck, which was every moment breaking up beneath our feet. the after-part of the vessel was soon completely gone--then we retreated forward; then the forecastle--that soon began to break up, and we had to hold on amidships. we tried to keep up each other's spirits by telling how seamen had often been preserved in worse situations even than ours, and most of us did not cease to pray to god to save us. the sea, after we returned on board the wreck, got up even more than before. "at last a sea, still heavier than the rest, came rolling towards us. `hold on! hold on, my lads, for your lives!' shouted our brave captain; but in a minute there was scarcely anything to hold on to. he himself was carried away some fathoms from the wreck. our situation was bad enough, but it did not make us forget our captain. we would have done anything to help him, but there was not a rope we could lay hold of to heave to him. by god's mercy he had on a life-belt, and he got hold of a piece of plank. thus he kept afloat, and, working away with his feet, he was able once more to reach the wreck. his return--it seemed almost to life--cheered us up not a little. no long time, however, passed before another sea struck the fragments to which we clung, knocking them all to pieces, and sending us to float alone on the waves. one part only of the wreck remained above the water--it was the boiler. we all swam back to it, and clung on as well as we could; but we saw that, what with the cold and the sea, which kept breaking over us, we should soon be washed off again. `if we could but get inside the boiler, we might find some shelter,' said the captain; but, try all we could, we could not make a hole big enough to get through. we were almost in despair. a fourth great sea came tumbling in on us. we all thought that it would prove our destruction; so did the captain. `good-bye, my lads, good-bye!' he exclaimed. `god have mercy on us all!' on came the breaker, and for a moment we were all under it. when it cleared away, we were still holding on. "directly afterwards the engineer gave a shout of joy. `see what providence has sent us!' he cried out, as he held up a large pair of blacksmith's pincers which that very sea we thought would destroy us had washed on to the boiler. `god intends us to save our lives,' he added; for he was a pious man, and always acknowledged whence all blessings come to us. we set to work manfully with the pincers, and soon forced off enough of the top of the boiler to let us all creep in. we felt that it was firmly fixed on the rock, and here we were much more sheltered than before from the sea. hunger and cold next began to tell on us. we had not before had time to feel either. one of our men had an apple in his pocket. he handed it to the captain. `there, captain,' said he, `what is sent to one is sent to all. serve it out, if you please, among us: if any one has a quid in his pouch, or a bit of biscuit, let him do the same!' we all felt in our pockets, but could find nothing to eat; so the captain took the apple, and, cutting it into seven bits, each took one, and munched away at it as long as it would stay in our mouths. all the time we were looking out anxiously for a sail, but nothing could we see but the dark, tumbling, foaming breakers around us. not even the rock where our companions had got could we see. noon passed, hour after hour crept by after it, the horrors of another night threatened us, and we began to give way to despair. some of us talked of giving up, and dropping into the sea. the captain rebuked the grumblers sternly. `you heard what the engineer said, my lads: "god intends to save our lives," and i feel now he was right.' scarcely had he spoken when the engineer shouted out, `a sail! a sail!' we all looked out eagerly. there was a fishing-boat standing towards us. in half an hour she had hove-to to leeward of the wreck. her brave crew lowered their sail and pulled in towards us: but they could not venture very near, and it was no easy matter to get on board. all we could do was to wait till the seas washed over us, and then one by one we plunged in; and they carried us clear of the rocks, which would otherwise have knocked us to pieces. thus we all got on board the little craft, and were carried safely on shore. the same fishing-boat had before taken off our companions from the rock, and they had then sent her to our assistance. "now you will like to know how the accident happened without any blame to the captain, or any one on board? the truth was that we had, as part of the cargo, a quantity of iron. this had set all our compasses wrong, making us twenty or thirty miles out of our course at least. i've often since thought, mr fairman, if we hadn't a true compass to steer by like the bible, which of us would escape the rocks which lie in our course in life; and it's my opinion that those who do steer by it never get far wrong." the young travellers thanked old tom very much for his interesting narrative, and cousin giles spun a long yarn with him afterwards about old times. cousin giles had also a talk with each of the crew, and gave them some books and tracts, for which they were very thankful. all friday night the lead was kept going, for the master judged that they ought to have been in the very centre of the skaggerack passage, which is very deep; but it told him that the ship was still in shallow water. the very same circumstance which caused the loss of the _victoria_ had happened to them. their compasses, attracted by some of the iron in the ship, were not pointing truly. they had reason to be thankful that the error was discovered in time, or they might have suffered the same disasters they had lately heard described. when the fog cleared away, they found that they were off the coast of jutland, twenty miles south of where they should have been. in the afternoon they sighted the scaw lighthouse, built on a sandy point, with sand hills, and a ruined church on them--no very interesting object, except as being the first part they saw of denmark. sunday morning, at five o'clock, the steward called to them to say that they were close to elsinore. they hurried on deck, and found that they were passing that far-famed castle, where the ghost of hamlet's father was wont to walk and tell its tale of horrors to any one it might chance to meet and had time to stop and listen to it. seen in the bright glow of the morning sun, the castle had a pleasing, cheerful aspect, with nothing of the dark, gloomy, hobgoblin style of architecture about it, such as mrs radcliffe delighted to describe. it stands on a narrow neck of land a little to the north of the town, and is of a quadrangular form, with three moorish-looking towers and a square one of modern style at the four corners. it is surrounded by a fosse and low ramparts, of a modern style of fortification. the royal family of denmark came occasionally to the castle to enjoy sea-bathing for a few days. the sound is here very narrow, the shore of sweden being not more than three or foul miles off. it was crowded with shipping, the place serving as a roadstead for copenhagen, which is about twenty miles distant. in the forenoon they came off copenhagen, but did not touch there. the nearest point to them was the trekroner, or three-crown battery, as an artificially-formed island directly in front of the city is called. this is the point which, in the attack under nelson, gave the british so much trouble, and cost so many lives. beyond it, within a mole, were seen the masts of some shipping, and behind them arose towers and spires and public edifices, and trees, and houses of various shapes, springing, as it seemed, out of the water. cousin giles gave the lads a description of the battle of copenhagen, which was fought on the nd of april . the destruction of the danish fleet was a sad necessity. the attack was made on our old allies and natural friends, to prevent their fleet from falling into the power of napoleon, who would have employed it against us. the danes have not yet forgotten that untoward event. for most of the day they steamed on with the shores both of sweden and denmark in sight. the usual morning work of the ship having been got through, cousin giles asked the captain if he ever had service on board. "when we have a clergyman," was the answer. "how often is that?" "once i took one over; but, to be sure, he was sick, and had to cut it short." "then, how often are you in port on a sunday?" "not often in england, and sometimes in foreign parts we are so pressed for time that we are obliged to be discharging or taking in cargo on a sunday." "i am sorry to hear that. sailing-vessels used seldom to be so pressed. but why do not you hold service for your people at sea, at all events?" said cousin giles. "i!--how should such an one as i hold service?" replied the master simply. "the men are accustomed to hear me swear at them and abuse them. they would laugh if i proposed to pray with them." "leave off swearing, and take to praying, then, my friend," said cousin giles solemnly. "ask yourself which is the best of the two." "i am afraid i should make but a bad hand at the prayers," said the master carelessly. "try," answered cousin giles earnestly. "but, my friend, if you will give me leave, i will hold a service on the sacred day of rest, and perhaps some of the passengers may join us." "the passengers may, but i don't think you'll get many of my fellows to attend your service," was the reply. "i will try, at all events, if i have your permission," said cousin giles. "oh, certainly, certainly," replied the master in a somewhat supercilious tone; but he was not a little puzzled to make out what sort of man cousin giles could be. cousin giles on this went forward, and spoke to each of the men separately, in his own peculiar, kind way, and told them that he was anxious to thank his maker and theirs for all the mercies they had so often received, and invited them to join him in that act of devotion in about an hour's time. they all not only willingly but gladly assented to his proposal, and promised to go aft when they were summoned. although the master had not discovered that cousin giles was a seaman, they had, and knew him to be a true man. he then returned aft, and spoke to the passengers in the same strain, and but very few refused to join the service. two said they would think about it; one had an interesting book to finish; and another asked him if he was a parson, and said he only attended services held by properly ordained ministers. at the appointed hour, to the surprise of the master, every seaman, engineer, and stoker who was not on duty came up to the wide deck over the engine, and most of the passengers assembled there likewise. never was there a more attentive congregation. cousin giles read part of the church of england liturgy, and then spoke to them from the fifteenth chapter of saint john's gospel: "i am the true vine." those who heard him said that he explained the subject well, and that what he said went to their hearts. the reason of this was, that he was deeply in earnest, and anxious about the souls of his hearers. the master began even to think that he was a parson in disguise. the steamer passed several islands, and on monday was running up the baltic in a perfect calm, the hot sun striking down on her decks, with its shining brightness dazzling the eyes of the passengers, the numerous vessels they passed having their canvas hanging idly down against their masts. on tuesday morning they were at the entrance of the gulf of finland, and in the evening they were passing the island of nargen, with the town of revel, just rising out of the water, seen through their glasses beyond it on the starboard hand. the morning of wednesday broke cold and grey, but in the forenoon the sun burst forth and shone brightly; and the sea was rippled over by a westerly breeze, which increased every hour in strength, and carried before it numberless vessels of all nations and rigs, though the galliots of holland undoubtedly predominated. about noon, in this numerous company, they passed the lighthouse on the island of tolbuken, which was held by the english during the late war, and whence the british officers with their glasses could discover all that was going on behind the batteries of cronstadt. at about half-past one, a gun fired across the bows of the steamer by the russian guardship hinted to her that she must heave-to; which being done, some officers came on board to examine her papers and the passengers' passports, to drink the master's wine, or spirits, or bottled ale, and carry away any gunpowder or fireworks which might be on board. ahead lay a large russian fleet of line-of-battle ships, frigates, steamers, brigs, and schooners, now at length able to show their noses out of port; while a little way beyond rose those formidable batteries which had so lately, by their very appearance, been able to damp the ardour of some of england's naval chieftains. on the left side was the island of cronstadt, with its fortifications, its town with its spires and domes, and its harbour, capable of sheltering a large man-of-war fleet; and on the right, opposite to it, were two circular batteries, which looked like huge white factories rising out of the water; only instead of windows, there were ports, while enormous guns in lieu of rainspouts crowned their summits, without even a parapet to hide their carriages. on the southern part of the chief island was a similar tower. most of the passengers had some favourite plan of their own for taking the fortress,--especially some commercial travellers, who were loud in their expressions of scorn at the want of success of napier and dundas, and the sad degeneracy of the british navy. cousin giles was much amused, and advised them to lay their plans before the english government, and to offer their services as commanders-in-chief of her fleets and armies. as the vessels steamed on, the travellers had on their left side the rocky and wood-covered heights of finland, between which and the island of cronstadt there is a narrow but tolerably deep passage. through this passage, which was unknown to the russians themselves, the english admiral proposed to send up a fleet of gun-boats and small steamers had the attack on the fortress been resolved on. on the right hand from this entrance into the gulf of finland they had had the province of esthonia. they now had that of saint petersburg, the shores of which appeared high and well wooded. they by this time had reached what may be considered nearly the end of the gulf of finland; for, although above cronstadt there is still a fine expanse of water, it is generally very shallow, there being only a narrow and intricate channel, worked by the strong current of the neva. among the various craft they passed, they were much amused by the little finnish schooners, which went careering on before the breeze, laden chiefly with firewood, or some other not very valuable cargo, for the saint petersburg markets. they were built of fir, with very little paint, very few ropes, and had very white canvas. altogether they had, as cousin giles observed, an exceedingly fresh-water look about them. the finns who manned them were, however, hardy fellows, and formed by far the best seamen on board the russian men-of-war. the russians are not good salt-water sailors; they have no taste for the sea, and are not likely to obtain it. peter the great tried to form a navy. he succeeded in building ships, but it was quite a different thing when he tried to find seamen to man them. a gentleman on board told the lads a story, and they much wished to know if he could vouch for its truth. the late emperor nicholas on some occasion wanted to send a line-of-battle ship in a hurry to sea. no men were to be found. the emperor was indignant that anything should oppose his imperial will. he stormed and raged; but even to appease his wrath no men could be made to rise out of the earth. at last his eyes fell on a regiment of dragoons who were defiling slowly by. "ah!" he exclaimed, as a bright thought struck him, "why should not those tall fellows make good seamen?" he called the colonel to him. "colonel," said he; "order your men to dismount, and do you and your officers lead them on board that ship, and get her under weigh immediately. there is no time to be lost. you'll have something to learn, probably; but that does not matter--it is my will--do it." the poor colonel knew that there was no use expostulating. the men were ordered aloft--cocked hats, jack-boots, and spurs. up they went, the upper ones with their dreadful spurs catching those following by eyes, or noses, or mouths; and the surprising thing was that any got up at all. there is, however, nothing that a russian cannot do, in a way, when put to it. the topsails were at length loosed, the anchor was got up, and the ship was actually under weigh; but where she went to, or if she ever went anywhere at all, their friend could not exactly say. all this time the steamer was passing among the russian men-of-war. some of them were huge, towering line-of-battle ships, and all of them, outwardly at least, were in prime order. at length the steamer ran in past a high white tower between two piers, the screw stopped, she was hauled alongside a wharf, and the voyage was ended. instantly she was filled with men in grey and blue uniforms. they were custom-house officers, who came professedly to prevent smuggling, but in reality to collect any fees they could pick up. the travellers now heard for the first time the incomprehensible sounds of the russian language, while their eyes were amused with the various and strange costumes of the wild-looking shouting people who surrounded them. some of the officers had shaven chins, but most of the people had long beards, and straggling hair flowing from beneath their caps; but, unattractive as were their countenances generally, they wore an aspect of good-nature and simplicity which made amends for their ugliness. in a short time a little steamer came alongside the _ladoga_, into which the passengers and their luggage were transferred, to be conveyed up to saint petersburg under charge of a party of the militarily-equipped custom-house officers. the little satellite shoved off from the side of the big steamer, the master stood on the taffrail with his hat in his hand, the passengers waved theirs; and thus they bade farewell, most of them for ever, to the ill-fated _ladoga_. after leaving the mole, they passed along the wharves of the imperial dockyard, within which were collected a great number of line-of-battle ships and frigates laid up in ordinary, which, as fred said, looked like idle sulky fellows shut up in a poor-house with nothing to do. "very fine ships," said cousin giles; "but without the men to handle them, in spite of their long guns, they are like dogs with broken legs: they may bark and howl, and gnash their teeth, but they can do no further harm. we should not despise russia, but we need not be frightened at her." their helmsman, who stood with the tiller between his legs, with his hands crossed and hid in his "bosom," was a picture in himself. a low cap covered a head of shaggy reddish hair, while his thick straggly beard was of the same hue. his upper man was clothed in a coarse white jersey, beneath which appeared the tail of a red-striped shirt, while his widish green cloth trousers were tucked in high leather black boots. he was a fine big fellow, and had a seaman's air about him, so that he might have served as a model of a scandinavian rover ten centuries ago. there were a number of other, to the young travellers, strange-looking figures, helmeted, long-cloaked, thick-bearded and moustached beings, who, with piles of luggage, crowded the decks; and in this numerous company away they hurried towards the modern capital of the czars. chapter three. distant view of saint petersburg--how it is built--enter the city of the czar--its appearance at first sight--mount a drosky--the travellers reach their hotel--outline sketch of saint petersburg--a tour round the city--its palaces and public buildings. "there it is! there it is! there's the city--saint petersburg itself!" exclaimed the young travellers, as, directly ahead, appeared rising out of the water a line of golden domes, and tall spires and towers, glittering brightly in the sun, like some magic city of ancient romance. conspicuous above all was the superb pile of the isaac church, the most modern sacred edifice in the city, and by far the finest; and near it was seen the graceful tower of the admiralty, tapering up like a golden needle into the blue sky. soon other buildings--hospitals, and palaces, and houses, and towers, either not so lofty or farther off--rose to view; but no land could be discovered on which their bases might rest. this vast city, they learned, was built by the imperial will of peter the great on a marsh, he hoping to make it a great maritime port. every house in it stands on a platform of piles, driven far down into the soft ground. before a building can be erected, it is necessary thus to prepare its foundations, often at an enormous expense. the shores of the lake-like expanse along which they were steering were covered with woods, from among which peeped the gilt domes of the imperial palace of peterhoff, and many other golden cupolas and spires, and marble-white towers, and walls of churches and monasteries, and palaces and villas, and also some stables, larger than any other edifice in the neighbourhood, belonging to the grand duke michael. on a hill above them, a little distance to the west, appeared the unpretending villa of the late emperor. it is exactly like a second-class country house. here he used to delight to retire with his family from the cares of state, and to throw aside completely all imperial grandeur. "ah! notwithstanding his overpowering ambition, his towering pride and haughtiness, that villa alone shows that he was a man after all," observed a fellow-passenger to cousin giles. the head of the gulf narrowed a little, but very little, as they advanced. a few buildings now appeared ahead, and their friend was pointing out to the young travellers the walls of some barracks burnt long ago, and the ancient galley mole which sheltered the russian galleys in the war with the swedes, when on a sudden they found themselves among vast warehouses and manufactories, and tanneries and granaries, and the magnificent foundry and private residence of baron baird, who is by birth and education an englishman. all the buildings are on the banks of the neva, close to its very mouth. the steamer making several sharp turns among crowds of steamers and shipping of all sorts, they speedily found themselves in a region of colleges, and palaces, and churches, and other public buildings, the houses, which anywhere else would be palaces, each vying with the other in size and magnificence, and forming a vast street, the clear, rapid neva flowing down the centre, with superb granite quays on each side of it. nowhere in the world is there a finer street, though the height of the houses is lost from its great expanse. along the line on either side arise marble columns and golden spires and domes innumerable, the two sides being connected by one bridge of iron--massive it must be to stand the ice-- and several bridges of boats, which can be removed at the approach of winter; while in the centre of the stream were men-of-war and other steamers, and numerous vessels which had brought articles for the saint petersburg market. on the right side was the english quay, with a handsome building at one end, used as an english hotel. farther on was the english church; and extending far away beyond it was palace after palace, many in the italian style, the mighty pile of the winter palace being conspicuous above all, though in the far distance; and yet numberless other proud edifices were to be seen reaching to the same distance from it on one side as they do on the other. the travellers had little time to observe these wonders before the steamer brought up at a floating white and gold temple-looking building mooted at a granite quay. elegant as it looked, it was only the custom-house examining shed. under a graceful arch, which united a little office on either side, the luggage was arranged, and bearded heroes in military costume dipped their hands amid the clean linen and clothes. their behaviour, however, was civil; and, having taken possession of all the books they found, with the exception of bibles, which they gave back, they made a sign that the boxes might be closed. the luggage was then turned out through a gateway into the clean wide road, where there stood, as eager and vociferous as any irish carmen, ready to seize on it, a number of drosky drivers. there are two sorts of hack droskies in saint petersburg. one is somewhat like a small phaeton with wide wings; the other has what cousin giles called a fore-and-aft seat, on which people sit with their legs astraddle, the driver sitting perched on the end of it. the horses, which are harnessed with ropes in shafts, are wiry, shaggy-looking animals, and have high wooden bows arched over their heads, with the idea of keeping them from stumbling. the drivers are no less strange to english eyes than their vehicles. they are long-bearded, shaggy-haired, keen-eyed men, with low-crowned, broad-curling brimmed hats, wider at the top than at the head. they wear long blue cloth coats, crossed at the breast, and fastened round the waist with a red cotton sash. their wide trousers are tucked into high boots, and at their back hangs a square brass plate with their number on it, serving the purpose of the london cabman's badge. they are, indeed, under very similar regulations. cousin giles chartered three of these vehicles to carry themselves and their luggage, and the lads laughed heartily as they found themselves seated astride on one of them, rattling along the quays and over the bridge to the english hotel, among hundreds of similar vehicles and long-coated, bearded people, who looked as if they did not think there was anything strange in the matter at all. the miss bensons, the kind-hearted landladies of the hotel, could just manage to accommodate the travellers; and they soon found themselves lodged in very clean rooms, and as comfortable as at any hotel in england. after the fresh sea air they found the heat very great, and the houses felt like stoves; indeed, they heard that the weather had been excessively hot for some days. they, however, had come up with a fresh breeze, which increased almost to a gale, and effectually cooled the air. cousin giles was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet; so, as soon as dinner was over, he and his young companions sauntered out to take in, as he said, as much of saint petersburg as they could that evening. just above the city the neva divides itself into several branches, which form a number of marshy islands, on which islands saint petersburg is built. the streets have been laid out to accommodate themselves somewhat to the turnings of the river; so that they are not at right angles to each other, as might have been expected, though as much regularity as possible has been observed. the most central spot is the admiralty square, a vast, irregular, open space, with the river on one side of it; and near the river stands, on a vast block of granite, a colossal equestrian statue of peter the great, with his arm stretched out in an attitude of command. forming the different sides of this vast open space are some of the finest public buildings in the city: the admiralty with its golden spire, the beautiful isaac church with its superb granite columns, the winter palace with its long rows of richly ornamented windows, the war office, the senate house, and many others. at one end, with a crescent of fine buildings before it, which contain the war office, stands a lofty column of polished granite, consisting only of two blocks of stone, it is said. it is called the alexander column, and is dedicated to him as "the restorer of peace to the world." he is so called by the russians in consequence of the part he took in the overthrow of napoleon. on its summit stands a green bronze statue of the archangel michael, holding the cross of peace in his hand. from the space before the admiralty radiate off the three longest and widest streets in that city of wide and long streets. the centre one and longest is called the nevkoi prospekt, or the neva perspective. the names of other two may be translated resurrection perspective and peas street. the larger streets in the city are called perspectives. even the cross streets in saint petersburg are mostly wider than bond street, and often as wide and long as regent street. many canals intersect the city, and enable bulky goods to be brought to within a short distance of all the houses by water; so that heavily-laden waggons are never seen ploughing their way through the streets, as in most cities. there are no narrow lanes or blind alleys either, the abode of poverty and pestilence, within the precincts of the palaces of the wealthy and great. here, truly, poverty and rags are removed out of sight; but still they do not cease to dwell in the land. while our young travellers were standing looking at the alexander column, their fellow-voyager, mr henshaw, joined them. as he had been much in all parts of russia, he was able to give them a great deal of interesting information. "i would advise you first to get a general view of the city, and then study details," said he. "get a knowledge of the plan of the city, and the mode in which it is constructed; then examine the outside of the more important buildings; and, lastly, visit their interiors when they contain anything worth seeing. the first thing you should do to-morrow morning is to ascend the admiralty tower; the scene from thence, as you look down into the streets, teeming with their countless multitudes, is very interesting, while you will also obtain a perfect bird's-eye view of the whole city and surrounding land and water. we will now, if you please, take a stroll along the quay beyond the winter palace. there are many objects in that direction worth remarking." cousin giles gladly assented to the proposal, and, returning to the river, they continued eastward along its banks, passing the front of the winter palace. near to it they stopped to look at a magnificent pile, called the hermitage, which is about as unlike the residence of a dweller in the wilderness as anything in nature can well be. mr henshaw promised them a sight of the interior another day, and told them it contained some of the most magnificent rooms in the world, and was full of fine pictures, rich articles of _vertu_, and numberless valuable curiosities. "it was called the hermitage by the empress catherine," said he, "because she, purposed to retire thither from the cares of state--not, however, to live the life of an anchorite, but to revel in that indulgence of all the objects of sense to which her inclinations prompted her." "but come along," said cousin giles; "we agreed not to spend our time on details till we had mastered the geography of the city." so they continued their walk along the quays. next to the hermitage, and joined to it by a passage over an arch which spans a canal,--like the bridge of sighs at venice, only smaller,--they passed the imperial theatre, and then a succession of fine residences of nobles and private persons, and lastly the marble palace of the grand duke michael. it is so called not because it is built of marble, but because it has marble pillars. across a street, on the same line, stands a fine pile, which looks like another palace, but in reality contains only the stables and offices, residences of servants, etcetera, belonging to the marble palace. among the palaces they passed was a huge white one, with a very ugly portico. "that," said mr henshaw, "was presented by the emperor alexander to the duke of wellington, when he became a russian field-marshal, that he might have a house to inhabit should he ever visit russia. on his death it reverted to the russian government. opposite to this row of palaces the neva is very wide. a branch of it runs away in a more northerly direction, forming an island which has been covered with fortifications, and is called the citadel. in the centre stands a church with a lofty golden pinnacle. beneath it lie buried the russian czars. here is also a cottage, built by peter the great, where he used to reside while watching the progress of his navy and the uprearing of the now mighty city, called after his patron saint." "from a history i have been reading, i find that peter was not nearly so great a man as i fancied," observed fred. "hush! hush! that is treason here," answered cousin giles. "to his valet he certainly was not great, as carlyle would say, though he was a very uncommon man. but we should not judge of people by what they appear, or even by what they are doing, so much as by the results produced by their doings. now peter contrived, certainly by no very romantic or refined means, to produce a great number of very wonderful results. he caused this great city to be erected, he built a large navy, he taught people to navigate it who had scarcely before seen a vessel bigger than a finnish schooner, and he contributed to imbue a population sunk in barbarism with a desire to assimilate to the civilised nations of europe, while he introduced many arts and sciences before unknown into his country. considering his powers and the little support he could obtain from his countrymen, i must say i think he worked wonders. he was, therefore, certainly what the world calls a great man, though he had great faults, and many littlenesses and contemptibilities. i acknowledge, also, that many far greater men have lived, and are at present alive, and that there will be many more." "you have defended peter, and i think on the only grounds on which he can be defended," said mr henshaw; "his private character will not for a moment bear discussion." "certainly not," answered cousin giles; "remember, fred, and harry also, that i do not say that he ought properly to be called great, if he is to be judged by the law of scripture, nor do i wish you to consider him so. who is there, indeed, who can be so called? but he was great according to the received maxims of the world, by which maxims other men with as little desert have received the same title." "before we return, i must take you to the summer gardens, where you see the trees beyond the marble palace," said mr henshaw. "i wish to show you the statue of kryloff, the russian aesop, as he is called." the summer gardens are surrounded by an iron railing, and contain long rows of fine trees, and gravel walks, and seats, and statues, generally of a very antique form and taste, happily now exploded, with heathen deities' hideous faces, such as are to be seen in old prints. in the centre of a small open space, surrounded by trees, stands the statue of kryloff, a fine, bronze, johnsonian-looking, sitting figure, much larger than life, with a book and pencil in his hand. the pedestal on which he is placed has on each side figures of animals, in deep relief, illustrating his fables. there is the stork and the wolf, and there are bears and apes, and cats and dogs playing violins and violoncellos and other musical instruments. several mujicks (peasants) were gazing at the figures with intense interest, apparently entering fully into the spirit of the artist. on their return along the quays, they stopped to look at the long bridges of boats which cross the neva in the summer. a portion of each can be removed to allow vessels to pass up or down the stream; but by a police regulation this can be only done with one bridge at a time, and at a certain fixed hour of the day, so that the traffic across the river receives no very material interruption. near the end of one of them, on the opposite side of the river, they observed a handsome edifice with a fine portico before it, and two granite columns, ornamented with galleys carved in white stone. this building they found was the exchange. farther westward of it they observed other magnificent buildings, which they learned were the corps of cadets,--the name is applied to the building itself,--the academy of sciences, the university, the academy of arts, and several others,--all covering a vast extent of ground nearer the mouth of the river. by the time they reached their hotel they were tolerably tired, and, to their surprise, they found that it was nearly ten o'clock. even then there was a bright twilight, though it was too dark to enable them to distinguish more than the grand outlines of the city. chapter four. the russian passport system--baron verysoft--mr tobias evergreen--his gratitude for the baron's politeness--the difficulty of reading russian--the travellers at a nonplus--russian signboard--fred and harry lose themselves--meet with tom pulling--how tom and his messmates managed to find their latitude and longitude, and to steer a right course for port. the next morning our travellers were reminded that they were not in a free country, in which a man may come and go as he lists without let or hindrance, but that certain very stringent regulations respecting passports must be conformed to before they could attempt to do anything else. most condescending gentlemen, "commissionaires" they called themselves, undertook for certain considerations to get the work done for them; but cousin giles declined their services. "i have no doubt that we shall be able to get through the business ourselves perfectly well, and we shall see something of the way the russians manage these affairs," said he. he intended to visit the mercantile house on whom he had a letter of credit, and he had also several letters of introduction which he wished to deliver as soon as possible. to his bankers, accordingly, they first drove, and they had no difficulty in finding the house. the merchant who acted in that capacity was very kind, and gave them all the information they could desire as to what they should do about their passports; he also wrote down for them a list of the names of the houses at which they had arranged to call. their first duty was to visit the alien office, to take out their permission to reside or travel in russia. it is in the south-eastern part of the city. the gentleman who presides over it goes by the name of baron verysoft among the english, from the peculiar suavity of his manners. mounting a flight of stairs, they found the baron at one end of a handsome room, more like a drawing-room than an office, with a number of persons seated round it, all waiting to undergo the ordeal of his friendly inquiries. nearly all civilised nations were there represented,--english, germans, french, and spaniards. among them they recognised some of their fellow-passengers. the simple, round, good-natured face of one of them they were glad to see. his name was mr tobias evergreen. he was very civil to the lads on board, and seemed to take a great interest in them. cousin giles said he did not think he was quite the man to benefit by a journey in russia; but one thing was certain, he was not likely to make the police very suspicious about his movements. besides the strangers, there were two or three clerks in uniform, whose sharp, piercing eyes kept glancing round on the visitors, and narrowly scrutinising any fresh arrivals. they seemed to have little else to do beyond this, but to mend their pens, and to make occasional notes in some huge books before them. a number of people had to go up to the table of the baron, and to reply to his questions; so our friends were compelled to exercise their patience till their turn came. mr evergreen spoke a few sentences, which he said was french. cousin giles also knew a little of that language, but fred was able to understand it, and to speak it tolerably well. at last mr evergreen's turn came, and they followed him up to the table. the baron, in the blandest and most courteous way, inquired mr evergreen's name and country; whether he was married or single; what was his object in travelling; the name of his banker; how long he purposed remaining in the country,--to all of which questions he gave answers which seemed perfectly satisfactory to the baron; and he then volunteered several particulars of his private history, at which the baron bowed and smiled, as the lads observed he had bowed and smiled at several persons before, while he went on making notes in his book. perhaps he did not understand a word mr evergreen said, or, what is very probable, he was not listening to what did not concern him, but was habitually too polite to let this be discovered. mr evergreen had then to sign his name several times in a book, and then the baron bowed very politely, handed him his passport to take it to the passport office and various police offices, to be signed and countersigned again and again. mr evergreen on this bowed to the baron, and the baron bowed again. mr evergreen would have continued bowing before so great and benignant a personage had not the baron summoned our friends to approach, mr evergreen meantime waiting for them. they quickly got through the business, and the baron gave a bow to cousin giles, which, if not so profound as those he gave to mr evergreen, was much more cordial, and seemed to say: "we understand each other; you are a man i can trust." when they got outside the door, mr evergreen was loud in his praises of baron verysoft. "nice, charming man!" he exclaimed; "so civil, so kind to me. don't you think i ought to ask him to dinner, now? it would be but a proper attention in return for his civility." "he would have to fulfil a very large number of dinner engagements if all thought as you do; but i suspect few people are so grateful for his attentions," answered cousin giles. it was some time before mr evergreen could be persuaded to give up his idea. "the credit of our country is at stake," said he. "well, well, i suppose i must do as you advise, and let the baron form his own conclusions of us." after all, the terrible passport work was got through with much less trouble and expense than cousin giles was led to believe would be the case. one of the head clerks at the passport office, a dane, who spoke english perfectly, assured him that if he went himself he would get the documents signed at once without bribery. the government fees were very low, and beyond these he paid nothing. he was afterwards told that the government wished to produce a good impression on the foreigners who were expected in the country to be present at the coronation, and had therefore issued directions to expedite the delivery of passports. about this time, certainly, new regulations were made with regard to the passports for natives, and many of the old and most obnoxious ones were altered. till now, a russian, if he wished to move from one town to another, could not do so without giving several days' notice to the police; and if he wished to leave the country he was compelled to beg permission to do so three months beforehand. now, by getting any well-known person to be responsible for any debt he might leave unpaid, he was able to travel abroad at the notice of a day or two--indeed, as soon as the governor of his district would issue his passport. of course it was a question how long this improved system was likely to last. even now, both foreigners and natives could only get passports from one city to another; and thus cousin giles had taken out one for moscow, but would be obliged then to take another to go farther into the interior. all the passport arrangements having been made, the travellers agreed to leave their letters of introduction, as a drizzling rain had come on, and would prevent them from enjoying the views presented by the city. when, however, cousin giles came to examine the paper of directions given by the banker, he found that they were written in the russian character. now as the russian letters, although some of the capitals are somewhat alike in shape, have a totally different sound to the english, or indeed to any other european language, he could not read a word. "never mind," said he; "perhaps our drosky drivers, our ishvoshtsticks, can read it." he showed it to the two men, who bent their heads with profound sagacity over the paper, letting the drops of rain from their shovel hats fall down on the document, nearly obliterating the writing; and then they called another of their profession to their council, but the united wisdom of all three apparently could make nothing of the inscription; for, at last returning it, they shook their heads very gravely, and shrugged their shoulders in a most significant manner. "i daresay we shall fall in with some one or other who can speak english before long," said cousin giles, who was never long at a loss on an emergency. he accordingly stopped one or two people, whom he addressed with a polite bow in english and french, but they shrugged their shoulders and passed on. at last they met a german who spoke english, and he very willingly directed the ishvoshtsticks where to drive. while cousin giles was paying one of his visits, and as it was near the luncheon hour at the hotel, he advised fred and harry to return there, promising soon to follow them. "we can find our way there easily enough!" they both exclaimed; "we know exactly what to say to the ishvoshtstick--angliskoy nabergenoy--that's it--the english quay. oh, we shall get along famously." saying this, they jumped up on their fore-and-aft drosky, and, giving their directions as well as could any russian, they thought, away they drove. they were then in the vasiliefskoi ostrof quarter, or on basilius island. this is the name given to the large island which is to the north of the main channel of the neva. here is the exchange, and many public buildings before mentioned, and here most of the english merchants reside. they drove on, remarking a variety of novel and curious sights on their way; but, forgetting to take due note of the direction in which they were going, they passed along the quay, and over one of the floating bridges, and then through some fine wide streets. they were amused with the guards stationed at the corners of streets in every quarter of the city. they were mostly thin, tall, lank men, in long coats reaching to their heels, with huge battle-axes on long poles in their hands, and helmets on their heads. what use they were of it was difficult to say, for they certainly could not have run after a thief, much less have knocked one down. the signs, also, in front of the shops appeared very ridiculous. instead of the display of articles made by an english tradesman in his windows, there were large boards over the doors and windows, and their sides, and under the windows, painted with gigantic designs representing the chief articles to be found within. huge gloves and stockings, and cravats and pocket-handkerchiefs, and boots and shoes, and coats and trousers, and hats and caps, and knives and forks and spoons--indeed, it is impossible to enumerate all the articles thus represented. "those are what we may call russian hieroglyphics, harry," said fred; "i daresay, now, that the egyptians had something of the sort in their shop windows before they knew how to write." "it is a capital sort of language," replied harry, "because, you see, the mujicks, who do not know how to read, and we, who don't understand russian, both understand it equally well." "the best universal language," remarked fred. "if something of the sort were established regularly in the world, it would save a great deal of trouble. but i say, harry, where have we got to? i am sure we have never been here before." they had been so amused that they had not remarked the change in the style of architecture of the streets through which they were passing. they were now in a region of low houses, although of considerable size, mostly on one floor, very few having two storeys. "i am sure this is not the way to the english quay." harry, who sat in front, on this began to pull the ishvoshtstick by his badge, and then by his sleeve, to make him stop. the fellow either would not or could not understand that they wanted to stop. at last he pulled up, and looked over his shoulder. "i say, harry, do you remember what they call the english quay? for, on my word, i have forgotten it," exclaimed fred in some little dismay, feeling very like mustapha in the tale of _the forty thieves_, when he forgets the talismanic words, "open sesame." "i'm sure i don't know exactly, but i'll try and see if i can't make the fellow understand," answered harry. "i say, you cabdrivowitch, cut away to the english quayoi!" the man shook his head and sat still, as much as to say, "i don't understand you, my masters." "what's to be done? he doesn't seem to think my russian very first-rate," said harry. "i say, old fellow, we are very hungry, and want to get back to our inn to luncheon," cried fred, imitating the action of eating. a bright idea seemed to have seized the ishvoshtstick, and, whipping on his horse, he drove rapidly onward. harry thought that he had fully comprehended them. he pulled up, however, very soon before a door, over which were painted pieces of meat and sausages, and rolls, and bottles, and glasses. evidently it was an eating-house, but the lads would not avail themselves of its accommodation, for two reasons--they did not know what to ask for, and they had no russian money in their pockets; they therefore shook their heads, and signed to the driver to go on. the man evidently thought them very unreasonable and hard to please, but obeyed. it was soon clear to them that they were getting to the outskirts of the city, and they were about trying to make the man turn back when they saw three figures approaching, whom by their rolling walk and dress they recognised even at a distance as english seamen. when the men drew near, the lads were delighted to find that one was their shipmate, old tom. he hailed them with a cheerful voice, and told them that, having met two young friends belonging to a ship at cronstadt, he had got leave for them to accompany him to see saint petersburg. "but i say, tom, can you tell us where we are?" said fred. "that's just what we were going to ask you," replied old tom. "we've got out of our reckoning somehow, and we know no more where we are than if we had got into the pacific without a chart or compass." "what is to be done?" exclaimed fred; "this stupid fellow does not understand a word we say, and though we have told him to drive back to our hotel he won't go." for a long time all hands consulted together. one proposed one thing, one the other. by this time two or three other ishvoshtsticks had stopped with their vehicles near the strangers, but could no more than the first comprehend where they wanted to go. "if we could but get back to the large square with the big statue in it of peter on horseback on a rock, we could find our way to the inn easily enough," said fred. old tom thought a moment. "what, the chap who is holding out his hand?" he asked. "the same," answered fred. "then i have it!" he exclaimed with exultation. "jem, just do you go down on all fours, and serve me for a horse for a minute, and we'll soon see what will happen." "what! do you want me to carry you there, tom?" asked jem. "i'd do it willingly if i knew the way, but i think we should get there faster if we all walked on our two legs." "no, no!" answered tom; "i want you to act the big horse, and i'll do the rider." "oh, ay, i see it all now, mate," said jem, going down on all fours, while old tom, who, though serious-minded, was very much of a wag at proper seasons, leaped on his back, and stuck out one arm as peter's statue is doing. "now, jem, rear up on your fore legs as the big horse is doing, and we shall come the statue to an affigraphy," he cried. the representation of the statue of peter was unmistakeable. in an instant the ishvoshtsticks comprehended what was required, and, clapping their hands with delight, while they burst into loud laughter, made signals to the seamen to jump into a drosky, and away they drove as fast as their horses could go, in the very direction from whence fred and harry had just come. in about a quarter of an hour they saw the tall golden spire of the admiralty directly ahead of them, and shortly afterwards they rattled into the vast open space in which it stands, when the ishvoshtsticks pulled up close to the very statue of peter. "now, starboard your helm, my lads, and steer a westerly course," sung out old tom to the drivers. they did not understand what he said, but they saw the direction in which he pointed along the quay, so they all drove off again as rapidly as before. harry pulled at their driver's badge to make him stop in front of the hotel, where they found cousin giles looking out for them. he had not been very anxious about their safety, for he guessed that they had lost their way, and would probably find it again before long, while, as he said, it would teach them to keep a better reckoning in future. old tom and his companions could not be persuaded to come in, for they said that they must make the best of their way back to cronstadt. they made cousin giles laugh heartily by their description of the mode they had hit on for making the ishvoshtsticks understand the point to which they wished to be conveyed. chapter five. bird's-eye view of saint petersburg from the tower of the admiralty-- the isaac church--politeness of a russian officer--the hermitage palace--portraits of the czars--magnificent hall--superb view from it--jewels--relics of peter the great--the winter and other palaces-- bridge of boats--exchange--church of peter paul--tombs of the czars. cousin giles and his young companions had climbed up to the summit of the admiralty tower on a fine bright morning, when they could enjoy the strange scene which this aerial position presented to their eyes. "let us take it in properly, and map it down in our memory," said cousin giles after they had looked round and round, then to a distance, and down into the open spaces and streets below them, with their moving crowd of men, and horses, and carriages, of high and low degree, dashing and tearing here and there as if the lives of monarchs and the fate of kingdoms depended on their speed. "first, look to the east; there we have the rapid, clear neva, flowing out of lake ladoga, which in our mind's eye we can see in the distance, though it is too far off to be seen in reality. then, in the same direction, near the outskirts of the city, the river branches off into several channels, making a delta like that of the nile, and forming a number of islands of various dimensions--some so large that a considerable portion of the city to the north of us stands on them, others containing only a few gardens and villas. the country surrounding the city seems barren and desolate in the extreme, either an arid steppe or a stagnant marsh telling of the agues and fevers afflicting those dwelling near it. to the north, however, not many versts from the city, rise the hills and woods, and fields and orchards of finland, inhabited by the finest peasantry of the russian empire. to the west appear the shining waters of the head of the gulf of finland, with the fortifications of cronstadt in the far distance, and a fleet of men-of-war before it; while higher up is a whole squadron of gun-boats, which were lately built and fitted out in a great hurry to meet those england had prepared to send into these waters. across the head of the gulf, looking down on cronstadt, peep forth amid a mass of green foliage the golden spires and domes, and white-walled palaces, and swiss-looking villas of peterhoff, beyond which, and far away as the eye can reach to the southward, and very, very much farther on, one great desolate steppe or plain, bearing for miles and miles scarcely a tree higher than a gooseberry bush, or a hill boasting a height of greater elevation than a molehill. now let us bring our eyes nearer to our feet, to the mouth of the river. we see it crowded with steamers and every variety of craft of moderate size of all nations, and yet we know that the greater proportion of vessels which bade to the city do not come higher than cronstadt. the large barges and lighters which we see moving up and down the river convey their cargoes to and from that place. high up the river, above the bridges, is another collection of vessels, and several are to be seen moving up and down the different channels; while the canals, which meander through the city in various directions, are literally jammed up with barges, chiefly unloading firewood. the canals pass down the middle of the broad streets, many of which are fringed with trees. at the mouth of the river, on the south side, is mr baird's iron factory, where steam-engines and iron machines of all sorts are made; near it is his private residence. he is now a russian baron, and is much esteemed by the emperor. a little higher up is the new naval arsenal, with long sheds, where gangs of workmen are employed in chains, and through which runs a canal. some men-of-war steamers are moored off it. others are seen in different parts of the river, their guns commanding the quays; so that, should an emeute ever take place, the communication between the various quarters of the city would speedily be cut off. groups of shipping are visible at different parts of the quays; but no ugly warehouses or stores of any sort are in sight, and their cargoes are quickly spirited away to other unaristocratical parts of the city. here the mansions of the noble and wealthy have taken possession of the whole length of the quays. the first building of importance on the north side, opposite mr baird's works, is the corps of mines. it is of great extent, and contains a museum stored with models, illustrating every branch of civil and military engineering, as well as some beautifully executed models of various descriptions of mines. then come in succession, and nearly in the same line, the magnificent edifices containing the academy of arts, the university, the academy of sciences, the corps of cadets, and, lastly, the exchange. some of these buildings cover as much ground as many of the largest squares in london. above the exchange is petersburg island, which is covered with a strong fortification, called the citadel. it contains a church called peter paul, built by peter the great, and which has a spire exactly like that of the admiralty. on the island is also the cottage which peter the great inhabited while the foundations of his wondrous city were being laid. beyond it, to the north and west, can be discerned some of the smaller channels of the silvery neva, flowing among gardens and orchards, and green waving woods, with villas of every description of architecture, more suited apparently to the climate of the sunny south than to the cold atmosphere of this bleak region. between the base of the building on which we stand and the northern portion of the city we have described, runs the main channel of the river. it is crossed by several broad bridges, resting on a chain of huge boats or barges, which can be removed when the approach of winter gives signs that, by means of the quick-forming ice, the inhabitants will be able to cross without their aid. "we will now turn and face to the south. to the right is the long line of the english quay, with its numerous handsome and substantial mansions, which in any other city would be called palaces. then comes the great square or rather space below us, bordered by huge piles containing the chief public offices in the empire. standing amid them, yet not pressed on too closely, rises the proud structure of the new church of saint isaac, with its four granite-columned porticoes. then radiating off directly before us are the three widest and longest streets perhaps in europe: first in magnificence comes the neva perspective, and then comes peas street, and the resurrection perspective; but running out of them are also streets of great width, composed of houses of numerous storeys and undoubted pretensions to grandeur. the neva perspective is the most interesting. on the right side of it stands the kazan church, which it was intended should be like saint peter's at rome; but, except that it has a wide-spreading portico with numerous columns, it is in no way to be compared to that magnificent structure. on the same side is a building, or rather a collection of buildings, which at a distance have no very imposing appearance. this is the great market of saint petersburg, or the gostinnoi dvor. it consists of a series of arcades, in front of stores of two or more storeys, forming the outside boundary of an extensive region of squares, which have likewise arcades running round them, the area being filled with garden produce and rough wares not liable to be injured by weather. here every article, either for use or consumption, which the lower orders can possibly require, is to be found, from a hat to a cucumber, or a pair of shoes to a leg of mutton; but, as our friends were about to visit the place, it need not now be further described. "at the very end of the street could be seen the terminus of the saint petersburg and moscow railway, the iron road itself running far, far away to the southward across the flat and marshy steppe. on either side of this prince of streets, the neva prospect, and in many streets branching from it, could be seen a number of lofty and magnificent palaces with here and there golden-domed churches, and many public buildings, convents, and monasteries, and wide walks fringed with trees, and canals carrying produce from far-off countries into the very heart of the city. let us have one look more before we descend at peter's statue, not bigger apparently than a child's toy, and the alexander column, and the golden domes of the isaac church, and the huge winter palace, and the hermitage, and the imperial theatre, and the long line of palaces facing the quays of the neva beyond them; then we have to-day witnessed a sight not easily forgotten. "saint petersburg, as it stands on its millions of wooden piles, the liquid, rapidly-flowing neva, the moving, living crowd of uniform-clad inhabitants--men, women, and children, coaches, droskies, and horses, infantry and cavalry, cossacks of the don on their ragged ponies, and skeleton-looking guards with their glittering halberds at every corner. those at home may gain a fair notion of the scene from burford's panorama, but they will soon forget it, while we shall remember it all our lives: there is nothing like the reality to impress it on our minds." so said cousin giles as our friends began to descend into the world below. "we must now visit some of these places in detail," said cousin giles as they stood in the square outside the admiralty gates. "where shall we go first?" "to the big new church!" exclaimed harry. "i want to see if it is as fine inside as it is out." to the isaac church accordingly they steered their course. on their way they encountered a party of british naval officers, whose ship was lying at cronstadt. several of them were well-known to cousin giles, and they gladly accepted his invitation to visit the church. when, however, they got to the gate in the wooden paling which still surrounded it, the porter signified to them that without a ticket they could not be admitted. even a silver rouble could not soften him. he looked at it wistfully, but for some reason was afraid of accepting the bribe. just as they were going away in despair, a tall, gentleman-like officer stepped through the gateway. he looked at them for an instant, and then inquired in french what they wanted. cousin giles explained. "oh, i will soon arrange that, i doubt not," he replied, returning into the enclosure. he quickly came back, and begged them to enter. "after you have seen the church, if you will come to the hermitage, i will be there, and shall have great pleasure in showing you over it." cousin giles and the commander of the english ship and the other officers bowed and thanked him, and accepted his offer. he then left them, and they mounted the long flight of steps which leads up to the southern portico. it must be understood that there are three similar porticoes, with lofty granite columns, constituting the chief beauty of the exterior of the building. the roof is supported by massive columns: they, and every part of the walls, are covered with the richest marbles of every colour, highly polished. in the centre is a dome, near the summit of which, as if it were watching over the worshippers below, is seen a dove, floating apparently in air. the effect is good, whatever may be thought of the taste which would allow so sacred an emblem to be thus introduced. the great attractions of the church are a row of malachite pillars on either side of the high altar. their appearance is very fine; the malachite is, however, only veneered on copper, of which the pillars are composed. there are also numerous pictures of saints, which at first sight appeared to be of the richest mosaic, like those of saint peter's at rome, but on examination they proved to be only on canvas; perhaps they are placed there till the real mosaics are ready. the three brass doors of the church, covered with figures in the deepest relief, are very fine, as is also a large window of stained glass. cousin giles observed, that the richness of the decorations put him in mind of saint peter's at rome; but, both in respect to size and elegance of design, it is much inferior. the party having satisfied their curiosity, set off across the square to the hermitage. their new friend the colonel was at the door to receive them, and, conducted by a guide in the imperial livery, they mounted a superb flight of steps, which led them into a series of magnificent rooms, the walls of which were covered with some of the finest pictures of the great masters. in the centre of each of these rooms were exquisitely-shaped vases of malachite and other valuable materials. the colonel, in the politest manner, pointed out to the party the pictures most worthy of admiration. cousin giles was particularly struck by two holy families, by raphael, painted at different periods of his life, very different from each other, and yet both equally beautiful. there are a number of very large pictures in the halls, the favourite subject of which is the retreat of the french from russia, and the burning of moscow. this subject is treated in every possible manner. there are also a number of large pictures of the battles in which the russians have been victorious. they are not fond of keeping up a remembrance of their defeats. there was a good picture of the late emperor, with his haughty brow, fierce eyes, and determined lips, the very impersonification of self-will and human pride, now brought down to the very dust; but, haughty as was that brow, the expression of the countenance gave no sign of talent or true genius. it was indeed wanting. he had the sense to take advantage of the ideas of others, and the determination to carry them into execution. the colonel stopped to look at the picture, but there was no smile of affection on his countenance. there were also full-length portraits of many czars, and among others of paul, which had a rollicking, half-tipsy look about it, very characteristic of the man. the crown was on one side, and the buttons of the waistcoat unfastened, if not, indeed, buttoned awry. intoxication or insanity was clearly portrayed by the too faithful artist. it was a way of speaking truth in which courtiers are not apt to indulge. the colonel led the party through a number of halls, each more vast and more beautiful than the former. the walls of one were of white and gold, of another blue and silver, and of a third of a pinkish hue; but the most beautiful of all was the music hall. the pillars which supported the roof were white twisted with gold--a most aerial flight of steps leading to a gallery above, with a second row of pillars. it was more like a scene described in eastern romance than what one expects to meet with in the solid reality of life. the windows of the hall looked out on a fine view of the neva, with the citadel before it. the colonel caught the eyes of the british officers looking at it. "ah!" said he, taking the hands of the commander and pointing to the fortress, "that is the place you would have had to take if you had come here in the spring; but, believe me, my dear sir, i receive you much more willingly in this friendly way than i should have done at the point of the bayonet." the colonel spoke in so frank and cordial a way, and with so much grace in his manner, that he completely won the hearts of his guests. they all warmly pressed him to come on board, their ship, promising to show him everything about her. he replied that he would gladly have availed himself of their offer, but that he was compelled to go to moscow to make preparations for the coronation. two fine old soldiers, tall and upright, with huge moustaches, and breasts covered with decorations, stood guard at the entrance of the treasury. it contained jewels of every description, and curious productions of rare art, such as a prince in the _arabian nights_ might have been told to bring from a far distant country before he could hope to win the hand of some lovely princess. among them was a clock under a glass case, consisting of a golden tree, with a peacock, an owl, a cock, a mouse, a stream of running water, and many other things. at each hour the peacock unfolds his tail, the cock crows, the owl rolls his goggle eyes, and the mouse runs out of its hole. but far more interesting than all the crowns of gold, the robes of silk, and the precious gems, are numerous articles manufactured by the great peter, and the tools with which he worked. among others is the chair on which he sat--a very rough affair, spy-glasses of huge dimensions, and walking-sticks in numerable--some thin-made switches, others thick enough to knock down a giant, with every variety of handle, ending with the old man's crutch, a complete epitome of human life. it would be impossible in our journal to mention all the magnificent pictures collected from every part of europe, and the vast numbers of interesting curiosities. this beautiful palace, as has been remarked, was built by catherine, that she might retire to it after the cares of state, and endeavour to forget them among its varieties and objects of interest. that she attained the ease and happiness she sought, is more than doubtful. "depend on it, my lads," observed cousin giles, "that powerful but bad woman was far from happy amid all the luxury which wealth could give her. nothing but a good conscience, void of offence towards god and man, can bring happiness, and that she had not got." the winter palace is next to the hermitage. though much larger, it is far less interesting, as the interior was burnt down in , when many fine paintings and articles of value were destroyed. it is said that in the old palace there resided not less than six thousand persons, some living in huts constructed on the roof, whence no one thought of disturbing them. some thousands no doubt reside also in the present building. that moon-stricken monarch, paul, built a palace for himself, in the hope that within its fortified walls he might be safe from the attacks of his enemies. so eager was he to have it finished, that five thousand men were employed on it daily. to dry the walls, iron plates were made hot and fastened against them; but what is done in a hurry is generally ill done, and such was the case in this instance: the cost was three times greater than it need have been. scarcely had the unhappy emperor inhabited his new abode three months, when he fell, pierced by the daggers of assassins, in the centre of the very fortress he had fancied would prove his security. the hermitage having been thoroughly lionised under the auspices of the polite colonel, the party steered a course across the bridge of boats to the exchange, a large building with a fine portico and a flight of steps facing the river, on the north side, at the eastern end of vasili ostrof, and with a fine open space before it. it was presented by the late emperor to the mercantile community of saint petersburg, whom he wished especially to conciliate. in front stand two granite columns, decorated with the prows of ships cast in metal. on a close examination of the building, our friends discovered that it was covered with stucco, which in many places was already crumbling away, as is the case with many other edifices of high and low degree in this rapidly constructed city. cousin giles and his friends were hesitating about entering when they were overtaken by mr henshaw. "come in," said he. "the merchants here are happy to see strangers; they will not knock your hat over your eyes, as the frequenters of change alley are wont to do to intruders." they followed their friend, and found themselves in a vast hall full of long blue or green-coated gentry, with flowing beards and low-crowned hats, intermingled with others in modern european costume--some looking round in expectation of a correspondent, others in earnest conversation in knots of twos or threes, busily engaged in buying or selling, a word deciding the fate of hundreds of fat oxen now feeding securely in their native pastures, or of thousands of tall trees growing in the primeval forest thousands of versts away. they were much struck by observing an altar on one side of the entrance, with candles burning on it, and the picture of a saint, black, as usual, and in a golden habit, before which the native merchants bowed and crossed themselves as they passed onward to transact their affairs. here were collected representatives of all nations, and from every part of russia--a strange medley of physiognomies, tongues, and costumes; but so habitual has become to them a modulated tone of voice, that, in spite of the hundreds speaking at once, a gentle murmur alone is heard through the hall. among the foreigners the germans probably preponderate, but the english hold a very high position: in no community abroad are british merchants more deservedly respected than those engaged in the russian trade. cousin giles and his young companions made the acquaintance of several, and found them most pleasing, gentlemanly men. mr henshaw took them to see the portraits of the present and the late emperor, hanging up in an inner room of the building. the present czar is a slighter and shorter man than his father, and with a far milder expression of countenance. the picture of nicholas speaks of undaunted courage and determination, and at the same time of a relentless and almost a ferocious disposition. "i am glad he was not my master," exclaimed harry; "how hard he would have hit if he had begun to flog one!" leaving the exchange, they returned to the south side, and then crossed another long bridge of boats, and afterwards a smaller one, to the citadel. here their object was to see the church of peter paul, where peter the great, and all his successors, including the late emperor, lie buried. after they had entered within the strongly fortified walls, an avenue of birch trees took them up to the church, with its lofty gilt spire. the richly painted roof is supported by massive square pillars, covered with pictures of saints, as is the pulpit. the altar blazes with gold and silver, and huge silver candlesticks. the faces and hands of the saints are all black, and peep out of holes cut in sheets of gold or silver maiked to represent their robes; thus the artist has very little labour in producing a picture. the tombs of the czars are grouped on either side of the high altar. they are plain sarcophagi, are usually covered with black velvet palls, very simple and unostentatious. on the walls and pillars are suspended various trophies taken in war from the enemies of russia. over the windows, as harry observed, were some "huge jolly cherubs--that is to say," he added, "fat heads and nothing else to carry behind them; so it is no wonder their cheeks get blown out." "we have seen enough lions for one day," said cousin giles as they left the fortress. "fred will have work enough to write up his notes as it is." after dinner, fred read out to cousin giles and his brother the remarks he had made on the various scenes they had witnessed in their walks and drives through the city. they will be found in the following chapter. chapter six. remarks from fred's note-book about saint petersburg, and the habits and customs of the russians. the streets and places of saint petersburg are very badly paved: the holes and ruts in them are full of mud when it rains, and of dust in summer weather; some parts are covered with blocks of wood, like the streets of london. did the english learn the system from the russians, or the russians from the english? other streets are paved with little round pebbles, very unpleasant to walk on. the side pavements are often narrow and very uneven. the frosts of winter much unsettle the flagstones. the policemen at the corners of the streets look as if they were all cut from one model, like a child's tin regiment of soldiers. they are all tall, thin, lathy fellows, in long greatcoats, with huge moustaches and long-handled halberds; their faces as long, solemn, and grave as if the weight of the empire rested on their shoulders. mr evergreen, who had joined us near the hotel, had a cigar in his mouth; no sooner did the guard see it, than he made furious signs to him to put it out. "dear me, he'll march me off to prison, and perhaps to siberia!" exclaimed our verdant friend, hastily throwing the cigar on the ground. as we passed, i happened to turn round, when i beheld the long guard stalking rapidly towards the still burning weed; he seized it, and, placing it between his lips, coolly marched back to his sentry-box, where he continued smoking as if it were his own lawful property. these guards are said to be great rogues. i suspect he would have dowsed his glim in no little hurry if one of his officers had hove in sight. passed a troop of cossacks of the don, mounted on the most rugged, roughly-caparisoned little steeds, looking as if just caught wild from the steppes. they act as the cavalry police of the city. they are little dark fellows, and wear fur caps with red tops to them, long brown caftans or coats, and yellow boots; having in their hands long tapering lances, with which they would, doubtless, prick a man in a street disturbance, or on any other occasion, with the slightest possible compunction. when we first arrived, the houses, and even the streets, had an oveny smell, which showed us how hot it had been and must often be in summer. the westerly wind has now cooled the air, and made it very pleasant. the russian wheaten bread is excellent, very light and pure, made up in long loaves or oblong rolls. we were shown a loaf which came from moscow, made in the shape of a basket with a handle. a housewife returning from market hangs half a dozen of them on her arm. the bread of peasants is very different; it is made of rye, very brown--almost black, very close, heavy, and sour. they are, however, very fond of it, and so are even the upper classes, who seldom make a meal without taking some. the streets, as one drives about, seem interminable,--long wide avenues of trees with gardens and places extending away at right angles in all directions. what dreary, hopeless work for a poor fellow on foot on a hot day, who has lost his way, to find it again! they are here called lines, like the avenues of new york, cousin giles says. one is directed to the fifteenth or sixteenth line. most of the private residences here are in flats--few people have a house to themselves. the entrance is either at the side of an archway, or from a quadrangle round which the houses are built. at the north end of the iron bridge stands a shrine, with the picture of the virgin mary on it, before which tapers are constantly burning. every one who passes, belonging to the greek church, takes off his hat and rapidly and energetically crosses himself; drosky drivers, soldiers, peasants, rein up their horses, even going at full speed, and perform their acts of devotion. people on foot stop and bow and cross themselves,--some scarcely breaking off a conversation, while others kneel before the altar and continue some minutes, if not in prayer, at all events in the attitude of devotion. this end of the bridge turns on pivots, to allow vessels to pass up and down. in the streets are seen a number of pigeons, whom no one disturbs. the russians have a superstitious veneration for them, believing, i fancy, that they are inhabited by the souls of their departed relatives. we, however, had a pigeon pie at the hotel. fruit is very dear here. we were asked a silver rouble for a basket of strawberries, almost spoilt, and two roubles for a melon. we saw some excellent figures of native costumes. three roubles were asked for each. one of the late emperor cost four roubles, the additional rouble being put on in compliment to his majesty. it would be disrespectful to sell even a dead emperor at as low a price as a living subject. in every quarter of the city, over the police stations, at which the thin halberd-armed guards are posted, are watch-towers. a man is stationed at the top, which is fitted with a telegraph, to give notice either of a fire or a flood. fires may occur any day--floods in the spring chiefly, from the rapid melting of the snows of winter. red flags tell of coming floods; black-striped balls by day, and lamps by night, of fire. an omnibus, probably built in england, passed us with four horses; a postilion, dressed in a drosky driver's hat and long coat, rode the leaders, while another man in a similar costume sat on the box to steer the wheelers. the omnibuses are painted black or dark red--very sombre-looking conveyances, making one think of prison-vans or hearses. some of the little country carts are curious-looking affairs. they are built with ribs, and look like a boat with the stem and stern cut off; the hind wheels are kept on by a bow, one end of which comes out from the side of the cart, and the other presses the axle. we remarked the washing stages on the neva. in the centre is a long opening, at which the women stand and dip in the unfortunate garments to be cleansed, and batter them with a mallet. there are also large stages with buildings on them for swimming baths. on one we saw "swimming school," written in german. a foot regiment passed us with black-and-brass helmets, dark-drab long coats, black belts and scabbards. they had a very sombre appearance, but were fine-looking fellows, evidently fit for service. a number of wood boats are unloading at the quays. they are huge flat-bottomed barges, of white planks slightly fastened together. they are broken up and burnt like their cargo. the wood they bring is chiefly birch, and is cut up in pieces fit for the stove. the canals are crowded in some places with these boats. a number of vessels, chiefly dutch, were unloading at the quays close to the winter palace; but not a particle of mercantile dirt or litter was to be seen. carts came and quickly transported the cargo to less polished regions. it took us just two minutes and a half to walk rapidly from one end of the winter palace to the other. that does not seem much, but let any one try how much ground he can get over in that time at a walk, and it will give him a good idea of the extent of the building. droskies can be hired at a very cheap rate. for less than sixpence one may go from one end of the city to the other, and that is no trifling distance. the peasant women whom we have seen in the city are dressed in rough greatcoats and boots, with coloured handkerchiefs tied over their heads and under their chins. their appearance is not attractive. on sunday we went to the church of the english factory, of which dr law has been minister for many years. the outside is like a house. the residence of the minister is under it. there is also a library attached to it. the church itself is a very handsome hall. the ladies sit on one side, the men on the other. several persons in russian uniforms were there. their parents probably were english, and, though they have entered the russian service, they are allowed to adhere to their own form of worship. we find the russian language perfectly unpronounceable. it is said to be like hindustanee; for instance, a stick is _palka_ in russian, and _palkee_ in hindustanee, and there are numerous words equally alike in the two languages. it is very rich, we are told. there are but few words expressing the same thing. in english we say a man, a dog, and a tree dies; the russians say a man dies, or rather departs, a dog perishes, a tree withers. this shows that, heathens though they were when their language was invented, they must have believed in the immortality of the soul. the late emperor disliked drinking and smoking. if either a military or civil officer was known by him to have been intoxicated, from that moment his promotion was stopped, if even he escaped being dismissed immediately from his office. the emperor passed an edict prohibiting smoking in railway carriages. on one occasion, the grand duke michael, who was going a short distance with a party of friends by the train, appeared on the platform with a cigar in his mouth, but threw it away before stepping into the carriage. this he did to show his respect for the emperor's edict, for no one would have ventured to stop him had he smoked on. even then most of the imperial family smoked, as does the present emperor. log-huts, very similar to those used in canada, are the usual habitations of russian peasants. they are found close up to that mighty city of saint petersburg. a groove is cut in the length of the log, into which the log above it is let. the interstices are filled with moss. they are considered far warmer than any brick or stone houses. sometimes they are boarded over, and when painted gaily have a cheerful aspect. ordinary plank houses are used in summer, but would scarcely be habitable in winter. when people during the winter are travelling in russia, they do not use hot bricks or water-bottles, as the canadians do, for their feet, but wear very thick fur boots, made of ample size, so as in no way to impede the circulation of the blood. a tight boot is painful and dangerous, and many a person in consequence has lost a foot, even his life. when walking, india-rubber goloshes are worn, which are taken off when a person enters a house. a very large thick fur cloak, in which a person is completely enveloped, is worn when travelling. it is thrown down in a corner as soon as a person enters a house, where it lies like a heap of dirty clothes. spitting is as common among all classes as we heat that it is in america. carpets have only of late years been introduced into the houses of the opulent, but people spit over them just as they did over their brick floors. a refined sort of spittoon has been introduced, with a high handle. by touching a spring the lid flies open, and drops again when made use of. uncle giles says the inventor would have done better to have invented some means of breaking his countrymen off a dirty habit; perhaps, however, the hot air in the rooms, and the sharp air outside, may have something to do with it. the english here say that the habits of social life among the russians have very much improved since they mixed with them: i do not know what view the russians take of the case. thirty years ago, palaces and public offices were alike dirty in the extreme; but the emperor alexander, after his visit to england, introduced great improvements. now the public offices at saint petersburg, at all events, are kept fairly clean. i do not think, however, that the housemaid has got so far south as moscow; it is too holy a place, in a russian's idea, to make cleanliness necessary. an english friend told us that once upon a time he went to pay a visit to a great man, who lived in a great house. the entrance-hall was unspeakably dirty; round it, against the walls, were a number of ottomans, on which slept numerous shock-headed, sandal-footed, long-coated, red-shirted serfs, with their master's fur cloaks rolled up as pillows. the next hall was scarcely cleaner. the third was gorgeously furnished, but no neat-handed housemaid, apparently, ever entered to sweep the floors or brush away the cobwebs. an ante-room was a shade better; while the great man's private chamber looked really comfortable, as if he had imbibed a sufficient regard for cleanliness to keep himself out of the dirt. perhaps with the same object the late emperor introduced foot pavements in saint petersburg. formerly foot passengers had to pick their way from stone to stone among rivulets of mud. english ladies used to be much admired for the propriety of their walking dresses; now, on account of the undue length of their gowns, they kick up so great a dust that it is most unpleasant to walk behind them. uncle giles says, "perhaps they do it to keep off danglers." russian ladies never think of walking in the city--the streets of saint petersburg, in truth, do not tempt them; in spring and autumn they are thick with mud, in summer with the finest dust. the ladies of russia are, like those in other countries, very fond of lap-dogs, and give very high prices for them. the groom who came over with us brought two dozen, shut up in hen-coops, and expected to get pounds at least for each of them. the wealthy russians generally give enormous prices for luxuries. our captain on one voyage brought over some oysters, which sold, he told us, at fourpence each. they are not to be found in the baltic. he made about nine hundred per cent, by them. saint petersburg is very ill supplied with salt-water fish; there are neither lobsters nor flatfish. it is generally supposed in england that the very finest tea is to be found in russia, brought all the way overland from china. this an english friend assured us is a mistake. there is certainly very good tea in russia, but what costs there ten shillings is not superior to what can be bought in england at from four to five shillings. very large quantities of very bad tea are smuggled over the german frontier, a large proportion probably having come round from china by sea, and not considered good enough for the english market. our friend on one occasion, being on his way home overland, having missed the diligence, had to stop a day at tilsit, a place celebrated for the articles of peace signed there between napoleon and the allies. while wandering round the town, he saw large storehouses with chests piled upon chests of tea. he asked where all the tea was to go. some people would not answer, but others told him that russian merchants came and bought it, and carried it away over the frontier. large quantities used to be smuggled through finland, which has different custom regulations to those of russia. a light duty only was charged on tea in that country, but how to get it into russia was the question. to effect this, logs of wood were hollowed out, filled with tea, and floated down the streams. carts loaded with casks of apples entered the country; inside the casks were chests of tea. this sort of smuggling just suited the taste and enterprise of a russian peasant. once upon a time, the cart of an unfortunate smuggler broke down in front of the emperor's palace. not only did the cart break, but so did the casks of apples, and out rolled the chests of tea. the affrighted smugglers fled, and left their property to the police, whose samovars did not probably smoke the less merrily in consequence. at all events, the _contretemps_ opened the eyes of the emperor somewhat to the folly of having high restrictive duties with a frontier so enormous as that of russia; but, whatever were his plans of reform, the war and death cut them short. large quantities of tea are at the present time imported into the neighbouring german ports, for the acknowledged object of sending them into russia. of course, as is to be expected, there is much bribery and corruption in all departments of government. an officer of the guards, count ---, was appointed chief of the custom-house. he had not much practical knowledge of business, but he resolved to make amends for his deficiency in that respect by looking into things with his own eyes. once upon a time the daughter of one of his subordinates was married, and he was invited to the feast. now, on so important an occasion, if a man has not a house of his own large enough to entertain his guests, he borrows one from a friend. on this occasion the father of the bride borrowed one from an official in his own department. when count --- entered, he admired the furniture and the rooms, and everything in it. "of course you have hired this; to whom does it belong?" "it belongs to my friend so-and-so; he has lent it to me," was the answer. "ho, ho!" thought the count. "so-and-so must have a fine private fortune, or else he must have the knack of fingering large bribes." he consequently watched the unsuspecting so-and-so very narrowly, and soon discovered that he had fingers of a most tenacious description, which easily accounted for his handsome income. so-and-so, to his surprise, found himself one fine morning dismissed from his office, and compelled to retire into well-merited poverty and disgrace. the russians are at all times civil to strangers, and even during the war none of the english who remained were ever insulted by them. the english merchants, indeed, who have long resided in the country, were allowed to move about as they liked, and several even resided at peterhoff, in sight of the british fleet. the only people who ever said a word against them were some prussians, whose direct trade was injured by the war. prussia herself, however, benefited by the transit of goods across her frontier. the mode of heating houses has been very much improved of late years. the best houses have now fireplaces, as well as stoves, which add much to the ventilation of the rooms. the stoves are made of brick; they are peculiar to the country, and may be called air-stoves. the fresh air is introduced by pipes from the outside, and, passing over the stove, is conveyed in other pipes through the house. the air also passes over a plate of iron, which is sprinkled sometimes with plain water, or by the more luxurious with rose-water. by depressing or elevating this plate, a current of air is sent through the room. all the rooms have double windows; the inside one is removed in summer-- not the outside one, as in canada. if the air was allowed to get in between the two windows, the glass would become permanently covered with frost. to prevent this, a glass panel, which opens at both ends, is introduced between the two windows, and through this the room is aired. great care is taken not to begin to heat the rooms till the second window is put in, or the glass in this case also would become coated with ice, and would remain so all the winter. the russian peasants are very economical in their mode of cooking. they are horrified at seeing the broth in which a leg of mutton is boiled thrown away, as is too often done in england. they will make a dish out of almost any of the herbs of the field, or of birds, beasts, or creeping things. they make all sorts of fish soups, of which they are especially fond; so, indeed, are the rich. all classes have an especial affection for the black rye bread of the country. we found it very sour, though i daresay habit might make one like it. all classes use porridges of every description. buck-wheat is used for this purpose, as also to make cakes, as in america. what we call manna croup is also used in a variety of ways. a favourite fish among the higher classes is the sterlet, a sort of sturgeon; soup is made of it, but it is very expensive. good as some of the police regulations are, others are very absurd. if a person is wounded or otherwise injured, no one may go near him; for, if the wounded man should die, the person who went to help him would be carried off to prison, and certainly be tried for the murder. an acquaintance told us that one day in winter he saw from the window of a hotel, where he was standing with a friend, an english lady driving in a sledge; at that moment a heavy sledge drove against it, upsetting it, and severely injuring her. a policeman was on the point of seizing her sledge, and would have taken it and herself to the police office, where, to a certainty, she would have died. there was not a moment for thought. his friend knocked down the policeman and then ran off, while he jumped into the sledge and drove off to a hotel, whence he sent for the lady's husband. the lady was ill for many weeks. he never heard anything more of the knocked-down policeman, who probably, after picking himself up, was content with the capture of the heavy sledge which had committed the mischief. we find that by going to saint petersburg we have lost two hours of time, but, as we hope to return home, we shall get it back again. the russians, it must be remembered, in their love for conservatism, keep the old style of time, which is about ten days behind the new. this rather puzzled us at first. skating is not in vogue in russia; indeed, the ice so soon becomes covered with snow, that there is very little opportunity afforded to indulge in the pastime. the montagne-russe is the great out-of-door pastime. huge hills are formed of ice and snow, and placed in a line, one beyond the other. people climb up to the top of the first with little sledges. a gentleman sits in front and guides the sledge, a lady holds on behind, and away they go down one hill, the impetus carrying them up the other, or a considerable way up it, and thus the whole line is traversed. so fond are the russians of the amusement, that they have, even in summer, wooden mountains with greased roads, which answer the purpose of ice. chapter seven. journey to moscow--russian railway--passengers--mr evergreen and his hat-box--refreshment rooms--scenes on the road--polite spy--first view of moscow--unromantic mode of entering it--hotel chollet--the chinese city--the kremlin--the great bazaar--cathedral of saint basil--the holy gate--great bell of moscow--tower of ivan veleki--wonderful view from the summit--the tulip city. "and now, my boys, we may pack up and be off for moscow," exclaimed cousin giles as they reached the gostiniza benson, after settling all the preliminary passport business, without which no one, either of high or low degree, subject or foreigner, can move from one city to another in the empire of the czar. there is no great difficulty in this passport business, and no great annoyance; but still it is apt to ruffle the temper of the most mild and patient men, to have to spend the whole of one day, during their stay in each place, in performing a task which might well be dispensed with, not to speak of having to disburse several roubles on each occasion; it is not, therefore, surprising that everybody who writes about russia should grumble at the system, and occupy many pages in abusing it. the moscow railroad station is at the end of the nevsky prospect. the travellers reached it soon after ten o'clock. only one train started in the day, so that to miss it was to lose a day. the building is a fine one. it is entirely under government superintendence, and the stationmaster, and ticket-clerks, and porters, and policemen, and guards are all in military uniform; it makes a person very much inclined to behave himself. a passenger must get to the station in good time, for there are all sorts of preliminaries to be gone through. one cannot jump out of a cab, rush to the ticket-office, sing out, "porter, bring along my luggage!" jump into a carriage, and away to edinburgh or holyhead without a question being asked;--oh no! people do not go ahead quite so fast in the kingdom of the czar. before a ticket can be got, the passport must be shown at one office, where it is stamped; then one goes over to another office, where it is examined and the ticket granted,--all in the most deliberate way, rather trying to a person who fancies that he is late. then the luggage must be taken to another place, and a ticket bought for it, and paid for according to the number of articles; then it must be delivered over the counter at another place; and lastly, the perplexed traveller is allowed to go on the platform and select his seat. the carriages are very long, the entrance, after the american model, being at each end, where there is a platform, a passage running down the whole length of the carriage, so that people can pass from one end of the train to the other. the second-class have seats arranged in rows like those in a church, and are not very comfortable for a long journey; but the first-class are more luxurious: at each end there is a small ante-room, then a saloon with ottomans round it, and the centre compartment is full of large, luxurious arm-chairs, far enough apart to allow long-legged men to stretch their legs to the full. the windows are large, and of plate glass, which, as harry observed, would be very convenient if there was anything to look at out of them. our friends had arranged themselves in one of the centre compartments, and the lime of departure was at hand, when mr evergreen made his appearance on the platform in a state of great agitation, first turning to one moustached fierce-looking official, then to another, appealing in vain to know, as it appeared, what had become of parts of his luggage. "does any one know the russian for hat-box?" he exclaimed. "hatboxichoff! hatboxichoff!" he cried in piteous accents. "dear me, dear me--there are all my writing things in it, and my letters, and my money, and my best hat, and my gloves; and i shall be sent to prison as an impostor, and not be able to appear decent at the coronation, and have no means of paying my bills, and be starved, and--" at that moment he caught sight of cousin giles' face. his countenance brightened up. "oh, mr fairman, i am so glad to see you!--can you help me?" he cried. cousin giles asked to see his luggage ticket, and, finding that the same number of packages which he possessed in all were marked on it, assured him that there could be no doubt his hat-box was safe. thus assured in his mind, mr evergreen took his seat. the ticket is a long strip of paper, with the names of the chief places on the road marked on it, and the fares to each of them. the passengers having taken their places, the military officials waved their hands, and the long train began to move. the view as they left the city was not interesting. some large red-brick houses appeared above the low huts in the outskirts, with a large reed-bordered lagoon, and a wide extent of dead level covered with low shrubs or rank dry grass. the distance to moscow is about five hundred versts, nearly four hundred miles, and for the whole of that distance there is very little improvement towards picturesque beauty. now and then, to be sure, they came to woods of birch or fir, but the trees were small and widely scattered; still the chief feature was a dead flat covered with scrub. russia, however, is very far from being a barren and unfruitful country. there are large tracts near its numerous rivers which yield an abundant harvest of all descriptions of corn, and there are forests full of the finest trees, whilst fruits of many descriptions also are produced. this particular road, however, gives a stranger a very unfavourable impression of the country; still there were many things to interest our friends. about a mile, it seemed, from each other were little oblong wooden cottages, with a square enclosure in the rear and a platform in front, all so exactly alike that harry said they looked as if they had been taken out of some dutch brobdignag toy-box and placed along the road. in front of each hut, as the train passed along, appeared a guard, presenting arms with an iron-headed pike; and so exactly did one look like the other that harry said he was certain there must be some spring underground which made them all pop up as the train passed along. there must be at least five hundred along the line--every hut, man, cap, pike, and greatcoat formed after the same model; there were guards, also, at all the signal stations. whenever, also, the train stopped, a fierce-looking guard, in the uniform of the french gendarmes,-- bright-blue coats, helmets, and silver ornaments,--stood immoveable as sentries before each of the carriages, to prevent people from doing anything they ought not to do: altogether there seemed to be a very wholesome discipline established along the line. at all the stopping-places there were a number of swiss-looking cottages, apparently newly erected; while the bridges and palings, and flights of steps and banisters, and refreshment booths, and vast long sheds in which heaps of logs were piled up, all looked as if they had been made in switzerland, and were exactly like the models which come in neat white wooden boxes to england from that country of mountains and snow. they were very neat, and pretty, and picturesque, but certainly did not look as if they belonged to the place. at every station there are refreshments of some sort. our friends observed fruits, raspberries, strawberries, and peaches, though of an untempting appearance and very dear; and also cakes of various forms, bread, beer, and of course quass. at all the larger stations there are large, long, handsome refreshment rooms, equal in appearance to those at the large stations in england,-- there is one for each class. at one of these they stopped for three-quarters of an hour, when a good dinner was served at about half-past four. they did not note the name of the place, but harry suggested that it must have been _chudova_, which was one of the principal places on the road. _chew_! "oh, oh, harry!" exclaimed fred as he heard his brother's atrocious pun. the tea is excellent at these places; a tumblerful costs ten kopecks, but a regular tea costs thirty, about fifteen-pence; indeed, the charges are much the same as in england. probably at home, more substantial and better fare is to be got at the same price. as soon as the train stops, out get all the passengers, and a very motley assemblage they form as they pace up and down on the platform. uniforms of all sorts predominate, from the modern-coated, richly-laced officer of the emperor's guard, to the sombre-dressed rank and file of the line. there were circassians and georgians, and cossacks of the don and volga, and other remote districts, in blue and silver coats, fur caps with red tops, and wide trousers, and yellow boots, and gauntlets on their hands, and jewelled daggers, and chain armour, and carved scimitars, with black, flashing eyes, and thickly curling glossy beards and moustaches, their language as well as their appearance telling of far-off southern regions, which have succumbed before the arms or the diplomacy of russia. then there were armenians and persians, men of peace, intent only on making money, with high-pointed fur caps, long gowns, full, dark trousers, and waists belted not to carry swords, but inkhorns; and tartars with turbans, and rich shawls, and gold-embroidered slippers; and priests with low-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, beneath which straggled huge quantities of long light hair, and long green coats, and crosses rather ostentatiously shown at their breasts. there were traders, too, from the northern cities of the empire, dressed in long dressing-gown-looking coats, more properly described as dirty than clean, and high boots, and low-crowned hats, and beards of considerable length and thickness; while the humbler classes, the mujicks, evidently delighted in pink shirts with their tails worn outside their trousers, and fastened round their waist with a sash or belt. these wore caps, and high boots, and long coats, like the rest; indeed, the inhabitants of russia may be said to be a long-coated, boot-wearing population. there were women passengers, but there was nothing very peculiar in their appearance. the upper classes wore bonnets, and the lower had handkerchiefs tied over their heads, or caps, with thick-padded cloaks. they all had brought huge leather pillows, and cloaks, and shawls, to make themselves comfortable in the carriages. no sooner did the train stop than all the men lighted their cigars and pipes, and began to puff away most assiduously. our friends were much amused at seeing a servant bring his master, an old gentleman, his pipe at every station. it was the servant's business not only to light it but to draw it up, and the cunning rogue took good care to get as many whiffs out of it as possible before he removed it from his own mouth. "that's what i call smoking made easy," said harry. "i've heard of a man being another's mouthpiece, and this old gentleman seems to make use of his serf for the same purpose." some of the priests wore fur caps and dark gowns, and others had on broad-brimmed hats and green gowns, with dark overcoats; some had several crosses on their breasts, frizzy or straggling hair being common to all. one of them, who was in a first-class carriage, pulled out a comb and began combing his beard and hair with great assiduity--an operation more pleasant, doubtless, to himself than to his neighbours. there was a fine abasian officer--abasia is a province bordering on the caucasus, conquered by the russians. he wore a black fur cap with a red-and-white top to it,--night-cap fashion,--a white coat with cartridge cases in the breast and trimmed and lined with fur, a silver-lace belt round his waist, white gloves with fur backs, and green trousers with a silver stripe down the legs; yellow boots, a curved scimitar behind, and a richly-jewelled dagger in his belt in front completed his costume. he was a very fine-looking fellow, and was most evidently aware of the fact. he was on good terms with every one, and laughed and chatted with all the officers of rank. such were some of the companions our friends had on their journey. mr evergreen said that he considered it his duty to taste the tea at each stopping-place, to ascertain whether it was really superior to any to be found out of china. at some places he took only a tumblerful, but at others the samovar, with the little teapot on the top of it, and a small china cup were placed before him, with a tumbler also. those who have not drunk tea out of a tumbler may be assured that it is by far the best way of taking it to quench thirst. the americans put a lump of ice into it, which keeps bobbing up against the nose while the hot tea is being quaffed--also a very agreeable fashion. the result of all this tea-drinking was, that poor evergreen could not manage to close his eyes when night came on, and the rest of his party went to sleep. after some hours had passed, he was accosted by an officer in uniform. "ah, sir, i see that sleep has fled your eyelids," said the officer in very good english. "oh, yes; but i can do very well without it," replied evergreen, delighted to have some one to talk to; "there is always so much to think about and interest one in a strange country." "your first visit here, i presume?" said the stranger. "never out of england before," replied evergreen. "what do you think of affairs in general in this country?" asked the stranger. "very large country--very fine country--inhabitants very polite. big city saint petersburg. people may not say exactly what they think, i hear; but that's nothing to me, you know," observed our friend. "oh, that's quite a mistake, my dear sir," replied the stranger; "people may say exactly what they think, i assure you: no one interferes with them. now, for instance, in the friendly way in which we are talking, one man might unbosom himself to another of his most secret thoughts, and no harm could come to him." "very pleasant state of society; exactly what i like," said evergreen, who thereupon, taking the hint, launched forth on several little bits of his own family history, with which he was fond of entertaining any casual acquaintance. the strange officer appeared to be listening attentively, and finally offered to call upon evergreen and to show him the lions of moscow. cousin giles awoke while the conversation was going on, and was exceedingly amused at what he overheard, especially with the warm way in which evergreen accepted the stranger's offer. after the latter had made numerous inquiries about cousin giles, and fred, and harry, he got up and went into another carriage. "wonderfully polite man that was who came and talked to me last night," observed evergreen in the morning, after the passengers had rubbed their eyes and stretched themselves. "i wonder who he can be. a man of some consequence, i should think." among the passengers were some merchants from the north, who had never before been at moscow. they had for some time been putting their heads out of the windows, and as they caught sight of a few gilt domes and gaily-coloured roofs, and some convents scattered about, which was all that was visible of the holy city, they began crossing themselves and bowing most vigorously. this ceremony lasted till the train rushed into the station. the luggage was handed out as each person presented his ticket, and mr evergreen found, to his delight, that his hat-box was safe. a vast number of ishvoshtsticks presented their tickets, and offered their droskies for hire, and, two being selected, away the whole party rattled through broadish streets, paved with pebbles, up and down hill, among gardens, and green-roofed houses, and pink, and yellow, and grey, and blue walls, till they reached their hotel. they had been recommended to go to that of monsieur chollet, in the grand lubianka, and they had no reason to regret their choice. nowhere could a more civil, active, attentive landlord be found. every language seemed to flow with the greatest ease from his tongue. he would be talking to three or four customers in german, and english, and italian, addressing his wife in french, and scolding his servants in their native russian, answering fifty questions, giving advice, and receiving accounts, all in one breath. he did all sorts of things better than any one else. he went to market, came back and cooked the dinner, mixed the salad, and in another instant appeared dressed as if for a ball, and took his place at the head of the table. his dinners were very good, somewhat in the german fashion; and his rooms were very comfortable, and excessively clean for russia. as soon as our friends had dressed and breakfasted, they sallied forth to gain a general view of the city. evergreen said he thought he ought to wait for his new acquaintance, who had promised to call; but an english merchant, who happened to overhear him, assured him that he must not be delicate on the subject, as the person in question was simply one of the guards of the train, and that he was employed by the police to pick up any information he could about passengers. "had he thought you a suspicious character, you would certainly have been honoured by a visit from him," he added. "dear me, if i had said anything treasonable, i should have been whirled off to a dungeon to a certainty," exclaimed poor evergreen, shuddering at the thought of the danger he had escaped. moscow is one of the most romantic cities in europe--indeed, there is no other to be compared with it; but our friends had entered it in so ordinary, every-day a manner that at first they could hardly persuade themselves that they had reached a considerable way towards the centre of russia, and were really and truly in that far-famed city. "now, my boys, we will steer a course for the kremlin," cried cousin giles, having taken the bearings of their hotel as they walked along the street called the grand lubianka. their course was nearly a straight one. in a little time, crossing an open space, they found themselves before a line of fortified walls, and a gateway, such as they might have expected to see in a picture of china or tartary, with strange-looking eastern turrets, and domes, and roofs rising within them. "this must be the chinese city we have heard of," said cousin giles. so it was. it is a city within a city. it has three sides, the walls of the kremlin making the fourth. they passed through the gateway and found themselves in a narrow street, the buildings on either side of them having a still more chinese appearance. on the left was a little church, with numerous parti-coloured domes, and minarets, and towers, and outside staircases leading nowhere, and railings, and balconies, and little excrescences of roofs, altogether forming an edifice much more like a chinese than a christian temple. close to it, on the left, they saw a long open space, just inside the walls, crowded with people of the lowest order, with booths on either side. this was what may be called the rag fair of moscow. the booths or shops contain all the articles either for dress or household purposes used by the mujicks. the sellers and purchasers were all talking and laughing, and haggling and chattering away as if the affairs of the nation depended on what they were about, and yet probably a few kopecks would have paid for any one of the articles bought or sold. at the end of the street the travellers came to the entrance of the great bazaar of moscow, and as they looked down its numerous long alleys, glazed over at the top, they saw lines of little shops,--jewellers, and silversmiths, and makers of images, and hatters, and shoemakers, and tinmen, and trunk-makers, and other workers in leather, and head-dress makers, and blacksmiths, and toy sellers,-- indeed, it would be difficult to enumerate all the various trades and handicrafts there represented, each trade being in a row by itself. each shop was little more than a recess, with a counter in front of it, before which the shopmen stood, praising in loud voices their wares, and inviting passers-by to stop and inspect them. no time, however, was spent at the bazaar, for across a wide open space appeared a high pinnacled wall, with a line of curious green-pointed roofed towers, with golden crescents surmounted by crosses on their summits, and two gateways up a steep slope. over the walls appeared a confused mass of golden and blue-and-silver domes, and spires, and towers, and green roofs, and crescents, and crosses, and gold and silver chains, glittering in the sun, altogether forming a scene such as is pictured in the _arabian nights entertainments_ or other oriental romances, but such as one scarcely expects to find within eight days' easy journey of sober-minded, old, matter-of-fact england. "that must be the kremlin," exclaimed fred. "well, it is a curious place!" "there can be no doubt about it," observed cousin giles. "and that gate to the left, under the high tower, with the lamp and the picture over it, must be the holy gate. let us go through it. it leads us at once, i see by the map, to the terrace overlooking the river." as they went down the place towards the river, they found themselves before a fine bronze group on a high pedestal. "oh, those must be the statues of the two patriots, posharskoi, the general who drove away the tartars, and minin, the merchant who devoted his fortune to the support of the army with which the victory was won. we will read about them by and by," said cousin giles. as they stood there, on their right side were the walls of the kremlin, on their left the front of the bazaar, while some way beyond appeared a most extraordinary-looking church, the cathedral of saint basil. it has nine domes or cupolas,--one large one in the centre, and eight round it, each one painted of a different colour, with various ornaments; some are in stripes, some in checks, some red, some blue, some green, while the structure on which these domes stand consists of all sorts of ins and outs; windows, and stairs, and pillars, and arches--all, too, of different colours, green, and yellow, and red predominating. harry looked at it for a minute, and then burst into a fit of laughter. "well, that is the funniest building i ever saw," he exclaimed. "it looks as if it was built up of sentry-boxes, and hansom's cabs, and dovecots, and windmills, and pig-sties, and all sorts of other things. it was built, i see, by ivan the cruel, and it is said that he was so pleased with its strangeness that he put out the eyes of the unfortunate architect, to prevent his ever building another like it." "pleasant gentleman he must have been," observed evergreen. "a new way he took to reward merit." "rather an old way," said cousin giles. "i do not think that any sovereign would venture on such a proceeding now-a-days." putting off their visit to the bizarre little cathedral, they turned to the right through the sacred gate. mr evergreen did not observe that every one passing under it took off his hat, and very nearly got a prod from the sentry's bayonet for his neglect of that ceremony. the story goes, that the picture over the gateway was unscorched by fire, and that the lamp continued burning all the time the french were in occupation of the city, untrimmed and unattended. a newly-recruited regiment of soldiers, without arms, were marching through, and it was curious to observe each man in succession doff his cap and cross himself as he passed the spot. high and low, rich and poor, all do the same. the only persons who neglected the duty were some wild-looking, dark-eyed lads, whose marked features and olive complexions at once proclaimed them to be zingari or gipsies, of whom a great number are found in russia. moscow is said, like rome, to stand on seven hills, of which that occupied by the kremlin is the highest. it is not, however, as much as a hundred feet above the moscowa, which flows in a horseshoe form directly to the south of it. it is enclosed by four walls of irregular length--that at the west end being so short that the space it occupies is almost triangular. round the walls are about eighteen towers, which vary in shape and height, though they all have high-pointed roofs covered with green tiles. outside the walls are gardens with grass, and trees, and gravel walks. in the interior, on the south side, is a magnificent esplanade and terrace overlooking the river, and the strange jumble of coloured buildings which compose the city. the rest of the ground is occupied with a collection of churches of all shapes and sizes and colours, and towers, and convents, and palaces. one palace, however, surpasses them all in beauty and size, though its shining white walls and richly-carved facade and general bran-new appearance look sadly out of place among all the venerable, grotesque, many-coloured, odd-shaped, byzantine edifices which are dotted about in its neighbourhood. it looks like some huge intruder into the place, which all the old inhabitants are collecting to put forth again; or like an emu in a poultry-yard, at which all the parti-coloured cocks and hens and ducks are crowing, and cackling, and quacking, in a vain endeavour to frighten him out. it required more than one visit to the spot before our friends could learn the geography of the place, and distinguish the numerous churches of all sizes, and heights, and shapes, and varieties of outside and inside adornment. the chief, called the cathedral, has its walls painted with subjects taken from scripture, which to the purer taste of protestants appear shocking and blasphemous. however, our travellers did not then attend to the details of the strange occupants of the kremlin. their object was to obtain a comprehensive view of the city from the summit of that gaunt old monster, the tower of ivan veleki. they first, however, examined the huge bell which stands on a pedestal at its foot. this bell was once suspended on the top of a tower, which was burnt, and the bell in its fall had a little piece broken out of it. when they got up to it, they found that this little piece was far too heavy for any ten men to lift, and that the gap it left was big enough for a man to walk through. the door of the old tower was open, and they mounted a well-conditioned flight of circular steps towards the summit. having climbed to the top of the first flight, they passed through a door into another tower, where there hung a peal of huge bells,--one more vast than the rest, which, on being struck, gave forth a wondrously musical sound. "i should not like to be near that fellow while he was ringing," cried harry; "he would make noise enough to deafen a rhinoceros." they did not stop to hear those famous bells, but climbed on till they stood high above all the surrounding edifices. as they gazed forth from the narrow stone balcony which ran round the dome, they beheld rising on every side a sea of spires, domes, cupolas, minarets, towers, and roofs of every conceivable colour, shape, and size, not altogether unlike a vast garden filled with brobdignagian tulips, but with more hues than any tulip bed ever possessed; and, in addition to the many-coloured tints of the rainbow, there appeared numberless balls of burnished gold and silver, glittering brightly in the sun. cousin giles first ascertained their position by his compass. turning to the north, they observed in that direction fewer churches, but numerous villas and lines of wood, with the arid steppe beyond them. to the south-west arose the sparrow hills, those celebrated heights whence napoleon and his then victorious army first caught sight of that magic city which they deemed was soon to be the reward of all their toils, but yet which, ere many days had passed, was to prove the cause of their destruction. in the same direction the moscowa was seen flowing down towards the city, to circle round a portion of it under the walls of the kremlin, and then to run off again at an acute angle to the east. to the south, on a plain near the banks of the river, rose high above other buildings the red towers and walls of the donskoy convent, several other convents, carefully painted of different colours, being scattered about. "the birds which have their nests there can have no fear of mistaking their proper abodes on their return from their morning flight," observed harry, who generally formed quaint notions on what he saw. directly below them were the numerous and strange gold, and black, and blue, and green domes of the churches of the kremlin,--its dark-green pointed towers, its wide gravelled esplanade, the roofs of its vast palaces and public buildings, its belt of turreted walls and gardens with their green lawns and shade-giving trees; but stranger still was the city itself, with its thousands of coloured cupolas, turrets, domes, spires, roofs, and walls. to define this strangeness more clearly, there were domes of bright-blue, with golden stars and golden chains hanging from the golden crosses which surmounted them. there were some domes of size so vast that they looked like huge mountains of gold; some were of dark blue, and others of green and gold; some were black, and others shone like burnished steel; some were perfectly white, others grey, and others of the lightest blue, scarcely to be distinguished from the tint of the azure expanse amid which they reared their heads, except by the golden ball and cross and glittering chains above their summits. again, some of the domes were of red and green stripes, and some of bright yellow, and pale yellow, and red; and some towers were surmounted by gigantic crowns, open and outspreading, as well as globe-like. the roofs and walls also exhibited a strange difference in their tints, though green, and red, and black, and grey, and brown predominated among the first; while the latter were white, and buff, and green, and blue, and deep red, and pink. truly it was a strange scene, such as they had never before beheld, and could scarcely hope to behold elsewhere. they returned to the top of the tower again in the evening, just as the setting sun was throwing his glory giving rays across this richly-jewelled expanse, which shone forth in a perfect blaze of light, coloured by every hue of which the rainbow can boast. it is difficult to imagine the vast number of domes and cupolas which meet the eye in this strange city. there are said to be a thousand churches, though probably there are not so many. few of these churches have less than five domes, and some have ten. each tower also has a dome on its top, surmounted by a golden cross and chains. a large proportion of these domes are covered with gold, and some with sheets of silver; the others are either black and white, or of the various hues already described. moscow may, indeed, most properly be called the golden city. the only rule which the church architect here appears to observe is, to endeavour to make every new church as dissimilar as possible to every other existing in the city, in colour, shape, and size; yet they all evidently belong to the same style. altogether the venerable kremlin and the buildings it contains, with the mass of coloured edifices which surround it, form one of the strangest architectural jumbles in the universe. chapter eight. visit to the imperial palace in the kremlin--the granovitaya. palata--the terema, or ancient palace of the czars--cathedral of uspensky sabor--rarity of good paintings in the russian churches-- public discussions on religion--traps for the unwary--procession of russian monks--new church of saint saviour--preparations for the coronation--cathedral of saint basil--sealing up doors of shops at night--shopmen bowing to saints--bazaar--chinese city--russian vehicles. our friends got a good general idea of the city during the first day of their residence in it. the next day they obtained tickets of admission to the imperial palaces in the kremlin, through a gentleman to whom cousin giles had letters. they were accompanied in their visit by some french friends of his. they were first shown the private rooms of the emperor and empress, which had just been refurnished for their reception after the coronation. all these rooms were on the ground floor. in the centre of each was a large square pillar, supporting the storey above. these pillars, with several screens and curtains in each room, made them appear small and positively cosy, such as may be found in the house of moderate size belonging to any lady or gentleman of somewhat luxurious habits. english people would probably have chosen a more airy situation for their private abode than the ground floor; but from the lowness of these rooms they are more easily warmed in winter, and from their being vaulted they are cooler in summer. after visiting the private rooms, their guide conducted them up-stairs, when they passed through several fine halls, similar in grandeur to those in the hermitage at saint petersburg, and along galleries filled with pictures of very doubtful merit. through an opening in the new palace they walked into one of the old palaces called the granovitaya palata. the second floor is occupied entirely by the coronation hall of the emperors. it is a low, vaulted chamber, the arches resting on a huge square pillar in the centre. here the emperor, clothed in royal robes, for the first time after his coronation, sits in state, surrounded by his nobles, eating his dinner. "ah, i see emperors have to eat like other people," observed harry when he was told this. "i wonder, now, what the new emperor will have for dinner." by far the most interesting building in the kremlin is the ancient palace of the czars, called the terema. it is complete as a residence in itself, but the halls and sleeping-rooms are remarkably small compared to those of the huge modern edifice by its side. the walls from top to bottom are covered with the most strange arabesque devices which imagination could design--birds, beasts, and fish, interwoven with leaves and sea-weed of every description. in each room a different tint predominates, although the same style of ornament is carried throughout, and the same colours are to be found in each. thus there is the green room, the blue room, and the yellow room, and many other coloured rooms. the ornaments on the banisters, screens, railings, and cornices are great wooden heads of beasts--lions, or tigers, or monsters of some sort. the part of the walls enclosing the stoves are of curiously coloured tiles; indeed, the whole building is a most bizarre, strange place, a perfect specimen of a byzantine palace. in variety of colouring it is something like the alhambra, but, though equally wonderful, it is barbarous in the extreme compared to that celebrated edifice of southern spain. our travellers climbed to the top of this strange little palace, and went out on the roof, whence they looked down on a whole mass of golden and coloured domes and minarets, a considerable number of them belonging to the smallest and most ancient church in the kremlin. in the granovitaya palata is a window, at which the emperor shows himself on state occasions to the troops, drawn up on the parade. it is one of the windows of the hall of justice, and here suppliants used to be drawn up in a basket, to present their petitions and to hear judgment pronounced. "it would have been a convenient way of getting rid of a troublesome petitioner to let it and the petitioner come down together by the run, as you would say, cousin giles," observed fred, laughing. "some such idea was probably in the minds of the inventors of the custom." from the old palaces the party proceeded to the treasury. it is beautifully arranged, and full of arms and armour of all ages--the coats, and boots, and hats, or crowns, or helmets, and swords, or battle-axes of all the czars who ever sat on the throne of russia. some of the crowns, or other head-pieces, are literally covered with jewels, placed as close together as the setting will allow. most of them are rather curious than elegant; indeed, they nearly all look as if they belonged to a barbarous age and people. among other curious things there is a globe, studded with jewels, sent by the greek emperor to prince waldemar, and the crown of the king of georgia, the diamond crown of peter the great, and the throne on which peter and his brother, both children at the time, were placed when he was crowned. there is a curtain at the back, behind which their mother stood, and, putting her hands through it, held them in, and guided them to make the proper signs at the right moment, which movements caused much wonder and admiration among the admiring multitude. in the armoury is the chair of charles the twelfth of sweden. it is like a litter, somewhat rudely constructed, or rather can be used as a chair or litter by turns, having poles at the side by which it is carried. there are some battered-looking kettle-drums, one belonging to the same monarch. they were part of the spoils taken by peter the great at the celebrated battle of pultova, when the russians at length gained a victory over the swedes, and charles himself, hitherto victorious, was obliged to seek safety in flight. the most curious articles in the museum are, however, the carriages, specimens of which are preserved from the earliest times in which they were used. they are, as may be supposed, huge, lumbering, gingerbread, lord-mayor-looking affairs. in some the coach-box is several yards from the body, and the hind seat is as many from it at the other end. there is a patriarch's carriage, like a huge square trunk, and the travelling carriage of catherine, which has a table in the centre, and is very like a modern saloon railway carriage. it is placed on runners instead of wheels, and could only have been used in winter. probably in her day the roads would not have encouraged summer travelling. from thence the friends went to the uspensky sabor, the cathedral church in which the emperors are crowned. the lofty roof is supported by four round pillars, covered from capital to base with sheets of gold and paintings. there is not a particle of the church which is not thus ornamented. the effect is rich in the extreme, at the same time bizarre and barbaric. there are five cupolas, with the faces of saints looking down from each. an artist was making a drawing of the interior, introducing the coronation--as it was to be. the picture was for the emperor. the outside of this church is ornamented with subjects totally at variance with anything like a pure taste. there are several other churches near it, all of which were being enclosed so as to form a spacious court, where the ceremony of the emperor's coronation was to take place. every available space was being filled with galleries to hold spectators. through this court he was to walk from the cathedral to the palace. the party then visited all the churches in the kremlin in succession. the interior walls are mostly covered with gilding and pictures of saints, from base to cupola. in some of them, which are dimly lighted with tapers, priests, in their gorgeous vestments, were chanting, with fine sonorous voices, the evening service; incense was being waved, and people from all sides were rushing in and bowing and crossing themselves, and as quickly rushing out again. the russians of the greek church seem to think that much virtue exists in visiting a number of churches or shrines in quick succession on the same day; and certainly moscow offers great facilities to the performance of this ceremony, for a person cannot go many hundred yards in any direction without meeting with a church, or chapel, or shrine of some sort. the churches in moscow do not generally possess any fine paintings, the pictures of their saints showing merely the faces and heads. but there is one church, that of le vieux croyants a la ragosky, which has a fine collection. the priests of that church, being intelligent men, value it properly. a gentleman who joined our friends gave them several bits of interesting information. the small old church in the kremlin was being renovated; nothing but the whitewashed walls remained. they found that the gilding and paintings which appeared so rich in the churches were merely fastened to wooden or canvas panels, and placed against the walls, so that a day was sufficient to turn a barn into a magnificent cathedral. he pointed out that the gates were of different sizes. the largest was for the admission of the patriarch when he came to the church, the smaller for that of the ordinary members of the community. "exactly," said harry, "like the irish peasant who has a big hole in the door for the pigs to walk through, and a small one for the chickens. all people are much alike." religious liberty is very much curbed in the country; but they were told that every sunday, at the church of the assumption, an open discussion on matters of religion takes place, chiefly, however, among the persons who wish to pass for savants. the priests seldom or never attend. it is suspected that these discussions are encouraged by the government, not from any abstract love it possesses for truth, but for the sake of ascertaining the opinions of those who attend them. if the governing powers suspect, from any of the opinions he utters, that a person is likely to prove dangerous, his movements and words are ever afterwards narrowly watched till he is caught tripping, when he is without further ceremony marched out of harm's way into siberia. as the party were walking round the kremlin, they passed, outside the arsenal, a number of guns of all sizes, many of them very beautiful. "all those guns were taken from us," observed one of their french friends to cousin giles. "how curiously things change in this world! now, in early days our two nations were cutting each other's throats, and yours was friendly to russia; then lately we have been fighting side by side against the russians. now, behold, here we are walking freely and at peace within the walls of this ancient capital." thus discoursing, they descended into the gardens on the west side, and proceeded towards the church of saint saviour, then in course of erection. their french friend smiled again: "ah, this church, now, is building to commemorate the retreat of the french from russia," he observed. "the russians may well boast of what they did in those days, and we are not likely to forget it." the church is the finest in moscow; the exterior is of white stone, ornamented with groups of figures in the deepest relief. the architecture is of the purest byzantine order. the interior presented but one vast vault of brick, without pillars or any other support but the walls to its vast dome. part of the walls were covered with wood painted in imitation of marble, to show the effect of the proposed style of ornament. it is in the form of a greek cross. the altar is at the east end. the church is warmed by means of several large stoves, whence pipes are carried inside the walls all round the building, with vents at intervals, out of which the hot air can be allowed to escape. broad flights of stone steps lead up to the entrances, which are on three sides. cousin giles altogether preferred the edifice to that of the isaac church in saint petersburg. as our friends were returning homeward, a religious procession passed by. it consisted of a long line of priests walking two and three abreast, in somewhat irregular order, bearing banners of gold and coloured cloths, fringed and bespangled. they were chanting loudly, but not inharmoniously. most of them had long straggling locks, which waved about in the breeze, and gave them a very wild appearance, which was increased by the careless, independent way in which they walked along. the russian priests seem to consider that, like the nazarites among the jews, an especial virtue exists in the length of their hair. as the procession passed through the streets, the people rushed out of their houses, or crowded to the turnings, eager to see the sight. there they stood, devoutly bowing and crossing themselves, though it was difficult to say what particular object claimed this respect. altogether the procession, from the wild look of the priests, their loud voices, and the gaudy banners waving in the air, had much more of a heathen than a christian character. vast preparations were at this time making for the expected coronation. the spires and domes and walls of all the churches and public buildings were being covered with laths, on which to hang the lamps for the illumination of the city. magnificent arches were being erected all round the large square opposite the imperial theatre; but they were of wood, and, though painted to look like stone, here and there bits of the pine peeped forth, showing the unsubstantial nature of the highly-pretentious fabric. workmen also crowded the churches, furbishing up gilt candlesticks, refreshing the features of saints, adding rubies to their faded lips and lustre to their eyes, cleaning and polishing in all directions. cousin giles said it put him in mind of being behind the scenes of a theatre,--carpenters, painters, and gilders were everywhere to be seen; their saws and axes, their trowels and brushes seemed to have no rest; nor could they afford it, for they were evidently much behindhand with their preparations. such furbishing, and painting, and washing, moscow never before enjoyed. the whole circuit of the walls of the kremlin, and its numerous towers, as well as the buildings in the interior, were covered, from pinnacle and parapet to the base, with a network of laths; so was the cathedral of saint basil, and, indeed, every edifice in the neighbourhood. when the whole was lighted up, they agreed that the spectacle would be very fine, but they began to doubt whether it would be worth while to return to the city for the play itself after having witnessed all the preparations. cousin giles told his companions that it is said that, when the empress catherine used to make a progress through her dominions, the peasants were driven up from all quarters towards the high road, and that wooden houses were run up just before her to represent thriving villages. as soon as she had passed they were pulled down again and carried on ahead to do duty a second time, the mujicks, meanwhile, being compelled to pace up and down before their pretended abodes, as swiss peasants do before the pasteboard cottages on the stage. people in moscow were looking forward with eager expectation to the event of the coronation, and it was supposed that half the great people of europe would be there. it did not appear, however, that the inhabitants were so anxious to see them for their own sakes as they were to let their houses and lodgings and rooms at hotels at exorbitantly high prices, every one expecting to reap a fine harvest out of the pockets of the gaping foreigners. the most curious church, perhaps, in the world--the most outrageously strange of all the bizarre churches of moscow--is the cathedral of saint basil, which stands close to the river, at the north end of a broad, open space outside the walls of the kremlin, and which space is bounded on the other side by the bazaar. it is in the most _outre_ style of byzantine architecture. there is a large tower somewhere about the centre, running up into a spire, and eight other towers round it, with cupolas on their summits. there is also a ninth tower, which looks like an excrescence, in the rear. each of these cupolas and towers is painted in a different way, and of different colours; some are in stripes, others in a diamond-shaped pattern, others of a corkscrew pattern, and some have excrescences like horse-chestnuts covering them. then there are galleries and steps, and ins and outs of all sorts, painted with circles, and arches, and stripes of every possible colour. "well, that is a funny church!" exclaimed harry, as fred ran off to find the keepers to show them the entrance. "an odd epithet to bestow on a church," observed cousin giles; "but i cannot find a better." underneath the building there is a chapel, which has no connection with the upper portion. a flight of steps led them into the building. each of the nine domes and the pinnacle covers a separate chapel, which is again divided by a screen into two parts--one for the priests, the other for the worshippers. from each of the domes above, a gigantic face of the virgin, or of some saint, looks down on those below. the huge, calm-eyed faces gazing from so great a height have a very curious effect. in the interior of the pinnacle a dove is seen floating, as it were, in the air. every portion of the interior walls of this strange edifice is covered with the same sort of richly and many-coloured arabesque designs seen in the old palace, while a sort of gallery runs round the building, with an opening into all the chapels. "a capital hide-and-seek place," exclaimed harry. "why, fred, i would undertake to dodge round here all my life, and you should not catch me till i had grown into an old grey-headed man." "you might find a more profitable way of spending your earthly existence," said cousin giles; "yet i fear many people come in and go out of the world, and yet are of very little more use than you would thus be in their generation." "oh, i know that, cousin giles; i am only joking. i want to try how useful i can be when i grow up, and how much good i can do." "you can be useful in many ways, even now," observed their friend. "you are useful if you set a good example to those with whom you associate. you are doing god service if you show others that you are guided by his laws, if you act in obedience to him, if you confess him openly before men. all this can be done at every period of life. the old and young can and must do it, if they hope for a happy hereafter, if they love the saviour who died for them; but more especially the young can do it, while health and strength and clear unworn intellects are theirs." just after they left the cathedral, the bell of ivan veleki tolled forth the hour of evening, and numbers of shopkeepers, long-coated and long-bearded, rushed forth from their booths, and commenced a series of bowings and crossings, looking towards the holy gate of the kremlin, which was directly in front of them. having performed this ceremony for some time, they faced about towards another shrine at the north end of the square, and went through the same ceremony. by advancing a little into the open space, they could get a glance at another picture of some saint, when they bowed and crossed themselves as before. when their evening's devotions were thus concluded, they went back to close their shops. having put up the shutters, or closed the folding-doors which enclosed the front, one man held a candle, while another, with seal and sealing-wax, put his signet, with the likeness of his patron saint, to the door. no padlock or other means of securing it were used. some jews and tartars, not possessing the same confidence in the protecting power of the saints, put padlocks on their doors. very curious affairs these padlocks are. they have been copied from the tartars, or rather from the chinese. the key is a screw: by taking the screw out, the padlock shuts; by screwing it in, it opens. as the shrines which claim the poor russians' devotion exist in every direction,--indeed, they cannot walk twenty yards without seeing them,--while they run along on their daily avocations they are continually bowing and crossing themselves. the pictures of the saints which adorn these shrines were probably intended to remind people of their religious duties; but, like other unwise human inventions, which do not take into consideration the evil tendencies of the human mind, they have led to a system of degrading idolatry, while the simple truths of christianity have been superseded by a flimsy tissue of falsehoods. although the members of the greek church are iconoclasts, or image-breakers, and allow no actual images to be set up on their altars, it must be owned that they pay just as much adoration to the pictures of their saints as the roman catholics do to the statues of theirs. one of the most amusing places our friends visited in moscow was the great bazaar in the chinese city. they made frequent trips through it, although their purchases were neither very extensive nor expensive. they bought some slippers made by the tartars of kazan, of gold and silk and silver thread, beautifully worked, and some ornaments of silver and steel made by the same people, and wooden bowls and spoons used by the peasants, as well as their leather purses and cotton sashes of many colours, and winter boots of white felt, and the head-dresses worn by the women, and a hat such as is worn by ishvoshtsticks, and many other things, all helping to illustrate the customs of the people. among them was a samovar or tea-urn. it is in shape like an ancient urn. in the centre is a cylinder with a grating at the bottom. the water is held in the space between the cylinder and the sides of the urn. it is filled with water, and then a small piece of ignited charcoal is dropped into the cylinder, which is filled with black charcoal. a chimney is then placed above the charcoal, which now ignites and boils the water. by adding fresh charcoal and more water, a supply can be kept up for hours together. a frame fits on above the chimney, on which the teapot can be placed, to keep it warm, while a lid, called a damper, is used to put out the fire. these samovars are used on all occasions, and are especially valued by the peasants at their picnics or open-air tea-parties, of which they are very fond. they purchased also several prints of the city, and some very amusing ones descriptive of the battles between the russians and the allies, or the turks or circassians, by which it appeared that the accounts received by the rest of the world must be totally incorrect, as in all instances, at the alma, inkermann, in the caucasus, the muscovites were signally victorious, their enemy flying like chaff before them. the chinese city, or kitai gorod, to the east of the kremlin, was one of their favourite resorts. the name is most appropriate; and certainly it is most unlike any place in europe. it is enclosed on three sides by a thick buttressed and round-towered wall, the upper part of which projects considerably; and altogether, from its strange style of architecture, it looks as if it had been imported bodily from some city of the celestial empire. the fourth side is formed by the east walls of the kremlin, of which the kitai gorod appears to have been an outwork. the interior contains two long streets, and several smaller ones, besides the truly oriental bazaar, already spoken of, with its numerous narrow lanes, running under one vast roof, dirty and mean, and crowded with shops of every possible description. tea-sellers, with their chinese signboards; paper-sellers, ironmongers, and perfumery and spices, silks and cottons, and shoes and hats, and trunk-makers and workers in leather,--indeed it is useless to enumerate all the trades there carried on. there is generally a row or half a row of the stalls of each trade together. as visitors pass along, the long-coated dealers rush eagerly forward, and with bows and grimaces endeavour to induce them to become customers. here also the dealers in the holy pictures, or images, as they are called, are to be found. these pictures have the faces and hands only shown, the rest being covered with a casing of gold or silver. they are of all sizes, from two feet to one or two inches square; but as even for the smallest our friends were asked four roubles, they declined buying any of them. here, also, are sold cups and censers, and all sorts of utensils used in churches. the travellers, however, were little disposed to become purchasers. near the bazaar stood, ready to start, three or four diligences--huge black machines, having a vast boot behind, a roomy inside, and a large, comfortable-looking _coupe_. they were bound for nishni-novogorood, where a large fair was taking place. several rough-looking carts followed them, piled up with goods for the same destination. the fair of nishni is the largest in russia, perhaps in the world, at the present day. here the merchants from the west meet the traders and producers from the numerous countries bordering russia on the east, as well as from all the russian provinces, and exchange their various commodities. here transactions are arranged not only for the present, but for the following year, and many a farmer undertakes to deliver timber, and flax, and hemp still growing thousands of miles away, or hides and wool yet adhering to the backs of his cattle or sheep on the far-off prairies, or thousands of sacks of wheat yet ungrown, at saint petersburg, riga, or odessa, with every certainty of being able to fulfil his contract. our friends were so interested with the account they heard of nishni that they were eager to visit it. russian carts are curious vehicles, made without a particle of iron. the wheels are kept on by various contrivances; some have bits of wood from the projecting edge of the side, into which the ends of the axles fit; others have bows of wood from the perch, which fit on over the axle where the linch-pin should be. the carts used for conveying passengers are covered with an awning of black canvas, and look as if they were water-tight, with a fair possibility of being made comfortable. the travellers had many other things to see, both in and about moscow, but they resolved not to delay longer than necessary, as they were anxious to study more of the manners and customs of the people in the interior; and they therefore made preparations for their further progress into the country. chapter nine. departure of exiles for siberia--the russian howard--vast exercise house--tartar mosque--the sparrow hills--burning of moscow-- magnificent view of the city--ennobling of merchants--the schoolmaster in russia--decay of the old nobility--the donskoy convent--russian monks--their interpreter--palace of petrofsky--encampment near moscow--preparations for the coronation fete--public gardens--zingari singers. early on sunday morning our travellers left then hotel to witness a painful though interesting sight, the departure of the convicts condemned to exile in siberia from the ragoshky gate of the city, where they bid farewell to their relatives and friends. they are first collected from all parts of the neighbouring country in a large prison near the city, till they amount to a sufficient number to form a caravan. our friends met the melancholy band; clanking their chains, they moved along at a slow pace through the city. numbers of people, chiefly of the lower orders, rushed out of their houses, and presented them with loaves of bread, biscuits, tobacco, sugar, money, and other things likely to comfort them on their dreary pilgrimage. after they had been thus exhibited to the public, they stopped at a wooden shed, where they were to rest before taking their final departure. there were about fifty of them, old men and youths, and even women, some of them young, poor creatures, looking miserable, heart-broken, and forlorn. the men were dressed in coarse linen shirts and trousers, and the high boots generally worn by peasants. half the head was shaved, and few wore hat or cap to conceal the sign of their disgrace. most of them were heavily manacled, some few only being free of irons. in the centre of the building was a platform, on which were piled up the prisoners' knapsacks and bags of provisions. round it the gang stood grouped. while they were there, many persons entered to bring them offerings of money and food. at one end of the platform was spread out a large handkerchief, on which the gifts were placed. as each person, after bowing to the saint which hung in front of the doorway, deposited his or her piece of money or loaf of bread on the handkerchief, one of the prisoners, who seemed to take the lead, cried out with a loud voice, "unhappy ones, thank the donors!" the whole party then bent their heads at the same time, and replied, "thanks be to you, kind and benevolent sir," or "mother" if a matron was their benefactor. after this, the visitors being requested to leave the shed, the gang was marshalled by the man in command, who spoke in a savage voice to the prisoners, and by his significant gestures was evidently in the habit of striking them. the escort consisted of six mounted lancers and about thirty foot-soldiers. at a sign they stepped out together, and, while many a sob and groan was heard from the crowd, they commenced their six months' dreary march towards siberia at the rate of about twenty versts a day. russia has not been without its howard; indeed, perhaps that great man infused his spirit into the bosom of the benevolent dr haaz. he, like howard, devoted his means, his talents, and energies to ameliorating the condition of the unhappy prisoners. he had frequently urged on the authorities that the manacles employed were too heavy for persons of ordinary strength, but they would not listen to him. at length, the better to be able to explain the suffering inflicted on the poor wretches, he had them put on his own limbs, and trudged the whole of the first day's march alongside the party of exiles. the state to which even this one day's march reduced him was so strong an argument in favour of his assertion, that he won his cause; and after that the chains, except of the greater criminals, were much lightened. a few carts, containing stores and some prisoners who were unable to walk, followed the melancholy cortege. "in england many guilty ones escape punishment, but in this country many innocent ones suffer, i fear," observed cousin giles as they returned to their hotel, very tired after their morning's walk. the travellers were told, that persons of rank condemned for political offences are carried off secretly by the police in closed carriages, without the power of communicating with their friends; that frequently they thus disappear, and no one knows whither they are gone. a small dark carriage, with thick blinds, may be seen, strongly guarded by horse-soldiers, proceeding towards siberia, but no one knows whom it contains. the travellers attended the service in the british chapel, where mr gray officiates, and they were surprised to find it so well filled. there were several persons in russian uniforms--englishmen, or the sons of englishmen, in either the military or civil service of the czar, who are allowed to worship god after the mode of their fathers. by the laws of russia no russian may change his religious profession, but any stranger entering the country may worship according to his belief--as may his descendants, although they become naturalised russians. if, however, a stranger marries a russian woman, the children of the marriage must belong to the greek church. laws, however, cannot change the mind; and not only has the greek church been split into numerous bodies of sectarians, but there are many who totally dissent from it, an account of whom our friends afterwards heard. sunday they made a day of rest. monday morning they again commenced sight-seeing. the first place they visited was the building near the kremlin having the most extensive roof without arches in the world, and in which the emperor is accustomed to manoeuvre several regiments of cavalry and infantry together. people at the farther end look like pigmies. the ground was now covered with lamps, in preparation for the illumination. their next excursion was to the tartar quarter of the city, where there is a tartar mosque. the tartar dwellings are low cottages in wide courtyards. the mosque was of much the same character, only there was a pigsty at one side of the yard. in their search for the mosque they entered several courtyards, where the women, old and young, in striped dressing-gown-looking robes, hurried away to hide themselves from the strangers. at the usual early hour the muezzin mounted to the roof of the mosque, and in a loud voice summoned the faithful to prayer. "it is sad," observed fred, "to find people in the centre of what is called a christian land who are totally ignorant of a saviour." "very sad indeed," replied cousin giles; "but if we look at home we shall find sights still more sad. in london itself there exist thousands of englishmen who not only have never heard of the saviour, but do not know of the existence of a god. every year is indeed working a change, and diminishing their numbers, through the exertions of christian and philanthropic men; but when you grow older it will be a subject worthy of your attention, and you should not rest till all in your native land have the gospel preached to them." on their way back they bought some of the rush shoes worn by the peasants. they are made of rushes which grow on the banks of the volga. they are more like sandals than shoes, being fastened on with thongs round the ankles. their cost is about twopence a pair. after dinner they drove to the sparrow hills, about five miles west of the city. the road was execrable, full of ruts and holes. they passed the palace of the empress-mother, which has some handsome gardens. they saw also an asylum for the widows and children of decayed merchants. it is a wide, extended building, with a church in the centre. russia contains numerous charitable asylums, generally well conducted. they are, however, not to be compared to the numberless ostentatious charities of which our beloved country, with all her shortcomings, may justly boast. their carriage took the travellers to the top of the sparrow hills, which are of no great elevation. they slope steeply down to the moscowa, which, after passing the city, takes a sharp bend close to their base, and then runs back again towards the southern end of it. the view was indeed superb. below them, on the plain across the river, was the donskoy convent, with its red walls and lofty towers, several other convents being scattered about here and there. to the right, on the wooded and sloping banks of the moscowa, were the emperor's villa and many other handsome buildings; and before them the holy city itself, its numberless golden and silver domes glittering brightly in the sunshine, like a mighty pile of precious jewels from the far-famed mines of gokonda. on the left, on a wide-extended down, were seen the white tents of fifty thousand of the choicest troops of russia, assembled to do honour to the emperor at his coronation, or to signify to the people the power by which he rules. "i should very much like to go and look through that camp," exclaimed fred; "i want to see if all they say about the russian troops is true." "we will make a point of going there to-morrow," replied cousin giles. "i have no doubt the visit will be an interesting one; but, for my part, i do not expect to be so interested as i am at present. the whole of russia cannot, perhaps, afford a sight more beautiful than the one before us. here it was that napoleon, after marching across europe, first beheld the superb city which he hoped in a few hours to make his own--the bourn he so eagerly sought--the prize of all his toils! how grievously, yet how righteously, was he disappointed! as he, swelling with pride and elated with triumph, was gazing at the city from the west, the russian army, having already devoted their beloved capital to destruction, were marching out on the opposite side. in a short time the city in which he trusted to find shelter for his troops during the winter burst forth into flames, and a very few days saw him defeated and a fugitive, and his magnificent army a prey to the rigours of the climate and the remorseless cossacks. history cannot afford a more dreadful picture than the retreat of the french from moscow, or a clearer example of the retributive justice of heaven. not many years afterwards the russians, as allies of the english, paid a visit, as conquerors, to paris. the french, united with the english, were lately on the point of returning the compliment, by looking in on saint petersburg. heaven grant that neither of them may ever come to london in any guise but that of friends. to commemorate the retreat from moscow, the russians are now building the church of saint saviour, whose golden domes we see so conspicuous not far from the towers of the kremlin," observed cousin giles, pointing it out with his stick. after gazing on the interesting scene for some time, the travellers returned to their carriage. in the evening a german gentleman, long resident in russia, to whom they had been introduced, gave them several important pieces of information. "the late emperor nicholas was well aware," he told them, "that his power rested on very precarious ground, and that, though a despot in name, he knew that he was in the power of his own nobles. to liberate himself, he endeavoured to weaken, if not to destroy, the old nobility-- first by leading them into all sorts of extravagance, and then by creating a new order between nobles and peasants, who should feel that they owed their elevation entirely to him. "for this purpose he created what he called the guild of honourable merchants. every merchant of the first guild who had paid a tax of per annum for ten years without failure was eligible to belong to it. the honourable merchants are free from all imposts, conscriptions, etcetera, and pay no taxes. another mode nicholas took of ruining the old nobility was to establish a pawn bank, where they could at all times pledge then property. by encouraging their extravagance, many were unable to redeem it, and, being put up for sale, it was bought up by the honourable merchants and other members of the trading community. the late emperor also wished to encourage education. by an ukase he ordered that all children throughout the country should be educated. to effect this object every priest is bound to have a school attached to his parish church. in consequence, a considerable number of children do learn to read; but the ukase cannot make them go to school, and in many instances the priests are so ignorant and careless that these schools are of very little use. the present emperor, it is said, wishes to encourage liberal institutions. he has erected municipalities in the towns. in the courts of law three officers are chosen by the crown, and three by the municipality, with a president who acts as judge. he is anxious also to abolish serfdom; but to do so at once, without violence, is dangerous. he is, however, effecting his object, which his father also entertained, by slow degrees. when an estate is sold, all the serfs become free, and in this way a considerable number have been liberated. no serfs can now be sold: a person may inherit an estate and the serfs on it. [see note .] many of the great nobles would willingly get rid of their serfs if they could. on one of their estates, perhaps, they are overcrowded, on another they have not a sufficient number to till the ground or to work their mines; yet they have no power to remove the serfs of one estate to another, while they must find means for their support on the spot where they were born. if the peasants were free, they could literally have more power over them, because they could then turn them off their estates, and compel them to seek for employment where it is to be found. nicholas, by several of his enactments, has enabled his son to rule with less difficulty than would otherwise have been the case. by the ruin of some of the principal nobles he has saved him from the worst enemies of his ancestors, who so frequently proved their destroyers; and by the creation of a wealthy middle class, every day improving in education and numbers, he has formed a strong body who find that it is their interest to support him. when it is no longer their interest so to do, the whole fabric of russian government will crumble to the dust." the first excursion our friends made the next morning was to the donskoy convent. it stands on a flat near the moscowa, and is surrounded with high brick walls, flanked by lofty towers, all of bright red-brick. it has entirely the character of an ancient fortress, erected to withstand the rapid incursions of an enemy's cavalry, though unfit to hold out against a regular attack. the church, standing in the centre of a wide, open space, is a lofty pile, with the usual gilt dome; but the residences of the monks are low, unpretending buildings, on one floor. a young monk, in a long dark robe, a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, and dishevelled locks hanging over his shoulders, came forth, and politely offered to guide the travellers about the convent. cousin giles had engaged a young englishman to act as their interpreter, and he very much increased the interest of the scenes they visited, and their means of acquiring information. the monk led them into the interior of the church, which consisted of a vaulted chamber divided into two parts by a large wooden screen. the carpenters and gilders and painters were busily at work, painting and furbishing up the ornaments; but the scene brought forcibly to the minds of the travellers the preparations for a new play at a theatre. the monk told them that the large church was so cold in winter that it was shut up, and that there was a small one, well warmed with stoves, where they could at that season worship in comfort. he then led them through the burial-ground, which they found crowded with the tombs of noble families, and other inhabitants of moscow and its neighbourhood. this is the most fashionable burying-place of that part of russia, and consequently people are very anxious to have the remains of their friends placed there, so that, though they could not enjoy good company when they were alive, they might at all events after their death have such satisfaction as it might afford. the ground was laid out with walks; the tombstones were of every possible strange device, and crowded together in a way which would have been far from pleasing to some of the more aristocratic inhabitants in their lifetime; but the monkish sexton in his own graveyard read the lesson to visitors, often uttered before, that death is a leveller of all ranks, and no respecter of persons. when the travellers thanked the young moppy-haired monk for his attention, he replied that it was his duty, as it was his pleasure, to show his convent, and seemed in no way to expect any remuneration. the imperial family, it is said, have no affection for the monkish orders; indeed, the feeling of dislike is mutual. they predicted the overthrow of the russian armies in the crimea, and the death of the emperor--the wish probably being the father of the prophecy. in their way through the city the travellers entered an armenian church. it was ornamented with pictures of saints, like those of a roman catholic place of worship; but the pulpit was in a conspicuous place, as if preaching was not altogether neglected; and there were chairs inside the altar railings for the patriarch and other ecclesiastical functionaries. the style of ornaments about the church showed that the armenian community were either not wealthy or not disposed to spend much money on the edifice. it, however, spoke of a purer faith than that of the greek church. after dining, our friends set out, and drove along the high road to saint petersburg, towards the petrofsky palace. every part of the way, from the kremlin to the gate of triumph at the entrance of the city, was lined with scaffolding and seats, in preparation for the coronation, to enable the lieges "to see great caesar pass that way" from his palace of petrofsky, where he was to reside three days before entering the holy city to undergo the ceremony of his coronation. the gate of triumph, which forms the northern entrance to the city, is built of stone, after the model of one at rome, but with a taste which would make a roman stare. all the statues and ornaments about it are painted of every variety of colour, so that it has the appearance of a wooden structure put up by the rustic inhabitants of some country village to welcome the lord of the estate. the palace of petrofsky is itself a curious sight. it is a huge pile, of a bright red colour, intermingled with white, and covered with every conceivable device in the way of ornament. it has circular walls projecting out in front from the main building, in shape and colour very like lobsters' claws, and there are the brightest green roofs, and numberless domes, and cupolas, and minarets, and towers, and spires, covered with burnished gold, which make one suppose that a very rich man must live within. on a wide, open space in front of the palace, wonderfully grand preparations were making for a fete which was to be given to the people on the occasion of the coronation. at a short distance before the palace stood a magnificent pavilion, intended to hold the imperial family. a little of the woodwork yet unpainted showed that it was not a solid structure of stone. no people can equal the russians in making the false pass for the real. on either side of the pavilion were others, each of a different style of architecture, for the use of the chief nobility of the realm. before them, at some little distance, were two theatres, in comparison with which the magnificence of the old fair-going booth of richardson would have grown dim. they might be called theatres, but they were only the semi-part of the theatre; the open common, with the blue sky overhead, was the space intended for the audience. then there were several montagnes russe, but, instead of being made of ice and snow, they were built of wood. they consist of high elevations, facing each other, with a slope between them; people ascend to the top by steps, where they find cars of wood. they place themselves in the cars, and then are sent sliding down one slope with such force that they are propelled up the opposite slope. but this was only a small part of the entertainment prepared for the people. there were fountains which, instead of throwing up jets of cold, insipid water, were to spout forth incessantly into huge tanks a stream of the much-loved vodka, from which all around might draw forth and drink to their hearts' content. what more perfect idea of a terrestrial paradise would a thirsty mujick seek for than did these preparations afford him? how munificent and kind must he have considered the emperor who could provide such an entertainment for him, especially when near to the fountains of vodka there were spread out long tables and benches, covering some acres of ground, which it was said were to be loaded with provisions, of which all-comers of humble rank might partake! the travellers had to drive in and out among the tables, and they pictured to themselves the jovial, happy crowd who would soon be assembled around them, enjoying themselves, and drinking long life and prosperity to their czar--a perfect picture of an arcadian banquet. farther on were large booths, containing the kitchens where the provisions for the vast multitudes were to be cooked; and there were also other sheds, where the bread, and meat, and grain of all sorts were to be stored. all this feasting and amusement was to last three days, and no one seemed to be able to estimate how many thousands of persons would attend the rural banquet. "alas!" exclaimed cousin giles, "this may be a certain way of winning the momentary applause of an ignorant mob, but it is a miserable way of gaining the love of a people, of improving their character, of instructing them in their duties, by thus pandering to their lowest tastes. i suspect that it will not even secure the object desired. what a contrast does it afford to the way our own enlightened sovereign takes to win the affections of her people!" "we had the fireworks at the peace," observed fred; "they were only to please the mob." "yes, to be sure," said cousin giles; "that was an old-fashioned way of letting the people know that peace was concluded. they could in days of yore, when newspapers were rare, have scarcely known it without; now such a proceeding is quite unnecessary. a large sum was squandered which would have been much better spent in enabling our artisans in the dockyards, thrown out of employment by the peace, to emigrate; besides which, it was said that numbers of people were kept working on several sundays to get them finished in time. if such was the case, a national sin was added to a national folly." cousin giles' conjectures with regard to the uselessness of the feast prepared for the mujicks were realised. no sooner each day were the tables covered, than the mob rushed forward and bore off whatever they could lay hands on, so that the later comers had nothing to eat; while fountains of vodka refused to supply sufficient liquid to quench the thirst of the vast multitudes which thronged round them. there was, therefore, far more complaint and grumbling, than love or gratitude exhibited towards the supposed provider of the entertainment--the czar. about half a mile farther, in front of this scene of barbaric festivity, across the plain, over fields which had been beaten down to supply an open space of sufficient extent, was seen a sea of white tents, forming an encampment which at that time contained fifty thousand men, to whom many more were afterwards added. before them was a line of artillery, the muzzles of the guns turned towards the spot where the mujicks were expected to assemble-- significant, as a cynical friend of cousin giles observed, of the way in which people in the parts there are governed. he may, however, have been wrong in his conjecture. the travellers drove towards the tents, in front of which they found the bands of all the regiments practising together. they made a great deal of noise, but the music was not so good as they expected. they got out of their carriage, and walked into the encampment without let or hindrance. they felt a curious sensation as they found themselves among the troops of those with whom their countrymen had so lately been engaged in deadly strife. not only were they secure from receiving any insult, but they were treated everywhere with the greatest courtesy. one thing is certain, that although a large amount of barbarism remains in russia, the army, in certain respects, has attained a high state of civilisation. the younger officers are invariably well educated, and generally polished in their manners. the material comforts of the men are much attended to in many regiments, though not perhaps in all, and they have been brought into a good state of discipline. the tents were arranged in long lines, with broad, well-gravelled roads at intervals between them, with a drained footpath on either side. the encampment, it must be confessed, looked very far neater and cleaner than that at aldershot. why should we refuse to give our late enemies their due, or to acknowledge our own shortcomings? it is far better that the rising generation should know that englishmen are not perfect, and endeavour to correct the national faults, than to go on blindly fancying that we are superior in all things to all other nations on earth. our friends, with their guide, first walked into a sergeant's tent. he and his comrade were very civil, and begged them to take a seat. his regiment had not been in the crimea, but they had heard what brave people the english were. even those who had been opposed to them felt no enmity towards them; very much the contrary--they had learnt to respect them. the russian officers who had been in the crimea, it was said, whenever they met with any english officers who had been there also, were more than usually kind and attentive to them. the men's abodes, into which the travellers went, contained sixteen persons, and very close packing they must have found it in hot weather. in cold weather they are thus kept warmer, and, if called to stand to their arms on a sudden attack, a large body of men can be instantly brought together. the soldiers were generally fine-looking, intelligent fellows; many of them as fair, and quite as clean-looking, as englishmen. some of the regiments, raised in northern latitudes, were composed of fine, dark-bearded men, while the officers were generally good-looking and gentlemanly. these, however, were crack troops, and were certainly very different from the slouching, loutish-looking recruits to be seen when no public exhibition is intended. highly pleased with this visit to the camp, they drove back to the city. on their way they stopped at some public gardens, where their guide told them a celebrated band of gipsies were going to sing. harry declared that the place was called waxhauloff. certainly the name did not sound unlike that word. there was a garden, brilliantly lighted up with coloured lamps, and at one end there were scenic preparations, probably for a desperate sea-fight on a pond, for there was a lighthouse in the foreground and some ships in the distance; and the bills signified that this was to be followed by a superb display of fireworks. there was also a large music hall, where a number of people were collected, listening to a very good instrumental band. the object of the travellers, however, was to meet with the civilised specimens of the race of zingari or gipsies, whom they would find there. they were not long in discovering them as they moved about among the crowd. there was the same swarthy hue, black, burning eyes, and cunning, quick expression of countenance which distinguish them in every part of the world. the women were somewhat fancifully, but not fantastically dressed. this costume varied little from that common in europe. it is only on festive occasions that they wear the dress of their people. the men had on surtouts, with belts round their waists, and light-coloured trousers. they were remarkable for their small well-formed heads and sharp jewish countenances. cousin giles said he should call them arab jews. one of the women, who was fairer than the rest, and somewhat picturesquely dressed in a red mantle, seemed to attract some attention, though when her features were seen near they bore the gipsy characteristics. after some time the interpreter succeeded in finding the chief of the gipsies, and in drawing him aside to where cousin giles was standing. the interpreter told the gipsy chief that cousin giles was an englishman who took great interest in the gipsies of all countries, and that he would like to hear about his tribe. the gipsy replied that he was much flattered; that he was the chief only of forty or fifty people, but that they were all well off; that they lived in comfortable houses, and had conformed to the religion of the country; that he had been offered a sum equivalent to a thousand pounds to each of his band to go to paris to sing in public, but that they were well off in russia, and did not wish to move. some of his people at times became very wealthy, and some of the women, who had fine voices, went on the stage, while others married men of rank. there were many tribes of gipsies in russia who were altogether of an inferior grade. they still lived in tents, and wandered about the country, and were chiefly horse and cattle-dealers. a few followed still less creditable occupations. his tribe, however, held no communication whatever with them. it occurred to cousin giles that the life of the wandering gipsy was perhaps more creditable than that of his brethren in the city. the conversation was brought to a close by the gipsy and his band being summoned to the platform. the band consisted of fifteen women and eight men. the women were seated in a semicircle; the leader and another man, with guitars in their hands, stood in front of them; the rest stood behind. some of the women had guitars. one of the girls sang a solo very well, the rest of the band joining in an extravagantly wild, fantastic chorus; the leader, meantime, skipping and turning and twisting about in the most absurd and inelegant manner. they sang several songs in the same style, some more wild and extraordinary than the first, certainly not suited to a refined taste. yet this place was evidently a fashionable resort; the entrance-money was very high,--a silver rouble and a quarter,--and the company were all well-dressed, well-behaved people, evidently ladies and gentlemen, chiefly the residents of the neighbourhood, a fashionable suburb of moscow. the houses in the neighbourhood were evidently built only for summer use, for they were all, though differing in shape, of a swiss-cottage style. the travellers had been so busily engaged all day, that, having satisfied their curiosity by seeing the gipsies, they had no inclination to remain for the pyrotechnic display, and therefore, going in search of their carriage, they drove back to moscow. they had now seen a good deal of the outside of the city--not all, perhaps, that was to be seen, but enough to give them a very fair general idea of it. there were many convents, and churches, and colleges, and hospitals, and other public institutions, which they had not had time to visit; and then there was the great event which was to take place in a few weeks, the coronation of the emperor, at which it was expected that the representatives of all the nations of europe would attend; but our friends preferred seeing somewhat of the interior of the country to waiting for it, and they therefore resolved on setting off at once, and returning, if possible, in time for the occasion. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ since the period spoken of the serfs have been emancipated, and these laws are no longer in force. the peasantry are, however, subject to the fearful conscription, and are liable to be torn from their homes to serve in the armies of the emperor. chapter ten. journey in a tarantasse--monotony of scenery--description of population in russia--the mujicks or peasants--their habitations and mode of life--the religion of russia--the priests--the landed proprietors and their habits and characteristics--civil officers of government--the army and its organisation--russian officers--a breakdown--a russian inn--the city of vladimir--nishni-novogorood--its great fair--addressed by a stranger--his mysterious conduct. away rattled the tarantasse, with our travellers inside, through the gates of the holy city of moscow towards the town of nishni-novogorood, where the great annual fair of russia was then taking place. the rough vehicle bumped and thumped and jumbled along at a rapid rate over the uneven road, in a way to try the nerves and bones and tempers of those inside; but none of the tumblifications they endured had the effect of disturbing the equanimity of their tempers, or of dislocating their joints, each bump of unusual violence only making them laugh more heartily than ever. once clear of moscow, the road was tolerably smooth in most places, and the body of the carriage moved easily along between the two long poles to which it was slung. such is the principle of the tarantasse. the body of the carriage may be of any form or size. it may have come out of long acre, or it may be a little waggon covered in with a tarpaulin. the important part is formed of the strongest and roughest materials, so that it is not likely to break, or, if it does, any peasant on the road can mend it. cousin giles had hired one of the common sort. it was, in truth, a little waggon with a tilt over it, and made very comfortable with a good supply of straw and leather cushions, for which the russians are famous. all travellers carry them. they serve for their seats by day and their couches by night. our friends had brought a supply of provisions with them, so that they were entirely independent of inns, which are very bad throughout the country. the party in the tarantasse consisted of cousin giles and his two young friends, of mr allwick, their interpreter, and of mr evergreen, who had begged leave to join them. cousin giles would rather have had a more sensible companion; but he was so good-natured and so ready to sacrifice his own convenience to that of others, while his quaint and simple observations afforded so much amusement, that he was more desirable than many persons with superior pretensions. the road was very unpicturesque, running chiefly between forests of birch and fir-trees, with few or no hills to vary its monotony. the journey, however, was far from uninteresting. they passed various parties of traders with their waggons going to the fair; also a group of exiles on their way to siberia, already weary and footsore, though they had performed but a short portion of their long journey. there were woodcutters in the forests, and peasants in the few patches of cultivated ground which here and there appeared. mr allwick, too, had travelled over the greater part of russia, and gave them much information about the country. "i divide the population of russia into five classes," said he, "with the czar, forming a sixth, at their head. first come the _mujicks_ or peasants, who form the great mass of the population; then come the _svestchenniks_ or priests, who are mostly sprung from them, and are often looked upon as but slightly their superiors; the third class are the _pameshtchiks_, the landed proprietors and serf owners. in the fourth class may be included the _chinovinks_ or civil functionaries; and the _grajdanuns_ or citizens; while in the fifth may be reckoned the military of all ranks. "of the mujicks or peasants, upwards of two-thirds are serfs or slaves. the other portion have either purchased their liberty or have been liberated by their masters. they are completely under the control of their masters, who can flog them or imprison them, but may not take away their lives nor remove them from the land on which they were born. an owner may, however, let his serf out to some other master for hire. the greater number of servants in saint petersburg and moscow are serfs belonging to landed proprietors, who receive a part of their wages. many serfs follow trades, and some have become wealthy merchants. some have purchased their freedom for large sums, but in other instances masters have refused to grant their serfs their freedom, who thus, though rolling in riches, remain with the chains of slavery round their necks, liable at any moment to be called back and compelled to do their lord's bidding, even in the most menial capacity. they have the general faults of slaves, being cringing, cunning, and delighting in falsehood; but they are intelligent, kind-hearted, and merry, and honest when property is entrusted to their charge. their dress consists of a cap, a long sheepskin coat in winter, and a cotton one in summer, a red-striped shirt, worn outside their very full breeches, and high leather boots on grand occasions; but usually they wear on their feet willow or birch-bark sandals, their legs being swathed in rags of all sorts. a vest and sash of some gay colour is also worn; so that altogether their costume is picturesque, though much less so than that of swiss or spanish peasants. their cottages are built of logs of pine, laid one above the other, the ends being notched to fit into each other, exactly like the log-huts of canada, and having always a porch in front. they are roofed with straw. they contain two apartments, with a huge stove of brick built into the dividing wall. in each room there is a very small window. in a conspicuous place is seen the picture of the saint worshipped by the family, hung against the wall, sometimes glazed, and always having a lamp burning before it. the first act of each person who enters the cottage is to salute the image; indeed, the same veneration is paid to it as was paid to the household gods of the ancients. the temperature of these abodes ranges, both in summer and winter, from degrees to degrees. they are lighted at night by a pine stick stuck into the wall. as the interstices between the logs are filled up with hemp and other combustible materials, fires are very common, and whole villages are frequently burnt down. in order to extinguish these conflagrations, each serf is bound to bring some particular implement--a ladder, a pail, or an axe; and, that he may not forget his duty, the implement he is charged to bring is painted on the board with his name, which is placed in front of his hut. thus, as soon as the signal is given that a fire has broken out, so many serfs rush forth with ladders, so many with pails, and so many with axes, towards the scene of conflagration. "the serfs on an estate are allowed a certain portion of ground and materials for building their cottages. they labour three days in the week for their owners, and three days for themselves; so that, when the soil is good, they can easily provide themselves with the necessaries of life. but, at the same time, they are entirely in the power of unjust stewards or cruel masters, who can make their lives miserable, and quickly bring them to ruin. it must be owned that when serfs are well managed they are often contented and happy, and have no wish for freedom. "some proprietors are anxious to free their serfs, so as to be able to move them from one estate to another, or to get rid altogether of the charge of keeping them. the well-known count sheremetieff, however, who owns some of the richest merchants and shopkeepers in saint petersburg, will not consent to emancipate any one of them, although some have offered him large sums for their freedom. he is content with a small annual payment as tribute. when he dies, however, if his successor is avaricious, their condition may be very much changed. "the greek is the established church of russia. the priests are as a class illiterate, and but little removed above the mujicks in their habits of life. a priest is expected to marry, but can only marry one wife. when she dies, he enters the monastic order. his sons enter the clerical seminaries, and his daughters marry priests, while another takes his vicarage. when a priest dies, or becomes a widower, and leaves a grown-up daughter, the living is generally given to some candidate for holy orders who pleases the young lady, and who is willing to marry her. thus the clergy have become almost a separate class, the office descending from father to son. the value of livings is very small, seldom surpassing pounds per annum. the priests are in general held in very little respect by all classes, even by the peasants, who, however, kiss their hands when they meet them, and often have a feeling of regard for them. there are numerous dissenters, who are frequently treated with the most bitter persecution by the orthodox church. "the _pameshtchiks_ or landed proprietors may be divided into two classes,--those who have vast estates, and, honoured by titles, live chiefly at courts, while they commit their affairs to the charge of stewards; and those who reside on their property and look after it themselves. the former are generally polished in their manners, well-informed, and luxurious in their habits, and are courtiers, diplomatists, or naval or military commanders. though they occasionally visit their estates, when they keep up considerable pomp and ceremony, they reside chiefly in the capital. "the landlord who lives entirely on his property is of a very different character, and thoroughly unlike an old english gentleman of the same social rank. supremely indolent and unintellectual, he thinks of nothing but how he can most easily kill time. when he awakes in the morning, his attendant slave brings him his pipe, and he smokes till his first meal of tea and rusks is prepared; his bailiff then comes and makes his daily report, and serves as a vent for his ill-humour. then he eats a substantial and somewhat greasy meal, which enables him to exist while he takes a drive round his estate till dinner-time. that meal is even more coarse and greasy than the former one. he then sleeps for a couple of hours, smokes, plays at cards, sups, and goes to bed,-- not a satisfactory way for a person with a soul to spend his time. his wife spends her day much in the same way, smoking paper cigarettes instead of a pipe, and managing the female domestic serfs instead of the men. all matrimonial affairs come under the cognisance of the _pameshtchik_, as no serf can marry without his permission. this, however, is rarely withheld, as it is his interest to have as large a number of people as possible beneath his rule. "owners often treat their serfs kindly, and make their lives happy, but a capricious or tyrannical master has the power of rendering every person on his estate miserable. "the above description refers to the russian landowners as a class. there are undoubtedly exceptions, and many very excellent, intelligent men may be found, who, living entirely on their property, devote themselves to its improvement, and to the amelioration of the condition of those who have been placed in dependence on them. "the worst class in russia are the tchinovniks, or those employed in the civil service of the government, of all grades, from the highest to the lowest. they are badly paid, and thus indemnify themselves by every description of peculation, and by endeavouring to wring bribes out of all with whom they come in contact. the emperors have at times endeavoured to alter the system, but, although they have punished delinquents, when discovered, with the greatest severity, they have failed to put a stop to the evil. "the mercantile class are considered generally respectable. no person can trade unless he is a member of one of three guilds. the privileges belonging to the first guild are purchased by an annual tax, calculated on the declared capital, but which cannot be less than ; and those of the other guilds by sums in proportion to the smaller facilities for trading which they afford. "the russians are certainly not a warlike race, though their governors have endeavoured to make them so. the conscription presses most cruelly on the peasants, and it is with the most painful reluctance that its summons is obeyed. when they join, the officers may ill-treat them, pull their hair, and strike them with impunity. the officers have generally a fair supply of professional knowledge, and some are highly educated. the men have a larger amount of passive courage than of dashing bravery; yet they will usually follow where their officers lead them. the private has a possibility of rising to the rank of an officer after twelve years' probation, and even sooner by some dashing act of bravery; and several even thus have become generals. there are numerous military colleges in which cadets are educated, but a commission may also be obtained by a youth of family by his serving two years in the ranks. no officer may appear on any occasion without his uniform, nor carry an umbrella. the cadets are exercised during the summer in camps, as, indeed, is the greater part of the army, to prepare them for actual warfare." mr allwick had got thus far in his description of the people of russia, when, as the horses were galloping along at a great rate, a crash was heard, and over went the carriage on its side;--one of the long poles of the tarantasse had broken. the travellers got out in dismay, not knowing how long this accident might delay them. as they looked out they saw some cottages ahead. a peasant standing at the door of one of them had observed the occurrence, and now came running up with his axe in his hand to ascertain the amount of the damage. two or three other men followed. "oh, it is nothing," said they; "we will soon put this all right." they were as good as their word. while the travellers stood at the roadside watching what they would do, they disappeared into the forest, out of which they speedily issued with a young fir-tree, which in an incredibly short space of time they stripped of its bark and fitted to the carriage. a rouble amply satisfied them for their trouble. they were merry fellows, evidently, for they laughed and joked or sung all the time they were at work, so that fred and harry were quite sorry that they could not understand what they were saying. the tarantasse was soon moving on as before. in the evening they stopped at a place with a name too difficult to pronounce, to take tea. the inn was an unclean, straggling-looking mansion, with a long whitewashed corridor, and whitewashed rooms, very scantily furnished, opening out of it. the whole place was redolent of an odour which appears to be a mixture of vodka, onions, or rather garlic, and stale tobacco smoke. no house in russia seems to be without it, of high or low degree, its intensity only being greater in those of the lower orders. evergreen complained bitterly of it. his consumption of _eau-de-cologne_ was doubled, he said, and he declared that it alone would prevent him from ever willingly taking up his abode in russia, irrespective of his dislike to the despotic system of government under which it was placed. the travellers were ushered by a waiter into a room with a straight-backed, leather-covered sofa, chairs with wooden seats, and an old card-table; while the walls were ornamented with some coloured prints of battles between the circassians and russians, in which a host of the mountaineers were flying before a handful of their enemies. the waiter would have astonished one of his brethren in england; for he wore jack-boots, into which were tucked his full oriental breeches, a pink shirt, showing the tail outside, and a dirty, collarless, long coat, like a dressing-gown, fastened round his waist by a sash. "_tchai_, _tchai_!" (tea, tea!), exclaimed cousin giles with as much dignity as if he was thorough master of the russian language. "_si chasse, si chasse_," replied the jack-booted waiter, meaning thereby that he would bring it as suited his convenience. mr allwick, however, added a few persuasive words, and in a short time the hissing _samovar_ made its appearance, with a teapot and cups. the tea, which would anywhere be considered excellent, the travellers had brought with them. the principle of the _samovar_ is very simple. in the centre of a common-shaped urn there is a cylinder with a grating at the bottom of it. the urn is filled with water, and the cylinder with charcoal. a brass chimney fits on to the top of the cylinder. a light is then applied to the lower end, which soon ignites the charcoal from the bottom to the top, and boils the water in three or four minutes. a frame fixes on to the top of the cylinder, on which the teapot is placed to keep it warm. there is a damper or cap, which can be placed on the top of the cylinder when it is required to put out the fire. there is no more convenient machine for travellers, as breakfast can thus be prepared in a very few minutes. a sum amounting to little more than a shilling was paid for the accommodation thus afforded. for a less sum they might have slept all night, but then they would have had to wrap themselves up in their cloaks and pick out a soft plank on the floor. in an hour fresh horses were procured, and once more the tarantasse was rattling along the road. about twenty-four hours after leaving moscow, the travellers reached the ancient city of vladimir, with the golden gate. it was once upon a time the capital of the empire, and is still a city of considerable size. it is picturesquely situated on a hill, on which stand about twenty churches, overlooking a wide extent of wooded country, with a magnificent river flowing through it. the golden gate, which still rises in dignified solitude, a proud monument of the past, is not an ungraceful building. it is no longer used as a gate. the temptations held out by the hotel here did not induce our travellers to stop, but, ordering fresh horses, they pushed on towards nishni. they were now entering a fertile tract of country; but, fertile as it is, the population is not more dense than that of the most barren districts of scotland. mile after mile of thick forest was passed through, varied occasionally, as they approached the river okka, by large villages. these villages have a strong similarity to each other, the houses being built of logs, and the gable-ends being turned to the road, and being inhabited by people with a very great likeness to each other. at length the town of nishni-novogorood appeared before them. at most times of the year it contains but few inhabitants. it was now crowded by persons from all parts of russia and the provinces to the south and east, who had assembled to dispose of the produce of their respective districts, or to make purchases for exportation. here assemble merchants from all parts of siberia, tartars, georgians, persians, and armenians, to meet russians and germans, and even english and french, from saint petersburg and moscow, who come to buy their produce or exchange them for manufactures from the west. nishni stands on a high promontory, whose base is washed on one side by the volga, on the other by its tributary the okka. the kremlin, or citadel, with its low, embattled walls, stands on the highest point, and overlooks a vast plain, through which, at the base of the hill, the volga flows proudly past. on this plain, close to the banks of the river, was a whole city of booths of various styles of architecture--those for the tea merchants being in the shape of pagodas. some of the booths are of considerable size, being, in fact, storehouses for a large amount of valuable merchandise. one of the most conspicuous buildings in this quarter is a mosque, whose tall, pointed spire, surmounted by a glittering crescent, towers above all others. this mosque is said to be the most northern mohammedan temple, with the exception of the humble little structure at moscow. our friends found the hotel in the upper part of the town far more comfortable than they expected. the rooms and beds were tolerably clean, and the eatables contained no larger amount of grease and garlic than might reasonably be expected. having refreshed themselves with a quantity of fresh-water, which somewhat astonished the russian attendants, and partaken of a substantial meal, they sallied forth to visit the fair. mr allwick, who had been there before, acted as their guide. the upper part of the town presented no unusual bustle, but as they descended to the plain they found themselves among dense crowds of human beings in every variety of costume. long-coated, long-bearded, and high-booted russians predominated. by listening attentively, our friends thought they could distinguish very many different languages and dialects; and all were speaking in an earnest, energetic way, showing that they had met for business, and not for pleasure. there was, in truth, no gaiety either in their manner or their costume; for their dresses also were of somewhat grave, sombre colours, though here and there gay sashes, or caps, or vests, or turbans were to be seen. they walked up and down the long lanes of booths, in which the traders sat in state ready to dispose of their merchandise. but the more interesting part of their employment was the visit they paid to the various storehouses. in some were packages upon packages of tea, done up in skins, in which mode it is brought all the way from china by caravans; in another were piles of hides, in another heaps of dressed leather, in another bales of hemp and wool, brought by the volga and its tributaries from far-off regions. there were also less bulky manufactured articles--leather work and embroidery, slippers and belts, from kazan, shawls and cloths from persia, and saddles from tartary; indeed, it would be difficult to name one-half of the articles exposed for sale. there were no means of amusement, such as are to be seen at an english or german fair. no jugglers, or actors, or roundabouts, or swings, though there were eating and drinking booths in abundance, where the buyers and sellers and carriers might refresh themselves after the toils of the day. the mighty volga, even here a fine river, presented an interesting scene. it was covered with a great variety of boats, some of considerable size, which had brought to market the produce enumerated above, and were ready to carry off what was taken in exchange for it. there were steamers also, some going much above nishni, and others navigating from thence its whole length to its mouth. while the travellers had been moving about the fair, cousin giles, who had a great facility for remembering countenances, had observed a man in the costume of a mujick continually following them. his dress was dusty and travel-stained, but it was neither torn nor patched, nor had he the appearance of a poor man. his countenance was frank, open, and pleasant, though grave and somewhat careworn, so that it did not appear to cousin giles that he had any sinister motive for his conduct. our friends were so much interested with all they saw, that quick-gathering darkness alone reminded them that it was time to return to their hotel. they had even then seen but a very small portion of the fair. cousin giles had before this lost sight of the mujick. they were on their way to the upper town, and were passing through a street, if so it might be called, with high walls on either side, when, coming from under a dark archway, the mujick presented himself before them. he walked up at once to cousin giles, and took his hand, which he pressed to his lips, and then spoke several sentences in a low, earnest tone; but as the language was russian, cousin giles could not understand a word. mr allwick, however, came up to interpret. "he tells you," said he, "that he knows some of our countrymen; that he has always found them honourable, kind, and religious, and able to sympathise with the afflicted; and that, after watching you, he feels that he may put perfect confidence in you and your companions." "what does he want us to do?" asked cousin giles. "i shall be very happy to assist the poor man if a few roubles will be of consequence to him; but i do not see how otherwise i can help him." "he says that, if you will let him call on you at the hotel in a short time, he will tell you what he has got to say, but that now he dare not remain longer talking to you, lest he should be observed. he says that he will not appear as he now does, and he hopes you will allow whoever asks for you to be admitted," replied mr allwick. "very mysterious," said cousin giles. "it may perhaps be a device of the police to entrap us." "i do not think that, sir," replied mr allwick. "the man is, i believe, honest; at the same time i cannot advise you to have anything to do with him. in this country one cannot be too wary. with the best of intentions, we may easily be brought into trouble." "very shocking, indeed, to be taken up and sent off to siberia," observed mr evergreen. "tell the good man that i will give him ten roubles if that will help him, but that i do not want to see his face again--in case of accident, you know. tell him that." "it is not pecuniary assistance that he requires," said mr allwick, who had again been speaking with the stranger. "he says that he will explain everything by and by if he is allowed to visit us. he throws himself on our charity. he thinks the risk to us will be slight, and the gain to him great. he entreats that you will give him a reply, for he dare not remain longer." mr evergreen's curiosity was aroused, and he forgot his fears. after consulting a minute, cousin giles replied: "tell him that i will see him if he thinks fit to call, but i cannot promise to help him." mr allwick translated what had been said into russian, and the stranger, bowing low, retired into the retreat from which he had come forth, while the travellers returned to their inn. chapter eleven. the stranger merchant commences his story--the molokani--origin of their faith--progress among the villagers--how the bible was prized by them--its distribution--captain martineff--his endurance of persecution--sad history--his christian fortitude--general persecution of the sect--flight--transported to a new district--attempt to convert captain martineff. the hissing _samovar_ was on the table, and the fragrant _tchai_ had just been made, when the waiter with the high boots and pink shirt entered to say that a merchant had called with some goods for the travellers to inspect. cousin giles desired that the man might be admitted, and in a minute a person in a long dark coat, with a case slung before him, entered the room. he at once began to display some caps and belts of gold and silk embroidery, several articles of silver, spoons ornamented with black-lined engraving, little hand-bells, snuff-- boxes, slippers of leather richly worked, and many similar articles, such as english travellers in russia are accustomed to purchase. the prices he named were very moderate. while he was displaying his merchandise, cousin giles was observing him narrowly. "why, he is our friend the mujick," he whispered to mr allwick. "the man can masquerade well." the waiter had now left the room. the merchant went to the door and looked out. he then came back to the table on which he had spread out his merchandise, and addressed mr allwick in a low, earnest voice. the latter now grew very much interested, apparently, with what he heard. the stranger perceived that his cause was making progress, and continued his story with increased earnestness. at length he stopped to allow mr allwick to translate to his friends what had been said. cousin giles looked inquiringly at him for an explanation. "i will translate, as nearly as i can, what he has told me," said mr allwick. "i am, you must know, sirs," said he, "one of that class of dissenters from the established greek church whom our countrymen designate as _molokani_ or milk-drinkers. you have not heard of them, perhaps. i will tell you about them. many years ago the unadulterated word of god--the holy bible, translated into our native language--was brought into russia without note or comment. some copies of it reached my native province, and were received most gladly by many of our peasants. those who could afford it eagerly bought the book of glad tidings; those who could not clubbed their money together and became the joyful purchasers of a copy. how the book came, no one could tell. some said that a stranger from another land brought many volumes of the book with him in a large chest, and that he travelled about from village to village, instructing certain men in each village, and making them desire to possess the book. though such might have been the case, i never saw the stranger. all i know is, that a certain very pious man in our village had several copies of the book which he had bought at a great cost, though not too great for its value, oh no! and that he sold them without profit to all who would buy--rather, i would say, at a loss, for to some who could not pay the full cost he remitted part of the amount. when we got the book we lost no time in reading it. in the fields in summer, under the shade of trees, we sat and read it, where no one could watch us; in our huts, by torch-light in winter, we eagerly studied the book. we knew that we had got the word of god, that we possessed a jewel of rich price; we were afraid that thieves might come and steal it from us. we read and read on; most eagerly we met together to talk about it, to discuss the meaning of parts which we could not at first understand, to pray that our minds might be enlightened to comprehend it. we read it, as the book itself tells us to do, with earnest prayer; we read it with faith, and we read it not in vain. soon passages which seemed at first obscure were made clear to our comprehension. every day we understood it better and better. we had no one to whom to go for information. we had no one to instruct us, so we went to god; we asked him to show us the truth, as he in the book told us to do, and his promises never fail. he instructed our minds; he gave us all we asked for. we now discovered, truly, how darkened had been our minds, how ignorant we had been, what follies, what fables, what falsehoods we had believed. we saw the gross, the terrible, the wicked errors of the church of our country. we found that those who should have instructed us were generally as ignorant as we had been, and that if not ignorant, they had taught us falsehoods, knowing them to be falsehoods. we found in that book how the world was made; how man was first placed in the world; how he, by disobedience to god's simple command, fell from his happy state, and how sin thus entered into the world, and all men became by nature sinful; how god in his mercy promised a redeemer who should bear upon his own shoulders the sin of all the children of adam who believe in him; how god selected a people to keep his great name, and to make it known among men; how he promised to the patriarchs of old, from age to age, that the redeemer of the world should be one of their chosen tribe, and that the glad tidings of salvation should first be offered to them; how, in process of time, the son of god, the saviour of the world, from his unbounded love to the human race, appeared in the form of a man, and in humble rank, to teach us that he regards not the persons of men; how he was despised and rejected of men; how he suffered toil, and sorrow, and persecution, though he spent his days on earth in doing good to all around him, to show the humble, and poor, and afflicted that he can feel for them; how he was rejected by god's chosen people; how they crucified him, and invoked a curse on their own heads by taking on themselves all the terrible guilt of the deed; how he died and was buried; how thus he offered himself a sacrifice for our sins; how he remained for three days in the vale of departed spirits; how in his own body he rose again to teach men the doctrine of the resurrection; how, having fulfilled all the work of the sacrifice, he ascended into heaven, and how he there acts as a mediator between god and man; how, too, in his abundant mercy, he sent down the holy ghost to lead men aright, to teach them the truth. that book tells us nothing of the virgin mary, except that she was the earthly mother of our lord. it tells us nothing of the mediation of saints, but it tells us that god accepts but one great sacrifice, that offered by our lord jesus christ; that he is our only priest, our only mediator in heaven; that those who heartily repent of their sins, who put their faith in him, and him alone, will be saved. "we find nothing said in the bible of a patriarch, or any other head of the church on earth. the only patriarch, therefore, we can acknowledge, the only head of our church, is christ in heaven. yet the bible has taught us to bow to the authority of earthly powers in all temporal matters, but in spiritual matters to yield to the authority of no one unless it is plainly and undoubtedly in accordance with the word of god revealed in that book. putting aside all the customs of the country, which seemed to us so overloaded with error and abuse that we could not distinguish the right from the wrong, we have endeavoured to form a system of worship and mutual instruction as nearly similar as possible to that instituted by our lord himself and his disciples. we knew that we could not preach our doctrines in public without bringing down on our heads a severe punishment from the authorities of the empire; but they, nevertheless, made certain though slow progress. no sooner did one receive the truth than he became anxious to impart it to others. all this time, who, think you, had joined our faith?--none but serfs, peasants, humble mujicks. but this did not cast us down, for we asked ourselves. who were the first disciples of our lord?--fishermen, humble men like ourselves. because our faith was different to that of the great and mighty in the land, it did not make us less certain that it was the true one, or less anxious to impart it to others, to offer our brethren the same assurance of pardon and salvation which we had ourselves received. hitherto the progress of our creed had received no interruption from the government authorities. we had worked silently and quietly; even the priests knew nothing of the movement going on. we were well assured that, should they discover it, they would oppose us with all their power. we were, therefore, allowed to continue on without persecution. by degrees, however, our doctrines began to make progress among persons of a higher grade. an earnest, piously-minded land-steward had a bible lent him by a peasant; he expressed his satisfaction at reading it, and was at last invited to attend one of our meetings. he came, and his heart was turned to the right way. for many months he worshipped with us, and at length the owner of the estate he managed came to live on his property. he was an officer in the army, who had seen much service in the caucasus fighting against the circassians. he had the character of being a brave and a stern man in the army. his serfs always found him a kind though a strict master--not indulgent, but just. to his master the steward was induced, after some time, to open the secret of his heart, and he at length persuaded him to study the bible. the master read and read on. he became convinced of the errors of the greek church, and joined our fraternity. truly as a brother, humble and lowly in his own sight, he moved among us. "the truth had now spread widely; many thousands believed and worshipped with us, and we began to hope that the pure doctrines of christianity might extend over the face of our beloved country. alas! we deceived ourselves. we forgot that times of persecution, trial, and suffering must ever be looked for by god's saints on earth. "at length, as was to be expected, some of the government officials got notice of our meetings. one night a congregation of us were assembled for prayer and instruction in the word in a rude hut constructed by us far away in the depths of a forest,--the only temple we dared raise to our god,--when we were startled by hearing the trampling of steeds and the crashing of boughs. before we could rise from our knees, a party of police, headed by a priest and two of the neighbouring landowners, rushed in upon us. some attempted to fly, others stood boldly up to confront our persecutors; but neither would it have been right or wise, or of any avail, to have used carnal weapons for our defence. those who thus stood firm felt bolder than they had ever done before. we demanded why we were thus assailed and interrupted in our private devotions. we asserted our right to meet for prayer to god and to our lord, and demanded that we might be left to finish our devotions undisturbed. in return we were jeered and ridiculed, and roughly ordered to marshal ourselves and hurry on before our captors. they told us that we should be tried before a proper tribunal; that there could be no doubt we had met together for political and treasonable purposes; that also we were schismatics and heretics, and that we had merited the severest punishment. we had no help for it, so, praying to god for help and support in this our first hour of peril, we did as we were ordered. how we had been discovered we could not learn. we feared that some one among our own body had proved false, but we trusted that such was not the case. our meetings had probably attracted the attention of some priest more acute than his brethren, and he had subtly made inquiries till he had discovered the truth. it was a sad procession as we marched forth from our woodland temple, but yet we were not cast down; we trusted in god that he would deliver us. he did not even then forget us. we had marched a verst or more when thick clouds began to gather in the sky, and loud rumblings were heard. soon the tempest burst over the forest, louder and louder grew the thunder, flash upon flash of lightning darted from the heavens; first heavy drops, and then torrents of rain came down upon our heads; the trees bent, trunks were riven by the lightning, boughs were torn from the stems and dashed across our path. the steeds of our captors began to snort and rear and show every sign of terror. crash succeeded crash--more vivid grew the lightning; it played round the tall stems of the trees, it ran hissing like serpents of fire along the ground, it almost blinded us by its brightness. at last the horses could no longer stand it; their riders, too, were alarmed. some of the horses wheeled one way, some another, and all set off galloping furiously through the wood in different directions. in vain the priest and the lords called to us to keep together, and to meet them at the town; in vain their servants and their other attendants endeavoured to keep us together. feeling that the tempest was sent for our deliverance, with a prayer for each other's safety we likewise dispersed in all directions, to seek places of shelter and concealment from our enemies. the large forests, the thin population, the rocks and caves of that region afforded us abundance of facilities for this object. many of us reached such places of safety as i have described and the freemen were able to remain concealed, but the serfs were hunted up like wild beasts and brought back to their owners. many were put to the torture, to make them betray those who had assumed what was called the new faith. day after day some of our members were seized. the freemen were cast into prison and put to the torture, to compel them to deny their faith or to accuse others of following it. our beloved brother, captain martineff, had hitherto escaped, but now he was accused of professing the new doctrines. he was seized and brought up before the officers of a commission appointed to try all such delinquents. he, who had ever proved a faithful soldier to his generals and the emperor, was not now to be found false to his faith and his heavenly lord and master. he at once boldly confessed that he had taken the bible as his rule and guide, that by that he would stand or fall; and he demanded that he might have the right of explaining and defending his doctrines in public court. this liberty was scornfully denied him. he was condemned for being guilty of desiring to subvert the government and religion of the country, and thrown into prison. he would at once have been transported to siberia, but the government hoped by keeping him to discover others who held the same tenets. they little knew how far the true faith had spread, that thousands already held it, and that no power of theirs could extinguish the light thus kindled. they dreamed not also of the fortitude and courage of which a true christian is capable. captain martineff would neither betray others nor deny his own faith. it was determined to break his proud spirit, as it was called, and now commenced a system of the most cruel persecution against him. his property was confiscated, his wife and children were seized and cast into dungeons separate from each other. they were fed on black bread and water. one by one they were brought to him and cruelly flogged before his eyes. he saw them growing thinner and thinner every day, the colour fading from their cheeks, the hue of sickness taking its place. he knew they were sinking into the grave--murdered by his persecutors. still he would not deny his faith or perform ceremonies which he knew to be superstitious and idolatrous. with a refinement of cruelty worthy of demons, they told him that one child was dead. `it is well,' he replied; `of such is the kingdom of heaven.' a second died, a bright little cherub; it had been the joy of his life. `god be praised! he is in abraham's bosom,' he answered. soon a third sank under his treatment. `you have released him from prison to praise god with the angels in heaven!' he remarked. "his wife, a believer with him, mild, pious, and good, became a victim to their barbarity. they told him abruptly, to shock his feelings the more. a serene smile illuminated his countenance, `she has entered into her rest, where neither grief, nor pain, nor sickness can come. she is with the spirits of the just made perfect.' "still he had more children. it was known how he had loved them. one after the other died, till one alone remained. they brought it to him. they told him that if he would conform to the rules of the established church he should be released from prison, his property should be restored, and that this child--this darling child--should be sent to a place where fresh, pure air and the care of a good physician would quickly restore it to health. `life and death are in the hands of the almighty; to him i commit the life of my child. i have but in faith humbly to obey his laws, and to follow the course he has marked out for me.' "one, two, three, four years passed away, and he and his child remained in prison. the little boy grew thin and pale, and pined and pined away. they took him occasionally to be seen by his father--not to bring any joy to that father's heart, but to tempt his constancy. the attempt availed them not. the child died; the father shed not a tear, uttered not a complaint, but remained firm as ever to the faith. another year he was kept in prison, and then stripped of his property. he was dismissed from prison, and a certain locality fixed for his abode. why he was not sent to siberia was not known. it was the will of the emperor, it was supposed, who had heard his story. "while i have been narrating captain martineff's history, i have neglected to speak of the condition of the poorer brethren. numbers were seized, knouted, and sent off to labour in the mines of siberia. they little thought that by that means they were taking the surest way of propagating the truth. others were thrown into prison, and subjected daily to cruel tortures to force them to recant. "a few unhappy men were overcome by the pains and terror, and returned to the greek faith, but the greater number held firm. i remained in concealment, and it was supposed that i had died; but i had relatives and friends who were wealthy for our rank of life, and gave me support. all my family were free, yet in position we were not much above the poor mujick. i used after a time to venture out of my hiding-place and meet our brethren for prayer and praise; but it was at great hazard, and oftentimes i had a narrow escape of being captured. at length, after we had suffered years of persecution, a time of rest was awarded us, and we fancied that we were to be allowed to worship our god as we judged best. still i dared not be seen in public, for i had refused to appear when summoned, and i was looked upon as a political as well as a religious offender. "the mercy we were promised was but little mercy to us. we were to be removed from the land of our birth, from our once happy homes, and to be settled down, many hundred versts away, in a district between some german colonies and tartary. it was believed that our tenets would not spread among the people by whom we were surrounded. many hundreds of families were thus turned out of their homes and compelled to settle in this new region. the choice was given them of renouncing their faith or going. few hesitated. i at length came forth from my hiding-place and joined my companions. we set to work assiduously to bring under cultivation the wild country in which we were placed, and god prospered our labours. "among the few of higher rank who belonged to us, captain martineff was sent here. sickness and long confinement had turned his hair prematurely grey, and he looked an old man. he built himself a small hut with a single chamber in it, and here he took up his abode, while he used to labour with his own hands for his sustenance. his fellow-villagers were all poor enough, but we all sought to assist him and to take him food--without it, i believe at times that he would have starved. he received our gifts thankfully, but never would take them unless when he was absolutely in want of food. he had been much respected when he was in the army, and the emperor himself desired much to bring him back to the world. more than one priest had come to effect this object. at length the emperor sent a general who was celebrated for his great powers of argument. he arrived at our village in great state, but set out alone on foot to pay his visit. the humble captain had been apprised of his coming; he sat at his little round table, made by his own hands, with his only spare seat placed ready for his guest. his bible lay open before him. the general struck his head against the doorway as he entered. `we have need of humility when we approach the word of god,' observed his host with a gentle smile. "the general spoke kindly and affectionately to the old man. they had been comrades, brothers-in-arms together. for months they had slept in the same tent, and eaten out of the same dish. for a short time they conversed of old times. "`but you came to talk to me of matters of more importance, my general,' said the captain, laying his hand on the bible. `out of this book i will reply to you. of my own words i need speak none.' "the general then commenced a series of arguments, which he had thought incontrovertible. as each was brought forward, the captain turned to his bible, and produced a text, which with its context clearly refuted it. text after text was brought forward. at first the general had been very confident of success; by degrees his confidence decreased, but the captain retained the same composure as at the first. "`you have a great knowledge of the book, my friend,' said the general. "`i should have,' answered the captain humbly; `i study no other; for where can another of equal value be found? this shows us the way of eternal life.' "`ah, you speak the truth, my old comrade,' exclaimed the general, rising. `i came certain of succeeding to convert you to my way of belief, but i own that you have conquered. you have converted me to yours.' "these were the general's last words. he rose to take his departure. he grasped his old comrade's hand, and went out. alas! alas! his reason was convinced, but his heart was unchanged. his own words had condemned him. he went back to the world to laste of its allurements and false pleasure, its titles, its wealth, its evanescent honours. he undoubtedly reported favourably of his friend, and obtained for him immunity from further persecution; but for himself he sought not the lord where alone he can be found. he continued his old habits of life, seeking the praise of men rather than the praise of god." chapter twelve. steffanoff saveleff's early history--resolves to visit his parents and his betrothed--commences his journey--meets woodcutters--takes shelter in the hut of old sidor--attacked by fever--compelled to fly--pursued by enemies--concealed in a cave. "all this time i have been telling you about my people, but i have said nothing about myself," continued the stranger. "when my people were ordered to take up their abode in the new districts appointed for them, i left my hiding-place, resolved to share their fortunes. i remained unmolested at the new settlement for some months, labouring hard to prepare a home for my aged parents, who i trusted might be allowed to join me. with them dwelt a young orphan; she had grown up under their roof from infancy to womanhood, and was betrothed to me. during the days of persecution, i could not venture to wed her; but now that they were over, and i had the prospect of being able to prepare a home fit for her reception, i hoped to make her my wife. a peasant can love as well as a noble.--i could not leave the settlement, that is, openly, without permission from the mayor, the chief man of the village. in vain i asked for it. i told him my object; still he would not listen to me. i determined, therefore, to leave the place without his permission. as soon as darkness set in, one night, amid a storm of wind and rain, i started on my journey. the police, or anybody who would stop me, were not likely to be out at such a time. i hurried on all night, and in the daytime climbed up into a tree far away in the depths of a forest, where it was not probable any one would discover me. i carried a wallet well stored with food; i wished to make it last me as many days as possible, as my great fear was of being captured should i enter any village to buy bread. i had scraped together all the money i could collect, so that i was well provided with the means of purchasing provisions when i could venture to do so. night after night i toiled on, sustained with the hope that success would crown my efforts. i feared neither bears nor wolves; they seldom in the summer season attack people, and i had often contended with them. in winter the wolves are most to be dreaded; and often travellers, even in sledges, have fallen victims to them. on foot a person overtaken by a flock of them would not have a chance of escaping with his life, unless he could climb a tree or a rock out of their way. i dreaded famine more than anything else. had i been able to buy food wherever i could find it, i might have carried enough to enable me to get on from one farm or one village to another without difficulty, but, as this i was afraid to do, i was obliged to husband my provisions. i found in the woods an abundance of wild fruit, such as strawberries and raspberries, which grow plentifully in the woods; also of many roots, with the nature of which i was well acquainted. besides roots, there were many varieties of mushrooms, and i had a small pan with me in which i could cook them. "it was a wild sort of life i was leading. sometimes for days together i did not speak a word to a fellow-creature. now and then i fell in with woodcutters, but they were poor men who knew how to commiserate those in distress, and seldom asked me questions. the greatest assistance i received was from men of my own faith. our tenets have spread far and wide throughout the whole of the south of russia, and i had no difficulty in discovering those who held them. i at first had little hopes of meeting with any friends, but he who governs by his will the mighty universe, and without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground, directed me to one. i one day had just climbed a tree after my night-march, and was commending myself to my maker before going to sleep, when, as i looked once more around me, i saw coming through the wood an old man and a young lad. by their dress, and the hatchets in their belts, i knew that they were woodcutters. i thought, perhaps, that they might cut down the very tree i had climbed into; however, they went on a little way, and then, throwing aside their axes at the foot of a tree, they knelt down together and offered up their morning prayers. then they sang a hymn, which our brethren often use when met together for worship. the sounds cheered my heart; i knew at once that they were friends. i quickly descended the tree, and went up to them. at first they were afraid, thinking that i was a spy upon their actions, but a few words reassured them. i told them at once my story, for i knew that i was in safe hands. they promised to assist me as far as they had the power. i by this time much wanted help. my provisions were well-nigh exhausted, my feet sore, and my boots worn out. i required a day's rest, and here was an opportunity of enjoying it. the lad, who was the old man's grandson, undertook to get my boots mended by a brother, who would ask no questions concerning me, and would gladly do it for charity's sake. the old man promised to bring me next morning an ample supply of provisions, and, in the mean time, insisted on my taking rest while he and his boy watched near me. for this purpose they lopped off a number of branches from the surrounding trees, and formed an arbour. they then strewed the inside of it thickly with dry leaves, so as to form a more comfortable couch than i had enjoyed for many a day. i crept in, and was soon asleep. i had no fears, for i knew that the woodcutters were christian men, and that nothing would induce them to betray me. "they aroused me at noon to partake of their meal, which consisted but of black bread and fish taken from the neighbouring river. the fish, however, reminded me that, if i could but provide myself with a rod and tackle, i might frequently provide myself with food. i mentioned my idea to my new friends, and they promised to procure me what i wanted. i was always a good fisherman, and knew how to catch every sort of fish. i was surprised that i had not thought of this before starting from home. "after dinner i again went to sleep, and rested soundly till the evening. i awoke up, and the old man came and sat down by me, giving me some more food. while we sat and ate we conversed earnestly of religious matters. the lad had gone away with my boots to the village, which was three versts off. he did more even than he promised, for soon after dark he returned with them thoroughly repaired. "`our brother knew the importance of having them ready, in case you might be compelled to move away suddenly, so he lost no time in mending them,' said the young lad as he gave them to me. "blessings on his head! he gave me also some provisions; but he did more than this, he brought out with him a bible. it was not his own--he had borrowed it. by the light of a fir-torch, as we sat in the entrance of my bower, he read many chapters from its sacred pages. it was late before the old man and his grandson left me, promising to return early the next morning. they told me that i might securely rest there till then, sheltered by the bower. they brought some water and washed my feet, and anointed them with some salve, which the lad, most thoughtful for his years, had procured for the purpose. i had been too much accustomed to sleep out at night during my long years of hiding from persecution to have any fears after the assurance the woodcutters had given me, so, commending myself to my maker, i quickly fell asleep. "i was awoke by feeling a hand placed on my shoulder. i started up, believing that a police-officer was about to seize me. i had lived for some time in hourly expectation of being captured, and i could not throw off the feeling. i felt, notwithstanding, that to allow it to weigh on my mind was a sin, as it arose from want of faith and trust in god's providence. i looked up, and beheld the honest countenance of the young woodcutter. "`you sleep soundly, father,' said he with a smile. `few but those who have good consciences can thus repose, i have heard. well, father, i have brought you as much food as you can carry, and enough to last you for many days. eat, and then we will set off. i am to go with you some of the way; my grandfather will meet us on the road. he wishes to say farewell to you. it is all settled, so say not a word on the matter.' "i willingly agreed to the young lad's proposal. i was too thankful to have a guide and companion for part of my dreary journey to desire to refuse his offer. young khor (that was the lad's name) insisted on carrying my wallet, so i walked lightly along, with a cheerful heart. thus i found, when most in distress, providence had sent me aid. after walking about two versts through the wood, we saw the old man coming towards us. "he embraced me warmly. `heaven protect you, my son,' he said; `all the brethren here will earnestly pray for you: may you escape our persecutors wherever you go, and may friends be raised up for you whenever you require them.' i thanked him warmly. `khor will go with you--khor will guide you till you arrive at the abode of brother sidor. it is but three days' journey from hence. khor will then easily find his way back, and sidor will then guide you on your way farther;-- farewell.' with these words we parted. young khor was a pleasant, cheerful companion, and as he knew the country well, he led me by far more direct roads than i could have found myself. it was truly an agreeable change for me to have khor with me. instead of being left to my own thoughts, i had pleasant conversation. he, too, had brought a testament with him, although he had not the whole bible, and whenever we sat down to rest he pulled it out and read to me, or i read to him. we were now also able to travel by day instead of by night, as he was able to conduct me by byways where we were not likely to meet any one to interrupt us. at length we reached the abode of brother sidor. he was a grey-headed old man, and from sad experience had learned caution. we knocked three times at his door before he opened it. when he had done so he did not speak, but stood in the porch, examining us from head to foot. this scrutiny was apparently satisfactory. `come in and sit down,' said he, at the same time placing fish, and bread, and cheese, and milk before us. `there, eat; when you have satisfied your hunger, i will hear what you wish to tell me.' we gladly did as he desired, and when we had satisfied our hunger, i frankly told him all my history, and the object of my journey. `ah, my son! i knew your father, loutich saveleff, very well, in my youth. we were fellow-servants together at petersburg, in the establishment of count paul illarionovitch. he kept up a great state, and gave great parties, and made us wear magnificent liveries, and we thought ourselves very fine fellows. when he died we could not procure other situations, and as we had saved nothing and could not pay our masters the tax, we were compelled to return to our native villages and to resume our labours in the field. this at first we thought very hard work, and grumbled at it exceedingly, but we could not help ourselves, and what at first we fancied a curse proved a blessing in the end. by that means the blessed light of gospel truth was made to shine on us. your father was the first to receive it, and having procured two bibles he sent me one of them, as the richest gift he could bestow. at first i valued it only as a gift from him, for i loved him much; and that he knew, or he would not have ventured to send it to me. i, however, began to read, and as i read on i learned to value it for itself, and would not now change it for all the wealth of the czar. what, i often ask myself, would the world be without it? what can for a moment be compared to it? how dark, how gloomy would our life appear! how unjust, how unmerciful the creator of the universe! no guide for the present; no certainty, no hope for the future. it teaches us all we should wish for, all we should desire to know; how to walk in this present life, how to bear affliction, what to expect in the future.' much more to the same effect the old man said. i loved the word of god, i had suffered much for its sake, but he opened my mind to many things; he showed more clearly to me its exceeding brilliancy. thus christian men always gain advantage by holding converse with each other about the volume on which their creed is founded. oh! miserable, miserable men who have not that foundation! i spent a whole day under sidor's roof. young khor rested there too. he then set off with a light step to return home; he had no fears. in the solitude of the forest, on the vast steppe at midnight or noonday, he was sustained by a belief that one who could humble himself to become man, and who so loved mankind that he could suffer death for their sakes, was ever watching over him. this knowledge had taught him to discredit all the foolish superstitions of our country. the _domvoi_ (the familiar spirit of the house, similar to the brownie of scotland) had no terrors for him; neither had the _roussalka_ (the wood fairy), nor the _leechie_ (the demon of the forest). he knew that there was no such being as the _trichka_, who, it is supposed, will one day visit the country and commit incalculable mischief, nor any such thing as a _vodainoi_, or water spirit; in truth, he felt sure that god would allow only one evil being to infest the earth, and that merely to try mankind, and the better to fit them for the time when he and his angels shall be chained for ever and ever. i was truly sorry to part from khor, though my new friend sidor was a man i was heartily glad to meet. he had seen much of the world: he had been in france and in england, and he told me that he much liked the english. at the time he was there he said he did not know the reason of this liking, but since then he had discovered that it arose from the national religion, so free from bigotry, superstition, and priestcraft, faults which have completely destroyed all purity in the national religion of russia. "but i must not stop to describe the conversations i held with old sidor. he pressed me to spend some days with him to recruit my strength thoroughly before i should recommence my journey. i was glad of a little delay; at the same time i warned him that, should it be discovered that a stranger was at his cottage without a pass, he might be subject to severe penalties. "`we never calculate the risk when a brother requires our help,' he replied, taking my arm. `he who went about doing good, and died for our sakes, taught us that lesson, with many others, which we are too apt to forget. say, therefore, no more about it, my son, but lay thee down and rest till thy strength has returned, and thou canst prosecute thy journey with renewed hope and confidence.' "i could not resist old sidor's pressing, and, with a satisfaction i can scarcely describe, i threw myself on his bed, and in an instant was asleep. my sleep, however, was feverish and troubled. i had felt ill before i reached his cottage, and now, when i awoke, i found a raging fever on me. how long i had slept i know not. old sidor was by my side. there he sat, day after day, and night after night, tending me with as much care as a father would an only son. several weeks i thus lay, hovering between life and death. oftentimes my old friend told me that he was inclined to summon a leech to see me, but, if he did so, he was afraid that i might be betrayed, and delivered into the hands of our enemies. he besought, therefore, with much earnestness and prayer, the great physician of our souls, that he would, in his abundant mercy, heal me. surely such prayers are not in vain. in a short time the fever left me, and my strength rapidly returned. i had been out of the hut more than once to ramble through the woods, but was yet, i fancied, unfit to prosecute my journey. i lay on the bed while sidor sat by my side reading that book which was seldom out of our hands--the book of life, when we saw through the open doorway his little grandson running in haste towards the hut. he entered too much out of breath to speak; in his hand he bore a feather, which he held out towards me. i took it in my hand; it was from the wing of a bird. i guessed in a moment what it betokened--so did sidor. "`our foes have discovered your retreat, and this is sent by a brother to bid you flee.' "the boy nodded, and waved his hand hurriedly towards the door. i threw my arms for a moment on the neck of my old friend. "`keep straight on the way i showed you yesterday, till you come to a tree scathed and blasted by lightning. to the right of it is a thicket; on the farther side, midway down it, you will find some dried brambles; remove them, and you will perceive a narrow passage. half-way down it the ground beneath your feet will sound hollow. on your right hand, by bending aside the boughs, you will discover a further pile of brambles, which appear to have been thrown there by chance. draw them aside, and there will be found a cavity; enter without hesitation, drawing the brambles over your head. you will find there provisions for several days, and a couch on which to rest your yet unpractised limbs. many a fugitive brother has there found shelter for weeks together. farewell, my son; heaven guard you; you have not a moment to lose.' "these words he uttered as rapidly as possible, yet it was necessary to be precise, to enable me to find the spot capable of concealing me. again embracing him, i darted from the hut in the direction he indicated as fast as my legs, long unaccustomed to rapid movement, would carry me. once i looked back on hearing a shout; i could just distinguish between the trees several men, some on horseback, approaching the hut. for an instant i gave myself up for lost, yet i continued my flight. i found soon that i was not followed, then i trembled for the fate of my old friend. if he is accused of having harboured a fugitive like me, and cannot give an account of me, the knout and siberia will be his fate. i felt inclined to turn back, but then i remembered that i should only the more certainly bring ruin on him, by proving him guilty of the crime. "`alas! alas!' i cried, `is it my fate to injure those who benefit me?' i had little time for thought, though. i must hurry on; my pursuers might soon be on my track. i began to fear that my destination was suspected at the settlement, and that notice of my flight had been sent along the road before me. perhaps even at the very end of my journey i might be seized, and sent a prisoner to siberia. "still, as long as i could, i resolved to struggle on, and trust to god's mercy. this thought gave strength to my feet. on i went in a direct line towards the scathed pine of which sidor had told me. i was too long accustomed to the marks on the trees, imperceptible to ordinary eyes, to be led to diverge from my course. there was an open glade, and the tree stood before me on the other side. i hurried across the glade, and had nearly reached the farther side, when i heard a shout, and saw several horsemen emerging from the shade of the trees. the thicket was before me. i darted round it, and at once saw the bramble which marked the entrance to the narrow passage. to creep under the brambles and to run along the passage was the work of a moment. the shouts of the horsemen grew louder and louder. had i not known of the passage i should not have had a chance of escape. i searched with beating heart for the hollow ground. my foot discovered it by the sound. i removed the branches and the bundle of brambles, and crept into a hole, drawing them again over me. i found there was space before me, so i crept on. as i began to move, i judged by the sound of their voices that the horsemen had reached the thicket. "`i saw him near about here, to a certainty,' said one; `he cannot be far from this.' "`we will unearth him, the impious rebel, if he is hid near here,' exclaimed another. "`he ran fast; he may have got away again on the other side of the thicket,' said a third. "`let us try this place first,' cried the man who had previously spoken, and immediately several shots were fired into the thicket. "`come out, you rebel!--come out!' exclaimed several together. "these words gave me courage, for it convinced me that my pursuers knew nothing of my place of concealment, and also that they possessed no superabundance of bravery or zeal. had they been very zealous, they would not have cried `come out!' but they would have forced their way in, and dragged me out. so i lay snug, while they expended their powder and shot on the harmless bushes. my only fear was, that they would shoot each other. it would have been wrong, you know, to wish them ill--they were only doing what, in their ignorance, they thought their duty. "i lay all the time perfectly quiet, but without alarm, only wishing that they would go away, and allow me to continue my journey. i was anxious, also, to discover by anything they said what had become of my kind friend sidor, but they did not mention him. still, i knew that his chance of escape was very small; all i could do was to pray that he might be supported in his affliction. "my pursuers continued beating about the bush for some minutes; at last one exclaimed, `there is no use in looking here, men; he has gone on, depend on it.' "`one hunt more before we go!' shouted another. `unearth the miscreant! unearth the heretic! drive him out from this--drive him out!--he's here, depend on it!' "scarcely had these words been uttered, when a number of shots were again fired into the thicket--the people apparently loading and firing as fast as they could. "`if he is in there, he must be killed or wounded by this time, so now, men, let us try if we can find him!' cried one of the party, apparently more eager than his companions. "on this i heard the crackling of branches, as if the bushes were being broken and pushed aside as the people forced their way into the thicket. i could not now help feeling some apprehension that my place of retreat should be discovered, for i fancied they had got into the very pathway which led to it, and i feared that i might have been careless in my hurry in drawing the brambles over the entrance to my burrow; or i might have broken some of the twigs, which would clearly indicate my whereabouts, should any woodman or hunter be among my pursuers. fortunately there was no dog with them, or he would speedily have ferreted me out. i thought the time very long that they were hunting about for me. at last one of them exclaimed-- "`are you satisfied that he is not here?' "`i suppose he is not,' was the answer. "`well, then, he must thank you for not finding that out sooner,' replied the man who disbelieved in my taking shelter in the thicket. `we have given him a good start, if he knows how to take advantage of it; but let us have no more delay--so after him again, my men!' "these words were a great relief to me. my pursuers apparently worked their way out of the thicket as best they could, with torn clothes and scratched hands, and, mounting their horses, galloped away through the wood. "i would not, however, venture to move out of my place of concealment for some time, for i thought it very likely that somebody might be left to watch the thicket by those who seemed convinced that i had taken shelter within it. i, however, crawled farther in, and then found myself in a chamber, hollowed out in the earth, sufficiently large to hold several persons. it was lighted, though somewhat dimly, by two apertures in the roof, grated over, and then covered with bushes, so ingeniously placed that no one could suspect what was beneath. "there was a table and some benches, and several raised places for couches. besides this, there was a sort of cupboard to hold provisions. the place had evidently been formed with great care for the purpose of concealment. some parts had been hollowed out by art, though i concluded from the appearance of the roof and sides that there had been originally a cavern there formed by nature. whether it had been constructed by our brethren the molokani, or at a period antecedent to the persecutions they had suffered, i could not tell to a certainty, but i thought it very likely that it was of a much more ancient date. as may be supposed, i was not in a condition to consider the subject. the unusual exertion and excitement i had just gone through made rest very requisite, so, commending myself to my maker, i lay down on the couch, and endeavoured to sleep. sleep, however, for long refused to visit my eyelids. i listened, but not a sound could i hear. thankful was i when i felt sleep stealing on me at last." chapter thirteen. fears for old sidor's safety--continues journey--encounter with young horse-drovers--superstitions of russia--young vacia--sleeps in a tree. "i awoke much refreshed. a glimmer of light still came into the cave, so i knew that night had not yet set in. my chief anxiety was now to learn what had become of sidor. i arose, and took some of the food i found in the cupboard. it consisted of bread and cheese and dried fish, with a pitcher of water. the food, though very dry, was free from mould. it was sufficient to sustain nature; more could not be required. much strengthened, i resolved before proceeding on my way to go back to sidor's hut as soon as darkness would allow me to approach it without risk of being seized by my enemies. i therefore crawled out of the hole, and, placing the brambles over the entrance as before, stood upright in the pathway leading to it through the thicket. i walked along cautiously, listening as i went; i heard no sound, so, removing the bushes at the entrance, i looked out. the sun had just set, and darkness was rapidly coming on. i looked around in every direction; i could see no one. it was, however, safer to wait till it was so dark that i could not be distinguished at a distance, should any of my enemies be prowling about. i went back, and sat down on the ground. when night came on i sallied forth from my hiding-place, and walked towards sidor's hut. no light gleamed through the window or open doorway as i approached. this foreboded ill, i thought. i reached the hut; all was silent. i looked in at the window; i could see no one, nor could i hear a sound. i entered the hut; it was empty. by the glimmer of light which yet remained i discovered that even the scanty furniture, the old man's only property, had been removed. there was nothing to tell me what had become of my kind friend, but my fears suggested that by the cruel hand of the law he had been carried off, and would probably ere long be dragging his weary feet over the burning steppes, or the wide expanses of snow in siberia, probably to sink down and die ere half the journey was performed. as i thought of the suffering i had brought on the kind old man, i threw myself on the ground, and for the first time for many a long year gave way to a bitter flood of tears. it was wrong, i know. it was mistrusting providence; but human nature is weak. i remembered this, and prayed for strength. it came. i arose, and sinking on my knees, earnestly prayed that the old man's sufferings might be lightened as much as was for his good. i knew on whom he would trust, and had no more fears for him. "calling my thoughts to the necessity of taking steps for my own safety, i hurried on my way. it was important that before the morning dawned i should have placed many versts between my pursuers and me. they were not men, i guessed, to venture through the forest at night, and i calculated that, after having chased me as they supposed for an hour or two, and not finding me, they would give up the pursuit and return home. all night i walked on; the fresh cool air revived my strength and spirits; when morning came i felt much less fatigue than i expected, for the chief portion of the night i had been in the open country. at dawn i again made for a wood for the purpose of concealment, and as day advanced, and people were likely to be about, i climbed up as usual into a tree to sleep. i used to fasten myself on to a bough with my sash, so that i had no fear of falling off. in the evening, having surveyed the country carefully, to see that there was no one apparently pursuing me, i came down and continued my journey. for several days i met with no adventure. i was daily gaining strength; and as i approached my father's village, and expected so soon to meet him and my mother, and her i loved, my hopes grew stronger, and my spirits rose. yet i had still a wide extent of country to traverse. i went on for days together without even seeing a human being. on the high road i should have met them, but the country itself is so thinly inhabited, that often for thirty or forty versts together not a hut is to be found. my provisions were now again running short; how to replenish my stock i scarcely knew. i had reached the brow of a hill one morning, when i saw below me an encampment. on looking closer i saw that it was composed of young lads who were tending a drove of horses feeding in the plain below. they had kindled a large fire, and were busily cooking their morning meal. "i had no fears of their intentionally betraying me, and the fact of their cooking arrangements made me suspect that they were some way from home, so that they would not speak of me thoughtlessly, and thus get me into trouble. i was very soon among them. "`my dear boys,' said i, `i am a wayfarer, hungry and weary; can you spare me some of your food?' "they all looked at me earnestly for a minute before one of them spoke, as if they would learn if i was telling the truth. then, satisfied apparently, they all found their tongues together. "`gladly, gladly, stranger, whoever you are. come and sit down and rest--you are welcome.' "ah! the candour and heartiness of youth before bitter experience has taught it to mistrust the world is very delightful. they were boiling potatoes. they had a large can of milk with them. the potatoes were just cooked. one of the lads plunged his long knife into the cauldron, and drew out a potato at the point. he presented it to me, with some salt, in a dish. there were eight lads in all, fine intelligent fellows, not serfs, but sons of freemen, small farmers and others: the occupation in which they were engaged is looked upon as honourable. it is highly exciting and interesting. their herds were feeding together near them. the moment one was seen to stray, one or two lads threw themselves on their own steeds, which they kept tethered near, and galloped off in pursuit of the straggler. they had, too, to defend their cattle from the wolves--often hazardous work. they offered me some milk, and then each lad helped himself to some potatoes; they had an abundance cooked, so that i was not depriving them of their food. they were all light-hearted and communicative. they told me how they had been startled in the night by unearthly sounds, and whence they proceeded they could not tell. "`not tell!' said one, looking up from his dish of potatoes. `we did not see what it was, but we can tell well enough. it was the _vodainoi_ calling to us from the neighbouring river, trying to tempt us to come near, that she might draw us into the water. she has drowned many people in that way. why she does it i do not know. perhaps she wants their souls to destroy them; perhaps their bodies, to eat them. she is very beautiful, all clothed in green garments, glittering with jewels. she is never seen in the daytime--very seldom at night. no one would wish to see her, for she is certain to deceive all she meets. the only chance of escaping is to clasp the cross, and pray to our patron saint; even then she will try to tempt the unwary to let go the cross, and cease praying. oh! she is very vile, with all her loveliness.' "`what you say is very true, i doubt not,' said another lad, `but the sounds we heard last night were as likely to have come from the wood as from the water. now, to my mind, it was the _leechie_ calling to us from the forest. he is as bad as the _vodainoi_, and ugly instead of handsome. anybody seeing him is frightened, and runs away; so far he can do much less harm. he is a great brown monster, the colour of the bark of a tree; he never appears in the day, and at night always keeps out of the moonlight, as if he was afraid of anything bright. he does not shriek out like some other spirits, but goes moaning and groaning about the forest as if he was in pain. so it will be to the end of the world; he never sleeps and never dies. some time ago little koulik, the cobbler of our village, was returning home at night from his brother's cottage, three versts off, where he had been to the wedding of a niece, when just as he came to the wood by the side of the hill he saw a _leechie_ looking out at him from among the trees. he did not cry out, for he is a brave fellow, but tried to pass this evil spirit as fast as he could. he did not think of his cross, though, and he did not say his prayers, so the _leechie_ caught hold of him, and kept knocking him about, against the trunks of the trees and over the fallen branches and roots, till he had scarcely a whole bone left in his body. the _leechie_ did not say a word, but only went _clack, clack, clack_, and chuckled with pleasure. poor koulik was almost dead with terror and pain, but still he never thought of his cross. had the _leechie_ once got him well inside the forest, i do not know what would have become of him. he would probably never have been seen again by mortal man. he had just sense enough to keep outside, and when he was driven in to run out again, till at length the dawn appeared, and the _leechie_ left him. more dead than alive, he had just strength to crawl home and take to his bed. next day he went to the priest, and the priest asked him if he had thought of his cross, and said his prayers. he confessed that he had not. "then you only got your deserts," said the priest; "how can you expect to be protected from evil spirits if you do not pray to the saints, you infidel? do you think they would take the trouble of looking after you if you do not pray to them and bring them offerings to their shrines?" frightened out of his wits and deeply penitent, poor little koulik promised to buy two dozen wax-tapers at least, as soon as he could scrape together the money, and to bring them to the shrine of his patron saint. the priest told him if he did this the _leechie_ would not dare to attack him for a whole year or more.' the other young lads seemed deeply interested with this story of their companion, and to believe it implicitly, so i took the opportunity of explaining to them the folly, not to say the wickedness, of such a superstition. i told them that in this instance the appearance of the _leechie_ was easily explained. the cobbler koulik had, without doubt, taken more vodka than his brain could stand, and that in his tipsy state he had fallen against the trunks and roots of the trees and hurt himself. the priest ought to have known this. if not, he was a blind leader of the blind. if he did guess it, and knew better than to believe in such folly, he was worse, and designedly imposed on the people. i told them that a belief in ghosts and goblins and omens, and such like things, was a sin, and showed a total want of faith in god's guidance and providence. they were all lies and inventions of the evil one, and were introduced into the world by him to deceive and mislead human beings. the lads listened to me attentively. much more i said to the same effect. i urged them to think of what i had said, but not to talk about the matter to strangers till they were convinced i was right. how i longed to have a bible to give them, but i could not spare mine. some of them could read, but they had never even heard of the book, and knew not that the religion they professed was drawn from it. i grieved to part from these fine lads. i wished them farewell. they did not inquire who i was or whence i came, but i won their hearts by speaking to them the truth. they were ready to do anything for me, and one of them insisted on lending me his horse and accompanying me part of my way. this was a great help to me, because i got over the ground three times as fast as i could otherwise have done, and could besides venture to travel during the daytime, as a person on horseback with an attendant would be less suspected than a poor wayworn traveller on foot. thankful for the assistance so unexpectedly afforded me, i set off with my young companion. he was one of the most intelligent of the lads, and full of life and spirits. vacia was his name. he told me he was an orphan: he lived in the house of a neighbouring proprietor, more as a servant than as an equal, though his parents were both noble, he believed. he never knew them. `ah! i wish that i had some one like you to live with,' he exclaimed; `i would go with you round the world.' i was pleased with the lad's warmth. `i am but a poor man myself,' i answered, `very poor, vacia; believe me, i could not afford you protection.'--`i care not for that; i like you much, very much; not for what you appear, but for what you say. you speak wisdom;--you speak to my heart.' i told him where i got that wisdom; that i spoke not of myself, but that i spoke from the bible, and that all who would go there would get the same. we rode on talking thus for many versts. i at last reined up my horse and reminded him that he must return home, that the horses were not his, and that i had no right to tire them. "`oh, the count would not object to my thus using them,' he answered. `he is not unkind, understand. i am grateful to him for many things, but i cannot love him. he has no soul--he cannot talk to me--he never reads--he has no thought except as to what he will eat and what he will drink. he esteems his cook more than his wife--more than any one. who can love such a man?' "i fully entered into young vacia's feelings. `i should much like to have your company,' i replied; `you would make my days far more pleasant than they now are, and i might instruct you in many things you do not now know; but, alas! my young friend, this cannot be. my course is full of difficulties and dangers, and i must not let any one share it with me.' what i now said only increased the lad's ardour. difficulties and dangers he longed to encounter. he scarcely knew, however, what they signified. the danger was not death, but a protracted march to siberia, or the knout, and imprisonment--inflictions far more trying than wounds or death. `come, come, my young friend, we must part,' i exclaimed, throwing myself from my horse. `i am most grateful to you for your regard and for your kindness, but farther i will not let you go with me.' i was obliged to be firm. i gave him the reins of my horse. his was without saddle or bridle. he had guided it with a rough halter. when he saw that i was firm, he burst into tears. "`who shall i have to speak to me? where shall i again hear such words as you have uttered?' he exclaimed. "again i told him i was but a poor peasant, and that i could not help him. all i could do was to advise him not to rest till he had found a copy of that book which had given me such wisdom as i possessed. i knew not how further to afford him advice. "`i will, i will!' he exclaimed. `i will find that book before i rest from the search. when i have found it, i will not cease from studying it, and i will often think of you who told me of it.' "this thought seemed to console him. he told me that if i would let him ride one verst more with me he would then turn back. this i could not refuse; but he rode very slowly, and made the verst a very long one. at the end of it i dismounted once more, on the skirts of a wood, when, embracing my young friend, i charged him to return, while i plunged hastily among the trees. i hurried on that i might get into the depths of the forest before i should chance to meet any one who might have authority to stop me. for several more days i travelled on, across plains and through forests, till my provisions ran short. i wanted rest also. a few versts on was a village, but i dared not enter it till the evening, and i must then depart privately and speedily, before any inquiries might be made concerning me. i had plenty of money, so that i could always purchase provisions. i, one morning, had just entered a forest; i walked on through it till i suddenly found myself on the farther edge. it was on a slight elevation, and, as i looked down on the plain surrounding it, i recognised the village i was in search of. it was scarcely more than fifty versts from my native hamlet. in two nights more i might be there. i longed to push on, and for the moment i felt that i could reach the place by the following morning; but i remembered that by precipitation or carelessness i should make unavailing all my long-continued toils and exertions. of course every day, as i drew nearer home, i ran a greater chance of being recognised. i retreated, therefore, a little way into the forest, and climbing up into a tree, secured myself as usual, and fell asleep. those who have not toiled on, day after day, can scarcely understand the suddenness with which i could lose all consciousness in sleep, or the ease with which i could again awake at the slightest unusual sound. those placed in the position i so long have been in, can most fully appreciate the blessing of sleep." chapter fourteen. a russian village--danger of being discovered--providential warning-- flight--approach to his native village--horror on discovering his home deserted--encounter with old soukhoroukof--taken to his house--account of his parents--aneouta carried away--his agony--encouraged to rouse himself--plans for rescuing his parents and aneouta--sets off again-- encounter with zingari--old friends--a bold exploit--they offer to assist him--plan arranged. "i have given a far longer account of myself and my travels than i intended, gentlemen, but i wished to interest you," continued the stranger. "i trust that i have done so already. what i have further to tell you will, i hope, excite your sympathy and commiseration, and induce you to accede to the request i have to make. i awoke just before sunset, and descending from my tree hastened towards the village, now bathed in the calm glow of the evening. i knew the spot well. i had often been there. i recognised the little church with its gilt dome and blue and pink walls, the pride of all the inhabitants--the whitewashed houses of the richer villagers, and the rough log-huts, thatched with straw, of the poorer serfs. a sparkling stream ran by it, and green fields and orchards surrounded the place. it was altogether a flourishing little village. the stream ran from out of the side of the very hill from which i was descending. i stopped by its brink, and having enjoyed a draught of the clear, pure, cold water, i took off my upper garments, and washed away all signs of travel from my countenance. much refreshed, i proceeded. i had hopes of finding some one who could give me information about my parents. i walked on with as unconcerned an air as possible. first i went to a baker's shop, where i bought bread, but he scarcely knew the name of my village. i procured also some cheese, and salt, and dried fish. with a beating heart i made inquiries of those of whom i bought these articles, but not a particle of information could i obtain. at last i thought that people began to look at me suspiciously, and that it would be more prudent to take my departure. having come to this resolution, i went straight on, neither looking to the right hand nor to the left, and endeavouring to appear as unconcerned as possible. i had gone a little way when a person passed me as if running to reach some object before me. he did not look at me, but i heard him say, `hasten on, brother. tarry not to-night--you are suspected, and may ere long be pursued.' "`thanks, thanks; may our brother be rewarded by heaven,' i replied, without looking at him or altering my pace. to this day i know not the countenance of the man who gave me this timely warning. as soon as he had gone on some way, i began to walk quicker than before; and darkness having now concealed me from any loungers near the village, i hastened on as fast as my feet could carry me. young vacia's horse would have been truly welcome, still i dared not rest. never had i travelled on so rapidly. i had, indeed, two powerful motives to hurry my steps--fear of capture, and a longing desire to see my parents and my betrothed. i escaped the threatened danger. suffice it to say that, after another night passed on foot, i stood within half a verst of my father's door, yet i dared not venture into the village by daylight. i had hoped to reach it before dawn, but my weary feet refused to carry me along faster. i could gain no information of those i loved. all my friends whom i could trust had been removed. many new inhabitants had been sent to the place, and i was as a stranger on the spot where my childhood and youth had been passed. i lay concealed all day in a sheltered nook on the hill-side, which commanded a wide view in every direction, and would enable me to retreat should any one approach. how can i paint the anxiety of those hours, as i looked down on my native village, and recognised my father's cottage, and every spot i knew so well? i tried to discover any inhabitants moving about the door, but none came out whom i could see all day. evening drew on; the cows came lowing home to be milked, the horses were driven forth to their pastures, and the field labourers loitered in weary from their work. many a hearth in the village sent up its tiny wreath of smoke into the pure blue sky, but i could see none ascending from my father's cottage. forebodings of evil tidings grew upon me. it was impossible longer to curb my anxiety. i hastened down the hill, regardless of danger. no one observed me as i hurried on. the cottage stood in a small garden, railed off from a field. i ran across the field, leaped over the railing, and looked in at a window at the back of the dwelling. all was silent; no one was there. perhaps they may be sitting in the porch in front of the house, i thought. my sudden appearance will alarm them, though; but it cannot be helped. i got over the paling again, and with beating, anxious heart went round to the front. the porch was empty; the door was off its hinges. my heart sank within me. a villager was passing--an old man--i remembered his face well. he used to be kind to me as a boy, but he liked not our new tenets. "`what has become of loutich saveleff and his wife and their adopted daughter, my father?' i asked, with a trembling voice. "`do you belong to this place, as your voice informs me, and ask what has become of them?' exclaimed old soukhoroukof. `i always told my friend saveleff that the same thing would happen to him which has happened to his son, if he would persist in adopting the newfangled doctrines which have been so rife of late years. what has become of his son i know not. it is supposed generally that he is dead. he was a good youth, but fanciful and unsteady. not content with the old-established, well-approved religion of this country, but he must needs run after these new inventions, and get himself into trouble. well, i was telling you about friend saveleff. he had long been suspected of harbouring those doctrines, when lately it was discovered that he had given shelter to three or four convicted heretics escaping from justice. none of our old villagers would have informed against him, but some of the newcomers brought the matter before the _starosta_, who was obliged to look into it. he carried the matter, as in duty bound, to the steward, who, unfortunately for old saveleff, owed him a spite, and was but too glad to indulge his ill-feeling. the steward, morgatch (i will not say what i think of him), brought the affair up to our barin, the count. now the count is a staunch religionist, and wonderful orthodox; though between you and me, if his heart was looked into, he cares as little for priests and the good of the church as he does for the grand sultan of the turks. however, whatever that--hum!-- morgatch advises him to do he does. morgatch brought forward plenty of witnesses to prove that the heretics had been seen in saveleff's house, and that he and his wife and daughter had served them with food; and what is more, read out of the bible, and prayed with them. such atrocious crimes, of course, could not go unpunished; morgatch, to make sure of the condemnation of his victims, brought forward evidence to prove that, not content with holding those pernicious doctrines themselves, they had endeavoured to instil them into others. this, too, was clearly proved. saveleff had not a word to say in his defence, nor had his wife, but rather they boldly confessed and gloried in their crime. had they been serfs, their owners might have claimed them; but they were free, and the old couple, without the power of appeal, were condemned to be transported to siberia. no mercy was shown them on account of their grey hairs and their excellent character. they were sent off with felons, murderers, thieves, and traitors, to moscow. one consolation is, that ere this they have probably sunk down, overcome with fatigue and ill usage, and been released from their sufferings by death.' "i groaned as i heard these words; i had no questions to ask concerning my parents--the worst was revealed to me. `and aneouta, their daughter, what became of her?' i gasped out. `ah, poor girl, her fate was a hard one. she would have been transported also, but that--hum!--morgatch proved that she was a serf, the property of a brother of our barin's, the count; that her father and mother were serfs, and that she had never been manumitted, as old saveleff, who had adopted her, supposed. instead, therefore, of being sent to siberia, she was packed off without ceremony to her native village, to work in the fields, i suppose, or-- but what is the matter, young man? you are ill, surely,' continued the good-natured soukhoroukof, extending a hand to me, as he saw me at these words about to sink on the ground. "`oh, nothing, nothing,' i answered, trying to conceal my agitation, but in vain. "`young men do not look like that for nothing,' he replied. `come along--come into my house. you require food; perhaps a glass of kvass will do you good. come along,' and seizing my arm he led me, scarcely conscious of where i was going, to his own cottage. "had i had time for consideration i would not have allowed the good man to have run the risk of harbouring me. he made me sit down at his table, and gave me food, and the kvass he promised. i ate and drank mechanically. "`when did all this happen?' i asked, with a trembling voice. "`about a fortnight ago only,' he answered, looking very hard at me. `you seem very interested in the people; did you know them?' "`i did,' i answered, doubly agitated; `but oh, father, do not ask me questions; it can do no good.' "`i must ask you one. are you young steffanos saveleff, my old friend's son?' "`i am,' i answered, bowing my head. `and oh, father, i would not have entered your house had you given me time to think of the danger i might place you in; and you, i am sure, will not betray me.' "`speak not of it, my son. you have eaten of my loaf and my salt, and drunk of my cup, and you are safe. no one saw you enter, and no one need see you depart. rest a little while, and then go on your way. i must not venture to harbour you longer than a few hours. before daylight you should be far from this.' "`thanks, thanks, father!' i exclaimed. `and now you know who i am, will you advise me how to proceed? have i a chance of rescuing my parents, should they be still alive? you know that i am betrothed to aneouta. can i save her from the fate to which she is doomed?' "soukhoroukof leaned back in his chair and thought for some time. `i have an idea,' he exclaimed at length. `the emperor, our great czar, is about to be crowned shortly. on such an occasion he will surely grant the requests of his loving subjects. get a petition drawn up: go to moscow: present it. tell the czar your whole story. he will be interested. if he grants your petition, as he may, ask him boldly to increase the favour by enabling you to marry aneouta. say no more than that you are betrothed to a beautiful girl who loves you, and that difficulties which the czar alone can overcome lie in the way of your nuptials.' "`oh, my kind father, the advice you give is excellent,' i answered; `but thousands will be offering similar petitions, and what chance shall i have?' "`you will have as good a chance as others,' he replied. `try and be one of the first. but i doubt if many will venture to present petitions. the difficulty of reaching the city is great, and few, even if they wish it, will be allowed to go, while those who dwell there are not likely to have any petitions to present. try your chance, at all events.' "`i will, i will,' i exclaimed, grasping eagerly at the proposal, as a sinking man does at a straw, though i had little hope of its success. `but how shall i reach moscow?' i asked. `it is a long, long way, i fear, from this.' "`go to the banks of the volga; you will there find steamers going up to nishni; get on board one of them, and your way will then be easy.' "i warmly thanked the kind soukhoroukof for his advice, and rose to take my departure. i was unwilling to jeopardise him by remaining a moment longer under his roof than was necessary. `one thing more i would wish to speak about before i go,' said i, taking his hand. `oh, my father, if you would but study that book on which we place our faith, how happy, how wise it would make you!' "`well, well, my son, speak not of it. perhaps i do: i think not as i used to do. the times are evil. it is necessary to be cautious. i will say no more on that point. but i have another matter to speak to you about before you go. you will want money to prosecute your plans. i am a widower; i have no children left to me alive. the bones of my sons whiten many a battle-field. my daughters died giving birth to those who will be dragged off to the same fate;--slaves, slaves all. i have no one to provide for; i am rich--rich in gold, that is to say, poor in everything else. i can well spare what i give. take this purse; it contains two hundred roubles. it will help you on your way. heaven prosper you!' "my heart came into my mouth as the old man uttered these words. i could not reply to him; no words could have expressed my feelings; i took his hand, i bathed it with tears. i fell on his neck and wept. he saw how grateful i was; i would not have had him for a moment think me otherwise. `and a less sum than this would have purchased my aneouta's freedom,' i exclaimed; for i could not help thinking of my betrothed, though i did not in any possible way desire to withdraw it from the still more important object of saving my parents from worse than slavery--a banishment to siberia, or rather, a cruel death on the road. "`i think not,' answered my host to my last observation. `the brother of our barin, the count, who owns aneouta, is not likely to give her her freedom for any sum a poor man can offer; through the emperor, alone can you hope to succeed with him. he will not refuse to comply with any request made to him by the czar; depend on that. if you fail with the emperor then come back to me, and we will try what money will do with the barin. i will offer to pay the money for the poor girl's freedom, to adopt her. we must let her know, in the meantime, that she has still friends in the world, and that she must keep up her spirits. she must also endeavour to make herself of little value in the sight of the barin, her owner. she must feign sickness or foolishness, and disfigure her countenance, or refuse to work; a woman's wit will advise her best, though, what to do.' "`oh, my father, my father, you overwhelm me!' i exclaimed. `i will go and see her; i will carry your advice to her. it cannot be far out of the way; i will travel day and night not to cause any delay.' "`you may pass by the estate on your way,' answered my old friend, `but the danger is very great. any one seeking to speak to her is certain to be watched, and if you are captured, your punishment will be of the severest kind. they will knout you till you are nearly dead, and you will then be sent off to work for the rest of your miserable life in the mines of siberia.' `i know all that, but i will run every risk for aneouta's sake,' i answered; and so it was settled. in spite of the almost desperate state of my prospects, i felt my spirits rise with the hope of overcoming the difficulties which lay before me. soukhoroukof amply stocked my wallet with provisions, and before the end of another hour i had left my native village three versts behind my back. five days' hard walking would, i calculated, bring me to where i expected to find aneouta. my strength, i felt, would sustain me till i had seen her, and to see her i was determined at every risk. i would entrust to no one our friend soukhoroukof's message and advice. the idea occurred to me that if i could but get a horse i might push on more rapidly than i possibly could on foot, but how to secure one was the difficulty. to purchase one would require more money than i could spare, and it would be impossible to get one at the postmaster's without a pass. i should instantly have been questioned, and imprisoned till i could give an account of myself. indeed, the greater portion of my route lay along byroads, or no roads at all, across the country. morning was approaching, and i was getting very weary, for it must be remembered that i had taken but little rest the previous day, when i saw in the distance, reflected in the sky, a red gleam of light. it was a wild district, and i knew of no village in that direction, but it appeared to me to proceed from the burning of some cottage. `some woodman's hut, perhaps, has caught fire,' i said to myself, as i pushed onward. as i drew still nearer there seemed to be several fires, and i began to fear that an entire village, perhaps, was on fire. i determined, at all events, to ascertain the cause of the conflagration before i stopped to rest. i walked on, therefore, as fast as i could, and at length, having reached a slightly rising ground, i saw before me a number of tents grouped together, at a short distance from each other, and enclosed by a circle of waggons. outside the waggons were tethered horses, and donkeys, and mules, and several head of cattle. the whole encampment, even at that early hour, was astir: some persons were bending round the fires which had at first attracted my attention, busily employed in cooking; others were lashing up packages, filling panniers with the contents of the tents; while young lads were carrying round fodder and water to the horses and cattle. they might have been mistaken for a party of merchants going with goods brought from far-off provinces to the fair of nishni, but i recognised them at once as a band of zingari or gipsies, probably bound in the same direction. i had often met these people during the long period of my wanderings, and i was well acquainted with their habits. under certain restrictions from government they rove about the country, and lead a free and independent life of a purely nomadic character. they are not so wealthy as those who live in the towns, and sing on the stage and in public gardens; but they are more trustworthy, and have more rude virtues than their brethren of the city. oftentimes had i spent nights together in their tents when they knew that they were running some risk by sheltering me, and might, perhaps, have obtained some reward by handing me over to government. i was in hopes that i might find among them some of my former friends, so i resolved at once to go boldly among them. as i drew near the encampment, a number of dogs rushed out from beneath the waggons, and began barking at me furiously. the noise brought out several of the men, who came from among the tents, peering at me cautiously through the darkness. "`what do you want here?' asked one of them gruffly, calling back the dogs. "`shelter and assistance,' said i. "`you are not likely to find either one or the other here. we are moving from hence, and require no strangers.' "`lead me to your chief, then, and i will hear what he has to say,' i replied, in a confident voice. "`he is here,' said a man, stepping out from among the tents. `tell me what you require.' "there was nothing in the appearance of the man to distinguish him as the chief, except that his voice was particularly clear and firm, and there was an air of authority in his manner, as if he was accustomed to command. "`you are known to be kind to the persecuted and to the friendless, and i am one of those coming to seek your assistance.' "`you shall have what you require, my friend, if it is in my power to give it you,' he replied; `but come in here, and let me know more particularly what it is you require.' "he took me by the hand, and led me in front of a tent, where he made me sit down on a bale, which had just been prepared for loading a horse. "`we have met before, father,' said i, as soon as i saw his features more distinctly by the bright light of the fire. `it was some time ago, though, yet you will remember the circumstance, i know. the first snows of winter had just fallen, and a hard frost had set in, when one of your children strayed into the woods. on, on she went, thinking she was approaching your encampment, but was all the time getting farther from it. the evening was setting in, when she saw three huge animals moving towards her; they were wolves, ravenous with hunger. an armed man might well have dreaded to encounter them alone. i was, happily, in the wood, a houseless wanderer. i beheld the scene from the entrance of a rude hut i had just constructed to shelter myself from the inclemency of the weather. the sweet child stood petrified with terror--the savage beasts approached her--my fowling-piece lay by my side--i levelled it, fired, and brought the largest wolf to the ground. then loading as i went, i rushed forward with a loud shout, which made the animals stop to see whence it came. this gave me time to load and to shoot another through the head; the third took to flight, but i killed him also just as he was disappearing among the trees. the little girl stood staring at me with amazement, then burst into tears. i took her up in my arms, and wrapped a sheepskin round her. she was a sweet little creature. her features and her dress told me the race to which she belonged. i had seen the encampment in the morning; it was more than two versts away, but i was strong and active, and i knew i could carry her as far. she rested quietly in my arms, with all the beautiful confidence of childhood. i took my gun with me, and went gaily on over the crisp ground. in less than an hour i reached the encampment. there was joy and gratitude in the hearts of those to whom i delivered her. they had been searching for her in vain, and had already believed her a prey to wolves, which much infested that region.' "`ah, she was my own, my beautiful little azeota,' exclaimed, the gipsy chief, looking at me earnestly. `every circumstance you relate was told me then, i remember. but was it you did that brave act? was it you who saved my child? pardon me that i did not know you; you are much changed since then.' "`so i believe,' said i. `toil and anxiety have done their work on my features, i doubt not. i am glad of it in one respect, for though at times it may prevent my friends recognising me, it will more effectually guard me from being discovered by my enemies.' "`ah, my dear friend, my son, my well-beloved, i know you now, though,' exclaimed the gipsy, springing up, and throwing his arms round my neck, while his countenance exhibited the deepest emotion. `ah, my azeota, my sweet flower! i have lost her; death has taken her from me, but i am not the less grateful to you for what you did for her, and i thank the fates who have sent you once more to me that we may converse together of her. but tell me, how is it that you come here to seek me?' "on this i told him such part of my history as i thought would afford him interest, and informed him of my purpose of endeavouring to find aneouta, and of going on afterwards to nishni and moscow. "`i will think over the matter as we go along,' he replied; `we shall soon be on the move; you will ride along with me. but stay, you have had no food this morning, probably. here, kazan,' he cried, calling to a lad who was passing; `bring some provisions here immediately for this, my friend; your mother will give them to you--the best she has, tell her. then saddle my black mare, and bring her along with my horse; he will ride her.' "i thanked the gipsy chief for his arrangements. nothing could be more opportune than the encounter. the tribe were proceeding in the very direction i wished to go, and though i could have performed the distance almost as quickly on foot, i should now be enabled to do it without fatigue. i ate a hearty breakfast, and by the time it was finished, the gipsy's mare was brought to me to mount. accompanying the chief, i rode on to the head of the caravan. as he passed along the line he issued his orders in a tone which showed that he was accustomed to be obeyed, and this increased my confidence that he would be enabled to assist me effectually. there were nearly three hundred people, i calculated, altogether; quite a little army. some of the younger men and boys were on foot, lightly clad, with sticks in their hands to drive the horses and cattle; others were on horseback, while some of the very old men and women and children were carried in the waggons, which were driven by some of the men on foot. the story of my having preserved little azeota from the wolves had already got about, and as i rode by, i was saluted with expressions of gratitude, which were very satisfactory. i felt indeed thankful that i had again fallen among friends so well able to help me. at the time to which i allude, i had remained many days in the camp. i had conversed much with the gipsies on religious subjects, and, alas! had found their minds totally ignorant of the truth. though living in a land at least called christian, they knew nothing of that pure faith; they were almost destitute of any hope, any fear; this life was all they thought of. the future, eternity, was totally beyond their comprehension. they put their hands before their eyes as if to shut it out when i spoke of it. gradually i unfolded to them holy things; i spoke to them of the bible and its wonderful history, and by degrees they listened and were interested. finally, i believe that i made much impression on the minds of many of them. then i was once more obliged to fly for my liberty. still i often visited the zingari whenever i had an opportunity, and never was otherwise than kindly received by them. but to return to my late adventure with them. "we had ridden some versts, and the gipsy chief had long been silent, when he turned to me, and said:-- "`i have thought of a plan by which you may not only see your aneouta, but you may, if she will consent, carry her away from those who keep her from you. you shall disguise yourself as a gipsy, and, accompanied by one of the young women of the tribe, you will easily gain access to her, under the pretence of telling fortunes. if you can persuade her to fly from her persecutors, we will protect her. no one will suspect that you have gone to the house for any other purpose than collecting a few kopecks, or stealing chickens, perhaps; and who will think of searching for her with us?' "i saw at once the advantages of the plan proposed by the zingari chief, and yet i trembled at the thought of leaving aneouta so long among his people; not that i doubted they would protect her to the utmost of their power, but i feared she might suffer from the hardships to which she would be inevitably exposed. still i felt that i must wait to decide till i had seen my betrothed. for five days we travelled on with far greater ease than i had been accustomed to, so that at the end of the time i was fresher and stronger than when i fell in with the encampment. "but i am wearying you, sirs, with my long history, and i am sure that this kind gentleman, who has been interpreting for me, is completely out of breath." mr allwick smiled as he said this. "oh, no, no," exclaimed cousin giles, and the boys, and mr evergreen, in a breath. "we are very much interested. tell him to go on. we would rather hear his adventures than see all the sights in the place." the stranger bowed, and continued his narrative. chapter fifteen. disguised as a zingari--start on the expedition--minetta's fortune-telling--communicative serfs--a tyrant land-steward--outbreak of peasants--dreadful result--old scratchichna--discovery of aneouta-- their flight--stratagem of the zingari chief--aneouta left in the gipsy encampment--reaches the volga--voyage to nishni--conclusion of history--cousin giles promises to assist him. "the gipsy tents were pitched on a wild moor, surrounded by low, barren hills, about three versts distant from the estate of young barin peoter petrovitch, the owner of my poor aneouta. although my features are not at all of the gipsy cast, and any one examining them narrowly would at once have seen that i was no zingari, yet by dressing carefully in their style, and by having my countenance doubly dyed, and my beard shaved off, i certainly might hope to be taken for one by the casual passer-by. "the chief himself attended to the arrangement of my costume. he was a widower, and childless, but he had a niece, the child of a brother, whom he adopted. she was a clever, spirited girl, and gladly undertook to be my companion; indeed minetta--that was her name--fully entered into the spirit of the undertaking. it was arranged, also, that a little lad, her brother, should accompany us. i described aneouta to them both, so that they might know her at once should they meet her. my countenance had been so altered by the dye and paint that i looked quite an old man, and no one could possibly recognise me. whatever may be the faults of the zingari, they may be safely trusted with the secrets committed to their tribe; therefore, though every one in the encampment knew my object, i had no fears of being betrayed. "many a good wish was uttered as we three set off together on horseback. the chief had furnished me with a strong, active steed, which would carry aneouta as well as me, should i be so fortunate as to be able to bear her off unperceived. we rode on till we came to a copse, a quarter of a verst or so from the house of the young barin. "minetta and i then dismounting, left the horses under charge of her brother, and sauntering along in an unconcerned way, we approached the house. i had agreed to feign to be dumb, lest the tone of my voice should betray me. thus i knew i should be perfectly safe from detection, and even aneouta would not know me. our difficulty was to learn where she could be found. eagerly i cast my eyes about in every direction, expecting to see her among the work-people in the fields, but nowhere did she appear. minetta had a good excuse to go among them, to offer to tell the girls their fortunes. they were not unaccustomed to such visits, apparently, for they smiled and laughed as she talked to them, and willingly held out their hands that she might read their fate by the marks on their palms. she cleverly adapted her promises according to the age and appearance of each, and seemed to give universal satisfaction. after she had gained their confidence, she began to put questions to them, to which they seemed fully willing to reply. first she spoke to one; then to another a little way off; and what the first told her she made use of with surprising facility, as if she had been long informed of it, to draw information from the second. i listened with painful eagerness to all that was said to her, but for a long time she could elicit nothing which could give me information about aneouta. at length she got nearer to the subject. "`surely all the girls of the estate are not in the fields to-day?' she said. `not long ago i heard weeping and moaning, as from one in pain or grief. the sounds came a long, long way through the air, even to where i then was standing, many versts away from this.' "the girls looked at each other. "`yes, you are right,' said one. `it was a maiden who had gone away from this when a child, and thought herself free, but she was mistaken; and the barin, our lord, is fond of keeping all his people about him, so when he found it out, he had her brought back. poor thing, she was very unhappy, for she was taken from all her friends; but she will be better by and by. she will marry one of our young men, and then she will make new friends, and be reconciled to her fate.' "`ah, let any one beware who marries her,' exclaimed minetta, promptly. `i have read his destiny in the stars. he will speedily die. let him beware, i say.' "the girls looked at each other with horror, resolved to warn all the young men in the village of the fate they might expect if they wished to marry the new-comer. "`then she has not yet been sent out into the fields to labour?' she continued. `i thought not.' "`oh, no, she is still in the overseer's house,' answered one of the girls; `she has plenty of work there, for he is a hard man, and not likely to excuse her because she is weak or ill. for my part, i would rather be in the fields, where at least we have freedom to talk, and laugh, and sing as much and as loud as we please, at least as long as the land-steward keeps away from us. when he comes all are dumb and grave. if we talk, he thinks we are plotting mischief; if we laugh, he fancies we are laughing at him. he is miserable himself, and he wants to make everybody miserable also.' "`why is that?' asked minetta. `he is well-to-do in the world--a good house, and plenty to eat and drink.' "`ah, but he is always in terror of his life,' answered the girl. `before he came here he was steward of an estate owned by a barin and his wife, who were the most grinding couple in all the country round. they starved their house serfs, and ground every moment of work out of the peasants that the law would allow. no other man but gavrillo, our land-steward, would have lived with such people, i verily believe. the mujicks bore it for many years, not without complaining and grumbling, but without trying to right themselves. at last they could bear it no longer. a bad season came, and they were starving, and when they complained, they were only ground more and more; so they rose up with arms in their hands, and attacked the barin's house one morning, just before daylight, and the barin put his head out of the window, and they shot him, and he fell down into the road; and when his wife looked out to see what had become of her lord, they shot her too. when they were certain that they were both dead they went off to the house of gavrillo, intending to shoot him also. he, however, hearing the shots, guessed that something wrong was happening, and, mounting his horse, galloped away as hard as he could go. the mujicks saw him, and followed. they thirsted for his blood; and as they well knew that no mercy would be shown them, they were determined to have it. they followed him across fields, and there they kept up with him. then he reached a plain, a wild heath, and he distanced them, but at the other side of the heath was a wood--he must either skirt it or go through it. fear drove him through it, and they rapidly gained on him again. they now were almost sure that they should catch him, but as they got to the farther edge of the wood they saw him tearing along, his horse all foam, and his clothes in shreds, and his hat knocked off, a quarter of a verst or less before them. shots were fired at him, but the bullets missed. a broad and rapid river was before him. they thought that they should now certainly overtake him, and already they fancied their revenge secure, when he reached the bank. he hesitated not a moment. he heard the infuriated mujicks behind him--their cries of rage and fierce threats--and saw the broad rapid stream before him. death from behind was certain. the water might float him--he urged in his horse--the animal was strong and fearless. bravely it swam on, encouraged by its master's voice. shot after shot was fired at him--still he held on. he was mounting the one bank when his pursuers reached the other, uttering cries of disappointed hate. he shook his clenched fist at them, and galloped on. he did not stop nor think himself safe till he had reached the nearest town. he there gave notice of what had occurred, and the governor sent off for troops to punish the rebels. the mujicks, meantime, with shouts of vengeance, went back to his house. his wife and children were within, and a hoard of his ill-gotten gold. they could not fly. he had had no time to secure his gold. the mujicks surrounded the dwelling, and closed the doors that no one might escape. there was a shout for faggots, dried branches, logs of wood. they were brought, they were piled up round the house, and a fire was kindled on every side. it blazed up fiercely. it crackled, and hissed, and roared. there was a strong wind: the cries of the inmates were overcome. soon the smoke stifled them; and gavrillo, when he returned with the troops many days afterwards, found nothing but a heap of ashes where his house had been. the mujicks then burnt down the house of their lord and emptied his granaries, and then dispersed in every direction. not an inhabitant was left in the place. even the old men and the women and children were carried off. some of the latter, alas! were soon captured and cruelly treated, but many of the men escaped to the distant steppe, and there, banding themselves together, robbed and plundered all they could venture to attack. that is the reason that gavrillo is so melancholy and morose,' said the girl. "`enough to make him so,' answered minetta. `but has he not married again? who takes care of his house?' "`oh, no, he has taken no second wife. i should pity the woman to whom should fall such a fate. he has a blind and deaf old woman who takes care of his house, and i suppose he thinks if his house was again burnt there would be no great loss if she was burnt too. she is as sweet tempered as he is. a pretty life poor aneouta will have with her.' "`and gavrillo himself, where is he?' asked minetta. "`oh, he is away from home just now--gone to see after the sale of some timber; and the barin is away on his road to moscow, and won't be back till after the grand doings at the coronation of the czar, and that makes us all so merry, you know.' "minetta had now heard all she required--so had i. the barin's absence would enable me the better to carry off aneouta; at the same time i fancied that he might make out a good story to the emperor, and persuade him to disallow my petition when he found that i was interfering with one whom he claimed as his serf. the zingari chief, however, who knows the world well, afterwards told me that i need have no fears on that score, and that if the czar grants my petition no one is likely to interfere with me. well, minetta and i left the field highly satisfied with the information we had obtained, and betook ourselves to gavrillo's house. the old woman, his housekeeper, sat in the porch knitting. the girl we had spoken with had in no way done her injustice; a more unattractive female was never seen. i groaned as i thought that my poor aneouta should have been committed to the charge of such a being. a brown handkerchief was tied over her head: from beneath it escaped a few straggling white hairs. the eyes in her parchment-like countenance were scarcely perceptible, while her mouth was garnished with two yellow bones, which did the duty of teeth; her feet were encased in straw shoes, and her entire dress was of a dark hue, obtained by age and dirt. there was not a spot of white about her. "`what do you want here?' she growled out, as she saw us approach. "`to tell your fortune, dear mother,' answered minetta, in the blandest voice. "`my fortune has been settled long ago, and a bad one it has been,' answered the old woman. "`the moon changes, and fine weather comes at last,' replied the gipsy, smiling. `those who are wise never mourn the past, but look to the future. see what wonderful things this age has produced! steamers, and railroads, and balloons--all you have heard of, i doubt not. even now the world is ringing with the latest and grandest discovery, made by our people, too. those only who come to us can benefit by it.' "`what is it, girl?' asked the old woman, with more animation than could be expected. "`what is it? what you, perchance, would like to have, if you could afford to pay for it,' answered minetta archly. "`how do you know that i cannot afford to pay? tell me what your discovery is, and i will tell you whether i will pay for it,' croaked out the old woman. "`oh, no, no; you will not trust to it,' answered minetta. `there are others who will value the great secret more than you; i must keep it for them. farewell, mother;' and taking my hand, she began to move away. "`stop, stop, girl; let me know what it is,' cried the old woman, her curiosity fully excited. "still minetta went on. "`stop, stop!' again croaked out the old woman. "the zingari maiden pretended to relent, and stopped. "`well, mother dear, perhaps you would like to try the effects of this great discovery. often has the attempt been made, but in vain, to give back youth to age, to renovate the beauty which years and sickness have destroyed. the secret has been obtained. a liquid, distilled from the dew found on certain plants at early dawn, has that wondrous power. every day the effect is perceptible; the limbs become strong, the muscles vigorous, the cheeks fill out, the roses return, the eyes grow bright, the step elastic, the--' "`oh, give me some of it!' shrieked the wretched hag, stretching out her withered arms. `i'll try it!--i'll try it! what do you demand, girl?-- say quickly!' "`try it first, and as you prove its effects, then you shall reward me accordingly,' said minetta, producing a bottle with a colourless liquid from under her cloak. she poured out some of the liquid on a sponge, and held it to the mouth of the hag. in a few moments its effects were indeed perceptible; her eyes closed, her arms hung down, and she was in a state of stupor. "`what have you been about?' i exclaimed, afraid that some injury might have been done the old woman. "`no harm whatever,' she answered, laughing. `do you go in, and bring out your aneouta. i will watch here, and then the sooner we are away the better.' "with a beating heart, i sprang into the house. there were but five or six rooms. in the last i found a female, sitting with her hands crossed on her knees, looking on vacancy. she started on hearing a person enter, and gazed up at my countenance. i knew her by her figure; but, alas! grief and anxiety had sadly changed her features. still she was my aneouta. of that i was certain. eagerly, inquiringly, she looked at me. her eyes ran over my gipsy costume, then she once more gazed into my eyes, and springing up, threw herself into my arms. "`it is you--you, my steffanoff!' she exclaimed, in a voice that went to my heart. `tell me not that it is any one else. it is you--it is you. i know you through your disguise. the dark skin--the zingari dress--the white hair cannot deceive me. you have come to save me from this--to take me away--to carry me to your home. tell me that i do not dream. tell me that it is a reality i enjoy. tell me that it is you yourself i hold in my arms!' "`oh, my aneouta, it is indeed your steffanoff who has found you out-- who has come to carry you from this place,' i exclaimed, pressing her to my heart. `but there is no time to delay--i will tell you all by and by. we must be away at once, or we may be pursued.' "`yes, yes, i come. take me with you at once, my beloved,' she cried, pressing closer to me. `but ah!--old scratchichna, where is she? she will give the alarm, and clutch us with her claws, till some one comes to stop us!' "`fear not about her,' i answered, as i led her out of the room and into the porch. `see, she will not stop us.' "the old woman was sitting as i had left her, perfectly unconscious. certainly she did not appear as if her youth was returning; she looked far more as if death had overtaken her. minetta stood over her, and as we were going, applied the sponge once more to her nostrils. "`she is not dying, i trust?' said i. "`oh, no, no!' answered minetta, laughing. `she will come very soon to herself, and then sit quiet, indulging in the fancy that she is growing young again, forgetting all about her charge and us. when she finds that this bird has flown, she will give such a confused account of the matter, that no one will know what has occurred. good-bye, old mother-- you do look very young, certainly!' minetta laughed in a peculiar self-satisfied way as she said this. "minetta having thrown her own cloak over aneouta, which much assisted in disguising her, we hurried towards the copse where we had left the horses. anxiously we looked around on every side to notice if any one was watching us, but the peasants were in the fields, and we carefully avoided the high road and the main street of the village. we found the lad with the horses all safe--no one had come near him. things may be done in a thinly-peopled country which could not occur in the denser population of a town. taking up aneouta on the horse before me, away we galloped--my heart lighter than it had been for many a year. still i knew that the time might be far distant when i might hope to live with her in peace and security. "we were cordially welcomed by the zingari chief and his people, who seemed to take an especial interest in the achievement we had accomplished. its success was, i confess, entirely owing to the tact and adroitness of minetta. the means she took were, however, not such as in my calmer moments i could in my conscience approve of. "the zingari chief received aneouta as a daughter. `you shall eat of my bread and dwell in my tent, and occupy the place of one who is lost to me, till your betrothed comes to claim you,' said he, taking her hand. `minetta will be your companion, and she will tell you many things to make the hours pass lightly away.' "soon after we reached the encampment the orders were given to strike the tents, that we might remove to some distance before nightfall. of course we knew that directly gavrillo, the steward, returned, he would make every effort to discover what had become of aneouta. the chief had placed her carefully in a covered waggon, when he asked her for her mantle and the handkerchief she had worn over her head. he took them, and rolling them up, gave them to the young lad who had been with us. i asked him as we rode along why he had done this. "`the river which passes near the village is deep and rapid; i have told him to go there as soon as it is dark, and throw them on the bank. their being found there will effectually mislead the steward, who will believe that aneouta has drowned herself, and will make no further search for her.' "in the hopes that this stratagem would succeed, my mind was relieved of a very great anxiety; for i was certain that if it was known that aneouta had taken refuge among the gipsies, and she was demanded from them, they would not venture to retain her. i expressed my fears to the chief. "`we will see to that,' he answered, laughing confidently. `they cannot prove that she is among us, and they may come and search through every tent, and not discover her if she desires to remain concealed.' "`how can that be?' i asked. "`by disguising her, so that she will become like one of ourselves,' he answered. "`you could not disguise me,' i answered; `she knew me at once.' "`ah, the eyes of love pierce deeper than any other eyes,' he answered; `besides, aneouta's features are much of the zingari cast, and her eyes are dark like ours. depend on it, we will disguise her so that no one will know her. if any come to look for her, we will tell them to come and search, and take her if they can find her. depend on it they will fix on the wrong person rather than on her.' "the perfect confidence of the zingari chief very much assured me, if it did not do so completely. when we encamped at night, i gave aneouta a rapid account of all that i had gone through, and all i proposed doing. the watch-fire, by which we sat, had almost burnt out before we had ceased talking, and i had not then told her half i had to say. when i informed her that my great object, the sacred duty i had imposed on myself, was to try and rescue my parents from the cruel fate to which they were condemned, she at first eagerly besought me to let her accompany me, and endeavour to aid in the object. however, this i soon showed her would be impossible, and she then willingly consented to remain with the zingari till i had accomplished it or found the effort hopeless. "`if you fail entirely, my beloved, then we will fly together to the far east,' exclaimed aneouta warmly; `for rather would i live among the wild tribes of the tartars in their rude tents than exposed to the fate from which you have rescued me in this country.' "i applauded her resolution--the same thought had been running in my own mind. to escape, however, from the confines of russia is a work not easy of accomplishment. i will not detain you longer with an account of our progress towards the volga. we were not pursued, and we had reason to fancy even that the zingari were not suspected of carrying off aneouta. probably the chief's trick succeeded, and she was supposed, in a fit of despair, to have thrown herself into the river. at last the time came that i must part from aneouta. sad as it may seem, i with more confidence left her under charge of those wild, untutored children of the desert, than i would with many who profess the tenets of christianity. i neither exacted nor received any oaths from the chief and his people. "`your betrothed will be safe, as far as we have power to protect her, while she remains under our tents; and i hope, my brother and my friend, when you return, to deliver her to you with renewed strength and spirits,' he said, taking my hand. "all the tribe assembled to wish me farewell. i will not describe my parting with aneouta. our mutual grief can better be imagined. while journeying with the zingari, i had retained their dress. i had now again taken the stains from my face, and habited myself as a mujick. i stood at length on the banks of the mighty volga among a crowd of travellers, waiting for the appearance of a steamer which was to touch at that village. i had been travelling lately with so much ease and freedom from care, that i forgot my present position. i was again in danger. i might be asked for my pass. not having one to show, i might be stopped, and sent to prison. i had fastened my money about my body, but i kept a few roubles ready at hand in case of necessity. there is nothing like a bribe in russia to alter a person's vision--black is made white, and white black. i had never before seen a steamer. i was struck with amazement when i beheld the astonishing sight. on it came, gliding over the surface of the river, like a huge swan, without apparent effort. when it drew nearer i saw that it had huge wheels driving it along. i could scarcely contain my admiration; yet it would not do to exhibit it, lest i should appear a novice in the world. when the vessel stopped, people rushed on board; i followed them. they were all too busy about their own affairs to think of me. i passed on with a number of mujicks into the fore part of the vessel, where we stood huddled together like a flock of sheep in a pen. everybody was talking, or laughing, or making a noise of some sort. several had swallowed more vodka than their heads could stand, and were still more vociferous; but the confusion added to my security. i talked away as fast as anybody else, and tried to learn who people were, and struck up acquaintances with them, and i was so busy in asking them questions, that no one thought of asking me any. for several days we steamed on, living, and eating, and sleeping on deck; but the weather was fine, and it mattered not. i always have been happy in making friends wherever i have been, and on this occasion i fell in with a merchant, whom, from his remarks, i recognised as one of the molokani. although he took me by my dress only for a humble mujick, he had at first addressed me kindly, and i soon got into intimate conversation with him. he invited me to attend on him at nishni, where i might assist him in selling his goods. he told me, also, that he thought he could succeed in procuring me a pass, which would enable me to proceed on to moscow. he had been often to nishni, also more than once to moscow and saint petersburg, and through many other parts of russia. as he knew somewhat of the world, therefore, his advice was of much value. by degrees i learned to place confidence in him, and told him part of my history. he much applauded my plan of petitioning the emperor, but he advised me, if possible, to gain the friendship of some englishmen who were going to moscow, and would allow me to accompany them. in that way the pass he could procure me would be unquestioned, and they would afterwards probably assist me in gaining access to the emperor. he, too, would undoubtedly be willing to appear magnanimous in the sight of foreigners, and be more ready to grant my request. "there, gentlemen, i have told you my history; far more of it, i own, than i at first purposed. my object in so doing, you have, i doubt not, divined. i earnestly beseech you to allow me to accompany you to moscow, to remain with you while you are there, and to assist me in getting access to the emperor. every word i have told you is true. you will run none of the risks of offending against the laws of the country which russians in your position might do, while you will be conferring a great blessing, not only on me, but on my aged parents, and on my betrothed, and you may be the means of bringing, happiness to a whole family." "tell him that we are all deeply interested in his history, and that we believe it to be perfectly true," said cousin giles, as soon as mr allwick had ceased translating; "but that i do not see how we can assist him, as he proposes, while i certainly cannot suppose that we can in any way enable him to get access to the emperor." "i hope that you will allow me to plead for him myself," returned mr allwick. "i knew his parents. i have been to their village, and he himself is not a stranger to me. he recognised me this morning in the crowd, and that induced him to pay us this visit. the truth is, i have seen much of the molokani. a more inoffensive, earnest, religious people do not exist. when travelling in the south of russia with a gentleman, to whom i was attached as secretary, we have had thirty of them dining with us at once, and, though peasants of the humblest class, they have invariably behaved like gentlemen. their christianity has taught them not only to be kind and courteous to each other, but to put aside all dirty habits and customs, and i am certain that no persons in the most polished society would have acted in a more refined manner than they did." "if that is the case, and you are willing to be responsible for your friend, i, for my part, shall be happy to run any risk which may arise from our connection with him, and will most gladly give him every assistance in my power. he is a fine fellow, of whom any nation might be proud. tell him that we wish him every success, and will help him as far as we can. what say you, mr evergreen; do you agree with me?" asked cousin giles. "oh, certainly, certainly," answered mr evergreen, with his usual bland smile, "whatever you think right i think right also; so, mr allwick, tell him from me, that i will give him a helping hand whenever i can; and if we can get back his old father and mother from siberia, or rather from their way there, we will see what can be done for them." the stranger, as soon as mr allwick had told him what had been said, warmly pressed the hands of the englishmen, and placed them on his heart, to show the depth of his gratitude. mr allwick assured them that he was sure they were acting generously and rightly in thus affording the stranger their protection. so it was arranged that he was to return in the morning in his mujick costume, and be regularly engaged publicly to act as their servant. they proposed remaining another day in nishni, and then making a tour through the country, before returning to moscow for the coronation. chapter sixteen. cousin giles meets an old friend--excursion into the interior--fine view on the volga--scenes on the road--the count's estate--welcomed with bread and salt--the count's old-fashioned mansion--a fishing excursion--winter in russia--russian stoves--modes of keeping out cold--mode of dressing in winter--result of a snowless winter. "i know that man, i am certain," exclaimed cousin giles, as the travellers were on their way from their hotel to the busy part of the fair. just before them was a tall, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in a shooting-jacket, with a stout stick in his hand, and walking along with that free and independent air which generally distinguishes a seaman. "hallo, old ship! where are you bound to? heave-to till i can come up with you, will you?" sung out cousin giles, in a loud, jovial voice, which instantly made the person who has been described turn his head. his countenance brightened as he did so, and with extended hands he came back, and heartily shook those of our friend. "well, fairman, i am delighted to see you," he exclaimed heartily, "i am indeed; but what has brought you to this part of the world?" "the love of travel, and the pleasure of showing a small portion of the globe we inhabit to these young lads," answered cousin giles. "but i assure you, ivanovitch, i am equally delighted to meet you, though i should little have expected to find you acting the part of a country gentleman when last we parted on the deck of the _asia_." "i have been through a good deal since then, but we will talk of that another time," answered the russian in english, without the slightest foreign accent. "well, we have met most opportunely. i stopped a day at this place to see the humours of the fair, on my way to take possession of an estate which has lately been left me, and if i can induce you to accompany me, it will indeed be a satisfaction." "the very thing i should like; and as i know you are sincere, i will accept your invitation; but i have several companions, and i fear we shall crowd you," said cousin giles. the russian laughed heartily. "a dozen people, more or less, makes no difference in on? of our houses," he answered; "i shall be delighted to see them, and any more you may like to ask." "my present party, with a servant we engaged yesterday, are all i will bring," said cousin giles. "when are we to set off?" "to-morrow morning, at daybreak, to enjoy as much cool air as can be obtained. we shall get there in two days without fatigue." so it was all arranged. nothing could be more pleasant or convenient. the travellers would thus see country life in russia to great advantage, and be able to get back to moscow in time for the coronation. alexis ivanovitch, cousin giles' old friend, had been educated in england, and afterwards served for several years on board a british man-of-war, for the purpose of learning seamanship and navigation. several russians have been allowed by the british government to study on board their ships; and they have, with perfect impartiality, allowed turks, in the same way, to learn the art of naval warfare. it was while serving together afloat that cousin giles and alexis ivanovitch, now a count, had formed their friendship. towards evening of the second day the carriages of the travellers reached a village standing on a height overlooking that father of european rivers, the volga. the scene was a lovely one. the cloudless sky had a faint pinkish tint, while a rich mellow glow was cast over the landscape. far in the east, across the river, were boundless steppes, their verdant hue depending entirely on the dews of heaven, there not being a well or water-spring throughout their whole extent. to make amends for the want, nature has planted on them the juicy water-melon, which those only who have luxuriated on it, in a hot country, can appreciate. here and there might be seen the camp-fires of troops of cossacks, bivouacking for the night, or of herdsmen preparing to watch their cattle, or of haymakers, who go out there to prepare fodder for the winter food of their beasts; while in the west the eye wandered over ranges of hills, cultivated fields, and populous villages, with their grey wooden houses peeping out from among the trees. the village before them contained several neat houses; the gable-ends of all, formed of wood, and often tastefully decorated with carved work, being turned towards the road. on the river below them, gangs of bargemen, or _boorlaks_, were towing against the sluggish stream vast barges deeply laden with corn; the voices of the men, modulated by distance, rising in a pleasing chorus. others, again, were dragging along immense rafts of timber, cut from far distant forests, destined to construct navies in widely scattered lands; while craft of all sorts were steering their course up the stream, laden with produce for the extensive market then taking place. no sooner had the carriages stopped than a troop of villagers were seen approaching along the street, some with garlands, others with banners, those leading bearing in their hands large dishes. in one dish was a large black loaf, in another a pile of salt, on a third a jug of water. the men had flowing beards of patriarchal length and thickness, and were habited in long sheepskin garments, which gave them a comfortable, substantial look. they all bowed low as they approached the count, but he entreated them in a kind voice to rise and stand upright before him. "we come, most noble _goshod_, to offer you the congratulations of our village on your coming among us for the first time, and we beg to present you such poor food as we can supply, according to the ancient custom of our country," said the chief man of the party. the count having thanked them in a few kind words, cut some of the brown bread, which he dipped in the salt, and then drank a draught of the water, which was of delicious coolness. it was drawn, they told him, from a well celebrated for its purity, and which, even in the height of summer, had always ice on the shaft. this ceremony over, the count and his friends drove on to his mansion, about a verst farther within the estate. a long avenue of lime-trees conducted them up to the house, which was of considerable size, and surrounded by all descriptions of out-houses, in anything but a flourishing condition. the mansion was built partly of brick and partly of wood, with verandahs and galleries, and steps running round outside it, and odd little projections, and bits of roofs apparently covering nothing, and for no other object than to serve as ornaments. the land-steward came down the steps, making many low bows, and followed by a troop of servants in faded blue liveries, all of them endeavouring to imitate his movements with very ridiculous ill success. the count could scarcely restrain his laughter. "i shall have plenty of work here to get things shipshape," said he, turning to cousin giles. "my uncle, from whom i inherited this property, was a noble of the old school. state with him was of the greatest importance. he loved to make a show--not that he really cared about it himself, or had any large amount of vanity, but that he considered it necessary to maintain the dignity of his order. thus he kept up this useless troop of lazy varlets in faded liveries, when a good house-steward and two active footmen would have served him much better. i shall turn some of those fellows to the right-about very soon, and try to employ them in productive labour." while the count was talking they entered the house. everything within betokened the old-fashioned taste of the former owner. large sofas, numberless card-tables, high-backed chairs, huge, badly gilt picture-frames, enclosing daubs of most incomprehensible subjects, mirrors of all shapes and sizes, not one condescending to give a correct reflection of the human face. there was a large hall with a table down the centre, on which an ample meal was spread. at the upper end was a profusion of silver and glass, and two huge salt-cellars. below the salt-cellars were plates and knives and forks of a far more humble description. the house-steward came forward with many a bow, and inquired when his lord would condescend to dine. "as soon as dinner can be ready," was the answer; "but come, gentlemen, we will go up to our rooms and shake off the dust of our journey." the guests were shown by the house-steward to their bedrooms. they were very humbly furnished. all the grandeur had evidently been reserved for the public apartments. they came down to the dining-hall, when the count took his seat at the head of the board, and his guests arranged themselves on either side. a number of other persons then came in, retainers of some sort,--persons of an inferior order, at all events: among them was a man in a long green gown, yellow boots, a dark vest, and light hair straggling over his shoulders. he bowed low, as did the others, to the barin, the lord, and took his seat humbly below the salt. they all ate with the gravity of judges about to condemn a fellow-mortal to death. "i am glad that you have had an opportunity of seeing how russians of the old school lived," observed the count, turning to cousin giles. "i could not endure this sort of thing long, but it would not be wise to make too sudden changes. i shall in future only dine in state on great occasions, when it is politic to exhibit myself in public. we cannot all of a sudden introduce the freedom of the english. ah! you should indeed value your institutions, both public and domestic." the count was busy all the next morning in seeing his overseers, and receiving deputations from the inhabitants of the various villages on his estate, who came to welcome him, and bring the accustomed offering of bread and salt. he arranged, however, ample amusement for his guests during the day, by supplying them with horses to ride, and boats on a lake a couple of versts away from the house, where they caught a large supply of fish in a very short time. in the afternoon several visitors, who had been invited to meet them, arrived. they were proprietors, large and small, of estates ten, twenty, and thirty versts away. the count's own estate extended thirty versts in one direction, so that he had not many near neighbours. some of these gentlemen spoke english fluently, and had seen the world. fred and harry were delighted with them, and so especially was mr evergreen, they were so polite and polished, and so full of information. mr evergreen declared that he should be proud to be a russian, to be like them. "ah, my dear sirs, you should see russia during the winter," exclaimed baron shakertoskey. "it is then we are most full of life and vivacity. then nature kindly forms us roads, over which we are borne, gliding smoothly, at a rapid pace by quick-footed steeds; bridges are thrown across streams, by means which far surpass the art of man; and fresh fish, and flesh, and fowl are brought to market in the forms which they held when alive. fish stand up on their tails, as if about to leap out of the baskets where they are placed. sheep, oxen, and calves, rabbits and hares, look as if they could still run about, and fowls rear up their heads as if still denizens of the poultry-yard. a true russian winter is only to be found at moscow or in the interior. at saint petersburg, owing to the neighbourhood of the baltic, the wind which blows over it frequently produces a thaw or a partial thaw, even in the middle of winter. thus, as the wind shifts, so does the temperature rise and fall. with a west wind comes rain, and with a north-east a bitter cold; other winds bring fogs, and some, cheerful, bright frosty days, so that the inhabitants of that great city are liable to wind and rain in january, and frost and snow in april. still the thermometer of fahrenheit often falls to degrees below zero, which it seldom reaches in moscow. as in summer it often rises to degrees, we may calculate a range of temperature of degrees. this is a difference of temperature which would dreadfully try the constitution, did not people take very great precautions against it by the mode in which they warm their houses and clothe themselves. in moscow, when the winter begins, it commences to freeze in right earnest, and does not leave off at the beck of any wind which may blow. we consider it to begin in october, and to end in may--a period of six months--long enough to please the greatest admirer of ice and snow. we then, once for all, don our fur cloaks, caps, and boots, without which we never show our noses out of doors till the beginning of spring. we then also light our stoves and paste up our windows. you have seen a russian stove? it is worth examination. it is a vast mass of stone, which, though it takes a long time to warm, will keep warm for a much longer period without any additional fuel. the interior is like an oven, with a chimney, a long snake-like passage leading to it. as long as the wood continues to blaze the chimney is kept open, but as soon as it is reduced to ashes, the passage to it is closed, and the hot air is allowed to pass by numerous channels into the room. sometimes the outer air is allowed to pass through pipes over hot plates in the stove, and in this way fresh air, properly charged with oxygen, is supplied to the inhabitants. in large houses the mouth of the stove is in an outer passage or in an ante-room, while the front is a mere mass of china, or concealed altogether by looking-glasses or other furniture. one or more servants in large houses have the entire charge of the stoves. they fill them with wood the last thing at night, and light them some hours before the family rise in the morning. in the sleeping-rooms they are kept in all night. in the houses of the poor, one stove of huge proportions serves for every purpose. it serves not only to heat the hut, but to bake their bread, and for all sorts of cookery, and to dry their clothes, articles of which are generally seen hung up round it. benches are placed before it, where the inmates sit to warm themselves, while on a platform above it are placed beds, where, wrapped up in sheepskins, they indulge in idleness and heat--the greatest luxuries they are able to enjoy. to all our houses we have double windows: we paste paper over every crevice by which air may enter, and we fill up the lower part of the interval between the two windows with sand, into which we stick artificial flowers, to remind us that summer, with its varied-tinted beauties, will once again return. two or three doors also must generally be passed before the inside of the house is reached. thus, you see, in spite of the bitter cold in the outer world, we contrive to construct an inner one where we can make ourselves tolerably comfortable. we never venture out without being well wrapped up in furs, and then we move from house to house as fast as we can, so as to avoid being exposed any length of time to the cold. we have also large fires lighted in front of the places of amusement and the palaces of the emperor and nobility, where the drivers and servants may warm themselves while waiting for their masters. generally with great cold there is little wind; and people, as long as they are warmly clad and in motion, have no reason to fear its effects, but unhappy is the wretch who is overtaken by sleep while exposed to it. his death is certain. death thus produced is said to be accompanied by no disagreeable sensations, at least so say those who have been partially frozen and recovered, but i would rather not try the experiment. when the thermometer falls to or degrees below zero, it is time to be cautious. no one shows his nose out of doors unless compelled by urgent necessity, and when he does, he moves along as fast as he can--keeping a watchful look-out after that prominent and important feature of the human countenance. as no unusual sensation accompanies the first attack of frost on the nose, it is difficult to guard against it. a warning is, however, given by the peculiar white hue which it assumes, and immediately this sign is observed by a passer-by, he gives notice to the person attacked. `oh, father! father! thy nose, thy nose!' he will cry, rushing up to him with a handful of snow, with which he will rub the feature attacked, if, on a nearer inspection, he sees that it is in danger. of course people generally take the best possible care of their noses, so that the dreaded catastrophe does not often occur. we wrap up warmly, and leave only the eyes and mouth and nose exposed, so that nearly all the heat which escapes from the body has to pass through that channel, and thus effectually keeps it warm. "we russians are not so fond of violent exercise as are you english, and therefore we depend on the heat of our stoves and the thickness of our clothing to keep ourselves warm. we sometimes forget that our servants are not so substantially clad as ourselves, and while we are entertaining ourselves in-doors, they, foolish fellows, fall asleep, and get frozen to death outside the palace or theatre, or wherever we may happen to be. every year, also, people lose their lives by getting drunk and falling asleep out of doors. they may try the experiment several times, but some night the thermometer sinks to zero, and they never wake again. in summer, travelling is all very well, but in winter it is enjoyable; no dust, no dirt, no scorching heat. well covered up with warm skins, and with fur boots on our feet, away we glide, dragged rapidly on by our prancing steeds over the hard snow, fleet almost as the bird on the wing, and like the bird directly across the country, where in summer no road can be found. mighty streams also are bridged over, and we journey along the bed of water-courses; which in spring are swept by foaming torrents. the thick mantle of ice and snow which clothes our country forms a superb highway, which the inhabitants of other lands may in vain desire. the snow, which seems so cold and inhospitable to the stranger, is our greatest and most valued friend. it is like a fur cloak; it keeps in the warmth generated in the bosom of the earth, and shelters the bulbs and roots and seeds from the biting cold, which would otherwise destroy them. more than anything else we have to dread a snowless winter; then truly the earth is shut up by an iron grasp, and tall trees, and shrubs, and plants wither and die under its malign influence. the earth, deprived of its usual covering, the ruthless cold deeply penetrates it, and man and beast and creeping things suffer from its effects. oh, yes, we have reason to pray earnestly to be delivered from a snowless winter?" chapter seventeen. sports in winter--bear and wolf hunting--story of the miller and the wolves--other tales about wolves--shooting wolves from sledges--narrow escape from a wolf--breaking up of the ice on the volga--dreadful sight of a boat's crew carried away with the ice--loss of an old man on the ice--the russian bath--trial of vocal powers of two musicians. "but have you no sports in the winter season?" asked fred. "i thought that the country abounded in bears and wolves, and deer and game of all sorts. they are the sort of animals i should like to look after." "we have an abundance of bears and wolves, and of smaller animals too, but we are not very fond of leaving our comfortable homes to shoot them. sometimes, when a bear becomes troublesome in a neighbourhood by his depredations, the villagers turn out in a body to destroy him; and wolves are the enemies of all. in winter, when hard pressed by hunger, a flock of these are very dangerous, and numberless persons have fallen victims to their voracity. a dreadful circumstance relating to wolves occurred near this a few winters ago. "a miller, nicholas eremeitch by name, was, with his wife and children, returning from the neighbouring town to his own village, a distance of some twenty versts or so. he and his wife sat in the front part of the sledge; their children, well covered with skins, were behind, except one, which was in its mother's arms, another at their feet. their road lay partly through a forest, and partly across an open plain, now exhibiting one unbroken sheet of snow. the children were laughing cheerily, for though the frost was excessive, there was no wind, and the cold was scarcely felt. they had accomplished more than half their distance at a good rate. "nicholas eremeitch was well-to-do in the world, and he had a pair of good horses, which knew how to go over the ground. a common peasant would have driven but one, but he required them for his trade. he and his wife were conversing together on what they had seen in the town, when they were startled by a sharp yelp at no great distance off. "`is that a dog who has lost his master?' asked the miller's wife. "`no, wife, no,' answered the miller. `heaven protect us!' "as he spoke there was a rushing sound heard from far off in the forest. at first it was very faint; then it grew louder and louder. their sagacious steeds knew too well what caused the sound, and, snorting with fear, they started off at full gallop. there was no necessity for nicholas to urge them on. he, also, too well knew the cause of the sound. anxiously he looked over his shoulder. another yelp was heard, louder and sharper than before. they were just entering on the plain. another and another yelp rang in their ears, and at the same moment a pack of wolves, in a dense mass, were seen emerging from the forest. the affrighted steeds tore on. it was with difficulty the miller could keep them together. his wife clasped her infant closer to her bosom. the children looked from under their fur covering, and then shrunk down again shivering with fear, for they had an instinctive dread of the danger which threatened them. the stout miller, who scarcely before had ever known what fear was, turned pale, as the sharp, eager yelps of the infernal pack sounded nearer and nearer behind him. he had no weapons but his long whip and a thick stick. he clenched his teeth, and his breath came fast and thick, as the danger grew more imminent. with voice, and rein, and whip, he urged on his steeds, yet they wanted, as i said, no inducement to proceed. they felt the danger as well as their master. the miller's wife sat still, an icy coldness gathering round her heart. all they had to trust to was speed. the nearest _isba_ where they could hope for aid was yet a long way off; yet rapidly as they dashed onward, the hungry pack were fleeter still. a miracle alone could save them--from man they could expect no help. "`on!--on! my trusty steeds,' shouted the miller. `courage, wife!-- courage! we may distance them yet. trust in the good saints; they may preserve us. oh that i had my gun in my hand, i would give an account of some of these brutes!' "in vain, in vain the horses stretched their sinews to the utmost. fast though they flew through the air, the savage brutes were faster still. the miller's shouts and cries seemed for a short time to keep the animals at bay, but still they were gathering thickly around the sledge, singling out its inmates for their prey. "the poor children shrieked with terror as they beheld the fiery eyes, the open mouths, and hanging tongues of the fierce brutes close to the sledge. they fancied that they could feel their hot breath on their cheeks--the terrible fangs of the animals seemed every instant about to seize them. again and again they piteously shrieked out-- "`oh, father!--oh, mother, mother! save us!' "the miller frantically lashed and lashed, and shouted to his steeds, till his voice almost failed him. they could go no faster. already, indeed, their strength began to flag. `if they fail me at this juncture all will be lost,' thought the miller; `still i'll not give up hope.' "again he lashed his horses, and then he lashed and lashed around him, in the hopes of keeping off the infuriated animals, which now came thronging up on either side. as yet they had not dared to seize the horses; should they do so, all, he knew, would be lost. his wife, pale as death, sat by his side. she could do nothing but cry for mercy. she dared not look round, lest altogether she should lose her senses at the sight she dreaded to see. she longs to draw her elder children to the front of the sledge, but there is no room for them there; so, as before, she sits still, clasping her infant to her bosom. on fly the horses. the wolves pursue, growing bolder and bolder. there is a fearful shriek. "`oh, mother! mother! save--' "the cry is drowned by the sharp yelping of the wolves. on a sudden the pack give up the chase. the miller looks round to learn the cause. his eldest child--his favourite, titiana, is no longer in her place. the other children point with fearful gaze to the spot where the wolves are circling round, snorting, and gnashing, and tearing, and leaping over each other's shoulders. to rescue her is hopeless; to attempt it would be the certain destruction of the rest. flight, rapid and continuous, offers the only prospect of safety. faint, alas! is that. on--on he drives; but, oh horror!--once more the wolves are in hot pursuit. the sledge is again soon overtaken. fiercely the miller defends his remaining children with loud shouts and lashings of his whip; but what can a weapon such as that effect against a whole host of wild beasts? some of the fiercest leapt on the sledge. "`oh, mercy, mercy!'--another child--their darling boy, poor little peoter, is torn away. can they rescue him? no, no; it is impossible. they must drive on--on--on--for their own lives. even if they drive fast as the wind, will they preserve the rest? for a few short moments the wolves stop to revel in their dreadful banquet. the miller lashes on his steeds furiously as before. he is maddened with horror. on, on he drives. the poor mother sits like a statue. all faculties are benumbed. she has no power to shriek. scarcely does she know what has occurred. again the wolves are in full chase. two children remain alive, but they are exposed to the cold; their sheepskin mantle has been torn away. they are weeping piteously. with a frantic grasp the miller drags one up between him and his wife; but, alas! the other he cannot save. he tries, but ere he can grasp it by the shoulder, the savage brutes have dragged it down among them. a faint shriek escapes it, and its miseries are at an end. with whetted appetites the wolves again follow the sledge. the miller looks at the savage pack now almost surrounding him, and his courage begins to give way. but his wife is still by his side, and three children are unhurt. he may yet keep the wolves off; but if they once venture on the sledge, if once his arm is seized, he knows that all, all he holds dearest in life, must be lost also. still, therefore, he drives on, but he almost despairs of escaping. he has too much reason for his worst fears. impatient for their expected banquet, the wolves begin to leap up round the sledge, just as the waves of a breaking sea rise tumultuously round the labouring bark. in a few minutes all will be over. the miller knows full well that his horses will soon be seized, and then that hope must indeed depart. ah! the fatal moment has come. already a wolf, more famished than his companions, has flown at the neck of one of his horses. the animal plunges and rears in a frantic attempt to free himself from his foe. ah! at that instant the miller shouts louder than before--his courage returns--he lashes furiously at the wolf--the noble horse frees himself and dashes onward. "`we are saved--we are saved!' shouts the miller. `wife, wife, arouse yourself!' "far off he sees advancing over the snow a large sledge; it glides nearer and nearer. those in it see what is occurring. shot after shot is fired, and the wolves fall thickly around. dashing up at full speed, a sledge approaches. the miller almost shrieks with joy. for an instant he forgets those he has lost; yet only for an instant. he has the fond heart of a father. the sportsmen load and fire again. they have come in search of this very pack. the miller and the rest of his family were saved; but it was many a long week before he or his poor bereaved wife recovered from the effects of that day's adventure." "a very dreadful story indeed; very dreadful," observed mr evergreen. "do people generally get attacked by wolves when they travel by sledges in winter." "i think we may safely say not generally," answered one of the russian guests, laughing. "if such were the case, people would be inclined to stay at home. a story is current still more dreadful than the one you have heard. "a peasant woman was driving a sledge with several of her children in it from one village to another, when she was pursued by a pack of wolves. as the brutes overtook her, she threw them one of her children, to induce them to stop and eat it up, while she drove on. child after child was treated in the same way, till she reached a village, when the villagers came out and drove the wolves back. when the mother told her story, one of the villagers, in his rage at her inhumanity, struck her dead on the spot with his axe." "a very dreadful story, but i do not believe a word about it," said their host. "i do not believe that any woman would act so barbarous a part." "nor do i," observed cousin giles. "the slavers on the coast of africa are wont to play a similar trick when pursued by our cruisers. they will throw a live slave overboard at a time, in the hopes that the cruiser will heave-to or lower a boat to pick the poor black up, and thus allow them more time to escape." "we often go out on sledges expressly to shoot the wolves," observed an old country gentleman of the party. "we use large sledges, capable of containing several persons, and we provide ourselves with plenty of guns and ammunition. in one of the sledges a pig is carried, in charge of a servant, and there is also a rope with a bag of hay, which is dragged after the sledge. when we arrive on the ground where we expect to find the wolves, the bag of hay is thrown out, and the servant gives the pig a twitch of the tail, which makes it squeak lustily. now, wolves are especially fond of pork, and, hearing the well-known sounds, they hurry out of their fastnesses from all quarters, in expectation of a feast. as the brutes happily hunt by sight and sound, and not by scent, and being, moreover, foolish brutes, as the more savage animals often are, when they see the bag of hay they fancy that the pig must be inside it, and eagerly give chase. now the sport begins, and as the wolves draw near, one after the other they get knocked over by the guns of the sportsmen. we often kill numbers in that way, and thus get rid of most noxious animals. although their flesh is of no use, their skins are of considerable value, mantles and cloaks being lined with them. a wolf is a dangerous animal to meddle with when wounded. on one occasion i was out hunting, when we had killed some fifty or more wolves. on our return, we passed a remarkably large wolf, which lay apparently dead on the snow. one of our party took it into his head that he would like to possess himself of the skin, and, leaving the sledge, he approached the brute with the intention of flaying it. he was about to take hold of its muzzle, when the animal, resenting the indignity of having his nose pulled, reared itself up on its forepaws, snarling furiously. ere my friend could spring back, the brute had seized him by the arm, and was dragging him to the earth. in another instant his fangs would have been at his throat, when the sportsman plunged his knife into its breast. still the wolf struggled with his antagonist. we were afraid to fire, lest we should kill the man as well as the brute. it was a moment of fearful suspense. the life-blood of the wolf was flowing freely, but before he died he might have destroyed our friend. we drove to the spot as fast as we could, in the hopes of being in time to rescue our companion. as we were leaping from the sledge, the combatants rolled over. happily the man was uppermost. he drew a deep breath as we released him. "`i never wish to have such a fight as that again,' he exclaimed, shaking himself. `it must have lasted a quarter of an hour at least. how was it you did not sooner come to my assistance?' "in reality, not two minutes had elapsed from the time he reached the wolf till he finally killed it. his arm was somewhat lacerated, but his thick coat had saved him. it was a lesson to me ever after, not to go near a wild beast till i am certain he is put _hors de combat_." "the breaking up of the ice on the various rivers of russia is a time of great excitement," observed the count. "in an instant the natural bridges which the winter has formed are destroyed, often with little or no warning, and people are hurried down the stream on the floating masses of ice, frequently unable to reach the shore, till, one mass driven under the other by the fierce rush of waters, they are engulfed beneath them. i was one year at jaroslaf, on the volga, at that period. you, my friends, who were there at the time, will not have forgotten the circumstance. i was on horseback, riding along the banks of the river, to watch the huge masses of ice which came floating down the stream. sometimes they would glide calmly by, in almost unbroken sheets; then they would meet with some obstruction--either a narrow part of the stream, or a promontory, or a rock--and then they would leap and rush over each other, as if imbued with life, and eager to escape from the pursuit of an enemy. the rushing and crushing and grinding of the ice, and roar of the waters was almost deafening. the masses would assume, too, all sorts of fantastic shapes, which one, with a slight exertion of fancy, might imagine bears, and lions, and castles, and ships under sail--indeed all sorts of things, animate and inanimate. as i looked up the stream, my attention was drawn to a large black object, which i soon made out to be a vessel of the largest size which navigates those waters. she came gliding rapidly down--now stem, now stern foremost; now whirling round and round, and evidently beyond all control. to my horror, i perceived as she drew near there were several men on board. the current brought her close to the bank where i was. by the gaunt looks and gestures of the crew, i perceived that they were suffering from hunger. this notion was confirmed when the vessel drew still nearer. "`oh, give us bread!--oh, give us bread!' they shouted, in piteous tones. `we have had no food for these three days. we have been seven days thus driving on, and unable to reach the shore.' "on hearing this, i galloped along the bank, so as to get before the vessel, and succeeded in finding some bread at some cottages a little way on. the peasants willingly brought it out, and by my directions endeavoured to heave it on board the vessel. oh, it was sad to see the eager way in which the starving wretches held out their hands for the food, but in vain. loaf after loaf was thrown by the strongest men present; but the bread, which would have preserved their lives, fell into the water, or on to the masses of ice which surrounded the vessel, some few yards only short of her. i and others galloped on, in the hopes that she might be driven still nearer; but, as we thought she was approaching, the current swept her away again into the middle of the stream. it was a melancholy exemplification of the story of tantalus. there were those poor famished men floating down a river in the midst truly of plenty--for where can be found more fertile regions!--and yet they were unable to procure a mouthful of food to appease the pangs of hunger. "i endeavoured to devise some plan to send them help; but all the plans i could think of seemed hopeless. no boat could approach them, could one have been procured, or people to man her. a stone might have carried a thin line on board, but no thin line could be found. i asked for one at every cottage i passed, but in vain. at length, with a sad heart, i saw the vessel with her hapless crew drive by me. on she was whirled by the rapid current till i lost sight of her. i had but faint hopes of the people being saved. if, before starvation deprived them of all strength to move, the vessel struck on one of the banks, they might be saved. if not, they would be carried onward, down the stream, till she reached the caspian sea, where, perhaps, leaky from the crushing she had received from the masses of ice, she might go to the bottom; or, after knocking about for a long time, she might be picked up, the bones of her crew telling plainly their melancholy fate. "that very day, as i rode back, i witnessed another scene, which i shall never forget. high up the stream i descried an object on a large slab of ice which came floating down towards me. as it came nearer, i perceived a telega, a country cart, with a horse harnessed to it. near it i saw a human figure kneeling. by his side was a dog, which, from its attitude, even at that distance, i guessed was looking up into his master's face. so still were all the figures, that i might have fancied them a group chiselled out of marble. nearer drew the sheet of ice. i then saw that the figure was that of an old man; his cap had fallen off, and his long white locks were streaming in the wind. his hands were lifted up in prayer, and his lips moved, as if imploring aid from above. his faithful dog looked up wistfully and inquiringly, as if to say, `master dear, what is the matter?--how can i help you?' the old man seemed resigned fully to his fate, and not inclined to make an effort to save himself. he turned his head, and then saw farther down the stream a number of people, who were beckoning to him, and showing their anxiety to save him. at first when he saw them, he shook his head, and once more addressed himself to prayer. he had evidently given up all hope of being saved. but when the cheering voices of his fellow-creatures reached his ears, and he saw their friendly gestures, the desire to live returned, and he rose from his knees. in his cart were a number of long poles. he seized one of them, and stood balancing it in his hand, while he looked eagerly towards the shore. he called to his dog, `now, my faithful one, you and i have a dangerous work to perform. life or death depends on the course we take.' he approached the edge of the floe, which was now driven close to another large mass, and then whirled round again, a wide gulf being left between them. the poor dog whined, and drew back with dismay as he watched the eddying waters close before him. "`courage, courage, friend!' shouted the people on the shore, as the floe on which the old man stood approached another sheet of ice at that moment attached to the shore. `leap, leap, friend!' his tall sinewy figure showed me that he might justly in his youth have trusted to his athletic powers to save him from a similar predicament, but age, alas! had unstrung his nerves and weakened his muscles. he hesitated. again the people shouted, `courage, courage!--leap, leap!' he looked up to heaven for a moment, and then sprang forward. his dog followed. there was a shriek of horror; the treacherous ice, worn at the edges by the constant abrasion of the other pieces, was rotten and unable to bear the weight suddenly placed on it. it gave way ere he could take a second leap, and sank beneath him. one cry escaped him, and the wild foaming waters closed over his head. his dog, lighter of foot, reached the shore in safety, and was till his death in my possession." the guests gave a shudder at the recital. "we have had enough of tales of horror for one day," said the count. "have you ever tried our russian bath, fairman?" "no; i must confess to having neglected that duty of a traveller, who ought to taste every dish, go through every operation, and see every ceremony characteristic of the country," answered cousin giles, laughing. "i cannot fancy a roll in the snow after a hot bath." "whether it is injurious or not depends on the effect which the hot bath produces on the frame," answered the count. "every country mansion has a bath, placed near a stream, if possible. it is a very simple affair. the bath-house is divided into two portions. in the inner half is a large oven, and high up round the walls are rows of seats. in the oven are placed large stones which are completely heated through. in the room stand ready some buckets of water. the people who are to bathe then come in and take their seats on the benches, having left their clothes in the outer room; the door is closed, and the water is thrown over the hot stones. this fills the whole room with hot vapour, which thoroughly penetrates the pores of the skin. the bathers are then rubbed over with towels and brushes, and a profuse perspiration ensues, which continues till all superfluous moisture has exuded from the body. there is then, it must be understood, no lassitude, no weakness, such as is produced by physical exertion, while also perspiration has in reality ceased. the frame, therefore, is not liable to receive a chill, but is, on the contrary, strengthened to resist it. consequently, a person may either rush out into the freezing air and roll in the snow, or may plunge into a bath of pure cold water with impunity. for this purpose the bath-houses are, as i said, built near a stream or pond; and most refreshing and invigorating it is, after taking the steam-bath, to leap into the bright, sparkling stream. one comes out again like a new being, feeling capable of any exertion." cousin giles and his companions declared, after the description they had heard, that they should be anxious to take a true russian bath before they left the country. the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of some musicians and singers, who came expressly to amuse the company. the instrumental music was very good, and received, as it merited, an abundance of applause; but the great amusement of the evening was a contest between two rival singers. on their introduction they bowed to the company, which was composed evidently of persons much superior to them in rank. "come, friend nedopeouski, do you begin," said the count, addressing a tall man with a very quiet, almost sheepish expression of countenance. thus summoned, the singer, who had been standing for some time alone without uttering a word, began an air, which it was evident could only be accomplished by a person capable of reaching the highest notes. he soon showed that he was equal to what he had undertaken. it was wonderful the mode in which he played with his voice: it rose and fell, and swelled again, now seeming to come through the roof from the clouds, now scarcely audible; sweet and strong notes succeeded each other with rapid transition. then others present joined in chorus, and this seeming to encourage him to still further exertions, he quickly surpassed all his first efforts, till, utterly overcome, he could sing no longer, and would have sunk on the ground had not some of the guests, enraptured by the music, sprung up and caught him in their arms. loud acclamations of delight broke from every one present, and it appeared as if there was no use in his rival attempting to compete with him. on the speedy recovery of the first singer, the count, however, beckoned to him to begin. he rose and stood forward. at first his voice was weak, but his notes seemed to rivet the attention of his audience. as he proceeded, it became more and more animated, firmer, and fuller, exhibiting a wonderful combination of freshness, sweetness, and power; so exquisitely plaintive, so overflowing with poignant grief--for it was of a melancholy character--that tears, sobs, and groans broke from the breasts of most of his audience. it was truly the triumph of song over human feelings, and the palm of victory was unanimously awarded to the last singer. "i am glad you heard these singers," observed the count, as his guests were retiring for the night. "we russians are celebrated, i believe, for our musical talents, and i think you have heard a fair specimen of them this evening." chapter eighteen. preparations for a hunt--ride to cover--account of an insurrection of peasants--game breaks cover--fred and harry lose their way--chase a stag--desperate encounter with a she-wolf--harry's bravery--saved by saveleff the molokani--the count promises to assist saveleff--return to moscow. a fine bright morning, which ushered in the day appointed for the hunt, gave promise of much amusement. breakfast being over at an early hour, the count and his guests mounted the horses, which were led forth in front of the house by high-booted, long pink-shirted, wide-trousered peasants, looking as unlike english grooms as a polar bear does to an opera-dancer. cousin giles was not a bad horseman for a sailor, and the lads were delighted with the steeds provided for them; but mr evergreen had great doubts whether he should risk his neck on the back of an animal with which he was unacquainted. the count, however, assured him that the horse selected for him bore a very good character for quietness, so at last he persuaded himself to mount. people of all ranks came from far and near to join the hunt. they were dressed in all sorts of costumes, partaking much of a military character, and the steeds which they rode were as varied in character as their masters. some were more like chargers and cart-horses than hunters of the english stamp; the greater number were little cossack horses not bigger than ponies, with long tails and shaggy coats. "don't laugh, my friend," said the count to cousin giles, as five or six tall picqueurs, in splendid green-and-gold liveries, rode forth on the above-described style of little steeds, driving before them a number of dogs of a most mongrel appearance, at whom a pack of aristocratic english hounds would most certainly have turned up their noses. "you see, my predecessor was of the old school, and i do not wish to make any sudden changes in matters of small importance, lest i should be considered to hold his memory in slight esteem. by degrees i hope to make improvements, but sudden changes do not suit this country." a large number of persons, very picturesque in appearance, had now collected in front of the mansion. the huntsmen blew their horns and cracked their whips, the dogs barked and yelped and gave tongue in a variety of ways, the horses pranced and kicked, the peasants shouted, and the whole party set off towards the spot appointed for the meet. a ride of three or four versts brought them in front of a dilapidated building on the borders of a wood. "that house was erected as a hunting-box by one of my predecessors many years ago," observed the count. many hundreds of people used to assemble here in the olden days, to hunt in a style of magnificence which has now become obsolete. open house was kept, and all comers were welcome. intimates of the family, or those of rank, were accommodated inside, some in beds and some on the floor, while others bivouacked outside as best they could under arbours of boughs or beneath the vault of heaven. they used to hunt all day and feast all night for a whole week or longer, without intermission. from the secluded position of the place, it was for many months of the year totally unvisited. there existed at that time three or four landlords, owners of large numbers of serfs, whom they treated with great harshness, if i may not, indeed, say with much barbarity. for long the unhappy people groaned helplessly under their tyranny, which was made yet more severe by the cruel and grasping dispositions of their overseers. the laws existing for the protection of the serfs were in every way evaded, and every kopeck which could be wrung from them was exacted without mercy. a worm will turn on the foot which treads on it. the man who had charge of this house was educated above his fellows. he had read in history of peasants, poor and simple men, revolting against their rulers when tyrannised over to excess, and thought and meditated on what he had read. at length he persuaded himself that he could emancipate his fellow-serfs from tharldom, and enable them to avenge themselves on their tyrants. he opened his plans at first to a few, and by degrees to others. they used to assemble at this house, where there was no fear of their being disturbed. often they met, and much they planned, till they believed, their plans were ripe for execution. at first they drew up a remonstrance, which in the humblest manner they presented to their masters. it was treated with the bitterest scorn. they resolved on wreaking a dreadful vengeance on their oppressors; they supplied themselves with fire-arms--how procured the authorities could not discover--others armed themselves with scythes, reaping-hooks, hatchets, pikes, and weapons of every description. with these in their hands they rushed through the district, calling their fellow-serfs to arms. the call was answered by many; others hung back, dreading the consequences should the outbreak prove unsuccessful, as the more sagacious knew it must be. still many hundreds, i might say thousands, rose to wreak a fearful vengeance on the heads of their lords; but they had no one capable of commanding them. they murdered all the inmates of the first house they attacked, and burned it to the ground. they rushed from house to house, burning, murdering, and destroying all that came in their way. for many days they set all authority at defiance, and there appeared no power capable of stemming the torrent of their fury. "in the meantime, government, having notice of what was taking place, was sending down troops at once to crush the insurrection. the largest body of the insurgents were met by the troops, and quickly breaking, were driven before them like a flock of sheep, the greater number being slaughtered without mercy; the remainder threw themselves into this house, resolving to defend themselves to the last. it is said they made a brave resistance, but the building was stormed, and not one of its defenders was left alive to tell the tale. the house has ever since remained in ruins, and shunned by all the peasants in the neighbourhood. several similar outbreaks have occurred at different times among the serfs, with similar consequences. the people of russia are not fit to govern themselves. they may at some time become so, but at present, were they to attempt it, they would bring certain destruction on themselves and the country at large. i speak to you as a friend, and perhaps in an unpatriotic way tell you of occurrences which ought to be kept secret; but i trust that you have seen many things in russia to admire, and will not judge us over harshly when you hear of some of our weak points. but, tally ho! the huntsmen's horns give notice that the pack have found some game. it will soon break cover, and then away after it!" besides the gaily-coated picqueurs on horseback, a number of peasants habited in the usual pink shirt, wide green breeches, and willow-woven sandals, were engaged with long sticks in beating the bushes and underwood which grew in thick clumps in the forest. the green-and-gold coated huntsmen galloped about outside, sounding their horns, shouting to the peasants, and watching eagerly the movements of the dogs. on a sudden the huntsmen sounded their horns more gaily than before, the people shouted, and a large fox broke from the cover, and darted away along the skirts of the wood. away went the hounds, and away went the horsemen after him, the count and his english friends shouting "tally ho! tally ho!" in right honest british fashion, while the peasants gave utterance to the wildest cries, which sounded wonderfully strange in the travellers' ears. it was not very hard riding, although mr evergreen seemed to think it so; but as he was mounted on a fast horse, he, in spite of himself, kept well ahead of most of the field. cousin giles and the count rode alongside each other, and the two markhams kept together. they had not gone far when another fox showed his nose out of the wood, apparently to learn what was going forward, and a few of the dogs instantly made chase after him, while the huntsmen followed the main body. "tally ho!" shouted fred markham. "harry, let us have a hunt of our own. it will be fine fun to bring home a brush which we have got all by ourselves." "capital fun," answered harry; and boy-like, thought less of the consequences, away they galloped after the four or five dogs which had separated themselves from the chase. no one followed. the fox led them directly into the wood. he was a knowing old fellow, and was aware that they would thus have the greatest difficulty in overtaking him. deeper and deeper they got into the forest, but the dogs had still the scent of the old fox. "i wish that we could kill a deer now," exclaimed harry. "that would be something to boast of." "or a wolf, rather," cried fred. "that is nobler game, for he shows more fight." "yes, i should like to fall in with a wolf," responded his brother. "but i say, fred, how are we to kill him if we find him?" "knock him on the head with the butt end of our whip! that is what he deserves, at all events." "easier said than done," observed harry. "however, i'll stick by you, don't fear, if we should find one of the rascals. i shall ever hate a wolf after the story we heard the other night." thus talking, the lads galloped on. suddenly a deer started up from an open glade which lay before them. they looked round for the old fox--he was nowhere to be seen, and the dogs appeared to have lost the scent. however, as soon as the deer began to run they followed, evidently not at all particular as to what they had to pursue. "rare fun this is," shouted fred and harry, as they galloped after the deer. but the dogs, already tired, had not the slightest chance of overtaking the nimble-footed animal, though, had the young hunters been provided with rifles, they could quickly have brought her to the ground. "hallo! where is she?" exclaimed fred, as the deer darted among a thick clump of trees. "i am sure i saw her but a moment ago," answered harry. "let us get round to the other side of the clump, she will have gone through it." if she had gone through the clump, she had gone a long way beyond it, for she was nowhere to be seen on the other side. the dogs also were equally at fault, and began to stray about, as if each one was resolved to have a hunt by himself. where our friends had got to by this time, they could not tell. they proposed returning to the ruined house where the hunt had met, but in what direction to find it was the puzzle. "this is worse than losing ourselves in the streets of saint petersburg," cried harry, who was in no ways daunted. "the fox and the deer have brought us all this way--i wish we could find a wolf or a bear to show us the road home again." "not much chance of that," answered fred, as they rode on in the direction they fancied would lead them whence they had come. "but, i say, hallo, what is that shaggy-looking brute showing his head out of the hollow stump of that old tree there?" as he spoke, a loud snarling growl saluted their ears. "a big she-wolf and her cubs," shouted harry. "let's knock her over, the brute." "for mercy's sake, don't attempt anything so rash," cried fred. "she will prove an ugly customer to deal with, depend on it." the white, grinning teeth and ferocious aspect of the wolf fully corroborated fred's assertion. still the lads did not like to decline the combat, but without fire-arms or spears they were hard pressed to know what to do. they rode round and round the tree at a respectful distance, the wolf following them with her eyes, though she would not leave her cubs either to escape or to attack them. still the lads, thoughtless of the risk they ran, could not bring themselves to leave the beast alone. "hang it, i must give her a lick over the chops, just to remind her that she must not eat up little children in future," cried harry, riding up towards the beast. the wolf looked at harry, as much as to say, "you had better not, master, for if you do, i'll give you a taste of my fangs." harry rode on. the wolf stood up, and advanced a step or two beyond her lair, grinning horribly. "stay, stay, harry!" shouted fred, dashing on before him. "the wolf will fly at you." the wolf took the movement as the signal of attack, and with a terrible snarl, which sounded far more ferocious than the bark or growl of a dog, flew at fred's horse, evidently intending to pull the rider to the ground. never had fred been in peril so terrific. a cry of horror escaped him; he could not restrain it, but, speedily recovering his presence of mind, he began to belabour the head of the wolf. harry, true to his promise, nothing daunted, came to his assistance, but their blows, though given with a hearty good-will, had not the slightest effect on the head of the wolf. on the contrary, they only seemed to increase her fury. she let go, but it was only to spring again with surer aim. the poor horse, torn by her fangs, reared with pain and fright, as the savage brute again sprang towards him. in another moment its fangs would have been fixed in fred's thigh. alas! poor fellow! his life was in dreadful jeopardy. "oh! what can i do? what can i do?" cried poor harry. the wolf and her cubs seemed to say, "gallop away while you can, or we will eat you up as well as your brother." at that critical moment a rifle-shot was heard, and the wolf, with a yelp of pain and rage, let go her hold. directly afterwards a man was seen, with a rifle in his hand, running through the forest towards them. "oh, you are saved!--you are saved, my brother," cried harry, giving way to his feelings of affection. "in mercy i am," answered fred, looking down at the wounded wolf, whom he seemed inclined to strike with his whip. the stranger shouted to them as he advanced. they could not understand what he said, but they thought it was probably telling them not to meddle with the wolf. as soon as he came up to the spot he drew a long knife from a sheath at his side, and in the most deliberate way, evidently the result of long practice, approaching the brute from behind, plunged it into her neck. "bravo! bravo!" shouted fred and harry. "thanks--thanks! oh, how we wish we could thank you in your own language." the stranger looked up with a smile on his countenance, and the lads then recognised him as their new attendant, the molokani, steffanoff saveleff. they put out their hands to shake his. he smiled again, and pointed westward through the forest. "oh, but we want the skin of the beast," said fred; "i'll keep it as a memorial of what you have done for me." "and we may as well kill the cubs, or they will be growing up, and will soon become as unamiable as their mother," added harry, pointing to the tree. steffanoff understood the action which accompanied the remark, and very soon put an end to the young wolves. thus, in hunter guise, they took their way through the forest. the lads chatted freely to their guide, and though he could not understand a word they said, he looked up every now and then with one of those pleasant smiles which showed that he would gladly have talked to them if he could. his step was so elastic and rapid, that he kept their horses at a short trot the whole way. the count and his friends got home soon after they arrived, and cousin giles expressed no small satisfaction at seeing them. this was very much increased when he heard the risk they had run; and steffanoff came in most deservedly for his share of praise for the way in which he had rescued the lads. "tell him," said cousin giles to mr allwick, "that i was inclined to serve him before, but that now i am doubly anxious to be of use to him. had any accident happened to the two lads, i should never have forgiven myself." cousin giles being certain that he could depend on the count, gave him a sketch of saveleff's life, for the purpose of gaining his advice and assistance. the count shook his head. "i am afraid that he has very little chance of success," said he; "still i will gladly assist and protect him to the utmost of my power." when saveleff heard, through mr allwick, the promise which had been made him, he also shook his head. "i am deeply grateful to the count," said he; "but i have no faith in what my countrymen can do for me." a few days after this occurrence the whole party set off for moscow, to be present at the coronation of the emperor. chapter nineteen. letter from fred markham to his mother--entrance of the czar into moscow--saveleff presents his petition--grand review of troops-- coronation of the emperor--fete at the opera--state balls--the illumination--the people's feast--the people's ball--fireworks-- character of russians--thieving propensities--russian's aptitude for commerce--cucumber-water--aqueduct of moscow--cursing heretics-- blessing the waters--blessing fruits--christening ceremony--story of a post-office for the saints--high mass in a greek church--preparations for leaving moscow--last news of saveleff. "moscow, _ th september_, . "dearest mother,--we are delighted that we came back to moscow, for we have seen some magnificent sights, such as we are not likely to see again; and, thanks to the count's kindness, we saw everything to the best advantage, which i will now try and describe to you as briefly as i can. the very day we came here the emperor arrived at his boiled-crab-like palace of petrofsky, in front of which his camp of sixty thousand men is pitched. the th of august was fixed for his entrance into the city. a long, somewhat winding street, with houses of all heights and sizes, leads from the city gate to the kremlin. rows above rows of benches were placed at every interval between the houses, as also on their roofs, and in front of them, every bench being covered with people in their best attire, while the sides of the street were densely crowded with mujicks, both men and women, in their holiday suits, the centre part being kept clear by lines of cavalry; gay carpets, cloths, flags, and banners of every description hung out of all the windows, adding to the brilliancy of the scene. we got first-rate seats near the entrance to the kremlin. the morning was rainy, but in the forenoon the weather cleared, and ringing of bells and firing of big guns, and talking and laughing, and hurrying of people to and fro to their posts, and marching of infantry and cavalry, occupied the time till four o'clock, when the emperor entered the city gate; troops of many asiatic tribes, in various gorgeous costumes, and imperial guards, and nobles of the realm, in magnificent uniforms, preceding him, while he was followed by the members of his family and their wives in five carriages--fine enough to make the lord mayor of london and all the sheriffs jealous. "all the great people were accompanied by running footmen, lacqueys, and others, and the whole procession was wound up with some fine squadrons of cuirassiers. priests in their robes, with their crosses and pictures of saints, stood at all the churches, and at the doors of some the emperor dismounted and kissed them--not the priests, but the crosses and pictures--as he and his empress did also the relics and pictures of saints of peculiar sanctity in the various cathedrals. and lastly, in the cathedral of saint michael, they prostrated themselves before the tombs of those of their ancestors who are there buried. cousin giles said it struck him as setting somewhat of an example of idolatry to his subjects; but i do not suppose that he troubled himself about any such consideration. the universal custom of presenting bread and salt was performed by the archbishop of moscow to the emperor as he entered the palace of the kremlin, and here the ceremony of the day concluded. we eagerly watched to see if our friend saveleff could find an opportunity of presenting his petition to the emperor. whenever the czar stopped, the crowd pressed forward, and, amid shouts and cries, took his hand, and pressed it to their lips. "`i see him! i see him!' cried harry, as nodding plumes, and glittering helmets, and rich turbans, and tall spears, and shining swords, and gay banners were defiling through the gate of the kremlin. "we looked eagerly among the crowd, and then we saw a mujick working his way to the front rank, with a paper held out in one hand above his head. we could not hear, of course, what he said, but whatever was his appeal, his brethren made way for him. we were certain he could be no other than saveleff. he had just reached the position he sought, when the emperor himself approached. the emperor bowed and smiled, and held out his hand to a number of mujicks, who were pressing forward to kiss it. at that moment, saveleff, with a few hurried words, thrust his paper between the emperor's fingers. we understand that he exclaimed, `oh, your majesty, look at my document--life and death depends on it. grant my petition!' the czar cast a look of surprise at the audacious mujick, and, without saying a word, handed the paper to an officer near him. but the result of all his toils, his sufferings, his anxieties-- ah, you will ask, what is that?--we cannot tell. the count has done his utmost to forward his object. his parents are still on their way to siberia, if they have survived the hardships they have endured. his betrothed is still among the gipsies, and may any day be dragged back to slavery. the poor fellow remains with us, and is unmolested, but he is in low spirits, and hopeless of success. still, he says that he would gladly go through far greater hardships and troubles than he has endured for the sake of the faith to which he holds. cousin giles would have taken him with us to england, but he will not quit the country which holds his betrothed, nor give up all prospects of rescuing his parents. "i must, however, try to give you an idea of what took place during the coronation festival. the next thing which took place was a grand parade of all the troops in the camp, now increased to one hundred and twenty thousand men. some of the cavalry had a fine appearance, dressed in oriental costume. there were circassians, or rather lesghians, and other tribes bordering on the caucasus--some in chain armour, others in white robes. there were greeks and albanians in their national costume, ferocious koords, and terrier-looking cossacks, with long lances, on shaggy little ponies, looking as if they would bite any one who came in their way. all the great people were there. the finest thing was a charge of twelve thousand dragoons, who literally made the ground tremble under them. they afterwards galloped up to the emperor, and, drawing their swords simultaneously, with loud shouts, exclaimed--`we wish your health, czar!' and then, wheeling round, dashed off at full speed. "i must next tell you about the coronation itself. it took place in the church of the assumption, before which a large court had been formed by railing in several other churches, and covering them with galleries. these were filled with all the great people of the nation and their visitors. the arched roof of the church is supported by four massive pillars, covered with gold; under them sat the emperor and empress, surrounded by their court. the emperor took the crown, an immense one, blazing with jewels, from the metropolitan who held it, and with his own hands placed it on his head. this he did to intimate that from no earthly power, clerical or lay, did he receive his sovereignty. the empress then advanced, and kneeling before him, he touched her forehead with the crown, and then replaced it on his own head. the empress-mother, who was the first to advance to congratulate her son, burst into tears, it is said, while her children, forgetful of all rules of etiquette, clung affectionately round him. the whole congregation wept, overcome at the sight. "that same night all moscow was illuminated, and a truly fairy-like spectacle it was. every tower, minaret, cupola, dome, the front of its vast palace, and all the walls of the kremlin were a blaze of light; so was the vast square with the arches which temporarily surround it, and the superb opera-house at one end, all the palaces of the great people, and the public buildings. you remember our description of the cathedral of saint basil, with its wondrous towers and domes, and its various ins-and-outs? every part of that bizarre building was clearly traced with bright lamps, and the effect was curiously beautiful. we walked about, and gazed and gazed with wonder and delight, till our eyes were so dazzled that we could scarcely see our way home. "after this there were grand galas at the opera, and balls at the palace, and one at the english ambassador's, where mcallister, lord stafford's piper, figured as a very important personage. the people also had their feast, the preparations for which we had seen; but they rushed up to the tables, and made away with the food, either down their throats or into their pockets, before the arrival of the emperor and the greater part of the intended spectators. they, however, behaved much better at a ball which the emperor gave them at the palace in the kremlin. dance they could not, but the mujicks and their wives and daughters walked about the vast halls, admiring the wonders they beheld, and eating and drinking as much of the delicate viands prepared for them as they could procure. "last night there was a grand display of fireworks, but somehow or other they did not go off at the right time and place; however, i daresay that the crowd were equally astonished and delighted as if each squib and cracker had played its part properly. one thing i must say for the russians, that they are a very orderly, well-behaved people; and in all the vast crowds we saw, the people appeared kind and good-natured to each other in the extreme. there was no unnecessary pushing and shoving, and none of that abusive language which is so disgusting in an english crowd; on the contrary, every one appeared good-tempered and happy. "i really like the russians in many respects. their faults are rather the consequence of bad government and a faulty religion, than such as are inherent in their race. if a pure religion were introduced among them generally, and their government were to become more and more liberal, till they are capable of governing themselves, another century would see a very great change in them for the better. at present a large number of them are semi-barbarians, with the ignorance and vices of barbarism; and although they may be easily governed under the present despotic system, they are equally liable to be led into revolt by any designing man who is bold enough to risk his life on the chance of success. i give you cousin giles' opinion on the subject, which is of more value than mine. "i am sorry to say that in the capitals a number of people are found not a little addicted to picking and stealing. not that housebreakers or footpads are to be found, but it is not safe to leave things about in one's room. one day, while we were at dinner, i found that i had left my pocket-handkerchief up-stairs, so i ran to get it. what was my surprise to find the door open, which i felt certain i had locked, and on looking in to observe a gentleman very composedly stowing away in a towel some shirts and other clothes which had just come home from the laundress. "`hollo, old fellow, what are you about?' "`_si chasse_--_si chasse_,' (presently--presently), he answered, with the greatest coolness, as if he was employed in something he had been ordered to do. they were some of the very few words of russian i knew. "`i'll not trouble you, my man. just put those things down, and get out of this as fast as you can,' i exclaimed, walking up to him. he tried to grasp the things, and to make a bolt with them, but i was too quick for him; and while i sung out at the top of my voice, he let the things fall, and made a dart out of the room. i followed him as fast as i could run, and had i not unfortunately slipped, i should have caught him, and held him fast till my shouts brought the people from the dining-room to my assistance. as it was, the fellow escaped, to my great disappointment, though he took nothing with him. the russian thieves are also very expert at picking pockets, and at the time of the coronation they had plenty of opportunities in exercising their vocation. harry and i lost our pocket-handkerchiefs one day, but after that we followed cousin giles' advice, and fastened them into our pockets. the russians are great traders; they begin their mercantile pursuits at a very early age. little fellows, who would be playing at marbles or hoop in england, if they were not at school, here manage shops or stalls in the streets. they are as sharp, too, as any grown-up men, and if they do not cheat others, they take very good care that they are not cheated themselves. we have seen small urchins not more than seven or eight years old with a store of wax-tapers or picture-books, or quass, of which they pressed all passers-by with the greatest pertinacity to become purchasers. we stopped several times with mr allwick to talk to them, and we found that they knew not only all about their own trade, but had already a good knowledge about trade in general. many of the richest shopkeepers in moscow and saint petersburg have sprung from this humble class of dealers. "many of the shopkeepers have a very jewish look, and employ the very mode which the jews in london, in some of the back streets, do to induce passers-by to purchase their wares. they stand in front of their shops, and as soon as they see any one approaching, they step forward, uttering praises of their goods, and, with hands stretched out, look as if they would forcibly detain the stranger, and as if they would consider themselves very ill-used should he not become a purchaser. "the russians are great eaters of raw vegetables, especially of onions and cucumbers. they eat them pickled in salt, and most thoroughly unwholesome they appeared. they drink also the juice of the cucumber, mixed with water, which is called cucumber-water. it is said to form a very cooling beverage in summer! but i suspect the water forms the best part of the potation. they are very fond of all sorts of sour vegetables. they have a species of apple, which they allow to freeze in winter, in which state it is preserved, and though it has a very withered appearance, it is really full of juice. "moscow is supplied with water by an aqueduct which reaches to about three versts from the city. it is there forced by a steam-engine into a basin at the top of a lofty tower in garden street, where pipes carry it to the various reservoirs in different directions for the supply of the houses. over every spring in russia, preserved for the use of man, is placed the picture of a saint, who is supposed to have the special charge of the water. over this reservoir there is one of particular sanctity, but i am not acquainted with his name. this tower, which is called the sukhareva bashnia, is the most lofty in the city, and a view is to be obtained from it still more interesting than that from ivan veleki, because one sees, not only the surrounding city, but the wonderful kremlin itself. at the top of the tower the russian eagle, made of silver, expands its wings over a silver basin, and from this silver basin radiate fifty pipes, each an inch in diameter, which carry fifty streams for the supply of the inhabitants. "one of the most curious ceremonies of which we heard in the greek church is that of cursing the heretics. first, there is a grand mass, and much singing and lighting of tapers, and then the chief priest, who has always a powerful, deep voice, pronounces an awful curse on the false demetrius, mazeppa, and several other noted worthies, long departed from all terrestrial influence. many people, and heretics of all descriptions, are also cursed, and then the choir chants forth in melodious tones the words _anafema, anafema_, repeated sometimes by all the congregation with most startling effect. the russians are, however, more given to blessing than to cursing. the priests, at the same time, consider themselves entitled to payment for their blessings. no true believer is content unless all his possessions are especially blessed: his house, his cattle, his horses, flocks; the fruits growing in his garden; his corn-fields, his children; the well which supplies him with water; indeed, all he possesses. he believes that nothing he undertakes will prosper unless the priest has first blessed the implements he uses, and his religious instructor takes no pains to undeceive him. one of the most curious ceremonies is that of blessing the waters. it is performed three times in the year; once in spring, once in midsummer, and once on the ice in winter. the latter is the most curious. the nearest large piece of water is selected--either a river, a lake, or a pond. on the ice a large arbour, composed of birch trees, is formed to represent a church, with a gallery in the form of an amphitheatre. in the centre a square hole is broken, so that the water can be reached. from the neighbouring church a procession of priests approaches with pictures, and crosses, and flags, and tapers, and with loud chanting enters the arbour. here a service is performed, and as soon as it is over they march forth again with very picturesque effect, and the cross is dipped several times in the water. by this ceremony it is believed the water is especially blessed, and made wholesome for man, beast, bird, and fish. no sooner has it been performed than the multitude who have been surrounding the spot rush eagerly forward with bottles, jugs, pots, and pans, and fill their vessels, and also drink as much as they can. not only is the water itself blessed, but all the streams, and wells, and fountains in the neighbourhood are equally benefited. it is curious to see the way in which the people dabble in the water, throw it over their persons, though it freezes as it falls, and drink of it till they can drink no more; all this being done in the belief that the water is holy, and that they will be especially benefited thereby. the ceremony in summer is very similar, only the arbours are formed on the banks of the river or lake, and people manage to drink still more abundantly, with fewer ill effects. a still more interesting festival is that of blessing the fruit, which takes place on the th of august. it is held in the country, in front of one of the principal churches or convents. people of all classes, rich and poor, high and low, assemble from all quarters, far and near, in vehicles of every description. in front of the church are long rows of fruit-sellers' booths to supply those who have brought no fruit with them. high mass is then performed in the church, and as soon as it is concluded the priests come forth with bowls of holy water, with which they march up and down among the lines of people, drawn up in all directions, with fruits in their hands, sprinkling the consecrated liquid on either side as they go. as soon as this has been done, the people set to work and eat greedily of the various fruits which have been sprinkled, which they have not before ventured to touch, under the belief that till then they are unwholesome. in the more northern districts the fruit is very often far from ripe, but yet they eat away, under the belief that it can do them no harm. they will even give small infants in arms large green apples to suck, fancying that they cannot hurt them, poor little things. as, however, i have seen nursemaids in england equally foolish, i will not blame the ignorant russian peasant. cousin giles says that the same sort of ceremonies are performed in roman catholic countries, where horses and cattle are blessed in due form by a plentiful sprinkling of holy water. it would all appear very ridiculous to us, were it not sadly blasphemous. to a stranger, one of the most curious ceremonies in the greek church is that of baptism. the infant, soon after it is born, is brought by its godfathers and godmothers to the church--neither of its parents being present. the priest first asks if it will renounce the devil and all his works; the sponsors answer for it, that it will. the priest thereon commands the devil, who is supposed to have hitherto had possession of it, to take his departure. the order is believed to be instantly obeyed, and the priest consequently spits over his shoulder at the devil, who is beating a hasty retreat. his example is followed by all present, who spit with unfeigned satisfaction at the discomfited evil one. the whole party then walk in procession three times round the font. at its conclusion the priest consecrates the water by putting it into a metal cross, and then immerses in it the infant three times, pronouncing at the end its baptismal name. as a visible sign that the child is now a christian, the priest suspends round its neck, by a black string, a small metal cross, which it ever afterwards wears as an amulet. i remember well hearing of such crosses being found on the slain at the alma and other battle-fields in the crimea, but did not at the time know their signification. next the child is dressed, and carried once more round the font with a procession of burning tapers, which, symbolising the holy spirit, signify that the child has now received that spirit within it, of which it was before destitute. lastly, the infant's eyes, ears, mouth, hands, and feet are anointed with holy oil, and pieces of hair are cut from its head, and rolled up with wax into a ball, and thrown into the font. no russian has more than one christian name. this custom arises from the belief that every name has its representative among the angels in heaven, who have the especial charge of all persons bearing that name; in return, it is expected that the prayers of mortals should especially be addressed to their guardian angels. only one name is given, because it is said that a person can have only one guardian angel; if he had two, it might be doubtful which was to watch over him, and to which he should address his prayers. cousin giles observes that, when once people depart from the simple truths of christianity, it is impossible to say what absurdities they may believe, or of what follies they may be guilty. as the people become enlightened, the priests of a false faith are compelled to refine their system; at present, in russia, nothing is too gross for the credulity of the people to swallow. "we attended mass the other day at the uspensky sabor (the cathedral of the resurrection). it was a very gorgeous ceremony, although, as it lasted three hours, it was very fatiguing; but we determined to stand it out, and afterwards never to go to another. i can only attempt to give an outline of the ceremonies. the church being crowded with people, a priest came through one of the side doors of the screen, and in a stentorian voice, with hand uplifted, announced that service was beginning. some ceremony then took place behind the screen. soon afterwards another priest entered, with two attendants, bearing over his head a huge bible with a richly ornamented cover. it was allowed just to touch his forehead. being placed on a desk in front of the chief door in the screen, another priest in a very irreverential and hurried manner read some chapters from it, the choir constantly repeating the words, `_gospodi poluomini_,' (the lord have mercy on us). the effect of these words, in a rich chant, soft, full, and swelling, is very beautiful. they continually occur throughout the service. we could see the high priest all the time through the open work of the chief door moving about before the altar. at length a fine psalm was sung, the chief door was thrown open, the high altar and its splendid decorations were displayed, and from the side doors issued forth the whole troop of officiating priests bearing the bread and wine for the sacrament, preceded by one man with a lighted taper, and the high priest coming in the rear with a silver chalice; the procession is closed by a priest with a salver on his head. again they all entered the sanctuary, the bread and wine were placed on the altar, and the priest kneeling, what is called transubstantiation is supposed to take place. while this act is performing, all turks, heretics, and infidels are commanded to leave the church. numerous prayers are then offered up for the emperor, the imperial family, and for a variety of objects. the most impressive part is when the high priest prays for a blessing on the bread and wine, and shakes the bread into the chalice. afterwards those who intend to partake of the sacrament are invited to come forward, and the bread and wine together are administered in a small silver spoon, the communicants holding their hands on their breasts, and kneeling three times. we were very much struck with the little the congregation had to do with the service. they had no book, they did not join in the singing, and they could scarcely have understood what the priest said who read from the bible. their only business seemed to be to cross themselves and to bow, touching the ground with their foreheads, during the whole three hours the affair lasted. still the churches fill, and the people fancy, i suppose, that they derive some benefit from what takes place. the music is certainly very fine; it is all vocal; there are no instruments, and no organ; and as women are not allowed to sing in churches, boys are trained to perform their parts. "`altogether,' cousin giles says, `there is very little difference in the main features between the ceremonies of the greek and romish churches. both are intended to attract the senses, to please the vulgar, and to deceive the credulous, and neither can have any effect in changing the heart.' "but it is time that i should bring my long letter to a conclusion. much of the above information was given me by a german gentleman speaking english whom we met at chollet's table-d'hote. i have before said that we like the russians; i mean the peasantry. when i spoke of the existence of thieves in saint petersburg or moscow, i do not suppose that there are more thieves in saint petersburg or moscow than in any other of the capitals of europe. many of the peasants are fine-looking men, though generally, from bad feeding, they have not the stamina of englishmen. of one thing i am certain, that if one spaniard can lick two portuguese, and one englishman can lick all three, one englishman can lick three russians with a big boy to help them. still i hope that we shall not have to go to war with them again. poor fellows! the russian soldiers had not a grain of spite or ill-feeling against us. they were driven on to the attack, and worked up by all sorts of falsehoods, and a plentiful administration of vodka, to commit the atrocities of which some of them were guilty. "we are preparing to leave moscow. cousin giles and harry have gone to get the tiresome passport business arranged with mr allwick, and as i have sprained my ankle, i remained to write to you. we shall be very sorry to part with our interpreter; he has contributed very much to the pleasure of our visit to this city. through his means we have seen and understood much more than we could otherwise possibly have done about the place and the people. we have no satisfactory news about poor saveleffs affairs. the count has promised to allow him to remain among his people as long as he wishes, and to protect him to the utmost of his power; but he owns that that power is likely to extend a very little way. he says that he will spare no expense, if bribery is likely to effect the object. he thinks, however, that if the true state of the case could be laid before the emperor, the poor fellow's cause might be gained, but the difficulty is to let the emperor know the truth. we cannot help fancying that we saw poor saveleffs old father and mother among the exiles starting for siberia. poor fellow! it is very sad. he does not despair, and yet he has very little hope of happiness in this world. even now, if the police find him out, he will not be allowed to remain very long in quiet. "to-morrow we are off by the railway for saint petersburg. "your affectionate son-- "fred markham." chapter twenty. last letter from fred markham to his mother--return to saint petersburg--ceremony at the kazan church--picnic into finland--visit to peteroff--the palace of the czar--villas of peter the great and catherine--beautiful fountain--leave saint petersburg--cronstadt-- voyage down the baltic--copenhagen--journey from copenhagen to hamburg--conclusion. "hamburg, th october, . "my own dear mother,--here we are within two days' paddling of england, and we hope within a week to be with you. in the meantime i will give you an idea of what we have done since i last wrote from moscow. we journeyed back from that wondrous city with hundreds of other mortals returning from the coronation fetes, and took up our old quarters at the gostiniza benson. we looked in the next morning at the kazan church, which we had not before seen. the columns which support the roof are of grey and red granite, and their bases and capitals are gilt; there are long rows of them in each cross. banners, tattered, blackened, and pierced by many a bullet, taken from the enemies of russia, hang from the walls. some ceremony was going forward. a fat, cunning shylock, in spectacles, sat at a counter just inside the entrance, and sold wax-tapers to men and women, old and young, bearded officers and thin striplings. the votaries then advanced and bowed and crossed themselves. some were so devout as to kneel down and kiss the horribly dirty floor, on which beggars were spitting. harry and i felt much inclined to kick over one young fellow so employed close to us, and who looked as if he ought to have known better. having genuflected to their heart's content, they advanced to the altar, and stuck their tapers into a frame on a huge candlestick placed before some saint or other. one saintship, who appeared to be a great favourite, had got his candlestick inconveniently full, but an old soldier--evidently in charge of the altar, and to whom some votaries presented their tapers--while pretending to stick in one took the opportunity to slip out four or five others, so that there was always room for more. i suspect the old soldier and shylock were in league with each other, and that the same tapers did duty many times. i am grateful that i was not brought up in the greek church. cousin giles says we ought to be thankful that we are englishmen and protestants. "the monday before we left, some friends invited us to a picnic in finland, the borders of which are distant only a fair drive from saint petersburg. we started early and drove in a northerly direction past a number of wooden villas of every conceivable swiss-cottage style, very picturesque and very damp, of trees and canals and ponds, to the village of mourina, fifteen versts off, where our friends have a villa. the property belongs to prince woronzoff, who was brought up in england; but instead of following the example of our good landlords, he imitates the bad ones, and allows his cottages to get into a very tumble-down condition. they are built of wood, so the lower part becomes rotten, and the rest sinks. were they placed on foundations of stone, they would last far longer. they now offer no unfit epitome of the state of russia. our friend's villa was very pretty, with all sorts of chinese-looking ins-and-outs, verandahs, and passages. there was a gauze covering to the verandah, which effectually kept out the flies and moths, and other teasing things. a stream of water ran at the foot of the garden, and close to it was built a vapour-bath, and a dressing-house for a plunge-bath. after breakfast, a carriage and several little country carts--telegas they are called--came to the door to take us to our destination. the carts were drawn by one horse in the shafts and another in the left side, with traces secured partly to the wheels and partly to a rough bar of birchwood fastened across the cart. they are in shape like boats with stem and stern cut off, and the ribs outside instead of in. each holds two persons seated on horse-cloths and sheepskins, with their feet in straw. cousin giles called the bar to which the traces were fastened, a sprit-sail yard. the drivers were boys, who sat in front of the carts. off we rattled down a steep hill, and through a bog, and were quickly in finland. the boys tried to keep ahead of each other, and galloped down hills and up hills, and along the road at a tremendous pace;--it was rare fun. the road was sometimes sandy, sometimes gravelly, and always undulating. after a little time we had some pretty views, with a chain of lakes on either side of us. then we reached the village of toxova, with its lutheran church and parsonage, situated on a wooded hill above the lakes. we stopped at the village, and went to a cottage with a large room with a table and benches, and a verandah looking down on the lakes. here we hired a samovar, and spread our eatables. the chief dish was a salmon-pie, and a capital dish it is. a whole salmon (or another fish may be used) is rolled up in a coat of chopped eggs, and rice or other grain, first well boiled, and then covered with a coating of bread-dough, which is next baked like a loaf of bread. it is eaten cold. after dinner we walked through woods of birch and elder to a hill with a cross on it, above a lake, whence we got a view of saint petersburg. "we altogether had one of the pleasantest days we passed in russia, for though cities and fine sights are very interesting, there is nothing like the country after all, in my opinion. another day we received an invitation from some friends to visit them at peteroff, a village formed by a collection of villas and palaces on the south side of the gulf of finland. it can be reached by land, but we preferred going there by water. steamers run between it and saint petersburg several times in the day. crossing the bridge, we embarked in a boat, built in the far-off clyde, and now called by a russian name. the passage between the shallows all the way is very narrow, and the bar at the mouth of the neva has often not more than ten feet of water on it. i have already in our journal described peteroff, with its golden domes and spires peeping out among the trees just overlooking cronstadt, so i will say no more about it. at the end of a good landing-pier we found our friend's carriage waiting, and in it, over a good road, among groves of birch and lime-trees, we were driven to his very picturesque summer residence. it was built of logs, and weather-boarded, with a verandah running all round it, and at each angle is a wide space roofed over, so that shade and air can at all times of the day be procured. after an early dinner, we drove to the chateau of the emperor, built by peter the great. it is a curious, long, half oriental, half italian-looking edifice, with a gilt roof, and white and yellow walls. on one side are gardens, laid out with long gravel walks, grass-plats, and trees; on the other the high road. between the road and the sea are the smaller and still more ancient royal villas of marly and montplaisir, in the midst of gardens full of the strangest collection of gilt statues and urns, and flowerpots and marble fountains, and water-spouts and tanks, and seats and rows of trees, and flower-beds all of one colour, the whole having a very glittering, dazzling effect. from one of the fountains the water comes down an inclined plane, and we were told that the emperor nicholas used to amuse himself by making a party of the cadets of the military schools defend the top of the waterfall, while others had to storm it, climbing up the inclined plane, over which the water was rushing down. it might be very good fun on a hot day, with the thermometer at degrees, but very disagreeable when a sharp north-easter was blowing. "the villa of marly was built by peter, and here he used to go to watch the manoeuvres of his newly-formed fleet in the gulf below him. here, also, he died; his bed and his night-cap are shown. indeed, nothing has been altered in the cottage since he passed away from the scene where his wonderfully active mind had done so much. the cottage of montplaisir was built by the empress catherine, and in it was a kitchen-range, where she used to amuse herself by cooking dinners for herself and any of her more honoured guests. in the dining-room was a table, the centre of which could be lowered and raised, so as to remove and replace the dishes without the presence of waiters. in the gardens is also a large bathing-house, of truly imperial dimensions. these cottages are interesting for their historical recollections; but by far the most beautiful object in the gardens is a fountain, which throws up water exactly in the shape of a gothic cathedral. as the sun shone on the sparkling jets, the effect was excellent. "we spent a most pleasant evening at our friend's house, and returned the next day to saint petersburg. we saw many other things in saint petersburg which i will tell you about when we meet. we went down to cronstadt, to get on board the steamer which was to take us to copenhagen. the town consists of several very broad streets and places, but not many houses within the fortifications, and quays, and a harbour full of shipping. "we were not sorry to get out of russia. cousin giles says that he felt as if there was something in the air which prevented him breathing freely. we liked the russians very well. they do not live exclusively on train-oil, ill-smelling fish, and black bread, as we fancied before we went there; but their greatest admirers cannot call them a thoroughly civilised people. "i wish that i could tell you something about their language. it sounds very soft and musical, but is very difficult to speak, and the characters make all one's previous knowledge of an alphabet utterly useless. we left cronstadt on the afternoon of wednesday, where neither was our baggage nor were we examined; indeed, half-a-dozen people might have smuggled themselves on board, and got away without difficulty. we had fine weather all the way down the baltic, and came off a neat little village five miles from copenhagen, on the afternoon of sunday. here we landed in a pilot-boat, with some danish gentlemen, who were very civil to us, and by their aid we engaged a char-a-banc, and drove to copenhagen the same evening. we spent five very pleasant days there, seeing numerous objects of interest. i will not attempt to describe them now. cousin giles says i must write a book about denmark another year. it is a very interesting country, to englishmen especially. we left copenhagen in the afternoon, and the same evening reached by railway the town of kirsoor, about sixty miles to the south of it. here we embarked on board a steamer, which carried us to kiel, where the english fleet were stationed last winter. here another railway conveyed us, in a little more than three hours, to hamburg. and now our foreign travels are almost over for this year. we have enjoyed them very much, as we hope you have our letters, and that you will allow us to accept cousin giles' invitation to accompany him next summer to some other country. "your affectionate son-- "frederick markham." the end. team. shanty the blacksmith; a tale of other times by mrs. sherwood. . shanty the blacksmith. * * * * * it was during the last century, and before the spirit of revolution had effected any change in the manners of our forefathers, that the events took place, which are about to be recorded in this little volume. at that period there existed in the wild border country, which lies between england and scotland, an ancient castle, of which only one tower, a few chambers in the main building, certain offices enclosed in high buttressed walls, and sundry out-houses hanging as it were on those walls, yet remained. this castle had once been encircled by a moat which had been suffered to dry itself up, though still the little stream which used to fill it when the dams were in repair, murmured and meandered at the bottom of the hollow, and fed the roots of many a water plant and many a tree whose nature delights in dank and swampy soils. the verdure, however, which encircled this ancient edifice, added greatly to the beauty, when seen over the extent of waste and wild in which it stood. there can be no doubt but that the ancient possessors of this castle, which, from the single remaining barrier, and the name of the family, was called dymock's tower, had been no other than strong and dangerous free-booters, living on the plunder of the neighbouring kingdom of scotland. every one knows that a vast extent of land, waste or at best but rudely cultivated, had once belonged to the lords of dymock; but within a few years this family had fallen from affluence, and were at length so much reduced, that the present possessor could hardly support himself in any thing like the state in which he deemed it necessary for his father's son to live. mr. dymock was nearly thirty years of age, at the time our history commences; he had been brought up by an indolent father, and an aunt in whom no great trusts had been vested, until he entered his teens, at which time he was sent to edinburgh to attend the classes in the college; and there, being a quick and clever young man, though without any foundation of early discipline, or good teaching, and without much plain judgment or common sense, he distinguished himself as a sort of genius. one of the most common defects in the minds of those who are not early subjected to regular discipline is, that they have no perseverance; they begin one thing, and another thing, but never carry anything on to any purpose, and this was exactly the case with mr. dymock. whilst he was in edinburgh he had thought that he would become an author; some injudicious persons told him that he might succeed in that way, and he began several poems, and two plays, and he wrote parts of several treatises on mathematics, and physics, and natural history; the very titles of these works sound clever, but they were never finished. dymock was nearly thirty when his father died; and when he came to reside in the tower, his mind turned altogether to a new object, and that was cultivating the ground, and the wild commons and wastes all around him: and if he had set to work in a rational way he might have done something, but before he began the work he must needs invent a plough, which was to do wonderful things, and, accordingly, he set to work, not only to invent this plough, but to make it himself, or rather to put it together himself, with the help of a carpenter and blacksmith in the neighbourhood. but before we introduce the old blacksmith, who is a very principal person in our story, we must describe the way in which mr. dymock lived in his tower. his aunt, mrs. margaret dymock, was his housekeeper, and so careful had she always been, for she had kept house for her brother, the late laird, that the neighbours said she had half-starved herself, in order to keep up some little show of old hospitality. in truth, the poor lady was marvellously thin, and as sallow and gaunt as she was thin. some old lady who had stood for her at the font, in the reign of charles the second, had, at her death, left her all her clothes, and these had been sent to dymock's tower in several large chests. mrs. margaret was accordingly provided for, for life, with the addition of a little homespun linen, and stockings of her own knitting; but, as she held it a mighty piece of extravagance to alter a handsome dress, she wore her godmother's clothes in the fashion in which she found them, and prided herself not a little in having silks for every season of the year. large hoops were worn in those days, and long ruffles, and sacks short and long, and stomachers, and hoods, and sundry other conceits, now never thought of; but mrs. margaret thought that all these things had a genteel appearance, and showed that those who bought them and those who inherited them had not come of nothing. mrs. margaret, however, never put any of these fine things on, till she had performed her household duties, looked into every hole and corner in the offices, overlooked the stores, visited the larder, scullery and hen-yard, weighed what her three maids had spun the day before, skimmed the milk with her own hands, gathered up the candle ends, and cut the cabbage for the brose; all which being done, and the servants' dinner seen to, and it must be confessed, it was seldom that they had a very sumptuous regale, she dressed herself as a lady should be dressed, and sate down to her darning, which was her principal work, in the oval window in the chief room in the castle. darning, we say, was her principal work, because there was scarcely an article in the house which she did not darn occasionally, from the floor-cloth to her own best laces, and, as money was seldom forthcoming for renewing any of the finer articles in the house capable of being darned, no one can say what would have been the consequence, if mrs. margaret had been divested of this darning propensity. how the old lady subsisted herself is hardly known, for it often happened that the dinner she contrived for her nephew, was barely sufficient for him, and although on these occasions she always managed to seem to be eating, yet had mr. dymock had his eyes about him, he could not but have seen that she must often have risen from the table, after having known little more than the odour of the viands. nothing, however, which has been said of mrs. margaret dymock goes against that which might be said with truth, that there was a fund of kindness in the heart of the venerable spinster, though it was sometimes choked up and counteracted by her desire to make a greater appearance than the family means would allow. besides the three maids in the kitchen, there were a man and a boy without doors, two or three lean cows, a flock of sheep which were half starved on the moor, a great dog, and sundry pigs and fowls living at large about the tower; and, to crown our description, it must be added, that all the domestic arrangements which were beyond the sphere of mrs. margaret were as ill managed as those within her sphere were capitally well conducted; however, as mr. dymock said to her one day when she ventured to expostulate with him on this subject, "only have a little patience, my good aunt, when i have completed what i am now about, for instance my plough, you will see how i will arrange every thing. i cannot suffer these petty attentions and petty reforms to occupy me just now; what i intend to do will be done in a large way; i mean not only to repair but to restore the castle, to throw the whole of my lands to the north into a sheep-walk, to plant the higher points, and to convert the south lands into arable. but my first object is the plough, and that must be attended to, before everything else; the wood-work is all complete, but a little alteration must be made in the coulter, and after all, i apprehend i must do it myself, as old shanty is as stupid as his own hammer." mrs. margaret hinted that every man had not the ingenuity of her nephew; adding, however, that old shanty was as worthy and god-fearing a man as any on the moor. "i do not deny it," replied mr. dymock, "but what has worth and god-fearing to do with my plough. i have been trying in vain to make him understand what i want done, and am come to the resolution of going myself, taking off my coat, and working with him; i should make a better blacksmith in a week, than he has in forty years." mrs. margaret lifted up her hands and eyes, and then fetching a deep sigh, "that i should have lived to hear that," she exclaimed; "the last representative of the house of dymock proposing to work at a blacksmith's forge!" "and why not? mrs. margaret," replied the nephew, "does a gentleman lower himself when he works merely for recreation, and not for sordid pelf; you have heard of peter the great?" "bless me, nephew," replied the spinster, bridling, "where do you think my ears have been all my life, if i never heard of peter the great!" "you know then, that he worked with his own hands at a blacksmith's forge," returned the nephew. "i know no such thing," said mrs. margaret, "and if the romans say so, i account it only another of their many lies; and i wonder they are not ashamed to invent tales so derogotary to the honour of him they call their head!" "pshaw!" said the laird; "i am not speaking of the pope, but of the czar of all the russias!" "well! well! dymock;" returned mrs. margaret, "i only wish that i could persuade you from committing this derogation. however, if you must needs work with shanty, let me beg you to put on one of your old shirts; for the sparks will be sure to fly, and there will be no end of darning the small burns." "be assured aunt," said mr. dymock, "that i shall do nothing by halves; if i work with shanty, i shall put on a leathern apron, and tuck up my sleeves." "all this does not suit my notions," replied mrs. margaret: but her nephew had risen to leave her, and there was an end to the argument. as mr. dymock had told his aunt; so he did: he went to shanty's forge, he dressed himself like the old master himself, and set fairly to work, to learn the mysteries of the trade; mysteries which, however, as far as shanty knew them, were not very deep. [illustration: he went to shantys forge _see page _] there has not often been a more ill-arranged and unsettled mind than that of mr. dymock; his delight was in anything new, and for a few days he would pursue this novelty with such eagerness, that during the time he seemed to forget every thing else. it was a delicate job, and yet one requiring strength which was needed for the plough. shanty had told the laird at once, that it was beyond his own skill or strength, seeing that he was old and feeble, "and as to your doing it, sir," he said, "who cannot yet shape a horse-shoe! you must serve longer than a week, before you get that much knowledge of the craft; there is no royal way to learning, and even for the making of a horse-shoe a 'prenticeship must be served, and i mistake me very much if you don't tire before seven days service are over, let alone as many years." but, mr. dymock had as yet served only two days, when one evening a young man, a dark, athletic, bold-looking youth, entered the blacksmith's shed. it was an evening in autumn, and the shed was far from any house; dymock's tower was the nearest, and the sun was already so low that the old keep with its many mouldering walls, and out-buildings, was seen from the shed, standing in high relief against the golden sky. as the young man entered, looking boldly about him, shanty asked him what he wanted. "i want a horse-shoe," he replied. "a horse-shoe!" returned the blacksmith, "and where's your horse?" "i has no other horse than adam's mare," he replied; "i rides no other, but i want a horse-shoe." "you are a pretty fellow," returned shanty "to want a horse-shoe, and to have never a horse to wear him." "did you never hear of no other use for a horse-shoe, besides protecting a horse's hoof?" replied the youth. "i have," returned the blacksmith, "i have heard fools say, that neither witch nor warlock can cross a threshold that has a horse-shoe nailed over it. but mind i tell you, it must be a cast shoe." "well" said the young man, "suppose that i am plagued with one of them witches; and suppose that i should have bethought me of the horse-shoe, what would you think of me then? what may that be which you are now shaping; why may it not serve my turn as well as another? so let me have it, and you shall have its worth down on the nail." "did not i tell you," said shanty, sullenly, "that it must be a cast shoe that must keep off a witch; every fool allows that." "well," said the young man, looking about him, "have you never a cast shoe?" "no," replied shanty, "i have none here fit for your turn." "i am not particular," returned the young man, "about the shoe being an old one; there is as much virtue, to my thinking, in a new one; so let me have that you are about." "you shall have none of my handiworks, i tell you," said shanty, decidedly, "for none of your heathenish fancies and follies. the time was when i lent myself to these sort of follies, but, thank my god, i have learned to cast away, aye, and to condemn such degrading thoughts as these. believe me, young man, that if god is on your side, neither witch nor warlock, or worse than either, could ever hurt you." "well," said the young man, "if you will not make me one, will you let me make one for myself?" "are you a smith?" said mr. dymock, before shanty could reply. "am i a smith?" answered the young man; "i promise you, i should think little of myself if i was not as much above him, (pointing to shanty, who was hammering at his horse-shoe, with his back towards him,) as the sun is brighter than the stars." shanty took no notice of this piece of insolence; but mr. dymock having asked the stranger a few more questions, proceeded to show him the job he wanted done to his plough, and from one thing to another, the young man undertook to accomplish it in a few hours, if the master of the shed would permit. shanty did by no means seem pleased, and yet could not refuse to oblige mr. dymock; he, however, remarked, that if the coulter was destroyed, it was no odds to him. the young stranger, however, soon made it appear that he was no mean hand at the work of a blacksmith; he had not only strength, but skill and ingenuity, and in a short time had so deeply engaged the attention of dymock by his suggestions of improvements to this same plough, that the young laird saw none but him, and allowed the evening to close in, and the darkness of night to cover the heath, whilst still engaged in talking to the stranger, and hearkening to his ingenious comments on the machinery of the plough. in the meantime, although the sun had set in golden glory, dark and dense clouds had covered the heavens, the wind had risen and whistled dismally over the moor, and a shower of mingled rain and sleet blew into the shed, one side of which was open to the air. it was in the midst of this shower, that a tall gaunt female, covered with a ragged cloak, and having one child slung on her back, and another much older in her hand, presented herself at the door of the shed, and speaking in a broad northern dialect, asked permission to shelter herself and her bairns, for a little space in the corner of the hut. neither dymock nor the young man paid her any regard, or seemed to see her, but shanty made her welcome, and pointing to a bench which was within the glow of the fire of the forge, though out of harm's way of sparks or strokes, the woman came in, and having with the expertness of long use, slung the child from her back into her arms, she sate down, laying the little one across her knee, whilst the eldest of the two children dropped on the bare earth with which the shed was floored, and began nibbling a huge crust which the mother put into his hand. in the meantime, work went on as before the woman had come in, nor was a word spoken, till shanty, looking up from the horse-shoe which he was hammering, remarked in his own mind, that he wondered that the little one stretched on the woman's knee, was not awakened and frightened by the noise of the forge; but there the creature lies, he thought, as if it had neither sense or hearing. when this strange thought suggested itself, the old man dropped his hammer, and fixing his eye on the infant, he seemed to ask himself these questions,--what, if the child should be dead? would a living child, drop as that did from the back of the woman on her lap, like a lump of clay, nor move, nor utter a moan, when thrown across its mother's lap? urged then by anxiety, he left his anvil, approached the woman, and stood awhile gazing at the child, though unable for some minutes to satisfy himself, or to put away the horrible fear that he might perchance be looking at a body without life. mr. dymock was acting the part of bellows-blower, in order to assist some work which the young stranger was carrying on in the fire. the lad who generally performed this service for shanty, had got permission for a few hours, to visit his mother over the border, mr. dymock having told him in all kindness that he would blow for him if needs must. but the fitful light--the alternate glow and comparative darkness which accompanied and kept time with the motion of the bellows, made it almost impossible for the old man to satisfy himself concerning his horrible imagination. he saw that the infant who lay so still on the woman's lap, was as much as two years of age; that, like the woman, it had dark hair, and that its complexion was olive; and thus he was put out in his first notion, that the child might perchance be a stolen one. but the bellows had filled and exhausted themselves many times before his mind was set at rest with regard to his first fearful thought; at length, however, the child moved its arm, and uttered a low moan, though without rousing itself from its sleep; on which shanty, being satisfied, turned back to his block and his horse-shoe, and another half-hour or more passed, during which the tempest subsided, the clouds broke and began to disappear, and the stars to come forth one by one, pointing out the direction of the heavens to the experienced eye of the night-walking traveller. the woman observing this, arose, and taking the sleeping babe in her arms whilst the other child clung to her cloak, she thanked the blacksmith for the convenience of the shelter which he had given her; when he, with the courtesy of one who, though poor and lowly, had been admitted to high conference with his redeemer, invited her to stay longer--all night if she pleased,--regretting only that he had nothing to offer her but a bed of straw, and a sup of sowens for the little ones. "for which," she replied, "i thank you; what can any one give more than what he has. but time is precious to me, this night i must be over the border; mind me, however, i shall remember you, and mayhap may call again." so saying, she passed out of the shed, almost as much disregarded by dymock in her going out, as she had been in coming in. and now, for another hour, the strokes of the hammers of old shanty and the young stranger might have been heard far over the moor in the stillness of the night, for the wind had entirely died away, and the fitful glare of the forge, still shone as a beacon over the heath. at length, however, the job which the stranger had undertaken was finished, and dymock, having given him a silver piece, the only one in his pocket, the young man took his leave, saying as he went out, and whilst he tossed the silver in his hand,--"well, if i have not got what i came for, i have got that which is as good, and in return for your civility, old gentleman," he added, addressing shanty, "i give you a piece of advice; nail the horse-shoe, which you would not spare to me, over your own door, for i tell you, that you are in no small danger of being over-reached by the very warlock, who has haunted my steps for many a day." so saying, he went gaily, and with quick step, out of the shed, and his figure soon disappeared in a ravine or hollow of the moor. in the mean time, dymock and shanty stood at the door. the former being full of excitement, respecting the wonderful sagacity of the singular stranger, and the other being impatient to see the master off, as he wanted to shut up his shed, and to retire to the little chamber within, which served him for sleeping apartment, kitchen, and store-room, not to say study, for our worthy shanty never slept without studying the holy word of god. but whilst these two were standing, as we said, at the door, suddenly, a low moan reached their ears, as coming from their left, where the roof of the shed being lengthened out, afforded shelter for any carts, or even, on occasion, waggons, which might be brought there, for such repairs as shanty could give them. at that time, there was only one single cart in the shed, and the cry seemed to come from the direction of this cart. dymock and shanty were both startled at the cry, and stood in silence for a minute or more, to ascertain if it were repeated. another low moan presently ensued, and then a full outcry, as of a terrified child. dymock and shanty looked at each other, and shanty said, "it is the beggar woman. she is still skulking about, i will be bound; hark!" he added, "listen! she will be stilling the child, she's got under the cart." but the child continued to screech, and there was neither threat nor blandishment used to still the cries. dymock seemed to be so thoroughly astounded, that he could not stir, but shanty going in, presently returned with a lighted lanthorn, and an iron crow-bar in his hand; "and now," he said, "mr. dymock, we shall see to this noise," and they both turned into the out-building, expecting to have to encounter the tall beggar, and with her perhaps, a gang of vagrants. they, however, saw only the infant of two years' old, who had lain like a thing dead on the woman's lap, though not dead, as shanty had feared, but stupified with hollands, the very breath of the baby smelling of the spirit when dymock lifted it out of the cart and brought it into the interior shed. shanty did not return, till he had investigated every hole and corner of his domain, with the crow-bar in one hand, and the lanthorn in the other. the baby had ceased to cry, when brought into the shed, and feeling itself in the arms of a fellow-creature, had yielded to the influence of the liquor, and had fallen again into a dead sleep, dropping back on the bosom of mr. dymock. "they are all off," said shanty, as he entered the house, "and have left us this present. we have had need, as that young rogue said, of the horse-shoe over our door. we have been over-reached for once; that little one is stolen goods, be sure, mr. dymock,--some great man's child for aught we know,--the wicked woman will not call again very soon, as she promised, and what are we to do with the child? had my poor wife been living, it might have done, but she is better off! what can i do with it?" "i must take it up to the tower," said mr. dymock, "and see if my aunt margaret will take to it, and if she will not, why, then there are charity schools, and poor-houses to be had recourse to; yet i don't fear her kind heart." "nor i neither, mr. dymock," said shanty, and the old man drew near to the child, and holding up his lanthorn to the sleeping baby, he said, "what like is it? gipsy, or jew? one or the other; those features, if they were washed, might not disgrace sarah or rachel." "the mouth and the form of the face are grecian," said dymock, "but the bust is oriental." shanty looked hard at his patron, as trying to understand what he meant by _oriental_ and _grecian;_ and then repeated his question, "gipsy or jew, mr. dymock? for i am sure the little creature is not of our northern breed." "we shall see by and bye," said dymock, "the question is, what is to be done now? i am afraid that aunt margaret will look prim and stately if i carry the little one up to the tower; however, i see not what else to do. who is afraid? but put your fire out, shanty, and come with us. you shall carry the bantling, and i will take the lanthorn. mayhap, aunt margaret may think this arrangement the more genteel of the two. so let it be." and it was so; old shanty turned into child-keeper, and the laird into lanthorn-carrier, and the party directed their steps towards the tower, and much talk had they by the way. now, as we have said before, there was a fund of kindness in the heart of mrs. margaret dymock, which kindness is often more consistent than some people suppose, with attention to economy, especially when that economy is needful; and moreover, she had lately lost a favourite cat, which had been, as she said, quite a daughter to her. therefore the place of pet happened to be vacant just at that time, which was much in favour of the forlorn child's interests. dymock had taken shanty with him into the parlour, in which mrs. margaret sat at her darning; and he had suggested to the old man, that he might just as well tell the story himself for his aunt's information, and account for the presence of the infant; and, in his own words, mrs. margaret took all very well, and even did not hint that if her nephew had been in his own parlour, instead of being in a place where vagrants were sheltered, he would at all events have been out of this scrape. but the little one had awoke, and had begun to weep, and the old lady's heart was touched, so she called one of the maids, and told her to feed the babe and put it to sleep; after which, having ordered that shanty should be regaled with the bladebone of a shoulder of mutton, she withdrew to her room to think what was next to be done. the result of mrs. margaret's thoughts were, that come what might, the child must be taken care of for a few days, and must be washed and clothed; and, as the worthy lady had ever had the habit of laying by, in certain chests and boxes piled on each other in her large bed-room, all the old garments of the family not judged fitting for the wear of cottagers, she had nothing more to do than, by the removal of half-a-dozen trunks, to get at a deal box, which contained the frocks, and robes, and other garments which her nephew had discarded when he put on jacket and trousers. from these she selected one of the smallest suits, and they might have been seen airing at the kitchen fire by six o'clock that morning. hot water and soap were next put in requisition, and as soon as the baby awoke, she was submitted to such an operation by the kitchen fire, as it would appear she had not experienced for a long time. the little creature was terribly frightened when soused in the water, and screeched in a pitiful manner; the tears running from her eyes, and the whole of her small person being in a violent tremor. the maids, however, made a thorough job of it, and scoured the foundling from head to foot. at length mrs. margaret, who sat by, directing the storm, with a sheet across her lap and towels in her hand, pronounced the ablution as being complete, and the babe was lifted from the tub, held a moment to drip, and then set on the lap of the lady, and now the babe seemed to find instant relief. the little creature was no sooner placed on mrs. margaret's knee, than, by some strange and unknown association, she seemed to think that she had found an old friend,--some faintly remembered nurse or mother,--whom she had met again in mrs. dymock, and quivering with delight, she sprang on her feet on the lady's lap, and grasped her neck in her arms, pressing her little ruby lips upon her cheek; and on one of the maids approaching again with some of her clothes, she strained her arms more closely round mrs. margaret, and perfectly danced on her lap with terror lest she should be taken away from her. "lord help the innocent babe!" said the old lady, "what is come to her?" and mrs. margaret's eyes were full of tears; but the good lady then soothed and carressed the babe, and instructed her to sit down on her knees, whilst she directed the servant to assist in dressing her. but no, no, it would not do; no one was to touch her but mrs. margaret; and the old lady, drawing herself up, at length said,--"well, janet, we must give way, i suppose; it seems that i am to be the favourite; there is something in my physiognomy which has taken the child's fancy; come, hand me the clothes, i must try my skill in dressing this capricious little dame." mrs. margaret was evidently pleased by the poor orphan's preference, and whilst she was dressing the infant, there was time to discover that the little child was a perfect beauty in her way; the form of her face being oval, the features exquisite, the eyes soft, yet sparkling, and the lips delicately formed. the hair, of raven black, was clustered and curling, and the head set on the shoulders in a way worthy of the daughters of kings; but the servants pointed out on the arm of the infant, a peculiar mark which was not natural, but which had evidently been burnt therein. one said it was a fan, and another a feather; but mrs. margaret augured vast things from it, pronouncing that the child surely belonged to some great person, and that no one could say what might be the consequence of kindness shown to such a child. as soon as mr. dymock came down into the breakfast-room, mrs. margaret came swimming in with the child in her arms, exclaiming, "a pretty piece of work you have done for me, nephew! i am under a fine servitude now;" and she primmed up her mouth, but her eye laughed,--"little miss here, chooses to be waited on by me, and me only; and here i am, with nothing to do but to attend on my lady." "little miss," said mr. dymock, "what little miss? who have you got there?" "neither more nor less," replied mrs. margaret, "than your foundling." "impossible!" said mr. dymock: "why, what have you done to her?" "merely washed, combed, and dressed her," said mrs. margaret; "give me credit, nephew, and tell me what i have brought out by my diligence." "you have brought out a brilliant from an unfinished stone," exclaimed mr. dymock; "that is a beautiful child; i shall have extreme delight in making as much of that fine mind, as you have done with that beautiful exterior." "then you do not think of putting her in a foundling hospital or a workhouse, nephew, as you proposed last night?" said mrs. margaret, with a smile. "it would be a folly," replied the nephew, "to degrade such a creature as that;" and he attempted to kiss the baby; but, swift as thought, she had turned her face away, and was clinging to mrs. margaret. the old lady primmed up again with much complacency, "did i not tell you, nephew, how it was," she said, "nothing will do but aunt margaret. well, i suppose i must give her my poor pussy's corner in my bed. but now her back is turned to you, dymock, observe the singular mark on her shoulder, and tell me what it is?" mr. dymock saw this mark with amazement:--he saw that it was no natural mark; and at length, though not till after he had examined it many times, he made it out, or fancied he had done so, to be a branch of a palm tree. from the first he had made up his mind that this was a jewish child; and, following the idea of the palm-tree, and tracing the word in a hebrew lexicon,--for he was a hebrew scholar, though not a deep one,--he found that tamar was the hebrew for a palm tree. "and tamar it shall be," he said; "this maid of judah, this daughter of zion shall be called tamar;" and he carried his point, although mrs. margaret made many objections, saying it was not a christian name, and therefore not proper for a child who was to be brought up as a christian. however, as mr. dymock had given up his whim of learning the business of a smith since the adventure which has been so fully related, and had forgotten the proposed experiment of turning up the whole moor round the tower with his new-fangled plough,--that plough having ceased to be an object of desire to him as soon as it was completed,--she thought it best to give way to this whim of giving the child so strange a name, and actually stood herself at the font, as principal sponsor for little tamar. thus, the orphan was provided with a happy home; nor, as mrs. margaret said, did she ever miss the child's little bite and sup. after a few days, the babe would condescend to leave mrs. margaret, when required to go to the servants. she would even, when directed so to do, steal across the floor, and accept a seat on mr. dymock's knee, and gradually she got very fond of him. nor was her affection unrequited; he had formed a theory about her,--and it was not a selfish theory, for he never expected to gain anything by her,--but he believed that she was of noble but unfortunate jewish parentage, and he built this theory on the singular grace and beauty of her person. at all events, he never doubted but that she was a jewess; and he talked of it, and thought of it, till he was entirely convinced that it was so, and had convinced his aunt also, and established the persuasion in the minds of most persons about him. if mr. dymock was not a genius, he had all the weaknesses commonly attributed to genius, and, in consequence, was as useless a being as ever cumbered the ground; yet, he was generally loved, and no one loved him more than tamar did, after she had got over her first baby fear of him. but mrs. margaret, who had no pretensions to genius, was the real benefactor of this child, and as far as the lady was concerned in bringing her up, performed the part of a truly affectionate mother. her first effort was made to bring the will of the child, which was a lofty one, under subjection to her own; and the next, to give her habits of industry and self-denial. she told her that whatever she might hear respecting her supposed parentage, she was merely a child without pretentions, and protected from motives of love, and of love only; that her protectors were poor, and ever likely to remain so, and that what god required of her, was that when able, she should assist them as they had assisted her in helpless infancy. as to religion, mrs. margaret taught her what she herself knew and believed; but her views were dark and incomplete, she saw not half as much of the great mystery of salvation, as had been revealed to shanty in his hut; yet, the desire of doing right in the sight of god, had been imparted to her, and this desire was a fixed principle, and did not appear to be affected by her want of knowledge. as to forms, mrs. margaret had her own, and she was very attentive to them, but she had very small opportunity of public worship, as there was no church within some miles of the tower. in the meantime, whilst the old lady went plodding on in her own quiet way, teaching the little girl all she knew herself, mr. dymock was planning great things by way of instruction for tamar. he was to teach her to read her native language, as he called the hebrew, and to give her various accomplishments, for he had dipped into innumerable branches, not only of the sciences, but of the arts; and as he happened to have met with a mind in tamar which was as rapid as his own, though far more plodding and persevering, the style of teaching which he gave her, produced far richer fruit than could possibly have been expected. but as rome was not built in a day, neither must it be supposed that good mrs. margaret had not many a laborious, if not weary hour before her part of the care necessary to the well-rearing of the child, was so complete that the worthy woman might sit down and expect a small return; for, as she was wont to say, the child could not be made, for years after she could hold a needle, to understand that the threads should not be pulled as tight in darning as in hem stitch, and this, she would say, was unaccountable, considering how docile the child was in other matters; and, what was worst of all, was this,--that the little girl, who was as wild and fleet, when set at liberty, as a gazelle of the mountains, added not unseldom to the necessity of darning, until mrs. margaret bethought herself of a homespun dress in which tamar was permitted to run and career during all hours of recreation in the morning, provided she would sit quietly with the old lady in an afternoon, dressed like a pretty miss, in the venerable silks and muslins which were cut down for her use when no longer capable of being worn by mrs. margaret. by this arrangement tamar gained health during one part of the day, and a due and proper behaviour at another; and, as her attachment to mrs. margaret continued to grow with her growth, many and sweet to memory in after-life were the hours she spent in childhood, seated on a stool at the lady's feet, whilst she received lessons of needlework, and heard the many tales which the old lady had to relate. mrs. margaret having led a life without adventures, had made up their deficiency by being a most graphic recorder of the histories of others; scheherazade herself was not a more amusing story-teller; and if the arabian princess had recourse to genii, talismans, and monsters, to adorn her narratives, neither was mrs. dymock without her marvellous apparatus; for she had her ghosts, her good people, her dwarfs, and dreadful visions of second sight, wherewith to embellish her histories. there was a piety too, a reference in all she said to the pleasure and will of a reconciled god, which added great charms to her narratives, and rendered them peculiarly interesting to the little girl. whilst tamar was under her seventh year, she never rambled beyond the moat alone; but being seven years old, and without fear, she extended her excursions, and not unseldom ran as far as shanty's shed. the old man had always taken credit to him self for the part he had had in the prosperity of the little girl, and mrs. margaret did not fail to tell her how she had first come to the tower in shanty's arms; on these occasions the child used to say,--"then i must love him, must not i ma'am?" and being told she must, she did so, that is, she encouraged the feeling; and on a sunday when he was washed and had his best coat on, she used to climb upon his knees, for she always asked leave to visit him on that day if he did not come up to the tower, as he often did, to ask for her, and being on his knees she used to repeat to him what she had been learning during the week. he was very much pleased, when she first read a chapter in the bible, and then it was that he first opened out to her some of his ideas on religion; which were much clearer and brighter than either mrs. margaret's or her nephew's. how this poor and solitary old man had obtained these notions does not appear; he could not have told the process himself, though, as he afterwards told tamar, all the rest he knew, had seemed to come to him, through the clearing and manifestation of one passage of scripture, and this passage was col. iii. . "but christ is all." "this passage," said the old man, "stuck by me for many days. i was made to turn it about and about, in my own mind, and to hammer it every way, till at length, i was made to receive it, in its fulness. christ i became persuaded, is not all to one sort of men, and not all to another sort, nor all at one time of a man's life, and not all at another; nor all in one circumstance of need, and not all in another; nor all to the saints and not all to the sinner; nor all in the hour of joy, and not all in the hour of retribution; being ready and able to supply one want, and unwilling to supply another. for," as he would add, "does a man want righteousness? there it is laid for him in christ; does he want merit? there is the treasure full and brimming over; does he want rest and peace? they are also provided for him; does he want faith? there also is faith prepared for him; but the times and the seasons, these are not given to him to know; and, if confusion and every evil work now prevail, christ being all, he will bring order out of confusion, when the fulness of the time shall come. "and so," continued the old man, "when it was given me to see and accept this one passage first, in its completeness, all other parts of scripture seemed to fall at once into their places; and the prophecies; the beautiful prophecies of future peace and joy to the earth, of the destruction of death and of hell, all opened out to me, as being hidden and shut up in christ,--for christ is all; and as i desired the treasure, so i was drawn more and more towards him who keeps the treasure, and all this," he would add, "was done for me, through no deserts or deservings of my own; for till this light was vouchsafed me, i was as other unregenerate men, living only to myself, and for myself; and more than this," he would say, "were it the divine will to withdraw the light, i should turn again to be dead and hard, as iron on the cold anvil." in this way, shanty often used to talk to mrs. margaret, and after a while to tamar; but the old lady for many years remained incapable of entering so entirely as he could wish, into his views of the sufficiency of the redeemer. she could not give up entirely her notions of the need of some works, not as evidences of the salvation of an individual, but as means of ensuring that salvation, and accordingly she never met with shanty for many years, without hinting at this discrepancy in their opinions, which hints seldom failed of bringing forward an argument. when tamar was about nine years old, mr. dymock gave her a dog. of this creature she was very fond, and always accustomed it to accompany her in her excursions around the tower. there was on the moor, not many hundred paces from the tower, a heap of blocks of granite, some of which bore evidence of having been cut with a chisel; but these were almost entirely grown over with saxifrages and other wild plants. the country people seldom resorted to this place, because they accounted it uncanny, and mrs. margaret had several wild tales to tell about it, which greatly interested tamar. she said, that in the times of papal power, there had been a monastery there, and in that place a covenanter had been murdered; hence, it had been pulled down to the ground, and all the unholy timbers and symbols of idolatry burnt; "and still," she added, "to this day, uncanny objects are seen in that place, and wailings as of souls in woe have also been heard coming from thence; and i myself have heard them. nay, so short a time ago as the night or two before you, tamar, were brought a baby to this house, a light was seen there, and unearthly voices heard as coming from thence." of course after this, it could not be thought that tamar should approach this place quite alone, though she often desired to do so; had not mrs. margaret told her these stories, she probably might never have had this desire, but there is a principle in human nature, which hankers after the thing forbidden; hence, as st. paul says, "by the law is the knowledge of sin." we are not defending human nature, which is indefensible, but merely stating facts. tamar had much desire to visit this mysterious place; and so it happened one day, when she had her dog with her, and the sun was shining, and all about her bright and gay, that she climbed up the little green knoll, and pushing her way through many brambles, furze bushes, and dwarf shrubs, she found herself in the centre of the huge heaps of stones and rubbish, of which she had hitherto seen only the summits, from the windows of the tower. but being arrived there, she came to a stand, to look about her, when her dog, to whom dymock had given the poetical name of sappho, began to prick up her ears, and snuff as if she scented something more than ordinary, and the next minute, she dashed forward, made her way through certain bushes, and disappeared. tamar called aloud; a hollow echo re-sounded her voice, but no dog appeared;--again she called,--again she heard the echo, and again she was silent; but she was by no means a timid child; she had been too much accustomed to be alone,--too much used to explore old corners, of which there were multitudes about the tower, occupied only by owls and bats. she therefore went forward to the place where sappho had disappeared, and forcing aside the shrubs, she saw before her a low, arched door-way, which, had she understood architecture, she would have known, from the carvings about the posts and lintel, to have been norman. she was surprised, indeed, but thinking only of her dog, she called again, and was perfectly amazed at the long, hollow, and deep sound, of the reverberation. she stood still again, holding the bushes aside, and was aware of a rush of damp vapour, blowing in her face. sappho, she called again, and the next minute heard an impatient bark, or yelp, from the animal, and another sound, low, deep and muttering, which she could not comprehend. she was now getting much alarmed and dropping the boughs, took to flight, and she had scarcely cleared the rubbish, when sappho came scouring after her, jumping upon her as if glad to see her again. she patted her head, saying "my poor sappho, what have you seen in that dark place? i wish you had a tongue to tell me." tamar immediately returned to the tower, and hastened to tell her adventure to mrs. margaret. "oh!" said the old lady, "is it so? that reminds me of what i heard my father say, many and many is the year gone by, that there was an old tradition of a secret passage underground from the monastery to the tower; but he never knew where the passage came into the tower. but be it which way it might, it must needs have passed under the moat." "how strange!" said tamar; "but when that passage was made, it could not have been secret; many people must have known it, and i wonder, then, how it could have been so entirely forgotten." "who shall say how things were done in those days," said mrs. margaret; "those times long past, when things uncanny had more power than they have now? but it is not good to talk of such things," added the lady; "and now, tamar, let that which you have seen to-day never again be mentioned by you; for, as sure as the master should hear of it, he would be for looking into the cavern, and, heaven knows what he might stir up, if he were to disturb such things as might be found there. i only wish that that the mischief may not be already done!" but no mischief did occur, at least for a long time, from this mysterious quarter. tamar did not again visit the place; and in a short time thought no more of the matter. the happy days of childhood were passing away with tamar, and sorrow was coming on her patrons, from a quarter which poor mrs. margaret had long darkly anticipated; but whilst these heavy clouds were hanging over the house of dymock, a few, though not very important events intervened. mr. dymock, by fits and snatches, had given such lessons to tamar as had enabled her to proceed, by her own exertions, in several branches of knowledge quite out of the sphere of mrs. margaret. amongst these was the history of the jews, carried on in connection between the new and old testament, and afterwards in christian times, and to these he added certain crude views of prophecy; for he was resolved that tamar was a jewess, and he had talked himself into the belief that she was of some distinguished family. it is no difficult matter to impress young persons with ideas of their own importance; and none are more liable to receive such impressions, than those who, like tamar, are in the dark respecting their origin. the point on which mr. dymock failed in his interpretations of prophecy, is not unfrequently mistaken, even in this more enlightened age. he never considered or understood, that all prophecy is delivered in figurative language; every prophecy in the old testament having first a literal and incomplete fulfilment, the complete and spiritual fulfilment being future. he did not see that the jews, according to the flesh, were types of the spiritual israel; that david was the emblem of the saviour; and that the universal kingdom promised to the seed of david, was no other than the kingdom of christ, into which all the children of god will be gathered together as into one fold under one shepherd. not seeing this, he anticipated a period of earthly triumph for the jews, such as an ambitious, worldly man might anticipate with delight; and he so filled the mind of his young pupil with these notions of the superiority of her race, that it is a miracle that he did not utterly ruin her. as it was, she counted herself greatly superior to all about her, and was much hurt and offended when old shanty represented the simple truth to her, telling her, that even were she the lineal descendant of solomon himself, she could have no other privilege than that of the lowest gentile who has obtained a new birth-right in the saviour of mankind; "for," said he, "under the gospel dispensation there is no difference between the jew and the greek,--the same lord over all, is rich unto all that call upon him," rom. x. . it did not, however, suit tamar to adopt these truths at the present time; and as shanty could not succeed with her, he took the liberty of speaking to mr. dymock on the subject. "why do you fill the young girl's mind, dymock," said he, "with such fancies as you do? but, leaving her alone, let us speak of the jews in general. they that wish them well should not fill them up with notions of a birth-right which they have forfeited, and thus confirm them in the very same pride which led them to crucify the lord of glory. what is a jew more than another man? for he is not a jew which is one outwardly; neither is that circumcision which is outward in the flesh; but he is a jew which is one inwardly, and circumcision is that of the heart, in the spirit, and not in the letter, whose praise is not of men but of god." rom. ii. , . mr. dymock would not listen to honest shanty on this subject, much as he respected him; and, indeed, the poor laird was at this time deeply oppressed with other matters. he had, in his various speculations, so entirely neglected his own affairs for some years past, that poverty, nay actual penury, was staring in his face. he had formerly mortgaged, by little and little, most of his lands, and nothing now remained to make money of, but the castle itself and a few acres around it, with the exception only of a cottage and a small field, hitherto occupied by a labourer, which lay in a kind of hollow on the side of the knoll, where the entrance of the secret cavern was. this cottage was as remote from dymock's tower in one way, as shanty's shed was in another; although the three dwellings formed together a sort of equilateral triangle. mr. dymock long suspected that this labourer had done his share to waste his substance; and once or twice it had occurred to him, that if he left the castle he might retire to the cottage. but yet, to part with the castle, could he find a purchaser, would, he feared, be death to mrs. margaret, and how would tamar bear it?--this glorious maid of judah, as he was wont to call her,--this palm tree of zion, this daughter of david,--the very fine person, and very superior air of tamar having confirmed him in the impression of her noble birth. it was whilst these heavy thoughts respecting what must be done in the management of his affairs dwelt on his mind, that the same man who had finished the unfortunate plough appeared again in shanty's shed. the old man recognized him immediately, although fourteen years had much changed his appearance, and he at once charged him with having had some concern with the woman who left the child. the well-acted astonishment of the vagrant, for such he was, silenced shanty, though it did not convince him that he was mistaken in his conjecture. however, the old man, changing his mode of attack, and regretting that he had put the stranger on his guard by giving him so home a thrust, pretended to be convinced, and entered into easy conversation with him; amongst other things asking him if perchance he knew of any one who wanted to purchase an estate? "aye!" said the vagrant, to whom as we small have the pleasure of introducing him again, we think it may be well to give the name of harefoot,--"aye! old gentleman, and might one ask where this estate of yours may be?" "it is of no consequence," replied shanty, "i answer no questions, as not being empowered so to do. at all events, however, the estate is not far from hence, and it is a magnificent place, i promise you, more's the pity, that those who have owned it for some hundreds of years, should be compelled to part with it." other matters were then introduced, and shanty endeavoured to wind about harefoot, but with little success; for, deep as he thought himself, he had one deeper to deal with. in truth, poor shanty was but a babe in cunning, and the vagrant departed, without having dropped a single hint which could be taken hold of respecting tamar. in the meantime troubles were pressing upon poor dymock, the interest of moneys lent on the motgage was not forthcoming, and the laird having no better friend (and as to a sincerer he needed none,) than poor shanty, used from day to day to go down to the shed, to open his heart to the old man. shanty had long advised his patron to tell his situation to mrs. margaret, and to advertise the sale of the castle, but dymock's pride had not yet so far submitted itself, as to enable him to make so public a confession of the downfall of the family, as an advertisement would do. "i cannot open my heart to my aunt, shanty," he said, "she, poor creature, has devoted her whole life to keeping up the dignity of the house; how, then, will she bear to see the whole labour of her life annihilated?" "the sooner she knows of what is coming the better," returned shanty, "if she is not prepared, the blow when it comes, will go nigh utterly to overpower her," and the old man proposed to go himself, to open the matter to her. "you shall, shanty, you shall," said the laird, "but wait a little, wait a little, we may hear of a purchaser for the castle, and when such a one is found, then you shall speak to my aunt." "but first," said shanty, "let me prepare your adopted one, let me open the matter to her; she is of an age, in which she ought to think and act no longer as a child; it is now fourteen years since i carried her up in my arms to dymock's tower, and though the young girl is too much filled up with pride, yet i fear not but that she is a jewel, which will shine brighter, when rubbed under the wheel of adversity; allowing what i hope, that there is a jewel under that crust of pride." "pride!" repeated dymock, flying off into the region of romance, "and if a daughter of zion, a shoot from the cedar of lebanon, is not to carry her head high, who is to do so? the fate of her race may indeed follow her, and she may be brought down, to sit in the dust, but still even in the dust, she may yet boast her glorious origin." shanty raised his hands and eyes, "lord help you! dymock," he said, "but you are clean demented. i verily believe, that the child is nothing mere than the offspring of a begging gipsy, and that if her mother had been hanged, she would only have met with her deserts." discussions of this kind were constantly taking place between shanty and dymock, and it was in the very midst of one these arguments, that the rare appearance of a hired chaise,--a job and pair, as shanty called it, appeared coming over the moor, directly to the shed, and so quick was the approach, that the laird and the blacksmith had by no means finished their conjectures respecting this phenomenon, before the equipage came to a stand, in the front of the hut. as the carriage stopped, a spare, sallow, severe looking old gentlemen, put his head out of the window, and calling to the post boy, in a sharp, querulous tone, asked if he were quite sure that he was right? "not sure that this is old shanty's hut; shanty of dymock's moor," replied the post-boy, in a broad northern accent; "ask me if i don't know my own mother's son, though she never had but one bairn." dymock and shanty no sooner heard the voice of the boy, than they both recognized him, and stepping forward, they went up to the carriage and offered to assist the old gentleman to alight; he received their civilities with very little courtesy. however, he got out of the carriage, and giving himself a shake, and a sort of twist, which caused the lappets of his coat to expand, like the fan-tail of a pigeon, he asked, if the place was dymock's moor, and if the old man he saw before him, was one called shanty of the moor? the blacksmith declared himself to be that same person, "and this gentlemen," he added, pointing to dymock, whose every day dress, by the bye, did not savor much of the laird, "this gentleman is dymock himself." "ah, is it so," said the stranger, "my business then is with him, show me where i can converse with him." "i have no parlour to offer you," said shanty; "to my shed, however, such as it is, i make you welcome." no gracious notice was taken by the stranger of the offer, but without preamble or ceremony, he told his errand to mr. dymock. "i hear," he said, "that you wish to sell your tower, and the lands which surround it; if after looking at it, and finding that it suits me, you will agree to let me have it, i will pay you down in moneys, to the just and due amount of the value thereof, but first i must see it." "it stands there, sir," said shanty, seeing that mr. dymock's heart was too full to permit him to speak; "it stands there, sir, and is as noble an object as my eye ever fell upon. the tower," continued the old man, "at this minute, lies directly under the only dark cloud now in the heavens; nevertheless, a slanting ray from the westering sun now falls on its highest turret; look on, sir, and say wherever have you seen a grander object?" the old gentleman uttered an impatient pish, and said, "old man, your travels must needs have lain in small compass, if you think much of yon heap of stones and rubbish." the laird's choler was rising, and he would infallibly have told the stranger to have walked himself off, if shanty had not pulled him by the sleeve, and, stepping before the stranger, said something in a soothing way, which should enhance the dignity of the tower and encourage the pretended purchaser. "i must see it, i must see it," returned the old gentleman, "not as now mixed up with the clouds, but i must examine it, see its capabilities, and know precisely what it is worth, and how it can be secured to me and my heirs for ever." it was warm work which poor shanty now had to do; between the irritated seller and the testy buyer, he had never been in a hotter place before his own forge, and there was wind enough stirring in all reason, without help of bellows, for the laird puffed and groaned and uttered half sentences, and wished himself dead, on one side of the old blacksmith, whilst the stranger went on as calmly, coolly, and deliberately, with his bargain, on the other side, as if he were dealing with creatures utterly without feeling. shanty turned first to one, and then to another; nodding and winking to dymock to keep quiet on one side, whilst he continued to vaunt the merits of the purchase on the other. at length, on a somewhat more than usually testy remark of the stranger reaching the ears of the laird, he burst by shanty and had already uttered these words, "let me hear no more of this, i am a gentleman, and abominate the paltry consideration of pounds, shillings, and pence;" when shanty forcibly seizing his arm, turned him fairly round, whispering, "go, and for the sake of common sense, hold your tongue, leave the matter to me, let me bargain for you; go and tell mrs. margaret that we are coming, and make what tale you will to her, to explain our unceremonious visit; you had better have told her all before." the laird informed shanty that there was no need of going up to the tower to inform his aunt, as she and tamar were gone that day over the border to visit a friend; but added he, "i take your offer, shanty, make the bargain for me if you can, and i shall not appear till i am wanted to sign and seal," and away marched the laird nor was he forthcoming again for some hours. after he was gone, shanty begged leave to have a few minutes given him for washing his hands and face and making himself decent, and then walked up with the testy old gentlemen to the castle. little as shanty knew of the great and grand world, yet his heart misgave him, lest the ruinous state of the castle, (although the tower itself stood in its ancient and undilapidated strength,) should so entirely disgust the stranger that he should at once renounce all ideas of the purchase; he was therefore much pleased when the old gentleman, having gone grumbling and muttering into every room and every outhouse, crying, it is naught! it is naught! as buyers generally do, bade shanty tell the laird that he was going to the nearest town, that he should be there till the business was settled, that he would give the fair valuation for the estate, and that the payment should be prompt. shanty was, indeed astonished; he was all amazement, nor did he recover himself, till he saw the old gentleman walk away, and get into his carriage which was waiting on the other side of the moat, it not being particularly convenient, on account of the total deficiency of anything like a bridge or passable road? to bring a carriage larger than a wheel-barrow up to the castle. dymock returned to the shed, when he, from some place of observation on the moor, saw that the carriage had reached the high road, and there, having been told all that had passed, the poor gentleman (who, by the bye, was not half pleased with the idea of the honours of dymock falling into the hands of such a purchaser,) informed shanty that he must prepare to go with him the next day to hexham, where the stranger had appointed to meet him. "i go with you!" exclaimed shanty, "was ever so strange a conceit." "i shall be fleeced, shorn, ruined," implied mr. dymock, "if i go to make a bargain, without a grain of common sense in my company." "true," returned shanty, "your worship is right; but how are we to go? i have plenty of horse-shoes by me, but neither you, nor i laird, i fear could find any four legs to wear them." "we must e'en walk then," said dymock, "nay, i would gladly carry you on my back, rather than descend to the meanness of driving a bargain with a testy old fellow like that; by the bye, shanty, what does he call himself?" "salmon," replied shanty, "and i mistake if he has not a touch of the foreigner on his tongue." "you will accompany me, then shanty," said the laird. "i will," he replied, "if this evening you will open the business out to mrs. margaret." "it cannot be shanty," replied dymock chuckling, "for she does not expect to be back over the border till to-morrow, and when to-morrow is over and we know what we are about, then you shall tell her all." "dymock," said shanty, "you are hard upon me, when you have a morsel to swallow that is too tough for you, you put it into my mouth; but," added the old man kindly, "there is not much that i would refuse to do for your father's son." the sun had not yet risen over the moor, when dymock and shanty, both arrayed in their best, set off for hexham, where they found the crabbed old gentlemen, still in the humour of making the purchase, though he abused the place in language at once rude and petulant; his offer, however, was, as shanty compelled dymock to see, a very fair one, though the more sensible and wary blacksmith could not persuade his friend to beware of trusting anything to the honour of mr. salmon. dymock's estate had been deeply mortgaged, the sale was made subject to the mortgages, and the purchaser was bound to pay the mortgagee the mortgage moneys, after which there was small surplus coming to poor dymock. this small surplus was, however, paid down on the signing of the papers; still, however, there was an additional payment to take place soon after possession. this payment was, it was supposed, to be for fixtures and other articles, which were to be left on the premises, and it was not to be asked till mr. salmon had been resident a few weeks. the amount was between five and six hundred pounds, and was in fact all that dymock would have to depend upon besides his cottage, his field, a right of shooting on the moor, and fishing in a lake which belonged to the estate, and about twenty pounds a year which appertained to mrs. margaret, from which it was supposed she had made some savings. shanty had succeeded in forcing the laird to listen to the dictates of prudence, and to act with sufficient caution, till it came to what he called the dirty part of the work, to wit, the valuation of small articles, and then was the blood of the dymocks all up; nor would he hear of requiring a bond for the payment of this last sum, such a document, in fact, as should bind the purchaser down to payment without dispute. he contented himself only with such a note from the old man as ought he asserted to be quite sufficient, and it was utterly useless for shanty to expostulate. the laird had got on his high horse and was prancing and capering beyond all the controul of his honest friend, whilst mr. salmon, no doubt, laughed in his sleeve, and only lamented that he had not known dymock better from the first, for in that case he would have used his cunning to have obtained a better bargain of the castle and lands. it was not one nor two visits to hexham which completed these arrangements; however mr. dymock, after the first visit, no longer refused to permit shanty to open out every thing to his aunt, and to prepare her to descend into a cottage, on an income of forty or fifty pounds a year. mrs. margaret bore the information better than shanty had expected; she had long anticipated some such blow, and her piety enabled her to bear it with cheerfulness. "i now," she said, "know the worst, and i see not wherefore, though i am a dymock, i should not be happy in a cottage, i am only sorry for tamar; poor tamar! what will become of her?" "oh mother! dear mother!" said tamar weeping, "why are you sorry for me, cannot i go with you? surely you would not part from me;" and she fell weeping on mrs. margaret's bosom. "never before! oh, never before," cried mrs. margaret, "did i feel my poverty as i do now." "mother dear! oh mother dear! had i thousands of pounds, i would devote them all to you, and to my dear protector." "god helping you, or god working in you tamar," said shanty, rubbing his rough hand across his eyes, "but never boast of what you will do, dear child; boasting does not suit the condition of humanity." "oh! that i could now find my father," she replied, "and if i could find him a rich man, what a comfort it would be; what would i give now," she added, "to find a rich father!" mrs. margaret kissed her child, and wept with her, calling her a dear, affectionate, grateful creature; but shanty made no remark respecting tamar's gratitude; he had it in his mind to speak to her when alone, and he very soon found the opportunity he wished. it was on the next sunday that he met tamar walking on the moor, and it was then that he thus addressed her, "i was sorry damsel," he said, "to hear you speak as you did to mrs. margaret the other day, making a profession of what you would do for her if you were rich, and yet never offering her that which you have to give her." "what have i to give her?" asked tamar. "much," replied the old man; "much, very much. you have strength, and activity, and affection to give her. with forty pounds a-year, a house, and a little field, which is all your adopted parents will have, can they, think you, keep a servant? will not the very closest care be necessary, and should not one who is young, and faithful, and attached, rejoice to serve her benefactors at such time as this, and to render their fall as easy as possible; and where, i ask you, tamar, should they find such service as you can render them?" they were walking side by side, the old man and the beautiful girl, among the heather of the moor; and he was looking up kindly and animatedly to her,--for he was a remarkably short, thick-set man,--but she was looking down on the ground, whilst a bitter struggle was passing in her mind. she had been filled up by her guardian with wild fancies of her own greatness, which was hereafter to be made manifest; and it would have been too strong for unaided nature, to bring herself to submit to such drudgeries as duty seemed now to require of her; her bright-brown cheek was flushed with the inward contest, and her bosom seemed to be almost swelled to suffocation. but the assistance required was not withheld in the hour of need, and shanty was soon made aware of the change of feelings which was suddenly imparted to the orphan by the change of the expression of her countenance; the tears had already filled her eyes, when she turned to her old friend, and thanked him for his reproof, expressing her conviction, that his advice was that of a true christian, and begging him always to tell her, in like manner, when he saw that she was going wrong. a more general discussion on the subject of true religion then followed, and shanty assured tamar, that all high notions of self, whether of birth, talents, or riches, were unpleasing in the sight of god, and utterly inconsistent with that view of salvation by christ, which is independent of all human merit. such was the nature of the lessons given by the old man to tamar. his language was, however, broad, and full of north-country phrases, so much so, as to have rendered them inexplicable to one who had not been accustomed to the border dialect. from that day, however, through the divine mercy, the heart of tamar was given to the duties which she saw before her, and all her activity was presently put into requisition; for mr. salmon had given notice, that he should take possession of dymock's tower as soon as it could be got ready for him, and he also sent persons to make the preparations which he required. these preparations were of a most singular nature; his object appeared neither to be the beautifying of the old place, or even the rendering it more comfortable, for he neither sent new furniture, nor ordered the restoration of any of the dilapidated chambers or courts. but he ordered the moat to be repaired, so that it could be filled and kept full, and he directed that a light draw-bridge should also be erected. the walls of the inner courts were also to be put to rights, and new gates added. there was a great laugh in the country respecting this unknown humourist; and some said he was preparing for a siege, and others going to set up for a modern rob roy, and castle-dymock was to be his head-quarters. the greater part of the furniture, and all the fixtures, were to be paid for by the money for which the laird had mr. salmon's memorandum; and they who knew their condition, said that the things had been brought to a good market, as little of the furniture would have been worth the carriage across the moor. nothing at present, therefore, remained for the aunt and the nephew to do, but to remove to the cottage as soon as it should be ready to receive them. this humble habitation was situated in a small nook or vale of the moor called heatherdale. a little fresh-water spring ran through it, coming in at the higher end of the valley, and going out through a natural cleft in a block of granite at the other end. there were many tall trees scattered on the banks within the dell; and the place was so sheltered, that many a plant would flourish in the garden on the south side of the house, which could hardly be kept alive in any other situation in the country. the cottage was an old, black, timbered and thatched edifice, and had four rooms of considerable dimensions, two above and two below, with a porch in the front, overgrown with briony and another hardy creeper. as soon as this tenement was vacated, and the laird's intention of inhabiting it known, the ancient tenants of the family all manifested their affection by using their several crafts in repairing the cottage, and setting the house to rights,--one mended the thatch, another repaired the wood-work, a third white-washed the walls, another mended the paling, and old shanty did any little job in his way which might be required. the labours of love never hang long on hand, and though the old tenant had gone out only at lady-day, the hawthorn had scarcely blossomed when the affectionate people pronounced the work complete. poor dymock had become very restless when he saw the changes which were going on at the tower; but when there was no longer an excuse to be found for delaying the removal, he gave way altogether, or rather, we should say, made a cut and run, and went off to botanize the lakes in westmoreland, with a knapsack on his back, and a guinea in his pocket. before he went, however, he had opened his heart to his daughter tamar, saying, "i now take leave, dear child, of the life of a gentleman; henceforward i must content myself with the corner of a kitchen ingle; and this, truly, is a berth," he added, "too good for a cumberer of the ground, such as i am." he said this as he passed through the gate of the court, giving his adopted one time only to snatch his hand and kiss it, and he was gone beyond her hearing before she could relieve her heart with a burst of tears. after a while, however, she dried them up, and began to busy her mind in thinking what she could do to render the cottage comfortable for her beloved guardian; and having at length formed her plan, she ran to mrs. margaret, and asked her permission to take the arrangement of their new house. "let me," said she, "see all the things put in their places; you and i, dear aunt margaret, will have to ourselves a kitchen as neat as a palace, and we will make a study of the inner room for mr. dymock." "what!" said the old lady, "and give up our parlour?" "dear mother," replied the young girl carelessly, "if there is to be no maid but poor tamar, why should not the kitchen be the happiest place, for her own dear mother? you shall have your chair in the corner, between the window and the fire-place, and your little work-table by it, and then you can direct me without moving from your needle. oh! dear, aunt margaret," she added, "i am beginning to think that we shall be happier in the cottage, than we have been in the castle; we shall have fewer cares, and shall have a pleasure in putting our small means to the best. do not the scatterings of the flock, aunt margaret, make us as warm hose as the prime of the fleece?" "that may be doubted child," replied the old lady with a smile, "but go young creature, take your way; i believe ere yet you have done, that you, with your sunny smile, will cheat me into contentment before i know what i am about; but mind, my lovely one," she added, "i will tell you how it is. i have been led to see how god in his displeasure,--displeasure, i say, on account of the pride of ancestry and station, which i have hitherto persisted in cherishing,--how god, i repeat, in his displeasure has remembered mercy, and, in taking away that which is worthless, has left me that which is most precious, even you my bright one." the old lady then kissed tamar, and gave her the permission she required, to arrange the cottage according to her own fancy. when the day of removal actually arrived, being the day after the laird had walked himself off, the neighbours, with shanty at their head, came to assist. tamar had determined upon having the room within the kitchen, for her beloved father by adoption; a village artist having understood her pious wish, had stained the walls of light grey, and painted the frame of the casement window of the same colour. tamar had prepared a curtain of some light drapery for the window; a well-darned carpet covered the floor, the laird's bookcases occupied one entire end of the room opposite the window, the wonted table of the old study at the tower was placed in the centre of the floor, and was covered with its usual cloth, a somewhat tarnished baize, with a border worked in crewels by mrs. margaret in days gone by. in the centre of this table the inkstand was placed, and on the opposite wall, a venerable time-piece, asserted, with what truth we presume not to say, to be nearly as old as the clock sent by haroun al raschid to the emperor charlemagne. a few high-backed chairs, certain strange chimney ornaments, and other little matters dear to the laird, finished the furniture of this room, and tamar perfectly laughed with joy, when, having seen all done, she became aware that this small apartment was in fact more comfortable than the cold, wide, many-drafted study in the tower. those who were with her caught the merry infection and laughed too, and shanty said, "but dear one, whilst you thus rejoice in your own contrivances, have you not a word of praise to give to him, who has spread such glories as no human skill could create, beyond yon little window?" the old man then opened the casement, and showed the sweet and peaceful scene which there presented itself; for the cottage was enclosed in a small dell, the green sides of which seemed to shut out all the world, enclosing within their narrow limits, a running brook, and hives of bees, and many fragrant flowers. tamar was equally successful, and equally well pleased with her arrangements in other parts of the cottage; the kitchen opened on one side to a little flower garden, on the other to the small yard, where mrs. margaret intended to keep her poultry, and the whole domain was encompassed by the small green field, which made up the extent of the dell, and was the only bit of land left to the representative of the house of dymock. but mrs. margaret had reckoned that the land would keep a little favourite cow, and with this object tamar had taken great pains to learn to milk. when all was ready, mrs. margaret with many tears took leave of dymock's tower; she had not seen the process of preparation in the cottage, and was therefore perfectly astonished when she entered the house. tamar received her with tears of tenderness, and the worthy lady having examined all the arrangements, blessed her adopted one, and confessed that they had all in that place that man really required. neither did she or tamar find that they had more to do than was agreeable; if they had no servants to wait upon them, they had no servants to disarrange their house. they had engaged an old cottager on the moor to give them an hour's work every evening, and for this they paid him with a stoup of milk, or some other small product of their dairy; money they had not to spare, and this he knew,--nor did he require any; he would have given his aid to the fallen family for nothing, had it been asked of him. in wild and thinly peopled countries, there is more of neighbourly affection,--more of private kindness and sympathy than in crowded cities. man is a finite creature; he cannot take into his heart many objects at once, and such, indeed, is the narrowness of his comprehension, that he cannot even conceive how the love of an infinite being can be generally exercised through creation. it is from this incapacity that religious people, at least too many of them, labour so sedulously as they do to instil the notion of the particularity of the work of salvation, making it almost to appear, that the almighty father brings beings into existence, merely to make them miserable,--but we are wandering from our story. aunt margaret and tamar had been at the cottage a fortnight before dymock returned; tamar saw him first coming down the glen, looking wearied, dispirited and shabby. she ran out to meet her adopted father, and sprang into his arms; his eyes were filled with tears, and her bright smiles caused those eyes to overflow. she took his hand, she brought him in, she set him a chair, and mrs. margaret kissing him, said "come dymock brighten up, and thank your god for a happy home." dymock sighed, tamar took his heavy knapsack from him, and placed before him bread and butter, and cheese, and a stoup of excellent beer. "eat, dear father," she said, "and then you shall go to bed, (for it was late in the evening,) and to-morrow you will see what a sweet place this is;" but poor dymock could not rally that night. tamar had always slept with mrs. margaret, and the best room of the two above stairs had been prepared for dymock, mrs. margaret having found a place under the rafters for her innumerable boxes. the poor laird slept well, and when he awoke the sun was shining into his room, and aunt margaret had arranged his clean clothes at the foot of his bed; he arose in better spirits, and dressing himself, he went down; he found tamar in the kitchen, and she, without speaking, took his hand and led him to his study. the poor gentleman could not bear this: he saw the sacrifice his aunt had made for him, and the exertions also which tamar must have made to produce this result, and he fairly wept; but this burst of agitation being over, he embraced his adopted child, and expressed his earnest hope that henceforward he might be enabled to live more closely with his god. but the mind of dymock was not a well balanced one; he could not live without a scheme, and he had scarcely been two days in the cottage, when he re-aimed at the ideas which he had formerly indulged of becoming an author, and of obtaining both fame and money by his writings. mrs. margaret was fretted when she was made aware of this plan, and sent tamar to shanty, to ask him to talk him out of the fancy, and to persuade him to adopt some employment, if it were only digging in his garden, which might bring in something; but shanty sent tamar back to mrs. margaret to tell her that she ought to be thankful that there was anything found which would keep the laird easy and quiet, and out of the way of spending the little which he had left. poor dymock, therefore, was not disturbed in his attempts at authorship, and there he used to sit in his study with slip-shod feet, an embroidered dressing gown, which mrs. margaret had quilted from an old curtain, and a sort of turban twisted about his head, paying no manner of attention to hours or seasons. as mrs. margaret only allowed him certain inches of candle, he could not sit up all night as geniuses ought to be permitted to do; but then he would arise with the lark and set to work, before any of the labourers on the moor were in motion. in vain did mrs. margaret complain and expostulate; she even in her trouble sent tamar again to shanty to request him to plead with the laird, and beg him to allow himself to enjoy his regular rest; but in this case when she required shanty's aid, she had reckoned without her host. "go back to mrs. margaret, damsel," he said, "go and tell the lady that as long as she can keep the laird from work by candle light, so long no harm is done, and if instead of murmuring at this early rising, fair child, you will take example by him, and leave your bed at the same time that your hear him go down, you will do well. he that lies in bed gives a daily opportunity to his servants, if he has any to serve him, to do mischief before he is up, and she that rises with the sun and goes straight forward, like an arrow in its course, in the path of her duties, shall find fewer thorns and more roses in that path, than those who indulge in ease. through divine mercy," continued the old man, "our own exertions are not needed for the assurance of our salvation, but sloth and carelessness tend to penury and misery, in this present life; and there is no sloth more ruinous to health and property than that of wasting the precious morning hours in bed." tamar was not deaf to the pleadings of shanty; she began immediately to rise with the first crowing of the cock, and thus obtained so much time for her business, that she could then afford herself some for reading. mrs. margaret took also to rise early, so that instead of breakfasting as formerly at eight o'clock, the family took that meal at seven; but the laird often managed to have such bright and valuable thoughts just at breakfast time, that for the sake of posterity, as he was wont to say, he could by no means endanger the loss of them by suffering such a common place interruption as that of breakfast, such an every day and vulgar concern. on these occasions tamar always took in his coffee and toast, and set it before him, and she generally had the pleasure of finding that he took what she brought him, though he seldom appeared to be aware either of her entrance or her exit, mrs. margaret invariably exclaiming when tamar reported her reception in the study, "lord help him! see what it is to be a genius!" in the meantime, the moat around dymock's tower was repaired and filled up, or was fast filling up; the draw-bridge was in its place, and the gates and walls restored; and as the neighbours said, the tower wanted nothing but men and provisions to enable it to stand a siege. at length, all being pronounced ready, though no interior repairing had taken place, the new possessor arrived, bringing with him two servants, an old man and an old woman, and many heavy packages, which were stowed in a cart, and lifted out by himself and his man-servant, whom he called jacob. this being done, he and his people were heard of no more, or rather seen no more, being such close housekeepers, that they admitted no one over the moat, though the man jacob, rode to the nearest market every week on the horse which had dragged the baggage, to bring what was required, which, it was said, was not much more than was necessary to keep the bodies and souls of three people together. numerous and strange were the speculations made by all people on the moor upon these new tenants of dymock's tower, and shanty's shed was a principal scene of these speculations. various were the reproaches which were cast on the strangers, and no name was too bad for them. "our old laird," one remarked, "was worth ten thousand such. as long as he had a crust, he would divide it with any one that wanted it. mark but his behaviour to the poor orphan, who is now become the finest girl, notwithstanding her dark skin, in all the country round." then followed speculations on the parentage of tamar, and old shanty asserted that he believed her to be nothing more or less than the daughter of the gipsy hag who had laid her at his door. some said she was much to good to be the child of a gipsy; and then shanty asserted, that the grace of god could counteract not only the nature of a child of a vagrant of the worst description, but even that of such vagrant himself; the spirit of god being quick and powerful, and sharper than a two-edged sword. shanty was a sort of oracle amongst his simple neighbours, and what he said was not often disputed to his face; nevertheless, there was not an individual on the moor who knew tamar, who did not believe her to be a princess in disguise or something very wonderful; and, at the bottom of her heart, poor tamar still indulged this same belief, though she did not now, as formerly express it. it was in the month of june, very soon after, mr. salmon had arrived at the tower, and before dymock, who was a woful procrastinator, had gone to demand the last payment, that tamar, who was extraordinarily light and active, had undertaken to walk to the next village to procure some necessaries; she had three miles to go over the moor, nor could she go till after dinner. her way lay by shanty's shed; and mrs. margaret admonished her, if anything detained her, to call on shanty, and ask him to walk over the remainder of the moor with her on her return. when she came down from preparing herself for this walk, all gay and blooming with youth and health, and having a basket on her arm, she met dymock in the little garden. "whither away? beautiful maid of judah," said the genius. "my bright-eyed tamar," he added, "i have been thinking of a poem, and if i can but express my ideas, it will be the means of lifting up my family again from the destitution into which it has fallen. my subject is the restoration of jerusalem in the latter days, and the lifting up of the daughters of zion from the dust. the captives of israel now are hewers of wood and carriers of water; but the time will come when the hands that now wear the manacles of servitude shall be comely with rows of jewels." "if no daughter of judah," replied tamar, "wears heavier manacles than i do, dear father, they may bear them with light hearts;" and, as she passed quickly by her adopted father, she snatched his hand and kissed it, and soon she disappeared beyond the boundary of the glen. tamar reached the village in so short a time, and did her errands so quickly, that having some hours of light before her, she thought she would try another way of return, over a small bridge, which in fact spanned the very water-course which ran through her glen; but being arrived at this bridge, to her surprise she found it broken down. it was only a single plank, and the wood had rotted and given way. the brook was too wide and deep in that place to permit her to cross it, and the consequence was, that she must needs go round more than a mile; and, what added to her embarrassment, the evening, which had been fine, was beginning to cloud over, the darkness of the sky hastening the approach of the dusk. she had now farther to walk than she had when in the village; and, added to the threatenings of the clouds, there were frequent flashings of pale lightning, and remote murmurings of thunder. but tamar was not easily alarmed; she had been brought up independently, and already had she recovered the direct path from the village to shanty's shed, when suddenly a tall figure of a female arose, as it were, out of the broom and gorse, and stepped in the direction in which she was going, walking by her side for a few paces without speaking a word. the figure was that of a gipsy, and the garments, as tamar glanced fearfully at them as they floated in a line with her steps, bespoke a variety of wretchedness scarcely consistent with the proud and elastic march of her who wore them. whilst tamar felt a vague sense of terror stealing over her, the woman spoke, addressing her without ceremony, saying, "so you have been driven to come this way at last; have you been so daintily reared that you cannot wade a burn which has scarcely depth enough to cover the pebbles in its channel. look you," she added, raising her arm, and pointing her finger,--"see you yon rising ground to the left of those fir trees on the edge of the moor,--from the summit of that height the sea is visible, and i must, ere many hours, be upon those waters, in such a bark as you delicately-bred dames would not confide in on a summer's day on ulswater mere." whilst the woman spoke, tamar looked to her and then from her, but not a word did she utter. "do you mind me?" said the gipsy; "i have known you long, aye very long. you were very small when i brought you to this place. i did well for you then. are you grateful?" tamar now did turn and look at her, and looked eagerly, and carefully, and intently on her dark and weather-beaten countenance. "ah!" said the gipsy, whilst a smile of scorn distorted her lip,--"so you will demean yourself now to look upon me; and you would like to know what i could tell you?" "indeed, indeed, i would!" exclaimed tamar, all flushed and trembling. "oh, in pity, in mercy tell me who i am and who are my parents?--if they still live; if i have any chance or--hope of seeing them?" "one is no more," replied the gipsy. "she from whom i took you lies in the earth on norwood common. i stretched the corpse myself,--it was a bonny corpse." tamar fetched a deep, a very deep sigh. "does my father live?" she asked. "your father!" repeated the gipsy, with a malignant laugh,--"your father!" tamar became more and more agitated; but excessive feeling made her appear almost insensible. with great effort she repeated,--"does my father live?" "he does," replied the woman, with a malignant smile, "and shall i tell you where and how?--shut up, confined in a strong-hold, caught like a vile animal in a trap. do you understand me, tamar? i think they call you tamar." "what!" said the poor girl, gasping for breath, "is my father a convicted felon?" "i used no such words," replied the gipsy; "but i told you that he lies shut up; and he is watched and guarded, too, i tell you." "then he has forfeited his liberty," said tamar; "he has committed some dreadful crime. tell me, oh! tell me, what is it?" the gipsy laughed, and her laugh was a frightful one. "what!" she said, "are you disappointed?--is the blight come over you? has the black fog shut out all the bright visions which the foolish laird created in your fancy? go, child!" she said, "go and tell him what i have told you, and see whether he will continue to cherish and flatter the offspring of our vagrant race." "he will," replied tamar; "but tell me, only tell me, what is that mark burnt upon my shoulder?" "your father branded you," she answered, "as we do all our children, lest in our many wanderings we should lose sight of our own, and not know them again; but come," she added, "the night draws on, darkness is stealing over the welkin; you are for the shed; there is your pole-star; see you the fitful glare of the forge?--i am for another direction; fare-you-well." "stay, stay," said tamar, seizing her arm, "oh, tell me more! tell me more! my father, if i have a living father, i owe him a duty,--where is he? tell me where he is, for the love of heaven tell me?" the woman shook her off,--"go, fool," she said, "you know enough; or stay," she added, in her turn seizing tamar's arm,--"if you like it better, leave those dymocks and come with me, and you shall be one with us, and live with us, and eat with us and drink with us." "no! no!" said tamar, with a piercing shriek, disengaging herself from the gipsy, and running with the swiftness of a hare, towards the friendly hovel. old shanty was alone, when, all pale and trembling, tamar entered the shed, and sunk, half fainting, on the very bench on which the gipsy had sate on the eventful night in which she had brought her to the hovel fourteen years before. shanty was terrified, for he had a paternal feeling for tamar; he ceased immediately from his hammering, and sitting himself by her on the bench, he rested not until she had told him every thing which had happened; and when she had done so,--"tamar," he said, "i am not surprised; i never thought you any thing else than the child of a vagrant, nor had you ever any ground for thinking otherwise. there are many imaginations," added the pious old man, "which attend our nature, which must be destroyed before we can enter into that perfect union with the son, which will render us one with the father, and will insure our happiness when god shall be all in all, and when all that is foretold in prophecy respecting this present earth shall be completed. sin," continued the old man, "is neither more nor less than the non-conformity of the will of the creature with that of the creator; and when the will of every child of adam is brought into unison with the divine pleasure, then, as far our race is concerned, there will be an end of sin; and, in particular cases, tamar, as regarding individuals in the present and past days, each one is happy, not as far as he indulges the imaginations suggested by his own depraved nature, but as far as he is content to be what his god would have him to be, as indicated by the circumstances and arrangements of things about him." it was marvellous (or rather would have been so to a stranger,) to hear this poor old dusky blacksmith, speaking and reasoning as he did; but who shall limit or set bounds to the power of the lord the spirit in enlightening the mind, independently as it were, of human ministry, or at least of any other ministry than that which teaches and promulgates the mere letter of scripture? tamar's mind was at that time fully prepared to receive all that shanty said to her, and, insensibly to themselves, they were presently led almost to forget the information given by the gipsy, (which in fact left tamar just as it had found her,) whilst new thoughts were opening to them; and the young girl was brought to see, that in her late anxiety to render the kind friends who had adopted her, comfortable as to outward circumstances, she had failed in using her filial influence to draw their attention to thoughts of religion. shanty put on his coat, and walked with her over the rest of the moor, nor did he leave heatherdale (where mrs. margaret insisted that he should sup,) until he had opened out to the laird and his aunt the whole history of tamar's rencounter with the gipsy. it was curious to observe the effect of this story on the minds of the two auditors. mrs. margaret embraced tamar with tears, saying, "methinks i am rejoiced that there is no one likely to claim my precious one from me;" whilst the laird exclaimed, "i am not in the least convinced. the gipsy has no doubt some scheme of her own in view. she is afraid of being found out, and transported for child-stealing; but i wish i could see her, to tell her that i no more believe my palm-tree to have sprung from the briers of the egyptian wilderness, than that i am not at this moment the laird of dymock." "lord help you, nephew!" said mrs. margaret, "if poor dear tamar's noble birth has not more substantial foundation than your lairdship, i believe that she must be content as she is,--the adopted daughter of a poor spinster, who has nothing to leave behind her but a few bales of old clothes." "contented, my mother," said tamar, bursting into tears, "could i be contented if taken from you?" thus the affair of the gipsy passed off. the laird, indeed, talked of raising the country to catch the randy quean; but all these resolutions were speedily forgotten, and no result ensued from this alarm, but that which almighty power produced from it in the mind of tamar, by making her more anxious to draw the minds of her patrons to religion. after this, for several weeks things went on much as usual on dymock's moor. the inhabitants of the tower were so still and quiet, that unless a thin curl of smoke had now and then been seen rising from the kitchen chimney, all the occupants might have been supposed to have been in a state of enchantment. jacob, however, the dwarfish, deformed serving-man, did cross the moat at intervals, and came back laden with food; but he was so surly and short, that it was impossible to get a word of information from him, respecting that which was going on within the moat. whilst dymock scribbled, his aunt darned, shanty hammered, and tamar formed the delight and comfort of all the three last mentioned elders. but some settlement was necessarily to be made respecting mr. salmon's last payment, which had run up, with certain fixtures and old pictures, for which there was no room in the cottage, to nearly six hundred pounds, and after much pressing and persuading on the part of mrs. margaret, the laird was at length worked up to the point of putting on his very best clothes, and going one morning to the tower. he had boasted that he would not appear but as the laird of dymock in dymock castle; therefore, though the weather was warm, he assumed his only remains of handsome apparel, viz, a cloak or mantle of blue cloth and with a hat, which was none of the best shape, on his head, he walked to the edge of the moat, and there stood awhile calling aloud. at length jacob appeared on the other side, and knowing the laird, he turned the bridge, over which dymock walked with sullen pride. "i would see your master, where is he?" said the laird, as soon as he got into the court. the eye of the dwarf directed that of dymock to the window of a small room in a higher part of the keep, and the laird, without waiting further permission, walked forward into the tower. it gave him pain to see all the old and well remembered objects again; but it also gave him pleasure to find everything in its place as he had left it--even the very dust on the mouldings and cornices, which had remained undisturbed through the reign of mrs. margaret, from the absolute impossibility of reaching the lofty site of these depositions, was still there. not an article of new furniture was added, while the old furniture looked more miserable and scanty, on account of some of the best pieces having been taken out to fill the cottage. dymock walked through the old circular hall, the ground-floor of the tower, and went up the stairs to the room where mrs. margaret used to sit and darn in solitary state; there was the oriel window, which hanging over the moat, commanded a glorious view on three sides. dymock walked up to this window, and stood in the oriel, endeavouring, if possible, to understand what the feelings of his ancestors might have been, when they could look from thence, and call all the lands their own as far as the border, without counting many broader and fairer fields, in the southern direction. whilst waiting there in deep and melancholy mood, suddenly his eye fell on the airy figure of tamar standing on the opposite side of the moat, and looking up to him; as soon as she caught his eye, she kissed her hand and waved it to him, and well he could comprehend the sparkling smile which accompanied this motion, though he was too far off to see it. "and art thou not fair maid of judah," said the affectionate genius, "worth to me all the broad lands of my fathers? could they purchase for me such love as thine? art thou not the little ewe lamb of the poor man?--but none shall ever have thee from me my daughter, but one entirely worthy of thee?" scarcely had dymock returned the courtesy of tamar, before jacob, who had run to the top of the tower before him, came to tell him that his master was ready to see him, and dymock, who needed no guide, soon found himself at the head of several more rounds of stairs, which got narrower as they ascended,--and in front of a narrow door well studded with knobs of iron. within this door was a room, which in time past had been used for security, either for prisoners, treasures, or other purposes,--tradition said not what,--but it still had every requisite of strength, the narrow windows being provided with stauncheons of iron, and the walls covered with strong wainscotting, in one side of which were sliding pannels opening into a closet. the secret of these pannels was known only to dymock, and he, when he sold the castle, had revealed it to mr. salmon, vaunting the great service of which this secret closet, had been, in keeping plate and other valuables, though he acknowledged, poor man, that he had never made any great use of this mysterious conservatory. it seems that mr. salmon had appropriated this same room to his especial use; his bed, which in the french taste was covered with a tent-like tester, occupied one nook, and the curtains, as well as the floor-cloth, were of very rich, but tarnished and threadbare materials. several ponderous tomes in vellum emblazoned with gold, were placed on a ledge of the wall near the bed; a square table, a trunk strongly clamped with brass, and an old fashioned easy chair, completed the furniture. and now for the first time dymock saw mr. salmon in his deshabille. the old gentleman had laid aside his coat, probably that it might be spared unnecessary wear and tear; he wore a claret coloured waistcoat with large flaps, on which were apparent certain tarnished remains of embroidery; his lower extremities, as far as the knees, were encased in a texture the colour of which had once been pepper and salt, and from the knee downwards he wore a pair of home-manufactured, grey worsted stockings, which proved that his housekeeper was by no means inferior to mrs. margaret in her darning talents, though we must do the laird's aunt the justice to assert, that she never darned stockings with more than three different colours. his slippers, both sole and upper part, had evidently at one time formed a covering of a floor, though what the original pattern and colours had been, could not now be made out. with all this quaintness of attire, the old man had the general appearance of neatness and cleanliness, and had it not been for the expression of his countenance, would have been far from ill-looking. he received dymock with a sort of quiet civility, not unlike that which a cat assumes when she is aware of a mouse, and yet does not perceive that the moment is come to pounce upon it. dymock drew near to the table, and accosted mr. salmon with his usual courteous, yet careless manner, and having apologized for coming at all on such an errand, wishing that there was no such thing as money in the world, he presented the inconclusive and inefficient memorandum, which the old gentleman had given him, "trusting, as he said, that it would be no inconvenience for him to pay what he conceived would be a mere trifle to him." mr. salmon had, it seems, forgotten to ask dymock to sit down; indeed, there was no chair in the room but that occupied by his own person; however, he took his own note from the laird's hands, and having examined it, he said, "but mr. dymock, there are conditions,--the memorandum is conditional, and i understand thereby, that i undertake to pay such and such moneys for such and such articles." "well sir, and have you not these articles in possession?" asked dymock; have i removed a single item, which i told you on the honour of a gentleman should be yours on such and such conditions, and did you not tell me that you would pay me a certain sum, on entering into possession of these articles?" "what i did say, sir," replied the old man, "is one thing; or rather what you choose to assert that i did say, and what is written here is another thing." "sir!" replied dymock, "sir! do you give me the lie?--direct or indirect, i will not bear it; i, a son of the house of dymock, to be thus bearded in my own tower, to be told that what i choose to assert may not be true; that i am, in fact, a deceiver,--a sharper,--one that would prevaricate for sordid pelf!" what more the worthy man added, our history does not say, but that he added much cannot be disputed, and that he poured forth in high and honourable indignation, many sentiments which would have done credit both to the gentleman and the christian. [illustration: see page ] in the meantime the old man had drawn a huge bunch of keys from his pocket, and had deliberately opened the trunk before mentioned, at the top of which were sundry yellow canvass bags of specie; he next fitted a pair of spectacles on his nose, and then raising the cover of the table, he drew out a drawer containing a pair of scales, and began to weigh his guineas, as if to make a show of that of which he had none,--honesty; and the laird having spent his indignation, was become quiet, and stood looking on, in a somewhat indolent and slouching attitude, making no question but that his honourable reasonings had prevailed, and that mr. salmon was about, without further hesitation, to pay him the five hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and sixpence, which were his just due. whilst salmon went on with this process of weighing, which he did with perfect _sang-froid_, he began to mutter, "five hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and six-pence; too much, too much by half, for worm-eaten bed-steads and chairs, darned curtains and faded portraits; but mr. dymock, to show you that i am a man of honour, i will pay you at this moment four hundred pounds in the king's gold, and the remainder, that is, the one hundred and ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, and six-pence, shall be put to arbitration; we will go over each item, you and i, and a friend of each, and we will examine every article together, and if it is decided that the things are worth the moneys, well and good, it shall be so, and i will forthwith pay down the residue, though not compelled so to do by bond or signature." again the hot blood of the dymocks rose to the brow of the laird; by an amazing effort of prudence and presence of mind, however, he caught up salmon's note from the table, a motion which made the old man start, look up, and turn yellow, and then whisking round on his heel, with an expression of sovereign contempt, the laird turned out of the room, exclaiming, "i scorn to address another word to thee, old deceiver; i shake the dust of thy floor from my foot; i shall send those to talk with thee, whose business it is to deal with deceivers;" and thus he quitted the chamber, drawing the door after him with a force which made every chamber in the tower reverberate. in descending the spiral stairs, he came to a narrow window, which overlooked the moat, and from thence he saw tamar lingering on the other side thereof. he stood a moment and she called to him; her words were these,--"have you sped?" in reply to which, protruding his head through the narrow aperture, he said: "no! the man's a low and despicable deceiver," adding other terms which were by no means measured by the rules of prudence or even courtesy; these words were not, however, lost on tamar, and by what she then heard, she was induced to take a measure which had she deliberated longer thereon, she might not have ventured upon. dymock having spent his breath and his indignation through the window, to the disturbance of sundry bats and daws, which resided in the roof of the tower, was become so calm that he made the rest of his descent in his usually tranquil and sluggish style, and even before he had crossed the court towards the draw-bridge, he had made up his mind to get shanty to settle this knotty business, feeling that the old blacksmith would have been the proper person to have done it from the first. jacob, the ugly, ill-conditioned serving-man, was waiting to turn the light bridge, and had dymock looked upon him, he would have seen that there was triumph on the features of this deformed animal, for jacob was in all his master's secrets; he knew that he meant to cheat the laird, and he being salmon's foster brother, already counted upon his master's riches as his own. salmon's constitution was failing rapidly, and jacob, therefore, soon hoped to gather in his golden harvest. jacob too, hated every creature about him, and his hatred being inherited from his parents, was likely to be coeval with his life. the cause of this hatred will be seen in the sequel; but jacob had no sooner turned the bridge and fixed it against the opposite bank, than tamar springing from behind a cluster of bushes, jumped lightly on the boards, and the next moment she was with dymock and jacob on the inner side of the moat, under the tower. jacob had started back, as if he had seen a spectre, at the appearance of the blooming, sparkling tamar, who came forward without hat or other head dress, her raven tresses floating in the breeze. "why are you here, my daughter?" said dymock. "do not restrain me, dear father," she answered, "you have not sped you say, only permit me to try my skill;" and then turning suddenly to jacob, she drew herself up, as dymock would have said, like a daughter of kings, and added, "show me to your master, i have business with him; go and tell him that i am here, and that i would see him." "and who are you?" asked jacob, not insolently as was his wont, but as if under the impression of some kind of awe; "who shall i say you are?" dymock was about to answer; but tamar placed her hand playfully on his lips, and took no other notice of the question of the serving man, but by repeating her command. "what are you doing,--what do you propose to do, tamar?" said the laird. tamar was fully aware that she had power to cause her patron at any time, to yield to her caprices; and she now used this power, as women know so well how to effect these things--not by reason--or persuasion, but by those playful manoeuvrings, which used in an evil cause have wrought the ruin of many a more steadfast character than dymock. "i have a thought dear father," she said, "a wish, a fancy, a mere whim, and you shall not oppose me: only remain where you are; keep guard upon the bridge, i shall not be absent long, only tell me how it has happened that your errand here has failed, and you," she added, addressing jacob, "go to your master and tell him i am here." "why do you stand?" she added, stamping her little foot with impatience; "why do you not obey me?" and her dark eyes flashed and sparkled, "go and tell your master that i wish to see him." "and who must i tell him that you are?" he asked. "my name has been mentioned in your presence," she replied, "and if you did not hear it the fault is your own; it will not be told again." "are you the daughter of this gentleman?" asked jacob. "you have heard what he called me," she answered, "go and deliver my message." whilst jacob was gone, for go he did, at the young girl's bidding, dymock told tamar all that had taken place in mr. salmon's room, and tamar confessed her wish to be permitted to speak to the old gentleman herself. dymock was glad that any one should undertake this business, provided he could be relieved from it, and he promised tamar that he would stand by the bridge and watch for her till her return. "then i will myself go up to the tower and demand admission:" so saying, she ran from dymock, coursed rapidly through the various courts, and swift as the wind ascended the stairs, meeting no one in her way. she found the door of salmon's chamber ajar, and pushing it open, she entered, and stood before salmon, jacob, and rebecca (the old woman before mentioned as having come with mr. salmon to the tower;) these three were all deep in consultation, mr. salmon being still seated where the laird had left him. as tamar burst upon them in all the light of youth; of beauty, and of conscious rectitude in the cause for which she came, the three remained fixed as statues, jacob and rebecca in shrinking attitudes, their eyes set fearfully upon her, their faces gathering paleness as they gazed; whilst salmon flushed to the brow, his eyes distended and his mouth half open. the young girl advanced near to the centre of the room and casting a glance around her, in which might be read an expression of contempt quite free from fear, she said, "i am come by authority to receive the just dues of the late possessor of this place, and i require the sum to be told into my hand, and this i require in the name of him who rules on high, and who will assuredly take cognizance of any act of fraud used towards a good and honourable man." "and who? and who?" said salmon, his teeth actually chattering "who are you? and whence come you?" "i come from the laird of dymock," she answered, "and in his name i demand his rights!" "you, you," said salmon, "you are his daughter?" "that remains to be told," replied tamar, "what or who i am, is nothing to you, nor to you, nor you," she added, looking at jacob and rebecca, her eye being arrested for a minute on each, by the singular expression which passed over their countenances. "give me the laird's dues and you shall hear no more from me," she said, "never again will i come to trouble your dulness; but, if you deny it to me, you shall never rest from me;--no, no, i will haunt you day and night," and getting hotter as she continued to speak, "you shall have no rest from me, neither moat nor stone walls shall keep me out." she was thinking at that moment of the secret passage by which she fancied she might get into the tower, if at this time she did not succeed; it was a wild and girlish scheme, and whether practicable or not, she had no time to think. as she uttered these last words, salmon rose slowly from his seat, pushed his chair from behind him and stepped back, a livid paleness covering his features whilst he exclaimed: "are you in life? or are you a terrible vision of my fancy? jacob,--rebecca,--do you see it too--ah! you look pale, as those who see the dead--is it not so?" the terror now expressed in the three countenances, was rapidly extending to the heart of tamar. what can all this mean, she thought, what is there about me that thus appals them: it is their own guilt that renders them fearful; but why should i fear? now is the moment for strength of heart, and may heaven grant it to me. having strength given her; she again demanded the just due of her guardian. "it would be better to give it," muttered jacob; and rebecca at the same time screached out, "in the name of our father abraham, give her what she asks, master,--and let her go,--let her go to her father,--to him that has reared her, and yet disowns her,--let her go to him; or like the daughters of moab she will bring a curse on our house." "hold your tongue, you old fool," said jacob, "what do you know of her, and of him who was once laird of dymock? but, master," he added "pay the girl what she asks, and i will go down and get back your note, and once for all we will shut our doors upon these people." "but i would know," said salmon, "i would know whence that girl has those eyes, which are bright as the bride of solomon,--as rachel's," he added, "they are such as hers." "go to," said jacob, "what folly is this, tell the money to the girl, and let her go." "jacob! jacob!" exclaimed salmon, "i am ruined, undone, i shall come to beggary,--five hundred and ninty-four pounds, ten shillings and sixpence," and the teeth of the old man began to chatter, terror and dotage and cunning, seeming to be striving within him for the mastery and altogether depriving him of the power of acting. jacob muttered one or two indistinct imprecations, then approaching the table himself, he told the gold from the bags with the facility of a money-changer, whilst tamar stood calmly watching him; but the serving man finding the weight too great for her, he exchanged much of the gold, for bank of england notes, which he took out of the same trunk, and then delivering the sum into tamar's hands; "there young woman, go," he said, "and never again disturb my master with your presence." whilst this was going on, salmon had kept his eyes fixed on tamar, and once or twice had gasped as if for breath; at length he said, "and you are dymock's daughter, damsel, but you are not like your father's people,--are they not nazarenes; tell me what was she who bore you?" "beshrew you," exclaimed jacob, "what is all this to you," and roughly seizing tamar by the arm, he drew her out of the room, saying, "you have all you want, go down to your father, and let us see you no more." the young girl almost doubted as she descended the stairs, but that still she was over-reached, and if so, that dymock would not perhaps find it out till it might be too late; she therefore, hearing jacob behind her, ran with all her might, and coming to the place where dymock stood, she called to him to follow her, and ran directly to shanty's shed; dymock proceeded after her a few yards behind, and jacob still farther in the rear, crying "laird, stop! stop! mr. dymock! give us your release, here is a paper for you to sign." fortunately, tamar found shanty alone in his shed, and taking him into his inner room, she caused him to count and examine the money and thus was he occupied when dymock and jacob came in. tamar went back to the outer room of the shed; but shanty remained within, and when he found that all was right, mr. dymock gave his release. jacob returned to the tower, and old shanty trotted off to hexham, to put the money in a place of security; nor did he fail in his object, so that before he slept, the laird had the satisfaction to think that this dirty work was all completed, and that without his having in the least soiled his own hands in the process. as to the mystery of tamar's having been enabled to effect what he could not do, he soon settled that matter in his own mind, for, thought he, "if i the laird of dymock could never refuse a favour asked me by this maid of judah, how could inferior minds be expected to withstand her influence?"--the poor laird not considering that the very inferiority and coarseness of such minds as he attributed to salmon and jacob, would have prevented them from feeling that influence, which he had found so powerful. but they had felt something, which certainly belonged to tamar, and had yielded to that something; nor could tamar herself, when she reflected upon that scene in the tower, at all comprehend how she had excited such emotions as she witnessed there; neither could shanty, nor mrs. margaret help her out. again for another month, all went on in its usual routine; all was quiet at dymock's tower, and darning, writing, and hammering, continued to be the order of the day with mrs. margaret, the laird, and shanty, whilst tamar was all gay and happy in the fulfilment of many active duties, rising with the lark, and brushing the dew from the frequent herbs which encompassed her dwelling. it was all summer with her then, nor did she spoil the present by anticipation of the severities of a wintery day, for the work of grace was going on with her, and though her natural temper was lofty and violent, as appeared by her manner to jacob on the occasion lately described, yet there was a higher principle imparted, which rendered these out-breakings every day more rare. we have said before, that mrs. margaret had a favourite cow, named by her mistress, brindle, from the colours of her coat. tamar had learned to milk brindle, and this was always her first work. one morning in the beginning of august, it happened, or rather, was so ordered by providence, that the laird was constrained through the extreme activity of his imagination, which had prevented him from sleeping after midnight, to arise and go down to his study in order to put these valuable suggestions on paper. it was, however, still so dark when he descended into his study, that he was compelled to sit down awhile in his great chair, to await the break of day; and there that happened to him, which might as well have happened in bed,--that is he fell asleep, and slept soundly for some hours. all this, however, had not been done so quietly, but that he had awakened his sister and tamar, who slept in the adjoining room; the consequence of which was, that tamar got up and dressed herself, and having ascertained the situation of the laird, and informed mrs. margaret that all was well in that quarter, she descended again into the kitchen, and proceeded to open the house-door. the shades of night were as yet not dispersed, although the morning faintly dawned on the horizon; but the air was soft, fragrant, and elastic, and as it filled the chest of tamar, it seemed to inspire her with that sort of feeling, which makes young things whirl, and prance, and run, and leap, and perform all those antics which seem to speak of naught but folly to all the sober and discreet elders, who have forgotten that they were ever young. almost intoxicated with this feeling inspired by the morning air, tamar bounded from the step of the door, and ran a considerable way, first along the bottom of the glen, and then in a parallel line on the green side thereof; suddenly coming to a stand, she looked for brindle, and could not at first discern her; a minute afterwards, however, she saw her at the higher end of the glen, just where it opened on the moor, and where it had hitherto been protected from the inroads of the sheep, or other creatures feeding on the common, by a rail and gate. this rail and gate had wanted a little repair for several weeks, the laird having promised to give it that repair; and he was well able so to have done, having at one time of his life worked several months with the village carpenter. but the good man had not fulfilled his promise, and it had only been the evening before that tamar had tied up the gate with what came nearest to her hand, namely, certain tendrils of a creeper which hung thereabouts from the rock that formed the chasm by which the valley was approached in that direction. these tendrils she had twisted together so as to form a band, never supposing that brindle, though a young and female creature, could possibly be sufficiently capricious to leave her usual fragrant pasturage, in order to pull and nibble this withering band. but, however, so it was, as tamar asserted, for there when she came up to the place, the band was broken, the gate forced open, and brindle walking quietly forward through the narrow gully towards the moor. tamar being come to the gate, stopped there, and called brindle, who knew tamar as well as she knew her own calf. but the animal had snuffed the air of liberty which came pouring down the little pass, from the open moor, and she walked deliberately on with that air which seemed to say,--"i hear your voice, but i am not coming." tamar was provoked; had it been a human creature who was thus acting she might perhaps have recollected that it is not good to give way to anger; as it was, she made no such reflection, but exclaiming in strong terms against the creature, she began to run, knowing that if brindle once got on the moor it would probably cost her many a weary step before she could get her back again. in measure however, as she quickened her pace, so did brindle, and in a few minutes the truant animal had reached the open moor and began to career away in high style, as if rejoicing in the trouble she was giving. but even on the open moor it was yet very dusk; the dawn was hardly visible on the summits of the distant hills, and where there were woods or valleys the blackness was unbroken. tamar stood almost in despair, when she found that the animal had reached the open ground; but whilst watching how she could get round her, so as to turn her back, the creature rather slackened her pace, and began to browze the short grass among the heather. tamar now slowly advancing was taking a compass to come towards her head, when she, perceiving her, turned directly round, and trotted on straightforward to the knoll, which was at most not half a quarter of a mile from the dingle; tamar followed her, but could not reach her till she had pushed her way in among the trees and bushes, and when tamar reached the place, she found her quietly feeding in the green area, surrounded by the ruins. the light was still very imperfect, and tamar was standing half hid by the bushes and huge blocks of granite, doubting whether she should not leave the cow there whilst she ran back to call the laird to assist her, when suddenly she was startled by the sound of voices. she drew closer behind the block, and remained perfectly still, and ceased to think of the cow, so great was her amazement to find persons in a place, generally deserted by the country people, under the impression that things were there which should not be spoken of. she then also remembered her adventure with sappho, and what mrs. margaret had told her of the concealed passage; and now recollecting that secret passage, she was aware that she stood not very far from the mysterious door-way. all these thoughts crowded to her mind, but perfect quiet was needful at the moment. as the disk of the sun approached the horizon, the light was rapidly increasing; the dawn in those higher latitudes is however long, but those who knew the signs of the morning were aware that it would soon terminate, and that they whose deeds feared the light had no time to lose. tamar accordingly heard low voices, speaking, as it were in the mouth of the cavern, and then a voice of one without the cavern--of one as in the act of departing, saying distinctly, "twelve then at midnight!" the answer from within did not reach tamar's ears, at least, she heard only an indistinct murmur, but the voice without again came clear to her, and the words were to this effect, "i will not fail; i will take care that he shall be in no condition to return;" the answer was again lost to tamar, and probably some question, but the reply to this question was clear. "it is his day to go,--the garrison can't live without provision,--if he don't go to-day, we must skulk another twenty-four hours,--we must not venture with him, there will be murder!" then followed several sentences in such broad slang, as tamar could not comprehend, though she thought she understood the tendency of these words, which were mixed with oaths and terms so brutal, that her blood ran cold in thinking of them; "caught in his own snare,--he will sink in his own dyke,--we have him now, pelf and all." after this, tamar heard parting steps, and various low rumbling noises as if proceeding from under ground; then all was still, and no farther sound was heard by her, but the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the cropping of the herb by the incisors of brindle. in the mean time the morning broke, the light of day was restored, and tamar creeping gently from her hiding-place, left brindle, whilst she ran back to the cottage. she had not gone far, before she met the labourer who was accustomed to assist her in the care of the garden. she told him that the cow had strayed to the knoll, and that she had seen her enter among the trees; and he undertook, with his dog, to drive her back to the glen, though, he said, he would on no account go up on the knoll, but his dog would drive her down, and he would see her home. "and why not go on to the knoll?" said tamar. the man replied, that the place was known to be uncanny, and that not only strange noises, but strange sights had been seen there. "lately?" asked tamar, "have they been seen and heard lately?" the poor man could not assert that they had, and tamar was not going to tell him what she had seen and heard. no! this mystery was to be left for the consideration of dymock and shanty, and she was anxious to know if their thoughts agreed with hers. when she arrived at the cottage, and the labourer had brought back brindle, and fastened the gate, and tamar had milked her cow, and done her usual services, she went to dymock who was just awake, and brought him out to breakfast with mrs. margaret, "you shall not say any thing about posterity, and the benefits which you are doing to them by recording your thoughts, this morning, sir," she said, "but you shall hear what i have to tell you, and i will not tell you, but in the presence of mrs. margaret." when dymock heard what tamar had to say, he was at first quite amazed, for it seems, that if he had ever heard of the secret passage he had forgotten it, and mrs. margaret had had her reasons, for not stirring up his recollections; but when he was made acquainted with this fact, and had put together all that tamar had related, he made the same reflections which she had done, and said that he had no doubt, but that these ruins had been the rendezvous of vagrants for years, and that there was now a plan to rob mr. salmon, through the means of the secret passage. he went further, for he had no lack of imagination, and proceeded to conjecture, that it was through the manoeuvreing of these very vagrants, that the old curmudgeon had been brought to dymock's tower, and following the connexion, he began to put together the appearance of the young blacksmith, the gipsy who had left tamar at shanty's, her second appearance and rapid disappearance, the coming of mr. salmon, his supposed riches, his strange whim of shutting himself up, and every other extraordinary circumstance, in a jumble even more inexplicable and confusing, than any of his previous speculations upon these events,--and when he had so done he put on his hat, and declared that he must go forthwith to shanty. "to see," said tamar, "what he can hammer out of it all, but something must and ought to be done to put mr. salmon on his guard, for otherwise, assuredly he will be robbed this night." "and perhaps murdered," exclaimed mrs. margaret; "but go, brother, be quick, and let us have shanty's advice." "and i," said tamar, after the laird was departed, "will go to the tower, and if possible get admittance. i will stop the going off of jacob." mrs. margaret expostulated with her, but all her pleadings came to this,--that she should send a neighbour to watch for tamar on the side of the moat, the young girl having assured her kind protectress, that she had nothing to fear for her, and that as the laird was proverbially a procrastinator, he might let half the day pass, before he had settled what was to be done. poor mrs. margaret was all tremor and agitation; at the bottom of her heart, she did not like to be left in the cottage, so near a gang of thieves as she felt herself to be; she was not, however, a selfish character, and after some tears, she kissed tamar and bade her go, watching her the whole way through the glen, as if she were parting with her for years. the light step of the young girl, soon brought her to the edge of the moat, and she arrived, as it was ordered by providence, at a very convenient time, for she met rebecca on the moor, the old woman having just parted from jacob, whose figure was still to be seen jogging along the heath. the first words of tamar were to entreat rebecca to call jacob back, and when she found that she was speaking to one who chose to lend a deaf ear, she raised her own voice, but with equal ill success; turning then again to rebecca, she saw that she was hastening to the bridge, on which she followed her, and was standing with her under the tower, before the old woman could recollect herself. the creature looked yellow with spite, as she addressed the young maiden with many bitter expressions, asking her what she did there, and bidding her to be gone. "i am come," replied tamar, "to see your master, and i will see him." "it is what you never shall again," replied the dame; "he has never been himself since he last saw you." "how is that?" said tamar; "what did i do, but press him to act as an honourable man, but of this i am resolved," she added, "that i will now see him again," and as she spoke, she proceeded through the postern into the courts, still passing on towards the principal door of the tower, rebecca following her, and pouring upon her no measured abuse. tamar, however, remarked, that the old woman lowered her voice as they advanced nearer the house, on which she raised her own tones, and said, "i must, and will see mr. salmon, it is a matter of life and death i come upon;--life and death i repeat, and if you or your master, have any thing on your minds or consciences, you will do well to hear what i have to tell you; a few hours hence and it will be too late." "in that case," said rebecca, looking at one angry and terrified, "come with me, and i will hear you." "no," exclaimed tamar, speaking loud, "i will see your master, my errand is to him," and at the same instant, the quick eye of the young girl, observed the face of salmon peering through a loop-hole, fitted with a casement, which gave light to a closet near the entrance. encouraged by this she spoke again, and still louder than before, saying, "see him i will, and from me alone, shall he hear the news i am come to tell." the next minute she heard the casement open, and saw the head of the old man obtruded from thence, and she heard a querulous, broken voice, asking what was the matter? tamar stepped back a few paces, in order that she might have a clearer view of the speaker, and then looking up, she said, "i am come mr. salmon as a friend, and only as a friend, to warn you of a danger which threatens you,--hear me, and you may be saved,--but if you refuse to hear me, i tell you, that you may be a ghastly livid corpse before the morning." "rebecca, rebecca!" cried the old man, "rebecca, i say, speak to her," and his voice faltered, the accents becoming puling. "hear her not," said the dame, "she is a deceiver, she is come to get money out of you." "and heaven knows," cried mr. salmon, "that she is then coming to gather fruit from a barren tree. money, indeed! and where am i to find money, even for her,--though she come in such a guise, as would wring the last drop of the heart's blood?" "tush!" said rebecca, "you are rambling and dreaming again;" but the old man heard her not, he had left the lattice, and in a few seconds he appeared within the passage. during this interval, rebecca had not been quiet, for she had seized the arm of tamar, and the young girl had shaken her off with some difficulty, and not without saying, "your unwillingness to permit me to speak to your master, old woman, goes against you, but it shall not avail you, speak to him i will," and the contest between tamar and the old woman was still proceeding, when salmon appeared in the passage. tamar instantly sprang to meet him, and seeing that his step was feeble and tottering, she supported him to a chair, in a small parlour which opened into the passage, and there, standing in the midst of the floor between him and rebecca, she told her errand; nor was she interrupted until she had told all, the old man looking as if her recital had turned him into stone, and the old woman expressing a degree of terror, which at least cleared her in tamar's mind, of the guilt of being connected with the thieves of the secret passage. as soon as the young girl had finished, the old miser broke out in the most bitter and helpless lamentations. "my jewels!--my silver!--my moneys!" he exclaimed, "oh my moneys!--my moneys! tell me, tell me damsel, what i can do? call jacob. where is jacob? oh, my moneys!--my jewels!" "peace, good sir! peace!" said tamar, "we will befriend you, we will assist you, we will protect you; the laird is an honourable man, he will protect you. i have known him long, long,--since i was a baby; and he would perish before he would wrong any one, or see another wronged." "the laird did you say," asked salmon, "your father; he is your father damsel is he not?" "i have no other," replied tamar, "i never knew another. why do you ask me?" "because," said rebecca, "he is doting, and thinks more of other people's concerns than his own." "has he ever lost a daughter?" asked tamar. "he lost a wife in her youth," answered the old woman, "and he was almost in his dotage when he married her, and he fancies because you have black hair, that you resemble her; but there is no more likeness between you two, than there is between a hooded crow and a raven." "there is more though, there is much more though," muttered the old man, "and jacob saw it too, and owned that he did." "the fool!" repeated rebecca, "the fool! did i not tell him that he was feeding your poor mind with follies; tell me, how should this poor girl be like your wife?" the old man shook his head, and answered, "because, he that made them both, fashioned them to be so; and rebecca, i have been thinking that had my daughter lived, had jessica lived till now, she would have been just such a one." "preserve you in your senses, master," exclaimed rebecca, "such as they are, they are better than none; but had your daughter lived, she would have been as unlike this damsel as you ever were to your bright browed wife. why you are short and shrivelled, so was your daughter; your features are sharp, and so were hers; she was ever a poor pining thing, and when i laid her in her grave beside her mother, it was a corpse to frighten one; it was well for you, as i ever told you, that she died as soon." "yet had she lived, i might have had a thing to love," replied the old man; and then, looking at tamar, he added, "they tell me you are the laird's daughter,--is it so, fair maid?" rebecca again interrupted him. "what folly is this," she said, raising her voice almost to a shriek, "how know you but that, whilst you are questioning the damsel, your chests and coffers are in the hands of robbers; your money, i tell you, is in danger: your gold, your oft-told gold. you were not wont to be so careless of your gold; up and look after it. you will be reduced to beg your bread from those you hate; arise, be strong. where are your keys? give them to the damsel; she is young and active; she will swiftly remove the treasure out of the way. can you not trust her? see you not the fair guise in which she comes? can you suspect a creature who looks like your wife, like rachel? is not her tale well framed; and are you, or are you not deceived by her fair seemings? she is the daughter of a beggar, and she knows herself to be such; and there is no doubt but that she has her ends to answer by giving this alarm." the old man had arisen; he looked hither and thither; he felt for his keys, which were hanging at his girdle; and then, falling back into his chair, he uttered one deep groan and became insensible, his whole complexion turning to a livid paleness. "he is dying!" exclaimed tamar, holding him up in his chair, from which he would have otherwise fallen. "he is dying, the poor old man is dying; bring water, anything." "he has often been in this way since he came here," replied rebecca. "we have thought that he has had a stroke; he is not the man he was a few months since; and had i known how it would be, it is strange but i would have found means to hinder his coming." "if he were ever so before," said tamar "why did you work him up, and talk to him, as you did, about his daughter; but, fetch some water," she added. "i shall not leave him with you," answered rebecca. "nor shall i abandon him to your tender mercies," replied tamar, "whilst he is in this condition. i am not his daughter, it is true,--but he is a feeble old man, and i will befriend him if i can." the old gentleman at this moment fell forward with such weight, that tamar ran from behind him, and dropping down on her knees, received his head on her shoulder, then, putting one arm round him, she was glad to hear a long, deep sigh, the prelude of his returning to partial consciousness; and as he opened his eyes, he said,--"ah, rachel, is it you? you have been gone a long time." tamar was at that moment alone with the old man. rebecca had heard voices at a distance, and she had run to pull up the bridge. "i am not your rachel, venerable sir," she said; "but the adopted daughter of the laird of dymock," and she gently laid his head back. "then why do you come to me like her?" said the old man. "that is wrong, it is very cruel; it is tormenting me before my time. i have not hurt you, and i will give you more gold if you will not do this again." "you rave, sir," said tamar. "who do you take me for?" "a dream," he answered. "i have been dreaming again;" and he raised himself, shook his head, rubbed his hands across his eyes, and looked as usual; but before he could add another word, dymock and shanty entered the parlour. rebecca had been too late in preventing their crossing the bridge, and they with some difficulty made the old gentleman understand that if he had any valuables, they must ascertain whether the place in which they were kept was any way approachable by the cavern. they also told him that they had taken means to have the exterior mouth of the cavern upon the knoll, stopped up, after the gang were in it; that they had provided a considerable force for this purpose; and that they should bring in men within the tower to seize the depredators. dymock then requested tamar to return to mrs. margaret, and remain quietly with her; and when she was gone, the bridge was drawn up, and she went back to the cottage. she had much to tell mrs. margaret, and long, very long,--after they had discussed many times the singular scene between salmon, rebecca, and tamar, and spoken of what might be the plans of dymock and shanty for securing the tower,--did the remainder of the day appear to them. several times they climbed to the edge of the glen, to observe if aught was stirring; but all was still as usual. there stood the old tower in solemn, silent unconsciousness of what might soon pass within it; and there was the knoll, looking as green and fresh as it was ever wont to do. at sun-set tamar and mrs. margaret again visited this post of observation, and again after they had supped at eight o'clock. they then returned and shut their doors; they made up their fires; and whilst tamar plied her needle, mrs. margaret told many ancient tales and dismal predictions of secret murders, corpse-candles, and visions of second-sight, after which, as midnight approached, they became more restless and anxious respecting their friends, wondering what they would do, and expressing their hopes, or their fears, in dark sentences, such as these:--"we trust no blood may be shed!--if there should be blood!--if dymock or poor shanty should be hurt!" again, they turned to form many conjectures, and put many things together:--"was mr. salmon connected with the gipsies who had brought tamar to the moor?--was it this gang that proposed robbing him?--was the young blacksmith called harefoot connected with the gipsy?--had he persuaded salmon to bring his treasures there, in order that he might pilfer them?--and lastly, wherefore was mr. salmon so affected both times he had seen tamar?" here, indeed, was a subject for conjecture, which lasted some hours, and beguiled the sense of anxiety. at length the morning began to dawn on that long night, and tamar went out to milk brindle, whose caprices had, in fact, the day before, been the first mover in all this confusion. cows must be milked, even were the master of the family dying; and tamar wished to have this task over before any message should come from the tower; and scarcely had she returned to the cottage, when the lad who administered the wind to shanty's forge, came running with such haste, that, to use his own words,--"he had no more breath left for speaking than a broken bellows." "for the love of prince charles," he said, "can you give us any provender, mrs. margaret? it is cold work watching all night, with neither food nor drink, save one bottle of whiskey among ten of us, and scarce a dry crust." "but what have you done?" asked tamar. "we have nabbed them," replied the boy. "there were four of them, besides an old woman who was taken in the cave, and they are in the tower till we can get the magistrates here, and proper hands to see them off. they came like rats from under ground. my master had made out where to expect them, in one of the cellars, behind the great hogshead which used to be filled at the birth of the heir, and emptied at his coming of age. so we were ready in the cellar, and nabbed three of them there, and the other, who was hindmost, and the woman, were taken as they ran out the other way; and there they are in the strong-hold, that is, the four men, but the woman is up above; and it is pitiful to hear how she howls and cries, and calls for the laird; but he fell asleep as soon as he knew all was safe, and we have not the heart to disturb him." "well," said mrs. margaret, "i am most thankful that all is over without bloodshed, and my nephew asleep. no wonder, as he has not slept since twelve in the morning of yesterday." "excepting in his chair," said tamar. "but the provender, mistress," said the young man. "here," replied tamar; "lift this pail on your head, and take this loaf, and i will follow with what else i can find." "nay, tamar," said mrs. margaret, "you would not go where there is such a number of men and no woman, but that old witch rebecca." "i am not afraid of going where my father is," replied tamar; "but i must see that woman. i should know her immediately. i am convinced that she is the very person who brought me to shanty's shed. she hinted at some connexion with me. oh, horrible! may it not be possible that i may have near relations among these miserable men who are shut up in the strong-hold of the tower?" as tamar said these words, she burst into tears, and sunk upon the bosom of mrs. margaret, who, kissing her tenderly, said, "child of my affections, of this be assured, that nothing shall separate you from me. my heart, methinks, clings more and more to you; and oh, my tamar! that which i seem most to fear is that you should be claimed by any one who may have a right to take you from me." this was a sort of assurance at that moment requisite to the poor girl; and such, indeed, was the interest which mrs. margaret felt in ascertaining if this really were the woman who had brought tamar to shanty's, that she put on her hood and cloak, and having filled a basket from the larder, she locked the cottage door, and went with tamar to the tower. it was barely light when they crossed the moat, for the bridge was not drawn; and when they entered the inner-court, they found many of the peasants seated in a circle, dipping portions of the loaf in brindle's pail. "welcome! welcome! to your own place, mrs. margaret dymock!" said one of them, "and here," he added, dipping a cup into the pail, "i drink to the restoration of the rightful heir and the good old family, and to your house-keeping, mrs. margaret; for things are done now in another style to what they were in your time." a general shout seconded this sentiment, and mrs. margaret, curtseying, and then pluming herself, answered, "i thank you, my friends, and flatter myself, that had my power been equal to my will, no hungry person should ever have departed from dymock's tower." the ladies were then obliged to stand and hear the whole history of the night's exploit,--told almost in as many ways as there were tongues to tell it; and whilst these relations were going forward, the sun had fairly risen above the horizon, and was gilding the jagged battlements of the tower. shanty was not with the party in the court, but he suddenly appeared in the door-way of the tower. he seemed in haste and high excitement, and was about to call to any one who would hear him first, when his eye fell on tamar and mrs. margaret. "oh, there you are," he said; "i was looking for one of swift foot to bring you here. come up this moment; you are required to be present at the confession of the gipsy wife, who is now willing to tell all, on condition that we give her her liberty. whether this can be allowed or not, we doubt; though she did not make herself busy with the rest, but was caught as she tried to escape by the knoll." "oh! spare her, if possible," said tamar, "or let her escape, if you can do nothing else to save her; i beseech you spare her!" shanty made no reply, but led the way to an upper room of the tower, which had in old time, when there were any stores to keep, (a case which had not occurred for some years,) been occupied as a strong-hold for groceries, and other articles of the same description; and there, besides the prisoner, who stood sullenly leaning against the wall, with her arms folded, sat dymock and salmon,--the laird looking all importance, his lips being compressed and his arms folded,--and old salmon, being little better in appearance than a _caput mortuum_, so entirely was the poor creature overpowered by the rapid changes in the scenes which were enacting before him. shanty had met rebecca running down the stairs as he was bringing up mrs. margaret, and he had seized her and brought her in, saying, "now old lady, as we are coming to a clearance, it might be just as well to burn out your dross among the rest; or may be," he added, "you may perhaps answer to the lumps of lime-stone in the furnace, not of much good in yourself, but of some service to help the smelting of that which is better,--so come along, old lady; my mind misgives me, that you have had more to do in making up this queer affair than you would have it supposed." the more rebecca resisted, the more determined was shanty; neither did he quit his hold of the old woman, until the whole party had entered the room, the door being shut, and his back set against it, where he kept his place, like a bar of iron in a stanchion. chairs had been set for mrs. margaret and tamar, and when they were seated dymock informed the prisoner that she might speak. tamar had instantly recognized her; so had shanty; and both were violently agitated, especially the former, when she began to speak. we will not give her story exactly in her own words; for she used many terms, which, from the mixture of gipsy slang and broad border dialect, would not be generally understood; but, being translated, her narrative stood as follows:-- she was, it seems, of gipsy blood, and had no fixed habitation, but many hiding places, one of which was the cavern or passage connected with dymock's tower. another of her haunts was norwood common, which, every one knows, is near london, and there was a sort of head-quarters of the gang, though, as was their custom, they seldom committed depredations near their quarters. she said, that, one day being on the common, she came in front of an old, black and white house, (which was taken down not many years afterwards;) in the front thereof was a garden, and a green lawn carefully trimmed, and in that garden on a seat sat an old lady, a tall and comely dame, she said, and she was playing with a little child, who might have been a year and-a-half old. the gipsy, it seems, had asked charity through the open iron railing of the garden; and the lady had risen and approached the railing, bringing the child with her, and putting the money into the infant's hand to pass it through the railing. the vagrant had then observed the dress and ornaments of the child, that she had a necklace of coral, clasped with some sparkling stone, golden clasps in her shoes, much rich lace about her cap, and above all, golden bracelets of curious workmanship on her wrists. "she had not," said rebecca; "she never wore those ornaments excepting on festival days." the vagrant took no notice of this remark of rebecca's; but shanty gave the old servant a piercing look, whilst all others present, with the exception of salmon, felt almost fainting with impatience; but salmon's mind seemed for the moment in such a state of obtuseness, as disabled him from catching hold of the link which was leading to that which was to interest him as much as, or even more than, any one present. the gipsy went on to say, that her cupidity was so much excited by these ornaments, that she fixed her eye immediately on the family, and resolved, if possible, to get possession of the child. she first inquired respecting the family, and learned, that the house was occupied by a widow lady, who had with her an only daughter, a married woman; that the child she had seen belonged to that daughter; and that the husband was abroad, and was a jew, supposed to be immensely rich. "i knew it," said dymock, turning round and snapping his fingers; "i hammered it out, master shanty, sooner than you did; i knew the physiognomy of a daughter of zion at the very first glance; you, too, must never talk again of your penetration, aunt margaret," and the good man actually danced about the room; but shanty on one side, and aunt margaret on the other, seized him by an arm, and forced him again upon his chair, entreating him to be still; whilst salmon roused himself in his seat, shook off, or tried to shake off his confusion, and fixed his eyes stedfastly on the vagrant. the woman then went on to describe the means by which she had got a sort of footing in this house; how she first discovered the back-door, and under what pretences she invited the servants to enter into a sort of concert with her for their mutual emolument, they bartering hare-skins, kitchen grease, cold meat, &c., for lace, tapes, thread, ballads, and other small matters. "the thieves?" cried salmon; but no one noticed him. "there were only two servants in the house," said the gipsy; "there might be others, but i saw them not, and one of those now stands here;" and she fixed her eagle eye on rebecca; "the other is jacob." "jacob and rebecca!" exclaimed salmon; "it was my house, then, that you were robbing, and my servants whom you were tampering with." "go on," said dymock to the vagrant, whose story then proceeded to this effect:-- she had visited the offices of this house several times; when, coming one evening by appointment of the servants, with some view to bartering the master's goods with her own wares, she found the family in terrible alarm, she had come as she said, just at the crisis in which a soul had parted, and it was the soul of that same old lady who had been playing with the infant on the grass-plot. rebecca was wailing and groaning in the kitchen, for she needed help to streak the corpse, and the family had lived so close and solitary, that she knew of no one at hand to whom to apply, and she feared that the dead would become stark and cold, before she could find help; jacob was not within, he had gone to london, to fetch a doctor of their own creed, and was not likely to be back for some time. "and why? said i," continued the vagrant, "why, said i, should i not do for this service as well as another? for many and many had been the corpse which i had streaked; so she accepted my offer, and took me up to the chamber of death, and i streaked the body, and a noble corpse it was. the dame had been a comely one, as tall as that lady," pointing to dymock's aunt, "and not unlike her." "ah!" exclaimed mrs. margaret, smiling, "i understand it now;" but dymock bade her be silent, and the vagrant went on. "so," said she, "when i had streaked the body, i said to rebecca we must have a silver plate, for pewter will not answer the purpose." "what for?" said she. "'to fill with salt,' i answered, 'and set upon the breast.' "so she fetched me a silver plate half filled with salt, and i laid it on the corpse; 'and now,' i said, 'we must have rue and marjoram, run down and get me some;' and then i frightened her, poor fool as she was, by telling her that by the limpness of the hand of the corpse, i augured another death very soon in the house." "when i told this to rebecca, the creature was so frightened, that away she ran, leaving me in the room with the body. swift as thought," continued the woman, "i caught the silver dish, and was running down stairs,--it was gloaming--when i saw a door open opposite the chamber of death, and there, in the glimmering, i saw the child of the family asleep in a little crib. she had on her usual dress, with the ornaments i spoke of, and seemed to have fallen asleep before her time, as she was not undressed. i caught her up, asleep as she was, and the next moment i was out in the yard, and across the court, and through the back-door, and away over the common, and to where i knew that none would follow me, but they of my people, who would help my flight." "and the child with you," said salmon, "did you take the child?" "more i will not tell," added the woman; "no, nor more shall any tortures force from me, unless you bind yourselves not to prosecute me,--unless you promise me my liberty." "i have told you," said the laird, "that if you tell every thing you shall be free,--do you question my truth?" "no, dymock," said the vagrant; "i know you to be a man of truth, and in that dependence you shall hear all." "i stripped the child of her gaudery, i wrapped her in rags, and i slung her on my back; but i did her no harm, and many a weary mile i bore her, till i came to the moor; and then, because she was a burden, and because the brand on her shoulder would assuredly identify her, if suspicion fell on me for having stolen her, i left her in the old blacksmith's shed, and there she found a better father than you would have made her; for what are you but a wicked jew, with a heart as hard as the gold you love." the fixed, and almost stone-like attitude in which the old man stood for some moments after his understanding had admitted the information given by the vagrant, so drew the attention of all present, that there was not a sound heard in the room, every one apprehending that the next moment they should see him drop down dead, nor did any one know what was best to do next; but this moment of terror was terminated by the old man's sinking on his knees, clasping his hands, and lifting his eyes, and breaking out in a short but solemn act of thanksgiving, and then turning his head without rising, as it were looking for his daughter, she sprang toward him, and threw her arms about him, whilst he still knelt. it would be difficult to describe the scene which followed: dymock began to caper and exult, mrs. margaret to weep, rebecca to utter imprecations, and shanty to sing and whistle, as he was wont to do when hammering in his shed, and the vagrant to dare the old jewess to deny any thing which she had said. when dymock had assisted tamar to lift her father into the chair, and when the old man had wept plentifully, he was again anxious to examine the case more closely; and a discussion followed, in which many things were explained and cleared up on both sides, though it was found necessary for this end, to promise rebecca that she should be forgiven, and no vengeance taken upon her, if she should confess her part of the history. this discussion lasted long, and the substance of what was then opened to tamar and her paternal friends was this:--mr. salmon was, it seems, a polish jew, extremely rich, and evidently very parsimonious; he had had mercantile concerns in london, and had there married, when nearly fifty years of age, a beautiful young jewess, whose mother he had greatly benefitted, when in the most deplorable circumstances. with this lady he had gone abroad, and it was very evident that he had been a severe and jealous husband. she had brought him a daughter soon after her marriage. this child was born in poland, rebecca was her nurse; but mrs. salmon, falling into bad health immediately after the birth of the child, she implored her husband to permit her to return to england, and to her mother. salmon saw that she was not happy with him; and the strange suspicion seized him, as there was little tie between him and his wife, that in case his own child died, she might palm another upon him,--to prevent which, he branded the babe with the figure of a palm branch, and sent her home, with rebecca and jacob, who were both jews, to watch her; though there was no need, as rachel was a simple, harmless creature. she was also in very bad health when she reached england, and scarcely survived her mother three days, and during that time hardly asked for her child; and the artful servants had contrived to make their master believe that the baby had proved a sickly deformed creature, and had died, and been buried in the coffin with its mother. salmon was in poland when all these horrors occurred, and there jacob and rebecca found him; and having now no other object, he devoted himself entirely to amassing riches, passing from one state of covetousness to another, till at length he began to fall into the dotage of avarice, which consists in laying up money for the sake of laying up, and delighting in the view of hoards of gold and precious things. with this madness in his mind, he turned much of his property into jewels, and returning to england, he began to look about for a safe place wherein he might deposit his treasures. but, as a jew, he could not possess land; he therefore passed the form of naturalization, and whilst looking about for a situation in which he might dwell in safety, his character and circumstances became in part known to the gipsies, (who, amongst other thieves, always have their eyes on those who are supposed to carry valuables about them,) and the man called harefoot, formed the plan of getting him and his treasures into dymock's tower. this harefoot was the nephew of the woman who had brought tamar to shanty's; and the old miser, being tempted by the moat, and other circumstances of the place, fell into the snare which had been thus skillfully laid for him. it was not till after salmon had come to the tower, that the connection between salmon and tamar was discovered by the old woman; and it was at this time that she contrived to meet tamar, and to convey the notion to her, that she was of a gipsy family; fearing lest she should, by any means, be led to an explanation with salmon, before her nephew and his gang had made sure of the treasure. harefoot had supposed that he and his gang were the only persons who knew of the secret passage; and the reason why they had not made the attempt of robbing salmon by that passage sooner, was simply this, that harefoot, having been detected in some small offence in some distant county, had been confined several weeks in a house of correction, from which he had not been set free many days before he came to the moor, and took upon himself the conduct of the plot for robbing salmon. what jacob and rebecca's plans were did not appear, or wherefore they had not only fallen in with, but promoted the settlement of their master in the tower; but that their object was a selfish one cannot be doubted. had other confirmation been wanting, after the mark on tamar's shoulder had been acknowledged, the vagrant added it, by producing a clasp of one armlet, which she had retained, and carried about with her in a leathern bag, amongst sundry other heterogeneous relics; and she accounted for having preserved it, from the fear she had of exposing a cypher wrought on a precious stone, which might, she thought, lead to detection. a dreadful hue and cry in the court below, soon after this disturbed the conference. all seemed confusion and uproar; dymock and shanty rushed down stairs, and aunt margaret and tamar ran out to the window in the nearest passage; there they learnt that the prisoners had broken the bars of their dungeon, swam the moat, and fled; and the ladies could see the peasants in pursuit, scouring over the moor, whilst those they were pursuing were scarcely visible. "i am glad of it," said tamar, "i should rejoice in their escape, they will trouble us no more; and oh, my dear mother, i would not, that one sad heart, should now mix itself with our joyful ones!" mrs. margaret and tamar stood at the window till they saw the pursuers turning back to the castle, some of them not being sorry in their hearts, at the escape of the rogues, but the most remarkable part of the story was, that whilst they had all been thus engaged, the woman had also made off, and, though probably not in company with her, that most excellent and faithful creature rebecca, neither of whom were ever heard of again. and now none were left, but those who hoped to live and die in each other's company, but these were soon joined by the magistrates and legal powers, who had been summoned from the nearest town, together with people from all quarters, who flocked to hear and learn what was going forward; and here was an opportunity not to be lost by dymock and shanty, of telling the wonderful tale, and old salmon having been recruited with some small nourishment, administered by mrs. margaret, presented his daughter to the whole assembly, and being admonished by shanty, placed in her hands before them, the deed of transfer of the lands and castle of dymock, which in fact to him, was but a drop in the ocean of his wealth. as she received this deed, she fell on one knee, and kissed her venerable father's hand, after which he raised and embraced her, paternal affection and paternal pride acting like the genial warmth of the sun, in thawing the frost of his heart and frame. she had whispered something whilst he kissed her, and as his answer had been favourable, she turned to dymock, and now bending on both knees, she placed the deed in his hands, her sweet face at the same time being all moist with gushing tears, falling upon her adopted father's hand. shanty in his apron and unshorn chin, explained to those about, what had been done; for they, that is the laird, aunt margaret, salmon, and tamar, were standing on the elevated platform, at the door of the tower: and then arose such shouts and acclamations from one and all, as made the whole castle ring again, and one voice in particular arose above the rest, crying, "our laird has got his own again, and blessing be on her who gave it him." "rather bless him," cried shanty, "who has thus brought order out of confussion, to him be the glory given in every present happiness, as in all that we are assured of in the future." as there were no means of regaling those present at that time, and as mr. salmon was then too confused to do that which he ought to have done, in rewarding those who had defended him, most of them being poor people, they were dismissed with an invitation to a future meeting at the tower; two or three gentlemen, friends of dymock, only being left. much consultation then ensued, whilst mrs. margaret bestirred herself, to procure female assistance, and to provide the best meal, which could be had at a short notice. during this conference with the laird and his friends, all of whom were honourable men, mr. salmon was induced to consent to have his treasures, his bonds, his notes and bills, consigned to such keeping as was judged most safe; neither, could these matters be settled, without a journey to town, in which dymock accompanied him, together with a legal friend of the latter of known respectability. we do not enter into the particulars of this journey, but merely say, that mr. salmon in the joy, and we may add, thankfulness of recovering his child, not only permitted himself to be advised, but whilst in town made his will, by which, he left all he possessed to his daughter, and this being concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned, he returned to dymock's tower, laden with presents for mrs. margaret. neither were shanty's services overlooked; the cottage and land appertaining thereunto, were to be his for life, free from rent and dues, together with twenty pounds a year, in consideration of his never-varying kindness to tamar. the old man wept, when told of what was done for him, and himself went the next day to morpeth, to bring from thence a sister, nearly as old as himself, who was living there in hard service. and here the memorandum from which this story is derived, becomes less particular in the details. it speaks of mr. salmon after the various exertions he had made, (these exertions having been as it was supposed succeeded by a stroke,) sinking almost immediately into a state nearly childish, during which, however, it was a very great delight to tamar, to perceive in the very midst of this intellectual ruin an awakening to things spiritual; so that it would seem, as if the things hidden from him in the days of human prudence and wisdom, were now made manifest to him, in the period of almost second childishness. tamar had been enabled to imbibe the purest christian principles, in her early youth, for which, humanly speaking, she owed much to shanty, and she now with the assistance of the kind old man, laboured incessantly, to bring her father to the messiah of the christians, as the only hope and rest of his soul; and she had reason before her father died, to hope that her labours had not been without fruit. as to worldly pelf, she had it in rich abundance, but she could have little personal enjoyment of it whilst shut up with her aged father in dymock's tower, yet she had exquisite delight in humouring therewith, the fancies of dymock, and administering to the more sober and benevolent plans of mrs. margaret; for this lady's principal delight was, to assist the needy, and her only earthly or worldly caprice, that of restoring the tower and its environs, and furnishing, to what she conceived had been its state, in the, perhaps, imaginary days of the exaltation of the dymocks. a splendid feast in the halls of dymock's tower, is also spoken of, as having taken place, soon after the return of the laird from london, from which, not a creature dwelling on the moor was absent, when salmon directed tamar to reward those persons who had assisted him in his greatest need, and when mrs. margaret added numbers of coats and garments to those that were destitute. dymock in his joy of heart, caused the plough to be brought forward, and fixed upon a table in the hall, for every one to see that day, mrs. margaret having been obliged to acknowledge, that it was this same plough, which had turned up the vein of gold, in which all present were rejoicing. with the notice of this feast the history terminates, and here the writer concludes with a single sentiment,--that although a work of kindness wrought in the fear of god, as imparted by the lord, the spirit--seldom produces such a manifest reward, as it did in the case of mrs. margaret and her nephew, for the race is not always to the swift, nor the burthen to the strong, yet, even under this present imperfect dispensation, there is a peace above all price, accompanying every act, which draws a creature out of self, to administer to the necessities of others, whenever these acts are performed in faith, and with a continual reference to the pleasure of god, and without view to heaping up merits, which is a principle entirely adverse to anything like a correct knowledge of salvation by the lord the saviour. [illustration: meeting of theobald and arnold.--see chapter iii.] theobald, the iron-hearted; or, love to enemies. from the french of rev. cesar malan. contents chapter i. gottfried and erard--pursuit of a horseman--rescue of the wounded chevalier chapter ii trappings of the horse--midnight arrival--character of the wounded man discovered--his narrative--family worship chapter iii theobald's account of his conflict with arnold the lion--hatred of enemies--distress of the family chapter iv. kindness to an enemy--arnold arrives alive, but wounded--theobald's amazement at the kindness he receives chapter v. arnold's narrative of the battle and what followed--hildegarde and theobald's children chapter vi. anxieties of theobald--worship of mary--theobald informed where he is chapter vii. arnold informed of what has taken place--his joyful surprise--absence of gottfried chapter viii. friendly meeting of the warriors--mutual forgiveness--theobald's desire for instruction--return of gottfried--the bible--lesson of love to enemies theobald, the iron-hearted. * * * * * chapter i. gottfried and erard--pursuit of a horseman--rescue of the wounded chevalier in the long and bloody war which followed the martyrdom of john huss and jerome of prague,[ ] two hostile armies met, in , in one of the most beautiful valleys of bohemia. the battle commenced towards the close of day, and continued until after sunset. it was then that old gottfried, accompanied by erard, his grandson, climbed to the summit of a steep hill, from the edge of which might be perceived, in the depth of the valley, behind a wood, some troops still fighting. the old man and the child, (erard was scarcely nine years of age,) were sad and silent. they both looked towards the plain, and it was with a profound sigh that erard at last said, "o, how good is the lord, if he has preserved my father!" "the lord can preserve him!" said gottfried, with solemnity, "arnold belongs to him; yes, my son, your father is one of his dear children!" "but, grandpapa," resumed erard, looking at the old man, "do not christians also die in battle? god does not preserve them all." "if my son has laid down his life for the lord," continued gottfried, "he is not dead: his soul has gone from this world to be with his saviour." "to be with my good mamma!" said the child. "in heaven with the angels, is it not, dear grandpapa?" "to be with thy mother, my son," replied the old man, drawing the child towards him. "yes, in the heaven of the blessed! it is there that all those who love jesus go, and your mother was his faithful servant." erard sighed, and exclaimed, "o, how good will god be if he has preserved my father, my good father! o, grandpapa, why did you let him go?" "erard," replied the old christian, "your father would rather not have fought, he has so much patience and in his heart; but then he also has courage: he has been surnamed----" "grandpapa," interrupted the child, with agitation, and pointing with his hand towards the plain, under the declivity of the hill, and in a narrow passage between the rocks and woods, "do you see those three horsemen?" in fact, three armed warriors were hastening, at the utmost speed of their horses, towards a thick coppice, which they entered, and disappeared. the first seemed to be flying before the two others, who appeared to be in furious pursuit. gottfried listened, but no sound was heard; and, a few moments afterwards, he distinctly saw two of the warriors come out of the wood and hasten towards the plain, repassing the defile. "alas!" said the old man, groaning, "they have killed him! they have dipped their hands in the blood of their brother!" "they have killed him! do you say so, grandpapa? whom have they killed? is it my father?" "no, my son; the first warrior was not arnold. but it was a man, and those are men who have killed him! o lord, when wilt thou teach them to love one another? but let us go to him," added the old man. "to the dead man!" exclaimed erard with affright. "grandpapa, see! it is already night." "come, my child," said gottfried, "and fear not. perhaps he is not yet dead; and if god sends us to his assistance, will you not be happy?" "but, grandpapa, the wood is so dark, that i don't see how we shall find our way." "well, erard, i will wait here. run to the house, and return immediately with ethbert and matthew. tell them that i have sent for them, and let them bring a torch and the long hand-barrow. make haste!" erard was soon out of sight, and only a short time had elapsed before he returned with the two domestics, who held each a flambeaux and brought the litter. the child trembled while they descended, over the rocks and through the woods. it seemed to him that he was about to step in the blood or fall over the body of the dead man. the flame of the torches, which wavered in the evening breeze, now struck a projection of the rock, which seemed to assume the form of a man, now penetrated behind the trunks of the pines, which appeared like ranks of soldiers. the imagination of erard was excited: he scarcely breathed, and felt his heart sink when ethbert, who was walking before, exclaimed, "here he is! he is dead!" it was a chevalier and a nobleman; whom gottfried immediately recognized by the form of his casque and the golden scarf to which was suspended the scabbard of his sword. the visor of the casque was closed. gottfried raised it, and saw the pale and bloody countenance of a man, still young, whose features expressed courage and valor. he had fallen under his horse, in whose side was found the point of a lance which had killed him; and the whole body of his steed had covered and crushed one of his limbs. the right hand of the chevalier still grasped the handle of a sword of which the blade was broken. gottfried and his servants looked on some moments. the light of the torches shone on the rich armor of the chevalier and on the gold-embroidered housing of his horse, and it seemed as if its brilliancy must open his closed eyes and re-animate his motionless limbs. erard kept close to his grandfather and a little behind him. he wept gently, but not with fear--it was with grief and sorrow,--and he repeated, in a low voice, "they have killed him! the wicked men!" "perhaps he still lives," said gottfried, kneeling and placing his ear to the chevalier's mouth. "raise him! loose him!" exclaimed he, rising hastily. "he is not dead!" "he is not dead! he is not dead!" repeated erard; and he began with all his little force to push the body of the dead horse, which the three men raised, and from beneath which they at last disengaged the leg of the chevalier. it was bruised against a stone which had torn the flesh, and the blood was flowing from it copiously. "water!" cried gottfried, unlacing the armor of the chevalier and taking off his casque, which one of the domestics took that he might fill it with water from the foot of the rocks. meanwhile the benevolent old man had laid the chevalier on the ground, upon the housing of his horse and his own garment, which he had taken off; he supported his head with one hand, and with the other lightly rubbed his breast, to revive the beating of his heart. at last the servant brought water. gottfried bathed and cooled with it the face and head of the chevalier, who, after a few moments, sighed, and half-opened his eyes. "almighty god," exclaimed gottfried, "thou hast revived him! o, may it be for thy glory!" "amen!" said his servants. footnotes: [footnote : both were burned alive at constance, by order of the council held in that city: the first on the th of july, ; the second on the th of may, .] chapter ii. trappings of the horse--midnight arrival--character of the wounded man discovered--his narrative--family worship. the dear and sensible erard was delighted. he laughed, he wept, he looked at the chevalier, whose cheeks had recovered some color, and asked him, softly, whether he lived, and whether he heard and saw them. "where am i?" asked the chevalier, faintly, turning his eyes towards one of the torches. "with god and with your brethren!" replied gottfried, taking one of his hands. "but say no more now, and may god aid us!" it was necessary to transport the warrior to the dwelling of gottfried, and the passage was long and difficult. gottfried first spread upon the litter some light pine-branches, over which he placed the housing of the horse and his own outer garments, those of his servants, and even that of erard, who begged him to take this also; then, after the old man had bound up the bruised limb between strong splinters of pine, which he had cut with the blade of the chevalier's sword, and which he tied with his scarf, he laid the warrior on the branches, while two robust servants carefully raised and bore the litter towards the summit of the hill. "and the poor horse!" said erard, at the moment when his grandpapa, who bore the flambeaux and the sword of the chevalier, began his march. "you will return to-morrow morning," said gottfried to his servants, "and take off the trappings. as to the body, the eagles and the crows must devour it. come, and may god guard and strengthen us!" the chevalier had recovered his senses. he saw himself in the hands of friends, and doubted not that the old man was a supporter of the cause he had himself defended. it was not until midnight that the convoy reached the house of gottfried. the journey was made slowly, and more than once the master had desired his servants to rest. the bed of the old man himself received the wounded knight, on whom gottfried, who was no stranger to the art of healing wounds and fractures, bestowed the most judicious cares, and beside whom this devoted christian passed the remainder of the night. "go and take some rest," said he to erard and the domestics, "and may our god and saviour keep your souls while his goodness gives you sleep!" erard embraced his grandfather, ethbert and matthew bent before him respectfully, and gottfried remained alone, in silence, near the bed, which was lighted by a little lamp, through a curtain which concealed it. "you have saved me!" said the chevalier to the old man, when all was quiet in the house. "may the holy virgin recompense you." "it is then one of our enemies!" said gottfried to himself, as he heard this prayer. "o god!" said he in his heart, "make thy charity to abound in me!" "i am your friend," replied the old man, affectionately, "and god himself has granted me the blessing of being useful to you. but, i pray you, remain silent, and, if possible, sleep a few moments." gottfried needed to collect his thoughts, and to ask god for his spirit of peace and love. he had already supposed, at sight of the chevalier's shield, that he belonged to the army of the enemy; but he had just received the certainty of it, and "perhaps, perhaps," said he to himself, "i have before me one who may have killed my son!" the old man therefore spent the moments not employed beside the chevalier in praying to god and in reading his gospel of grace. the knight slept peacefully towards morning, and on awaking showed that he was refreshed. "if it were not," said he, "for my bruised limb, i would ask for my arms. o, why am i not at the head of my men?" gottfried sighed, and as he gave the warrior some drink, said, in a low voice, "why do men hate and kill each other, invoking the name of him who died to save them?" "but," exclaimed the warrior, in a deep voice, "are those who despise and fight against the holy church christians?" at this moment erard half opened the door, and showed his pretty curly head, saying, "grandpapa, has the wounded man been able to sleep? i have prayed god for him." "much obliged, my child," said the chevalier, extending his hand to him. "come! do not fear; approach. o, how you resemble my second son! what is your age and name?" "i am called erard," replied the child, giving his hand to the chevalier, "and i shall soon be nine years old." "that is also the age of my rodolph," pursued the chevalier. "alas! they will think me dead! those villains! those cowards! did they not see that i had no lance, and that my sword was broken?" "go, my child," said gottfried. "let the table and the books be prepared, i will soon come and pray to god with you. call all the servants." "will you also pray for me?" asked the chevalier, "if you will, pray also for my dear hildegarde and our five children. o, when shall my eyes see them again?" "is it long since you left them?" asked gottfried. "it is a week," replied the chevalier, with firmness. "i learned that the intrepid arnold----" "what arnold?" asked gottfried, with anxiety. "arnold the lion, as he is called," said the warrior, "and one of the chiefs of these rebels." (_gottfried turned pale and raised his eyes to heaven_.) "i learned that this audacious arnold had joined his camp, and i felt that my duty called me immediately to the field. i therefore left my family and my house, and have shown the rebels that my arm and my heart are as strong as ever," "have you encountered this arnold?" asked gottfried, hardly daring to ask this question. "have i encountered him!" cried the chevalier. "and who but myself could have----?" "they are waiting for prayers," said erard, opening the door. "dear grandpapa, will you come?" the old man followed the child, and his tearful eyes soon rested on the book of god. "grandpapa, you are weeping!" said erard, approaching the old man. "what is the matter? are you suffering?" "listen to the word of consolation," said gottfried, making the child sit down; "and may the spirit of jesus himself address it to our hearts." he read then from the book of psalms, and said a few words on resignation to the will of god, and in his humble prayer supplicated god to remember the chevalier and his family, and to bless him in the house whither he had been brought in his mercy. "amen! amen!" repeated all the servants. chapter iii. theobald's account of his conflict with arnold the lion--hatred op enemies--distress of the family. "you are pious people," said the chevalier to gottfried, in the afternoon of the same day, and while erard was present. "religion is a good thing." "one who loves jesus is always happy," said the child. "let them love jesus!" replied the warrior. "but this is what i heard last evening, when i was about to fight the lion." "i pray you," said gottfried, do not talk any more now; it will increase your sufferings." "i do not suffer," replied the chevalier, "this leg is very painful, it is true; but it is only a leg," added he, smiling. "ought i to make myself uneasy about it?" "you fought with a lion, then, last evening?" asked erard, with curiosity, "was he very large and strong?" gottfried would have sent erard away, for he feared for him the story of the chevalier; but the latter asked that he might be allowed to remain. "erard must become a man," added he. "my children know what a battle is. let erard then not be afraid at what i am about to say. "my name is theobald," continued the chevalier, "and from my earliest youth i was surnamed _the iron-hearted_, because i never cried at pain, and never knew what it was to be afraid. my father, one of the powerful noblemen of bohemia, accustomed me, from my earliest years, to despise cold, hunger, thirst and fatigue; and i was scarcely erard's age when i seized by the throat and strangled a furious dog that was springing upon one of my sisters. "war has always been my life. this has now lasted nearly four years, and my sword has not been idle. the hussites and the calixtans[ ] have felt it." at these words erard, who was sitting beside the bed of the chevalier, rose and went to a window, at the farther end of the room. "i had spent some weeks with my family, when i learned that the enemy was approaching, and that one of their principal chiefs had just joined them. this chief was the lion." _erard, rising_. grandpapa, perhaps it was----. "be silent, my son," said gottfried. "our camps had been in sight of each other two days," continued theobald, "when we decided at last to attack them; and last evening the combat took place. "it had lasted more than three hours, when i caused a retreat to be sounded, in order to suspend, if possible, the conflict, and myself to terminate the day by a single combat with the most valiant of the enemy's chieftains. "our troops stopped, retired, and i challenged the lion, who, without delay, left the ranks and advanced alone to meet me." (_gottfried leans against a table, and rests his head on his hand_.) he was a man younger than myself, and of noble appearance. his sword was attached to a scarf of silver and azure, and from beneath his casque, the visor of which was raised, escaped curls of light hair. "grandpapa!" exclaimed erard, running towards gottfried, "was it not--?" "be quiet, erard," said his grandfather, ordering him to sit down. "should a child interrupt an older person who is speaking?" "this chevalier," resumed theobald, "advanced towards me, who had also left the ranks, and when all was ready, stopped his horse, and said to me, mildly, but with a deep and manly voice, 'jesus has shed his blood for us: why would you shed mine? i will defend myself,' added he, pulling down his visor and holding out his shield, 'but i will not strike.'" "these words affected me, i confess, and i was on the point of withdrawing, when, fixing my eyes on the shield which he presented, i saw that golden chalice." "it was he! yes, it was he!" exclaimed erard, sobbing and flying from the room. "this boy," said theobald, "is still a child, and the idea of bloodshed inspires him with fear." "ah!" said gottfried, "his father is also in the army, and this narrative gives him anxiety on his account. you did not then spare this warrior?" "i have told you: the sight of the chalice awoke my fury, and exclaiming, defend thyself, i took my sword with both hands, and with a single blow dashed aside his shield and cleft his helmet. "but my sword broke; and at the moment when the lion fell----" _gottfried, with terror_. did arnold then fall? was arnold killed? "so perish all who hate the holy church! (_gottfried conceals his face in his hands_.) but as soon as i had struck him, his soldiers precipitated themselves upon ours, and five of their chevaliers threw themselves upon me and surrounded me. i had no arms: i had laid down my lance to combat with the lion, and my sword was broken. i could yet, with the fragment that remained, repulse and strike down three men; but i was alone, my people were themselves surrounded, and i saw that i must perish. it was then that i fled. (o, how i regret it! but the cowards! they did not give me even a sword!) yes, i fled towards the forest, hoping to find there a branch with which i could arm and defend myself; but my horse stumbled over the roots, in consequence of which i fell and fainted. "the rest you know. i owe my life to you; and you have taken care of me like a father." "arnold is then dead!" cried gottfried, without perceiving that the chevalier had finished his narrative. "do not regret it," replied theobald. "he was an enemy of our faith; one of those ferocious taborites,[ ] who deny the holy father and demolish sacred places." "and it was you," continued gottfried, "it was you yourself who struck him, when he refused to draw his sword against you!" "it was not i, it was the holy virgin, who overthrew him! it was she to whom i had devoted my sword, and it was in her service that it was broken. it is thus she consecrated it. may she bless you also,--you who, for love of her, receive me as a son!" gottfried had nothing to say in reply. he wished to pour out his tears before the lord, and left the chevalier, to whom he sent the faithful and prudent ethbert. "sit down," said theobald to the domestic, and tell me who is this prince of peace, of whom you spoke to me, last night. "was it not you who bore me hither with another servant, and who, leaning towards me, when we passed the threshold of this house, said to me: may the prince of peace himself receive you? who is this prince? is it thy master, this venerable and mild old man?" "jesus is the prince of peace," replied ethbert; "for he is love, and love does not war against any one." "jesus! did you say, is the prince of peace! but is he not with us who support his cause, and who yet fight valiantly?" _ethbert_. the cause of jesus is the gospel of his grace. his cause is not supported by the sword and lance; but is defended by truth and love. _theobald, surprised_. your words, ethbert, are sermons. where do they come from? _ethbert_. he who is acquainted with god speaks the word of god; and god is love. god will not revenge and kill with hatred. god pardons and bestows grace. _theobald, agitated_. you would say, perhaps, that god is not with me, because i avenge myself of my enemies. have they not deserved my hatred? _ethbert_. "love your enemies," saith god to those who know him. "avenge not yourselves," he says again to his beloved. _theobald, still more astonished_. your words trouble me. is it then a crime to destroy an adversary? _ethbert_. cain rose up against his brother abel; and it was because the works of his brother were good, but his own were evil. the christian does not hate. the christian does not avenge himself. _theobald_. am i then not a christian? _ethbert, mildly and respectfully_. he who is of christ, walks as christ himself walked. christ went from place to place doing good; and it is christ himself, who says to his church: "love one another. he who loveth is of god." theobald was silent. these words: "he who loveth is of god," had touched his heart, and he was affected and humbled. ethbert was also silent, secretly asking of god to enlighten and soften the heart of the chevalier, for which matthew and himself had already prayed more than once. at last theobald said, slowly, "it is not, then, like christians, for men to hate and war with each other? and yet these impious men deserve to be burned; and are not those who imitate them the enemies of god and of the church?" "it is no christian," replied ethbert, "who kindles the fire that consumes a friend of jesus; and this huss and jerome, who were delivered to the flames, loved jesus." _theobald_. but did they not blaspheme the holy church? _ethbert_. he who loves jesus does not blaspheme his name; and the name of jesus is written on the church of jesus. no, no: the christian does not hate or revenge himself; and he blasphemes neither his god nor the church of god! "it is enough!" said theobald to the servant. "leave me--i have need of repose and silence:" and the servant went out. meanwhile gottfried had retired into his room, and, like david, wept and sobbed before the lord, repeating, with bitterness, "arnold! my son arnold! thou art no more! thy father will never more see thee on earth!" footnotes: [footnote : those who followed the doctrine of john huss against the church of rome. the calixtans, in particular, maintained that in the sacrament the cup or _chalice_ should be given to the people.] [footnote : a name assumed by the hussites, under the command of john ziska, after having built a fortress which they called tabor, near the city of bechin, in bohemia.] chapter iv. kindness to an enemy--arnold arrives alive, but wounded--theobald's amazement at the kindness he receives. erard heard the voice of his grandfather, and ran to throw himself in his arms, exclaiming, "the wicked man! the wicked man!--he has killed my father! god has not preserved him, grandpapa! my father is dead!" "adore god, my son!" said gottfried, overcoming his grief, "and do not murmur! especially, my son, do not grow angry, and do not hate!" "but, grandpapa," replied erard, with anguish, "it was he who was struck! it was my father whom he killed!" "no, my son; the warrior killed one whom he fancied an enemy, erard! theobald believed himself serving god, and doing a holy work, in killing a calixtan." "he then does not love jesus--this poor chevalier!" exclaimed the pious child. "o, grandpapa, how unhappy he must be!" "yes, my son--very unhappy!" replied gottfried. "do not hate him, therefore, but pray to god for him. was it not god who conducted him hither--and was it not that we might speak to him of jesus, and that we might love him--yes, erard, that we might love him, for the sake of our saviour?" "but," exclaimed the old man, rising and advancing towards the window of his room, "what is this? what do i see in the distance, toward the rocks, at the entrance to the wood?" erard looked also, and was sure that he saw men. "yes--soldiers!" exclaimed he; "for i see their helmets glisten. there are many of them, grandpapa! are they coming to kill us also, because we love jesus?" "yes," continued the old man, without replying to the child; "they are, indeed, soldiers. but they are marching slowly, and it would seem---- ah, my child! they are our own warriors; and it is my son--it is the body of your father--that they are bearing. o god of mercy, support us at this hour!" "i dare not see him!" exclaimed erard, running after the old man, who hastened to the road. "grandpapa, hide me! hide me, i pray you!" "here is some one coming to us," said gottfried: and at the same time, and in the opposite direction, matthew and ethbert ran out of the house, from which they had perceived the convoy; and all together hastened to meet a warrior, who advanced, waving a scarf, and exclaiming, "praise god! arnold is living!" gottfried staggered, and his servants received him in their arms, where he remained weak and motionless. erard embraced him, sobbing. the soldier, all out of breath, reached them, and taking the cold hands of the old man, said, "joy, my dear lord! bless god! your son is living! here he is! come, come; he desires your presence--he calls for you!" "grandpapa, he is calling for you!" repeated erard, approaching the pale countenance of the old man. "do not weep any more. come, come quickly, and embrace him!" "o the kindness of god! the mercy of jesus!" said gottfried, as he recovered; arnold is living! he is restored to me!"--and leaning on the arms of his servants, he walked to meet the approaching troops. "my father!--my son!" was soon heard. "let us bless god! i am restored to you. he has preserved my life!" this was arnold--who had just perceived his father and his child, and was making an effort to glorify the lord with them. he was lying on five lances tied together, which ten warriors sustained by five other lances passed across beneath. a shield and some cloaks supported the head of arnold, while a company of soldiers followed and guarded their chief. gottfried embraced his son, and blessed the name of the lord: but after erard had also manifested his tenderness, the strength of the chief did not allow him to speak any more; and it was in quiet and in silence that arnold was borne into the house, then laid in a chamber adjoining that in which theobald was. the latter had fallen asleep, after ethbert left him; and when he awoke, all was tranquil around him. the warriors, after having taken some nourishment, had returned to their camp, and arnold was sleeping beneath the eyes of his happy father, and of erard, who repeated incessantly, in a low voice, "o, how good the lord is! he has preserved my father!" "this is a singular house," thought theobald. "what kindness, what benevolence, and, at the same time, what seriousness and solemnity, even down to this child! how they speak of god, of jesus, and of heaven! but, am i mistaken? no: not one among them has named either the holy virgin or the saints! "can it be possible!" added he, after long reflection. "perhaps i am in the family of a hussite, one of those calixtans whom i abhor. no, no! they would hate me also--for they know now who i am--and perhaps i shall see no more of the love and interest they have shown me. "but," said he again, "there is something here that i cannot comprehend. i must inquire and inform myself." gottfried had returned. his countenance was serene; and it was with affectionate cordiality that he inquired of the chevalier if he was refreshed by his sleep. "i am as quiet as possible," replied theobald; "though this limb pains me some, and i am slightly feverish. o, if i could only learn the welfare of my family! what keen anxiety must torment my wife and my dear children! for it will be published in the two camps that the iron-hearted has been killed!" "reassure yourself!" said gottfried. "i have attended to that. i have caused the army to be informed that you are living and comfortable. but they are ignorant of your retreat. we shall also have, as soon as to-morrow, certain intelligence of your family. do not agitate yourself, therefore; but be patient, and await the lord's will--for he alone reigneth." in fact, gottfried, at the moment of the departure of the soldiers, had placed in the hands of their captain, a letter, to be read on the way, in which, under the seal of secrecy, he confided to him all that concerned theobald, and charged him to send the intelligence to his family; but concealing the place where he was. he also requested of the captain that a messenger might bring back some reply from the family, as soon as possible. "angel of goodness!" exclaimed theobald, with profound emotion, which he was almost ashamed to display, "your love confounds me! i have never seen such up to this day. whence do you derive it? who gives it to you all?--for you all have the same love." "god is love!" said gottfried. "and if we know him, if he has revealed his love to us, ought we not also to love one another? is it not in this, before everything else, that his image consists?" _theobald_. his image! the image of god! these words were never before spoken in my ears. i have never thought that i myself might bear the image of god. who has suggested to you this unheard-of and sublime idea? _gottfried_. was it not for this that the son of god purchased us by his blood? was it not that his spirit might renew and sanctify us, to the resemblance of god our father? _theobald_, (_leaning his forehead on one of his hands._) purchased by his blood! renewed by his spirit! what does that mean? these are, i am sure, the things of god, of heaven; but they are hid from my eyes. i do not understand them. repeat them, i pray you. _gottfried_. is it possible that the sacrifice of jesus can be unknown to you? do you not know, then, that the saviour has shed his blood on the cross? at this question, theobald drew from beneath his tunic of fine linen, a little crucifix, which was suspended from his neck by a chain of gold, and after having kissed it, showed it to gottfried. "well, then," said the old man, "since you wear upon your person a representation of this sacrifice, why do you not rejoice in what he has done for us? yes; why do you not glorify him who loved us with such a love?" "but i have not yet merited it," said theobald, casting down his head, and coloring. "merited it!" exclaimed gottfried. "is jesus, think you, a saviour, if his salvation is not a gift?" theobald looked at the old man a long time in silence, and at last said, "this thought has never before occurred to me. if jesus is a saviour, you say his salvation is a gift. what a faith! is that your religion?" _gottfried_. i am by nature a wicked man, like all others, but my soul reposes upon jesus; and i desire to love him, because he has loved me, even unto dying for my sins. his blood has washed my soul; i therefore know that i am saved. can i love him enough for such grace----?" "some one knocks at the door," said theobald; and on the permission to enter, ethbert announced that the hour for supper approached, and that his master was expected to attend prayers. "you will not forget me!" said theobald, extending his hand to gottfried. "go! and may god himself be with me as he is with you! i have much, much to think of." chapter v. arnold's narrative of the battle and what followed--hildegarde and theobald's children. prayers were held in arnold's room. his wound was severe, but not dangerous, and his heart needed to hear his father thank god for the great deliverance which he had granted him. it was carefully concealed from the two wounded men, that they were so near each other. the father did not, therefore, pray for theobald, to whom neither himself nor any person made the least allusion. it was from arnold that his father was to learn all that concerned him; and it was not until the next day, and in the afternoon, that gottfried, having summoned erard and ethbert, listened with them to the narrative of his son. matthew remained with the chevalier. "you know, my father," said arnold, "that i went forth against my will. ah, what a denial of faith, to make war in the name of the religion of jesus! but i thought my presence would control certain spirits, and that i might, perhaps, even prevent a conflict between the two parties. "i communicated my sentiments to some true friends of the saviour, who had repaired to the camp with the same intentions as myself; and we often assembled together, in my tent, to arrange our plans, and especially to pray to god. "but the number in favor of peace and forgiveness of injuries was too small, and all our efforts were useless. the only thing we could obtain was, that we should not be the first to attack, and that, at the first signal of truce, we should cease fighting. "for myself and brethren, we had pledged ourselves before god to limit ourselves to defense, and to use our arms only to protect our own lives, but not to strike our enemies. "we had learned that theobald, one of their chieftains, the lord of rothenwald, a strong castle in the neighborhood, and who, for his indomitable courage, as well as the inflexible firmness of his manners, has been surnamed 'the iron-hearted,' had arrived at their camp, breathing only retaliation and revenge. we knew, besides, that his wife, the lady of the castle, named hildegarde, was very hostile to the cause of the gospel, and had even treated harshly two of our brethren, who had been taken prisoners by theobald, in a preceding action, and to whom the hatred of his wife had been cruelly manifested. "nevertheless, my brethren and myself had all a sincere desire to pray to god fervently for the welfare of theobald and his men. alas, he has been killed! he is dead! he has gone to give an account of his soul to god. poor, poor theobald!" here erard, who was seated beside his grandfather, laid his hand on his knee and looked at him with a knowing expression. his grandfather placed his finger on erard's lips, and kept it there, as if to enjoin upon the child the greatest secrecy; and erard, with a sigh, turned his eyes again upon his father. "but it was he, it was theobald, who commenced the combat. he ordered his troops forward; and, himself advancing in front of ours, who had also formed themselves in battle array, he provoked us, calling us heretics and infidels, whom heaven had already cursed, and whom the holy virgin, he said, was about to crush beneath her feet. "we did not reply; and the conflict which then took place, soon became terrific. we were almost equal in number, and well armed. but neither of us had that powder of sulphur and fire which strikes and kills the most valiant, even by the most cowardly hand. "we, therefore, fought hand to hand; and those of us who only defended ourselves, disabled several men, by the extreme fatigue which we caused them in warding off all their blows. "i do not know whether the iron-hearted perceived this; but toward evening, about sunset, he sounded a retreat. at that instant, our army, according to our decision, paused, and we thought the conflict was over; but it was only suspended, that theobald might send me a challenge to fight single-handed. "i immediately advanced, and heard my brethren say, 'arnold, may god preserve thee! we pray for thee!' "theobald, with closed visor, approached me. our horses neighed, while the two armies each uttered a cry, only a space necessary for the combat being left between them. "i advanced, and in the profound silence which surrounded us, said aloud to theobald, 'jesus has shed his blood for us. he sees us from heaven; he bids us love one another. why, theobald, will you not hear him? why will you shed my blood, and, if you can, take my life?' "'perish the infidels!' replied the iron-hearted, approaching me and brandishing an enormous sword. "'well, then, i am ready for you,' i exclaimed, drawing down my visor also. 'let god be our judge!' i will defend myself--but i will not strike.' "on saying these words, i held up my shield and fixed myself firmly in the stirrups of my saddle. we had both laid down our lances, and were armed only with a sword--mine was still in its scabbard. "it seemed to me that theobald trembled, when i spoke to him of the love of jesus; but as soon as i had raised my shield, he became furious, and seizing his sword with both hands, he urged his horse against mine, and struck me on the head with all his force, so that i was overthrown and my casque cleft by the blow. "see in this, my father, the hand of god; for it was thus that he saved my life. when i came to myself, i was in a cottage, in the midst of a wood, and surrounded by three of my brethren, who had transported me thither. my wound was stanched; i did not suffer much, and my soul was in perfect peace. i was able to sleep a little towards the latter part of this night--alas, so fatal for the unfortunate theobald and his men!" "to his men also?" asked gottfried, almost betraying the secret of his heart. "ah! the vengeance of our soldiers, i was told, was terrible! as soon as they saw me fall, they threw themselves furiously upon the enemy. theobald, they said, was overwhelmed by numbers and killed in a thick wood, whither he had fled. his troops were repulsed and routed, and many lives lost; and about midnight a soldier came from one of the chieftains, to tell us that they were about to seize on the fort of rothenwald. "then my heart was moved. i thought of the wife and children of the unfortunate theobald, and i entreated one of my brethren, a captain, in great favor with his chieftain, to bear to the latter a letter which i wrote, notwithstanding my great weakness, in which i earnestly requested, as a personal favor, that he would allow the wife and family of theobald to be conducted safely from the chateau. i told him that their lives were precious to me; and that, since i could not myself be their protector, i committed this charge to him, in the name of the lord jesus. "my friend immediately set out, after having received from me particular instructions as to the house to which he should himself conduct the lady of the castle and her children; and towards day-break, i received from this brother the message, that my wishes had been received and regarded as commands, and that the whole family of theobald was in safety." "dear papa," said erard, taking his father's hand and covering it with kisses, "you have done as the saviour commanded--'do good to them that hate you.'" "my son," replied arnold, "it was my duty, and i glorify god for having made it easy for me. rothenwald is now only a smoking ruin. it was pillaged, then burnt. o, my poor soldiers, how deluded they have been! o, how far are they still from comprehending that religion of jesus which they professed to defend!" "but, my dear arnold," asked gottfried, "how were you restored to me? who brought you here?" "it was, truly, the hand of god, my father. i was in the cabin of the wood-cutter, with the two friends who never left me, when the wood-cutter's daughter came running in, alarmed, to tell us that a numerous company of soldiers were advancing towards the wood, and appeared to be in search of the house where i was concealed. 'here they are!' she exclaimed. 'they are coming to kill you! o, may god save you!' "but these soldiers were of our own party, and came to carry me to some other place. their captain was known to me: he was a man who feared god and protected his servants. i expressed to him the ardent desire i had to be with you, my father; and my request was granted. the wood-cutter wished to make me a litter; but the soldiers cried, 'our lances and our arms are the lion's!' and you have seen how these brave people accomplished their work of love and honor. "my two brethren insisted upon accompanying me: i opposed them. 'go!' said i; 'hasten to your own families: for many hearts are in anguish on your account.' they embraced me; they committed me to the care of the faithful captain, and to our god; and our god himself has preserved me, and brought me to you." "and hildegarde, and her children?" asked gottfried, with lively interest. "thanks to god, i have been able to send them to the house of your sister, my worthy and pious aunt, at waldhaus. her dwelling is at a safe distance; and her heart has received this unfortunate mother and her five orphans, as you, my father, would have welcomed them yourself. a messenger from my aunt reached me, while i was on my way hither, and i know that all is well. alas! as well as it can be for a widow, suddenly driven from her home, despoiled of all her property, and who, i fear, knows not yet the peace and strength which are from god." "the thoughts of the almighty," said gottfried, rising, "are not our thoughts, and his ways are not our ways! his mercies are over all his works, and his judgments are a great deep! remain quiet, then, beneath his hand, and let his spirit teach you to wait. he can 'make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water,' so his holy word declares; and this word, saith jesus, is truth." thereupon the old man embraced his son. "i have received thee from god, the second time, dear arnold," said he, "and it is a new and great joy to my heart. happy the son," added he, with emotion, "who has been to his father only a subject of gratitude to god." arnold pressed the hand of his father, who went out with erard. ethbert was left with arnold, and upon gottfried's order, revealed to him cautiously all which concerned theobald, to whose room the old man now went. chapter vi. anxieties of theobald--worship of mary--- theobald informed where he is. "no news yet?" asked the chevalier, sadly; "and the night has come, and a long day has also passed! matthew led me to hope the speedy arrival of the express; but he does not come: and i know not why, i experience in my heart oppression and anguish. o, who will tell me what has become of hildegarde and my children? but what have i to fear? rothenwald is impregnable, and should all our enemies surround it, is it not under the protection of our lady? who shall conquer it?" "he who dwelleth in the secret place of the most high," said gottfried, "shall abide under the shadow of the almighty. happy is the man who makes his refuge in the shadow of his wings, until his calamity be overpast." "your confidence is then in god alone!" replied theobald. "you do not even name the holy virgin!" "it is because she did not create me, nor does she keep me alive. this woman, blessed as she has been, did not purchase me with her blood, and is only a creature of god. what dependence can i place upon a creature?" "but," said theobald, "if god made the queen of heaven and the angels, and if all power has been given them----" "chevalier!" exclaimed gottfried, "it is jesus--it is the eternal son of the father--it is the king, sitting on the holy mount of zion--who says these words, applying them to himself, 'all power has been given to me in heaven and on earth.' beware then, for the love of your soul, of attributing this authority to a woman, to whom, when she forgot that she was in the presence of her son, jesus said, reproachfully, 'woman! what have i to do with thee?'" upon this, gottfried approached theobald, whom he looked at affectionately, as he pressed his hand, saying, "may god himself be with you, and strengthen your heart! to-morrow, certainly, we shall have news of your family, and we know it will be good news, since it will be the will of god: and god, theobald, is love." gottfried went out, and matthew came to sit with the chevalier, whom he was to take care of during the night, and to whom he had orders to say a few words about arnold and his arrival. the night rolled away, and theobald could not sleep. he was suffering, and sometimes groaned, and the name of hildegarde was continually on his lips. matthew did not cease to pray to god in his heart, that he would visit this soul in mercy; and as the chevalier exclaimed, "o, how my heart aches!" matthew approached him, and said, "my lord is suffering. what can i do for him?" "ah, matthew!" replied theobald, "it is my heart that suffers. it seems to me that it will break." "if my lord," said matthew, gently, "could weep, it would surely relieve him." "weep!" exclaimed theobald, looking at matthew; "weep, do you say? i do not know what it is. i have never wept. shall the iron-hearted become a woman?" "'jesus wept!' is written in the gospel," replied matthew. "and our good saviour is our pattern in all things." "you weep, then, here?" said the chevalier, with visible interest; "for here you do in all things like jesus?" _matthew, (humbly.)_ at least, we desire to. our pious lord-- _theobald_. gottfried is then a nobleman? _matthew_. my master is the count of winkelthal. _theobald, (with agitation.)_ the count of winkelthal, matthew? arnold, the lion, was then his son? am i then, indeed, in the house of his father? _matthew_. arnold is the only son of my master; and he is not dead! "not dead!" exclaimed theobald, extending his hands to the domestic. "tell me, matthew, are you sure of this?" _matthew_. arnold is living. god has preserved him, and he is here; he is near you--yes, in the room adjoining! "now i can weep!" said theobald, putting his hands over his face, and sobbing aloud. matthew approached him with emotion, and theobald, passing his arm around the neck of the servant, leaned his head upon his bosom, weeping abundantly, and saying, "have pity on me, matthew. my soul is overwhelmed!" "o, my lord!" said the christian to him, "it is god himself who has visited you and who calls you. fear not; and let your tears flow before him." "matthew! dear matthew!" said theobald, clasping his hands; "pray to god for me!" matthew knelt beside the bed of the chevalier, and poured out his soul in prayer. theobald was still weeping when the servant rose; and it was only by degrees that he became composed, and at last fell asleep. chapter vii. arnold informed of what has taken place--his joyful surprise--absence of gottfried. so passed the night in the chamber of theobald. arnold had slept quietly. ethbert did not at first speak of theobald; and it was not until morning, after his master had awakened and had with ethbert lifted his soul to god in prayer, that the servant pronounced the name of rothenwald, lamenting the ruin of that beautiful and splendid dwelling. "it is the lord!" replied arnold: "'he casteth down and he raiseth up, and his judgments are over all the earth.' but what bitterness for the wife, alas! for the widow of the unfortunate theobald! imprudent man! why did he flee? would it not have been better for him to have submitted to numbers, and been taken prisoner? he would now be living, and his house would not have been burned!" "did his pursuers say," asked ethbert, "that he was dead?" _arnold_. they were two of our chevaliers; and i was informed, that their intention was to seize him; that they called to him repeatedly, and at last, in the wood, pierced his horse with a lance, that they might be able to take him prisoner; but they declared that, in falling, the horse had crushed his rider, who had been killed immediately by striking his head against a rock. such was their account. the lord knows whether it was so; but theobald has perished. poor widow! sorrowful and feeble orphans! "my lord would then have defended him," said ethbert, feelingly, "had he been able?" _arnold, (with warmth.)_ i would have preserved his life at the peril of my own. _ethbert_. the life of your enemy? _arnold_. does ethbert forget the word of his god? or, does he not yet know that "if we love those who love us," we act only like publicans and men of the world? _ethbert_. arnold, the lion, will, therefore, bless the lord, when he learns that the iron-hearted was not killed, and that he was taken, a living man, from the spot where he fell. "ethbert! is that the truth?" said arnold, seizing the arm of his servant. "it was i, my lord, who held the torch which illuminated the dark forest, and it was between the trunks of the oaks and pines that i saw first a horse extended on the motionless body of a warrior." _arnold_. and this warrior---- _ethbert_. was theobald! yes, my lord, it was he who had just, as he thought, struck your death-blow. _arnold_. and who directed your steps thither, at night? _ethbert_. god, himself. o, what a work of his wonderful love! yes, god himself guided your noble father and your son to the stag cliffs at the moment when theobald, flying before the two chevaliers, passed through the defile of the wood; and your father summoned matthew and myself to descend there with him. _arnold, (with adoration.)_ my father! sent from god to the murderer of his son? how wonderful are the ways of the most high! but, ethbert, did you not say that he was dead? _ethbert_. we thought so. but your pious and benevolent father, my lord, knelt, touched the supposed, corpse, and exclaimed, "he is not dead!" and aided by our hands, disengaged him. he extended him on the mossy ground, called for water, bathed and refreshed the pale countenance of the chevalier; his life returned, and your father glorified god. "theobald is living!" said arnold, lifting towards heaven his eyes filled with tears. "o, who will make it known to his wife and children?" _ethbert_. your father, my lord, commissioned the captain who brought you here, to inform them of his safety; but she is still ignorant of the asylum of her husband. "and where is he?" asked arnold. ethbert turns, and pointing to one side of the chamber, says, "behind that wall, my lord--theobald is in your father's bed." arnold clasped his hands, praying, and blessing god. erard, who had just entered softly, approached him, and said to him, with tenderness, "good papa, have you slept well? it is i, papa!--it is your little erard! will you not embrace me?" "o, my son," said arnold, placing one hand upon the shoulder of his child, "if you knew how good the lord is!" "o, yes, dear papa," said erard; "god is good--since he has preserved you." "and he has also preserved theobald," added the father. "theobald, papa!--the cavalier who was dead! and whom grandpapa, by the goodness of god restored! do you know him?" erard looked at ethbert, as if to know whether he might continue; and his father, who saw this look, said to him, "yes, dear child--i know him; and i know that god has confided him to our care. o, erard, remember that even an enemy has a claim on our love." "yes, dear papa," continued the child, "and, like the good samaritan, we should love him and bind up his wounds. papa, that is what grandpapa did the other night, in the wood. o, if you knew how afraid i was at first! think, papa--a dead man!--blood! "but now this chevalier is so good to me! i have just been to see him with matthew; and he wept as he embraced me." "theobald wept, and embraced you, my son!" asked the father. _erard_. yes, dear papa; and even said to me, placing his hand on my head, "may the god of thy father bless thee, and make thee resemble him!" _arnold, (much affected.)_ erard, did he say that to you? _erard_. yes, dear papa; and when i was coming away, he called me back, and giving me this flower, said to me, "erard, go to your father and tell him that theobald sent this:" and he wept much. here it is, dear papa. i did not dare to give it to you at first, because i did not know whether ethbert---- "embrace me, my child," said arnold; "and go, and tell my good father, that i entreat him to come to me." _erard_. o, dear papa, grandpapa would have come before--but he went away in the night, with two servants, in a carriage. _arnold_. my father went away in the night, erard! and do you know, and can you tell me where he is gone? _erard_. no, papa. only he said, when he set out--for i was awake and heard him--"go by way of the heath." "he is then gone to waldhaus," said ethbert; "since the heath is on the direct road to the chateau." these are the fruits of christian love! it is active, fervent, and does not put off until to-morrow the good that may be done to-day. sure and powerful consolation was necessary for the heart of the wife and mother whom god had afflicted, and the servant of the "god of consolation" was hastening, in his name, to hildegarde, whom he hoped to bring to him whose death she was deploring. chapter viii. friendly meeting of the warriors--mutual forgiveness--theobald's desire for instruction--return of gottfried--the bible--lesson of love to enemies. arnold did not at first reply to ethbert. his mind was troubled; but having sent away his son, he said to the servant, "ethbert, god has given you wisdom. go, therefore, now, to the chevalier, and bear him, in the name of the lord, the salutation of arnold. you will also say to him, that my great desire, my true and cordial desire, is to come to him. but say nothing of my father." ethbert entered the chamber of theobald, who said to him, as soon as he saw him, "ethbert, i have not yet seen your master to-day. is he sick?" "my master," said ethbert, "is not now in the castle. but, my lord, you must know that god is now displaying his goodness--" _theobald_. to me, you would say, ethbert. i know that arnold is living; that he is here; that he is near me. _ethbert_. and my lord knows also that a disciple of christ can love even an enemy? _theobald_. i was ignorant of it; but i have learned it here. ethbert, do not fear to tell me all. do you know whether erard carried to his father a flower? _ethbert_. i know that his father blessed god when he received it, and that the desire of his soul is that the baron of rothenwald---- _theobald_. say, simply, theobald--and you may also say, his friend, his humbled and repentant friend. _ethbert, (respectfully.)_ the father of erard says to the chevalier theobald, that the cordial desire of his heart is to visit him, without delay. "arnold! arnold!" exclaimed the chevalier; "do you hear my voice? o, why can i not come to you, and ask your pardon?" "theobald," was heard through the partition, "i am coming! ethbert! ethbert!" the domestic immediately went out, and theobald remained, with his eyes fixed on the door, until he heard the steps of arnold and of his servant. then his heart failed him, and he covered his face with his hands, while arnold entered, and approached the bed, beside which he sat down, saying, "o, theobald! i must give way to my joy! it is beyond my strength. may god support us at this hour!" at these words ethbert left the room, saying, "amen." "it was i--it was i who struck you!" exclaimed theobald, bathing with tears the hands with which he had covered his face. "arnold, it was my sword that made this still bleeding wound! pardon! pardon! in the name of god alone! arnold, forgive! o forgive one who would have been your murderer!" "and let our tears and our hearts mingle," said arnold, rising, and embracing theobald, "to bless this great god who sees us and who has brought me to you!" "to me!" exclaimed theobald, looking at arnold, and coloring. "ah, that bandage! that wound!"--and he began again to weep. "but for this wound," replied arnold, with energy, "would you be here, and would theobald ever have been my friend?" "yes, thy friend, noble and charitable soul!" repeated theobald. "you said to me, arnold, when i advanced to kill you, 'why would you shed my blood and take my life?' to-day, here is my blood and my life! it belongs to you. i call god, who now hears me, to witness." "o, how wonderful are his ways!" said arnold. "what an admirable providence has united us--you, the iron-hearted, and me, the lion!" added he, smiling. "did the baron of rothenwald think, three days since, that he would be lying in the bed of the earl of winkelthal, and peacefully smiling at the words of a calixtan?" theobald reddened: this last word had surprised and disturbed him; and it was only by controlling the secret indignation of his soul, that he said, "i did not know that peace and charity entered these lofty towers and innumerable battlements. i had been told, arnold--and i believed it--that impiety alone made its dwelling here." "no, theobald--it is not impiety; it is the word of the lord, and the love of jesus, we trust, which directs and consoles our hearts." _theobald_. yours! yes: i believe it; for i see it hourly. but these taborites, arnold--this ferocious and cruel ziska--do they know the name of jesus--they who persecute the holy church? _arnold_. you have seen them only at a distance, theobald; and you do not even suspect that it was for the cause of jesus and for his holy gospel that john huss ended his days at the stake. _theobald, (surprised.)_ were not this huss and his friend jerome infidels? _arnold_. ah, theobald! was that john huss an infidel, who, when the sentence that condemned him to be burned was read to him, immediately threw himself on his knees, exclaiming, "o, lord jesus, pardon my enemies! pardon them, for the love of thy great mercy and goodness?" _theobald, (affected.)_ arnold! did john huss, indeed, speak thus? _arnold_. he did! john huss knew jesus, and, like jesus, prayed for his murderers. no, theobald; he who loves--who loves unto death, and who can pray for his executioners--is not an infidel. "o, hildegarde! hildegarde!" exclaimed theobald, groaning; "what hast thou done, and what have i done! poor prisoners! what injustice!" _arnold_. your heart is oppressed, theobald; some sorrowful remembrance distresses you. the chevalier was about to reply, when a noise was heard at the door, which was opened by gottfried, holding erard by the hand. "here they both are!" said the old man to the child. "look, erard, and see whether the chevalier hates thy father. see, if what ethbert told me was not true! "this dear child," added he, "had some fears for his father: for he knows all, theobald." _theobald, (with tenderness.)_ come, then, erard, and give me your hand. come, my child, and also pardon me. o, how i need pardon from every heart here! say, erard, will you not forgive me? _erard, (giving his hand to the chevalier.)_ i love you much, since my father loves you. "well, my son!" said gottfried. "go now to ethbert, and tell him to be in readiness to accompany me." _theobald_. shall you leave us again? will it be for many hours? _gottfried_. it is on your behalf, chevalier, that i must now act. the express which we expected, did not come, and i feared that my message had not reached your dear hildegarde. i, therefore, went myself to tell her of your welfare. _theobald_. is it possible! o, tell me if all is well with her! _gottfried_. thanks to god, hildegarde and her precious children are well--very well. she has been very anxious until last night. my message did not reach her until then; and her express, who did not start until day-break, was detained on the way. i met him, and bring you more than he would have said himself. _theobald_. she knows, then, that her husband is---- with the count of winkelthal? _gottfried_. hildegarde knows that her husband is with his friends, and she blesses god with us. "theobald," added gottfried, "there should be no difference between us. jesus will unite us by his grace." _theobald_. as he has already done, has he not? the old father, after having bound up with his trembling hands the wounds of a stranger--of an enemy--afterwards to bestow all the treasures of his kindness, and more than paternal charity, on him whose hands he supposed to be stained with the blood of his son! o, may this jesus, who makes us love, reveal himself in my soul also! arnold, my dear arnold! teach me to know him! "theobald," replied arnold, "he who desires to know jesus is no longer a stranger to his love." _theobald_. and yet, my true friends, how far am i still from that charity which flows in your hearts like a river! you have pardoned even me; and you can love, pity, succor, and console your enemies! arnold, it is to hildegarde that your father is going--to her who, shall i tell you? caused the eyes of two of your brethren to be put out! _arnold_. no, theobald, no; you could not have done that! _theobald, (with a groan.)_ o, what was our injustice!--our cruelty! (_he weeps._) and when their eyes were pierced, they stretched out their hands on all sides, saying, "where are you, lord of rothenwald, that we may take your hand and pardon you in the name of jesus!" _gottfried, (with solemnity.)_ theobald, these two blind men are now with me; they knew, last evening, who was the chevalier brought here from the forest, and they have already prayed god for you many times! they have even asked ethbert to assure you of their sincere love, before god their saviour. _theobald_. o, withdraw from me!--leave me! i am stained with blood! god of heaven, how severely hast thou punished me! _arnold_. is that to say, theobald, that you believe us to be better and more charitable than god? rash and blind man that you are! you see, that, by his grace in our hearts, we can forget and forgive an injury--an offence; and through the same grace of the same god, show mercy and love to our enemies,--you see that, you are affected by it, you admire it; then, when you look towards that god who teaches his children to be charitable or merciful, you see only an angry judge--an implacable avenger--an enemy, about to strike you! theobald, do you comprehend your mistake? "but, arnold," resumed theobald, with humility, "by what right, wicked as i am, can i ask god to pardon me?" "by the right," replied gottfried, taking from among his books a bible, which he placed on theobald's bed, "yes, by the right that every man, every sinner has, who reads and believes the word of god, to receive its precious invitations and promises." _theobald, (laying his hand on the bible.)_ tell me, my friends, is it by reading and believing this bible that you learned to love your enemies? _gottfried and arnold, (together.)_ yes, theobald. _theobald_. i will then read it also; and, if god enables me, i will believe it: for, if men have called me the iron-hearted, i need now that god should soften my heart and make me his child--his ransomed one; and that his spirit should teach me, like you, my noble friends, to imitate jesus, in pardoning injuries and loving those who hate me! the end. carlo, or kindness rewarded mcloughlin bros new york carlo, or kindness rewarded. ida was a kind-hearted girl, and one day when crossing a bridge near her home, she saw two boys on the banks of the stream, trying to drown a little dog. ida, like all good girls, could not bear to see anything suffer, and was brave enough to try and prevent it. so, she ran to the shore, wringing her hands, and crying loudly, "oh! you bad, wicked boys! how can you be so cruel to that poor little dog?" the boys looked at her in wonder, for they were more thoughtless than cruel; and one of them said, "father sold the rest of the pups, but could not sell this one, and so he told us to drown it." "then he should have done it himself," replied ida, her pretty face flushing with anger as she spoke, "and not have trusted it to boys, who would cause it needless pain." the dog had, by this time, reached the bank, and after politely shaking off the water, crept timidly toward ida, as if he knew her for a friend. "poor little fellow," she said, patting his head tenderly, "how pitiful he looks! will you give him to me?" "yes," said the boys, looking very foolish, "we did not mean to be cruel. you may have him and welcome." ida thanked the boys very sweetly, and ran home. "oh! mamma," she cried, "look at this dear little dog; two boys were trying to drown him in the creek, and i asked them to give him to me. may i keep him, dear mamma?" "my dear child," said mrs. mason, (which was the name of ida's mother,) "i am very glad to hear that you saved the little creature from pain. we cannot very well keep him here, but perhaps, in a few days, we can find some one who will be kind to him." ida was a little disappointed, for we always love anything we have saved from death, but she said nothing, and you will see in the end how her goodness was rewarded. the next morning, ida sat at the door of the cottage, studying her lesson, while her new pet, little carlo (as she had named the dog) played at her feet. a pleasant looking young lad, who was walking slowly down the road, switching the tall grass as he came, stopped to look at the pretty picture. his name was eugene morris, and he was the son of a rich gentleman, who lived near by. "good morning, ida," he said, with a bow and a smile, "is that pretty little dog yours?" "yes, sir," said ida, blushing a little; "but mamma says i must give him away, because we cannot afford to keep him." ida then told the story of the dog, and how she had saved him from the hands of the thoughtless boys; and finished by saying that she was only keeping him, until she could find some kind person who would take good care of him. eugene looked much pleased at her artless story, and after a short pause, said, "well, pretty ida, i do not ask you to _give_ him to me, but if you will _sell_ him, i will take him with pleasure. here are five dollars; will that pay for carlo?" "we do not want any _pay_ for good carlo," said ida, patting the little creature tenderly, "except a promise of kind treatment, and that i am sure he will get from you." eugene looked pleased at this, and, with a "good-bye, then, till to-morrow," went slowly down the road, and was soon out of sight. the next morning, eugene came, and took carlo away, leaving five dollars with mrs. mason, which he compelled her to take, for he knew she was poor, and a widow. ida cried a little when carlo whined for her, but she knew that he would be in good hands and soon dried her tears. [illustration: ida saving carlo.] one morning, about two years after carlo had gone with his new master, ida was standing upon the same bridge, looking at some fish which darted about in the water as if at play. at last they went further under the bridge; and ida, leaning over, a little too far, in her eagerness to see them, lost her balance, and fell over the low rail into the creek, which, at that point, was deep enough to drown her! she had but just time to give one loud cry of fright, as she sunk beneath the cruel water. in a moment, she rose to the top, but only to sink again. poor ida! is there no one to help her? yes, the good god who watches over the smallest of his creatures has not forgotten little ida. a large dog, who lay lazily winking in the sunshine a little way off, has heard her cry. he pricks up his ears, and comes swiftly toward her, with great leaps--barking loudly as he jumps--in a moment he plunges into the creek, and catches ida by her dress just as she is about to sink for the last time! ida is heavy, and cannot help herself, but the dog is strong and brave, and, swimming and tugging with all his might, he soon brings her in safety to the shore. then pulling her head out of the water, so that it rested on the soft grass, he raised his head in the air, opened his great mouth, and barked long and loudly for help. and help was near. the master of the dog, a tall, handsome boy, came running up, "why, carlo boy, what's the matter?" he said cheerily. but in a moment he saw ida still partly in the water, with her eyes closed, as if dead! he at once drew her up on the bank, when she soon opened her eyes, and looked around as if she did not know where she was. but eugene morris, for it was he, said, "what! little ida, nearly drowned. why, how in the world did you get in the water?" ida was now well enough to tell her story; and after she had finished, eugene called her attention to the dog, at the same time wrapping ida in his overcoat, and leading her toward her home. "don't you know him?" he said, "it is your old friend carlo; you saved _his_ life, and now he has saved yours in return." [illustration: eugene and ida.] how strange are the ways of god! the very dog which ida saved from death, two years before, had now been able to pay his debt to the tender-hearted little girl, on the same spot! this surely is not chance, but seems to show that good deeds are rewarded even in _this_ world. carlo, who was a well-bred dog, had shaken himself dry by this time, and was rubbing his nose against ida's dress, as if to say, "don't you know your old friend?" as she was still weak, from the shock of the fall and the fright, eugene went home with her, and explained the thing to the alarmed mrs. mason, after which he took his leave, promising to come and see her the next day. eugene was as good as his word; and early the next morning came down to the widow's cottage, accompanied by a gentleman and a little girl about four years old, whom ida had never seen before. carlo, of course, was in the party, and was made much of by everybody, receiving a great deal of attention, which he accepted with much dignity; sitting up on his hind legs, wagging his tail, and giving vent, now and then, to a short, amiable bark of thanks to his kind friends. [illustration: carlo saving ida.] the gentleman, who was eugene's father, mr. morris, after kissing little ida, said, "this little girl whom i have brought to see you, is my only daughter lottie; and _you_ were the means of her having been saved from drowning." ida's look of surprise at this, was comical to see. "not long since," went on mr. morris, "our good carlo saved _her_ life, just as he did _yours_, yesterday. eugene tells me, that, but for your goodness of heart, carlo would have been killed when he was a puppy; and in that case i should have had no little lottie to-day; for there was no one near at the time but the nurse, who was too much frightened to be of any use. i desire then, mrs. mason, with your permission, to make ida a little present." so saying, he kissed ida again--put a small package into her hand, and bowing politely, to the surprised mrs. mason; left the cottage with his party, before she could find words to thank him. the package proved to be a bank-book in which ida was credited with five thousand dollars in her own name! this was mr. morris's "little present." mrs. mason owned the cottage in which she lived, but nothing more; and was obliged to sew, early and late, to gain a scanty support for ida and herself. this money was, therefore, great wealth to them, and would enable mrs. mason to fulfil the dearest wish of her heart, which was to give a good education to her beloved ida. every kind action is, i think, rewarded, either here or hereafter; yet we should try to do good for its own sake, and leave the result to the great father of us all! produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) daisy; or, the fairy spectacles. by the author of "violet; a fairy story." boston: phillips, sampson, and company. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by phillips, sampson, and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. publishers' advertisement. the universal commendation bestowed upon the exquisite little story of "violet," published last year, has led to the issue of this second book, by the same author. it will be found to possess the same delightful simplicity of style, the same sympathy with nature, the same love of the good and the true, which characterized its predecessor. to those parents who would bring their children into contact with a mind of perfect purity, strong in correct principles, loving and liberal in nature, and refined in tastes and sympathies, the publishers commend this little volume. daisy; or the fairy spectacles. chapter i. the old fairy. there was a great forest, once, where you might walk for miles, and never hear a sound except the tapping of woodpeckers, the hooting of owls, or the low bark of wolves, or the strokes of a woodman's axe. for on the borders of this wild, solitary place one man had built his little house, and lived there. it was very near the trees which he spent his time in cutting down; and peter thought this all he cared about. but when the summer wore away, and the cold, lonely winter months came on, and there was no one to keep his fire burning and the wind from sweeping through his home, and no one to smile upon him and comfort him when he came back tired from his hard day's work, peter grew lonely, and thought he must find a wife. so he went to a market town, a whole day's journey off; for he knew it was a fair-day, and that all the young women of his acquaintance would be there, and many more beside. at first he looked about for the most beautiful, and asked her if she would be his wife; but the beauty tossed her head, and answered, not unless he lived in a two-story house, and had carpets on his floors, and a wagon in which she could drive to town when she chose. all this, was very unlike the home of poor peter, who had nothing in the world but his rough little cabin and a barrow in which he wheeled his wood. the next maiden told him he had an ugly scar on his face, and was not good looking enough for her; and, besides, his clothes were coarse. the next declared that she was afraid of wolves, and would rather marry one of the village youths, and live where she could hear the news, and on fair-days watch the people come and go. so peter started for his lonely home again, with a sadder heart than he left it; for there was no chance that he could ever grow handsome or rich, and therefore he thought he must always dwell alone; instead of the music of kind voices, with which he had hoped to make his evenings pleasant, he was still to hear only the cracking of boughs, and hissing of snakes, and the barking of wolves. but suddenly he met in the road some people who seemed more wretched than himself--an old, bent woman, clad in rags, and with such an ugly face that, strong man as he was, peter could not look at her without trembling, and a girl whom she led, or rather dragged along, through the dusty road. the girl looked as if she had been weeping and was very tired; she did not raise her swollen eyes from the ground while peter talked with her companion. the old dame said she was a silly thing, crying her eyes out because her mother was dead, when she ought to be thankful to be rid of one so old, and sick, and troublesome. the girl began to cry again, and the woman to scold her loudly. "just so ungrateful people are," she said; "when i have promised to find a place where you can live at service, and earn money to buy a new gown, you must needs whimper about the old body that's well enough in her grave." "perhaps the poor child is lonely," said peter, who had a kind heart under his rough coat, and knew, besides, from his own experience, what a hard thing it is to live with no one to love us and be grateful for our care. [illustration: she put the girl's hand into his.] the girl looked up at peter with her pale, sad face; but her lips trembled so that she could not thank him. and he began to think how this poor beggar must have a gentle and loving heart, because she had taken such good care of her old mother, and, notwithstanding she was so troublesome, had been grieved at losing her. so he made bold to ask once more what he had been refused so many times that day, and had never thought to ask again, whether she would marry him, and live in his little cabin, and cook his meals, and keep his fires burning, and smile and comfort him when he should come home tired from his work. and at these words a bright smile came into the face of the old woman, and seemed for an instant to take its ugliness away. she put the girl's hand into his, and said to her, "one who can forget his own trouble in comforting another will make you a good husband, susan." all at once the old woman had disappeared; and peter and susan, hand in hand, were travelling towards the cabin in the wood. they looked about in every direction; but she was gone. then they looked in each other's faces, and seemed to remember that they had seen each other before; at least, peter knew he had always meant to have exactly such a wife as susan, and susan was sure that, if she had looked through the world, she could have found no one so manly, and kind, and generous as peter. i may as well tell you a secret, to begin with--that it was no accident which led the young woman into peter's path, but a plan of the old dame. and she was not the withered hag she seemed, but the youngest and most beautiful fairy that ever entered this earth--the strongest, too, and richest, for the earth itself is only a part of her treasure; and should she forsake it for a moment, our world would wither like a flower cut from its stem, and be blown away with the first wind that came. but you must find out for yourselves the fairy's name. chapter ii. the woodland home. to susan peter's cabin seemed like a palace; for he had taken care that it should look clean and pleasant when his new wife came. it was shaded with the beautiful boughs of the wood; and the door stood open, for he had no lock and key. there were inside some comfortable seats, and a fireplace, and table, and some wild flowers in a cup; and on the floor were patches of sunshine that had crept through the leaves, and made the room look only cooler and shadier. peter opened a closet, and showed his stores of meal and sugar, and all his pans and dishes; and he took from his pocket the stuff for a new gown, which he had bought at the fair on purpose for his wife, and wheeled from its dark corner an easy chair he had made for her, and hung upon the wall a little looking glass, so that she might not forget, he said, to keep her hair smooth, and look handsome when he should come home at evening. poor susan could hardly believe her own senses: but a few hours ago she had been a beggar in the streets, without one friend except the old woman that dragged her through the dust and scolded her. many a night they had slept out of doors, with only a thorny hedge for shelter and the damp grass for a bed; and if it rained, and they were out, had had no fire to dry their shivering limbs; and when they woke up hungry in the morning, had no breakfast to cook or eat. and now the lonely beggar girl was mistress of a house, and the wife of a man whom she would not exchange for the whole wide world, and who seemed pleased with her, and even proud of her. so you see, dear children, that it is never worth while to be unhappy about our trials, because we do not know what may happen the next minute. we never can guess what good fortune is travelling towards us, and may, when times seem darkest, be standing outside of our door. the poor debtor in jail may suddenly hear that he has been made a prince; the dear friend that is sick, and seems almost sure to die, may arise all the stronger, and the dearer, too, for the illness which frightened us; the sad accident that causes such pain, and perhaps mutilates us for life, may have kept off from us some more dreadful pain--we cannot tell. but of this we may always be sure, that the good god, who never sleeps nor grows tired, loves and watches over us, and sends alike joy and sorrow, to make our souls purer, and fitter to live in his beautiful home on high. susan never was sorry that the strange old dame had put her hand in peter's; for he led her through the pleasantest paths he could find, and when the way grew rough, he was so careful of her comfort, and so grieved for her, that she almost wished it might never be smooth again. they were very poor, and worked hard from morning until night, and often had not quite clothes enough to wear nor food enough to eat; but they were satisfied with a little, and loved each other, and enjoyed their quiet, shady home. many a time they talked over the strange events of their wedding day, and wondered if they had really happened, or were only the recollections of a dream; and susan would declare that she had not yet awakened from her dream, and prayed she never might; for the cold, cruel, lonely world she always knew before that day had changed to a beautiful, sunny home, where she still lived, as merry as a bird. susan was not so ignorant as you might think; for before her old mother was taken sick, she had lived at service, and though unkindly treated, had learned to do many things, and could prepare for peter little comforts of which he never dreamed before. she had, too, a pleasant voice, and she and her husband sang together of evenings; so that it happened, after his wife came, peter never heard the snakes or wolves again. ah, and there were more cruel, more fearful snakes and wolves that susan kept away. suppose she had been ill natured or discontented, and instead of enjoying her house, had tormented peter because it was not a more splendid one; and when he came home tired, instead of singing pleasant songs to him, had fretted about her little troubles, and they had vexed and quarrelled with each other; do you think the far-off voices of snakes and wolves outside would have made the poor man's home as doleful as those angry, peevish voices within, which no lock could fasten out? chapter iii. daisy. perhaps by this time you are wondering what has become of the fairy. this is exactly what susan used to wonder; and when, at evening, she went out to tell peter that supper was ready, and it was time for him to leave off work, if a leaf fell suddenly down, or a rabbit ran across her path, she would start and look about cautiously; for it seemed to her the old woman might at any time come creeping along under one of the tall arches which the boughs made on every side, or even she might be perched among the dusky branches of the trees. peter used to laugh at her, and ask if she could find nothing pretty and pleasant in all the beautiful wood, that she must be forever searching for that ugly face. but, to tell the truth, when he walked home alone after dark, and the wind was dashing the boughs about, and sighing through them, and strange-looking shadows came creeping past him, peter himself would quicken his pace, and whistle loudly so as not to hear the sounds that came thicker and thicker, and seemed like unearthly voices. he could not help a feeling, such as susan had, that the old fairy was hidden somewhere in the wood, and that her dreadful face might look up out of the ground, or from behind some shadowy rock. he did not know what a lovely, smiling face was hidden beneath the dame's wrinkles and rags; he did not know that this spirit, he dreaded so much, was his best and kindest friend; and that, while he feared to meet her, she was always walking by his side, and keeping troubles away, and it was even her kind hand that parted the boughs sometimes, to let the sunshine stream upon his little home. it is very foolish to fear any thing, for our fears cannot possibly keep danger away; and suppose we should sometimes meet living shadows, and dreadful grinning faces, in a lonely place, it is not likely they would eat us up; and it is a great deal better and braver for us to laugh back at them than to be frightened out of our senses, and run into some real danger to escape a fancied one. the fairy was not to be found by seeking her, but she came at last of her own accord. when peter came home from his work, one night, and passed the place where susan usually met him, she was not there; he walked slowly, for it was a beautiful evening, and he did not wish to disappoint his wife, who thought more of her walk with him than of her supper. no susan appeared, for all his lingering; and when his own door was reached, who should stand there but the old woman, her ugly face bright with smiles; and in her arms a little child, as small, and helpless, and homely as you would wish to see. but it belonged to peter and susan; and if children are ever so homely, their own parents always think them beautiful. you never saw a person so pleased as peter; he hugged his little girl, and danced about with her, and went out to the door, when it was light, to look at her face, again and again. it seemed to him as if a miracle had been wrought on purpose for him; and already he could fancy the little one running about his home, building up gardens out of sticks and stones, and singing with a voice as musical as her mother's, and even pleasanter, because it would sound so childish and innocent. of course susan was pleased with what delighted peter so much; and neither of them minded the little homely face, except once, when peter declared it looked like the old woman herself, and he was afraid it had caught her ugliness. "what's that--what's that?" exclaimed the fairy, whom he supposed to have gone away; for he was too happy to think much about _her_. up she started from susan's easy chair, with her great eyes glittering at him, and her wide mouth opening as if she would devour the baby. "i said she looked like her godmother," answered peter, holding his child a little closer, and moving towards the door to look at its face again. "then," cried the old dame, "i must christen her. there is nothing rich or beautiful about her looks, and it would be foolish to call her by a splendid name. she will live in lonely, lowly places, and grow without any one's help, and always have a bright, fresh, loving face, that looks calmly up to heaven: we must call her daisy. take care of her heart, now, peter; and this gift of mine will be a more precious one than ever was bestowed upon a queen." so she fumbled a while in her great pocket, and brought out a pair of rusty spectacles, which she offered peter: but he did not know this, for he was looking at susan; and the fairy laid them upon the little, sleeping bosom of the child, and hobbled off into the dark, and was not seen in peter's house again for many a day. "what folly is the meddlesome old dame about, i wonder?" said peter to himself, taking up the spectacles, and about to throw them away; but the child opened her eyes, and took them in her little hand in such a knowing way, he must needs have her mother see it. "dear soul!" exclaimed susan; "she will be such a comfort to me, when i am here alone all day with my work! what shall we name her? it must be something bright and pleasant; and it seems to me there is nothing prettier than daisy." now, while peter and the old woman were talking by the door, susan had been fast asleep, and had not heard what they said. "the dame has talked you into that fancy," answered peter. "i should call the little one susan." "what dame?" asked the wife, in surprise. "you cannot mean that the old woman has been here." if he had ever heard susan speak an untruth, peter would have thought she was deceiving him now; but he felt that she was good and true, and thought, perhaps, after all, she had been so drowsy as to forget the dame's visit; so he patiently told about it, spectacles and all. susan took them in her hand with some curiosity, and even tried them upon daisy's face; they were large and homely, besides being all over rust. while daisy wore them, the moonlight broke through the boughs again, to show her little face, looking so old, and wise, and strange, that susan snatched the spectacles off, and threw them into a drawer, where she quite forgot them, and where they lay, growing rustier, for years. chapter iv. great picture books. you would not suppose that susan's home could be any different because such a poor little thing as daisy had come into it; but bright and pleasant as it was before, it was a hundred times brighter and pleasanter now. the child was so gentle and loving, and so happy and full of life, that susan and peter felt almost like children themselves, in watching her. no matter how tired peter was at night, he would frolic an hour with daisy, tossing the little thing in the air, lifting her up among the boughs till she was hidden from sight. and susan would leave her work any time to admire daisy's garden, or to dress the wooden doll that peter had made for her. as for daisy's self, she was the busiest little soul alive, after she once learned to walk; for at first she could only lie and look up at the leaves, and the great sky, so far, far off, and see the slow, white clouds sail past the tops of the trees, and watch the birds, that hopped from branch to branch and looked down at her curiously, wondering if she were any thing good to eat. daisy would hold up her little hands, to tell them they'd better not try, and then the bird would turn it off by singing away as if he had no such thought, and watch her as he warbled his gay little song, that said, "o daisy, i'm having a beautiful time; are you?" then daisy would coo, and laugh, and clap her hands, which was her song, and which meant, "yes, indeed; only wait till i can use my feet, and have a run with you." peter made a rough kind of cradle out of willow twigs, and hung it in a tree, so that the fresh, green leaves shaded it, and kept away the flies, and fanned daisy's face, as she lay there swinging, when the day was warm, like a little hangbird in her nest. no wonder the child was always fond of birds, when she began so early to live with them and listen to their songs. but daisy learned to walk in time; and then she was constantly flying about, like the butterflies she loved. for the little girl thought even more of butterflies than of birds; they seemed to her like beautiful flowers sailing through the air, and making calls upon the other flowers, that were fastened down to the earth,--poor things!--as she used to be before she learned to walk. she would pick the flowers sometimes, and toss them into the air to see if they didn't fly, and tell them they were silly things to fall back on the ground and wilt, when, if they only would not be afraid, they might float off, with all their wings, and see a little of the world. daisy's hands were always full of flowers; and she brought some to the cabin which susan had never seen before; for the good woman could not leave her work long enough to go in such out-of-the-way places as they chose to blossom in. daisy had no work except to amuse herself; and she never tired of trudging under the trees, crowding her way among the tall weeds by the river bank, and creeping behind great rocks, or into soft, mossy places in the heart of the quiet wood; and here she was sure of finding strange and lovely things. these were the little girl's books; she had no spelling and history like yours, but studied the shapes of leaves and clouds, and the sunshine, and river, and birds. she did not know all their names, but could tell you where the swallow lived, and where wild honeysuckles grew, and the humming bird hid her little eggs, and how many nuts the squirrel was hoarding for winter time, and how nicely the ant had cleaned her house for spring, and when the winged seeds on the maple tree would change to broad green leaves, and the leaves themselves would change to colors as gay as the sunset, and then all droop and wither, and leave the bright little stars to wink at her through the naked boughs. the birds all knew daisy, and were not afraid of her; they would bring their young ones about the door, that she might feed them with crumbs and seeds. and even the sly little rabbits, that started if a leaf fell, came quietly and nibbled grass from daisy's hands, and let her stroke their long, soft ears. you may wonder that susan was not afraid the snakes and wolves would devour her little girl; but, as i told you before, she never could help thinking that the old woman was somewhere in the wood, and remembering how she had smiled at looking into the baby's face, thought she would not let daisy come to any harm. and she was right; for the fairy only lifted her finger when the little girl passed, and the wolf that had begun to watch and growl at her would crouch back in his den, and fall asleep. but he would not have frightened daisy, had he come forth; she did not know the name of fear, and, glad to see a new play-fellow, would perhaps have climbed on his back, and, patting his mouth so gently with her little hand that he forgot to growl, would have told him now he might gallop along, and take her home to her mother. chapter v. trouble for daisy. it was fortunate that susan was so happy while she could be; for the poor woman little dreamed how soon her sunny home was to become a sad, dark place for her. peter used to go forth in the morning, whistling as gayly as any of the birds; and daisy following him, proud enough that she could carry his little dinner basket for the short way she went. she did not know that what was such a heavy load to her was only a feather for the strong man to lift, and so delighted in thinking she had grown old enough to help her dear father. still peter had to watch his dinner closely; for daisy would espy some beautiful flower or vine looking at her from away off in the shade; and down the basket would go, and the little girl was off to take a nearer look, and see if she could not break off a branch to carry home to her mother. sometimes peter walked so fast, or daisy staid so long, that they lost each other; and then the father made a call that could be heard for miles, which frightened all the birds home to their nests, and must have startled the old dame herself, wherever she might be lurking in the wood. but the call was music to daisy; and before many minutes, she would come bounding into her father's arms, almost hidden in the waving white blossoms with which she had loaded herself. and all this while, unless peter himself took care of it, what would become of his dinner! when susan went to meet her husband at evening, now, daisy was sure to be with her--one moment holding her hand, the next skipping away alone, or kneeling to gather bright pebbles and sheets of green moss, to make banks and paths in her garden. she fluttered about in the sunshine like the butterflies she loved, and was as harmless and gentle. but, alas! one night, no peter came to meet them; and though daisy kept thinking she heard his step or his voice, it could only be the fall of some dead limb or the hooting of an owl. the night grew darker, and it lightened so sharply that daisy clung to her mother's skirts, and begged her to hide somewhere under a rock until the storm should be past, as the little girl felt almost sure her father had done. but susan groped her way on, with the wind blowing the branches into their faces, and the dead boughs snapping and falling about them, and the snakes, that they had never seen before, gliding across the path, hissing, and running their forked tongues out with fear. and at length they found poor peter, dead, on the ground. the tree which he had been cutting down had fallen suddenly, and crushed his head so under its great trunk that they only knew him by his clothes. chapter vi. the sweetest flower. small as daisy was, she saw that her father could never speak to her again; she remembered how kind he had always been; how many good times they had had together; how, that very morning, he had waited, on his way to work, and climbed a tall tree, only to tell her whether the eggs were hatched in the blue-jay's nest. she thought, too, how he had let her go farther than usual, and then walked back with her part way, to be sure she was in the right path, and how gently he had kissed her at parting, and told her to be a good girl, and help her mother. ah, she would take care to do that now, and never forget the last words which her dear father spoke to her. when our friends are taken away, we remember every little kind word, or look, or smile they ever gave us--things we hardly noticed while they were alive; and daisy could remember only kindness, only smiles and pleasant words. she thought no one could ever have had so good a father as peter was to her, and that no little girl could be so lonely and wretched as she was now. who was there left to call her up in the morning before the birds, and to make her garden tools, and swing her in the boughs, and listen to her stories at night about the rabbits and flowers? it seemed as if her heart would break. but daisy had one pleasant thought to comfort her--it seemed like a sweet flower that her father had dropped down from his new home in paradise, and which she would always wear in her bosom; and perhaps he would know her by it when, after a great many years, she should go to live with him there. this dear thought was, that when peter lived, she had done every thing in her power to please him and make him forget his weariness, and that he had known of this thoughtfulness, and loved her for it, and had always felt younger and happier when she was by his side. if your brothers and sisters or parents die, whether by accident or sickness, are you sure that they would leave you such a comforter as daisy had? think about it; for when you stand by their coffins, and it is too late to change the past, and the cold lips have spoken their last word, this little flower will be worth more to you--though no one may see it except yourself--than all the treasure in the world. but if you have been cold and cruel, there will come into your heart, instead, when you think of them, a dismal shadow, which all the light of the blessed sun cannot drive away. chapter vii. the woodman's funeral. daisy did not see the lightning, nor hear the snakes, nor feel the drops of rain that began to patter down; she only felt the cold hand that would never lead her through the wood again; for when she lifted it, it fell back on the ground, dead--dead! she asked her mother if they were not going home; but susan said her home was with peter; and if he staid out in the dark wood, she must stay there, too. she was frightened, and wild with sorrow, and did not know what she was saying, and began, at last, to blame the old woman, who had brought her there, she said, to be so happy for a little while, and always afterwards lonely and wretched--the old hag! "what old hag!" said a voice close to susan's ear, that brought her senses back quickly. "is this all your gratitude, susan? and are you going to kill your child, out here, with the cold and damp, because your husband's gone? come! we must bury him; and then away to your home, and don't sit here, abusing your best friend." daisy, you know, had never seen the woman, and she had never looked so dreadfully as now; she was pale and starved, and her great eyes glittered like the eyes of the snakes, and her voice was sharp and shrill enough to have frightened one on a pleasanter night than that. with peter's axe the fairy sharpened two stout sticks; one of these she made susan take, and there, by the light of the quick flashes of lightning, and a little lantern that the woman wore like a brooch on her bosom, daisy watched them dig her father's grave. the fallen tree was one of the largest in the wood, and the two women could not lift it; so they dug the earth away at the side and underneath the trunk; and when the place was deep enough, poor peter's body dropped into its grave. while her mother and the fairy were filling it over with earth, daisy went for the moss which she had gathered to show her father, and, by the light of the fairy's lamp, picked the sweetest flowers, and fragrant grasses, and broad leaves that glistened with the rain, and scattered them on the spot. then, with one of susan's and one of daisy's hands in hers, the old dame hurried them out of the wood. they stumbled often over the broken boughs, and stepped, before they knew it, on the snakes, that only hissed and slid away among the grass. susan was crying bitterly, and their guide kept scolding her, and daisy heard the wolves growl in their dens. she had heard of great funerals, where there were carriages and nodding plumes, and heavy velvet palls, and bells tolling mournfully; but daisy thought it was because her father had been such a good man, that his funeral was so much grander. she knew that all about his grave, and on, on, farther than eye could see, the great forest trees were bending and nodding like black plumes, and sounds like groans and sighs came from them as they dashed together in the wind; the lightning was his funeral torch; and the thunder tolled, instead of bells, at peter's grave; and the black clouds swept on like a train of mourners; and the great, quick drops of rain made it seem as if all the sky were weeping tears of pity for the little girl. ah, and daisy could not see how the dreadful old woman only seemed such, and was, in truth, a good and gentle fairy, who meant still to watch over the little orphan with tender care, as she had always done; whose soft, white wings, even now, were spread above, to shelter her from the cold rain and wind, and whose kind heart was full of pity for that little aching heart of hers. you and i, and all the people we know, walk through the world with this same strange fairy; who seems to frown, and scold, and force us on through cruel storms, and yet who is really smiling upon us, and shielding our shrinking forms with tender care, and leading us gently home. have you thought yet what can be the fairy's name? chapter viii. daisy's mission. no sooner had daisy stepped inside of her mother's door, than there came such a crash of thunder as she had never heard; and the little house shook as if it must surely fall. the old trees ground their boughs together, and, blown by the wind, the night birds dashed with their wet wings against the door; the screech owl hooted, for the young were washed out of her nest; and the rain leaked under susan's door sill, ran across the floor, and put out the little fire of brushwood which was burning on the hearth. and daisy thought of her father, out alone in this fearful night, and how the cold rain must be dripping into his grave. she peeped through the window. the sharp, jagged lightning made the sky look as if it were shattering like a dome of glass. she wondered if that lightning might not be the light of heaven she had heard about, and whether, if the sky should really fall, heaven and earth would be one place, and by taking a long, long journey, she could find her father, and live with him. and she thought that, for the sake of having him to take her by the hand again, she would walk to the end of a hundred worlds. then the sky seemed to daisy like a great black bell; and the thunder was the tongue of it that tolled so dismally over her father's grave. she was startled by a bony hand laid upon her shoulder, and looking up, heard the old woman say in her sharp, shrill voice, "come, little girl! don't you know i am hungry after all this work? fly round, and get me something to eat." and when daisy noticed her poor, starved face, she wondered that she had not thought to offer her some food. so she went to the closet,--the same one which poor peter had shown to his wife with so much pride,--and pointed to bread and a dish of milk,--for the shelves were so high that daisy could not reach them,--and drew her mother's easy chair into the dryest place she could find, and begged the dame to seat herself. she did not wait to be asked twice, but hobbled into the chair, and, to daisy's wonder, ate all the bread at a mouthful, and drank the milk at a swallow, and then, looking as hungry as ever, asked for more. so the little girl brought meat, and then some meal, and some dried fruit, and even cracked nuts; but the more she brought, the more the fairy wanted. if daisy had feared any thing, she would have trembled when, at last, the old dame fixed her glittering eyes upon her, and began to talk. "couldn't you do any better, daisy, than this," she said, "for your mother's friend and yours? are you not ashamed, when i am so hungry and tired, to give me such mean food?" "i am sorry, if you do not like it," said daisy; "it is the best we ever have." "don't tell me that," and the dame began to look angry. "do you call it good food that leaves me thin as i was before, and as hungry, and my clothes as ragged, and does not rest or soothe my poor old aching bones?" "if you wait till mother has done crying, she can make a drink out of herbs that will stop the aching--i am sure of that," said daisy, looking up in the fairy's face. "but i want it now; and, o, i am so cold! and she will cry all night. do, daisy, find me something else to eat." the poor old woman shivered as she spoke, and tears came into her eyes. "if it were daytime, i could find you berries and nuts out doors, for mother says i have sharp eyes." "have you--have you? and could you find my hut? there is a beautiful loaf of bread and a flask of medicine on the table. o, dear! this dreadful pain again!" and the ugly face grew uglier, as its wrinkles seemed all knotting up with agony. "i am almost sure i could find it, and i am so sorry your bones ache; pray, let me try." "what! go out into the dreadful night, with the owls, and wolves, and snakes, and with bats flapping their wings in your face, and the thunder rolling and rumbling overhead?" "none of these things ever hurt me, and i don't believe they will now. may i try?" "just listen to the wind and rain, and see the lightning cut through the darkness like a sword; and think, daisy, if you should see your father, just as he lay in the wood, with his head all crushed." "my father has gone to heaven," said the little girl; "that is only his body out in the woods, just as that is his coat on the wall; and i shall see nothing except the nice loaf of bread and the medicine, and think only how they will cure your pain." without another word, the fairy took the lantern from her bosom, and fastening it to daisy's, led her to the door, and pointed out into the black night. "who could see to hurt me, when it is so dark!" the little girl exclaimed. "now, tell me which way i shall turn, and see if i am not back soon." "walk only where the light of the lantern falls." she was saying more; but the wind slammed the door suddenly, and daisy found herself alone. chapter ix. fairy food. the lantern made a little pathway of light, sometimes leading straight forward, sometimes turning, running among thick bushes or over the rocks; and daisy went bravely on, never minding the frightened birds that fluttered through her light, like moths, nor the sad sigh of the wind, nor the dripping trees. she looked for pleasant things, instead of frightful ones; and let me whisper to you, that, with fairy help or without it, we always find, in this world, what we are looking for. the mosses seemed like a green carpet for her feet, and the pebbles like shining jewels; and the little flowers looked up at her like friends, and seemed to say, "we are smaller and weaker than you are, daisy; but we stay out here every night, and nothing harms us." and the trees bowed, and folded their leaves above her, as she passed, so gently, that she thought they were trying to shelter and take care of her. at length the light paused before a rock; but daisy could find no house, until she parted a clump of bushes, and then saw the entrance to a cave. she crept in; and as her lantern filled the place with light, she saw what a damp, uncomfortable home the old dame had, with only some stones for seats, and a table, and a ragged bed, and a smoky corner where she built her fire. there, however, upon the table stood the loaf and flask which daisy had come to find; she took them and hurried away, for it seemed as if the old dame's face were looking at her out of the rocky wall on every side. [illustration: the loaf and flask.] it was a heavier load for the little girl than her father's basket had been; but she had a strong heart, if her hands were weak. she ran along, trying to get before the light, that was always just in front of her, and singing the merriest songs she knew, so as not to hear the wind nor think about the faces on the wall. she reached home safely, but could not open the door; for the latch was high, and the dame had gone fast asleep. daisy thought she must wait until daylight out there in the cold, and sat on the step, feeling disappointed and sad enough. but one of her tame rabbits, awakened, perhaps, more easily than the dame, hopped out of his burrow, and nestled in daisy's lap, and looked up at her with his gentle eyes, while she warmed her hands in his fur, and did not feel so much alone. at last the old woman started from her sleep, and wondering what had become of daisy, went to look for her. she seized the bread with a cry of joy, and breaking a morsel, ate it eagerly, as she led daisy towards the fire, which she had built up again. "now, see the difference between your food and mine." as the fairy spoke, daisy looked up, and saw, to her surprise, the wrinkles smooth away, and a beautiful light break over the old brown face, the wide mouth shrink to a little rosy one, all smiles, and pearly teeth inside. the fairy's eyes grew brighter than ever; but the dreadful glittering look had gone, and they were full of joy, and peace, and love. "wait, now, till i take my medicine." her voice had changed to the softest, most silvery one that daisy ever heard. and when she had tasted the drink, her poor old crooked hands grew plump and white, her bent form straightened, and, what made daisy wonder more, even her clothes began to change. first they looked cleaner, then not so faded, then the rags disappeared, and they seemed new and whole; and then they began to grow soft and rich, till the ragged cotton gown was changed to velvet and satin, the knotted old turban to delicate lace, that hung heavy with pearls, but was not so delicate and beautiful as the golden hair that floated about the fairy wherever she moved. "poor child!" she said; "you are tired and cold; come, rest with me;" and taking daisy in her arms, began to sing the sweetest songs, that seemed to change every thing into music, even the wailing tempest and her mother's sobs. and all the while that tender, loving face bent over her, and the gentle hands were smoothing her wet hair, and folding her more closely to the fairy's heart. upon this pillow our tired daisy fell asleep. chapter x. daisy's dreams. strange and pleasant dreams came to daisy as she slept; and in all of them she could see the beautiful fairy floating over her head, and her father walking by her side. it seemed to her that, as she watched the lightning, the sky really broke like a dome of glass, and came shattering down, and that after it floated the loveliest forms, and odors and music came pouring down, and light which was far clearer, and yet not so dazzling as the light of earth. the clouds came floating towards her, and all their golden edges were bright wings, that waved in time with the music; then came falling, falling slowly as snow flakes, what seemed little pearly clouds, but blossomed into flowers and then changed into sweet faces, that all smiled on her as they passed by. among these the little girl searched eagerly for her father's face, when all at once he took her in his arms, and said, "ha, my daisy! is it you?" in his own merry, pleasant way. this startled her so much that she awoke, only to fall asleep again, and dream another dream as wonderful. but at length the morning sun had crept around the side of the cottage, found its way through the window, and fell so full on daisy's face, that she could dream only of dazzling, dazzling light, which seemed burning into her eyes, and made her open them wide, at length. and then, alas! how every thing was changed! her first thought was of the fairy; but she had gone, and daisy had been sleeping in her mother's easy chair, and felt cold and lonely as she looked around upon the silent room. no music there, no flowers and angelic faces, and clouds like chariots of pearl, with golden wings to hurry them along; no father to take her in his arms, and call her his little daisy. she closed her eyes, and tried to sleep again, for it seemed to her a great deal better to dream than to be awake in such a dreary little world as that. but suddenly daisy thought of her mother, and almost at the very moment was aroused by a moan from another part of the room. she ran to susan's side, and found her sick, and wretched as she was the night before; so daisy bathed her head, and brought her some fresh water from the spring; and when she could not comfort her in any other way, began to tell her dreams, how she had seen her father again, and felt sure he must be still alive. as susan listened, she dried her tears, and kissed daisy so fondly that the little girl no longer wished to be asleep, but was glad that she had power to run about, and prattle, and amuse her lonely mother. for she remembered peter's last words now, that she must be a good girl, and help, not herself, not sit still and have pleasant dreams, but help her mother. and this daisy felt resolved to do, if only for his sake. chapter xi. the dame's bundle. as soon as her mother smiled once more, daisy asked her what had become of the splendid fairy, and when she would be back again, and how it happened that the light and music had gone with her from their home. susan had seen no fairy, and could not believe that daisy was thinking of the poor old wrinkled dame. when she told the story of her journey to the cave, and the loaf of fairy bread, and the old dame's sudden change, the mother stroked daisy's hair, and said that this was only another of her wonderful dreams, and that, instead of going to the rain, the rain had come to her, pelting upon the window so hard, it had, perhaps, sprinkled her face--that was all; and the light of the fairy was, she supposed, the light of the morning sun, that had pried her little sleepy lids apart, at last. daisy felt bewildered and sorrowful at this, for she did not like to give up her new friend; but her mother told her how long she had known the dame; how she had put her hand in peter's, years ago; and afterwards put daisy in his arms, a little thing, no larger than her wooden doll, that could only lie in the grass or swing in its nest among the boughs, and look up at the sky. daisy thought, if she could have such another dear little thing to play with, and love, and tell her stories to, she should be contented with her home, and willing to wait for her father, and forget the vision of the fairy that had folded her so tenderly in her arms. so she went on asking questions about the dame; and then her mother remembered the gift of the iron spectacles. of course daisy wished to see them; but where they were no one knew. and susan consoled her by saying they were but homely and worthless things. "all things are worthless unless we make use of them," said the shrill voice of the dame, who in her sudden way appeared all at once in the room. "i only wonder that i don't grow tired of helping you," she said; "for you give me nothing except ingratitude. here, take this, and see what fault you can find with it." she tossed a bundle into susan's arms, put a loaf on the table, and pointed daisy to the rubbish heap outside the door; then frowning angrily at susan, "pretty extravagance! to make believe you are poor, and throw away what is worth more than all the gold on earth. why didn't you make the child wear my gift?" "she was homely enough, at first, without it," susan answered; "and after she grew better looking, why should i waste my time looking up those old rusty spectacles, to make her a fright again?" "you will have no such trouble with the other one." as the fairy spoke, a lovely little face peeped out from the bundle in susan's arms. "now, tell what i shall give her, with her name." susan had never seen such a beautiful child, and, poor as she was, felt grateful to the dame for this new gift; but she begged for leave to name the little one herself. "i will call it peterkin, after my husband. ah, how the dear man would have loved it!" and susan began to cry. "then her name will not match her face; if you want a peterkin, i will bring you one instead of this; but her name must be maud." so susan gave up the name for the sake of the child's good looks, and begged the dame to keep her always so beautiful, and to make her rich. "that's easy enough; you should have asked me, susan, to make her heart rich and beautiful. yet rich she shall be; and no one in all the earth shall have so handsome a face. but, remember, it is on one condition i promise--that maud and daisy shall always live together, rich or poor; that they shall never spend a night apart, until daisy goes to live with her father again." susan promised, and was thanking the dame with all her heart, though looking at the lovely little face that nestled in her bosom, when daisy flew into the room. "o mother, mother! i've seen her again, and prettier than she was at first. she smiled at me, and stroked my hair, and then went floating off among the trees, like all the faces in my dream." "then she and the dame are not one; for, look!" "look where? has the dame been here again?" "to be sure; i was talking with her when you came; and the door has not been opened since." but no old woman was in sight; daisy looked under the table, and in the closet, and every dark corner; but she was not there; and the little girl told her mother that she must have been dreaming, now. but susan showed her what the dame had brought, and even put the little thing in daisy's arms. it was hardly larger than a bird, and pretty as a flower, and as helpless, too. and daisy almost forgot the fairy in this new delight; she thought that all the visions in the air were not so sweet and lovely as her sister's face. she could not look at it enough; and at length taking out from her pocket a pair of spectacles, gravely put them on, and looked at her sister again. susan laughed; she couldn't help it, daisy looked so drolly. she saw that the spectacles were the very ones the dame had brought; for she thought there could hardly be another pair so old and rusty in the world. the little girl said she had found them in a dust heap, where susan remembered that she had emptied the rubbish from some old boxes, the day before. daisy had but just cleaned the glasses with her apron, and was holding them up to find if they were clear, when she saw, through them, the beautiful fairy floating by, and smiling on her as she passed. she thought, after all, it might have been the glasses that had changed the sour old woman into a smiling fairy; but when she looked at her sister's sweet little face through them, it was not half so beautiful--it seemed cold and hungry, and the smile was gone. susan felt very sure that the dame was real, for all about her were the care and trouble she had brought; and had she not dragged her on through cruel storms, and scolded her when she was trying to do her best? and if the beautiful smiling vision was real, why did it always float away? susan forgot that the dame, too, floated away when her errands were done. so daisy did not know but she had been dreaming again, though with her eyes wide open; and yet she could not forget how softly she had been folded once in the fairy's arms. perhaps it was because the little girl believed in her, and was always watching and hoping to see her again, that the beautiful bright form sometimes floated past her eyes. chapter xii. a leaf out of daisy's book. after a great many days of rain, the storm ceased; and glad enough was daisy, for she had grown tired of staying in the house, or of being drenched and almost blown away when she ventured out of doors. the sun came out, one morning, and did not hide in clouds again, as usual, but poured its beautiful beams down on the earth, till the dark forest trees seemed touched with gold, and the little drooping flowers lifted up their heads once more. daisy, as she looked from the cabin window, and saw and heard the raging storm, had often wondered what would become of her friends the birds--if their nests would not be shaken from the trees, and their little unfledged young ones would not shiver with cold. then, too, the butterflies, she feared, would have their bright wings washed away or broken; and the flowers would have their petals shaken off, and be snapped from their slender stems. but we are apt to dread a great deal worse things than ever happen to us; and though daisy did find some fallen nests and dead birds scattered on the ground, she could see that the storm had done more good than harm. for every bird there were hundreds of insects lying dead--not bees and butterflies, but worms and bugs, that bite the flowers, and make them shrivel up and fade, and that gnaw the leaves off the trees and all the tender buds, and sting and waste the fruit. the toads were having a feast over the bodies of these little mischief makers; and the birds were swinging on the tips of the leafy boughs, and singing enough to do your heart good; bees came buzzing about as busily as though they meant to make up for all the time they had lost; and a beautiful butterfly, floating through the sunshine, settled upon a flower at daisy's feet, and waved his large wings, that looked soft and dry as if there had never been a drop of rain. then the trees were so bright and clean, with the dust all washed away, and fresh as if they had just been made; they waved together with a pleasant sound, that daisy thought was like a song of joy and praise; and every little leaf joined in the chorus, far and wide, stirring, and skimming, and breathing that low hymn of happiness. the wood was fragrant, too; and in all its hollows stood bright little pools, that reflected the sky, and sparkled back to the sun; the grass and flowers had grown whole inches since daisy saw them last, and the mosses were green as emerald. quite near the cabin, though hidden from it by the trees, was a wide river, that had swollen with the rain, and was rushing on with a sound so loud that it shook the leaves, and seemed like a mighty voice calling to daisy from a great way off. so she found her way to its shore, and saw that the bridge across it had been swept away; and as it went foaming and tearing along, whole trees, and boats, and rafts were whirling in the tide that was rushing on, on, on, she wondered where. then the little girl remembered how long she had been away from home, and hurried back to tell her mother about the bridge, stopping now and then to snatch a flower as she passed. her hands were full when she bounded into the cabin; and she looked as bright, and fresh, and full of joy as any thing out doors. but her mother sat in a corner, feeling very sad, and hardly looked at daisy's flowers, and said it was nothing to her how bright the sun shone so long as it never could rest again on peter's face. "why," said daisy, "i thought father was happy in heaven, and where he did not have to work so hard, and there were never any storms, and the flowers were prettier than these." "that is true enough," susan answered; "but it will not keep us from being lonely, and cold, and hungry, too, sometimes." "but we are not hungry now, and perhaps the queer old dame may bring us some more of her bread, or else i'm pretty sure the fairy will take care of us. who feeds the flowers, mother?" "god." "what, ours--up in heaven?" "there is only one god, daisy; he gives us meat and milk, and gives the flowers dew and air." "then i suppose they were thinking about him this morning." "why?" "because, when i first went out, they seemed as if they were dreaming--just as i felt when i dreamed; so that i wondered if they hadn't seen the fairy pass, or if their eyes were sharper than ours, and they could see faces floating in the air when there were none for us. it was damp, at first, and there were great shadows; but presently the sunshine poured in every where, and still they kept looking straight up into the sky--a whole field of them, down by the river bank; and, do see! even these i've brought you are looking up now at our wall as if they could see through it. if god can see through walls, can't we, when we are looking after him?" "i don't know but we might, daisy. you ask strange questions." "just answer one more, mother. if the flowers have the same god with us, why do they always look so happy, and beautiful, and young? does he think more of them than he does of us?" "no, child--not half so much. we suffer because god made us wiser than the flowers." "why, they get trampled on, and beaten in the wind, and have their stems broken, and have to stay out doors in the cold all night, (daisy was thinking of her midnight walk,) and sometimes they don't have any sunshine for a week: we should call that trouble, and i know what i think about it." "tell me." "why, you see, the flowers are always looking at the sky, and don't mind what is happening around them, nor wait to think who may step on their pretty faces. suppose we are wiser; why can't we live as they do, mother, and think about god and heaven, instead of always ourselves?" "i know a little girl who lives very much like them now," said daisy's mother, kissing her. "but, my dear child, how strangely you have looked ever since you put on those old spectacles!" "why, am i not the same daisy? am i changing to a fairy, like the dame?" "i fear not; they leave a sort of shadow on your face, and make you homely. it seems to me, daisy, i'd throw the old things away." "o, don't say that--not if they make me like the old woman herself. i guess it doesn't matter much how we look down here." "down where?" "why, on the earth; for you know father was not handsome; and when i saw him in heaven, in my dream, o, he had such a beautiful face!" so daisy went on prattling about her father until susan dried her tears; for when she thought of peter now, it was not the poor crushed body in the wood, which she had wept about, but the beautiful, smiling angel in paradise. and when cares gathered thicker about her, and want seemed so near that susan grew discouraged, daisy would bring her flowers; and the mother would remember then how they were always looking up to the kind god, and so look up herself, and thinking about him, forget her sorrows and her cares. chapter xiii. maud. the little maud grew more beautiful every day; she was fair as a lily, except that you might think rose leaves had been crushed to color her cheeks. her bright eyes were shaded by long, silky lashes; and her pretty mouth, when it was shut, concealed two rows of delicate, pearly teeth. her hair hung in a cloud of dark-brown curls, touched on the edges with a golden tinge. the old dame took care that her dress should be always fine; and while she gave daisy the coarsest woollen gowns, brought delicate muslins for maud. but daisy did not mind this; she was glad to see her beautiful sister dressed handsomely; and, besides, how could she crowd through the bushes by the river bank, or sit on the ground looking at grass and flowers through her spectacles, if her own dresses were so frail? it was not, after all, so very amusing as daisy had hoped, to take care of miss maud, when she began to run about and play. she did not dare to go in the wood, for fear of bugs and snakes; she did not like to sail chips in the river, and make believe they were boats; she tossed away daisy's wooden doll, and called it a homely thing; she pulled up her sister's flowers, and always wanted to go in a different place and do a different thing from her. the little girl found it hard to give up so many pleasures; but she kept thinking that maud would be older soon, and would know better than to be so troublesome. and maud was no sooner large enough to run about than daisy wished her young again; for she took pains to tread on the prettiest flowers, and call them old weeds, and would chase every butterfly that came in sight, and tear his wings off, and then laugh because he could not fly; she pinched the rabbits' ears until they grew so wild they were almost afraid of daisy, and seemed to have no pleasure except in making those about her very uncomfortable. yes, maud had one other pleasure--she loved to sit beside the still pools in the wood, that were like mirrors, and watch the reflection of her handsome face. but after this, she was sure to go home peevish and discontented, telling her mother and daisy what a shame it was to live in such a lonely place, and have no one admire her beauty; and to be so poor, and depend on the charity of "that hag," as she called the dame. then she loved to tell daisy what a common-looking little thing _she_ was, and how the mark of those ugly spectacles was always on her face, and every day it grew more homely and serious, and as if she were a daughter of the dame. "as for myself," maud would end, "i am the child, i know, of some great man; the dame has stolen me away from him, i feel sure, and then thinks i ought to be grateful because she brings me these clothes." at this, daisy would look up through her spectacles, and say, meekly, "it doesn't matter much who is our father here; for god, up in heaven, is the father of us all, and gives great people their fine houses, just as he gives these flowers to you and me; for mother told me so." then maud would toss her head, and ask, "what is mother but an old woodcutter's wife, that has worked, perhaps, in my father's kitchen?" "god doesn't care where we have worked, but how well our work is done," said daisy. "o, nonsense! who ever saw god? i want a father that can build me a fine house, all carpeted, and lighted with chandeliers, and full of servants, like the houses mother tells us about sometimes." "why, maud, what is this world but a great house that god has built for us? all creatures are our servants; the sun and stars are its chandeliers; the clouds are its beautiful window frames; and this soft moss is the carpet. look, what dear little flowers grow among it, and gaze up as if they were saying, 'yes--god made us all.'" "who wants a house that every one else can enjoy as much as we, and a father that is not ashamed to call every dirty beggar his child?" daisy thought her home all the pleasanter for this, and loved her heavenly father more, because he had room in his heart for even the meanest creature; but she could not make her sister feel as she did, nor try, as daisy tried, to be patient, and gentle, and happy. chapter xiv. the spectacles. ashamed as maud was of her mother, she found new cause for unhappiness, when, one day, susan died. "who is there, now," asked the beauty, "to make my fine dresses, and keep them clean, and to pet me, and praise my beauty, and carry me to the fair sometimes, so that every one may look at my face, and wish hers were half so handsome?" "poor, dear mother, your hard work is done," said daisy, in her gentle way, bending over the dead form that susan had left. "you will never see the old dame's face again, nor hear the wolves growl in the wood, nor tire yourself with taking care of us." the corpse's hands were hard and rough, but they had grown so with working for her children; and daisy kissed them tenderly, and filled them with fresh flowers, and bore her mother's body far into the still wood, and buried it under the same great tree that lay still, like a tombstone, across peter's grave. though daisy was no longer a child, she could not have done this without fairy help. all the way, she felt as if other arms than hers were bearing her mother's form, and as if new strength were in her own when they handled the heavy spade. as daisy worked there alone in the wood,--for she could not see the fairy, who was helping her,--the little birds sang sweet and tender songs, as if they would comfort their friend. for daisy had loved her mother dearly, and remembered her loving, parental care, and could not but be sorrowful at losing her, even for a little while. yet she tried to calm her aching heart, because maud, she knew, would need all her care now, and must be served, and entertained, and comforted more carefully than ever, so that she might not constantly miss her mother, and spend her days in weeping over what could not be helped. the young girl did not think how much more toil, and care, and unhappiness was coming to herself; for it was always daisy's way to ask what she could do for others, and not what others might do for her. and, children, if you want your friends, and god himself, to love you, depend upon it there is no way so sure as this--to forget yourselves, and think only whom you can serve. it is hard, at first, but becomes a pleasure soon, and as easy and natural as, perhaps, it is now for you to be selfish. you must not be discouraged at failing a few times; for it takes a great deal of patience to make us saints. but every step we move in the right way, you know, is one step nearer to our home in heaven--the grand and peaceful home that christ has promised us. we left daisy in the wood, with the birds singing above her, as she finished her pious work; perhaps, with finer ears, we might have heard angels singing songs of joy above the holy, patient heart that would not even grieve, because another needed all its strength. but the birds' songs ceased; they fluttered with frightened cries, instead; the wind rose, and the boughs began to dash about, and the night came on earlier than usual. daisy saw there was to be another fearful storm; and her first thought was of maud, alone in the lonely wood. how she wished for wings, like the birds, that she might fly home to her nest! but, instead, she must plod her way among the underbrush, which grew so thick in places, and the wind so tangled together across the path, that she went on slowly, hardly knowing whether she were going nearer home or deeper into the wood. "silly girl, where are your spectacles?" said a voice by daisy's side; and the old woman seized her arm, and dragged her over the rough path, as she had done once before. "there is no need of them, now i have your lamp," said daisy in a sad voice; for she was thinking of dear faces that her eyes would never rest upon again. "that's as much as you know. but you cannot cheat me, daisy. have my glasses been of so little use that you put them in your pocket, and choose rather to look through tears?" "i did not mean to cry; but how can any one help it when----" "i know--i know; you needn't tell me of your sorrows, but take out the spectacles." so daisy did as she was told, and never had the glasses seemed so wonderful; for, besides that now the old dame's lamp gave a clearer light, something made daisy lift her eyes, and, instead of two poor bodies lying asleep in the storm, she saw a splendid city far, far up upon the tops of the tallest trees, and peter and susan walking there, hand in hand, and smiling upon her as peter had smiled in her dream. "well," said the shrill voice of the dame, "will you give me back my glasses now, and keep your tears?" "o, no!" and daisy seized the old woman's withered hand, and turned to thank her; but she was not there: one moment daisy felt the pressure of a gentle hand in hers, and then the beautiful fairy floated from before her sight, far up above the trees, and stood, at last, with her father and mother. all three were smiling upon her now, and pointing upwards to the trees, whose leaves were broader and more beautiful than any in the wood. but the young girl stumbled, and fell among the thorns, and seemed all at once to awake from a dream; for, the dame's lamp gone, her path had grown narrow and dark again; and she found it would not do to look any more at the city of gold, until she should find her own poor cabin in the wood. chapter xv. the father's house. at length daisy knew that her home was near; for, above all the howling of the storm, she heard her sister's sobs and frightened cries. very tired she was, and cold, and drenched with rain, and sad, besides, for she could not enter the door without thinking of the burden she had borne away from it last. but, instead of rest and comforting words, maud ran to meet her with whining and bitter reproaches, and called her cruel to stay so long, and foolish to have gone at all, hard-hearted to neglect her mother's child, and would not listen to reason nor excuse, but poured forth the wickedness of her heart in harsh and untrue words, or else indulged her selfish grief in passionate tears and cries. alas! the wolves and snakes that susan kept away from the cabin had entered it now, and our poor daisy too often felt their fangs at her sad heart. she gave her sister no answering reproaches back, and did not, as she well might, say that it was maud's own fault she had been left alone; for she had refused, when daisy asked her help in making their mother's grave. when we see people foolish and unreasonable, like maud, we must consider that it is a kind of insanity; they don't know what they are saying. now, when crazy people have their wild freaks, the only way to quiet them is by gentleness; and we must treat angry people just the same, until _their_ freaks pass. you would not tease a poor crazy man, i hope; and why, then, tease your brother or sister when their senses leave them for a little while? as soon as maud would listen, daisy began to tell about the beautiful city she saw through her spectacles, and how the dreadful old dame had changed to a graceful fairy, and floated up above the trees. but her sister interrupted her, to ask why she had never told before of the wonderful gift in her spectacles, and called her mean for keeping them all to herself. she knew very well that the reason was, daisy had never found any one to believe in what she saw, and that even her mother laughed at her for wearing such old things. maud snatched them eagerly now from daisy's hand, but said, at first, she could only see the lightning and the rain, and then suddenly dashed them on the ground, with a frightened cry. for she had seemed, all at once, to stand out in a lonely wood, by night, and to look through the ground, at her feet, and see as plainly as by daylight the dead form of her mother, with the rain drops, that pelted every where, dripping upon the flowers which daisy had put in her folded hands. maud would not tell this to her sister, but said peevishly, "your old glasses are good for nothing, as i always thought; and you only want me to wear them so as to spoil my beauty, and make me as homely as you. tell me again about the place you saw our mother in, though i don't believe a word of what you say." daisy knew better, and answered, "it was a more beautiful city than any we ever thought about in the world. this earth seemed like its cellar, it was so dull and cold here after i had seen that glorious light; the trees looked in it as if they were made of gold." "o, you are always talking about light and trees; tell me about the people and the houses." "the houses were so bright, i cannot tell you exactly how they looked; the foundations of them were clear, dazzling stones, of every color; even the streets were paved with glass; and the walls were gold, and the gates great solid pearls!" "what nonsense, daisy! didn't the shop-keeper tell us, at the fair, that one little speck of a pearl cost more than my new gown? now, what of the people?" "you didn't look at the houses, after once seeing them; they had such lovely faces, and such a kind, gentle look, i could cry at only thinking of them now." "don't cry till you've finished your story. were any of them handsomer than the rest? and what kind of dresses did they wear?" "their clothes were made of light, i should think; for they were softer than spider webs, and kept changing their shape and color as the people moved about." "how could they?" "why, all the light poured from one place, that i could not look into; and even the heavenly people, when they turned towards it, folded their wings before their faces." "that is where i should build my house." "o, no, my sister; that is where our heavenly father has built his throne; and it is the light from him that makes the whole city splendid, without any sun or moon. you cannot tell what a little, dark speck i felt before god: i trembled, and did not know where to turn, when one of the people came and took my hand." "how frightened i should have been! did he have wings?" "i can't remember; but he moved--all in the heavenly city move--more quickly and more easily than birds. they want to be in a place, and are there like a flash of light; and they can see and hear so far, that the beautiful man who spoke to me said he saw me kiss our mother's hands, and put flowers in them, and carry her into the wood." "did he say any thing about me?" "yes--that some time you would love him better than any one else. and he told me why the people's clothes kept changing: when they went nearer our father, their faces, and every thing they wore, became more splendid and lovely, but as they moved away from him, grew darker and coarser; and yet, maud, the commonest of all the people there is beautiful as our fairy, and wears as splendid clothes." "what was the man's name? i hope he was not common, if i must love him." "no, he was the greatest in heaven; all the men and angels bowed to him, and they called him christ." "o, i would give every thing to see him; you never shall go through the wood alone, daisy, for fear he will come again when i'm away." "he could come to our house as well as to the grave. and i'll tell you another strange thing about the city, maud: some of the roads, you know, are glass, and some are gold; and there is a beautiful river, like crystal, shaded with palm trees, and sweeping on till it is lost in the great light." "i don't see any thing wonderful in that, if the rest of your story be true." "i have not finished: these broad roads ended in narrow paths; and from the river trickled tiny streams, that somehow came down over the golden walls of the city, and over the clouds, and the tops of trees, into this very earth we are standing on." "o daisy! are you sure? could i find one of the paths, and so climb up to heaven, and find the beautiful christ i am to love?" "yes, he told me so himself, and pointed to all the people on earth that were in those paths; and i saw a brightness about them, and a calm look in their faces, such as god's angels have. and then christ told how all who tasted of the streams grew strong; beautiful, and glad; sick people, that stepped into them, were healed; and those who washed in the water were never unclean again." and daisy did not tell, because she feared it might make her sister envious and sad, that the beautiful one had kissed her forehead, and said, "daisy, you have picked many a flower beside these streams, and they have soothed your father's weariness, and healed your mother's aching heart; and when you come to live with me, and i place them all on your head in a wreath that shall never fade, no angel in heaven will wear a more beautiful crown." daisy looked up at him then, and asked, "but will you take them away from my mother? and shall not maud have some? only let me live near you, and give her the crown." christ smiled, and then looked sad, and said, "it will be long before your sister is willing to walk in such straight, narrow paths, and dwell beside such still waters, as she must in order to find these flowers; but you will always be pointing them out to her; and, in the end, she will love me better than she loves any one else. i would gladly help her, daisy, for your sake; but only they who love can dwell with me." chapter xvi. the watchman. so tired was daisy, after all the labor and excitement of the day, that as soon as she had finished her story she fell asleep. maud tried until she was tired to arouse her sister, and make her talk some more; but daisy, except for her quiet breathing, was like one dead. maud could not sleep; she listened to the howling of the storm, and then remembered the grave she had seen through daisy's spectacles, out there in the night; and then her sister's vision of the beautiful, shining city, whose people were clothed in light, and thought of the highest among them all, the king, who waited for her love. "he will not care for daisy, with her wise little face, when once he has seen mine," thought maud. "i shall wear my finest garments, and put on my most stately and haughtiest look, to show him i am not like common people. i hope he does not know that every thing i have comes from that wretched old dame." here there sounded a rattling at the door latch, as if some one were coming into the cabin. maud's heart beat loud and fast for fright; she imagined that dreadful things were about to happen, and scolded poor daisy, as if she could hear, for pretending to be asleep. then came quick flashes of lightning, that made the room like noonday for one instant; and then thunder in crashing peals, that sounded more dreadful in the silent night; and then a stillness, through which maud could hear the voices of the wolves, and the heavy, pelting drops. sometimes she thought the river would swell, and swell, till it flooded into the cabin, and drowned them both; sometimes she thought the lightning would kill her at a flash, or the wolves would break through the slender door, and eat her up, or the wind would blow the cabin down, and bury her. wasn't it strange that the thought never came to her, as she lay there trembling, what a poor, weak thing she was, and how good the fairy had been to keep all mischief from her until now? she did think of the fairy, at length, and resolved to call her help, if it were possible. she lighted a lamp, and held it so near daisy's eyes as almost to burn the lashes off; this she found better than shaking or scolding, for daisy started up from her pleasant dreams, and asked where she was and what was happening. "that!" said maud, as a still sharper flash of lightning ran across the sky, and then thunder so loud that it drowned maud's angry voice. daisy covered her face, for the lightning almost blinded her, and then first found that she had fallen asleep with the fairy spectacles on. "come, selfish girl," said maud, "look through your old glasses; and if they are good for any thing, you can find what has become of the dame, and if she is still awake and watching over us." then daisy told how she had been once to the old woman's cave; and if it were not for leaving her sister alone, would go again to-night. maud would not listen to this at first, but told daisy that she was deceiving her, and only wanted to creep off somewhere and sleep, and leave her to be eaten by the wolves. as she spoke, daisy's face lighted all at once with the beautiful smile which peter saw, the day that she was born. "o maud, listen, and you will not be afraid," she said in her gentle voice. "i seemed to see, just now, the night, and the storm, and our cabin, and myself asleep--all as if in a picture. the lightning flashed and thunder rolled; the wolves were creeping about the door, and sniffing at the threshold, and the cabin rocked in the wind like a cradle. "but just where you are standing, maud, was an angel bending over me, and shading my eyes from the dazzle with her own white wings. she had such a quiet, gentle face as i never saw any where except in my vision of our father's house." "were her eyes black, or blue like mine? i wonder if christ ever saw her." "i do not remember the color; but her eyes were full of love, and pity, and tenderness; and when i seemed to awake, and look up at her, she pointed out into the night." "and there, i suppose, you will pretend that you saw something else very fine--as if i should believe such foolish stories! but talk on, for it keeps you awake." "no, maud, nothing seemed beautiful after the angel's face; but i saw a strong city, with walls, and towers on the walls, and with watchmen walking to and fro to keep robbers away. and i saw a great house, as large as a hundred of ours, with heavy doors, and bolts, and locks, and many servants--strong men, sleeping in their beds, for it was night. "and in one of the inmost rooms, where all was rich and elegant, and the carpet was soft as moss, and the muslin curtains hung like clouds, lay a girl about my age, but a great deal more beautiful, asleep." "was she handsomer than i?" interrupted maud. "i had not time to ask myself; for, as i looked, the door opened softly, and two thieves crept in, and snatched the jewels that lay about the room, and then, seeing a bracelet on her white arm, went towards the bed. "i was about to scream, when the fairy softly put her hand before my mouth, and pointed again. "as soon as the thief touched her arm, the girl awoke, and shrieked aloud; and, when they could not quiet her cries, the men struck at her with their sharp knives, and left her dead. "then the angel whispered, 'daisy, there is only one hand that can save; there is one eye that watches, over rich and poor, the crowded city and the lonely wood, alike. that eye is god's; unless he keep the city, the watchman walketh in vain.' "so, maud, the angel will take care of us, if we only trust in her." maud's fears were quieted so far by daisy's words, that she urged her sister now to go and seek the dame, and leave her there alone. the truth was, maud had a feeling that, if poor little daisy had an angel to watch over her, she, who was so much more beautiful, could not be left to perish. perhaps, even the glorious christ would come; and if he did, she would rather not have her sister in the way. chapter xvii. the fairy's cave. the old dame had built a fire in the corner of her cave, and sat, alone, watching the embers. presently she heard a sound unlike the storm--a parting of the bushes outside, a crackling of dry sticks upon the ground; and, all at once, daisy's bright face appeared, seeming to bring a sunshine into the gloomy den. daisy was dripping with rain, and felt a little afraid that the dame would scold her because her feet made wet tracks on the floor. but the fairy seemed in a merry mood to-night--perhaps she was glad of some one to keep her company. she laughed till the old cave rang again, when her visitor told that she had been frightened by the storm; for she said it was music in her ears, and ought to be in the ears of every one. so she drew a stool before the fire for daisy, and, while wringing the dampness from her dress, asked what had become of the spectacles. "o, they are safe enough," answered daisy. "i know now how much they are worth, and what a splendid present you gave me, though it seemed so poor. you are very good to us, dame." "better than i seem--always better than i seem," she muttered, looking into the fire still. "now, if you think so much of your glasses, put them on." daisy wiped the water from them on a corner of the fairy's dress, for her own was too wet, and did as she was told. and, down, down miles beneath the cave, she saw fires burning, blazing, flashing, flaming about, and filling the whole centre of the earth; beside them the lightning was dull, and the old dame's fire seemed hardly a spark. she saw whole acres of granite--the hard stone that lay in pieces about the wood, half covered with moss and violets; acres of this were rolling and foaming like the river in a storm, melted and boiling in the fiery flames. "why, in a few minutes, the cave itself, and all the earth, will melt, and we shall be burned up," said daisy, alarmed. "o, no," laughed the fairy. "the fire was kindled thousands of years before you were born; and the granite your violets grow upon has boiled like this in its day; but we are not burned yet, and shall not be. there's a bridge over the fire." and, surely enough, when daisy looked again, she saw great cold ribs of rock rising above the flames and above the sea of boiling stone, up and out, like arches on every side. upon this rock the earth was heaped, layer above layer, until on its outside countries, and cities, and great forests were planted, and fastened together, it seemed, by rivers and seas. in the beds of rivers, in crevices of rock, in depths of the earth, were hidden precious stones and metals; and where the rocks rose highest, they formed what we call mountains, that buried their soaring heads in the sky, and stretched along the earth for many hundred miles. "what can this rock be made of?" asked daisy. "look!" and, to her wonder, she saw that it was all little cells, crowded with insects of different kinds. she asked the dame how many there were in one piece of stone which she picked up, and which was about an inch square. "about forty-one thousand millions of one kind, and many more of another," she answered carelessly. "you could not make maud believe that," thought daisy; and the dame, as if seeing into her mind, continued,-- "but it is only the one little world we live in which you have seen thus far: look above." the roof of the cave seemed gone; and daisy beheld the stars, not far off and still, as they had always seemed, but close about her, whirling, waltzing, chasing each other in circles, with such tremendous speed that it made one dizzy to watch. and they were no longer little points of light, but worlds like ours--many of them larger than our earth, which was whirling too, and seemed so small that daisy hardly noticed it amidst the beaming suns. there were no handles, no fastenings, no beams, or ropes, or anchors to those flying worlds, that dashed along at such mad speed; she wondered they did not strike against each other, and shatter, and fall. "o, no," said the dame; "the hand which made these worlds can keep them in their places. but how many stars do you suppose there are?" "o, i could not count them in a week." "no, nor in a lifetime. it takes more than that to count one million; and there are more than twenty million worlds." "there will be no use in telling that to maud," thought daisy; "she'll never believe me." and again the fairy saw into her heart, and answered, "only the pure in heart can see god, and believe in him. maud thinks there is no truth, because her weak mind cannot grasp it. "now, daisy, think that all these worlds are god's--made, and watched, and loved by him. you see in many of them mountains such as the piece of stone you looked into; you see rivers, earth, and sky; and i tell you the truth when i say, that all of these are crowded, fuller than you can dream, with creatures he has made. and cannot he who made the lightning govern it? so, do not fear the howling of the storm again; it is your father's voice." "how great he is! i am afraid of him!" said daisy. "you may well be afraid to offend him, but only that; for god is a gentle, loving father. he feels when the tiniest insect in this stone is hurt; and the same mighty hand that guides the stars, and roofs over the fires that might burn up our earth,--the same hand led you through the storm to-night, or, daisy, you would not have found my cave." the dame's last words reminded daisy that she had left her sister alone; and though maud had surprised her by saying that she need not hurry back, maud might have changed her mind, and complain of the very thing she asked an hour before. she flew home, therefore--falling many a time, and wounding her hands with the sharp sticks in her path. great trees were torn up by the roots, and came crashing down, in the dark, scattering earth and pebbles far and wide; but daisy walked among them all unharmed, and was not even frightened; for she knew some kind hand must be guiding her, and thought of the watchman who never sleeps. reaching the cabin, she found maud in a quiet slumber; and, lying down beside her, daisy was soon dreaming over again all she had seen through the spectacles. chapter xviii. daisy alone. the sisters lived together comfortably enough in the wood, for the old dame still supplied their wants; and daisy grew so accustomed to maud's complaints and reproaches, that she did not mind them so much as at first. then it was such a joy when, sometimes, maud would be pleased and satisfied, and speak a kind word or two, that her sister forgot all the rest. the fairy had been in the habit, after susan's death, of taking maud to the fair sometimes, where she could see the people, and choose handsome gowns for herself, and hear what was going on in the world. meantime daisy would remain at home, cleaning the house and washing maud's dresses, and baking some nice thing for her to eat when she should come home tired from the fair. you may think this hard for daisy; but you are mistaken, this time, for she was never so merry as when working thus alone. there was no one to meddle and complain when she was trying to do her best. let maud depart, and all was peace in daisy's home. maud seemed to think that daisy was made for her servant; and when she wished to enjoy herself alone, or to do some kind deed,--for other people lived, now, in the neighborhood of the cabin,--her sister would always interfere, and complain and whine so grievously that daisy yielded to her. but maud away, and her work all finished in the house, daisy would clap on her spectacles, and then such a wonderful world as stretched around her! nothing was common, or mean, or dead; all things were full of beauty and surprise, when she looked into them. the insects that stung maud, and made her so impatient, would settle quietly on daisy's hand, and let her find out how their gauzy, glittering wings were made, and see all the strange machinery by which they could rise and fly, and the little beating hearts and busy heads they had. then they would go slowly circling to their homes; and daisy would softly follow, and find how they lived, and what they ate, and what became of them in winter time, and all about their young. the birds, meantime, would come and sing to her about their joy, their young, their fairy nests, their homes among the shady summer leaves; the poorest worm, the ugliest spider, had something in him curious and beautiful. then she would study the plants and trees, see the sap rising out of the ground, and slowly creeping into every branch and leaf, and the little buds come forth, and swell, and burst, at length, into lovely flowers. she would sit upon the mossy rocks, and think how far down under the earth they had been, and how full they might be of living creatures now; and then bending over the violets that had grown in their crevices, would count their tiny veins, and find how air and sunshine had mixed with the sap to color and perfume them. all these works of his hands made daisy feel how near the great god was to her, and that she could never go where he had not been before, and where his eye would not follow her. and then, amidst her troubles and toils, she had but to think of the beautiful city above, where peter and susan were waiting for her, where the spirits clothed in light would be her teachers and friends, and she would see as far, perhaps, as they, and learn more a thousand times than even her wonderful spectacles could teach her now. but, one day, the dame took a fancy in her head that she was too old to go to the fair again, and, in future, daisy must go instead, and take care of maud. this pleased neither of the sisters; for daisy now must lose her only hours of quiet; and maud, instead of the old crone who had passed for her servant, must appear with the shabby little daisy, of whose meek, serious face, and country manners, she was very much ashamed. then there was the mark of the spectacles to attract attention, and make every one ask who it could be that had such a wise look on a face so young. but the two sisters started, one morning, for the fair, on the selfsame road on which peter had met his wife, and along which he had led her home, to make his cabin such a happy place. it was not so bad for maud to have daisy with her as she had feared; for the good natured sister carried all her parcels, found out cool springs where they could drink, and pleasant spots where they could sit in the cool grass and rest sometimes, instead of hurrying on through the dust, as the dame had always done. then daisy had a cheerful heart, and was pleased with every thing she met, and so full of her stories and cheerful songs, that the way seemed not half so long to maud as when she went with the dame. ah, but maud didn't think how much shorter and brighter her sister's path through life would have been had _she_, instead of her selfish temper, a good and gentle heart like that which was cheering her now. daisy took her spectacles along, you may be sure; and besides that she saw through them many a flower, and bird, and stone, and countless other things to which her sister was as good as blind, maud found them very useful at the fair. for the glasses showed things now exactly as they were--in the rich silk, rough places or cotton threads; calicoes, gay enough to the naked eye, through these looked faded and shabby. was any thing shopworn, moth eaten, or out of fashion, the spectacles told it as plainly as if they had spoken aloud. and just so, seen through these magical glasses, the people changed. a man with a smiling face and pleasant words would appear dishonest and cunning, when daisy put on her spectacles. a maiden with a proud and beautiful face looked humbled, all at once, and sad, and dying of a broken heart. people that walked about in splendid clothes, and looked down on the others, seemed suddenly poor beggars, hiding beneath their garments as if they were a mask. the dame would never carry bundles for maud, nor allow herself to be hurried or contradicted in any way; but daisy bore all the burdens of her own accord, and yielded to maud's caprices, however foolish they might be, if they troubled no one except herself. but on their way home, something occurred in which daisy resolved to have her own way; and maud was so angry that she would not walk with her sister, and hurrying on, left her far behind. chapter xix. the quarrel. it was the old dame that caused the sisters' quarrel. a few miles from the cabin she appeared, creeping through the dusty road, with a bundle of sticks three times as big as herself on her head. "pretty well!" exclaimed maud. "the old creature could not find strength enough to walk a little way with me; but she can pick up sticks all day for herself, and carry home more than i could even lift." the dame made no reply; perhaps she did not hear the beauty's words; but maud was so vexed that she brushed roughly past, and upset all her sticks, and the poor old dame in the midst of them. the fairy lifted her wrinkled arm, which was covered with bleeding scratches, and shook her finger angrily at maud, who only laughed, and said, "it is good enough for you; take care, next time, how you stand in my way. i am the one to be angry, after you've scattered your sharp old sticks all over the road to fray my new silk stockings. come, daisy, make a path for me through them." daisy helped the dame to her feet again, and wiped away the dust and blood, and bound the arm up with her own handkerchief, and then began patiently to pick up all the sticks, and fasten them in a bundle. she did this while maud and the fairy were quarrelling and reproaching each other. we could often make up for a fault or accident in the time which we spend mourning over it and deciding whose was the fault. maud, in her heart, was not sorry for what her sister had now done, because she feared the fairy, and knew, if she went too far in offending her, that she might never appear again; and then miss maud would eat coarse food, and wear shabby clothes, like her sister daisy. still she pretended to be angry, and scolded daisy well for undoing what she had done, and comforting the old woman when she chose to punish her. yet more vexed was she when daisy took the sticks on her own head; for the dame seemed tired and faint, and trembled like a leaf from the fright and pain of her fall. maud drew herself up haughtily, and asked if she was expected to walk in a public road in company with a lame old hag and a fagot girl. her eyes flashed, and the color glowed in her delicate cheeks, as she spoke; daisy thought she had never seen her sister look so beautiful, and even took out the glasses that she might look more closely at the handsome face. alas, what a change! serpents seemed coiling and hissing about maud's breast; her eyes were like the eyes of a wolf; the color on her cheeks made daisy think of the fires she had seen burning so far down in the centre of the earth; and the ivory whiteness of her forehead was the dead white of a corpse. it was not strange that, maud's beauty gone, her sister grew less submissive; for daisy, even with her spectacles, had found nothing except beauty to love in her sister. she thought a lovely heart must be hidden somewhere underneath the lovely face. but now she had looked past the outside, and all was deformed and dreadful. "i should like to know if you mean to answer," said maud pettishly; "i told you either to throw down the sticks, or else i would walk home alone." "i must help the poor dame; and as for our walk, we both know the way," was daisy's quiet answer. so they parted; and daisy began to cheer the dame, who groaned dreadfully, by telling of all the fine things at the fair, and the use she had made of her spectacles, and how grateful she must always be for such a wondrous gift. it pleased the dame to have her glasses praised; and so she forgot to limp and grumble about her wounds, and walked on gayly enough by daisy's side, telling sometimes the wisest, and sometimes the drollest, stories she had ever heard. but their mirth was interrupted by the sound of sobs; and daisy's quick eyes discovered, sitting among the bushes by the way, a little girl, all rags and dust, crying as if her heart would break. "never mind her; she will get over it soon enough," said the dame. "i wonder how you would have liked it, had i said that about you, an hour ago," thought daisy, but made no reply, except to turn and ask the child what she could do for her. "o, give me food, for i am starved, and clothes, for i am cold, and take me with you, for i am so lonely," sobbed the child. "then don't cry any more, but take my hand; and here are some wild grapes i picked just now--taste how fresh and sweet they are." the little girl laughed for joy, with the tears still glistening on her face, and soon leaving daisy's hand, skipped about her, flying hither and thither like a butterfly, filling her hands with flowers, and then coming back, to look up curiously in the strange old face of the dame. "you are a good soul, after all," said the fairy, when daisy returned to her side. "see how happy you have made that little wretch!" "yes, and how easily, too! o, why do not all people find out what a cheap comfort it is to help each other? i think, if they only knew this, that every one would grow kind and full of charity." daisy did not dream that the child listened, or would understand what she was saying; but the little girl, tears springing into her eyes again, answered softly, "o, no, not all." "why, have you found so many wicked people, my poor child?" "perhaps they are not wicked; but they are not kind;" and the girl's voice grew sadder. "some time before you came, a beautiful lady passed; she was not dressed like you, but a hundred times handsomer; and i thought she would have ever so much to give away; so i asked her for a penny to buy bread." "and did she give you one?" asked daisy, who saw that the lady must have been her sister maud. "not she; she called me names, and pushed me away so roughly that i fell into a bunch of nettles; and they stung till it seemed as if bees were eating me up. look there!" so she held up her poor little arms, that were pinched with poverty, as the dame's with age; they were mottled, white and red or purple, with the nettle stings; and only looking at them made her cry again. but daisy comforted her. "there, i wouldn't mind; she did not mean to hurt you. and, besides, you must blame me; for i offended her, and made her cross. she is my sister." "o, dear, then i don't want to go home and live with you; let me go back and die, if i must. that lady would beat me, and pull my hair, i know. when you met me, i was not crying for hunger, though i was so hungry, nor for cold, though my clothes were all worn out, but because she was so unkind. don't make me live with her." here the fairy drew the little girl towards her, and whispered, "daisy has to live with her, and be fretted at and worked hard all the time; if you go, maud will have another to torment, and will leave her sister in peace sometimes." then the tears were dried at once; and the child, taking daisy's hand, said firmly, "wherever you lead me i will go." daisy never knew what made her change her mind, for she had not heard the fairy's whisper; but angels in heaven knew it, and saw how, at that moment, the child unconsciously stepped into one of the golden paths that lead to the beautiful city on high. for no good deed, no good thought or intention even, is lost. few, perhaps, behold them here; but hosts of the heavenly people may always be looking on. and even if they were not, it is better to be good and kind: the good deed brings its own reward; it makes our hearts peaceful; it makes us respect ourselves, so that we can look serenely in the face of every one, and, if they blame us, answer, "i have done the best i could." chapter xx. twilight. when maud had gone far enough to lose sight of daisy and the dame, she slackened her pace, and looked about to see how beautiful the path had grown. the trees met in green arches above her head; the road side was sprinkled with lovely flowers, fragrant in the evening air; and the breeze, stirring freshly, gave motion and a sweet, low sound to every thing. insects were chirping merrily, and stars began to twinkle through the boughs. even maud did not feel lonely; she had much to remember about the fair--all her purchases, all the compliments she had heard paid to her beauty, all daisy's usefulness, and how sure she would be to make her go again. but the scene about her grew every moment quieter and more beautiful; so that, leaving her worldly thoughts, a solemn feeling came over maud, and she began to think of the still more beautiful place which was some time to be her home,-- and then of that glorious one whom she was to love; mean and coarse seemed her earthly lovers when she thought of him, and their compliments vulgar and idle beside his gracious words. "ah, if i could but see this christ once," thought maud, "so that i might know what would please him, and could always remember him just as he really is! it is strange that he does not come when he must know how i am longing to behold his face." and, in truth, maud had never for an hour forgotten her sister's vision, but was constantly thinking what more she could do to make herself attractive when the beautiful one should come. she would not go out at noon, for fear of tanning her complexion; she hardly ate enough to live, because of a fancy that angels have very poor appetites; she gave up the sweet smile which she had preserved with so much care, and looked serious, and even sad. and the foolish girl made it an excuse for not doing her share of the household work, that she could not go to heaven with the stains of labor on her hands. "what more can he require of me?" thought maud. "let him but say, and i will do any thing to serve this greatest of all the angels--will die--will be his slave!" in the twilight, maud saw, all at once, beside her a being more beautiful than she had even thought her christ. he was thin and pale; he looked tired, and there were drops of blood on his forehead and tears in his eyes. yet was there something noble and good about him, that seemed grander than all the beauty of this earth, and melted the heart of the haughty maud; so that she asked him to come to her cabin for food, and promised to make the old dame give him clothes. he shook his head, and answered, "i have come to you before, naked, and hungry, and tired, and sad; but you drove me away." "o, no, you are mistaken," said maud; "i never saw you in my life before." "when you refused food and shelter to the poor, old, and wretched, you were starving and freezing me." "how could i know that?" said maud, a little peevishly. "but, come, take my hand, and i will lead you where there is shelter and food." he drew back from the hand she offered. "i cannot touch these fingers; wicked words are written over them." "no such thing!" said maud, thoroughly vexed. "there is not a man at the fair but would be proud to take my hand. read the wicked words, if you can." "waste, weakness, indolence, selfishness, scorn, vanity," he read, as if the hand were a book spread out before him. and then the beautiful being disappeared; and maud, never dreaming that she had spoken with christ, and hearing her sister's voice not far behind, hurried on quickly, so as to be in the cabin first. chapter xxi. the fairy letters. maud was so tired of being alone, and so anxious, besides, to ask if daisy had seen the stranger who disappeared from her, that she ran good naturedly enough to the door, to welcome her sister. but when she saw the dame's wretched old face, and the little beggar whom she had thrust away so scornfully, and daisy herself bending under the heavy load of sticks, maud's wrath came back again. "here i shall have to wait an hour for my supper," she complained, "because you chose to lag behind, and tire yourself with bringing burdens for other folks. i should like to know where you will put your precious friends: not in _our_ house--be very sure of that." but the dame quickly silenced her by asking, "who has fed, and clothed, and taken care of you and all your kith and kin? who gave you the gown on your back and the beauty in your cheeks? and when you found your sister lying half dead by the roadside,--as you would have been but for my care,--what were you willing to do for her? o maud, for shame!" "she is no sister of mine," answered maud, making way; however, as she spoke, for the beggar to enter her door. "ask daisy," was the dame's reply. "o maud, i was so sorry that you left us," daisy said; "for the beautiful man i saw in heaven, whom you are to love, came and spoke to me, with a look and words i can never forget in all my life." "where was it?" asked the sister eagerly. "in that part of the road which our father used to call the church, because the trees made such grand arches overhead, and it was so still and holy, with the stars looking through the boughs. you remember the elm, with the grape vine climbing up among its boughs, and hanging full of fruit: i met him there." "but he could not be half so beautiful as the man i saw in that very place," boasted maud. "i talked with him a while; then i suppose he heard you coming, for he went away." the old dame's bright, sharp eyes were fixed upon her; and maud cast her own eyes down in shame, as daisy continued,-- "the dame's bundle of wood was very heavy, and this little girl dragged so upon my skirts as we toiled on, that i knew she must be tired. i was feeling glad that i happened to meet them, because i am both young and strong, you know, and used to work, when, as i told you, christ appeared, standing beneath the elm." [illustration: and he looked into my face.] "how ashamed you must have felt! i suppose he thought you the old dame's daughter, or a beggar, perhaps. i'm glad you did not bring him to our cabin; how it would look beside his palace in the golden city above! what did he say to you?" "'blessed, o daisy, are the merciful,' he said; 'i was hungry, and you gave me food; thirsty, and you gave me drink. i was sad, and you cheered me; tired, and i rested on your arm.' "'o, no,' i answered, 'you must be thinking of some one else. i never saw you before, except in my vision once.' "he took my hand, and looked into my face with such a gentle smile that i did not feel afraid, and pointed at the wood: 'this burden was not the old dame's, but mine; the blood you wiped away was mine; when you fed and comforted this little one, you were feeding and comforting me. you never can tell how much good you are doing, daisy; poor girl as you are, you may give joy to my father's angels. look through your spectacles.' "so i looked, and there sat the poor little beggar, (see, she has fallen asleep from weariness!) moaning and sobbing in the grass, as when we found her first; and an angel stood beside her, weeping, too." "an angel beside _her_?" interrupted maud. "yes, a beautiful angel, with the calm, holy look which they all wear in heaven, but i never saw upon this earth; he wept because she had no friend; and, just then, i was so fortunate as to come past, and, not seeing the angel, i asked her to take my hand, and run along beside me. "but now i saw that, when the child began to smile, the angel also smiled, and lifted his white wings and flew--o, faster than lightning--over the tree tops, and past the clouds; and the sky parted where he went, until i saw him stand before the throne, in the wonderful city above. "and christ said, 'he stands there always, watching her, unless she needs him here; and when her earthly life is over, he will lead her back, to dwell in my father's house. for the great god is her father, and yours, and mine; she is my sister: should i not feel her grief?'" maud's heart fell, for she felt that the being whom she had met must also have been christ, and asked daisy if he looked sad and tired, and had wounds in his hands. "o, no--what could tire him, maud? he looked strong, and noble, and glad, and seemed, among the dark trees, like a shining light." "alas! then it was i who tired him, and made him sorrowful," thought maud; then said, aloud, "but, daisy, are you sure he took your hand? see, it is smeared with the old dame's blood, and soiled with tears you wiped from the beggar's face, and stained and roughened with hard work: are you sure he touched it?" "the whole was so strange, that i dare not be sure whether any part of it was real," replied daisy, who was so modest that she did not wish to tell all christ had said. "_i_ am sure, then," outspoke the dame. "he took her hand, and--listen to me, maud!--he said, 'this blood, these tears, these labor stains, will be the brightest jewels you can wear in heaven; have courage, and be patient, daisy--for beautiful words are written here, that never will fade away.'" and when maud asked what they were, the dame replied sharply, "exactly the opposite of words that are written on somebody's fine hands: self-sacrifice, and generosity, and faith, and earnestness, and love. such words as these make daisy's rough hands beautiful." chapter xxii. the face and the heart. "can i give up my beautiful face, and become a poor little drudge, like daisy?" asked maud of herself. "no, it's a great deal too much trouble. i can find plenty of friends at the fair; and so i will forget the sad, sweet face that has haunted me all these months." so maud never told that she had looked upon christ; though every time daisy spoke of him, she felt it could be no other. the winter came on; and the report of maud's beauty had spread so far, that she was invited to balls in the neighboring towns; and she no longer walked, for people sent their elegant carriages for her. the dame took care that she should have dresses and jewels in abundance; and daisy could not but feel proud when she saw her sister look like such a splendid lady; though sometimes she would be frightened by seeing the eyes of a live snake glittering among maud's diamonds, and something that seemed like the teeth of a wolf glistening among her pearls. the beauty had many lovers, but she found some fault with each; until, one day, the handsomest and gayest man in all the country round asked her to marry him. she refused, at first, because he had not quite so much money as the others; but when she saw how many ladies were in love with him, maud felt it would be a fine thing to humble them, and show her own power. the old dame could give them money enough; and so she changed her mind, and began to make ready for her wedding. then you should have seen the splendid things that the old dame brought, day after day, and poured on the cabin floor--velvets, and heavy brocades, gay ribbons and silks, and costly laces; as for the pearls and diamonds, you would think she had found them by handfuls in the river bed, there were so many. meantime daisy had come across a very different jewel, though i am not sure but it was worth a cabin full of such as maud's. once she was walking with the little beggar girl, whom daisy called her own child now, and named susan, after her mother; before them, climbing the hill side, was a man in a coarse blue frock, who seemed like a herdsman. he was driving his cows, and turning back to look for a stray one, susan chanced to see his face; she broke from daisy, and with a cry of joy, ran into the herdsman's arms. his name was joseph; and daisy learned that, when the little girl's mother was sick, joseph had brought her food, and taken the kindest care of her; but his master sent him to buy some cows in a distant town, and before he reached home again, susan's mother did not need any more charity, and the poor child herself was cast out into the streets. they sat on the grass beside joseph; and daisy found that, for all his coarse dress, he loved beautiful things as well as herself, and had sat there, day after day, watching the river and sky, and finding out the secrets of the birds, seeing the insects gather in their stores, and the rabbits burrow, and listening to the whisper of the leaves. and, in cold winter nights, he had watched the stars moving on in their silent paths, so far above his head, and fancied he could find pictures and letters among them, and that they beckoned, and seemed to promise, if he would only try, he might come and live with them. then, out of some young shoots of elder, joseph had made a flute; and daisy was enchanted when he played on this, for, besides that she had never heard a musical instrument before, he seemed to bring every thing she loved around her in his wonderful tunes. she could almost see the dark pine tops gilded with morning light, and the cabin nestling under them; and then the song of a bird, and of many birds, trilled out from amidst the boughs, and the little leaves on the birch trees trembled as with joy, and her rabbits darted through the shade. again, she saw the wide river rolling on, the sky reflected in it, and the flowers on its banks just lifting their sweet faces to the sun, and every thing was wet with dew, and fresh, and silent. and then he played what was like a storm, with lightning, and huge trees crashing down, and the old dame seated before her fire in the cave, and daisy herself creeping alone through the dark, tired, and drenched with rain. daisy told her new friend that she lived in the wood, and what a beautiful sister she had at home, and how she wished that maud could hear his music. but joseph seemed contented to play for her, and could not leave his cows, he said, to look upon a handsome face; he did not care so much for bright eyes and pretty lips as for goodness and gentleness, that would make the ugliest face look beautiful to him. chapter xxiii. joseph. what with joseph's music, and all he had to say to them, daisy and susan sat for hours on the hill side, and promised, at parting, to come very soon again. but they found maud ready, as usual, to spoil all their pleasure, by fretting because they had left her alone, and had not come earlier, and a hundred other foolish things. she wouldn't hear a word about the music, but asked her sister if she was not ashamed to talk with a cow boy, and declared that neither she nor susan should go to the hill again. but it was no strange thing for maud to change her mind; so, one day, she told daisy she had dreamed about joseph's music, and must hear it, and they would all go that very afternoon. daisy was glad, you may be sure; but she had great trouble with her sister on the way, for maud would shriek at an earth worm, and start at a fly, and was afraid of bats, and snakes, and owls, and more other things than daisy ever thought of. then the sharp sticks cut through her satin boots; and when she sat a while to rest, the crickets ate great holes in her new silk gown, and mosquitos kept buzzing about her, and little worms dropped down sometimes from the boughs. when any of these things happened, of course poor daisy had to be scolded, as if it were her fault. if a shadow moved, or a bird flew quickly past, or a bee buzzed by,--thinking of any one except miss maud,--the beauty would fancy that a tiger or rattlesnake was making ready to spring at her, and suffered a great deal more from fright than she would from pain if the creatures she dreaded had really been near, and she had allowed them quietly to eat her up. when, after all this trouble, she found that joseph wore a coarse blue frock, and did not oil his curly hair, and hardly looked at her, while he was overjoyed at seeing daisy again, maud began to pout, and say she must go home. but joseph brought a kind of harp he had made from reeds and corn stalks; and when he began to play, maud started, for it was as if she stood under the arching trees again, and the beautiful being stood beside her, with his sad eyes, saying, "o maud, when you despise my little ones, you are despising me." she thought it must only be a kind of waking dream, however, and tossing her head, asked joseph if he could play any opera airs, and where he bought his harp, and who his teacher could have been. "the trees, and river, and birds, the morning wind and midnight sky, sorrow, and joy, and hope have been my teachers," he answered gravely. "they're an old-fashioned set, then," said maud. "we haven't had any of the tunes you play at our balls this year; and you must find more modern teachers, or else be content to take care of your cows." joseph heard not her sneers; he was talking with daisy; and every thing he said seemed so noble, and wise, and pure, so unlike the words of maud or of the fretful dame, that daisy could not help loving him with all her heart. the more she thought of joseph the less she said of him to maud; but whenever her sister was away, they were sure to meet; and the herdsman grew as fond of daisy as she was of him. in the long winter evenings, when maud was away at her balls, she little dreamed what pleasant times daisy had at home. when floating about in the dance, to the sound of gay, inspiring music, she thought of her sister only to pity her, and did not know that she was listening to sweeter music from joseph's humble harp of reeds. we often pity people who are a great deal better off than ourselves, forgetting that what seems fine to us may be tedious enough to them. then it was such a new thing for daisy to have any one think of _her_ comfort, and plan pleasant surprises for her, and even admire her serious face, and--best of all--appreciate her spectacles. as soon as joseph came, he wanted her to put them on, and tell him about a hundred things which he had looked at only with his naked eyes. daisy found so often that he had seen rightly and clearly, and had in humblest paths picked up most lovely things, and every where found what was best, she told him that he must have borrowed the old dame's lantern. but joseph said, no, he had only taken care that the lantern in his own breast should be free from dust and stains; while that burned clearly, there was no use in borrowing another's light. maud's lover took her to dances and sleigh rides, and gave her jewels and confectionery; daisy's lover took her to see the old sick mother he supported, and to look at his cows in their neat barn, and brought her a new apron sometimes from the fair, or a bag of chestnuts which he had picked up in the fall. but joseph gave the love of a fresh, honest heart; and daisy thought this better than all her sister's bright stones and sugar plums. chapter xxiv. the freshet. the spring came; and maud's wedding day was so near that she and daisy went to the town every week to make purchases. now, the river which they were obliged to cross always overflowed its banks in spring. although, in summer, daisy had often walked across it, by stepping from stone to stone in the rough bed, it had risen now to a height of many feet. then, blocks of ice came down from the mountain streams above, and swept along bridges, and hay ricks, and drift wood with them, just as happened once, you may remember, when susan was alive. a new bridge had been built; but it jarred frightfully when the heaped blocks of ice came down, or some great tree was dashed against it by the rapid stream. things were in this state when the two sisters reached home, one day, from town. when maud felt how the bridge jarred, she ran back screaming, and told daisy to go first, and make sure it was safe. daisy was not a coward; but this time she did think of her own life for once, or rather of joseph--how he would grieve if she were swept away and drowned. her heart beat faster than usual; yet she walked on calmly, and soon gained the other side. then she called back for maud to wait till she could find joseph, and secure his help. but maud, always impatient, grew tired of waiting, and mustering all her courage, stepped upon the bridge alone. she had hardly reached the centre when its foundations gave way; and, with a great crash and whirl, with the trees, and ice, and drift wood whirling after it, the bridge went sweeping down the stream. so joseph and daisy returned only in time to hear maud's shrieks, which sounded louder than the heavy, jolting logs, and creaking beams, and grinding ice. running across the bridge wildly, she beckoned for joseph to come to her--implored him to trust himself upon the blocks of ice, or else send daisy, and not leave her to perish alone. there came new drifts of ice from above, jolting against the bridge, and throwing maud from her feet; and so the heavy structure went whirling, tossing like a straw upon the stream. joseph turned to daisy. "if i go to her help, we both may slip from the unsteady blocks of ice, and drown. yet i may possibly save her; shall i go or stay?" "go," she said instantly. "then good by, daisy; perhaps we never shall look in each other's faces again." "not here, perhaps; but, go." "what's that?" asked the sharp voice of the dame. "foolish children! don't you know that, when maud is drowned, there will be no one to separate you, and, as long as she lives, she will not let you be married?" "she is my sister," said daisy. and joseph, stepping boldly upon the ice, creeping from log to log,--lost now in the branches of a tree, dashed into the water, and struggling out again,--found his way to the bridge, and threw his strong arm about the form of the fainting maud. but here was new trouble; for she declared that she would never venture where joseph had been, not if they both were swept away. finding her so unreasonable, the herdsman took maud, like an infant, in his arms, and, though she shrieked and struggled, stepped from the bridge just as its straining beams parted, and fell, one by one, among the drift wood in the stream. when maud stood safely on the shore, she was so glad to find herself alive, that she took off every one of her jewels and offered them to joseph. but the herdsman told her that he did not wish to be paid for what had cost him nothing, and had he lost his life, the jewels would have been no recompense. "so you want more, perhaps," said maud, the haughty look coming again into her handsome face. "well, what shall i give you for risking your precious life?" "daisy," he answered. "my sister? do you dare tell me that she would marry a cowboy?" "ask her." "yes," said daisy. "nonsense! you will live with me, daisy, in my new great house; and if you marry at all, it will be some rich, elegant man, so that you can entertain us when i and my husband wish to visit you." "i shall marry joseph or no one," daisy answered firmly. "well, then, joseph, cross the river on the ice once more, and daisy shall be your wife." maud thought she had found a way to rid herself of the troublesome herdsman; for it seemed to her the dreadful voyage could not be made again in safety; and then she half believed that joseph would sooner give up daisy than try. but, without a word, he darted upon the ice--slipped, as at first; and when daisy saw him struggling, she flew to his help--slipped where he slipped: a tree came sailing down, and struck them both. maud saw no more. but, all the way home, she heard in her ears the shrill voice of the fairy, saying, "i hope you are satisfied, now you have killed them both." chapter xxv. the fairy's last gift. maud went home to the lonely cabin; there was no one to make a fire, and dry her wet clothes, and comfort her. when little susan heard what had happened, she ran away to live with the mother of joseph; and maud was left alone. wearied with fright, and trouble, and remorse, the beauty sank upon her bed and fell asleep. but hardly were her eyes closed, when she seemed in a damp, cellar-like place herself, but, looking upward, saw the glorious golden city daisy told her about, with its pearly gates and diamond foundations, and the river shaded by beautiful palms, and throngs of angels walking on its banks. the ranks of angels parted, and she saw among them the beautiful one, who had met her in the wood--only he was bright and joyous now, and his wounds shone like stars; and--could it be? yes--he was leading daisy and joseph, not a poor drudge and humble herdsboy now, but, like the other angels, clothed in light, crowned with lilies, and joseph's harp of reeds changed to a golden harp, on which he still made music. she saw two other beautiful ones come forward and embrace her sister: one, she felt, was the father she had never seen, and one was susan, the good and humble mother of whom maud had been ashamed. then she awoke, to find herself alone in the cabin, which was damp and dark as she had dreamed; and she could only hear the night wind sighing, and the voices of the wolves and snakes. as soon as morning came, she hurried to the river bank, in hopes, thus late, to save her sister, or to hear, at least, some news from her. but she saw only floating logs and blocks of ice jarring and whirling down the river. and from that hour maud believed herself a murderer, and would gladly have given her own life to forget the dreadful scene, which kept rising before her, of the good, gentle sister drowning in the flood, and the sound of the dame's shrill voice asking, "now, are you satisfied?" but daisy did not drown. when joseph saw her danger, though almost dead himself, he took fresh courage, and made such bold, brave efforts that both he and daisy reached the shore. long, happy days they spent together on the earth. determined that she should have no more trouble with her sister, joseph took his wife over the sea to a pleasant island, where she had a happier, if not so splendid a home as maud. when he opened the door to show daisy her beautiful little house, who should stand within but the fairy, all dressed in her velvet and pearls, and looking as bright as if she too were glad that daisy's life was to be so happy now. many a gift the fairy brought them: little peters, and susans, and daisies came in her arms, to play before their door, and make the cottage merry with their songs, before _our_ daisy went to wear her crown in heaven. and many a pleasant tune joseph played to his wife and children on the home-made harp of reeds, before it was changed to a harp of gold, and chimed in with the angels' music, in our father's home above. when packing her things, to leave the cabin, maud left daisy's dresses, as they were not fine enough for her, and also some little things which her sister had treasured--among them, the spectacles. but once in her fine new home, and the wedding over, the first things she found, hanging in the fringe of her shawl, were daisy's spectacles. so she thought how queerly daisy used to look in them, and put the glasses on, to amuse her husband; but what was her surprise to find she could see plainly through them now! and, alas! the first thing they told her was, that this man, for whom she had left all her rich suitors, did not love her, but her money; despised her because her mother was so poor, and was much fonder of one of the ladies whom he had forsaken than of her. she told him this angrily; but he only laughed, and said she might have guessed it without spectacles, and asked how he could love any one who thought only of herself. she hoped he might be jesting, yet his words were soon proved true; for he not only neglected, but treated her harshly, and when she was saddest, dragged her to the balls which she no longer enjoyed, and laughed about her spectacles, which began to leave their mark upon her handsome face. "at least," thought maud, "i am very rich; there is no end to my jewelry. i will find out all its value through the spectacles." but though there were pearls and diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, set in heavy gold, they seemed only a handful through the glasses; while she saw whole heaps of finer pearls lying neglected under the sea, and rubies, and emeralds, and diamonds scattered about on the sands, or in the heart of rocks, enough to build a house. melted along the veins of the earth she discovered so much gold, too, that her own didn't seem worth keeping; for maud only valued things when she thought others could not have so fine. do you remember what the dame said, when she placed the spectacles on little daisy's breast? "take care of her heart, now, peter, and this gift of mine will be a precious one." here was the trouble: maud, with all her beauty and wealth, had not taken care of her heart; and so, when daisy saw bright, and wise, and pleasant things through the glasses, maud saw only sad and painful ones. the beauty grew tired of life; her husband was so jealous that he would not allow any one to admire her; and she found the palace did not make her any happier than the cabin had done, nor did the open country seem any brighter than the wood. for it isn't whether we _live_ in a palace or a cave, but whether our hearts are cheerful palaces or gloomy caves, that makes the difference between sad lives and merry ones. so, one day, when the dame appeared with her gifts, maud said, "o, take them away--take back all the beauty, the power, and money you ever brought, and give me a heart like daisy's." "pretty likely," said the dame. "you asked for money--you and your mother, both; now make the most of it." but the old woman had hardly left the house when one of maud's servants brought her in, wounded, and weeping bitterly, for a wagon had run over her. "carry her home to her cave; why did you bring her to me?" said maud. but just then she seemed to see the cold, bare cave that daisy had told her about, with nothing except wooden stools and a smoky fireplace--no soft bed, no child to watch over and comfort the poor old dame. so maud called the servants back, and had the woman placed in her own room, and watched with her, and bathed her limbs, and though she was fretful, did not once neglect her through a long and tedious illness. at last, the dame felt well enough to go home, and bade good by to maud, who begged her not to go; "for," she said,--and the tears came into her eyes,--"you make me think of dear daisy, the only one that ever loved me, with this selfish heart." "no, no; i cannot trust you," said the dame, and disappeared. but she came back, with such a bundle in her arms as she had brought to susan once; and when maud looked up to thank her, lo! the dame had changed to a lovely fairy, with a young, sweet face--the same that daisy used to talk about. bending over maud, she wiped the tears from her face, and put the bundle in her arms, and disappeared. and when the little child learned to love her, maud forgot her fears and cares, her cruel husband and her selfish self, and found how much happier it makes us to give joy than to receive it. the little girl was named daisy, and grew up not only beautiful and rich, but wise and good; she spent her money nobly, and gained the love and added to the happiness of all her friends. but the one whom she made happiest was her own mother--maud. chapter xxvi. what it all means. now, dear children, i suppose you have guessed all my riddles, for they are not hard ones; but i will tell you the meaning of one or two. life is the old fairy, that comes sometimes frowning and wretched, sometimes smiling and lovely, but always benevolent, always taking better care of us than we take of ourselves. we should be silent, helpless dust, except for life; and whether we be great or humble, rich or poor, she gives us all we have. though she may seem to smile on you and frown upon your sister, be sure it is not because she loves you best; the fairy may yet change into a wrinkled dame, or the dame to a beautiful fairy. when you remember her, beware how you grieve or slight any one. if you are passing some poor beggar in the street, think, "had i on daisy's spectacles, i should see under all these rags a child of the great god, travelling on, as i am travelling, to live with him in the golden city above. while this man seems humble to me, angels may bow to him as they pass invisibly; for all the titles in this world are not so great as to be a child of god." when you are tempted to vex or laugh at some old woman, think, "under these wrinkles, lo! the great fairy, life, is hid; and she can curse or bless me, as i will." the old dame's lantern, and the light in his breast by which joseph saw, were instinct; which, if we could but keep it undimmed by the dust of earth, would always light our pathway. and the fairy bread is kindness, which alone can comfort the poor and sorrowful. they may use what we give in charity, and still be poor and sad; but an act of kindness makes them feel that they too are children of the same great god, and are therefore happy and rich, though they must walk about for a little while in rags. for they remember how, like us, they have a glorious home awaiting them in the city whose streets are gold; and then it doesn't seem so hard that they have less than we of the poor gold of earth. the spectacles are wisdom, which shows us all things as they are, not as they seem--which we may learn, like daisy, from insects, trees, and clouds, or, easier still, from words that the wise have written. believe me, this wisdom, which may seem but a tedious thing, will show any of you as wonderful visions as those i have told you about. so, when your lessons are hard, and you long to play, and wonder what's the use in books, think, "they are daisy's wondrous spectacles, that change our dull earth into fairy land." wearing these, you need never be lonely or afraid, but will feel god's strong and loving arm around you in the dreariest place. the sun will seem his watchful eye, the wind his breath, the flowers his messages. you will know that all good and lovely things are gifts from him. and you will not forget that the fairy, life, is still on earth, and, if we ask her, will lead us all to the wonderful city which daisy saw far up above the pines--where you, too, may be good and peaceful, like the rest, and wear a crown of lilies and a robe of light. phillips, sampson, & company publish peep at "number five;" or, a chapter in the life of a city pastor. by h. trusta, _author of_ "the sunny side," &c., &c. _twenty-fifth thousand._ the telltale; or, home secrets told by old travellers. by h. trusta, _author of_ "peep at number five," "sunny side," &c., &c. _tenth thousand._ the "last leaf from sunny side;" by h. trusta, _author of_ "peep at number five," "telltale," &c., &c. _thirteenth thousand._ father brighthopes; or, an old clergyman's vacation. by paul creyton. _uniform with "peep at number five," "last leaf,"_ &c. hearts and faces; or, home life unveiled. by paul creyton, _author of_ "father brighthopes," &c. _uniform with the above._ phillips, sampson, & co. publish the following juvenile works estelle's stories about dogs; containing six beautiful illustrations; being original portraits from life. printed on superfine paper. mo, colored engravings, cents; plain, cents. little mary; or, talks and tales. by h. trusta, author of "sunny side," "peep at number five," &c., &c. this little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. it is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. little blossom's reward; a christmas book for children by mrs. emily hare. beautifully illustrated from original designs, and a charming presentation book for young people. phillips, sampson, & co. publish the following juvenile works. by francis c. woodworth. editor of "woodworth's youth's cabinet," author of "the willow lane budget," "the strawberry girl," "the miller of our village," "theodore thinker's tales," etc., etc. uncle frank's boys' and girls' library _a beautiful series, comprising six volumes, square mo, with eight tinted engravings in each volume. the following are their titles respectively_:-- i. the peddler's boy; or, i'll be somebody. ii. the diving bell; or, pearls to be sought for. iii. the poor organ grinder, and other stories. iv. our sue: her motto and its uses. v. mike marble: his crotchets and oddities. vi. the wonderful letter bag of kit curious. "woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. we regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the child-heart to instil into it the poison of false teaching, or to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. the publishers have done their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes attractive. altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary character and mechanical execution."--_syracuse (n. y.) daily standard._ phillips, sampson, & co. publish the following juvenile works christmas holidays at chestnut hill. by cousin mary. containing fine engravings from original designs, and printed very neatly. it will be found to be a charming little book for a present for all seasons. estelle's stories about dogs; containing six beautiful illustrations; being original portraits from life. printed on superfine paper. mo, colored engravings, cents; plain, cents. little mary; or, talks and tales. by h. trusta, author of "sunny side," "peep at number five," &c., &c. this little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. it is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. making his way _or_ frank courtney's struggle upward by horatio alger, jr. whitman publishing co. racine, wisconsin printed in the united states of america table of contents i. two school friends ii. the telegram iii. frank's bereavement iv. mrs. manning's will v. disinherited vi. an unsatisfactory interview vii. a school friend viii. a new plan ix. the new owner of ajax x. mark yields to temptation xi. mark gets into trouble xii. suspended xiii. mr. manning's new plan xiv. good-bye xv. erastus tarbox of newark xvi. an unpleasant discovery xvii. the way of the world xviii. frank arrives in new york xix. frank seeks employment in vain xx. an adventure in wall street xxi. the capture xxii. the young tea merchant xxiii. frank meets mr. manning and mark xxiv. a discouraging day xxv. perplexity xxvi. frank hears something to his advantage xxvii. an incident in a street car xxviii. frank makes an evening call xxix. frank is offered a position xxx. frank as private secretary xxxi. a letter from mr. tarbox xxxii. mr. percival's proposal xxxiii. preparing for a journey xxxiv. frank reaches jackson xxxv. dick hamlin xxxvi. mr. fairfield, the agent xxxvii. frank receives a letter from mr. percival xxxviii. the agent is notified xxxix. an important discovery xl. jonas barton xli. conclusion making his way chapter i two school friends two boys were walking in the campus of the bridgeville academy. they were apparently of about the same age--somewhere from fifteen to sixteen--but there was a considerable difference in their attire. herbert grant was neatly but coarsely dressed, and his shoes were of cowhide, but his face indicated a frank, sincere nature, and was expressive of intelligence. his companion was dressed in a suit of fine cloth, his linen was of the finest, his shoes were calfskin, and he had the indefinable air of a boy who had been reared in luxury. he had not the broad, open face of his friend--for the two boys were close friends--but his features were finely chiseled, indicating a share of pride, and a bold, self-reliant nature. he, too, was an attractive boy, and in spite of his pride possessed a warm, affectionate heart and sterling qualities, likely to endear him to those who could read and understand him. his name was frank courtney, and he is the hero of my story. "have you written your latin exercises, frank?" asked herbert. "yes; i finished them an hour ago." "i was going to ask you to write them with me. it is pleasanter to study in company." "provided you have the right sort of company," rejoined frank. "am i the right sort of company?" inquired herbert, with a smile. "you hardly need to ask that, herbert. are we not always together? if i did not like your company, i should not seek it so persistently. i don't care to boast, but i have plenty of offers of companionship which i don't care to accept. there is bob stickney, for instance, who is always inviting me to his room; but you know what he is--a lazy fellow, who cares more to have a good time than to study. then there is james cameron, a conceited, empty-headed fellow, who is very disagreeable to me." "you don't mention your stepbrother, mark manning." "for two reasons--he doesn't care for my company, and of all the boys i dislike him the most." "i don't like him myself. but why do you dislike him so much?" "because he is a sneak--a crafty, deceitful fellow, always scheming for his own interest. he hates me, but he doesn't dare to show it. his father is my mother's husband, but the property is hers, and will be mine. he thinks he may some day be dependent on me, and he conceals his dislike in order to stand the better chance by and by. heaven grant that it may be long before my dear mother is called away!" "how did she happen to marry again, frank?" "i can hardly tell. it was a great grief to me. mr. manning was a penniless lawyer, who ingratiated himself with my mother, and persecuted her till she consented to marry him. he is very soft-spoken, and very plausible, and he managed to make mother--who has been an invalid for years--think that it would be the best thing for her to delegate her cares to him, and provide me with a second father." frank did not like his stepfather, he did not trust him. "your stepbrother, mark manning, enjoys the same advantages as yourself, does he not?" inquired herbert. "yes." "then his father's marriage proved a good thing for him." "that is true. when he first came to the house he was poorly dressed, and had evidently been used to living in a poor way. he was at once provided with a complete outfit as good as my own, and from that time as much has been spent on him as on me. don't think that i am mean enough to grudge him any part of the money expended upon him. if he were like you, i could like him, and enjoy his society; but he is just another as his father." here herbert's attention was drawn to a boy who was approaching with a yellow envelope in his hand. "frank," he said, suddenly, "there's mark manning. he looks as if he had something to say to you. he has either a letter or a telegram in his hand." chapter ii the telegram frank's heart gave a great bound at the suggestion of a telegram. a telegram could mean but one thing--that his mother had become suddenly worse. he hurried to meet his stepbrother. "is that a telegram, mark?" he asked, anxiously. "yes." "is it anything about mother? tell me quick!" "read it for yourself, frank." frank drew the telegram from the envelope, and read it hastily: "my wife is very sick. i wish you and frank to come home at once." "when does the next train start, herbert?" asked frank, pale with apprehension. "in an hour." "i shall go by that train." "i don't think i can get ready so soon," said mark, deliberately. "then you can come by yourself," replied frank, impetuously. "i beg your pardon, mark," he added. "i cannot expect you to feel as i do. it is not your mother." "it is my stepmother," said mark. "that is quite different. but i must not linger here. i will go at once to dr. brush, and tell him of my summons home. good-bye, herbert, till we meet again." "i will go with you to the depot, frank," said his friend, sympathizingly. "don't wait for me. go ahead, and make your preparation for the journey. i will be at your room in a quarter of an hour." "you won't go by the next train, mark?" said herbert. "no. i don't care to rush about as frank is doing." "you would if it were your own mother who was so ill." "i am not sure. it wouldn't do any good, would it?" "you would naturally feel anxious," said herbert. "oh, yes, i suppose so!" answered mark, indifferently. mark manning was slender and dark, with a soft voice and rather effeminate ways. he didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the campus on a saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves. for this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to draw them off and replace them in his pocket. as frank and herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter said: "it seems to me, frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you, rather than to mark manning. you are the one who is most interested in the contents." "i thought of that, herbert, but i was too much affected by the contents to speak of it. i am not surprised, however. it is like mr. manning. it jarred upon me to have him speak of mother as his wife. she is so, but i never could reconcile myself to the fact." "do you remember your father--your own father, frank?" "you need not have said 'your own father.' i don't recognize mr. manning as a father, at all. yes, i remember him. i was eight years old when he died. he was a fine-looking man, always kind--a man to be loved and respected. there was not a particle of similarity between him and mr. manning. he was strong and manly." "how did it happen that he died so young?" "he was the victim of a railway accident. he had gone to new york on business, and was expected back on a certain day. the train on which he was a passenger collided with a freight train, and my poor father was among the passengers who were killed. the news was almost too much for my poor mother, although she had not yet become an invalid. it brought on a fit of sickness lasting for three months. she has never been altogether well since." "after all, frank, the gifts of fortune, or rather providence, are not so unequally distributed as at first appears. you are rich, but fatherless. i am poor enough but my father and mother are both spared to me." "i would gladly accept poverty if my father could be restored to life, and my mother be spared to me for twenty years to come." "i am sure you would, frank," said herbert. "money is valuable, but there are some things far more so." they had reached the station by this time, and it was nearly the time for the train to start. frank bought his ticket, and the two friends shook hands and bade each other good-bye. in an hour frank was walking up the long avenue leading to the front door of the mansion. the door was opened by his stepfather. "how is mother?" asked frank, anxiously. "i am grieved to say that she is very sick," said mr. manning, in a soft voice. "she had a copious hemorrhage this morning, which has weakened her very much." "is she in danger?" asked frank, anxiously. "i fear she is," said mr. manning. "i suppose i can see her?" "yes; but it will be better not to make her talk much." "i will be careful, sir." frank waited no longer, but hurried to his mother's chamber. as he entered, and his glance fell on the bed and its occupant, he was shocked by the pale and ghastly appearance of the mother whom he so dearly loved. the thought came to him at once: "she cannot live." he found it difficult to repress a rising sob, but he did so for his mother's sake. he thought that it might affect her injuriously if he should display emotion. his mother smiled faintly as he approached the bed. "mother," said frank, kneeling by the bedside, "are you very weak?" "yes, frank," she answered, almost in a whisper. "i think i am going to leave you." "oh, don't say that, mother!" burst forth in anguish from frank's lips. "try to live for my sake." "i should like to live, my dear boy," whispered his mother; "but if it is god's will that i should die, i must be reconciled. i leave you in his care." here mr. manning entered the room. "you will be kind to my boy?" said the dying mother. "can you doubt it, my dear?" replied her husband, in the soft tones frank so much disliked. "i will care for him as if he were my own." "thank you. then i shall die easy." "don't speak any more, mother. it will tire you, and perhaps bring on another hemorrhage." "frank is right, my dear. you had better not exert yourself any more at present." "didn't mark come with you?" asked mr. manning of frank. "no, sir." "i am surprised that he should not have done so. i sent for him as well as you." "i believe he is coming by the next train," said frank, indifferently. "he thought he could not get ready in time for my train." "he should not have left you to come at such a time." "i didn't wish him to inconvenience himself, mr. manning. if it had been his mother, it would have been different." mr. manning did not reply. he understood very well that there was no love lost between mark and his stepson. chapter iii frank's bereavement early in the evening mark made his appearance. supper had been over for an hour, and everything was cold. in a house where there is sickness, the regular course of things is necessarily interrupted, and, because he could not have his wants attended to immediately, mark saw fit to grumble and scold the servants. he was not a favorite with them, and they did not choose to be bullied. deborah, who had been in the house for ten years, and so assumed the independence of an old servant, sharply reprimanded the spoiled boy. "you ought to be ashamed, mr. mark," she said, "of making such a fuss when my poor mistress lies upstairs at the point of death." "do you know who you are talking to?" demanded mark, imperiously, for he could, when speaking with those whom he regarded as inferiors, exchange his soft tones for a voice of authority. "i ought to know by this time," answered deborah, contemptuously. "there is no other in the house like you, i am glad to say." "you are very impertinent. you forget that you are nothing but a servant." "a servant has the right to be decently treated, mr. mark." "if you don't look out," said mark, in a blustering tone, "i will report you to my father, and have you kicked out of the house." deborah was naturally incensed at this rude speech, but she was spared the trouble of replying. frank entered the room at this moment in time to hear mark's last speech. "what is this about being kicked out of the house?" he asked, looking from mark to deborah, in a tone of unconscious authority, which displeased his stepbrother. "that is my business," replied mark, shortly. "mr. mark has threatened to have me kicked out of the house because he has to wait for his supper," said deborah. "it wasn't for that. it was because you were impertinent. all the same, i think it is shameful that i can't get anything to eat." "i regret, mark," said frank, with cool sarcasm, "that you should be inconvenienced about your meals. perhaps you will excuse it, as my poor mother is so sick that she requires extra attention from the servants. deborah, if possible, don't let mark wait much longer. it seems to be very important that he should have his supper." "he shall have it," assured deborah, rather enjoying the way in which mark was put down; "that is, if he don't get me kicked out of the house." "you had better not make any such threats in the future, mark," said frank, significantly. "who's to hinder?" blustered mark. "i am," answered frank, pointedly. "you are nothing but a boy like me," retorted mark. "my mother is mistress here, and i represent her." "things may change soon," muttered mark; but frank had left the room and did not hear him. mark did not trouble himself even to inquire for his stepmother, but went out to the stable and lounged about until bedtime. he seemed very much bored, and so expressed himself. frank wished to sit up all night with his mother, but, as she had a professional nurse, it was thought best that he should obtain his regular rest, the nurse promising to call the family if any change should be apparent in her patient's condition. about half-past four in the morning there was a summons. "mrs. manning is worse," said the nurse. "i don't think she can last long." one last glance of love--though she could no longer speak--assured frank that she knew him and loved him to the last. the memory of that look often came back to him in the years that followed, and he would not have parted with it for anything that earth could give. just as the clock struck five, his mother breathed her last. the boy gazed upon the inanimate form, but he was dazed, and could not realize that his mother had left him, never to return. "she is gone," said mr. manning, softly. "dead!" ejaculated frank. "yes, her sufferings are over. let us hope she is better off. my boy, i think you had better return to your bed. you can do nothing for your mother now." "i would rather stay here," said frank, sadly. "i can at least look at her, and soon i shall lose even that comfort." the thought was too much for the poor boy, and he burst into tears. "do as you please, frank," assented mr. manning. "i feel for you, and i share in your grief. i will go and tell mark of our sad loss." he made his way to mark's chamber and entered. he touched mark, who was in a doze, and he started up. "what's the matter?" he asked, crossly. "your poor mother is dead, mark." "well, there was no need to wake me for that," said the boy, irritably. "i can't help it, can i?" "i think, my son, you might speak with more feeling. death is a solemn thing." "there's nobody here but me," said mark, sneering. "i don't catch your meaning," said his father, showing some annoyance, for it is not pleasant to be seen through. "why should you care so much?" continued mark. "i suppose you will be well provided for. do you know how she has left the property? how much of it goes to frank?" "i can't say," said mr. manning. "i never asked my wife." "do you mean to say, father, that you don't know how the property is left?" asked mark, with a sharp glance at his father. "i may have my conjectures," said mr. manning, softly. "i don't think my dear wife would leave me without some evidences of her affection. probably the bulk of the estate goes to your brother, and something to me. doubtless we shall continue to live here, as i shall naturally be your brother's guardian." "don't call him my brother," said mark. "why not? true, he is only your stepbrother; but you have lived under the same roof, and been to school together, and this ought to strengthen the tie between you." "i don't like frank," said mark. "he puts on altogether too many airs." "i had not observed that," said his father. "well, i have. only this evening he saw fit to speak impudently to me." "indeed! i am really amazed to hear it," said mr. manning, softly. "oh, he thinks he is the master of the house, or will be," said mark, "and he presumes on that." "he is unwise," said mr. manning. "even if the whole property descends to him, which i can hardly believe possible, i, as his guardian, will have the right to control him." "i hope you'll do it, father. at any rate, don't let him boss over me, for i won't stand it." "i don't think he will boss over you," answered his father, in a slow, measured voice, betraying, however, neither anger nor excitement. "of course, i should not permit that." mark regarded his father fixedly. "i guess the old man knows what's in the will," he said to himself. "he knows how to feather his own nest. i hope he's feathered mine, too." mr. manning passed from his son's chamber and went softly upstairs, looking thoughtful. anyone who could read the impassive face would have read trouble in store for frank. chapter iv mrs. manning's will during the preparations for the funeral frank was left pretty much to himself. mr. manning's manner was so soft, and to him had been so deferential, that he did not understand the man. it didn't occur to him that it was assumed for a purpose. that manner was not yet laid aside. his stepfather offered to comfort him, but frank listened in silence. nothing that mr. manning could say had the power to lighten his load of grief. so far as words could console him, the sympathy of deborah and the coachman, both old servants, whom his mother trusted, had more effect, for he knew that it was sincere, and that they were really attached to his mother. of mr. manning he felt a profound distrust, which no words of his could remove. meanwhile, mr. manning was looking from an upper window down the fine avenue, and his eye ranged from left to right over the ample estate with a glance of self-complacent triumph. "all mine at last!" he said to himself, exultingly. "what i have been working for has come to pass. three years ago i was well-nigh penniless, and now i am a rich man. i shall leave mark the master of a great fortune. i have played my cards well. no one will suspect anything wrong. my wife and i have lived in harmony. there will be little wonder that she has left all to me. there would be, perhaps, but for the manner in which i have taken care he shall be mentioned in the will--i mean, of course, in the will i have made for her." he paused, and, touching a spring in the wall, a small door flew open, revealing a shallow recess. in this recess was a folded paper, tied with a red ribbon. mr. manning opened it, and his eyes glanced rapidly down the page. "this is the true will," he said to himself. "i wish i could summon courage to burn it. it would be best out of the way. that, if found out, would make me amenable to the law, and i must run no risk. in this secret recess it will never be found. i will replace it, and the document which i have had prepared will take its place, and no one will be the wiser." on the day after the funeral, the family solicitor and a few intimate friends, who had been invited by mr. manning, assembled in the drawing room of the mansion to hear the will read. mr. manning himself notified frank of the gathering and its object. he found our hero lying on the bed in his chamber, sad and depressed. "i don't like to intrude upon your grief, my dear boy," said his stepfather, softly, "but it is necessary. the last will of your dear mother and my beloved wife is about to be read, and your presence is necessary." "couldn't it be put off?" asked frank, sadly. "it seems too soon to think of such things." "pardon me, my dear frank, but it is quite needful that there should be an immediate knowledge of the contents of the will, in order that the right person may look after the business interests of the estate. i assure you that it is the invariable custom to read the will immediately after the funeral." "if that is the custom, and it is necessary, i have nothing to say. when is the will to be read?" "at three o'clock, and it is now two." "very well, sir; i will come down in time." "of course there can't be much doubt as to the contents of the will," pursued mr. manning. "you are doubtless the heir, and as you are a minor, i am probably your guardian. should such be the case, i hope that the relations between us may be altogether friendly." "i hope so," said frank, gravely. at three o'clock the members of the family, with a few outside friends, gathered in the drawing room. the family solicitor, mr, ferret, held in his hand what purported to be the last will of mrs. manning. the widowed husband had directed the lawyer to the bureau of the deceased lady as likely to contain her will. it was found without trouble in the topmost drawer. deborah and the coachman had speculated as to whether they would be invited to attend at the reading of the will. their doubts were set at rest by an invitation from mr. manning himself. "you were so long in the service of my dear wife," he said, "that it is fitting that you be present at the reading of her will, in which it is quite probable that you may be personally interested." "he is uncommonly polite, i am sure," thought deborah, disposed for the moment to think more favorably of the man whom she had never been able to like. "my friends," said the lawyer, after a preliminary cough, "you are assembled to listen to the will of mrs. manning, just deceased. the document which i hold in my hand i believe to be such an instrument. i will now open if for the first time." he untied the ribbon, and began reading the will. it commenced with the usual formula, and proceeded to a few bequests of trifling amount. deborah and richard green were each left two hundred dollars, "as a slight acknowledgment of their faithful service." one or two friends of the family were remembered, but to an inconsiderable extent. then came the important clause: "all the rest and residue of the property of which i may die possessed i leave to my beloved husband, james manning, whose devoted affection has made happy the last years of my life. having implicit confidence in his good judgment and kindness of heart, i request him to make proper provision for my dear son frank, whose happiness i earnestly desire. i hope that he will consent to be guided by the wisdom and experience of his stepfather, who, i am sure, will study his interests and counsel him wisely. in my sorrow at parting with my dear son, it is an unspeakable comfort to me to feel that he will have such a guardian and protector." frank listened with amazement, which was shared by all present. practically, he was disinherited, and left wholly dependent upon his stepfather. chapter v disinherited the contents of the will created general astonishment. there was not one in the room who didn't know the devotion of mrs. manning to her son frank, yet, while speaking of him affectionately, she had treated him, as they considered, most cruelly. why should she have left such a dangerous power in her husband's hands? and how was mr. manning affected? he summoned to his face an expression of bewilderment and surprise, and, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon, him, he turned toward the lawyer. "mr. ferret," he said, "i need hardly say that this will surprises me very much, as i see that it does the friends who are present. are you sure that there is no codicil?" "i have been unable to discover any, mr. manning," said the lawyer, gravely, as he scanned the face of the widower keenly. mr. manning applied his handkerchief to his eyes, and seemed overcome by emotion. "i knew my dear wife's confidence in me," he said, in a tremulous voice, "but i was not prepared for such a striking manifestation of it." "nor i," said mr. ferret, dryly. "knowing her strong attachment to frank," paused mr. manning, "i feel the full extent and significance of that confidence when she leaves him so unreservedly to my care and guidance. i hope that i may be found worthy of the trust." "i hope so, sir," said mr. ferret, who, sharp lawyer as he was, doubted whether all was right, and was willing that mr. manning should be made aware of his feeling. "it is certainly a remarkable proviso, considering the affection which your wife entertained for her son." "precisely, mr. ferret. it shows how much confidence the dear departed felt in me." "so far as i can see, the boy is left wholly dependent upon you." "he shall not regret it!" said mr. manning, fervently. "i consecrate my life to this sacred trust." "you acquiesce in the arrangement, then, mr. manning?" "i cannot do otherwise, can i?" "there is nothing to prevent your settling the property, or any part of it, on the natural heir, mr. manning. you must pardon me for saying that it would have been wiser had your wife so stipulated by will." "i cannot consent to reverse, or in any way annul, the last wishes of my dear wife," said mr. manning, hastily. "it was her arrangement solely, and i hold it sacred. she has put upon me a serious responsibility, from which i shrink, indeed, but which i cannot decline. i will do all in my power to carry out the wishes of my late wife." mr. ferret shrugged his shoulders. "i am not surprised at your decision, sir," he said, coldly. "few men would resist the temptation. my duty is discharged with the reading of the will, and i will bid you good-afternoon!" mr. manning was a crafty man. he knew that the strange will would be discussed, and he thought it best that the discussion should come at once, that it might be the sooner finished. deborah, faithful old servant, was in a blaze of indignation. she went up quickly to frank, and said: "it's a shame, mr. frank, so it is!" "if my mother made that will, it is all right," said frank, gravely. "but she didn't, mr. frank! i know she would never do such a thing. she loved you as the apple of her eye, and she would not cheat you out of your rightful inheritance." "no more she would, mr. frank," said the coachman, chiming in. "i don't know what to think," said frank. "it has surprised me very much." "surprised you!" exclaimed deborah. "you may well say that. you might have knocked me down with a feather when i heard the property left away from you. depend upon it, that man knows all about it." "you mean mr. manning?" "to be sure i mean him! oh, he's managed artfully! i say that for him. he's got it all into his own hands, and you haven't a cent." "if it was my mother's will i wouldn't complain of that, deborah. it was hers to do with as she liked, and i know, at any rate, that she loved me." "there's one thing surprises me," said richard green. "if so be as the will isn't genuine, how does it happen that you and i come in for a legacy, deborah?" "it's meant for a blind," answered deborah. "oh, he's the artfulest man!" "you may be right, deborah. i must say the will sounded all right." "maybe it was copied from the mistress' will." this conversation took place in one corner of the room. it ceased as mr. ferret advanced toward the disinherited boy. "frank," said he, in a tone of sympathy, "i am very sorry for the provisions of the will." "so am i, sir," answered our hero. "it isn't pleasant to be dependent on mr. manning." "particularly when the whole estate should be yours." "i wouldn't have minded if half had been left to him, provided i had been left independent of him." "i appreciate your feelings, frank. i knew your father, and i am proud to say that he was my friend. i knew your mother well, and i esteemed her highly. i hope you will let me regard myself as your friend also." "thank you, mr. ferret!" said frank. "i am likely to need a friend. i shall remember your kind proposal. i want to ask you one question." "ask, and i shall answer." "did my mother consult with you about making this will?" "no, frank." "did she ever say anything that would lead you to think she would leave the property as it is left in this will?" "not a word." "was there another will?" "yes. i wrote her will at her direction more than a year ago. this will is dated only three months since, and, of course, takes precedence of it, even if the other is in existence." "can you tell me what were the provisions of the other will?" "a legacy of ten thousand dollars was left to mr. manning, and the rest of the estate to you, except the small legacies, which were all larger than in the will i have read. for instance, deborah and richard green were each put down for five hundred dollars." "so they suffer as well as i?" "yes." "have you any idea, mr. ferret, of the value of the estate which falls into mr. manning's hands?" "i have some idea, because i have talked with your mother on the subject. this estate is worth fifty thousand dollars at least, and there are fully fifty thousand dollars in money and bonds. the legacies do not altogether exceed one thousand dollars, and therefore it may be said that your stepfather has fallen heir to one hundred thousand dollars." "i suppose there is nothing i can do, mr. ferret?" "not unless you can show that this will which i have read is not a genuine document. that would be difficult." "did you notice my mother's signature?" "yes. i am not an expert, but i cannot detect any difference greater than maybe existed between two signatures of the same person." "then i suppose there is nothing to be done at present. i expect to have a hard time with mr. manning, mr. ferret." "how has he treated you in the past, frank?" asked the lawyer. "i have had nothing to complain of; but then he was not master of the estate. now it is difficult, and i think his treatment of me will be different." "you may be right. you remember what i said, frank?" "that i should regard you as a friend? i won't forget it, mr. ferret." one by one the company left the house, and frank was alone. left alone and unsustained by sympathy, he felt more bitterly than before the totally unexpected change in his circumstances. up to the last hour he had regarded himself as the heir of the estate. now he was only a dependent of a man whom he heartily disliked. could it be that this misfortune had come to him through the agency of his mother? "i will not believe it!" he exclaimed, energetically. chapter vi an unsatisfactory interview frank came to a decision the next morning. a long deferred interview with his stepfather was necessary. having made up his mind, he entered the room in which his stepfather sat. his air was manly and his bearing that of a boy who respects himself, but there was none of the swagger which some boys think it necessary to exhibit when they wish to assert their rights. mr. manning, in a flowered dressing gown, sat at a table, with a sheet of paper before him and a lead pencil in his hand. short as had been the interval since his accession to the property, he was figuring up the probable income he would derive from the estate. he looked up as frank entered the room, and surveyed him with cold and sarcastic eyes. his soft tones were dropped. "mr. manning," said frank, "i wish to talk to you." "you may, of course," his stepfather replied mildly. "it is about the will," frank advised him. "so you would complain of your poor mother, would you?" said his stepfather, in a tone of virtuous indignation. "i cannot believe that my mother made that will." mr. manning colored. he scented danger. should frank drop such hints elsewhere, he might make trouble, and lead to a legal investigation, which mr. manning had every reason to dread. "this is very foolish," he said, more mildly. "no doubt you are disappointed, but probably your mother has provided wisely. you will want for nothing, and you will be prepared for the responsibilities of manhood under my auspices." mr. manning's face assumed a look of self-complacence as he uttered these last words. "i have no blame to cast upon my dear mother," said frank. "if she made that will, she acted under a great mistake." "what mistake, sir?" "she failed to understand you." "do you mean to imply that i shall be false to my trust?" "not at present, sir. i don't wish to judge of you too hastily." as the boy turned to go, he said. "i have nothing further to say, sir." "but i have," said mr. manning. "very well, sir." "i demand that you treat my son mark with suitable respect, and forbear to infringe upon his rights." frank looked up, and answered, with spirit: "i shall treat mark as well as he treats me, sir. is that satisfactory?" "i apprehend," said mr. manning, "that you may make some mistakes upon that point." "i will try not to do so, sir." frank left the room, and this time was not called back. his stepfather looked after him, but his face expressed neither friendliness nor satisfaction. "that boy requires taming," he said to himself. "he is going to make trouble. i must consider what i will do with him." as mr. manning reviewed frank's words, there was one thing which especially disturbed him--the doubt expressed by his stepson as to his mother's having actually made the will. he saw that it would not do for him to go too far in his persecution of frank as it might drive the latter to consult a lawyer in regard to the validity of the will by which he had been disinherited. frank rather gloomily made his way to the stable. as he reached it, richard green came out. "i'm sorry for you, mr. frank. but your mother was a saint. she was too good to suspect the badness of others, mr. frank. she thought old manning was really all that he pretended to be, and that he would be as kind to you as she was herself. when she was alive, he was always as soft as--as silk." "his manner has changed now," said frank, gravely. "excuse me, richard, for finding fault with you, but don't call him old manning." "why not, mr. frank?" "i have no liking for mr. manning--in fact, i dislike him--but he was the husband of my mother, and i prefer to speak of him respectfully." "i dare say you are right, mr. frank, but, all the same, he don't deserve it. is mr. mark to ride ajax then?" "if he asks for it, you are to saddle ajax for him. i don't want you to get into any trouble with mr. manning on my account." "i don't care for that, mr. frank. i can get another place, and i don't much care to serve mr. manning." "i would rather you would stay, if you can, richard. i don't want to see a new face in the stable." "i don't think he means to keep me long, mr. frank. deborah and i will have to go, i expect, and he'll get some servants of his own here." "has he hinted anything of this, richard?" asked frank, quickly. "no; but he will soon, you may depend on it. i won't lose sight of you, though. i've known you since you were four years old, and i won't desert you, if i can do any good--nor deborah, either." "i have two friends, then, at any rate," said frank to himself. "that is something." chapter vii a school friend early monday morning it had been the custom for frank and mark to take the train for bridgeville, to enter upon a new week at the academy. frank felt that it would be better for him to go back without any further vacation, as occupation would serve to keep him from brooding over his loss. "are you ready, mark?" he asked, as he rose from the breakfast table. "ready for what?" "to go back to school, of course." "i am not going back this morning," answered mark. "why not?" asked frank, in some surprise. "i am going to stay at home to help father," said mark, with a glance at mr. manning. "if i can be of any service to you, sir, i will stay, too," said frank, politely. "thank you, but mark will do all i require," replied his stepfather. "very well, sir." frank appeared at the academy with a grave face and subdued manner, suggestive of the great loss he had sustained. from his schoolfellows, with whom he was a favorite, he received many words of sympathy--from none more earnest or sincere than from herbert grant. "i know how you feel, frank," he said, pressing the hand of his friend. "if i could comfort you i would, but i don't know how to do it." "i find comfort in your sympathy," said frank. "i look upon you as my warmest friend here." "i am glad of that, frank." to herbert alone frank spoke of his mother and her devoted affection; but even to him he did not like to mention the will and his disinheritance. he did not so much lament the loss of the property as that he had lost it by the direction of his mother, or, rather, because it would generally be supposed so. for himself, he doubted the genuineness of the will, but he felt that it was useless to speak of it, as he was unprepared with any proofs. so it happened that when, on wednesday afternoon mark manning made his appearance, frank's change of position, as respected the property, was neither known nor suspected by his schoolfellows. it was soon known, however, and of course, through mark. the boys immediately noticed a change in mark. he assumed an air of consequence, and actually strutted across the campus. instead of being polite and attentive to frank, he passed him with a careless nod, such as a superior might bestow on an inferior. "what has come over mark?" asked herbert of frank, as the two were walking together from recitation. "how do you mean?" "he holds his head higher than he used to do. he looks as if he had been elected to some important office." "you will soon learn, herbert," said frank. "make a pretext to join him, and let the news come from him." herbert looked puzzled. "do you wish me to do this?" he asked. "yes, i have a reason for it." "very well. i am always ready to oblige you, frank, but i hope mark won't think i have suddenly formed a liking for his society." "if he does, you can soon undeceive him." "that is true." herbert left the side of his friend, and sauntered toward mark. as herbert was known as frank's especial friend, mark was at first surprised, but quickly decided that his improved position had been communicated by frank, and that herbert was influenced by it. that is to say, he judged herbert to be as mean and mercenary as himself. herbert's position was too humble to entitle him to much notice from mark, but the latter was pleased with the prospect of detaching from frank his favorite friend. "you came back rather late, mark," said herbert. "yes," answered mark, with an air of importance. "i remained at home a short time, to help my father in his accounts. you know the property is large, and there is a good deal to do." "i should think that was frank's place, to help about the accounts." "why?" "the property is his, of course!" "did he tell you that?" asked mark, sharply. "he has not said a word about the property." "no, i suppose not," said mark, with a sneering laugh. "has anything happened? didn't his mother leave as much as was expected?" went on herbert, quite in the dark. "yes, she left a large estate, but she didn't leave it to him." "to whom, then?" "to my father!" replied mark, with conscious pride. "frank has nothing. he is entirely dependent upon father." "did his mother leave him nothing, then?" asked herbert, in pained surprise. "nothing at all," assured mark, complacently. "that is very strange and unjust." "i don't look upon it in that light," said mark, nettled. "my father knows what is best for him. he will provide for him just as his mother did before." "but when frank is of age, doesn't he come into possession of the estate then?" "no, of course not. didn't i tell you it belongs to father? frank is a poor boy--as poor as you," said mark, in a tone of evident satisfaction. "or you," added herbert, pointedly. "you are mistaken," said mark, quickly. "i am father's heir." "suppose your father dies--how will the property go?" "i suppose something will be left to frank, unless my father leaves me the property, with directions to provide for him." "would you think that right and just?" demanded herbert, indignantly. "of course i would. my stepmother knew what she was about when she made her will. i see you are surprised. you won't be quite to thick with frank, now, i expect." "why shouldn't i be?" "because he is just as poor as you are. he never can help you." "mark manning, i believe you are about the meanest boy i ever encountered, and you judge me by yourself!" "do you mean to insult me? mind what you say!" blustered mark, unpleasantly surprised at this outburst from a boy whom he expected would now transfer his allegiance from frank to himself. "i mean that you and your father have robbed frank of his inheritance, and glory in it, and you think that i am mean enough to desert him because he is no longer rich. it makes no difference to me whether he is rich or poor. i think i like him all the better because he has been so badly treated. as for you, i despise you, and shall continue to, even if you get the whole of frank's money." "you forget that you are talking to a gentleman, you low-born mechanic!" said mark, angrily. "you a gentleman!" replied herbert, contemptuously. "then i never want to be one!" he walked away, leaving mark very much incensed. "he is a fool!" muttered mark. "when i am a rich man, he may repent having insulted me." herbert went back to frank. "did he tell you?" asked frank, quietly. "yes; and he actually appeared to think i would be ready to desert you because you were poor, and follow him about." "i am not afraid of that, herbert." "i don't think mark will have that idea any more. i gave him a piece of my mind, and left him very angry. but what does it all mean, frank?" "i know no more than you do, herbert. i cannot understand it." "what could have induced your mother to make such a will?" "i cannot believe my poor mother ever made such a will; but, if she did, i am very sure that she was over-persuaded by my stepfather, who is one of the most plausible of men." "what shall you do about it?" "what can i do? i am only a boy. i have no proof, you know." "how are you likely to be treated?" "i have had a little foretaste of that." "it looks very bad for you, frank," admitted herbert, in a tone of sympathy. "i don't so much care for the loss of the property, herbert," said frank, "but i am afraid i shall have sorts of annoyances to endure from mark and his father. but i won't anticipate trouble. i will do my duty, and trust that things will turn out better than i fear." the next afternoon a letter was placed in frank's hands. it was in a brown envelope, and directed in a cramped and evidently unpracticed hand, with which frank was not familiar. on opening it, a glance at the signature showed that it was from richard green, the coachman. it commenced: "dear mr. frank: this comes hoping you are well. i have no good news to tell. mr. manning has sold your horse, ajax, and he is to be taken away to-night. i thought you ought to know it, and that is why i take my pen in hand to write." there was more, but this is all that was important. frank's face flushed with anger. he immediately went in search of mark, who, he felt assured, knew of the sale. it may be said here that ajax was one of frank's dearest trophies, a gift from his mother. chapter viii a new plan mark was in his room, where frank found him trying on a new necktie. though decidedly plain, mark fancied himself very good-looking, and spent no little time on personal adornment. in particular, he had a weakness for new neckties, in which he indulged himself freely. when the boys came to the academy, the principal proposed that they should room together; but both objected, and mark had a room to himself--no one caring to room with him. "take a seat, frank," said mark, condescendingly. "is there anything i can do for you?" "yes," answered frank. "i hear your father has sold ajax, or is intending to do so. will you tell me if it is true?" "i believe it is," answered mark, indifferently. "and what right has he to sell my horse?" demanded frank, indignantly. "you'd better ask him," said mark, with provoking coolness. "it is an outrage," said frank, indignantly. "as to that," said his stepbrother, "you can't expect father to be at the expense of feeding your horse." "with my money?" "the money is legally his," replied mark. "do you know to whom your father has sold ajax?" "to col. vincent, i believe." "i am glad, at any rate, that he will have a good master." frank felt that there would be no advantage in prolonging the interview, or carrying on further a war of words. he sought out his friend herbert, and communicated to him this last infraction of his rights. "it is too bad, frank!" said his sympathizing friend. "yes, it is," said frank, gravely; "but i fear it is only the beginning of annoyances. i don't believe i can ever live in any place with mr. manning or mark." "will it be necessary?" "i suppose so. i have no money, as you know. all has gone to him. herbert, i tell you frankly, i envy you and your position." "though my father is a poor man?" "yes; for, at any rate, you have a peaceful home, and a father and mother who love you. i have a stepfather, who will do all he can to make me miserable." "would you be willing to work for your own support, frank?" "yes; far rather than remain a dependent on mr. manning." "suppose you should run away," suggested herbert. frank shook his head. "i wouldn't do that except in case of extreme necessity. i know that if my mother knows what goes on here, it would grieve her for me to take such a step." "suppose your stepfather should consent to your leaving home?" "then i would do so gladly. i am willing to work and i think i could make a living in some way." "why not ask him?" frank's face brightened. "thank you for the hint, herbert," he said. "i will think of it, and i may act upon it." frank was naturally self-reliant and energetic. he was not disposed to shrink from the duties of life, but was ready to go forth to meet them. the idea which herbert had suggested commended itself to him the more he thought of it. in spite, therefore, of the news which he had received about ajax, he resumed his cheerfulness, considerably to the surprise of mark, whose natural suspicion led him to conjecture that frank had some plan in view to circumvent his father. "if he has, he'd better give it up," reflected mark. "the old man's as sly as a fox. a raw boy like frank can't get the better of him." at the close of the week, both the boys went home. they were on board the same train and the same car, but did not sit together. when they reached the house, mr. manning was not at home. frank went out to the stable at once to see richard green, the coachman. he found him, indeed, but he also found another man, a stranger, who appeared to be employed in the stable. "who is this, richard?" asked frank. "my successor," answered the coachman. "are you going to leave?" asked frank, hastily. "come out with me, mr. frank, and i will tell you," said richard. "i've had notice to leave," he said, "and so has deborah. it came last evening. mr. manning got a letter from bridgeville--i know that, because i brought it home from the post office--which appeared to make him angry. he called deborah and me and told us that he should not need our services any longer." "did he give you any reason?" "yes; he said that he could have our places filled for a good deal less money, and he had no doubt we could do as well elsewhere." "he has filled your place pretty soon." "yes. this man came this morning. i think mr. manning had sent for him already. i told you the other day we should soon be discharged." "i know it; but i can tell you what has hastened it." "what, then?" "mark wrote his father that i had learned about the sale of ajax, and that the information came from you or deborah." "i think it likely, mr. frank, for the old gentleman seemed mighty cool. i hope you won't take it too much to heart that ajax is sold." "i am not sure but i am glad of it," said frank. the coachman looked at him in surprise. "i thought you would be very angry," he said. "so i was at first, but he has been sold to a man who will treat him well, and i shall be glad to think of that when i'm away from home." "you don't mean to run away, mr. frank?" "no; but i mean to get my stepfather's permission to go, if i can." "where do you mean to go, mr. frank?" "somewhere where i can earn my living, without depending upon anybody. you know very well, richard, how miserable i should be to stay here in dependence upon mr. manning." "but to think that you, to whom the property rightfully belongs, should go away and work for a living, while that man and his boy occupy your place. i can't bear to think of it." "i have done a good deal of thinking within a few days, and i don't shrink from the prospect. i think i should rather enjoy being actively employed." "but you were to go to college, mr. frank." "i know it, richard, but i am not sure whether it would be for the best. my tastes are for an active business life, and i don't care for a profession." "do you think your stepfather will give you a start?" "in the way of money?" "yes." "i don't know. if he won't, i have still fifty dollars in the savings bank, which i have saved from my pocket money. i will take that." "mr. frank, will you promise not to be offended at what i'm going to say?" "i don't think you would say anything that ought to offend me, richard." "then i want you to take the money that comes to me by the will--mr. manning is to pay it to me on monday. i don't need it, and you may." frank shook his head. "you are very kind, richard, but i will get along with fifty dollars, unless mr. manning supplies me with more. if i really need money at any time, i will think of your offer." "that's something, at any rate," said richard. partly reconciled. "you won't forget it now, mr. frank?" "no, richard, i promise you." frank left the stable and went thoughtfully into the house. chapter ix the new owner of ajax frank and mark took supper alone, mr. manning having left word that he would not return till later in the evening. after supper, frank decided to go over to call upon col. vincent, the new owner of ajax. his estate was distant about three-quarters of a mile from the cedars. as frank started, mark inquired: "where are you going, frank?" "to see ajax," answered our hero. "do you mean to make any fuss about him? i wouldn't advise you to." "thank you for your advice." "i wonder what he is going to do?" thought mark. "of course he can't do anything now." he did not venture to propose to accompany frank, knowing that his company would not be acceptable. "is col. vincent at home?" asked frank, at the door of a handsome house. "yes, mr. courtney," replied the colored servant, pleasantly, for frank was a favorite among all classes in the neighborhood. "come right in, sir. de colonel am smoking a cigar on de back piazza." frank followed the servant through the hall which intersected the house, and stepped out on the back piazza. a stout, elderly gentleman was taking his ease in a large rustic rocking chair. "good-evening, col. vincent," our hero said. "good-evening, frank, my boy," said the colonel, heartily. "glad to see you. haven't you gone back to school?" "yes, sir; but i came home to spend sunday. it doesn't seem much like home now," he added, as his lip quivered. "you have suffered a great loss, my dear boy," said the colonel, feelingly. "the greatest, sir. my mother was all i had." "i suppose mr. manning will keep up the establishment?" "i suppose so, sir; but it is no longer home to me." "don't take it too hard, frank. i was sorry about the will." "so was i, sir; because it makes me dependent on a man whom i dislike." "don't be too prejudiced, frank. i never took any fancy to your stepfather myself; but then we don't need to like everybody we associate with." "i hear you have bought my horse, col. vincent," said frank, desiring to change the subject. "was ajax your horse?" "yes. it was given to me as a birthday present by my mother." "i had some such idea, and expressly asked mr. manning whether the horse was not yours." "what did he answer?" "that it was only nominally yours, and that he thought it best to sell it, as both you and mark were absent at school, and had no time to use it." "i am not surprised at anything mr. manning may say," said frank. "it's too bad! i'll tell you what i will do, frank. i haven't paid for the horse yet. i will return it to mr. manning, and tell him that i bought it under a misapprehension of the ownership. i don't think he will make any fuss." "i would rather have you keep it, sir." "you would!" exclaimed the colonel, in surprise. "yes, sir. if you should return ajax, mr. manning would sell him to some one else, and you, i know, will treat him well." "but you will lose the use of him. no, you won't, though. come over to my stable when you like, and, if he is not in use, you can take him out." "thank you, sir! you are very kind. while i am in the neighborhood, i won't forget your kind offer. but i mean to go away." "you mean to go away! where?" "out into the world. anywhere, where i can find work and make a living." "but surely this is not necessary. your stepfather will provide for you without your working." "i have no reason to doubt it, col. vincent; but i shall be happier in the world outside." "of course you will let mr. manning know of your intention to leave home?" "i shall ask his permission to go at the end of my school term. that comes in a couple of weeks." "where will you go?" "a cousin of my father is at newark, new jersey. i think i shall go to him first, and ask his advice about getting a place either there or in new york." "you will need some money to start with. do you think mr. manning will give you any?" "i don't know, sir! that won't prevent my going. i have fifty dollars in a savings bank, saved up from my allowance, and that will be all i shall need." "if you have any difficulty on that score, frank, remember that i was your father's friend, and mean to be yours. apply to me at any time when you are in a strait." "i will, sir, and thank you heartily." "that was a strange will, frank. i don't want to put any ideas into your head to disturb you, but had your mother ever led you to suspect that she intended to leave you dependent on your stepfather?" "never, sir!" "don't you think she would have done so, had she had such a plan in view?" "i do," said frank, quickly. the colonel's eye met his, and each knew what the other suspected. "there is nothing for me to do at present, sir," said frank. "if mr. manning does not interfere with my plans, i shall not trouble him." "i will hint as much when i see him. it may clear the way for you." "i wish you would, sir." "come and see me again, frank," said the colonel, as frank rose to go. "i certainly will, sir." "your father's son will always be welcome at my house. when did you say your school term closes?" "in a fortnight." "i will see your stepfather within a few days. by the way, frank, wouldn't you like a gallop on ajax to-night?" "yes, sir; i should enjoy it." "come out to the stable with me, then." ajax whinnied with delight when he saw his old, or rather his young master, and evinced satisfaction when frank stroked him caressingly. "sam," said col. vincent, "frank is to ride ajax whenever he pleases. saddle him for his use whenever he asks you." "that i will, sir" answered sam. "often and often i've seen mr. frank on his back. doesn't he ride well, though?" "don't flatter me, sam," said frank, laughing. five minutes later he was on the back of his favorite horse, galloping down the road. "i hope i shall meet mark," thought frank. "i would like to give him a sensation." considering the manner in which mark had treated his stepbrother, frank may be excused for the wish to puzzle him a little. finding himself lonely, mark decided to take a walk not long after frank's departure. he was sauntering along the road, when he heard the sound of hoofs, and, to his surprise, saw his stepbrother on the back of ajax. his first thought was that frank had gone to col. vincent's stable and brought away ajax without permission, in defiance of mr. manning's will. he resolved to take him to task for it immediately. frank purposely slackened the speed of his horse in order to give mark the chance he sought. "why are you riding ajax?" asked mark. "it is a pleasant evening," answered frank, "and i thought i should enjoy it." "where did you get him?" "from col. vincent's stable, where he never ought to have been carried," answered frank, with spirit. "you seem to think you can do anything you like, frank courtney," said mark, provoked, deciding that his suspicions were well founded. "is there any particular reason why i should not ride ajax?" demanded frank. "you have made yourself liable to arrest for horse stealing," said mark. "it would serve you right if col. vincent should have you arrested and tried." "i don't think he will gratify your kind wishes, mark." "just wait and see what my father has to say to you." "i have only done what i had a perfect right to do; but i can't stop to dispute with you. i must finish my ride. hey, ajax!" as he spoke the horse dashed into a gallop, and mark was left looking after him in a disturbed frame of mind. "i'll tell my father as soon as he gets home," he decided; and he kept his word. in consequence, frank, by that time returned, was summoned into mr. manning's presence. "what is this i hear?" he began. "did you ride ajax this evening?" "yes, sir." "where did you find him?" "in col. vincent's stable." "this is a high-handed proceeding, frank courtney. have you any excuse to offer?" "none is needed sir. col. vincent has given me permission to ride him whenever i please." "it appears to me, mark," said mr. manning, sharply, "that you have made a fool of yourself." "how should i know?" replied mark, mortified by the collapse of his sensation. "frank didn't tell me he had leave to use the horse." and he left the room, looking foolish. chapter x mark yields to temptation there are some boys, as well as men, who cannot stand prosperity. it appeared that mark manning was one of these. while his stepmother was living and his father's prospects--and consequently his own--were uncertain, he had been circumspect in his behavior and indulged in nothing that could be considered seriously wrong. when his father came into possession of a large fortune, and his pocket money was doubled, mark began to throw off some of the restraint which, from motives of prudence, he had put upon himself. about the middle of the week, as frank was taking a walk after school hours, he was considerably surprised to see mark come out of a well-known liquor saloon frequented by men and boys of intemperate habits. the students of bridgeville academy were strictly forbidden this or any other saloon, and i am sure that my boy readers will agree with mo that this rule was a very proper one. mark manning appeared to have been drinking. his face was flushed, and his breath, if one came near enough to him, was redolent of the fumes of alcohol. with him was james carson, one of the poorest scholars and most unprincipled boys in the academy. it was rather surprising that he had managed for so long to retain his position in the institution, but he was crafty and took good care not to be caught. to go back a little, it was chiefly owing to james carson's influence that mark had entered the saloon. when he learned that mark's worldly prospects had improved, and that he had a large supply of pocket money, he determined to cultivate his acquaintance--though privately he thought mark a disagreeable boy--with the intention of obtaining for himself a portion of mark's surplus means. at the first of the term he had made similar advances to frank, but they were coldly received, so much so that he did not think it worth while to persevere in courting our hero's intimacy. he succeeded better with mark, his crafty nature teaching him how to approach him. "mark," he said, with a great show of cordiality, "i am delighted to hear of your good fortune. i always liked you, and i think you deserve to be rich." "thank you!" said mark, much gratified, for he liked flattery. "i am sure i am very much obliged to you." "oh, not at all! i only say what i think. shall i tell you why i am particularly glad?" "yes, if you like," returned mark, in some curiosity. "because i like you better than that young muff, your stepbrother. i hope you won't be offended at my plain speaking," he added, artfully. "certainly not!" said mark. "i suppose," said james, "you will see a little life now that you are your own master and have plenty of money." "i don't know exactly what you mean, james. there isn't much life to be seen in bridgeville." "that is true; but still there is some. suppose now"--by this time they were in front of the saloon, which, besides a bar, contained a billiard and pool table--"suppose now we go in and have a game of billiards." "it's against the rules, isn't it?" asked mark. "what do you care for the rules?" said james, contemptuously. "if the old man hears of it, we shall get into hot water." by the "old man" mark meant the rev. dr. brush, the venerable and respected principal of the bridgeville academy, but such boys as he have very little respect for the constituted authorities. "why need he know it? we will slip in when no one is looking. did you ever play a game of billiards?" "i never played over half a dozen games in my life." "yon ought to know how to play. it is a splendid game. come in." mark did not make very strong opposition, and the two boys, first looking cautiously in different directions, entered the saloon. toward the entrance was a bar, and in the roar of the saloon were two tables. "won't you have a drink, mark?" asked james. mark hesitated. "oh, come now, it won't hurt. two glasses of whisky, john." "all right, mr. carson," said the barkeeper, to whom james was well known. james tossed off his glass with the air of an old drinker, but mark drank his more slowly. "there, i know you feel better, mark." "now, john, give me the balls. we'll play a game of billiards." "all right, sir." "i'll discount you, mark," said james, "to give you a fair chance. it is about the same thing as giving you half the game. or, if you like, i will give you seventeen points to start with, and then you will only have seventeen to make, while i am making thirty-four." "i like that best." "now shall we play for the drinks?" "we have just had a drink?" "we'll have another." "won't that be too much? i don't want to get drunk." "two drinks won't do you any harm. very well. now let us string for the lead." there is no need of describing the game in detail. mark was only a novice, while james could really make three or four points to his one. he restrained himself, however, so that he only beat mark by two points. "you did splendidly, mark," he said. "considering how little you have played, you did remarkably well. why, you made a run of three." "yes, i did pretty well," said mark, flattered by his companion's praises. "i had hard work to beat you, i can tell you that. as it was, you came within two points of beating. don't you like the game?" "very much." "i thought you would. shall we have another game?" "i don't mind," answered mark. he knew that he ought to be in his room writing a composition to be delivered the next day, but such obligations sat easily upon mark, and he did not hesitate long. that time james allowed him to score sixteen, so that mark was only beaten by one point. "you see, you are improving," said james. "i played a better game that time than before, and still you came within one of beating me." "i think i shall become a good player in time," said mark, complacently. "yes, and in a very short time. now," said james, "i have a proposal to make to you." "what is it?" "we'll bet twenty-five cents on the next game, to give a little interest to it." mark had no special scruples against betting, which is only one form of gambling, but he decidedly objected to losing money, so he answered, cautiously: "i don't know about that. you beat me both of the other games." "that's true; but you play better now than you did at first." "that may be so." "what are twenty-five cents, anyway? i expect to lose it, but it will increase the interest of the game." so mark was persuaded, and the game was played. james carson managed to let mark beat him by five shots, and the latter was correspondingly elated. "you beat me after all," said james, pretending to be much disappointed, "and by five points. i'll tell you what i'll do--i'll give you the same odds, and bet a dollar on the game. i suppose it's foolish, but i'll risk it!" "done!" said mark, eagerly. his cupidity was excited, and he felt sure of winning the dollar, as he had the twenty-five cents. but james had no idea of playing off now, and he played a better game, as he was well able to do. the result was that mark was beaten by three points. he looked quite crestfallen. "i had better shows than you," said james. "i couldn't do it once in five times. will you play again?" mark agreed to it with some hesitation, and he was again beaten. "you had luck against you. another day you will succeed better. have you played enough?" "yes," answered mark, annoyed. he had four games to pay for and two dollars in bets, and it made rather an expensive afternoon. "have another drink? i'll treat," said james, who could afford to be liberal. mark accepted, and then, flushed and excited, he left the saloon, just as frank came up, as described in the first part of the chapter. on the whole, he was sorry to meet his stepbrother just at this time. frank stopped, and his attention was drawn to mark's flushed face. chapter xi mark gets into trouble mark nodded slightly and was about to pass without a word, when frank said, quietly: "i am sorry to see you coming out of such a place, mark." "what is it to you, anyway?" returned mark, rudely. "not much, perhaps," replied frank, calmly, "but i don't like to see my acquaintances coming out of a liquor saloon." "it won't hurt you," said mark, irritably. "no, it won't hurt me, but if tho principal should hear of it, it would not be pleasant for you. you know students are strictly forbidden to enter any saloon?" "i suppose you mean to tell on me," said mark, hastily, and not altogether without uneasiness. "you are mistaken. i am not a talebearer." "then there is no need to say any more about it. come along, james!" frank's interference was well meant, but, as we shall see, it did harm rather than good. as mark left the saloon, he had half decided not to enter it again. he was three dollars out of pocket, and this did not suit him at all. in fact, mark was rather a mean boy, and it was with considerable reluctance that he had handed over to his companion the two dollars with which to pay for the games. moreover, he was mortified at losing the two games of billiards, when so great odds had been given him. james carson was no scholar, but he was sharp enough to perceive the state of mark's feelings, and he also saw how he was affected by frank's remonstrance. he decided to take advantage of this, and strengthen his hold on mark. "well, mark," he said, "i suppose you'll give up playing billiards now." "why should i?" "because your stepbrother doesn't approve of it. you won't dare to go into the saloon after he has forbidden you," he continued, with a sneer. "what do you mean, james? do you suppose i care that"--snapping his fingers--"for what frank says, or even thinks, either?" "i didn't know but you might stand in fear of him." "do you mean to insult me?" demanded mark, hotly. "insult you! my dear friend, what can you be thinking of? why, i like you ten times as much as that muff, frank courtney." "then what did you mean by what you said?" asked mark, more calmly. "i will tell you. i got an idea, from what frank said once, that he was in charge of you--well, not exactly that, but he looked after you." this was a wicked falsehood, as frank had never intimated any such thing. in fact, he had generally kept quite aloof from james. mark, however, fell into the trail, and never thought of doubting what his companion said. "if frank said that, i've a great mind to whip him," said mark, angrily. "oh, i wouldn't notice him, if i were you!" said james. "for my part, i didn't believe what he said. i felt sure that a fine, spirited boy like you wouldn't submit to his dictation." "i should say not--the impudent follow!" "when he spoke to you just now," continued james, "one would really have thought he was your uncle, or guardian, and that you were a little boy." "i'll show him what i think of him and his advice. i hadn't thought of going to the saloon to-morrow, but now i will." "bravo! i like your spirit!" said james, admiringly. "it is just the way to treat him. shall i come round with you about the same hour as to-day?" "yes, i wish you would." when the two boys parted company, james carson smiled to himself. "what a fool mark is!" he thought. "he thinks he is his own master, but i am going to twist him round my little finger. he's a sweet youth, but he's got money, and i mean to have some of it. why, he tells me his father allows him eight dollars a week for spending money. if i manage well, i can get more than half away from his in bets." the next day james called for mark, as agreed upon, and again the two boys went to the billiard saloon. the performance of the day before was repeated. james carson, while flattering mark's poor play, managed to beat in every game but one on which money was staked, and came out the richer by a dollar and a half. "i am very unlucky," grumbled mark, in a tone of dissatisfaction. "so you were, mark," admitted his sympathizing friend. "you made some capital shots, though, and if i hadn't been so lucky, you would have come out the victor in every game." "but i didn't." "no, you didn't; but you can't have such beastly luck all the time." "i guess i'd better give up billiards. in two days i have spent five dollars. it doesn't pay." "no doubt frank will be gratified when he hears that you have given up playing. he will think it is because you are afraid of him." james had touched the right chord, and poor mark was once more in his toils. "it's lucky for me that frank spoke to him," thought james. "it makes it much easier for me to manage him." one thing, however, james had not taken into account. there were others besides frank who were liable to interfere with his management, and who had the authority to make their interference effectual. on the day succeeding, as james and mark were in the campus, herbert grant approached them. now herbert was the janitor of the academy. he also was employed by the principal to summon students who had incurred censure to his study, where they received a suitable reprimand. it was not a pleasant duty, but some one must do it, and herbert always discharged it in a gentlemanly manner, which could not, or ought not, to offend the schoolfellows who were unlucky enough to receive a summons. "boys," said he, "i am sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news, but dr. brush would like to see you in his study." "both of us?" asked james. "yes." "are there any others summoned?" "no." mark and his companion looked at each other with perturbed glances. no one cared to visit the principal on such an errand. corporal punishment was never resorted to in the bridgeville academy, but the doctor's dignified rebuke was dreaded more than blows would have been from some men. "what do you think it is, james?" asked mark, uneasily. "i think it's the saloon," answered james, in a low voice. "but how could he have found it out? no one saw us go in or come out." the billiard saloon was at some distance from the academy building, and for that reason the two boys had felt more secure in visiting it. "i'll tell you how it came out," said james, suddenly. "how?" asked mark. "you remember frank saw us coming out day before yesterday." "he said he wouldn't tell." it was not very difficult for mark to believe anything against frank, and he instantly adopted his companion's idea. "the mean sneak!" he said. "i'll come up with him! i'll tell my father not to give him any money for the next month. i'll---i'll get him to apprentice frank to a shoemaker! perhaps then he won't put on so many airs." "good for you! i admire your pluck!" said james, slapping mark on the back. "you are true grit, you are! just teach the fellow a lesson." "see if i don't!" mark nodded his head resolutely, and went into the presence of dr. brush, thirsting for vengeance against his stepbrother, who, he felt persuaded, had informed against him. if frank had known his suspicions he would have been very much surprised. as it happened, however, he did not even know that his stepbrother had been summoned to the doctor's study. had he met herbert, the later would have told him; but after receiving his list, it so chanced that he and his friend did not meet. the fact was that a young man employed as tutor in mathematics in the academy, while taking an afternoon walk, had seen mark and james carson leaving the liquor saloon, and, as in duty bound, had reported the same to the principal. mr. triangle, however, had not been observed by either of the two boys, and therefore they were led off on a false scent. "what do you think the old man will say?" asked mark, uneasily, as they ascended the stairs to the principal's study. "he'll give us a raking down, i suppose," said james. "he will come down heavy on us." "i wish i were out of it." "oh, it's not worth minding! we haven't committed murder, have we? what's the harm in a game of billiards?" "not much, perhaps; but the drinking and betting are certainly objectionable." the boys knocked at the door, and the full, deep voice of dr. brush was heard to say: "come in!" chapter xii suspended dr. brush was seated at a table covered with papers, in a large armchair. he was an elderly man of dignified presence, not a petty tyrant such as is sometimes found in a similar position, but a man who commanded respect, without an effort. mark manning and james carson entered his presence a little nervously. "young gentlemen," said the doctor, gravely, "i am informed that you have violated one of the rules of the academy by frequenting a billiard saloon where liquor is sold." "who told you, sir?" asked mark. "that is not to the purpose," said the principal, gravely. "but i should like to know who informed on me," persisted mark. "whoever did so acted as your true friend, manning; but there is no occasion for you to know who it was. is it true?" mark would have been glad to deny the charge, and would not have felt any scruples about doing so, if it would have done any good. but it was clear, even to him, that he would not be believed, and that denial would only make his position worse. so he made a virtue of necessity, and answered: "i have been in once or twice, sir." "exactly how many times have you been to the saloon?" "three times." "what did you do there?' "we played billiards." "did you order anything at the bar?" "yes, sir," said mark, reluctantly. "carson, you accompanied manning, did you not?" said dr. brush, turning to mark's companion. "yes, sir." "and i suppose you also played billiards and drank?" "well, yes, sir, i believe i did." "you were aware, were you not, that it was against the regulations of the school?" "i suppose it must have slipped my mind," answered james, trying to look as innocent as possible. dr. brush frowned, for he saw clearly that this was but a subterfuge. "if this were true," he continued, "it would be no excuse. as students, it is your duty to make yourselves acquainted with the rules that govern the institution. in point of fact, i cannot believe that either of you is ignorant of the rule forbidding students to frequent places where liquor is sold. it is hardly necessary for me to defend the propriety of this rule. intemperance is a fruitful source of vice and crime, and i cannot allow the youth under by charge to form habits of indulgence which may blast all their prospects, and lead to the most ruinous consequences." "we didn't drink much," said mark. "i shall not inquire how much you drank. in drinking a single glass, you violated the rule of the school, and i cannot pass over it." "what is he going to do with us, i wonder?" thought mark. he was not required to wonder long. "as this is your first offense, so far as i know," proceeded the principal, "i will not be severe. you are both suspended from the institution for the remainder of the term, and are required to leave bridgeville by the early train to-morrow morning for your respective homes. i shall write to your parents, explaining the cause of your suspension." but a week remained of the term, and the punishment was mild, but both boys were mortified and left the study crestfallen. mark was the first to recover his spirits. "it is not so bad, james," he said. "to-morrow will be saturday, and i should go home, anyway. i don't mind staying at home next week." "what will your father say?" "oh, i'll make it all right with him! i don't mind much what he says. i guess he got into scrapes himself when he was a boy." "my father isn't so easily managed. just as likely as not, he'll cut off my allowance for a month; and that'll be no joke!" "my father won't do that," said mark. "if he did, i would raise a fuss." "would that do any good?" "i'll bet it would!" frank, who was quite ignorant of mark's trouble, was surprised when the latter approached him a little later with a frown and said, harshly: "you won't make anything by what you have done, frank courtney!" "will you be kind enough to tell me what i have done?" asked frank, calmly. "you've been to dr. brush and told him about our playing billiards." "you are entirely mistaken, mark. i did not suppose he knew." "it must have been you. he told us some one had informed him, and you were the only one who knew. it's a mean trick, isn't it, carson?" "awfully mean!" "i have already told you that the information did not come from me. it may be the best thing for you that it has been found out, for it was doing you no good to frequent such places." "i don't want to hear any of your preaching, frank courtney. i guess i can manage my own affairs without any advice from you." "i don't care to intrude any advice," said frank. "i have not much reason to feel interested in you." "you'd better look out how you treat me, though," said mark, insolently. "i know very well you dislike me, but it won't be safe for you to show it while you are a dependent on my father." "i don't propose to be a dependent on him long," said frank, quietly. "the truth of it is, you and your father are dependent upon property which of right belongs to me. the time may come when i shall be able to show this." "what does he mean?" thought mark, uneasily. "will he contest the will?" it was perhaps an evidence of mark's shrewdness that he had some doubts about the validity of the will under which his father inherited. chapter xiii mr. manning's new plan mark so represented his school difficulty to his father that he incurred but slight censure. indeed, mr. manning was so absorbed in plans for getting the greatest enjoyment out of the estate of which he had obtained possession by doubtful means that he didn't care to be disturbed about such a trifle as his son's suspension. he felt more disposed to blame frank, whom mark charged with betraying him. "what does frank say about it?" asked mr. manning. "of course he denies it," said mark, "but it can't be any one else." "he is acting very unwisely," said mr. manning, compressing his thin lips. "so i told him, but he said he didn't mean to be a dependent on you long." "how is he going to avoid it?' "i don't know." "i have had some intimation from col. vincent, who appears to be in his confidence. he wants to leave us." "to go away?" "yes." "but you won't let him?" "i have been thinking about that, mark, and i may give my permission. the fact is, he stands in the way of some plans i have formed. i am thinking of traveling." "not without me?" said mark, hastily. "no; you shall go with me, but i don't care to take frank." "you might leave him at school." "i might, but how do i know that he might not hatch some mischief while we are gone?" "he might make some fuss about the property," suggested mark. "has he hinted anything of that kind to you?" asked his father, quickly. "yes. only yesterday he said that the property belonged by right to him." mr. manning looked thoughtful, and watched mark narrowly to see if from his manner he could divine the boy's intentions. later that same evening, mark having retired early in consequence of a headache, frank found himself alone with his stepfather, and took advantage of the opportunity to speak of the plan he had formed. "mr. manning," he said, "if you are at leisure, i should like to speak with you a few minutes." "proceed," said his stepfather, waving his hand. "but a week remains of the school term. did you propose that i should return there at the end of the vacation?" "humph! i had not thought much on the subject." "it has all along been intended that i should go to college when prepared, but i don't think i care much about it." "in that case," said his stepfather, with alacrity, "you would only be throwing away time and money by going." he was quite ready to agree to frank's surrender of the college plan for two reasons. a college course would be expensive. again, should he turn his attention to the law, he might hereafter give him trouble about the estate. "i don't think i should throw away my time, for, if i went to college, i should go there to work faithfully; but i have a fancy for a more stirring life." "it might be a good plan for you to learn a trade," said mr. manning, reflectively. "learn a trade!" exclaimed frank, in surprise. "yes; it would always enable you to earn a living." "do you intend mark to learn a trade?" asked frank, quickly. "no; his case is very different from yours." "why it is different?" "it is not necessary for me to explain," answered his stepfather, stiffly. "if there were any need of it, mr. manning, i would not object to learn a trade," said frank. "i have no false pride on the subject. but my tastes are more for mercantile business." "i may be able to find you a place somewhere. i have a friend in the dry-goods business, who would receive you at my recommendation." "thank you!" said frank, hastily. "but if you will allow me, i would prefer to look around for myself." "what is it you want, then?" "your permission to go out into the world, and try to make a living." "and if you don't," said mr. manning, "i suppose you expect me to defray your expenses?" "if i did have such an expectation, i think i should be justified, in view of the large property which my mother left," said frank, pointedly. "she left it to me," said his stepfather. "so it appears, at any rate. but i shall not call upon you to pay my board. give me your permission to go where i please, with a small sum of money to start me, and i shall be satisfied." "and what will the world say? that i, your stepfather, to whom you have a right to look for maintenance, had driven you out to earn your living! it would be unjust, of course, but the world is ever unjust." and mr. manning assumed a look of wronged innocence, which would have imposed on anyone who knew him but slightly. "i shall defend you from any such charge," said frank. "i shall say that you were only yielding to my request." "i will think of it, my dear boy," said mr. manning, graciously. "i already feel inclined to grant it, because it is your request. i shall be sorry to be separated from you; but i am willing to sacrifice my own feelings, if it will give you pleasure." this did not impose upon frank, who had a correct idea of the degree of fondness which mr. manning had for his society, but he was too well satisfied with the prospect of obtaining the permission he desired to imply any doubts. "again," continued his stepfather, "whatever you may say to the contrary, i know that the world will censure me; but i shall have the approval of my own conscience, and with that i can defy the world." mr. manning certainly did look like a righteous man when he said this, and he beamed upon his stepson with a glance that was actually affectionate. "go back to school," ho said, "and when you return i shall be able to give you a definite answer." indeed, nothing could have suited mr. manning's plans better. he would get rid of the care and nearly the whole expense of his obnoxious stepson, while with his son mark he would be spending the revenues of the estate which belonged to frank. during the coming week he arranged his plans for a prolonged absence from the cedars. he wrote to new york to engage passage on a steamer bound for liverpool, and quietly waited for the end of frank's school term to release him from a care which had grown burdensome. frank returned to the bridgeville academy without mark. as may be supported, however, he did not feel the loss of his society. he at once communicated to his chosen friend, herbert grant, his probable departure from school. "i am sorry to hear it, frank," said herbert, soberly. "do you think you are acting wisely?" "i am not acting as i would have done had my mother lived," answered frank; "but you must remember that my position in life has very much changed. i am a poor boy." "hardly that, when there is so much property in the family." "i know mr. manning too well to believe that i shall derive much benefit from it. no, herbert, i have my own living to make, and i want to make it in my own way." "it is a sad change for you, frank." "no, i can't say that. i don't know how it is, herbert, but i am rather glad to have all this thrown upon me. i enjoy feeling that i have got to work." "i have a chance of enjoying the same feelings," said herbert, with a smile. "i wish we could start together, herbert. couldn't you go with me?" herbert shook his head. "father has a plan for me," he said. "i am to learn his trade, and shall commence next week. i don't particularly like it, but it is well to have a trade to fall back upon." "mr. manning wanted me to learn a trade." "there is no occasion for your doing so." "i don't know about that. if i had a particular fancy for any, i wouldn't mind choosing it, but i am better suited for something else." "what is your plan? what will you do first?" "my father has a cousin in the city of newark, new jersey, only a few miles from new york. four years ago, he and his family made us a visit, and he was urgent then that we should return the visit. i will, first of all, go to him, and ask his advice. he is a business man, and he may be able to put me in the way of obtaining a position." "i think you will succeed, frank, but it will be harder than you think for. you don't know what poverty is yet. i have never known anything else." "if i do succeed, herbert, i may be able to find something for you." "i wish you might," herbert replied; but he was not as sanguine as frank. he understood, better than his friend, that for a boy to set out alone into the great world to earn a living is a serious undertaking. chapter xiv good-bye frank had fixed upon the tuesday morning succeeding the close of the academic term for his departure from home. monday was devoted to a few necessary preparations and a few calls on old friends, among them col. vincent, the owner of ajax. "my dear frank," said the colonel, kindly, "i feel a strong interest in your welfare, more especially because of the wrong which i do not scruple to say has been done you. what does mr. manning say to your plan?" "he makes no objection," said frank. "suppose he had done so?" "i would not have run away. he is my stepfather and guardian, and i would have endured staying at home as well as i could." "there you are right, frank. though i have a poor opinion of mr. manning, he is not likely to treat you in a manner to justify your going away without his permission. from what i have heard within the last week, i suspect that he feels relieved to have you go." "what have you heard, sir?" "that mr. manning will shortly sail for europe, taking mark with him." frank was surprised, having no suspicion of this. "now are you not sorry that you have decided to go out into the world to earn a living when you might have seen something of the old world?" "mr. manning would never have taken me along," answered frank, quietly, "nor should i have enjoyed traveling with him and mark." "of the two, who would interfere the more with your enjoyment?" "mark." "then you prefer the father to the son?" said the colonel. "the father has much more agreeable manners. i don't think mark could be agreeable if he tried." col. vincent smiled. "perhaps you are right, frank," he said. "now, as your father's old friend, i shall exact a promise from you." "what is it, sir?" "you are going out into the world to earn your own living. boys of your age are apt to think it an easy thing. i have seen more of life, and i am sure you will find it more difficult than you suppose. you may find yourself in difficulty, possibly in want. in that case, promise to let me know, and i will come to your assistance." "i will, sir," answered frank. the time came for frank to say good-bye to mr. manning and mark, and the house which had been his home from infancy. his stepfather handed him a small pocketbook. "frank," he said, "in this pocketbook you will find twenty-five dollars. it is not much, but--" "i am satisfied, sir," said frank. "it won't be long before i am earning something." "i hope your anticipations may be realized, but it is possible that you may require help." "i think not, sir." "i will authorize my banker to pay you the same sum--twenty-five dollars--every three months. of course, it is not enough to support you; but, as you say it is your intention to procure a place--" "yes, sir." "it will probably be enough to make up any deficiency that may exist in your income. i am aware that you do not regard me as--as i would like to have you; but i am resigned to be misunderstood, and i merely call your attention to the fact that i have given you my free permission to carry out your own plans and have given you more assistance than you asked for." "that's true, sir." "should anyone in your hearing condemn me for what i have done, i depend upon your defending me." "i will state the facts, sir. i will take the entire responsibility for anything that may result from the step i have taken." mr. manning looked well pleased. things were taking the course he desired, and for the paltry sum of one hundred dollars a year, he was getting rid of an obnoxious stepson, while appearing to confer a favor upon him. "perhaps you are right, frank," said his stepfather, disguising the satisfaction he felt. "if, however, you should find that you have made a mistake, you will do me the justice to remember that i gave you your choice." knowing, as he did, that the offer was not genuine, frank remained silent. he could not make up his mind to express gratitude, and therefore said nothing. here the carriage drove up to the door to convey frank to the railway station. mindful of appearance, mr. manning accompanied him to the cars, and in presence of several neighbors bade him an effusively affectionate farewell. so frank was fairly started on his campaign. chapter xv erastus tarbox, of newark erastus tarbox kept a dry-goods store in the city of newark, new jersey. he was well to do, not so much because of his enterprise and skill as a merchant as because of his extreme poverty. some people called it parsimony. he only employed two clerks to assist him in his store, and they, as well as the boy who carried out parcels and ran the errands, were paid scarcely more than two-thirds the rates paid in neighboring stores. mr. tarbox prided himself upon his relationship to the courtneys. they were rich, and riches, in his eyes were a great merit. he often sighed to think that there was no chance for him to benefit by a share of the large property owned by his cousins. without hope of personal advantage, however, he had always been obsequious to them, and often took occasion to mention them, by way of enhancing his own social credit somewhat. mr. tarbox had heard of mrs. courtney's death, but had not heard the particulars of the will. he took it for granted that frank was sole heir, and it did cross his mind more than once how very agreeable it would be if he could be selected as guardian of the rich young heir. of course, he knew that there was no probability of it, since the stepfather would undoubtedly be appointed to that position. mr. tarbox had just sold a calico dress pattern to a poor woman, when his attention was drawn to the entrance of frank courtney, who entered his store, valise in hand. mr. tarbox was rather short-sighted, and did not immediately recognize the son of his rich cousin. "what can i do for you, young man?" he asked, in his business tone. "this is mr. tarbox, i believe?" said frank, who did not know his relatives very well. "yes, that is my name." "i am frank courtney." "bless my soul!" ejaculated mr. tarbox, surprised and delighted. "when did you arrive in newark?" "i have only just arrived." "i do hope you are going to make us a visit," said mr. tarbox, cordially. "thank you!" answered frank, cheered by this warm reception. "if you are sure it won't inconvenience you." "inconvenience me! we shall be delighted to have you with us." "you must come up and see mrs. tarbox. she will be delighted to see you." mr. tarbox lived over his store. there was a door from the street adjoining the shop front. mr. tarbox opened it with a pass-key, and conducted frank upstairs, ushering him into a gloomy parlor, with stiff, straightbacked chairs, ranged at regular intervals along the sides of the room, and a marble-topped center table, with two or three books lying upon it. there was a framed engraving, representing washington crossing the delaware, over the mantel, and two plaster figures and similar ornaments on the mantelpiece. the whole aspect of the room chilled frank. "wait here, and i will call my wife," said mr. tarbox. frank sat down on a hard sofa and awaited the entrance of mrs. tarbox. she came in, a tall, thin woman, about as handsome for a woman as her husband was for a man. indeed, they were very well matched. she was quite as mean as he, and between them they managed to make annually a sensible addition to their world possessions. mr. tarbox privately hinted his hopes respecting frank to his wife, and she instantly agreed that it would be a most eligible arrangement. "we must make him contented, my dear," said her husband. "give him the best bedroom, and i think it might be well to have something a little extra for supper." "i did intend to put on the rest of that cold mutton," said mrs. tarbox, doubtfully. "it won't do, martha. there is only a little of it, you know, and the boy has been traveling, and, of course, is hungry. what do you say, now, to some nice beefsteak?" "beefsteak is high now," said mrs. tarbox. "still, if we buy round steak--that is cheaper than sirloin or tenderloin." "and quite as good," said her economical partner. "we can tell frank, however, that no sirloin was to be had so late in the day at the markets." mrs. tarbox nodded her head, approving the suggestion. this little matter being adjusted, the husband and wife entered the parlor where our hero was waiting patiently. "this is our young cousin, martha," said mr. tarbox, smiling pleasantly. "welcome to newark," said mrs. tarbox, extending her hand. "and how did you leave your stepfather?" "he is well," said prank, coolly. the two exchanged glances. it was clear that frank did not like his stepfather, and this was satisfactory to them. there was the more chance of his leaving him and boarding with them. "the children will be so glad to see you," said mr. tarbox; "won't they, martha?" "delighted!" assured the lady. "pliny must be about your age. how old are you, by the way?" "sixteen." "just pliny's age. do you remember him?" frank remembered a tall, thin stripling who had accompanied his parents to the cedars, and who appeared to have an inexhaustible appetite. "yes, i remember him. does he go to school?" "no; pliny is in a store," answered mr. tarbox. "your store?" "oh, no! i thought it would be better for him to enter the employ of a stranger. he is in a bookstore." there was one great advantage in pliny's entering the employ of a stranger. he was paid four dollars a week, whereas mr. tarbox paid his boy but two. here, then, was a clear gain of two dollars a week. "but you must be tired," said mrs. tarbox. "you will see the children at supper. martha, i think frank would like to go to his room." the best bedroom was over the parlor. it was rather more cheerful, because lighter. "here," said mr. tarbox, "you must make yourself at home. martha, isn't one of the drawers in that bureau empty? i thought so. take your clothes out of the valise and put them away. now, is there anything you would like?" "only a little water to wash in," said frank. "you are both very kind." "we hope to make you comfortable. you are our relative, you know." the water was brought up by mrs. tarbox herself, and frank was left alone, on the whole well pleased with his reception. chapter xvi an unpleasant discovery it never occurred to frank that his cordial reception was wholly due to his supposed wealth. had he known the tarbox family better, he would have had no uncertainty on this point. as it was, the discovery was soon made. "all my olive branches are for you, my dear young cousin," said mr. tarbox, waving his hand. "a peaceful, happy family. children, this is our esteemed relative, frank courtney. you remember visiting his delightful home, the cedars." "yes, pa," said julia. pliny said nothing, but stared at frank, inwardly considering whether it would be possible to borrow some money of him. "i am glad to meet you all. i hope we shall become better acquainted," said frank politely. "no doubt you will," said mr. tarbox. "they are rather bashful, but they long to know you." "how are you?" said pliny, in a sudden burst of sociability. "pretty well, thank you!" answered frank, finding it rather difficult to preserve his gravity. "i am in a store," said pliny. "in your father's store?" "no. he wouldn't pay me as much as i get where i am." mr. tarbox looked embarrassed. "a smaller boy answered my purpose," he said, in an explanatory manner. "pliny is suited for higher duties. but our supper is ready. it is frugal compared with yours at the cedars, my dear frank, but you are heartily welcome to it." "it looks very nice, mr. tarbox," said our hero, "and i have not been accustomed to luxurious living." this answer pleased mr. and mrs. tarbox. even if frank should become a boarder on liberal terms, they didn't wish to spend too much on their table. "we couldn't get sirloin steak," said mr. tarbox; "but i hope you will find this good." "no doubt i shall," said frank, politely. "won't you have another piece of steak?" asked mrs. tarbox. frank saw that there was but a small piece left, and, though his appetite was not wholly satisfied, he answered: "no, thank you." "i will!" said pliny, quickly. mrs. tarbox frowned at her son, but did not venture to refuse in the presence of her guest. she cut off a small portion of the steak, and, with a severe look, put it on the extended plate of pliny. "you've got a good appetite, pliny," said julia. "so would you have, if you had to work like me!" grumbled pliny. after the steak came an apple pie, which was cut into seven pieces. mrs. tarbox managed to make frank's piece a little larger than the rest. her husband observed it with approval. he was very desirous that frank should be satisfied with his fare. when pliny rose from the table, saying that he must be getting back to the store, frank rose also. "i will go with you," he said, "if you have no objection. i would like to take a walk." "come along," said pliny. "i should like to have company." "you will be a great deal of company for pliny," observed mr. tarbox, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "just of an age and of congenial tastes." frank hardly expected to find pliny very congenial, but he wished to obtain some information, which he thought the latter could give him, and he also wanted to see something of newark. "i say, your name is frank, isn't it?" commenced pliny: "yes." "the old man's awful glad to see you." "i am glad of it. he has received me very kindly." "got up an extra supper for you. we don't often get steak for supper." this was rather an embarrassing revelation, and surprised frank somewhat. the supper had not seemed to him at all extra. it would do, but was far from luxurious. "i hope you'll stay with us a good while," continued pliny. "thank you." "you see we shall live better while you are with us, and the rest of us will be gainers." "i don't want to put your father to any unusual expense." "oh, he can afford it! but he's stingy, father is. he doesn't spend any more than he can help." "it is best to be economical, i suppose." "when you don't carry it too far. i say, frank," continued pliny, lowering his voice, "you can't lend me five dollars, can you?" frank regarded pliny with astonishment. the proposal was very abrupt, especially when the shortness of their acquaintance was considered. "are you particularly in need of money?" asked frank. "well, you see," said pliny, "i want it for a particular purpose." "why not ask your father for it?" "oh, he'd never let me have it!" now, in frank's present circumstances, five dollars represented a good deal of money. he was the more impressed with the necessity of economy since he had found out how small were the wages paid in stores to boys of his age. he did not feel at all inclined to grant pliny's request, especially as he had a strong suspicion that it would be a long time before the sum would be returned. "why do you apply to me, pliny?" he asked, seriously. "didn't your mother die and leave you a big property? father says you must be worth more than a hundred thousand dollars." "your father probably has not heard of the will," said frank, quietly. "what was there in the will?" asked pliny. "the whole property was left to mr. manning." "who is he?" "my stepfather." "and nothing to you?" "nothing to me." "but he's got to take care of you, hasn't he?" "it was expected, but i am going to earn my own living, if i can." pliny stopped short in blank amazement and whistled. "then you haven't got a lot of money?" "no." "won't your stepfather give you a part of the property?" "i haven't asked him, but i don't think he will." "and why did you come to newark?" "i thought your father might give me some help about getting a place." "if this isn't the richest joke!" said pliny, laughing uproariously. "where is the joke? i don't see it," returned frank, inclined to be angry. "the way you have taken in the old man. he thinks you are rich, and has treated you accordingly--got up an extra supper and all that. oh, it's too good!" "i certainly didn't intend to take him in, as you call it," said frank. "the sooner you tell him the better." "i'll tell him," said pliny. "i shall enjoy seeing how provoked he'll be." "i think i will leave you," said frank, shortly. "i will take a walk by myself. "well, don't lose your way. oh, i wish the store was shut! i want to tell the old man." and pliny laughed again, while our hero walked off in disgust. chapter xvii the way of the world frank felt like an impostor when he discovered that his cordial reception was wholly owing to the belief that he was his mother's heir. the situation was unpleasant, and he was impatient to have mr. tarbox undeceived. he was sure that pliny would lose no time in revealing his true position, and decided not to return to the house of mr. tarbox till nine o'clock, when the story would have been told. he wandered about aimlessly till he heard the city clocks strike nine, and then rang the bell at his relation's house. the family, with the exception of the two younger children, were assembled in the common sitting room. as frank entered, instead of the cordial welcome he had previously received, he noticed a look of coldness and constraint on the faces of mr. and mrs. tarbox, while pliny looked as if some stupendous joke was being perpetrated. "good-evening!" said frank, politely. "i have been taking a walk." "my son pliny tells me," said mr. tarbox, "that you have not inherited your mother's property." frank bowed. "and that it has gone to your stepfather." "it seems so." "i am amazed." "so was i, sir." "your mother has practically disinherited you?" "it was not my mother, sir," said frank, hastily. "i can't explain it, but i'm sure she would not will away everything from me." "do you suspect your stepfather of anything irregular?" asked mr. tarbox, briskly. "i would rather not answer your question, sir. i don't care to make any charges which i cannot prove." "and so mr. manning has sent you out into the world to earn your own living, has he?" "no, sir. he has consented that i may do so. it was my own plan." much as frank was prejudiced against his stepfather, his natural sense of justice would not allow him to accuse him unjustly. "did he suggest that you should come to me?" asked mr. tarbox, in a tone which frank did not like. "no, sir." "so that was your idea, too," continued mr. tarbox, with a palpable sneer. "yes, sir," answered frank. "you are not a very near relative, but the nearest i know of, and i supposed you would be willing to give me some advice about the best means of earning my living. i remembered," he could not help adding, "that my mother received you all as guests for a considerable time, and i thought i might take the liberty." "oh, certainly!" returned mr. tarbox, rather abashed. "i am, of course, ready to give you advice, and my first advice is to seek a lawyer and let him institute a suit against your stepfather, on speculation. that is, he gets nothing if he fails, but obtains a commission if he succeeds. i could myself recommend a reliable man." "thank you, sir; but i have no present thought of contesting the will." "i think you make a mistake. do i understand that you expect to earn your own living?" "i shall try to do so." "you will find it very difficult. you may expect me to take you into my own store, but there is no vacancy, and--" frank hastily assured mr. tarbox that he had no such expectations. he had no wish to deprive the errand boy of the two dollars a week, which he probably richly earned. "situations in newark are not easily obtained," proceeded mr. tarbox. "i am willing that you should stay with us a day or two, but i don't think you will find it worth your while to stay here." mr. tarbox feared that his young relative might expect to find a home free of charge in his house, and such an arrangement did not suit his economical ideas. there was no profit in it, but, on the contrary, a positive loss. frank read clearly the thoughts of his host, with the help of what pliny had told him, and, expressing his thanks very briefly, announced his intention to go to new york the next morning. "it may be the best thing you can do!" said mr. tarbox, relieved. "new york opens a much wider field to a boy of enterprise than newark, and probably you will pick up something to do." "it won't be my fault, if i don't," said frank. "you have my best wishes," said mr. tarbox. "the demands of my family forbid me offering you any pecuniary assistance, but--" "i don't stand in need of it, sir. i have money enough to keep me till i get started in something." "really, i am very glad to hear it!" and there is no doubt that mr. tarbox was sincere. "i wonder how much money he has got?" thought pliny. "perhaps he'd lend me two dollars. i'll ask him, if i have a chance." pliny proposed to borrow, not because he needed the money, but because he liked to levy contributions upon any available party, with a very faint idea of repaying the same. the money would go to swell his deposit at the savings bank. it was very commendable, of course, to save his money, but not at the expense of others, as pliny too frequently did. "i have moved you out of the spare room," said mrs. tarbox, when our hero asked permission to retire, "and put you in the same room with pliny. i suppose you won't mind?" "just as you please, mrs. tarbox," said frank, though he would have preferred to have passed the night alone. "could you make it convenient to lend me two dollars?" asked pliny, as they went up to bed together. "not just now," answered frank. "when i get something to do i shall not need to be so careful of my money." "one dollar would answer," persisted pliny. without a word, frank drew a dollar bill from his pocketbook and handed it to pliny. "now," he thought, "i shall not feel under any obligations to the family." "you're a good fellow, even if you are poor," said pliny, in high good humor. frank was tired, and it was not long before all his anxieties for future were lost sight of in a sound and refreshing slumber. chapter xviii frank arrives in new york the breakfast the next morning was very meager. it was no longer an object to gratify frank's palate, now that he turned out to be a poor relation, and the family returned to their usual plain diet. "so you are resolved to go to new york this morning," said mr. tarbox. "of course it would gratify us to have you remain longer, but i appreciate your anxiety to go to work." frank was by no means deceived by this statement. he knew very well that mr. tarbox would be relieved by his departure, but of this knowledge he made no sign. he merely said that he thought it best to go. he took leave of his hosts, and, purchasing a ticket at the railway station, found himself within an hour in new york. he had been there before, but it was not for a long time, and he had but a vague general idea of the city. frank made inquiries of a kindly man who owned a clean little store on one of the streets. the latter knew of places where frank could board and lodge for five dollars a week or about that and directed frank to them. they were all near university place. he found the place without difficulty. a slipshod servant answered the bell. "have you got any small rooms?" asked frank. "yes," answered the girl. "missus is out, but i'll show you a hall bedroom, if you like." "i should like to see it." frank followed the girl upstairs. he was not favorably impressed by the appearance of the interior. he did not so much mind its being shabby, but he was repelled by the evident lack of neatness. the girl threw open the door of a small hall bedroom at the head of the stairs, but it looked so comfortless that he felt sure he should not like it. he thought it best, however, to inquire the price. "five dollars a week with board," answered the girl. "i don't think it will suit me," said our hero. "there's a larger room for seven dollars," said the servant. "no. i think i will look elsewhere." the next house was not much better, but the third was much neater and more attractive, and frank agreed to take a room at five dollars per week. it was a small hall bedroom, but it looked clean, and the lady who showed him about the house was very neat in her dress. "when will you come?" asked the lady. "now," replied frank, promptly. "would you mind paying the first week in advance?" "not at all. here is the money." and frank drew a five-dollar bill from his portemonnaie. "thank you!" said the boarding-house keeper. "i have lost so much by boarders going away owing me money that i am obliged to ask gentlemen to pay in advance till i am well acquainted with them." "that is quite right," said frank. "what is your dinner hour?" "six o'clock. we have lunch at half-past twelve for the ladies, but if any gentleman happens to be at home at that time, he can go in." frank looked at his watch. it was only eleven o'clock and as so much of the day remained, he decided, as soon as he had unpacked his valise, to go downtown and look for a place without delay. "i shall not be here at lunch to-day," he said. "you may expect me at dinner." there was a small bureau in the room--a piece of furniture not often found in hall bedrooms. frank deposited the contents of the valise in the bureau drawers, and then went downstairs and out into the street. chapter xix frank seeks employment in vain it was a bright, pleasant day, and broadway looked very lively. in spite of his being alone in a strange city, with uncertain prospects, frank felt in good spirits. boys of his age usually like excitement and bustle, and frank was quick to notice the shifting scenes of the great panorama. "here are thousands of people," he reflected, "all of whom make a living in some way. i don't see why i can't succeed as well as they." some of the objects he saw amused him. in front of him walked an elderly man with a large placard strapped to his back, on which was the advertisement of a "great clothing emporium." "i don't think i should fancy that kind of employment," thought our hero. as he was looking in at a shop window, a boy about his own age hailed him. "i say, johnny, what's the price of turnips?" "do you want to buy any?" asked frank quietly. "well, i might. have you got any with you?" "i am sorry i can't supply you," said frank, coolly. "up our way we keep our cattle on turnips." "you ain't so green, after all," said the boy, laughing good-naturedly. "thank you for the compliment!" "i suppose i look countrylike," thought frank, "but it won't last long. i shall get used to city ways." close by he saw in a window the sign: "cash boy wanted." frank as not altogether certain about the duties of cash boys nor their rate of compensation, but he made up his mind not to lose sight of any chances, and accordingly stepped into the store. it proved to be a large dry-goods store. near the entrance he met a tall man, with black whiskers. "do you want any cash boys?" inquired frank. "are you inquiring for yourself?" "yes, sir." "you are too large. besides, you would not be satisfied with the wages?" "how much do you pay, sir?" "two dollars a week." "no; i don't think i should like to work for that," said frank. "are those cash boys?" he asked, pointing out some boys of apparently ten to twelve years, old, who were flitting about from desk to counter. "yes." "i see they are much younger than i. excuse the trouble i have given you!" "none whatever," said the man, politely. frank left the store, and continued his walk down broadway. he began to feel a little serious. it was evident that the boys did not receive as large compensation for their services as he had supposed. the problem promised to be a perplexing one, but frank was by no means discouraged. in fact, if he had been, he would hardly have deserved to be the hero of my story. though clinton place is not very far uptown, it is a considerable walk from this point to the astor house. there was so much to see, however, that frank did not become tired, nor was he sensible of the distance. he walked a little beyond the astor house, and, crossing broadway, turned down fulton street. on the left side of the street his attention was drawn to a restaurant, and he was led by the prompting of appetite to enter. the prices he found to be reasonable, and the tables were already pretty well filled with clerks and business men, who were partaking of their midday lunch. frank found that a plate of meat, with potato and a small supply of bread and butter, could be obtained for fifteen cents. he afterward found restaurants where the same could be gotten for ten cents, but generally there was a deficiency in quality or quantity, and there was less neatness in serving the articles. seated at the same table with frank were two young men, neither probably much over twenty. one appeared to be filling a regular clerkship. "what are you doing now, jack?" he asked of the other. "i am in the tea business." "how is that?" "you know the great pekin tea company, of course?" "yes." "well, until i can get a place, i am selling for them." "how do you make out?" "i can't tell you, for i have only just commenced," said his friend. "how do they pay--salary or commission?" "they are to pay me a commission--twenty per cent on what i sell." "that is a good commission." "yes; it is good enough, if i can make a fair amount of sales. there is a good deal of uncertainty about it of course. i would much rather have a place like yours." frank listened with interest. he wondered whether the great pekin tea company would employ him. if so, he would have a field for his energy, and every inducement to work hard, since his pay would depend on the amount of his sales. besides, as an agent, he would occupy a comparatively independent position, and frank was ambitious enough to enjoy this. chapter xx an adventure in wall street when the two men at his table left the restaurant, frank followed them. at the door the two parted, the clerk going toward broadway, while the agent walked in the direction of nassau street. "i beg your pardon," said frank, overtaking him; "but may i ask you a question?" "half a dozen, if you like," said the other, good-naturedly. "i overheard what you said about the great pekin tea company. do you think i could get a chance to sell for them?" "oh, yes; there'll be no trouble about that!" "i am looking for something to do," continued frank, "and i think i should like to try that." "you'll find it uphill work," said the agent; "hard work and poor pay. i shall leave it as soon as i can get a regular position. can't you get a place?" "perhaps i can. i haven't tried very hard yet," answered frank; "but i find boys are paid so little that i can't make enough to live on. if i were a man it would be different." "i don't believe you can make more than a boy's wages at selling tea," said frank's new acquaintance, "but you might try it." "would you mind giving me a note to the company?" asked frank. "i will write a line on one of my business cards," said the agent. "that will be all you will need." he drew out a card and wrote a line commending frank to the attention of the company. frank thanked him, and sought the direction given. entering a large shop, not far from the astor house, he looked about his inquiringly. around him were chests of tea, inscribed with chinese characters. a portly man addressed him. "well, my boy, what can i do for you?" he asked. "mr. mason, one of your agents, has given me this card," said frank. "he thinks you might be willing to employ me." "we are ready to employ any competent person," said the gentleman; "but you seem very young." "i am sixteen, sir." "that is young. have you had any experience as an agent?" "no, sir?" the man questioned him further and finally accepted him. frank was told that it would be well to take samples of different kinds of teas with their respective prices attached, and seek orders for them at private houses and groceries, noting down in a little book orders obtained. small quantities he could himself deliver, and large quantities, should he be fortunate enough to obtain any, could be sent out from the store by their general delivery. "what commission am i to get, sir?" inquired frank. "twenty per cent on parcels sold to private houses and ten per cent when you sell to retail dealers. to the first you can charge a full price, but it is necessary to sell at lower rates to dealers." "i understand, sir," said frank. "when do you want to begin?" "to-morrow morning, sir. where do you advise me to go?" "new york has been pretty well canvassed, except perhaps the upper part, harlem. it might be well to make a start in brooklyn." "very well, sir. i will call to-morrow and get samples." as frank left the store, he reflected, with satisfaction: "i have only been a few hours in new york, and i have gotten employment already." this reflection raised his spirits, and disposed him to regard the future with a degree of confidence. he resolved to spend the rest of the afternoon in walking about in the lower part of the city, and acquiring a little familiarity with the streets, as this was a kind of knowledge he was likely to need. he strolled down broadway, admiring the massive and stately structures that lined the streets on either side. very soon he came to trinity church, and, standing in front it, looked down wall street. he had heard so much of this street that he felt inclined to turn from broadway and walk down its entire length. as he sauntered along a man whom he met scrutinized him sharply, as if considering some plan. apparently making up his mind, he stepped up to frank, and, touching him on the shoulder, said: "boy, would you like a job?" now frank, though he had engaged to work for the great pekin tea company was ready to accept any other proposal, and answered promptly: "yes, sir." "that is right," said the man. "it is a mere trifle, but i am willing to pay you a dollar." "what is it, sir?" "do you see that window?" he pointed to a basement window, in which were exposed rolls of gold, currency and greenbacks of different denominations, and english sovereigns and french gold coins. "i want you to do me a little errand in there," he said. frank was rather surprised that the man did not do his own errand, when the broker's office was so near, but he had no objection to earning a dollar and signified his willingness. "what i want you to do," said his new acquaintance, "is to sell some government bonds for me." "very well, sir." the man produced a large yellow envelope, already open. "in this envelope," he said, "are two five-twenty governments for a hundred dollars each. take them in and sell them, and bring the proceeds to me." "all right, sir." frank took the envelope, and entered the office of jones & robinson, that being the style of the firm. he advanced to the counter, and singling out a clerk, said: "i want to sell these bonds." the clerk took them and drew them out of the envelope. then he figured a little on a slip of paper, and said: "they are worth two hundred and twenty-five dollars and twenty-five cents." "all right, sir." "will you take a check or currency?" frank hesitated. "perhaps i'd better ask the man i am getting them for." "very well. you can bring them here to-morrow." "oh, i will let you know in a minute! the man is just outside." this answer immediately excited suspicion. frank was too little versed in business ways to understand how singular it was for his principal not to transact his own business under the circumstances, but the brokers were necessarily keen, shrewd men. "wait a minute," said the clerk; "i will speak to mr. jones." mr. jones came forward and addressed frank. "are you acquainted with the man who gave you these bonds to sell?" he asked. "no, sir. i met him in the street." "did he offer you any pay for selling them?" "yes, sir. he is going to give me a dollar." "will you go out and ask him to come in here a moment?" frank obeyed. when his employer saw him coming, he asked, eagerly: "have you got the money?" "no," answered frank. "they asked me if i wanted a check or currency." "either currency or gold," answered the man, hastily. "go back at once, and don't keep me waiting." "they want to see you, sir." "what for?" inquired the man, looking disturbed. "i don't know." "there is no need of my going in," said the man, angrily. "i paid you to sell the bonds. now go back." "he won't come," reported frank. "he says i can attend to the business. he will take either gold or currency." "no doubt," said mr. jones, significantly. "thomas, go out with this boy, and tell the man that employed him that we do not purchase bonds unless we have a reasonable assurance that they belong to the person offering them. we will take the liberty of retaining them, giving him a receipt for them, and if we are satisfied, he can have his money to-morrow." robinson, who had been examining some newspaper slips, here came forward, and said: "that is unnecessary. i find that these bonds are among those stolen from the house of henry percival, madison avenue, a week since. we must manage to delay the man while we notify the police." frank was very much surprised to learn that he was acting as agent for a bond robber, and was fearful that he might himself be regarded with suspicion; but he need not have troubled himself on this score. wall street men are good judges of human nature, and it was at once concluded in the office that frank was the dupe of a designing knave. a boy was dispatched to the nearest police office, and frank was directed to tell his principal that he would not long be delayed. naturally, however, the man outside had become suspicious. "i can't wait," he said. "meet me on the steps of the astor house at five o'clock with the money. i am obliged to hurry away now to a business appointment." frank could think of no other pretext for delaying him, and was forced to see him hurry away. he hastened back to the office and gave the alarm. "he has taken fright," said robinson. "i fear we have lost him. where did he go?" frank, however, was too ignorant of city streets to give any accurate information. the consequence was that when the policeman appeared on the scene, there was no occasion for his services. "at any rate," said the broker, "we have secured a little of the plunder. what is your name and address my boy? we may wish to communicate with you." frank gave his name, and added the directions of his boarding house. "shall i meet the man at the astor house?" he inquired, as he was leaving the office. "to be sure!" said mr. jones. "i came near forgetting that. officer, will you be on hand at the time?" "better employ a detective, sir, as my uniform would keep the thief at a distance. i don't think he'll appear, at any rate." "i do," said the broker. "he won't give up the money while he thinks there is a chance of securing it." chapter xxi the capture at the hour named, frank repaired to the astor house, and took a position on the steps. he looked about him for his street acquaintance, but could see no one who bore any resemblance to him. finally, a man dressed in a gray suit with a pair of green glasses, walked carelessly up to our hero and said, in a low voice: "have you got the money?" frank looked at him in surprise. this man had thick, black whiskers, while the man who had employed him had none at all, so far as he could remember. besides, the green glasses altered him considerably. to make sure that he was not deceived he inquired: "what money?" "you know very well," said the man, impatiently. "you are the boy whom i employed to sell some bonds this morning." "you don't look like the same man," said frank. "because of my glasses. i have to wear them at times on account of the weakness of my eyes." while he was speaking, a quiet-looking man approached and listened to the conversation. "then," said frank, "you can tell me how many bonds you handed me." "they were two five-twenty government bonds of a hundred dollars each." "correct, sir." "then hand me the money and be quick about it, for i have no time to waste! you shall have the dollar i promised you." but here the quiet-looking man took a part in the conversation. passing his arm through that of the man with the green glasses, he said: "i will trouble you to come with me." "how dare you touch me? do you mean to insult me?" demanded the other, struggling with captor. "i will make all clear in due time. you must come with me and explain how you came in possession of the bonds you gave this boy." "they were put in my hands by an acquaintance. if there is anything wrong, i am not to blame." "in that case no harm will come to you; but now you must come along." after his experience, frank walked to his boarding place. he was quite ready for six o'clock. when he entered the dining room, his hostess introduced him to all. a young man sat next to him and entered into conversation. "what do you do, mr. courtney?" "i have taken an agency to sell tea for the great pekin tea company. i am to begin to-morrow." "i am afraid you won't like it. a friend of mine tried it once and came near starving." this was not encouraging, but frank was not going to despair before he had fairly begun his work. "i find that boys receive such small wages," frank continued, "that i preferred to try an agency." "quite true," said mr. preston, condescendingly. "when i started i was paid a paltry sum; now i am not paid what i am worth. still, twenty-five dollars a week is fair." "quite fair," responded frank, who could not, of course, know that mr. preston did not receive one-half of this sum, though he chose to give that impression. after dinner, preston was obliged to go back to the store where he was employed. by invitation, frank walked with him. turning into sixth avenue they passed a saloon. "won't you have something to drink, courtney?" said preston. "no, thank you, i never drink," answered frank. "it will brace you up, and make you feel jolly. better come in!" "i don't need bracing up," answered frank, quietly. "well, perhaps you are right," said mr. peter preston. "i don't indulge very often, but sometimes i feel like it." some boys might have yielded to the temptation, but frank had determined that he would abstain from liquor, and kept his resolution. a boy who comes to the city is exposed at every step to this peril, and needs a firm will to withstand it. it is the fruitful source of crime and misery, and does more to fill our prisons than any other cause. "this is my store," said preston, as he pointed to a modest-looking shop on the west side of the avenue. "i wish i could keep you company longer, but business before pleasure, you know." before returning to his boarding house, frank sat down for a short time in washington park, and reviewed his plans and prospects. he could not tell how he would succeed in his tea agency; but if that failed, he was resolved to try something else. he didn't feel homesick, for since his mother's death he had no longer any home ties. young as he was, he felt that one part of his life was at an end, and that a new life and a new career were before him. chapter xxii the young tea merchant the next morning, at breakfast, one of the gentlemen, who had been running his eyes over the morning paper, said, suddenly: "ah! i see they have caught one of the gang who robbed the house of mr. percival, on madison avenue, a week ago." "read the paragraph, mr. smith," said one of the boarders. mr. smith read as follows: "about noon yesterday a boy entered the banking house of jones & robinson, in wall street, and offered for sale two one-hundred-dollar government bonds. on inquiry, he said that the bonds belonged to a man in the street, whom he had never before met, and who had offered him a dollar to sell them. this naturally excited suspicion, and a policeman was sent for. before he could arrive the man had hastily departed, requesting the boy to meet him at a specified hour in front of the astor house and hand him the money. he came to the rendezvous, but in disguise, and, while talking to the boy, was arrested. it is understood that he has agreed to turn state's evidence, and probably the entire sum stolen, amounting to several thousand dollars, will be recovered." frank listened to this paragraph with interest. he was glad that his name was not mentioned in the account, as he didn't care for such publicity. he ventured to ask a question. "is mr. percival a rich man?" he asked. "very rich," answered mr. smith. "he is not now in the city, but is expected home from europe in three or four weeks. his house was left in charge of an old servant--a coachman--and his wife; but the burglars proved too much for them." "i am glad they are caught," said mrs. fletcher. "it makes my blood run cold to think of having the houses entered at night by burglars." "preston," said mr. smith, jokingly, "i hope you have your bonds locked securely up." "i don't believe the sharpest burglar can find them," said preston. "i only wish i could get hold of them myself." "the boy who helped to capture the burglar ought to be well rewarded," said one of the boarders. "don't you wish it had been you, courtney?" said mr. preston. "it was," answered frank, quietly. there was a great sensation upon this announcement. all eyes were turned upon our hero--most, it must be admitted, with an expression of incredulity. "come, now, you are joking!" said preston. "you don't really mean it?" "i do mean it," assured frank. "tell us all about it," said mrs. fletcher, who had her share of curiosity. "i didn't suppose we had such a hero in our house." "it didn't require much heroism," said frank, smiling. "tell us all about it, at any rate." frank told the story as simply as he could, much to the satisfaction of the company. "you'll come in for a handsome reward, when mr. percival gets home," suggested mr. smith. "i don't expect anything," said frank. "i shall be satisfied if i get the dollar which was promised me. i haven't received that yet." "i wish i were in your shoes--that's all i've got to say," said preston, nodding vigorously. "will you sell out for five dollars?" "cash down?" asked frank, smiling. "well, i'll give you my note at thirty days," said the sixth avenue salesman, who seldom kept five dollars in advance of his liabilities. "i won't sell what i haven't got," said frank. "probably i shall hear nothing from mr. percival." after breakfast frank went downtown and sought the store of the great pekin company. after half an hour's delay--for there were others in advance of him--he was fitted out with samples and started for brooklyn. it was his first visit to that city, but he had received some directions which made his expedition less embarrassing. at the ferry he took a flatbush avenue car, and rode up fulton street, and past the city hall, up fulton avenue, for nearly a mile. here were interesting streets, lined with comfortable houses--for frank had made up his mind first to try private houses. he had with him a few pound parcels of tea, which he thought he could perhaps succeed in disposing of at such places. he selected a house at random, and rang the bell. a servant answered the ring. frank felt rather embarrassed, but there was no time to hesitate. "i have some samples of tea with me," he began, "of excellent quality and at reasonable prices." "it's no use," said the girl, abruptly. "we never buy of peddlers," and she closed the door in his face. "not a very good beginning," thought frank, rather mortified. "so i am a peddler," he said to himself, and he called to mind the agents and peddlers who in past years had called at the cedars. with some compunction, he remembered that he had regarded them with some contempt as traveling nuisances. now he had entered the ranks of this despised class, and he began to see that they might be perfectly respectable, and were estimable persons, animated by a praiseworthy desire to make an honest living. thus thinking, he called at another door. it was opened, not by a servant, but by an elderly maiden lady, who had rather a weakness for bargains. "i've got some nice tea," said frank, "which i should like to sell you. it is put up by the great pekin company." "are you sure it's nice?" asked the elderly lady. "we've been getting ours at the grocery store on the avenue, and the last wasn't very good." "you'd better try a pound of ours," said frank. "i don't know but i will," said the lady. "how much do you charge?" "i have some at fifty cents, some at sixty and some at seventy." "i guess i'll take the sixty." frank had a pound parcel ready, which he delivered to her, and received his money. "seems to me you are pretty young for a peddler," said the lady, regarding frank with curiosity. "yes, ma'am." "how old be you?" "sixteen." "been long in the business?" "no, ma'am; i've only just commenced." "you don't say so! do you make much money at it?" "i haven't made much yet. i should be glad to supply you with some more tea when this is gone." "well, you can call if you are round this way. if i like it, i will try you again." frank's spirits rose. his profits on the pound of tea were twelve cents. this was not much, certainly, but it was a beginning. at the next three houses he sold nothing, being rather rudely rebuffed at one. at the fourth house, the servant called her mistress, a kind, motherly-looking woman, who seemed to regard frank with more interest than his merchandise. "i hope you are succeeding well," she said, kindly. "this is my first day," said frank, "and i have made one sale." "i have a son who is an agent like you, but he didn't begin so young. he is now traveling in the west." "what is he selling?" asked frank, with interest. "dry goods. he travels for a wholesale house in new york." "i suppose he is a young man." "yes; he is twenty-five, but he began at nineteen in a small way. he sometimes got quite discouraged at first. that is why i feel interested in any who are passing through the same experience." these pleasant words cheered frank. only at the nearest house he had been called a tramp, but here he found that he was regarded with consideration. "it is rather uphill work," said frank. "and you seem very young." "i am sixteen." "are you entirely dependent on what you earn?" asked the lady, sympathizingly. "not entirely," answered the young merchant, "but i hope to make a living in this or some other way. can i sell you any?" he asked, hopefully. "i believe we have some on hand. still tea will always keep, and i would like to help you along." the kind-hearted lady took three pounds--two at sixty cents and one at seventy. this gave frank a profit thirty-eight cents and put him in good spirits. he worked his way back to the avenue on the other side of the street, and coming to a grocery store, entered. it occurred to him that he would try to sell some at wholesale. frank was so young that the dealer did not suppose him to be an agent, and asked what he would like to buy. "i came to sell, not to buy," said frank. "what are you dealing in?" asked the grocer. "i have several samples of tea," said our hero. "if you will give me an order, i will have it sent to you to-morrow." the grocer found, upon examination, that his stock was getting low, and gave frank an order, but he was obliged to sell below the regular price, and only cleared three cents a pound. still, on a sale of twenty-five pounds, this gave him seventy-five cents, which was very encouraging. adding up his profits, thus far, frank found that his commission amounted to a dollar and a quarter, which exceeded his anticipations. he continued his calls, but sold only one pound besides, at fifty cents, netting him ten cents more. chapter xxiii frank meets mr. manning and mark the next morning frank resumed his tea agency. as on the day previous, he went to brooklyn; but, though i should be glad to say that he was more successful than on the first day, truth compels me to state that the day was a comparative failure. it might be that he was unfortunate in the persons whom he visited, but at all events, at the close of his labors he found that his commissions amounted to less than fifty cents. he contented himself, therefore, with a ten-cent lunch, and crossed fulton ferry between three and four o'clock. "this will never do," thought frank, seriously. "i shall have to be economical to make my earnings cover my incidental expenses, while my board and lodging must be defrayed out of the money i have with me." frank was disappointed. it is easy to think of earning one's living, but not quite so easy to accomplish it. a boy, besides being ignorant of the world, is inexperienced, and so disqualified for many avenues of employment which are open to men. it is generally foolish for a boy to leave a good home and start out for himself, unless the chances are unusually favorable for him. if he does it, however, he should not allow himself to be easily discouraged. if frank had given up the business in which he was engaged simply because he had met with one unsuccessful day, i should not have been willing to make him the hero of my story. "this will never do," thought frank. "i must make a greater effort to-morrow." the next day his commission amounted to a dollar, and the fourth day to a dollar and twelve cents. "you are doing well," said his employer. "you are doing better than the majority of our agents." in one way this compliment was satisfactory. in another way it was not encouraging, for it limited his prospects. frank began to think that he would never be able to make his entire expenses as a tea agent. i don't propose to speak in detail of frank's daily experiences, but only to make mention of any incidents that play an important part in his history. he was returning from jersey city on the tenth day of his agency, when in the gentleman's cabin he saw, directly opposite, two persons whom he had reason to remember. they were mark manning and his father. little reason as he had to like either, they reminded him of home, and he felt pleased to meet them. he instantly crossed the cabin, and offered his hand to his stepfather, who had not yet seen him. "when did you arrive, mr. manning?" he asked. "why, it is frank!" exclaimed mr. manning, with an appearance of cordiality. "mark, do you see frank?" "yes, i see him," replied mark, coldly. "haven't you anything to say to him?" asked his father, who was much more of a gentleman than his son. "how are you?" said mark, indifferently. "thank you for your kind inquiry," said frank, more amused than vexed, for he cared very little for his stepbrother's friendship. "i am in very good health." "and how are you getting along?" asked his stepfather, with an appearance of interest. "are you in any business?" "yes," answered frank. "what are you doing?' asked mark, inspired a little by curiosity. "i am agent for a wholesale tea house in new york," frank answered, briefly. "you don't say so!" exclaimed mark, rather impressed. "what is the name of the firm?" "the great pekin tea company." "does it pay well?" asked his stepbrother. "i have met with very fair success," replied frank. "i congratulate you, frank," said mr. manning. "your energy and enterprise are creditable--extremely creditable. i always predicted that you would succeed--didn't i, mark?' "i don't remember hearing you say so," said mark. mr. manning shrugged his shoulders. "nevertheless," he said, "i have often made the remark." "where do you live?" asked mark. "i board in clinton place." "a very respectable street," said mr. manning. frank now thought it was his turn to become questioner. "how long do you remain in the city, mr. manning?" he asked. "not long--only a day or two," said his stepfather. "we sail for europe on saturday," interposed mark, "on the cunard steamer." "indeed! i wish you a pleasant voyage." "i am sorry you won't go with us, frank," said his stepfather, cautiously. "you remember i gave you the chance to do so, and you desired to devote yourself immediately to business." "yes, sir. i would rather remain in new york." "it might possibly be arranged now, if you desire to go," said mr. manning, hesitatingly. "no, thank you, sir." "well, perhaps you are right," said his stepfather, considerably relieved. "what parts of europe do you expect to visit?" asked frank. "we shall visit england, france, the rhine, switzerland, and perhaps italy." "i hope you will enjoy it." "thank you; i think we shall." frank checked a sigh. it was certainly tantalizing. if he could travel with congenial friends, he felt that he would very much enjoy such a trip; but with mark in the party there would be little pleasure for him. "we are staying at the st. nicholas hotel," said mr. manning. "i would invite you to come and dine with us, but i have an engagement first, and don't know when we shall dine." "thank you, all the same," said frank. they had reached the new york side, and were walking toward broadway. it was necessary for frank to go to the tea store, and he took leave of his stepfather and mark, again wishing them a pleasant voyage. "i hate that boy!" said mark, as they walked away. "you should not indulge in any such disagreeable feelings, mark," said his father. "don't you hate him?" "certainly not." "one would think by your soft manner that you loved him," said mark, who was not noted for the respect with which he treated his father. "really, mark, i am shocked by your strange words." "what made you invite him to go to europe with us?" "i knew he would not go." "he might have accepted, and then we should have been in a pretty pickle." "mark," said his father, rather irritated, "will you be kind enough to leave me to manage my own affairs? i believe i have succeeded pretty well so far." "yes, you have," mark admitted. "all the same, we'd better keep clear of frank till we get safely off on the steamer." chapter xxiv a discouraging day the next day was indeed a trying one and one of many experiences for frank. the first lady did not buy any tea, to be sure, but seemed sorry that she was already supplied, and questioned frank as to what success he was meeting with. when twelve o'clock came, frank had not sold a single pound. even if he earned nothing however, he had an appetite and must buy lunch. he entered a small oyster saloon, and went up to the proprietor. "can i sell you some tea?" he asked. "no, i guess not. i get my tea in harlem." "take a couple of pounds," said frank, "and i will take part of the pay in lunch." "that is business," said the other. "let me look at your tea." frank showed him his samples. "who employs you?' "the great pekin tea company." "they have a good name. yes, i will try a couple of pounds at fifty cents." this, of course, came to a dollar, and frank's profit on the sale amounted to twenty cents. this was precisely the cost of the lunch which he ordered, so that he felt well satisfied with the arrangement. he left the saloon in better spirits, and resumed his travels from house to house. i am sorry to say, however, that though he certainly exerted himself to the utmost in the interests of the great pekin tea company and his own, he did not sell another pound of tea that day. about three o'clock he got on board a third avenue horse car, bound downtown and sat quietly down in a corner. "harlem doesn't seem to be a very promising field for an agent," he said to himself. "perhaps it isn't fair to judge it by the first day. still, i don't think i shall have courage to come here to-morrow. i would rather go to jersey city or brooklyn." frank got off the cars at the bible house and walked to his boarding house, where a disagreeable surprise was in store for him. the night brought perplexity to frank, but not discouragement. he was naturally hopeful, and, in a large city like new york, he felt that there are always chances of obtaining employment, provided he could maintain his position, as he would have been able to do if he had not lost the thirty-five dollars which his fellow boarder had stolen. now, however, circumstances were materially changed. one thing was tolerably clear to frank, and this was, that he must give up his agency. he had tried it, and been unsuccessful. that is, he had failed to earn money enough to support himself, and this was necessary. as to what he should take up next, frank was quite in the dark. as a boy in a counting room he would be paid not more than four dollars a week, if he could gain such a situation, which was by no means certain. the more he thought about the matter the more perplexed he felt, and it was in an uncomfortable frame of mind that he came down to breakfast the next morning. chapter xxv perplexity he went out as usual after breakfast, and then walked leisurely downtown. he proposed to go to the shop of the great pekin tea company and resign his agency. he was on the watch during his walk for any opportunities to repair his unlucky loss: at one place he saw a notice: "boy wanted." though he felt sure the compensation would not be sufficient to allow of his accepting it, he thought it would do no harm to make inquiry, and accordingly entered. it was an extensive retail store, where a large number of clerks were employed. "is a boy wanted here?" asked frank of the nearest salesman. "yes. you may inquire at the desk." he pointed to a desk some distance back, and frank went up to it. "you advertise for a boy," he said to a tall, stout man, who chanced to be the proprietor. "is the place filled." "no," was the answer; "but i don't think it would suit you." "do you think i would not be competent, sir?" "no, that is not the difficulty. it would not be worth your acceptance." "may i inquire what are the duties, sir?" "we want a boy to open the door to customers, and this would not be worth your accepting." "no, sir. thank you for explaining it to me." the gentleman was favorably impressed by frank's polite and gentlemanly manners. "i wish i had a place for you," he said. "have you ever had any experience in our line of business?" "no, sir; i have very little experience of any kind. i have acted for a short time as agent for a tea company." "you may leave your name if you like, and i will communicate with you if i have a vacancy which you can fill." frank thanked the polite proprietor and walked out of the store. though this is a story written for boys, it may be read by some business men, who will allow me to suggest that a refusal kindly and considerately expressed loses half its bitterness, and often inspires hope, instead of discouragement. frank proceeded to the office of the tea company and formally resigned his agency. he was told that he could resume it whenever he pleased. leaving the store, he walked down broadway in the direction of wall street. he passed an elderly man, with stooping shoulders and a gait which showed that he was accustomed to live in the country. he was looking about him in rather an undecided way. his glance happened to rest on frank, and, after a little hesitation, he addressed him. "boy," he said, "do you live around here?" "i live in the city; sir." "then i guess you can tell me what i want to know." "i will if i can, sir," said frank, politely. "whereabouts is wall street?" "close by, sir. i am going that way, and will be happy to show you." frank had no idea his compliance with the stranger's request was likely to have an important effect up his fortunes. chapter xxvi frank hears something to his advantage "my name," said the stranger, "is peters--jonathan peters, of craneville, onondaga county. i am a farmer, and don't know much about new york. i've got a few hundred dollars that i want to put into government bonds." "all right," said frank, "there won't be any difficulty about it." "i've heerd there are a good many swindlers in new york," continued mr. peters. "the squire--squire jackson, of our village--perhaps you may have heard of him?" "i don't think i have, mr. peters." "well, the squire told me i'd better take good keer of my money, as there were plenty of rascals here who would try to cheat me out of it." "that is true, mr. peters. only yesterday i was robbed of thirty-five dollars by a man who boarded in the same house." "you don't say so?" "he opened my trunk and took out my pocketbook while i was absent on business." "i wouldn't dare to live in york!" said the farmer, whose apprehensions were increased by frank's story. by this time they had reached the office of jones & robinson, with whom, it will be remembered, frank had once before had dealings. "if you will come in here, mr. peters," said our hero, "you will be sure of honorable treatment. i will introduce you if you like." "i should be obleeged if you would," said the farmer. "out in craneville i am to home, but i ain't used to york business men, and don't know how to talk to them." it pleased frank to find that, in spite of his inexperience, he was able to be of service to one more unaccustomed than himself to city scenes and city ways. he walked up to the counter, followed by the farmer, and said: "this gentleman wishes to buy some government bonds. i told him that he could transact his business here." "thank you! mr. benton, you may attend to this gentleman." frank was about to leave the office, when mr. robinson called him back. "you have been in the office before, have you not?" he asked. "yes, sir." "are you not the boy who assisted in the capture of the man who robbed mr. henry percival, of madison avenue?" "yes, sir." "i thought so. i have been trying to find you for the last week." naturally frank looked surprised. "mr. henry percival was at that time in europe," said mr. robinson. "on his return, a week since, he called on us, and expressed a desire to have you call upon him. we had mislaid or lost your address, and were unable to give him the information he desired." frank's heart beat high with hope as the broker spoke. "perhaps," he thought, "mr. percival may offer me a situation of some kind, and i certainly am greatly in need of one." "did mr. percival recover all his bonds?" he asked. "nearly all," answered mr. robinson. "he considered himself exceedingly fortunate, and he certainly was so." "do you know how much he was robbed of?" asked frank. "rather over five thousand dollars. of this sum all has been recovered except three bonds of a hundred dollars each. mr. percival is a rich man, and he won't miss that small amount." "i wish i were rich enough not to miss three hundred dollars," thought our hero. "if i had my rights, i could say the same." just now, in his extremity, frank thought regretfully of the fortune he had lost. had he been so situated as to be earning enough to defray all his expenses, he would scarcely have given a thought of it. "you had better go up to see mr. percival this evening," said the banker, "if you have no other engagement." "even if i had an engagement, i would put it off," said frank. "will you give me mr. percival's number?" "no. ," said mr. robinson. frank noted it down and left the office. by this time mr. peters had completed his business, and was ready to go out, also. "i'm much obliged to you," he said to frank. "i was afraid i'd get into a place where they'd cheat me. i guess mr. jones and robinson are pretty good folks." "i think you can depend upon them," said frank. "if ever you come to craneville, i should like to have you stay a few days with me on my farm," said mr. peters, hospitably. "we are plain folks, but will treat you about right." "thank you, mr. peters. if i ever come to craneville, i shall certainly call upon you." frank had something to look forward to in his approaching interview with mr. percival. he had been able to do this gentleman a service, and it was not unlikely that the capitalist would wish to make him some acknowledgment. frank did not exaggerate his own merits in the matter. he felt that it was largely owing to a lucky chance that he had been the means of capturing the bond robber. however, it is to precisely such lucky chances that men are often indebted for the advancement of their fortunes. while he was in a state of suspense, and uncertain what mr. percival might be disposed to do for him, he decided not to exert himself to obtain any employment. if he should be disappointed in his hopes, it would be time enough to look about him the following day. what should he do in the meantime? he determined to treat himself to an excursion. from the end of the battery he had often looked across to staten island, lying six miles away, and thought it would prove a pleasant excursion. now, having plenty of time on his hands, he decided to go on board one of the boats that start hourly from the piers adjoining the battery. the expense was but trifling and, low as frank's purse was, he ventured to spend the amount for pleasure. he felt that he needed a little recreation after the weeks of patient labor he had spent in the service of the great pekin tea company. chapter xxvii an incident in a street car when frank returned to the city, he walked slowly up through the battery to the foot of broadway. he passed the famous house, no. , which, a hundred years ago, was successively the headquarters of washington and the british generals, who occupied new york with their forces, and soon reached the astor house, then the most notable structure in the lower part of the city. with his small means, frank felt that it was extravagant to ride uptown, when he might have walked, but he felt some confidence in the success of his visit to mr. percival, and entered a fourth avenue horse car. it so chanced that he seated himself beside a pleasant-looking young married lady, who had with her a young boy about seven years old. soon after the car started the conductor came around to collect the fares. frank paid his, and the conductor held out his hand to the lady. she put her hand into her pocket to draw out her purse, but her countenance changed as her hand failed to find it. probably no situation is more trying than to discover that you have lost or mislaid your purse, when you have an urgent use for it. the lady was evidently in that predicament. once more she searched for her purse, but her search was unavailing. "i am afraid i have lost my purse," she said, apologetically, to the conductor. this official was an ill-mannered person, and answered, rudely: "in that case, ma'am, you will have to get off." "i will give you my card," said the lady, "and will send double the fare to the office." "that won't do," said the man, rudely. "i am responsible for your fare, if you stay on the car, and i can't afford to lose the money." "you shall not lose it, sir; but i cannot walk home." "i think you will have to, madam." here frank interposed. he had been trained to be polite and considerate to ladies, and he could not endure to see a lady treated with rudeness. "take the lady's fare out of this," he said. "and the boy's, too?" "of course." the lady smiled gratefully. "i accept your kindness, my young friend," she said. "you have saved me much annoyance." "i am very glad to have had the opportunity," said frank, politely. "of course, i shall insist upon reimbursing you. will you oblige me with your address, that i may send you the amount when i return home?" a boy of less tact than frank would have expostulated against repayment, but he knew that this would only embarrass the lady, and that he had no right, being a stranger, to force such a favor upon her. he answered, therefore: "certainly, i will do so, but it will be perfectly convenient for me to call upon you." "if it will give you no trouble, i shall be glad to have you call any evening. i live at no. ---- madison avenue." now it was frank's turn to be surprised. the number mentioned by the lady was that of the house in which mr. henry percival lived. "i thought mr. percival lived at that number?" said frank. "so he does. he is my father. do you know him?" "no; but i was about to call on him. this morning mr. robinson, a broker in wall street, told me that he wished to see me." "you are not the boy who caused the capture of the bondholder?" asked the lady, quickly. "yes, i am the boy, but i am afraid i had less to do with it than has been represented." "what is your name?" "frank courtney." "my father is very desirous of meeting you, and thanking you for what you have done. why have you not called before?" "i did not know till to-day that your father had returned. besides, i did not like to go without an invitation." "i will invite you," said the lady, with a pleasant smile, "and i, as well as my father, will be glad to see you. and now let me introduce you to my little son. freddie, would you like to see the boy that caught the robber?" "yes, mamma." "here he is. his name is frank." the little boy immediately began to ask questions of frank, and by the time they reached the cooper institute frank and he were well acquainted. "don't get out, frank," said freddie. "i am going home, freddie." "you must come and see me soon," said the little boy. "now you have three invitations," said the lady. "i will accept them all," said frank. and, with a bow, he left the car. chapter xxviii frank makes an evening call after supper frank walked slowly up to mr. percival's residence. now that he knew two members of the family, he looked forward with pleasure to the call he was about to make. his prospects seemed much brighter than when he woke up in the morning. on reaching the house of mr. percival, he saw at a glance that it was the residence of a wealthy man, and the hall, into which he was first admitted, was luxurious in its appearance. but frank had been brought up to the enjoyment of wealth, and he felt more at home here than in the rather shabby boarding house in clinton place. a colored servant opened the door. "is mr. percival at home?" he asked. "yas, sah." "i should like to see him." "what name, sah?" "frank courtney." "step in, sah, and i will 'form mr. percival," said the colored servant, in a consequential tone that amused frank. frank stepped into the hall, but he was not left long without attention. little freddie ran downstairs, eagerly calling out: "did you come to see me, frank?" "yes," answered frank, smiling; "but i came to see your grandfather, too." "come, and i will show you where he is," said the little boy, taking frank's hand. the two went up the staircase and into a handsomely furnished room, made attractive by pictures and books. in a large armchair sat a pleasant-looking elderly man, of about sixty. "grandpa," said the little boy, "this is frank. he wants to see you." mr. percival smiled. "i am glad to see you, frank," he said. "it seems, my boy, that you are already acquainted with my daughter and grandson." "yes, sir. i was fortunate enough to meet them to-day." "you relieved my daughter from some embarrassment." "i am glad to have had the opportunity, sir." frank's manner was easy and self-possessed, and it was evident that mr. percival was favorably impressed by him. "take a seat," he said, "while i ask you a few questions." frank bowed and obeyed. "let me sit in your lap, frank," said freddie. our hero took the little boy in his lap. with freddie, it was certainly a case of friendship at first sight. "won't he trouble you?" asked his grandfather. "no, sir. i like young children." mr. percival now proceeded to interrogate frank. "your name is frank courtney. have you been long in the city?" "no, sir; only a few weeks." "what led you to come here?" "i wished to earn my living." "what that necessary? you do not look like a poor boy." "i was brought up to consider myself rich," said frank. "indeed! did you lose your property?" "perhaps i had better tell you how it happened, sir." "if you don't object, i should be glad to hear." frank gave a brief statement of his position, and the circumstances that led him to leave his home and go out into the world. mr. percival listened thoughtfully. "it is a singular story," he said, after a pause. "your stepfather's in europe, then?" "yes, sir; at least he sailed for europe." "have you heard from him?" "no, sir." "do you expect to hear?" "i think not." "he can't feel much interest in you." "i don't think he does," answered frank. "still, i can't say that he has treated me unkindly." "do you suspect that your stepfather has wronged you in the matter of the property?" "i would rather not answer that question, sir. i might wrong mr. manning, and i have no proof to offer." "i understand you, and i applaud your discretion. it does you credit. some time or other the mystery may be cleared up, and the wrong, if there is one, may be righted. i can't understand, however, how this mr. manning should be willing to leave you dependent upon your own exertions with such a scanty provision as twenty-five dollars a quarter." "i didn't ask for any more; and, besides, mr. manning offered to take me to europe with his son mark." "do you think that he was sincere in the offer?" "i don't think he expected me to accept it, and i am sure that it would have been very disagreeable to mark to have me in the party." "have you any objections to telling me how you have succeeded in your efforts to make a living?" asked the old gentleman, with a keen but kindly glance. "i have been disappointed, sir," was the candid reply. "i am not surprised to hear it. a boy brought up as you have been cannot rough it like a farmer's son or a street boy." "i think i could, sir; but i should not like to." "precisely. now, i am not sure that you acted wisely in undertaking a task so difficult, since it was not necessary, and your stepfather could hardly have refused to support you at home. however, as you have taken the decisive step, we must consider what is best to do under the circumstances. what work have you been doing?" "i have been selling tea for the great pekin tea company." "how have you succeeded?" "i have not been able to pay expenses," frank admitted. "how have you made up the difference?" "i brought about fifty dollars with me from home." "is it all used up?" "i had thirty-five dollars left, sir, but a day or two since one of my fellow boarders opened my trunk and borrowed it without leave." "of course you won't recover it?" "i don't think there is much chance of it, sir." "then probably your money is nearly exhausted?" frank did not like to admit his poverty, but owned up that he had less than two dollars. "and yet you paid the car fares of this little boy and his mother?" "i hope, sir, i would not refuse to assist a lady when in trouble." mr. percival nodded two or three times, smiling as he did so. he was becoming more and more favorably impressed without young hero. "do you mean to continue this tea agency?" he asked. "no, sir; i have already notified my employers that i do not care to continue it." "have you anything else in view?" frank felt that now was the time to speak. "i came here this evening," he said, "intending to ask you if you knew of any situation i could fill, or could recommend me to employment of any kind by which i might make a living." "i must consider that. have you thought of any particular employment which you would like?" "no, sir; i cannot afford to be particular. i will do anything that is honest, and at all suitable for me." "what would you consider unsuitable?" "i should not wish to black boots, for instance, sir. it is honest work, but i ought to be suited to something better." "of course; what education have you had? good, i suppose?" "i am nearly ready for college." "then you are already fairly well educated. i will put you to a test. sit up to the table, and take paper and pen. i will dictate to you a paragraph from the evening paper, which i should like to have you write down." frank obeyed, though, in doing so, he was obliged to set freddie down, rather to the little fellow's dissatisfaction. mr. percival selected a short letter, written by some public man, which chanced to have found a place in the evening journal. frank wrote rapidly, and when his copy was finished submitted it to mr. percival. the old gentleman took it, and, running his eye over it, noticed that it was plainly written, correctly spelled and properly punctuated. this discovery evidently gave him satisfaction. "very creditably written," he said. "i have known boys nearly ready for college who could not copy such a letter without blundering. i am glad that your english education has not been neglected while you have been studying the classics." frank was gratified by mr. percival's commendation, though he could not see in what manner his education was likely to bring him employment. it was desirable, however, to produce a favorable impression on mr. percival, and he could not help hoping something would result to his advantage. at this moment freddie's mother entered the room, and greeted frank with a cordial smile. "freddie," she said, "it is time for you to go to bed." "i don't want to leave frank," said freddie. "frank will come and see you again." "will you, frank?" frank made the promise, and mrs. gordon--for that was her name--left the room, promising to return before frank went away. he was now left alone with the old gentleman. chapter xxix frank is offered a position mr. percival engaged frank in conversation on general topics while mrs. gordon was out of the room. his young visitor had been an extensive reader, and displayed a good deal of general information. moreover, he expressed himself intelligently and modestly, and deepened the favorable impression which he had already succeeded in making. i should like to call the attention of my young readers to the fact that frank was now reaping the advantage of the time he had devoted to study and the cultivation of his mind. a boy who starts in life with a fair education always stands a better chance than one who is poorly provided in that respect. it is true that many of our prominent public men have started with a very scanty supply of book-learning, but in most cases it has only transferred the labor of study to their maturer years. president andrew johnson did not learn to read and write until after he had attained his majority, but he made up his early deficiencies later. abraham lincoln, when nearly thirty, devoted his leisure hours to mastering the problems in euclid, and thus trained and strengthened his mental faculties so that he was enabled to grapple with the difficult problems of statesmanship in after years. henry wilson commenced attending an academy after he had reached the age of twenty-one. the fact is, no boy or man can be too well equipped for his life-work. i hope my boy readers will not skip the paragraphs above, for they can learn from them a useful lesson. when mrs. gordon returned, she placed in frank's hands a small sum of money, saying: "allow me to repay my debt, with many thanks." "you are quite welcome," answered our hero. he had too much tact to refuse the money, but quietly put it into his pocket. "helen," said mr. percival, "i would like a word with you. we will leave our young friend here alone for five minutes." "certainly, father." the two went into an adjoining room, and mr. percival commenced by asking: "how do you like this boy, helen?" "very much. he seems to have been brought up as a gentleman." "he has. till a short time since he supposed himself the heir to a fortune." "indeed!" said mrs. gordon, with curiosity. briefly, mr. percival rehearsed the story which frank had told him. "what a shame!" exclaimed mrs. gordon, indignantly. "his stepfather ought to be punished:" "that may come in time. wickedness does not always prosper. but as regards our young friend, i have a plan in view." "what is it, father?" "i find he has an excellent education, having been nearly ready for college when the crisis in his fortunes came. i have been thinking whether we could not find a place for him in this house. my eyes, you know, are so weak that they are often strained by attention to my correspondence and reading. i have an idea of engaging frank courtney as a sort of private secretary, upon whom i can at any time call. of course, he would have his home in the house." "there will be no difficulty about that. our family is small, and we have plenty of vacant rooms. but, father, will he be qualified to undertake the duties you have designed for him? he is very young." "that is true, my dear; but he is remarkably well educated. i have tested his capacity by dictating a letter for him to copy." "did he do the work satisfactorily?" asked mrs. gordon. "without a single mistake." "then, father, i would not hesitate to engage him. freddie likes him, and will be delighted to have him in the house." "another idea, helen. it is time freddie began to study. suppose we make him freddie's private tutor--say for an hour daily?" "that is really an excellent idea, father," said mrs. gordon, in a tone of satisfaction. "it will please and benefit freddie, and be a relief to me. do you think frank will have patience enough?" "i watched him with the little fellow, and i could see that he liked children. i am sure he will succeed in this as well as in the duties which he will undertake for me." "i suppose he will have no objection to the plan?" "i think he will accept gladly. he has had a hard struggle thus far in maintaining himself, and i can relieve him from all anxiety on that score. i am indebted to him for helping me to recover my bonds, and this will be an excuse for offering him a larger salary than the services of so young a secretary could be expected to command." "very well, father. your plan pleases me very much, and i shall be glad to have frank commence to-morrow, if he chooses. now let us return to the library." while father and daughter were absent frank had taken from the table a volume of "macaulay's history," and had become interested in it. he laid it down upon their return. mr. percival resumed his easy-chair, and said, with a smile. "my daughter and i have been consulting about you." frank bowed, and his hopes rose. "i suppose you are open to an offer of employment?" "i am not only open to it, mr. percival, but i shall be grateful for it." he could not help wondering what sort of employment mr. percival was about to offer him. he concluded that it might be a place in some business house. "the fact is," said the old gentleman, "i have a great mind to offer you the situation of my private secretary." frank was astonished. this was something he had not thought of. "do you think i am qualified to fill such a position, mr. percival?" he asked, hesitatingly. "the duties would not be difficult," returned the old gentleman. "though not in active business, the care of my property, and looking after my scattered investments, involves me in considerable correspondence. my eyes are not as strong as they once were, and i find them at times taxed by letter-writing, not to mention reading. you can relieve me very materially." "i shall be very glad to do so, sir. the duties will be very agreeable to me." "but that is not all. my daughter proposes to employ you as private tutor for freddie." frank smiled. "i think my scholarship will be sufficient for that," he said. frank was to receive $ a month and board. this was wonderful news to him. mr. percival with great forethought paid him a month's salary in advance. frank went home happy. chapter xxx frank as private secretary the next day frank transferred his residence to madison avenue. he was assigned to a pleasant room, decidedly superior, it need hardly be said, to his room at clinton place. it seemed agreeable to him once more to enjoy the comforts of a liberal home. frank had had some doubts as to how he would satisfy mr. percival in his capacity of private secretary. he was determined to do his best, but thought it possible that the old gentleman might require more than he could do well. he looked forward, therefore, with some apprehension to his first morning's work. mr. percival, though not engaged in active business, was a wealthy man, and his capital was invested in a great variety of enterprises. naturally, therefore, he received a large number of business letters, which required to be answered. the first day he dictated several replies, which frank put upon paper. he wished, however, to put frank's ability to a severe test. "here are two letters," he said, "which you may answer. i have noted on each instructions which you will follow. the wording of the letters i leave to you." "i will try to satisfy you sir," said frank. our hero was a good writer for his age. moreover, he had been well trained at school and did not shrink from the task assigned him. he read carefully the instruction of his employer, and composed the letters in strict accordance with them. mr. percival awaited with some interest the result of his experiment. if frank proved competent to the task assigned him, his own daily labor would be considerably abridged. "here are the letters, sir," said our hero, passing the drafts to mr. percival. the old gentleman examined them carefully. as he did so, his face expressed his satisfaction. "upon my word, frank," he said, familiarly, "you have done your work exceedingly well. they are brief, concise and yet comprehensive. i feared that you would use too many words." "i am glad you are pleased, sir. dr. brush trained us to write letters, and he cut down our essays when they were too diffuse." "then i feel indebted to dr. brush for providing me with so competent a young secretary. you will be able to assist me even more than i anticipated. i shall, of course, read over your letters before they are sent, to make sure that you have fully comprehended and carried out my instructions, but i don't expect they will need much correction." frank was much gratified by these words. this was the only point on which he had felt at all doubtful as to his ability to please his employer. sometimes, when his eyes pained him more than usual, mr. percival also employed him to read to him from the daily papers, or from some book in which he was interested, but this did not occur regularly. every day, however, frank was occupied with freddie. the little boy knew his alphabet, but nothing more, so that his young teacher had to begin with him at the beginning of the primer. he succeeded in interesting his little pupil, and did not protract his term of study so as to weary him. finding that the little fellow was fond of hearing stories, he read to him every day a story or two from hans christian andersen, or from a collection of german fairy stories, and sometimes went out to walk with him. freddie was delighted with his teacher, and freely expressed his approval to his mother and grandfather. "really, frank," said mrs. gordon, "i shall begin to be jealous of your hold upon freddie. i am not sure but he likes your company better than mine." "i don't think freddie will prefer anyone to his mother," said frank; "but i am glad he likes to be with me." "you have certainly proved very successful as a private tutor, frank," said mrs. gordon, "and my father tells me you succeeded equally well as a secretary." "it is partly because you both treat me so indulgently," answered frank, gracefully. this answer pleased mr. percival and mrs. gordon, who more than ever congratulated themselves upon the lucky chance that had thrown frank in their way. assuredly he made himself very useful in the small household, contributing to the comfort and pleasure of freddie, his mother and grandfather in nearly equal measure. while frank's monthly salary was of great value and importance to him, it was nothing to mr. percival in comparison with the pleasure and relief afforded by his presence in the house. it must not be supposed, however, that frank's time was wholly occupied by the duties of his two positions. usually he had several hours daily at his disposal, and these he was allowed to spend as he pleased. part of this he occupied in visiting different localities of the city and points of interest in the neighborhood, and part in reading and study. mr. percival had a large and well-selected library, which, to a boy of frank's studious tastes, was a great attraction. he entered upon a course of solid reading, embracing some of the standard histories, and devoted some hours every week to keeping up his acquaintance with the greek and latin authors which he had read at school. in this way his time was well and usefully employed, and the weeks slipped by till almost before he was aware six months had passed. one afternoon frank walked down broadway enjoying the bright sunshine. just in front of the st. nicholas hotel he heard his name called and looking up he recognized with some surprise, pliny tarbox, his cousin from newark. pliny asked many questions as to what frank was doing and how much money he was making. frank told him of his good fortune in obtaining the position he held with mr. percival and the two parted--frank the much happier of the two. pliny urgently invited frank to visit them but frank would rather remain in new york. "i hope i shall never think so much of money as pliny and his father," thought frank. "money is a good thing to have but there are some things that are better." chapter xxxi a letter from mr. tarbox frank did not speak to mr. percival's family of his meeting with pliny. it was not pleasant to him to think that he was valued only for his good fortune. he had seen but little of the tarbox family, but he understood very well what their professions of friendship amounted to, and that they were not to be relied upon in an emergency. he was not much surprised on monday afternoon to receive the following letter from erastus tarbox: "my dear young cousin:--we have been wondering what has become of you, and mrs. t. and myself have often wished to invite you to pass a sabbath at our humble home. not knowing your address, i could not write to you, or i should have done so. you can imagine, therefore, the pleasure we felt when pliny told us that he had met you, and gave us tidings of your remarkable success, which i am sure does you great credit. "he tells me that you fill a very responsible position, and receive a very liberal salary. i could wish that pliny might be equally fortunate, and shall esteem it a great favor if you will mention him to your respected employer, and recommend him for any lucrative position which he may bestow upon him. pliny is a very capable boy, and has been carefully trained to habits of frugality and industry. "can you not soon come out and pass a sabbath with us? the esteem which we have for your late lamented mother alone would secure you a cordial welcome, not to speak of the friendship for yourself. pliny often says that you seem to him like a brother, and he would truly enjoy your companionship. "your sincere friend and cousin, erastus tarbox." the time was when frank would have put confidence in the friendly expressions used by mr. tarbox, but his eyes had been opened, and he understood that if misfortune should come to him, it would not do to lean upon his cousins at newark. frank wrote a civil reply to mr. tarbox, thanking him for his invitation, but saying that at present it would not be convenient for him to accept it. he added that should an opportunity offer he would be glad to assist pliny to a better position than he now held. in spite of his wish to be cordial, his letter was felt by the tarbox family to be cold, and they regretted that they had not treated him better during his brief visit to them. but then how could they suppose he would be so successful? if the time should ever come when he recovered his property, they would be prepared to make a determined effort to convince him that they had always been his affectionate friends. about this time frank received another letter, which afforded him greater satisfaction than the one from newark. this letter was from col. vincent, who, it will be remembered, had purchased ajax when mr. manning persisted in selling him. it was as follows: "my dear frank: i learned incidentally from one of our townsmen, who recently met you in new york, that you have been very successful in obtaining employment, and that of an honorable and responsible character. it relieved my mind, for, knowing how hard it is for a boy to make his own way in a large city, i feared that you might be suffering privation, or living poorly. i hope, however, you would in that case have applied to me for such help as your father's old friend would have been glad to offer. "your stepfather has not been heard from directly. i learn, however, from some friends who have met him abroad that he is having trouble with mark, who is proving difficult to manage, and has contracted a dangerous taste for gaming. mr. manning was obliged to leave baden-baden on account of this unfortunate tendency, and is even thinking of returning to the cedars, where his son will be removed from temptation. to this, however, mark will be likely to make strenuous opposition. he will find it dull to settle down here after having tasted the gayety of europe." here followed a little local gossip, which the writer thought might prove interesting to frank, and the letter concluded with a cordial invitation to our hero to spend a sunday with him, or a longer time, if he could be spared from his duties. frank was disposed to accept the invitation, but his acceptance was postponed by an unusual service which he was called upon to render to mr. percival. of this the reader will hear everything in the next chapter. chapter xxxii mr. percival's proposal one morning, after writing several letters for his employer, the young secretary asked mr. percival if he had any further commands. the old gentleman answered thoughtfully: "i have been thinking of asking you to do me an unusual service." "i shall be very glad to serve you in any way, mr. percival," said frank, promptly. "i have no doubt of it," said the old gentleman, kindly. "i have observed your willingness to undertake any duty, and, still more, your disposition to perform it thoroughly. in this particular case, however, i have been considering whether a boy of your age would be competent to do what i desire." frank was not self-distrustful, neither was he over-confident. he was naturally energetic and ambitious to distinguish himself, and not afraid to undertake any difficult task. "will you try me, mr. percival?" he said. "i will do my best to succeed." "i am quite inclined to try you, frank," said mr. percival; "the more so because i know of no one else in whom i could confide. but i must give you an idea of what i have in view. it would require you to make a journey." frank listened to this gladly. to a boy of his age, who had seen but little of the world, a journey offered attractions. "i should like to travel," he said. "i have no doubt about that," said mr. percival, smiling. "at your age i am sure i should have been equally willing to see something of the world, though traveling involved at that time far more hardships than at present. now, however, i like best to stay by the fireside, and should dread very much a journey to minnesota." "to minnesota!" exclaimed frank, with sparkling eyes. he had not thought of a journey so extended. "yes; it would be necessary for you to go out to minnesota. ordinarily, a man can best look after his own affairs; but in the present instance, i suspect that you could do better than myself. i don't mean this as a compliment, but a boy like you would not be suspected, and so could discover more than i, from whom facts would be studiously concealed. but, of course, you don't understand my meaning. i will explain, and then you can comprehend me." frank was all attention. "you must know that i own a good deal of property in a certain township in southern minnesota. when a young man, i bought three hundred and twenty acres of land in the township of jackson, obtaining it at a slight advance on government rates. "some improvements had been made, and i was induced to visit the place. i found but three families in residence, but i saw also that the place had large natural advantages, water-power, etc., and presented an unusually favorable site for a village. i had considerable means, and started the village by erecting a dozen houses, a store, a sawmill, gristmill, and so on. "this formed a nucleus, and soon quite a village sprang up. the sawmill and gristmill proved profitable, all my houses were tenanted, and i erected more, securing also additional land. in course of time i was induced to sell some of my houses, but i still own two stores, a dozen houses, the saw and gristmills, besides two outlying farms. "living so far away, i could not attend personally to the business connected with my investment, and was compelled to appoint an agent. up to four years since, i was fortunate enough to possess the services of a capable and trustworthy man, named sampson. he died after a few weeks' illness, and i was compelled to look out for a successor. "now, i had a distant cousin, who had never succeeded very well in life, and was at that time seeking for employment of some kind. he heard of the vacancy, and importuned me to appoint him as my agent in jackson. i had no reason to doubt his honesty, though his repeated failures might well have led me to suspect his capacity. i was weak enough, as i now consider it, to yield to his importunities and give him the post he sought. "the result was that during the first year of his incumbency the amount turned over to me was only three-fourths as much as in the last year of his predecessor. the second year there was a further falling off. the same happened the third year, until at the present time my rents amount to less than half what they were in mr. sampson's time. "of course, my suspicions that my cousin was at least inefficient were aroused long since. i have repeatedly asked an explanation of the diminished revenues, and plenty of excuses have been made, but they do not seem to me satisfactory. "moreover, i have heard a rumor that mr. fairfield is intemperate in his habits, and i have considerable reason to believe that the story is correct. i have made up my mind that something must be done. a regard for my own interests requires that if my agent is unfaithful he should be displaced, and i wish to find out from some reliable source the true state of the case. "now i will tell you what i have in view. i propose to send you out to jackson to investigate and report to me your impressions of the manner in which mr. fairfield discharges his duties, and whether you think a change should be made in the agency." frank listened to mr. percival with a flushed face and a feeling of gratification and pride that he should be thought of in connection with a responsible duty. "i am very much obliged to you, mr. percival," he said, "for thinking of me in such a connection. you may feel that i am presumptuous for thinking i have any chance of successfully accomplishing what you desire, but if you are willing to trust me, i am willing to undertake it, and by following your instructions closely, and doing my best, i think i can succeed." "i am willing to trust you, frank," said mr. percival. "you are a boy, to be sure, but you have unusually good judgment, and i know you will be faithful to my interests. i understand, then, that you are willing to go out as my accredited representative?" "yes, sir. when do you want me to start?" said frank, promptly. "as soon as you can get ready." "i will start to-morrow, if you desire it, sir." "let it be to-morrow, then. we will now discuss some of the details connected with the mission." chapter xxxiii preparing for a journey after receiving certain instructions from mr. percival in regard to the manner of carrying on his inquiries, frank said: "there is one thing i have thought of, mr. percival, that may interfere with my success." "what is it, frank? i shall be glad to receive any suggestion from you." "i have been thinking, sir, that it may excite surprise that i should come to jackson, and remain there without any apparent motive. perhaps mr. fairfield might suspect that i came from you." "i hardly think so, frank. he would not suppose that i would select so young a messenger. still, it will be well to think of some pretext for your stay. can you help me?" "i have been thinking, sir, that i might fit myself out as an agent, or peddler, or something of the kind. it would not only give me an excuse for my journey, but enable me to call from house to house and pick up information about mr. fairfield." "a capital idea, frank. i see that you are better fitted for the task than i supposed. i give you authority to fit yourself out in any way you choose. i shall have to leave a great deal to your own judgment." "then, sir, i think i might lay in a stock of stationery, pens and articles of that nature. probably this is so common that i would be thought to be nothing more than i seemed." "that strikes me rather favorably, frank." "i could fit myself out in the city, and take the articles along with me in an extra valise or carpetbag." "let me suggest an amendment to your plan," said mr. percival. "wait till you get to chicago, and lay in your stock there. the advantage of that arrangement will be that you will be saved the care of your merchandise up to that point, and, as you may be asked where you obtained your stock, it will create less surprise if you mention chicago than new york. it would be considered hardly worth while for a new york boy to go so far on such a business--" this seemed to frank an excellent suggestion and he instantly adopted it. the next day frank started on his long journey. he carried with him a supply of money provided by mr. percival, and he was authorized to draw for more if he should require it. he divided this money into two portions, keeping a small sum in his pocketbook, but the greater part of it in an inside vest pocket, where it would not be likely to be looked for by pickpockets. this arrangement was suggested by mr. percival. "i once experienced," he said, "the disadvantage of carrying all my money in one pocket. i was in a southern city, or, rather, on my way to it, when an adroit pickpocket on the car relieved me of my wallet containing all my available funds. i did not find out my loss till i had arrived at the hotel and registered my name. you can imagine my embarrassment. it was my first visit to that particular city, and i had no acquaintances there, so far as i was aware. had i mentioned my position to the landlord, he might very probably have taken me for an adventurer, traveling on false pretenses." "what did you do, sir?" asked frank, interested. "i took a walk about the city, my thoughts occupied in devising a way out of my trouble. to my great relief, i had the good fortune, during the walk, to meet a new york acquaintance, who knew very well my financial standing. i told him of my difficulty, and he immediately introduced me at a bank, where i raised money on a new york draft. i resolved, however, at that time, never again to carry all my money in one pocketbook, as boats and railroad trains on the long routes are generally infested by pickpockets and sharpers." frank at once set about preparing for his journey. he bought a ready-made suit of blue cloth, not unlike that worn by the district telegraph boys of to-day, which he judged would look more suitable than his ordinary attire for the character he was about to assume of a traveling peddler. he bought a through ticket to the railroad point nearest jackson, and then, bidding good-bye to mr. percival and his family, started on his trip. little freddie made strenuous opposition to parting with his favorite, but frank promised to bring him home a present, and this diverted the little fellow's thoughts. chapter xxxiv frank reaches jackson it was four o'clock in the afternoon when frank courtney left the cars and set foot on the platform before the station at prescott, five miles distant from the town of jackson, in southern minnesota. he looked about him, but could see no village. prescott was a stopping place for the cars, but there was no settlement of any account there, as he afterward found. he had supposed he would find a stage in waiting to convey him to jackson, but it was clear that the business was not large enough to warrant such a conveyance. looking about him, frank saw a farm wagon, the driver of which had evidently come to receive some freight which had come by rail. approaching the driver, who seemed to be--though roughly dressed--an intelligent man, frank inquired: "how far is jackson from here, sir?" "five miles," was the answer. "is there any stage running there from this depot?" "oh, no! if there were, it wouldn't average two passengers a day." "then i suppose i must walk," said frank, looking rather doubtfully at the two heavy valises which constituted his baggage. "then you are going to jackson?" "yes, sir." "i come from jackson myself, and in fifteen minutes shall start on my way back. you may ride and welcome." "thank you, sir!" said our hero, quite relieved. "i hope you will allow me to pay you as much as i should have to pay in a stage." "no, no, my lad," said the farmer, heartily. "the horse can draw you as well as not, and i shall be glad to have your company." "thank you, sir!" "just climb up here, then. i'll take your baggage and put it on the wagon behind." when the farmer had loaded up, he started up the team. then, finding himself at leisure, he proceeded to satisfy his curiosity by cross-examining his young passenger. "do you come from the east?" he asked. "i am last from chicago," answered frank, cautiously. "i suppose you've got some friend in jackson?" ventured the farmer, interrogatively. frank smiled. "you are the only man living in jackson that i ever met," he said. "indeed!" said the driver, puzzled. "are you calculating to make a long stay in our village?" he asked again, after a minute's pause. "that depends on business," answered the young traveler. "are you in business?" "i have a stock of stationery which i shall offer for sale in jackson," answered frank. "i am afraid you'll find it rather a poor market. if that's all you have to depend upon, i am afraid you'll get discouraged." "i am also agent for an illustrated book," said frank. "i may be able to dispose of a few." "perhaps so," answered the farmer, dubiously. "but our people haven't much money to spend on articles of luxury, and books are a luxury with us." "i always heard that jackson was a flourishing place," said frank, who felt that now was his time to obtain a little information. "it ought to be," said the farmer; "but there's one thing prevents." "what is that?" "a good deal of our village is owned by a new york man, to whom we have to pay rent. he has a rascally agent--a mr. fairfield--who grinds us down by his exactions, and does what he can to keep, us in debt." "has he always been agent?" "no. before he came there was an excellent man--a mr. sampson--who treated us fairly, contented himself with exacting rents which we could pay, and if a man were unlucky, would wait a reasonable time for him to pay. then we got along comfortably. but he died, and this man was sent out in his place. then commenced a new state of things. he immediately raised the rents; demanded that they should be paid on the day they were due, and made himself harsh and tyrannical." "do you think the man who employs him knows how he is conducting his agency?" frank inquired. "no; there is no one to tell him. i suppose mr. fairfield tells him a smooth story, and he believes it. i am afraid we can hope for no relief." "what would he say," thought frank, "if he knew i were a messenger from mr. percival?" "what sort of a man is this mr. fairfield in private life?" he asked. "he drinks like a fish," was the unexpected reply. "frequently he appears on the street under the influence of liquor. he spends a good deal of money, lives in a large house, and his wife dresses expensively. he must get a much larger salary than mr. sampson did, or he could not spend money as he does." though frank had not much worldly experience, he could not help coming to the conclusion that mr. fairfield was acting dishonestly. he put together the two circumstances that this new agent had increased the rents, and yet that he had returned to mr. percival only about half as much as his predecessor had done. clearly, he must retain in his own hands much more than he had a right to do. "i shall have to report unfavorably on this man," he thought. one point must be considered--where he was to find a boarding place on his arrival in jackson. "is there a hotel in jackson?" he asked. "there is a tavern, but it's a low place," answered the farmer. "a good deal of liquor is sold there, and mr. fairfield, our agent, is one of the most constant patrons of the bar." "i don't think i should like to stop there," said frank. "isn't there any private family where i can get board for a week or two?" "if you don't object to plain fare," said the farmer, "i might agree to board you myself." this was precisely what frank wanted, and he replied that nothing would suit him better. "we live humbly," continued mr. hamlin--for this, frank learned, was his driver's name--"but we will try to make you comfortable." "i feel sure of that, sir, and i am much obliged to you for receiving me." "as to terms, you can pay whatever you can afford. my wife and children will be glad to see you. it's pretty quiet out here, and it breaks the monotony to meet any person from the east." "how long have you lived in jackson, mr. hamlin?" "about eight years. i was not brought up as a farmer, but became one from necessity. i was a bookkeeper in chicago for a good many years, until i found the confinement and close work were injuring my health. then i came here and set up as a farmer. i got along pretty well, at first; at any rate, i made a living for my family; but when mr. fairfield became agent, he raised my rent, and, in other ways, made it hard for me. now i have a hard struggle." "i thought you were not always a farmer," said frank. "what made you think so?" "you don't talk like a farmer. you have the appearance of a man who has lived in cities." "seems to me you are a close observer, for a boy of your years," said mr. hamlin, shrewdly. frank smiled. "i should be glad if your compliment were deserved," he answered. "it's a pity you were not agent, instead of mr. fairfield," suggested frank, pointedly. "i wish i were," answered hamlin. "i believe i should make a good one, though i might not turn over as much money to my employer. i should, first of all, lower the rents and make it as easy for the tenants as i could in justice to my new york principal." "do you know how much mr. fairfield receives--how large a salary, i mean?" "i know what mr. sampson got--twelve hundred dollars a year; but mr. fairfield lives at the rate of more than twice that sum, if i can judge from appearances." "i suppose you would be contented with the salary which mr. sampson received?" "contented! i should feel like a rich man. it would not interfere with my carrying on my farm, and i should be able to make something from that. why, it is as much as i received as a bookkeeper, and here the expenses of living are small, compared with what they were in chicago. i could save money and educate my children, as i cannot do now. i have a boy who wants a classical education, but of course there are no schools here which can afford it, and i am too poor to send him away from home. i suppose i shall have to bring him up as a farmer, though it is a great pity, for he is not fitted for it." mr. hamlin sighed, but frank felt in unusually good spirits. he saw his way clear already, not only to recommend mr. fairfield's displacement, but to urge mr. hamlin's appointment in his stead; that is, if his favorable impressions were confirmed on further acquaintance. "it seems to me," said the driver, changing the subject, "you might find something better to do than to peddle stationery." "i don't mean to follow the business long," answered frank. "it can't pay much." "i am not wholly dependent upon it," said our hero. "there is one advantage about it. it enables me to travel about and pay my expenses, and you know traveling is agreeable to a boy of my age." "that is true. well, your expenses won't amount to much while you are in jackson. i shall only charge you just enough to cover expenses--say three dollars a week." frank was about to insist on paying a larger sum, but it occurred to him that he must keep up appearances, and he therefore only thanked his kind acquaintance. by this time they had entered the village of jackson. "there's mr. fairfield now!" said mr. hamlin, suddenly, pointing with his whip to a rather tall, stout man, with a red nose and inflamed countenance, who was walking unsteadily along the sidewalk. frank carefully scrutinized the agent, and mentally decided that such a man was unfit for the responsible position he held. chapter xxxv dick hamlin mr. hamlin stopped his horse a quarter of a mile from the village in front of a plain farmhouse. an intelligent-looking boy, of perhaps fifteen, coarsely but neatly dressed, approached and greeted his father, not without a glance of surprise and curiosity at frank. "you may unharness the horses, dick," said mr. hamlin. "when you come back, i will introduce you to a boy friend who will stay with us a while." dick obeyed, and frank followed his host into the house. here he was introduced to mrs. hamlin, a motherly-looking woman, and annie and grace, younger sisters of dick. "i am glad to see you," said mrs. hamlin, to our hero, after a brief explanation from her husband. "we will try to make you comfortable." "thank you!" said frank. "i am sure i shall feel at home." the house was better furnished than might have been anticipated. when mr. hamlin left chicago, he had some money saved up, and he furnished his house in a comfortable manner. it was not, however, the furniture that attracted frank's attention so much as the books, papers and pictures that gave the rooms a homelike appearance. "i shall be much better off here than i would have been at the tavern," he thought. "this seems like home." "i see," said mr. hamlin, "that you are surprised to see so many books and pictures. i admit that my house does not look like the house of a poor man, who has to struggle for the mere necessaries of life. but books and periodicals we have always classed among the necessities, and i am sure we would all rather limit ourselves to dry bread for two out of the three meals than to give up this food for the mind." "i think you are a very sensible man, mr. hamlin," said frank. "i couldn't get along without something to read." "not in this out-of-the-way place, at any rate," said mr. hamlin. "nothing can be more dismal than the homes of some of my neighbors, who spend as much, or more, than i do every year. yet, they consider me extravagant because i buy books and subscribe for periodicals." by this time, dick came in from the barn. "dick," said his father, "this is frank courtney, who comes from chicago on a business errand. he is a traveling merchant--" "in other words, a peddler," said frank, with a smile, "ready to give the good people in jackson a chance to buy stationery at reasonable prices." "he will board with us while he is canvassing the neighborhood, and i expect you and he will become great friends." "i think we shall," said frank. dick was a little shy, but a few minutes set him quite at ease with his new acquaintance. after supper, frank said: "dick, if you are at leisure, i wish you would take a walk about the village with me. i want to see how it looks." "all right," said dick. when the two left the house, the country boy began to ask questions. "how do you like your business?" he asked. "not very well," answered frank. "i do not think i shall stay in it very long." "do you sell enough to make your expenses?" asked dick. "no; but i am not wholly dependent on my sales. i have a little income--a hundred dollars a year--paid me by my stepfather." "i wish i had as much. it seems a good deal to me." "it doesn't go very far. what are you intending to be, dick?" "i suppose i shall have to be a farmer, though i don't like it." "what would you like to be?" "i should like to get an education," said dick, his eyes lighting up. "i should like to study latin and greek, and go to college. then i could be a teacher or a lawyer. but there is no chance of that," he added, his voice falling. "don't be too sure of that, dick," said frank frank, hopefully. "something may turn up in your favor." "nothing ever does turn up in jackson," said the boy, in a tone of discouragement. "father is a poor man, and has hard work to get along. he can give me no help." "isn't the farm productive?" "there is no trouble about that, but he has to pay too high a rent. it's all the fault of fairfield." "the agent?" "yes." "your father was telling me about him. now, if your father were in his place, i suppose he could give you the advantages you wish." "oh, yes! there would be no trouble then. i am sure he would make a better and more popular agent than mr. fairfield; but there is no use thinking about that." "i expected myself to go to college," said frank. "in fact, i have studied latin and greek, and in less than a year i could be ready to enter." "why don't you?" asked dick. "you forget that i am a poor peddler." "then how were you able to get so good an education?" asked dick, in surprise. "because i was once better off than i am now. the fact is, dick," he added, "i have seen better days. but when i was reduced to poverty, i gave up hopes of college education and became what i am." "wasn't it hard?" "not so much as you might suppose. my home was not happy. i have a stepfather and stepbrother, neither of whom i like. in fact, there is no love lost between us. i was not obliged to leave home, but under the circumstances i preferred to." "where are your stepfather and your stepbrother now?" "they are traveling in europe." "while you are working hard for a living! that does not seem to be just." "we must make the best of circumstances, dick. whose is that large house on the left?" "that belongs to mr. fairfield. "he seems to live nicely." "yes, he has improved and enlarged the house a good deal since he moved into it--at mrs. percival's expense, i suppose." "he seems to have pretty much his own way here," said frank. "yes. mr. percival never comes to jackson, and i suppose he believes all that the agent tells him." "he may get found out some time." "i wish he might. it would be a great blessing to jackson if he were removed and a good man were put in his place." "that may happen some day." "not very likely, i am afraid." at this moment mr. fairfield himself came out of his front gate. "hello, hamlin!" he said, roughly, to dick. "is your father at home?" "yes, sir." "i have something to say to him. i think i will call round." "you will find him at home, sir." "dick," said frank, when the agent had passed on, "do you mind going back? what you tell me makes me rather curious about mr. fairfield. at your house i may get a chance to see something of him." "let us go back, then," said dick; "but i don't think, frank, that you will care much about keeping up the acquaintance." "perhaps not; but i shall gratify my curiosity." the two boys turned and followed the agent closely. they reached the house about five minutes after mr. fairfield. chapter xxxvi mr. fairfield, the agent the two boys found mr. fairfield already seated in the most comfortable chair in the sitting room. he looked inquiringly at frank when he entered with dick. "who is that boy, hamlin?" inquired the agent. "nephew of yours?" "no, sir. it is a young man who has come to jackson on business." "what kind of business?' "i sell stationery," frank answered for himself. "oh, a peddler!" said the agent, contemptuously. "many of our most successful men began in that way," said mr. hamlin, fearing lest frank's feelings might be hurt. "i never encourage peddlers myself," said mr. fairfield, pompously. "then i suppose it will be of no use for me to call at your door," said frank, who, in place of being mortified, was amused by the agent's arrogance. "i should say not, unless your back is proof against a broomstick," answered fairfield, coarsely. "i tell my servant to treat all who call in that way." "i won't put her to the trouble of using it," said frank, disgusted at the man's ill manners. "that's where you are wise--yes, wise and prudent--young man." "and now, hamlin," said the agent, "i may as well come to business." "to business!" repeated the farmer, rather surprised, for there was no rent due for a month. "yes, to business," said fairfield. "i came to give you notice that after the next payment i shall feel obliged to raise your rent." "raise my rent!" exclaimed the farmer, in genuine dismay. "i am already paying a considerably higher rent than i paid to your predecessor." "can't help it. old sampson was a slow-going old fogy. he didn't do his duty by his employer. when i came in, i turned over a new leaf." "i certainly got along better in his time." "no doubt. he was a great deal too easy with you. didn't do his duty, sir. wasn't sharp enough. that's all." "you certainly cannot be in earnest in raising my rent, mr. fairfield," said the farmer, uneasily. "i certainly am." "i can't live at all if you increase my rent, which is already larger than i can afford to pay, mr. fairfield." "then i must find a tenant who can and will," said the agent, emphatically. "i am sure mr. percival can't understand the true state of the case, or the circumstances of his tenants. will you give me his address, and i will take the liberty of writing to him and respectfully remonstrate against any increase?" mr. fairfield looked uneasy. this appeal would not at all suit him. yet how could he object without leading to the suspicion that he was acting in this matter wholly on his own responsibility, and not by the express orders of his principal? how could he refuse to furnish mr. percival's address? a middle course occurred to him. "you may write your appeal, if you like, hamlin," he said, "and hand it to me. i will forward it; though i don't believe it will do any good. the fact is that mr. percival has made up his mind to have more income from his property in jackson." chapter xxxvii frank receives a letter from mr. percival while frank was waiting for an answer to a letter to mr. percival he devoted part of his time to the business which was supposed to be his only reason for remaining in jackson. i am bound to say that as regards this business his trip might be pronounced a failure. there was little ready money in jackson. many of the people were tenants of mr. percival, and found it difficult to pay the excessive rents demanded by his agent. of course, they had no money to spare for extras. even if they had been better off, there was little demand for stationery in the village. the people were chiefly farmers, and did not indulge in much correspondence. when frank returned to his boarding place on the afternoon of the first day, mr. hamlin asked him, not without solicitude, with what luck he had met. "i have sold twenty-five cents' worth of note paper," answered frank, with a smile. mr. hamlin looked troubled. "how many places did you call at?" he inquired. "about a dozen." "i am afraid you will get discouraged." "if you don't do better, you won't begin to pay expenses." "that is true." "but perhaps you may do better to-morrow." "i hope so." "i wish you could find something in jackson that would induce you to remain here permanently, and make your home with us. i would charge you only the bare cost of board." "thank you very much, mr. hamlin. i should enjoy being with you, but i don't believe i shall find any opening here. besides, i like a more stirring life." "no doubt--no doubt! boys like a lively place. well, i am glad you feel independent of your business." "for a little time. i am afraid it wouldn't do for me to earn so little for any length of time." frank enjoyed the society of dick hamlin. together they went fishing and hunting, and a mutual liking sprang up between them. "i wish you were going to stay longer, frank," said dick. "i shall feel very lonely when you are gone." "we may meet again under different circumstances," said frank. "while i am here, we will enjoy ourselves as well as we can." so the days passed, and at length a letter came from mr. percival. i append the most important passages: "your report is clear, and i have perfect confidence in your statement. mr. fairfield has abused my confidence and oppressed my tenants, and i shall dismiss him. i am glad you have found in jackson a man who is capable of succeeding him. solely upon your recommendation, i shall appoint mr. hamlin my resident agent and representative for the term of six months. should he acquit himself to my satisfaction, he will be continued in the position. i am prepared to offer him one hundred dollars a month, if that will content him. "upon receipt of this letter, and the accompanying legal authority, you may call upon mr. fairfield and require him to transfer his office, and the papers and accounts connected with it, to mr. hamlin. i inclose a check for three hundred dollars, payable to your order, which you may make payable to him, in lieu of three months' notice, provided he immediately surrenders his office. should he not, i shall dismiss him summarily, and proceed against him for the moneys he has misappropriated to his own use, and you may so inform him." with this letter was a letter to mr. fairfield, of the same purport, and a paper appointing mr. hamlin agent. when this letter was received, frank was overjoyed, knowing how much pleasure he was about to give his new friends. with this appointment and salary, mr. hamlin would consider himself a rich man, and dick's hope for a liberal education might be realized. the letter came just before supper, and, at the close of the evening meal, frank determined to inform his friends of their good fortune. "mr. hamlin," said he, "i have some good news for you." "indeed!" said the farmer, surprised. "your rent will not be increased." "but how do you know this! has mr. fairfield told you so?" "no," answered frank. "i have a question to ask. would you be willing to take mr. fairfield's place at a hundred dollars a month?" "willing? i should be delighted to do so. but why do you say this?" "because," answered frank, quietly, "i am authorized to offer it to you at that salary." the whole family looked at frank in bewildered surprise. it occurred to them that he might have become crazy. "you!" exclaimed the farmer. "what can you have to do with the agency?" frank explained to a very happy family group and then he and mr. hamlin set out for the house of the agent. chapter xxxviii the agent is notified it was still early in the evening when frank and mr. hamlin reached the house of the agent. had they come five minutes later, they would have found him absent. usually, soon after supper, he made his way to the tavern, where he spent his time and money in a very unprofitable way. the agent was surprised when his two visitors made their appearance. "what brings you here, hamlin?" he asked, with scant ceremony. "i come on a little matter of business," answered mr. hamlin, gravely. mr. fairfield concluded that the farmer had come to make an appeal to have his rent continued at the old rates, and answered, impatiently: "i don't think it will be of much use. my mind is made up. have you come on business, also?" he asked, turning to frank, with a sneer. "yes, sir," answered our hero, quietly. "that will be of no use, either," said the agent. "i am not in want of stationery, and, if i were, i should not buy of a peddler." "i have not come here to sell stationery, mr. fairfield," said frank. "then, may i take the liberty of asking what is your business here?" "i come on the same business as mr. hamlin," answered frank, who preferred that his companion should introduce the subject. "look here, i have no time for trifling," said mr. fairfield, angrily. "i am going out and can only spare you five minutes." "mr. fairfield, i would advise you not to go out till you have heard what i have to say," said the farmer in a meaning tone. "i certainly shall. you can call some other time." "another time will not do." "look here, sir! do you know to whom you are talking? how dare you use such a tone to mr. percival's representative?" "i suppose you don't always expect to be mr. percival's representative?" "i suppose i shall die sometime, if that's what you mean; but i am not dead yet, as you will find. to pay you for your impertinence, i shall increase your rent more than i intended. i'll drive you out of town--that's what i'll do." this was accompanied by an angry stamp of the foot, which, however, did not frighten mr. hamlin much. "i shall not pay a dollar more rent, nor shall i leave the farm i occupy," returned mr. hamlin, whose patience was exhausted by the rough insolence of the man before him. "so you defy me, do you?" demanded fairfield, furiously. "i shall resist your injustice, sir, or rather i would do so if you were able to carry out your threat. luckily you have not the power." "have not the power? you will see if i have not the power!" roared the angry agent. "i give you notice that at the end of the quarter you must go, at any rate. after your insolence, i won't let you stay on any terms. i wouldn't let you stay if you would pay double the rent. do you hear me, hamlin?" "yes, i hear you." mr. fairfield looked at the farmer in surprise. the latter seemed perfectly calm and undisturbed by his threat, though it was of the most serious nature. he had expected to see him humbled, and to hear him entreat a reversal of the sentence; but his tenant was thoroughly self-possessed, and appeared to care nothing for the agent's threats. "you need not expect that i will change my mind," he added. "out of jackson you must go. i know there is no other farm which you can hire, and while i am mr. percival's agent, you need expect no favors from me." "i don't expect any while you are mr. percival's agent," said mr. hamlin. there was something in the farmer's tone that arrested the agent's attention and excited his curiosity, though it did not awaken his alarm, and he could not help saying: "then what do you expect? do you think i am going to die?" "i don't expect that you will die or resign, mr. fairfield. you may be removed." "have you been writing to mr. percival?" exclaimed fairfield, in mingled anger and apprehension. "no, sir; i have not communicated with him in any way. you would not give me his address." "of course i would not," said the agent, feeling relieved. "it would be mere impertinence for you to write to him." "fortunately there is no immediate occasion for me to do so, as he has sent a representative here to investigate your official conduct." "a representative!" exclaimed fairfield, now thoroughly startled. "where is he? i have not seen him." "he is present," said mr. hamlin, indicating frank. the agent broke into a scornful laugh. "you? why, you are a peddler!" "only in appearance, mr. fairfield. i assumed that business in order not to attract attention or excite suspicion. i am really mr. percival's private secretary, as i can prove to your satisfaction." "is this true?" he asked, in a changed voice. "yes, sir; quite true." "have you written to mr. percival?" "yes, sir; and this afternoon i received a letter from him." "what did he write?" asked fairfield, in a husky voice; for he was convinced now that frank spoke the truth. "he removes you, inclosing a check of three hundred dollars in place of notice, and appoints mr. hamlin in your place." "will you read this letter, sir?" it was enough. fairfield knew that his management would not stand investigation, and he yielded with a bad grace. mr. hamlin, the next day, to the great joy of the villagers, made known his appointment. fairfield left town and drifted to california, where he became an adventurer, living in a miserable and precarious manner. mr. hamlin moved into his fine house, and dick was sent to a school to prepare for college. the next day frank started on his return to new york. chapter xxxix an important discovery on his return to new york, frank had no reason to be dissatisfied with his reception. from mr. percival to freddie, all the family seemed delighted to see him. "you mustn't go away again, frank," said little freddie. "i wanted to see you ever so much." "and i wanted to see you, freddie," said our hero, his heart warming to the little boy. "you won't go away again, will you, frank?" "not if i can help it, freddie." "we are all glad to see you back frank," said his employer. "but you have justified my opinion of you by your success. some of my friends ridiculed me for sending a boy on such an important mission, but i don't believe any of them would have succeeded any better than you, if as well." "i am glad you are satisfied with me, sir," said frank, very much gratified by the commendation of his employer. "i feel that you have done a great service, and indeed i don't know whom i could have sent in your place. however, i am glad to see you back again. i have missed you about my letters, and have postponed answering some till my young secretary returned." frank resumed his regular employment, and three months passed without anything that needs to be recorded. at the end of that time, frank received an important letter from col. vincent, which gave him much food for thought. the letter was as follows: "dear frank: for some time past i have been intending to write to you, but i have delayed for no good reason. now, however, i am led to write by a surprising discovery which has just been made in your old home, which may be of material importance to you. "when your stepfather went away, he requested me to have an eye to the estate, and order whatever i might think necessary to be done. i am not, as you know, a very cordial friend of mr. manning's, but i have always regarded the property as of right belonging to you--that is, since your mother's death--and so accepted the commission. "a few days since i went over the house and found that it was quite dirty. where the dirt could come from in an unoccupied house i can't tell, but, at all events, i felt justified in engaging a woman to clean the paint, so, if any of you should return unexpectedly, you would find the house fit to receive you. this was a very simple matter, you will think, and scarcely needs mentioning. but, my dear frank, events of importance often hinge on trifles, and so it has proved in the present instance. "on the evening of the second day i received a call from mrs. noonan, whom i had employed to scrub the house. she had in her hand a folded paper, which she gave to me. "'here is something i found, sir, while i was scrubbing,' she said. "i opened it indifferently, but conceive of my amazement when i found it to be your mother's will, properly signed, sealed and witnessed. "of course it was not the will which mr. manning presented for probate. this will gave mr. manning ten thousand dollars, and the residue of the property to you, except a small amount bestowed upon richard green, the coachman, and deborah--sums larger, by the way, than those mentioned in the will which was read after your mother's death." there was more to colonel vincent's letter. frank showed it to mr. percival, and readily obtained permission to take a few days vacation. "i hope you will get back the estate, frank," said mr. percival, "though i don't know what i shall do without my secretary." "that need not separate us, mr. percival," said our hero. "i have no home but this." chapter xl jonas barton frank started for his old home on saturday afternoon. he would arrive in time for supper, at the house of his father's friend. the train was well filled, and he was obliged to share his seat with a shabbily dressed young man with whom, a single glance showed him, he was not likely to sympathize. the shabby suit did not repel him at all--he was too sensible for that; but there was a furtive look in the man's face, which seemed to indicate that he was not frank and straightforward, but had something to conceal. half the journey passed without a word between the two. then his companion, glancing at frank, opened a conversation by remarking that it was a fine day. "very," answered frank, laconically. "a pleasant day to travel." "yes." "do you go far?" frank mentioned his destination. his companion seemed to have his interest awakened. "do you know a mr. manning, living in your town?" he asked. "he is my stepfather," said frank. "then you are frank courtney?" said his new acquaintance, quickly. "i am." "pardon me, but i think your mother died recently?" "yes." "and the property was left chiefly to mr. manning?" "yes." "of course, you were surprised, and probably very disappointed?" "excuse me," said frank, coldly; "but i am not in the habit of discussing my affairs with strangers." "quite right, but i think you will find it for your interest to discuss them with me. not in a public car, of course; but i have something of importance to communicate. where can i have a private interview with you?" it at once occurred to frank that there was an opportunity, perhaps, to solve the mystery concerning the will. this man might know nothing about it; but, on the other hand, he might know everything. it would be foolish to repulse him. "if you have anything important to tell me, i shall be glad to hear it," he said. "i am going to the house of my friend, col. vincent, to pass a few days. do you know where he lives?" "yes, i know." "if you will call this evening, after supper, i shall be glad to see you." "i will do so. i will be there at eight o'clock, sharp." on arriving at his destination, frank found the colonel's carriage waiting for him at the station. col. vincent was inside. "welcome, frank!" he said, grasping heartily the hand of our young hero. "i am delighted to see you. you are looking well, and, bless me, how you have grown!" "thank you, col. vincent. do you expect me to return the compliment?" "about having grown? no, frank, i hope not. i am six feet one, and don't care to grow any taller. well, what do you think of the news?" "i have some for you, colonel;" and frank mentioned what his new acquaintance had told him. "the missing link!" exclaimed the colonel, excited. "do you know what i think?" "what?" "that this man either forged the will which gives the property to your stepfather, or is cognizant of it!" "i thought of that." "i shall be impatient to see him." at eight o'clock the man called and gave his name as jonas barton. whether it was the right name might be a question; but this did not matter. "i understand," said col. vincent, "that you have some information to give us." "i have; and that of a very important nature." "is it of a nature to restore to my young friend here his property now in the possession of mr. manning?" "if it were," said jonas barton with a cunning glance of his left eye "how much would it be worth?" "i supposed it was for sale," said the colonel, quietly. "what is your own idea?" "i will take two thousand dollars." "suppose we say one thousand?" "it is not enough." "were you aware that the genuine will had been found?" asked the colonel, quietly. jonas barton started. "i thought mr. manning destroyed it," he said, hastily. "no; he concealed it." "is this true?" "yes. you see that a part of your information has been forestalled." "he was a fool, then, and still more a fool to refuse my last demand for money. i accept your offer of a thousand dollars, and will tell all." "go on." "i wrote the will which mr. manning presented for probate. it was copied in part from the genuine will." "good! and you betray him because he will not pay what you consider the service worth?" "yes, sir." jonas barton here gave a full account of mr. manning, whom he had formerly known in new york, seeking him out and proposing to him a job for which he was willing to pay five hundred dollars. barton was not scrupulous, and readily agreed to do the work. he was skillful with the pen, and did his work so well that all were deceived. "you will be willing to swear to this in court?" "yes, sir, if you will guarantee the sum you proposed." "i will. i shall wish you to find a boarding place in the village, and remain here for the present, so as to be ready when needed. i will be responsible for your board." as jonas barton was leaving the house, one of the servants came in with important news, in which frank was strongly interested. chapter xli conclusion the news was that mr. manning and mark had just arrived at the cedars. they had come by the last evening train. why they had come back so unexpectedly no one knew, but the servant had heard that mark was in poor health. this was true. mark, in europe, had proved uncontrollable. he had given way to his natural love of drink, had kept late hours, and had seriously injured his constitution. in consequence of these excesses, he had contracted a fever, which alarmed him father and induced him to take the first steamer home. "we won't call upon your stepfather this evening, frank," said col. vincent; "but early monday morning we will bring matters to a crisis." mr. manning did not hear of frank's presence in the village. he was fatigued with his rapid travel and kept at home. besides, mark was prostrated by his journey and didn't wish to be left alone. it was, therefore, a surprise to mr. manning when on monday morning, col. vincent was ushered into his presence, accompanied by frank. "really, colonel," he said, recovering his composure, "you are very kind to call so soon. i hope you are well, frank? are you staying with the colonel? you must come back to your old home." "thank you, mr. manning, but i am living in new york. i am only passing a day or two with the colonel." "it is very friendly in you to call, col. vincent." "mr. manning," said col. vincent, gravely, "i am not willing to receive undeserved credit. let me say, therefore, that this is a business, not a friendly, call." "indeed," said manning, uneasily. "the business is connected with my young friend frank." "i am ready to listen," said mr. manning. "if frank wants a larger allowance, i am ready to give it." "i venture to say for him that he will not be satisfied with that. let me come to the point at once, mr. manning. mrs. manning's will has been found." mr. manning started perceptibly, and his glance involuntarily wandered to that part of the wall behind which the will was discovered, for they were sitting in the very apartment where mrs. noonan had stumbled upon it. "what do you mean, sir?" "a will has been found, leaving the bulk of the property to frank." "indeed! i am surprised. is it a later will than the one which bequeathed the estate to me?" asked mr. manning, pointedly. "it is mrs. manning's latest genuine will," said col. vincent, emphatically. mr. manning started to his feet. he could not help understanding the colonel's meaning. it would have been idle to pretend it. "what do you mean, col. vincent?" he asked, in a tone which he tried to make one of dignified resentment. "i mean that mrs. manning made but one will, and that this bequeaths the property to frank." "how, then, do you account for the later will which was admitted to probate?" "in this way. it was not what it purported to be." mr. manning's sallow face flushed. "what do you mean to insinuate?" he asked. "that the last will was forged!" said col. vincent, bluntly. "this is a very serious charge," said mr. manning, unable to repress his agitation. "you must allow me to say that i shall pay no attention to it. when you furnish proof of what you assert, it will be time enough to meet it. and now, gentlemen, if you have nothing further to say, i will bid you good-morning." "i think you will find it best not to be in a hurry, mr. manning," said col. vincent. "the charge must be met here and now. i charge you with instigating and being cognizant of the fraud that has been perpetrated!" "on what grounds, sir? do you know i can sue you for libel?" "you are welcome to do so, mr. manning. i have a witness who will clear me." "who is he?" "jonas barton!" if a bombshell had exploded in the room, mr. manning could not have looked paler or more thoroughly dismayed. yet he tried to keep up a little longer. "i don't know any man of that name," he answered, faintly. "your looks show that you do. i may as well tell you, mr. manning, that resistance is useless. we can overwhelm you with proof if we take the matter before the courts. but we do not care to do so. we have something to propose." "what is it?" said mr. manning, faintly. "the genuine will must be substituted for the fraudulent one. by it you will receive ten thousand dollars, and frank will consent that you shall receive it. he will not ask you to account for the sums you have wrongfully spent during the last year, and will promise not to prosecute you, provided you leave this neighborhood and never return to it, or in any way interfere with him. to insure this, we shall have jonas barton's written confession, attested before a justice of the peace, ready for use, if needful. do you accept?" "i must," said mr. manning, despondently. "but i shall be a poor man." "no man who has health and the use of his facilities is poor with ten thousand dollars," answered the colonel. "mark alone will spend more than the interest of this sum." "then you must prevent him. he will be better off if he has to earn his living, as frank has done for the last year." in less than a week the transfer was made, and frank recovered his patrimony. mr. manning and mark went to chicago, and perhaps further west; but nothing has been heard from them for years. frank didn't return to the cedars. the place was let until he should wish to return to it. by the advice of col. vincent, he resumed his preparation for college, and, graduating in due time, commenced the study of law. though rich enough to do without a profession, he felt that he should not be content to lead an aimless life. he obtained for his school friend, herbert grant, the post of private secretary to mr. percival, and herbert became nearly as great a favorite as himself. through mr. percival's kindness, herbert was enabled, while still living at his house and attending to his duties as secretary, to enter columbia college, and complete his course there, graduating with honor. herbert selected the medical profession, and, when he has completed his studies, will go abroad for a year with frank, at the latter's expense, and, returning, open an office in new york. while he is waiting for the patients and frank for clients, the two will live together, and their common expenses will be defrayed by frank. "if i didn't like you so well, frank," said herbert, "i would not accept this great favor at your hands--" "but since we are dear friends," interrupts frank, with a smile. "i know that you enjoy giving even more than i do the receiving." "enough, herbert. we understand each other. i have no brother, herbert, and if i had, i could not care more for him than i do for you. without you, i should feel alone in the world." frank does not regret the year in which he was thrown upon his own resources. it gave him strength and self-reliance; and however long he may live, he will not cease to remember with pleasure the year in which he was "making his way." the end [illustration: looking anxiously at the babe in her arms. _see page ._] little frida a tale of the black forest by the author of "little hazel, the king's messenger" "under the old oaks; or, won by love" etc. etc. thomas nelson and sons, ltd. london, edinburgh, and new york contents i. lost in the woods ii. the wood-cutter's hut iii. frida's father iv. the parsonage v. the woodmen's pet vi. elsie and the brown bible vii. in dringenstadt viii. the violin-teacher and the concert ix. christmas in the forest x. harcourt manor xi. in the riviera xii. in the great metropolis xiii. in the slums xiv. the old nurse xv. the power of conscience xvi. the storm xvii. the discovery xviii. old scenes list of illustrations looking anxiously at the babe in her arms _frontispiece_ ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book" "come, frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together" little frida. chapter i. lost in the woods. "when my father and my mother forsake me, then the lord will take me up." "see, hans, how dark it gets, and thy father not yet home! what keeps him, thinkest thou? supper has been ready for a couple of hours, and who knows what he may meet with in the forest if the black night fall!" and the speaker, a comely german peasant woman, crossed herself as she spoke. "i misdoubt me something is wrong. the saints preserve him!" the boy, who looked about ten years old, was gazing in the direction of a path which led through the forest, but, in answer to this appeal, said, "never fear, mütterchen; father will be all right. he never loses his way, and he whistles so loud as he walks that i am sure he will frighten away all the bad--" but here his mother laid her hand on his mouth, saying, "hush, hans! never mention them in the twilight; 'tis not safe. just run to the opening in the wood and look if ye see him coming; there is still light enough for that. it will not take you five minutes to do so. and then come back and tell me, for i must see to the pot now, and to the infant in the cradle." the night, an october one, was cold, and the wind was rising and sighing amongst the branches of the pine trees. darker and darker gathered the shades, as mother and son stood again at the door of their hut after hans had returned from his useless quest. no sign of his father had he seen, and boy though he was, he knew too much of the dangers that attend a wood-cutter's life in the forest not to fear that some evil might have befallen his father; but he had a brave young heart, and tried to comfort his mother. "he'll be coming soon now, mütterchen," he said; "and won't he laugh at us for being so frightened?" but the heart of the wife was too full of fear to receive comfort just then from her boy's words. "nay, hans," she said; "some evil has befallen him. he never tarries so late. thy father is not one to turn aside to his mates' houses and gossip away his time as others do. it is always for home and children that he sets out when his work is done. no, hans; i know the path to the place where he works, and i can follow it even in the dark. stay here and watch by the cradle of the little annchen, whilst i go and see if i can find thy father." "nay, mütterchen," entreated the boy; "thee must not go. and all alone too! father would never have let you do so had he been here. o mutter, stay here! little annchen will be waking and wanting you, and how could i quiet her? o mütterchen, go not!" and he clung to her, trying to hold her back. just as his mother, maddened with terror, was freeing herself from his grasp, the sound of a footstep struck her ear, and mother and child together exclaimed, "ah, there he comes!" sure enough through the wood a man's figure became visible, but he was evidently heavily laden. he carried, besides his axe and saw, two large bundles. what they were could not be distinguished in the darkness. with a cry of joyous welcome his wife sprang forward to meet her husband, and hans ran eagerly to help him to carry his burden; but to their amazement he said, though in a kindly tone, "elsie--hans, keep off from me till i am in the house." the lamp was lighted, and a cheerful blaze from the stove, the door of which was open, illumined the little room into which the stalwart young wood-cutter, wilhelm hörstel, entered. then, to the utter astonishment of his wife and son, he displayed his bundle. throwing back a large shawl which completely covered the one he held in his arms, he revealed a sleeping child of some five or six years old, who grasped tightly in her hand a small book. in his right hand he held a violin and a small bag. elsie gazed with surprise, not unmingled with fear. "what meaneth these things, wilhelm?" she said; "and from whence comes the child? _ach_, how wonderfully beautiful she is! art sure she is a child of earth? or is this the doing of some of the spirits of the wood?" at these words wilhelm laughed. "nay, wife, nay," he replied, and his voice had a sad ring in it as he spoke. "this is no wood sprite, if such there be, but a little maiden of flesh and blood. let me rest, i pray thee, and lay the little one on the bed; and whilst i take my supper i will tell thee the tale." and elsie, wise woman as she was, did as she was asked, and made ready the simple meal, set it on the wooden bench which served as table, then drew her husband's chair nearer the stove, and restraining her curiosity, awaited his readiness to begin the tale. when food and heat had done their work, wilhelm felt refreshed; and when elsie had cleared the table, and producing her knitting had seated herself beside him, he began his story; whilst hans, sitting on a low stool at his feet, gazed with wondering eyes now on the child sleeping on the bed, and then at his father's face. "ay, wife," the wood-cutter began, speaking in the _plattdeutsch_ used by the dwellers in the forest, "'tis a wonderful story i have to tell. 'twas a big bit of work i had to finish to-day, first cutting and then piling up the wood far in the forest. i had worked hard, and was wearying to be home with you and the children; but the last pile had to be finished, and ere it was so the evening was darkening and the wind was rising. so when the last log was laid i collected my things, and putting on my blouse, set off at a quick pace for home. but remembering i had a message to leave at the hut of johann schmidt, telling him to meet me in the morning to fell a tree that had been marked for us by the forester, i went round that way, which thou knowest leads deeper into the forest. johann had just returned from his work, and after exchanging a few words i turned homewards. "the road i took was not my usual one, but though it led through a very dark part of the forest, i thought it was a shorter way. as i got on i was surprised to see how dark it was. glimpses of light, it is true, were visible, and the trees assumed strange shapes, and the forest streams glistened here and there as the rising moon touched them with its beams. but the gathering clouds soon obscured the faint moonlight.--you will laugh, hans, when i tell you that despite what i have so often said to you about not believing in the woodland spirits, that even your good mütterchen believes in, my heart beat quicker as now one, now another of the gnarled trunks of the lower trees presented the appearance of some human form; but i would not let my fear master me, so only whistled the louder to keep up my courage, and pushed on my way. "the forest grew darker and darker, and the wind began to make a wailing sound in the tree-tops. a sudden fear came over me that i had missed my way and was getting deeper into the forest, and might not be able to regain my homeward path till the morning dawned, when once more for a few minutes the clouds parted and the moon shone out, feeble, no doubt--for she is but in her first quarter--and her beams fell right through an opening in the wood, and revealed the figure of a little child seated at the foot of a fir tree. alone in the forest at that time of night! my heart seemed to stand still, and i said to myself, 'elsie is right after all. that can only be some spirit child, some woodland being.' "a whisper in a little voice full of fear roused me and made me approach the child. she looked up, ere she could see my face, and again repeated the words in german (though not like what we speak here, but more the language of the town, as i spoke it when i lived there as a boy), 'father, father, i am glad you've come. i was feeling very frightened. it is so dark here--so dark!' as i came nearer she gave a little cry of disappointment, though not fear; and then i knew it was no woodland sprite, but a living child who sat there alone at that hour in the forest. my heart went out to her, and kneeling down beside her i asked her who she was, and how she came to be there so late at night. she answered, in sweet childish accents, 'i am frida heinz, and fader and i were walking through this big, big forest, and by-and-by are going to see england, where mother used to live long ago.' it was so pretty to hear her talk, though i had difficulty in making out the meaning of her words. 'but where then is your father?' i asked. i believe, wife, the language i spoke was as difficult for her to understand as the words she had spoken were to me, for she repeated them over as if wondering what they meant. then trying to recall the way i had spoken when a boy, which i have never quite forgotten, i repeated my question. she understood, and answered in her sweet babyish accents, 'fader come back soon, he told little frida. he had lost the road, and he said i'se to wait here till he came back, and laid his violin and his bag 'side me, and told me to keep this little book, which he has taught me to read, 'cos he says mother loved it so. then he went away; and i've waited--oh so long, and he's never come back, and i'se cold, so cold, and hungry, and i want my own fader. o kind man, take frida to him. and he's ill, so ill too! last night i heard the people in the place we slept in say he'd never live to go through the forest; but he would go, 'cos he wanted to take me 'cross the sea.' then the pretty little creature began to cry bitterly, and beg me again to take her to father. i told her i would wait a bit with her, and see if he came. for more than an hour i sat there beside her, trying to warm and comfort her; for i tell you, elsie, she seemed to creep into my heart, and reminded me of our little one, who would have been about her size had she been alive, though she was but three years old when she died. "well, time went on, and the night grew darker, and i knew how troubled you would be, and yet i knew not what to do. i left the child for a bit, and looked here and there in the forest; but all was dark, and though i called long and loud no answer came. so i returned, took the child in my arms (for she is but a light weight), and with my tools thrown over my shoulder, and the violin and bag in my hand, i made my way home. the child cried awhile, saying she must wait for fader, then fell sound asleep in my arms. now, wife, would it not be well to undress her, and give her some food ere she sleeps again, for she must be hungry?" chapter ii. the wood-cutter's hut. "jesus, tender shepherd, hear me; bless thy little lamb to-night." "indeed you are right, wilhelm," said his wife. "no doubt the poor little maid must be hungry, only i had not the heart to waken her.--see, hans, there is some goat's milk in the corner yonder. get it heated, whilst i cut a bit of this bread, coarse though it be. 'tis all we have to give her; but such as it is, she is right welcome to it, poor little lamb." as she spoke she moved quietly to the bed where the child lay asleep. as she woke she uttered the cry, "fader, dear fader!" then raised herself and looked around. evidently the story of the day flashed upon her, and she turned eagerly to the wood-cutter, asking if "fader" had come yet. on being told that he had not, she said no more, but her eyes filled with tears. she took the bread and milk without resistance, though she looked at the black bread as if it were repugnant to her. then she let herself be undressed by elsie, directing her to open the bag, and taking from it a nightdress of fine calico, a brush and comb, also a large sponge, a couple of fine towels, a change of underclothing, two pairs of stockings, and one black dress, finer than the one she wore. [illustration: ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book."] ere the child consented to go to bed she opened the little "brown book," which was a german bible, and read aloud, slowly but distinctly, the last verse of the fourth psalm: "ich liege und schlafe ganz mit frieden; denn allein du, herr, hilfst mir, dass ich sicher wohne" ("i will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, lord, only makest me dwell in safety"). then she knelt down, and prayed in simple words her evening prayer, asking god to let father come home, and to bless the kind people who had given her a shelter, for christ's sake. elsie and wilhelm looked at each other with amazement. alas! there was no fear of god in that house. elsie might cross herself when she spoke of spirits, but that was only as a superstitious sign that she had been told frightened them away. of christ and his power to protect and save they knew nothing. roman catholics by profession, they yet never darkened a church door, save perhaps when they took a child to be baptized; but they only thought of that ordinance as a protection to their child from the evil one. god's holy word was to them a sealed book. true, all the wood-cutters were not like them, but still a spirit of ignorance and indifference as regarded religion reigned amongst them; and if now and then a priest sought their dwelling, his words (such as they were) fell on dull ears. things seen and temporal engrossed all their thoughts. the daily work, the daily bread, and the nightly sleep--these filled their hearts and excluded god. so it was not to be wondered at that little frida's reading and prayer were an astonishment to them. "what think you of that, elsie?" said wilhelm. "the child spoke as if she were addressing some one in the room." "ay, ay," answered his wife. "it was gruesome to hear her. she made me look up to see if there was really any one there; and she wasn't speaking to our lady either. art sure she is a child of earth at all, wilhelm?" "ay, she's that; and the question is, wife, what shall we do with her? suppose the father never turns up, shall we keep her, or give her over to them that have the charge of wanderers and such like?" here hans sprang forward. "nay, father, nay! do not send her away. she is so pretty, and looks like the picture of an angel. i saw one in the church where little annchen was baptized. oh, keep her, father!--mutter, do not send the little maid back into the forest!" but elsie's woman's heart had no thought of so doing. "no, no, my lad," she said. "never fear; we'll keep the child till some one comes to take her away that has a right to her. who knows but mayhap she'll bring a blessing on our house; for often i think we don't remember the virgin and the saints as we ought. my mother did, i know;" and as she spoke great tears rolled down her cheeks. the child's prayer had touched a chord of memory, and recalled the days of her childhood, when she had lived with parents who at least reverenced the lord, though they had not been taught to worship him aright. wilhelm sat for a few minutes lost in thought. he was pondering the question whether, supposing the child was left on his hands, he could support her by doing extra work. it would be difficult, he knew; but if elsie were willing he'd try, for his kind heart recoiled from sending the little child who clung to him so confidingly adrift amongst strangers. no, he would not do so. after a while he turned to his wife, who had gone to the cradle where lay their six-weeks-old baby, and was rocking it, as the child had cried out in her sleep. "elsie," he said, "i'll set off at break of day, and go amongst my mates, and find out if they have seen or heard aught of the missing gentleman.--come, hans," he said suddenly; "'tis time you were asleep." a few minutes later and hans had tumbled into his low bed, and lay for a short time thinking about frida, and wondering who she had been speaking to when she knelt down; but in the midst of his wondering he fell asleep. wilhelm, wearied with his day's work, was not long in following his son's example, and was soon sound asleep; but no word of prayer rose from his heart and lips to the loving father in heaven, who had guarded and kept him from the dangers of the day. elsie was in no hurry to go to bed; her heart was full of many thoughts. the child's prayer and the words out of the little book had strangely moved her, and she was asking herself if there were indeed a god (as in her childhood she had been taught to believe), what had she ever done to please him. conscience said low, nothing; but she tried to drown the thought, and busied herself in cleaning the few dishes and putting the little room to rights, then sat down for a few minutes beside the stove to think. where could the father of the child be, she asked herself, and what would be his feelings on returning to the place where he had left her when he found she was no longer there? could he have lost his way in the great forest? that was by no means unlikely; she had often heard of such a thing as that happening. then she wondered if there were any clue to the child's friends or the place she was going to in the bag; and rising, she took it up and opened it. besides the articles we have already enumerated, she found a case full of needles, some reels of cotton, a small book of german hymns, and a double locket with chain attached to it. this elsie succeeded in opening, and on the one side was the picture of a singularly beautiful, dark-eyed girl, on the verge of womanhood; and on the other a blue-eyed, fair-haired young man, a few years older than the lady. under the pictures were engraved the words "hilda" and "friedrich." elsie doubted not that these were the likenesses of frida's father and mother, for the child bore a strong resemblance to both. she had the dark eyes of her mother and the golden hair of her father, if such was the relationship she bore to him. these pictures were the only clue to the child's parentage. no doubt she wore a necklace quite unlike anything that elsie had ever seen before; but then, except in the shop windows, she had seen so few ornaments in her life that she knew not whether it was a common one or not. she put the locket carefully back in its place, shut the bag, and slipped across the room to take another glance at the sleeping child. very beautiful she looked as she lay, the fair, golden hair curling over her head and falling round her neck. her lips were slightly parted, and, as if conscious of elsie's approach, she muttered the word "fader." elsie patted her, and turned once more to the little cradle where lay her infant. the child was awake and crying, and the mother stooped and took her up, and sat down with her in her arms. a look of anxiety and sadness crossed the mother's face when she observed that although she flashed the little lamp in the baby's face her eyes never turned to the light. for some time the terrible fear had been rising in her head that her little anna was blind. she had mentioned this to her husband, but he had laughed at her, and said babies of that age never took much notice of anything; but that was three weeks ago, and still, though the eyes looked bright, and the child was intelligent, the eyes never followed the light, nor looked up into the mother's face. the fear was now becoming certainty. oh, if only she could make sure, see some doctors, and find out if nothing could be done for her darling! a blind child! how could they support her, how provide for the wants of one who could never help herself? poor mother! her heart sank within her, for she knew nothing of the one who has said, "cast all your cares upon me, for i care for you." now as she gazed at the child she became more than ever convinced that that strange trial had fallen upon her. and to add to this new difficulty, how could she undertake the charge and keeping of this stranger so wonderfully brought to their door? elsie, although no christian, had a true, loving woman's heart beating within her, and putting from her the very idea of sending away the lost child, she said to herself, "the little that a child like that will take will not add much to the day's expense; and even if it did, elsie hörstel is not the woman to cast out the forlorn child." oh, the pity of it that she did not know the words of him who said, "inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me;" and again, "whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me." but these words had never yet reached her ears, and as yet it was only the instincts of a true god-created heart that led her to compassionate and care for the child lost in the forest. taking the babe in her arms, she slipped into bed and soon fell asleep. chapter iii. frida's father. "and though we sorrow for the dead, let not our grief be loud, that we may hear thy loving voice within the light-lined cloud." early in the morning, ere wife or children were awake, and long before the october sun had arisen, wilhelm hörstel arose, and putting a hunch of black bread and goat-milk cheese into his pocket, he shouldered his axe and saw and went out into the forest. the dawn was beginning to break, and there was light enough for the practised eye of the wood-cutter to distinguish the path which he wished to take through the forest. great stillness reigned around; even the twittering of the birds had hardly begun--they were for the most part awaiting the rising of the sun, though here and there an early bird might be heard chirping as it flew off, no doubt in search of food. even the frogs in the forest ponds had not yet resumed their croaking, and only the bubbling of a brooklet or the falling of a tiny cascade from the rocks (which abound in some parts of the forest) was heard. the very silence which pervaded, calmed, and to a christian mind would have raised the thoughts godward. but it had no such influence on the heart, the kindly heart, of the young wood-cutter as he walked on, bent only on reaching the small hamlet or "dorf" where stood the hut of the man with whom he sought to hold counsel as to how a search could be instituted in the forest for the father of little frida. as he reached the door, and just as the sun was rising above the hill-tops, and throwing here and there its golden beams through the autumn-tinted trees, he saw not one but several wood-cutters and charcoal-burners going into the house of his friend johann schmidt. somewhat wondering he hastened his steps, and entered along with them, putting as he did so the question, "_was gibt's?_" (what is the matter?) his friend, who came forward to greet him, answered the question by saying, "come and help us, wilhelm; a strange thing has happened here during the night. "soon after gretchen and i had fallen asleep, we were awakened by the noise of some heavy weight falling at the door; and on going to see what it was, there, to our amazement, lay a man, evidently in a faint. we got him into our hut, and after a while he became conscious, looked around him, and said 'frida!' gretchen tried to find out who it was he wished, but could only make out it was a child whom he had left in the forest; but whether he was still delirious none could tell. he pressed his hand on his heart and said he was very ill, and again muttering the word, 'frida, armseliger frida,' he again fainted away. "we did what we could for him, and he rallied a little; and then an hour ago, gretchen stooping over him heard him say, 'herr jesu. ob ich schon wandelte im finstern thal fürchete ich kein unglück: denn du bist bei mir' ('though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil: for thou art with me'); and giving one deep breath his spirit fled." as their mate said these words, exclamations of sorrow were heard around. "_ach_, poor man!" said one. "thinkest thou the child he spoke of can be in the forest?" "and the words he said about fearing no evil, what did they mean?" said another. "well," said one who looked like a chief man amongst them, "i believe he was _ein ketzer_, and if that be so we had better send to dringenstadt, where there is a _ketzer pfarrer_ [heretic pastor], and get his advice. i heard the other day that a new one had come whom they called herr langen." then as a momentary pause came, wilhelm hörstel stepped forward and told the tale of the child he had found in the forest the night before, who called herself frida. the men listened with amazement, but with one breath they all declared she must be the child of whom the dead man had spoken. "ay," said wilhelm, "and i am sure she is the child of a _ketzer_ [heretic]; for what think ye a child like that did ere she went to bed? she prayed, and my wife says never a word said she to the virgin, but spoke just straight to god." "_ach_, poor _mädchen_!" said another of the men; "does she think the lord would listen to the prayer of a child like her? the blessed virgin have pity on her;" and as he spoke he crossed himself. "if these things be so," said the chief man, by name jacob heine, "then it is plain one of us must go off to dringenstadt, see the _pfarrer_, and settle about the funeral." his proposal was at once agreed to, and as he was overseer of the wood-cutters, and could not leave his work, johann schmidt, in whose hut the man had died, was chosen as the best man to go; whilst wilhelm should return to his home, and then take the child to see her dead father. "yes, bring the _mädchen_" (little maid), said all, "and let us see her also; seems as if she belongs to us all, found in the forest as she was." there was no time to be lost, for the sun was already well up, and the men should have been at work long ago. so they dispersed, some going to their work deeper in the forest, wilhelm retracing his way home, and johann taking the path which led through the wood to the little town of dringenstadt. as wilhelm approached his door, the little frida darted to him, saying, "have you found my fader? oh, take me to him! frida must go to her fader." tears rose to the wood-cutter's eyes, as lifting the child in his arms he entered the hut, and leaving frida there with hans, he beckoned his wife to speak to him outside; and there he told her the story of the man who had died in johann's cottage. "ah, then," said elsie, "the little frida is indeed an orphan, poor lambie. how shall we tell her, wilhelm? her little heart will break. ever since she woke she has prattled on about him; ay" (and the woman's voice lowered as she spoke), "and of a father who she says lives in heaven and cares both for her earthly father and herself. and, wilhelm, she's been reading aloud to hans and me about the virgin's son of whom my mother used to speak." "well, never mind about all that, wife, but let us tell the child; for i and my mates think she should be taken to see the body, and so make sure that the man was really her father." * * * * * "fader dead!" said the child, as she sat on wilhelm's knee and heard the sad story. "dead! shall frida never see him again, nor walk with him, nor talk with him? oh! dear, dear fader, why did you die and leave frida all alone? i want you, i want you!" and the child burst into a flood of tears. they let her cry on, those kind-hearted people--nay, they wept with her; but after some minutes had passed, wilhelm raised her head, and asked her if she would not like to see her father once more, though he could not speak to her now. "yes, oh yes! take me to see him!" she exclaimed. "oh, take me!" then looking eagerly up she said, "perhaps jesus can make him live again, like he did lazarus, you know. can't he?" but alas! of the story of lazarus being raised from the dead these two people knew nothing; and when they asked her what she meant, and she said her father had read to her about it out of her little brown book, they only shook their heads, and wilhelm said, "i feared there was something wrong about that little book. how could any one be raised from the dead?" frida's passionate exclamations of love and grief when she saw the dead body of the man who lay in johann schmidt's hut removed all doubt from the minds of those who heard her as to the relationship between them; and the manner in which the child turned from a crucifix which gretchen brought forward to her, thinking it would comfort her, convinced them more firmly that the poor man had indeed been a heretic. no! father never prayed to that, nor would he let _her_ do so, she said--just to jesus, dear jesus in heaven; and though several of those who heard her words crossed themselves as she spoke, and prayed the virgin to forgive, all were much taken with and deeply sorry for the orphan child; and when wilhelm raised her in his arms to take her back to his hut and to the care of elsie, more than one of the inhabitants of the dorf brought some little gift from their small store to be taken with him to help in the maintenance of the little one so strangely brought among them. ere they left the dorf, johann schmidt had returned from executing his message to dringenstadt. he had seen the _pfarrer_, and he had promised to come along presently and arrange about the funeral. chapter iv. the parsonage. "the lord thy shepherd is-- dread not nor be dismayed-- to lead thee on through stormy paths, by ways his hand hath made." on the morning of the day that we have written of, the young protestant pastor of dringenstadt was seated in a room of the small house which went by the name of "das pfarrhaus." he was meditating more than studying just then. he felt his work there an uphill one. almost all the people in that little town were roman catholics. his own flock was a little one indeed, and only that morning he had received a letter telling him that it had been settled that no regular ministry would be continued there, as funds were not forthcoming, and the need in one sense seemed small. he had come there only a few months before, knowing well that he might only be allowed to remain a short time; but now that the order for his removal elsewhere had come, he felt discouraged and sad. was it right, he was asking himself, to withdraw the true gospel light from the people, and to leave the few, no doubt very few, who loved it to themselves? karl langen was a true christian, longing to lead souls to jesus, and was much perplexed by the order he had received. suddenly a knock at the door roused him, and the woman who took charge of his house on entering told him that a man from the forest wished to speak to him. telling her to send him in at once, he awaited his entry. johann schmidt was shown into the room, and told his sorrowful tale in a quiet, manly way. the pastor was much moved, and repeated with amazement the words, "a child lost in the black forest, and the father dead, you say? certainly i will come and see. but why, my friend, should you think the man was an evangelisch?" then johann told of the words he had repeated, of the child's prayer and her little brown book. suddenly a light seemed to dawn on the mind of the young pastor. "oh!" he said, "i believe you are right. i think i have seen both the father and the child. last sunday there came into our church a gentleman and a lovely little girl, just such a one as you describe the child you speak of to be. i tried to speak to them after worship, but ere i could do so they had gone. and no one could tell me who they were or whither they had gone. i will now see the bürgermeister about the funeral, and make arrangements regarding it. i think through some friends of mine i can get money sufficient to pay all expenses." johann thanked him warmly, and hastened back to tell what had been agreed on, and then got off to his work. late in the afternoon pastor langen took his way to the little hut in the black forest. the forest by the road he took was not well known to him, and the solemn quiet which pervaded it struck him much and raised his thoughts to god. it was as if he had entered the sanctuary and heard the voice of the lord speaking to him. it was, as a poet has expressed it, as if "solemn and silent everywhere, the trees with folded hands stood there, kneeling at their evening prayer." only the slight murmuring of the breeze amongst the leaves, or the flutter of a bird's wing as it flew from branch to branch, broke the silence. all around him there was "a slumberous sound, a sound that brings the feeling of a dream, as when a bell no longer swings, faint the hollow echo rings o'er meadow, lake, and stream." as he walked, he thought much of the child found in the forest, and he wondered how he could help her or find out to whom she belonged. oh, if only, he said to himself, he had been able to speak to the father the day he had seen him, and learned something of his history! johann had told him that if no clue could be found to the child's relations, wilhelm hörstel had determined to bring her up; but johann had added, "we will not, poor though we be, let the whole expense of her upbringing fall on the hörstels. no; we will go share for share, and she shall be called the child of the wood-cutters." as he thought of these words, the young pastor prayed for the kind, large-hearted men, asking that the knowledge of the loving christ might shine into their hearts and bring spiritual light into the darkness which surrounded them. the afternoon had merged into evening ere he entered the wood-cutters' dorf. as he neared johann's hut, gretchen came to the door, and he greeted her with the words, "the lord be with you, and bless you for your kindness to the poor man in the time of his need." "come in, sir," she said, "and see the corpse. oh, but he's been a fine-looking man, and he so young too. it was a sight to see his bit child crying beside him and begging him to say one word to her--just one word. then she folded her hands, and looking up said, 'o kind jesus, who made lazarus come to life, make dear fader live again.' oh, 'twas pitiful to see her! who think you, sir, was the man she spoke of called lazarus? when i asked her she said it was all written in her little brown book, which she would bring along and read to me some day, bless the little creature." the pastor said some words about the story being told by the lord jesus, and recorded in the holy scriptures. he did not offer her a testament, as he knew if the priest heard (as it was likely he would) of his having been there, he would ask if they had been given a bible, and so trouble would follow. but he rejoiced that the little child had it in her heart to read the words of life to the kind woman, and he breathed a prayer that her little brown bible might prove a blessing to those poor wood-cutters. pastor langen at once recognized the features of the dead man as those of the stranger whom he had seen with the lovely child in the little church. he then made arrangements for the funeral the next day, and departed. * * * * * on the morrow a number of wood-cutters met at the house of johann schmidt to attend the funeral of the stranger gentleman. wilhelm hörstel, and his wife, hans, and little frida, were there also. the child was crying softly, as if she realized that even the corpse of her father was to be taken from her. presently the young pastor entered, and the moment frida saw him she started forward, saying in her child language, "o sir, i've seen you before, when fader and i heard you preach some days ago." all this was said in the pure german language, which the people hardly followed at all, but which was the same as the pastor himself spoke. he at once recognized the child, and sought to obtain from her some information regarding her father. she only said, as she had already done, that he was going to england to see some friends of her mother's. when questioned as to their name, she could not tell. all that she knew was that they were relations of her mother's. yes, her father loved his bible, and had given her such a nice little brown one which had belonged to her mother. could she speak any english, the pastor asked. "yes, i can," said frida. "mother taught me a number of words, and i can say 'good-morning,' and 'how are you to-day?' also mother taught me to say the lord's prayer in english. but i do not know much english, for father and mother always spoke german to each other." no more could be got from the child then, and the simple service was gone on with; and when the small procession set off for dringenstadt, the kindly men took it by turns to carry the little maiden in their arms, as the walk through the forest was a long one for a child. in the churchyard of the quiet little german town they laid the mortal remains of friedrich heinz, to await the resurrection morning. tears rose to the eyes of many onlookers as frida threw herself, sobbing, on the grave of her father. wilhelm and elsie strove in vain to raise her, but when pastor langen drew near and whispered the words, "look up, frida; thy father is not here, he is with jesus," a smile of joy played on the child's face, and rising she dried her tears, and putting her hand into that of elsie she prepared to leave the "god's acre," and the little party set off for their home in the black forest. darkness had fallen on all around ere they reached the dorf, and strange figures that the trees and bushes assumed appeared to the superstitious mind of elsie and some of the others as the embodiment of evil spirits, and they wished themselves safe under the shelter of their little huts. that night the little stranger child mingled her tears with her prayers, and to elsie's amazement she heard her ask her father in heaven to take greater care of her now than ever, because she had no longer a father on earth to do it. little did the kneeling child imagine that that simple prayer was used by the holy spirit to touch the heart of the wood-cutter's wife. and from the lips of elsie ere she fell asleep that night arose a cry to the father in heaven for help. true, it was but "as an infant crying in the night, an infant crying for the light, and with no language but a cry." but still there was a felt need, and a recognition that there was one who could meet and satisfy it. at all events elsie hörstel clasped her blind babe to her heart that night, and fell asleep with a feeling of rest and peace to which she had long been a stranger. ah! god had a purpose for the little child and her brown bible in that little hut of which she as yet had no conception. out of the mouths of babes and sucklings he still perfects praise. chapter v. the woodmen's pet. "lord, make me like the gentle dew, that other hearts may prove, e'en through thy feeblest messenger, thy ministry of love." pastor langen, ere leaving dringenstadt, visited the hut in the black forest where frida had found a home. his congregation, with two or three exceptions, was a poor one, and his own means were small; yet he had contrived to collect a small sum for frida's maintenance, which he had put into the hands of the bürgermeister, who undertook to pay the interest of it quarterly to the hörstels on behalf of the child. true, the sum was small, but it was sufficient to be a help; and a kind lady of the congregation, fräulein drechsler, said she would supply her from time to time with dress, and when she could have her now and then with herself, instruct her in the protestant faith and the elements of education. frida could already read, and had begun to write, taught by her father. every effort was being made to discover if the child had any relations alive. the bürgermeister had put advertisements in many papers, german and english, but as yet no answer had come, and many of the wood-cutters still held the opinion that the child was the offspring of some woodland spirit. but in spite of any such belief, frida had a warm welcome in every hut in the dorf, and a kindly word from every man and woman in it. the "woodland child" they called her, and as such cherished and protected her. many a "bite and sup" she got from them. many a warm pair of stockings, or a knitted petticoat done by skilful hands, did the inmates of the dorf present to her. they did what they could, these poor people, for the orphan child, just out of the fullness of their kind hearts, little thinking of the blessing that through her was to descend on them. the day of pastor langen's visit to the hut, some time after her father's funeral, frida was playing beside the door, and on seeing him coming up the path she rose from the spot where she was sitting and ran eagerly to meet him. but though unseen by her, he had been standing near for some time spell-bound by the music which, child though she was, she was bringing out of her father's violin, in the playing of which she was amusing herself. from a very early age her father, himself a skilled violinist, had taught her to handle the bow, and had early discovered the wonderful talent for music which she possessed. the day of which we write was the first one since her father's death that frida had played on the violin, so neither wilhelm nor elsie was aware that she could do so at all. the pastor was approaching the cottage when the sound of music reached his ears, and having a good knowledge of that art himself, he stood still to listen. a few minutes convinced him that though the playing was that of a child, still the performer had the true soul of music, and only needed full instruction to develop into a musician of no ordinary talent. as he drew nearer his surprise was great to see that the player was none other than the beautiful child found in the black forest. attracted by the sound of steps, frida had turned round, and seeing her friend had, as we have written, bounded off to meet him. hearing that elsie had taken her babe and gone a message to the dorf, he seated himself on a knoll with the child and began to talk to her. "how old are you?" he asked her. "seven years and more," she replied; "because i remember my birthday was only a little while before mütterchen (i always called her that) died, and that that day she took the locket she used to wear off her neck and gave it to me, telling me always to keep it." "and have you that locket still?" queried the pastor. "yes; elsie has it carefully put away. there is a picture of mütterchen on the one side, and of my father on the other." "and did your mother ever speak to you of your relations either in germany or england?" "yes, she did sometimes. she spoke of grandmamma in england and grandpapa also, and she said they lived in a beautiful house; but she never told me their name, nor where their house was. father, of course, knew, for he said he was going to take me there, and he used to speak of a brother of his whom he said he dearly loved." "but tell me," asked the pastor, "where did you live with your parents in germany?" "oh, in a number of different places, but never long at the same place. father played at concerts just to make money, and we never remained long anywhere--we were always moving about." "and your parents were protestants?" "i don't know what that means," said the child. "but they were often called 'ketzers' by the people where he lodged. and they would not pray to the virgin mary, as many did, but taught me to pray to god in the name of jesus christ. and mütterchen gave me a little 'brown bible' for my very own, which she said her mother had given to her. oh, i must show it to you, sir!" and, darting off, the child ran into the house, returning with the treasured book in her hand. the pastor examined it and read the inscription written on the fly-leaf--"to my dear hilda, from her loving mother, on her eighteenth birthday." that was all, but he felt sure from the many underlined passages that the book had been well studied. he found that frida could read quite easily, and that she had been instructed in scripture truth. ere he bade her farewell he asked her to promise him to read often from her little bible to wilhelm, elsie, and hans. "for who knows, little frida, that the lord may not have chosen you to be a child missionary to the wood-cutters, and to read to them out of his holy word." frida thought over these words, though she hardly took in their full meaning; but she loved her bible, and wished that the people who were so kind to her loved it also. on his way home the pastor met elsie with her babe in her arms, and told her of his farewell visit to frida, and of his delight with the child's musical talent, and advised her to encourage her as much as possible to play on the violin. elsie's face brightened as he spoke, for she and her husband, like many of the german peasants, dearly loved music. "o sir," she said, "have you heard her sing? it is just beautiful and wonderful to hear her; she beats the very birds themselves." thanking her once more for her care of the orphan child, and commending her to god, the pastor went on his way, musing much on the future of the gifted child, and wondering what could be done as regarded her education. in the meantime elsie went home, and entrusting her babe to the care of frida, who loved the little helpless infant, she made ready for her husband's return from his work. hans had gone that day to help his father in the wood, which he loved much to do, so elsie and frida were alone. "mutter," said the child (for she had adopted hans's way of addressing elsie), "the pastor was here to-day, and he played to me--oh so beautifully--on my violin, it reminded me of father, and made me cry. o mutter, i wish some one could teach me to play on it as father did. you see i was just beginning to learn a little how to do it, and i do love it so;" and as she spoke, the child joined her hands together and looked pleadingly at elsie. "_ach_, poor child," replied elsie, "how canst thou be taught here?" and that night when elsie repeated to wilhelm frida's desire for lessons on the violin, the worthy couple grieved that they could do nothing to gratify her wish. day after day and week after week passed, and still no answer came to any of the advertisements about the child; and save for her own sake none of the dwellers in the wood wished it otherwise, for the "woodland child," as they called her, had won her way into every heart. chapter vi. elsie and the brown bible. "thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." frida, as time went on, was growing hardy and strong in the bracing forest air. every kindness was lavished on her, and the child-spirit had asserted itself, and though often tears would fill her eyes as something or other reminded her vividly of the past, yet her merry laughter was often heard as she played with hans in the woods. yet through all her glee there was at times a seriousness of mind remarkable in one so young, also a power of observation as regarded others not often noticeable in one of her years. she had become warmly attached to the kind people amongst whom her lot was cast, and especially so to elsie. several times she had observed her looking anxiously at the babe in her arms, taking her to the light and endeavouring to attract her attention to the plaything which she held before her. then when the babe, now some months old, showed no signs of observing it, frida would see a great tear roll down elsie's cheek, and once she heard her mutter the words, "blind! my baby's blind!" was it possible? frida asked herself; for the child's eyes looked bright, and she felt sure she knew her, and had often stretched out her little arms to be taken up by her. "no," she repeated again, "she cannot be blind!" poor little frida knew not that it was her voice that the baby recognized. often she had sung her to sleep when elsie had left her in her charge. already father and mother had noted with joy the power that music had over their blind babe. one day frida summoned courage to say, "mutter, dear mutter, why are you sad when you look at little anna? i often notice you cry when you do so." at that question the full heart of the mother overflowed. "o frida, little frida, the babe is blind! she will never see the light of day nor the face of her father and mother. wilhelm knows it now: we took her to dringenstadt last week, and the doctor examined her eyes and told us she _ist blind geboren_ [born blind]. o my poor babe, my poor babe!" frida slipped her hand into that of the poor mother, and said gently, "o mutter, jesus can make the babe to see if we ask him. he made so many blind people to see when he was on earth, and he can do so still. let me read to you about it in my little brown book;" and the child brought her bible and read of jesus healing the two blind men, and also of the one in john ix. who said, "whereas i was blind, now i see." elsie listened eagerly, and said, "and it was jesus the virgin's son who did that, do you say? read me more about him." and the child read on, how with one touch jesus opened the eyes of the blind. she read also how they brought the young children to jesus, and he took them into his arms and blessed them, and said to his disciples, "suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." "oh," said elsie, "if only that jesus were here now, i'd walk miles and miles to take my anna to him; but, alas! he is not here now." frida was a young child, and hardly knew how to answer the troubled mother; but her faith was a simple one, so she answered, "no, jesus is not here now, but he is in heaven, and he answers us when we pray to him. father once read to me the words in matthew's gospel--see, here they are--'ask, and it shall be given you.' shall we ask him now?" and kneeling down she prayed in child language, "o lord jesus, who dost hear and answer prayer, make little anna to see as thou didst the blind men when thou wert on earth, and oh, comfort poor elsie!" as she rose from her knees, elsie threw her arms round her, saying, "o frida, i do believe the god my mother believed in hath sent thee here to be a blessing to us!" often after that day frida would read out of her brown bible to elsie about jesus, his life and his atoning death. and sometimes in the evening, when hans would sit cutting out various kinds of toys, for which he had a great turn, and could easily dispose of them in the shops at dringenstadt, she would read to him also; and he loved to hear the old testament stories of moses and jacob, joseph, and daniel in the lion's den; also of david, the sweet psalmist of israel, who had once been a shepherd boy. they were all new to poor hans, and from them he learned something of the love god has to his children; but it was ever of jesus that elsie loved to hear, and again and again she got the child to read to her the words, "come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest." and erelong it was evident, though she would scarcely have acknowledged it, that she was seeking not only the rest but the "_rest_-giver." and we know that he who gave the invitation has pledged his word that whosoever cometh to him he will in no wise cast out. all this while wilhelm seemed to take no notice of the bible readings. once or twice, when he had returned from his work, he had found frida reading to his wife and boy, and he had lingered for a minute or two at the door to catch some of the words; but he made no remark, and interrupted the reading by asking if supper were ready. but often later in the evening he would ask the child to bring out her violin and play to him, or to sing one of his favourite songs, after which she would sing a hymn of praise; but as yet it was the sweetness of the singer's voice and not the beauty of the words that he loved to listen to. but notwithstanding, by the power of the holy ghost, the bible was doing its work--slowly, it may be, but surely; so true is it that god's word shall not return to him void. chapter vii. in dringenstadt. "sing them over again to me, wonderful words of love." three years had passed. summer had come round again. fresh green leaves quivered on the trees of the forest, though the pines still wore their dark clothing. the song of the birds was heard, and the little brooks murmured along their course with a joyful tinkling sound. in the forest it was cool even at noontide, but in dringenstadt the heat was oppressive, and in spite of the sun-blinds the glare of light even indoors was excessive. in a pleasant room, into which the sun only shone through a thick canopy of green leaves, sat a lady with an open book in her hand. it was an english one, and the dictionary by her side showed it was not in a language she was altogether familiar with. the book evidently recalled memories of the past. every now and then she paused in her reading, and the look which came into her eyes told that her thoughts had wandered from the present surroundings to other places, and it might be other days. sitting beside her, engaged in doing a sum of arithmetic, was a beautiful child of some ten years old, neatly though plainly dressed. the lady's eyes rested on her from time to time, as if something in her appearance, as well as the book she was reading, recalled other days and scenes. "frida," she said, for the child was none other than our little friend found in the forest, "have you no recollections of ever hearing your mother speak of the home of her childhood, or of her companions there?" "no, dear miss drechsler, i do not remember her ever speaking of any companions; but she told me about her mother and father, and that they lived in a beautiful house in england, somewhere in the country; and whenever she spoke of her mother she used to cry, and then she would kiss me, and wish she could show me to her, for she knew she would love me, and i am sure it was to her that my father was taking me when he died. see, here is my little brown bible which her mother gave to her and she gave to me." miss drechsler took the bible in her hand, and examined the writing, and noted the name "hilda;" but neither of them seemed to recall any special person to her memory. "strange," she said to herself; "and yet that child's face reminds me vividly of some one whom i saw when i was in england some years ago, when living as governess to the hon. evelyn warden, and i always connect it with some fine music which i heard at that time." then changing the subject, she said abruptly, "frida dear, bring your violin and let me hear how far you are prepared for your master to-morrow." miss drechsler, true to her promise to the german pastor, had kept a look-out on the child known as "the wood-cutters' pet," who lived in the little hut in the black forest. from the time pastor langen had left, she had her often living with herself for days at a time at dringenstadt, and was conducting her education; but as she often had to leave that town for months, frida still had her home great part of the year with the hörstels in the forest. at the time we write of, miss drechsler had returned to her little german home, and frida, who was once more living with her, was getting, at her expense, lessons in violin-playing. she bid fair to become an expert in the art which she dearly loved. she was much missed by the kind people in the forest amongst whom she had lived so long. just as, at miss drechsler's request, she had produced her violin and begun to play on it, a servant opened the door and said that a man from the forest was desirous of seeing fräulein heinz. the girl at once put down her instrument and ran to the door, where she found her friend wilhelm awaiting her. "ah, frida, canst come back with me to the forest? there is sorrow there. in one house johann schmidt lies nigh to death, caused by an accident when felling a tree. he suffers much, and gretchen is in sore trouble. and the volkmans have lost their little boy. you remember him, frida; he and our hans used to play together. and our little anna seems pining away, and elsie and all of them are crying out for you to come back and comfort them with the words of your little book. johann said this morning, when his wife proposed sending for the priest, 'no, gretchen, no. i want no priest; but oh, i wish little frida were here to read to me from her brown book about jesus christ our great high priest, who takes away our sins, and is always praying for us.'" "oh, i remember," interrupted frida. "i read to him once about jesus ever living 'to make intercession for us.' yes, wilhelm, i'll come with you. i know miss drechsler will say i should go, for she often tells me i really belong to the kind people in the forest." and so saying, she ran off to tell her story to her friend. miss drechsler at once assented to her return to the forest to give what help she could to the people there, adding that she herself would come up soon to visit them, and bring them any comforts necessary for them such as could not be easily got by them. ere they parted she and frida knelt together in prayer, and miss drechsler asked that god would use the child as his messenger to the poor, sorrowing, suffering ones in the forest; after which she took frida's bible and put marks in at the different passages which she thought would be suitable to the different cases of the people that wilhelm had spoken of. it was late in the afternoon ere wilhelm and frida reached the hut of johann schmidt, where he left the child for a while, whilst he went on to the volkmans to tell them of frida's return, and that she hoped to see them the next day. gretchen met the girl with a cry of delight. "_ach!_ there she comes, our own little fräulein. what a pleasure it is to see thee again, our woodland pet! and see, here is my johann laid up in bed, nearly killed by the falling of a tree." the sick man raised himself as he heard the child's voice saying as she entered, in reply to gretchen's words, "oh, i am sorry, so sorry! why did you not tell me sooner?" and in another moment she was sitting beside johann, speaking kind, comforting words to him. he stroked her hair fondly, and answered her questions as well as he could; but there was a far-away look in his eyes as if his thoughts were in some region distant from the one he was living in now. after a few minutes he asked eagerly,-- "have you the little brown book with you now?" "yes, i have," was the reply. "shall i read to you now, johann? for wilhelm is to come for me soon." "yes, read, read," he said; "for i am weary, so weary." frida turned quickly to the eleventh chapter of matthew, and read distinctly in the german, which he could understand, and which she could now speak also, the words, "come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest." he stopped her there. "read that again," he said. she complied, and then he turned to her, saying, "and jesus, the son of god, said that? will he give it to me, thinkest thou?" "yes," she said, "he will; for he has promised to do it, and he never breaks his word." "well, if that be so, kneel down, pretty one, and ask him to give it me, for i need it sorely." frida knelt, and in a few simple words besought the saviour to give his rest and peace to the suffering man. "thanks, little frida," he said as she rose. "i believe that prayer will be answered." and shutting his eyes he fell quietly asleep, and frida slipped out of the room and joined wilhelm in the forest. "is little anna so very ill?" she queried as they walked. "i fear she is," was the answer the father gave, with tears in his eyes. "the mother thinks so also; though the child, bless her, is so good and patient we hardly know whether she suffers or not. she just lies still mostly on her bed now, and sings to herself little bits of hymns, or speaks about the land far away, which she says you told her about, and where she says she is going to see jesus. then her mother begins to cry; but she also speaks about that bright land. 'deed it puzzles me to know where they have learned so much about it, unless it be from your little brown book. and the child has often asked where frida is. 'i want to hear her sing again,' she says." "o wilhelm, why did you not come for me when she said that?" "well, you see, i had promised the pastor that i would let you visit miss drechsler as often as possible, and then you were getting on so nicely with your violin that we felt as if we had no right to call you back to us. but see, here we are, and there is hans looking out for us." but hans, instead of rushing to meet them as he usually did, ran back hastily to his mother, calling out, "here they come, here they come!" "oh, i am glad!" she said.--"anna, dear anna, you will hear frida's voice again." the mother looked round with a smile, but moved not, for the dying child lay in her arms. a moment longer, and frida was beside her, her arms round the blind child. "annchen, dear annchen, speak to me," she entreated--"just one word, to say you know me. it is frida come home, and she will not leave you again, but will tell you stories out of the little brown book." a look of intelligence crossed the face of the blind child, and she said,-- "dear frida, tell annchen 'bout jesus, and sing." frida, choking back her sobs, opened her bible and read the story that little anna loved, of jesus taking the children in his arms and blessing them; then sang a hymn of the joys of heaven, where he is seen face to face, and where there is "no more pain, neither sorrow nor crying, neither is there any more death," and where his redeemed ones _see_ his face. the mother, almost blinded with tears, heard her child whisper, "'see his face;' then annchen will see him too, won't she, frida?" "yes, annchen. there your eyes will be open, and you will be blind no more." as frida said these words she heard one deep-drawn breath, one cry, "fader, mutter, jesus!" and the little one was gone into that land where the first face she saw was that of her loving saviour, whom "having not seen she loved," and the beauties of that land which had been afar off burst on her eyes, which were no longer blind. poor father! poor mother! look up; your child sees now, and will await your coming to the golden gates. heartfelt tears were shed on earth by that death-bed, but there was a song of great rejoicing in heaven over another ransomed soul entering heaven, and also over another sinner entering the kingdom of god on earth, as wilhelm hörstel bent his knee by the bed where his dead child lay, and in broken words asked the saviour whom that child had gone to see face to face to receive him as a poor sinner, and make him all he ought to be. in after-years he would often say that it was the words little frida, the woodland child, had read and sung to his blind darling that led him, as they had already led his wife, to the feet of jesus. chapter viii. the violin-teacher and the concert. "there in an arched and lofty room she stands in fair white dress, where grace and colour and sweet sound combine and cluster all around, and rarest taste express." three years had passed since all that was mortal of the blind child was laid to rest in the quiet god's acre near where the body of frida's father lay. after the funeral of little anna, frida at her own request returned to the forest with her friends, anxious to help and comfort elsie, who she knew would sorely miss the blind child, who had been such a comfort and companion to her when both wilhelm and hans were busy at work in the woods; but after remaining with them for a few months, she again returned for a part of each year to dringenstadt, and made rapid progress under miss drechsler's tuition with her education, and especially with her music. the third summer after little anna's death, frida was again spending some weeks in the forest. it was early summer when she returned there. birds and insects were busy in the forest, and the wood-cutters were hard at work loading the carts with the piles of wood which the large-eyed, strong, patient-looking oxen conveyed to the town. loud sounded the crack of the carters' whips as they urged on the slow-paced oxen. often in those days frida, accompanied by elsie (who had now no little child to detain her at home), would take wilhelm's and hans's simple dinner with them to carry to them where they worked. one day frida left elsie talking to her husband and boy, and strolled a little way further into the forest, gathering the flowers that grew at the foot of the trees, and admiring the soft, velvety moss that here and there covered the ground, when suddenly she was startled by the sounds of footsteps quite near her, and looking hastily round, saw to her amazement the figure of the young violinist from whom she had lately taken lessons. "fräulein heinz," he said, as he caught sight of the fair young girl as she stood, flowers in hand, "i rejoice to meet you, for i came in search of you. pupils of mine in the town of baden-baden, many miles from here, where i often reside, are about to have an amateur concert, and they have asked me to bring any pupil with me whom i may think capable of assisting them. they are english milords, and are anxious to assist local musical talent; and i have thought of you, fräulein, as a performer on the violin, and i went to-day to miss drechsler to ask her to give you leave to go." "and what did she say?" asked the child eagerly. "how could i go so far away?" and she stopped suddenly; but the glance she gave at her dress told the young violinist the direction of her thoughts. "ah!" he said, "fräulein drechsler will settle all that. she wishes you to go, and says she will herself accompany you and also bring you back to your friends." "oh! then," said frida, "i would like very much to go; but i must ask wilhelm and elsie if they can spare me. but, herr müller, do you think i can play well enough?" the violinist smiled as he thought how little the girl before him realized the musical genius which she possessed, and which already, young as she was, made her a performer of no ordinary skill. "ah yes, fräulein," he said, "i think you will do. but you know, as the concert is not for a month yet, you can come to dringenstadt and can have a few more lessons ere then." "come with me, then, and let me introduce you to my friends;" and she led him up to the spot where wilhelm, elsie, and hans stood. they looked surprised, but when they heard her request they could not refuse it. to have their little woodland child play at a concert seemed to them an honour of no small magnitude. hans in his eagerness pressed to her side, saying, "o frida, i am so glad, for you do play so beautifully." "as for that matter, so do you, hans," she replied, for the boy had the musical talent so often found even in german peasants, and taught by frida could really play with taste on the violin. "o herr müller," she said, turning to him, "i wish some day you could hear hans play; i am sure you would like it. if only he could get lessons! i know he would excel in it." "is that so?" said the violinist; "then we must get that good fräulein drechsler to have him down to dringenstadt, and i will hear him play; and then if we find there is real talent, i might recommend him to the society for helping those who have a turn for music, but are not able to pay for instruction." hans's eyes danced with delight at the idea, but in the meantime he knew his duty was to help his father as much as he could in his work as a wood-cutter. "but then some day," he thought, "who knows but i might be able to devote my time to music, and so it would all be brought about through the kindness of little frida." frida was a happy girl when a few days after the violinist's visit to the forest she set out for dringenstadt, to live for a month with fräulein drechsler, and with her go on to baden-baden. a few more lessons were got from herr müller, the selection of music she was to perform gone through again and again, and all was ready to start the next day. when frida went to her room that evening, great was her amazement to see laid out on her bed a prettily-made plain black delaine morning dress, neatly finished off at neck and wrists with a pure white frill; and beside it a simple white muslin one for evening wear, with a white silk sash to match. these miss drechsler told her were a present from herself. frida's young heart was filled with gratitude to the kind friend who was so thoughtful of her wants; and she wondered if a day would ever come when she would be able in any way to repay the kindnesses of the friends whom god had raised up for her. in the meantime herr müller had told the stanfords, in whose house the concert was to be held, about the young girl violinist whose services he had secured. they were much interested in her, and were prepared to give a hearty welcome, not to her only, but to her friend miss drechsler, whom they had already met. sir richard stanford, who was the head of an old family in the south of england, had with his wife come abroad for the health of their young and only daughter. sir richard and lady stanford were christians, and interested themselves in the natives of the place where they were living, and themselves having highly-cultivated musical tastes, they took pleasure in helping on any of the poorer people there in whom they recognized the like talent. "father," said his young daughter adeline, as she lay one warm day on a couch under a shady tree in the garden of their lovely villa at baden-baden, "suppose we have a concert in our villa some evening; and let us try and find out some good amateur performers, and also engage two or three really good professionals to play, so that some of the poorer players who have not opportunities of hearing them may do so, and be benefited thereby." anxious in any reasonable way to please their daughter, a girl not much older than frida, sir richard and lady stanford agreed to carry out her suggestion; and calling their friend herr müller to their assistance, the private concert was arranged for, and our friend the child of the black forest invited to play at it. * * * * * the day fixed for the concert had come round, and adeline stanford, who was more than usually well, flitted here and there, making preparations for the evening. the concert-room had been beautifully decorated, and the supper-table tastefully arranged. very pretty did ada (as she was called) look. her finely-cut features and graceful appearance all proclaimed her high birth, and the innate purity and unselfishness of her spirit were stamped on her face. adeline stanford was a truly christian girl whose great desire was to make those around her happy. one thing she had often longed for was to have a companion of her own age to live with her and be as a sister to her. her parents often tried to get such a one, but as yet difficulties had arisen which prevented their doing so. the very morning of the concert, ada had said, "o mother, how pleasant it would be, when we are travelling about and seeing so many beautiful places, to have some young girl with us who would share our pleasure with us and help to cheer you and father when i have one of my bad days and am fit for nothing." then she added with a smile, "not that i would like it only for your sakes, but for my own as well. it would be nice to have a sister companion to share my lessons and duties with me, and bear with my grumbles when i am ill." adeline's grumbles were so seldom heard that her parents could not help smiling at her words, though they acknowledged that her wish was a natural one; but then, where was the suitable girl to be found? "ah! here we are at last," said miss drechsler, as she and frida drove up to the door of the villa where the stanfords lived. "how lovely it all is!" said frida, who had been in ecstasies ever since she arrived in baden. everything was so new to her--not since her father's death had she been in a large town; and her admiration as they drove along the streets between the rows of beautiful trees was manifested by exclamations of delight. once or twice something in the appearance of the shops struck her as familiar. "surely," she said, "i have seen these before, but where i cannot tell. ah! look at that large toy-shop. i know i have been there, and some one who was with me bought me a cart to play with. i think it must have been mamma, for i recollect that the purse she had in her hand was like one that i often got from her to play with. oh, i am sure i have lived here before with father and mother!" as they neared the villa, the "woodland child" became more silent, and pressed closer to her friend's side. "ah! here they come," exclaimed adeline stanford, as followed by her father and mother she ran downstairs to welcome the strangers. miss drechsler they had seen before, but the appearance of the girl from the black forest struck them much. they had expected to see a peasant child (for herr müller had told them nothing of her history nor spoken of her appearance), and when frida had removed her hat and stood beside them in the drawing-room, they were astonished to see no country child, but a singularly beautiful, graceful girl, of refined appearance and lady-like manners. her slight shyness soon vanished through ada's unaffected pleasant ways, and erelong the two girls were talking to each other with all the frankness of youth, and long ere the hour for the concert came they were fast friends. [illustration: "come, frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together." _see page ._] ada was herself a good pianist, and could play fairly well on the violin, and she found that herr müller had arranged that she and the girl from the forest should perform together. "come, frida," she said, "let us play the last passage together; we must be sure we have it perfect." "oh, how well you play!" she said when they had finished. "has herr müller been your only teacher?" "latterly he has," was the answer; "but when i was quite little i was well taught by my father." "your father!" said adeline; "does he play well? he cannot have had many advantages if he has to work in the woods all day." "work in the woods! why, he never did that." then she added, "oh! i see you think wilhelm hörstel is my father; but that is not the case. my own dear father is dead, and wilhelm found me left alone in the black forest." "found in the black forest alone!" said ada. here was indeed a romance to take the fancy of an imaginative, impulsive girl like adeline stanford; and leaving frida with her story unfinished, she darted off to her parents to tell them what she had heard. they also were much interested in her story, for they had been much astonished at the appearance of the girl from the forest; and telling ada that she had better go back to frida, they turned to miss drechsler and asked her to tell them all she knew of the child's history. she did so, mentioning also her brown bible and the way in which god was using its words amongst the wood-cutters in the forest. * * * * * the concert was over, but sir richard, lady stanford, and miss drechsler lingered awhile (after the girls had gone to bed), talking over the events of the evening. "how beautifully your young friend played!" said lady stanford; "her musical talent is wonderful, but the girl herself is the greatest wonder of all. she cannot be the child of common people, she is so like a lady and so graceful. and, miss drechsler, can you tell us how she comes to be possessed of such a lovely mosaic necklace as she wore to-night? perhaps it belongs to yourself, and you have lent it to her for the occasion." "no, indeed," was the answer; "it is not mine. it evidently belonged to the child's mother, and was on her neck the night she was found in the forest." "then," said sir richard, "it is just possible it may be the means of leading to the discovery of the girl's parentage, for the pattern is an uncommon one. she is a striking-looking child, and it is strange that her face haunts me with the idea that i have seen it somewhere before; but that is impossible, as the girl tells me she has never been in england, and i can never have met her here." "it is curious," said miss drechsler; "but i also have the feeling that i have seen some one whom she greatly resembles when i was in england living in gloucestershire with the wardens." "'tis strange," said lady stanford, "that you should see a likeness to some one whom you have seen and yet cannot name, the more so that the face is not a common one." "she is certainly a remarkable child," continued miss drechsler, "and a really good one. she has a great love for her bible, and i think tries to live up to its precepts." that evening sir richard and his wife talked together of the possibility of by-and-by taking frida into their house as companion to ada, specially whilst they were travelling about; and perhaps afterwards taking her with them to england and continuing her education there, so that if her relations were not found she might when old enough obtain a situation as governess, or in some way turn her musical talents to account. the day after the concert, frida returned with miss drechsler to dringenstadt, to remain a few days with her before returning to her forest home. as they were leaving the stanfords, and frida had just sprung into the carriage which was to convey them to the station, a young man who had been present at the concert, and was a friend of the stanfords, came forward and asked leave to shake hands with her, and congratulated her on her violin-playing. he was a good-looking young man of perhaps three-and-twenty years, with the easy manners of a well-born gentleman. after saying farewell, he turned into the house with the stanfords, and began to talk about the "fair violinist," as he termed her. "remarkably pretty girl," he said; "reminds me strongly of some one i have seen. surely she cannot be (as i overheard a young lady say last night) just a wood-cutter's child." "no, she is not that," replied sir richard, and then he told the young man something of her history, asking him if he had observed the strange antique necklace which the girl wore. "no," he answered, "i did not. could you describe it to me?" as sir richard did so a close observer must have seen a look of pained surprise cross the young man's face, and he visibly changed colour. "curious," he said as he rose hastily. "it would be interesting to know how it came into her possession; perhaps it was stolen, who knows?" and so saying, he shook hands and departed. reginald gower was the only child of an old english family of fallen fortune. rumour said he was of extravagant habits, but that he expected some day to inherit a fine property and large fortune from a distant relative. there were good traits in reginald's character: he had a kind heart, and was a most loving son to his widowed mother, who doted on him; but a love of ease and a selfish regard to his own comfort marred his whole character, and above all things an increasing disregard of god and the holy scriptures was pervading more and more his whole life. as he walked away from sir richard's house, his thoughts were occupied with the story he had just heard of the child found in the black forest. he was quite aware of the fact that the girl's face forcibly reminded him of the picture of a beautiful girl that hung in the drawing-room of a manor-house near his own home in gloucestershire. he knew that the owner of that face had been disinherited (though the only child of the house) on account of her marriage, which was contrary to the wishes of her parents, and that now they did not know whether she were dead or alive; though surely he had lately heard a report that, after years of bitter indignation at her, they had softened, and were desirous of finding out where she was, if still alive. and then what impressed him most was the curious coincidence (he called it) that round the neck of the girl in the picture was just such another mosaic necklace as the stanfords had described the one to be which the young violinist wore. was it possible, he asked himself, that she could be the child of the daughter of the manor of whom his mother had often told him? and if so, ought he to tell them of his suspicions--the more so that he had heard from his mother that the lady of the manor was failing in health, and longing, as she had long done, to see and forgive her child? if he were right in his surmises that this "woodland girl," as he had heard her called, was the daughter of the child of the manor, then even if the mother was dead, the young violinist would be received with open arms by both the grand-parents, and would (and here arose the difficulty in the young man's mind) inherit the estates and wealth which would have devolved on her mother, all of which, but for the existence of this woodland child, he, reginald gower, would have inherited as heir-at-law. "well, there is no call on you to say anything about the matter, at all events at present," whispered the evil spirit in the young man's heart. "you may be mistaken. why ruin your whole future prospects for a fancy? likenesses are so deceptive; and as to the necklace, pooh! that is nonsense--there are hundreds of mosaic necklaces. let the matter alone, and go your way. 'eat, drink, and be merry.'" all very well; but why just then of all times in the world did the words of the bible, taught him long ago by the mother he loved, come so vividly to his remembrance--"do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy god;" and those words, heard more distinctly still, which his mother had taught him to call "the royal law of love"--"as ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them"? good and bad spirits seemed fighting within him for the mastery; but alas, alas! the selfish spirit so common to humanity won the day, and reginald gower turned from the low, soft voice of the holy spirit pleading within him, and resolutely determined to be silent regarding his meeting with the child found in the black forest, and the strange circumstance of her likeness to the picture and her possession of the mosaic necklace. once again the god of self, who has so many votaries in this world, had gained a great triumph, and the prince of this world got a more sure seat in the heart of the young man. but all unknown to him there was one "climbing for him the silver, shining stair that leads to god's great treasure-house," and claiming for her fatherless boy "the priceless boon of the new heart." was such a prayer ever offered in vain or unanswered by him who hath said, "if ye ask anything according to my will, i will do it. ask, and ye shall receive"? chapter ix. christmas in the forest. "christmas, happy christmas, sweet herald of good-will, with holy songs of glory, brings holy gladness still." summer had long passed, autumn tints had faded, and the fallen leaves lay thick in the forest. for days a strong wind had blown, bending the high trees under its influence, and here and there rooting up the dark pines and laying them low. through the night of which we are going to write, a heavy fall of snow had covered all around with a thick mantle of pure white. it weighed down the branches of the trees in the forest, and rested on the piles of wood which lay ready cut to be carted off to be sold for fuel in the neighbouring towns. the roll of wheels, as the heavily-laden wagons passed, was heard no more. the song of the birds had ceased, though the print of their claws was to be seen on the snow. all was quiet. the silence of nature seemed to rest on the hearts of the dwellers in the forest. in vain elsie heaped on the wood; still the stove gave out little heat. she busied herself in the little room, but a weight seemed to be on her spirit, and she glanced from time to time uneasily at frida, who sat listlessly knitting beside the stove. "art ill, frida?" she said at last. "all this morning hast thou sat there with that knitting on thy lap, and scarce worked a round at it. and your violin--why, frida, you have not played on it for weeks, and even hans notices it; and wilhelm says to me no longer ago than this morning, 'why, wife, what ails our woodland child? the spirit has all left her, and she looks white and tired-like.'" frida, thus addressed, rose quickly from her seat, a blush, perchance of shame, colouring her cheeks. "o mutter," she said, "i know i am lazy; but it is not because i am ill, only i keep thinking and wondering and--there! i know i'm wrong, only, elsie dear, mutter elsie, i do want to know if any of my own people are alive, and where they live. i have felt like this ever since i was at baden-baden; and i have not heard from adeline stanford for such a long time, and i suppose, though she was so kind, she has forgotten me; and miss drechsler has left dringenstadt for months; and, o mutter, forgive me, and believe that i am not ungrateful for all that you and wilhelm and the kind people in the dorf have done for me. only, only--" and the poor girl laid her head on elsie's shoulder and cried long and bitterly. elsie was much moved, she did so love the bright, fairy-like girl who had been the means of letting in the light of the gospel to her dark heart. "_armes kind_" (poor child), she said, soothing her as tenderly as she would have done her own blind anna, had she been alive and in trouble, "i understand it all, dear." (and her kind woman heart had taken it all in.) "it is just like the little bird taken from its mother's nest, and put into a strange one, longing to be back amongst its like again, and content nowhere else. but, frida, dost thou not remember that we read in the little brown book that our lord hath said, 'lo, i am with you alway'? isn't that enough for you? no place can be very desolate, can it, if he be there?" in a moment after elsie said these words, frida raised her head and dried her eyes. had she been forgetting, she asked herself, whose young servant she was? was it right in a child of god to be discontented with her lot, and to forget the high privilege that god had given her in allowing her to read his word to the poor people in the forest? "i must throw off this discontented spirit," she said to herself; and turning to elsie she told her how sorry she was for the way in which she had acted, adding, "but with god's help i will be better now." frida was no perfect character, and, truth to tell, ever since her return from baden-baden, a sense of the incongruity of her circumstances had crept upon her. the tasteful surroundings, the cultured conversation, the musical evenings, the refinement of all around, had enchanted the young girl, and the humble lot and homely ways of her forest friends had on her return to them stood out in striking contrast. and, alas! for the time being she refused to see in all these things the guiding hand of god. but after the day we have written of, things went better. the girl strove to conquer her discontent, and in god's strength she overcame, and her friends in the forest had once more the pleasure of seeing her bright smile and hearing her sweet voice in song. johann schmidt had fallen asleep in jesus with the words of holy scripture on his lips, blessing the "wood-cutters' pet," as he called her, for having, through the reading of god's word, led him to jesus. but though sickness had left the forest, the severe cold and deep snow were very trying to the health of all the dwellers in it, and the winter nights were long and dreary. one day in december, wilhelm hörstel had business in dringenstadt, and on his return home he gave frida two letters which he had found lying at the post-office for her. they proved, to frida's great delight, to be from her two friends miss drechsler and adeline stanford. miss drechsler's ran thus:-- "dear frida,--i have been thinking very specially of you and your friends in the forest, now that the cold winter days have come, and the snow, i doubt not, is lying thick on the trees and ground. knowing how interested you are, dear, in all your kind friends there, i have thought how nice it would be for you, if elsie and wilhelm consent, to have a christmas-tree for a few of your friends; and in order to carry this out, i enclose a money order to the amount of £ , and leave it to you and elsie to spend it to the best of your power. "i am also going to write to herr steiger to send, addressed to you, ten pounds of tea, which i trust you to give from me to each of the householders--nine in number, i think--in the little dorf, retaining one for your friends the hörstels. will you, dear frida, be my almoner and do my business for me? i often think of and pray for you, and i know you do not forget me. i fear i will not be able to return to dringenstadt till the month of may, as my sister is still very ill, and i feel i am of use to her.--your affectionate friend. m. drechsler." "oh, isn't it good? isn't it charming?" said frida, jumping about the room in her glee. "mayn't we have the tree, mutter? and will you not some day soon come with me to dringenstadt and choose the things for it? oh, i wish hans were here, that i might tell him all about it! see, i have not yet opened adeline's letter; it is so long since i heard from her. i wonder where they are living now. oh, the letter is from rome." then in silence she read on. elsie, who was watching her, saw that as she read on her cheeks coloured and her eyes sparkled with some joyful emotion. she rose suddenly, and going up to elsie she said, "o mutter, _was denken sie?_ [what do you think?]. sir richard and lady stanford enclose a few lines saying they would like so much that i should, with your consent, spend some months with them at cannes in the riviera, as a companion to adeline; and if you and miss drechsler agree to the plan, that i would accompany friends of theirs from baden-baden who propose to go to cannes about the middle of january. and, mutter," continued the girl, "they say all my expenses will be paid, and that i shall have adeline's masters for music and languages, and be treated as if i were their daughter." elsie looked up with tears in her eyes. "well, frida dear," she said, "it does seem a good thing for you, and right glad i am about it for your sake; but, oh, we will miss you sorely. but there! the dear lord has told us in the book not to think only of ourselves, and i am sure that he is directing your way. of course i'll speak to wilhelm about it, for he has so much sense; but i don't believe he'll stand in your way." frida, overcome with excitement, and almost bewildered with the prospect before her, had yet a heart full of sorrow at the thought of leaving the friends who had helped her in her time of need; and in broken words she told elsie so, clinging to her as she spoke. matters were soon arranged. elsie and wilhelm heartily agreed that frida should accept sir richard and lady stanford's invitation. they only waited till an answer could be got from miss drechsler regarding the plan. and when that came, full of thankfulness for god's kindness in thus guiding her path, a letter of acceptance was at once dispatched to cannes, and the child of the forest only remained with her friends till the new year was a fortnight old. in the meantime, whilst snow lay thick around, christmas-eve came on, and frida and elsie were busy preparing the tree. of the true christmas joy many in the forest knew nothing, but in some hearts a glimmer at least of its true meaning was dawning, and a few of the wood-cutters loved to gather together and hear frida read the story of the angelic hosts on the plain of bethlehem singing of peace and good-will to men, because that night a babe, who was christ the lord, was born in a manger. how much they understood of the full significance of the story we know not, but we _do_ know god's word never returns to him void. the tree was ready at last. elsie, frida, and hans had worked busily at it for days, miss drechsler's money had gone a long way, and now those who had prepared it thought there never had been such a beautiful tree. true, every child in the forest had had on former occasions a tree of their own at christmas time--none so poor but some small twig was lit up, though the lights might be few; but this one, ah, that was a different matter--no such tree as this had ever been seen in the forest before. "look, hans," said frida; "is not that doll like a little queen? and only see that little wooden cart and horse; won't that delight some of the children in the dorf?--and, mutter, we must hang up that warm hood for frau schenk, poor woman; and now here are the warm cuffs for the men, and a lovely pair for wilhelm.--and, o hans, we will not tell you what _you_ are to have; nor you either, mutter. no, no, you will never guess. i bought them myself." and so, amid chattering and laughing, the tree got on and was finished; and all i am going to say about it is that for long years afterwards that particular christmas-tree was remembered and spoken of, and in far other scenes--in crowded drawing-rooms filled with gaily-dressed children and grown-up people--frida's eyes would fill as she thought of the joy that christmas-tree had given to the dwellers in the forest, both young and old. ere that memorable night ended, frida and hans, who had prepared a surprise for every one, brought out their violins, and sang together in german a christmas carol; and as the assembled party went quietly home through the snow-carpeted forest, a holy influence seemed around them, as if the song of the angels echoed through the air, "peace on earth, and goodwill to men." chapter x. harcourt manor. "shall not long-suffering in thee be wrought to mirror back his own? his _gentleness_ shall mellow every thought and look and tone." three years and a half have passed since the christmas-eve we have written of, and the golden light of a summer day was falling on the earth and touching the flowers in a lovely garden belonging to the old manor-house of harcourt, in the county of gloucester in england. in the lawn-tennis court, which was near the garden, preparations were making for a game. young men in flannels and girls in light dresses were passing to and fro arranging the racquets and tightening the nets, some gathering the balls together and trying them ere the other players should arrive. it was a pleasant scene. birds twittered out and in the ivy and rose covered walls of the old english manor-house, and the blithe laughter of the young people blended with the melodious singing of the choristers around. the company was assembling quickly, kind words were passing amongst friends, when there appeared on the scene an elderly lady of great elegance and beauty, to whom all turned with respectful greeting, and a hush came over all. not that there was anything stern or severe in the lady's appearance to cause the hush, for a look of calmness and great sweetness was in her countenance, but through it there was also an appearance of sadness that touched every heart, and although it would not silence any true young joy, had certainly the effect of quieting anything boisterous or rude. the "gentle lady" of harcourt manor was the name mrs. willoughby had gone by for some years. it was pretty well known that a deep sorrow had fallen upon her whilst still in the prime of life; and those there were who said they could recall a time when, instead of that look of calm peace and chastened sorrow, there were visible on her face only haughty pride and fiery temper. it was hard to believe that that had ever been the case; but if so, it was but one of many instances in which god's declaration proved true, that though "no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous, nevertheless _afterward_ it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness." mr. willoughby, a man older by some years than his wife, was a man who had long been more feared than beloved; and the heavy trial, which had affected him no less than his wife, had apparently hardened instead of softening his whole nature, though a severe illness had greatly mitigated, it was thought, some of his sternness. the party of which we are writing was given in honour of the return from abroad of the heir of the manor, a distant relation of the willoughbys, mr. reginald gower, whom we have written of before. for five years he had been living abroad, and had returned only a month ago to the house of his widowed mother, the hon. mrs. gower of lilyfield, a small though pretty property adjoining harcourt manor. just as mrs. willoughby entered the grounds, reginald and his mother did so also, although by a different way, and a few minutes passed ere they met. the young man walked eagerly up to the hostess, a smile of real pleasure lighting up his handsome face at the sight of the lady he really loved, and who had from his boyish days been a kind friend to him. but as he greeted her, the look of sadness on her countenance struck him, and some secret thought sent a pang through him, and for the moment blanched his cheek. was it possible, he asked himself, that he had it in his power, by the utterance of a few words, to dispel that look of deep sadness from the face of one of the dearest friends, next to his mother, whom he possessed? "very glad to see you back again, reginald," said mrs. willoughby. "but surely the southern skies have blanched rather than bronzed your cheeks. you were not wont to be so pale, reggie. ay, there you are more like your old self" (as a flush of colour spread over his face once more). "we hope you have come to stay awhile in your own country, for your dear mother has been worrying about your long absence.--is it not so, laura?" she said, addressing herself to mrs. gower, who now stood beside them. "yes, indeed," was the reply; "i am thankful to have my boy home again. lilyfield is a dull place without him." "yes," said mrs. willoughby; "it is a dreary home that has no child in it." and as she spoke she turned her face away, that no one might see that her eyes were full of tears. but reginald had caught sight of them, and turned away suddenly, saying, "farewell for the present;" and raising his cap to the two ladies, he went off to join the players in the tennis-court, to all outward appearance one of the brightest and most light-hearted there. but he played badly that day, and exclamations from his friends were heard from time to time such as, "why, reginald, have you forgotten how to play tennis?" "oh, look out, gower; you are spoiling the game! it was a shame to miss that ball." thus admonished, reginald drew himself together, collected his thoughts, concentrated his attention on the game, and played well. but no sooner was the game over than once again there rose before his eyes the face and figure of the beautiful foundling of the black forest, with her strange story and her extraordinary likeness not only to the picture of the young girl in the drawing-room of the manor, but also to his gentle friend mrs. willoughby. oh, if only he had never met the young violinist; if he could blot out the remembrance of her and be once more the light-hearted man he had been ere he heard her story from sir richard stanford! he had been so sure of his sense of honour, his pure morality, his good principles, his high-toned soul ("true," he said to himself, "i never set up to be one of your righteous-overmuch sort of people, nor a saint like my noble mother and my friend mrs. willoughby") that he staggered as he thought of what he was now by the part he was acting. dishonest, cruel, unjust--he, reginald gower; was it possible? ah! his self-righteousness, his boasted uprightness, had both been put to the test and found wanting. "well, reggie, had you a pleasant time at the manor to-day?" said his mother to him as they sat together at their late dinner. "oh, it was well enough," was the reply; but it was not spoken in his usual hearty tone, and his mother observed it, and also the unsatisfied look which crossed his face, and she wondered what had vexed him. a silence succeeded, broken at last by reginald. "mother," he said, "what is it that has deepened that look of sadness in mrs. willoughby's face since i last saw her? and tell me, is the story about their daughter being disinherited true? and is it certain that she is dead, and that no child (for i think it is said she married) survives her? if that were the case, and the child should turn up and be received, it would be awkward for me and my prospects, mother." "reginald," mrs. gower replied, for she had heard his words with astonishment, "if i thought that there was the least chance that either mrs. willoughby's daughter or any child of hers were alive, i would rejoice with all my heart, and do all i could to bring about a reconciliation, even though it were to leave you, my loved son, a penniless beggar. and so i am sure would you." a flush of crimson rose to reginald's brow at these words. then his mother believed him to be all that he had thought himself, and little suspected what he really was. but then, supposing he divulged his secret, what about debts which he had contracted, and extravagant habits which he had formed? no! he would begin and save, retrench his expenses, and if possible get these debts paid off; and then he might see his way to speak of the girl in the black forest, if she was still to be found. so once more reginald gower silenced the voice of conscience with, "at a more convenient time," and abruptly changing the subject, began to speak of his foreign experiences, of the beauty of italian skies, art, and scenery; and the conversation about mrs. willoughby's daughter passed from his mother's mind, and she became absorbed in her son's descriptions of the places he had visited. and as she looked at his handsome animated face, was it any wonder that with a mother's partiality she thought how favoured she was in the possession of such a child? only--and here she sighed--ah, if only she were sure that this cherished son were a true follower of the lord jesus christ, and that the word of god, so precious to her own soul, were indeed a light to his feet and a lamp to his path! that evening another couple were seated also at their dinner-table, and a different conversation was being held. the master of harcourt manor sat at the foot of the table, opposite his gentle wife; but a troubled look was on his face, brought there very much by the thought that he noticed an extra shade both of weariness and sadness on the face of his wife. what could he do to dissipate it? he was asking himself. anything, except speak the word which he was well aware would have the desired effect, and, were she still alive, restore to her mother's arms the child for whom she pined; but not yet was the strong self-will so broken down that those words could be spoken by him, not yet had he so felt the need of forgiveness for his own soul that he could forgive as he hoped to be forgiven. did not his duty as a parent, and his duty towards other parents of his own rank in life, call upon him to make a strong stand, and visit with his righteous indignation such a sin as that of his only child and heiress marrying a man, however good, upright, and highly educated he might be, who yet was beneath her in station (although he denied that fact), and unable to keep her in the comfort and luxury to which she had been accustomed? "no, no, _noblesse oblige_;" and rather than forgive such a sin, he would blight his own life and break the heart of the wife he adored. such was the state of mind in which the master of harcourt manor had remained since the sad night when his only child had gone off to be married at a neighbouring church to the young musician heinz. but some months before reginald gower's return from abroad, during a severe illness which had brought him to the borderland, mr. willoughby was aroused to a dawning sense of his own sinfulness and need of pardon, which had, almost unconsciously to himself, a softening effect on his mind. his wife was the first to break the silence at the dinner-table. "has not reginald gower grown more manly and older-looking since we saw him last?" she said, addressing her husband. a shade came over his face as he answered somewhat testily, "oh, i think he looks well enough! of course five years must have made him look older. but reginald never was the favourite with me that he is with you, wife; a self-indulgent lad he always seems to me to be." "well, but surely, husband" (once she always called him father, but that was years ago now), "he is a good son, and kind to his mother." "well, well, i am glad to hear it. but surely we have some more interesting subject to discuss than reginald gower." mrs. willoughby sighed. well she knew that many a time she had a conflict in her own heart to think well of the lad who was to succeed to the beautiful estates that by right belonged to their own child. dinner over, she sought the quiet of her own boudoir, a room specially endeared to her by the many sweet memories of the hours that she and her loved daughter had spent together there. the day had been a trying one to mrs. willoughby. not often nowadays had they parties at harcourt manor, and she was tired in mind and body, and glad to be a few minutes alone with her god. she sat for a few minutes lost in thought; then rising she opened a drawer, and took from it the case which contained the miniature of a beautiful girl, on which she gazed long and lovingly. the likeness was that of the daughter she had loved so dearly, and of whose very existence she was now in doubt. oh to see or hear of her once more! poor mother, how her heart yearned for her loved one! only one could comfort her, and that was the god she had learned to love. she put down the picture and opened a little brown book, the very _fac-simile_ of the one which little frida possessed, and which god had used and blessed in the black forest. turning to the hundred and third psalm, she read the words, well underlined, "like as a father pitieth his children, so the lord pitieth them that fear him." then turning to the gospel of matthew, she read christ's own blessed word of invitation and promise, "come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and _i_ will give you rest." ah, how many weary, burdened souls have these words helped since they were spoken and then under the inspiration of the holy ghost written for the comfort of weary ones in all ages! ere she closed the book, mrs. willoughby read the fourth verse of the thirty-seventh psalm: "delight thyself in the lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart." then kneeling down she poured out, as she so often did, the sorrows of her heart to her heavenly father, and rose quieted in spirit. ere she put away the little brown book she looked at it thoughtfully, recalling the day, not long before her daughter had left her, when they had together bought two bibles exactly alike as regarded binding, but the one was in german, the other in english. the german bible she had given to her daughter, who presented the english one to her mother. on the fly-leaf of the one she held in her hand were written the words, "to my much-loved mother, from hilda." ah, where was that daughter now? and if she still possessed the little brown german bible, had she learned to love and prize its words as her mother had done her english bible? then carefully locking up her treasured book and portraits, she went downstairs, to wait in solitary grandeur for her husband's coming into the drawing-room. chapter xi. in the riviera. "my god, i thank thee who hast made the earth so bright, so full of splendour and of joy, beauty, and light; so many glorious things are here, noble and right." more than four years had elapsed since frida had left her home in the black forest. april sunshine was lighting up the grey olive woods and glistening on the dark-green glossy leaves of the orange-trees at cannes, and playing on the deep-blue waters of the mediterranean there. some of these beams fell also round the heads of two young girls as they sat under the shade of a palm tree in a lovely garden there belonging to the villa des rosiers, where they were living. a lovely scene was before their eyes. in front of them, like gems in the deep-blue sea, were the isles of st. marguerite and st. honorat, and to the west were the beautiful estrelle mountains. around them bloomed masses of lovely roses, and the little yellow and white noisettes climbed up the various tall trees in the garden, and flung their wealth of flowers in festoons down to the ground. the two girls gazed in silence for some minutes at the lovely scene. then the youngest of the two, a dark-eyed, golden-haired girl, said, addressing her companion, "is it not lovely, adeline? the whole of nature seems to be rejoicing." "yes, indeed," answered her companion. "and i am sure i owe much to the glorious sunshine, for, by god's blessing, it has been the means of restoring my health. i am quite well now, and the doctor says i may safely winter in england next season. won't it be delightful, frida, to be back in dear old england once more?" "ah! you forget, adeline, that i do not know the land of your birth, though i quite believe it was my mother's birthplace as well, and perhaps my own also. i do often long to see it, and fancy if i were once there i might meet with some of my own people. but then again, how could i, on a mere chance, make up my mind to leave my kind friends in the forest entirely? it is long since i have heard of them. do you know that i left my little bible with them? i had taught elsie and hans to read it, and they promised to go on reading it aloud as i used to do to the wood-cutters on sunday evenings. it is wonderful how god's word has been blessed to souls in the forest. and, adeline, have i told you how kind your friend herr müller has been about hans? he got him to go twice a week to dringenstadt, and has been teaching him to play on the violin. he says he has real talent, and if only he had the means to obtain a good musical education, would become a really celebrated performer." "yes, frida," replied her friend; "i know more about all that than you do. herr müller has been most kind, and taken much trouble with hans; but it is my own dear, kind father who pays him for so doing, and tells no one, for he says we should 'not let our left hand know what our right hand doeth.'" a silence succeeded, broken only by the noise of the small waves of the tideless mediterranean at their feet. then frida spoke, a look of firm resolution on her face. "adeline," she said, "your father and mother are the kindest of people, and god will reward them. this morning they told me that they mean to leave this place in a couple of weeks, and return by slow stages to england; and they asked me to accompany you there, and remain with you as your friend and companion as long as i liked. oh, it was a kind offer, kindly put; but, adeline, i have refused it." "refused it, frida! what do you mean?" said her friend, starting up. "you don't mean to say you are not coming home with us! are you going back to live with those people in the little hut in the forest, after all your education and your love of refined surroundings? frida, it is not possible; it would be black ingratitude!" "o adeline, hush! do not pain me by such words. listen to me, dear, for one moment, and do not make it more difficult for me to do the right thing. your parents have given their consent to my plan, and even said they think it is the right plan for me." "well, let me hear," said adeline, in a displeased tone, "what it is you propose to do. is it your intention really to go back to the forest and live there?" "not exactly that, adeline. i have thought it all over some time ago, and only waited till your parents spoke to me of going to england to tell them what i thought was my duty to do. and this is what has been settled. if you still wish it, as your parents do, i shall remain here till you leave, and accompany you back to baden-baden, where your parents tell me they intend going for a week or so. from there i propose returning to my friends in the forest, not to live there any more, but for a few days' visit to see them who are so dear to me. after that i shall live with miss drechsler. her sister is dead, and has left her a good deal of money, and she is now going to settle in dringenstadt, and have a paid companion to reside with her. and, adeline, that situation she has offered to me." "well, frida," interrupted her friend, "did not i wish you to be my companion? and would not my parents have given you any sum you required?" "o adeline dear, hush, i pray of you, and let me finish my story. you _know_ that it is not a question of money; but you are so well, dear, that you do not really _need_ me. you have your parents and friends. miss drechsler is alone, and i can never forget all she has done for me. then i am young, and cannot consent to remain in dependence even on such dear friends as you are. i intend giving lessons in violin-playing at dringenstadt and its neighbourhood. miss drechsler writes she can secure me two or three pupils at once, and she is sure i will soon get more, as the new villas near dringenstadt are now finished, and have been taken by families. and then, adeline, living there i shall be near enough to the forest to carry on the work which i believe god has called me to, in reading to these poor people the words of life. and at miss drechsler's i mean to live, as long as she requires me, _unless_ i am claimed by any of my own relations, which, as you know, is a most unlikely event. i believe i am right in the decision i have come to. so once again i pray of you, dear adeline, not to dissuade me from my purpose. you know how much i love you all, and how grateful i am to you. only think how ignorant i would have been had not your dear parents taken me and got me educated, as if i had been their own child. oh, i can never, never forget all that you have done for me!" adeline's warm heart was touched, and her good sense convinced her, in spite of her dislike to the plan, that her friend was right. "well, frida," she said, after a minute or two's silence, "if you feel it really to be your duty, i can say no more. only you must promise me that you will come sometimes, say in the summer time, and visit us." frida smiled. "that would be charming, adeline; but we will not speak of that at present. only say you really think i am right in the matter. i have not forgotten to ask god's guidance, and you know it is written in the word of god which we both love so well, 'in all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' but come; we must go now and get ready, for we are to go to-day to the cap d'antibes." and in the delights of that lovely drive, and in strolling amongst the rocks honeycombed till they look almost like lacework, the two friends forgot the evils of the impending separation. in the meantime frida was warmly remembered by her friends in the forest, and their joy when they heard that she was once more coming to live near them was unbounded. "ah," said elsie, as she bent her head over a sweet little year-old girl whom she held on her lap, "now i shall be able to show her my little gretchen, and she will, i know, sing to her some of the sweet hymns she used to sing to my little annchen, and she will read to us again, wilhelm, out of the little brown book which i have taken great care of for her." "ay," put in hans, "and mütterchen, she will bring her violin, and she and i will play together some of the music you and father love; and she will, i know, be glad to hear that through sir richard stanford and herr müller i am to become a pupil in the conservatorium of leipsic. i can hardly believe it is true." "ay, my son, thou art a lucky one, and ye owe it all to frida herself. was it not she who told sir richard about your love of music, and got herr müller to promise to hear you play? ah! under the good god we owe much to the 'woodland child.'" and so it fell out that after a few more happy weeks spent at cannes and grasse, frida found herself once more an inmate of miss drechsler's pretty little house at dringenstadt, and able every now and then to visit and help her friends in the forest. "ah, mütterchen," she said as she threw herself into elsie's arms, "here i am again your foundling child, come to live near you, and so glad to see you all once more.--and hans, why, hans, you look a man now; and oh, i am so pleased you are to go to leipsic! you must bring down your violin now and then to miss drechsler's, and let us play together. i am sure you will be a great musician some day, hans." the young man (for such he now was) looked much gratified at his friend's hopeful words, and said, "if i do turn that, i shall owe it all to you, frida." but the girl interrupted his speech by saying, "now, mutter, let me see little gretchen;" and next minute she was stooping over the bed where lay the sleeping child--the very bed whence the spirit of the blind child whom she had loved so dearly had taken its flight to the heavenly land. "what a darling she looks, elsie! oh, i am glad god has sent you this little treasure! she will cheer you when hans has gone away and her father is all day in the forest." "yes," said elsie, "she is indeed a gift from god; and you, frida, must teach her, as you taught her parents and anna, the 'way of life.' and o frida, thou must go down to the dorf, for all the people there are so eager to see thee once more. and now that thou hast grown a young lady, they all wonder if thou still beest like the woodland child, and wilt care about the like of them, or if perchance thou hast forgotten them." "forgotten them! o elsie, how could they think so? could i ever forget how they and you gave of their little pittance to maintain the child found in the black forest, and how you all lavished kindness on her who had neither father nor mother to care for her? i must go at once and ask them what i have done that they should have thought so badly of me even for a minute. don't you know, mutter, that i have given up the going to england to live with miss drechsler at dringenstadt, in order that i may often see my dear friends in the forest; and that shall be my life-work, unless"--and here the girl looked sad--"any of my own friends find me out and claim me." "hast had any clue to them, frida?" asked elsie. "alas, no!" said the girl, "none whatever; and yet i have seen a great number of people during these few years. and i have always worn my necklace, which, being such a peculiar one, might have attracted attention and led to the discovery of my parentage; but except one englishman, whom i met at the stanfords', who said i reminded him of some one whom he had seen, there has been nothing to lead me to suppose that any one thought of me except as a friend of the stanfords. but, elsie, though i am not discontented, still at times there is the old yearning for my own people. but god knows best, and i am not going to waste my life in useless longings. i have got five pupils in dringenstadt already, and several more applications, and next week i begin my life-work as a teacher of the violin.--don't you envy me, hans?" "that is what i do, fräulein frida," said hans. somehow as he looked at the fair young lady the old familiar name of frida seemed too familiar to use. frida turned quickly round on him as he uttered the word "fräulein." "why, hans--for i will not call thee herr--to whom did you speak? there is no fräulein here--just your old sister playmate frida; never let me hear you address me again by such a title. art thou not my brother hans, the son of my dear friends elsie and wilhelm?" and a merry laugh scattered hans's new-born shyness. and to the end of their lives frida and hans remained as brother and sister, each rejoicing in the success of the other in life; and in after years they had many a laugh over the day that hans began to think that he must call his sister friend, the companion of his childhood, his instructor in much that was good, by the stiff title of fräulein frida. ere frida left the hut that day, they all knelt together and thanked god for past mercies, and it was elsie's voice that in faltering accents prayed that frida might still be used in the forest to lead many to the knowledge of christ jesus through the reading of the word of god. chapter xii. in the great metropolis. "there are lonely hearts to cherish while the days are going by, there are weary souls who perish while the days are going by. if a smile we can renew, as our journey we pursue, oh, the good we all may do while the days are passing by!" the london season was at its height, but though the pure sunshine was glistening on mountain-top and green meadow, and beginning to tinge the corn-fields with a golden tint in country places, where peace and quietness seemed to reign, and leafy greenery called on every one who loved nature to come and enjoy it in its summer flush of beauty, yet the great city was still filled not only by those who could not leave its crowded streets, but by hundreds who lingered there in the mere pursuit of pleasure, for whom the beauties of nature had no charm. on one peculiarly fine day a group of people were gathered together in the drawing-room of a splendid mansion in one of the west end crescents. there was evidently going to be a riding party, for horses held by grooms stood at the door, and two at least of the ladies in the drawing-room wore riding habits. in conversation with one of these--a pretty fair-haired girl of some twenty years--stood reginald gower. "will your sister ride to-day, do you know?" he was asking, in somewhat anxious tones. "gertie? no, i think not; she has a particular engagement this morning. i don't exactly know what it is, but she will not be one of the party. so, mr. gower, you and arthur barton will have to put up with only the company of myself and cousin mary." ere the young man could reply, the door opened, and a girl dressed in a dark summer serge and light straw hat entered. she carried a small leather bag in her hand, and was greeted with exclamations of dismay from more than one of the party. "are you going slumming to-day, gertie? what a shame! and the sun so bright, and yet a cool air--just the most delightful sort of day for a ride; and we are going to call on your favourite aunt mary." "give her my love then," replied gertie, "and tell her i hope to ride over one of those days and see her. no, i cannot possibly go with you to-day, as i have an engagement elsewhere." "an engagement in the slums! who ever heard of such a thing?" said her sister and cousin together. "i am sorry to disappoint you, lily dear, and my cousin also; but i had promised two or three poor people to see them to-day before i knew anything of this riding party, and i am sure i am right not to disappoint them.--and, mr. gower, i know your mother at least would not think i was wrong." "that is true, miss warden. my mother thinks far more about giving pleasure to the poor than she does about the wishes of the rich. but could you not defer this slumming business till to-morrow, and give us the pleasure of your company to-day?" but she shook her head, and assuring them they would get on very well without her, she turned to leave the room, saying as she did so, "o lily, do find out if it is true that aunt mary's old governess, miss drechsler, of whom we have all heard so much, is coming to visit her soon, and is bringing with her the young violinist who lives with her, and who people say was a child found in the black forest. i do so want to know all about her. we must try and get her to come here some evening, and ask dr. heinz, who plays so well upon the violin, to meet her; and you also, mr. gower, for i know you dearly love music." had lily not turned quickly away just then, she would have noticed the uneasy, startled look which crossed reginald gower's face at her words. was this woodland child, he asked himself, to be always crossing his path? he had hoped he had heard the last of her long ago, and some years had elapsed since he had seen her. the circumstance of the likeness to the picture in harcourt manor, and the coincidence of the necklace, had _almost_ (but as he had not yet quite killed his conscience), not _altogether_, escaped his memory; and still, as at times he marked the increasing sadness on mrs. willoughby's countenance, he felt a sharp pang of remorse; and since he had known and begun to care for gertie warden, her devoted christian life and clear, truthful spirit were making him more conscious than ever of his own selfishness and sin. true, he had no reason to suppose that she cared for him in any way except as the son of his mother, whom she dearly loved, but his vanity whispered that perhaps in time she might do so; and if that came to pass, and he found that his love was returned, _then_ he would tell her all, and consult with her as to what course he should follow. lately, however, he had become uneasy at the many references which lily warden made to a dr. heinz, who seemed to be often about the house, and of whom both sisters spoke in high terms as a christian man and pleasant friend. what if he should gain the affection of gertie? heinz! something in the name haunted him. surely he had heard it before, and in connection with the young violinist. and now was it possible that that beautiful girl was really coming amongst them, and that his own mother might meet her any day? for she was often at the house, not only of the wardens, but also of their aunt mary, with whom the girl was coming to stay. no wonder that during the ride lily warden thought mr. gower strangely preoccupied and silent. she attributed it all to his disappointment at her sister's absence, and felt vexed that such should be the case, as well she knew that in the way he wished gertie would never think of reginald gower; but she felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up. through that long ride, with summer sunshine and summer beauties around him, reginald saw only one face, and it was not that of gertie warden, but that of the young girl whom he had heard play on the violin at the house of the stanfords at baden-baden. oh, if he had only had courage then to write home and tell all that he had heard about her! and in vivid colours there rose before his mind all the disgrace that would attach to him when it became known that he knew of the girl's existence and kept silence. the reason of his so doing would be evident to many. and what, oh, what, he was asking himself, would his loved, high-souled mother think of her son? surely the words of the bible he heeded so little were true, "the way of transgressors is hard," and his sin was finding him out. as soon as the first greetings were over, and the party were seated at the lunch-table in miss warden's pretty cottage situated on the banks of the thames, lily said, "o aunt mary, is it true what gertie has heard--that miss drechsler and a beautiful young violinist with a romantic story are coming to visit you? gertie is so anxious to know all about her, for neither she nor any of us can believe that she can excel dr. heinz in violin-playing; and, indeed, you know how beautifully gertie herself plays, and she often does so now with dr. heinz himself." "yes, lily dear, i am glad to say it is all true. i expect both miss drechsler and her young _protégé_ next week to visit me for a short time, after which they propose to go to the stanfords at stanford hall, who take a great interest in the young violinist--in fact, i believe she lived for three or four years with them, and was educated along with their own daughter.--by the way, mr. gower, you must tell your mother that her old friend miss drechsler is coming to me, and i hope she will spend a day with me when she is here." "i am sure she will be delighted to do so, miss warden," replied the young man; but even as he spoke his cheek blanched as he thought of all that might come of his mother meeting the young violinist. reginald rode back with his friends to their house, but could not be induced to enter again, not even to hear how gertie had got on with her slumming. "not to-day," he said; "i find i must go home. i don't doubt your sister has been well employed--more usefully than we mere pleasure-seekers have been," he added, in such a grave tone that lily turned her head to look at him, as she stood on the door-steps, and inquire if he were quite well. "quite so, thanks," he replied, in his usual gay tone; "only sometimes one does think there is a resemblance between the lives the butterflies live and ours. confess it now," he said laughingly; but lily was in no thoughtful mood just then, so her only reply was,-- "speak for yourself, mr. gower. i have plenty of useful things to do, just as much so as making a guy of myself and going a-slumming, only i am often too lazy to do them," and with a friendly nod she followed her cousin into the house. reginald rode slowly homeward, and, contrary to his usual custom, went to his own room to try to collect his thoughts and make out in what form he would deliver miss warden's message to his mother. it was very evident to him that the meshes into which his own sins had brought him were tightening around him. turn which way he liked, there was no escape. at least only one that he could see, and that was, that if the secret came out, and the young violinist of the black forest were proved to be the grandchild of the willoughbys, he should keep silence as to his ever having known anything of the matter. the more he thought of it, the more that seemed his wisest course; and even if it should come out that he had heard her play, that would tell nothing. yet his conscience was ill at ease. suppose he did so, what of his own self-respect? could he ever regain it? fortune would be lost, and all ease of mind gone for ever. then again, if he told his story now, it would only be because he knew that in any case it would be disclosed, and shame would await him. how could he ever bear the reproaches of his kind friends the willoughbys, and more than all, the deep grief such a disclosure would cause to his loved mother? in that hour reginald gower went through a conflict of mind which left a mark on his character for life. but, alas! once more evil won the day, and he resolved that not _yet_ would he tell all he knew; but some day _soon_ he might. but once again, as he rose to go downstairs, bible words came into his mind: "_to-day_, while it is called to-day, harden not your hearts." o happy mother, to have so carefully stored the young heart with the precious words of god! long they may be as the seed under ground, apparently forgotten and useless, yet surely one day they will spring up and bear fruit. true even in this application are the words of the poet,-- "the vase in which roses have once been distilled you may break, you may shiver the vase if you will, but the scent of the roses will cling to it still." well may we thank god for all mothers who carefully teach the words of holy scripture to their children. that day reginald delivered miss warden's message to his mother, but did not mention the young girl who was to accompany her. "oh, i will be delighted to see miss drechsler again," said his mother. "i liked her so much when she was governess at the wardens'. we all did; indeed, she was more companion than governess, and indeed was younger than i was, and just about mary warden's own age. i remember well going one day with mrs. willoughby's daughter, hilda, to a musical party at the wardens', and how charmed miss drechsler was at the way hilda played the violin, which was not such a common thing then as it is now." "the violin?" queried reginald. "did miss willoughby play on the violin?" "oh yes! she was very musical, and that was one of the great attractions to her in the man she married. he, too, was a wonderful violinist--herr heinz they called him. he was, i believe, a much-respected man and of good family connections, but poor, and even taught music to gain a livelihood." "heinz!" reginald was repeating to himself. then he had heard that name before first in connection with the child of the black forest; but he only said, "it is curious that i have lately heard that name from the young wardens, who speak a great deal of a dr. heinz. he also is a good violinist. can he be any relation, do you think, of the one you allude to?" "possibly he may; but the name is not at all an uncommon german one. by the way, i heard a report (probably a false one) that gertie warden is engaged to be married to a dr. heinz--a very good man, they say. have you heard anything of it?" "i never heard she was engaged, nor do i think it is likely; but i have heard both her and her sister speak of this dr. heinz, and i know it is only a christian man that gertie would marry." having said so much, he quickly changed the subject and talked of something else. the mother's eye, however, was quick to notice the shade on his brow as he spoke, and she was confirmed in the opinion she had formed for some time that the very idea of gertie warden's engagement was a pain to him. as he rose to go out he turned to say, "remember, mother, that i have given you miss warden's message." chapter xiii. in the slums. "in dens of guilt the baby played, where sin and sin _alone_ was made the law which all around obeyed." the summer sunshine, of which we have written as glistening among the "leafy tide of greenery," and on the ripening corn-fields and gaily-painted flowers in the country, was penetrating also the close streets of one of the poorest parts of london, cheering some of the hearts of the weary toiling ones there, into whose lives little sunshine ever fell, and for a while, it may be, helping them to forget the misery of their lot, or to some recalling happier days when they dwelt not in a narrow, crowded street, but in a country village home, amidst grassy meadows and leafy trees, feeling, as they thought of these things, though they could not have put the feeling into words, what a poet gone to his rest says so beautifully,-- "that sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." but the very light that cheered revealed more clearly the misery, dirt, and poverty around. in one such street, where little pale-faced children, without the merriment and laughter of childhood, played in a languid, unchildlike way, sickness prevailed; for fever had broken out, and indoors suffering ones tossed on beds, if they could be so called, of sickness. at the door of a small room in one of the houses stood a girl of some ten or eleven years old, looking out anxiously as if in expectation of some one, turning every now and then to address a word to her mother, who lay in the small room on a bed in the corner. "he baint a-comin' yet," she said, "'cos i knows his step; but he'll be 'long soon--ye see if he don't! i knows as how he will, 'cos he's that kind; so don't ye fret, mother--the doctor 'ill be here in no time. there now! susan keats giv' me some tea for ye, and i'll get the water from her and bring you some prime and 'ot--ye see if i don't!" so saying, the child ran off and went into a room next door, and entering begged for some "'ot water." "ye see," she said, addressing a woman poorly clad like herself, "she be a-frettin', mother is, for the doctor, for she's badly, is mother, to-day, and she thinks mayhap he'll do her good." when the child returned to her mother's room, she found dr. heinz (for it was he) sitting by her mother's side and speaking kindly to her. he turned round as the child entered. "come along, gussie," he said; "that's right--been getting mother some tea. you'll need to tend her well, for she's very poorly to-day." "ay, ay," muttered the woman, "that's true, that's true. be kind to gussie, poor gussie, when i am gone, doctor. the young lady--miss warden be her name--she said she'd look after her, she did." the doctor bent over the dying woman and said some comforting words, at which the woman's face brightened. "god bless ye," she said, "for promising that. oh, but life's been weary, weary sin' i came 'ere--work, work, and that not always to be 'ad. but it's true, sir, what ye told me. he says even to the like o' me, 'come unto me, and i will give you rest;' and he's done it, i think. ye'll come again, sir, won't ye?" after a few moments of prayer with the poor woman, and giving her some medicine to allay her restlessness, dr. heinz left the room. from house to house in the fever-stricken street he went, ministering alike to body and soul, often feeling cast down and discouraged, overwhelmed at times by the vice and poverty of all around. the gospel had never reached these poor neglected ones. the very need of a saviour was by the great majority of them unfelt. love many of them had never experienced. the evil of sin they did not comprehend. brought up from babyhood in the midst of iniquity, they were strangers to the very meaning of righteousness and virtue. no wonder that the heart of the doctor was oppressed as he went out and in amongst them. yet he felt assured that by love they could be won to the god of love, and that only the simple gospel of jesus christ dying in their room and stead, told in the power of the holy ghost, could enlighten their dark souls and prove the true lever to raise them from their sin and misery. and so, whilst alleviating pain, he tried when possible to say a word from the book--god's revealed will, which alone "maketh wise unto salvation." more than once on the day we write of, as he went from house to house, the vision of a young girl whom he had often met going about doing good flitted before his eyes. gertie warden and dr. heinz had first met in one of those abodes of wretchedness, where she stood by a bed of sickness trying to comfort and help a dying woman. only two years before that and gertie was just ready to throw herself into the vortex of the gay society in which the other members of her family mingled; but ere she did so the voice of the holy ghost spake to her as to so many others, and showed her how true life was only to be found in christ and lived in him. henceforth she lived no longer a life of mere worldliness, but a life spent in the service of him who had loved her and given himself for her; and then her greatest joy was found in visiting the poor, the afflicted, the tried--ay, and often the oppressed ones of earth. in her own family she found great opposition to her new mode of life; but the lord raised up a kind helpful friend to her in the person of the gentle, sorely-tried mrs. willoughby of harcourt manor. to her gertie confided all her difficulties as regarded her district visiting (or, as her sister called it, her slumming), and many a word of sympathy and wise counsel she got from her friend. one day she spoke of dr. heinz. "you cannot think how much the people love him," she said, "and trust him. 'ah!' i heard a poor woman say the other day, 'if only all were like him, it's a better world it would be than it's now.' and do you know," she went on, "he is actually interesting my father and aunt mary in some of his poor patients. and he likes to come to our house sometimes in the evenings and play on the violin along with us; and he does play beautifully. i wish you knew him, dear mrs. willoughby, for i know you would like him. but, dear friend, are you not well?" for at the name of heinz a deadly faintness had overcome mrs. willoughby. was not that the name of her daughter's husband? and if he should prove to be in any way related to him, might he not be able to give some information regarding her loved one? but she composed herself, and in answer to gertie's question she replied,-- "it is nothing, dear, only a passing weakness. i am all right now. tell me something more of this dr. heinz and the christian work he is engaged in. he must be a german, i fancy, from his name." "yes, he is," replied gertie; "he was speaking to me lately about his relations. he was born in germany, and lived there till he was a boy of seven years old. then his parents died, and he came to this country with an older brother who was a wonderful violinist, and he taught him to play; but many years ago this brother married and returned to germany, leaving him here in the charge of some kind friends; and though at first he heard from him from time to time, he has ceased to write to him for some years, and he fears he is dead. he knows he had a child, for his last letter mentioned her, but he knows nothing more." again that terrible pallor overcame mrs. willoughby, but this time she rose and said in an excited tone,-- "i must see this dr. heinz. could you bring him to see me, gertie, and soon? say to him that i think, although i am not sure, that i knew a relation of his some years ago." "oh yes, mrs. willoughby; i will gladly ask him to come and see you. indeed, i was just going to ask if you would allow him to call--" here the girl hesitated a moment, then said, "you see, it was only last night, but i am engaged to be married to dr. heinz, and do wish you to know and love him for my sake." love one of the name of heinz! could she do so, the gentle lady was asking herself. what if he should prove to be the brother of the man who had caused her such bitter sorrow? but at that moment there rose to her remembrance the words of scripture, said by him who suffered from the hand of man as never man suffered, "forgive, as ye would be forgiven," and who illustrated that forgiveness on the cross when he prayed for his deadly enemies, "father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." the momentary struggle was over. mrs. willoughby raised her head, and said in a calm, quiet tone,-- "god bless you, gertie; and may your union be a very happy one. i should like to see dr. heinz." and so it came to pass that ere many days had elapsed, dr. heinz was ushered into mrs. willoughby's drawing-room in the london house which they had taken for the season. he was hardly seated before she said,-- "yes, oh yes--there can be no mistake--you certainly are the brother of the man who married my daughter. tell me, oh tell me," she added, "what you know of her and of him!" dr. heinz was strongly moved as he looked on the face of the agitated mother. "alas!" he said, "i grieve to say i can tell you nothing. i have not heard for several years from my brother, and at times i fear he must be dead. my poor brother, how i loved him! for, mrs. willoughby, a gentler or more kind-hearted man never lived. you may be sure, however much your daughter was to blame in marrying any one against her parents' wishes, she found in my brother a truly loving, kind husband." "thank god for that!" she replied. "but now tell me, was there a child? gertie spoke as if you knew there was one." "certainly there was. in the last letter i had from my brother, he spoke of the great comfort their little girl (who was the image of her mother) was to them--his little frida he called her, and at that time she was three or four years old. oh yes, there was a child. would that i could give you more particulars! but i cannot; only i must mention that he said, 'i am far from strong, and my beloved wife is very delicate.'" "ah," said the mother, "she was never robust; and who knows what a life of hardship she may have had to live! o hilda, hilda! dr. heinz, is there no means by which we may find out their whereabouts? i have lately had some advertisements put into various papers, praying them to let us know where they are; but no answer has come, and now i am losing all hope." "would that i could comfort you!" he said; "but i also fear much that we have lost the clue to their whereabouts. i will not cease to do all i can to trace them; but, dear mrs. willoughby, we believe that there is one who knows all, whose eyes are everywhere, and we can trust them to him. if i should in any way hear of our friends, you may be sure i shall not be long of communicating with you. in the meantime it has been a great pleasure to me to have made the acquaintance of one whom my dear gertrude has often spoken to me of as her kindest of friends." then dr. heinz told of the work in which he was engaged amongst the poor, sorrowful, and also too often sinful ones, in the east end of london. before dr. heinz left, mrs. willoughby showed him the little brown english bible which her daughter had given to her not long before her marriage, and told him about the german one, which looked exactly the same outwardly, which she had given to her daughter. "strange," said dr. heinz, as he held the little brown book in his hand, "that in the last letter i ever received from my brother, he told me of the blessing which he had got through reading god's word in a brown bible belonging to his wife, adding that she also had obtained blessing through reading it." "praise god!" said mrs. willoughby; "then my prayers have been answered, that hilda, like her mother, might be brought to the knowledge of god. now i know that if we meet no more on earth we shall meet one day in heaven.--i thank thee, o my god!" it was with a heart full of emotion that dr. heinz found himself leaving mrs. willoughby's house. oh, how he longed that he could hear tidings of his brother and his wife, and so be able to convey comfort to the heart of the sorrowful lady he had just left! as he was walking along, lost in thought, he came suddenly face to face with reginald gower, whom he had lately met several times at the wardens', and to whom he suspected the news of his engagement to gertrude warden would bring no pleasure; but from the greeting which reginald gave him he could not tell whether or not he knew of the circumstance. he accosted him with the words: "what are you doing, doctor, in this part of the town? i thought it was only in the narrow, dirty slums, and not in the fashionable part of the west of london, that you were to be found; and that it was only the sick and sorrowful, not the gay, merry inhabitants of belgravia that you visited." "do you think then," replied dr. heinz, "that the sick, sad, and sorrowful are only to be found in the narrow, dark streets of london? what if i were to tell you that although there is not poverty, there are sorrowful, sad, unsatisfied hearts to be found in as great numbers in these fashionable squares and terraces as in the places you speak of; and that the votaries of fashion, whom you style gay and merry, are too often the most wretched of mankind, and that beneath the robes of silk and satin of fashionable life there beats many a breaking heart? you see that splendid square i have just left. well, in one of the handsomest houses there dwells one of the sweetest christian ladies i have ever met. she has everything that wealth and the love of friends can give her, yet i believe she is slowly dying of a broken heart, longing to know if a dearly-loved daughter, who made a marriage which her parents did not approve of, years ago, is still alive; and no one can tell her whether she or any child of hers still survives. i know all the circumstances, and would give a great deal to be able to help her. he would be a man to be envied who could go to that sweet mother, mrs. willoughby, and say, i can tell you all about your daughter, or, if she is not alive, of her child. o reginald gower, never say that there are not sad hearts in the west part of london, though you may see only the smiling face and dry eyes. you remember the words of the gifted poetess,-- 'go weep with those who weep, you say, ye fools! i bid you pass them by, go, weep with those whose hearts have bled what time their eyes were dry.' but i must go. have you not a word of congratulation for me, reginald?" "why?" was the amazed reply; "and for what?" "oh," said dr. heinz, somewhat taken aback, "do you not know that i am engaged to be married to gertrude warden?" "you are?" was the reply, with a look of amazement that dr. heinz could not fail to notice; "well, i rather think you are a lucky fellow. but"--and a look of deep sorrow crossed his face as he spoke--"i do believe you are worthy of her. tell her i said so. and would you mind saying good-bye to her and her sister from me, as i may not be able to see them before starting for america, which i shall probably do in a week; and should you again see the mrs. willoughby you have been speaking of, and whom i know well, please tell her i could not get to say farewell to her, as my going off is a sudden idea. good-bye, dr. heinz. may you and miss gertrude warden be as happy as you both deserve to be;" and without another word he turned away. dr. heinz looked after him for a moment, then shook his head somewhat sadly, saying to himself, "there goes a fine fellow, if only he had learned of him 'who pleased not himself.' reginald is a spoiled character, by reason of self-pleasing. i must ask gertrude how he comes to know mrs. willoughby, and why he is going off so suddenly to america, although i may have my suspicions as to the reason for his so doing." chapter xiv. the old nurse. "it chanced, eternal god, that chance did guide." "how are you getting on with your packing, frida?" said miss drechsler, as the girl, wearing a loose morning-dress, looked into the room where her friend was sitting. "oh, very well," was the answer; "i have nearly finished. when did you say the man would come for the trunks?" "i expect him in about an hour. but see, here comes the post; look if there is one for me from miss warden. i thought i would get one to tell me if any of her friends would meet us at dover." frida ran off to meet the postman at the door, and returned in triumph, bearing two letters in her hand. "one for you, auntie" (she always now addressed miss drechsler by that name), "and one for myself. mine is from ada stanford, and yours, i am sure, is the one you are expecting." a few minutes of silence was broken by frida exclaiming,-- "o auntie, ada has been very ill again, and is still very weak, and she asks, as a great favour, that i would come to visit them before going to the wardens; and adds, 'if miss drechsler would accompany you, we would be so delighted; but in any case,' she writes to me, 'you would not lose your london visit, as my doctor wishes me to see a london physician as soon as i can be moved, specially as to settling whether or not i should go abroad again next winter. so in perhaps another month we may go to london, and then you can either remain with us or join your friend at miss warden's.'" "what do you think about it, auntie? of course it is a great disappointment to me not to go with you; but do i not owe it to the stanfords to go to them when i may be of use during ada's convalescence?" miss drechsler looked, as she felt, disappointed, she had anticipated so much pleasure in having frida with her in london; but after a few minutes' thought she said, "you are right, frida: you must, i fear, go first to the stanfords. we cannot forget all that they have done for you, and as they seem to be so anxious for you to go there, i think you must yield to their wishes; but i must go at once to miss warden, who is expecting me. you had better write at once and tell them we hope to be at dover in four days. they live, as you know, not so far from there. i think that the train will take you to the station, not above a couple of miles from stanford hall, where i doubt not they will meet you; but i must write at once and let miss warden know that you cannot accompany me, and the reason why, though i hope that erelong, if convenient to her, you may join me there. ah, frida! 'man's heart deviseth his way: but god directeth his steps.'" and so it came to pass that miss drechsler arrived alone at miss warden's, whilst frida went to stanford hall. when it became known in the forest that the woodland child, as they still called her, was again about to leave them for some undefined time, there was great lamentation. "how then are we to get on without you?" they said. "_ach!_ shall we have to do without the reading of the book again? true, hans hörstel reads it well enough; but what of that? he too has left us. _ach!_ it is plain no one cares for the poor wood-cutters and charcoal-burners who live in the forest, and some grand english gentleman will be getting our woodland child for a wife, and she will return to us no more." but frida only laughed at these lamentations. "why, what nonsense you speak!" she said. "it is only for a little while that i am going away. i hope to come back in about three months. and many of you can now read the bible for yourselves. and as to the grand gentleman, that is all fancy; i want no grand gentleman for a husband. the only thing that would detain me in england would be if any of my relations were to find me out and claim me; but if that were to be the case, i am sure none of my friends in the forest would grudge their child to her own people, and they may be assured she would never forget them, and would not be long in revisiting them." "_ach!_ if the child were to find her own friends, her father or her mother's people, that would be altogether a different matter," they said simultaneously. "we would then say, 'stay, woodland child, and be happy with those who have a right to you; but oh, remember the poor wood-cutters and workers in the forest, who will weary for a sight of the face of the fair girl found by one of them in the black forest.'" very hearty was the welcome which awaited frida at stanford hall. ada received her with open arms. "ah, frida, how glad i am to see you once again; and how good of you to give up the pleasure of a month in london to come to see and comfort us!--you will see how quickly i will get well now, mother.--and erelong, frida, we shall take you to london ourselves, and father will show you all the wonders there." frida answered merrily, but she felt much shocked to see how delicate-looking ada had become. the girls had much to tell each other of all that had happened since last they met; and when dinner was over, and frida went to see ada as she lay on her couch in her prettily-fitted-up boudoir, ada roused herself to have, as she said, "a right down delightful chat." "see, frida, here is a charming easy-chair for you; please bring it quite close to my couch, and now tell me all about your forest friends. how are elsie and wilhelm, and their little gretchen and hans? but, indeed, i believe i know more about them than you do; for only two days ago my father received a letter from hans's music-teacher in leipsic, giving him unqualified praise, and predicting a successful musical career for him." "oh, i am glad!" said frida. "how pleased his parents will be, and how grateful to sir richard stanford for all he has done for him!" and so in pleasant talk the evening of the first day of frida's visit to stanford hall drew to a close. as time passed on, ada's health rapidly improved, and together the girls went about the beautiful grounds belonging to the hall--ada at first drawn in an invalid chair, and frida walking by her side. but by-and-by ada was able to walk, and together the girls visited in some of the cottages near the hall--frida finding out that ada in her english home was conveying comfort and blessing to many weary souls by reading to them from her english bible the words of life, even as she had done from her german one in the huts of the wood-cutters, carters, and charcoal-burners in the black forest. "have you heard, ada," said lady stanford one morning at breakfast, "that the old woman who has lately come to the pretty picturesque cottage at the glen is very ill? i wish you and frida would go and see her, and take her some beef-tea and jelly which the housekeeper will give you. i understand she requires nourishing food; and try and discover if there is anything else she requires." "certainly, mother," answered ada; "we will go at once and see what can be done for her.--that glen is a lovely spot, frida, and you have never been there. what say you--shall we set off at once? the poor woman is very old, and her memory is a good deal affected." "i shall be pleased to go, ada; but i have a letter from miss drechsler, received this morning, which i must answer by the first post. she tells me that her friend miss warden is in great distress about the illness of a friend of hers. she wishes to know how soon i can join her in london; and now that you are so well, ada, i really think i ought to go." "ah, well," said ada with a laugh, "time enough to think of that, frida. we are not prepared to part with you yet; but seriously, mother talks of carrying us all off to london by another fortnight, and that must suffice you. but after you have written your letter we will set off to the glen." it was a lovely walk that the girls took that summer day through green lanes and flowery meadows, till they came to a beautiful glen overshadowed with trees in their fresh summer foliage of greenery, through which the sunbeams found their way and touched with golden light the green velvety moss and pretty little woodland flowers which so richly carpeted the ground. "how beautiful it is here!" said frida, "and yet how unlike the sombre appearance of the trees in the dear black forest!" "ah," said ada, "that forest, where i do believe your heart still is, frida, always seemed to me to be so gloomy and dark, so unlike our lovely english woods with their 'leafy tide of greenery.'" as they spoke they neared the cottage where dwelt the old woman they were going to see. it was thatch-covered and low, but up the walls grew roses and ivy, which gave it a bower-like appearance. "she is a strange old woman," said ada, "who has only lately come here, and no one seems to know much about her. a grandchild of fourteen or fifteen years old lives with and takes care of her. her memory is much impaired, but she often talks as if she had friends who if they knew where she lived and how ill-off she was would help her; but when questioned as to their name, she shakes her head and says she can't remember it, but if she could only see the young lady she would know her. they fancy the friends she speaks of must have been the family with whom she lived as nurse, for her grandchild says she used often to speak of having had the charge of a little girl to whom she was evidently much attached. but here we are, frida, and yonder is little maggie standing at the door." when they entered the room, frida was amazed to see how small it was and how dark; for the ivy, which from the outside looked so picturesque, darkened the room considerably. ada, who had seen the old woman before, went forward to the bed where she lay and spoke some kind words to her. the old woman seemed as if she hardly understood, and gave no answer. "ah, madam," said the grandchild, "she knows nothing to-day, and when she speaks it is only nonsense." frida now came forward and laid her hand kindly on the poor woman, addressing a few words of sympathy to her. the invalid raised her eyes and looked around her, giving first of all a look of recognition to ada, and holding out her thin hand to her, but her eyes sought evidently to distinguish the face of the stranger who had last spoken. "she knows," explained maggie, "yours is a strange voice, and wishes to see you, which she can't do, miss, for you are standing so much in the shade." frida moved so that the glimmer of light which entered the little room fell on her face. as she did so, and the old woman caught a glimpse of her, a look of joy lit up the faded face, and she said in a distinct voice: "'bless the lord, o my soul;' my dear has come to see me. oh, but i am glad! it's a long time since i saw you, miss hilda--a long, long time. i thought you were dead, or you would never have forgotten your old nurse you loved so dearly; but now you've come, my lamb, and old nurse can die in peace." and seizing frida's hand, the old woman lay back as if at rest, and said no more. frida was startled, and turning to her friend, said, "o ada, whom does she take me for? can it be that she knew my mother, whose name was hilda, and that she takes me for her? miss drechsler says i am strikingly like the picture i have of her. perhaps she can tell me where my mother lived, and if any of her relations are still alive;" and bending over the bed, she said in a low tone, "who was hilda, and where did she live? perhaps she was my mother, but she is dead." the old woman muttered to herself, but looked up no more, "dead, dead; yes, every one i loved is dead. but not miss hilda; you are she, and you have come to see your old nurse. but listen, miss hilda: there is the master calling on us to go in, and you know we must not keep the master waiting for even a minute;" and then the old woman spoke only of things and people of whom no one in the room knew anything. but through all frida distinctly heard the words, "oh, if only you had never played on that instrument, then he would never have come to the house. o miss hilda, why did you go away and break the heart of your mother, and old nurse's also? oh, woe's the day! oh, woe's the day!" "was his name heinz?" asked frida in a trembling voice. "oh yes, heinz, heinz. o miss hilda, miss hilda, why did you do it?" and then the old woman burst out crying bitterly. "o miss, can you sing?" said maggie, coming forward; "for nothing quiets grandmother like singing." "yes, i can," replied frida.--"and you, i am sure, ada, will help me. i know now the woman, whoever she is, knows all about my mother." together the two young girls sang the hymn, "jesus, lover of my soul." as they sang the dying woman became quieter, her muttering ceased, and presently she fell into a quiet sleep; the last words she uttered before doing so were, "jesus, lover of my soul." much moved in spirit, frida quitted the house; she felt as if now she stood on the verge of discovering the name and relations of her mother. she and ada hastened their return home to confide to lady stanford all that had passed. she was much interested, and, as sir richard entered the room just then, she repeated the story to him. he listened eagerly, and said he would at once find out all he could about the woman and her friends; and so saying he left the house. he returned home cast down and discouraged. the woman had become quite delirious, and the names of hilda and heinz were often on her lips, but he could, of course, get nothing out of her. the grandchild could tell nothing of her former life; she never remembered hearing where she had been nurse, but her father, who was now in canada, might know. sir richard could write and ask him. she had his address, and sometimes got letters from him. the doctor said he did not think that grandmother would live over the night. the only thing that had quieted her was the singing of the young lady whom she had called miss hilda, and who had come to the cottage that day with miss stanford. maybe if she could come again and sing grandmother would be quieter. on hearing this frida rose, and said if lady stanford would allow her, she would go and remain all night with the old woman, who she felt sure must have been her mother's nurse. she often, she said, watched a night by dying beds in the black forest, and had comforted some on their death-beds by reading to them portions of god's word. the stanfords could not refuse her request; and when lady stanford had herself filled a basket with provisions for frida herself and little maggie, the girl set off, accompanied by sir richard, who went with her to the door of the cottage. finding the poor woman still delirious, frida took off her cloak and bonnet and prepared to spend the night with her, and sitting down beside the bed she once more began to sing some sweet gospel hymns. in low and gentle tones she sang of jesus and his love, and again the sufferer's restlessness and moaning ceased, and she seemed soothed. hours passed, and the early summer morn began to dawn, and still the old woman lived on. every now and then she muttered the name of miss hilda, and once she seemed to be imploring her not to vex her mother; and more than once she said the name of heinz, and whenever she did so she became more excited, and moaned out the words, "woe's me! woe's me!" frida watched anxiously every word, in the hope that she might hear the name of hilda's mother or the place where they lived; but she watched in vain. it was evident that though there was a look of returning consciousness, life was fast ebbing. a glance upward seemed to indicate that the dying woman's thoughts had turned heavenward. frida opened her bible and read aloud the words of the "shepherd psalm," so precious to many a dying soul, "yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil: for thou art with me." to her amazement the sick woman repeated the words, "_thou_ art with me;" and as she finished the last word the soul fled, and frida and maggie were alone with the dead. the story of frida's birth was still undisclosed, but god's word, as recorded in holy scripture, had again brought peace to a dying soul. neighbours came in, and frida turned away from the death-bed with a heart full of gratitude to the lord that she had been allowed with his own words to soothe and comfort the old nurse, who she felt sure had tended and loved her own mother. when she returned to the hall, the stanfords were truly grieved to hear that the old woman was dead, and that there had been no further revelation regarding frida's relations. lady stanford and ada had just persuaded frida to go to bed and rest awhile after her night of watching, when the door opened, and the butler came in bearing a telegram to miss heinz. frida opened it with trembling hands, saw it was from miss drechsler, and read the words, "come at once; you are needed here." what could it mean? was miss drechsler ill? it looked like it, for who else would require her in london? fatigue was forgotten; she could rest, she said, in the train; she must go at once. in a couple of hours she could start. ada was disconsolate. nevertheless, feeling the urgency of the case, she assisted her friend to pack her boxes; and erelong frida was off, all unaware of what might be awaiting her in the great city. but ere we can tell that, we must turn for a while to other scenes, and write of others closely linked, although unknown to herself, with the life and future of the child found in the black forest. chapter xv. the power of conscience. "being convicted by their own conscience." the day on which reginald gower met dr. heinz on the street, and sent through him a farewell message to gertrude warden, found him a couple of hours afterwards seated in his mother's boudoir, communicating to her his suddenly-formed plan of starting in a few days for america. it was no easy thing to do. the bond between mother and son was a very strong one, and her pleasure in having had him with her for some little time had been great. her look of pleasure when he entered the room made it more difficult for him to break the news to her. "earlier back to-day than usual, reggie," she said, "but never too early for your old mother. but is anything amiss?" she said in a voice of alarm, as she noticed the grave look on his face. "have you heard any bad news, or are you ill?" "no, mother, it is neither of these things--there is nothing the matter; only i fear, mother dear, that what i am going to say will vex you, but you must not let it do so. i am not worth all the affection you lavish on me. mother, i have made up my mind to go to america, and to remain there for some time. i cannot stop here any longer. i am tired--not of my dear mother," he said, as he stooped over her and kissed her fondly, "but of the idle life i lead here; and so i mean to go and try and get work there, perhaps buy land if i can afford it, and see if i can make anything of my life as a farmer. nay, mother, do not look so sad," he pleaded; "you do not know how hard it is for me to come to this resolution, but i must go. i cannot continue to live on future prospects of wealth that may--nay, perhaps ought never to be mine, but must act the man--try and earn my own living." "your own living, reginald!" interposed his mother; "surely you have enough of your own to live comfortably on even as a married man, and your prospects of succeeding to harcourt manor are, i grieve to say for one reason, almost certain. o reginald, don't go and leave me so soon again!" but the young man, usually so easily led, fatally so indeed, stood firm now, and only answered, "mother, it must be, and if you knew all you would be the first to advise me to go. mother, you will soon hear that gertie warden is engaged to be married to a man worthy of her--a noble christian doctor of the name of heinz; but don't think that that circumstance is the reason of my leaving home. fool though i have been and still am, i was never fool enough to think i was worthy of gaining the love of a high-principled girl like gertie warden. but, mother, your unselfish, god-fearing life, and that of gertie and dr. heinz, have led me to see my own character as i never saw it before, and to wish to put right what has been so long wrong, and which it seems to me i can do best if i were away from home. ask me no more, mother dear; some day i will tell you all, but not now. only, mother, i must tell you that the words of the bible which you love so well and have so early taught to me have not been without their effect, at least in keeping my conscience awake. and, mother, don't cease to pray for me that i may be helped to do the right. oh, do not, do not," he entreated, as his mother began to urge him to remain, "say that, mother; say rather, 'god bless you,' and let me go. believe me, it is best for me to do so." at these words mrs. gower ceased speaking. if, indeed, her loved son was striving to do the right thing, would she be the one to hold him back? ah no! she would surrender her will and trust him in the hands of her faithful god. so with one glance upward for help and strength, she laid her hand on his head and said, "go then, my son, in peace; and may god direct your way and help you to do the right thing, and may he watch between us when we are separate the one from the other." just as reginald was leaving the room miss drechsler entered. she greeted mrs. gower cordially, remembering her in old times; and she recognized reginald as the young man who had spoken to frida the day after the concert, though then she had not heard his name. as reginald was saying good-bye, he heard his mother ask miss drechsler where her friend the young violinist was. "i thought you would have brought her to see me," she added. her answer struck reginald with dismay. "oh! she did not accompany me to london after all. a great friend of hers was ill, and she had to go to her instead. it was a great disappointment to me." reginald went to his room feeling as if in a dream. then it might never come to pass, after all, that frida's parentage would be found out; and satan suggested the thought that therefore he need not disclose all he knew, but let things go on as they were. he hugged the idea, for not yet had he got the victory over evil; at all events he thought he would still wait a bit, but he would certainly carry out his intention of leaving the country for a while at least; and two days after the time we write of, his mother sat in her own room with a full heart after having parted from her only son. well for her that she knew the way to the mercy-seat, and could pour out her sorrow at the feet of one who has said, "call upon me in the day of trouble, and i will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me." chapter xvi. the storm. "more things are wrought by prayer than the world dreams of." after mrs. willoughby's interview with dr. heinz of which we have written, her thoughts turned more than ever to the daughter she loved so well. it seemed certain from what dr. heinz had said that there had been a child; and if so, even although, as she feared, her loved daughter were dead, the child might still be alive, and probably the father also. the difficulty now was to obtain the knowledge of their place of residence. mrs. willoughby quite believed that if any news could be obtained of either mother or child, mr. willoughby's heart was so much softened that he would forgive and receive them thankfully. once more advertisements were inserted in various papers, and letters written to friends abroad, imploring them to make every inquiry in their power. more than once dr. heinz called to see his new-made friend; but as mr. willoughby had returned to harcourt manor, whither his wife was soon to follow him, he never met him; and as dr. heinz was leaving town to take a much-needed holiday in the west highlands of scotland, nothing more could be done for the present to obtain information regarding the lost ones. it thus happened that although dr. heinz was a frequent visitor at miss warden's, he never met miss drechsler; but he heard from gertie that she had not been able to bring the young girl violinist with her. it was to mrs. willoughby that mrs. gower went for sympathy and consolation at the time of her son's departure. mrs. willoughby heard of his sudden departure with surprise and deep sorrow for her friend's sake. "reginald gone off again so soon!" she said. "oh, i am sorry for you, dear friend! and does he speak of remaining long away? making his own living, you say? has he not enough to live comfortably on in the meantime? and then, you know," and her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, "his future prospects are very good, unless--" but here mrs. gower interrupted her. "dear friend, from my heart i can say, if only dear hilda or any child of hers could be restored to you, there is no one would more truly rejoice than i would; and i believe reginald would do so also." but even as she said these words a pang of fear crossed her mind as to reginald's feeling on the subject; but the mother's belief in her child refused to see any evil in him, and she added, "i am sure he would. but in any case the day of his succession as heir-at-law to harcourt manor is, we trust, far off, and so perhaps it is best for him that he should make his way in life for himself. i have been able now to trust him in god's hands, who doeth all things well." from that visit mrs. gower returned to her home comforted and strengthened. alone she might be, yet, like her saviour, "not alone, for the father was with her." and ere many days had elapsed she was able to busy herself in making preparations for her return to her pleasant country home, which she had only left at reginald's special request that for once they might spend the season together in london. one thing only she regretted--that she would be for some weeks separated from her friend mrs. willoughby, who was not to return to harcourt manor for some weeks. ah! truly has it been said, "man proposes, but god disposes." the very day that mrs. gower started for her home, mrs. willoughby received a telegram telling her that mr. willoughby was very ill at the manor, and that the doctor begged she would come at once; and so it turned out that, unknown to each other, the friends were again near neighbours, and mrs. willoughby in her turn was to receive help and comfort from her friend mrs. gower. long hours of suspense and anxiety followed the gentle lady's arrival at her country home. it soon became evident that mr. willoughby's hours were numbered, but his intellect remained clear. his eyes often rested with great sadness on his wife, and as he thought of leaving her alone and desolate, his prayer was that he might hear something definite regarding the child ere he died. could he but have obtained that boon, he would have felt that that knowledge had been granted to him as a pledge of god's forgiveness. not always does our all-wise god grant us signs even as an answer to our prayers. still, he is a god who not only forgives as a king, royally, but also blesses us richly and fully to show the greatness of his forgiving power. and such a god he was to prove himself in the case of mr. willoughby. * * * * * whilst he lay on that bed of death, watched over and tended by loving friends, reginald gower was tossing on a stormy sea, a fair emblem of the conflict between good and evil, right and wrong, that was still raging within his breast. but that night, when the waves of the atlantic were wellnigh overwhelming the vessel in which he sailed, when fear dwelt in every heart, when the captain trod the deck with an anxious gravity on his face, light broke on reginald's heart. so his mother's prayers were answered at last. the holy spirit worked on his heart, and showed him as it were in a moment of time his selfishness and his sin; and from the lips of the self-indulgent young man arose the cry never uttered in vain, "god be merciful to me a sinner." and when the morning light dawned, and it was seen they were nearing in safety the harbour whither they were bound, reginald gower looked out on the sea, which was fast quieting down, and gave thanks that the conflict in his soul was ended, and that clear above the noise of the waters he heard the voice of him who, while he tarried here below, had said, "peace, be still," to the raging billows, say these same words to his soul. "safe in port," rang out the captain's voice; and "safe in port, through the merits of my saviour," echoed through the soul of the young man. "now," he said to himself, "let house, lands, and fortune go. i will do the just, right thing, which long ago i should have done--write to mrs. willoughby, and tell all i know about the child found in the black forest." at that resolution methinks a song of rejoicing was heard in heaven, sung by angel voices as they proclaimed the glad news that once more good had overcome evil--that the power of christ had again conquered the power of darkness--that in another heart the saviour of the world had seen of the travail of his soul and was satisfied. * * * * * in the meantime, the events we have written of were transpiring in harcourt manor. mr. willoughby still lay on a bed of sickness, from which the doctor said he would never rise, although a slight rally made it possible that life might yet be spared for a few days or even weeks. he was wonderfully patient, grieving only for the sorrow experienced by his wife, and the sad thought that his own unforgiving spirit was in great part the reason why now she would be left desolate without a child to comfort her. daily mrs. gower visited her friend, and often watched with her by the bed of death. dr. heinz, at mrs. willoughby's request, came to see mr. willoughby, and obtained from his lips a message of full forgiveness if either his daughter, her husband, or any child should be found after his death; and together they prayed that if it were god's will something might be heard of the lost ones ere mr. willoughby entered into rest. "'nevertheless,'" added the dying man, "'not my will but thine be done.'" chapter xvii. the discovery. "all was ended now--the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow." one day shortly after dr. heinz's visit, mrs. gower came to harcourt manor accompanied by miss drechsler, who had arrived from london the night before to remain with her for a couple of days. "you will not likely see mrs. willoughby," she said as they neared the manor-house, "as she seldom leaves her husband's room; but if you do not object to waiting a few minutes in the drawing-room whilst i go to see her, i would be so much obliged to you, as i am desirous of knowing how mr. willoughby is to-day. he seemed so low when i last saw him." "oh, certainly," answered miss drechsler. "don't trouble about me; i can easily wait. and don't hurry, please; i am sure to get some book to while away the time." they parted in the hall, mrs. gower turning off to the sick-room, while miss drechsler was ushered by the butler into the drawing-room. the room was a very fine one, large and lofty. it had been little used for some weeks, and the venetian blinds were down, obscuring the light and shutting out the summer sunshine. at first miss drechsler could hardly distinguish anything in the room, coming into it as she did from a blaze of light; but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out first one object and then another clearly, and rising from the place where she had been seated, she began to look around her, turning to the pictures, which she had heard were considered very fine. she looked attentively at some of them. then her eyes rested on a full-sized portrait of a beautiful girl, and with a start of astonishment miss drechsler uttered the word, "frida! and with her curious necklace on, too. what does it mean?" she queried. in a moment the whole truth flashed on her mind. that, she felt sure, must be a picture of frida's mother, and she must have been the missing child of harcourt manor. she sat down a moment, feeling almost stunned by the discovery she had made. what a secret she had to disclose! oh, if mrs. gower would only come back quickly, that she might share it with her! oh, if frida had only been with her, and she could have presented her to her grandparents as the child of their lost daughter! at last the door opened, and her friend appeared, but much agitated. "excuse me, dear miss drechsler, for having kept you so long waiting; but i found mr. willoughby much worse, and i must ask you kindly to allow me to remain here for a short time longer. perhaps you would like to take a stroll about the beautiful grounds, and--" but miss drechsler could no longer keep silence. "o dear friend, do not distress yourself about me! listen to me for a moment. i have made such a discovery. i know all about mrs. willoughby's daughter; but, alas, she is dead! she died some years ago; but her only child, the very image of that picture on the wall yonder, is living, and is now residing within a few hours of london. she is my _protégé_, my dearly-loved young violinist, frida heinz, the child i have told you of found in the black forest!" "is it possible?" replied mrs. gower. "what a discovery you have made! thank god for it. can she be got at once, i wonder, ere the spirit of her grandfather passes away? oh, this is indeed an answer to prayer! the cry of the poor man's heart for days has been, 'oh, if god has indeed forgiven me, as i fully believe he has, i pray he may allow me to know ere i go hence if my child, or any child of hers, is alive to come and comfort my dear wife in the sorrow that is awaiting her!'" "a telegram must be sent at once to stanford hall, where she is now living," said miss drechsler; "and another to miss warden, asking her to send off frida, after she arrives at her house, at once to harcourt manor." and without loss of time the telegram was dispatched which summoned frida to london, and from thence to the manor-house. the first sense of surprise having passed, mrs. gower's thoughts involuntarily turned to reginald. how would he like this discovery? but again the mother's partiality, which already had too often blinded her to his faults, suggested the impossibility that he would receive the news with aught but pleasure, though there might be a momentary feeling of disappointment as regarded his future prospects. but now she must return to the sick-room, and try to see her friend for a minute or two alone, and tell her the glad tidings; also, if possible, let her hear the particulars of the story from the lips of miss drechsler herself. it was no easy matter now, under any pretence, to get mrs. willoughby to leave her husband's side even for a moment. the doctors had just told her that at most her husband had not more than two days to live, perhaps not so long, and every moment was precious; but mrs. grower's words, spoken with calm deliberation, "dear friend, you must see me in another room for a few minutes about a matter of vital importance," had their effect. and she rose, and after leaving a few orders with the nurse, and telling her husband she would return immediately, she quietly followed mrs. gower into another room. she listened as if in a dream to the story which miss drechsler told. incident after incident proved that the child found in the forest was indeed her grand-daughter; and as she heard that her own child, her loved hilda, was indeed dead, the mother's tears fell fast. the necklace which frida still possessed, the same as that worn by the girl in the picture, the small portrait which had been found in her bag the night that wilhelm hörstel had discovered her in the black forest, all confirmed the idea that she was indeed the grandchild of the manor; but it was not until mrs. willoughby heard the story of the "brown german bible" that she sobbed out the words, "oh, thank god, thank god, she is the child of my darling hilda. now, dear friend, this discovery must be communicated by me to my husband, and he will know that his last prayer for me has been granted." mr. willoughby was quite conscious, and evidently understood the fact that at last a child of his daughter's had been found. as regarded the death of the mother, he merely whispered the words, "i shall see her soon;" then said, "i thank thee, o my father, that thou hast answered prayer, and that now my sweet wife will not be left alone.--give my fond love to the girl, wife, for i feel my eyes shall not see her. that is my punishment for so long cherishing an unforgiving spirit." and if god could act as a man, such might have been the case; but our god is fully and for ever a promise-keeping god, and he has declared, "if any man confess his sins, he is faithful and just to forgive him, and to cleanse him from all iniquity." and so it came to pass that ere the spirit of mr. willoughby passed away, he had pressed more than one kiss on the lips of his grandchild, and whispered the words, "full forgiveness through christ--what a god we have! comfort your grandmother, my child, and keep near to jesus in your life. god bless the kind friends who have protected and loved you when you were homeless.--and now, lord, let thy servant depart in peace.--farewell, loved and faithful wife, who, by the reading to me god's word of life, hast led my soul to christ." one deep-drawn breath, and his spirit fled, and his wife and grandchild were left alone to comfort each other. * * * * * "and now, frida, my loved child, come and tell me all about those friends who were so kind to you in the forest," said mrs. willoughby some days after mr. willoughby's funeral. "ah, how little we thought that we had a grandchild living there, and that our darling hilda was dead! when i look upon you, frida, it almost seems as if all these long years of suffering had been a dream, and my daughter were again seated beside me, work in hand, as we so often sat in the years that have gone. you are wonderfully like her, and i believe that during the last four hours of his life, when his mind was a little clouded, my dear husband thought that hilda really sat beside him, and that it was to her he said the words, 'i fully forgive, as i hope to be forgiven.' but comfort yourself, frida; at the very last he knew all distinctly, and told us to console each other.--but now tell me what i asked you to do, and also if you ever met any one who recognized you as your mother's daughter." "not exactly," replied frida. "still, one or two people were struck with my likeness to some one whom they had seen, but whose name they could not recall. miss drechsler was one of those, and now she says she wonders she did not remember that it was miss willoughby, although she had only seen her twice at the wardens', and then amongst a number of people. and then a young man, a mr. gower (the same name as your friend), who had heard me play on the violin at the stanfords' concert, told them that he was much struck with my resemblance to a picture he had seen. i wonder if he could be any relation to your mrs. gower?" "was his name reginald?" mrs. willoughby asked hurriedly. "yes. sir richard stanford used to call him reginald gower; but i seldom saw him. but, grandmother, is there anything the matter?" for as frida spoke, mrs. willoughby's face had blanched. was it possible, she asked herself, that reginald gower had known, or at least suspected, the existence of this child, and for very evident reasons concealed it from his friends? a terrible fear that it was so overcame her; for she liked the lad, and tenderly loved his mother. she felt she must betray herself, and so answered frida's question by saying,-- "oh, it is nothing, dear, only a passing faintness; but i shall lie on the sofa, and you shall finish your talk. now tell me about the forest." and frida, well pleased to speak of the friends she loved so well, told of her childhood's life in the forest, and the kindness shown to her by elsie and wilhelm, not forgetting to speak of hans and the little blind anna so early called to glory. "and, o grandmother, all the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners were so kind to me, and many amongst them learned to love the words of this little book;" and as she spoke she took from her pocket the little brown german bible, her mother's parting legacy to her child. "it was no words of mine that opened their eyes (i was too young to have said them); but i could read the word of god to them, and they did the deed." mrs. willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her lips. "it was often in the hands of my darling hilda, you say? and those words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the english ones to her mother in the little bible she gave her ere they parted? blessed book, god's own inspired revelation of himself, which alone can make us 'wise unto salvation.'" mrs. willoughby listened with great pleasure to frida's tale, glancing every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the forest. "i must write to a friend in dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the forest and tell them all the good news,--of how good god has been to me in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a brother of my father's was alive. but see, here comes the postman. i must run and get the letters." in a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand. "ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "see, grandmother, there is one for you bearing the new york mark, and another for myself from frankfort. ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, dr. heinz. you said he had gone there, did you not?" whilst frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her american letter, and saw that it was from reginald gower. "he has heard, of course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me. but no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery of our grandchild, and replied to it. he must be writing about some other subject." she then read as if in a dream the following words:-- "dear friend--if indeed i may still dare to address you thus--i write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which i have done to you and mr. willoughby. i confess with deep shame that for some years i have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a child of your daughter was alive. miss drechsler, now living with miss warden, can tell you all. i met the girl, who plays charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of sir richard stanford. her face reminded me of a picture i had seen somewhere, but at first i could not recall where, until the fact, told me by the stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the girl possessed, and which they described to me, brought to my remembrance the picture of your daughter at harcourt manor with a _fac-simile_ of the necklace on. added to this, i had heard that the girl had been found by a wood-cutter in the black forest, and that of her birth and parentage nothing was known. it is now with deep repentance that i confess to having concealed these facts (though i had no doubt as to whose child she was), because i knew that by disclosing the secret my right to succeed to the property of harcourt manor would be done away with. i felt even then the shame and disgrace of so doing, and knew also the trouble and grief i was causing to you, whom (although you may find it difficult to believe) i really loved, and who had ever been such a kind friend to me. i now see that it was a love of self-indulgence which led me to commit so foul a sin. conscience remonstrated, and the words of the bible, so early instilled into my mind by my mother, constantly reproached me; but i turned from and stifled the voice of conscience, and deliberately chose the evil way. all these years i have experienced at times fits of the deepest remorse, but selfishness prevailed; and when i heard that frida heinz was coming to england, and that probably ere-long all might be disclosed, i resolved to leave my native land and begin a better life here. ere i left i had reason to believe that she was unable to come to england, so even now i may be the first to reveal the secret of her existence. i do not know if even yet i would have gained strength to do this or not, had not god in his great mercy opened my eyes, during a fearful storm at sea, when it seemed as if any moment might be my last, to see what a sinner i was in his sight, and led me to seek forgiveness through the merits of christ for all my past sins. _that_ i believe i have obtained, and now i crave a like forgiveness from you whom i have so cruelly wronged. should you withhold it, i dare not complain; but i have hopes that you, who are a follower of our lord jesus christ, will not do so. one more request, and i have done. comfort, i beg of you, my mother when she has to bear the bitter sorrow of knowing how shamefully the son she loves so dearly has acted. by this post i write also to her. i trust to prove to both of you by my future life that my repentance is sincere. reginald gower." mrs. willoughby's grief on reading this letter was profound. to think that the lad whom she had loved, and whom in many ways she had befriended, had acted such a base, selfish part, overwhelmed her; and the thought that if he had communicated even his suspicions to her so long ago the child would have been found, and probably have gladdened her grandfather's life and heart for several years ere he was taken hence, was bitter indeed. but not long could any unforgiving feeling linger in her heart, and ere many hours were over she was able fully to forgive. of mrs. gower's feelings we can hardly write. the shame and grief she experienced on reading the letter, which she received from her son by the same post as that by which mrs. willoughby received hers, cannot be expressed; but through it all there rang a joyful song, "this my son was dead, and is alive again." the prayers--believing prayers--of long years were answered, and the bond between mother and son was a doubly precious one, united as they now were in christ. it was for her friend she felt so keenly, and to know how she had suffered at the hand of reginald was a deep grief to her. could she, she queried, as she set out letter in hand to harcourt manor--could she ever forgive him? that question was soon answered when she entered the room and met her friend. ere then mrs. willoughby had been alone with her god in prayer, and had sought and obtained strength from her heart to say, "o lord, as thou hast blotted out my transgressions as a thick cloud, and as a cloud my sins, so help me to blot out from my remembrance the sorrow which reginald has caused to me, and entirely to forgive him." after two hours spent together the two friends separated, being more closely bound together than ever before; mrs. willoughby saying she would write to reginald that very night, and let him know that he had her forgiveness, and that without his intervention god had restored her grandchild to her arms. in the meantime letters had reached dr. heinz telling that the search for the missing ones was at an end. his short holiday was drawing to a close, and erelong frida was embraced by the brother of the father she had loved so much and mourned so deeply. and ere another summer had gone she was present at her uncle's marriage with gertie warden, and was one of the bridesmaids. and a few days after that event it was agreed, with her grandmother's full consent--nay, at her special request--that she should accompany them on their marriage jaunt, and that that should include a visit to miss drechsler and a sight of her friends in the black forest. many were the presents sent by mrs. willoughby to elsie, wilhelm, and others who had been kind to her grandchild in the forest. "o grandmother," said frida, as she was busy packing up the things, "do you know that i have just heard that my kind friend the german pastor has returned to dringenstadt and settled there. he was so very kind to me when i was a little child, i should like to take him some small special remembrance--a handsome writing-case, or something of that kind." "certainly, frida," was the answer. "you shall choose anything you think suitable. i am glad you will have an opportunity of thanking him in person for all his kindness to you, and, above all, for introducing you to miss drechsler. and look here, frida. as you say that wilhelm and elsie can read, i have got two beautifully-printed german bibles, one for each of them, as a remembrance from frida's grandmother, who, through the reading of those precious words, has got blessing to her own soul. see, i have written on the first page the words, 'search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.'" it was settled that during frida's absence mrs. gower should live at harcourt manor, and together mrs. willoughby and she bid adieu to frida as she set off three days after the marriage to meet her uncle and his bride at dover, from whence they were to start for the continent. tears were in frida's eyes--tears of gratitude--as she thought of the goodness of god in restoring her, a lonely orphan, to the care of kind relations since she had crossed the channel rather more than a year before. frida endeared herself much to her uncle and his wife, and after a trip with them for some weeks, they left her with regret at miss drechsler's, promising to return soon and take her home with them after she had seen her friends in the forest. "ah, frida," said miss drechsler, when they were seated in the evening in the pretty little drawing-room, "does it not seem like olden days? do you not remember the first time when pastor langen brought you here a shy, trembling little child, and asked me to see you from time to time?" ere frida could reply, the door opened, and pastor langen entered, and miss drechsler introduced him to his _protégé_. "frida heinz! is it possible? i must indeed be getting _ein alter_ if this be the little girl who was found in the black forest." he listened with interest whilst miss drechsler told him the history of her past years, much of which was new to him, although he had heard of frida's gift as a violinist; but when she told of the wonderful way in which her relations had been discovered, he could refrain himself no longer, but exclaimed,-- "_lobe herrn_, he is good, very good, and answers prayer." and ere they parted the three knelt at the throne of grace and gave thanks to god. on the next day it was settled that frida should go to the forest and see her old friends, taking her grandmother's present with her. chapter xviii. old scenes. "god's world is steeped in beauty, god's world is bathed in light." it was in the leafy month of june that frida found herself once more treading the forest paths. the smaller trees were clothed in their bright, fresh, green lining-- "greenness shining, not a colour, but a tender, living light;" and to them the dark, gloomy pines acted as a noble background, and once again the song of birds was heard, and the gentle tinkle, tinkle of the forest streams. memory was very busy at work as the girl--nay, woman now--trod those familiar scenes. yonder was the very tree under which wilhelm found her, a lonely little one, waiting in vain for the father she would see no more on earth. there in the distance were the lonely huts of the wood-cutters who had so lovingly cared for the orphan child. and as she drew nearer the hut of the hörstels, she recognized many a spot where she and hans had played together as happy children, to whom the sighing of the wind amid the tall pines had seemed the most beautiful music in the world. as she recalled all these things, her heart filled with love to god, who had cared for and protected her when her earthly friends had cast her off. the language of her heart might have been expressed in the words of the hymn so often sung in scottish churches:-- "when all thy mercies, o my god! my rising soul surveys, transported with the view, i'm lost in wonder, love, and praise." words cannot depict the joy of elsie and wilhelm at the sight of their dear woodland child. they had already heard of her having found her english relations, and heartily they rejoiced at the good news, although well they knew that they would seldom see the child they loved so well. many were the questions asked on both sides. frida, on her part, had to describe harcourt manor and her gentle grandmother and her father's brother, dr. heinz, and his beautiful bride. she told also of the full-sized picture (which hung on the walls of harcourt manor) of her mother, which had been the means of the discovery of her birth, from her extraordinary likeness to it. when the many useful presents sent by mrs. willoughby were displayed, the gratitude of those poor people knew no bounds, and even the little girl looked delighted at the bright-coloured, warm frocks and cloaks for winter wear which had been sent for her. hans was by no means forgotten: some useful books fell to his share when he returned home in a few weeks from leipsic for a short holiday. it was with difficulty that frida tore herself away from those kind friends, and went to the dorf to see her friends there, and take them the gifts she had brought for them also. it was late ere she reached dringenstadt, and there, seated by miss drechsler, related to her the doings of the day. to pastor langen was entrusted a sum of money to be given to the hörstels, and also so much to be spent every christmas amongst the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners in the dorf. the two bibles frida had herself given to the hörstels, who had been delighted with them. when, soon after that day, dr. heinz and his bride, accompanied by frida, visited the forest, they received a hearty welcome. many of the wood-cutters recognized the resemblance dr. heinz bore to his brother who had died in the cottage in the forest. many a story did dr. heinz hear of the woodland child and her brown book. the marriage trip over, the heinzes, accompanied by frida, returned to their homes--they to carry on their work of love in the dark places of the great metropolis, taking with them not only comforts for the body, but conveying to them the great and only treasures of the human mind, the gospel of the lord jesus christ. and to many and many a sin-sick, weary soul the words of holy scripture spoken by the lips of those two faithful ambassadors of the lord jesus christ brought peace and rest and comfort. and frida, on her part, found plenty of work to do for the master in the cottages near harcourt manor, in which her grandmother helped her largely. three years had passed since frida had become an inmate of her grandmother's home, and they had gone for the winter to london in order to be near frida's relations the heinzes, and at frida's request ada stanford, who was now much stronger, had come to pay her a visit. many a talk the two friends had about the past, recalling with pleasure the places they had visited together and the people they had seen. the beauties of baden-baden and the sunny riviera were often dwelt on, and together they loved to review god's wonderful love as regarded them both. they spoke also of their visit to the dying woman in the glen, whom frida had long before found out to have been a faithful nurse to her mother, and for whose little grand-daughter mrs. willoughby had provided since hearing from frida of the old woman's death. then one day the girls spoke of a musical party which was to take place in mrs. willoughby's house that day, and in the arranging for which ada and frida had busied themselves even as they had done years before in baden-baden for the party at which frida had played on the violin. a large party assembled that night, and dr. heinz and frida played together; but the great musician of the night was a young german violinist who had begun to attract general attention in the london musical world. he was no other than hans hörstel, the playmate of frida's childhood. very cordial was the meeting between those two who had last seen each other in such different circumstances. and sir richard stanford, who was also present, felt he was well repaid for what he had spent on young hörstel's education by the result of it, and by the high moral character which the young man bore. it was a happy night. frida rejoiced in the musical success of the companion of her early years, and together they spoke of the days of the past, and of his parents, who had been as father and mother to her. long after the rest of the company had gone, hans, by mrs. willoughby's invitation, remained on; and ere they parted they together gave thanks for all god's kindness towards them. all hearts were full of gratitude, for mrs. gower was there rejoicing in the news she had that day received from reginald, that he was about to be married to a niece of sir richard stanford's, whom he had met whilst visiting friends in new york; and she was one who would help in the work for christ which he carried on in the neighbourhood of his farm. he was prospering as regarded worldly matters, and he hoped soon to take a run home and introduce his bride to his loved mother and his kind friend mrs. willoughby. he added, "i need hardly say that ere i asked edith to marry me i told her the whole story of my sin in concealing what i knew of the birth of frida heinz; but she said, what god had evidently forgiven, it became none to refuse to do so likewise." so after prayer was ended, it was from their hearts that all joined in singing the doxology,-- "praise god, from whom all blessings flow!" and with this scene we end the story of the child found in the black forest, and the way in which her brown german bible was used there for the glory of god. the end. printed in great britain. nelson's "royal" libraries. the two shilling series. red dickon. tom bevan. last of the sea kings. david ker. in taunton town. e. everett-green. in the land of the moose. achilles daunt. trefoil. margaret p. macdonald. wenzel's inheritance. annie lucas. vera's trust. evelyn everett-green. for the faith. evelyn everett-green. alison walsh. constance evelyn. blind loyalty. e. l. haverfield. dorothy arden. j. m. callwell. fallen fortunes. evelyn everett-green. for her sake. gordon roy. jack mackenzie. gordon stables, m.d. in palace and faubourg. c. j. g. isabel's secret; or, a sister's love. ivanhoe. sir walter scott. kenilworth. sir walter scott. leonie. annie lucas. olive roscoe. evelyn everett-green. queechy. miss wetherell. schonberg-cotta family. mrs. charles. 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"the" books for boys. at two shillings. coloured plates. by r. m. ballantyne. =freaks on the fell.= =erling the bold.= =deep down.= =wild man of the west, the.= =golden dream, the.= =red eric.= =lighthouse, the.= =fighting the flames.= =coral island, the.= the author of "peter pan" says of "the coral island": "for the authorship of that book i would joyously swop all mine." =dog crusoe and his master.= a tale of the prairies, with many adventures among the red indians. =gorilla hunters, the.= a story of adventure in the wilds of africa, brimful of exciting incidents and alive with interest. =hudson bay.= a record of pioneering in the great lone land of the hudson's bay company. =martin rattler.= an excellent story of adventure in the forests of brazil. =ungava.= a tale of eskimo land. =world of ice, the.= a story of whaling in the arctic regions. =young fur traders, the.= a tale of early life in the hudson bay territories. by w. h. g. kingston. "the best writer for boys who ever lived." =with axe and rifle.= =captain mugford.= =snow-shoes and canoes.= =heir of kilfinnan, the.= =ben burton.= =dick cheveley.= a stirring tale of a plucky boy who "ran away to sea." =in the eastern seas.= the scenes of this book are laid in the malay archipelago. =in the wilds of africa.= the adventures of a shipwrecked party on the coast of africa. =in the wilds of florida.= a bustling story of warfare between red men and palefaces. =my first voyage to southern seas.= a tale of adventure at sea and in cape colony, ceylon, etc. =old jack.= an old sailor's account of his many and varied adventures. =on the banks of the amazon.= a boy's journal of adventures in the wilds of south america. =saved from the sea.= the adventures of a young sailor and three shipwrecked companions. =south sea whaler, the.= a story of mutiny and shipwreck in the south seas. =twice lost.= a story of shipwreck and travel in australia. =two supercargoes, the.= an adventurous story full of "thrills." =voyage round the world.= a young sailor's account of his adventures by land and sea. =wanderers, the.= the adventures of a pennsylvanian merchant and his family. =young llanero, the.= a thrilling narrative of war and adventure. t. nelson and sons, ltd., london, edinburgh, and new york. bÉbÉe or, two little wooden shoes by louisa de la ramÉe ("ouida") chapter i. bébée sprang out of bed at daybreak. she was sixteen. it seemed a very wonderful thing to be as much as that--sixteen--a woman quite. a cock was crowing under her lattice. he said how old you are!--how old you are! every time that he sounded his clarion. she opened the lattice and wished him good day, with a laugh. it was so pleasant to be woke by him, and to think that no one in all the world could ever call one a child any more. there was a kid bleating in the shed. there was a thrush singing in the dusk of the sycamore leaves. there was a calf lowing to its mother away there beyond the fence. there were dreamy muffled bells ringing in the distance from many steeples and belfries where the city was; they all said one thing, "how good it is to be so old as that--how good, how very good!" bébée was very pretty. no one in all brabant ever denied that. to look at her it seemed as if she had so lived among the flowers that she had grown like them, and only looked a bigger blossom--that was all. she wore two little wooden shoes and a little cotton cap, and a gray kirtle--linen in summer, serge in winter; but the little feet in the shoes were like rose leaves, and the cap was as white as a lily, and the gray kirtle was like the bark of the bough that the apple-blossom parts, and peeps out of, to blush in the sun. the flowers had been the only godmothers that she had ever had, and fairy godmothers too. the marigolds and the sunflowers had given her their ripe, rich gold to tint her hair; the lupins and irises had lent their azure to her eyes; the moss-rosebuds had made her pretty mouth; the arum lilies had uncurled their softness for her skin; and the lime-blossoms had given her their frank, fresh, innocent fragrance. the winds had blown, and the rains had rained, and the sun had shone on her, indeed, and had warmed the whiteness of her limbs, but they had only given to her body and her soul a hardy, breeze-blown freshness like that of a field cowslip. she had never been called anything but bébée. one summer day antoine mäes--a french subject, but a belgian by adoption and habit, an old man who got his meagre living by tilling the garden plot about his hut and selling flowers in the city squares--antoine, going into brussels for his day's trade, had seen a gray bundle floating among the water-lilies in the bit of water near his hut and had hooked it out to land, and found a year-old child in it, left to drown, no doubt, but saved by the lilies, and laughing gleefully at fate. some lace-worker, blind with the pain of toil, or some peasant woman harder of heart than the oxen in her yoke, had left it there to drift away to death, not reckoning for the inward ripple of the current or the toughness of the lily leaves and stems. old antoine took it to his wife, and the wife, a childless and aged soul, begged leave to keep it; and the two poor lonely, simple folks grew to care for the homeless, motherless thing, and they and the people about all called it bébée--only bébée. the church got at it and added to it a saint's name; but for all its little world it remained bébée--bébée when it trotted no higher than the red carnation heads;--bébée when its yellow curls touched as high as the lavender-bush;--bébée on this proud day when the thrush's song and the cock's crow found her sixteen years old. old antoine's hut stood in a little patch of garden ground with a brier hedge all round it, in that byway which lies between laeken and brussels, in the heart of flat, green brabant, where there are beautiful meadows and tall, flowering hedges, and forest trees, and fern-filled ditches, and a little piece of water, deep and cool, where the swans sail all day long, and the silvery willows dip and sway with the wind. turn aside from the highway, and there it lies to-day, and all the place brims over with grass, and boughs, and blossoms, and flowering beans, and wild dog-roses; and there are a few cottages and cabins there near the pretty water, and farther there is an old church, sacred to st. guido; and beyond go the green level country and the endless wheat-fields, and the old mills with their red sails against the sun; and beyond all these the pale blue, sea-like horizon of the plains of flanders. it was a pretty little hut, pink all over like a sea-shell, in the fashion that the netherlanders love; and its two little square lattices were dark with creeping plants and big rose-bushes, and its roof, so low that you could touch it, was golden and green with all the lichens and stoneworts that are known on earth. here bébée grew from year to year; and soon learned to be big enough and hardy enough to tie up bunches of stocks and pinks for the market, and then to carry a basket for herself, trotting by antoine's side along the green roadway and into the white, wide streets; and in the market the buyers--most often of all when they were young mothers--would seek out the little golden head and the beautiful frank blue eyes, and buy bébée's lilies and carnations whether they wanted them or not. so that old mäes used to cross himself and say that, thanks to our lady, trade was thrice as stirring since the little one had stretched out her rosy fingers with the flowers. all the same, however stirring trade might be in summer, when the long winters came and the montagne de la cour was a sharp slope of ice, and the pinnacles of st. gudule were all frosted white with snow, and the hot-house flowers alone could fill the market, and the country gardens were bitter black wind-swept desolations where the chilly roots huddled themselves together underground like homeless children in a cellar,--then the money gained in the time of leaf and blossom was all needed to buy a black loaf and fagot of wood; and many a day in the little pink hut bébée rolled herself up in her bed like a dormouse, to forget in sleep that she was supperless and as cold as a frozen robin. so that when antoine mäes grew sick and died, more from age and weakness than any real disease, there were only a few silver crowns in the brown jug hidden in the thatch; and the hut itself, with its patch of ground, was all that he could leave to bébée. "live in it, little one, and take nobody in it to worry you, and be good to the bird and the goat, and be sure to keep the flowers blowing," said the old man with his last breath; and sobbing her heart out by his bedside, bébée vowed to do his bidding. she was not quite fourteen then, and when she had laid her old friend to rest in the rough green graveyard about st. guido, she was very sorrowful and lonely, poor little, bright bébée, who had never hardly known a worse woe than to run the thorns of the roses into her fingers, or to cry because a thrush was found starved to death in the snow. bébée went home, and sat down in a corner and thought. the hut was her own, and her own the little green triangle just then crowded with its mayday blossom in all the colors of the rainbow. she was to live in it, and never let the flowers die, so he had said; good, rough old ugly antoine mäes, who had been to her as father, mother, country, king, and law. the sun was shining. through the little square of the lattice she could see the great tulips opening in the grass and a bough of the apple-tree swaying in the wind. a chaffinch clung to the bough, and swung to and fro singing. the door stood open, with the broad, bright day beaming through; and bébée's little world came streaming in with it,--the world which dwelt in the half-dozen cottages that fringed this green lane of hers like beavers' nests pushed out under the leaves on to the water's edge. they came in, six or eight of them, all women; trim, clean, plain brabant peasants, hard-working, kindly of nature, and shrewd in their own simple matters; people who labored in the fields all the day long, or worked themselves blind over the lace pillows in the city. "you are too young to live alone, bébée," said the first of them. "my old mother shall come and keep house for you." "nay, better come and live with me, bébée," said the second. "i will give you bit and drop, and clothing, too, for the right to your plot of ground." "that is to cheat her," said the third. "hark, here, bébée: my sister, who is a lone woman, as you know well, shall come and bide with you, and ask you nothing--nothing at all--only you shall just give her a crust, perhaps, and a few flowers to sell sometimes." "no, no," said the fourth; "that will not do. you let me have the garden and the hut, bébée, and my sons shall till the place for you; and i will live with you myself, and leave the boys the cabin, so you will have all the gain, do you not see, dear little one?" "pooh!" said the fifth, stouter and better clothed than the rest. "you are all eager for your own good, not for hers. now i--father francis says we should all do as we would be done by--i will take bébée to live with me, all for nothing; and we will root the flowers up and plant it with good cabbages and potatoes and salad plants. and i will stable my cows in the hut to sweeten it after a dead man, and i will take my chance of making money out of it, and no one can speak more fair than that when one sees what weather is, and thinks what insects do; and all the year round, winter and summer, bébée here will want for nothing, and have to take no care for herself whatever." she who spoke, mère krebs, was the best-to-do woman in the little lane, having two cows of her own and ear-rings of solid silver, and a green cart, and a big dog that took the milk into brussels. she was heard, therefore, with respect, and a short silence followed her words. but it was very short; and a hubbub of voices crossed each other after it as the speakers grew hotter against one another and more eager to convince each other of the disinterestedness and delicacy of their offers of aid. through it all bébée sat quite quiet on the edge of the little truckle-bed, with her eyes fixed on the apple bough and the singing chaffinch. she heard them all patiently. they were all her good friends, friends old and true. this one had given her cherries for many a summer. that other had bought her a little waxen jesus at the kermesse. the old woman in the blue linen skirt had taken her to her first communion. she who wanted her sister to have the crust and the flowers, had brought her a beautiful painted book of hours that had cost a whole franc. another had given her the solitary wonder, travel, and foreign feast of her whole life,--a day fifteen miles away at the fair at mechlin. the last speaker of all had danced her on her knee a hundred times in babyhood, and told her legends, and let her ride in the green cart behind big curly-coated tambour. bébée did not doubt that these trusty old friends meant well by her, and yet a certain heavy sense fell on her that in all these counsels there was not the same whole-hearted and frank goodness that had prompted the gifts to her of the waxen jesus, and the kermesse of mechlin. bébée did not reason, because she was too little a thing and too trustful; but she felt, in a vague, sorrowful fashion, that they were all of them trying to make some benefit out of her poor little heritage, with small regard for herself at the root of their speculations. bébée was a child, wholly a child; body and soul were both as fresh in her as a golden crocus just born out of the snows. but she was not a little fool, though people sometimes called her so because she would sit in the moments of her leisure with her blue eyes on the far-away clouds like a thing in a dream. she heard them patiently till the cackle of shrill voices had exhausted itself, and the six women stood on the sunny mud floor of the hut eyeing each other with venomous glances; for though they were good neighbors at all times, each, in this matter, was hungry for the advantages to be got out of old antoine's plot of ground. they were very poor; they toiled in the scorched or frozen fields all weathers, or spent from dawn to nightfall poring over their cobweb lace; and to save a son or gain a cabbage was of moment to them only second to the keeping of their souls secure of heaven by lenten mass and easter psalm. bébée listened to them all, and the tears dried on her cheeks, and her pretty rosebud lips curled close in one another. "you are very good, no doubt, all of you," she said at last. "but i cannot tell you that i am thankful, for my heart is like a stone, and i think it is not so very much for me as it is for the hut that you are speaking. perhaps it is wrong in me to say so; yes, i am wrong, i am sure,--you are all kind, and i am only bébée. but you see he told me to live here and take care of the flowers, and i must do it, that is certain. i will ask father francis, if you wish: but if he tells me i am wrong, as you do. i shall stay here all the same." and in answer to their expostulations and condemnation, she only said the same thing over again always, in different words, but to the same steadfast purpose. the women clamored about her for an hour in reproach and rebuke; she was a baby indeed, she was a little fool, she was a naughty, obstinate child, she was an ungrateful, wilful little creature, who ought to be beaten till she was blue, if only there was anybody that had the right to do it! "but there is nobody that has the right," said bébée, getting angry and standing upright on the floor, with antoine's old gray cat in her round arms. "he told me to stay here, and he would not have said so if it had been wrong; and i am old enough to do for myself, and i am not afraid, and who is there that would hurt me? oh, yes; go and tell father francis, if you like! i do not believe he will blame me, but if he do, i must bear it. even if he shut the church door on me, i will obey antoine, and the flowers will know i am right, and they will let no evil spirits touch me, for the flowers are strong for that; they talk to the angels in the night." what use was it to argue with a little idiot like this? indeed, peasants never do argue; they use abuse. it is their only form of logic. they used it to bébée, rating her soundly, as became people who were old enough to be her grandmothers, and who knew that she had been raked out of their own pond, and had no more real place in creation than a water rat, as one might say. the women were kindly, and had never thrown this truth against her before, and in fact, to be a foundling was no sort of disgrace to their sight; but anger is like wine, and makes the depths of the mind shine clear, and all the mud that is in the depths stink in the light; and in their wrath at not sharing antoine's legacy, the good souls said bitter things that in calm moments they would no more have uttered than they would have taken up a knife to slit her throat. they talked themselves hoarse with impatience and chagrin, and went backwards over the threshold, their wooden shoes and their shrill voices keeping a clattering chorus. by this time it was evening; the sun had gone off the floor, and the bird had done singing. bébée stood in the same place, hardening her little heart, whilst big and bitter tears swelled into her eyes, and fell on the soft fur of the sleeping cat. she only very vaguely understood why it was in any sense shameful to have been raked out of the water-lilies like a drowning field mouse, as they had said it was. she and antoine had often talked of that summer morning when he had found her there among the leaves, and bébée and he had laughed over it gayly, and she had been quite proud in her innocent fashion that she had had a fairy and the flowers for her mother and godmothers, which antoine always told her was the case beyond any manner of doubt. even father francis, hearing the pretty harmless fiction, had never deemed it his duty to disturb her pleasure in it, being a good, cheerful old man, who thought that woe and wisdom both come soon enough to bow young shoulders and to silver young curls without his interference. bébée had always thought it quite a fine thing to have been born of water-lilies, with the sun for her father, and when people in brussels had asked her of her parentage, seeing her stand in the market with a certain look on her that was not like other children, had always gravely answered in the purest good faith,-- "my mother was a flower." "you are a flower, at any rate," they would say in return; and bébée had been always quite content. but now she was doubtful; she was rather perplexed than sorrowful. these good friends of hers seemed to see some new sin about her. perhaps, after all, thought bébée, it might have been better to have had a human mother who would have taken care of her now that old antoine was dead, instead of those beautiful, gleaming, cold water-lilies which went to sleep on their green velvet beds, and did not certainly care when the thorns ran into her fingers, or the pebbles got in her wooden shoes. in some vague way, disgrace and envy--the twin discords of the world--touched her innocent cheek with their hot breath, and as the evening fell, bébée felt very lonely and a little wistful. she had been always used to run out in the pleasant twilight-time among the flowers and water them, antoine filling the can from the well; and the neighbors would come and lean against the little low wall, knitting and gossiping; and the big dogs, released from harness, would poke their heads through the wicket for a crust; and the children would dance and play colin maillard on the green by the water; and she, when the flowers were no longer thirsted, would join them, and romp and dance and sing the gayest of them all. but now the buckets hung at the bottom of the well, and the flowers hungered in vain, and the neighbors held aloof, and she shut to the hut door and listened to the rain which began to fall, and cried herself to sleep all alone in her tiny kingdom. when the dawn came the sun rose red and warm; the grass and boughs sparkled; a lark sang; bébée awoke sad in heart, indeed, for her lost old friend, but brighter and braver. "each of them wants to get something out of me," thought the child. "well, i will live alone, then, and do my duty, just as he said. the flowers will never let any real harm come, though they do look so indifferent and smiling sometimes, and though not one of them hung their heads when his coffin was carried through them yesterday." that want of sympathy in the flower troubled her. the old man had loved them so well; and they had all looked as glad as ever, and had laughed saucily in the sun, and not even a rosebud turned the paler as the poor still stiffened limbs went by in the wooden shell. "i suppose god cares; but i wish they did." said bébée, to whom the garden was more intelligible than providence. "why do you not care?" she asked the pinks, shaking the raindrops off their curled rosy petals. the pinks leaned lazily against their sticks, and seemed to say, "why should we care for anything, unless a slug be eating us?--_that_ is real woe, if you like." bébée, without her sabots on, wandered thoughtfully among the sweet wet sunlightened labyrinths of blossom, her pretty bare feet treading the narrow grassy paths with pleasure in their coolness. "he was so good to you!" she said reproachfully to the great gaudy gillyflowers and the painted sweet-peas. "he never let you know heat or cold, he never let the worm gnaw or the snail harm you; he would get up in the dark to see after your wants; and when the ice froze over you, he was there to loosen your chains. why do you not care, anyone of you?" "how silly you are!" said the flowers. "you must be a butterfly or a poet, bébée, to be as foolish as that. some one will do all he did. we are of market value, you know. care, indeed! when the sun is so warm, and there is not an earwig in the place to trouble us." the flowers were not always so selfish as this; and perhaps the sorrow in bébée's heart made their callousness seem harder than it really was. when we suffer very much ourselves, anything that smiles in the sun seems cruel--a child, a bird, a dragon-fly--nay, even a fluttering ribbon, or a spear-grass that waves in the wind. there was a little shrine at the corner of the garden, set into the wall; a niche with a bit of glass and a picture of the virgin, so battered that no one could trace any feature of it. it had been there for centuries, and was held in great veneration; and old antoine had always cut the choicest buds of his roses and set them in a delf pot in front of it, every other morning all the summer long. bébée, whose religion was the sweetest, vaguest mingling of pagan and christian myths, and whose faith in fairies and in saints was exactly equal in strength and in ignorance,--bébée filled the delf pot anew carefully, then knelt down on the turf in that little green corner, and prayed in devout hopeful childish good faith to the awful unknown powers who were to her only as gentle guides and kindly playmates. was she too familiar with the holy mother? she was almost fearful that she was; but then the holy mother loved flowers so well, bébée would not feel aloof from her, nor be afraid. "when one cuts the best blossoms for her, and tries to be good, and never tells a lie," thought bébée, "i am quite sure, as she loves the lilies, that she will never altogether forget me." so she said to the mother of christ fearlessly, and nothing doubting; and then rose for her daily work of cutting the flowers for the market in brussels. by the time her baskets were full, her fowls fed, her goat foddered, her starling's cage cleaned, her hut door locked, and her wooden shoes clattering on the sunny road into the city, bébée was almost content again, though ever and again, as she trod the familiar ways, the tears dimmed her eyes as she remembered that old antoine would never again hobble over the stones beside her. "you are a little wilful one, and too young to live alone," said father francis, meeting her in the lane. but he did not scold her seriously, and she kept to her resolve; and the women, who were good at heart, took her back into favor again; and so bébée had her own way, and the fairies, or the saints, or both together, took care of her; and so it came to pass that all alone she heard the cock crow whilst it was dark, and woke to the grand and amazing truth that this warm, fragrant, dusky june morning found her full sixteen years old. chapter ii. the two years had not been all playtime any more than they had been all summer. when one has not father, or mother, or brother, and all one's friends have barely bread enough for themselves, life cannot be very easy, nor its crusts very many at any time. bébée had a cherub's mouth, and a dreamer's eyes, and a poet's thoughts sometimes in her own untaught and unconscious fashion. but all the same she was a little hard-working brabant peasant girl; up whilst the birds twittered in the dark; to bed when the red sun sank beyond the far blue line of the plains; she hoed, and dug, and watered, and planted her little plot; she kept her cabin as clean as a fresh-blossomed primrose; she milked her goat and swept her floor; she sat, all the warm days, in the town, selling her flowers, and in the winter time, when her garden yielded her nothing, she strained her sight over lace-making in the city to get the small bit of food that stood between her and that hunger which to the poor means death. a hard life; very hard when hail and snow made the streets of brussels like slopes of ice; a little hard even in the gay summer time when she sat under the awning fronting the maison du roi; but all the time the child throve on it, and was happy, and dreamed of many graceful and gracious things whilst she was weeding among her lilies, or tracing the threads to and fro on her lace pillow. now--when she woke to the full sense of her wonderful sixteen years--bébée, standing barefoot on the mud floor, was as pretty a sight as was to be seen betwixt scheldt and rhine. the sun had only left a soft warmth like an apricot's on her white skin. her limbs, though strong as a mountain pony's, were slender and well shaped. her hair curled in shiny crumpled masses, and tumbled about her shoulders. her pretty round plump little breast was white as the lilies in the grass without, and in this blooming time of her little life, bébée, in her way, was beautiful as a peach-bloom is beautiful, and her innocent, courageous, happy eyes had dreams in them underneath their laughter, dreams that went farther than the green woods of laeken, farther even than the white clouds of summer. she could not move among them idly as poets and girls love to do; she had to be active amidst them, else drought and rain, and worm and snail, and blight and frost, would have made havoc of their fairest hopes. the loveliest love is that which dreams high above all storms, unsoiled by all burdens; but perhaps the strongest love is that which, whilst it adores, drags its feet through mire, and burns its brow in heat, for the thing beloved. so bébée dreamed in her garden; but all the time for sake of it hoed and dug, and hurt her hands, and tired her limbs, and bowed her shoulders under the great metal pails from the well. this wondrous morning, with the bright burden of her sixteen years upon her, she dressed herself quickly and fed her fowls, and, happy as a bird, went to sit on her little wooden stool in the doorway. there had been fresh rain in the night: the garden was radiant; the smell of the wet earth was sweeter than all perfumes that are burned in palaces. the dripping rosebuds nodded against her hair as she went out; the starling called to her, "bébée, bébée--bonjour, bonjour." these were all the words it knew. it said the same words a thousand times a week. but to bébée it seemed that the starling most certainly knew that she was sixteen years old that day. breaking her bread into the milk, she sat in the dawn and thought, without knowing that she thought it, "how good it is to live when one is young!" old people say the same thing often, but they sigh when they say it. bébée smiled. mère krebs opened her door in the next cottage, and nodded over the wall. "what a fine thing to be sixteen!--a merry year, bébée." marthe, the carpenter's wife, came out from her gate, broom in hand. "the holy saints keep you, bébée; why, you are quite a woman now!" the little children of varnhart, the charcoal-burner, who were as poor as any mouse in the old churches, rushed out of their little home up the lane, bringing with them a cake stuck full of sugar and seeds, and tied round with a blue ribbon, that their mother had made that very week, all in her honor. "only see, bébée! such a grand cake!" they shouted, dancing down the lane. "jules picked the plums, and jeanne washed the almonds, and christine took the ribbon off her own communion cap, all for you--all for you; but you will let us come and eat it too?" old gran'mère bishot, who was the oldest woman about laeken, hobbled through the grass on her crutches and nodded her white shaking head, and smiled at bébée. "i have nothing to give you, little one, except my blessing, if you care for that." bébée ran out, breaking from the children, and knelt down in the wet grass, and bent her pretty sunny head to the benediction. trine, the miller's wife, the richest woman of them all, called to the child from the steps of the mill,--' "a merry year, and the blessing of heaven, bébée! come up, and here is my first dish of cherries for you; not tasted one myself; they will make you a feast with varnhart's cake, though she should have known better, so poor as she is. charity begins at home, and these children's stomachs are empty." bébée ran up and then down again gleefully, with her lapful of big black cherries; tambour, the old white dog, who had used to drag her about in his milk cart, leaping on her in sympathy and congratulation. "what a supper we will have!" she cried to the charcoal-burner's children, who were turning somersaults in the dock leaves, while the swans stared and hissed. when one is sixteen, cherries and a cake have a flavor of paradise still, especially when they are tasted twice, or thrice at most, in all the year. an old man called to her as she went by his door. all these little cabins lie close together, with only their apple-trees, or their tall beans, or their hedges of thorn between them; you may ride by and never notice them if you do not look for them under the leaves closely, as you would for thrushes' nests. he, too, was very old; a lifelong neighbor and gossip of antoine's; he had been a day laborer in these same fields all his years, and had never travelled farther than where the red mill-sails turned among the colza and the corn. "come in, my pretty one, for a second," he whispered, with an air of mystery that made bébée's heart quicken with expectancy. "come in; i have something for you. they were my dead daughter's--you have heard me talk of her--lisette, who died forty year or more ago, they say; for me i think it was yesterday. mère krebs--she is a hard woman--heard me talking of my girl. she burst out laughing, 'lord's sake, fool, why, your girl would be sixty now an she had lived.' well, so it may be; you see, the new mill was put up the week she died, and you call the new mill old; but, my girl, she is young to me. always young. come here, bébée." bébée went after him a little awed, into the dusky interior, that smelt of stored apples and of dried herbs that hung from the roof. there was a walnut-wood press, such as the peasants of france and the low countries keep their homespun linen in and their old lace that serves for the nuptials and baptisms of half a score of generations. the old man unlocked it with a trembling hand, and there came from it an odor of dead lavender and of withered rose leaves. on the shelves there were a girl's set of clothes, and a girl's sabots, and a girl's communion veil and wreath. "they are all hers," he whispered,--"all hers. and sometimes in the evening time i see her coming along the lane for them--do you not know? there is nothing changed; nothing changed; the grass, and the trees, and the huts, and the pond are all here; why should she only be gone away?" "antoine is gone." "yes. but he was old; my girl is young." he stood a moment, with the press door open, a perplexed trouble in his dim eyes; the divine faith of love and the mule-like stupidity of ignorance made him cling to this one thought without power of judgment in it. "they say she would be sixty," he said, with a little dreary smile. "but that is absurd, you know. why, she had cheeks like yours, and she would run--no lapwing could fly faster over corn. these are her things, you see; yes--all of them. that is the sprig of sweetbrier she wore in her belt the day before the wagon knocked her down and killed her. i have never touched the things. but look here, bébée, you are a good child and true, and like her just a little. i mean to give you her silver clasps. they were her great-great-great-grandmother's before her. god knows how old they are not. and a girl should have some little wealth of that sort; and for antoine's sake--" the old man stayed behind, closing the press door upon the lavender-scented clothes, and sitting down in the dull shadow of the hut to think of his daughter, dead forty summers and more. bébée went out with the brave broad silver clasps about her waist, and the tears wet on her cheeks for a grief not her own. to be killed just when one was young, and was loved liked that, and all the world was in its may-day flower! the silver felt cold to her touch--as cold as though it were the dead girl's hands that held her. the garlands that the children strung of daisies and hung about her had never chilled her so. but little jeanne, the youngest of the charcoal-burner's little tribe, running to meet her, screamed with glee, and danced in the gay morning. "oh, bébée! how you glitter! did the virgin send you that off her own altar? let me see--let me touch! is it made of the stars or of the sun?" and bébée danced with the child, and the silver gleamed and sparkled, and all the people came running out to see, and the milk carts were half an hour later for town, and the hens cackled loud unfed, and the men even stopped on their way to the fields and paused, with their scythes on their shoulders, to stare at the splendid gift. "there is not such another set of clasps in brabant; old work you could make a fortune of in the curiosity shops in the montagne," said trine krebs, going up the steps of her mill house. "but, all the same, you know, bébée, things off a dead body bring mischance sometimes." but bébée danced with the child, and did not hear. whose fête day had ever begun like this one of hers? she was a little poet at heart, and should not have cared for such vanities; but when one is only sixteen, and has only a little rough woollen frock, and sits in the market place or the lace-room, with other girls around, how should one be altogether indifferent to a broad, embossed, beautiful shield of silver that sparkled with each step one took? a quarter of an hour idle thus was all, however, that bébée or her friends could spare at five o'clock on a summer morning, when the city was waiting for its eggs, its honey, its flowers, its cream, and its butter, and tambour was shaking his leather harness in impatience to be off with his milk-cans. so bébée, all holiday though it was, and heroine though she felt herself, ran indoors, put up her cakes and cherries, cut her two basketfuls out of the garden, locked her hut, and went on her quick and happy little feet along the grassy paths toward the city. the sorting and tying up of the flowers she always left until she was sitting under the awning in front of the broodhuis; the same awning, tawny as an autumn pear and weather-blown as an old sail, which had served to shelter antoine mäes from heat and rain through all the years of his life. "go to the madeleine; you will make money there, with your pretty blue eyes, bébée," people had said to her of late; but bébée had shaken her head. where she had sat in her babyhood at antoine's feet, she would sit so long as she sold flowers in brussels,--here, underneath the shadow of the gothic towers that saw egmont die. old antoine had never gone into the grand market that is fashioned after the madeleine of paris, and where in the cool, wet, sweet-smelling halls, all the flowers of brabant are spread in bouquets fit for the bridal of una, and large as the shield of the red-cross knight. antoine could not compete with all those treasures of greenhouse and stove. he had always had his little stall among those which spread their tawny awnings and their merry hardy blossoms under the shadow of the hôtel de ville, in the midst of the buyings and sellings, the games and the quarrels, the auctions and the cheap johns, the mountebank and the marriage parties, that daily and hourly throng the grande place. here bébée, from three years old, had been used to sit beside him. by nature she was as gay as a lark. the people always heard her singing as they passed the garden. the children never found their games so merry as when she danced their rounds with them; and though she dreamed so much out there in the air among the carnations and the roses, or in the long, low workroom in the town, high against the crocketed pinnacles of the cathedral, yet her dreams, if vaguely wistful, were all bright of hue and sunny in their fantasies. still, bébée had one sad unsatisfied desire: she wanted to know so much, and she knew nothing. she did not care for the grand gay people. when the band played, and the park filled, and the bright little cafés were thronged with pleasure seekers, and the crowds flocked hither and thither to the woods, to the theatres, to the galleries, to the guinguettes, bébée, going gravely along with her emptied baskets homeward, envied none of these. when at noël the little children hugged their loads of puppets and sugar-plums; when at the fête dieu the whole people flocked out be-ribboned and vari-colored like any bed of spring anemones; when in the merry midsummer the chars-a-bancs trundled away into the forest with laughing loads of students and maidens; when in the rough winters the carriages left furred and jewelled women at the doors of the operas or the palaces,--bébée, going and coming through the city to her flower stall or lace work, looked at them all, and never thought of envy or desire. she had her little hut: she could get her bread; she lived with the flowers; the neighbors were good to her, and now and then, on a saint's day, she too got her day in the woods; it never occurred to her that her lot could be better. but sometimes sitting, looking at the dark old beauty of the broodhuis, or at the wondrous carven fronts of other spanish houses, or at the painted stories of the cathedral windows, or at the quaint colors of the shipping on the quay, or at the long dark aisles of trees that went away through the forest, where her steps had never wandered,--sometimes bébée would get pondering on all this unknown world that lay before and behind and around her, and a sense of her own utter ignorance would steal on her; and she would say to herself, "if only i knew a little--just a very little!" but it is not easy to know even a very little when you have to work for your bread from sunrise to nightfall, and when none of your friends know how to read or write, and even your old priest is one of a family of peasants, and can just teach you the alphabet, and that is all. for father francis could do no more than this; and all his spare time was taken up in digging his cabbage plot and seeing to his beehives; and the only books that bébée ever beheld were a few tattered lives of saints that lay moth-eaten on a shelf of his cottage. but brussels has stones that are sermons, or rather that are quaint, touching, illuminated legends of the middle ages, which those who run may read. brussels is a gay little city that lies as bright within its girdle of woodland as any butterfly that rests upon moss. the city has its ways and wiles of paris. it decks itself with white and gold. it has music under its trees and soldiers in its streets, and troops marching and countermarching along its sunny avenues. it has blue and pink, and yellow and green, on its awnings and on its house fronts. it has a merry open-air life on its pavements at little marble tables before little gay-colored cafés. it has gilded balconies, and tossing flags, and comic operas, and leisurely pleasure seekers, and tries always to believe and make the world believe that it is paris in very truth. but this is only the brussels of the noblesse and the foreigners. there is a brussels that is better than this--a brussels that belongs to the old burgher life, to the artists and the craftsmen, to the master-masons of the moyen-âge, to the same spirit and soul that once filled the free men of ghent and the citizens of bruges and the besieged of leyden, and the blood of egmont and of horn. down there by the water-side, where the old quaint walls lean over the yellow sluggish stream, and the green barrels of the antwerp barges swing against the dusky piles of the crumbling bridges. in the gray square desolate courts of the old palaces, where in cobwebbed galleries and silent chambers the flemish tapestries drop to pieces. in the great populous square, where, above the clamorous and rushing crowds, the majestic front of the maison du roi frowns against the sun, and the spires and pinnacles of the burgomaster's gathering-halls tower into the sky in all the fantastic luxuriance of gothic fancy. under the vast shadowy wings of angels in the stillness of the cathedral, across whose sunny aisles some little child goes slowly all alone, laden with lilies for the feast of the assumption, till their white glory hides its curly head. in all strange quaint old-world niches withdrawn from men in silent grass-grown corners, where a twelfth-century corbel holds a pot of roses, or a gothic arch yawns beneath a wool warehouse, or a waterspout with a grinning faun's head laughs in the grim humor of the moyen-âge above the bent head of a young lace-worker. in all these, brussels, though more worldly than her sisters of ghent and bruges, and far more worldly yet than her teuton cousins of freiburg and nürnberg, is still in her own way like as a monkish story mixed up with the romaunt of the rose; or rather like some gay french vaudeville, all fashion and jest, illustrated in old missal manner with helm and hauberk, cope and cowl, praying knights and fighting priests, winged griffins and nimbused saints, flame-breathing dragons and enamoured princes, all mingled together in the illuminated colors and the heroical grotesque romance of the middle ages. and it was this side of the city that bébée knew; and she loved it well, and would not leave it for the market of the madeleine. she had no one to tell her anything, and all antoine had ever been able to say to her concerning the broodhuis was that it had been there in his father's time; and regarding st. gudule, that his mother had burned many a candle before its altars for a dead brother who had been drowned off the dunes. but the child's mind, unled, but not misled, had pondered on these things, and her heart had grown to love them; and perhaps no student of spanish architecture, no antiquary of moyen-âge relics, loved st. gudule and the broodhuis as little ignorant bébée did. there had been a time when great dark, fierce men had builded these things, and made the place beautiful. so much she knew; and the little wistful, untaught brain tried to project itself into those unknown times, and failed, and yet found pleasure in the effort. and bébée would say to herself as she walked the streets, "perhaps some one will come some day who will tell me all those things." meanwhile, there were the flowers, and she was quite content. besides, she knew all the people: the old cobbler, who sat next her, and chattered all day long like a magpie; the tinker, who had come up many a summer night to drink a-glass with antoine; the cheap john, who cheated everybody else, but who had always given her a toy or a trinket at every fête dieu all the summers she had known; the little old woman, sour as a crab, who sold rosaries and pictures of saints, and little waxen christs upon a tray; the big dogs who pulled the carts in, and lay panting all day under the rush-bottomed chairs on which the egg-wives and the fruit sellers sat, and knitted, and chaffered; nay, even the gorgeous huissier and the frowning gendarme, who marshalled the folks into order as they went up for municipal registries, or for town misdemeanors,--she knew them all; had known them all ever since she had first trotted in like a little dog at antoine's heels. so bébée stayed there. it is, perhaps, the most beautiful square in all northern europe, with its black timbers, and gilded carvings, and blazoned windows, and majestic scutcheons, and fantastic pinnacles. that bébée did not know, but she loved it, and she sat resolutely in front of the broodhuis, selling her flowers, smiling, chatting, helping the old woman, counting her little gains, eating her bit of bread at noonday like any other market girl, but at times glancing up to the stately towers and the blue sky, with a look on her face that made the old tinker and cobbler whisper together, "what does she see there?--the dead people or the angels?" the truth was that even bébée herself did not know very surely what she saw--something that was still nearer to her than even this kindly crowd that loved her. that was all she could have said had anybody asked her. but none did. no one wanted to hear what the dead said; and for the angels, the tinker and the cobbler were of opinion that one had only too much of them sculptured about everywhere, and shining on all the casements--in reverence be it spoken, of course. chapter iii. "i remembered it was your name-day, child here are half a dozen eggs," said one of the hen wives; and the little cross woman with the pedler's tray added a waxen st. agnes, colored red and yellow to the very life no doubt; and the old cheap john had saved her a cage for the starling; and the tinker had a cream cheese for her in a vine-leaf, and the sweetmeat seller brought her a beautiful gilded horn of sugarplums, and the cobbler had made her actually a pair of shoes--red shoes, beautiful shoes to go to mass in and be a wonder in to all the neighborhood. and they thronged round her, and adored the silver waist buckles; and when bébée got fairly to her stall, and traffic began, she thought once more that nobody's feast day had ever dawned like hers. when the chimes began to ring all over the city, she could hardly believe that the carillon was not saying its "laus deo" with some special meaning in its bells of her. the morning went by as usual; the noise of the throngs about her like a driving of angry winds, but no more hurting her than the angels on the roof of st. gudule are hurt by the storm when it breaks. hard words, fierce passions, low thoughts, evil deeds, passed by the child without resting on her; her heart was in her flowers, and was like one of them with the dew of daybreak on it. there were many strangers in the city, and such are always sure to loiter in the spanish square; and she sold fast and well her lilacs and her roses, and her knots of thyme and sweetbrier. she was always a little sorry to see them go, her kindly pretty playmates that, nine times out of ten no doubt, only drooped and died in the hands that purchased them, as human souls soil and shrivel in the grasp of the passions that woo them. the day was a busy one, and brought in good profit. bébée had no less than fifty sous in her leather pouch when it was over,--a sum of magnitude in the green lane by laeken. a few of her moss-roses were still unsold, that was all, when the ave maria began ringing over the town and the people dispersed to their homes or their pleasuring. it was a warm gray evening: the streets were full; there were blossoms in all the balconies, and gay colors in all the dresses. the old tinker put his tools together, and whispered to her,-- "bébée, as it is your feast day, come and stroll in st. hubert's gallery, and i will buy you a little gilt heart, or a sugar-apple stick, or a ribbon, and we can see the puppet show afterwards, eh?" but the children were waiting at home: she would not spend the evening in the city; she only thought she would just kneel a moment in the cathedral and say a little prayer or two for a minute--the saints were so good in giving her so many friends. there is something very touching in the flemish peasant's relation with his deity. it is all very vague to him: a jumble of veneration and familiarity, of sanctity and profanity, without any thought of being familiar, or any idea of being profane. there is a homely poetry, an innocent affectionateness in it, characteristic of the people. he talks to his good angel michael, and to his friend that dear little jesus, much as he would talk to the shoemaker over the way, or the cooper's child in the doorway. it is a very unreasonable, foolish, clumsy sort of religion, this theology in wooden shoes; it is half grotesque, half pathetic; the grandmothers pass it on to the grandchildren as they pass the bowl of potatoes round the stove in the long winter nights; it is as silly as possible, but it comforts them as they carry fagots over the frozen canals or wear their eyes blind over the squares of lace; and it has in it the supreme pathos of any perfect confidence, of any utterly childlike and undoubting trust. this had been taught to bébée, and she went to sleep every night in the firm belief that the sixteen little angels of the flemish prayer kept watch and ward over her bed. for the rest, being poetical, as these north folks are not, and having in her--wherever it came from, poor little soul--a warmth of fancy and a spirituality of vision not at all northern, she had mixed up her religion with the fairies of antoine's stories, and the demons in which the flemish folks are profound believers, and the flowers into which she put all manner of sentient life, until her religion was a fantastic medley, so entangled that poor father francis had given up in despair any attempt to arrange it more correctly. indeed, being of the peasantry himself, he was not so very full sure in his own mind that demons were not bodily presences, quite as real and often much more tangible than saints. anyway, he let her alone; and she believed in the goodness of god as she believed in the shining of the sun. people looked after her as she went through the twisting, picture-like streets, where sunlight fell still between the peaked high roofs, and lamps were here and there lit in the bric-à-brac shops and the fruit stalls. her little muslin cap blew back like the wings of a white butterfly. her sunny hair caught the last sun-rays. her feet were fair in the brown wooden shoes. under the short woollen skirts the grace of her pretty limbs moved freely. her broad silver clasps shone like a shield, and she was utterly unconscious that any one looked; she was simply and gravely intent on reaching st. gudule to say her one prayer and not keep the children waiting. some one leaning idly over a balcony in the street that is named after mary of burgundy saw her going thus. he left the balcony and went down his stairs and followed her. the sun-dazzle on the silver had first caught his sight; and then he had looked downward at the pretty feet. these are the chances women call fate. bébée entered the cathedral. it was quite empty. far away at the west end there was an old custodian asleep on a bench, and a woman kneeling. that was all. bébée made her salutations to the high altar, and stole on into the chapel of the saint sacrament; it was the one that she loved best. she said her prayer and thanked the saints for all their gifts and goodness, her clasped hand against her silver shield, her basket on the pavement by her, abovehead the sunset rays streaming purple and crimson and golden through the painted windows that are the wonder of the world. when her prayer was done she still kneeled there; her head thrown back to watch the light, her hands clasped still, and on her upturned face the look that made the people say, "what does she see?--the angels or the dead?" she forgot everything. she forgot the cherries at home, and the children even. she was looking upward at the stories of the painted panes; she was listening to the message of the dying sun-rays; she was feeling vaguely, wistfully, unutterably the tender beauty of the sacred place and the awful wonder of the world in which she with her sixteen years was all alone, like a little blue corn-flower among the wheat that goes for grist and the barley that makes men drunk. for she was alone, though she had so many friends. quite alone sometimes; for god had been cruel to her, and had made her a lark without song. when the sun faded and the beautiful casements lost all glow and meaning, bébée rose with a startled look--had she been dreaming?--was it night?--would the children be sorry, and go supperless to bed? "have you a rosebud left to sell to me?" a man's voice said not far off; it was low and sweet, as became the sacrament chapel. bébée looked up; she did not quite know what she saw: only dark eyes smiling into hers. by the instinct of habit she sought in her basket and found three moss-roses. she held them out to him. "i do not sell flowers here, but i will _give_ them to you," she said, in her pretty grave childish fashion. "i often want flowers," said the stranger, as he took the buds. "where do you sell yours?--in the market?" "in the grande place." "will you tell me your name, pretty one?" "i am bébée." there were people coming into the church. the bells were booming abovehead for vespers. there was a shuffle of chairs and a stir of feet. boys in white went to and fro, lighting the candles. great clouds of shadow drifted up into the roof and hid the angels. she nodded her little head to him. "good night; i cannot stay. i have a cake at home to-night, and the children are waiting." "ah! that is important, no doubt, indeed. will you buy some more cakes for the children from me?" he slid a gold piece in her hand. she looked at it in amaze. in the green lanes by laeken no one ever saw gold. then she gave it him back. "i will not take money in church, nor anywhere, except what the flowers are worth. good night." he followed her, and held back the heavy oak door for her, and went out into the air with her. it was dark already, but in the square there was still the cool bright primrose-colored evening light. bébée's wooden shoes went pattering down the sloping and uneven stones. her little gray figure ran quickly through the deep shade cast from the towers and walls. her dreams had drifted away. she was thinking of the children and the cake. "you are in such a hurry because of the cake?" said her new customer, as he followed her. bébée looked back at him with a smile in her blue eyes. "yes, they will be waiting, you know, and there are cherries too." "it is a grand day with you, then?" "it is my fête day: i am sixteen." she was proud of this. she told it to the very dogs in the street. "ah, you feel old, i dare say?" "oh, quite old! they cannot call me a child any more." "of course not, it would be ridiculous. are those presents in your basket?" "yes, every one of them." she paused a moment to lift the dead vine-leaves, and show him the beautiful shining red shoes. "look! old gringoire gave me these. i shall wear them at mass next sunday. i never had a pair of shoes in my life." "but how will you wear shoes without stockings?" it was a snake cast into her eden. she had never thought of it. "perhaps i can save money and buy some," she answered after a sad little pause. "but that i could not do till next year. they would cost several francs, i suppose." "unless a good fairy gives them to you?" bébée smiled; fairies were real things to her--relations indeed. she did not imagine that he spoke in jest. "sometimes i pray very much and things come," she said softly. "when the gloire de dijon was cut back too soon one summer, and never blossomed, and we all thought it was dead, i prayed all day long for it, and never thought of anything else; and by autumn it was all in new leaf, and now its flowers are finer than ever." "but you watered it whilst you prayed, i suppose?" the sarcasm escaped her. she was wondering to herself whether it would be vain and wicked to pray for a pair of stockings: she thought she would go and ask father francis. by this time they were in the rue royale, and half-way down it. the lamps were lighted. a regiment was marching up it with a band playing. the windows were open, and people were laughing and singing in some of them. the light caught the white and gilded fronts of the houses. the pleasure-seeking crowds loitered along in the warmth of the evening. bébée, suddenly roused from her thoughts by the loud challenge of the military music, looked round on the stranger, and motioned him back. "sir,--i do not know you,--why should you come with me? do not do it, please. you make me talk, and that makes me late." and she pushed her basket farther on her arm, and nodded to him and ran off--as fleetly as a hare through fern--among the press of the people. "to-morrow, little one," he answered her with a careless smile, and let her go unpursued. above, from the open casement of a café, some young men and some painted women leaned out, and threw sweetmeats at him, as in carnival time. "a new model,--that pretty peasant?" they asked him. he laughed in answer, and went up the steps to join them; he dropped the moss-roses as he went, and trod on them, and did not wait. chapter iv bébée ran home as fast as her feet would take her. the children were all gathered about her gate in the dusky dewy evening; they met her with shouts of welcome and reproach intermingled; they had been watching for her since first the sun had grown low and red, and now the moon was risen. but they forgave her when they saw the splendor of her presents, and she showered out among them père melchior's horn of comfits. they dashed into the hut; they dragged the one little table out among the flowers; the cherries and cake were spread on it; and the miller's wife had given a big jug of milk, and father francis himself had sent some honeycomb. the early roses were full of scent in the dew; the great gillyflowers breathed\out fragrance in the dusk; the goat came and nibbled the sweetbrier unrebuked; the children repeated the flemish bread-grace, with clasped hands and reverent eyes, "oh, dear little jesus, come and sup with us, and bring your beautiful mother, too; we will not forget you are god." then, that said, they ate, and drank, and laughed, and picked cherries from each other's mouths like little blackbirds; the big white dog gnawed a crust at their feet; old krebs who had a fiddle, and could play it, came out and trilled them rude and ready flemish tunes, such as teniers or mieris might have jumped to before an alehouse at the kermesse; bébée and the children joined hands, and danced round together in the broad white moonlight, on the grass by the water-side; the idlers came and sat about, the women netting or spinning, and the men smoking a pipe before bedtime; the rough hearty flemish bubbled like a brook in gossip, or rung like a horn over a jest; bébée and the children, tired of their play, grew quiet, and chanted together the "ave maria stella virginis"; a nightingale among the willows sang to the sleeping swans. all was happy, quiet, homely; lovely also in its simple way. they went early to their beds, as people must do who rise at dawn. bébée leaned out a moment from her own little casement ere she too went to rest. through an open lattice there sounded the murmur of some little child's prayer; the wind sighed among the willows; the nightingales sang on in the dark--all was still. hard work awaited her on the morrow, and on all the other days of the year. she was only a little peasant--she must sweep, and spin, and dig, and delve, to get daily her bit of black bread,--but that night she was as happy as a little princess in a fairy tale; happy in her playmates, in her flowers, in her sixteen years, in her red shoes, in her silver buckles, because she was half a woman; happy in the dewy leaves, in the singing birds, in the hush of the night, in the sense of rest, in the fragrance of flowers, in the drifting changes of moon and cloud; happy because she was half a woman, because she was half a poet, because she was wholly a poet. "oh, dear swans, how good it is to be sixteen!--how good it is to live at all!--do you not tell the willows so?" said bébée to the gleam of silver under the dark leaves by the water's side, which showed her where her friends were sleeping, with their snowy wings closed over their stately heads, and the veiled gold and ruby of their eyes. the swans did not awake to answer. only the nightingale answered from the willows, with desdemona's song. but bébée had never heard of desdemona, and the willows had no sigh for her. "good night!" she said, softly, to all the green dewy sleeping world, and then she lay down and slept herself.--the nightingale sang on, and the willows trembled. chapter v. "if i could save a centime a day, i could buy a pair of stockings this time next year," thought bébée, locking her shoes with her other treasures in her drawer the next morning, and taking her broom and pail to wash down her little palace. but a centime a day is a great deal in brabant, when one has not always enough for bare bread, and when, in the long chill winter, one must weave thread lace all through the short daylight for next to nothing at all; for there are so many women in brabant, and every one of them, young or old, can make lace, and if one do not like the pitiful wage, one may leave it and go and die, for what the master lacemakers care or know; there will always be enough, many more than enough, to twist the thread round the bobbins, and weave the bridal veils, and the trains for the courts. "and besides, if i can save a centime, the varnhart children ought to have it," thought bébée, as she swept the dust together. it was so selfish of her to be dreaming about a pair of stockings, when those little things often went for days on a stew of nettles. so she looked at her own pretty feet,--pretty and slender, and arched, rosy, and fair, and uncramped by the pressure of leather,--and resigned her day-dream with a brave heart, as she put up her broom and went out to weed, and hoe, and trim, and prune the garden that had been for once neglected the night before. "one could not move half so easily in stockings," she thought with true philosophy as she worked among the black, fresh, sweet-smelling mould, and kissed a rose now and then as she passed one. when she got into the city that day, her rush-bottomed chair, which was always left upside down in case rain should fall in the night, was set ready for her, and on its seat was a gay, gilded box, such as rich people give away full of bonbons. bébée stood and looked from the box to the broodhuis, from the broodhuis to the box; she glanced around, but no one had come there so early as she, except the tinker, who was busy quarrelling with his wife and letting his smelting fire burn a hole in his breeches. "the box was certainly for her, since it was set upon her chair?"--bébée pondered a moment; then little by little opened the lid. within, on a nest of rose-satin, were two pair of silk stockings!--real silk!--with the prettiest clocks worked up their sides in color! bébée gave a little scream, and stood still, the blood hot in her cheeks; no one heard her, the tinker's wife, who alone was near, having just wished heaven to send a judgment on her husband, was busy putting out his smoking smallclothes. it is a way that women and wives have, and they never see the bathos of it. the place filled gradually. the customary crowds gathered. the business of the day began underneath the multitudinous tones of the chiming bells. bébée's business began too; she put the box behind her with a beating heart, and tied up her flowers. it was the fairies, of course! but they had never set a rush-bottomed chair on its legs before, and this action of theirs frightened her. it was rather an empty morning. she sold little, and there was the more time to think. about an hour after noon a voice addressed her,-- "have you more moss-roses for me?" bébée looked up with a smile, and found some. it was her companion of the cathedral. she had thought much of the red shoes and the silver clasps, but she had thought nothing at all of him. "you are not too proud to be paid to-day?" he said, giving her a silver franc; he would not alarm her with any more gold; she thanked him, and slipped it in her little leathern pouch, and went on sorting some clove-pinks. "you do not seem to remember me?" he said, with a little sadness. "oh, i remember you," said bébée, lifting her frank eyes. "but you know i speak to so many people, and they are all nothing to me." "who is anything to you?" it was softly and insidiously spoken, but it awoke no echo. "varnhart's children," she answered him, instantly. "and old annémie by the wharfside--and tambour--and antoine's grave--and the starling--and, of course, above all, the flowers." "and the fairies, i suppose?--though they do nothing for you." she looked at him eagerly,-- "they have done something to-day. i have found a box, and some stockings--such beautiful stockings! silk ones! is it not very odd?" "it is more odd they should have forgotten you so long. may i see them?" "i cannot show them to you now. those ladies are going to buy. but you can see them later--if you wait." "i will wait and paint the broodhuis." "so many people do that; you are a painter then?" "yes--in a way." he sat down on an edge of the stall, and spread his things there, and sketched, whilst the traffic went on around them. he was very many years older than she; handsome, with a dark, and changeful, and listless face; he wore brown velvet, and had a red ribbon at his throat; he looked a little as egmont might have done when wooing claire. bébée, as she sold the flowers and took the change fifty times in the hour, glanced at him now and then, and watched the movements of his hands, she could not have told why. always among men and women, always in the crowds of the streets, people were nothing to her; she went through them as through a field of standing corn,--only in the field she would have tarried for poppies, and in the town she tarried for no one. she dealt with men as with women, simply, truthfully, frankly, with the innocent fearlessness of a child. when they told her she was pretty, she smiled; it was just as they said that her flowers were sweet. but this man's hands moved so swiftly; and as she saw her broodhuis growing into color and form beneath them, she could not choose but look now and then, and twice she gave her change wrong. he spoke to her rarely, and sketched on and on in rapid bold strokes the quaint graces and massive richness of the maison du roi. there is no crowd so busy in brabant that it will not find leisure to stare. the fleming or the walloon has nothing of the frenchman's courtesy; he is rough and rude; he remains a peasant even when town bred, and the surly insolence of the "gueux" is in him still. he is kindly to his fellows, though not to beasts; he is shrewd, patient, thrifty, industrious, and good in very many ways, but civil never. a good score of them left off their occupations and clustered round the painter, staring, chattering, pushing, pointing, as though a brush had never been seen in all the land of rubens. bébée, ashamed of her people, got up from her chair and rebuked them. "oh, men of brussels; fie then for shame!" she called to them as clearly as a robin sings. "did never you see a drawing before? and are there not saints and martyrs enough to look at in the galleries? and have you never some better thing to do than to gape wide-mouthed at a stranger? what laziness--ah! just worthy of a people who sleep and smoke while their dogs work for them! go away, all of you; look, there comes the gendarme--it will be the worse for you. sir, sit under my stall; they will not dare trouble you then." he moved under the awning, thanking her with a smile; and the people, laughing, shuffled unwillingly aside and let him paint on in peace. it was only little bébée, but they had spoilt the child from her infancy, and were used to obey her. the painter took a long time. he set about it with the bold ease of one used to all the intricacies of form and color, and he had the skill of a master. but he spent more than half the time looking idly at the humors of the populace or watching how the treasures of bébée's garden went away one by one in the hands of strangers. meanwhile, ever and again, sitting on the edge of her stall, with his colors and brushes tossed out on the board, he talked to her, and, with the soft imperceptible skill of long practice in those arts, he drew out the details of her little simple life. there were not always people to buy, and whilst she rested and sheltered the flowers from the sun, she answered him willingly, and in one of her longer rests showed him the wonderful stockings. "do you think it _could_ be the fairies?" she asked him a little doubtfully. it was easy to make her believe any fantastical nonsense; but her fairies were ethereal divinities. she could scarcely believe that they had laid that box on her chair. "impossible to doubt it!" he replied, unhesitatingly. "given a belief in fairies at all, why should there be any limit to what they can do? it is the same with the saints, is it not?" "yes," said bébée, thoughtfully. the saints were mixed up in her imagination with the fairies in an intricacy that would have defied the best reasonings of father francis. "well, then, you will wear the stockings, will you not? only, believe me, your feet are far prettier without them." bébée laughed happily, and took another peep in the cosy rose-satin nest. but her little face had a certain perplexity. suddenly she turned on him. "did not _you_ put them there?" "i?--never!" "are you quite sure?" "quite; but why ask?" "because," said bébée, shutting the box resolutely and pushing it a little away,--"because i would not take it if you did. you are a stranger, and a present is a debt, so antoine always said." "why take a present then from the varnhart children, or your old friend who gave you the clasps?" "ah, that is very different. when people are very, very poor, equally poor, the one with the other, little presents that they save for and make with such a difficulty are just things that are a pleasure; sacrifices; like your sitting up with a sick person at night, and then she sits up with you another year when you want it. do you not know?" "i know you talk very prettily. but why should you not take any one else's present, though he may not be poor?" "because i could not return it." "could you not?" the smile in his eyes dazzled her a little; it was so strange, and yet had so much light in it; but she did not understand him one whit. "no; how could i?" she said earnestly. "if i were to save for two years, i could not get francs enough to buy anything worth giving back; and i should be so unhappy, thinking of the debt of it always. do tell me if you put those stockings there?" "no"; he looked at her, and the trivial lie faltered and died away; the eyes, clear as crystal, questioned him so innocently. "well, if i did?" he said, frankly; "you wished for them; what harm was there? will you be so cruel as to refuse them from me?" the tears sprang into bébée's eyes. she was sorry to lose the beautiful box, but more sorry he had lied to her. "it was very kind and good," she said, regretfully. "but i cannot think why you should have done it, as you had never known me at all. and, indeed, i could not take them, because antoine would not let me if he were alive; and if i gave you a flower every day all the year round i should not pay you the worth of them, it would be quite impossible; and why should you tell me falsehoods about such a thing? a falsehood is never a thing for a man." she shut the box and pushed it towards him, and turned to the selling of her bouquets. her voice shook a little as she tied up a bunch of mignonette and told the price of it. those beautiful stockings! why had she ever seen them, and why had he told her a lie? it made her heart heavy. for the first time in her brief life the broodhuis seemed to frown between her and the sun. undisturbed, he painted on and did not look at her. the day was nearly done. the people began to scatter. the shadows grew very long. he painted, not glancing once elsewhere than at his study. bébée's baskets were quite empty. she rose, and lingered, and regarded him wistfully: he was angered; perhaps she had been rude? her little heart failed her. if he would only look up! but he did not look up; he kept his handsome dark face studiously over the canvas of the broodhuis. she would have seen a smile in his eyes if he had lifted them; but he never raised his lids. bébée hesitated: take the stockings she would not; but perhaps she had refused them too roughly. she wished so that he would look up and save her speaking first; but he knew what he was about too warily and well to help her thus. she waited awhile, then took one little red moss-rosebud that she had saved all day in a corner of her basket, and held it out to him frankly, shyly, as a peace offering. "was i rude? i did not mean to be. but i cannot take the stockings; and why did you tell me that falsehood?" he took the rosebud and rose too, and smiled; but he did not meet her eyes. "let us forget the whole matter; it is not worth a sou. if you do not take the box, leave it; it is of no use to me." "i cannot take it." she knew she was doing right. how was it that he could make her feel as though she were acting wrongly? "leave it then, i say. you are not the first woman, my dear, who has quarrelled with a wish fulfilled. it is a way your sex has of rewarding gods and men.--here, you old witch, here is a treasure-trove for you. you can sell it for ten francs in the town anywhere." as he spoke he tossed the casket and the stockings in it to an old decrepit woman, who was passing by with a baker's cart drawn by a dog; and, not staying to heed her astonishment, gathered his colors and easel together. the tears swam in bébée's eyes as she saw the box whirled through the air. she had done right; she was sure she had done right. he was a stranger, and she could never have repaid him; but he made her feel herself wayward and ungrateful, and it was hard to see the beautiful fairy gift borne away forever by the chuckling, hobbling, greedy old baker's woman. if he had only taken it himself, she would have been glad then to have been brave and to have done her duty. but it was not in his design that she should be glad. he saw her tears, but he seemed not to see them. "good night, bébée," he said carelessly, as he sauntered aside from her. "good night, my dear. to-morrow i will finish my painting; but i will not offend you by any more gifts." bébée lifted her drooped head, and looked him in the eyes eagerly, with a certain sturdy resolve and timid wistfulness intermingled in her look. "sir, see, you speak to me quite wrongly," she said with a quick accent, that had pride as well as pain in it. "say it was kind to bring me what i wished for; yes, it was kind i know; but you never saw me till last night, and i cannot tell even your name; and it is very wrong to lie to any one, even to a little thing like me; and i am only bébée, and cannot give you anything back, because i have only just enough to feed myself and the starling, and not always that in winter. i thank you very much for what you wished to do; but if i had taken those things, i think you would have thought me very mean and full of greed; and antoine always said, 'do not take what you cannot pay--not ever what you cannot pay--that is the way to walk with pure feet.' perhaps i spoke ill, because they spoil me, and they say i am too swift to say my mind. but i am not thankless--not thankless, indeed--it is only i could not take what i cannot pay. that is all. you are angry still--not now--no?" there was, anxiety in the pleading. what did it matter to her what a stranger thought? and yet bébée's heart was heavy as he laughed a little coldly, and bade her good day, and left her alone to go out of the city homewards. a sense of having done wrong weighed on her; of having been rude and ungrateful. she had no heart for the children that evening. mère krebs was sitting out before her door shelling peas, and called to her to come in and have a drop of coffee. krebs had come in from vilvöorde fair, and brought a stock of rare good berries with him. but bébée thanked her, and went on to her own garden to work. she had always liked to sit out on the quaint wooden steps of the mill and under the red shadow of the sails, watching the swallows flutter to and fro in the sunset, and hearing the droll frogs croak in the rushes, while the old people told her tales of the time of how in their babyhood they had run out, fearful yet fascinated, to see the beautiful scots grays flash by in the murky night, and the endless line of guns and caissons crawl black as a snake through the summer dust and the trampled corn, going out past the woods to waterloo. but to-night she had no fancy for it: she wanted to be alone with the flowers. though, to be sure, they had been very heartless when antoine's coffin had gone past them, still they had sympathy; the daisies smiled at her with their golden eyes, and the roses dropped tears on her hand, just as her mood might be; the flowers were closer friends, after all, than any human souls; and besides, she could say so much to them! flowers belong to fairyland; the flowers and the birds and the butterflies are all that the world has kept of its golden age; the only perfectly beautiful things on earth, joyous, innocent, half divine, useless, say they who are wiser than god. bébée went home and worked among her flowers. a little laborious figure, with her petticoats twisted high, and her feet wet with the night dews, and her back bowed to the hoeing and clipping and raking among the blossoming plants. "how late you are working to-night, bébée!" one or two called out, as they passed the gate. she looked up and smiled; but went on working while the white moon rose. she did not know what ailed her. she went to bed without supper, leaving her bit of bread and bowl of goat's milk to make a meal for the fowls in the morning. "little ugly, shameful, naked feet!" she said to them, sitting on the edge of her mattress, and looking at them in the moonlight. they were very pretty feet, and would not have been half so pretty in silk hose and satin shoon; but she did not know that: he had told her she wanted those vanities. she sat still a long while, her rosy feet swaying to and fro like two roses that grow on one stalk and hang down in the wind. the little lattice was open; the sweet and dusky garden was beyond; there was a hand's breadth of sky, in which a single star was shining; the leaves of the vine hid all the rest. but for once she saw none of it. she only saw the black broodhuis; the red and gold sunset overhead; the gray stones, with the fallen rose leaves and crushed fruits; and in the shadows two dark, reproachful eyes, that looked at hers. had she been ungrateful? the little tender, honest heart of her was troubled and oppressed. for once, that night she slept ill. chapter vi. all the next day she sat under the yellow awning, but she sat alone. it was market day; there were many strangers. flowers were in demand. the copper pieces were ringing against one another all the hours through in her leathern bag. the cobbler was in such good humor that he forgot to quarrel with his wife. the fruit was in such plenty that they gave her a leaf-full of white and red currants for her noonday dinner. and the people split their sides at the cheap john's jokes; he was so droll. no one saw the leaks in his kettles or the hole in his bellows, or the leg that was lacking to his milking stool. everybody was gay and merry that day. but bébée's eyes looked wistfully over the throng, and did not find what they sought. somehow the day seemed dull, and the square empty. the stones and the timbers around seemed more than ever full of a thousand stories that they would not tell her because she knew nothing, and was only bébée. she had never known a dull hour before. she, a little bright, industrious, gay thing, whose hands were always full of work, and whose head was always full of fancies, even in the grimmest winter time, when she wove the lace in the gray, chilly workroom, with the frost on the casements, and the mice running out in their hunger over the bare brick floor. that bare room was a sad enough place sometimes, when the old women would bewail how they starved on the pittance they gained, and the young women sighed for their aching heads and their failing eyesight, and the children dropped great tears on the bobbins, because they had come out without a crust to break their fast. she had been sad there often for others, but she had never been dull--not with this unfamiliar, desolate, dreary dulness, that seemed to take all the mirth out of the busy life around her, and all the color out of the blue sky above. why, she had no idea herself. she wondered if she were going to be ill; she had never been ill in her life, being strong as a little bird that has never known cage or captivity. when the day was done, bébée gave a quick sigh as she looked across the square. she had so wanted to tell him that she was not ungrateful; and she had a little moss-rose ready, with a sprig of sweetbrier, and a tiny spray of maidenhair fern that grew under the willows, which she had kept covered up with a leaf of sycamore all the day long. no one would have it now. the child went out of the place sadly as the carillon rang. there was only the moss-rose in her basket, and the red and white currants that had been given her for her dinner. she went along the twisting, many-colored, quaintly fashioned streets, till she came to the water-side. it is very ancient there still, there are all manner of old buildings, black and brown and gray, peaked roofs, gabled windows, arched doors, crumbling bridges, twisted galleries leaning to touch the dark surface of the canal, dusky wharves crowded with barrels, and bales, and cattle, and timber, and all the various freightage that the good ships come and go with all the year round, to and from the zuyderzee, and the baltic water, and the wild northumbrian shores, and the iron-bound scottish headlands, and the pretty gray norman seaports, and the white sandy dunes of holland, with the toy towns and the straight poplar-trees. bébée was fond of watching the brigs and barges, that looked so big to her, with their national flags flying, and their tall masts standing thick as grass, and their tawny sails flapping in the wind, and about them the sweet, strong smell of that strange, unknown thing, the sea. sometimes the sailors would talk with her; sometimes some old salt, sitting astride of a cask, would tell her a mariner's tale of far-away lands and mysteries of the deep; sometimes some curly-headed cabin-boy would give her a shell or a plume of seaweed, and try and make her understand what the wonderful wild water was like, which was not quiet and sluggish and dusky as this canal was, but was forever changing and moving, and curling and leaping, and making itself now blue as her eyes, now black as that thunder-cloud, now white as the snow that the winter wind tossed, now pearl hued and opaline as the convolvulus that blew in her own garden. and bébée would listen, with the shell in her lap, and try to understand, and gaze at the ships and then at the sky beyond them, and try to figure to herself those strange countries to which these ships were always going, and saw in fancy all the blossoming orchard province of green france, and all the fir-clothed hills and rushing rivers of the snow-locked swedish shore, and saw too, doubtless, many lands that had no place at all except in dreamland, and were more beautiful even than the beauty of the earth, as poets' countries are, to their own sorrow, oftentimes. but this dull day bébée did not go down upon the wharf; she did not want the sailors' tales; she saw the masts and the bits of bunting that streamed from them, and they made her restless, which they had never done before. instead she went in at a dark old door and climbed up a steep staircase that went up and up, as though she were mounting st. gudule's belfry towers; and at the top of it entered a little chamber in the roof, where one square unglazed hole that served for light looked out upon the canal, with all its crowded craft, from the dainty schooner yacht, fresh as gilding and holystone could make her, that was running for pleasure to the scheldt, to the rude, clumsy coal barge, black as night, that bore the rough diamonds of belgium to the snow-buried roofs of christiania and stromstad. in the little dark attic there was a very old woman in a red petticoat and a high cap, who sat against the window, and pricked out lace patterns with a pin on thick paper. she was eighty-five years old, and could hardly keep body and soul together. bébée, running to her, kissed her. "oh, mother annémie, look here! beautiful red and white currants, and a roll; i saved them for you. they are the first currants we have seen this year. me? oh, for me, i have eaten more than are good! you know i pick fruit like a sparrow, always. dear mother annémie, are you better? are you quite sure you are better to-day?" the little old withered woman, brown as a walnut and meagre as a rush, took the currants, and smiled with a childish glee, and began to eat them, blessing the child with each crumb she broke off the bread. "why had you not a grandmother of your own, my little one?" she mumbled. "how good you would have been to her, bébée!" "yes," said bébée seriously, but her mind could not grasp the idea. it was easier for her to believe the fanciful lily parentage of antoine's stories. "how much work have you done, annémie? oh, all that? all that? but there is enough for a week. you work too early and too late, you dear annémie." "nay, bébée, when one has to get one's bread that cannot be. but i am afraid my eyes are failing. that rose now, is it well done?" "beautifully done. would the baës take them if they were not? you know he is one that cuts every centime in four pieces." "ah! sharp enough, sharp enough, that is true. but i am always afraid of my eyes. i do not see the flags out there so well as i used to do." "because the sun is so bright, annémie; that is all. i myself, when i have been sitting all day in the place in the light, the flowers look pale to me. and you know it is not age with _me_, annémie?" the old woman and the young girl laughed together at that droll idea. "you have a merry heart, dear little one," said old annémie. "the saints keep it to you always." "may i tidy the room a little?" "to be sure, dear, and thank you too. i have not much time, you see; and somehow my back aches badly when i stoop." "and it is so damp here for you, over all that water!" said bébée as she swept and dusted and set to rights the tiny place, and put in a little broken pot a few sprays of honeysuckle and rosemary that she had brought with her. "it is so damp here. you should have come and lived in my hut with me, annémie, and sat out under the vine all day, and looked after the chickens for me when i was in the town. they are such mischievous little souls; as soon as my back is turned one or other is sure to push through the roof, and get out among the flower-beds. will you never change your mind, and live with me, annémie? i am sure you would be happy, and the starling says your name quite plain, and he is such a funny bird to talk to; you never would tire of him. will you never come? it is so bright there, and green and sweet smelling; and to think you never even have seen it!--and the swans and all,--it is a shame." "no, dear," said old annémie, eating her last bunch of currants. "you have said so so often, and you are good and mean it, that i know. but i could not leave the water. it would kill me. out of this window you know i saw my jeannot's brig go away--away--away--till the masts were lost in the mists. going with iron to norway; the 'fleur d'epine' of this town, a good ship, and a sure, and her mate; and as proud as might be, and with a little blest mary in lead round his throat. she was to be back in port in eight months, bringing timber. eight months--that brought easter time. but she never came. never, never, never, you know. i sat here watching them come and go, and my child sickened and died, and the summer passed, and the autumn, and all the while i looked--looked--looked; for the brigs are all much alike; and only her i always saw as soon as she hove in sight (because he tied a hank of flax to her mizzen-mast); and when he was home safe and sound i spun the hank into hose for him; that was a fancy of his, and for eleven voyages, one on another, he had never missed to tie the flax nor i to spin the hose. but the hank of flax i never saw this time; nor the brave brig; nor my good man with his sunny blue eyes. only one day in winter, when the great blocks of ice were smashing hither and thither, a coaster came in and brought tidings of how off in the danish waters they had come on a water-logged brig, and had boarded her, and had found her empty, and her hull riven in two, and her crew all drowned and dead beyond any manner of doubt. and on her stern there was her name painted white, the 'fleur d'epine,' of brussels, as plain as name could be; and that was all we ever knew: what evil had struck her, or how they had perished, nobody ever told. only the coaster brought that bit of beam away, with the 'fleur d'epine' writ clear upon it. but you see i never _know_ my man is dead. any day--who can say?--any one of those ships may bring him aboard of her, and he may leap out on the wharf there, and come running up the stairs as he used to do, and cry, in his merry voice, 'annémie, annémie, here is more flax to spin, here is more hose to weave!' for that was always his homeward word; no matter whether he had had fair weather or foul, he always knotted the flax to his masthead. so you see, dear, i could not leave here. for what if he came and found me away? he would say it was an odd fashion of mourning for him. and i could not do without the window, you know. i can watch all the brigs come in; and i can smell the shipping smell that i have loved all the days of my life; and i can see the lads heaving, and climbing, and furling, and mending their bits of canvas, and hauling their flags up and down. and then who can say?--the sea never took him, i think--i think i shall hear his voice before i die. for they do say that god is good." bébée, sweeping very noiselessly, listened, and her eyes grew wistful and wondering. she had heard the story a thousand times; always in different words, but always the same little tale, and she knew how old annémie was deaf to all the bells that tolled the time, and blind to all the whiteness of her hair and all the wrinkles of her face, and only thought of her sea-slain lover as he had been in the days of her youth. but this afternoon the familiar history had a new patheticalness for her, and as the old soul put aside with her palsied hand the square of canvas that screened the casement, and looked out, with her old dim sad eyes strained in the longing that god never answered, bébée felt a strange chill at her own heart, and wondered to herself,-- "what can it be to care for another creature like that? it must be so terrible, and yet it must be beautiful too. does every one suffer like that?" she did not speak at all as she finished sweeping the bricks, and went down-stairs for a metal cruche full of water, and set over a little charcoal on the stove the old woman's brass soup kettle with her supper of stewing cabbage. annémie did not hear or notice; she was still looking out of the hole in the wall on to the masts, and the sails, and the water. it was twilight. from the barges and brigs there came the smell of the sea. the sailors were shouting to each other. the craft were crowded close, and lost in the growing darkness. on the other side of the canal the belfries were ringing for vespers. "eleven voyages one and another, and he never forgot to tie the flax to the mast," annémie murmured, with her old wrinkled face leaning out into the gray air. "it used to fly there,--one could see it coming up half a mile off,--just a pale yellow flake on the wind, like a tress of my hair, he would say. no, no, i could not go away; he may come to-night, to-morrow, any time; he is not drowned, not my man; he was all i had, and god is good, they say." bébée listened and looked; then kissed the old shaking hand and took up the lace patterns and went softly out of the room without speaking. when old annémie watched at the window it was useless to seek for any word or sign of her: people said that she had never been quite right in her brain since that fatal winter noon sixty years before, when the coaster had brought into port the broken beam of the good brig "fleur d'epine." bébée did not know about that, nor heed whether her wits were right or not. she had known the old creature in the lace-room where annémie pricked out designs, and she had conceived a great regard and sorrow for her; and when annémie had become too ailing and aged to go herself any longer to the lace-maker's place, bébée had begged leave for her to have the patterns at home, and had carried them to and fro for her for the last three or four years, doing many other little useful services for the lone old soul as well,--services which annémie hardly perceived, she had grown so used to them, and her feeble intelligence was so sunk in the one absorbing idea that she must watch all the days through and all the years through for the coming of the dead man and the lost brig. bébée put the lace patterns in her basket, and trotted home, her sabots clattering on the stones. "what it must be to care for any one like that!" she thought, and by some vague association of thought that she could not have pursued, she lifted the leaves and looked at the moss-rosebud. it was quite dead. chapter vii. as she got clear of the city and out on her country road, a shadow fell across her in the evening light. "have you had a good day, little one?" asked a voice that made her stop with a curious vague expectancy and pleasure. "it is you!" she said, with a little cry, as she saw her friend of the silk stockings leaning on a gate midway in the green and solitary road that leads to laeken. "yes, it is i," he answered, as he joined her. "have you forgiven me, bébée?" she looked at him with frank, appealing eyes, like those of a child in fault. "oh, i did not sleep all night!" she said, simply. "i thought i had been rude and ungrateful, and i could not be sure i had done right, though to have done otherwise would certainly have been wrong." he laughed. "well, that is a clearer deduction than is to be drawn from most moral uncertainties. do not think twice about the matter, my dear. i have not, i assure you." "no!" she was a little disappointed. it seemed such an immense thing to her; and she had lain awake all the night, turning it about in her little brain, and appealing vainly for help in it to the sixteen sleep-angels. "no, indeed. and where are you going so fast, as if those wooden shoes of yours were sandals of mercury?" "mercury--is that a shoemaker?" "no, my dear. he did a terrible bit of cobbling once, when he made woman. but he did not shoe her feet with swiftness that i know of; she only runs away to be run after, and if you do not pursue her, she comes back--always." bébée did not understand at all. "i thought god made women," she said, a little awe-stricken. "you call it god. people three thousand years ago called it mercury or hermes. both mean the same thing,--mere words to designate an unknown quality. where are you going? does your home lie here?" "yes, onward, quite far onward," said bébée, wondering that he had forgotten all she had told him the day before about her hut, her garden, and her neighbors. "you did not come and finish your picture to-day: why was that? i had a rosebud for you, but it is dead now." "i went to anvers. you looked for me a little, then?" "oh, all day long. for i was so afraid i had been ungrateful." "that is very pretty of you. women are never grateful, my dear, except when they are very ill-treated. mercury, whom we were talking of, gave them, among other gifts, a dog's heart." bébée felt bewildered; she did not reason about it, but the idle, shallow, cynical tone pained her by its levity and its unlikeness to the sweet, still, gray summer evening. "why are you in such a hurry?" he pursued. "the night is cool, and it is only seven o'clock. i will walk part of the way with you." "i am in a hurry because i have annémie's patterns to do," said bébée, glad that he spoke of a thing that she knew how to answer. "you see, annémie's hand shakes and her eyes are dim, and she pricks the pattern all awry and never perceives it; it would break her heart if one showed her so, but the baës would not take them as they are; they are of no use at all. so i prick them out myself on fresh paper, and the baës thinks it is all her doing, and pays her the same money, and she is quite content. and as i carry the patterns to and fro for her, because she cannot walk, it is easy to cheat her like that; and it is no harm to cheat _so_, you know." he was silent. "you are a good little girl, bébée, i can see." he said at last, with a graver sound in his voice. "and who is this annémie for whom you do so much? an old woman, i suppose." "oh, yes, quite old; incredibly old. her man was drowned at sea sixty years ago, and she watches for his brig still, night and morning." "the dog's heart. no doubt he beat her, and had a wife in fifty other ports." "oh, no!" said bébée, with a little cry, as though the word against the dead man hurt her. "she has told me so much of him. he was as good as good could be, and loved her so, and between the voyages they were so happy. surely that must have been sixty years now, and she is so sorry still, and still will not believe that he was drowned." he looked down on her with a smile that had a certain pity in it. "well, yes; there are women like that, i believe. but be very sure, my dear, he beat her. of the two, one always holds the whip and uses it, the other crouches." "i do not understand," said bébée. "no; but you will." "i will?--when?" he smiled again. "oh--to-morrow, perhaps, or next year--or when fate fancies." "or rather, when i choose," he thought to himself, and let his eyes rest with a certain pleasure on the little feet, that went beside him in the grass, and the pretty fair bosom that showed ever and again, as the frills of her linen bodice were blown back by the wind and her own quick motion. bébée looked also up at him; he was very handsome, and looked so to her, after the broad, blunt, characterless faces of the walloon peasantry around her. he walked with an easy grace, he was clad in picture-like velvets, he had a beautiful poetic head, and eyes like deep brown waters, and a face like one of jordaens' or rembrandt's cavaliers in the galleries where she used to steal in of a sunday, and look up at the paintings, and dream of what that world could be in which those people had lived. "_you_ are of the people of rubes' country, are you not?" she asked him. "of what country, my dear?" "of the people that live in the gold frames," said bébée, quite seriously. "in the galleries, you know. i know a charwoman that scrubs the floors of the arenberg palace, and she lets me in sometimes to look; and you are just like those great gentlemen in the gold frames, only you have not a hawk and a sword, and they always have. i used to wonder where they came from, for they are not like any of us one bit, and the charwoman--she is lisa dredel, and lives in the street of the pot d'etain--always said. 'dear heart, they all belong to rubes' land: we never see their like nowadays.' but _you_ must come out of rubes' land; at least, i think so, do you not?" he caught her meaning; he knew that rubes was the homely abbreviation of rubens that all the netherlanders used, and he guessed the idea that was reality to this little lonely fanciful mind. "perhaps i do," he answered her with a smile, for it was not worth his while to disabuse her thoughts of any imagination that glorified him to her. "do you not want to see rubes' world, little one? to see the gold and the grandeur, and the glitter of it all?--never to toil or get tired?--always to move in a pageant?--always to live like the hawks in the paintings you talk of, with silver bells hung round you, and a hood all sewn with pearls?" "no," said bébée, simply. "i should like to see it, just to see it, as one looks through a grating into the king's grape-houses here. but i should not like to live in it. i love my hut, and the starling, and the chickens, and what would the garden do without me? and the children, and the old annémie? i could not anyhow, anywhere, be any happier than i am. there is only one thing i wish." "and what is that?" "to know something; not to be so ignorant. just look--i can read a little, it is true: my hours, and the letters, and when krebs brings in a newspaper i can read a little of it, not much. i know french well, because antoine was french himself, and never did talk flemish to me; and they being netherlanders, cannot, of course, read the newspapers at all, and so think it very wonderful indeed in me. but what i want is to know things, to know all about what _was_ before ever i was living. st. gudule now--they say it was built hundreds of years before; and rubes again--they say he was a painter king in antwerpen before the oldest, oldest woman like annémie ever began to count time. i am sure books tell you all those things, because i see the students coming and going with them; and when i saw once the millions of books in the rue du musée, i asked the keeper what use they were for, and he said, 'to make men wise, my dear.' but gringoire bac, the cobbler, who was with me,--it was a fête day,--bac, _he_ said, 'do not you believe that, bébée; they only muddle folks' brains; for one book tells them one thing, and another book another, and so on, till they are dazed with all the contrary lying; and if you see a bookish man, be sure you see a very poor creature who could not hoe a patch, or kill a pig, or stitch an upper-leather, were it ever so.' but i do not believe that bac said right. did he?" "i am not sure. on the whole, i think it is the truest remark on literature i have ever heard, and one that shows great judgment in bac. well?" "well, sometimes, you know," said bébée, not understanding his answer, but pursuing her thoughts confidentially,--"sometimes i talk like this to the neighbors, and they laugh at me. because mère krebs says that when one knows how to spin and sweep and make bread and say one's prayers and milk a goat or a cow, it is all a woman wants to know this side of heaven. but for me, i cannot help it, when i look at those windows in the cathedral, or at those beautiful twisted little spires that are all over our hôtel de ville, i want to know who the men were that made them,--what they did and thought,--how they looked and spoke,--how they learned to shape stone into leaves and grasses like that,--how they could imagine all those angel faces on the glass. when i go alone in the quite early morning or at night when it is still--sometimes in winter i have to stay till it is dark over the lace--i hear their feet come after me, and they whisper to me close, 'look what beautiful things we have done, bébée, and you all forget us quite. we did what never will die, but our names are as dead as the stones.' and then i am so sorry for them and ashamed. and i want to know more. can you tell me?" he looked at her earnestly; her eyes were shining, her cheeks were warm, her little mouth was tremulous with eagerness. "did any one ever speak to you in that way?" he asked her. "no," she answered him. "it comes into my head of itself. sometimes i think the cathedral angels put it there. for the angels must be tired, you know; always pointing to god and always seeing men turn away, i used to tell antoine sometimes. but he used to shake his head and say that it was no use thinking; most likely st. gudule and st. michael had set the church down in the night all ready made, why not? god made the trees, and they were more wonderful, he thought, for his part. and so perhaps they are, but that is no answer. and i do _want_ to know. i want some one who will tell me; and if you come out of rubes' country as i think, no doubt you know everything, or remember it?" he smiled. "the free pass to rubes' country lies in books, pretty one. shall i give you some?--nay, lend them, i mean, since giving you are too wilful to hear of without offence. you can read, you said?" bébée's eyes glowed as they lifted themselves to his. "i can read--not very fast, but that would come with doing it more and more, i think, just as spinning does; one knots the thread and breaks it a million times before one learns to spin as fine as cobwebs. i have read the stories of st. anne, and of st. catherine, and of st. luven fifty times, but they are all the books that father francis has; and no one else has any among us." "very well. you shall have books of mine. easy ones first, and then those that are more serious. but what time will you have? you do so much; you are like a little golden bee." bébée laughed happily. "oh! give me the books and i will find the time. it is light so early now. that gives one so many hours. in winter one has so few one must lie in bed, because to buy a candle you know one cannot afford except, of course, a taper now and then, as one's duty is, for our lady or for the dead. and will you really, really, lend me books?" "really, i will. yes. i will bring you one to the grande place to-morrow, or meet you on your road there with it. do you know what poetry is, bébée?" "no." "but your flowers talk to you?" "ah! always. but then no one else hears them ever but me; and so no one else ever believes." "well, poets are folks who hear the flowers talk as you do, and the trees, and the seas, and the beasts, and even the stones; but no one else ever hears these things, and so, when the poets write them out, the rest of the world say, 'that is very fine, no doubt, but only good for dreamers; it will bake no bread.' i will give you some poetry; for i think you care more about dreams than about bread." "i do not know," said bébée; and she did not know, for her dreams, like her youth, and her innocence, and her simplicity, and her strength, were all unconscious of themselves, as such things must be to be pure and true at all. bébée had grown up straight, and clean, and fragrant, and joyous as one of her own carnations; but she knew herself no more than the carnation knows its color and its root, "no. you do not know," said he, with a sort of pity; and thought within himself, was it worth while to let her know? if she did not know, these vague aspirations and imaginations would drop off from her with the years of her early youth, as the lime-flowers drop downwards with the summer heats. she would forget them. they would linger a little in her head, and, perhaps, always wake at some sunset hour or some angelus chime, but not to trouble her. only to make her cradle song a little sadder and softer than most women's was. unfed, they would sink away and bear no blossom. she would grow into a simple, hardy, hardworking, god-fearing flemish woman like the rest. she would marry, no doubt, some time, and rear her children honestly and well; and sit in the market stall every day, and spin and sew, and dig and wash, and sweep, and brave bad weather, and be content with poor food to the end of her harmless and laborious days--poor little bébée! he saw her so clearly as she would be--if he let her alone. a little taller, a little broader, a little browner, less sweet of voice, less soft of skin, less flower-like in face; having learned to think only as her neighbors thought, of price of wood and cost of bread; laboring cheerily but hardly from daybreak to nightfall to fill hungry mouths: forgetting all things except the little curly-heads clustered round her soup-pot, and the year-old lips sucking at her breasts. a blameless life, an eventless life, a life as clear as the dewdrop, and as colorless; a life opening, passing, ending in the little green wooded lane, by the bit of water where the swans made their nests under the willows; a life like the life of millions, a little purer, a little brighter, a little more tender, perhaps, than those lives usually are, but otherwise as like them as one ear of barley is like another as it rises from the soil, and blows in the wind, and turns brown in the strong summer sun, and then goes down to the sod again under the sickle. he saw her just as she would be--if he let her alone. but should he leave her alone? he cared nothing; only her eyes had such a pretty, frank, innocent look like a bird's in them, and she had been so brave and bold with him about those silken stockings; and this little ignorant, dreamful mind of hers was so like a blush rosebud, which looks so close-shut, and so sweet-smelling, and so tempting fold within fold, that a child will pull it open, forgetful that he will spoil it forever from being a full-grown rose, and that he will let the dust, and the sun, and the bee into its tender bosom--and men are true children, and women are their rosebuds. thinking only of keeping well with this strange and beautiful wayfarer from that unknown paradise of rubes' country, bébée lifted up the vine-leaves of her basket. "i took a flower for you to-day, but it is dead. look; to-morrow, if you will be there, you shall have the best in all the garden." "you wish to see me again then?" he asked her. bébée looked at him with troubled eyes, but with a sweet frank faith that had no hesitation in it. "yes! you are not like anything i ever knew, and if you will only help me to learn a little. sometimes i think i am not stupid, only ignorant; but i cannot be sure unless i try." he smiled; he was listlessly amused; the day before he had tempted the child merely because she was pretty, and to tempt her in that way seemed the natural course of things, but now there was something in her that touched him differently; the end would be the same, but he would change the means. the sun had set. there was a low, dull red glow still on the far edge of the plains--that was all. in the distant cottages little lights were twinkling. the path grew dark. "i will go away and let her alone," he thought. "poor little soul! it would give itself lavishly, it would never be bought. i will let it alone; the mind will go to sleep and the body will keep healthy, and strong, and pure, as people call it. it would be a pity to play with both a day, and then throw them away as the boy threw the pear-blossom. she is a little clod of earth that has field flowers growing in it. i will let her alone, the flowers under the plough in due course will die, and she will be content among the other clods,--if i let her alone." at that moment there went across the dark fields, against the dusky red sky, a young man with a pile of brushwood on his back, and a hatchet in his hand. "you are late, bébée," he called to her in flemish, and scowled at the stranger by her side. "a good-looking lad; who is it?" said her companion. "that is jeannot, the son of old sophie," she answered him. "he is so good--oh, so good, you cannot think; he keeps his mother and three little sisters, and works so very, very hard in the forest, and yet he often finds time to dig my garden for me, and he chops all my wood in winter." they had come to where the road goes up by the king's summer palace. they were under great hanging beeches and limes. there was a high gray wall, and over it the blossoming fruit boughs hung. in a ditch full of long grass little kids bleated by their mothers. away on the left went the green fields of colza, and beetroot, and trefoil, with big forest trees here and there in their midst, and, against the blue low line of the far horizon, red mill-sails, and gray church spires; dreamy plaintive bells far away somewhere were ringing the sad flemish carillon. he paused and looked at her. "i must bid you good night, bébée; you are near your home now." she paused too and looked at him. "but i shall see you to-morrow?" there was the wistful, eager, anxious unconsciousness of appeal as when the night before she had asked him if he were angry. he hesitated a moment. if he said no, and went away out of the city wherever his listless and changeful whim called him, he knew how it would be with her; he knew what her life would be as surely as he knew the peach would come out of the peach-flower rosy on the wall there: life in the little hut; among the neighbors; sleepy and safe and soulless;--if he let her alone. if he stayed and saw her on the morrow he knew, too, the end as surely as he knew that the branch of white pear-blossom, which in carelessness he had knocked down with a stone on the grass yonder, would fade in the night and would never bring forth its sweet, simple fruit in the sunshine. to leave the peach-flower to come to maturity and be plucked by a peasant, or to pull down the pear-blossom and rifle the buds? carelessly and languidly he balanced the question with himself, whilst bébée, forgetful of the lace patterns and the flight of the hours, stood looking at him with anxious and pleading eyes, thinking only--was he angry again, or would he really bring her the books and make her wise, and let her know the stories of the past? "shall i see you to-morrow?" she said wistfully. should she?--if he left the peach-blossom safe on the wall, jeannot the woodcutter would come by and by and gather the fruit. if he left the clod of earth in its pasture with all its daisies untouched, this black-browed young peasant would cut it round with his hatchet and carry it to his wicker cage, that the homely brown lark of his love might sing to it some stupid wood note under a cottage eave. the sight of the strong young forester going over the darkened fields against the dull red skies was as a feather that suffices to sway to one side a balance that hangs on a hair. he had been inclined to leave her alone when he saw in his fancy the clean, simple, mindless, honest life that her fanciful girlhood would settle down into as time should go on. but when in the figure of the woodman there was painted visibly on the dusky sky that end for her which he had foreseen, he was not indifferent to it; he resented it; he was stirred to a vague desire to render it impossible. if jeannot had not gone by across the fields he would have left her and let her alone from that night thenceforwards; as it was,-- "good night, bébée," he said to her. "tomorrow i will finish the broodhuis and bring you your first book. do not dream too much, or you will prick your lace patterns all awry. good night, pretty one." then he turned and went back through the green dim lanes to the city. bébée stood a moment looking after him, with a happy smile; then she picked up the fallen pear-blossom, and ran home as fast as her feet would take her. that night she worked very late watering her flowers, and trimming them, and then ironing out a little clean white cap for the morrow; and then sitting down under the open lattice to prick out all old annémie's designs by the strong light of the full moon that flooded her hut with its radiance. but she sang all the time she worked, and the gay, pretty, wordless songs floated across the water and across the fields, and woke some old people in their beds as they lay with their windows open, and they turned and crossed themselves, and said, "dear heart!--this is the eve of the ascension, and the angels are so near we hear them." but it was no angel; only the thing that is nearer heaven than anything else,--a little human heart that is happy and innocent. bébée had only one sorrow that night. the pear-blossoms were all dead; and no care could call them back even for an hour's blooming. "he did not think when he struck them down," she said to herself, regretfully. chapter viii. "can i do any work for you, bébée?" said black jeannot in the daybreak, pushing her gate open timidly with one hand. "there is none to do, jeannot. they want so little in this time of the year--the flowers," said she, lifting her head from the sweet-peas she was tying up to their sticks. the woodman did not answer; he leaned over the half-open wicket, and swayed it backwards and forwards under his bare arm. he was a good, harmless, gentle fellow, swarthy as charcoal and simple as a child, and quite ignorant, having spent all his days in the great soignies forests making fagots when he was a little lad, and hewing down trees or burning charcoal as he grew to manhood. "who was that seigneur with you last night, bébée?" he asked, after a long silence, watching her as she moved. bébée's eyes grew very soft, but they looked up frankly. "i am not sure--i think he is a painter--a great painter prince, i mean--as rubes was in antwerpen; he wanted roses the night before last in the cathedral." "but he was walking with you?" "he was in the lane as i came home last night--yes." "what does he give you for your roses?" "oh! he pays me well. how is your mother this day, jeannot?" "you do not like to talk of him?" "why should you want to talk of him? he is nothing to you." "did you really see him only two days ago, bébée?" "oh, jeannot! did i ever tell a falsehood? you would not say that to one of your little sisters." the forester swayed the gate to and fro drearily under his folded arms. bébée, not regarding him, cut her flowers, and filled her baskets, and did her other work, and set a ladder against the hut and climbed on its low roof to seek for eggs, the hens having green tastes sometimes for the rushes and lichens of its thatch. she found two eggs, which she promised herself to take to annémie, and looking round as she sat on the edge of the roof, with one foot on the highest rung of the ladder, saw that jeannot was still at the gate. "you will be late in the forest, jeannot," she cried to him. "it is such a long, long way in and out. why do you look so sulky? and you are kicking the wicket to pieces." "i do not like you to talk with strangers," said jeannot, sullenly and sadly. bébée laughed as she sat on the edge of the thatch, and looked at the shining gray skies of the early day, and the dew-wet garden, and the green fields beyond, with happy eyes that made the familiar scene transfigured to her. "oh, jeannot, what nonsense! as if i do not talk to a million strangers every summer! as if i could ever sell a flower if i did not! you are cross this morning; that is what it is." "do you know the man's name?" said jeannot, suddenly. bébée felt her cheeks grow warm as with some noonday heat of sunshine. she thought it was with anger against blundering jeannot's curiosity. "no! and what would his name be to us, if i did know it? i cannot ask people's names because they buy my roses." "as if it were only roses!" there was the length of the garden between them, and bébée did not hear as she sat on the edge of her roof with that light dreamful enjoyment of air and sky and coolness, and all the beauty of the dawning day, which the sweet vague sense of a personal happiness will bring with it to the dullest and the coldest. "you are cross, jeannot, that is what it is," she said, after a while. "you should not be cross; you are too big and strong and good. go in and get my bowl of bread and milk for me, and hand it to me up here. it is so pleasant. it is as nice as being perched on an apple-tree." jeannot went in obediently and handed up her breakfast to her, looking at her with shy, worshipping eyes. but his face was overcast, and he sighed heavily as he took up his hatchet and turned away; for he was the sole support of his mother and sisters, and if he did not do his work in soignies they would starve at home. "you will be seeing that stranger again?" he asked her. "yes!" she answered with a glad triumph in her eyes; not thinking at all of him as she spoke. "you ought to go, jeannot, now; you are so late. i will come and see your mother to-morrow. and do not be cross, you dear big jeannot. days are too short to snip them up into little bits by bad temper; it is only a stupid sheep-shearer that spoils the fleece by snapping at it sharp and hard; that is what father francis says." bébée, having delivered her little piece of wisdom, broke her bread into her milk and ate it, lifting her face to the fresh wind and tossing crumbs to the wheeling swallows, and watching the rose-bushes nod and toss below in the breeze, and thinking vaguely how happy a thing it was to live. jeannot looked up at her, then went on his slow sad way through the wet lavender-shrubs and the opening buds of the lilies. "you will only think of that stranger, bébée, never of any of us--never again," he said; and wearily opened the little gate and went through it, and down the daybreak stillness of the lane. it was a foolish thing to say; but when were lovers ever wise? bébée did not heed; she did not understand herself or him; she only knew that she was happy; when one knows that, one does not want to seek much further. she sat on the thatch and took her bread and milk in the gray clear air, with the swallows circling above her head, and one or two of them even resting a second on the edge of the bowl to peck at the food from the big wooden spoon; they had known her all the sixteen summers of her life, and were her playfellows, only they would never tell her anything of what they saw in winter over the seas. that was her only quarrel with them. swallows do not tell their secrets they have the weird of procne on them all. the sun came and touched the lichens of the roof into gold. bébée smiled at it gayly as it rose above the tops of the trees, and shone on all the little villages scattered over the plains. "ah, dear sun!" she cried to it. "i am going to be wise. i am going into great rubes' country. i am going to hear of the past and the future. i am going to listen to what the poets say. the swallows never would tell me anything; but now i shall know as much as they know. are you not glad for me, o sun?" the sun came over the trees, and heard and said nothing. if he had answered at all he must have said,-- "the only time when a human soul is either wise or happy is in that one single moment when the hour of my own shining or of the moon's beaming seems to that single soul to be past and present and future, to be at once the creation and the end of all things. faust knew that; so will you." but the sun shone on and held his peace. he sees all things ripen and fall. he can wait. he knows the end. it is always the same. he brings the fruit out of the peach-flower, and rounds it and touches it into ruddiest rose and softest gold: but the sun knows well that the peach must drop--whether into the basket to be eaten by kings, or on to the turf to be eaten by ants. what matter which very much after all? the sun is not a cynic; he is only wise because he is life and he is death, the creator and the corrupter of all things. chapter ix. but bébée, who only saw in the sun the sign of daily work, the brightness of the face of the world, the friend of the flowers, the harvest-man of the poor, the playmate of the birds and butterflies, the kindly light that the waking birds and the ringing carillon welcomed,--bébée, who was not at all afraid of him, smiled at his rays and saw in them only fairest promise of a cloudless midsummer day as she gave her last crumb to the swallows, dropped down off the thatch, and busied herself in making bread that mère krebs would bake for her, until it was time to cut her flowers and go down into the town. when her loaves were made and she had run over with them to the mill-house and back again, she attired herself with more heed than usual, and ran to look at her own face in the mirror of the deep well-water--other glass she had none. she was used to hear herself called pretty; bat she had never thought about it at all till now. the people loved her; she had always believed that they had only said it as a sort of kindness, as they said, "god keep you." but now-- "he told me i was like a flower," she thought to herself, and hung over the well to see. she did not know very well what he had meant; but the sentence stirred in her heart as a little bird under tremulous leaves. she waited ten minutes full, leaning and looking down, while her eyes, that were like the blue iris, smiled back to her from the brown depths below. then she went and kneeled down before the old shrine in the wall of the garden. "dear and holy mother of jesus, i do thank you that you made me a little good to look at," she said, softly. "keep me as you keep the flowers, and let my face be always fair, because it is a pleasure to _be_ a pleasure. ah, dear mother, i say it so badly, and it sounds so vain, i know. but i do not think you will be angry, will you? and i am going to try to be wise." then she murmured an ave or two, to be in form as it were, and then rose and ran along the lanes with her baskets, and brushed the dew lightly over her bare feet, and sang a little flemish song for very joyousness, as the birds sing in the apple bough. she got the money for annémie and took it to her with fresh patterns to prick, and the new-laid eggs. "i wonder what he meant by a dog's heart?" she thought to herself, as she left the old woman sitting by the hole in the roof pricking out the parchment in all faith that she earned her money, and looking every now and then through the forests of masts for the brig with the hank of flax flying,--the brig that had foundered fifty long years before in the northern seas, and in the days of her youth. "what is the dog's heart?" thought bébée; she had seen a dog she knew--a dog which all his life long had dragged heavy loads under brutal stripes along the streets of brussels--stretch himself on the grave of his taskmaster and refuse to eat, and persist in lying there until he died, though he had no memory except of stripes, and no tie to the dead except pain and sorrow. was it a heart like this that he meant? "was her sailor, indeed, so good to her?" she asked an old gossip of annémie's, as she went down the stairs. the old soul stopped to think with difficulty of such a far-off time, and resting her brass flagon of milk on the steep step. "eh, no; not that i ever saw," she answered at length. "he was fond of her--very fond; but he was a wilful one, and he beat her sometimes when he got tired of being on land. but women must not mind that, you know, my dear, if only a man's heart is right. things fret them, and then they belabor what they love best; it is a way they have." "but she speaks of him as of an angel nearly!" said bébée, bewildered. the old woman took up her flagon, with a smile flitting across her wintry face. "ay, dear; when the frost kills your brave rose-bush, root and bud, do you think of the thorns that pricked you, or only of the fair, sweet-smelling things that flowered all your summer?" bébée went away thoughtfully out of the old crazy water-washed house by the quay; life seemed growing very strange and intricate and knotted about her, like the threads of lace that a bad fairy has entangled in the night. chapter x. her stranger from rubes' land was a great man in a certain world. he had become great when young, which is perhaps a misfortune. it indisposes men to be great at their maturity. he was famous at twenty, by a picture hectic in color, perfect in drawing, that made paris at his feet. he became more famous by verses, by plays, by political follies, and by social successes. he was faithful, however, to his first love in art. he was a great painter, and year by year proved afresh the cunning of his hand. purists said his pictures had no soul in them. it was not wonderful if they had none. he always painted soulless vice; indeed, he saw very little else. one year he had some political trouble. he wrote a witty pamphlet that hurt where it was perilous to aim. he laughed and crossed the border, riding into the green ardennes one sunny evening. he had a name of some power and sufficient wealth; he did not feel long exile. meanwhile he told himself he would go and look at scheffer's gretchen. the king of thule is better; but people talk most of the gretchen. he had never seen either. he went in leisurely, travelling up the bright meuse river, and across the monotony of the plains, then green with wheat a foot high, and musical with the many bells of the easter kermesses in the quaint old-world villages. there was something so novel, so sleepy, so harmless, so mediaeval, in the flemish life, that it soothed him. he had been swimming all his life in salt sea-fed rapids; this sluggish, dull, canal water, mirroring between its rushes a life that had scarcely changed for centuries, had a charm for him. he stayed awhile in antwerpen. the town is ugly and beautiful; it is like a dull quaint grés de flandre jug, that has precious stones set inside its rim. it is a burgher ledger of bales and barrels, of sale and barter, of loss and gain; but in the heart of it there are illuminated leaves of missal vellum, all gold and color, and monkish story and heroic ballad, that could only have been executed in the days when art was a religion. he gazed himself into an homage of rubens, whom before he had slighted, never having known (for, unless you have seen antwerp, it is as absurd to say that you have seen rubens, as it is to think that you have seen murillo out of seville, or raffaelle out of rome); and he studied the gretchen carefully, delicately, sympathetically, for he loved scheffer; but though he tried, he failed to care for her. "she is only a peasant; she is not a poem," he said to himself; "i will paint a gretchen for the salon of next year." but it was hard for him to portray a gretchen. all his pictures were phryne,--phryne in triumph, in ruin, in a palace, in a poor-house, on a bed of roses, on a hospital mattress; phryne laughing with a belt of jewels about her supple waist; phryne lying with the stones of the dead-house under her naked limbs,--but always phryne. phryne, who living had death in her smile; phryne, who lifeless had blank despair on her face; phryne, a thing that lived furiously every second of her days, but phryne a thing that once being dead was carrion that never could live again. phryne has many painters in this school, as many as catherine and cecilia had in the schools of the renaissance, and he was chief amidst them. how could he paint gretchen if the pure scheffer missed? not even if, like the artist monks of old, he steeped his brushes all lent through in holy water. and in holy water he did not believe. one evening, having left antwerpen ringing its innumerable bells over the grave of its dead art, he leaned out of the casement of an absent friend's old palace in the brabant street that is named after mary of burgundy; an old casement crusted with quaint carvings, and gilded round in spanish fashion, with many gargoyles and griffins, and illegible scutcheons. leaning there, wondering with himself whether he would wait awhile and paint quietly in this dim street, haunted with the shades of memling and maes, and otto veneris and philip de champagne, or whether he would go into the east and seek new types, and lie under the red egyptian heavens and create a true cleopatra, which no man has ever done yet,--young cleopatra, ankle-deep in roses and fresh from cæsar's kisses,--leaning there, he saw a little peasant go by below, with two little white feet in two wooden shoes, and a face that had the pure and simple radiance of a flower. "there is my gretchen," he thought to himself, and went down and followed her into the cathedral. if he could get what was in her face, he would get what scheffer could not. a little later walking by her in the green lanes, he meditated, "it is the face of gretchen, but not the soul--the red mouse has never passed this child's lips. nevertheless--" "nevertheless--" he said to himself, and smiled. for he, the painter all his life long of phryne living and of phryne dead, believed that every daughter of eve either vomits the red mouse or swallows it. it makes so little difference which,--either way the red mouse has been there the evening towards this little rush-covered hut, he forgot the red mouse, and began vaguely to see that there are creatures of his mother's sex from whom the beast of the brocken slinks away. but he still said to himself, "nevertheless." "nevertheless,"--for he knew well that when the steel cuts the silk, when the hound hunts the fawn, when the snake wooes the bird, when the king covets the vineyard, there is only one end possible at any time. it is the strong against the weak, the fierce against the feeble, the subtle against the simple, the master against the slave; there is no equality in the contest and no justice--it is merely inevitable, and the issue of it is written. chapter xi. the next day she had her promised book hidden under the vine-leaves of her empty basket as she went homeward, and though she had not seen him very long or spoken to him very much, she was happy. the golden gates of knowledge had just opened to her; she saw a faint, far-off glimpse of the hesperides gardens within; of the dragon she had never heard, and had no fear. "might i know your name?" she had asked him wistfully, as she had given him the rosebud, and taken the volume in return that day. "they call me flamen." "it is your name?" "yes, for the world. you must call me victor, as other women do. why do you want my name?" "jeannot asked it of me." "oh, jeannot asked it, did he?" "yes; besides," said bébée, with her eyes very soft and very serious, and her happy voice hushed,--"besides, i want to pray for you of course, every day; and if i do not know your name, how can i make our lady rightly understand? the flowers know you without a name, but she might not, because so very many are always beseeching her, and you see she has all the world to look after." he had looked at her with a curious look, and had bade her farewell, and let her go home alone that night. her work was quickly done, and by the light of the moon she spread her book on her lap in the porch of the hut and began her new delight. the children had come and pulled at her skirts and begged her to play. but bébée had shaken her head. "i am going to learn to be very wise, dear," she told them; "i shall not have time to dance or to play." "but people are not merry when they are wise, bébée," said franz, the biggest boy. "perhaps not," said bébée: "but one cannot be everything, you know, franz." "but surely, you would rather be merry than anything else?" "i think there is something better, franz. i am not sure; i want to find out; i will tell you when i know." "who has put that into your head, bébée?" "the angels in the cathedral," she told them; and the children were awed and left her, and went away to play blind-man's-buff by themselves, on the grass by the swan's water. "but for all that the angels have said it," said franz to his sisters, "i cannot see what good it will be to her to be wise, if she will not care any longer afterwards for almond gingerbread and currant cake." it was the little tale of "paul and virginia" that he had given her to begin her studies with: but it was a grand copy, full of beautiful drawings nearly at every page. it was hard work for her to read at first, but the drawings enticed and helped her, and she soon sank breathlessly into the charm of the story. many words she did not know; many passages were beyond her comprehension; she was absolutely ignorant, and had nothing but the force of her own fancy to aid her. but though stumbling at every step, as a lame child through a flowery hillside in summer, she was happy as the child would be, because of the sweet, strange air that was blowing about her, and the blossoms that she could gather into her hand, so rare, so wonderful, and yet withal so familiar, because they _were_ blossoms. with her fingers buried in her curls, with her book on her knee, with the moon rays white and strong on the page, bébée sat entranced as the hours went by; the children's play shouts died away; the babble of the gossip at the house doors ceased; people went by and called good night to her; the little huts shut up one by one, like the white and purple convolvulus cups in the hedges. bébée did not stir, nor did she hear them; she was deaf even to the singing of the nightingales in the willows, where she sat in her little thatch above, and the wet garden-ways beyond her. a heavy step came tramping down the lane. a voice called to her,-- "what are you doing, bébée, there, this time of the night? it is on the strike of twelve." she started as if she were doing some evil thing, and stretched her arms out, and looked around with blinded, wondering eyes, as if she had been rudely wakened from her sleep. "what are you doing up so late?" asked jeannot; he was coming from the forest in the dead of night to bring food for his family; he lost his sleep thus often, but he never thought that he did anything except his duty in those long, dark, tiring tramps to and fro between soignies and laeken. bébée shut her book and smiled with dreaming eyes, that saw him not at all. "i was reading--and, jeannot, his name is flamen for the world, but i may call him victor." "what do i care for his name?" "you asked it this morning." "more fool i. why do you read? reading is not for poor folk like you and me." bébée smiled up at the white clear moon that sailed above the woods. she was not awake out of her dream. she only dimly heard the words he spoke. "you are a little peasant," said jeannot roughly, as he paused at the gate. "it is all you can do to get your bread. you have no one to stand between you and hunger. how will it be with you when the slug gets your roses, and the snail your carnations, and your hens die of damp, and your lace is all wove awry, because your head runs on reading and folly, and you are spoilt for all simple pleasures and for all honest work?" she smiled, still looking up at the moon, with the dropping ivy touching her hair. "you are cross, dear jeannot. good night." a moment afterwards the little rickety door was shut, and the rusty bolt drawn within it; jeannot stood in the cool summer night all alone, and knew how stupid he had been in his wrath. he leaned on the gate a minute; then crossed the garden as softly as his wooden shoes would let him. he tapped gently on the shutter of the lattice. "bébée--bébée--just listen. i spoke roughly, dear--i know i have no right. i am sorry. will you be friends with me again?--do be friends again." she opened the shutter a little way, so that he could see her pretty mouth speaking, "we are friends--we will always be friends, of course--only you do not know. good night." he went away with a heavy heart and a long-drawn step. he would have preferred that she should have been angry with him. bébée, left alone, let the clothes drop off her pretty round shoulders and her rosy limbs, and shook out her coils of hair, and kissed the book, and laid it under her head, and went to sleep with a smile on her face. only, as she slept, her ringers moved as if she were counting her beads, and her lips murmured,-- "oh, dear holy mother, you have so much to think of--yes. i know--all the poor, and all the little children. but take care of _him_; he is called flamen, and he lives in the street of mary of burgundy; you cannot miss him; and if you will look for him always, and have a heed that the angels never leave him, i will give you my great cactus glower--my only one--on your feast of roses this very year. oh, dear mother, you will not forget!" chapter xii. bébée was a dreamer in her way, and aspired to be a scholar too. but all the same, she was not a little fool. she had been reared in hardy, simple, honest ways of living, and would have thought it as shameful as a theft to have owed her bread to other folk. so, though she had a wakeful, restless night, full of strange fantasies, none the less was she out in her garden by daybreak; none the less did she sweep out her floor and make her mash for the fowls, and wash out her bit of linen and hang it to dry on a line among the tall, flaunting hollyhocks that were so proud of themselves because they reached to the roof. "what do you want with books, bébée?" said reine, the sabot-maker's wife, across the privet hedge, as she also hung out her linen. "franz told me you were reading last night. it is the silver buckles have done that: one mischief always begets another." "where is the mischief, good reine?" said bébée, who was always prettily behaved with her elders, though, when pushed to it, she could hold her own. "the mischief will be in discontent," said the sabot-maker's wife. "people live on their own little patch, and think it is the world; that is as it should be--everybody within his own, like a nut in its shell. but when you get reading, you hear of a swarm of things you never saw, and you fret because you cannot see them, and you dream, and dream, and a hole is burnt in your soup-pot, and your dough is as heavy as lead. you are like bees that leave their own clover fields to buzz themselves dead against the glass of a hothouse." bébée smiled, reaching to spread out her linen. but she said nothing. "what good is it talking to them?" she thought; "they do not know." already the neighbors and friends of her infancy seemed so far, far away; creatures of a distant world, that she had long left; it was no use talking, they never would understand. "antoine should never have taught you your letters," said reine, groaning under the great blue shirts she was hanging on high among the leaves. "i told him so at the time. i said, 'the child is a good child, and spins, and sews, and sweeps, rare and fine for her age; why go and spoil her?' but he was always headstrong. not a child of mine knows a letter, the saints be praised! nor a word of any tongue but our own good flemish. you should have been brought up the same. you would have come to no trouble then." "i am in no trouble, dear reine," said bébée, scattering the potato-peels to the clacking poultry, and she smiled into the faces of the golden oxlips that nodded to her back again in sunshiny sympathy. "not yet," said reine, hanging her last shirt. but bébée was not hearing; she was calling the chickens, and telling the oxlips how pretty they looked in the borders; and in her heart she was counting the minutes till the old dutch cuckoo-clock at mère krebs's--the only clock in the lane--should crow out the hour at which she went down to the city. she loved the hut, the birds, the flowers; but they were little to her now compared with the dark golden picturesque square, the changing crowds, the frowning roofs, the gray stones, and colors and shadows of the throngs for one face and for one smile. "he is sure to be there," she thought, and started half an hour earlier than was her wont. she wanted to tell him all her rapture in the book; no one else could understand. but all the day through he never came. bébée sat with a sick heart and a parched little throat, selling her flowers and straining her eyes through the tumult of the square. the whole day went by, and there was no sign of him. the flowers had sold well: it was a feast day; her pouch was full of pence--what was that to her? she went and prayed in the cathedral, but it seemed cold, and desolate, and empty; even the storied windows seemed dark. "perhaps he is gore out of the city," she thought; and a terror fell on her that frightened her, it was so unlike any fear that she had ever known--even the fear when she had seen death on old antoine's face had been nothing like this. going home through the streets, she passed the café of the trois frères that looks out on the trees of the park, and that has flowers in its balconies, and pleasant windows that stand open to let the sounds of the soldiers' music enter. she saw him in one of the windows. there were amber and scarlet and black; silks and satins and velvets. there was a fan painted and jewelled. there were women's faces. there was a heap of purple fruit and glittering sweetmeats. he laughed there. his beautiful murillo head was dark against the white and gold within. bébée looked up,--paused a second,--then went onward, with a thorn in her heart. he had not seen her. "it is natural, of course--he has his world--he does not think often of me--there is no reason why he should be as good as he is," she said to herself as she went slowly over the stones. she had the dog's soul--only she did not know it. but the tears fell down her cheeks, as she walked. it looked so bright in there, so gay, with the sound of the music coming in through the trees, and those women,--she had seen such women before; sometimes in the winter nights, going home from the lacework, she had stopped at the doors of the palaces, or of the opera house, when the carriages were setting down their brilliant burdens; and sometimes on the great feast days she had seen the people of the court going out to some gala at the theatre, or some great review of troops, or some ceremonial of foreign sovereigns; but she had never thought about them before; she had never wondered whether velvet was better to wear than woollen serge, or-diamonds lighter on the head than a little cap of linen. but now-- those women seemed to her so dazzling, so wondrously, so superhumanly beautiful; they seemed like some of those new dahlia flowers, rose and purple and gold, that outblazed the sun on the south border of her little garden, and blanched all the soft color out of the homely roses, and pimpernels, and sweet-williams, and double-stocks, that had bloomed there ever since the days of waterloo. but the dahlias had no scent; and bébée wondered if these women had any heart in them,--they looked all laughter, and glitter, and vanity. to the child, whose dreams of womanhood were evolved from the face of the mary of the assumption, of the susannah of mieris, and of that angel in the blue coif whose face has a light as of the sun,--to her who had dreamed her way into vague perceptions of her own sex's maidenhood and maternity by help of those great pictures which had been before her sight from infancy, there was some taint, some artifice, some want, some harshness in these jewelled women; she could not have reasoned about it, but she felt it, as she felt that the grand dahlias missed a flower's divinity, being scentless. she was a little bit of wild thyme herself; hardy, fragrant, clean, tender, flowering by the wayside, full of honey, though only nourished on the turf and the stones, these gaudy, brilliant, ruby-bright, scarlet-mantled dahlias hurt her with a dim sense of pain and shame. fasting, next day at sunrise she confessed to father francis:-- "i saw beautiful rich women, and i envied them; and i could not pray to mary last night for thinking of them, for i hated them so much." but she did not say,-- "i hated them because they were with him." out of the purest little soul, love entering drives forth candor. "that is not like you at all, bébée," said the good old man, as she knelt at his feet on the bricks of his little bare study, where all the books he ever spelt out were treatises on the art of bee-keeping. "my dear, you never were covetous at all, nor did you ever seem to care for the things of the world. i wish jehan had not given you those silver buckles; i think they have set your little soul on vanities." "it is not the buckles; i am not covetous," said bébée; and then her face grew warm. she did not know why. and she did not hear the rest of father francis's admonitions. chapter xiii. but the next noon-time brought him to the market stall, and the next also, and so the summer days slipped away, and bébée was quite happy if she saw him in the morning time, to give him a fresh rose, or at evening by the gates, or under the beech-trees, when he brought her a new book, and sauntered awhile up the green lane beside her. an innocent, unconscious love like bébée's wants so little food to make it all content. such mere trifles are beautiful and sweet to it. such slender stray gleams of light suffice to make a broad, bright golden noon of perfect joy around it. all the delirium, and fever, and desire, and despair, that are in maturer passion, are far away from it: far as is the flash of the meteor across sultry skies from the blue forget-me-not down in the brown meadow brook. it was very wonderful to bébée that he, this stranger from rubes' fairyland, could come at all to keep pace with her little clattering wooden shoes over the dust and the grass in the dim twilight time. the days went by in a trance of sweet amaze, and she kept count of the hours no more by the cuckoo-clock of the mill-house, or the deep chimes of the brussels belfries; but only by such moments as brought her a word from his lips, or even a glimpse of him from afar, across the crowded square. she sat up half the nights reading the books he gave her, studying the long cruel polysyllables, and spelling slowly through the phrases that seemed to her so cramped and tangled, and which yet were a pleasure to unravel forsake of the thought they held. for bébée, ignorant little simple soul that she was, had a mind in her that was eager, observant, quick to acquire, skilful to retain; and it would happen in certain times that flamen, speaking to her of the things which he gave to her to read, would think to himself that this child had more wisdom than was often to be found in schools. meanwhile he pondered various studies in various stages of a gretchen, and made love to bébée--made love at least by his eyes and by his voice, not hurrying his pleasant task, but hovering about her softly, and mindful not to scare her, as a man will gently lower his hand over a poised butterfly that he seeks to kill, and which one single movement, a thought too quick, may scare away to safety. bébée knew where he lived in the street of mary of burgundy: in an old palace that belonged to a great flemish noble, who never dwelt there himself; but to ask anything about him--why he was there? what his rank was? why he stayed in the city at all?--was a sort of treason that never entered her thoughts. psyche, if she had been as simple and loyal as bébée was, would never have lighted her own candle; but even psyche would not have borrowed any one else's lamp to lighten the love darkness. to bébée he was sacred, unapproachable, unquestionable; he was a wonderful, perfect happiness that had fallen into her life; he was a gift of god, as the sun was. she took his going and coming as she took that of the sun, never dreaming of reproaching his absence, never dreaming of asking if in the empty night he shone on any other worlds than hers. it was hardly so much a faith with her as an instinct; faith must reason ere it know itself to be faith. bébée never reasoned any more than her roses did. the good folks in the market place watched her a little anxiously; they thought ill of that little moss-rose that every day found its way to one wearer only; but after all they did not see much, and the neighbors nothing at all. for he never went home to her, nor with her, and most of the time that he spent with bébée was in the quiet evening shadows, as she went up with her empty basket through the deserted country roads. bébée was all day long in the city, indeed, as other girls were, but with her it had always been different. antoine had always been with her up to the day of his death; and after his death she had sat in the same place, surrounded by the people she had known from infancy, and an insult to her would have been answered by a stroke from the cobbler's strap or from the tinker's hammer. there was one girl only who ever tried to do her any harm--a good-looking stout wench, who stood at the corner of the montagne de la cour with a stall of fruit in the summer time, and in winter time drove a milk cart over the snow. this girl would get at her sometimes, and talk of the students, and tell her how good it was to get out of the town on a holiday, and go to any one of the villages where there was kermesse and dance, and drink the little blue wine, and have trinkets bought for one, and come home in the moonlight in a char-à-banc, with the horns sounding, and the lads singing, and the ribbons flying from the old horse's ears. "she is such a little close sly thing!" thought the fruit girl, sulkily. to vice, innocence must always seem only a superior kind of chicanery. "we dance almost every evening, the children and i," bébée had answered when urged fifty times by this girl to go to fairs, and balls at the wine shops. "that does just as well. and i have seen kermesse once at malines--it was beautiful. i went with mère dax, but it cost a great deal i know, though she did not let me pay." "you little fool!" the fruit girl would say, and grin, and eat a pear. but the good honest old women who sat about in the grande place, hearing, had always taken the fruit girl to task, when they got her by herself. "leave the child alone, you mischievous one," said they. "be content with being base yourself. look you, lisette; she is not one like you to make eyes at the law students, and pester the painter lads for a day's outing. let her be, or we will tell your mother how you leave the fruit for the gutter children to pick and thieve, while you are stealing up the stairs into that young french fellow's chamber. oh, oh! a fine beating you will get when she knows!" lisette's mother was a fierce and strong old brabantoise who exacted heavy reckoning with her daughter for every single plum and peach that she sent out of her dark sweet-smelling fruit shop to be sunned in the streets, and under the students' love-glances. so the girl took heed, and left bébée alone. "what should i want her to come with us for?" she reasoned with herself. "she is twice as pretty as i am; jules might take to her instead--who knows?" so that she was at once savage and yet triumphant when she saw, as she thought, bébée drifting down the high flood of temptation. "oh, oh, you dainty one!" she cried one day to her. "so you would not take the nuts and mulberries that do for us common folk, because you had a mind for a fine pine out of the hothouses! that was all, was it? eh, well; i do not begrudge you. only take care; remember, the nuts and mulberries last through summer and autumn, and there are heaps of them on every fair-stall and street corner; but the pine, that is eaten in a day, one springtime, and its like does not grow in the hedges. you will have your mouth full of sugar an hour,--and then, eh!--you will go famished all the year." "i do not understand," said bébée, looking up, with her thoughts far away, and scarcely hearing the words spoken to her. "oh, pretty little fool! you understand well enough," said lisette, grinning, as she rubbed up a melon. "does he give you fine things? you might let me see." "no one gives me anything." "chut! you want me to believe that. why jules is only a lad, and his father is a silk mercer, and only gives him a hundred francs a month, but jules buys me all i want--somehow--or do you think i would take the trouble to set my cap straight when he goes by? he gave me these ear-rings, look. i wish you would let me see what you get." but bébée had gone away--unheeding--dreaming of juliet and of jeanne d'arc, of whom he had told her tales. he made sketches of her sometimes, but seldom pleased himself. it was not so easy as he had imagined that it would prove to portray this little flower-like face, with the clear eyes and the child's open brow. he who had painted phryne so long and faithfully had got a taint on his brush--he could not paint this pure, bright, rosy dawn--he who had always painted the glare of midnight gas on rouge or rags. yet he felt that if he could transfer to canvas the light that was on bébée's face he would get what scheffer had missed. for a time it eluded him. you shall paint a gold and glistening brocade, or a fan of peacock's feathers, to perfection, and yet, perhaps, the dewy whiteness of the humble little field daisy shall baffle and escape you. he felt, too, that he must catch her expression flying as he would do the flash of a swallow's wing across a blue sky; he knew that bébée, forced to studied attitudes in an atelier, would be no longer the ideal that he wanted. more than once he came and filled in more fully his various designs in the little hut garden, among the sweet gray lavender and the golden disks of the sunflowers; and more than once bébée was missed from her place in the front of the broodhuis. the varnhart children would gather now and then open-mouthed at the wicket, and mère krebs would shake her head as she went by on her sheepskin saddle, and mutter that the child's head would be turned by vanity; and old jehan would lean on his stick and peer through the sweetbrier, and wonder stupidly if this strange man who could make bébée's face beam over again upon that panel of wood could not give him back his dead daughter who had been pushed away under the black earth so long, long before, when the red mill had been brave and new, the red mill that the boys and girls called old. but except these, no one noticed much. painters were no rare sights in brabant. the people were used to see them coming and going, making pictures of mud and stones, and ducks and sheep, and of all common and silly things. "what does he pay you, bébée?" they used to ask, with the shrewd flemish thought after the main chance. "nothing," bébée would answer, with a quick color in her face; and they would reply in contemptuous reproof, "careless little fool; you should make enough to buy you wood all winter. when the man from ghent painted trine and her cow, he gave her a whole gold bit for standing still so long in the clover. the krebs would be sure to lend you her cow, if it be the cow that makes the difference." bébée was silent, weeding her carnation bed;--what could she tell them that they would understand? she seemed so far away from them all--those good friends of her childhood--now that this wonderful new world of his giving had opened to her sight. she lived in a dream. whether she sat in the market place taking copper coins, or in the moonlight with a book on her knees, it was all the same. her feet ran, her tongue spoke, her hands worked; she did not neglect her goat or her garden, she did not forsake her house labor or her good deeds to old annémie; but all the while she only heard one voice, she only felt one touch, she only saw one face. here and there--one in a million--there is a female thing that can love like this, once and forever. such an one is dedicated, birth upwards, to the mater dolorosa. he had something nearer akin to affection for her than he had ever had in his life for anything, but he was never in love with her--no more in love with her than with the moss-rosebuds that she fastened in his breast. yet he played with her, because she was such a little, soft, tempting female thing; and because, to see her face flush, and her heart heave, to feel her fresh feelings stir into life, and to watch her changes from shyness to confidence, and from frankness again into fear, was a natural pastime in the lazy golden weather. that he spared her as far as he did,--when after all she would have married jeannot anyhow,--and that he sketched her face in the open air, and never entered her hut and never beguiled her to his own old palace in the city, was a new virtue in himself for which he hardly knew whether to feel respect or ridicule; anyway, it seemed virtue to him. so long as he did not seduce the body, it seemed to him that it could never matter how he slew the soul,--the little, honest, happy, pure, frank soul, that amidst its poverty and hardships was like a robin's song to the winter sun. "hoot, toot, pretty innocent, so you are no better than the rest of us," hissed her enemy, lisette, the fruit girl, against her as she went by the stall one evening as the sun set. "prut! so it was no such purity after all that made you never look at the student lads and the soldiers, eh? you were so dainty of taste, you must needs pick and choose, and, lord's sake, after all your coyness, to drop at a beckoning finger as one may say--pong!--in a minute, like an apple over-ripe! oh hé, you sly one!" bébée flushed red, in a sort of instinct of offence; not sure what her fault was, but vaguely stung by the brutal words. bébée walked homeward by him, with her empty baskets: looked at him with grave wondering eyes. "what did she mean? i do not understand. i must have done some wrong--or she thinks so. do you know?" flamen laughed, and answered her evasively,-- "you have done her the wrong of a fair skin when hers is brown, and a little foot while hers is as big as a trooper's; there is no greater sin, bébée, possible in woman to woman." "hold your peace, you shrill jade," he added, in anger to the fruiterer, flinging at her a crown piece, that the girl caught, and bit with her teeth with a chuckle. "do not heed her, bébée. she is a coarse-tongued brute, and is jealous, no doubt." "jealous?--of what?" the word had no meaning to bébée. "that i am not a student or a soldier, as her lovers are." as her lovers were! bébée felt her face burn again. was he her lover then? the child's innocent body and soul thrilled with a hot, sweet delight and fear commingled. bébée was not quite satisfied until she had knelt down that night and asked the master of all poor maidens to see if there were any wickedness in her heart, hidden there like a bee in a rose, and if there were to take it out and make her worthier of this wonderful new happiness in her life. chapter xiv. the next day, waking with a radiant little soul as a bird in a forest wakes in summer bébée was all alone in the lane by the swans' water. in the gray of the dawn all the good folk except herself and lame old jehan had tramped off to a pilgrimage, liége way, which the bishop of the city had enjoined on all the faithful as a sacred duty. bébée doing her work, singing, thinking how good god was, and dreaming over a thousand fancies of the wonderful stories he had told her, and of the exquisite delight that would lie for her in watching for him all through the shining hours, bébée felt her little heart leap like a squirrel as the voice that was the music of heaven to her called through the stillness,--"good day, pretty one! you are as early as the lark, bébée. i go to mayence, so i thought i would look at you one moment as i pass." bébée ran down through the wet grass in a tumult of joy. she had never seen him so early in the day--never so early as this, when nobody was up and stirring except birds and beasts and peasant folk. she did not know how pretty she looked herself; like a rain-washed wild rose; her feet gleaming with dew, her cheeks warm with health and joy; her sunny clustering hair free from the white cap and tumbling a little about her throat, because she had been stooping over the carnations. flamen loosed the wicket latch, and thought there might be better ways of spending the day than in the gray shadows of old mechlin. "will you give me a draught of water?" he asked her as he crossed the garden. "i will give you breakfast," said bébée, happy as a bird. she felt no shame for the smallness of her home; no confusion at the poverty of her little place; such embarrassments are born of self-consciousness, and bébée had no more self-consciousness than her own sweet, gray lavender-bush blowing against the door. the lavender-bush has no splendor like the roses, has no colors like the hollyhocks; it is a simple, plain, gray thing that the bees love and that the cottagers cherish, and that keeps the moth from the homespun linen, and that goes with the dead to their graves. it has many virtues and infinite sweetness, but it does not know it or think of it; and if the village girls ever tell it so, it fancies they only praise it out of kindness as they put its slender fragrant spears away in their warm bosoms. bébée was like her lavender, and now that this beautiful purple emperor butterfly came from the golden sunbeams to find pleasure for a second in her freshness, she was only very grateful, as the lavender-bush was to the village girls. "i will give you your breakfast," said bébée, flushing rosily with pleasure, and putting away the ivy coils that he might enter. "i have very little, you know," she added, wistfully. "only goat's milk and bread; but if that will do--and there is some honey--and if you would eat a salad, i would cut one fresh." he did enter, and glanced round him with a curious pity and wonder both in one. it was such a little, small, square place; and its floor was of beaten clay; and its unceiled roof he could have touched; and its absolute poverty was so plain,--and yet the child looked so happy in it, and was so like a flower, and was so dainty and fresh, and even so full of grace. she stood and looked at him with frank and grateful eyes; she could hardly believe that he was here; he, the stranger of rubes' land, in her own little rush-covered home. but she was not embarrassed by it; she was glad and proud. there is a dignity of peasants as well as of kings,--the dignity that comes from all absence of effort, all freedom from pretence. bébée had this, and she had more still than this: she had the absolute simplicity of childhood with her still. some women have it still when they are four-score. she could have looked at him forever, she was so happy; she cared nothing now for those dazzling dahlias--he had left them; he was actually here--here in her own, little dear home, with the cocks looking in at the threshold, and the sweet-peas nodding at the lattice, and the starling crying, "bonjour! bonjour!" "you are tired, i am sure you must be tired," she said, pulling her little bed forward for him to sit on, for there were only two wooden stools in the hut, and no chair at all. then she took his sketching-easel and brushes from his hand, and would have kneeled and taken the dust off his boots if he would have let her; and went hither and thither gladly and lightly, bringing him a wooden bowl of milk and the rest of the slender fare, and cutting as quick as thought fresh cresses and lettuce from her garden, and bringing him, as the crown of all, father francis's honey-comb on vine-leaves, with some pretty sprays of box and mignonette scattered about it--doing all this with a swift, sweet grace that robbed the labor of all look of servitude, and looking at him ever and again with a smile that said as clearly as any words, "i cannot do much, but what i do, i do with all my heart." there was something in the sight of her going and coming in those simple household errands, across the sunlit floor, that moved him as some mountain air sung on an alp by a girl driving her cows to pasture may move a listener who indifferent has heard the swell of the organ of la hague, or the recitative of a great singer in san carlo. the gray lavender blowing at the house door has its charm for those who are tired of the camellias that float in the porcelain bowls of midnight suppers. this man was not good. he was idle and vain, and amorous and cold, and had been spoiled by the world in which he had passed his days; but he had the temper of an artist: he had something, too, of a poet's fancy; he was vaguely touched and won by this simple soul that looked at him out of bébée's eyes with some look that in all its simplicity had a divine gleam in it that made him half ashamed. he had known women by the thousand, good women and bad; women whom he had dealt ill with and women who had dealt ill with him; but this he had not known--this frank, fearless, tender, gay, grave, innocent, industrious little life, helping itself, feeding itself, defending itself, working for itself and for others, and vaguely seeking all the while some unseen light, some unknown god, with a blind faith so infinitely ignorant and yet so infinitely pathetic. "all the people are gone on a pilgrimage," she explained to him when he asked her why her village was so silent this bright morning. "they are gone to pray for a fine harvest, and that she wants herself as well--it costs seven francs apiece. they take their food with them; they go and laugh and eat in the fields. i think it is nonsense. one can say one's prayers just as well here. mère krebs thinks so too, but then she says, 'if i do not go, it will look ill; people will say i am irreligious; and as we make so much by flour, god would think it odd for me to be absent; and, besides, it is only seven francs there and back; and if it does please heaven, that is cheap, you know. one will get it over and over again in paradise.' that is what mere krebs says. but, for me, i think it is nonsense. it cannot please god to go by train and eat galette and waste a whole day in getting dusty. "when i give the virgin my cactus flower, i do give up a thing i love, and i let it wither on her altar instead of pleasing me in bloom here all the week, and then, of course, she sees that i have done it out of gratitude. but that is different: that i am sorry to do, and yet i am glad to do it out of love. do you not know?" "yes, i know very well. but is the virgin all that you love like this?" "no; there is the garden, and there is antoine--he is dead, i know. but i think that we should love the dead all the better, not the less, because they cannot speak or say that they are angry; and perhaps one pains them very much when one neglects them, and if they are ever so sad, they cannot rise and rebuke one--that is why i would rather forget the flowers for the church than i would the flowers for his grave, because god can punish me, of course, if he like, but antoine never can--any more--now." "you are logical in your sentiment, my dear," said flamen, who was more moved than he cared to feel. "the union is a rare one in your sex. who taught you to reason?" "no one. and i do not know what to be logical means. is it that you laugh at me?" "no. i do not laugh. and your pilgrims--they are gone for all day?" "yes. they are gone to the sacred heart at st. marie en bois. it is on the way to liége. they will come back at nightfall. and some of them will be sure to have drunk too much, and the children will get so cross. prosper bar, who is a calvinist, always says, 'do not mix up prayer and play; you would not cut a gherkin in your honey'; but i do not know why he called prayer a gherkin, because it is sweet enough--sweeter than anything, i think. when i pray to the virgin to let me see you next day, i go to bed quite happy, because she will do it, i know, if it will be good for me." "but if it were not good for you, bébée? would you cease to wish it then?" he rose as he spoke, and went across the floor and drew away her hand that was parting the flax, and took it in his own and stroked it, indulgently and carelessly, as a man may stroke the soft fur of a young cat. leaning against the little lattice and looking down on her with musing eyes, half smiling, half serious, half amorous, half sad, bébée looked up with a sudden and delicious terror that ran through her as the charm of the snake's gaze runs through the bewildered bird. "would you cease to wish it if it were not good?" he asked again. bébée's face grew pale and troubled. she left her hand in his because she did not think any shame of his taking it. but the question suddenly flung the perplexity and darkness of doubt into the clearness of her pure child's conscience. all her ways had been straight and sunlit before her. she had never had a divided duty. the religion and the pleasure of her simple little life had always gone hand-in-hand, greeting one another, and never for an instant in conflict. in any hesitation of her own she had always gone to father francis, and he had disentangled the web for her and made all plain. but here was a difficulty in which she could never go to father francis. right and wrong, duty and desire, were for the first time arrayed before her in their ghastly and unending warfare. it frightened her with a certain breathless sense of peril--the peril of a time when in lieu of that gentle mother of roses whom she kneeled to among the flowers, she would only see a dusky shadow looming between her and the beauty of life and the light of the sun. what he said was quite vague to her. she attached no definite danger to his words. she only thought--to see him was so great a joy--if mary forbade it, would she not take it if she could notwithstanding, always, always, always? he kept her hand in his, and watched with contentment the changing play of the shade and sorrow, the fear and fascination, on her face. "you do not know, bébée?" he said at length, knowing well himself; so much better than ever she knew. "well, dear, that is not flattering to me. but it is natural. the good virgin of course gives you all you have, food, and clothes, and your garden, and your pretty plump chickens; and i am only a stranger. you could not offend her for me; that is not likely." the child was cut to the heart by the sadness and humility of words of whose studied artifice she had no suspicion. she thought that she seemed to him ungrateful and selfish, and yet all the mooring-ropes that held her little boat of life to the harbor of its simple religion seemed cut away, and she seemed drifting helpless and rudderless upon an unknown sea. "i never did do wrong--that i know," she said, timidly, and lifted her eyes to his with an unconscious appeal in them. "but--i do not see why it should be wrong to speak with you. you are good, and you lend me beautiful things out of other men's minds that will make me less ignorant: our lady could not be angry with that--she must like it." "our lady?--oh, poor little simpleton!--where will her reign be when ignorance has once been cut down root and branch?" he thought to himself: but he only answered,-- "but whether she like it or not, bébée?--you beg the question, my dear; you are--you are not so frank as usual--think, and tell me honestly?" he knew quite well, but it amused him to see the perplexed trouble that this, the first divided duty of her short years, brought with it. bébée looked at him, and loosened her hand from his, and sat quite still. her lips had a little quiver in them. "i think." she said at last, "i think--if it _be_ wrong, still i will wish it--yes. only i will not tell myself it is right. i will just say to our lady, 'i am wicked, perhaps, but i cannot help it' so, i will not deceive her at all; and perhaps in time she may forgive. but i think you only say it to try me. it cannot, i am sure, be wrong--any more than it is to talk to jeannot or to bac." he had driven her into the subtleties of doubt, but the honest little soul in her found a way out, as a flower in a cellar finds its way through the stones to light. he plucked the ivy leaves and threw them at the chickens on the bricks without, with a certain impatience in the action. the simplicity and the directness of the answer disarmed him; he was almost ashamed to use against her the weapons of his habitual warfare. it was like a maître d'armes fencing with bare steel against a little naked child armed with a blest palm-sheaf. when she had thus brought him all she had, and he to please her had sat down to the simple food, she gathered a spray of roses and set it in a pot beside him, then left him and went and stood at a little distance, waiting, with her hands lightly crossed on her chest, to see if there were anything that he might want. he ate and drank well to please her, looking at her often as he did so. "i break your bread, bébée," he said, with a tone that seemed strange to her,--"i break your bread. i must keep arab faith with you." "what is that?" "i mean--i must never betray you." "betray me how could you?" "well--hurt you in any way." "ah, i am sure you would never do that." he was silent, and looked at the spray of roses. "sit down and spin," he said impatiently. "i am ashamed to see you stand there, and a woman never looks so well as when she spins. sit down, and i will eat the good things you have brought me. but i cannot if you stand and look." "i beg your pardon. i did not know," she said, ashamed lest she should have seemed rude to him; and she drew out her wheel under the light of the lattice, and sat down to it, and began to disentangle the threads. it was a pretty picture--the low, square casement; the frame of ivy, the pink and white of the climbing sweet-peas: the girl's head; the cool, wet leaves: the old wooden spinning-wheel, that purred like a sleepy cat. "i want to paint you as gretchen, only it will be a shame." he said. "who is gretchen?" "you shall read of her by-and-by. and you live here all by yourself?" "since antoine died--yes." "and are never dull?" "i have no time, and i do not think i would be if i had time--there is so much to think of, and one never can understand." "but you must be very brave and laborious to do all your work yourself. is it possible a child like you can spin, and wash, and bake, and garden, and do everything?" "oh, many do more than i. babette's eldest daughter is only twelve, and she does much more, because she has all the children to look after; and they are very, very poor; they often have nothing but a stew of nettles and perhaps a few snails, days together." "that is lean, bare, ugly, gruesome poverty; there is plenty of that everywhere. but you, bébée--you are an idyll." bébée looked across the hut and smiled, and broke her thread. she did not know what he meant, but if she were anything that pleased him, it was well. "who were those beautiful women?" she said suddenly, the color mounting into her cheeks. "what women, my dear?" "those i saw at the window with you, the other night--they had jewels." "oh!--women, tiresome enough. if i had seen you, i would have dropped you some fruit. poor little bébée! did you go by, and i never knew?" "you were laughing--" "was i?" "yes, and they _were_ beautiful." "in their own eyes; not in mine." "no?" she stopped her spinning and gazed at him with wistful, wondering eyes. could it be that they were not beautiful to him? those deep red, glowing, sun-basked dahlia flowers? "do you know," she said very softly, with a flush of penitence that came and went, "when i saw them, i hated them; i confessed it to father francis next day. you seemed so content with, them, and they looked so gay and glad there--and then the jewels! somehow, i seemed to myself such a little thing, and so ugly and mean. and yet, do you know--" "and yet--well?" "they did not look to me good--those women," said bébée, thoughtfully, looking across at him in deprecation of his possible anger. "they were great people, i suppose, and they appeared very happy; but though i seemed nothing to myself after them, still i think i would not change." "you are wise without books, bébée." "oh, no, i am not wise at all. i only feel. and give me books; oh, pray, give me books! you do not know; i will learn so fast; and i will not neglect anything, that i promise. the neighbors and jeannot say that i shall let the flowers die, and the hut get dirty, and never spin or prick annémie's patterns; but that is untrue. i will do all, just as i have done, and more too, if only you will give me things to read, for i do think when one is happy, one ought to work more--not less." "but will these books make you happy? if you ask me the truth, i must tell you--no. you are happy as you are, because you know nothing else than your own little life; for ignorance _is_ happiness, bébée, let sages, ancient and modern, say what they will. but when you know a little, you will want to know more: and when you know much, you will want to see much also, and then--and then--the thing will grow--you will be no longer content. that is, you will be unhappy." bébée watched him with wistful eyes. "perhaps that is true. no doubt it is true, if you say it. but you know all the world seems full of voices that i hear, but that i cannot understand; it is with me as i should think it is with people who go to foreign countries and do not know the tongue that is spoken when they land; and it makes me unhappy, because i cannot comprehend, and so the books will not make me more so, but less. and as for being content--when i thought you were gone away out of the city, last night, i thought i would never be able to pray any more, because i hated myself, and i almost hated the angels, and i told mary that she was cruel, and she turned her face from me--as it seemed, forever." she spoke quite quietly and simply, spinning as she spoke, and looking across at him with earnest eyes, that begged him to believe her. she was saying the pure truth, but she did not know the force or the meaning of that truth. he listened with a smile; it was not new to him; he knew her heart much better than she knew it herself, but there was an unconsciousness, and yet a strength, in the words that touched him though. he threw the leaves away, irritably, and told her to leave off her spinning. "some day i shall paint you with that wheel as i painted the broodhuis. will you let me, bébée?" "yes." she answered him as she would have answered if he had told her to go on pilgrimage from one end of the low countries to the other. "what were you going to do to-day?" "i am going into the market with the flowers; i go every day." "how much will you make?" "two or three francs, if i am lucky." "and do you never have a holiday?" "oh, yes; but not often, you know, because it is on the fete days that the people want the most flowers." "but in the winter?" "then i work at the lace." "do you never go into the woods?" "i have been once or twice; but it loses a whole day." "you are afraid of not earning?" "yes. because i am afraid of owing people anything." "well, give up this one day, and we will make holiday. the people are out; they will not know. come into the forest, and we will dine at a café in the woods; and we will be as poetic as you like, and i will tell you a tale of one called rosalind, who pranked herself in boy's attire, all for love, in the ardennes country yonder. come, it is the very day for the forest; it will make me a lad again at meudon, when the lilacs were in bloom. poor paris! come." "do you mean it?" the color was bright in her face, her heart was dancing, her little feet felt themselves already on the fresh green turf. she had no thought that there could be any harm in it. she would have gone with jeannot or old bac. "of course i mean it. come. i was going to mayence to see the magi and van dyck's christ. we will go to soignies instead, and study green leaves. i will paint your face by sunlight. it is the best way to paint you. you belong to the open air. so should gretchen; or how else should she have the blue sky in her eyes?" "but i have only wooden shoes!" her face was scarlet as she glanced at her feet; he who had wanted to give her the silk stockings--how would he like to be seen walking abroad with those two clumsy, clattering, work-a-day, little sabots? "never mind. my dear, in my time i have had enough of satin shoes and of silver gilt heels; they click-clack as loud as yours, and cost much more to those who walk with them, not to mention that they will seldom deign to walk at all. your wooden shoes are picturesque. paganini made a violin out of a wooden shoe. who knows what music may lurk in yours, only you have never heard it. perhaps i have. it was bac who gave you the red shoes that was the barbarian, not i. come." "you really mean it?" "come." "but they will miss me at market." "they will think you are gone on the pilgrimage: you need never tell them you have not." "but if they ask me?" "does it never happen that you say any other thing than the truth?" "any other thing than the truth! of course not. people take for granted that one tells truth; it would be very base to cheat them. do you really mean that i may come?--in the forest!--and you will tell me stories like those you give me to read?" "i will tell you a better story. lock your hut, bébée, and come." "and to think you are not ashamed!" "ashamed?" "yes, because of my wooden shoes." was it possible? bébée thought, as she ran out into the garden and locked the door behind her, and pushed the key under the waterbutt as usual, being quite content with that prudent precaution against robbers which had served antoine all his days. was it possible, this wonderful joy?--her cheeks were like her roses, her eyes had a brilliance like the sun; the natural grace and mirth of the child blossomed in a thousand ways and gestures. as she went by the shrine in the wall, she bent her knee a moment and made the sign of the cross; then she gathered a little moss-rose that nodded close under the border of the palisade, and turned and gave it to him. "look, she sends you this. she is not angry, you see, and it is much more pleasure when she is pleased--do you not know?" he shrank a little as her fingers touched him. "what a pity you had no mother, bébée!" he said, on an impulse of emotion, of which in paris he would have been more ashamed than of any guilt. chapter xv. in the deserted lane by the swans' water, under the willows, the horses waited to take him to mechlin; little, quick, rough horses, with round brass bells, in the flemish fashion, and gay harness, and a low char-à-banc, in which a wolf-skin and red rugs, and all a painter's many necessities, were tossed together. he lifted her in, and the little horses flew fast through the green country, ringing chimes at each step, till they plunged into the deep glades of the woods of cambre and soignies. bébée sat breathless with delight. she had never gone behind horses in all her life, except once or twice in a wagon when the tired teamsters had dragged a load of corn across the plains, or when the miller's old gray mare had hobbled wearily before a cart-load of noisy, happy, mischievous children going home from the masses and fairs, and flags, and flowers, and church banners, and puppet-shows, and lighted altars, and whirling merry-go-rounds of the fête dieu. she had never known what it was to sail as on the wings of the wind along broad roads, with yellow wheat-lands, and green hedges, and wayside trees, and little villages, and reedy canal water, all flying by her to the sing-song of the joyous bells. "oh, how good it is to live!" she cried, clapping her hands in a very ecstasy, as the clear morning broadened into gold and the west wind rose and blew from the sands by the sea. "yes--it is good--if one did not tire so soon," said he, watching her with a listless pleasure. but she did not hear; she was beyond the reach of any power to sadden her; she was watching the white oxen that stood on the purple brow of the just reapen lands, and the rosy clouds that blew like a shower of apple-blossoms across the sky to the south. there was a sad darkling calvary on the edge of the harvest-field that looked black against the blue sky; its shadow fell across the road, but she did not see it: she was looking at the sun. there is not much change in the great soignies woods. they are aisles on aisles of beautiful green trees, crossing and recrossing; tunnels of dark foliage that look endless; long avenues of beech, of oak, of elm, or of fir, with the bracken and the brushwood growing dense between; a delicious forest growth everywhere, shady even at noon, and by a little past midday dusky as evening; with the forest fragrance, sweet and dewy, all about, and under the fern the stirring of wild game, and the white gleam of little rabbits, and the sound of the wings of birds. soignies is not legend-haunted like the black forest, nor king-haunted like fontainebleau, nor sovereign of two historic streams like the brave woods of heidelberg; nor wild and romantic, arid broken with black rocks, and poetized by the shade of jaques, and swept through by a perfect river, like its neighbors of ardennes; nor throned aloft on mighty mountains like the majestic oak glades of the swabian hills of the ivory carvers. soignies is only a flemish forest in a plain, throwing its shadows over corn-fields and cattle pastures, with no panorama beyond it and no wonders in its depth. but it is a fresh, bold, beautiful forest for all that. it has only green leaves to give,--green leaves always, league after league; but there is about it that vague mystery which all forests have, and this universe of leaves seems boundless, and pan might dwell in it, and st. hubert, and john keats. bébée, in her rare holidays with the bac children or with jeannot's sisters, had never penetrated farther than the glades of the cambre, and had never entered the heart of the true forest, which is much still what it must have been in the old days when the burghers of brabant cut their yew bows and their pike staves from it to use against the hosts of spain. to bébée it was as an enchanted land, and every play of light and shade, every hare speeding across the paths, every thrush singing in the leaves, every little dog-rose or harebell that blossomed in the thickets, was to her a treasure, a picture, a poem, a delight. he had seen girls thus in the woods of vincennes and of versailles in the student days of his youth: little work-girls fresh from châlets of the jura or from vine-hung huts of the loire, who had brought their poor little charms to perish in paris; and who dwelt under the hot tiles and amidst the gilded shop signs till they were as pale and thin as their own starved balsams; and who, when they saw the green woods, laughed and cried a little, and thought of the broad sun-swept fields, and wished that they were back again behind their drove of cows, or weeding among the green grapes. but those little work-girls had been mere homely daisies, and daisies already with the dust of the pavement and of the dancing-gardens upon them. bébée was as pure and fresh as these dew-wet dog-roses that she found in the thickets of thorn. he had meant to treat her as he had used to do those work-girls--a little wine, a little wooing, a little folly and passion, idle as a butterfly and brief as a rainbow--one midsummer day and night--then a handful of gold, a caress, a good-morrow, and forgetfulness ever afterwards--that was what he had meant when he had brought her out to the forest of soignies. but--she was different, this child. he made the great sketch of her for his gretchen, sitting on a moss-grown trunk, with marguerites in her hand; he sent for their breakfast far into the woods, and saw her set her pearly teeth into early peaches and costly sweetmeats; he wandered with her hither and thither, and told her tales out of the poets and talked to her in the dreamy, cynical, poetical manner that was characteristic of him, being half artificial and half sorrowful, as his temper was. but bébée, all unconscious, intoxicated with happiness, and yet touched by it into that vague sadness which the summer sun brings with it even to young things, if they have soul in them,--bébée said to him what the work-girls of paris never had done. beautiful things: things fantastic, ignorant, absurd, very simple, very unreasonable oftentimes, but things beautiful always, and sometimes even very wise by a wisdom not of the world; by a certain light divine that does shine now and then as through an alabaster lamp, through minds that have no grossness to obscure them. her words were not equal to the burden of her thoughts at times, but he knew how to take the pearl of the thought from the broken shell and tangled sea-weed of her simple, untutored speech. "if there be a god anywhere," he thought to himself, "this little fleming is very near him." she was so near that, although he had no belief in any god, he could not deal with her as he had used to do with the work-girls in the primrose paths of old vincennes. chapter xvi. "to be gretchen, you must count the leaves of your daisies," he said to her, as he painted,--painted her just as she was, with her two little white feet in the wooden shoes, and the thick green leaves behind; the simplest picture possible, the dress of gray--only cool dark gray--with white linen bodice, and no color anywhere except in the green of the foliage; but where he meant the wonder and the charm of it to lie was in the upraised, serious, child-like face, and the gaze of the grave, smiling eyes. it was gretchen, spinning, out in the open air among the flowers. gretchen, with the tall dog-daisies growing up about her feet, among the thyme and the roses, before she had had need to gather, one to ask her future of its parted leaves. the gretchen of scheffer tells no tale; she is a fair-haired, hard-working, simple-minded peasant, with whom neither angels nor devils have anything to do, and whose eyes never can open to either hell or heaven. but the gretchen of flamen said much more than this: looking at it, men would sigh from shame, and women weep from sorrow. "count the daisies?" echoed bébée. "oh, i know what you mean. a little--much--passionately--until death--not at all. what the girls say when they want to see if any one loves them? is that it?" she looked at him without any consciousness, except as she loved the flowers. "do you think the daisies know?" she went on, seriously, parting their petals with her fingers. "flowers do know many things--that is certain." "ask them for yourself." "ask them what?" "how much--any one--loves you?" "oh, but every one loves me; there is no one that is bad. antoine used to say to me. 'never think of yourself, bébée; always think of other people, so every one will love you.' and i always try to do that, and every one does." "but that is not the love the daisy tells of to your sex." "no?" "no; the girls that you see count the flowers--they are thinking, not of all the village, but of some one unlike all the rest, whose shadow falls across theirs in the moonlight! you know that?" "ah, yes--and they marry afterwards--yes." she said it softly, musingly, with no embarrassment; it was an unreal, remote thing to her, and yet it stirred her heart a little with a vague trouble that was infinitely sweet. there is little talk of love in the lives of the poor; they have no space for it; love to them means more mouths to feed, more wooden shoes to buy, more hands to dive into the meagre bag of coppers. now and then a girl of the commune had been married, and had ploughing in the fields or to her lace-weaving in the city. bébée had thought little of it. "they marry or they do not marry. that is as it may be," said flamen, with a smile. "bébée, i must paint you as gretchen before she made a love-dial of the daisies. what is the story? oh, i have told you stories enough. gretchen's you would not understand, just yet." "but what did the daisies say to her?" "my dear, the daisies always say the same thing, because daisies always tell the truth and know men. the daisies always say 'a little'; it is the girl's ear that tricks her, and makes her hear 'till death,'--a folly and falsehood of which the daisy is not guilty." "but who says it if the daisy does not?" "ah, the devil perhaps--who knows? he has so much to do in these things." but bébée did not smile; she had a look of horror in her blue eyes; she belonged to a peasantry who believed in exorcising the fiend by the aid of the cross, and who not so very many generations before had driven him out of human bodies by rack and flame. she looked with a little wistful fear on the white, golden-eyed marguerites that lay on her lap. "do you think the fiend is in these?" she whispered, with awe in her voice. flamen smiled. "when you count them he will be there, no doubt." bébée threw them with a shudder on the grass. "have i spoilt your holiday, dear?" he said, with a certain self-reproach. she was silent a minute, then she gathered up the daisies again, and stroked them and put them to her lips. "it is not they that do wrong. you say the girls' ears deceive them. it is the girls who want a lie and will not believe a truth because it humbles them; it is the girls that are to blame, not the daisies. as for me, i will not ask the daisies anything ever, so the fiend will not enter into them." "nor into you. poor little bébée!" "why, you pity me for that?" "yes. because, if women never see the serpent's face, neither do they ever scent the smell of the paradise roses; and it will be hard for you to die without a single rose d'amour in your pretty breast, poor little bébée?" "i do not understand. but you frighten me a little." he rose and left his easel and threw himself at her feet on the grass; he took the little wooden shoes in his hands as reverently as he would have taken the broidered shoes of a duchess; he looked up at her with tender, smiling eyes. "poor little bébée!" he said again. "did i frighten you indeed? nay, that was very base of me. we will not spoil our summer holiday. there is no such thing as a fiend, my dear. there are only men--such as i am. say the daisy spell over for me, bébée. see if i do not love you a little, just as you love your flowers." she smiled, and the happy laughter came again over her face. "oh, i am sure you care for me a little," she said, softly, "or you would not be so good and get me books and give me pleasure; and i do not want the daisies to tell me that, because you say it yourself, which is better." "much better." he answered her dreamily, and lay there in the grass, holding the little wooden shoes in his hands. he was not in love with her. he was in no haste. he preferred to play with her softly, slowly, as one separates the leaves of a rose, to see the deep rose of its heart. her own ignorance of what she felt had a charm for him. he liked to lift the veil from her eyes by gentle degrees, watching each new pulse-beat, each fresh instinct tremble into life. it was an old, old story to him; he knew each chapter and verse to weariness, though there still was no other story that he still read as often. but to her it was so new. to him it was a long beaten track; he knew every turn of it; he recognized every wayside blossom; he had passed over a thousand times each tremulous bridge; he knew so well beforehand where each shadow would fall, and where each fresh bud would blossom, and where each harvest would be reaped. but to her it was so new. she followed him as a blind child a man that guides her through a garden and reads her a wonder tale. he was good to her, that was all she knew. when he touched her ever so lightly she felt a happiness so perfect, and yet so unintelligible, that she could have wished to die in it. and in her humility and her ignorance she wondered always how he--so great, so wise, so beautiful--could have thought it ever worth his while to leave the paradise of rubes' land to wait with her under her little rush-thatched roof, and bring her here to see the green leaves and the living things of the forest. as they went, a man was going under the trees with a load of wood upon his back. bébée gave a little cry of recognition. "oh, look, that is jeannot! how he will wonder to see me here!" flamen drew her a little downward, so that the forester passed onward without perceiving them. "why do you do that?" said bébée. "shall i not speak to him?" "why? to have all your neighbors chatter of your feast in the forest? it is not worth while." "ah, but i always tell them everything," said bébée. whose imagination had been already busy with the wonders that she would unfold to mère krebs and the varnhart children. "then you will see but little of me, my dear. learn to be silent, bébée. it is a woman's first duty, though her hardest." "is it?" she did not speak for some time. she could not imagine a state of things in which she would not narrate the little daily miracles of her life to the good old garrulous women and the little open-mouthed romps. and yet--she lifted her eyes to his. "i am glad you have told me that," she said. "though indeed. i do not see why one should not say what one does, yet--somehow--i do not like to talk about you. it is like the pictures in the galleries, and the music in the cathedral, and the great still evenings, when the fields are all silent, and it is as if christ walked abroad in them; i do not know how to talk of those things to the others--only to you--and i do not like to talk _about_ you to them--do you not know?" "yes, i know. but what affinity have i. bébée, to your thoughts of your god walking in his cornfields?" bébée's eyes glanced down through the green aisle of the forests, with the musing seriousness in them that was like the child-angels of botticelli's dreams. "i cannot tell you very well. but when i am in the fields at evening and think of christ. i feel so happy, and of such good will to all the rest, and i seem to see heaven quite plain through the beautiful gray air where the stars are--and so i feel when i am with you--that is all. only--" "only what?" "only in those evenings, when i was all alone, heaven seemed up there, where the stars are, and i longed for wings; but now, it is _here_, and i would only shut my wings if i had them, and not stir." he looked at her, and took, her hands and kissed them--but reverently--as a believer may kiss a shrine. in that moment to flamen she was sacred; in that moment he could no more have hurt her with passion than he could have hurt her with a blow. it was an emotion with him, and did not endure. but whilst it lasted, it was true. chapter xvii. then he took her to dine at one of the wooden cafés under the trees. there was a little sheet of water in front of it and a gay garden around. there was a balcony and a wooden stairway; there were long trellised arbors, and little white tables, and great rosebushes like her own at home. they had an arbor all to themselves; a cool sweet-smelling bower of green, with a glimpse of scarlet from the flowers of some twisting beans. they had a meal, the like of which she had never seen; such a huge melon in the centre of it, and curious wines, and coffee or cream in silver pots, or what looked like silver to her--"just like the altar-vases in the church," she said to herself. "if only the varnhart children were here!" she cried; but he did not echo the wish. it was just sunset. there was a golden glow on the little bit of water. on the other side of the garden some one was playing a guitar. under a lime-tree some girls were swinging, crying, higher! higher! at each toss. in a longer avenue of trellised green, at a long table, there was a noisy party of students and girls of the city; their laughter was mellowed by distance as it came over the breadth of the garden, and they sang, with fresh shrill flemish voices, songs from an opera bouffe of la monnaie. it was all pretty, and gay, and pleasant. there was everywhere about an air of light-hearted enjoyment. bébée sat with a wondering look in her wide-opened eyes, and all the natural instincts of her youth, that were like curled-up fruit buds in her, unclosed softly to the light of joy. "is life always like this in your rubes' land?" she asked him; that vague far-away country of which she never asked him anything more definite, and which yet was so clear before her fancy. "yes," he made answer to her. "only--instead of those leaves, flowers and pomegranates; and in lieu of that tinkling guitar, a voice whose notes are esteemed like king's jewels; and in place of those little green arbors, great white palaces, cool and still, with ilex woods and orange groves and sapphire seas beyond them. would you like to come there, bébée?--and wear laces such as you weave, and hear singing and laughter all night long, and never work any more in the mould of the garden, or spin any more at that tiresome wheel, or go any more out in the wind, and the rain, and the winter mud to the market?" bébée listened, leaning her round elbows on the table, and her warm cheeks on her hands, as a child gravely listens to a fairy story. but the sumptuous picture, and the sensuous phrase he had chosen, passed by her. it is of no use to tempt the little chaffinch of the woods with a ruby instead of a cherry. the bird is made to feed on the brown berries, on the morning dews, on the scarlet hips of roses, and the blossoms of the wind-tossed pear boughs; the gem, though it be a monarch's, will only strike hard and tasteless on its beak. "i would like to see it all," said bébée, musingly trying to follow out her thoughts. "but as for the garden work and the spinning--that i do not want to leave, because i have done it all my life; and i do not think i should care to wear lace--it would tear very soon; one would be afraid to run; and do you see i know how it is made--all that lace. i know how blind the eyes get over it, and how the hearts ache; i know how the old women starve, and the little children cry; i know that there is not a sprig of it that is not stitched with pain; the great ladies do not think, i dare say, because they have never worked at it or watched the others: but i have. and so, you see, i think if i wore it i should feel sad, and if a nail caught on it i should feel as if it were tearing the flesh of my friends. perhaps i say it badly; but that is what i feel." "you do not say it badly--you speak well, for you speak from the heart," he answered her, and felt a tinge of shame that he had tempted her with the gold and purple of a baser world than any that she knew. "and yet you want to see new lands?" he pursued. "what is it you want to see there?" "ah, quite other things than these," cried bébée, still leaning her cheeks on her hands. "that dancing and singing is very pretty and merry, but it is just as good when old claude fiddles and the children skip. this wine, you tell me, is something very great; but fresh milk is much nicer, i think. it is not these kind of things i want--i want to know all about the people who lived before us; i want to know what the stars are, and what the wind is; i want to know where the lark goes when you lose him out of sight against the sun; i want to know how the old artists got to see god, that they could paint him and all his angels as they have done; i want to know how the voices got into the bells, and how they can make one's heart beat, hanging up there as they do, all alone among the jackdaws; i want to know what it is when i walk in the fields in the morning, and it is all gray and soft and still, and the corn-crake cries in the wheat, and the little mice run home to their holes, that makes me so glad and yet so sorrowful, as if i were so very near god, and yet so all alone, and such a little thing; because you see the mouse she has her hole, and the crake her own people, but i--" her voice faltered a little and stopped: she had never before thought out into words her own loneliness; from the long green arbor the voices of the girls and the students sang,-- "ah! le doux son d'un baiser tendre!" flamen was silent. the poet in him--and in an artist there is always more or less of the poet--kept him back from ridicule, nay, moved him to pity and respect. they were absurdly simple words no doubt, had little wisdom in them, and were quite childish in their utterance, and yet they moved him curiously as a man very base and callous may at times be moved by the look in a dying deer's eyes, or by the sound of a song that some lost love once sang. he rose and drew her hands away, and took her small face between his own hands instead. "poor little bébée!" he said gently, looking down on her with a breath that was almost a sigh. "poor little bébée!--to envy the corncrake and the mouse!" she was a little startled; her cheeks grew very warm under his touch, but her eyes looked still into his without fear. he stooped and touched her forehead with his lips, gently and without passion, almost reverently; she grew rose-hued as the bright bean-flowers, up to the light gold ripples of her hair; she trembled a little and drew back, but she was not alarmed nor yet ashamed; she was too simple of heart to feel the fear that is born of passion and of consciousness. it was as jeannot kissed his sister marie, who was fifteen years old and sold milk for the krebs people in the villages with a little green cart and a yellow dog--no more. and yet the sunny arbor leaves and the glimpse of the blue sky swam round her indistinctly, and the sounds of the guitar grew dull upon her ear and were lost as in a rushing hiss of water, because of the great sudden unintelligible happiness that seemed to bear her little life away on it as a sea wave bears a young child off its feet. "you do not feel alone now, bébée?" he whispered to her. "no!" she answered him softly under her breath, and sat still, while all her body quivered like a leaf. no; how could she ever be alone now that this sweet, soft, unutterable touch would always be in memory upon her; how could she wish ever again now to be the corn-crake in the summer corn or the gray mouse in the hedge of hawthorn? at that moment a student went by past the entrance of the arbor; he had a sash round his loins and a paper feather in his cap; he was playing a fife and dancing; he glanced in as he went. "it is time to go home, bébée," said flamen. chapter xviii. so it came to pass that bébée's day in the big forest came and went as simply almost as any day that she had played away with the varnhart children under the beech shadows of cambre woods. and when he took her to her hut at sunset before the pilgrims had returned there was a great bewildered tumult of happiness in her heart, but there was no memory with her that prevented her from looking at the shrine in the wall as she passed it, and saying with a quick gesture of the cross on brow and bosom,-- "ah, dear holy mother, how good you have been! and i am back again, you see, and i will work harder than ever because of all this joy that you have given me." and she took another moss-rose and changed it for that of the morning, which was faded, and said to flamen.-- "look--she sends you this. now do you know what i mean? one is more content when she is content." he did not answer, but he held her hands against him a moment as they fastened in the rose bud. "not a word to the pilgrims, bébée--you remember?" "yes, i will remember. i do not tell them every time i pray--it will be like being silent about that--it will be no more wrong than that." but there was a touch of anxiety in the words; she was not quite certain; she wanted to be reassured. instinct moved her not to speak of him; but habit made it seem wrong to her to have any secret from the people who had been about her from her birth. he did not reassure her; her anxiety was pretty to watch, and he left the trouble in her heart like a bee in the chalice of a lily. besides, the little wicket gate was between them; he was musing whether he would push it open once more. her fate was in the balance, though she did not dream it: he had dealt with her tenderly, honestly, sacredly all that day--almost as much so as stupid jeannot could have done. he had been touched by her trust in him, and by the unconscious beauty of her fancies, into a mood that was unlike all his life and habits. but after all, he said to himself-- after all!-- where he stood in the golden evening he saw the rosy curled mouth, the soft troubled eves, the little brown hands that still tried to fasten the rosebud, the young peach-like skin where the wind stirred the bodice;--she was only a little flemish peasant, this poor little bébée, a little thing of the fields and the streets, for all the dreams of god that abode with her. after all--soon or late--the end would be always the same. what matter! she would weep a little to-morrow, and she would not kneel any more at the shrine in the garden wall; and then--and then--she would stay here and marry the good boor jeannot, just the same after a while; or drift away after him to paris, and leave her two little wooden shoes, and her visions of christ in the fields at evening, behind her forevermore, and do as all the others did, and take not only silken stockings but the cinderella slipper that is called gold, which brings all other good things in its train;--what matter! he had meant this from the first, because she was so pretty, and those little wooden sabots ran so lithely over the stones; though he was not in love with her, but only idly stretched his hand for her as a child by instinct stretches to a fruit that hangs in the sun a little rosier and a little nearer than the rest. what matter--he said to himself--she loved him, poor little soul, though she did not know it; and there would always be jeannot glad enough of a handful of bright french gold. he pushed the gate gently against her; her hands fastened the rosebud and drew open the latch themselves. "will you come in a little?" she said, with the happy light in her face. "you must not stay long, because the flowers must be watered, and then there are annémie's patterns--they must be done or she will have no money and so no food--but if you would come in for a little? and see, if you wait a minute i will show you the roses that i shall cut to-morrow the first thing, and take down to st. guido to our lady's altar in thank-offering for to-day. i should like you to choose them--you yourself--and if you would just touch them i should feel as if you gave them to her too. will you?" she spoke with the pretty outspoken frankness of her habitual speech, just tempered and broken with the happy, timid hesitation, the curious sense at once of closer nearness and of greater distance, that had come on her since he had kissed her among the bright beanflowers. he turned from her quickly. "no, dear, no. gather your roses alone, bébée; if i touch them their leaves will fall." then, with a hurriedly backward glance down the dusky lane to see that none were looking, he bent his head and kissed her again quickly and with a sort of shame, and swung the gate behind him and went away through the boughs and the shadows. chapter xix. bébée looked after him wistfully till his figure was lost in the gloom. the village was very quiet; a dog barking afar off and a cow lowing in the meadow were the only living things that made their presence heard; the pilgrims had not returned. she leaned on the gate a few minutes in that indistinct, dreamy happiness which is the prerogative of innocent love. "how wonderful it is that he should give a thought to me!" she said again and again to herself. it was as if a king had stooped for a little knot of daisied grass to set it in his crown where the great diamonds should be. she did not reason. she did not question. she did not look beyond that hour--such is the privilege of youth. "how i will read! how i will learn! how wise i will try to be; and how good, if i can!" she thought, swaying the little gate lightly under her weight, and looking with glad eyes at the goats as they frisked with their young in the pasture on the other side of the big trees, whilst one by one the stars came out, and an owl hooted from the palace woods, and the frogs croaked good-nights in the rushes. then, like a little day laborer as she was, with the habit of toil and the need of the poor upon her from her birth up, she shut down the latch of the gate, kissed it where his hand had rested, and went to the well to draw its nightly draught for the dry garden. "oh, dear roses!" she said to them as she rained the silvery showers over their nodding heads. "oh, dear roses!--tell me--was ever anybody so happy as i am? oh, if you say 'yes' i shall tell you you lie; silly flowers that were only born yesterday!" but the roses shook the water off them in the wind, and said, as she wished them to say,-- "no--no one--ever before, bébée--no one ever before." for roses, like everything else upon earth, only speak what our own heart puts into them. an old man went past up the lane; old jehan, who was too ailing and aged to make one of the pilgrimage. he looked at the little quick-moving form, grayish white in the starlight, with the dark copper vessel balanced on her head, going to and fro betwixt the well and the garden. "you did not go to the pilgrimage, poor little one!" he said across the sweetbrier hedge. "nay, that was too bad; work, work, work--thy pretty back should not be bent double yet. you want a holiday, bébée; well, the fête dieu is near. jeannot shall take you, and maybe i can find a few sous for gingerbread and merry-go-rounds. you sit dull in the market all day; you want a feast." bébée colored behind the hedge, and ran in and brought three new-laid eggs that she had left in the flour-bin in the early morning, and thrust them on him through a break in the brier. it was the first time she had ever done anything of which she might not speak: she was ashamed, and yet the secret was so sweet to her. "i am very happy, jehan, thank god!" she murmured, with a tremulous breath and a shine in her eyes that the old man's ears and sight were too dull to discern. "so was _she_" muttered jehan, as he thrust the eggs into his old patched blue blouse,--"so was she. and then a stumble--a blow in the lane there--a horse's kick--and all was over. all over, my pretty one--for ever and ever." chapter xx. on a sudden impulse flamen, going through the woodland shadows to the city, paused and turned back; all his impulses were quick and swayed him now hither, now thither, in many contrary ways. he knew that the hour was come--that he must leave her and spare her, as to himself he phrased it, or teach her the love words that the daisies whisper to women. and why not?--anyway she would marry jeannot. he, half-way to the town, walked back again and paused a moment at the gate; an emotion half pitiful, half cynical, stirred in him. anyway he would leave her in a few days: paris had again opened her arms to him; his old life awaited him; women who claimed him by imperious, amorous demands reproached him; and after all this day he had got the gretchen of his ideal, a great picture for the future of his fame. as he would leave her anyway so soon, he would leave her unscathed--poor little field flower--he could never take it with him to blossom or wither in paris. his world would laugh too utterly if he made for himself a mistress out of a little fleming in two wooden shoes. besides-- besides, something that was half weak and half noble moved him not to lead this child, in her trust and her ignorance, into ways that when she awakened from her trance would seem to her shameful and full of sorrow. for he knew that bébée was not as others are. he turned back and knocked at the hut door and opened it. bébée was just beginning to undress herself; she had taken off her white kerchief and her wooden shoes; her pretty shoulders and her little neck shone white in the moon; her feet were bare on the mud floor. she started with a cry and threw the handkerchief again on her shoulders, but there was no fear of him; only the unconscious instinct of her girlhood. he thought for a moment that he would not go away until the morrow-- "did you want me?" said bébée softly, with happy eyes of surprise and yet a little startled, fearing some evil might have happened to him that he should have returned thus. "no; i do not want you, dear," he said gently; no--he did not want her, poor little soul; she wanted him, but he--there were so many of these things in his life, and he liked her too well to love her. "no, dear, i did not want you," said flamen, drawing her arms about him, and feeling her flutter like a little bird, while the moonlight came in through the green leaves and fell in fanciful patterns on the floor. "but i came to say--you have had one happy day. wholly happy, have you not, poor little bébée?" "ah, yes!" she sighed rather than said the answer in her wondrous gladness; drawn there close to him, with the softness of his lips upon her. could he have come back only to ask that? "well, that is something. you will remember it always, bébée?" he murmured in his unconscious cruelty. "i did not wish to spoil your cloudless pleasure, dear--for you care for me a little, do you not?--so i came back to tell you only now, that i go away for a little while to-morrow." "go away!" she trembled in his arms and turned cold as ice; a great terror and darkness fell upon her; she had never thought that he would ever go away. he caressed her, and played with her as a boy may with a bird before he wrings its neck. "you will come back?" he kissed her: "surely." "to-morrow?" "nay--not so soon." "in a week?" "hardly." "in a month, then?" "perhaps." "before winter, anyway?" he looked aside from the beseeching, tearful, candid eyes, and kissed her hair and her throat, and said, "yes, dear--beyond a doubt." she clung to him, crying silently; he wished that women would not weep. "come, bébée, listen," he said coaxingly, thinking to break the bitterness to her. "this is not wise, and it gives me pain. there is so much for you to do. you know so little. there is so much to learn. i will leave you many books, and you must grow quite learned in my absence. the virgin is all very well in her way, but she cannot teach us much, poor lady. for her kingdom is called ignorance. you must teach yourself. i leave you that to do. the days will go by quickly if you are laborious and patient. do you love me, little one?" for an answer she kissed his hand. "you are a busy little bébée always," he said, with his lips caressing her soft brown arms that were round his neck. "but you must be busier than ever whilst i am gone. so you will forget. no, no, i do not mean that:--i mean so the time will pass quickest. and i shall finish your picture, bébée, and all paris will see you, and the great ladies will envy the little girl with her two wooden shoes. ah! that does not please you?--you care for none of these vanities. no. poor little bébée, why did god make you, or chance breathe life into you? you are so far away from us all. it was cruel. what harm has your poor little soul ever done that, pure as a flower, it should have been sent to the hell of this world?" she clung to him, sobbing without sound. "you will come back? you will come back?" she moaned, clasping him closer and closer. flamen's own eyes grew dim. but he lied to her: "i will--i promise." it was so much easier to say so, and it would break her sorrow. so he thought. for the moment again he was tempted to take her with him--but, he resisted it--he would tire, and she would cling to him forever. there was a long silence. the bleating of the little kid in the shed without was the only sound; the gray lavender blew to and fro. her arms were close about his throat; he kissed them again, and kissed her eyes, her cheek, her mouth; then put her from him quickly and went out. she ran to him, and threw herself on the damp ground and held him there, and leaned her forehead on his feet. but though he looked at her with wet eyes, he did not yield, and he still said,-- "i will come back soon--very soon; be quiet, dear, let me go." then he kissed her once more many times, and put her gently within the door and closed it. a low, sharp, sudden cry reached him, went to his heart, but he did not turn; he went on through the wet, green little garden, and the curling leaves, where he had found peace and had left desolation. chapter xxi. "i will let her alone, and she will marry jeannot," thought flamen; and he believed himself a good man for once in his life, and pitied himself for having become a sentimentalist. she would marry jeannot, and bear many children, as those people always did; and ruddy little peasants would cling about these pretty, soft, little breasts of hers; and she would love them after the manner of such women, and be very content clattering over the stones in her wooden shoes; and growing brown and stout, and more careful after money, and ceasing to dream of unknown things, and not seeing god at all in the fields, but looking low and beholding only the ears of the gleaning wheat and the feet of the tottering children; and so gaining her bread, and losing her soul, and stooping nearer and nearer to earth till she dropped into it like one of her own wind-blown wall-flowers when the bee has sucked out all its sweetness and the heats have scorched up all its bloom:--yes, of course, she would marry jeannot and end so! meanwhile he had his gretchen, and that was the one great matter. so he left the street of mary of burgundy, and went on his way out of the chiming city as its matin bells were rung, and took with him a certain regret, and the only innocent affection that had ever awakened in him; and thought of his self-negation with half admiration and half derision; and so drifted away into the whirlpool of his amorous, cynical, changeful, passionate, callous, many-colored life, and said to himself as he saw the last line of the low green plains shine against the sun, "she will marry jeannot--of course, she will marry jeannot. and my gretchen is greater than scheffer's." what else mattered very much, after all, except what they would say in paris of gretchen? chapter xxii. people saw that bébée had grown very quiet. but that was all they saw. her little face was pale as she sat among her glowing autumn blossoms, by the side of the cobbler's stall; and when the varnhart children cried at the gate to her to come and play, she would answer gently that she was too busy to have play-time now. the fruit girl of the montagne de la cour hooted after her, "gone so soon?--oh hé! what did i say?--a fine pine is sugar in the teeth a second only, but the brown nuts you may crack all the seasons round. well, did you make good harvest while it lasted? has jeannot a fat bridal portion promised?" and old jehan, who was the tenderest soul of them all in the lane by the swans' water, would come and look at her wistfully as she worked among the flowers, and would say to her,-- "dear little one, there is some trouble: does it come of that painted picture? you never laugh now, bébée, and that is bad. a girl's laugh is pretty to hear; my girl laughed like little bells ringing--and then it stopped, all at once; they said she was dead. but you are not dead, bébée. and yet you are so silent; one would say you were." but to the mocking of the fruit girl, as to the tenderness of old jehan, bébée answered nothing; the lines of her pretty curled mouth grew grave and sad, and in her eyes there was a wistful, bewildered, pathetic appeal like the look in the eyes of a beaten dog, which, while it aches with pain, does not cease to love its master. one resolve upheld and made her feet firm on the stones of the streets and her lips mute under all they said to her. she would learn all she could, and be good, and patient, and wise, if trying could make her wise, and so do his will in all things--until he should come back. "you are not gay, bébée," said annémie, who grew so blind that she could scarce see the flags at the mastheads, and who still thought that she pricked the lace patterns and earned her bread. "you are not gay, dear. has any lad gone to sea that your heart goes away with, and do you watch for his ship coming in with the coasters? it is weary work waiting; but it is all the men think us fit for, child. they may set sail as they like; every new port has new faces for them; but we are to sit still and to pray if we like, and never murmur, be the voyage ever so long, but be ready with a smile and a kiss, a fresh pipe of tobacco, and a dry pair of socks;--that is a man. we may have cried our hearts out; we must have ready the pipe and the socks, or, 'is that what you call love?' they grumble. you want mortal patience if you love a man,--it is like a fretful child that thumps you when your breast is bare to it. still, be you patient, dear, just as i am, just as i am." and bébée would shudder as she swept the cobwebs from the garret walls,--patient as she was, she who had sat here fifty years watching for a dead man and for a wrecked ship. chapter xxiii. the wheat was reapen in the fields, and the brown earth turned afresh. the white and purple chrysanthemums bloomed against the flowerless rose-bushes, and the little gray michaelmas daisy flourished where the dead carnations had spread their glories. leaves began to fall and chilly winds to sigh among the willows; the squirrels began to store away their nuts, and the poor to pick up the broken bare boughs. "he said he would come before winter," thought bébée, every day when she rose and felt each morning cooler and grayer than the one before it; winter was near. her little feet already were cold in their wooden shoes; and the robin already sang in the twigs of the sear sweetbrier; but she had the brave sweet faith which nothing kills, and she did not doubt--oh! no, she did not doubt, she was only tired. tired of the strange, sleepless, feverish nights; tired of the long, dull, empty days: tired of watching down the barren, leafless lane: tired of hearkening breathless to each step on the rustling dead leaves; tired of looking always, always, always, into the ruddy autumn evenings and the cold autumn starlight, and never hearing what she listened for, never seeing what she sought; tired as a child may be lost in a wood, and wearily wearing its small strength and breaking its young heart in search of the track forever missed, of the home forever beyond the horizon. still she did her work and kept her courage. she took her way into the town with her basket full of the ruby and amber of the dusky autumn blossoms, and when those failed, and the garden was quite desolate, except for a promise of haws and of holly, she went, as she had always done, to the lace-room, and gained her bread and the chickens' corn each day by winding the thread round the bobbins; and at nightfall when she had plodded home through the darksome roads and over the sodden turf, and had lit her rushlight and sat down to her books, with her hand buried in her hair, and her eyes smarting from the strain of the lace-work and her heart aching with that new and deadly pain which never left her now, she would read--read--read--read, and try and store her brain with knowledge, and try and grasp these vast new meanings of life that the books opened to her, and try and grow less ignorant against he should return. there was much she could not understand, bait there was also much she could. her mind was delicate and quick, her intelligence swift and strong; she bought old books at bookstalls with pence that she saved by going without her dinner. the keeper of the stall, a shrewd old soul, explained some hard points to her, and chose good volumes for her, and lent others to this solitary little student in her wooden shoes and with her pale child's face. so she toiled hard and learned much, and grew taller and very thin, and got a look in her eyes like a lost dog's, and yet never lost heart or wandered in the task that he had set her, or in her faith in his return. "burn the books, bébée," whispered the children again and again, clinging to her skirts. "burn the wicked, silent things. since you have had them you never sing, or romp, or laugh, and you look so white--so white." bébée kissed them, but kept to her books. jeannot going by from the forest night after night saw the light twinkling in the hut window, and sometimes crept softly up and looked through the chinks of the wooden shutter, and saw her leaning over some big old volume with her pretty brows drawn together, and her mouth shut close in earnest effort, and he would curse the man who had changed her so and go away with rage in his breast and tears in his eyes, not daring to say anything, but knowing that never would bébée's little brown hand lie in love within his own. nor even in friendship, for he had rashly spoken rough words against the stranger from rubes' land, and bébée ever since then had passed him by with a grave, simple greeting, and when he had brought her in timid gifts a barrow-load of fagots, had thanked him, but had bidden him take the wood home to his mother. "you think evil things of me, bébée?" good jeannot had pleaded, with a sob in his voice; and she had answered gently,-- "no; but do not speak to me, that is all." then he had cursed her absent lover, and bébée gone within and closed her door. she had no idea that the people thought ill of her. they were cold to her, and such coldness made her heart ache a little more. but the one great love in her possessed her so strongly that all other things were half unreal. she did her daily housework from sheer habit, and she studied because he had told her to do it, and because with the sweet, stubborn, credulous faith of her youth, she never doubted that he would return. otherwise there was no perception of real life in her; she dreamed and prayed, and prayed and dreamed, and never ceased to do either one or the other, even when she was scattering potato-peels to the fowls, or shaking carrots loose of the soil, or sweeping the snow from her hut door, or going out in the raw dark dawn as the single little sad bell of st. guido tolled through the stillness for the first mass. for though even father francis looked angered at her because he thought she was stubborn, and hid some truth and some shame from him at confession, yet she went resolutely and oftener than ever to kneel in the dusty, dusky, crumbling old church, for it was all she could do for him who was absent--so she thought--and she did not feel quite so far away from him when she was beseeching christ to have care of his soul and of his body. all her pretty dreams were dead. she never heard any story in the robin's song, or saw any promise in the sunset clouds, or fancied that angels came about her in the night--never now. the fields were gray and sad; the birds were little brown things; the stars were cold and far off; the people she had used to care for were like mere shadows that went by her meaningless and without interest, and all she thought of was the one step that never came: all she wanted was the one touch she never felt. "you have done wrong, bébée, and you will not own it," said the few neighbors who ever spoke to her. bébée looked at them with wistful, uncomprehending eyes. "i have done no wrong," she said gently, but no one believed her. a girl did not shut herself up and wane pale and thin for nothing, so they reasoned. she might have sinned as she had liked if she had been sensible after it, and married jeannot. but to fret mutely, and shut her lips, and seem as though she had done nothing,--that was guilt indeed. for her village, in its small way, thought as the big world thinks. chapter xxiv. full winter came. the snow was deep, and the winds drove the people with whips of ice along the dreary country roads and the steep streets of the city. the bells of the dogs and the mules sounded sadly through the white misty silence of the flemish plains, and the weary horses slipped and fell on the frozen ruts and on the jagged stones in the little frost-shut flemish towns. still the flemish folk were gay enough in many places. there were fairs and kermesses; there were puppet plays and church feasts; there were sledges on the plains and skates on the canals; there were warm woollen hoods and ruddy wood fires; there were tales of demons and saints, and bowls of hot onion soup; sugar images for the little children, and blessed beads for the maidens clasped on rosy throats with lovers' kisses; and in the city itself there was the high tide of the winter pomp and mirth, with festal scenes in the churches, and balls at the palaces, and all manner of gay things in toys and jewels, and music playing cheerily under the leafless trees, and flashes of scarlet cloth, and shining furs, and happy faces, and golden curls, in the carriages that climbed the montagne de la cour, and filled the big place around the statue of stout godfrey. in the little village above st. guido, bébée's neighbors were merry too, in their simple way. the women worked away wearily at their lace in the dim winter light, and made a wretched living by it, but all the same they got penny playthings for their babies, and a bit of cake for their sunday-hearth. they drew together in homely and cordial friendship, and of an afternoon when dusk fell wove their lace in company in mère krebs's mill-house kitchen with the children and the dogs at their feet on the bricks, so that one big fire might serve for all, and all be lighted with one big rush candle, and all be beguiled by chit-chat and songs, stories of spirits, and whispers of ghosts, and now and then when the wind howled at its worst, a paternoster or two said in common for the men toiling in the barges or drifting up the scheldt. in these gatherings bébée's face was missed, and the blithe soft sound of her voice, like a young thrush singing, was never heard. the people looked in, and saw her sitting over a great open book; often her hearth had no fire. then the children grew tired of asking her to play; and their elders began to shake their heads; she was so pale and so quiet, there must be some evil in it--so they began to think. little by little people dropped away from her. who knew, the gossips said, what shame or sin the child might not have on her sick little soul? true, bébée worked hard just the same, and just the same was seen trudging to and fro in the dusk of dawns and afternoons in her two little wooden shoes. she was gentle and laborious, and gave the children her goat's milk, and the old women the brambles of her garden. but they grew afraid of her--afraid of that sad, changeless, far-away look in her eves, and of the mute weariness that was on her--and, being perplexed, were sure, like all ignorant creatures, that what was secret must be also vile. so they hung aloof, and let her alone, and by and by scarcely nodded as they passed her but said to jeannot,-- "you were spared a bad thing, lad: the child was that grand painter's light-o'-love, that is plain to see. the mischief all comes of the stuff old antoine filled her head with--a stray little by-blow of chickweed that he cockered up like a rare carnation. oh! do not fly in a rage, jeannot; the child is no good, and would have made an honest man rue. take heart of grace, and praise the saints, and marry katto's lisa." but jeannot would never listen to the slanderers, and would never look at lisa, even though the door of the little hut was always closed against him; and whenever he met bébée on the highway she never seemed to see him more than she saw the snow that her sabots were treading. one night in the midwinter-time old annémie died. bébée found her in the twilight with her head against the garret window, and her left side all shrivelled and useless. she had a little sense left, and a few fleeting breaths to draw. "look for the brig," she muttered. "you will not see the flag at the masthead for the fog to-night; but his socks are dry and his pipe is ready. keep looking--keep looking--she will be in port to-night." but her dead sailor never came into port; she went to him. the poor, weakened, faithful old body of her was laid in the graveyard of the poor, and the ships came and went under the empty garret window, and bébée was all alone. she had no more anything to work for, or any bond with the lives of others. she could live on the roots of her garden and the sale of her hens' eggs, and she could change the turnips and carrots that grew in a little strip of her ground for the quantity of bread that she needed. so she gave herself up to the books, and drew herself more and more within from the outer world. she did not know that the neighbors thought very evil of her; she had only one idea in her mind--to be more worthy of him against he should return. the winter passed away somehow, she did not know how. it was a long, cold, white blank of frozen silence: that was all. she studied hard, and had got a quaint, strange, deep, scattered knowledge out of her old books; her face had lost all its roundness and color, but, instead, the forehead had gained breadth and the eyes had the dim fire of a student's. every night when she shut her volumes she thought,-- "i am a little nearer him. i know a little more." just so every morning, when she bathed her hands in the chilly water, she thought to herself, "i will make my skin as soft as i can for him, that it may be like the ladies' he has loved." love to be perfect must be a religion, as well as a passion. bébée's was so. like george herbert's serving-maiden, she swept no specks of dirt away from a floor without doing it to the service of her lord. only bébée's lord was a king of earth, made of earth's dust and vanities. but what did she know of that? chapter xxv. the winter went by, and the snow-drops and crocus and pale hepatica smiled at her from the black clods. every other springtime bébée had run with fleet feet under the budding trees down into the city, and had sold sweet little wet bunches of violets and brier before all the snow was melted from the eaves of the broodhuis. "the winter is gone," the townspeople used to say; "look, there is bébée with the flowers." but this year they did not see the little figure itself like a rosy crocus standing against the brown timbers of the maison de roi. bébée had not heart to pluck a single blossom of them all. she let them all live, and tended them so that the little garden should look its best and brightest to him when his hand should lift its latch. only he was so long coming--so very long; the violets died away, and the first rosebuds came in their stead, and still bébée looked every dawn and every nightfall vainly down the empty road. nothing kills young creatures like the bitterness of waiting. pain they will bear, and privation they will pass through, fire and water and storm will not appall them, nor wrath of heaven and earth, but waiting--the long, tedious, sickly, friendless days, that drop one by one in their eternal sameness into the weary past, these kill slowly but surely, as the slow dropping of water frets away rock. the summer came. nearly a year had gone by. bébée worked early and late. the garden bloomed like one big rose, and the neighbors shook their heads to see the flowers blossom and fall without bringing in a single coin. she herself spoke less seldom than ever; and now when old jehan, who never had understood the evil thoughts of his neighbors, asked her what ailed her that she looked so pale and never stirred down to the city, now her courage failed her, and the tears brimmed over her eyes, and she could not call up a brave brief word to answer him. for the time was so long, and she was so tired. still she never doubted that her lover would comeback: he had said he would come: she was as sure that he would come as she was sure that god came in the midst of the people when the silver bell rang and the host was borne by on high. bébée did not heed much, but she vaguely-felt the isolation she was left in: as a child too young to reason feels cold and feels hunger. "no one wants me here now that annémie is gone," she thought to herself, as the sweet green spring days unfolded themselves one by one like the buds of the brier-rose hedges. and now and then even the loyal little soul of her gave way, and sobbing on her lonely bed in the long dark nights, she would cry out against him, "oh, why not have left me alone? i was so happy--so happy!" and then she would reproach herself with treason to him and ingratitude, and hate herself and feel guilty in her own sight to have thus sinned against him in thought for one single instant. for there are natures in which the generosity of love is so strong that it feels its own just pain to be disloyalty; and bébée's was one of them. and if he had killed her she would have died hoping only that no moan had escaped her under the blow that ever could accuse him. these natures, utterly innocent by force of self-accusation and self-abasement, suffer at once the torment of the victim and the criminal. chapter xxvi. one day in the may weather she sat within doors with a great book upon her table, but no sight for it in her aching eyes. the starling hopped to and fro on the sunny floor; the bees boomed in the porch; the tinkle of sheep's bells came in on the stillness. all was peaceful and happy except the little weary, breaking, desolate heart that beat in her like a caged bird's. "he will come; i am sure he will come," she said to herself; but she was so tired, and it was so long--oh, dear god!--so very long. a hand tapped at the lattice. the shrill voice of reine, the sabot-maker's wife, broken with anguish, called through the hanging ivy,-- "bébée, you are a wicked one, they say, but the only one there is at home in the village this day. get you to town for the love of heaven, and send doctor max hither, for my pet, my flower, my child lies dying, and not a soul near, and she black as a coal with choking--go, go, go!--and mary will forgive you your sins. save the little one, dear bébée, do you hear? and i will pray god and speak fair the neighbors for you. go!" bébée rose up, startled by the now unfamiliar sound of a human voice, and looked at the breathless mother with eyes of pitying wonder. "surely i will go," she said, gently; "but there is no need to bribe me. i have not sinned greatly--that i know." then she went out quickly and ran through the lanes and into the city for the sick child, and found the wise man, and sent him, and did the errand rather in a sort of sorrowful sympathetic instinct than in any reasoning consciousness of doing good. when she was moving through the once familiar and happy ways as the sun was setting on the golden fronts of the old houses, and the chimes were ringing from the many towers, a strange sense of unreality, of non-existence, fell upon her. could it be she?--she indeed--who had gone there the year before the gladdest thing that the earth bore, with no care except to shelter her flowers from the wind, and keep the freshest blossoms for the burgomaster's housewife? she did not think thus to herself; but a vague doubt that she could ever have been the little gay, laborious, happy bébée, with troops of friends and endless joys for every day that dawned, came over her as she went by the black front of the broodhuis. the strong voice of lisa, the fruit girl, jarred on her as she passed the stall under its yellow awning that was flapping sullenly in the evening wind. "oh hé, little fool," the mocking voice cried, "the rind of the fine pine is full of prickles, and stings the lips when the taste is gone?--to be sure--crack common nuts like me and you are never wanting--hazels grow free in every copse. prut, tut! your grand lover lies a-dying; so the students read out of this just now; and you such a simpleton as not to get a roll of napoleons out of him before he went to rot in paris. i dare say he was poor as sparrows, if one knew the truth. he was only a painter after all." lisa tossed her as she spoke a torn sheet, in which she was wrapping gentians: it was a piece of newspaper some three weeks old, and in it there was a single line or so which said that the artist flamen, whose gretchen was the wonder of the salon of the year, lay sick unto death in his rooms in paris. bébée stood and read; the strong ruddy western light upon the type, the taunting laughter of the fruit girl on her ear. a bitter shriek rang from her that made even the cruelty of lisa's mirth stop in a sudden terror. she stood staring like a thing changed to stone down on the one name that to her rilled all the universe. "ill--he is ill--do you hear?" she echoed piteously, looking at lisa; "and you say he is poor?" "poor? for sure! is he not a painter?" said the fruit girl, roughly. she judged by her own penniless student lads; and she was angered with herself for feeling sorrow for this little silly thing that she had loved to torture. "you have been bad and base to me; but now--i bless you, i love you, i will pray for you," said bébée, in a swift broken breath, and with a look upon her face that startled into pain her callous enemy. then without another word, she thrust the paper in her bosom, and ran out of the square breathless with haste and with a great resolve. he was ill--and he was poor! the brave little soul of her leaped at once to action. he was sick, and far away; and poor they said. all danger and all difficulty faded to nothing before the vision of his need. bébée was only a little foundling who ran about in wooden shoes; but she had the "dog's soul" in her--the soul that will follow faithfully though to receive a curse, that will defend loyally though to meet a blow, and that will die mutely loving to the last. she went home, how she never knew; and without the delay of a moment packed up a change of linen, and fed the fowls and took the key of the hut down to old jehan's cabin. the old man was only half-witted by reason of his affliction for his dead daughter, but he was shrewd enough to understand what she wanted of him, and honest enough to do it. "i am going into the city," she said to him: "and if i am not back to-night, will you feed the starling and the hens, and water the flowers for me?" old jehan put his head out of his lattice: it was seven in the evening, and he was going to bed. "what are you after, little one?" he asked: going to show the fine buckles at a students' ball? nay, fie; that is not like you." "i am going to--pray--dear jehan," she answered, with a sob in her throat and the first falsehood she ever had told. "do what i ask you--do for your dead daughter's sake--or the birds and the flowers will die of hunger and thirst. take the key and promise me." he took the key, and promised. "do not let them see those buckles shine; they will rob you," he added. bébée ran from him fast; every moment that was lost was so precious and so terrible. to pause a second for fear's sake never occurred to her. she went forth as fearlessly as a young swallow, born in northern april days, flies forth on instinct to new lands and over unknown seas when autumn falls. necessity and action breathed new life into her. the hardy and brave peasant ways of her were awoke once more. she had been strong to wait silently with the young life in her dying out drop by drop in the heart-sickness of long delay. she was strong now to throw herself into strange countries and dim perils and immeasurable miseries, on the sole chance that she might be of service to him. a few human souls here and there can love like dogs. bébée's was one. chapter xxvii. it was dark. the may days are short in the north lands of the scheldt. she had her little winter cloak of frieze and her wooden shoes and her little white cap with the sunny curls rippling out of it in their pretty rebellion. she had her little lantern too; and her bundle, and she had put a few fresh eggs in her basket, with some sweet herbs and the palm-sheaf that father francis had blessed last easter; for who could tell, she thought, how ill he might not be, or how poor? she hardly gave a look to the hut as she ran by its garden gate; all her heart was on in front, in the vague far-off country where he lay sick unto death. she ran fast through the familiar lanes into the city. she was not very sure where paris was, but she had the name clear and firm, and she knew that people were always coming and going thence and thither, so that she had no fear she should not find it. she went straight to the big, busy, bewildering place in the leopold quarter where the iron horses fumed every day and night along the iron ways. she had never been there before, but she knew it was by that great highway that the traffic to paris was carried on, and she knew that it would carry people also as well. there were bells clanging, lights flashing, and crowds pushing and shouting, as she ran up--a little gray figure, with the lantern-spark glimmering like any tiny glow-worm astray in a gas-lit city. "to paris?" she asked, entreatingly, going where she saw others going, to a little grated wicket in a wall. "twenty-seven francs--quick!" they demanded of her. bébée gave a great cry, and stood still, trembling and trying not to sob aloud. she had never thought of money; she had forgotten that youth and strength and love and willing feet and piteous prayers,--all went for nothing as this world is made. a hope flashed on her and a glad thought. she loosed the silver buckles, and held them out. "would you take these? they are worth much more." there was a derisive laughter; some one bade her with an oath begone; rough shoulders jostled her away. she stretched her arms out piteously. "take me--oh, pray take me! i will go with the sheep, with the cattle--only, only take me!" but in the rush and roar none heeded her; some thief snatched the silver buckles from her hand, and made off with them and was lost in the throng; a great iron beast rushed by her, snorting flame and bellowing smoke; there was a roll like thunder, and all was dark; the night express had passed on its way to paris. bébée stood still, crushed for a moment with the noise and the cruelty and the sense of absolute desolation; she scarcely noticed that the buckles had been stolen; she had only one thought--to get to paris. "can i never go without money?" she asked at the wicket; the man there glanced a moment, with a touch of pity, at the little wistful face. "the least is twenty francs--surely you must know that?" he said, and shut his grating with a clang. bébée turned away and went out of the great cruel, tumultuous place; her heart ached and her brain was giddy, but the sturdy courage of her nature rose to need. "there is no way at all to go without money to paris, i suppose?" she asked of an old woman whom she knew a little, who sold nuts and little pictures of saints and wooden playthings under the trees, in the avenue hard by. the old woman shook her head. "eh?--no, dear. there is nothing to be done anywhere in the world without money. look, i cannot get a litre of nuts to sell unless i pay beforehand." "would it be far to walk?" "far! holy jesus! it is right away in the heart of france--over two hundred miles, they say; straight out through the forest. not but what my son did walk it once;--and he a shoemaker, who knows what walking costs; and he is well-to-do there now--not that he ever writes. when they want nothing people never write." "and he walked into paris?" "yes, ten years ago. he had nothing but a few sous and an ash stick, and he had a fancy to try his luck there. and after all our feet were given us to travel with. if you go there and you see him, tell him to send me something--i am tired of selling nuts." bébée said nothing, but went on her road; since there was no other way but to walk, she would take that way; the distance and the hardship did not appall two little feet that were used to traverse so many miles of sun-baked summer dust and of frozen winter mud unblenchingly year after year. the time it would take made her heart sink indeed. he was ill. god knew what might happen. but neither the length of leagues nor the fatigue of body daunted her. she only saw his eyes dim with pain and his lips burned with fever. she would walk twenty miles a day, and then, perhaps, she might get lifts here and there on hay wagons or in pedlers' carts; people had always used to be kind to her. anyhow she counted she might reach paris well in fifteen days. she sat under a shrine in a by street a moment, and counted the copper pieces she had on her; they were few, and the poor pretty buckles that she might have sold to get money were stolen. she had some twenty sous and a dozen eggs; she thought she might live on that; she had wanted to take the eggs to him, but after all, to keep life in her until she could reach paris was the one great thing. "what a blessing it is to have been born poor; and to have lived hardly--one wants so little!" she thought to herself. then she put up the sous in the linen bosom of her gown, and trimmed her little lantern and knelt down in the quiet darkness and prayed a moment, with the hot agonized tears rolling down her face, and then rose and stepped out bravely in the cool of the night, on the great southwest road towards paris. the thought never once crossed her to turn back, and go again into the shelter of her own little hut among the flowers. he was sick there, dying, for anything she knew; that was the only thing she remembered. it was a clear, starlit night, and everywhere the fragrance of the spring was borne in from the wide green plains, and the streams where the rushes were blowing. she walked ten miles easily, the beautiful gray shadow all about her. she had never been so far from home in all her life, except to that one kermesse at mechlin. but she was not afraid. with the movement, and the air, and the sense that she was going to him, which made her happy even in her misery, something of the old, sweet, lost fancies came to her. she smiled at the stars through her tears, and as the poplars swayed and murmured in the wind, they looked to her like the wings and the swords of a host of angels. her way lay out through the forest, and in that sweet green woodland she was not afraid--no more afraid than the fawns were. at boitsfort she shrank a little, indeed. here there were the open-air restaurants, and the café gardens all alight for the pleasure-seekers from the city; here there were music and laughter, and horses with brass bells, and bright colors on high in the wooden balconies, and below among the blossoming hawthorn hedges. she had to go through it all, and she shuddered a little as she ran, thinking of that one priceless, deathless forest day when he had kissed her first. but the pleasure-people were all busied with their mirth and mischief, and took no notice of the little gray figure in the starry night. she went on along the grassy roads, under the high arching trees, with the hoot of the owls and the cry of the rabbits on the stillness. at groenendael, in the heart of the forest midnight was striking as she entered the village. every one was asleep. the lights were all out the old ruined priory frowned dark under the clouds. she shivered a little again, and began to feel chill and tired, yet did not dare to knock at any one of the closed house doors--she had no money. so she walked on her first ten unknown miles, meeting a few people only, and being altogether unmolested--a small gray figure, trotting in two little wooden shoes. they thought her a peasant going to a fair or a lace mill, and no one did her more harm than to wish her good night in rough flemish. when the dawn began to whiten above the plains of the east, she saw an empty cow-shed filled with hay; she was a little tired, and lay down and rested an hour or two, as a young lamb might have lain on the dried clover, for she knew that she must keep her strength and husband her power, or never reach across the dreary length of the foreign land to paris. but by full sunrise she was on her way again, bathing her face in a brook and buying a sou's worth of bread and flet-milk at the first cottage that she passed in bright, leaf-bowered hoey-laert. the forest was still all around her, with its exquisite life of bough and blossom, and murmur of insect and of bird. she told her beads, praying as she went, and was almost happy. god would not let him die. oh, no, not till she had kissed him once more, and could die with him. the hares ran across the path, and the blue butterflies flew above-head. there was purple gloom of pine wood, and sparkling verdure of aspen and elm. there were distant church carillons ringing, and straight golden shafts of sunshine streaming. she was quite sure god would not let him die. she hoped that he might be very poor. at times he had talked as if he were, and then she might be of so much use. she knew how to deal with fever and suffering. she had sat up many a night with the children of the village. the gray sisters had taught her many of their ways of battling with disease; and she could make fresh cool drinks, and she could brew beautiful remedies from simple herbs. there was so much that she might do; her fancy played with it almost happily. and then, only to touch his hand, only to hear his voice; her heart rose at the thought, as a lark to its morning song. at rixensart, buried in its greenery, as she went through it in morning light, some peasants greeted her cheerily, and called to her to rest in a house porch, and gave her honey and bread. she could not eat much; her tongue was parched and her throat was dry, but the kindness was precious to her, and she went on her road the stronger for it. "it is a long way to walk to paris," said the woman, with some curious wonder. bébée smiled, though her eyes grew wet. "she has the look of the little gesù," said the rixensart people; and they watched her away with a vague timid pity. so she went on through ottignies and la roche to villers, and left the great woods and the city chimes behind her, and came through the green abbey valleys through tilly and ligny, and fleurus, and so into the coal and iron fields that lie round charleroi. here her heart grew sick, and her courage sank under the noise and the haste, before the blackness and the hideousness. she had never seen anything like it. she thought it was hell, with the naked, swearing, fighting people, and the red fires leaping night and day. nevertheless, if hell it were, since it lay betwixt her and him, she found force to brave and cross it. the miners and glass-blowers and nail-makers, rough and fierce and hard, frightened her. the women did not look like women, and the children ran and yelled at her, and set their dogs upon her. the soil was thick with dust like soot, and the trees were seared and brown. there was no peace in the place, and no loveliness. eighty thousand folks toiled together in the hopeless tophet, and swarmed, and struggled, and labored, and multiplied, in joyless and endless wrestling against hunger and death. she got through it somehow, hiding often from the ferocious youngsters, and going sleepless rather than lie in those dens of filth; but she seemed so many, many years older when charleroi lay at last behind her,--so many, many years older than when she had sat and spun in the garden at home. when she was once in the valley of the sambre she was more herself again, only she felt weaker than she had ever done, because she only dared to spend one of her sous each day, and one sou got so little food. in the woods and fields about alne she began to breathe again, like a bird loosed to the air after being shut in a wooden trap. green corn, green boughs, green turf, mellow chimes of church bells, humming of golden bees, cradle songs of women spinning, homely odors of little herb gardens and of orchard trees under cottage walls,--these had been around her all her life; she only breathed freely among them. she often felt tired, and her wooden shoes were wearing so thin that the hot dust of the road at noonday burnt her feet through them. sometimes, too, she felt a curious brief faintness, such as she had never known, for the lack of food and the long fatigue began to tell even on her hardy little body. but she went on bravely, rarely doing less than her twenty miles a day, and sometimes more, walking often in the night to save time, and lying down in cow-sheds or under haystacks in the noontide. for the most part people were kind to her; they saw she was so very young and so poor. women would give her leave to bathe herself in their bedchambers, and children would ask her to wait on the village bench under the chestnut-tree, while they brought her their pet lamb or their tumbler pigeons to look at, but, for the most part--unless she was very, very tired--she would not wait. it took her so long, and who could tell how it fared with him in paris? into the little churches, scattered over the wide countries between charleroi and erquelinnes, she would turn aside, indeed; but, then, that was only to say a prayer for him; that was not loss to him, but gain. so she walked on until she reached the frontier of france. she began to get a little giddy; she began to see the blue sky and the green level always swirling round her as if some one were spinning them to frighten her, but still she would not be afraid; she went on, and on, and on, till she set her last step on the soil of flanders. here a new, strange, terrible, incomprehensible obstacle opposed her: she had no papers; they thrust her back and spoke to her as if she were a criminal. she could not understand what they could mean. she had never heard of these laws and rules. she vaguely comprehended that she must not enter france, and stunned and heartbroken she dropped down under a tree, and for the first time sobbed as if her very life would weep itself away. she could see nothing, understand nothing. there were the same road, the same hedges, the same fields, the same white cottages, and peasants in blue shirts and dun-hued oxen in the wagons. she saw no mark, no difference, ere they told her where she stood was belgium, and where they stood was france, and that she must not pass from one into the other. the men took no notice of her. they went back into their guard-house, and smoked and drank. a cat sunned herself under a scarlet bean. the white clouds sailed on before a southerly sky. she might die here--he there--and nothing seemed to care. after a while an old hawker came up; he was travelling with wooden clocks from the black forest. he stopped and looked at her, and asked her what she ailed. she knelt down at his feet in the dust. "oh, help me!" she cried to him. "oh, pray, help me! i have walked all the way from brussels--that is my country--and now they will not let me pass that house where the soldiers are. they say i have no papers. what papers should i have? i do not know. when one has done no harm, and does not owe a sou anywhere, and has walked all the way--is it money that they want? i have none; and they stole my silver clasps in brussels; and if i do not get to paris i must die--die without seeing him again--ever again, dear god!" she dropped her head upon the dust and crouched and sobbed there, her courage broken by this new barrier that she had never dreamed would come between herself and paris. the old hawker looked at her thoughtfully. he had seen much of men and women, and knew truth from counterfeit, and he was moved by the child's agony. he stooped and whispered in her ear,-- "get up quick, and i will pass you. it is against the law, and i may go to prison for it. never mind; one must risk something in this world, or else be a cur. my daughter has stayed behind in marbais sweethearting; her name is on my passport, and her age and face will do for yours. get up and follow me close, and i will get you through. poor little soul! whatever your woe is it is real enough, and you are such a young and pretty thing. get up, the guards are in their house, they have not seen; follow me, and you must not speak a word; they must take you for a german, dumb as wood." she got up and obeyed him, not comprehending, but only vaguely seeing that he was friendly to her, and would pass her over into france. the old man made a little comedy at the barrier, and scolded her as though she were his daughter for losing her way as she came to meet him, and then crying like a baby. the guards looked at her carelessly, joked the hawker on her pretty face, looked the papers over, and let her through, believing her the child of the clock-maker of the hartz. some lies are blessed as truth. "i have done wrong in the law, but not before god, i think, little one," said the pedler. "nay, do not thank me, or go on like that; we are in sight of the customs men still, and if they suspected, it would be the four walls of a cell only that you and i should see to-night. and now tell me your story, poor maiden: why are you on foot through a strange country?" but bébée would not tell him her story: she was confused and dazed still. she did not know rightly what had happened to her; but she could not talk of herself, nor of why she travelled thus to paris. the old hawker got cross at her silence, and called her an unthankful jade, and wished that he had left her to her fate, and parted company with her at two cross-roads, saying his path did not lie with hers; and then when he had done that, was sorry, and being a tenderhearted soul, hobbled back, and would fain press a five-franc piece on her; and bébée, refusing it all the while, kissed his old brown hands and blessed him, and broke away from him, and so went on again solitary towards st. quentin. the country was very flat and poor, and yet the plains had a likeness in them to her own wide brabant downs, where the tall green wheat was blowing and the barges dropping down the sluggish streams. she was very footsore; very weary; very hungry so often; but she was in france--in his country; and her spirit rose with the sense of that nearness to him. after all, god was so good to her; there were fine bright days and nights; a few showers had fallen, but merely passing ones; the air was so cool and so balmy that it served her almost as food; and she seldom found people so unkind that they refused for her single little sou to give her a crust of bread and let her lie in an outhouse. after all, god was very good; and by the sixteenth or seventeenth day she would be in the city of paris. she was a little light-headed at times from insufficient nourishment: especially after waking from strange dreams in unfamiliar places; sometimes the soil felt tremulous under her, and the sky spun round; but she struggled against the feeling, and kept a brave heart, and tried to be afraid of nothing. sometimes at night she thought she saw old annémie. "but what if i do?" she said to herself; "annémie never will hurt me." and now, as she grew nearer her goal, her natural buoyancy of spirit returned as it had never done to her since the evening that he had kissed and left her. as her body grew lighter and more exhausted, her fancy grew keener and more dominant. all things of the earth and air spoke to her as she went along as they had used to do. all that she had learned from the books in the long cold months came to her clear and wonderful. she was not so very ignorant now--ignorant, indeed, beside him--but still knowing something that would make her able to read to him if he liked it, and to understand if he talked of grave things. she had no fixed thought of what she would be to him when she reached him. she fancied she would wait on him, and tend him, and make him well, and be caressed by him, and get all gracious pretty things of leaf and blossom about him, and kneel at his feet, and be quite happy if he only touched her now and then with his lips;--her thoughts went no further than that;--her love for him was of that intensity and absorption in which nothing but itself is remembered. when a creature loves much, even when it is as little and as simple a soul as bébée, the world and all its people and all its laws and ways are as naught. they cease to exist; they are as though they had never been. whoever recollects an outside world may play with passion, or may idle with sentiment, but does not love. she did not hear what the villagers said to her. she did not see the streets of the towns as she passed them. she kept herself clean always, and broke fast now and then by sheer instinct of habit, nothing more. she had no perception what she did, except of walking--walking--walking always, and seeing the white road go by like pale ribbons unrolled. she got a dreamy, intense, sleepless light in her blue eyes that frightened some of those she passed. they thought she had been fever-stricken, and was not in her senses. so she went across the dreary lowlands, wearing out her little sabots, but not wearing out her patience and her courage. she was very dusty and jaded. her woollen skirt was stained with weather and torn with briers. but she had managed always to wash her cap white in brook water, and she had managed always to keep her pretty bright curls soft and silken--for he had liked them so much, and he would soon draw them through his hand again. so she told herself a thousand times to give her strength when the mist would come over her sight, and the earth would seem to tremble as she went. on the fifteenth day from the night when she had left her hut by the swans' water, bébée saw paris. shining away in the sun; white and gold; among woods and gardens she saw paris. she was so tired--oh, so tired--but she could not rest now. there were bells ringing always in her ears, and a heavy pain always in her head. but what of that?--she was so near to him. "are you ill, you little thing?" a woman asked her who was gathering early cherries in the outskirts of the great city. bébée looked at her and smiled: "i do not know--i am happy." and she went onward. it was evening. the sun had set. she had not eaten for twenty-four hours. but she could not pause for anything now. she crossed the gleaming river, and she heard the cathedral chimes. paris in all its glory was about her, but she took no more note of it than a pigeon that flies through it intent on reaching home. no one looked at or stopped her; a little dusty peasant with a bundle on a stick over her shoulder. the click-clack of her wooden shoes on the hot pavements made none look up; little rustics came up every day like this to make their fortunes in paris. some grew into golden painted silken flowers, the convolvuli of their brief summer days; and some drifted into the seine water, rusted, wind-tossed, fallen leaves, that were wanted of no man. anyhow it was so common to see them, pretty but homely things, with their noisy shoes and their little all in a bundle, that no one even looked once at bébée. she was not bewildered. as she had gone through her own city, only thinking of the roses in her basket and of old annémie in her garret, so she went through paris, only thinking of him for whose sake she had come thither. now that she was really in his home she was happy,--happy though her head ached with that dull odd pain, and all the sunny glare went round and round like a great gilded humming-top, such as the babies clapped their hands at, at the kermesse. she was happy: she felt sure now that god would not let him die till she got to him. she was quite glad that he had left her all that long, terrible winter, for she had learned so much and was so much more fitted to be with him. weary as she was, and strange as the pain in her head made her feel, she was happy, very happy; a warm flush came on her little pale cheeks as she thought how soon he would kiss them, her whole body thrilled with the old sweet nameless joy that she had sickened for in vain so long. though she saw nothing else that was around her, she saw some little knots of moss-roses that a girl was selling on the quay, as she used to sell them in front of the maison du roi. she had only two sous left, but she stopped and bought two little rosebuds to take to him. he had used to care for them so much in the summer in brabant. the girl who sold them told her the way to the street he lived in; it was not very far of the quay. she seemed to float on air, to have wings like the swallows, to hear beautiful musk all around. she felt for her beads, and said aves of praise. god was so good. it was quite night when she reached the street, and sought the number of his house. she spoke his name softly, and trembling very much with joy, not with any fear, but it seemed to her too sacred a thing ever to utter aloud. an old man looked out of a den by the door, and told her to go straight up the stairs to the third floor, and then turn to the right. the old man chuckled as he glanced after her, and listened to the wooden shoes pattering wearily up the broad stone steps. bébée climbed them--ten, twenty, thirty, forty. "he must be very poor!" she thought, "to live so high"; and yet the place was wide and handsome, and had a look of riches. her heart beat so fast, she felt suffocated; her limbs shook, her eyes had a red blood-like mist floating before them; but she thanked god each step she climbed; a moment, and she would look upon the only face she loved. "he will be glad; oh, i am sure he will be glad!" she said to herself, as a fear that had never before come near her touched her for a moment--if he should not care? but even then, what did it matter? since he was ill she should be there to watch him night and day; and when he was well again, if he should wish her to go away--one could always die. "but he will be glad--oh, i know he will be glad!" she said to the rosebuds that she carried to him. "and if god will only let me save his life, what else do i want more?" his name was written on a door before her. the handle of a bell hung down; she pulled it timidly. the door unclosed; she saw no one, and went through. there were low lights burning. there were heavy scents that were strange to her. there was a fantastic gloom from old armor, and old weapons, and old pictures in the dull rich chambers. the sound of her wooden shoes was lost in the softness and thickness of the carpets. it was not the home of a poor man. a great terror froze her heart,--if she were not wanted here? she went quickly through three rooms, seeing no one and at the end of the third there were folding doors. "it is i--bébée." she said softly, as she pushed them gently apart; and she held out the two moss-rosebuds. then the words died on her lips, and a great horror froze her, still and silent, there. she saw the dusky room as in a dream. she saw him stretched on the bed, leaning on his elbow, laughing, and playing cards upon the lace coverlet. she saw women with loose shining hair and bare limbs, and rubies and diamonds glimmering red and white. she saw men lying about upon the couch, throwing dice and drinking and laughing one with another. beyond all she saw against the pillows of his bed a beautiful brown wicked looking thing like some velvet snake, who leaned over him as he threw down the painted cards upon the lace, and who had cast about his throat her curved bare arm with the great coils of dead gold all a-glitter on it. and above it all there were odors of wines and flowers, clouds of smoke, shouts of laughter, music of shrill gay voices. she stood like a frozen creature and saw--the rosebuds' in her hand. then with a great piercing cry she let the little roses fall, and turned and fled. at the sound he looked up and saw her, and shook his beautiful brown harlot off him with an oath. but bébée flew down through the empty chambers and the long stairway as a hare flies from the hounds; her tired feet never paused, her aching limbs never slackened; she ran on, and on, and on, into the lighted streets, into the fresh night air; on, and on, and on, straight to the river. from its brink some man's strength caught and held her. she struggled with it. "let me die! let me die!" she shrieked to him, and strained from him to get at the cool gray silent water that waited for her there. then she lost all consciousness, and saw the stars no more. when she came back to any sense of life, the stars were shining still, and the face of jeannot was bending over her, wet with tears. he had followed her to paris when they had missed her first, and had come straight by train to the city, making sure it was thither she had come, and there had sought her many days, watching for her by the house of flamen. she shuddered away from him as he held her, and looked at him with blank, tearless eyes. "do not touch me--take me home." that was all she ever said to him. she never asked him or told him anything. she never noticed that it was strange that he should have been here upon the river-bank. he let her be, and took her silently in the cool night back by the iron ways to brabant. chapter xxviii. she sat quite still and upright in the wagon with the dark lands rushing by her. she never spoke at all. she had a look that frightened him upon her face. when he tried to touch her hand, she shivered away from him. the charcoal-burner, hardy and strong among forest-reared men, cowered like a child in a corner, and covered his eyes and wept. so the night wore away. she had no perception of anything that happened to her until she was led through her own little garden in the early day, and her starling cried to her, "bonjour, bonjour!" even then she only looked about her in a bewildered way, and never spoke. were the sixteen days a dream? she did not know. the women whom jeannot summoned, his mother and sisters, and mère krebs, and one or two others, weeping for what had been the hardness of their hearts against her, undressed her, and laid her down on her little bed, and opened the shutters to the radiance of the sun. she let them do as they liked, only she seemed neither to hear nor speak, and she never spoke. all that jeannot could tell was that he had found her in paris, and had saved her from the river. the women were sorrowful, and reproached themselves. perhaps she had done wrong, but they had been harsh, and she was so young. the two little sabots with the holes worn through the soles touched them; and they blamed themselves for having shut their hearts and their doors against her as they saw the fixed blue eyes, without any light in them, and the pretty mouth closed close against either sob or smile. after all she was bébée--the little bright blithe thing that had danced with their children, and sung to their singing, and brought them always the first roses of the year. if she had been led astray, they should have been gentler with her. so they told themselves and each other. what had she seen in that terrible paris to change her like this?--they could not tell she never spoke. the cock crowed gayly to the sun. the lamb bleated in the meadow. the bees boomed among the pear-tree blossoms. the gray lavender blew in the open house door. the green leaves threw shifting shadows on the floor. all things were just the same as they had been the year before, when she had woke to the joy of being a girl of sixteen. but bébée now lay quite still and silent on her little bed; as quiet as the waxen gesù that they laid in the manger at the nativity. "if she would only speak!" the women and the children wailed, weeping sorely. but she never spoke; nor did she seem to know any one of them. not even the starling as he flew on her pillow and called her. "give her rest," they all said; and one by one moved away, being poor folk and hard working, and unable to lose a whole day. mère krebs stayed with her, and jeannot sat in the porch where her little spinning-wheel stood, and rocked himself to and fro; in vain agony, powerless. he had done all he could, and it was of no avail. then people who had loved her, hearing, came up the green lanes from the city--the cobbler and the tinman, and the old woman who sold saints' pictures by the broodhuis. the varnhart children hung about the garden wicket, frightened and sobbing. old jehan beat his knees with his hands, and said only over and over again, "another dead--another dead!--the red mill and i see them all dead!" the long golden day drifted away, and the swans swayed to and fro, and the willows grew silver in the sunshine. bébée, only, lay quite still and never spoke. the starling sat above her head; his wings drooped, and he was silent too. towards sunset bébée raised herself and called aloud: they ran to her. "get me a rosebud--one with the moss round it," she said to them. they went out into the garden, and brought her one wet with dew. she kissed it, and laid it in one of her little wooden shoes that stood upon the bed. "send them to him," she said wearily; "tell him i walked all the way." then her head drooped; then momentary consciousness died out: the old dull lifeless look crept over her face again like the shadow of death. the starling spread his broad black wings above her head. she lay quite still once more. the women left the rosebud in the wooden shoe, not knowing what she meant. night fell. mère krebs watched beside her. jeannot went down to the old church to beseech heaven with all his simple, ignorant, tortured soul. the villagers hovered about, talking in low sad voices, and wondering, and dropping one by one into their homes. they were sorry, very sorry; but what could they do? it was quite night. the lights were put out in the lane. jeannot, with father francis, prayed before the shrine of the seven sorrows. mère krebs slumbered in her rush-bottomed chair; she was old and worked hard. the starling was awake. bébée rose in her bed, and looked around, as she had done when she had asked for the moss-rosebud. a sense of unutterable universal pain ached over all her body. she did not see her little home, its four white walls, its lattice shining in the moon, its wooden bowls and plates, its oaken shelf and presses, its plain familiar things that once had been so dear,--she did not see them; she only saw the brown woman with her arm about his throat. she sat up in her bed and slipped her feet on to the floor; the pretty little rosy feet that he had used to want to clothe in silken stockings. poor little feet! she felt a curious compassion for them; they had served her so well, and they were so tired. she sat up a moment with that curious dull agony, aching everywhere in body and in brain. she kissed the rosebud once more and laid it gently down in the wooden shoe. she did not see anything that was around her. she felt a great dulness that closed in on her, a great weight that was like iron on her head. she thought she was in the strange, noisy, cruel city, with' the river close to her, and all her dead dreams drifting down it like murdered children, whilst that woman kissed him. she slipped her feet on to the floor, and rose and stood upright. there was a door open to the moonlight--the door where she had sat spinning and singing in a thousand happy days; the lavender blew; the tall, unbudded green lilies swayed in the wind; she looked at them, and knew none of them. the night air drifted through her linen dress, and played on her bare arms, and lifted the curls of her hair; the same air that had played with her so many times out of mind when she had been a little tottering thing that measured its height by the red rosebush. but it brought her no sense of where she was. all she saw was the woman who kissed him. there was the water beyond; the kindly calm water, all green with the moss and the nests of the ouzels and the boughs of the hazels and willows, where the swans were asleep in the reeds, and the broad lilies spread wide and cool. but she did not see any memory in it. she thought it was the cruel gray river in the strange white city: and she cried to it; and went out into the old familiar ways, and knew none of them; and ran feebly yet fleetly through the bushes and flowers, looking up once at the stars with a helpless broken blind look, like a thing that is dying. "he does not want me!" she said to them; "he does not want me!--other women kiss him there!" then with a low fluttering sound like a bird's when its wings are shot, and yet it tries to rise, she hovered a moment over the water, and stretched her arms out to it. "he does not want me!" she murmured; "he does not want me--and i am so tired. dear god!" then she crept down, as a weary child creeps to its mother, and threw herself forward, and let the green dark waters take her where they had found her amidst the lilies, a little laughing yearling thing. there she soon lay, quite quiet, with her face turned to the stars, and the starling poised above to watch her as she slept. she had been only bébée: the ways of god and man had been too hard for her. when the messengers of flamen came that day, they took him back a dead moss-rose and a pair of little wooden shoes worn through with walking. "one creature loved me once," he says to women who wonder why the wooden shoes are there. silverthorns by mrs molesworth illustrations by j. noel-paton published by hatchards, piccadilly, london. this edition dated . silverthorns, by mrs molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ silverthorns, by mrs molesworth. chapter one. charlotte and jerry. the school-room at number , norfolk terrace, was not, it must be confessed, a particularly attractive room. to begin with, it looked out upon the little garden at the back of the house, and this same little garden was not much to look out upon. the modest, old-fashioned name of "green" would have suited it better. some of the gardens of the neighbouring houses were really pretty and well cared for, but mrs waldron had long ago decided that to attempt making of "our garden" anything but a playground while the boys were still "such mere boys," so irrepressibly full of high spirits and mischief, would be but to add another and unnecessary care to the long list of household matters which she found already quite as much as she could manage. so the garden remained the green, and the school-room the plain, rather untidy-looking room it had always been. it was not really untidy--a radical foundation of order and arrangement was insisted upon. but any room which is the ordinary resort of four boys and a girl, not to speak of occasional inroads from two "nursery children," cannot be expected to look as if no one lived in it. "we are invisibly tidy," the waldron boys used to say with a certain pride. "we do know where our things are, and the cupboards and drawers are really not messy at all. but of course we can't rig boats, and oil skates, and paint, and carve, and all that, without the room showing it. not to speak of ted's stamp-album, and arthur's autographs, and _all_, our lessons at night." "yes, that's all very fine," charlotte would reply. "but if it wasn't for jerry and me i wonder how long you _would_ all know where your things were, and how long the cupboards and drawers would pass mamma's inspections!" whereupon would ensue a series of "of course, dear charlotte" cries, and "you are awfully good, we know" cries--for the three elder boys knew that it would be a very bad look-out indeed for them if their sister were to relax in her constant efforts in their behalf. "and really if it weren't for jerry, i don't think i _could_ keep on tidying for them so," charlotte would sometimes say. jerry was the youngest of the four big boys, in the middle of whom came charlotte. he was lame, poor fellow, and as a small child he had been very delicate. that happily to a great extent was past now, but the gentleness and quickness of perception which often accompany delicate health had remained. jerry was as good as a sister any day, charlotte used to declare, and yet not the least "soft" either; considering his lameness it was wonderful what jerry could do. there were two tiny sisters up in the nursery, babies that hardly counted as yet in the restless, busy group of older ones. but they added their share, no doubt, to all that had to be done and thought of, though charlotte often looked forward with prospective envy to the pleasant life that would be theirs when they came to her age. "you are pretty sure to be out in the world by then, jerry," she said to him one day, "and i, if i am not married, shall be quite an old maid--a sort of second mother to amy and marion. think how nice and quiet and regular the house will be! i do think a large family is dreadful." "but mamma says we don't know how dull it is to be an only child like she was," jerry objected. "_as_ she was--do talk grammar," said charlotte. "i don't care--i should have liked to be an only child--or perhaps to have had just one brother like you, jerry. just _think_ what a nice life we would have had! but i mustn't talk any more. i _must_ copy out my literature notes. when i have finished them, jerry, i will tell you something if you remind me." the two had the school-room to themselves for once, which was the more remarkable as it was saturday afternoon, and not a summer saturday afternoon, nor yet a mid-winter frosty day, when arthur, ted, and noble would have been safe to be off skating. it was a late september afternoon, dull and gloomy and already chilly. the rain had held off, however, fortunately, for the elder boys had for some days been planning a long country walk, to finish up with tea at the house of a schoolfellow, who lived a couple of miles out of the town. "what a dreary day it is!" charlotte began again, looking up from her notes. "i wish we might have a fire," and she shivered a little. "i dare say we might," said jerry, starting up. "shall i ask mamma?" "no," charlotte decided. "we shall be in the drawing-room all the evening. i've nearly done. i know mamma is glad not to give the servants anything extra to do on saturdays. and they haven't got into the way of regular winter fires yet. i wonder if it isn't any brighter out in the country to-day than it is here." "hardly, i should say," jerry answered, as he glanced out of the window. "still it would be _nicer_ than here. i wish we had a pony-carriage, charlotte--think what jolly drives we might have. those woods out gretham way where the boys have gone must be nice even to-day," and jerry gave a little sigh. he could not walk far, and wortherham, though not a very large town, was partly a manufacturing one, and large enough therefore to be somewhat grim and smoky, and to make one long for the freshness and clearness of country air. "i wish you would not say that," said charlotte, giving herself a little shake. "it makes me feel as if everything was all wrong for you not to have all you want, jerry." "nobody has, i suppose," said the boy. "i don't know about that," charlotte replied. "but that reminds me. jerry, you know that beautiful place out beyond gretham. the place papa drove us out to once--he had some business there, i think." "silverthorns?" said jerry. "oh yes, i remember it. it is the prettiest place in the world, i think." "so do i," agreed charlotte with conviction. "well, do you know, jerry, the lady it belongs to--lady mildred something--i forget her last name-- came the other day to see miss lloyd. i didn't see her, but the french teacher told us. she came to settle about a girl coming to miss lloyd's for classes, the way we all do, only i don't know if she's to come every day. miss lloyd was awfully pleased, i believe, for lady mildred said she had heard the teaching so highly spoken of, and that she wouldn't have sent the girl to a regular _school_. you know miss lloyd prides herself on hers not being a school, and it is true, everybody agrees, that we are thoroughly well taught." "and who is the girl?" asked jerry. "i don't know her name, but she's lady mildred's niece. and somebody-- oh yes, it was the lewises, the doctor's daughters--said that lady mildred has adopted her, so that she is a tremendous heiress. and besides this she's exceedingly pretty and charming. dr lewis saw her one day that he went to see lady mildred, and he quite raved about her, the girls said. just fancy, jerry, young--just about sixteen, and so pretty and so rich and so _grand_--can you believe _she_ hasn't got all she wants!" "i don't know," jerry replied philosophically. "you'd better ask her. perhaps she's an orphan," he added. "ah, well, perhaps she is. that would be sad, of course; but if her father and mother died, as very likely they did, when she was quite little--a baby perhaps, and she can't remember them, that would be different. and very likely lady mildred is just like a mother to her. jerry, i _wish_ she weren't coming to our classes. i wouldn't say so to any one else, but i have a presentiment i shall _hate_ her." "charlotte!" jerry ejaculated, surprised and even a little shocked. but charlotte's face half-belied her words. she was already laughing a little, though she reddened too, slightly, as she felt her brother's soft blue eyes fixed upon her. "i shouldn't say it, i know," she said, shaking back the thick dark hair that she still wore loose on her shoulders. "but you might understand. we are all very comfortable at miss lloyd's, and i don't want any one to come and spoil it--an outsider, as it were, for the rest of us have been there so long, and she is too old to be in any but the highest class." "unless she's very stupid for her age," suggested jerry. "very likely she is--perhaps that's the thing she hasn't got, charlotte. cleverness, i mean. and i'm sure," he went on with brotherly frankness, "you wouldn't give up being clever for the sake of being pretty--now, would you?" charlotte laughed. "surely i'm not so ugly as all that," she said. "do you really think i am, jerry?" she lifted her face and looked across the table at the boy. ugly she certainly was not, but though her features were good, her complexion was some degrees browner than "by rights" it should have been to match the very blue eyes common to all the waldrons. and her hair was short as well as thick and curly, and in consequence rather unmanageable. but it was a bright and kindly and pleasant face, and jerry felt vaguely as he looked at it that there were things, even in faces, better than strict beauty. "i don't know," he said bluntly. "your face is you, and so i like it. i don't want it changed, except that in a bit, i suppose, you'll have to do your hair up somehow." "yes, i suppose i shall," replied charlotte, glancing sideways and somewhat ruefully at the dark brown curly locks in question; "but how i shall do it, i'm sure i can't tell. i wonder if i should begin to try soon. i think i'll ask mamma. i wonder how she did hers when she was my age--but hers could never have been difficult to do. it's so beautifully soft and never gets in a mess." "no--i couldn't fancy anything to do with mamma in a mess," said jerry. "you'll never be anything like as pretty as her, charlotte." "you don't suppose i ever thought i should, you stupid boy," retorted his sister indignantly. "i notice that people generally like to make out that children never are as pretty or as good or as something as their parents, and very often i dare say it's rubbish. but in _our_ case any one with half an eye can see how lovely mamma is. i doubt if even marion will be anything to compare with her, though she is a very pretty little girl." jerry grunted approval and agreement. he had got to a very delicate point in his occupation, which was that of taking out some stamps which ted in a hurry had gummed into a wrong place in his album. all such difficult operations, settings right of other people's puttings wrong, were sure to fall to jerry--his thin dexterous fingers seemed to have a genius for work that baffled every one else. charlotte went on with her writing, and for a few minutes there was silence in the room. suddenly she looked up again. "jerry," she said, "i'm so glad you think that that girl is sure to be stupid." "wait a minute," said jerry, whose mouth was again screwed up in absorbed anxiety. "there now," he exclaimed, "i've got it off without the least scrap tearing. i'm sure ted should be very much obliged to me. what were you saying, charlotte? i never said i was sure--only that _perhaps_ she would be." "no, no, you said more than that. if you didn't say you were sure, you said `very likely.' that's more than `perhaps,'" persisted charlotte. "well, i _hope_ she is, for then i may be able to like her. if not--but i really think she _must_ be, if not stupid, at least not clever. it wouldn't be fair for her to have everything," she went on, reverting to the old grievance. "nobody has, people say." but jerry's sympathy on the subject was rather exhausted. "i wish you'd leave off thinking about her," he said. "you'll work yourself up to fancying all sorts of things, and making yourself dislike a person that perhaps you'll never see. possibly she won't come after all." charlotte sighed. "i dare say you're right," she said. "it's only that i tell you everything, you see, jerry." "hadn't you better tell mamma about it?" he said. "she generally finds out what gives one wrong sorts of feelings. she's put me to rights lots of times when i'd got horrid about--" and he hesitated. "about what, jerry dear?" in his turn jerry's face flushed. "about being lame," he said. "you know we did hope for a good while that it was going to get almost quite well, so that it would hardly be noticed. but there's no chance of that now. i shall always be pretty much the same. and it did make me feel as if everything was wrong for a while." "dear jerry," said charlotte. "and you are so good about it. nobody would know you minded." "it's a good deal with getting into the way of not thinking about it," said jerry. "it's no use trying not to think of a thing unless you put something else into your head to fill up the place. the trying not _is_ thinking of it, you see. but mamma taught me what a good plan it was, when i found i was going on thinking of a trouble that _had_ to be, to look out for some trouble that didn't _need_ to be, and to try to put it right. and you wouldn't believe, unless you get in the way of it, what lots of those there are that you can at least _help_ to put right." charlotte looked a good deal impressed. it was not often that jerry said so much. "yes," she agreed, "i can fancy it would be a very good plan. but, you see, jerry, i've very seldom had anything that it was better not to think of. perhaps it is that my head has been so full of lessons, and the lots of things that are nice to think of." "well," said jerry, "you can go on keeping your head full of sensible things instead of fussing about a stupid girl you've never seen!" his calm philosophy made charlotte laugh. "i'm sure i don't want to think about her," she said, as she jumped up and began to put away her books. "what are you going to do now, jerry? i'm sure you've been long enough over arthur's stamps. when one has a holiday, i think one should have some of it at least to oneself." "will you play with me, then?" said jerry. "i really like that better than anything, only it isn't much fun for you." for jerry was doing his best to learn the violin. he really loved music, and had already mastered the first difficulties, though his teaching had been but some irregular lessons from a friend who had also lent him his fiddle. and charlotte, who played the piano well, though with less natural taste for music than her brother, could not please him better than by accompanying him. it called for some patience, no doubt, but harder things would have seemed easy to the girl for jerry's sake. so the two spent the rest of the dull autumn afternoon happily and contentedly, though the old school-room piano had long ago seen its best days, and the sounds that jerry extracted from his violin were not always those of the most harmonious sweetness. at six o'clock charlotte started up. "there is the first dinner-bell," she said. "we must get dressed at once, jerry. there is to be no school-room tea to-night, for mamma said it wasn't worth while, as noble was out. you and i are to dine with her and papa, and dinner is to be half-an-hour earlier than usual." "where are the boys?" asked mr waldron, putting his head in at the door at that moment. "all out, papa, except me," jerry replied. "and we two are to dine with you and mamma instead of arthur and ted," added charlotte. "all right, my dear, but don't keep us waiting. i have to go out immediately after dinner," her father replied. "how tiresome it must be for papa to be sent for like that!" said charlotte. "i think a lawyer--at least a lawyer in a little town like wortherham--is almost as badly off as a doctor. i suppose some old gentleman fancies he's going to die, and has sent for papa to make his will." "very likely nothing half so important," jerry replied. "i wish arthur or ted were back," said mr waldron at dinner. "one of them might have driven me out to--" but before he said more, jerry interrupted him. "papa, mightn't i?" he exclaimed. "i really can drive--at least i am sure i could drive old dolly." his father looked at him doubtfully. "it isn't really the driving so much as the waiting for me. i don't like to take sam out on saturday evening--he makes it an excuse for not getting things tidied up. but i hardly like to take you alone, gervais, my boy; you see if any little thing went wrong while you were waiting for me--it isn't as if you could jump down quickly." jerry's face sobered down, but he said nothing. "papa," exclaimed charlotte eagerly, "i'll tell you what. take me too-- we can all three pack in the dog-cart--you'll see, and then if any one had to jump down, i could. it would be such fun, and jerry hasn't been out all the afternoon. mamma, do say we may." mamma smiled. her impulse was always on the side of "you may"--perhaps almost too much so. "are you going far, edward?" she asked her husband. "out beyond gretham--as far as--silverthorns," he replied, with the slightest possible, not so much hesitation as slackening of speech before the last word. "i have no objection--none whatever," he went on, speaking quickly, "to the children coming with me, if you think it can't hurt them." "i should so like to go. i haven't been so far as silverthorns for-- ages," said charlotte eagerly still. her father glanced at her with a half-question in his eyes. "it is not a particularly pretty road," he said; "besides it is dark already; one road is as pleasant as another in the dark." "the house at silverthorns must look lovely in the moonlight," charlotte replied. "and there will be a moon to-night," added jerry. "if it isn't overclouded," said mr waldron. "ah, well, if mamma says you may, it will be all right, i suppose." "you will not be kept there long?" asked mrs waldron. "a quarter of an hour at most," her husband replied. "it is nothing of any importance--merely some little difficulty with one of the leases, which lady mildred osbert wants to speak to me about. had it been anything of consequence she would have telegraphed for the london men--i have never anything to do with the important business there, you know," he added, with an almost imperceptible shade of bitterness. "then i think it very inconsiderate to expect you to go all that way late on a saturday evening," said mrs waldron. the colour rose in her cheeks as she spoke, and jerry thought to himself how pretty mamma looked when she was a very little angry. "that was my own doing. lady mildred gave me my choice of to-day or monday morning. she is going away on monday afternoon for a few days. i preferred this evening. monday will be a very busy day." he rose from the table as he spoke. "get ready, children," he said. "i give you ten minutes, not more. and wrap up well." chapter two. in the moonlight. it was almost quite dark when mr waldron's dog-cart with its three occupants started on the four miles' drive. "i don't know about your moon, jerry," said his father. "i'm afraid we shall not see much of her to-night. it is still so cloudy." "but they seem to be little flying clouds, not heavy rain bags," said charlotte. "and there _is_ the moon, papa." "it's almost full," added jerry. "i believe it's going to be a beautiful night. look, charlotte, isn't it interesting to watch her fighting her way through the clouds?" she had fought to some purpose by the time they reached gretham, the village on the other side of which lay lady mildred osbert's house. for when they entered the silverthorns avenue the cold radiance, broken though not dimmed by the feathery shadows of the restless, rushing cloudlets, lighted up the trees on each side and the wide gravel drive before them, giving to all the strange unreal look which the most commonplace objects seem to assume in bright moonlight. mr waldron drove slowly, and at a turn which brought them somewhat suddenly into full view of the house itself he all but pulled up. "there, children," he said, "you have your wish. there is silverthorns in full moonlight." his voice softened a little as he spoke, and something in it made an unexpected suggestion to gervais. "papa," he said, "you speak as if you were thinking of long ago. did you ever see silverthorns like that before--in the moonlight, just as it is now?" "yes," his father replied. "i had almost forgotten it, i think. i remember standing here one night, when i was quite a little fellow, with my grandmother, and seeing it just like this." "how curious!" said charlotte. "but i don't wonder it has come back to your mind now. it is so beautiful." she gave a deep breath of satisfaction. she was right. the old house looked wonderfully fine. it was of the quaintly irregular architecture of some so-called "elizabethan" mansions, though in point of fact some part of it was nearly two hundred years older than the rest, and the later additions were, to say the least, incongruous. but the last owner's predecessor had been a man of taste and intelligence, and by some apparently small alterations--a window here, a porchway there--had done much to weld the different parts into a very pleasing if not strictly correct whole. ivy, too, grew thickly over one end of the building, veiling with its kindly green shadow what had once been an unsightly disproportion of wall; the windows were all latticed, and a broad terrace walk ran round three sides of the house, while here and there on the smooth, close-cut lawn just below stood out, dark and stiff, grotesquely-cut shrubs which had each had its own special designation handed down from one generation to another. "see," said mr waldron, pointing to these with his whip, as he walked old dolly slowly on towards the front entrance, "there are the peacocks, one on each side, and the man-of-war at the corner, and--i forget what they are all supposed to represent. they look rather eerie, don't they?--so black and fierce; the moonlight exaggerates their queer shapes. but it is lovely up there on the windows--each little pane is like a separate jewel." "yes," repeated the children, "it is lovely." "we always say," charlotte added, "that silverthorns is like an old fairy castle. it must be one of the most beautiful houses in the world!--don't you think so yourself, papa? what would it be to live in a house like that! just fancy it, jerry!" but by this time mr waldron had got down, and throwing the reins to jerry, was ringing. he was not kept long waiting; the door flew open, and a flood of light--lamplight and firelight mingled, for there was a vision of blazing logs on an open hearth in the hall!--poured out, looking cheery enough certainly, though coarse and matter-of-fact in comparison with the delicate radiance outside. "her ladyship? yes, sir--mr waldron, i believe? yes, her ladyship is expecting you," said a very irreproachable sort of person in black, who came forward as soon as the footman had opened. he was busy washing his hands with invisible soap while he spoke, and as he caught sight of the dog-cart and its occupants, he made some further observation which charlotte and jerry did not distinctly catch. but their father's clear decided tones rang back sharply in answer: "no, no--no need to put up. my son will wait for me. it is all right." apparently, however, the butler, or major-domo, or whoever he was, had some twinges on the score of hospitality, for the door, already closed, was re-opened, and the footman looked out. "mr bright says, sir," he said, addressing jerry in the first place, then stammering somewhat as he caught sight of charlotte; "i beg your pardon, miss, he says as i'm to leave the door a little open, and if you find it too cold, i'll be here in the 'all, and 'appy to call some one, sir, to 'old the 'orse." "thank you, it's all right," said jerry, well knowing that neither he nor charlotte would have ventured to enter without their father's permission and protection, even if the proverbial cats and dogs had suddenly begun to fall from the sky. "who's mr bright, do you think, jerry?" charlotte whispered. "that fellow in black--the butler, i suppose," jerry replied. "don't you wonder papa ventured to speak so sharply to him?" charlotte went on. "oh, jerry! it must be awfully grand in there. i do wish they had left the door a little more ajar. we might perhaps have caught sight of _her_--she might have happened to be crossing the hall, the sort of way one always reads of in storybooks, you know." "her?--who?" said jerry, in bewilderment. "lady mildred, do you mean?" "lady mildred," charlotte repeated. "of course not. you can't have forgotten--the girl i mean, the girl who has come to live with lady mildred, and who's coming to miss lloyd's." "oh," said jerry, "i had forgotten all about her." "how could you?" charlotte exclaimed. "i have been thinking about her all the time. it was so queer that just after hearing about her, and speaking about her, it should happen for us to come out here, where we hadn't been for so long. i began thinking of it at dinner, immediately papa said he was going to silverthorns." "i wonder you didn't tell mamma about her," said jerry. "i shall afterwards, but i was thinking over what you said. i want to get my mind straight about her, and then i'll tell mamma. but do you know, jerry, i think i feel worse about her since coming here. it does not seem fair that one person should have everything. just think what it must be to live here, and have all those grand servants waiting on her, and--" "i shouldn't much care about that part of it," interrupted jerry, "and i don't think you would either, charlotte. you'd be frightened of them. you said just now you wondered papa dared speak so sharply to that undertaker-looking fellow." "ah, yes, but then he's not _his_ servant. one would never be frightened of one's own servants, however grand they were," said charlotte innocently. "besides, even if one was a little, just at the beginning, one would soon get accustomed to them. jerry, i wonder which is _her_ room. there must be a lovely room at that corner, in that sort of tower, where the roof goes up to a point--do you see? i dare say her room is there. the french governess said that miss lloyd said that evidently lady mildred makes a tremendous pet of her, and doesn't think anything too good for her." jerry was getting rather tired of the nameless heroine. his eyes went roaming round the long irregular pile of building. "i wonder," he said, "if there's a haunted room at silverthorns. doesn't it look as if there should be?" the wind was getting up a little by now; just as he spoke there came a gusty wail from the trees on one side, dying away into a flutter and quiver among the leaves. it sounded like an answer to his words. charlotte gave a little start and then pressed closer to her brother, half laughing as she did so. "oh, jerry," she said, "you make me feel quite creepy. i shouldn't like to hear the wind like that at night. i certainly don't envy the girl if there is a haunted room and she has to sleep anywhere near it." "there now--you have found out one thing you don't envy her for," said jerry, triumphantly. "but the door's opening, charlotte. there's papa." papa it was, accompanied to the steps by the amiable mr bright, who seemed really distressed at not having been allowed to make himself of any use. for mr waldron cut him short in the middle of some elaborate sentences by a civil but rather abrupt "thank you--exactly so. good evening," and in another moment he was up in his place, and had taken the reins from jerry's hands. "you're not cold, i hope," he said. "dolly all right, eh? well, gipsy"--his pet name for charlotte--"you've had enough of silverthorns by moonlight, i suppose?" charlotte gave a little sigh. "it was very nice," she said. "i wish it were ours, papa." "my dear child," he exclaimed in surprise. "i do, papa. i think it would be delightful to be as rich as--as that. i just don't believe people who pretend that being rich and having lovely houses and things like that is all no good." mr waldron hesitated. he understood her, though she expressed herself so incoherently. "my dear child," he said again, "if it were not natural to wish for such things, there would be no credit in being contented without them. only remember that they are not the best things. and if it is any comfort to you, take my word for it that the actual having them gives less than you would believe, when you picture it in all the glow of your imagination." "still," said charlotte, "i think one might be awfully good, as well as happy, if one were as rich and all that as lady mildred. think what lots of kind things one might do for other people--i wonder if she does--do you think she does, papa?" "i believe she does some kind things," said mr waldron; "but i scarcely know her. as a rule rich people do _not_ think very much about doing things for others, charlotte. i don't say that they mean to be selfish or unkind, but very often it does not occur to them. they don't realise how much others have to go without. i think it would be terrible to be thus shut off from real sympathy with the mass of one's fellows, even though i don't altogether blame the rich for it. but this is one among several reasons why i am not sorry not to be rich." "but, papa--" charlotte began. "well, my dear?" "if--if rich people aren't good--if they are selfish without its being altogether their fault as you say, doesn't it seem unfair on them? wouldn't it be better if there were no rich people--fairer for all?" mr waldron gave a little laugh. "you are treading on difficult ground, gipsy. many things would be better if many other things did not exist at all. but then this world would no longer be this world! as long as it exists, as long as we come into it human beings and not angels, there will be rich and poor. why, if we were all started equally to-morrow, the differences would be there again in a month! i give arthur and ted exactly the same allowance, but at this moment arthur has some pounds in the savings' bank, and ted not only is penniless, but probably owes all round." "he borrowed threepence from me this afternoon," said jerry laughing. "just so. no--it has been tried many times, and will be tried as many more perhaps, but with the same result. i don't say that the _tremendous_ disproportions that one sees might not be equalised a little without injustice. but i don't want to give you a lecture on political economy. only don't mistake me. all i mean is, that in some ways the narrow road is harder for rich people than for others. but when they do walk in it, they are not seldom the best men and women this world knows. still you can perhaps understand my meaning when i say that the possession of great riches would make me afraid." "thank you, papa," said charlotte. "i think i do understand a little. i never thought of it like that before." she was silent for a few minutes; then with the pertinacity of her age she returned to the subject with which her thoughts were really the most occupied. "i don't fancy somehow that lady mildred osbert is one of the _best_ rich people. is she, papa? you don't speak as if you liked her very much?" "i don't think one is justified in either liking or disliking `very much' any person whom one scarcely knows," mr waldron replied. "i have told you that i believe she does kind things. i believe she has done one lately. but if you ask me if i think--she is an old woman now--she is the sort of woman your mother would have been in the same circumstances, well no--certainly i don't." and mr waldron laughed, a happy genial little laugh this time. "that's hardly fair upon lady mildred, papa," said jerry. "we all know that there never _could_ be any woman as good as mamma." "my dear boy, what would mamma say if she heard you?" "oh, she'd quote some proverb about people thinking their own geese swans, or something like that, of course," said jerry unmoved. "that's because she's so truly modest. and if she wasn't truly modest she wouldn't be so good, and then--and then--she wouldn't be herself. but i agree with you, papa," he went on in his funny, old-fashioned way, "it is a good thing mamma isn't rich. she'd worry--my goodness, wouldn't she just!--she'd worry herself and all of us to death for fear she wasn't doing enough for other people." "that would certainly not be charity beginning at home, eh, jerry?" said his father, laughing outright this time. "papa," said charlotte, "what is the kind thing lady mildred has done lately? is it about--the girl?" "what girl?--what do you know about it?" said mr waldron, rather sharply. but charlotte was not easily disconcerted, especially when very much in earnest. "a girl she has adopted. they say she is going to leave this girl all her money, so she--the girl--will be a great heiress. and she is awfully pretty, and--and--just everything. i heard all about it this morning at school," and charlotte went on to give her father the details she had learnt through the french governess's gossip. "she is to drive herself in every morning in her pony-carriage, except if it rains, and then she is to be sent and fetched in the brougham. fancy her having a pony-carriage all of her own!" mr waldron listened without interrupting her. he understood better than before his little daughter's sudden curiosity about silverthorns and lady mildred, and her incipient discontent. but all he said was: "ah, well, poor child! it is to be hoped she will be happy there." "papa, can you doubt it?" exclaimed charlotte. "papa isn't at all sure if lady mildred will be very good to her, whether she makes her her heiress or not," said jerry bluntly. "i don't say that, jerry," said his father. "i don't know lady mildred well enough to judge. i said, on the contrary, i had known of her doing kind things, which is true." "papa only said lady mildred wasn't a woman like mamma," said charlotte. "she might well not be _that_, and yet be very good and kind. of course we are more lucky than any children in having mamma, but still if one has everything else--" "one could do without a good mother? nay, my gipsy, i can't--" "papa, papa, i don't mean that--you know i don't," exclaimed charlotte, almost in tears. "no, i know you don't really. but even putting mamma out of the question, i doubt if lady mildred--however, it is not our place to pass judgment." suddenly charlotte gave a little scream. "jerry, don't. how can you, jerry?" "what's the matter?" asked mr waldron. "he pinched me, papa, quite sharply, under my cloak," said charlotte, a little ashamed of her excitement. "jerry, how can you be so babyish?" "i didn't mean to hurt you," said jerry penitently. "it was only--when papa said that--i thought--there's another thing." "has the moonlight affected your brain, jerry?" asked his father. "no, papa; charlotte understands. i thought perhaps she'd rather i didn't say it right out. it makes three things, you see--being stupid-- and _perhaps_ the haunted room and lady mildred being horrid to her. you see, charlotte?" but mr waldron's face--what they could see of it, that is to say, for the clouds seemed to be reassembling in obedience to some invisible summons, and a thick dark one, just at that moment, was beginning to veil the moon's fair disc--expressed unmitigated bewilderment. "he means what we were talking about this afternoon, papa. jerry, you are too silly to tell it in that muddled way," said charlotte, laughing in spite of her irritation. "i said it seemed as if that girl had _everything_, and jerry thinks nobody has. he said perhaps she's not very clever, and it's true one _kind_ of pretty people are generally rather dull; and perhaps there's a haunted room at silverthorns, and she may be frightened at night; and now he means that perhaps lady mildred isn't really very kind. but they're all perhapses." "one isn't," said mr waldron. "there is a haunted room at silverthorns--that, i have always known. if the poor girl is nervous, let us hope she doesn't sleep near it! as to her being `dull'--no, i doubt it. she hasn't the kind of large, heavy, striking beauty which goes with dullness." "papa, you have seen her," exclaimed charlotte in great excitement. "and you didn't tell us." "you didn't give me time, truly and really, charlotte." "and what is she like? oh, papa, do tell me." "i only saw her for an instant. her aunt sent her out of the room. she did seem to me very pretty, slight, and not _very_ tall, with a face whose actual beauty was thrown into the shade by its extremely winning and bright and varying expression. all that, i saw, but that was all." "is she fair or dark?" asked charlotte. "you must have seen that." "fair, of course. you know my beauties are always fair. that is why i am so disappointed in you, poor gipsy," said mr waldron teasingly. but charlotte did not laugh as she would usually have done. "charlotte," said jerry reprovingly, "of course papa's in fun. mamma is darker than you." "i don't need you to tell me that papa's in fun," said charlotte snappishly. "besides, mamma isn't dark, except her hair and eyes--her skin is lovelily white. there's nothing fair about me, except my stupid light-blue eyes." "my blue-eyed gipsy," said her father, using a pet name that had been hers as a baby. "dear papa," said charlotte; and the sharpness had all gone out of her voice. they were almost at home by now. there had not been much temptation to look about them in returning, for the clouds were getting the best of it, and the moon had taken offence and was hiding her face. "my little girl," whispered her father, as he lifted her down, "beware of the first peep through the green-coloured spectacles." "papa!" said charlotte, half reproachfully. but i think she understood. "jerry," she said, as her brother and she stood waiting at the door, their father having driven round to the stables, "just compare this door, this house, with silverthorns." "what's the good?" said jerry. chapter three. a family party. a hearty but somewhat unnecessarily noisy welcome awaited them. arthur, ted, and noble were all in the drawing-room with their mother. she had insisted on the muddy boots being discarded, but beyond this, as the boys were tired, and it was late when they came in, she had not held out; and charlotte glanced at the rough coats and lounging-about attitudes with a feeling of annoyance, which it was well "the boys" did not see. "mamma" herself was always a pleasant object to look upon, even in her old black grenadine; _she_, thought charlotte, with a throb of pride, could not seem out of place in the most beautiful of the silverthorns' drawing-rooms. but the boys--how can they be so rough and messy? thought the fastidious little sister. "it is all with being poor--all," she said to herself. but she felt ashamed when arthur drew forward the most comfortable chair for her to the fire, and ted offered to carry her hat and jacket up-stairs for her. "no, thank you," she said. "i'll run up-stairs, and be down again in a minute. it's messy to take one's things off in the drawing-room," and so saying, she jumped up and ran away. "what a fuss charlotte always makes about being messy, as she calls it," said ted. "she's a regular old maid." "come, ted, that's not fair. it's not only for herself charlotte's tidy!" arthur exclaimed. "no, indeed," said noble, chiming in. "you needn't all set upon me like that," said ted. "i'm sure i always thank her when she tidies my things. i can't be tidy, and that's just all about it. when a fellow's grinding at lessons from monday morning till saturday night." this piteous statement was received with a shout of laughter, ted's "lessons" being a proverb in the house, as it was well known that they received but the tag end of the attention naturally required for football, and cricket, and swimming, and stamp-collecting, and carpentering, and all his other multifarious occupations. mrs waldron, scenting squabbles ahead, came to the rescue. "tell us your adventures, jerry. is it a fine evening? where is your father?" "he'll be in in a moment," jerry replied. "he went round to the stables; i think he had something to say to sam. yes, mamma, we had a very nice drive. it was beautiful moonlight out at silverthorns, but coming back it clouded over." "silverthorns!" noble repeated. "have you been out there too? why, we've all been there--how funny! i thought mamma said you had gone to gretham. i say, isn't silverthorns awfully pretty?" as he said the words the door opened, and charlotte and her father came in together. they had met in the hall. mr waldron answered noble's question, which had indeed been addressed to no one in particular. "it is a beautiful old place," he said. "but `east or west, home is best.' i like to come in and see you all together with your mother, boys. and what a capital fire you've made up!" he went towards it as he spoke, charlotte half mechanically following him. "it is chilly out of doors. gipsy, your hands are quite cold." he drew her close to the fire and laid one arm on her shoulder. she understood the little caress, but some undefined feeling of contradiction prevented her responding to it. "i'm not particularly cold, papa, thank you," she said drily. mrs waldron looked up quietly at the sound of charlotte's voice. she knew instinctively that all was not in tune, but she also knew it would not do to draw attention to this, and she was on the point of hazarding some other remark when jerry broke in. jerry somehow always seemed to know what other people were feeling. "papa," he said, "were you in earnest when you said there was a haunted room at silverthorns?" every one pricked up his or her ears at this question. "i was in earnest so far that i know there is a room there that is said to be haunted," he replied. "and how?" asked charlotte. "if any one slept there would they be found dead in the morning, or something dreadful like that?" "no, no, not so bad as that, though no one ever does sleep there. it's an old story in the family. i heard it when i was a boy." "don't you think it's very wrong to tell stories like that to frighten children?" said charlotte severely. "and pray who's begging for it at the present moment?" said mr waldron, amused at her tone. "papa! we're not children. it isn't like as if it were amy and marion," she said, laughing a little. "do tell us." "really, my dear, there's nothing to tell. it is believed that some long ago osbert, a selfish and cruel man by all accounts, haunts the room in hopes of getting some one to listen to his repentance, and to promise to make amends for his ill-deeds. he treated the poor people about very harshly; and not them only, he was very unkind to his daughter, because he was angry with her for not being a son, and left her absolutely penniless, so that the poor thing, being delicate and no longer young, died in great privation. and he left the property, which was not entailed, to a very distant cousin, hardly to be counted as a cousin except that he had the same name. the legend is that his ghost will never be at peace till silverthorns comes to be the property of the descendant of some female osbert." "do you know i never heard that story before? it is curious," said mrs waldron thoughtfully. "but it's come all right now. lady mildred's a woman," said ted, in his usual hasty way. "on the contrary, it's very far wrong," said his father. "lady mildred is not an osbert at all. silverthorns was left her by mr osbert to do what she likes with, some people say. if she leaves it away, quite out of the osbert line, it will be a hard punishment for the poor ghost, supposing he knows anything about it, as his regard for the family name went so far as to make him treat his own child unjustly." "is it certain that lady mildred has the power of doing what she likes with it?" asked mrs waldron. "i'm sure i can't say. i suppose any one who cares to know can see mr osbert's will by paying a shilling," said mr waldron lightly. "though, by the bye, i have a vague remembrance of hearing that the will was worded rather peculiarly, so that it did not tell as much as wills generally do. it referred to some other directions, or something of that kind. general osbert and his family doubtless know all they can. it is not an enormous fortune after all. lady mildred has a small income of her own, and she spends a great deal on the place. it will be much better worth having after her reign than before it." "any way she won't leave it to me, so i don't much care what she does with it," said ted, rising from his seat, and stretching his long lanky arms over his head. "no, that she won't," said mr waldron, with rather unnecessary emphasis. "my dear ted," said his mother, "if you are so sleepy as all that you had better go to bed. i'm not very rigorous, as you know, but i don't like people yawning and stretching themselves in the drawing-room." "all right, mother. i will go to bed," ted replied. "arthur and noble, you'd better come too." "thank you for nothing," said noble, who as usual was buried in a book. "i'm going to finish this chapter first. i'm not like some people i know, who have candles and matches at the side of their beds, in spite of all mother says." mrs waldron turned to ted uneasily. "is that true, ted," she said, "after all your promises?" ted looked rather foolish. "mother," he said, "it's only when i'm behind with my lessons, and i think that i'll wake early and give them a look over in the morning. it isn't like reading for my own pleasure." another laugh greeted this remark, ted "reading for his own pleasure" would have been something new. "but indeed, mother, you needn't worry about it," said arthur consolingly. "i advise you to let ted's candle and matches remain peaceably at the side of his bed if it pleases him. there they will stay, none the worse, you may be sure. it satisfies his conscience and does no harm, for there is not the least fear of his ever waking early." ted looked annoyed. it is not easy to take chaff pleasantly in public, especially in the public of one's own assembled family. "i don't see why you need all set on me like that," he muttered. "i think noble might have held his tongue." "so do i," said charlotte, half under her breath. then she too got up. "i'm going to bed. good night, mamma," and she stooped to kiss her mother; and in a few minutes, noble having shut up his book resolutely at the end of the chapter, all the brothers had left the room, and the husband and wife were alone. mrs waldron leant her pretty head on the arm of the sofa for a minute or two without speaking. she was tired, as she well might be, and somehow on saturday night she felt as if she might allow herself to own to it. mr waldron looked at her with a rather melancholy expression on his own face. "yes," he said aloud, though in reality speaking to himself, "we pay pretty dear for our power of sympathising." "what did you say?" asked his wife, looking up. "nothing, dear. i was only thinking of some talk i had with charlotte-- i was trying to show her the advantages of poverty," he said, smiling. "_poverty_!" repeated his wife; "but nothing like _poverty_ comes near her, or any of them,--at least it is not as bad as that." "no, no. i should not have used the word. i should rather have said, as i did to her, of not being rich." "charlotte does not seem herself," said mrs waldron. "i wonder if anything is troubling her." "she is waking up, perhaps," said the father, "and that is a painful process sometimes. though she is so clever, she is wonderfully young for her age too. life has been smooth for her, even though we are so poor--not rich," he corrected with a smile. "but is there anything special on her mind? what made you talk in that way?" "she will be telling you herself of some report--oh, i dare say it is true enough--that lady mildred osbert is arranging to send this niece of hers, this girl whom, as i told you, she is said to have adopted, to miss lloyd's. and of course they are all gossiping about it, chattering about the girl's beauty and magnificence, and all the rest of it. after all, amy, i sometimes wish we had not sent charlotte to school at all; there seems always to be silly chatter." "but what could we do? we could not possibly have afforded a governess--for one girl alone; and i, even if i had the time, i am not highly educated enough myself to carry on so very clever a girl as charlotte." "no; i sometimes wish she were less clever. she might have been more easily satisfied." "but she is not dissatisfied," said mrs waldron. "on the contrary, she has seemed more than content, she is full of interest and energy. i have been so _glad_ she was clever; it is so much easier for a girl with decidedly intellectual tastes to be happy in a circumscribed life like ours." "yes, in one sense. but charlotte has other tastes too. she would enjoy the beauty, the completeness of life possible when people are richer, intensely. and at school she has been made a sort of pet and show pupil of. it will be trying to a girl of fifteen to see a new queen in her little world." "but--she need not interfere with charlotte. it is not probable that she will be as talented." "that was one of jerry's consolations," said mr waldron with a smile. "it was rather a pity i happened to take charlotte to silverthorns to-night. it seems to have deepened the impression." "she only waited outside. my dear, we cannot keep the children in cotton-wool." "no, of course not. it is perhaps because going to silverthorns always irritates me myself, though i am ashamed to own it, even to you. but to remember my happy boyhood there--when i was treated like a child of the house. it was false kindness of my grandmother and my grand-uncle. but they meant it well, and i never let _her_ know i felt it to have been so." "of course your uncle would have done something more securely for you had he foreseen all your grandmother's losses. one must remember that." "yes; but it isn't only the money, amy. it is lady mildred's determined avoidance of acknowledging us in any way. the cool way she treats me entirely as the local lawyer. she has no idea i feel it. i take good care of that. and then, to be sure, she never saw me there long ago! grandmother never entered the doors after her brother's death." "no, so you have told me. i suppose lady mildred, if she ever gives a thought to us at all, just thinks we are some distant poor relations of a bygone generation of osberts," said mrs waldron. "and after all it is pretty much the state of the case, except for your having been so associated with the place as a child. i am always glad that the children have never heard of the connection. it would only have been a source of mortification to them." "yes; and my long absence from the neighbourhood made it easy to say nothing about it. you will know how to speak to charlotte when she tells you, as no doubt she will, about this new class-fellow. i wish it had not happened, for even if the girl is a very nice girl, i should not wish them to make friends," said mr waldron. "it would probably only lead to complications more or less disagreeable. as lady mildred has chosen absolutely to ignore us as relations, i would not allow the children to receive anything at all, even the commonest hospitality, from her." "i wonder if the girl is nice," said mrs waldron. "she must be spoilt. i should be afraid, if lady mildred makes such a pet of her. do you know her name?" mr waldron shook his head. "she is a niece of lady mildred's, i believe--perhaps a grand-niece. she may be a miss meredon--that was lady mildred's maiden name, but i really don't know. i did not catch her name when her aunt spoke to her." "oh, you saw her then?" exclaimed mrs waldron with some surprise. "what is she like?" mr waldron smiled. "amy, you're nearly as great a baby as charlotte," he said. "she was quite excited when i said i had seen this wonderful young person. what is she like? well, i must own that for once gossip has spoken the truth in saying that she is very pretty. i only saw her for half a second, but she struck me as both very pretty and very sweet-looking." "not prettier than charlotte?" asked charlotte's mother, half laughing at herself as she put the question. "well, yes, i'm afraid poor gipsy wouldn't stand comparison with this child. she is really _remarkably_ lovely." "ah, well," said mrs waldron, "charlotte is above being jealous, or even envious of mere beauty. still--altogether--yes, i think i agree with you that i am sorry lady mildred is going to send the girl to miss lloyd's; for we cannot wish that charlotte and she should make friends under the circumstances. it would only be putting our child in the way of annoyances, and possibly mortification. and i should be sorry to have to explain things to her or to the boys. i do so long to keep them unworldly and--unsuspicious, unsoured--poor though they may have to be," and the mother sighed a little. "yes," agreed mr waldron earnestly. "i am afraid the worldly _spirit_ is just as insidious when one is poor as when one is rich. and do what we will, amy, we cannot shelter them from all evil and trouble." "i shall be glad if this miss meredon, if that is her name, is not in charlotte's class," said mrs waldron after a little pause. "i should think it unlikely that she is as far on as charlotte. miss lloyd was telling me the other day how really delighted she and all the teachers are with her." "i hope they have not spoilt her," said mr waldron. "she is not the sort of girl to be easily spoilt in that way," said charlotte's mother. "she is too much in earnest--too anxious to learn." "i wish ted had some of her energy," said the father. "he is really such a dunce--and yet he is practical enough in some ways. we'll have to ship two or three of those lads off to the backwoods i expect, amy." "i sometimes wish we could all go together," said mrs waldron. "life is so difficult now and then." "you are tired, dear. things look so differently at different times. for after all, what would not lady mildred, poor woman, give for one of our boys--even poor jerry!" "_even_ jerry!" said mrs waldron. "i don't know one of them i could less afford to part with than him. arthur is a good boy, a very good boy as an eldest; but jerry has a sort of instinctive understandingness about him that makes him the greatest possible comfort. yes, cold and selfish though she may be, i can pity lady mildred when i think of her loneliness." "and i don't know that she is cold and selfish," said mr waldrop. "it is more that she has lived in a very narrow world, and it has never occurred to her to look out beyond it. self-absorption is, after all, not exactly selfishness. but it is getting late, amy, and sunday is not much of a day of rest for you, i am sorry to say." "i don't know about that," she replied, smiling brightly again. "now that the boys are old enough not to require looking after, and charlotte is very good with the little ones--no, i don't think i have any reason to grumble. my hard-working sundays are becoming things of the past. sometimes i could almost find it in my heart to regret them! it was very sweet, after all, when they were all tiny mites, with no world outside our own little home, and perfect faith in it and in us--and indeed in everything. i do love very little children." "you will be more than half a child yourself, even when you have grey hair and are a grandmother perhaps," said her husband, laughing. chapter four. the new pupil. "mamma," said charlotte to her mother one day towards the end of the following week, "do you think--i mean would you mind?" she hesitated and grew rather red, and looked down at her dress. "would i mind what, dear? don't be afraid to say what it is," said her mother, smiling. her eyes half unconsciously followed charlotte's and rested on her frock. it was one which had undoubtedly "seen better days," and careful though charlotte was, nothing could hide the marks of wear. "is it about your dress?" mrs waldron exclaimed suddenly. "i was going to speak about it. i don't think you can go on wearing that old cashmere at school any more. you must keep it for home--for the afternoons when you are working in the school-room, and the mornings you don't go to miss lloyd's; and you must begin your navy-blue serge for regular wear." charlotte's face cleared. "oh, thank you, mamma," she said. "i am so glad. but--what about a best frock? you know, however careful one is, one can't look really neat with only one regular dress," and charlotte's face fell again. "of course not. have i ever expected you to manage with only one, so to say? i have sent for patterns already, and miss burt is coming about making you a new one. and your velveteen must be refreshed a little for the evenings. by christmas, if i can possibly afford it, i should like to get you something new for the evenings. there may be concerts, or possibly one or two children's parties." "i don't care to go if there are," said charlotte, "i'm getting too old for them. in proper, regular society, mamma--not a common little town like wortherham--girls don't go out when they're my age, between the two, as it were, do they?" mrs waldron smiled a very little. charlotte was changing certainly. "we cannot make hard and fast rules, placed as we are," she said. "if you don't care to go to any more children's parties you need not. but of course wortherham is your--our--home. i might wish it were in a different place for many reasons, but wishing in such cases is no use, and indeed often does harm. and on the whole it is better to have some friendly intercourse with the people one lives among, even though they may not be very congenial, than to shut oneself out from all sympathies and interests except home ones." charlotte did not at once answer, and indeed when she did speak again it was scarcely in reply to her mother. "i like some of the girls very well. i don't much care to be intimate with any of them, except perhaps gueda knox, and she scarcely counts, she's so little here now; but they're nice enough mostly. only they do gossip a good deal, and make remarks about things that don't concern them. mamma," she went on abruptly, "might i begin wearing my navy-blue to-morrow? i will take great care of it, so that it shall look quite nice on sundays till i get my new one." "to-morrow?" repeated mrs waldron, a little surprised. "to-morrow is friday. isn't monday a better day to begin it?" again charlotte reddened a little. "mamma," she said, "it's just that i don't want to begin it on monday. that girl is coming on monday for the first time--lady mildred's niece, you know. and you don't know how i should _hate_ them saying i had got a new dress because of her coming." "would they really be so ill-bred?" exclaimed mrs waldron, almost startled. "oh, yes. they don't mean it, they don't know better. mamma, i don't think you can know quite as well as i do how common some of the people here are," and charlotte's face took an expression almost of disgust. "when you see the ladies you call on, they are on their good behaviour, i suppose, and if they did begin to gossip you would somehow manage to discourage it. oh, mamma, you should be glad you weren't brought up here." mrs waldron was half distressed and half amused. "but we must make the best of it," she said. "we can't leave wortherham, charlotte." "couldn't we go and live quite in the country, however quiet and dull it was? _i_ wouldn't mind." "no; for several years at least it would be impossible. there may be opportunities for starting the boys in life here that we must not neglect. and living quite in the country would entail more fatigue for your father." charlotte sighed. "my dear child," said her mother, "i don't quite understand you. you have never seemed discontented with your home before. you must not get to take such a gloomy view of things." "i don't mean to be discontented, mamma," said charlotte. "well, dear, try and get over it. you will have to meet many people in life apparently more favoured and fortunate than you. perhaps things have in some ways been too smooth for you, charlotte." "mamma, i am not so selfish as you think. it is not only for myself i'd like some things to be different. besides, i am old enough now to know that you and papa have a great deal of anxiety. do you think i only care for myself, mamma?" "no, dear, i don't. but don't you think the best way to help us would be by letting us see that you are happy, and appreciating the advantages we _can_ give you?" "yes, mamma," said charlotte, submissively enough. but her mother's eyes followed her somewhat anxiously as she left the room. the amount of gossip at miss lloyd's school about the expected new pupil was certainly absurd. the young lady's riches and beauty and connections were discussed and exaggerated as only school-girls can discuss and exaggerate such matters, and the one girl who said nothing, and scarcely seemed to listen to all the chatter, was yet perhaps the most impressed by it. charlotte took care to be early in her place that monday morning. there was half-an-hour's "preparation"--spent by the conscientious pupils in refreshing their memories by running over the lessons already thoroughly learnt, by the lazy ones in endeavouring to compress into the short space of time the work which should have taken several hours, and by the incorrigibly careless and indifferent in whispered banter or gossip-- before the regular work of the day began. and charlotte, who it need hardly be said belonged to the first category, was looking over a german translation in which she was soon so interested as really to have forgotten the impending arrival, when the class-room door opened, and miss lloyd appeared, conducting the new pupil. "good morning, young ladies," she said quietly as usual, glancing round at the two rows of girls who stood up as she came in. "i wish to introduce you all and miss meredon to each other. miss meredon is to be a fellow-worker with you for some time." this was miss lloyd's customary formula of presentation, and she made it with simplicity and dignity, in no way departing from her usual words or manner. some of the girls raised their eyebrows with surprise that the advent of this much-talked-of young lady should have called forth no greater demonstration; some, and mr waldron's daughter among them, felt their respect for the quiet, somewhat prim little lady sensibly rise as they listened to her. "_she's_ not a snob, any way," thought charlotte, and then she half reluctantly allowed her eyes to turn to the girl standing beside the lady-principal. "papa" had said she was lovely, so had dr lewis, but papa's opinion carried of course far more weight. but, even without it, even without any prepossession or expectation on the subject, charlotte felt that her very first glance decided it. the girl _was_ lovely--far, far more than "pretty," like little isabel lewis, with her merry eyes and turned-up nose, or "interesting," like pale-faced gueda knox. she was really lovely. not very fair, but with a brightness rather than brilliance about her which came from one scarcely knew where--it seemed a part of herself, of her sunny hair, of her slightly flushed cheeks, of her smiling and yet appealing eyes, of her whole self. her very attitude suggested full, springing, and yet gentle, youthful life as she stood there, one foot slightly advanced, her hand half upraised, as if ready and desirous to be friends and friendly with every one; and a slight, very slight shade of disappointment seemed to pass over her face when she saw that nothing followed the little formal speech, that no one among the several girls came forward to greet or welcome her. and as miss lloyd turned towards her the hand dropped quietly, and the speaking eyes looked gravely and inquiringly at her conductress. "what am i to do now?" they seemed to say. "i was ready to shake hands with them all; i do hope i shall understand what to do." miss lloyd spoke as if in reply to her unexpressed question. "you can sit here in the mean time, miss meredon," she said, pointing to a side-table. "i shall give you a regular place when it is decided what classes you shall join. in a few minutes the first--that means the head german class--will begin. you can take part in it, so that herr marklestatter can judge if you are sufficiently advanced to join in it." then miss lloyd's keen eyes ran along the rows of girls still standing; as they rested for a moment on charlotte waldron's grave, almost solemn face she hesitated, but only for that moment, and then looked past her again. "sit down, young ladies," she said. "but you, miss lathom," she went on, addressing a thin, delicate-looking girl with a gentle expression-- poor thing, she was training for a governess, for which, alas! her fragile health ill-suited her,--"bring your german books here, and give miss meredon some little idea of what you are doing." "thank you, that will be very kind," said the new pupil brightly, as if delighted to have an opportunity of expressing some part of her eager good-will; and as miss lathom, blushing with the distinction, came shyly from her place, miss meredon hastened forward a step or two to meet her, and took some of the pile of books out of her hands. then the two sat down at the side-table, and the other girls having resumed their places, the class-room subsided into its usual quiet. charlotte's mind was in a curious state of confusion. she was in a sense disappointed, yet at the same time relieved that she had not been picked out to act mentor to the new pupil. she knew that miss lloyd's not having chosen her in no way reflected upon her position in the german class, where she had long ago distanced her companions. "if it had been french," she thought to herself, "i might have been a little vexed, for miss lathom does speak french better than i do, with having been so much in france; but in german--she is further back than gueda even. i suppose miss lloyd chose fanny lathom because she knows she is going to be a governess." she was about right; but had she overheard a conversation the day before between lady mildred and the lady-principal, she would have felt less philosophical as to the choice not having fallen on herself. "i have a very nice set of pupils," miss lloyd had said, "none whom miss meredon can in the least dislike associating with. indeed, two or three of them belong to some of our leading families--miss knox, the vicar's daughter, and the two little fades, whose father is colonel of the regiment stationed here, and miss waldron--she is a most charming girl, and, i may say, my most promising pupil, and nearly of miss meredon's age." "waldron," lady mildred had repeated. "oh, yes, to be sure, the lawyer's daughter; i remember the name. oh, indeed, very respectable families no doubt. but i wish you to understand, miss lloyd, that it is not for companionship but for lessons that i send you my niece. i wish her to make _no_ intimacies. she knows my wishes and she will adhere to them, but it is as well you should understand them too." "so far as it is in my power, i shall of course be guided by them," miss lloyd had replied somewhat stiffly. "all my pupils come here to learn, not to amuse themselves. but i can only act by miss meredon precisely as i do by the others. it would be completely contrary to the spirit of the--the establishment,"--miss lloyd's one weakness was that she could not bring herself to speak of her "school,"--"of my classes, were i to keep any one girl apart from the others, `hedging her round' with some impalpable dignities, as it were," she went on with a little smile, intended to smooth down her protest. lady mildred was not foolish enough to resent it, but she kept her ground. "ah, well," she said, "i must leave it to my niece's own sense. she is not deficient in it." still the warning had not been without its effect. miss lloyd had no wish to offend the lady of silverthorns. and a kindly idea of being of possible use to fanny lathom had also influenced her. "if this girl is backward, as she probably is," she thought, "fanny may have a chance of giving her private lessons in the holidays, or some arrangement of that kind." but charlotte was in happy ignorance of lady mildred's depreciating remarks, as she sat, to all outward appearance, buried in her german translation, in reality peeping from time to time at the bright head in the corner of the room, round which all the sunshine seemed to linger, listening eagerly for the faintest sound of the pretty voice, or wishing that miss meredon would look up for a moment that she might catch the beautiful outlines of her profile. "she _is_ lovely," thought charlotte, "and she is most perfectly dressed, though it looks simple. and--it is true she seems sweet. but very likely that look is all put on, though even if it isn't what credit is it to her? who wouldn't look and feel sweet if they had everything in the world they could wish for? i dare say i could look sweet too in that case. there's only one comfort, i'm not likely to have much to do with her. if fanny lathom's german is good enough for her i may be pretty sure she won't be in the top classes. and any one so pretty as she is--she must give a great deal of time to her dress too--is _sure_ not to be very clever or to care much for clever things." ten minutes passed--then a bell rang, and mademoiselle bavarde, the french governess, who had been engaged with a very elementary class of small maidens in another room, threw the door open for the six children to pass in, announcing at the same time that herr marklestatter had come. up started the seven girls forming the first class and filed into the professor's presence; miss meredon was following them, but was detained by a glance from miss lloyd. "i will accompany you and explain to herr marklestatter," she said. he was a stout, florid man, with a beamingly good-natured face, looking like anything but the very clever, scholarly, frightfully hot-tempered man he really was. he was a capital teacher when he thought his teaching was appreciated, that is to say, where he perceived real anxiety to profit by it. with slowness of apprehension when united to real endeavour he could be patient; but woe betide the really careless or stolidly stupid in his hands! with such his sarcasm was scathing, his fury sometimes almost ungovernable; the veins on his forehead would start out like cords, his blue eyes would flash fire, he would dash from one language to the other of the nine of which he was "past master," as if seeking everywhere some relief for his uncontrollable irritation, till in the minds of the more intelligent and sympathising of his pupils all other feeling would be merged in actual pity for the man. scenes of such violence were of course rare, though it was seldom that a lesson passed without some growls as of thunder in the distance. but with it all he was really beloved, and those who understood him would unite to save him, as far as could be, from the trials to his temper of the incorrigibly dense or indifferent students. it was not difficult to do so unsuspected. the honest german was in many ways unsuspicious as a child, and so impressionable, so keenly interested in everything that came in his way, that a word, the suggestion of an inquiry on almost any subject, would make him entirely forget the point on which he had been about to wax irate, and by the time he came back to it he had quite cooled down. "i do hope, gueda," whispered charlotte to miss knox, as they made their way to the german master's presence, "i do hope that that stupid edith greenman has learnt her lessons for once, and that isabel lewis will try to pay attention. she is the worst of the two; it is possible to shield poor edith sometimes." "i wouldn't say `poor edith,'" gueda replied. "she really does not care to learn. i feel quite as angry with her sometimes as herr marklestatter himself." "so do i. but it would be such a disgrace to us all to have a scene the first morning, almost the first hour that girl is here." "you sheltered edith last week by an allusion to the comet. you did it splendidly. he was off on the comet's tail at once, without an idea you had put him there. but i think you can do anything with him, charlotte, you are such a pet of his, and you deserve to be." this was true. charlotte both was and deserved to be a favourite pupil, and she liked to feel that it was so. "well, i hope things will go well to-day," she said. "i should not like miss meredon to think she had got into a bear-garden." "do you suppose she knows much german, charlotte?" whispered gueda. she was a very gentle, unassertive girl, who generally saved herself trouble by allowing charlotte to settle her opinions for her. charlotte's rosy lips formed themselves into an unmistakable and rather contemptuous expression of dissent, and gueda breathed more freely. german was not her own strong point, and she disliked the idea of the new-comer's criticism on her shortcomings. herr marklestatter's smiling face greeted the girls as they entered the room. "good day, young ladies," he said. "a pleasant morning's work is before us, i trust," for he was always particularly sanguine, poor man, after the rest of sunday. "ah?" in a tone of courteous inquiry, as the seven maidens were followed by miss lloyd escorting the stranger. "a new pupil? i make you welcome, miss," he went on in his queer english,-- hopelessly queer it was, notwithstanding his many years' residence in england, and his marvellous proficiency in continental languages,--as his eyes rested with pleasure on the sweet flushed face. "you speak german?" he added in that language. "miss meredon will be present at this lesson, herr marklestatter," miss lloyd hastened to explain, "in order that she may see what work the advanced pupils are doing, and that you may judge which class she should join." "exactly so," the german master replied. "now, young ladies, what have you to show me?" the exercise-books were handed to him, certain tasks corrected and criticised at once, others put aside for the professor to look over at his leisure. things seemed to be going pretty well, nothing worse than some half-muttered ejaculations, and raising of herr marklestatter's eyebrows, testifying to the mistakes he came across. then followed the pupils reading aloud, translating as they went. they were all far enough advanced to read fairly, but charlotte waldron read the best. to-day, however, a rather unusually difficult passage fell to her turn; she made more than one slight mistake, and hesitated in the translation of a phrase. "come, come," said the professor, glancing round, as was his habit, till his eyes fell on a look of intelligence, "who can translate that? miss knox, miss lathom, eh, what, you know it, miss?" for to his surprise, the young stranger, flushing still more rosily, but with a bright glance of satisfaction, looked up with lips parted, evidently eager to speak. "yes?" said he. "say what you think it is." miss meredon translated it correctly, and in well-chosen words, without the slightest hesitation. herr marklestatter listened carefully. "good! very good!" he said. "continue then. read the following paragraph. aloud--in german first, then translate it." she did both; her accent and pronunciation were excellent, her translation faultlessly correct. "you have read that before, miss--" "meredon," replied the owner of the name. "miss meredon? you have read that before?" "no. i have heard of it, but i never actually read it before," she replied innocently, evidently unconscious of the bearing of his remark. herr marklestatter's face grew beaming. "_very_ good," he said; while charlotte, half clenching her hands under the table, muttered in gueda's ears, "i don't believe it." the rest of the lesson went on in due routine, save that herr marklestatter made miss meredon take regular part in all. it became quickly evident that her first success had been no random shot. she was at home in every detail, so that at the end of the class, when giving out the work for next time, the master told her to write an essay in german as an exercise of style, which would have been beyond the powers of the rest of the pupils. miss lloyd came in as he was explaining his wishes. "you are giving miss meredon separate work to do?" she inquired. "if she is not up to the standard of this class, would it not be better--" but the enthusiastic professor interrupted her. "my dear madam," he exclaimed, "not up to this class! miss--but she is far beyond. only you would not wish to have a class for one pupil all alone? and it will be of advantage--it will bring new life among us all. miss waldron, with your intelligence--for you work well, my dear young lady, only this morning not quite so well as usual--you will enjoy to work with miss meredon?" and the good man in his innocence turned his beaming countenance on charlotte encouragingly. not to save her life could charlotte have responded with a smile. but miss lloyd spoke again before herr marklestatter had noticed miss waldron's silence. "i am pleased to hear so good a report of miss meredon. you must work well, my dear, and keep up your place," she said, addressing the new pupil. "thank you; i will indeed," miss meredon replied. "and thank you very much, sir, for your kindness," she added, turning to the professor. her face seemed positively alight with pleasure. it was really not to be wondered at that as the last girls left the room they heard him murmur the german equivalents for "bewitching, charming." and one of these last girls was unluckily charlotte waldron. chapter five. lady mildred. charlotte went home that monday looking fagged and unlike herself. her mother met her as she was going into the school-room, her arms loaded with books. "my dear, is that you?" said mrs waldron. "i did not hear you come in. what a dull, dreary day it is! you have not got wet, i hope?" "it was not actually raining. my frock got no harm," charlotte replied. but her voice was dull and dreary like the day, and though, as she had just said of the weather, "not actually raining," the mother's ears perceived that tears were not very far off. "don't go to lessons again immediately you come in," she said. "`all work and no play' makes dull girls as well as dull boys. come into the drawing-room. jerry came in looking so shivery that i am going to give him a cup of my afternoon tea. come too, dear, and let us three have a few minutes cosily together. the other boys won't be home yet." charlotte hesitated. "mamma," she said, "i must work hard--harder than ever; and then--i changed my blue frock immediately. you know i promised you i would, and if any one should come in i would not look very nice," and she glanced at the old brown dress. "nonsense, dear. it is most unlikely that any one will come on such a day. and take my word for it, you will work far better if you give yourself a little interval--a pleasant little interval." mrs waldron opened the drawing-room door as she spoke, and charlotte followed her. it did look pleasant and inviting, for well-worn as was much of the furniture, simple--in these days of plush and lace and gorgeous eastern draperies--as were the few additions that had been made to it from time to time, charlotte's mother possessed the touch that seems born with some people, of making a room attractive. her extreme, exquisite neatness had to do with it--the real underlying spirit of order, which has nothing in common with cold primness or the vulgar hiding away from observation of the occupations of daily life; and joined to this a keen perception of colour, a quick eye and hand for all combinations which give pleasure. "i can always tell when mamma has been in a room," charlotte would say, rather dolefully. "i wonder if i shall ever learn to give things the look she does." the tea-table was drawn up near the fire, and jerry was seated on a low chair beside it. "oh, mamma," he exclaimed, "i thought you were never coming. i have made the tea to perfection. oh, and here's charlotte too. how jolly! it isn't often that we three get a cosy tea together like this." "are you warmer now, my boy?" his mother asked. "you are very bluey-white-looking still." for jerry, unable to run or even to walk fast, was apt to catch bad colds in chilly weather. "i'm all right, thank you, mother. i'm quite hungry. look, charlotte," and he raised the cover of a neat little china dish on the table, "isn't that nice? i bought it for a present to mother. i got it from the old muffin-man--he was just passing. that's why mamma invited me to tea, i expect." charlotte's face relaxed. it was impossible to look and feel gloomy with such a welcome. "it isn't fair for me to come too," she said in her own pleasant voice; "one muffin isn't too much for two." "nor for one, when it's a proper tea," said jerry. "but this isn't, you know. this is only a slight refection. we're going to have our proper school-room tea as usual of course." "and how have you got on to-day, charlotte?" asked her mother, when the muffin and the tea had been discussed. she was a little anxious to hear, though careful not to let it be seen that she was so. charlotte's face clouded over. "mamma," she said, "i think you had better not ask me. you know i would tell you and jerry more than anybody--but--i want to be good, and i can't, and--perhaps there are some bad feelings that it's best not to speak about." jerry looked up with fullest sympathy in his thin white face. "i don't know," said mrs waldron. "i can't judge unless you tell me a little. is it about that young girl, charlotte? has she come?" "yes; she was there all day." "well, is she disagreeable? does she interfere with you in any way?" "in every way, mamma. at least i feel sure it is going to be in every way. she's--she's to be in my class for everything. she's--it's no good hiding the truth--she's awfully clever and far on, and ahead of us all." mrs waldron's face looked grave. she felt such sympathy with charlotte that she was almost shocked at herself. she was only human! she had hoped that her child might be spared the special rivalry which she knew would touch her the most acutely. "are you not fanciful, dear? how can you possibly be sure in one day that miss--what is her name?" "meredon, mamma. claudia meredon--isn't it a lovely name?" said charlotte with a rather curious smile. "even her name is uncommon and beautiful." mrs waldron could not help laughing. "you are going too far, my dear child. i am sure your own name is quite nice enough. you have no reason to be ashamed of it." "ashamed of it! no, mamma," said charlotte with heightened colour. "it isn't that." "but you are fanciful, dear, about miss meredon. how can you be sure in one day that she is going to distance you in all your lessons?" "she will do so in german, any way," said charlotte gloomily, "and that is almost the worst of all. oh, mamma, if you had heard herr marklestatter to-day! just out of contradiction i got an extra difficult piece to translate, and i stumbled over it rather, i know. at another time i wouldn't have minded, and he wouldn't have minded. but to-day--" "he wanted you to show off before the new girl of course, and very likely you did too, and that made you worse," said jerry bluntly. "perhaps," charlotte agreed. "but oh, mamma, you would have been sorry for me," and her voice broke. "i am sorry for you, my dear. it is a battle you have to fight. but you must be brave--about your lessons; you know _we_ know you always do your best. that should keep you happy." charlotte gave a deep sigh. but before she left the room she stooped and kissed her mother. "thank you, mamma," she said. jerry followed her to the school-room. "jerry," she said, as she sat down and spread out her books, "i must have had a sort of feeling that this girl was to do me harm. it is not true that things are even--she has _everything_, you see. the worst of it is, that i almost believe she is good." "charlotte!" exclaimed jerry. "yes, it sounds awful, but you know what i mean. it makes it horrider of me to hate her, and i'm afraid i do. at least if she gets the german prize--the one he gives for composition at the end of the term--i shall." "shall what?" "hate her," said charlotte, grimly. jerry said no more. had claudia meredon "everything?" charlotte would assuredly have thought so more firmly than ever had she seen her at the moment when she was thus speaking of her. she was driving up the silverthorns avenue in the pretty pony-carriage which lady mildred had appropriated to her use. it was a chilly evening, and the rain had been falling by heavy fits and starts all day. miss meredon was well wrapped up, however, and she drove fast. her cheeks were glowing with excitement, and even in that most unbecoming of attire, a waterproof cloak, she looked, as charlotte had almost bitterly allowed, "lovely." her bright hair crept out in little wavy curls from under her black hat, her eyes were sparkling--she looked a picture of happiness. "don't ring," she said quickly to the groom, as she threw him the reins, "i'll let myself in," and she was out of the carriage and up the steps in a moment. the great front door was fastened from within, but claudia ran round the terrace to a side entrance which she knew she should find open. and without waiting to take off even her waterproof, she flew down a passage, across the large hall, and into a smaller one, on to which opened the drawing-room where lady mildred usually sat when alone. "she cannot but be pleased," thought the girl; "and if i am very quick, i may be able to write a word home to-night." she opened the door, and as she did so she seemed to bring in with her a gust of the fresh breezy autumn air. the lady who was reading by the fire, or possibly dozing, for the light was growing faint, started and shivered. "claudia," she exclaimed, "for any sake, shut the door. how can you be so inconsiderate?" miss meredon closed the door gently and came forward. "oh, aunt mildred, forgive me; i am so sorry," she replied in her bright eager voice. "i was in such a hurry to tell you how capitally i have got on. i have been so happy. the school is delightful. and, aunt, only fancy--won't mamma and all of them be pleased? the german master did so praise me! i am to be in the highest class, and--and--he said it would do the others good to have me with them. it's not for myself i am so pleased--it's for papa and mamma. and to think that i never had german lessons from any one but mamma." she ran on so eagerly that it would have been almost impossible to stop her. and when she at last came to a halt, out of breath, lady mildred did not at once speak. when she did her words were more chilling than silence. "i do wish you were less impulsive and excitable, claudia," she said. "of course i am pleased that you should take a good place, and all that; but i think it rather injudicious of the teachers to have begun praising you up so the first day. they would not have done so had you not been my niece. it is just what i was afraid of." "aunt mildred, i assure you the german master knew nothing about who i was. and i feel sure he wouldn't have cared if he had known. and it was more he than any one. miss lloyd is nice, but--she isn't at all gushing. she just told me quietly that so far as she could judge i should be in the highest classes, and--and that it was plain i had been very well taught." lady mildred looked up sharply. "you did not--i hope," she said, "you did not think it necessary to enlighten them as to who had been your teachers?" "no," said claudia, "i did not, because you had told me not to do so. i don't know in any case that i should have done so, aunt, for though you say i am so childish, i don't feel inclined to tell everything to people i don't know. indeed i am not so silly, only--i couldn't help running to tell _you_, just--just as i would have done to mamma," and claudia's voice quivered a little. "oh, well," said her aunt, "don't excite yourself about it. i am glad to see you have sense of your own--indeed, i always say you have if you would only think a little. but you must learn to be less impulsive--you know how entirely i forbid your making any friendships or intimacies among those girls. what are they like--pretty fair on the whole?" "they were all very kind," began claudia. "kind, child! don't use such stupid words. of course they will be all only too civil. that's not the question. what sort of girls do they seem?" "some seem very nice indeed," replied miss meredon. "the nicest looking of all, indeed she is rather a peculiarly pretty girl--i never saw any one quite like her, except--no, i don't remember who it can be she reminds me of. she has quite dark brown hair, and a rather brown complexion, prettily brown, you know, and yet bright blue eyes. her name is charlotte waldron." "humph!" said lady mildred, "like her father." she was not fond of mr waldron's very "osbert" characteristics, though she scarcely allowed even to herself that he had any traceable connection with the silverthorns' family. "oh, do you know them?" exclaimed claudia, joyfully. "i felt sure when i saw her that you could not object--" "nonsense, claudia," lady mildred interrupted. "her father is the wortherham lawyer, or _a_ wortherham lawyer; no doubt there are plenty of them. and i should rather more object, if possible, to your making friends with this girl than with any others of the wortherham misses. mr waldron has some little of the silverthorns business, and i won't have any gossiping about my affairs. you know the understanding on which you came to me?" "of course i do, dear aunt," claudia replied. "i wish you would not think because i say out to you whatever i feel that i have _any_ idea of going against your wishes. i only meant that this girl looked so--it sounds rather vulgar to express it so, but it is the only way to say it--she looks so completely a lady that i thought you would probably not mind my knowing her a little better than the others. i fancy we shall be together in most of our lessons." "so much the worse," thought lady mildred. "it is really very unlucky. i had no idea that edward waldron had a daughter old enough to be at school." but aloud, after a moment's silence, she remarked with a slight touch of sarcasm in her tone,-- "so miss waldron also is a remarkably talented young person. she must be so if she is to rank with you, i suppose." "aunt mildred!" exclaimed claudia. in her place most girls of her age, charlotte waldron certainly, would have burst into tears, or left the room in indignation, but this was fortunately not claudia's "way." she forced back the momentary feeling of irritation, and answered brightly: "i know you are only teasing me, aunt mildred. you don't really think me so dreadfully conceited?" even lady mildred could not help relaxing. "you are very sweet-tempered, my dear, whatever else you are or are not, and it is the best of all gifts." she sighed as she spoke. "now you will make me blush," said claudia merrily. "and was this miss waldron very `kind,' as you call it--very `_empressee_,' and all the rest of it?" lady mildred asked. "no-o," answered claudia, hesitating a little; "i can't say that she was. her manner is rather cold and reserved, but there is something very nice about her. i am sure she would be very nice if one knew her better. perhaps she is shy. i think that gave me the feeling of wishing to be nice to her," she added naively. "`nice' in the sense of being civil and courteous, of course you must be. i trust you are quite incapable of being otherwise. and it is the most ill-bred and vulgar idea to suppose that the right way of keeping people in their places is by being _rude_ to them. that at once puts one _beneath_ them. but, on the other hand, that is a very different thing from rushing into school-girl intimacies and bosom friendships, which i cannot have." "i know," said claudia, but though she sighed a little it was inaudibly. "aunt mildred," she began again, half-timidly. "well?" "has the letter-bag gone? can i possibly write to mamma to-night?" "the post-bag has not gone, i believe," said lady mildred. "no doubt you can write. i suppose you are in a fever to report the german master's compliments--if you think it amiable and considerate to leave your old aunt alone when she has been alone all day, instead of making tea for her and sitting talking with her comfortably. but of course you very intellectual young ladies now-a-days think such small attentions to old people quite beneath you. you will prefer to write in your own room, i suppose--you have a fire. i will send you up some tea if you wish it. may i trouble you to ring the bell?" but as claudia, without speaking, came forward to do so, lady mildred gave a little scream. "good gracious, child, you haven't taken off your waterproof, and you have been standing beside me all this time with that soakingly wet cloak. if you are determined to kill yourself i object to your killing me too." "it is scarcely wet, aunt," said claudia, gently. "but i am very sorry all the same," and she left the room as she spoke. "why do i constantly vex her?" she said to herself, despairingly. "i must be very stupid and clumsy. i do so want to please her, as papa and mamma said, not only because she is so good to us, but even more, because she is so lonely--poor aunt mildred. of course my letter can wait till to-morrow. oh, i know what i'll do--i'll be _very_ quiet, and i'll creep into the drawing-room behind ball with the tea-tray, and aunt mildred will not know i'm there." and the smiles returned to claudia's face as she flew up-stairs and along the gallery to her room. such a pretty, comfortable room as it was! a bright fire burned in the grate, her writing-table stood temptingly ready. claudia would dearly have liked to have sat down there and then, to rejoice the home hearts with her good news. for they, as well as she, had been awaiting rather anxiously the results of her measuring her forces against those of her compeers. so much depended on the opinion of qualified and impartial judges as to her capacities; for, as her mother had said laughingly,-- "it may be the old story of our thinking our goose a swan, you know, dear." yes, it would have been delightful to write off at once--a day sooner than they had been expecting to hear. but the very sight of her room confirmed the girl in not yielding to the temptation, for it recalled lady mildred's constant though undemonstrative kindness. "no doubt it was she who told the servants to keep the fire up for fear i should be cold," she thought. "dear me, how very good she is to me. how i wish mamma, and lalage, and alix, and all of them, for that matter, could see me here really like a little princess! but oh! how i wish i could send some of all this luxury to them--if i could but send dear mamma a fire in _her_ room to-night! they won't even be allowing themselves one in the drawing-room yet--they'll all be sitting together in the study. monday evening, poor papa's holiday evening, as he calls it." all the time she was thus thinking she was taking off her things as fast as possible. in two minutes she was ready, her hair in order, the rebellious curls in their place, her collar, and all the little details of her dress fit to stand the scrutiny of even lady mildred's sharp eyes; and as she flew down-stairs again, she met, as she had counted upon, the footman carrying in the tea-tray. the drawing-room was quite dark now, as far as light from outside was concerned, and lady mildred's lamp left the corners in shadow. it was easy for claudia to slip in unperceived, for her aunt was not expecting her, and did not even raise her eyes when the door opened, and the slight clatter that always accompanies cups and saucers announced the arrival of the tea. "tell crossley to come in a few minutes to take miss meredon's tea up-stairs," said lady mildred, not knowing that the footman had already left the room, and that the movements she still heard were made by claudia, safely ensconced behind the tray, and laughing quietly to herself. in another minute a voice close beside her made the old lady start. "aunt mildred," it said, "here is your tea." "claudia!" she exclaimed. "i thought you were up-stairs in your room." "selfishly writing my letter home! oh, aunt! how could you think i would be so horrid! my letter will do very well to-morrow. i did not think it was so near tea-time when i thoughtlessly spoke of it. do you think i don't enjoy making tea for you?--almost the only thing i can do for you," said the girl with a kind of affectionate reproach. lady mildred was silent for a few moments. then she said again, with a tone in her voice which was not often heard,-- "claudia, you have the best of gifts--a sweet and sunny nature. try to keep it, my dear." and claudia felt rewarded. she sat up in her own room that night for half-an-hour to write the home letter. "mamma would forgive my doing so for once," she said to herself, "for i may not have time to-morrow. if i am really to do well at school i must work hard, and it will not be easy to do so, and yet to please aunt mildred. but i don't mind how difficult it is--it will be worth it all to be able to help them at home without being separated. but oh, mamma, mamma! it is very hard to be away from you all!" and claudia leant her head on the table and burst into tears. chapter six. claudia's home. the rectory at britton-garnett was one of those picturesque, tempting-looking, old cottage-like houses which, seen in summer by a passer-by, embowered in greenery and roses, remain in the memory as a sort of little earthly paradise. and its inhabitants, who loved it well in spite of its imperfections, would have accepted the verdict without much protest. "it is a sweet little place," mrs meredon would say, "and for rich people it might really be made almost perfect. but with these old houses, you see, there seems always something that wants doing or repairing. the roof is in a very bad state, and we are sometimes very much afraid that there is dry-rot in the old wainscoting." but the roof had to be patched up, and the incipient dry-rot had to be left to itself. mr meredon was far too poor to spend a shilling or even a sixpence that he could possibly help; and as the house was his own private property,--for what had been the rectory was a very small house in the village, quite out of the question as the abode of a large family,--there was no one to appeal to for necessary repairs, as is usually the case. the rectory proper was, in point of fact, large enough for the living, which was a very small one. long ago now, when the meredons first came there, shortly after their marriage, it had been with the idea that britton-garnett was but the stepping-stone to better things. but years had gone on without the better things coming, and now for some considerable time past the rector had left off hoping that they ever would, or that he could be able conscientiously to accept them should they do so. for a terrible misfortune had come over him, literally to darken his life. he had grown almost totally blind. it had been softened to some extent by a very slow and gradual approach. the sufferer himself, and his wife and elder children, had had time to prepare for it, and to make their account with it. there was even now a good hope that, with great care and prudence, the glimmering of sight that remained to him might be preserved; that the disease had, so to speak, done its worst. but adieu to all prospects of a more active career, of the wide-spread usefulness and distinction mr meredon had sometimes dreamt of, of "the better things," in the practical sense even, that he had hoped for, when he and his light-hearted and talented but portionless young bride had, like so many thousands of others in fact and fiction, "so very imprudently married." it was even harder in some ways than if the poor man had become completely blind, for then there would have been nothing more to fear, no use in precautions or care. "sometimes i could wish it had been so," he once confessed to his wife. "i don't know but that it would have been easier for you all." "easier for _you_, perhaps, dear basil," said his wife. "but for us--oh no! think what it would be for you not to know the children's faces as they grow up, not to--" "the loss would be mine in all that," interrupted mr meredon. "but, papa dear, it would be _much_ more trouble for us if we had always to trot about with you, if you couldn't go anywhere alone. we should have to get a little dog for you--or else i should have to leave off my lessons and my music and everything to go everywhere with you. no, you are a very selfish old man to wish to be quite blind," said claudia gaily. "i like you much better as you are." "i should not see how thin your mother's face is growing. i can see that. the grey hairs--if they are coming--i can't see as it is." "nor can i--for the very good reason that there are none to see," claudia replied. there were several children--all younger, considerably younger than claudia, and the two next her were girls. so for the moment the family cares were not so heavy as in the future they would assuredly be, when the little boys' schooling would have to be thought of, and college, or starting them in the world, beyond that again. mr meredon was the younger son of a large family. all that he could hope for had been done for him, and the seniors of his family were not rich men for their position. "there is only aunt mildred," he said more than once to his wife: "she is alone now, and she used to be fond of me." "till you married," said mrs meredon. "and--it is not exactly as if her money was meredon money. she only has it for life, has she not?" "yes, only for her life; and she has, by her husband's instructions, to keep up the place in such perfect order,--besides its being temporarily rather heavily burdened,--that she is really not very rich in ready money. general osbert, the next owner, will be better off than she. still, if she could see us, she might do something for the children. anything would be something--even helping claudia's education." "that would be almost the best help she could give us," said mrs meredon, eagerly. "claudia is, i feel almost certain, unusually clever, and--you must not be vexed, basil--an idea has struck me, her and me i should say, which would make things easier in the future. if claudia could have the chance of some really first-rate teaching for a couple of years or so, she would then be eighteen, and she might turn her knowledge to account." "you mean by becoming a governess?" said mr meredon. "i doubt if aunt mildred would give any help towards such an end as that." "no, i don't mean a governess in the ordinary way. but in the first place she could teach lalage and alix, and the boys too for some time to come. and besides that, i quite think she could have other pupils. mrs carteret has been speaking to me about her three girls--they are quite little still, you know, but in a year or two she will have to arrange something. of course they are not the sort of people to send their girls to school; but, on the other hand, she is very averse to having a resident governess, as their house is already so full. she almost said to me that they would gladly pay as much as to a resident governess if they could meet with any lady in the neighbourhood who could undertake to give the children daily lessons. and mr fade, i rather fancy he would be delighted to join in any plan of the kind. he wants companionship for sydney, and yet he would certainly never send her to school." "so we should have a select establishment for young ladies here," said mr meredon, half amused, half incredulous. "i doubt if the meredon prejudices would not be even more shocked by that than if claudia became a governess." "i don't think so; besides, we can't afford to consider that. our circumstances are very peculiar. we must do what we can for ourselves. and claudia is a very exceptional girl." "yes, i allow that. but would such a scheme not entail too much fatigue and work for her? she will be very young even at eighteen. and no teacher can teach everything." "no; but if it were arranged, claudia and i are sure that both the carterets and mr fade would join to have one or two masters once a week or so from curwen. claudia could superintend the preparation for them, and i, of course, would give what help i could if it were in this house. but most likely mrs carteret would wish the lessons to be there. there would be an advantage in that, for it would leave me more time for reading and writing with you." mr meredon was silent for a little. "that would be a very great comfort," he said at last, "and possibly even more. i can't bear to take up your time just now, when you have all the teaching to do; but if you were freer i might perhaps go on with some of the work i had in hand when my eyes first got so bad. i could dictate to you," and mr meredon looked up eagerly. but the brighter expression soon faded. "i am afraid," he said, "we are reckoning on our chickens not only before they are hatched, but before we have got any eggs! in the first place, mrs carteret may not think claudia fit for it. no man is a prophet in his own country--and you see they have known her since she was a baby." mrs meredon smiled. "i will ask mrs carteret about it," she said. "and then the two years' schooling for her. where is that to come from?" he asked. "ah! that _is_ the question. well, basil, i love our independence as much as you do, but with this prospect of steady and remunerative employment for her, i think we should swallow our false pride,--it surely would be false pride in such a case,--and ask lady mildred to help us. it would not be asking much, or burdening her for long." "i will think it over," mr meredon replied, "and you perhaps had better sound mrs carteret, and, if you like, mr fade also." perhaps mrs meredon had already done so. be that as it may, the results were satisfactory. and a few days later the letter on which hung so many hopes was written by his wife to mr meredon's dictation. "and now," she said wisely, "we have done what we could. let us try in the mean time to put the matter off our minds." their patience, however, was not so taxed as often happens in such cases. nor was the answer what they had expected. how seldom, how strangely seldom _are_ expectations realised! if ever in the long run things turn out as we have anticipated, the details of their fulfilment are so curiously unlike what we had pictured that we scarcely recognise them. mrs meredon and claudia, the blind father too probably, had lain awake many an hour reading in imagination lady mildred's reply. would it be curt and cold, at once negativing all hopes, or condescendingly benevolent, or simply kind and kinswomanlike? the last, after so many years, and after too her expressed disapproval of her nephew's marriage, was scarcely to be hoped for. it was none of all these, for in the shape of a letter her answer never came at all. but one late august afternoon, about a month before the rainy saturday when charlotte and gervais waldron sat discussing the expected "new girl" at miss lloyd's, the nameless heiress of silverthorns, the old fly from welby, the britton-garnett railway station, turned in at the rectory gate and slowly crawled up the drive, already slushy with early autumn rains and want of rolling,--for carriage wheels were rare at the meredons'--and in answer to the scared little maid's information that "missus was at home," a tall, upright old lady in deep mourning descended, and was ushered into the drawing-room. it was empty. she had time to look about her--to note the shabby furniture, the scrupulous care with which the carpet, faded though it was, was covered to protect it from the sun, the darned curtains looped up so as to show to the best advantage, the one real ornament of the room, a lovely nosegay of roses, freshly cut and fragrant, placed so as to make a bright spot where most wanted. "yes," she decided, "there has been no exaggeration. they are very poor, but they are not degraded by it. they have kept up their self-respect." but she was scarcely prepared for the vision that met her eyes when, an instant later, the door opening made her turn round. it was claudia--claudia in a little washed-out cotton frock, which might once have been blue, with snowy collar and cuffs, and a rosebud at her throat, her lovely hair fluttering over her forehead, her hazel eyes raised in half-perplexed inquiry,--claudia, the most exquisite picture of girlhood that lady mildred's gaze had ever rested on. she half started forward to meet the child; but claudia was absorbed in her commission, and did not notice it. "mamma is very sorry," she began, "she--she has been busy writing for papa. she will be here in a moment. can you kindly tell me your name-- and is there anything i can say to mamma for you?" "my dear, yes. tell her not to hurry; i can wait. tell her and your father that i am aunt mildred, and that i have come to spend the day with them if they will have me. and before you run away, can you not kiss your old aunt?" "of course, of course. i had no idea it was you, dear aunt," said claudia. "how strange of me not to guess, and we so often speak of you!" "you knew that your mother, or perhaps i should say your father, wrote to me lately?" asked lady mildred. "yes," said claudia simply, "i knew all about it. and oh! i am so glad you have come. it is ever so much better than a letter." "she is lovely and good, i feel sure, and i should imagine clever, like her mother," thought lady mildred. "what a pity it seems! but they are right--their idea is infinitely better than making a governess of such a girl, even if she were not a meredon." and the result of that august day that lady mildred osbert spent with her nephew and his family was, that a fortnight later claudia meredon was installed at silverthorns. lady mildred, when free from prejudice, could do things both kindly and sensibly, though nevertheless "in her own way." "i cannot do much for you," she said to her nephew and his wife; "but i am heartily sorry for you,--i had no idea basil's eyes were so bad,--and what i can do i will. i am not so rich as is generally thought." "that i know," mr meredon interrupted. "yes, i have always wished my own family to know it. as for the osberts, time enough for them to know it when i am dead. it is no love for them that actuates me, but my determination to carry out my husband's wishes. thanks to this, the property will be all but unencumbered again when it leaves my hands. but this state of things cripples me. however, that is no one's concern but my own. of all things i hate gossip, so i keep my own counsel. now as to claudia--i should like, i tell you frankly, to get some personal gratification out of what i do. i have taken a great fancy to the child. suppose you let me have her for the two years, instead of sending her away to school--i hate girls' schools, by the way, even the best of them. but i have made inquiry, and i find that at wortherham, near me, she could have excellent teaching. there is a _sort_ of school there, a day school only, for some of the girls of the place, which is most highly spoken of--the principal of it, miss lloyd, is very capable herself, and has first-rate teachers to help her. if claudia attended these classes she could live with me and cheer me up a little. i am very lonely. the two years may see the end of me--" "don't say that, aunt mildred," mr meredon interrupted; "it makes me feel as if i should have done something--written to you, or had some communication with you before. has it been false pride?" "perhaps," said lady mildred, bluntly. "i was not cordial about your marriage. you know it, my dear," she added, turning to mrs meredon. "but it was no ill-feeling to you personally. and as things are--well, i see plainly that basil could not have a better wife." "thank you for saying so," said mrs meredon simply. "and let me say i think your plan for claudia a delightful one." "but i have more to explain," lady mildred went on. "i like doing things in my own way. if she comes to me it must not be in the guise of a poor relation. i won't have all the old women in wortherham,-- dreadful radical place, that it is,--nor my county neighbours either, for that matter, gossiping about the poverty-stricken meredons. every one knows the meredons are poor, but let us keep all details to ourselves. claudia must not let any one at this school know anything about her motives for studying as hard as i am sure she will do; and she must not overdo it. she is well advanced already, you say?" "i hope so," said the mother. "but it is difficult to judge till one compares her with others. in french and german i am sure she will stand well." "yes, i know she could not have had a better teacher than you." "i had unusual advantages myself certainly," said mrs meredon, who had been many years in france and germany. lady mildred nodded her head without speaking. she had the greatest belief in her niece's ability, and with good reason. "well, then," she said, "we may consider it settled. i shall meet claudia in london a week hence and see to a `trousseau' for her, so give yourself no trouble on that head. you can explain to her all i have said. she will understand why i do not wish her to make friendships with any of the wortherham girls whom she will be thrown with?" "she will thoroughly understand that she is to follow your wishes in _everything_," said mrs meredon. "but i must warn you that she is a very sociable child--the world seems to her a very much more delightful place than to most of us, for somehow she always manages to see the best side of people." "i hope she will see the best side of me then," said lady mildred, rather grimly; "for i am a cantankerous old woman, and too old now to change. claudia had better rub up her rose-coloured spectacles before she comes my way." and so, a fortnight later saw lady mildred's grand-niece installed as the child of the house at silverthorns, or, according to the local wiseacres who there, as everywhere, knew more of their neighbours' affairs than the neighbours themselves, as "her ladyship's adopted daughter, heiress to silverthorns, and all the great accumulation of osbert wealth." and certainly the girl's sunny face and bright bearing gave some colour to charlotte waldron's belief that claudia meredon was one of those favoured human beings "who have _everything_!" chapter seven. misunderstood. claudia's success in the german class was, as charlotte had expected, but the first of her triumphs. she had natural abilities of the first order; she had been excellently and most carefully taught, with the close individual attention and sympathy which no teacher can give in such perfection as a parent, rare though the parents may be who are fitted to teach their own children! and joined to these advantages she had the most intense desire to learn, not merely from her innate love of knowledge, but from the even nobler motive of wishing to help her parents. so that it was not to be wondered at that by the end of the first week miss lloyd, who had been requested by lady mildred to let her know her opinion of her new pupil, sent to silverthorns a most satisfactory report. for miss lloyd was honest to the backbone. "miss meredon will make good progress, i have not the least doubt," she wrote; "but it is only fair to say that the credit will be mostly due to her own application and to the teachers who have already so thoroughly taught her how to learn." lady mildred showed claudia the letter. "it will not make _you_ vain," she said, "for it is your mother it praises, not you. miss lloyd must be a straightforward sort of person; most schoolmistresses try to make out that their pupils know nothing when they go to them, and learn everything with them. does she ever cross-question you as to who those teachers of yours were?" "no," said claudia. "she asked me--or perhaps it was the french governess--if i had ever been abroad, and i said no, and then i think i said i had always been taught at home." "and the other pupils--do they seem inquisitive either?" claudia hesitated. "i don't think they are more so than any girls would be," she said. "i--i don't tell them anything, and of course they are accustomed to being very friendly and communicative with each other. i think they are all nice girls. the one i like the best--she and i do nearly all the same lessons--is charlotte waldron. at least i think i could like her if i knew her; but--" "but what? you are not going to begin pestering me to let you make friends with her--her especially--i told you i don't like her family," said lady mildred irritably. "oh no, aunt, i was only going to say, i don't know that she likes me," said claudia. "she is a very cold girl, except with some few whom she seems to know well." "well, i hope you are cold to her in return," replied her aunt, though as she glanced at the bright eager face beside her, it was difficult to associate it with the word. "i try to do as you wish--as mamma explained," said claudia gently. "one thing i am sure of, aunt mildred, and that is that they all think me the very happiest girl in the world. and i almost think i am." she stooped to kiss lady mildred as she spoke, and then ran off. she had not forgotten to bring her rose-coloured spectacles with her, that was certain. and it was well for her that it was so. there were difficulties in her present life that her mother had feared, but that claudia herself in her innocence was as yet but very vaguely conscious of. she was scrupulously anxious to follow her aunt's directions as to her behaviour to her companions, but to one so open-hearted and genial it was not easy to be only coldly courteous and always self-restrained. and the struggle gave her a curious sort of timidity and uncertainty of manner which was not perhaps without its charm, but made it difficult to understand her, even for those who cared to exercise any observation and discrimination. "how do you like her, charlotte? i do wish you would tell me?" asked gueda knox one day, about a month after miss meredon's advent. "i don't want to speak about her; i hate gossip," said charlotte impatiently. "i'm not asking you to gossip," gueda replied. "i really want to know. i think you might tell me; it can do no harm, as i am going away almost immediately," for the knox family, all excepting the vicar himself, were obliged to spend fully half the year in the south of france for mrs knox's health. "that's just the worst of it," charlotte replied impatiently. "if you hadn't been going away i would not have minded so much, but without you i shall be thrown more and more with her." "that of itself is a pretty plain answer to my question," said gueda composedly. "of course it means you dislike her." "i have neither said nor implied that," said charlotte. "i suppose it is wrong to dislike any one whom you really don't know any harm of," she added. "but one does so. everybody in the world dislikes others without real reason. don't you remember dr fell?" said gueda. "no, it isn't that," said charlotte. "i don't dislike her without reason. if you weren't going away, gueda, i don't know that i would tell you anything. i do dislike her, and my reason is that she is interfering with me in every way. why did she come here at all? she is charming, and rich, and clever--why couldn't she leave us all at peace? i am perfectly sick of her name--it is nothing but miss meredon this, miss meredon that, wherever you go. if you had heard dr lewis in the street yesterday, just raving about her." "and papa is nearly as bad," said gueda. "he saw her the other day when he called to see miss lloyd about the confirmation classes. i know how you must feel, charlotte. of course it is much the worst for you, because you have been so incontestably the head of us all till now. i can't help feeling it for you, only--" "only what?" "if it is a wrong feeling--if it is--don't be angry, charlotte--if it is jealousy," said gueda. "i can't help it. i've tried not to dislike her," said charlotte. "have you told your mother?--you say you tell her everything. that must be awfully nice. i dare scarcely tell mine anything now, she's so ill," said gueda with a sigh. "poor gueda," said charlotte with quiet sympathy. "yes, i have talked about it to mamma; but she thinks it is best not to say much about it to any one. she says it impresses some kinds of wrong feelings more on our minds to talk about them. but how can i help it?--every moment it is something new. did you bear this morning how mademoiselle went on about her french accent? and that duet that mr finlay will insist on our learning together! he said, gueda, that i should take the bass because it was easier. fancy that! he said it before her--mr finlay, who has always--" she stopped. "yes, i know," said gueda. "it is very hard for you, charlotte." "no one seems really to understand except jerry, and now you," said charlotte. "i am afraid mamma is rather shocked at me. i suppose grown-up people don't understand these feelings," she added, little suspecting that the excess of her mother's sympathy was what made her shrink from much expression of it, and she sighed deeply. "why do some people have _everything_!" she went on, reverting to her old refrain. "it really does not seem fair. you know, gueda, that it is a great deal because we are not rich that i want to get on very well. i may--don't think me very conceited--but i may be able to write books when i am grown-up, or to do something of the kind." "but you are getting on well--as well as you could possibly wish." charlotte shook her head. "the teachers don't all think so _now_" she replied, "and i am losing heart. oh, gueda, _if_ i don't get the german prize!" "you _must_," said gueda. "i wish you could like her, charlotte." "no, i don't want to like her. i only wish she would go away--or still more, that she had never come. i don't want to like her and she doesn't want it either." gueda looked rather perplexed. "there's something in that," she said. "i don't think it's as much your fault as might seem at first. i can't make her out. she seems good and _nice_ altogether; but she must be selfish. she does seem so perfectly delighted when she is praised, and even put before you; and she does not really try to make friends with us. she might make you like her." something was running in gueda's head about the best way of winning withheld liking or affection being to put oneself in the way of receiving a service from the one to be gained over. "if miss meredon cared to do it with charlotte, she might. charlotte is so generous: if she were appealed to by the girl to help her a little, she would respond at once, i know," thought gueda. "no," agreed charlotte with some satisfaction, "she does not try. i don't want her to, and i don't try myself. all the same, i am glad she doesn't." "some of the girls say she is affected," said gueda. "it doesn't prevent them all from toadying her in a disgusting way," said charlotte, contemptuously. "not all of them," said gueda. "some of them are nicer than that, and are too proud to make friends with a girl who never seems able to speak to any of us naturally. _some_ think her manners are very `distinguished,' and what one must expect from lady mildred's niece." "vulgar snobs!" ejaculated charlotte. "what can you expect?" said gueda. "perhaps she is really more shy than anything else, and yet i hardly think so. now and then she seems as if she was ready to burst out laughing, and as eager to chatter and talk nonsense as any of us. and sometimes she has a very curious look in her face, as if she were almost asking pardon of us all. and oh, charlotte, how pretty she is!" "you needn't repeat that. i hear it about fifty times an hour. and she certainly does not look as if she were asking pardon of me every time she is put before me," said charlotte. "now do let us talk of something else, gueda. don't spoil the last few days before you go." and claudia, in blissful ignorance of all the discussion she evoked, was just then writing home one of her happy, almost triumphant letters, telling of new laurels gained and satisfactory opinions everywhere. she spoke warmly of lady mildred's kindness, and kept silence on her strangely trying temper, as well as on the difficulties she was growing more conscious of in her school-life. "it would be wrong, distinctly wrong," she said to herself, "to complain of aunt mildred. so there, i have no choice. but about school--i wonder if mamma could say anything to help me? no, i am afraid not. i must just not mind if i am disliked." so she told of nothing but of good. still mrs meredon, being a remarkably clever and acute woman,--a woman too of somewhat more determined and less emotional calibre than charlotte's gentle, sympathising mother,--read between the lines of her daughter's letter and saw some rocks ahead. "she is determined to make the best of everything, and that is only right," she said to herself. "but she is too one-sided in her way of looking at things just now. i must warn her." and this letter brought in return some counsel to claudia, which she had afterwards even fuller reason to appreciate. there happened one morning to be an unusually difficult exercise to do for the french teacher. it related to some of the rules of grammar which it was evident the pupils had not thoroughly taken in. "mademoiselle" explained them again more fully and clearly, but at the end of her dissertation she looked round the circle of faces, with their varying expressions of intelligence, indifference, or bewilderment, and sighed. "i don't believe you understand yet, young ladies," she said. "one or two of you may do so perhaps--miss meredon?"--and a smile from claudia confirmed her hopefulness in that quarter,--"miss waldron?" but charlotte's face was resolutely bent upon her exercise-book. "she does not understand, and she is too proud to own it," thought the governess, who, like some others of the teachers, was rather in awe of charlotte. "ah, well!--miss knox, you fanny, and isabel, i am almost sure--" she went on aloud. "oh, yes, indeed we understand quite well, even though we can't quite say it," said isabel lewis hastily. anything to have done with the lesson and poor conscientious "mademoiselle," who was so "tiresome" to-day. "you'll see, mademoiselle, we shall do it all right when it comes up again in our exercises." "i am glad to hear it," the french teacher replied in a peculiar tone. "you shall then give me the gratification you promise me without delay. for the next lesson you shall translate into french the following passage in english which i shall now dictate to you." and she proceeded to read aloud a passage of english especially composed to test the pupil's comprehension of the knotty point. isabel made a grimace, but wrote it off readily enough. it was never her way to anticipate troubles. who knew what might happen before the next lesson? she might discover some unanswerable reason for coaxing a holiday out of "papa"; she _might_ have one of the convenient colds which were not much of a penance; the skies might fall! and she only laughed when her companions reproached her for having brought this extra piece of work upon them. it was really a difficult exercise. it took all claudia's thorough knowledge of the rules to complete it correctly; and charlotte, whose advantages of training in modern languages had been fewer, found herself in one or two details hopelessly baffled. but she kept this to herself; she did her best, and trusted there was not much wrong. where was the use of speaking about it? there was no one who could help her. mrs waldron's french was a long ago story; as to her companions, she was pretty sure that, with one exception, they were far more in the dark than herself. but it was new and painful to her to feel misgivings, and the very afternoon on which the exercises had to be given in she sat, her book open before her, trying to see what were her mistakes, and hoping to be able even then to correct them. she was so absorbed that she did not hear herself sigh, nor a light step approaching her in her corner. "miss waldron," said a voice she knew well, with an inflection of timidity which, till recently, happy, hearty claudia's tones had never known, "please forgive me for asking you if you are puzzled about that exercise. i found it very difficult, but ma--i was rather severely drilled in those rules, and i _think_ i have got it right." "indeed!" said charlotte coldly. "it is the last phrase that is so particularly worrying, is it not?--of course it is made to be so. many french girls themselves would not know how to put it perfectly." now it was this last phrase that to charlotte had been a veritable ass's bridge. and besides her ambition, she had the purer motive of a student's real interest in thoroughly comprehending the working of the rule. as claudia spoke she half unconsciously relaxed a little in her stiff, stand-off manner. "yes," she said more frankly, "it is the last part that i cannot satisfy myself about." "would you let me?--oh, please do," said claudia, her face flushing, her voice literally trembling with eagerness. "might i just explain to you how i have said it to myself?" and without waiting for charlotte's half-hesitating reply, she ran on. in a few clear, terse sentences she put it before her listener, as all mademoiselle's long explanations or the involved language of the grammar had failed to do. charlotte forgot herself and her prejudices in real admiration and satisfaction. "i see," she exclaimed delightedly. "miss meredon, you have a real genius for teaching." "do you really think so?" claudia replied joyously. "and you are such a good judge. oh, if you only--" but she checked herself sharply. "you do work so well and so hard, miss waldron." "yes," said charlotte, with a slight return of the cold moodiness which claudia had rarely seen behind, "i don't spare myself. i care for nothing on earth so much as for getting on well with my lessons." there was an intensity in her tone which almost startled claudia. at the same time it touched a sympathetic chord. "oh, do you really feel so?" she exclaimed impulsively. "i think i can understand it. you have probably some very great motive as well as love of learning. are you perhaps looking forward to making some use of your education, of all you are learning, before long--to help your parents, perhaps?" charlotte grew crimson. "do you mean to say, am i being educated to be a governess?" she said haughtily. "no, miss meredon, i am not i think before you make such remarks you might be at the trouble to understand whom you are talking to, though you seem to think yourself of a perfectly different world from every one about you. but even in _our_ world there are such things as well-educated ladies who are not governesses, though the idea may be a new one to you." claudia's face grew pale with distress. she clasped her hands together, while her eyes filled with tears. "oh, dear, what have i done? how clumsy and rude i have been--just when i did so want to be the opposite," for her poor little overture to charlotte had been made in deference to a suggestion of her mother's, that without infringing lady mildred's rules, she might surely find some small opportunities of showing kindliness and sympathy to her companions. "i can only say i did not--oh, _indeed_ i did not mean to offend you." "you have found us all sufficiently well-bred to ask _you_ no questions, as you evidently wished to be considered a person apart; and i can't therefore see that you, on your side, can expect any confidences," charlotte said icily. "no, no, of course not," said claudia nervously. "but, miss waldron, you are forgetting--are you not going to correct that last paragraph?" for charlotte was bundling up her books and preparing to stalk off with what she considered great dignity. "certainly not. i am not going to do anything so dishonourable as to correct my exercises by yours," said charlotte. "oh, it would not be that--you know it would not be that," said claudia sadly. "i know what is honourable and what is not so, though you will not allow that i am nice in any way, now that i have offended you. i only explained the rule to you as mademoiselle had already done. you have not seen my exercise--you don't know what i have put." but it was in vain. and the result, as might have been expected, was that claudia's exercise was the only correct one, and that charlotte received for the first time a sharp reprimand from the french teacher for inattention and indifference. and for the first time the praises that were lavished upon herself gave claudia no pleasure, but instead, real pain and distress. chapter eight. the old legend. "jerry," said charlotte suddenly, a few days after claudia's unlucky attempt, "it's no use. i've tried and i've tried to like that girl, at least to have no unkind feelings to her, and it's no good. gueda has gone now, and we--that girl and i--seem forced to be together in everything, and i just hate it." "but not _her_," said jerry; "it isn't so bad if it's only the--the thing, the way it's come, that you hate, not the girl herself." "i don't know. i'm afraid it's much the same, and in a queer way i think i'd not mind so much if there were anything to hate about her, but there isn't. sometimes i could almost fancy myself liking her awfully, and that makes it worse." charlotte stopped writing altogether and gazed out of the window on to the little deserted garden, looking blacker and drearier than ever in this grim december afternoon, with a sort of despair in her face. "in spite of her being so horrid and impertinent to you the other day-- asking if you were going to be a governess--you--papa's daughter, and with four brothers to work for you, even supposing you hadn't a father," said jerry wrathfully. "but after all, perhaps, she didn't mean it in any horrid, patronising way. i suppose very, very rich people really don't understand, as papa said. everybody that isn't as rich as they seems all much about the same to them, i suppose." jerry gave a sort of growl. "then very rich people must be very vulgar and ill-bred," he said. "i don't know," said charlotte. "i try to say things to myself to make me feel nicer about her, but it seems no good. i don't speak about it to mamma, because she told me it was better to fight down such feelings in my own heart, and i could see it really made her unhappy. she is so dreadfully sympathising, and so gentle herself. i'm afraid there's something almost fierce in me that she can scarcely understand, jerry. but there's one thing that's the worst of all. i think i could stand everything else if it wasn't for the german prize. but if she gets that--oh, jerry, it will break my heart. and next week herr marklestatter will be giving out the notes for the essay. you know the prize is for the essay." "is she sure to try for it?" "oh, yes," said charlotte. "the other girls are already saying that it lies between her and me. i don't know that _she_ has heard or thought much about it--she doesn't hear much of the talk that goes on, and i'm sure i listen to as little as i can: it can't possibly matter to her as much as to me. it will be the first year i have not had it since herr marklestatter has taught us. oh, jerry, _isn't_ it hard?" jerry sat silent, as was his way when his feelings were deeply moved. "it's more than hard, it's unbearable," he said at last. "i don't care how lovely she is, and all that," he went on after a little pause, "she must be a horrid, stuck-up, selfish creature." "i don't know," said charlotte, for the third time. "i don't think i _do_ think her so in the bottom of my heart, though sometimes it does seem like it. but independently of her interfering so with me, i don't understand her; she never tells any of us a thing. we don't know if she is an orphan, or if she has any one she cares for, or anything. and yet there is a look in her eyes--" and charlotte's own eyes took a softer expression, "a far-away look, _almost_ sad;--though what can she have to be sad about?--she that has _everything_! i saw it one day when mamma was going to call for me, and i had to go half an hour sooner. i like awfully when mamma calls for me, you know, jerry, and i suppose i looked pleased when i jumped up, and she was sitting beside me, and i was almost sure i heard her give a sort of little sob." "i thought you said her father and mother had died when she was a baby, and that she couldn't remember them," jerry remarked. "no; i only said very likely they had. it was at the beginning of our talking about it, when i was saying she had everything, and you tried to make out perhaps she wasn't clever,--oh, my goodness, she not clever!-- and that she was an orphan, and--and--i am sure there was another thing you said perhaps she had or hadn't." "i know," said jerry: "it was that perhaps she had to sleep in the haunted room at silverthorns. i just wish she had, and that the old ghost, the cruel old osbert papa told us of, would appear to her and give her a jolly good fright, and teach her to feel for others a little." "she isn't unfeeling in some ways," said charlotte. "one day one of the dogs at silverthorns--it's an old dog that belonged to mr osbert, and was always with him, and now it's taken a great fancy to her, she says-- well, it followed her, running after her pony-carriage all the way to school, and she never saw it till it panted up to the steps and lay there as if it was dying. she was in such a state--the tears running down her face. she ran in with it in her arms, and begged miss lloyd to let it stay; and when she went home again she had it packed up in a shawl beside her. oh, she does look so nice when she drives off! the pony and everything are so perfect. but i must go on with my lessons." "so must i," said jerry; and for a few minutes there was silence. then charlotte looked up again. "jerry," she said, "i wish you hadn't said that about the ghost at silverthorns; it makes me shiver. supposing, just _supposing_ it did go to her, and that she was fearfully frightened, it would seem as if it was our fault somehow." "rubbish!" said jerry. "it wouldn't be our fault; we're not witches. besides, it's all nonsense." "i wonder if she has ever heard of it," said charlotte. "i wonder if there is any truth in it." and that evening, when all the family was together in the drawing-room, she spoke of it again to her father. "papa," she said, "do you remember telling us of a haunted room at silverthorns? is it _really_ true that there is one?" "perfectly true, as i told you, that there is a room which is _said_ to be haunted," replied her father. "but i personally can't vouch for anything--at least for very little--beyond that." five, nay six pairs of ears, for mrs waldron was nearly as eager on the subject as her children, pricked themselves up at this slight though incautious admission. "`very little,' you say, papa?" charlotte exclaimed. "oh, do tell us what the `very little' is. who told it you? did you hear it at first hand, or how? and when? and from whom?" mr waldron looked round him helplessly. he had spoken thoughtlessly, for even the wisest of us cannot be always on our guard. he had been half asleep, to tell the truth, when charlotte first roused him by her question, for he had had a hard day's work, and had driven some distance in the cold, and the arm-chair by the fire was very comfortable. he was wide awake now, however, and very much at a loss what to say. he had always, for reasons understood by his wife, avoided allusions to silverthorns or the osbert family; but of late, circumstances had seemed to force the place and its inhabitants upon the young waldrons' notice; and if he tried to back out of what he had said, it would probably only whet the interest and curiosity he deprecated. better tell simply, and as it were unconsciously, what there was to tell. "my dears, indeed there is nothing to interest you," he said. "you know the legend--i told it to you the other day--that a long-ago osbert had behaved very unjustly and cruelly, and that his spirit is supposed to be unable to rest on that account. well--" "but, papa," said arthur, "excuse me for interrupting you, but i was thinking over the story. i don't see that it was so very wrong of him to wish the place to remain in the family--i mean to be owned by _osberts_. it is the feeling everybody has." mr waldron smiled. it amused him to see the eldest son sentiment in arthur, though he was heir to nothing. "i quite agree with you," he said. "but you forget--he was really cruel, for he left his poor daughter utterly penniless, in reality to gratify the spite he had always had against her. he carried his family pride a little too far, surely? besides, he was a hard and unfeeling landlord." "oh, yes," said arthur, "i forgot. of course he might have looked after his daughter without letting the place go out of the family. and what did you say was the prophecy, papa?--that he should be punished by silverthorns going in the female line after all, isn't it? that has never come to pass yet--there have always been osberts there?" "yes; the legend is, that the unhappy ghost shall never rest till the descendants of a daughter of the house own the place. it came near it once many years ago. the then squire had only a sister, and though the place had always been left in the male line, her grandson--her son was dead--would have succeeded, failing male osberts, had not a cousin who had not been heard of for many years turned up. he was an old man, who had been most of his life in australia, and he never came home to enjoy his inheritance. but he had two sons: one became the squire, and did very well for himself, by marrying lady mildred meredon, for she is a clever and capable woman, and he would never have left things in as good order as he did but for her. the other son is now general osbert." "but, papa," said charlotte, whose quick wits had taken in all he said, "if the place always goes to osberts, it must be all nonsense about lady mildred's intending to leave it to this miss meredon, as everybody will say." "i don't know," said her father. "there have been rumours that lady mildred is perfectly free to do as she likes with it, others that she is bound by some arrangement to leave it to the osberts, and that in reality she only has it for her life. either may be true. mr osbert and his brother were not very friendly, and general osbert needed money. perhaps he was satisfied with some help from his brother during his life. and the squire was much attached to his wife, and owed much to her. she may be able to leave it to her own people. but even if not, it doesn't matter--general osbert has sons," he added, as if thinking aloud. "papa!" exclaimed charlotte almost indignantly, "how can you say it doesn't matter? i think it would be the most unfair, unnatural thing to leave an old, old place like that to people who have _nothing_ to do with it." "what does it matter to us?" said ted, with a yawn. "how can you excite yourself so about other people's affairs, charlotte?" but mr waldron stroked charlotte's head as she sat near him. "i think it is very unlikely," he said. "mr osbert had plenty of family feeling." "what would the poor ghost do if it were so?" said jerry, so seriously that they all laughed. "just fancy his feelings! he'd lose all chance of ever resting in peace, poor thing--for if it once went away to another family, it could never go to the descendants of a woman osbert. lady mildred isn't an osbert. no, you needn't laugh--i'm very sorry for the ghost," he persisted with real concern. "it makes me feel quite fidgety. i'd like to know about how it really is." "perhaps lady mildred would `count' as a woman osbert," said noble. "it would seem fair, for the ghost would surely be punished enough by its going quite away from his family." "nonsense, noble," said jerry irritably. "those relations of hers--_that_ girl," with an accent of bitter scorn, "is not even her descendant, supposing lady mildred did count." charlotte glanced at him uneasily. it was so unlike jerry to speak with such a tone of any one. and she knew whence came the prejudice he showed. "we shall have to tell _you_ not to excite yourself next, jerry, my boy," said his father. "i shall wish i had not told you anything about it." "but you haven't, papa," said charlotte. "that's to say, we have not heard a word about the ghost yet, i mean of what you `could personally vouch for.' do tell us." mr waldron glanced at his wife. "how am i to get out of it?" his eyes seemed to ask. "yes," said mrs waldron calmly, chiming in with charlotte; "do tell us." "i had heard this old story as a child," he began. "you know i lived in this neighbourhood as a little boy, but i don't think i ever told you that in the old days i have stayed at silverthorns." "at silverthorns itself!" repeated several voices. "no, indeed, papa, you never told us. how very funny it seems! why didn't you ever tell us?" "it is more or less painful to me to recall that time," mr waldron replied quietly. "they are all dead, all those i loved and cared for then. and it is so long ago now! but to go on with my story. i happened to be at silverthorns one winter when the old squire was taken ill. i was there because my guardian who took charge of me was a very dear and old friend of his, and i was a quiet sort of child that did not give much trouble. i was left to run about the place as i liked, while the two old people were together. i slept in a little room in the oldest part of the house, which was the part the squire liked best, and he and his guests--unless there happened to be a great many in the house--inhabited it much more than the modern part. do you remember, charlotte and jerry, noticing a sort of square tower at the end?" "with a pointed window high up, and a pointed roof, almost like a kind of great pigeon-house? oh, yes, i remember it," said charlotte. "well, that room, the room with that window, is the one that is said to be haunted. it is quite a small room. i believe the story is that the ghost frequents it because it was from that window that the unnatural father watched poor bridget making her way down the avenue, when his cruelty had made her at last determine to leave him. i had heard something of the story, as i told you, but in the vaguest way. i knew nothing of the particulars; i could scarcely have understood them. i only knew that a long-ago osbert, who was said to have been a cruel, bad man, was supposed to haunt the tower. but i had never heard that he came more at one time than another; i never knew that his spirit was supposed to be especially restless when any of the family were going to die; above all, when the place was going to change hands, i suppose. and i was not the least afraid of the tower--i often ran in and out of it in the daytime, though there was nothing particularly interesting in the little bare, deserted room. but one night, late evening rather,--i remember it so well, it had been a bitterly cold day, and the ground was covered with snow,--i was hanging about, rather at a loss what to do with myself, for my gr--guardian had been all day shut up with the squire, who was really very ill, when a sudden fancy seized me that i would like to go up to the tower room, as it is called, and look out on the moonlight glittering on the frost-covered trees of the avenue,--i have often, by the bye, had a fancy that the great thorns at the end of the drive seen in a frost must have given their name to the place,--for, like most children brought up alone, i was fanciful and dreamy. my own room, where a nice fire was blazing, was only one flight of steps lower than the tower room, but it looked out to the other side. i ran up-stairs and opened the tower room door--it was perfectly flooded with clear cold moonlight, except in one corner, away from the window, which struck me, as is always the case in moonlight shadows, as extraordinarily black and dark. but i did not mind, i had no thought of fear. i ran to the window and gazed out. it was as i expected--the trees were glistening like silver and diamonds, it seems to me that i have never seen anything so beautiful since. i remember saying to myself, `how i wish i could make some poetry about them to myself,' when suddenly i was startled by the sound, or _feeling_--feeling as much as sound perhaps--of something moving in the dark corner, and before i had time to look round i heard distinctly three deep sighs or groans. even had it been the daytime, and had there been nothing eerie about the place, the sound would have made me shiver--it seemed to tell of such profound, hopeless misery. then in half a moment there rushed over me the remembrance of the story i had heard, and that i was here actually in the haunted room itself. i dashed through the doorway and down-stairs, and never stopped till i got to the servants' regions; and then i was so near fainting and looked so wretched that my guardian had to be sent for, and all manner of soothing and comforting employed to bring me round. the whole thing might have been forgotten but for what followed. the poor old squire died that very night, and i think my guardian was glad he did not live till the next morning; for it brought the news of the reappearance of the osbert cousins whom he had thought it his duty to try to trace, and so his sister's grandson was cut out of his inheritance!" "and the ghost had reason to be miserable then," said jerry. "poor ghost." "yes," said mr waldron; "his hopes of his long penance ending must have been dashed to the ground." "papa," said charlotte, in a rather awe-struck tone, "you speak as if you really believed it. _do_ you? do you in the bottom of your heart believe it was the ghost?" "no," said mr waldron, smiling. "in the bottom of my heart i believe it was--" he stopped, and dropped his voice mysteriously. "what?" exclaimed everybody. "_owls_!" said mr waldron in a thrilling whisper. charlotte and jerry, and one or two others, who afterwards denied it by the way, screamed. "oh, papa," said charlotte, "you did so frighten us." "well, my dears, it shows how easily nerves can be worked up to be frightened at nothing. it was your own imaginations that frightened you." "then do you mean," said noble, in rather a disappointed tone, "that there was nothing in it at all?" mr waldron hesitated. "i can't say," he replied. "i don't know. i think it was a very curious coincidence that for the first time for long any colour should have been given to the old story, just when the squire died; and even more, just when the estates' reverting to the female line was stopped. of course this tells two ways--these circumstances following after made the incident impressive." "yes," said noble; "i see." "but, papa," said charlotte, "didn't you say that the poor grand--yes, grand-nephew, who so nearly had all, came off very badly? that needn't have been--the squire might have left him something." "he meant to do so, but--it is a long story, and the legal details would only confuse you. the squire had left things, as was usual in the family, all to the male heir, and failing him, to the female line; indeed, there was not very much he could alienate from the property, and the new squire had debts when he came into it, though it is in a much better way now. but the old squire had never really anticipated that the australian osberts would turn up. there was room for a lawsuit about what he had meant for his sister and her grandson; and they could not fight it. so all went from them." "did you know them--the sister and the boy?" asked charlotte. "yes," said mr waldron, and he sighed. "if you had been grown-up then, couldn't you have helped them now that you're such a clever lawyer?" asked jerry. "perhaps i might have been able to do something." "only `perhaps'!" said jerry reproachfully. "papa, i think the law is horribly unjust. i hate it. i don't want to be a lawyer. fancy those poor things! and the poor, _poor_ ghost." "jerry's got the ghost on the brain," said ted, teasingly. "mamma," said jerry plaintively, "do you hear ted? should he mock like that when papa's been telling us the story seriously?" "he's only in fun; he didn't mean to vex you, jerry," said arthur, and mrs waldron looked at the boy somewhat anxiously. she did not like his half querulous tone. it reminded her of the time when he was suffering and feeble, and unable to bear ordinary nursery life. "jerry can't be well," she said to herself; and she said it aloud to her husband when they were left alone. "do you think i should not have told that old story in his hearing?" he asked. "he is not usually nervous or excitable. i could not get out of telling it without seeming to make some mystery." "and you think it better not to tell them the whole?" asked his wife. "i see no good purpose that it could serve," he replied. "not at present, at least, while they are young and impressionable. when they are older i have always intended that they should know, though it is most unlikely that it will ever affect us in any way." chapter nine. the tower room. if we knew more than is possible for us of what is passing at a distance, we should find so-called "coincidences" much more frequent then we have at present any idea of. that very evening when the family party in the waldrons' drawing-room was discussing the old legends of the osberts, the conversation at silverthorns between lady mildred and her niece had taken the same direction. claudia meredon was not looking quite as bright and well as usual, and her aunt was becoming aware of it. "you are so silent, child," she said, half reproachfully, "and i like you to talk. it was one of your attractions to me at the first that you were not one of those stupid, half-bred, or not-at-all-bred girls who think good manners consist in staring at their elders, and never answering anything but `yes' and `no' and `if you please.'" claudia laughed. "then you don't approve of-- "`hold up your head, turn out your toes, speak when you're spoken to, mend your clo'es,' "aunt mildred?" she said. "yes, i do," said the old lady, testily. "there's a medium in all things. i detest impertinent little chatterboxes of children. but you're not a child now, claudia, and you have plenty of sense and knowledge in your head; you are quite able to talk very intelligently and agreeably if you choose. i only hope you are not going to turn into a book-worm. are you working too hard?" "no, aunt, i don't think so," said claudia. "and you know how i enjoy my lessons. and the teaching at miss lloyd's is really very interesting." but she gave a very little sigh as she spoke. "then what's the matter with you? are you ill? i hope you're not home-sick. or do any of those girls at miss lloyd's annoy you in any way? you can't deny that you're not in your usual spirits." "no," claudia allowed, "i don't feel quite as merry as usual; but i'm sure i'm not ill. and i'm not home-sick: if i were it would be too silly, when i know that what you are doing for me now is to make it possible for me to be a real help to them all at home. perhaps, however, i am just a _very_ little what people call home-sick. it isn't the girls at school--i have very little to do with them." "all the better," said lady mildred. "they cannot be much worth knowing." "perhaps most of them are rather commonplace," claudia allowed. "there is only one--the one i told you of, charlotte waldron--who interests me at all particularly. but i don't think i interest her, so though we do all the same lessons we scarcely ever speak to each other," and again claudia sighed a little. "you are a goose," said her aunt. "i believe you would like to make friends with the girl, and have her adoring you and gushing over you." claudia could not help laughing a little. the idea of cold, proud charlotte "gushing" over any one, over herself especially, struck her as curiously incongruous. "she's not at all that sort of girl, aunt mildred," she said. "so much the better," repeated lady mildred again. "and whatever she is or is not," she went on, "remember, claudia, i gave you fair warning that i could have no school-girl friendships." "of course, aunt, i know that quite well. don't think i am dreaming of such things. i really and truly don't quite know why i don't feel as bright as usual." it was as she said. she did not understand herself. hitherto, though her life had been in some respects a hard and even anxious one,--for she had shared her parents' cares and struggles, and the mode of living at the rectory had been of almost spartan simplicity,--there had been no complications. duties had been clear and straightforward, to claudia's genial and loving nature they had gone hand in hand with her greatest delight--that of serving and helping those about her. but now it was different: she felt herself misunderstood and disliked; she felt she was almost giving reason for this, and yet what could she do? the little kindnesses and overtures of good will which her mother had assured her she could find opportunity for without violating her aunt's wishes had been rejected almost with scorn. she was beginning even faintly to suspect that her earnest and conscientious school-work, or rather the success with which it was crowned, was rousing against her feelings which she could not endure to suspect the existence of in the hearts of others. yet here again what could she do? it must be right to do her best, to profit to the utmost by the opportunities her aunt's goodness was giving her, even if it made her companions--though, to tell the truth, the word was in claudia's mind represented by charlotte waldron alone--dislike and almost hate her. yet it was so painful, so new; and to have to face these problems for the first time, when for the first time she was alone and with no one to reprove or advise her, did seem hard. for it would have been impossible to express all her difficulties clearly in a letter, even had she not felt that it would be disloyal to her aunt, and cruel to the anxious hearts at home, to attempt to do so. "no," she repeated, as lady mildred did not at once speak, "i don't quite know why i don't feel as usual. perhaps i am working a very little too hard. if it were summer i am sure i should be as merry as ever--it must be too lovely here in summer, aunt mildred." "but you get plenty of fresh air--it is a good drive into wortherham and back every day?" "oh, yes, and i do _so_ enjoy it. you don't know how nice it is. i am so glad papa managed to teach me to drive quite as a child, though i never had anything like kelpie to drive before. she is such a darling, aunt mildred." claudia's face lightened up with the thought of her pony's perfections. lady mildred looked at her: she saw that when the momentary glow faded the girl seemed again pale and tired-looking. "my dear, do you sleep well?" she said suddenly. "not _very_ well, perhaps," claudia admitted. "you're not nervous--you don't mind being alone?" "oh, no," said claudia; "i have always had a room alone since i was quite a little girl." "yes; but at home, in a smaller house, where you all seem nearer together, it is different. you are quite sure you are not nervous here? don't be afraid of saying so if you are. no one has been telling you nonsense about this house being haunted, or anything of that kind?" a light broke over claudia's face, which had been growing rather bewildered-looking. "it is very kind of you to have thought of it, aunt mildred," she said. "but indeed i am not the least nervous in that way. i have not slept well partly perhaps because i have been thinking so much about my lessons. i do so want to show them at home that i am doing well, and the examinations and all that will be coming on soon." "don't overdo it," said lady mildred. "your father and mother--and i, for that matter, if you care about me in that way--will be perfectly satisfied that you have done your best, without any prizes or things of that kind." "there is only one prize given at christmas," said claudia, "and that is a german one that the master gives himself. i do dreadfully want to get it. mamma is so anxious about my german." "well, don't overwork yourself, my dear. it would be very unlucky if you were to fall ill here--you that have always been so strong. it would reflect badly on me, or on silverthorns, if you lost your rosy cheeks here. and to some of those girls, doubtless, prizes must seem matters of life or death--many of them probably are training for governesses." "some perhaps may be," said claudia; "but i think many of them, particularly some of the least refined, are very rich. and i don't think any of them can wish for this prize more than i do. think what it would be to send it home! but, aunt mildred," she went on in a different tone, "as you see i'm not nervous, i wish you would tell me more about the ghost." "i know very little about, the story, my dear," lady mildred replied. "mr osbert, my husband, disliked its being spoken about, and i did not care to hear. there was some nonsense about the ghost being heard or seen at the time of the old squire's death, which annoyed him. i fancy it was set about by some cousins who had no right to the place, but tried to claim something, and they wanted to make out that the ghost was on their side." "how very absurd, and how wrong!" said claudia. "yes; i know very little about it however. the ghost is supposed to be the spirit of a very ruffianly old osbert, who cannot rest in peace." "he haunts the tower, doesn't he?" said claudia. "old peebles, the gardener, told me that, one day when i was asking him if there were owls' nests up there. he said he `durstn't take upon himself to disturb them, nor anything else about the tower, and he couldn't say.'" "ah, yes, you see that explains it all. no doubt there have been owls there for generations, and if no one ever disturbs them they have it all their own way. we have never used those rooms much--the rooms in the lower part of the tower, i mean." "but they are dear old rooms. the one the servants call the chintz room might be made delightful. i should not be the least afraid to sleep there," said claudia. "well, if ever the house is more full of guests than it is likely to be in my time," said lady mildred, who was particularly amiable to claudia that evening, "you shall move there and try how you like it. we have often used it as a sort of bachelor's room or odd spare room--it is easily put in order. and, by the bye, you would have no reason to fear the ghost, claudia. he only appears to, or is heard by--i don't know which--members of the osbert family. they must have osbert blood in them." "how disappointing!" claudia replied. "i shouldn't care so much for sleeping in the tower if that's the case." "well, go and sleep in your own bed now, and let me see you looking better to-morrow. it is getting late," said her aunt. claudia kissed her and said good night, and went off. she felt brightened by the talk with lady mildred. it was not often that the old lady was so genial and sympathising. "it was really _very_ kind of her to think of my being perhaps frightened at night," she said to herself. "very few grown-up people think of such things. if it had been poor alix now--i don't believe alix will ever be able to sleep in a room alone." she was up-stairs by this time on the large first floor landing, which at one side was separated from the oldest part of the house by a door and short passage. claudia looked at the door. "i wonder now if i should be frightened if i slept in the tower," she thought. "i hardly think so. yet it must be queer and lonely up in that empty room. i wonder if it's at all moonlight to-night. i've a great mind to run up just for a moment. i'll leave this door open, so that if i _am_ frightened i can rush down at once." and half laughing at her own temerity, claudia opened the door, propping it ajar, for it was a spring one, by the aid of a chair on the wide landing, and running along the passage, began the ascent of the stairs. a few steps led to the chintz room, the door of which, imperfectly latched, was rattling somewhat uncannily, as if some one were trying to get out. but claudia did not stop to close it--she hastened on, up the two flights, to the tower room itself. the staircase was dark save for some light from below, whence, too, came the sounds of the servants moving about and speaking in the distance, for on the ground floor of this wing were some of the offices in regular use. claudia was not sorry to hear the murmurs--it seemed less "ghosty." but as she opened the tower room door and entered, it banged to behind her--and then it seemed indeed as if she were far away from everybody, up there with the moonlight and the owls. for moonlight there was, though of but a faint and fitful kind. there was frost about, though as yet no snow had fallen this winter, and the outside world looked grim and unadorned, as claudia went to the window and gazed out. except where here and there a ray of light fell on the evergreen trees in the avenue, all seemed black and lifeless. "how dreary," she thought with a little shudder. "i can't help pitying the ghost if his rambles are restricted to this melancholy room. i wonder what he did that was so wicked," and her eyes rested unconsciously on the drive, seen here and there in patches of light and dark through the trees, down which poor bridget osbert so many, many years ago had crept away, sobbing and broken-hearted. claudia had never heard the story, lady mildred herself did not know it, but as the girl stood and gazed a strange sensation--not of fear, but of pity and sadness--came over her; and suddenly her thoughts reverted to the mention made by her aunt of the cousins who had been disappointed in their expectations, some of whom apparently had held the last communication on record with the osbert ghost. "poor things," she thought; "i feel sorry for them. perhaps they had some rights, after all. it must be hard to part with an old place like this, or to give up hopes of having it if one has expected it. there is something strange in the thought of inhabiting the very spot where one's ancestors have lived for hundreds of years. it must seem so full of them--permeated with their feelings and actions. if they had been bad people, i think it would seem rather dreadful. i wonder why i feel this so much to-night. standing here, i could almost fancy i was an osbert-- and i feel certain some of them have been very unhappy. i do feel so sorry for i don't know whom! if the ghost appeared i really think i should have courage to ask if i could do anything for him--poor ghost." but nothing appeared, no sound broke the perfect stillness, save a low rustling wail from the wind as it came round the corner. and the moonlight faded again, and claudia turning from the window saw that the room was almost perfectly dark, and for the first time a slight feeling of fear came over her. she hurried to the door, and was glad to see as she opened it that the light from the large landing shone faintly up the stairs. and in another moment she had run down, and was smiling at her own trepidations in the cheerful security of her own room. "i am not so _very_ brave after all," she said to herself. and as might have been expected, her dreams that night were rather troubled. they seemed full of charlotte waldron and herr marklestatter, but the german teacher had the face of charlotte's father, whom claudia had seen but once and for a moment only, the evening he came out to silverthorns on business, and he seemed to be begging claudia to do or not to do something. and just as she was consenting, and mr waldron was saying, "it is all for the poor ghost's sake, you know," she heard what she fancied in her dream to be a sudden cry of distress, and starting up in bed, found that the wind had got up, and was howling round the house, and that her door had blown open with a loud noise. still, though the next morning was dreary and stormy in the extreme, claudia looked and felt better than for some time past. "you don't look as if ghosts or anything else had been troubling you," said lady mildred; "but it is far too stormy for kelpie this morning. you must have the brougham." and claudia, while she thanked her, smiled to herself as she wondered what her aunt would have said to her visit to the tower room the night before. chapter ten. jerry's appeal. it was now very near christmas, which promised this year to be what people are fond of calling "an old-fashioned" one. snow had already fallen, though not to any great extent, though the weather-wise were prophesying that there was already more to come. charlotte waldron was working harder at her lessons than she had ever yet done, and with a sort of feverish eagerness and absorption that was new to her. she tried to some extent to conceal her intense anxiety from her mother, perhaps because she felt instinctively that mrs waldron would have told her that she was allowing the spirit of ambition and emulation to carry her too far, especially if the whole of her motives had been confessed. she would not allow herself to acknowledge them; she would have been indignant with any one who had put them into words and faced her with their unloveliness. and as "none are so blind as those who won't see," she remained self-deceived, and in a sense self-satisfied. jerry, as usual, was her chief and indeed at this time her only confidant. and even to him she did not say very much, but what she did say startled and impressed the sensitive, sympathising nature of the boy far more than charlotte had any idea of. "jerry," she repeated more than once, "if i don't get the german prize i shall go out of my mind. oh, i don't know what i shall do! i just can't bear to think of it. it does not seem fair, does it, that i, who have been working steadily all these years, doing my best, my very best, should suddenly be set aside by a stranger, to whom the work is far easier than to me?--a girl who is far cleverer than i, who, for all i know--she never tells us anything--may have learnt her german in germany and her french in france. that isn't fair competition. if it had been gueda now, or one of the girls who have learnt as i have done, with no greater advantages, i might have felt it in a way, but i should have known it was fair. and now it just isn't." "no," jerry agreed, "it isn't. but oh, charlotte, it does make me so unhappy when you speak like that." "i'm very sorry," said charlotte penitently. "i'll try not; but you see i've no one else to speak to. i told you i had left off talking to mamma about it all--and--there is just no one but you i can speak to." "no, don't leave off speaking to me," said jerry; "i should know you were thinking of it all the same. charlotte," he went on after a little pause, "do you think the girl herself thinks it fair? you have said sometimes that you thought she was _really_ a nice girl." "i can't make her out," charlotte replied. "she seems nice, only she is dreadfully reserved. as for whether she thinks it fair or not, i don't fancy she thinks about it in that way at all. i'm not sure that she really knows how clever she is. she does not seem conceited. but i suppose she wants very much to get the prize. the truth is, she should not be in the class or in any class; she should be by herself." "i wonder the teachers don't see it," said jerry. "oh, they don't care like that. they can't make such particular distinctions. it's only me it really matters to," said charlotte hopelessly. "i suppose everything's unfair in this world. i don't see how one is to help getting to have horrid feelings. what _can_ it matter to her, so spoilt and rich and beautiful--what can one little school prize matter to her as it does to me?" and she groaned despairingly. jerry was silent for a few minutes; then he spoke again. "charlotte," he said, "are you _sure_ you won't get it? it would be all the more of a triumph if you did win it over her." "but i know i can't," she said. "of course i shall do my best; i should need to do that any way. some of the girls are really very good german scholars. but she is more than good; she really writes it almost perfectly. oh, no, i have no chance--the notes for the composition were given out last week. i have begun it, but i almost think i shall spill a bottle of ink over it, or let it catch fire accidentally at the last minute." "oh, no, charlotte, you won't do that--promise me you won't. do, charlotte!" jerry entreated. "oh, well, i don't suppose i shall. i should not like not to show herr marklestatter i had done my best. he used to be so kind to me; he is kind to me still. only," and again charlotte sighed profoundly, "i really don't know how i shall bear the disappointment and the mortification!" jerry did not sigh,--he was never very demonstrative,--but his face grew hard and stern, and he pressed his lips tightly together in a way that was usual with him when he was making up his mind to something. for jerry _was_ making up his mind to something, and for the next few days he was silently thinking it over wondering how he was to carry it out. the predicted snow fell but slightly. but the frost continued and increased. by the middle of december there was no talk among the boys on holiday afternoons but of skating. and one tuesday evening, in the waldrons' school-room there was great excitement about an expedition to come off the following day, which was as usual a half-holiday. "can't you come, charlotte?" asked arthur. for charlotte, "one sister of her brothers," was, as was natural, a great adept at skating, and even at less feminine recreations. "i wish i could," she said. "i'd give anything to go; but i can't. it's this extra work for the end of the term that i must get on with." it was the german composition. a glance at the expression of her face told it to jerry. "it's out gretham way, isn't it?" he asked suddenly. "yes," arthur replied; "about half-a-mile past the first silverthorns lodge." "i wish you'd take me, as charlotte can't go," said jerry. the others looked at each other in surprise. "you, jerry!" they exclaimed. for the boy was of course debarred by his lameness from skating or any amusement of the kind, and he had often seemed to shrink from being a spectator of what he could not take part in, with a sensitiveness which his parents regretted. "yes, i. why not?" he said. "of course i would enjoy going more if charlotte were to be there too, but i meant that i could have her seat in the dog-cart. i don't take much room." "are you to have the dog-cart?" asked charlotte. "that is a piece of luck." "yes; papa has to send sam out that way with some message or papers or something, and he said we might get a lift. of course we have to find our own way home, jerry." "i know that. i can quite walk one way," said the boy. "i needn't stay long if i get too cold." "very well. i'm sure you're welcome to come, as far as i'm concerned," said arthur. "you must be ready at one, sharp." "i couldn't have gone in any case," said charlotte. "we are to have an extra french lesson to-morrow--recitations, and it won't be over till two." "what a sell," observed ted, "and on a half-holiday." "oh, i don't mind," said charlotte. "no, i dare say not," replied ted. "you'll go off your head some fine day, charlotte, or paralyse your brain or something, if you work and fuss at lessons like that." "well, i may be thankful that i shall have _one_ brother sane enough to act as my keeper, if working at one's lessons is what sends people out of their minds," said charlotte cuttingly. ted looked at her, opened his mouth as if about to speak, but shut it up again. he was no match for charlotte in this kind of warfare, and indeed he was not quite sure if she were making fun of him or not. all the others burst out laughing, and ted's discomfiture might have led to some family discord had not mrs waldron at that moment entered the room. arthur, with the laudable intention of diverting the storm, turned to her. "jerry wants to go out to see the skating to-morrow, mother," he said. "you don't mind his coming? we are to get a lift one way." mrs waldron looked pleased. "no, of course not. i am very glad for him to go," she said. and she patted jerry's head as she passed him, but the boy shrank away a little from the caress. "mamma thinks i want to go to amuse myself," he thought. "nobody really cares about poor charlotte except me." it seemed colder than ever the next day, and there was a leaden look in the sky which told of snow not very far from falling. but it would certainly hold off till night, if not for another day or two, said ted, who prided himself, and with some reason, on his weather wisdom. "wrap up well, jerry," said his mother, as she saw the boys preparing to start, "and don't be very late. i should like you all to be home for the school-room tea. perhaps i'll have it with you, as your father will not be back till late for dinner. charlotte will enjoy being all together at tea, as she will have no holiday scarcely." "when will she be home, mamma?" asked jerry. "about half-past two. all her class are staying later to-day." mounted in the dog-cart among his brothers, jerry set to work with calculations which they little suspected. "it will take us three-quarters of an hour to get to the pond," he thought. "_she_ will be leaving miss lloyd's about a quarter past two; say it takes her an hour to silverthorns--she'll go slower than we in this weather, i should think. well, say only three-quarters--she'll be near the first lodge by three, and it will take me about ten minutes from the pond. so i can stay there till a quarter to three or so--quite long enough; and i'll tell them all then that i don't want to stay longer. and if i _don't_ meet her i don't much care--i'll just go up to the house and say i want to see miss meredon. i won't go home without having done it, or done what i could, that is to say." but all this preoccupation of mind did not render him a very lively companion. "i can't think what jerry comes for if he's so glum," grumbled ted. and arthur's warning "leave him alone" had to be several times repeated to secure the drive to the skating-ground ending in peace. things fell out much as gervais had anticipated. he stood about the edge of the pond, with some other non-performing spectators, for three-quarters of an hour or so patiently enough. it was a pretty sight; notwithstanding his absorption in other things, he could not but own this to himself, and he felt pride in his tall, strong brothers, who were among the most agile and graceful of the skaters present. and now and then, when one or other of the three achieved some especially difficult or intricate feat, jerry's pale face flushed with pleasure and excitement. "how i wish i were like them!" he said to himself, as some of charlotte's revilings against the unfairness of "fate" returned to his mind. and with the recollection returned also that of the real object of his joining in the excursion. he looked at his watch, a pretty little silver one which his father had given him a year ago, when he was only twelve years old, though his elder and stronger brothers had had to wait till they were fifteen for theirs,--were there not some compensations in your fate, jerry?--and saw that it was fully half-past two. time enough yet, but he was really getting chilled with standing about, and he was growing fidgety too. he had felt braver about it all in the distance, now he began to say to himself, how very much easier it would be to speak to the girl in the road than to have to march up to the house and ask for her formally, and he felt as if every moment was lessening the chance of his meeting her. just then arthur came skimming by. jerry made a sign to him, and arthur, always kind and good-natured, especially to his youngest brother, wheeled round and pulled up. "what is it, jeremiah?" he said. "you look rather lugubrious--you're not too cold, are you?" "yes," said jerry, not noticing in his nervous eagerness to get away, arthur's half-bantering tone, which he might otherwise have resented; "i am horribly cold. i don't want to stay any longer. i just wanted to tell you i was going, so that you'd know." "all right," arthur replied; "you're sure it won't be too far for you, and you don't mind going alone?" "of course not," said jerry, already turning to go. but with an "i say, jerry," arthur wheeled back again. "it's looking awfully heavy over there," he said, pointing to the slate-blue darkness of the sky towards the north; "they say it's sure to snow before night. make the best of your way home. you know the shortest way--the footpath over the stile just beyond the `jolly thrashers'?" jerry nodded. truth to tell, he had but a vague idea of it, but he could ask--and he must be off. "or," said arthur, making jerry nearly stamp with impatience, "perhaps, after all, you'd better keep to the high road. there's a strong chance of your falling in with sam--he won't have got back yet." "all right, all right," jerry called back, and then he set off at the nearest approach to a run his poor stiffened knee could achieve. he looked at his watch as he ran--only twenty-five minutes to three! barely five minutes since he had signalled to arthur! jerry relaxed his speed--it was scarcely possible that miss meredon was near silverthorns yet. he walked on quietly, past the second entrance, and along what from a certain corner was called the wortherham road, till he came to the first silverthorns lodge. then he began to breathe more freely; "the girl," as he always mentally dubbed her, could not enter the grounds now without his seeing her. he looked at his watch for the third time-- seventeen minutes to three. just about the time he had planned. she should be here soon if she had left miss lloyd's a little after two. but he had been walking up and down the short stretch of road between the so-called first lodge and the next corner fully twenty minutes before at last the sound of wheels reached him clearly through the frosty air, though still at some distance. hitherto he had not gone beyond the corner--it would have made him feel more nervous somehow to look all along the great bare road; but now he gathered up his courage and walked briskly on. he was still cold, and beginning to feel tired too, but new vigour seemed to come to him when at last he was able to distinguish that the approaching vehicle was a pony-carriage, and the silverthorns one no doubt; not that he knew it, or the pony, or the driver by sight, but it was not very likely that any other would be coming that way just at that time. jerry stood by the side of the road, then he walked on a few steps, then waited again. the sound of the wheels drew nearer and nearer, and he heard too the tinkling of a bell on the pony's neck. then he distinguished that, as he expected, the carriage was driven by a lady, and then--it seemed to come up so fast, that in another moment it would have passed him like a flash had he not resolutely stepped forward a little on to the road, taking his cap off obtrusively as he did so. "miss--miss meredon," he said in his thin, clear boy's voice. "i beg your pardon." the pony slackened its pace, the girl glanced forward to where jerry stood, with a slightly bewildered, inquiring look on her face. "yes," she said. "is there something wrong with the pony, or the harness, or anything?" forgetting that a mere passer-by stopping her out of good-nature to point out some little mishap would not have been likely to address her by name. "no," said the boy--quite a child he seemed to her, for thirteen-year-old gervais was small and slight; "oh no, it's nothing like that. it's only that--you are miss meredon, aren't you?" claudia nodded. "i wanted to speak to you for a minute by yourself. i--i forgot about _him_," he added in a lower tone, coming nearer her, so that the groom behind should not overhear him, which small piece of good breeding at once satisfied the girl that the little fellow was a "gentleman." "i wouldn't keep you for a moment. you don't think me rude, i hope?" he went on anxiously, for one glance at the sweet, lovely face had made jerry feel he would be very sorry indeed to be thought rude by its owner. "oh, no," said the girl smiling; "i am only a little puzzled. you see i don't even know who you are." but she began to throw aside the fur carriage rug as she spoke, as if preparing to get out to speak to him. "i'm ger--" he began. "my name's waldron. i'm charlotte--you know charlotte?--i'm her youngest brother." "oh," said claudia, in a tone of enlightenment. and then she knew what had seemed familiar to her in the very blue eyes looking wistfully at her out of the pale, slightly freckled face, with its crown of short, thick, almost black hair. "you are a little like your sister," she said, as she got out of the carriage, "and you are even more like your father." for in charlotte's eyes, as claudia at least had seen them, there was none of the softness which kindliness gave to mr waldron's, and anxious timidity at this moment to those of his little son. "oh, do you know papa?" said jerry, with a mixture of interest and apprehension in his voice. "i'll speak to you in an instant," said the girl, by this time on the footpath at jerry's side. "hodges," she went on to the groom, "take the pony home--it's too cold to keep him about. and tell ball, if her ladyship asks for me, to say i am walking up the drive and i'll be in immediately." the man touched his hat and drove off. "now," said claudia, "we can talk in peace. you asked me if i knew your father," she went on, speaking partly to set the boy at ease, for she saw he looked anxious and nervous. "no, i can't say i know him. i only saw him once for a moment, but i thought he had the kindest eyes in the world. and when i first saw char--your sister, i remembered his face again." "yes," said jerry, gratified, but too anxious to rest there, "papa is as kind as he looks. i wish you could see mamma though! but it's about charlotte i want to speak to you. miss meredon, will you promise never to tell anybody you've seen me? i've planned it all on purpose--coming out here and waiting on the road to meet you. will you promise me? i shall never tell any one." claudia looked at the anxious little face. "won't you trust me?" she said. "tell me first what it is you want of me, and then--if i possibly can, and i dare say i can--i will promise you never to tell any one." jerry looked up at her again. "yes," he said, "i'll tell you. it's about the german prize. charlotte is breaking her heart about it--i mean about knowing she won't get it." claudia's face flushed. "but how does she know she won't get it?" she said. "it isn't decided-- the essays aren't even given in yet. mine is not more than half done." "i know--she's working at hers now. she's working awfully hard, though she has no hope. you are much cleverer; you're cleverer at everything, she says, and especially german. but you can't ever have worked harder than she's done. i suppose you learnt german in germany? of course that leaves no chance for the others." he could not look at her now; he wanted to work himself up to a sort of indignation against her, and in sight of the candid face and gentle eyes he felt instinctively that it would not have been easy. "no," said claudia, and her tone was colder; "i have never been in germany in my life. i have been well taught, i know, but i too have worked hard." "well, i dare say you have. i don't mean to vex you, i don't mean to be rude," said poor jerry; "but you are cleverer, you are much further on; and you knew a great deal more than the others before you came. there is a sort of unfairness about it, though i can't put it rightly." "what is it you want me to do?" jerry gulped something down like a sob. "i want you not to try for the prize," he said. "i can't think that if you are good and kind, as you seem, it would give you any pleasure to get it when it will break charlotte's heart." a crowd of feelings rushed through claudia's heart and brain. what had charlotte ever been or done to her that she should care about her in this way? why should she make this sacrifice for a girl who had not even attempted to hide her cold indifference, even dislike? could the loss of the prize be sorer to charlotte, or the gaining of it more delightful, than to her, claudia? was it even in the least probable that the other girl's motives were as pure as she knew her own to be? but as her glance fell on the anxious little face beside her these reflections gave way to others. it might be more to charlotte waldron and her family than she--claudia--could understand. charlotte had resented the idea that her education was to be turned to practical use, but yet, even if she were not intended to be a governess, her parents might have other plans for her. they certainly did not seem _rich_, and claudia remembered hearing that they were a large family. it was in a softened tone that she again spoke to jerry. "i hardly see that my giving up trying for it would do what you want," she said gently. "your sister would probably be too proud to care for the prize if she thought she had gained it by my not trying." "oh, of course you would have to manage not to seem to do it on purpose. i could trust you for that," said gervais naively, looking up at her with his blue eyes. "and," he went on, "charlotte is fair, though she's proud. she doesn't pretend that you're not much cleverer and further on." "i haven't contradicted you when you said that," said claudia; "but i don't think that i _am_ cleverer than she is. in german i have perhaps had unusually good teaching--that is all." "you will get the prize if you try, you know that," jerry persisted. "if you give up trying charlotte will think it a piece of wonderful good fortune. but i don't think she or any one could be very surprised. you have everything you want, why should you care to work extra for a prize like that? it isn't as if you had been years at miss lloyd's, like the others--and--and--cared about it like them. and the teachers think you too grand, to be vexed with you whatever you do." "grand," repeated claudia, with a little laugh, but it was not a bitter one. "i only wish you all--" but she stopped. there was a good deal of truth in what jerry said; she was only a new-comer, with scarcely a real right to enter the lists. and it was true too that she was free to retire without vexing any one, or involving others in her self-sacrifice. lady mildred would not care; her parents would, not improbably, take this boy's view of the case. _self_-sacrifice was the only one involved. she turned and looked at charlotte's brother. "very well," she said, "i promise to do as you wish. i cannot yet quite see how i shall manage it. you will not of course blame me if i find i cannot. i do promise you to do my best to get out of it, so that charlotte shall have no rivals but her regular ones." jerry looked up at her. "thank you," he said, "thank you awfully. you _are_ very good and--and kind. i wish charlotte could know; but of course she never must. you'll never tell anybody, will you?" he added. "i'll never tell any one by whom it could possibly come round to charlotte," she said. "and for some time to come i'll not tell any one at all." "i'll trust you," said jerry. "now i must go. oh but would you like me to walk up to the house with you?" he went on, with a sudden recollection of his "manners." "no, thank you," said claudia, secretly amused, for jerry, though only three years younger, was about half her size; "oh no, thank you. you must get home as fast as you can." "that isn't very fast," said jerry, "for i'm lame, you see," and the child coloured painfully as he said it. "and i believe it's beginning to snow," said claudia, anxiously. "i do wish i could send you home somehow. come up with me to the stables, and i'll see what can be done." "oh no, no, thank you," said jerry eagerly, for now that his great purpose was achieved, a nervous shyness was beginning to overpower him, and he felt only eager to get away. "i shall be all right. i'm going to meet our dog-cart down by the `jolly thrashers.'" "you are sure?" "quite," he repeated. "good-bye, miss meredon, and thank you again, awfully." they shook hands, and the boy set off. claudia stood watching him through the now fast falling snow. "i hope he will be all right," she said to herself as she turned towards the lodge gates. neither she nor jerry had realised how long they had been talking. when claudia went in she found lady mildred on the point of sending out to see if she had taken refuge at the lodge from the snow. "i should have felt very unhappy about that poor boy if he had had any further to go than the `thrashers,'" thought claudia to herself more than once as the afternoon drew on into evening, and the snow fell so fast that one could not tell when the daylight really faded. chapter eleven. sent by the snow. claudia and her aunt were sitting quietly that same evening in the small drawing-room which lady mildred always used in the winter, and claudia was thinking over her strange meeting with "the little waldron boy," as she called him to herself (for she did not even know his christian name), and hoping he had got safe home, when her aunt looked up suddenly. "how should you like to spend christmas in london, claudia? would it seem very dreary to you?" she said. "oh no, aunt mildred, not if you wished it," claudia replied. "i suppose the truth is, all places would seem much the same to you so long as they were not britton-garnett," lady mildred observed, with a touch of acrimony in her tone. but claudia understood her better now. she only smiled. "i should not like to be there this christmas, aunt mildred, if you were to be here alone. it would be awfully nice to be all together, of course, but it would be nicest if you were with us too." lady mildred sighed. "i am afraid merry christmasses are quite over for me. it is very dull here; it seems a sort of mockery for a poor old woman like me to be the centre of things, giving tenants' dinners and school-feasts, and all the rest of it. i have not the heart for any up-stairs festivities," and she sighed again. "after all, i dare say it would be less dreary in london. what has put it into my head is a letter from the lawyers saying that they may be wanting to see me on business." "would you be going soon?" asked claudia. "i don't know. it would not matter if you lost a week or two at school--you have been working hard lately." "no," said claudia, "it would not matter." and the thought passed through her mind that if her aunt carried out this plan, it would remove all difficulties in the way of her not trying for the prize. "no one would ever know that i meant to give it up at any rate," she thought with a slight, a very slight touch of bitterness. but at that moment the front door-bell rang violently. both the ladies started. "what can that be?" said lady mildred. "not a telegram surely. mr miller would never think of sending a telegram on a saturday evening, whatever the business may be that he wants to see me about." "shall i run and see what it is," said claudia. for though there was a sound of voices and footsteps dimly in the distance, no servant appeared to explain matters. "yes, go," lady mildred was saying, when the door opened and ball, followed by a footman, appeared. "if you please, my lady," the butler began, "it's rush from the lodge. he begs pardon for ringing so loud at the front, but he thought it would be quicker. they've found a child, if you please, my lady, a boy, dead in the snow down the road. a farm-lad passing--the snow's not so heavy now--found him and ran for rush. but mrs rush is that frightened she's lost her head, and their baby's ill. so rush thought he'd best come on here." a smothered cry broke from claudia. "charlotte's poor little brother," she said. but no one noticed her words. lady mildred had already started to her feet. "dead, do you say, ball?" she exclaimed. "how do you know he is dead? he may be only unconscious." "that's just it," said ball. "then don't stand there like a couple of fools. you're as bad as that silly mrs rush. bring the poor child in at once--to the servants' hall or the kitchen, or wherever there's a good fire; i will come myself as soon as the front door is shut, i feel the cold even here," and the old lady began to cough. "claudia--" turning round, but claudia was off already. she met the little group in the front hall. there were rush and another man carrying something between them, and several other persons seemed standing about or emerging from different doorways, for even the best of servants dearly love a sensation. claudia for one instant turned her eyes away--she dreaded to recognise the thin little face, whose blue eyes had sought hers so appealingly but an hour or two ago. then she chid herself for her weakness. "carry him at once into the kitchen," she said. "her ladyship wishes it." her voice sounded authoritative, and was immediately obeyed. some blankets appeared from somewhere in a mysterious manner, and in another minute the small figure was deposited upon them before the friendly glow of the fire, and claudia knelt down to examine the child more closely. her eyes filled with tears as she saw that it was indeed "the little waldron boy." but even at that moment she had presence of mind enough to respect his secret. "i don't know what is best to do," she said appealingly. "he is not a country boy--do you see, he is a gentleman?" she added, as ball's wife, the housekeeper, hurried forward. "but surely, oh, surely he is not dead!" he looked sufficiently like death to make every one hesitate to answer. he had seemed pale and delicate that afternoon, but in comparison with the ghastly colourlessness now, claudia could have described him as _then_ florid and rosy! his eyes were closed, his arm dropped loosely when claudia lifted it, his breath, if indeed it were there, was inaudible. "let me get to him, missy, please," said the housekeeper, "and all of you gaping there, just get you gone. here's my lady herself--she'll send you to the right-about. ball, heat some water, and mix a drop or two of brandy. then we'll undress him and get him to bed. the chintz room's always aired. martha, light the fire at once and put some hot-water bottles in the bed. dead! no, no. let my lady see him." the room was soon cleared of all but two or three. then they undressed the boy, whose frozen, snow-covered clothes were now dripping wet, and rolled him in the blankets. and in a few minutes, thanks to the warmth, and the chafing and friction which mrs ball kept up, the first faint signs of returning life began to appear, and they got him to swallow a spoonful of brandy and water. "feel in his pockets, claudia," said lady mildred, "and see if there is any letter or paper to show who he is. his people must be in cruel anxiety." claudia did so, feeling herself a sort of hypocrite for not at once telling all she knew. to her great relief she came upon a pocket-handkerchief marked "waldron," and a neat little memorandum-book, for poor jerry was the most methodical of boys, with "gervais waldron, , norfolk terrace, wortherham" on the first page. "aunt mildred," she said quietly, "it is one of the waldrons--the lawyer's children, you know. his sister is at school with me." lady mildred started, and made some little exclamation under her breath which claudia did not catch. "he is coming round nicely, my lady," said mrs ball. "the doctor will think he need not have been fetched," for a groom had already been sent to a village much nearer than wortherham, where a doctor was to be found. "it is better to let him see the boy," said lady mildred. "he looks such a delicate child," she added, speaking in a low voice, for jerry was now opening his eyes, and showing signs of coming to life in every sense of the word. "shall we send to let his people know that he is safe?" said claudia. "i suppose so," said lady mildred. "tell ball to send the groom on to wortherham as soon as he comes back from crowby. and--" "would it do for me to write a note? i could write it to the sister i know?" asked claudia. lady mildred hesitated. "yes," she replied; "i dare say you might." "and, my lady," said mrs ball, "i'll have the young gentleman carried up-stairs and put to bed. it will be just as well for him to find himself there when he quite wakes up, as it were." lady mildred stooped again and looked at the boy closely. his eyes were closed. she saw nothing that struck her in the little thin pale face, for it was the blue eyes that were its one beauty--the _very_ blue eyes characteristic of the osberts. "very well. come to the drawing-room, claudia, and write the note. i should think the groom will be back directly. i will see the child again after the doctor has been." "aunt mildred _is_ really kind," thought claudia. but she had to exercise considerable self-control during the writing of the note. _she_ would have made it friendly and hearty in tone, but this did not suit lady mildred's ideas at all, and it was a rather stiff and formal production when finished, ending with a half-permission, half-invitation to the boy's parents to come and see him the next morning. "my aunt feels sure the doctor will wish your brother to stay in bed all to-morrow," wrote claudia, "and he will be taken every care of. but should mr and mrs waldron feel uneasy, she begs them not to hesitate to come to see him for themselves." the doctor came, and confirmed the good account of the patient which mrs ball had already sent down-stairs. "he will take no harm i fancy," he said. "but he is evidently a delicate child, and he has had a narrow escape. he would have been dead long before morning." "does he seem frightened?" asked lady mildred. "no," the doctor replied. "i don't think his nerves have suffered. he is still sleepy and confused, and of course he feels sore and aching. but he can remember nothing very distinctly, i fancy." "i will go up and see him," said lady mildred. "it must be past dinner-time, claudia. this affair has made the servants forget everything." the doctor took his leave, promising to look in again the next morning. lady mildred went up to the chintz room and claudia ran after her. "mayn't i come in and see him too, aunt," she said; "i'd like to see him looking better. he did look so dreadful when they first brought him in," and she gave a little shudder. jerry was looking very far from dreadful by this time; he was half-sitting up in bed, with more colour than usual on his face, his eyes very bright and blue. lady mildred's face changed as she looked at him. "i hope you are feeling better, my dear," she said quietly. "the doctor is sure you will be quite well to-morrow." "yes, thank you," said jerry. "i'm nearly quite well now, i think, except that i'm aching rather. if you please," and he hesitated, "you don't think i could go home to-night? i don't know what o'clock it is-- it isn't the middle of the night, is it? oh," as claudia just then came forward, "i--" "this is my niece," said lady mildred. "she was anxious to know how you were." gervais looked up at claudia, and a glance of understanding passed like lightning between them. "i'm all right, thank you," he said to her. "how was it?" said claudia. "did you lose your way in the snow?" "i suppose so," said jerry. "i was going along the road past the `jolly thrashers' the last thing i remember. i thought i should have met our dog-cart, but i didn't, and i walked on as fast as i could, but it snowed dreadfully heavily, and i got _so_ tired i had to rest a little. i'm lame, you know," he added, flushing a little. "i knew one should never go to sleep in the snow, and i only meant to rest a minute. but i suppose i went to sleep--i remember a very nice feeling coming over me, and then i don't remember anything else." "ah," said lady mildred. "you have had a narrow escape, my dear." "i'm very sorry to have given you so much trouble," jerry went on penitently. "but if i could go home--they'll all be so frightened." "your going home to-night is out of the question, my dear," said lady mildred; "but we have already sent a groom to tell your family that you are quite safe." "thank you very much. i'm very sorry to have given you so much trouble," jerry repeated. "well, then, take care to give no one any more, by getting well as quickly as ever you can," said lady mildred kindly. "try to go to sleep, so that you may wake quite well in the morning. good night, my dear." "good night, lady mildred," said the boy. but claudia, who had already learnt to know his face and its expressions, detected an uneasy look, and when her aunt had left the room she lingered a moment behind. "gervais," she said,--"i know your name, you see--are you uncomfortable? is there anything the matter--anything to do with what we were speaking of this afternoon?" jerry looked up wistfully. "no," he said. "i'm sure you'll never tell any one--will you?" "oh, no; i will keep my promise exactly; and whenever i can do so without betraying you in the least, i will let charlotte know that i am not going to try for the prize." "thank you, oh, thank you so very much," said jerry fervently. "i know you will do it nicely." "it may be quite easy," claudia went on. "i am not sure but that we shall be going away very soon, and that i _couldn't_ try for it even if i wanted," and she smiled a half-sad little smile. "but i shall always know how good you were," said jerry, as if that should console her for all other misapprehension. claudia smiled again. "thank you," she said; "and good night." but jerry still fidgeted about. "i am afraid i can't go to sleep," he said; "i am so aching all over, and it seems so strange. isn't this the chintz room?" "yes," said claudia, a little surprised. "how did you know it?" "oh, i--i heard the name," he said. "is it far away from everybody else's rooms?" "no; mine is very near. there is a swing door across the passage, and mine is the first door through it. but some one--mrs ball or some one--will sit up with you if you would the least like it." "no, no," said jerry. "i told them not to. i wouldn't like it at all. miss meredon," he went on, beginning to laugh, "don't i look like red riding hood's grandmother, rather, with all these fussy things round my neck?" claudia burst out laughing too. she saw what made the child look so comical. he was enveloped in one of her own nightgowns with voluminous frills. "is it one of yours?" said jerry gravely, tugging at the frills and solemnly regarding them. "i don't like wearing girls' things, but i don't mind so much if it is yours." at this moment mrs ball returned. "miss meredon, my dear," she said, "the young gentleman must really go to sleep. my lady wouldn't be pleased if she knew you were still here talking to him." "we couldn't help laughing at the nightgown, mrs ball," said claudia. "it's one of mine, isn't it?" "yes, we made so bold. it was the nearest his size you see, missy dear." "well, good night again, gervais," said claudia as she left the room. "i do hope you will sleep well." jerry smiled back a good night. he seemed in better spirits now. "isn't he a nice little fellow?" she could not help saying to mrs ball. "and quite the little gentleman," said the housekeeper. "but he seems delicate, poor child. just to think of it--what a mercy that stobbs's boy was coming up that way, and that he had a lantern. for all that the snow had stopped, he'd have been dead before morning. i don't like to think of it--at our very door, so to say, miss claudia, and us with no thought of it. but there--my lady's just going down to dinner." lady mildred was very silent that evening. her mind seemed full of many things, and claudia, after one or two attempts at conversation, thought it best to give it up. not very long after dinner the groom returned from wortherham with a note addressed to miss meredon. he had found, so he informed his friends in the servants' hall, the family at norfolk terrace in a fine taking about the boy. "they were sending out in all directions," he said. "the poor lady looked like dead, and the young ladies were crying fit to break their hearts. i never see such a sight. the other young gentlemen had been out skating on gretham pond, and they thought as this one had got home hours before, as he should have done. i'm almost sure as it was he as stopped our young lady when we was a-driving home this afternoon." "stopped our young lady!" exclaimed ball in surprise. "oh, it was just some message about the school. the waldron young ladies goes where miss meredon does," said the groom. and as no more was said about the matter, jerry's and claudia's secret remained their own. the note was from charlotte. it scarcely bore traces of the agitation described by the groom. "dear miss meredon," it began,-- "my father and mother wish me to thank lady mildred most sincerely for her kindness to my brother gervais. they also thank you for writing to tell us of his safety. we were becoming very uneasy about him. my father will go out early to-morrow, and hopes to be able to bring him home in a close carriage. he and my mother regret exceedingly the trouble all this must have caused you. "i remain,-- "yours sincerely,-- "charlotte waldron." claudia handed it to her aunt. "humph!" said lady mildred, "a very school-girl production, dictated by her papa and mamma, i suppose." "not stiffer than mine was," thought claudia to herself. "that little fellow up-stairs has something original about him. i have rather taken a fancy to him," said lady mildred. "yes," claudia responded warmly; "i think he's a dear little fellow." "but he can't be the eldest son; there must be one nearly grown-up, i fancy," said lady mildred, with a little sigh. claudia looked up. what was lady mildred thinking of? what _could_ it matter to her, or to any one, or to themselves even, whether gervais was eldest or youngest of the waldrons? a country lawyer's family heirs to nothing. "aunt mildred must be half asleep," thought claudia. "she might as well talk as if it mattered which of _us_ was the eldest." chapter twelve. the owls recognise one of the family. it seemed late to claudia when she went up to bed that night, though in reality it was not much past ten o'clock. but so much had happened since dark, and it had grown dark so early with the snow-storm, that it would have been easy to fancy it was already long past midnight. claudia went to the window and drew back one of the curtains. the snow overhead had quite disappeared, but down below, it lay like a carpet of white, glistening faintly in the moonlight. "how cold it looks," thought the girl with a little shiver, and mrs ball's words returned to her. yes, it was dreadful to think that but for what seemed a mere accident, gervais waldron would by this time have been lying dead under the snow. and had it been so, it seemed to claudia that she would always have felt or fancied cause for self-blame. "how thankful i am he is not the worse for it," she said to herself. "poor little fellow--i would have insisted on sending him home if he had not said he was to be met. he was so anxious to get away once he had achieved his purpose. he is very anxious still to get away. i wonder if he can go home to-morrow. i am afraid he is rather unhappy at having to stay here--all night. by the bye," and claudia started as a thought struck her, "i hope he has not heard anything about the haunted room, and all that story. it was curious that he knew the name of the chintz room. i dare say the story is gossiped about by some of the old people in the neighbourhood, and he may have heard it." she did not like to disturb him again, and she hoped that by this time he was fast asleep. but she went out of her room as far as the spring door, between the old and new parts of the house, near which, on opposite sides, were both her room and jerry's. she propped the door open with a chair, so that if the boy were by any chance afraid and came to look for her, he should at once see where he was. for a small lamp burned all night on a side-table on the large landing, and even a little light goes a long way when all around is darkness. and as she made her way back again, she glanced up the old staircase to where in the gloom was the door of the tower room. "i wonder if the ghost is awake to-night," she thought, half-laughingly. "i always seem to think of the story on moonlight nights--perhaps because it is then that one is tempted to look out of the window, and that reminds me of the view from the tower room, right down the drive." but she looked out of the window no more to-night. she was tired, and fell asleep almost immediately she got into bed. her dreams were, as might have been expected, somewhat disturbed and confused. she had kaleidoscope visions of herself and charlotte and jerry, and a snow-man shaking white flakes over them all, which, on close examination, proved to be leaves of an exercise-book, covered with the german prize essay. then looking up to complain, she saw that the snow-man had turned into herr marklestatter, who was running after lady mildred with a very angry face, while lady mildred called for help, screaming out, "it is the ghost, it is the ghost." claudia half woke up, roused, as it seemed to her in her dream, by her aunt's cries. but all was silent, and she turned round, half-smiling to herself sleepily at her foolish fancies, and was all but dreaming again, when again a sound something between a sob and a low wail, penetrated to her brain, this time effectually, for she started up, quite awake, and listened in the darkness. she had not long to wait. a low sound, this time translatable into words, reached her ears. "miss meredon! oh, miss meredon! are you there?" said a most doleful voice. and then came a sort of sob or groan of intense distress, the same sound as that which had awakened her. a faint, very faint light came from the direction of the door, showing her that it was slightly open. for the light could only come from the little lamp on the landing outside. but claudia had a candle and matches on a table close at hand. "who is it? what is it?" she exclaimed, trembling a little in spite of herself, while she struck a match. "it's me, it's only me," was the answer. "i'm so ashamed. i hope you'll forgive me. i hope you won't think me very rude for waking you up, but i'm so dreadfully frightened. there's been some one or something crying and sobbing for such a time near my room. i tried to think it was my fancy, or the wind, or the owls, as papa said. but at last i couldn't bear it. i'm almost sure it must be the ghost." and by the candle which claudia had succeeded in lighting, a queer, grotesque, but most pitiful little object revealed itself. it was jerry of course--standing there with his poor white face, looking almost as pallid as when they had drawn him out of the snow the evening before, his blue eyes feverishly dark and bright, claudia's nightgown a mile too big for him trailing on the ground, and its frills standing up round his neck and sweeping over his hands. "i am so sorry, gervais, so very sorry," claudia exclaimed, almost as if it was all her fault. "wait a moment, dear. i'll put on my dressing-gown. here," and she flung him a shawl which was hanging on a chair close by, "wrap yourself up. you are shivering so. is the fire quite out?" "it's not quite out in my room," said poor jerry. "i kept seeing little bits of light in it, and i think it made it worse, for once i thought i saw a shadow pass between it and me," and he shivered again violently. "oh, miss meredon," he half sobbed, "i do wish you had let me go home last night." "but it was impossible--it really was," said claudia. "you will make me blame myself for all your troubles, gervais. i should not have let you set out to walk home in the snow." "no, no, it wasn't your fault," said jerry. "then try and leave off shivering, and tell me what frightened you so. and who can have been mischievous enough to tell you all that nonsense about the ghost?" she added indignantly. "it wasn't any one here," said jerry. "i've known it a long time, and i _never_ was frightened before. it was papa who told it us--he stayed here once when he was a little boy, and he was frightened himself. and he slept in the very room where i am now--that is how i knew the name." "well, if your father knows the whole story he might have told you that the ghost _never_ appears to or is heard by any one but a member of the osbert family, which shows _you_ couldn't have heard it, my dear gervais," said claudia smiling, in order to comfort him, though to tell the truth her own heart was beating a good deal faster than usual. jerry's face cleared. "i didn't know that," he said. "i am very glad." "but what am i to do?" said claudia. "i must get you warm again. i suppose i had better call up mrs ball or some one." "oh, no, _please_ don't," jerry entreated. "i should be so ashamed. i'll try and not mind now, if you'd let me have the candle to go back to my room with." but his wan face and trembling voice belied his words--though claudia respected him the more for his struggle to overcome his fears. "i'll go with you to your room," she said, "and we'll try to make up the fire. it would be much cheerier with a good blaze, wouldn't it?" the two took their way across the landing through the door, which claudia had so thoughtfully propped open. and "oh," jerry ejaculated, "i don't know what i would have done if that door had been shut!" the fire was by no means in a hopeless condition, and it was not the first time by any means that claudia had skilfully doctored one. for she had taken her share in many days and nights too of nursing at home, when her father's eyes were at their worst, or the younger children had measles or scarlet fever. and soon a bright blaze rewarded her efforts. "how clever you are," said jerry admiringly. "i don't believe charlotte could do up a fire like that. i didn't think--" "what?" said claudia. "i didn't think such--such a _grand_ girl as you would know how to do things like that." claudia turned her laughing face, on which rested the glow of the fire, towards the boy, who was now comfortably ensconced in a big arm-chair with a blanket round him. "you'll have to alter your opinion of me, gervais. i'm not `grand' at all." "but i think you are; and i think you are _very_ pretty. if you only saw now how the flames make your hair shine!" said the child dreamily. "and you are very, very kind. i shall tell charlotte. i am not sure that she wouldn't have laughed at me a little about the ghost. she thinks being frightened so babyish." "perhaps she has never been tried," said claudia. "what was it you heard, gervais?" "it was like sobbing and groaning in a muffled kind of way. it came from up-stairs, at least i fancied so; perhaps it was because i knew the haunted room is up-stairs--papa told me. at first i was rather sleepy, and i thought i was dreaming--i've had such queer dreams all night; perhaps it was with them giving me brandy, you know. and so i thought i was dreaming, and then when i woke up and heard it still, i thought it was the wind. but it seemed to come down the stair in the queerest way--really as if it was somebody, and almost into the room, as if it wanted me to get up and see what was the matter. and all of a sudden i seemed to remember where i was, and all that papa had told us came back into my mind, and i thought of the tower room up-stairs and the poor ghost crying all alone. miss meredon, i'm awfully sorry for the ghost, do you know! i used to think if ever i got a chance i'd speak to him, and ask him if i could do anything for him. but--" and jerry drew a deep breath. "only, gervais, it couldn't have been him after all; you see you're not a relation of his." "no, but i didn't know that. i'll try to think that it was the wind, or the owls, or anything." "and that you were not quite well, and that made you more fanciful; you see you had been dreaming already in a fanciful way." "yes," said jerry, though his tone was only half convinced. "and now don't you think you can manage to go to sleep? get into bed, and i'll sit here beside you. i will leave the candle alight, and i will make up the fire so that it shall last till morning. it is near morning now, i fancy." "thank you, awfully," said jerry. "yes, i'll try to go to sleep. i don't like you to have to sit up like that; as soon as i'm at all asleep, please go. i have a feeling that i won't hear any more noises now.--oh what a lot i shall have to tell charlotte about how awfully good she is," he said to himself. and he lay perfectly still and tried to breathe regularly so that claudia should think he was asleep, and as sometimes happens, the simulation brought the reality. in ten minutes he was really and truly in a deep and peaceful slumber. then claudia went quietly back to her own room. all was perfectly still up the stair leading to the tower, but a strange, puzzled, half-sad feeling crept over the girl. "it really seems as if there were something in that old story," she thought. "why should that poor little fellow be so impressed by it? i can't understand his father's having heard it too. and gervais said his father used to stay here as a boy. how could that have been? i wonder if it can have anything to do with aunt mildred's prejudice against the waldrons--for i am sure she _is_ a little prejudiced against them." but claudia was too tired and sleepy to pursue her reflections further, and her slumbers till the next morning were dreamless and undisturbed. the little guest was fast asleep when mrs ball went to look after him. "it is the best thing he can do, poor child. it would be a shame to disturb him. he does look a delicate little creature, to be sure. one sees it even plainer by daylight," she said, when she came to claudia's room to report. "but you're looking tired yourself, miss meredon, this morning. it was rather an upset for you last night. he did look deathly when they brought him in." "yes; he looked dreadful," claudia agreed. "how is her ladyship, mrs ball? it was an upset for her too." "i've not seen her, miss; but she was ringing to know if the letters hadn't come. it will be a very dull christmas here if my lady goes up to spend it in town. we were hoping with a young lady like you here, missy, it would have been a bit livelier. there are some nice families about, where there are young people, but my lady's got so out of the way of seeing any one, but just her own old friends." "i'm afraid my being here wouldn't have made christmas any cheerier, mrs ball," said claudia. "i don't much mind whether we spend it here or in london. i'm glad to be a companion to aunt mildred, at least i'm glad that she seems to like to have me." "that she does, missy," said the old housekeeper heartily. lady mildred still seemed anxious and pre-occupied when claudia met her at breakfast; but she was gentle and less irritable than was usual with her when she was at all uneasy. "i have no letter from mr miller, yet. i cannot understand it," she said; "he promised to write at once, and explain what this business is that he wants to see me about. he said it was nothing pressing--`pressing' is such an indefinite word. if it was nothing pressing what did he say he wanted to see me for, and ask so particularly if i was likely to be in town." "it is as if he wished to talk over something with you, perhaps to see you more than once, and not hurriedly," said claudia. "yes," said lady mildred, "that is the feeling his letter gave me. the little boy seems better this morning mrs ball tells me," she went on. "yes, she came to my room to tell me so," claudia replied; she was on the point of going on to tell her aunt about the disturbances of the night when something made her stop short. it would be scarcely fair to gervais to do so, she reflected; at any rate while he was still in the house and might dislike being cross-questioned about the matter, as lady mildred would probably insist upon. then she shrank a little from bringing up the old ghost-story just now, when her aunt was already evidently rather uneasy, for claudia had detected a certain dislike to and avoidance of the subject on lady mildred's part, even while she affected to treat it all as nonsense. "i will say nothing about it just now," the girl decided. they had scarcely finished breakfast when wheels were heard on the gravel drive outside, and there came a ring at the bell. "mr waldron, if you please, my lady," ball came in to announce with his usual urbane solemnity. "he begs to apologise for coming so early, but if he can go up-stairs to see the young gentleman, he hopes it will not in any way disturb your ladyship." lady mildred rose from the table. "show mr waldron into the morning room," she said; and when the visitor entered the room he found her already there. "i am ashamed--" he began, his usual rather cold courtesy to lady mildred tempered by the sense of his obligation to her; but she interrupted him. "pray don't thank me, mr waldron," she said; "i have done nothing to be thanked for. hospitality in such a case is an absolute matter of course. i am only thankful the accident proved no worse. i have a good account of your little son this morning. you would like to see him, no doubt?" mr waldron bowed. "at once if possible," he said. lady mildred rang the bell. "he is a fine little fellow," she said, with perhaps the shadow of an effort perceptible in her tone; "but evidently delicate. you will excuse me for saying that it seems to me very rash to let a boy like him be so far from home and on foot in such weather." mr waldron's face flushed slightly. he did not like being taken to task especially about his care and management of his children, but he felt that there was room for lady mildred's censure. "you are right," he said; "but `accidents will happen in the best-regulated families,'" he went on with a slight smile. "it was all a mistake, the other boys would never have let him start to walk back alone from the pond had they not felt sure he would meet the dog-cart. i can scarcely even now make out how he missed it." "he is not your eldest son, then," said lady mildred. mr waldron's face flushed again. "no," he said; "i have three older." "oh, indeed," said lady mildred, with a not altogether agreeable inflection in her voice; "then there is no fear of the waldron family coming to an end." but the entrance of the footman prevented any necessity of the visitor's replying. "show mr waldron up to the chintz room," said lady mildred. jerry's father started a little. had they put the child _there_--in his own old quarters? it was a curious coincidence. his mind was full of many thoughts as he followed the servant. he had never been at silverthorns except once or twice for an interview of five minutes or so, on business matters, since the long ago days of his boyhood, and old memories crowded thickly upon him as he made his way along the well-remembered passages, and up the familiar stairs. "to think that this was once home to me,"--he thought--"to think of my grandmother--more than mother as she was to me--having died in privation, almost in want, after being mistress here for a good part of her long life. yes; it would have been hard in any case, but that, we could have borne uncomplainingly, had we not been treated with such unnecessary rigour and cruelty. it is very bitter to remember. i have done well to bring the children up in ignorance of it all." but these thoughts were to some extent driven from his mind when he entered the chintz room, and saw jerry. he had not expected to find the boy looking so ill--he was sitting up in bed eating his breakfast, but he was very pale and uneasy-looking, and when his father stooped to kiss him, he flung his arms round him, and clutched him convulsively. "you've come to take me home, papa," he cried; "i'll be ready directly. oh, i shall be so glad to go home!" "my poor jerry," said mr waldron; "why you talk as if you had been away for years. but they've been very kind to you here?" "oh, _very_," said the boy, in a tone of the deepest conviction; "but, papa, i wouldn't sleep here alone another night for _anything_. i can't tell you all now; but it was like what you told us about. i heard the sobbing and sighing, i did indeed." mr waldron started a little, but imperceptibly to jerry. "i shouldn't have told it," he said regretfully; "of course i would never have dreamt of doing so had i foreseen this. it was only natural, jerry, that you should think you heard those sounds, when your mind was full of the story, and you were besides not well--excited and feverish probably." "yes, that was what miss meredon said, and--" "does _she_ know you were frightened?" interrupted mr waldron in surprise. "oh, yes; but i'll tell you all at home. she tried to satisfy me, and she said one thing which almost did--that nobody ever hears these sounds except one of the family. but i've been thinking after all that can't be, for _you_ heard them and you aren't one of the family, so why shouldn't i?" "it only proves that what one fanciful little boy thought he heard, another fanciful little boy may have--no, i won't say _thought_ he heard. i did hear them; but i believe it was perfectly possible they were caused by owls, and partly perhaps by some peculiar draught of air. this is very old, this part of the house. did you know that?" "oh, yes; this is the very room you used to have. i remembered the name." "yes," said mr waldron, and he looked about him with feelings his little son could but very vaguely fathom. it was indeed the very room, as jerry said; strangely little changed in the more than thirty years that had passed since he saw it. there was the queer cupboard in the wall where he kept his treasures, the old dark mahogany wash-handstand with the blue and white toilet-ware; yes, actually the very same; the faded chintz curtains which, in some far-off time when they had been the pride doubtless of some silverthorns chatelaine, had given its name to the room; and to complete the resemblance, from where he sat, the glimpse through the window of the snow-covered drive and trees outside. for it was in winter that he and his grandmother had left silverthorns, as seemed then, for ever. but with a sigh he roused himself, and returned to the present. "jerry," he said; "i have not brought a close carriage for you. we should have had to get one from the `george,' and in the note last night something was said of the doctor seeing you this morning to say if you could come." "oh, papa," said jerry; "i _can't_ stay." his father looked at him again. it did seem as if it would do the boy less harm to go than to stay. "very well," he said; "i will try to arrange it." chapter thirteen. mr miller's news. there were difficulties to contend with. lady mildred, whose hospitable instincts were aroused, and who felt really anxious about the delicate little boy, would not hear of his leaving without the doctor's permission. "he will be here directly," she said; but it was impossible for mr waldron to wait. he glanced at claudia in a sort of despair. she understood him. "i am almost sure mr webb will say gervais may safely go," she said; "perhaps if he is fidgety and nervous at being away from--from his mother and all, it would be better to run the risk of cold than to excite him by keeping him here." "yes," said mr waldron, gratefully; "that is just it. then i may send a close carriage in about a couple of hours." "no, certainly not," said lady mildred sharply. "if mr webb does give leave for him to go to-day, it shall certainly be in the brougham. i shall send mrs ball or some one with him--" "i have some one with me," said mr waldron, "waiting in the dog-cart at the door." lady mildred almost screamed. "waiting at the door in this weather! my dear mr waldron--" a few minutes later, as jerry lay wondering if he might not get up, a slight rustle in the doorway caught his ears, at all times of the sharpest. it was clear daylight, impossible to think of ghosts or anything uncanny; but jerry's heart nevertheless beat rather faster than usual for an instant or two. then there was a little cry, a rush towards the bed, disjointed exclamations--"oh, dear charlotte! is it you?" "my own old jerry, to think you were nearly lost in the snow. oh, how miserable we were! oh my old jerry." there was some one in the doorway, some one who had brought charlotte up-stairs, whose eyes filled with tears as she listened to them. "oh, how happy they are to be together, not to have to be separated," she thought, as her fancy flew off to her own dear ones, lalage and alix, and the three little brothers at the rectory. and an hour or two later, jerry, well wrapped up, and in charlotte's careful convoy, was driven home in lady mildred's deliciously comfortable brougham. how his tongue went, how intense was charlotte's interest in the thrilling experiences of the night before! "it is _very_ strange," she said thoughtfully; "indeed the whole thing is too strange. that you should have been put to sleep in that very same room; oh, i can fancy how frightened you must have been. i don't think it was babyish at all." for that it had been so, was jerry's worst misgiving. "and oh, charlotte, she _was_ so kind; whether she's spoilt or not, whatever she is, i shall always say she is very, _very_ kind." "yes, jerry dear; i will try more than ever to--to like her, at least not to be jealous of her: it is a horrible feeling," said charlotte with a sigh. and a softer feeling than she had yet had towards claudia came over her as she thought of all her gentle kindness that very morning; how she had entered into jerry's gladness when the doctor said he might go home; how she had herself seen to the hot-water bottles in the brougham, and brought the warmest wraps, and insisted on lending her furred carriage overshoes, as jerry's boots had shrunk. how lovely she had looked as she stood at the hall-door to see them off! it had been impossible for charlotte to resist giving her a warm pressure of the hand, and murmuring a hearty "thank you." afterwards she felt doubly glad that she had done so, though she was far from thinking just now how long it would be before she saw again the sweet, bright face against whose attractiveness she had so resolutely steeled herself. lady mildred continued uneasy and nervous; she asked claudia not to go to school that day. "for one thing," she said, "it would not be fit for you to go with kelpie, and there is no horse roughed except the one that has gone in the brougham; and i have a sort of feeling that there may be a telegram from mr miller as there was no letter. it is possible we may go up to town almost at once." but no telegram came. the next morning, however, brought a letter from mr miller in which he decidedly seconded lady mildred's proposal to spend christmas in town. if she could manage to do so, he said, it would be in every way more satisfactory than his coming down to silverthorns. for the business he wanted to see her about, was not anything that could be settled at once. he should hope to have several long talks with her. "tiresome man," said lady mildred; "why can't he speak out and say what it is. claudia, i shall not feel comfortable now till i have seen him. i shall have a telegram this morning to say if i can get the rooms i want--my own house, you know, claudia, has been let since mr osbert's death--and it so, i shall decide to go up to-morrow. you must send a note to your miss lloyd to say you will be away till after christmas." "very well, aunt mildred," claudia replied. lady mildred glanced at her sharply. "what is the matter, child?" she said. "are you vexed at having to miss a week or ten days of these precious lessons? any other girl would like the idea of a visit to town, even in winter. i will take you about, as much as i can." "i do like it, indeed, aunt," said claudia earnestly; "and for some things i am really not sorry to miss this last little bit at miss lloyd's." "you are ahead of all the wortherham misses, i suppose, and afraid of hurting their feelings, or something of that sort, i suppose," said lady mildred, with a sort of half-grudging admiration. "my dear claudia, you are your father's own daughter--quixotic is no word for you. you won't find that kind of thing answer in the world, i assure you." but claudia laughed brightly. "i think the world is a much nicer place than most people allow, aunt mildred." "you have seen such a great deal of it," lady mildred replied. "i am not sure but that you have seen enough of the wortherham corner of it, however. i think you are beyond miss lloyd's institution. what you should have now is some first-rate teaching in france and germany." claudia's eyes glistened. "of course i should like that very much," she said; "but i do think the teaching very good at miss lloyd's--it has been already such a test to me of what i really do know." the telegram with a favourable reply about the rooms came that morning. the very next day saw lady mildred and claudia installed in them. claudia had never been in london before for more than a day or two at a time, and in spite of the dreary winter weather she was full of delight. even the slight fog, which of course greeted them on their awaking the next morning, could not depress her spirits. "i have always wanted so to see a real london fog," she said with satisfaction, when her aunt called her back from her station at the window. "but, my dear, this is not a real fog," said lady mildred laughing. "it is foggy, certainly; but a real london fog, as you call it, would rather astonish you." "i hope we shall have one then, while we are in town," said claudia, naively. and lady mildred was still laughing at her when mr miller was announced, and claudia was dismissed. "what a very charming girl," began the old gentleman, as she left the room. everybody always did say something of the kind about claudia, but in the present case the remark struck lady mildred as rather forced. it seemed to her that mr miller was deferring the evil moment of some communication he had to make to her. "is she a relation of yours--or-- or perhaps of mr osbert's?" he went on with a sudden gleam of interest. "of mr osbert's!" repeated lady mildred, contemptuously. "what are you thinking of, my good mr miller? you know all about mr osbert's relations as well as or better than i do. you know he had none near enough to count except general osbert and his family; and general osbert has no daughter." "no; but there are relations of mr osbert's, and not so very distant ones either, living within a short drive of you," said mr miller, rather snappishly. he did not like lady mildred's tone. "i had occasion several times to remind mr osbert of this, though possibly your ladyship's attention was never drawn to it." "you mean those waldrons, i suppose," said lady mildred. "i do not know their exact connection with the osberts. i know my husband did not like them; he had some trouble with old mrs waldron when he first came to silverthorns, i remember his telling me. some interference or some unreasonable claim she made. but why should we waste time in speaking about them just now, mr miller; you have some important matters to talk over with me, and i have been making myself quite uneasy with wondering what they could be." she expected some courteous and smiling expression of regret and reassurance from the lawyer; but to her surprise his face remained very grave. "yes; i have some most important matters to discuss with you," he said; "i have been foreseeing the present state of things for some time. there has been--i have had bad news from cannes. you are aware that general osbert and his family--a very small family now--usually spend the winters there, though i think you never have any direct communication with them?" "never," said lady mildred; "though they keep themselves informed of _my_ state of health, no doubt. my death will be a matter of some moment to them." but mr miller took no notice of this caustic observation. "as i was saying," he went on, "i have had bad news from cannes. the elder son--the only one, one might almost say, for the other one is hopelessly consumptive--had a bad accident last week; he was thrown from his horse. yesterday evening came a telegram announcing his death." lady mildred started. "but he was married," she said hastily. "yes; he has been married several years to a cousin on his mother's side, but he has left no children; he never had any. general osbert is terribly broken down by this, and he is already an old man. it is practically the end of the family. the other son cannot live many months." "and i am an old woman," said lady mildred: "i may die any day. don't be afraid to speak out, mr miller. you are thinking of what will become of the property if all general osbert's family thus comes to an end." "yes," said mr miller quietly, "i am. not what _will_ become of it, but what _should_. i have much to explain to you, which i do not think you have ever thoroughly understood, indeed i have not always thoroughly understood it myself. there were some things wrongly done when the property last changed hands--not so much illegally as unfairly and unkindly." "you mean to say when my husband's branch of it came into possession," said lady mildred hastily. "i will listen to no blame of _him_, mr miller." mr miller smiled a little. "i do not ask you to do so, lady mildred," he said. "mr osbert was misinformed and prejudiced; and there was foolish pride on the other side--reluctance to explain things properly. i blame the old squire's sister, the late mrs waldron, for this, though she was an admirable woman. if you will allow me, i will go over the whole with you, and explain exactly the present position of things." lady mildred was closeted with mr miller for a long time that morning. when he at last left and claudia rejoined her, the girl saw that she was grave and thoughtful, but not restless or uneasy. "mr miller had melancholy news to give me, claudia," she said; "my husband's nephew, general osbert's son, is dead. it is very, very sad for them." claudia's bright face shadowed over. "have they no other children?" "it is not `they'--the old man is a widower. yes; he has one other son, but he is frightfully delicate," and lady mildred sighed. "i have a good deal on my mind, my dear. i don't quite see what to do. what should you say to our going abroad; i may have to see the general on business matters." "i should like it, of course," said claudia; "especially if--please don't think me selfish--if i could go on with my lessons." "oh, you tiresome child! you have lessons on the brain: yes, of course you would go on with them, and learn more than at miss lloyd's. no, i am not vexed with you; it is right and necessary that you should feel as you do. i wonder, by the bye, how that little fellow is--the little waldron boy. i hope his adventure has done him no lasting harm; he did look so very thin and delicate. perhaps the hearing of those unfortunate people's troubles has made me think of him again." "might i write to his sister to ask how he is, aunt mildred?" said claudia. she would have spoken eagerly, for she felt so, but she knew that with lady mildred it was best to be calm. rather to her surprise the response was almost cordial. "yes; i have no objection. it would seem only natural after our having had him with us. tell the girl i should like to hear that his exposure in the snow has done him no harm." "thank you, aunt; i will write at once," said claudia, flushing with pleasure. "what do you thank me for, my dear?" said lady mildred, with a rather curious smile. "it is rather i that should thank you for writing the letter for me." but claudia saw that she was not vexed, though she could not quite understand her. "aunt mildred is rather incomprehensible sometimes," she said to herself; "but it is no use minding; she is so very good and kind." for it was not by any means claudia's way to worry or perplex herself with useless puzzles or wonderings; her heart and mind were too full of pleasanter and more profitable things. she was not able, much as she wished to do so, to write to charlotte that day. for she had to go out with her aunt, to write some notes to friends for her, and various other small pieces of business to attend to which made it evening before she had any leisure; and in the evening lady mildred disliked to see her occupied. and the next day was sunday, when, as everybody knows, all the postal arrangements in london go to sleep. so it was not till tuesday morning that claudia's letter was put into charlotte's hands at the breakfast-table. "a letter for me," she exclaimed, with some excitement and surprise; for charlotte's letters, except on the very rare occasions when she was away from home for a little, were few and far between. "i wonder what it is. i wish it could be anything to please poor jerry," she went on speaking half to herself. for since they had brought him home, jerry had been ill--confined to bed now for the best part of a week, and it seemed very melancholy without him, even in that busy household. it had not done him any harm to bring him straight home that first day; the harm was done already; the chill had given him a bad feverish cold, and though it was not anything very serious he was much weakened by it. "he must get up his strength, or we shall be afraid to let him out again till the fine weather comes," the doctor said; "and that would be a sad thing for a boy of his age." then when he went down-stairs with mrs waldron to write a prescription for a tonic, he sat looking thoughtful and pre-occupied for a minute or two. jerry's mother was a little alarmed. "you don't think there is anything much the matter with him?" she said. "no, oh no; he has rather lost ground in his general health the last few months. he needed a fresh start or a fillip, and unluckily he has, so to speak, had one the wrong way. but there is nothing to be uneasy about, only considering how wonderfully he has improved in the last few years, i should like to see him still stronger." "yes," mrs waldron agreed; "and in another year or so he will be getting into a higher class at school, and he will have to work harder, that will be trying for him." "exactly," said the doctor, who had known jerry since he was a baby; "now's the time for him to get up his strength. you couldn't by any possibility, i suppose, manage to send him out of england, to some of the mild health places, for a winter? it would be the making of him." mrs waldron shook her head. she saw no chance whatever of such a thing and said so. "ah, well," said the doctor, "we must do our best. i dare say he'll pull up again. it was only an idea that struck me." and when he had gone, and jerry's mother went up-stairs again, it struck her too that the boy did look sadly in want of something of the kind. "if only we were rich," she thought. "when we are all well it does not seem to press so--it is illness that brings small means home to one sorely." charlotte opened her letter, and glanced through it; then made a little exclamation. she had her wish. it was something that would please jerry. "what is it?" asked her mother. "it is,"--charlotte began with a very slight shade of reluctance--"it is a letter from miss meredon to ask how jerry is." "it is very nice of her to have thought of it," said mrs waldron. "she writes, she says, by lady mildred's wish," said charlotte; "they are in london." "well, you may run up-stairs and tell jerry about it. it will please him," said her mother. chapter fourteen. lady mildred makes up her mind. jerry was sitting up in bed; he was so far better that no serious illness was now to be feared, but he was weak and depressed, feeling vaguely "sorry for himself," not quite sure what he wanted, nor eager to profit by the doctor's permission to get up in the afternoon, and go down to have tea in the drawing-room. he glanced up listlessly as charlotte came in. "i have an hour still before i need to go to school," she said, "so i have come up to you, jerry: there is a letter about you this morning." "about me!" jerry exclaimed; "anything about school, do you mean? they know i'm ill." "no, not from school; it's from miss meredon, to ask how you are; they're in london." "how nice of her!" said jerry, his eyes brightening. "i'm sure you must see, charlotte, how nice she is." "yes," charlotte allowed; "she is kind and good; i'll never say she's not. but it can't be difficult to be nice when one has everything one wants, like her," she added, reverting to her old strain. jerry looked disappointed. "i think you are rather unfair, charlotte," he said. "if she wasn't nice you'd say she was spoilt and selfish, and as she _is_ nice you say it's no credit to her. how can you tell that it isn't very difficult to be nice and kind to others when one has everything one wants oneself? _papa_ says it is very difficult indeed not to get spoilt when one's like that." "i'd like to be tried," said charlotte. "besides," pursued jerry, "do you know i'm not quite sure that she _has_ everything the way we fancied." charlotte looked up eagerly. "what do you mean?" she said. "what can there be that she hasn't got? we _know_ she's very rich and clever and pretty; that's a good deal, any way." "but i'm almost sure she has to be away from the people she loves most," said jerry; "i know it by some things she said. and i could tell by her ways that she's used to brothers and sisters--i fancy there's a lot of them." "she is rather to be pitied for that," said charlotte half-laughingly, "though it can't be so bad when people are rich. and then as lady mildred has adopted her what can it matter?" "i shouldn't like to be adopted away from you all, however grand and rich i was to be," said jerry, "and i don't believe you'd like it either, whatever you say. you make yourself out worse than you are, charlotte." "well, read the letter," she said, and jerry did so. as he gave it back to charlotte he grew rather red. "do you see?" he said; "they're not coming back--not till after christmas. charlotte, you're sure of the german prize." charlotte's face lighted up. "i did not notice that," she said; "i thought she said something about staying a few days." "no," said jerry, "she says, `we shall not return to silverthorns till after christmas, perhaps a few days after, and perhaps not so soon.'" charlotte drew a deep breath. "i see," she said. "my composition is nearly finished. oh, jerry, how i hope i shall get the prize now." "you are sure to," he said shortly. "unless," charlotte went on, "unless she possibly finishes it there, and sends it back by post." "nonsense," said jerry; "i am sure she won't. she wouldn't have time for one thing, and--" "what?" "oh, i don't think she's the sort of girl to set herself so to win a prize when she's been so short a time at school with you all," said jerry. "no; perhaps not. of course it _can't_ matter to her as it does to me. i dare say she's forgotten all about it now she's up in london amusing herself," said charlotte in a satisfied tone which jerry found rather provoking. "i don't mind her not trying--i mean i'm not too proud to say i know she would have won it if she had. i shall always say so, for she is much further on and much cleverer than any of us. and some of them have been working very hard lately. it isn't as if i had no one worth trying against." jerry said no more. he was glad for charlotte, but he did feel it hard that claudia's self-sacrifice, which had been just as great and real as if after events had not rendered it unnecessary, should remain for ever unknown and unappreciated. "i wonder if i shall _never_ be able to tell charlotte," he said to himself. "long after, perhaps, when she's left off caring about school things. i should like her to know some day," and his blue eyes gazed out into the future wistfully. "what are you thinking of, jerry?" said charlotte suddenly. "why do you look so melancholy? the doctor says you may get up this afternoon." "i know he did," said jerry, "but i don't think i want to. i'm too tired," and with a little sigh of weariness he lay down again on his pillows. charlotte looked at him in distress. "oh, dear," she said; "how unlucky that snowy day was, though i suppose things might have turned out worse." "yes," replied jerry with complacency; "i might have had rheumatic fever, or brain fever, perhaps. but, charlotte, it wasn't because i was feverish that i heard those noises that night; i _know_ it wasn't. and i don't believe papa thinks so either. it can't be true about only a member of the family hearing it, for you see there was papa when he was a little boy. i'd like to tell _her_, claudia, that." "it was very queer," said charlotte; "you don't know how pleased i am to have seen that part of the house, jerry. i took a good look up the stair to where the tower room must be: there was something melancholy about the house, wasn't there? how awfully nice it would be with a large family in it, and lots of running about." "you wouldn't mind lots of brothers and sisters then," said jerry. "no, i'd like it; just fancy what fun we could have. but i must go, jerry. i will write to miss meredon when i come home." "i think i'd like to write to her myself," said jerry. "ask mamma if i may." "very well," said charlotte, rather surprised; "i dare say mamma will be quite pleased that you want to do it." and so mrs waldron was, for jerry's lassitude and want of energy were troubling her. he quite brightened up over his letter. "you won't care to see it, will you, mamma?" he asked. "you see she's such a jolly--an understanding sort of girl; she won't bother about how it's spelt, and all that." "but you will send a proper message of thanks to lady mildred," said his mother. "it is very good of her to take so much interest in you, and she was very kind to you at silverthorns." "not as kind as miss meredon was," said jerry; "but of course i'll say it properly, mamma." mrs waldron told her husband that evening of the letter, and jerry's replying to it himself. "i was glad to see him interested about it," she said; "it is so unlike him to be so listless. how strange it seems that we should be in any way brought in contact with silverthorns after all these years!" "stranger even than you think it," he replied. "do you know i heard only to-day that general osbert's eldest--or elder, he has only two--son is dead, in consequence of a fall from his horse? he died on the th, just the day jerry was so frightened at silverthorns. and it was when my old uncle died that i, as a child, was so startled there." "you won't tell jerry? it would only deepen the impression." "of course not. besides, there are so many other ways of accounting for what he heard--his own feverish state at the time, in the first place." "perhaps it is on account of this news that lady mildred has gone up to town just now," said mrs waldron. "i hardly think so: there is still the other son, who may be married and have children, or this one, poor fellow, may have left sons himself for all i know. i have never kept up much knowledge of them. you see it cannot matter to us, as it is so very improbable but that lady mildred would leave all to her own people if the osberts died out." mrs waldron smiled. "i can't see it quite that way," she said; "you _are_ half osbert, and then you were so associated with the place from being brought up there. i am sure your grand-uncle would rather it had gone to you than to those far-off cousins." "ah, well, it is much better not to think about it," said mr waldron philosophically. jerry's letter took him some time; he was not satisfied with the first production, and being a very particular, not to say "fussy," little person, he determined to copy it out again. and he was very easily tired still. so it was not till the next day but one that claudia received the answer to her letter of inquiry. her face lighted up with pleasure and amusement as she read it: "my dear miss meredon," it began-- "i have asked charlotte to let me write myself, to thank you for writing about me. i am better, thank you, but i am still in bed. the doctor says i may get up this afternoon, but i'm not sure that i'm inclined. it is so cold and i am so tired still; i wish it was summer again. i want to tell you that charlotte is in very good spirits, and she is working hard, _specially_ at german. i should like to see you again. perhaps some day i could go to call on you when you come back, for i should like to thank lady mildred osbert too for being so kind to me. papa and mamma wish me to thank her for wanting to know how i was. i wish you a merry christmas. i remain,-- "yours truly,-- "g.t. waldron." they were at breakfast when the letter came. lady mildred glanced at claudia's smiling face. "home news, i suppose, to make you look so sunshiny?" she said, in the half-teasing tone that claudia had learnt not to mind. "no, aunt mildred; it's a letter from little gervais waldron," she said, and after a moment's imperceptible hesitation in which she had time to say to herself,--"there is nothing in it which would tell his secret,"-- she handed it to lady mildred, who read it. "poor little fellow," she said, "it doesn't seem much as if he were in a very promising way; they should send him abroad for the rest of the winter. he looks to me just the sort of child that might be set up by it. i think it a cruel thing to send away hopeless invalids to those southern places, even if it prolongs their lives a little it too often deprives them of their homes and friends at the last. but it is a very different thing for a delicate child with no actual disease. in such a case it may give a start for life." claudia listened with some surprise. her aunt's interest in the subject of this boy was not exactly the sort of thing that lady mildred's usual ways would have led her to expect. "i dare say it would be a very good thing--the best in the world for him," she said. "but i am _sure_ they could not possibly afford it." "why? are they so poor do you think?" said lady mildred quickly. claudia could not help laughing a very little. "auntie," she said, "people needn't be desperately poor not to be able to send a child abroad for the winter. but i think the waldrons are poorer than many families who yet would find it very difficult to do that." "how do you know--how can you judge? you've never been in their house?" said lady mildred sharply and almost suspiciously; "and i put you on your honour not to get intimate with the girl or with any of your schoolfellows." "i am not intimate with any of them, and with charlotte waldron perhaps less than with any; and _of course_ i have never been at their house nor at anybody's house without your knowing. i would never do such a thing, dear aunt; you know i wouldn't," said claudia gently. "but i can tell quite well that they are poor," she went on, seeing lady mildred's face clear again; "it is a sort of instinct, because you see i know so well about it myself. charlotte has had the same dress ever since i have known her, and once or twice, when it had got wet or muddy, she came with a still plainer and much older one. and--other little things that i don't suppose most girls would notice--i have seen her look quite troubled when her clean cuffs got inked, or when a copy-book was lost and she had to get an extra one. she is a very, very neat and careful girl. some of the others call her mean--once they began doing so before me as if they thought i would join with them in it, because they fancy i am rich! i did feel so angry; for i know it all so well, you see, aunt mildred." "bless the child--she talks as if she were a char woman with half-a-dozen children," said lady mildred. "i suppose you think you know a great deal more of the practical side of life than i do, my dear?" but though her tone was sharp, claudia could see that she was not vexed, but on the contrary interested, and even touched. "i know more in some ways about being poor than you do, i think, aunt mildred," she replied. "oh, in hundreds of little ways that one would be almost ashamed to put into words, that rich people would really not understand! you see with my being the eldest at home, and mamma always wanting to save papa all the worries she could, i could not but know a great deal. but nothing is too hard when we are together. you _can't_ know, aunt, how different everything seems now that i can look forward to staying at home, and helping them so beautifully--all thanks to you. there were times when mamma and i used sometimes to think i should have to go away as a teacher in some school, or as a sort of nursery governess even. and now it is _so_ different." "i wish it were going to be still more different," said lady mildred. "i wish i could help you all more effectually; but--" "dear aunt mildred, you couldn't have helped us more effectually," said claudia, her eyes beaming. "we don't want to be rich, even if you had a fortune to leave us, we couldn't wish to be happier than we shall be when i am quite grown-up and able to begin my school, as mamma calls it. and we are all so strong and well, if it wasn't for papa's eyes." "yes, that is a blessing," lady mildred agreed: "the meredons are a very sturdy race, much stronger than the osberts. and that reminds me, i am sorry about that little waldron boy; i cannot forget his poor little white face." "i hope he will get stronger soon," said claudia. lady mildred said no more, and her niece saw little of her for the rest of that day, for there was another long interview with mr miller, and claudia was sent out sight-seeing under the convoy of lady mildred's maid. it was some days later, christmas eve in fact, when the old lady said suddenly to her young companion: "i see no help for it, claudia; i must go to cannes. it is absolutely necessary for me to see general osbert without delay, and i cannot expect him to come here considering that his only remaining son is dying." "his only other son," claudia repeated. "oh, aunt mildred, how very sad!" "yes; but this they have anticipated for some time. it was john osbert's death that was the great blow; and very probably the shock of it has made frank worse. but it is very hard upon me too, though perhaps it seems selfish to say so; for i am too old to like starting off to the ends of the earth in this sudden fashion. for you i shall take care that it is no disadvantage. once out of england i may not be in such a hurry to return. and you can have excellent lessons." "oh, aunt, i do hope my being with you will not make it all more troublesome," said claudia. "of course i shall like going better than anything. it is what mamma wished for me more than she could say. but, you know, if it would be easier for you it might be arranged for me to go to school, as mamma once thought of?" "no," said lady mildred decidedly; "i shall like having you with me. it will be an interest to me, and without it i should feel very lonely i shall not see much of the osberts, poor people. it is really necessity that takes me there. i have never known much of them. i should like you to write home and tell them of our plans. i shall add a word or two to the letter." "and, aunt mildred," said claudia half-timidly, "may i answer gervais's letter? i should like to know if he is better: there is no fear of its leading to any intimacy that you might not like, as i may not be at silverthorns again for a long time." "you can write if you like," said lady mildred rather shortly. "i have nothing against the waldrons. i dare say they are very well-brought-up young people. i only wish they did not live at that odious, gossiping wortherham." claudia looked up in surprise. she had hitherto been under the impression that of all the families in wortherham, the waldrons were her aunt's chief aversion! chapter fifteen. like a fairy tale. "no," said the doctor; "he's not gaining ground as he should. still there's nothing really wrong. but i hardly know what to advise. what he really should have, as i've told you before, is a complete change. can you not manage it? not even to devonshire or the isle of wight?" mrs waldron shook her head sadly. "i think even one of those would be about as impossible for us as the south of france or italy," she said. "but i will tell my husband what you say. of course, in a case of life or death--" "but it is not so bad as that; i have never said it was," interrupted the doctor. "don't exaggerate it, my dear lady. if you _can't_ do as i say, you can't, and we must do what we can, and hope the best. he will outgrow his present weakness i have no doubt. but he has come through so much that i was beginning to be rather proud of him, and this unfortunate back-cast is rather disappointing. i had set my heart on his growing up really strong and hearty, and i quite believe he might if he could get a thorough good start. that is the real state of the case." "thank you! yes, i think i quite understand," replied mrs waldron. but she sighed as she spoke; and the doctor felt sorry for her, but he had to hurry away; and after all he came across people in worse plight than the waldrons every day of the week, and he could not afford to spend much time or thought in sympathy. the plight was bad enough, nevertheless, it seemed to mrs waldron, as she went back to the drawing-room where jerry was lying covered with shawls and sheltered as well as could be from the draughts and insidious chills that it is so difficult entirely to defy in a small house, where one seems always running against a door or a window. the boy, to her eyes sharpened by anxiety, was doing worse than not gaining ground. he was, she began to believe, losing it. and some bitter enough tears rose to her eyes as she sat down to go on with the work at which dr lewis's visit had interrupted her. "mamma," said jerry's thin weak voice, "don't you think charlotte is really _very_ pleased to have got the german prize?" "yes, my boy; i think she is. and she deserves to be so--she worked very hard indeed for it." "she would have been dreadfully disappointed not to get it," said he again. "though all the same," he went on thinking to himself, "it is a little provoking to think that she would have got it any way, and that i went and caught this horrible cold for nothing. only i would never have known how good claudia was but for all that, and _perhaps_ she would still have tried for the prize. i wish she would write to me again! i'm sure she would if she knew how tired i am of being ill, and of everything."--"mamma," he went on again aloud, "doesn't this winter seem dreadfully long, and it's only a fortnight and four days past christmas? charlotte and the boys only began lessons again three days ago. i wish i could go back to school too, mamma. oh, i do wish the summer would come. i think i shouldn't care to live if it was to be always winter." his words startled his mother. she got up and came over to him. "what makes you so gloomy, my old jerry?" she said; "it isn't like you." "i don't mean to be naughty and impatient, mamma," he said; "it's just that i'm so tired--so tired of the cold, and the darkness, and the grimness," and his eyes turned with almost a shudder from the window towards which they had glanced instinctively. he knew so well what the prospect outside must be; for it was raining heavily, one of wortherham's very ugliest days. "oh, how i should like just to see and feel the sun, and the blue sky above! i feel as if i could drink the sunshine, mamma; i am so thirsty for it." mrs waldron sighed a little. "it is as if he felt the want of it by instinct," she said to herself. "there are places in the world where there is sunshine even at this season, my jerry," she said aloud. "i wish i could send you to one of them." jerry's eyes sparkled. "yes, wouldn't it be lovely?" he exclaimed. "i wonder if it is to one of those places that they are going;" he added. "who?" asked his mother. "the girl at silverthorns--miss meredon, and old lady mildred. she said in her last letter, you know, mamma, that perhaps they were going to france. how nice it would be if we could all go! sometimes one can't help wishing to be rich, mamma." "or at least not so poor," his mother agreed with a rather wintry smile. "i can't help wishing it when it is anything any of my darlings seem to want that i can't give them, especially my poor old jerry, who has had suffering enough in his life." "mamma, dear, sweet mamma, don't speak like that," said jerry, softly stroking her cheek with his little thin hand. "i mustn't grumble, i haven't anything to grumble about, when i have you and charlotte and papa and them all. and it isn't grumbling to wish for the spring, is it? it is so nice even to think of the woods out at gretham, with the primroses and violets all coming out. oh, i do hope i shall be quite well by then, so that i can often walk out there on half-holidays!" mrs waldron tried to answer cheerfully, but it was not easy. there was a cold misgiving at her heart, which she dared not, would not give words to. what would the sunshine or the spring-time, or primroses or violets, or anything sweet and lovely be to her, be to them all, without their quiet, patient little lame boy? how poorly do those understand a mother's love who speak of one of several children as less precious than an only child! in a sense the intertwining bonds seem indeed but to make the whole affections stronger where a large circle is included by them. jerry seemed to have some notion of the thoughts in his mother's mind. "you are sure it would make me quite well to go to one of those warm places?" he said again, after a little pause. "dr lewis thinks so," said mrs waldron. she had not meant to tell him so much, but she was feeling in a way, reckless. "he _must_ go abroad," she said to herself. "he must and he shall. i will tell edward so this evening, and at whatever cost and sacrifice it shall be done." and though the resolve seemed a wild one, though she had no faintest idea how it was to be carried out, her heart felt curiously lighter when she had made it. charlotte looked anxiously at jerry when she came home from school that afternoon. he was lying asleep on his sofa, and her mother made a little sign not to disturb him as the girl opened the door. "is he no better to-day, mamma?" she whispered, as she sat down quietly beside her mother in the further corner of the room. "much as usual, i think," mrs waldron replied, in the same tone. "perhaps in himself he has been a little brighter. he was interested in what we were talking about." "yes?" and charlotte looked up inquiringly. "dr lewis was here this morning. he examined jerry thoroughly again, and still says the same thing. there is no actual disease, it is only weakness and want of tone that he speaks of. but those may be the beginning of anything! charlotte, my dear, i have been feeling nearly desperate about jerry." then she went on to tell the girl all that the doctor had said--all that she had been thinking and resolving in her own mind. she found full sympathy. "yes, mamma," charlotte agreed, "at all costs it must be done. but where should he go, and with whom, and how?" "i don't think it matters very specially where," mrs waldron replied, "so long as it is a bright and sunny place. but how? ah, i wish i knew! i am so ignorant of all those winter places--i don't know which are the cheapest. i fancy they are all dear! jerry has been writing to his friend, miss meredon, again. she wrote to him that she and her aunt are going abroad. i wish--i wonder if we could get any information from them." "oh, no," charlotte interposed hastily; "don't let us put ourselves under any more obligation to them. i don't want to be horrid, mamma, but that girl seems to be _always_ coming in my way. even now that she has left school for a while, the next thing is we must hear of her going abroad for the winter like a princess, just when we'd give _anything_ to be able to send jerry." "charlotte, my dear, you really are unreasonable," said mrs waldron. "i thought you were grateful to this young girl, as we all are, for her kindness to jerry. you told me yourself that you would never again say she was spoilt, or selfish, or any of the terrible things you had made up your mind she _must_ be." "i know i did," said charlotte half penitently. "i did not mean to speak that way; but oh, mamma, it makes me wild to think about jerry--he does look so white and thin?" she got up as she spoke, and went across the room on tip-toe, and stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping boy, her eyes filling with tears. "mamma," she said again as she returned to her mother, "we _must_ manage it." but two or three days went by without any solution to the problem offering itself. mr waldron was exceedingly busy just at this time, and his wife shrank from saying much to him about what was constantly in her thoughts, till she had some at least _possible_ plan to suggest. at last one night a sudden idea struck her. "i will write to mrs knox," she thought; "she may know of some place, some kind of _pension_, perhaps, or some doctor's family, where jerry would be well cared for, on pretty moderate terms. and once we hear of such a place we just _must_ find the money somehow,"--and her mind ran over the few treasured pieces of silver plate in their possession,--"and edward must take him there. only will he not be terribly home-sick, alone among strangers?" but charlotte agreed that it seemed the only thing to do. the letter to mrs knox was written, and that evening after dinner mr waldron, his wife decided, must be told of all dr lewis had said. dinner-time drew near, however, and instead of mr waldron there came a boy from his office with a note to say that he was not to be waited for; he had been detained unexpectedly, but would be home before long. "how unlucky," sighed mrs waldron. "i cannot send the letter without talking to your father, and he will come home so tired. arthur," for arthur as well as charlotte was in her confidence, "can you manage to keep ted and noble quiet in the school-room so that i can speak to your father uninterruptedly? tell them he will be tired, and will like to be quiet." "all right, mother; i'll see to it," and a moment or two later certain ominous sounds from the school-room announced that arthur was favouring his younger brothers with a specimen of certain strong measures he intended to resort to, should occasion arise, such as their "kicking up a row or making fools of themselves when mamma wanted to be quiet." he achieved his purpose, however. mrs waldron was alone, and the house was unusually silent when their father came in; he went straight to the drawing-room. "you must be very tired, edward," said mrs waldron, starting up, "and hungry too. you have not had dinner." "yes, thank you; i have had all i want," he replied. "tea then, or coffee?" "in a little while, perhaps, but not just yet. i'm glad you are alone, amy; i want to talk to you. how is jerry to-day?" "much the same. i want to talk to you too--about jerry--about what dr lewis has been saying," mrs waldron began. her husband looked up sharply, and then she noticed that he was very pale, and as she mentioned the doctor's name he started. "not anything worse? you are not trying to break anything dreadful to me, amy," he said hoarsely. "what a mockery it would all seem if it had come too late!" he added, as if speaking to himself, in a lower voice, though not so low as not to be heard by his wife. but she did not stop to ask the meaning of his words--she was too eager to set his anxiety at rest. "oh, no, no," she said; "there is nothing new. it is only that dr lewis does so very earnestly advise--" "his going abroad for some months," interrupted mr waldron, his face clearing. "yes, i know that. you spoke of it a little the other day; but i did not know till to-day that he urged it so very strongly." "till to-day," repeated mrs waldron, bewildered; "how did you hear it to-day? has dr lewis been to see you?" "no," said her husband, with a rather peculiar smile, "it was not from him i heard it. why did you not tell me how much he had said about it, amy?" "i have been going to do so all these last days," she said; "but i waited to think over any feasible plan before saying more to you. i knew you were busy and worried. and even now i have but little to propose," and she went on to tell of her letter to mrs knox, and her hopes of some advice or help in that quarter. mr waldron listened and again he smiled. "i think i have a better plan than that to talk about," he said. "you will scarcely believe me, amy, when i tell you that i have this afternoon a letter from lady mildred osbert offering to take charge of jerry at cannes for some weeks, or months--in fact for as long as it would be well for him to stay there." "from lady mildred!" mrs waldron ejaculated. "edward! how ever did she know about his being ordered to go?" "for that, and perhaps for the idea itself, we have to thank that young niece of hers, charlotte's schoolfellow. jerry told us how kind the girl was to him, and in writing to her he must have said, quite innocently, of course, what dr lewis wished for him. they are leaving themselves for cannes to-morrow; but lady mildred proposes that--that _i_ should take jerry to them next week." "_you_?" said mrs waldron, growing pale with suppressed anxiety and excitement. "oh, edward, you have more to tell me. what should she want to see you for, when she has always so completely ignored us as relations, unless there is some great change in some way." "yes, amy; there is a great change. that is what i wanted to tell you. the reason i did not come home earlier as usual to dinner was that i wanted to think it over quietly, to take it in as it were, before i tried to tell you about it. i have felt as if i were dreaming since i got the letters." "letters?" half whispered mrs waldron; "were there more than one then? you said the one about jerry was from lady mildred herself." "yes; but it referred to another--a long and clear and most important letter from the london solicitors; it was in fact written by old miller himself. i will show it you afterwards, but just now i want merely to tell you the drift of it all." "i think i can guess it," said mrs waldron; "lady mildred has found out that she has been unfairly prejudiced against you, and she wants now to do something to help us. it will be a great boon, whatever it is--this offer for jerry alone has lifted a terrible weight from my mind. but how has she changed so?" "my dear amy, don't run on so fast. it is true that lady mildred has changed, but there is a great deal more to tell. you heard of mr osbert's death, the general's elder son? well it appears that the second one, the only other--is dying. he has been in a hopeless state for years, but lady mildred did not know it. mr miller evidently thinks it was concealed purposely. she has had very little communication with the osberts, and she has always thought of the sons as certain to succeed, as the general is an old man. but, do you see, amy, as things are, there will be no osbert to succeed?" mrs waldron looked up bewilderedly. "but it is all in lady mildred's hands, is it not?" she said. "she can leave silverthorns to her own family, can she not?" "she can _legally_ leave it to anybody, but she considers herself absolutely bound by her husband's expressed wishes; and those were that it should never leave the family. mr miller says, that failing the osberts, the squire instructed lady mildred to look up all remoter connections; but till now, it does really seem very strange, she did not know, had no idea that we were the nearest. mr miller has been a good friend in the matter; he has, i suppose," and here mr waldron laughed a little, "made inquiries about us and found all satisfactory. he has removed all lady mildred's prejudices against me, and what i care for most, against my poor grandmother. and,"--mr waldron hesitated,--"amy, it seems impossible, her intention therefore is now to make _me_ the next proprietor of the old place." mrs waldron was silent for a moment. "it seems too much," he said again. "i don't deserve it," her husband went on. this gave her power to speak. "you not deserve it!" she exclaimed. "oh, edward, could a man deserve it more? how you have toiled, how you have kept up your spirits through all! if you said _i_ didn't deserve it--i have been often so faint-hearted and depressed. i don't think--i _don't_ think we shall be spoilt by prosperity; we shall always know so well what a struggling life really is; it will be so delightful to help others. and oh, edward! arthur and noble can go to college, and ted into the army! that is to say if--will it make any difference at once?" "yes; lady mildred's idea is that we should at once, at least very shortly, go to live on the estate, and that i should take charge of things. there is a very good house, at present occupied by one of the farmers, which can easily be made a capital house for us. it is so pretty, i remember it well; how delightful it will be to see you there, amy! lady mildred, of course, will have the big house for her life, but she will be glad to feel free to come and go--the place has been growing a great charge to her. this is the rough sketch of her plan only. of course there are numberless details to be arranged, and for these she wishes to see me. then again, _in case_ the general survives her he would have a right to some provision for his life, though it is very certain he would never wish now to be master of silverthorns--he is quite broken down--and even had he inherited the place, he says he never would have come to live there. but lady mildred thinks it right to see him, and she wishes me to see him too. miller says she is determined that none of the old prejudice against me shall be left; she is not a woman to do things by halves, once she has made up her mind. so, thanks to miss meredon, the idea of offering to take jerry for a time fits in with my going to cannes. and there we can talk all over." mrs waldron sat gazing into the fire. "edward," she said, "i feel as if i were dreaming. tell me--should we not let the poor children know this wonderful news at once?" "arthur and charlotte, perhaps,--they deserve it," he replied, getting up as he spoke to summon them. and then again the whole had to be told. arthur's pleasant face literally beamed with delight. "oh, papa!--oh, mother!" he exclaimed. "i can't believe it. it is like a fairy tale. why did you never tell us before that we were half osberts?" "i had meant to tell you before long," said mr waldron; "but i had a horror of raising vague expectations. i knew too well what i had suffered from my false position as a child." "yes," said arthur, thoughtfully; "i see." and then, as a sudden idea struck him, "fancy its coming after all through the female branch. papa, the ghost will be laid." "yes," said mr waldron, smiling; "the ghost will be laid." "i bet you anything,"--arthur went on--"i bet you anything, that the first thing old jerry will say when he quite understands it, will be, `i'm so glad for the poor ghost.'" "and if we never hear anything more of the ghost," said charlotte, speaking almost for the first time, "jerry will be more than ever convinced that he _did_ hear it. papa," she added with a little hesitation, "won't lady mildred's niece, miss meredon, be dreadfully disappointed when she knows all this? perhaps she has heard all the talk about lady mildred's intending to make her her heiress?" "i hope not," said mr waldron; "she has certainly hitherto shown a most friendly spirit to us. i should be grieved for our good fortune to cause disappointment to any one." "and then she must be so rich and grand already, i don't suppose it would matter much to her," said charlotte. "i don't know about that: the meredons are not a rich family by any means," said mr waldron. "i shall always love that girl," said mrs waldron enthusiastically. "it is her doing about jerry. oh, charlotte, darling! to think that all our poor little plans for sending him abroad are to be so delightfully replaced." "may i tell him, mamma?" said charlotte eagerly; "to-morrow, not to-night, of course! i will take care not to startle him. but it would be _so_ nice. and i will tell him how kind _she_ has been--he is very fond of her," she added with a slightly reluctant honesty. "you must be fond of her too, my dear child," said her father. "i would like to be, at least i think so," said charlotte, and a vision rose before her of claudia's sweet, appealing face. "i have been horrid to her, i know," she added to herself, "but she was rather queer at school." chapter sixteen. claudia's victory. it seemed more like a dream than ever the next day. "i can't understand how i took it so quietly," charlotte thought to herself as she was dressing. "i suppose i was half stunned. i feel this morning as if i could just _scream_ with delight. to think of _silverthorns_ coming to be our home--our own beautiful home. and how i have grumbled, and how jealous i have been of _her_. i don't suppose she could ever quite understand--nobody who has never been poor themselves can. but, oh, i shall try to be kind and sympathising to others. it makes me feel as i used to when i was little, sometimes, when mamma saw i was cross and discontented, and instead of speaking sharply she would do some kind thing to make me feel happy. i wonder if god sometimes makes people good that way? for i know _i_ haven't deserved it, though dear papa, and mamma, and arthur, and jerry have. oh, to think i may tell jerry!" the telling jerry was more easily managed than she had anticipated. the boy's instincts were sharpened by illness, and he had never forgotten the impression of his strange experiences at silverthorns. "i knew it, charlotte," he exclaimed, his blue eyes gleaming, "i knew it. when i was told that, about the ghost only coming to some of the family, and i remembered papa's having heard it too, something seemed to tell me that we _had_ to do with silverthorns, and that more would come: i knew it, charlotte. and she will be so pleased--claudia, i mean." "you think she will be?" charlotte said, rather surprised. "of course; i know she will be," he said confidently; "you'll see. and, of course, it will be ever so much nicer for her when she's there, to have us living near. i'll get to know her so well this winter, staying with them at that place. oh, i say, i'm awfully glad to think of going there, and to know it won't cost papa and mamma anything. i do so want to get well, charlotte. i may say it now--i've really felt as if i never would lately, and almost as if i didn't somehow much care." "jerry!" charlotte exclaimed. "yes; and that's the queerest feeling of all. i suppose people have it when they're really going to die, and that it's a good thing. it must make it not so bad," the boy went on. "but you don't feel that way now?" charlotte asked anxiously. "no, i feel quite different. it was partly, you know--" and jerry hesitated--"the horrible feeling of being such a worry and such an expense to papa and mamma. i've thought often lately," and the boy looked before him wistfully--"charlotte," he broke off, "isn't it queer how things bring things to your mind? there's a corner of one of the window-panes there that's cracked; i see it every morning when i wake, and i always wonder when it will break away, and there'll have to be a new pane. and then some proverb about cracked things lasting the longest comes into my mind, and i begin thinking perhaps i shall last an awfully long time, and then i worry about what a lot i shall cost them, and perhaps never be able to earn anything. and that's what's made me think sometimes lately that it would be better if i died." "but, jerry," charlotte repeated; she spoke very quietly, for she was dreadfully afraid of beginning to cry; "you don't need to feel that now. _now_ you can try to take advantage of all your chances for getting well without any worry to spoil it." "yes; that's what i'm so thankful for. oh, i am so thankful!" he said fervently. "and, charlotte," he added very gravely, "there's another thing i'm glad of, very glad of--the poor ghost will be able to rest now." charlotte jumped up and clapped her hands. in her state of suppressed excitement one mood rapidly followed another, and it was better to laugh than to cry! but jerry did not join in her merriment. "don't, charlotte," he said, "i'm not joking. i've thought of him lately in the middle of the night when i couldn't sleep, and i have felt so sorry for him. so sorry that if i had heard him again i would have spoken to him, i am sure. can you fancy anything more terrible than to have to wander about,--never resting, with no home, and no power of doing any good, or undoing any harm,--for years and years and years? i think it's quite as dreadful a punishment as any one could imagine, and i think, perhaps, if people believed in that kind of ghosts a little, it wouldn't do them _any_ harm." "but, supposing it's true even," said charlotte, "the poor old thing's at rest now." "yes, i think so; i do hope he'll be able to be at peace. for, after all, he _has_ tried to tell how sorry he was, and to put things right," said jerry, with a sigh of relief. he was weak and tired all that day, but it was scarcely, perhaps, to be wondered at. and the night following he slept soundly, and awoke refreshed; and when dr lewis saw him he expressed his conviction that the boy would be quite able to stand the journey in a week's time. and it was with one anxiety the less on his overburdened professional shoulders that the good doctor left the waldrons' house that morning. "it will save the boy, there is no doubt of it," he said to himself. "and i know no one more deserving of good fortune than waldron," for jerry's father had thought it right to take his old friend to some extent into his confidence. "dear me!--to think that _he_ should be the next in the silverthorns succession! i knew there was some connection, but i thought it a much more remote one." surprises seemed to be the order of the day at norfolk terrace. some day within the week, during which, preparations for jerry's journey went on busily, came a letter with a foreign post-mark, addressed to charlotte. she started a little when she saw the writing. "from claudia meredon," she half whispered to herself; "she must be writing about jerry, i suppose." but when she drew out the letter she saw that it was rather a long one. "the boys" were all about, and charlotte knew that quiet was not to be expected in such circumstances. so she took the letter off to her own room to read in peace. the first few words surprised her. "my dear charlotte," it began,--whereas hitherto claudia's one or two little notes had been formally addressed to "dear miss waldron,"--"aunt mildred tells me i may call you by your first name as she says we must each think of the other as a sort of cousin now, so i hope you will not mind it. i have been longing to tell you how happy i was to hear all that has come to pass. it is, of course, very sad for general osbert and his family, but they have never really seemed like relations to aunt mildred, and i do not think they have ever cared much about dear silverthorns. it is delightful to think that it is going to be your father's some day, and indeed it will seem like his almost at once, as aunt mildred is longing for him to take charge of things. i do so want to see you. i want to explain to you many things that i have never been able to tell. i know you must have thought me strange and unfriendly, and i want you to know how difficult it was. aunt mildred will not mind my telling you everything now. she wants us to be friends, and this brings me to what i want especially to write about." and then followed a proposal which made charlotte's face flush with pleasure, and her eyes beam. "oh, how delightful it would be," she whispered. "oh, will papa and mamma let me?" and scarcely waiting to finish the letter she flew to her mother in such a state of breathless excitement that mrs waldron scarcely recognised her quiet self-contained little daughter. "it is very, very kind," she said, when she had read what charlotte eagerly pointed out. "and may i go? do you think papa would let me?" she exclaimed. "oh, mamma, i would work so hard at french and music. you see claudia says i could join in her lessons." "we must wait till your father comes home," said mrs waldron. "but i should like it for you very much indeed." mr waldron had had a letter too--from lady mildred herself. she wrote earnestly begging her newly acknowledged cousin to bring his daughter, as well as jerry, for a two or three months' visit to her at cannes. "i beg you not to let the expense be any difficulty," she said. "there are long arrears due to you which i can, alas, only indirectly make up. and i am most anxious, peculiarly so, that my dear little niece, claudia meredon, should make friends with your children. she will be speaking of this plan in more detail in her letter to your daughter." so it was decided, and a few days later mr waldron, accompanied by his two children, started for cannes. jerry bore the journey fairly well, but he was very exhausted before they got to its end, and his father was thankful that charlotte was with them. some little time of anxiety about him followed, and he required much care and nursing to bring him round, though the doctor assured them that there was no serious cause for alarm and much for congratulation that the move southwards had not been delayed. "i doubt if he would have stood it a few weeks hence," said he. "he was evidently losing instead of gaining strength every day in england. but you will see a great change in a little while." and in the mean time jerry's illness had one good effect. it drew the two girls together as nothing else could have done, and made the waldrons feel more quickly and thoroughly at home with lady mildred than would otherwise have been the case. for her real kindness of heart came to the front at such times, and all her stiffness and "frighteningness" vanished. one day--one lovely day, when it was difficult to believe it was only february, and that up there in the north in poor, grey old england, the rain and the fogs, or the snow, perhaps, were having it all their own way--a little group was enjoying the sunshine on one of the pleasant terrace walks above the sea. there was jerry in an invalid-chair still, but looking as if he would soon be independent of anything of the kind, and beside him his two constant girl-attendants. suddenly one of them started forward. "claudia," she said, "i see papa; he is coming our way. would you mind my running to meet him? i do so want to talk to him a little. he will so soon be going now, and i have scarcely seen him alone for so many days." "of course," claudia replied. "jerry and i will be perfectly happy. don't hurry, charlotte." and in another minute charlotte was beside her father, her two hands clasped on his arm. "well, my gipsy?" he said. "oh, papa, i have so much to say to you, and you are going so soon," she replied. "and i have been so busy since jerry got better that my little girl is beginning to think i am forgetting her--is that your new trouble? remember, i never agreed with you in the old days, when it seemed to you that if a good many `ifs' were realised, there would be no such thing as a trouble left." "papa," said charlotte reproachfully; "i'm not making troubles. i'm never going to do so--it would be _too_ ungrateful. i suppose, as you say so, they must come some time or other, but just now, with jerry better and all, it's difficult to think of them. _you_ haven't any, have you, dear papa?" "no, my dear; i have so much good to be grateful for, that, as you say, it is difficult to think of anything but sunshine. everything is going on satisfactorily." "you have seen general osbert again, papa, since the poor son's death?" asked charlotte; for the younger mr osbert had died a few days after the waldrons arrived. "yes, poor old man; he and lady mildred are quite at one about everything, and of course i am only too glad to carry out her wishes. one thing i am glad of, and that is that i shall have plenty to do, charlotte. i could not have endured a life of even comparative idleness." "papa dear," charlotte went on, "it is most of all about claudia i want to speak to you. i cannot tell you how i feel about her. do you know, papa, i _could_ not have been like her if our places had been reversed? just think, she is really as happy for us as if we were her own family. i don't believe it has once come into her mind, even the very least little bit, to wish any of it were coming to them." "she is a most sweet and noble girl," said mr waldron. "and, _papa_, to think of all she has told me--of how horribly i misunderstood her. to think how poor they are, and of her father's blindness, and how they have struggled, and all that claudia has done-- not that she seems to think she has ever done anything. i sometimes can't _bear_ to think of the feelings i had," and charlotte's honest eyes filled with tears. "it was not altogether your fault," said her father consolingly. "yes, papa; the horrid feelings were," said charlotte firmly. "but do you know it is claudia's _happiness_ that makes me the most ashamed. she does not know--you said when you first understood about her, you remember, that it would hurt her for me to say too much about how i misjudged her?--she does not know half, and she thinks it was all because she dared not be frank and companionable at school. and she says she is so happy now that we are friends that it was the only thing wanting, and that she is the luckiest girl in the world. and after all, papa, the happiness she is so looking forward to, of working hard and earning, not many would think it a very delightful future, would they? oh, papa, she is _so_ good." "and so she is to be envied after all. has she not `everything' in the best sense, gipsy dear?" "and we will _always_ be her dearest friends, won't we, papa? afterwards--when--when lady mildred is dead, though i don't like to speak of it, you will be rich enough to help them in many ways that they would not mind, won't you, papa?" mr waldron's eyes looked very bright as he turned to charlotte. "i have been saying to lady mildred that nothing she can ask of me would give me greater pleasure than the being allowed now, or in the future, to be of use to the meredons. even were they less to be admired and respected than they are, it would be my place. and for claudia herself, i am like you, charlotte, i can't say what i feel about her. i can only say i am most thankful for you to have such a friend." "i'm only dreadfully afraid, papa, that now i am learning to love her so, i shall not see much more of her. lady mildred is already talking of perhaps not returning to england all this year--of going to germany in the summer, and back here again next winter. she says her mind is at peace about silverthorns now, and that she means to have some holidays. and i mustn't stay away from home very long, papa. mamma could never manage the removal to silverthorns, to the old lodge, i mean, without me," she added importantly; "though i shall be dreadfully sorry to leave claudia, and lady mildred too." "but think how very delightful it will be to be installed at the old lodge when they do come back, and to be able to give them a sort of welcome home." "and, papa, claudia must always come to us for holidays even when she is settled at her own home, unless she is with lady mildred. and jerry and i were planning we might ask one or two of the little ones to come with her each time, so that she wouldn't feel she was leaving them all with her mother. though mrs meredon isn't quite so badly off as mamma, the next girl is past twelve, and our little girls are _so_ tiny. but i think we must go on to claudia and jerry, papa. they want to see something of you, too, before you go. oh, papa, _how_ lovely it is here!" and her eyes seemed as if they would never be tired of gazing at the perfection of sky and sea--at the blue glory one must leave our cold northern shores far behind ever to see. "yes," said mr waldron, "it is very, very beautiful. but there are chilly and dull days here too, charlotte. it is not always such sunshine and brilliance." "and even if it were, one would wish for home in a while," the girl replied. "when the spring comes." "yes-- "`oh, to be in england now that april's there,'" quoted her father. "well, i hope we shall be all together there before april goes at any rate." and so saying they rejoined the others. charlotte's misgivings that lady mildred would not return home for some length of time were realised. the old lady, who had not left england for many years, greatly enjoyed another taste of foreign travel, of which in her youth she had had much. her mind was more at ease than it had been since her husband's death as to the management of the property, and she also felt that she was conferring real and lasting benefits on claudia. but some months before the two years during which her grand-niece was to be her charge, had expired, a sort of home-sickness came over them both. "i think we won't spend another christmas away from england, claudia," she said rather suddenly one day. "i have a yearning to see silverthorns again. and i know the waldrons will never feel thoroughly at home till i am there myself. i must get to know amy, and i want to see my pet jerry again, and charlotte too. and you will like to feel near your own people again, eh, my dear?" "yes, aunt mildred. it will be very nice, _very_ nice," said claudia. "another christmas if all's well--if i'm still with you all, that's to say," pursued lady mildred, "we must have the house full. i must have you all over with me. but this year of course i must devote myself more particularly to edward's wife and children. and in that you will be a great help to me, you and charlotte being already such friends." "she says--they say," said claudia laughing, "that i'm to spend all my holidays there--that's to say when _you_ don't invite me. they are so _very_ kind to me, really as if they were relations of my own. and some people in their place, aunt mildred, _might_ not have been so cordial to me. i do think it's delightful that your relations on the other side should be so nice. how beautifully things have turned out for us ever since that day you came down to britton-garnett! i do think i must have been born under a lucky star." and as she looked up with her sweet bright face and sunny eyes, lady mildred could not help agreeing with her. "yes, my dear, good child," she said; "i think indeed some very beneficent fairy godmother must have been at your christening. you have some gifts you scarcely realise--the gift of bringing sunshine into other lives for one." "auntie dear," said claudia, almost startled, for never was woman less demonstrative than lady mildred; "you are too good to me. i can do _so_ little, and everybody is so kind to me. auntie dear," she went on timidly; "have i really brought a little sunshine to _you_?" lady mildred smiled and stroked the girl's soft hair as claudia knelt down beside her; and though she did not speak, her niece was more than satisfied. and no more was ever heard of the owls in the tower room at silverthorns. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. [transcriber's note: the inconsistent orthography of the original is retained in this etext.] the wonderful adventures of nils by selma lagerlÖf translated from the swedish by velma swanston howard contents the boy akka from kebnekaise the wonderful journey of nils glimminge castle the great crane dance on kullaberg in rainy weather the stairway with the three steps by ronneby river karlskrona the trip to Öland Öland's southern point the big butterfly little karl's island two cities the legend of småland the crows the old peasant woman from taberg to huskvarna the big bird lake ulvåsa-lady the homespun cloth the story of karr and grayskin the wind witch the breaking up of the ice thumbietot and the bears the flood dunfin stockholm gorgo the eagle on over gästrikland a day in hälsingland in medelpad a morning in Ångermanland westbottom and lapland osa, the goose girl, and little mats with the laplanders homeward bound legends from härjedalen vermland and dalsland the treasure on the island the journey to vemminghög home at last the parting with the wild geese _some of the purely geographical matter in the swedish original of the "further adventures of nils" has been eliminated from the english version. the author has rendered valuable assistance in cutting certain chapters and abridging others. also, with the author's approval, cuts have been made where the descriptive matter was merely of local interest. but the story itself is intact. v.s.h_. the boy the elf _sunday, march twentieth_. once there was a boy. he was--let us say--something like fourteen years old; long and loose-jointed and towheaded. he wasn't good for much, that boy. his chief delight was to eat and sleep; and after that--he liked best to make mischief. it was a sunday morning and the boy's parents were getting ready to go to church. the boy sat on the edge of the table, in his shirt sleeves, and thought how lucky it was that both father and mother were going away, and the coast would be clear for a couple of hours. "good! now i can take down pop's gun and fire off a shot, without anybody's meddling interference," he said to himself. but it was almost as if father should have guessed the boy's thoughts, for just as he was on the threshold--ready to start--he stopped short, and turned toward the boy. "since you won't come to church with mother and me," he said, "the least you can do, is to read the service at home. will you promise to do so?" "yes," said the boy, "that i can do easy enough." and he thought, of course, that he wouldn't read any more than he felt like reading. the boy thought that never had he seen his mother so persistent. in a second she was over by the shelf near the fireplace, and took down luther's commentary and laid it on the table, in front of the window--opened at the service for the day. she also opened the new testament, and placed it beside the commentary. finally, she drew up the big arm-chair, which was bought at the parish auction the year before, and which, as a rule, no one but father was permitted to occupy. the boy sat thinking that his mother was giving herself altogether too much trouble with this spread; for he had no intention of reading more than a page or so. but now, for the second time, it was almost as if his father were able to see right through him. he walked up to the boy, and said in a severe tone: "now, remember, that you are to read carefully! for when we come back, i shall question you thoroughly; and if you have skipped a single page, it will not go well with you." "the service is fourteen and a half pages long," said his mother, just as if she wanted to heap up the measure of his misfortune. "you'll have to sit down and begin the reading at once, if you expect to get through with it." with that they departed. and as the boy stood in the doorway watching them, he thought that he had been caught in a trap. "there they go congratulating themselves, i suppose, in the belief that they've hit upon something so good that i'll be forced to sit and hang over the sermon the whole time that they are away," thought he. but his father and mother were certainly not congratulating themselves upon anything of the sort; but, on the contrary, they were very much distressed. they were poor farmers, and their place was not much bigger than a garden-plot. when they first moved there, the place couldn't feed more than one pig and a pair of chickens; but they were uncommonly industrious and capable folk--and now they had both cows and geese. things had turned out very well for them; and they would have gone to church that beautiful morning--satisfied and happy--if they hadn't had their son to think of. father complained that he was dull and lazy; he had not cared to learn anything at school, and he was such an all-round good-for-nothing, that he could barely be made to tend geese. mother did not deny that this was true; but she was most distressed because he was wild and bad; cruel to animals, and ill-willed toward human beings. "may god soften his hard heart, and give him a better disposition!" said the mother, "or else he will be a misfortune, both to himself and to us." the boy stood for a long time and pondered whether he should read the service or not. finally, he came to the conclusion that, this time, it was best to be obedient. he seated himself in the easy chair, and began to read. but when he had been rattling away in an undertone for a little while, this mumbling seemed to have a soothing effect upon him--and he began to nod. it was the most beautiful weather outside! it was only the twentieth of march; but the boy lived in west vemminghög township, down in southern skane, where the spring was already in full swing. it was not as yet green, but it was fresh and budding. there was water in all the trenches, and the colt's-foot on the edge of the ditch was in bloom. all the weeds that grew in among the stones were brown and shiny. the beech-woods in the distance seemed to swell and grow thicker with every second. the skies were high--and a clear blue. the cottage door stood ajar, and the lark's trill could be heard in the room. the hens and geese pattered about in the yard, and the cows, who felt the spring air away in their stalls, lowed their approval every now and then. the boy read and nodded and fought against drowsiness. "no! i don't want to fall asleep," thought he, "for then i'll not get through with this thing the whole forenoon." but--somehow--he fell asleep. he did not know whether he had slept a short while, or a long while; but he was awakened by hearing a slight noise back of him. on the window-sill, facing the boy, stood a small looking-glass; and almost the entire cottage could be seen in this. as the boy raised his head, he happened to look in the glass; and then he saw that the cover to his mother's chest had been opened. his mother owned a great, heavy, iron-bound oak chest, which she permitted no one but herself to open. here she treasured all the things she had inherited from her mother, and of these she was especially careful. here lay a couple of old-time peasant dresses, of red homespun cloth, with short bodice and plaited shirt, and a pearl-bedecked breast pin. there were starched white-linen head-dresses, and heavy silver ornaments and chains. folks don't care to go about dressed like that in these days, and several times his mother had thought of getting rid of the old things; but somehow, she hadn't had the heart to do it. now the boy saw distinctly--in the glass--that the chest-lid was open. he could not understand how this had happened, for his mother had closed the chest before she went away. she never would have left that precious chest open when he was at home, alone. he became low-spirited and apprehensive. he was afraid that a thief had sneaked his way into the cottage. he didn't dare to move; but sat still and stared into the looking-glass. while he sat there and waited for the thief to make his appearance, he began to wonder what that dark shadow was which fell across the edge of the chest. he looked and looked--and did not want to believe his eyes. but the thing, which at first seemed shadowy, became more and more clear to him; and soon he saw that it was something real. it was no less a thing than an elf who sat there--astride the edge of the chest! to be sure, the boy had heard stories about elves, but he had never dreamed that they were such tiny creatures. he was no taller than a hand's breadth--this one, who sat on the edge of the chest. he had an old, wrinkled and beardless face, and was dressed in a black frock coat, knee-breeches and a broad-brimmed black hat. he was very trim and smart, with his white laces about the throat and wrist-bands, his buckled shoes, and the bows on his garters. he had taken from the chest an embroidered piece, and sat and looked at the old-fashioned handiwork with such an air of veneration, that he did not observe the boy had awakened. the boy was somewhat surprised to see the elf, but, on the other hand, he was not particularly frightened. it was impossible to be afraid of one who was so little. and since the elf was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he neither saw nor heard, the boy thought that it would be great fun to play a trick on him; to push him over into the chest and shut the lid on him, or something of that kind. but the boy was not so courageous that he dared to touch the elf with his hands, instead he looked around the room for something to poke him with. he let his gaze wander from the sofa to the leaf-table; from the leaf-table to the fireplace. he looked at the kettles, then at the coffee-urn, which stood on a shelf, near the fireplace; on the water bucket near the door; and on the spoons and knives and forks and saucers and plates, which could be seen through the half-open cupboard door. he looked at his father's gun, which hung on the wall, beside the portrait of the danish royal family, and on the geraniums and fuchsias, which blossomed in the window. and last, he caught sight of an old butterfly-snare that hung on the window frame. he had hardly set eyes on that butterfly-snare, before he reached over and snatched it and jumped up and swung it alongside the edge of the chest. he was himself astonished at the luck he had. he hardly knew how he had managed it--but he had actually snared the elf. the poor little chap lay, head downward, in the bottom of the long snare, and could not free himself. the first moment the boy hadn't the least idea what he should do with his prize. he was only particular to swing the snare backward and forward; to prevent the elf from getting a foothold and clambering up. the elf began to speak, and begged, oh! so pitifully, for his freedom. he had brought them good luck--these many years--he said, and deserved better treatment. now, if the boy would set him free, he would give him an old coin, a silver spoon, and a gold penny, as big as the case on his father's silver watch. the boy didn't think that this was much of an offer; but it so happened--that after he had gotten the elf in his power, he was afraid of him. he felt that he had entered into an agreement with something weird and uncanny; something which did not belong to his world, and he was only too glad to get rid of the horrid thing. for this reason he agreed at once to the bargain, and held the snare still, so the elf could crawl out of it. but when the elf was almost out of the snare, the boy happened to think that he ought to have bargained for large estates, and all sorts of good things. he should at least have made this stipulation: that the elf must conjure the sermon into his head. "what a fool i was to let him go!" thought he, and began to shake the snare violently, so the elf would tumble down again. but the instant the boy did this, he received such a stinging box on the ear, that he thought his head would fly in pieces. he was dashed--first against one wall, then against the other; he sank to the floor, and lay there--senseless. when he awoke, he was alone in the cottage. the chest-lid was down, and the butterfly-snare hung in its usual place by the window. if he had not felt how the right cheek burned, from that box on the ear, he would have been tempted to believe the whole thing had been a dream. "at any rate, father and mother will be sure to insist that it was nothing else," thought he. "they are not likely to make any allowances for that old sermon, on account of the elf. it's best for me to get at that reading again," thought he. but as he walked toward the table, he noticed something remarkable. it couldn't be possible that the cottage had grown. but why was he obliged to take so many more steps than usual to get to the table? and what was the matter with the chair? it looked no bigger than it did a while ago; but now he had to step on the rung first, and then clamber up in order to reach the seat. it was the same thing with the table. he could not look over the top without climbing to the arm of the chair. "what in all the world is this?" said the boy. "i believe the elf has bewitched both the armchair and the table--and the whole cottage." the commentary lay on the table and, to all appearances, it was not changed; but there must have been something queer about that too, for he could not manage to read a single word of it, without actually standing right in the book itself. he read a couple of lines, and then he chanced to look up. with that, his glance fell on the looking-glass; and then he cried aloud: "look! there's another one!" for in the glass he saw plainly a little, little creature who was dressed in a hood and leather breeches. "why, that one is dressed exactly like me!" said the boy, and clasped his hands in astonishment. but then he saw that the thing in the mirror did the same thing. then he began to pull his hair and pinch his arms and swing round; and instantly he did the same thing after him; he, who was seen in the mirror. the boy ran around the glass several times, to see if there wasn't a little man hidden behind it, but he found no one there; and then he began to shake with terror. for now he understood that the elf had bewitched him, and that the creature whose image he saw in the glass--was he, himself. the wild geese the boy simply could not make himself believe that he had been transformed into an elf. "it can't be anything but a dream--a queer fancy," thought he. "if i wait a few moments, i'll surely be turned back into a human being again." he placed himself before the glass and closed his eyes. he opened them again after a couple of minutes, and then expected to find that it had all passed over--but it hadn't. he was--and remained--just as little. in other respects, he was the same as before. the thin, straw-coloured hair; the freckles across his nose; the patches on his leather breeches and the darns on his stockings, were all like themselves, with this exception--that they had become diminished. no, it would do no good for him to stand still and wait, of this he was certain. he must try something else. and he thought the wisest thing that he could do was to try and find the elf, and make his peace with him. and while he sought, he cried and prayed and promised everything he could think of. nevermore would he break his word to anyone; never again would he be naughty; and never, never would he fall asleep again over the sermon. if he might only be a human being once more, he would be such a good and helpful and obedient boy. but no matter how much he promised--it did not help him the least little bit. suddenly he remembered that he had heard his mother say, all the tiny folk made their home in the cowsheds; and, at once, he concluded to go there, and see if he couldn't find the elf. it was a lucky thing that the cottage-door stood partly open, for he never could have reached the bolt and opened it; but now he slipped through without any difficulty. when he came out in the hallway, he looked around for his wooden shoes; for in the house, to be sure, he had gone about in his stocking-feet. he wondered how he should manage with these big, clumsy wooden shoes; but just then, he saw a pair of tiny shoes on the doorstep. when he observed that the elf had been so thoughtful that he had also bewitched the wooden shoes, he was even more troubled. it was evidently his intention that this affliction should last a long time. on the wooden board-walk in front of the cottage, hopped a gray sparrow. he had hardly set eyes on the boy before he called out: "teetee! teetee! look at nils goosey-boy! look at thumbietot! look at nils holgersson thumbietot!" instantly, both the geese and the chickens turned and stared at the boy; and then they set up a fearful cackling. "cock-el-i-coo," crowed the rooster, "good enough for him! cock-el-i-coo, he has pulled my comb." "ka, ka, kada, serves him right!" cried the hens; and with that they kept up a continuous cackle. the geese got together in a tight group, stuck their heads together and asked: "who can have done this? who can have done this?" but the strangest thing of all was, that the boy understood what they said. he was so astonished, that he stood there as if rooted to the doorstep, and listened. "it must be because i am changed into an elf," said he. "this is probably why i understand bird-talk." he thought it was unbearable that the hens would not stop saying that it served him right. he threw a stone at them and shouted: "shut up, you pack!" but it hadn't occurred to him before, that he was no longer the sort of boy the hens need fear. the whole henyard made a rush for him, and formed a ring around him; then they all cried at once: "ka, ka, kada, served you right! ka, ka, kada, served you right!" the boy tried to get away, but the chickens ran after him and screamed, until he thought he'd lose his hearing. it is more than likely that he never could have gotten away from them, if the house cat hadn't come along just then. as soon as the chickens saw the cat, they quieted down and pretended to be thinking of nothing else than just to scratch in the earth for worms. immediately the boy ran up to the cat. "you dear pussy!" said he, "you must know all the corners and hiding places about here? you'll be a good little kitty and tell me where i can find the elf." the cat did not reply at once. he seated himself, curled his tail into a graceful ring around his paws--and stared at the boy. it was a large black cat with one white spot on his chest. his fur lay sleek and soft, and shone in the sunlight. the claws were drawn in, and the eyes were a dull gray, with just a little narrow dark streak down the centre. the cat looked thoroughly good-natured and inoffensive. "i know well enough where the elf lives," he said in a soft voice, "but that doesn't say that i'm going to tell _you_ about it." "dear pussy, you must tell me where the elf lives!" said the boy. "can't you see how he has bewitched me?" the cat opened his eyes a little, so that the green wickedness began to shine forth. he spun round and purred with satisfaction before he replied. "shall i perhaps help you because you have so often grabbed me by the tail?" he said at last. then the boy was furious and forgot entirely how little and helpless he was now. "oh! i can pull your tail again, i can," said he, and ran toward the cat. the next instant the cat was so changed that the boy could scarcely believe it was the same animal. every separate hair on his body stood on end. the back was bent; the legs had become elongated; the claws scraped the ground; the tail had grown thick and short; the ears were laid back; the mouth was frothy; and the eyes were wide open and glistened like sparks of red fire. the boy didn't want to let himself be scared by a cat, and he took a step forward. then the cat made one spring and landed right on the boy; knocked him down and stood over him--his forepaws on his chest, and his jaws wide apart--over his throat. the boy felt how the sharp claws sank through his vest and shirt and into his skin; and how the sharp eye-teeth tickled his throat. he shrieked for help, as loudly as he could, but no one came. he thought surely that his last hour had come. then he felt that the cat drew in his claws and let go the hold on his throat. "there!" he said, "that will do now. i'll let you go this time, for my mistress's sake. i only wanted you to know which one of us two has the power now." with that the cat walked away--looking as smooth and pious as he did when he first appeared on the scene. the boy was so crestfallen that he didn't say a word, but only hurried to the cowhouse to look for the elf. there were not more than three cows, all told. but when the boy came in, there was such a bellowing and such a kick-up, that one might easily have believed that there were at least thirty. "moo, moo, moo," bellowed mayrose. "it is well there is such a thing as justice in this world." "moo, moo, moo," sang the three of them in unison. he couldn't hear what they said, for each one tried to out-bellow the others. the boy wanted to ask after the elf, but he couldn't make himself heard because the cows were in full uproar. they carried on as they used to do when he let a strange dog in on them. they kicked with their hind legs, shook their necks, stretched their heads, and measured the distance with their horns. "come here, you!" said mayrose, "and you'll get a kick that you won't forget in a hurry!" "come here," said gold lily, "and you shall dance on my horns!" "come here, and you shall taste how it felt when you threw your wooden shoes at me, as you did last summer!" bawled star. "come here, and you shall be repaid for that wasp you let loose in my ear!" growled gold lily. mayrose was the oldest and the wisest of them, and she was the very maddest. "come here!" said she, "that i may pay you back for the many times that you have jerked the milk pail away from your mother; and for all the snares you laid for her, when she came carrying the milk pails; and for all the tears when she has stood here and wept over you!" the boy wanted to tell them how he regretted that he had been unkind to them; and that never, never--from now on--should he be anything but good, if they would only tell him where the elf was. but the cows didn't listen to him. they made such a racket that he began to fear one of them would succeed in breaking loose; and he thought that the best thing for him to do was to go quietly away from the cowhouse. when he came out, he was thoroughly disheartened. he could understand that no one on the place wanted to help him find the elf. and little good would it do him, probably, if the elf were found. he crawled up on the broad hedge which fenced in the farm, and which was overgrown with briers and lichen. there he sat down to think about how it would go with him, if he never became a human being again. when father and mother came home from church, there would be a surprise for them. yes, a surprise--it would be all over the land; and people would come flocking from east vemminghög, and from torp, and from skerup. the whole vemminghög township would come to stare at him. perhaps father and mother would take him with them, and show him at the market place in kivik. no, that was too horrible to think about. he would rather that no human being should ever see him again. his unhappiness was simply frightful! no one in all the world was so unhappy as he. he was no longer a human being--but a freak. little by little he began to comprehend what it meant--to be no longer human. he was separated from everything now; he could no longer play with other boys, he could not take charge of the farm after his parents were gone; and certainly no girl would think of marrying _him_. he sat and looked at his home. it was a little log house, which lay as if it had been crushed down to earth, under the high, sloping roof. the outhouses were also small; and the patches of ground were so narrow that a horse could barely turn around on them. but little and poor though the place was, it was much too good for him _now_. he couldn't ask for any better place than a hole under the stable floor. it was wondrously beautiful weather! it budded, and it rippled, and it murmured, and it twittered--all around him. but he sat there with such a heavy sorrow. he should never be happy any more about anything. never had he seen the skies as blue as they were to-day. birds of passage came on their travels. they came from foreign lands, and had travelled over the east sea, by way of smygahuk, and were now on their way north. they were of many different kinds; but he was only familiar with the wild geese, who came flying in two long rows, which met at an angle. several flocks of wild geese had already flown by. they flew very high, still he could hear how they shrieked: "to the hills! now we're off to the hills!" when the wild geese saw the tame geese, who walked about the farm, they sank nearer the earth, and called: "come along! come along! we're off to the hills!" the tame geese could not resist the temptation to raise their heads and listen, but they answered very sensibly: "we're pretty well off where we are. we're pretty well off where we are." it was, as we have said, an uncommonly fine day, with an atmosphere that it must have been a real delight to fly in, so light and bracing. and with each new wild geese-flock that flew by, the tame geese became more and more unruly. a couple of times they flapped their wings, as if they had half a mind to fly along. but then an old mother-goose would always say to them: "now don't be silly. those creatures will have to suffer both hunger and cold." there was a young gander whom the wild geese had fired with a passion for adventure. "if another flock comes this way, i'll follow them," said he. then there came a new flock, who shrieked like the others, and the young gander answered: "wait a minute! wait a minute! i'm coming." he spread his wings and raised himself into the air; but he was so unaccustomed to flying, that he fell to the ground again. at any rate, the wild geese must have heard his call, for they turned and flew back slowly to see if he was coming. "wait, wait!" he cried, and made another attempt to fly. all this the boy heard, where he lay on the hedge. "it would be a great pity," thought he, "if the big goosey-gander should go away. it would be a big loss to father and mother if he was gone when they came home from church." when he thought of this, once again he entirely forgot that he was little and helpless. he took one leap right down into the goose-flock, and threw his arms around the neck of the goosey-gander. "oh, no! you don't fly away this time, sir!" cried he. but just about then, the gander was considering how he should go to work to raise himself from the ground. he couldn't stop to shake the boy off, hence he had to go along with him--up in the air. they bore on toward the heights so rapidly, that the boy fairly gasped. before he had time to think that he ought to let go his hold around the gander's neck, he was so high up that he would have been killed instantly, if he had fallen to the ground. the only thing that he could do to make himself a little more comfortable, was to try and get upon the gander's back. and there he wriggled himself forthwith; but not without considerable trouble. and it was not an easy matter, either, to hold himself secure on the slippery back, between two swaying wings. he had to dig deep into feathers and down with both hands, to keep from tumbling to the ground. the big checked cloth the boy had grown so giddy that it was a long while before he came to himself. the winds howled and beat against him, and the rustle of feathers and swaying of wings sounded like a whole storm. thirteen geese flew around him, flapping their wings and honking. they danced before his eyes and they buzzed in his ears. he didn't know whether they flew high or low, or in what direction they were travelling. after a bit, he regained just enough sense to understand that he ought to find out where the geese were taking him. but this was not so easy, for he didn't know how he should ever muster up courage enough to look down. he was sure he'd faint if he attempted it. the wild geese were not flying very high because the new travelling companion could not breathe in the very thinnest air. for his sake they also flew a little slower than usual. at last the boy just made himself cast one glance down to earth. then he thought that a great big rug lay spread beneath him, which was made up of an incredible number of large and small checks. "where in all the world am i now?" he wondered. he saw nothing but check upon check. some were broad and ran crosswise, and some were long and narrow--all over, there were angles and corners. nothing was round, and nothing was crooked. "what kind of a big, checked cloth is this that i'm looking down on?" said the boy to himself without expecting anyone to answer him. but instantly the wild geese who flew about him called out: "fields and meadows. fields and meadows." then he understood that the big, checked cloth he was travelling over was the flat land of southern sweden; and he began to comprehend why it looked so checked and multi-coloured. the bright green checks he recognised first; they were rye fields that had been sown in the fall, and had kept themselves green under the winter snows. the yellowish-gray checks were stubble-fields--the remains of the oat-crop which had grown there the summer before. the brownish ones were old clover meadows: and the black ones, deserted grazing lands or ploughed-up fallow pastures. the brown checks with the yellow edges were, undoubtedly, beech-tree forests; for in these you'll find the big trees which grow in the heart of the forest--naked in winter; while the little beech-trees, which grow along the borders, keep their dry, yellowed leaves way into the spring. there were also dark checks with gray centres: these were the large, built-up estates encircled by the small cottages with their blackening straw roofs, and their stone-divided land-plots. and then there were checks green in the middle with brown borders: these were the orchards, where the grass-carpets were already turning green, although the trees and bushes around them were still in their nude, brown bark. the boy could not keep from laughing when he saw how checked everything looked. but when the wild geese heard him laugh, they called out--kind o' reprovingly: "fertile and good land. fertile and good land." the boy had already become serious. "to think that you can laugh; you, who have met with the most terrible misfortune that can possibly happen to a human being!" thought he. and for a moment he was pretty serious; but it wasn't long before he was laughing again. now that he had grown somewhat accustomed to the ride and the speed, so that he could think of something besides holding himself on the gander's back, he began to notice how full the air was of birds flying northward. and there was a shouting and a calling from flock to flock. "so you came over to-day?" shrieked some. "yes," answered the geese. "how do you think the spring's getting on?" "not a leaf on the trees and ice-cold water in the lakes," came back the answer. when the geese flew over a place where they saw any tame, half-naked fowl, they shouted: "what's the name of this place? what's the name of this place?" then the roosters cocked their heads and answered: "its name's lillgarde this year--the same as last year." most of the cottages were probably named after their owners--which is the custom in skåne. but instead of saying this is "per matssons," or "ola bossons," the roosters hit upon the kind of names which, to their way of thinking, were more appropriate. those who lived on small farms, and belonged to poor cottagers, cried: "this place is called grainscarce." and those who belonged to the poorest hut-dwellers screamed: "the name of this place is little-to-eat, little-to-eat, little-to-eat." the big, well-cared-for farms got high-sounding names from the roosters--such as luckymeadows, eggberga and moneyville. but the roosters on the great landed estates were too high and mighty to condescend to anything like jesting. one of them crowed and called out with such gusto that it sounded as if he wanted to be heard clear up to the sun: "this is herr dybeck's estate; the same this year as last year; this year as last year." a little further on strutted one rooster who crowed: "this is swanholm, surely all the world knows that!" the boy observed that the geese did not fly straight forward; but zigzagged hither and thither over the whole south country, just as though they were glad to be in skåne again and wanted to pay their respects to every separate place. they came to one place where there were a number of big, clumsy-looking buildings with great, tall chimneys, and all around these were a lot of smaller houses. "this is jordberga sugar refinery," cried the roosters. the boy shuddered as he sat there on the goose's back. he ought to have recognised this place, for it was not very far from his home. here he had worked the year before as a watch boy; but, to be sure, nothing was exactly like itself when one saw it like that--from up above. and think! just think! osa the goose girl and little mats, who were his comrades last year! indeed the boy would have been glad to know if they still were anywhere about here. fancy what they would have said, had they suspected that he was flying over their heads! soon jordberga was lost to sight, and they travelled towards svedala and skaber lake and back again over görringe cloister and häckeberga. the boy saw more of skåne in this one day than he had ever seen before--in all the years that he had lived. whenever the wild geese happened across any tame geese, they had the best fun! they flew forward very slowly and called down: "we're off to the hills. are you coming along? are you coming along?" but the tame geese answered: "it's still winter in this country. you're out too soon. fly back! fly back!" the wild geese lowered themselves that they might be heard a little better, and called: "come along! we'll teach you how to fly and swim." then the tame geese got mad and wouldn't answer them with a single honk. the wild geese sank themselves still lower--until they almost touched the ground--then, quick as lightning, they raised themselves, just as if they'd been terribly frightened. "oh, oh, oh!" they exclaimed. "those things were not geese. they were only sheep, they were only sheep." the ones on the ground were beside themselves with rage and shrieked: "may you be shot, the whole lot o' you! the whole lot o' you!" when the boy heard all this teasing he laughed. then he remembered how badly things had gone with him, and he cried. but the next second, he was laughing again. never before had he ridden so fast; and to ride fast and recklessly--that he had always liked. and, of course, he had never dreamed that it could be as fresh and bracing as it was, up in the air; or that there rose from the earth such a fine scent of resin and soil. nor had he ever dreamed what it could be like--to ride so high above the earth. it was just like flying away from sorrow and trouble and annoyances of every kind that could be thought of. akka from kebnekaise evening the big tame goosey-gander that had followed them up in the air, felt very proud of being permitted to travel back and forth over the south country with the wild geese, and crack jokes with the tame birds. but in spite of his keen delight, he began to tire as the afternoon wore on. he tried to take deeper breaths and quicker wing-strokes, but even so he remained several goose-lengths behind the others. when the wild geese who flew last, noticed that the tame one couldn't keep up with them, they began to call to the goose who rode in the centre of the angle and led the procession: "akka from kebnekaise! akka from kebnekaise!" "what do you want of me?" asked the leader. "the white one will be left behind; the white one will be left behind." "tell him it's easier to fly fast than slow!" called the leader, and raced on as before. the goosey-gander certainly tried to follow the advice, and increase his speed; but then he became so exhausted that he sank away down to the drooping willows that bordered the fields and meadows. "akka, akka, akka from kebnekaise!" cried those who flew last and saw what a hard time he was having. "what do you want now?" asked the leader--and she sounded awfully angry. "the white one sinks to the earth; the white one sinks to the earth." "tell him it's easier to fly high than low!" shouted the leader, and she didn't slow up the least little bit, but raced on as before. the goosey-gander tried also to follow this advice; but when he wanted to raise himself, he became so winded that he almost burst his breast. "akka, akka!" again cried those who flew last. "can't you let me fly in peace?" asked the leader, and she sounded even madder than before. "the white one is ready to collapse." "tell him that he who has not the strength to fly with the flock, can go back home!" cried the leader. she certainly had no idea of decreasing her speed--but raced on as before. "oh! is that the way the wind blows," thought the goosey-gander. he understood at once that the wild geese had never intended to take him along up to lapland. they had only lured him away from home in sport. he felt thoroughly exasperated. to think that his strength should fail him now, so he wouldn't be able to show these tramps that even a tame goose was good for something! but the most provoking thing of all was that he had fallen in with akka from kebnekaise. tame goose that he was, he had heard about a leader goose, named akka, who was more than a hundred years old. she had such a big name that the best wild geese in the world followed her. but no one had such a contempt for tame geese as akka and her flock, and gladly would he have shown them that he was their equal. he flew slowly behind the rest, while he deliberated whether he should turn back or continue. finally, the little creature that he carried on his back said: "dear morten goosey-gander, you know well enough that it is simply impossible for you, who have never flown, to go with the wild geese all the way up to lapland. won't you turn back before you kill yourself?" but the farmer's lad was about the worst thing the goosey-gander knew anything about, and as soon as it dawned on him that this puny creature actually believed that he couldn't make the trip, he decided to stick it out. "if you say another word about this, i'll drop you into the first ditch we ride over!" said he, and at the same time his fury gave him so much strength that he began to fly almost as well as any of the others. it isn't likely that he could have kept this pace up very long, neither was it necessary; for, just then, the sun sank quickly; and at sunset the geese flew down, and before the boy and the goosey-gander knew what had happened, they stood on the shores of vomb lake. "they probably intend that we shall spend the night here," thought the boy, and jumped down from the goose's back. he stood on a narrow beach by a fair-sized lake. it was ugly to look upon, because it was almost entirely covered with an ice-crust that was blackened and uneven and full of cracks and holes--as spring ice generally is. the ice was already breaking up. it was loose and floating and had a broad belt of dark, shiny water all around it; but there was still enough of it left to spread chill and winter terror over the place. on the other side of the lake there appeared to be an open and light country, but where the geese had lighted there was a thick pine-growth. it looked as if the forest of firs and pines had the power to bind the winter to itself. everywhere else the ground was bare; but beneath the sharp pine-branches lay snow that had been melting and freezing, melting and freezing, until it was hard as ice. the boy thought he had struck an arctic wilderness, and he was so miserable that he wanted to scream. he was hungry too. he hadn't eaten a bite the whole day. but where should he find any food? nothing eatable grew on either ground or tree in the month of march. yes, where was he to find food, and who would give him shelter, and who would fix his bed, and who would protect him from the wild beasts? for now the sun was away and frost came from the lake, and darkness sank down from heaven, and terror stole forward on the twilight's trail, and in the forest it began to patter and rustle. now the good humour which the boy had felt when he was up in the air, was gone, and in his misery he looked around for his travelling companions. he had no one but them to cling to now. then he saw that the goosey-gander was having even a worse time of it than he. he was lying prostrate on the spot where he had alighted; and it looked as if he were ready to die. his neck lay flat against the ground, his eyes were closed, and his breathing sounded like a feeble hissing. "dear morten goosey-gander," said the boy, "try to get a swallow of water! it isn't two steps to the lake." but the goosey-gander didn't stir. the boy had certainly been cruel to all animals, and to the goosey-gander in times gone by; but now he felt that the goosey-gander was the only comfort he had left, and he was dreadfully afraid of losing him. at once the boy began to push and drag him, to get him into the water, but the goosey-gander was big and heavy, and it was mighty hard work for the boy; but at last he succeeded. the goosey-gander got in head first. for an instant he lay motionless in the slime, but soon he poked up his head, shook the water from his eyes and sniffed. then he swam, proudly, between reeds and seaweed. the wild geese were in the lake before him. they had not looked around for either the goosey-gander or for his rider, but had made straight for the water. they had bathed and primped, and now they lay and gulped half-rotten pond-weed and water-clover. the white goosey-gander had the good fortune to spy a perch. he grabbed it quickly, swam ashore with it, and laid it down in front of the boy. "here's a thank you for helping me into the water," said he. it was the first time the boy had heard a friendly word that day. he was so happy that he wanted to throw his arms around the goosey-gander's neck, but he refrained; and he was also thankful for the gift. at first he must have thought that it would be impossible to eat raw fish, and then he had a notion to try it. he felt to see if he still had his sheath-knife with him; and, sure enough, there it hung--on the back button of his trousers, although it was so diminished that it was hardly as long as a match. well, at any rate, it served to scale and cleanse fish with; and it wasn't long before the perch was eaten. when the boy had satisfied his hunger, he felt a little ashamed because he had been able to eat a raw thing. "it's evident that i'm not a human being any longer, but a real elf," thought he. while the boy ate, the goosey-gander stood silently beside him. but when he had swallowed the last bite, he said in a low voice: "it's a fact that we have run across a stuck-up goose folk who despise all tame birds." "yes, i've observed that," said the boy. "what a triumph it would be for me if i could follow them clear up to lapland, and show them that even a tame goose can do things!" "y-e-e-s," said the boy, and drawled it out because he didn't believe the goosey-gander could ever do it; yet he didn't wish to contradict him. "but i don't think i can get along all alone on such a journey," said the goosey-gander. "i'd like to ask if you couldn't come along and help me?" the boy, of course, hadn't expected anything but to return to his home as soon as possible, and he was so surprised that he hardly knew what he should reply. "i thought that we were enemies, you and i," said he. but this the goosey-gander seemed to have forgotten entirely. he only remembered that the boy had but just saved his life. "i suppose i really ought to go home to father and mother," said the boy. "oh! i'll get you back to them some time in the fall," said the goosey-gander. "i shall not leave you until i put you down on your own doorstep." the boy thought it might be just as well for him if he escaped showing himself before his parents for a while. he was not disinclined to favour the scheme, and was just on the point of saying that he agreed to it--when they heard a loud rumbling behind them. it was the wild geese who had come up from the lake--all at one time--and stood shaking the water from their backs. after that they arranged themselves in a long row--with the leader-goose in the centre--and came toward them. as the white goosey-gander sized up the wild geese, he felt ill at ease. he had expected that they should be more like tame geese, and that he should feel a closer kinship with them. they were much smaller than he, and none of them were white. they were all gray with a sprinkling of brown. he was almost afraid of their eyes. they were yellow, and shone as if a fire had been kindled back of them. the goosey-gander had always been taught that it was most fitting to move slowly and with a rolling motion, but these creatures did not walk--they half ran. he grew most alarmed, however, when he looked at their feet. these were large, and the soles were torn and ragged-looking. it was evident that the wild geese never questioned what they tramped upon. they took no by-paths. they were very neat and well cared for in other respects, but one could see by their feet that they were poor wilderness-folk. the goosey-gander only had time to whisper to the boy: "speak up quickly for yourself, but don't tell them who you are!"--before the geese were upon them. when the wild geese had stopped in front of them, they curtsied with their necks many times, and the goosey-gander did likewise many more times. as soon as the ceremonies were over, the leader-goose said: "now i presume we shall hear what kind of creatures you are." "there isn't much to tell about me," said the goosey-gander. "i was born in skanor last spring. in the fall i was sold to holger nilsson of west vemminghög, and there i have lived ever since." "you don't seem to have any pedigree to boast of," said the leader-goose. "what is it, then, that makes you so high-minded that you wish to associate with wild geese?" "it may be because i want to show you wild geese that we tame ones may also be good for something," said the goosey-gander. "yes, it would be well if you could show us that," said the leader-goose. "we have already observed how much you know about flying; but you are more skilled, perhaps, in other sports. possibly you are strong in a swimming match?" "no, i can't boast that i am," said the goosey-gander. it seemed to him that the leader-goose had already made up her mind to send him home, so he didn't much care how he answered. "i never swam any farther than across a marl-ditch," he continued. "then i presume you're a crack sprinter," said the goose. "i have never seen a tame goose run, nor have i ever done it myself," said the goosey-gander; and he made things appear much worse than they really were. the big white one was sure now that the leader-goose would say that under no circumstances could they take him along. he was very much astonished when she said: "you answer questions courageously; and he who has courage can become a good travelling companion, even if he is ignorant in the beginning. what do you say to stopping with us for a couple of days, until we can see what you are good for?" "that suits me!" said the goosey-gander--and he was thoroughly happy. thereupon the leader-goose pointed with her bill and said: "but who is that you have with you? i've never seen anything like him before." "that's my comrade," said the goosey-gander. "he's been a goose-tender all his life. he'll be useful all right to take with us on the trip." "yes, he may be all right for a tame goose," answered the wild one. "what do you call him?" "he has several names," said the goosey-gander--hesitantly, not knowing what he should hit upon in a hurry, for he didn't want to reveal the fact that the boy had a human name. "oh! his name is thumbietot," he said at last. "does he belong to the elf family?" asked the leader-goose. "at what time do you wild geese usually retire?" said the goosey-gander quickly--trying to evade that last question. "my eyes close of their own accord about this time." one could easily see that the goose who talked with the gander was very old. her entire feather outfit was ice-gray, without any dark streaks. the head was larger, the legs coarser, and the feet were more worn than any of the others. the feathers were stiff; the shoulders knotty; the neck thin. all this was due to age. it was only upon the eyes that time had had no effect. they shone brighter--as if they were younger--than any of the others! she turned, very haughtily, toward the goosey-gander. "understand, mr. tame-goose, that i am akka from kebnekaise! and that the goose who flies nearest me--to the right--is iksi from vassijaure, and the one to the left, is kaksi from nuolja! understand, also, that the second right-hand goose is kolmi from sarjektjakko, and the second, left, is neljä from svappavaara; and behind them fly viisi from oviksfjällen and kuusi from sjangeli! and know that these, as well as the six goslings who fly last--three to the right, and three to the left--are all high mountain geese of the finest breed! you must not take us for land-lubbers who strike up a chance acquaintance with any and everyone! and you must not think that we permit anyone to share our quarters, that will not tell us who his ancestors were." when akka, the leader-goose, talked in this way, the boy stepped briskly forward. it had distressed him that the goosey-gander, who had spoken up so glibly for himself, should give such evasive answers when it concerned him. "i don't care to make a secret of who i am," said he. "my name is nils holgersson. i'm a farmer's son, and, until to-day, i have been a human being; but this morning--" he got no further. as soon as he had said that he was human the leader-goose staggered three steps backward, and the rest of them even farther back. they all extended their necks and hissed angrily at him. "i have suspected this ever since i first saw you here on these shores," said akka; "and now you can clear out of here at once. we tolerate no human beings among us." "it isn't possible," said the goosey-gander, meditatively, "that you wild geese can be afraid of anyone who is so tiny! by to-morrow, of course, he'll turn back home. you can surely let him stay with us overnight. none of us can afford to let such a poor little creature wander off by himself in the night--among weasels and foxes!" the wild goose came nearer. but it was evident that it was hard for her to master her fear. "i have been taught to fear everything in human shape--be it big or little," said she. "but if you will answer for this one, and swear that he will not harm us, he can stay with us to-night. but i don't believe our night quarters are suitable either for him or you, for we intend to roost on the broken ice out here." she thought, of course, that the goosey-gander would be doubtful when he heard this, but he never let on. "she is pretty wise who knows how to choose such a safe bed," said he. "you will be answerable for his return to his own to-morrow." "then i, too, will have to leave you," said the goosey-gander. "i have sworn that i would not forsake him." "you are free to fly whither you will," said the leader-goose. with this, she raised her wings and flew out over the ice and one after another the wild geese followed her. the boy was very sad to think that his trip to lapland would not come off, and, in the bargain, he was afraid of the chilly night quarters. "it will be worse and worse," said he. "in the first place, we'll freeze to death on the ice." but the gander was in a good humour. "there's no danger," said he. "only make haste, i beg of you, and gather together as much grass and litter as you can well carry." when the boy had his arms full of dried grass, the goosey-gander grabbed him by the shirt-band, lifted him, and flew out on the ice, where the wild geese were already fast asleep, with their bills tucked under their wings. "now spread out the grass on the ice, so there'll be something to stand on, to keep me from freezing fast. you help me and i'll help you," said the goosey-gander. this the boy did. and when he had finished, the goosey-gander picked him up, once again, by the shirt-band, and tucked him under his wing. "i think you'll lie snug and warm there," said the goosey-gander as he covered him with his wing. the boy was so imbedded in down that he couldn't answer, and he was nice and comfy. oh, but he was tired!--and in less than two winks he was fast asleep. night it is a fact that ice is always treacherous and not to be trusted. in the middle of the night the loosened ice-cake on vomb lake moved about, until one corner of it touched the shore. now it happened that mr. smirre fox, who lived at this time in Övid cloister park--on the east side of the lake--caught a glimpse of that one corner, while he was out on his night chase. smirre had seen the wild geese early in the evening, and hadn't dared to hope that he might get at one of them, but now he walked right out on the ice. when smirre was very near to the geese, his claws scraped the ice, and the geese awoke, flapped their wings, and prepared for flight. but smirre was too quick for them. he darted forward as though he'd been shot; grabbed a goose by the wing, and ran toward land again. but this night the wild geese were not alone on the ice, for they had a human being among them--little as he was. the boy had awakened when the goosey-gander spread his wings. he had tumbled down on the ice and was sitting there, dazed. he hadn't grasped the whys and wherefores of all this confusion, until he caught sight of a little long-legged dog who ran over the ice with a goose in his mouth. in a minute the boy was after that dog, to try and take the goose away from him. he must have heard the goosey-gander call to him: "have a care, thumbietot! have a care!" but the boy thought that such a little runt of a dog was nothing to be afraid of and he rushed ahead. the wild goose that smirre fox tugged after him, heard the clatter as the boy's wooden shoes beat against the ice, and she could hardly believe her ears. "does that infant think he can take me away from the fox?" she wondered. and in spite of her misery, she began to cackle right merrily, deep down in her windpipe. it was almost as if she had laughed. "the first thing he knows, he'll fall through a crack in the ice," thought she. but dark as the night was, the boy saw distinctly all the cracks and holes there were, and took daring leaps over them. this was because he had the elf's good eyesight now, and could see in the dark. he saw both lake and shore just as clearly as if it had been daylight. smirre fox left the ice where it touched the shore. and just as he was working his way up to the land-edge, the boy shouted: "drop that goose, you sneak!" smirre didn't know who was calling to him, and wasted no time in looking around, but increased his pace. the fox made straight for the forest and the boy followed him, with never a thought of the danger he was running. all he thought about was the contemptuous way in which he had been received by the wild geese; and he made up his mind to let them see that a human being was something higher than all else created. he shouted, again and again, to that dog, to make him drop his game. "what kind of a dog are you, who can steal a whole goose and not feel ashamed of yourself? drop her at once! or you'll see what a beating you'll get. drop her, i say, or i'll tell your master how you behave!" when smirre fox saw that he had been mistaken for a scary dog, he was so amused that he came near dropping the goose. smirre was a great plunderer who wasn't satisfied with only hunting rats and pigeons in the fields, but he also ventured into the farmyards to steal chickens and geese. he knew that he was feared throughout the district; and anything as idiotic as this he had not heard since he was a baby. the boy ran so fast that the thick beech-trees appeared to be running past him--backward, but he caught up with smirre. finally, he was so close to him that he got a hold on his tail. "now i'll take the goose from you anyway," cried he, and held on as hard as ever he could, but he hadn't strength enough to stop smirre. the fox dragged him along until the dry foliage whirled around him. but now it began to dawn on smirre how harmless the thing was that pursued him. he stopped short, put the goose on the ground, and stood on her with his forepaws, so she couldn't fly away. he was just about to bite off her neck--but then he couldn't resist the desire to tease the boy a little. "hurry off and complain to the master, for now i'm going to bite the goose to death!" said he. certainly the one who was surprised when he saw what a pointed nose, and heard what a hoarse and angry voice that dog which he was pursuing had,--was the boy! but now he was so enraged because the fox had made fun of him, that he never thought of being frightened. he took a firmer hold on the tail, braced himself against a beech trunk; and just as the fox opened his jaws over the goose's throat, he pulled as hard as he could. smirre was so astonished that he let himself be pulled backward a couple of steps--and the wild goose got away. she fluttered upward feebly and heavily. one wing was so badly wounded that she could barely use it. in addition to this, she could not see in the night darkness of the forest but was as helpless as the blind. therefore she could in no way help the boy; so she groped her way through the branches and flew down to the lake again. then smirre made a dash for the boy. "if i don't get the one, i shall certainly have the other," said he; and you could tell by his voice how mad he was. "oh, don't you believe it!" said the boy, who was in the best of spirits because he had saved the goose. he held fast by the fox-tail, and swung with it--to one side--when the fox tried to catch him. there was such a dance in that forest that the dry beech-leaves fairly flew! smirre swung round and round, but the tail swung too; while the boy kept a tight grip on it, so the fox could not grab him. the boy was so gay after his success that in the beginning, he laughed and made fun of the fox. but smirre was persevering--as old hunters generally are--and the boy began to fear that he should be captured in the end. then he caught sight of a little, young beech-tree that had shot up as slender as a rod, that it might soon reach the free air above the canopy of branches which the old beeches spread above it. quick as a flash, he let go of the fox-tail and climbed the beech tree. smirre fox was so excited that he continued to dance around after his tail. "don't bother with the dance any longer!" said the boy. but smirre couldn't endure the humiliation of his failure to get the better of such a little tot, so he lay down under the tree, that he might keep a close watch on him. the boy didn't have any too good a time of it where he sat, astride a frail branch. the young beech did not, as yet, reach the high branch-canopy, so the boy couldn't get over to another tree, and he didn't dare to come down again. he was so cold and numb that he almost lost his hold around the branch; and he was dreadfully sleepy; but he didn't dare fall asleep for fear of tumbling down. my! but it was dismal to sit in that way the whole night through, out in the forest! he never before understood the real meaning of "night." it was just as if the whole world had become petrified, and never could come to life again. then it commenced to dawn. the boy was glad that everything began to look like itself once more; although the chill was even sharper than it had been during the night. finally, when the sun got up, it wasn't yellow but red. the boy thought it looked as though it were angry and he wondered what it was angry about. perhaps it was because the night had made it so cold and gloomy on earth, while the sun was away. the sunbeams came down in great clusters, to see what the night had been up to. it could be seen how everything blushed--as if they all had guilty consciences. the clouds in the skies; the satiny beech-limbs; the little intertwined branches of the forest-canopy; the hoar-frost that covered the foliage on the ground--everything grew flushed and red. more and more sunbeams came bursting through space, and soon the night's terrors were driven away, and such a marvellous lot of living things came forward. the black woodpecker, with the red neck, began to hammer with its bill on the branch. the squirrel glided from his nest with a nut, and sat down on a branch and began to shell it. the starling came flying with a worm, and the bulfinch sang in the tree-top. then the boy understood that the sun had said to all these tiny creatures: "wake up now, and come out of your nests! i'm here! now you need be afraid of nothing." the wild-goose call was heard from the lake, as they were preparing for flight; and soon all fourteen geese came flying through the forest. the boy tried to call to them, but they flew so high that his voice couldn't reach them. they probably believed the fox had eaten him up; and they didn't trouble themselves to look for him. the boy came near crying with regret; but the sun stood up there--orange-coloured and happy--and put courage into the whole world. "it isn't worth while, nils holgersson, for you to be troubled about anything, as long as i'm here," said the sun. goose-play _monday, march twenty-first_. everything remained unchanged in the forest--about as long as it takes a goose to eat her breakfast. but just as the morning was verging on forenoon, a goose came flying, all by herself, under the thick tree-canopy. she groped her way hesitatingly, between the stems and branches, and flew very slowly. as soon as smirre fox saw her, he left his place under the beech tree, and sneaked up toward her. the wild goose didn't avoid the fox, but flew very close to him. smirre made a high jump for her but he missed her; and the goose went on her way down to the lake. it was not long before another goose came flying. she took the same route as the first one; and flew still lower and slower. she, too, flew close to smirre fox, and he made such a high spring for her, that his ears brushed her feet. but she, too, got away from him unhurt, and went her way toward the lake, silent as a shadow. a little while passed and then there came another wild goose. she flew still slower and lower; and it seemed even more difficult for her to find her way between the beech-branches. smirre made a powerful spring! he was within a hair's breadth of catching her; but that goose also managed to save herself. just after she had disappeared, came a fourth. she flew so slowly, and so badly, that smirre fox thought he could catch her without much effort, but he was afraid of failure now, and concluded to let her fly past--unmolested. she took the same direction the others had taken; and just as she was come right above smirre, she sank down so far that he was tempted to jump for her. he jumped so high that he touched her with his tail. but she flung herself quickly to one side and saved her life. before smirre got through panting, three more geese came flying in a row. they flew just like the rest, and smirre made high springs for them all, but he did not succeed in catching any one of them. after that came five geese; but these flew better than the others. and although it seemed as if they wanted to lure smirre to jump, he withstood the temptation. after quite a long time came one single goose. it was the thirteenth. this one was so old that she was gray all over, without a dark speck anywhere on her body. she didn't appear to use one wing very well, but flew so wretchedly and crookedly, that she almost touched the ground. smirre not only made a high leap for her, but he pursued her, running and jumping all the way down to the lake. but not even this time did he get anything for his trouble. when the fourteenth goose came along, it looked very pretty because it was white. and as its great wings swayed, it glistened like a light, in the dark forest. when smirre fox saw this one, he mustered all his resources and jumped half-way up to the tree-canopy. but the white one flew by unhurt like the rest. now it was quiet for a moment under the beeches. it looked as if the whole wild-goose-flock had travelled past. suddenly smirre remembered his prisoner and raised his eyes toward the young beech-tree. and just as he might have expected--the boy had disappeared. but smirre didn't have much time to think about him; for now the first goose came back again from the lake and flew slowly under the canopy. in spite of all his ill luck, smirre was glad that she came back, and darted after her with a high leap. but he had been in too much of a hurry, and hadn't taken the time to calculate the distance, and he landed at one side of the goose. then there came still another goose; then a third; a fourth; a fifth; and so on, until the angle closed in with the old ice-gray one, and the big white one. they all flew low and slow. just as they swayed in the vicinity of smirre fox, they sank down--kind of inviting-like--for him to take them. smirre ran after them and made leaps a couple of fathoms high--but he couldn't manage to get hold of a single one of them. it was the most awful day that smirre fox had ever experienced. the wild geese kept on travelling over his head. they came and went--came and went. great splendid geese who had eaten themselves fat on the german heaths and grain fields, swayed all day through the woods, and so close to him that he touched them many times; yet he was not permitted to appease his hunger with a single one of them. the winter was hardly gone yet, and smirre recalled nights and days when he had been forced to tramp around in idleness, with not so much as a hare to hunt, when the rats hid themselves under the frozen earth; and when the chickens were all shut up. but all the winter's hunger had not been as hard to endure as this day's miscalculations. smirre was no young fox. he had had the dogs after him many a time, and had heard the bullets whizz around his ears. he had lain in hiding, down in the lair, while the dachshunds crept into the crevices and all but found him. but all the anguish that smirre fox had been forced to suffer under this hot chase, was not to be compared with what he suffered every time that he missed one of the wild geese. in the morning, when the play began, smirre fox had looked so stunning that the geese were amazed when they saw him. smirre loved display. his coat was a brilliant red; his breast white; his nose black; and his tail was as bushy as a plume. but when the evening of this day was come, smirre's coat hung in loose folds. he was bathed in sweat; his eyes were without lustre; his tongue hung far out from his gaping jaws; and froth oozed from his mouth. in the afternoon smirre was so exhausted that he grew delirious. he saw nothing before his eyes but flying geese. he made leaps for sun-spots which he saw on the ground; and for a poor little butterfly that had come out of his chrysalis too soon. the wild geese flew and flew, unceasingly. all day long they continued to torment smirre. they were not moved to pity because smirre was done up, fevered, and out of his head. they continued without a let-up, although they understood that he hardly saw them, and that he jumped after their shadows. when smirre fox sank down on a pile of dry leaves, weak and powerless and almost ready to give up the ghost, they stopped teasing him. "now you know, mr. fox, what happens to the one who dares to come near akka of kebnekaise!" they shouted in his ear; and with that they left him in peace. the wonderful journey of nils on the farm _thursday, march twenty-fourth_. just at that time a thing happened in skåne which created a good deal of discussion and even got into the newspapers but which many believed to be a fable, because they had not been able to explain it. it was about like this: a lady squirrel had been captured in the hazelbrush that grew on the shores of vomb lake, and was carried to a farmhouse close by. all the folks on the farm--both young and old--were delighted with the pretty creature with the bushy tail, the wise, inquisitive eyes, and the natty little feet. they intended to amuse themselves all summer by watching its nimble movements; its ingenious way of shelling nuts; and its droll play. they immediately put in order an old squirrel cage with a little green house and a wire-cylinder wheel. the little house, which had both doors and windows, the lady squirrel was to use as a dining room and bedroom. for this reason they placed therein a bed of leaves, a bowl of milk and some nuts. the cylinder wheel, on the other hand, she was to use as a play-house, where she could run and climb and swing round. the people believed that they had arranged things very comfortably for the lady squirrel, and they were astonished because she didn't seem to be contented; but, instead, she sat there, downcast and moody, in a corner of her room. every now and again, she would let out a shrill, agonised cry. she did not touch the food; and not once did she swing round on the wheel. "it's probably because she's frightened," said the farmer folk. "to-morrow, when she feels more at home, she will both eat and play." meanwhile, the women folk on the farm were making preparations for a feast; and just on that day when the lady squirrel had been captured, they were busy with an elaborate bake. they had had bad luck with something: either the dough wouldn't rise, or else they had been dilatory, for they were obliged to work long after dark. naturally there was a great deal of excitement and bustle in the kitchen, and probably no one there took time to think about the squirrel, or to wonder how she was getting on. but there was an old grandma in the house who was too aged to take a hand in the baking; this she herself understood, but just the same she did not relish the idea of being left out of the game. she felt rather downhearted; and for this reason she did not go to bed but seated herself by the sitting-room window and looked out. they had opened the kitchen door on account of the heat; and through it a clear ray of light streamed out on the yard; and it became so well lighted out there that the old woman could see all the cracks and holes in the plastering on the wall opposite. she also saw the squirrel cage which hung just where the light fell clearest. and she noticed how the squirrel ran from her room to the wheel, and from the wheel to her room, all night long, without stopping an instant. she thought it was a strange sort of unrest that had come over the animal; but she believed, of course, that the strong light kept her awake. between the cow-house and the stable there was a broad, handsome carriage-gate; this too came within the light-radius. as the night wore on, the old grandma saw a tiny creature, no bigger than a hand's breadth, cautiously steal his way through the gate. he was dressed in leather breeches and wooden shoes like any other working man. the old grandma knew at once that it was the elf, and she was not the least bit frightened. she had always heard that the elf kept himself somewhere about the place, although she had never seen him before; and an elf, to be sure, brought good luck wherever he appeared. as soon as the elf came into the stone-paved yard, he ran right up to the squirrel cage. and since it hung so high that he could not reach it, he went over to the store-house after a rod; placed it against the cage, and swung himself up--in the same way that a sailor climbs a rope. when he had reached the cage, he shook the door of the little green house as if he wanted to open it; but the old grandma didn't move; for she knew that the children had put a padlock on the door, as they feared that the boys on the neighbouring farms would try to steal the squirrel. the old woman saw that when the boy could not get the door open, the lady squirrel came out to the wire wheel. there they held a long conference together. and when the boy had listened to all that the imprisoned animal had to say to him, he slid down the rod to the ground, and ran out through the carriage-gate. the old woman didn't expect to see anything more of the elf that night, nevertheless, she remained at the window. after a few moments had gone by, he returned. he was in such a hurry that it seemed to her as though his feet hardly touched the ground; and he rushed right up to the squirrel cage. the old woman, with her far-sighted eyes, saw him distinctly; and she also saw that he carried something in his hands; but what it was she couldn't imagine. the thing he carried in his left hand he laid down on the pavement; but that which he held in his right hand he took with him to the cage. he kicked so hard with his wooden shoes on the little window that the glass was broken. he poked in the thing which he held in his hand to the lady squirrel. then he slid down again, and took up that which he had laid upon the ground, and climbed up to the cage with that also. the next instant he ran off again with such haste that the old woman could hardly follow him with her eyes. but now it was the old grandma who could no longer sit still in the cottage; but who, very slowly, went out to the back yard and stationed herself in the shadow of the pump to await the elf's return. and there was one other who had also seen him and had become curious. this was the house cat. he crept along slyly and stopped close to the wall, just two steps away from the stream of light. they both stood and waited, long and patiently, on that chilly march night, and the old woman was just beginning to think about going in again, when she heard a clatter on the pavement, and saw that the little mite of an elf came trotting along once more, carrying a burden in each hand, as he had done before. that which he bore squealed and squirmed. and now a light dawned on the old grandma. she understood that the elf had hurried down to the hazel-grove and brought back the lady squirrel's babies; and that he was carrying them to her so they shouldn't starve to death. the old grandma stood very still, so as not to disturb them; and it did not look as if the elf had noticed her. he was just going to lay one of the babies on the ground so that he could swing himself up to the cage with the other one--when he saw the house cat's green eyes glisten close beside him. he stood there, bewildered, with a young one in each hand. he turned around and looked in all directions; then he became aware of the old grandma's presence. then he did not hesitate long; but walked forward, stretched his arms as high as he could reach, for her to take one of the baby squirrels. the old grandma did not wish to prove herself unworthy of the confidence, so she bent down and took the baby squirrel, and stood there and held it until the boy had swung himself up to the cage with the other one. then he came back for the one he had entrusted to her care. the next morning, when the farm folk had gathered together for breakfast, it was impossible for the old woman to refrain from telling them of what she had seen the night before. they all laughed at her, of course, and said that she had been only dreaming. there were no baby squirrels this early in the year. but she was sure of her ground, and begged them to take a look into the squirrel cage and this they did. and there lay on the bed of leaves, four tiny half-naked, half blind baby squirrels, who were at least a couple of days old. when the farmer himself saw the young ones, he said: "be it as it may with this; but one thing is certain, we, on this farm, have behaved in such a manner that we are shamed before both animals and human beings." and, thereupon, he took the mother squirrel and all her young ones from the cage, and laid them in the old grandma's lap. "go thou out to the hazel-grove with them," said he, "and let them have their freedom back again!" it was this event that was so much talked about, and which even got into the newspapers, but which the majority would not credit because they were not able to explain how anything like that could have happened. vittskÖvle _saturday, march twenty-sixth_. two days later, another strange thing happened. a flock of wild geese came flying one morning, and lit on a meadow down in eastern skåne not very far from vittskövle manor. in the flock were thirteen wild geese, of the usual gray variety, and one white goosey-gander, who carried on his back a tiny lad dressed in yellow leather breeches, green vest, and a white woollen toboggan hood. they were now very near the eastern sea; and on the meadow where the geese had alighted the soil was sandy, as it usually is on the sea-coast. it looked as if, formerly, there had been flying sand in this vicinity which had to be held down; for in several directions large, planted pine-woods could be seen. when the wild geese had been feeding a while, several children came along, and walked on the edge of the meadow. the goose who was on guard at once raised herself into the air with noisy wing-strokes, so the whole flock should hear that there was danger on foot. all the wild geese flew upward; but the white one trotted along on the ground unconcerned. when he saw the others fly he raised his head and called after them: "you needn't fly away from these! they are only a couple of children!" the little creature who had been riding on his back, sat down upon a knoll on the outskirts of the wood and picked a pine-cone in pieces, that he might get at the seeds. the children were so close to him that he did not dare to run across the meadow to the white one. he concealed himself under a big, dry thistle-leaf, and at the same time gave a warning-cry. but the white one had evidently made up his mind not to let himself be scared. he walked along on the ground all the while; and not once did he look to see in what direction they were going. meanwhile, they turned from the path, walked across the field, getting nearer and nearer to the goosey-gander. when he finally did look up, they were right upon him. he was so dumfounded, and became so confused, he forgot that he could fly, and tried to get out of their reach by running. but the children followed, chasing him into a ditch, and there they caught him. the larger of the two stuck him under his arm and carried him off. when the boy, who lay under the thistle-leaf saw this, he sprang up as if he wanted to take the goosey-gander away from them; then he must have remembered how little and powerless he was, for he threw himself on the knoll and beat upon the ground with his clenched fists. the goosey-gander cried with all his might for help: "thumbietot, come and help me! oh, thumbietot, come and help me!" the boy began to laugh in the midst of his distress. "oh, yes! i'm just the right one to help anybody, i am!" said he. anyway he got up and followed the goosey-gander. "i can't help him," said he, "but i shall at least find out where they are taking him." the children had a good start; but the boy had no difficulty in keeping them within sight until they came to a hollow where a brook gushed forth. but here he was obliged to run alongside of it for some little time, before he could find a place narrow enough for him to jump over. when he came up from the hollow the children had disappeared. he could see their footprints on a narrow path which led to the woods, and these he continued to follow. soon he came to a cross-road. here the children must have separated, for there were footprints in two directions. the boy looked now as if all hope had fled. then he saw a little white down on a heather-knoll, and he understood that the goosey-gander had dropped this by the wayside to let him know in which direction he had been carried; and therefore he continued his search. he followed the children through the entire wood. the goosey-gander he did not see; but wherever he was likely to miss his way, lay a little white down to put him right. the boy continued faithfully to follow the bits of down. they led him out of the wood, across a couple of meadows, up on a road, and finally through the entrance of a broad _allée_. at the end of the _allée_ there were gables and towers of red tiling, decorated with bright borders and other ornamentations that glittered and shone. when the boy saw that this was some great manor, he thought he knew what had become of the goosey-gander. "no doubt the children have carried the goosey-gander to the manor and sold him there. by this time he's probably butchered," he said to himself. but he did not seem to be satisfied with anything less than proof positive, and with renewed courage he ran forward. he met no one in the _allée_--and that was well, for such as he are generally afraid of being seen by human beings. the mansion which he came to was a splendid, old-time structure with four great wings which inclosed a courtyard. on the east wing, there was a high arch leading into the courtyard. this far the boy ran without hesitation, but when he got there he stopped. he dared not venture farther, but stood still and pondered what he should do now. there he stood, with his finger on his nose, thinking, when he heard footsteps behind him; and as he turned around he saw a whole company march up the _allée_. in haste he stole behind a water-barrel which stood near the arch, and hid himself. those who came up were some twenty young men from a folk-high-school, out on a walking tour. they were accompanied by one of the instructors. when they were come as far as the arch, the teacher requested them to wait there a moment, while he went in and asked if they might see the old castle of vittskövle. the newcomers were warm and tired; as if they had been on a long tramp. one of them was so thirsty that he went over to the water-barrel and stooped down to drink. he had a tin box such as botanists use hanging about his neck. he evidently thought that this was in his way, for he threw it down on the ground. with this, the lid flew open, and one could see that there were a few spring flowers in it. the botanist's box dropped just in front of the boy; and he must have thought that here was his opportunity to get into the castle and find out what had become of the goosey-gander. he smuggled himself quickly into the box and concealed himself as well as he could under the anemones and colt's-foot. he was hardly hidden before the young man picked the box up, hung it around his neck, and slammed down the cover. then the teacher came back, and said that they had been given permission to enter the castle. at first he conducted them no farther than the courtyard. there he stopped and began to talk to them about this ancient structure. he called their attention to the first human beings who had inhabited this country, and who had been obliged to live in mountain-grottoes and earth-caves; in the dens of wild beasts, and in the brushwood; and that a very long period had elapsed before they learned to build themselves huts from the trunks of trees. and afterward how long had they not been forced to labour and struggle, before they had advanced from the log cabin, with its single room, to the building of a castle with a hundred rooms--like vittskövle! it was about three hundred and fifty years ago that the rich and powerful built such castles for themselves, he said. it was very evident that vittskövle had been erected at a time when wars and robbers made it unsafe in skåne. all around the castle was a deep trench filled with water; and across this there had been a bridge in bygone days that could be hoisted up. over the gate-arch there is, even to this day, a watch-tower; and all along the sides of the castle ran sentry-galleries, and in the corners stood towers with walls a metre thick. yet the castle had not been erected in the most savage war time; for jens brahe, who built it, had also studied to make of it a beautiful and decorative ornament. if they could see the big, solid stone structure at glimminge, which had been built only a generation earlier, they would readily see that jans holgersen ulfstand, the builder, hadn't figured upon anything else--only to build big and strong and secure, without bestowing a thought upon making it beautiful and comfortable. if they visited such castles as marsvinsholm, snogeholm and Övid's cloister--which were erected a hundred years or so later--they would find that the times had become less warlike. the gentlemen who built these places, had not furnished them with fortifications; but had only taken pains to provide themselves with great, splendid dwelling houses. the teacher talked at length--and in detail; and the boy who lay shut up in the box was pretty impatient; but he must have lain very still, for the owner of the box hadn't the least suspicion that he was carrying him along. finally the company went into the castle. but if the boy had hoped for a chance to crawl out of that box, he was deceived; for the student carried it upon him all the while, and the boy was obliged to accompany him through all the rooms. it was a tedious tramp. the teacher stopped every other minute to explain and instruct. in one room he found an old fireplace, and before this he stopped to talk about the different kinds of fireplaces that had been used in the course of time. the first indoors fireplace had been a big, flat stone on the floor of the hut, with an opening in the roof which let in both wind and rain. the next had been a big stone hearth with no opening in the roof. this must have made the hut very warm, but it also filled it with soot and smoke. when vittskövle was built, the people had advanced far enough to open the fireplace, which, at that time, had a wide chimney for the smoke; but it also took most of the warmth up in the air with it. if that boy had ever in his life been cross and impatient, he was given a good lesson in patience that day. it must have been a whole hour now that he had lain perfectly still. in the next room they came to, the teacher stopped before an old-time bed with its high canopy and rich curtains. immediately he began to talk about the beds and bed places of olden days. the teacher didn't hurry himself; but then he did not know, of course, that a poor little creature lay shut up in a botanist's box, and only waited for him to get through. when they came to a room with gilded leather hangings, he talked to them about how the people had dressed their walls and ceilings ever since the beginning of time. and when he came to an old family portrait, he told them all about the different changes in dress. and in the banquet halls he described ancient customs of celebrating weddings and funerals. thereupon, the teacher talked a little about the excellent men and women who had lived in the castle; about the old brahes, and the old barnekows; of christian barnekow, who had given his horse to the king to help him escape; of margareta ascheberg who had been married to kjell barnekow and who, when a widow, had managed the estates and the whole district for fifty-three years; of banker hageman, a farmer's son from vittskövle, who had grown so rich that he had bought the entire estate; about the stjernsvärds, who had given the people of skåne better ploughs, which enabled them to discard the ridiculous old wooden ploughs that three oxen were hardly able to drag. during all this, the boy lay still. if he had ever been mischievous and shut the cellar door on his father or mother, he understood now how they had felt; for it was hours and hours before that teacher got through. at last the teacher went out into the courtyard again. and there he discoursed upon the tireless labour of mankind to procure for themselves tools and weapons, clothes and houses and ornaments. he said that such an old castle as vittskövle was a mile-post on time's highway. here one could see how far the people had advanced three hundred and fifty years ago; and one could judge for oneself whether things had gone forward or backward since their time. but this dissertation the boy escaped hearing; for the student who carried him was thirsty again, and stole into the kitchen to ask for a drink of water. when the boy was carried into the kitchen, he should have tried to look around for the goosey-gander. he had begun to move; and as he did this, he happened to press too hard against the lid--and it flew open. as botanists' box-lids are always flying open, the student thought no more about the matter but pressed it down again. then the cook asked him if he had a snake in the box. "no, i have only a few plants," the student replied. "it was certainly something that moved there," insisted the cook. the student threw back the lid to show her that she was mistaken. "see for yourself--if--" but he got no further, for now the boy dared not stay in the box any longer, but with one bound he stood on the floor, and out he rushed. the maids hardly had time to see what it was that ran, but they hurried after it, nevertheless. the teacher still stood and talked when he was interrupted by shrill cries. "catch him, catch him!" shrieked those who had come from the kitchen; and all the young men raced after the boy, who glided away faster than a rat. they tried to intercept him at the gate, but it was not so easy to get a hold on such a little creature, so, luckily, he got out in the open. the boy did not dare to run down toward the open _allée,_ but turned in another direction. he rushed through the garden into the back yard. all the while the people raced after him, shrieking and laughing. the poor little thing ran as hard as ever he could to get out of their way; but still it looked as though the people would catch up with him. as he rushed past a labourer's cottage, he heard a goose cackle, and saw a white down lying on the doorstep. there, at last, was the goosey-gander! he had been on the wrong track before. he thought no more of housemaids and men, who were hounding him, but climbed up the steps--and into the hallway. farther he couldn't come, for the door was locked. he heard how the goosey-gander cried and moaned inside, but he couldn't get the door open. the hunters that were pursuing him came nearer and nearer, and, in the room, the goosey-gander cried more and more pitifully. in this direst of needs the boy finally plucked up courage and pounded on the door with all his might. a child opened it, and the boy looked into the room. in the middle of the floor sat a woman who held the goosey-gander tight to clip his quill-feathers. it was her children who had found him, and she didn't want to do him any harm. it was her intention to let him in among her own geese, had she only succeeded in clipping his wings so he couldn't fly away. but a worse fate could hardly have happened to the goosey-gander, and he shrieked and moaned with all his might. and a lucky thing it was that the woman hadn't started the clipping sooner. now only two quills had fallen under the shears' when the door was opened--and the boy stood on the door-sill. but a creature like that the woman had never seen before. she couldn't believe anything else but that it was goa-nisse himself; and in her terror she dropped the shears, clasped her hands--and forgot to hold on to the goosey-gander. as soon as he felt himself freed, he ran toward the door. he didn't give himself time to stop; but, as he ran past him, he grabbed the boy by the neck-band and carried him along with him. on the stoop he spread his wings and flew up in the air; at the same time he made a graceful sweep with his neck and seated the boy on his smooth, downy back. and off they flew--while all vittskövle stood and stared after them. in Övid cloister park all that day, when the wild geese played with the fox, the boy lay and slept in a deserted squirrel nest. when he awoke, along toward evening, he felt very uneasy. "well, now i shall soon be sent home again! then i'll have to exhibit myself before father and mother," thought he. but when he looked up and saw the wild geese, who lay and bathed in vomb lake--not one of them said a word about his going. "they probably think the white one is too tired to travel home with me to-night," thought the boy. the next morning the geese were awake at daybreak, long before sunrise. now the boy felt sure that he'd have to go home; but, curiously enough, both he and the white goosey-gander were permitted to follow the wild ones on their morning tour. the boy couldn't comprehend the reason for the delay, but he figured it out in this way, that the wild geese did not care to send the goosey-gander on such a long journey until they had both eaten their fill. come what might, he was only glad for every moment that should pass before he must face his parents. the wild geese travelled over Övid's cloister estate which was situated in a beautiful park east of the lake, and looked very imposing with its great castle; its well planned court surrounded by low walls and pavilions; its fine old-time garden with covered arbours, streams and fountains; its wonderful trees, trimmed bushes, and its evenly mown lawns with their beds of beautiful spring flowers. when the wild geese rode over the estate in the early morning hour there was no human being about. when they had carefully assured themselves of this, they lowered themselves toward the dog kennel, and shouted: "what kind of a little hut is this? what kind of a little hut is this?" instantly the dog came out of his kennel--furiously angry--and barked at the air. "do you call this a hut, you tramps! can't you see that this is a great stone castle? can't you see what fine terraces, and what a lot of pretty walls and windows and great doors it has, bow, wow, wow, wow? don't you see the grounds, can't you see the garden, can't you see the conservatories, can't you see the marble statues? you call this a hut, do you? do huts have parks with beech-groves and hazel-bushes and trailing vines and oak trees and firs and hunting-grounds filled with game, wow, wow, wow? do you call this a hut? have you seen huts with so many outhouses around them that they look like a whole village? you must know of a lot of huts that have their own church and their own parsonage; and that rule over the district and the peasant homes and the neighbouring farms and barracks, wow, wow, wow? do you call this a hut? to this hut belong the richest possessions in skåne, you beggars! you can't see a bit of land, from where you hang in the clouds, that does not obey commands from this hut, wow, wow, wow!" all this the dog managed to cry out in one breath; and the wild geese flew back and forth over the estate, and listened to him until he was winded. but then they cried: "what are you so mad about? we didn't ask about the castle; we only wanted to know about your kennel, stupid!" when the boy heard this joke, he laughed; then a thought stole in on him which at once made him serious. "think how many of these amusing things you would hear, if you could go with the wild geese through the whole country, all the way up to lapland!" said he to himself. "and just now, when you are in such a bad fix, a trip like that would be the best thing you could hit upon." the wild geese travelled to one of the wide fields, east of the estate, to eat grass-roots, and they kept this up for hours. in the meantime, the boy wandered in the great park which bordered the field. he hunted up a beech-nut grove and began to look up at the bushes, to see if a nut from last fall still hung there. but again and again the thought of the trip came over him, as he walked in the park. he pictured to himself what a fine time he would have if he went with the wild geese. to freeze and starve: that he believed he should have to do often enough; but as a recompense, he would escape both work and study. as he walked there, the old gray leader-goose came up to him, and asked if he had found anything eatable. no, that he hadn't, he replied, and then she tried to help him. she couldn't find any nuts either, but she discovered a couple of dried blossoms that hung on a brier-bush. these the boy ate with a good relish. but he wondered what mother would say, if she knew that he had lived on raw fish and old winter-dried blossoms. when the wild geese had finally eaten themselves full, they bore off toward the lake again, where they amused themselves with games until almost dinner time. the wild geese challenged the white goosey-gander to take part in all kinds of sports. they had swimming races, running races, and flying races with him. the big tame one did his level best to hold his own, but the clever wild geese beat him every time. all the while, the boy sat on the goosey-gander's back and encouraged him, and had as much fun as the rest. they laughed and screamed and cackled, and it was remarkable that the people on the estate didn't hear them. when the wild geese were tired of play, they flew out on the ice and rested for a couple of hours. the afternoon they spent in pretty much the same way as the forenoon. first, a couple of hours feeding, then bathing and play in the water near the ice-edge until sunset, when they immediately arranged themselves for sleep. "this is just the life that suits me," thought the boy when he crept in under the gander's wing. "but to-morrow, i suppose i'll be sent home." before he fell asleep, he lay and thought that if he might go along with the wild geese, he would escape all scoldings because he was lazy. then he could cut loose every day, and his only worry would be to get something to eat. but he needed so little nowadays; and there would always be a way to get that. so he pictured the whole scene to himself; what he should see, and all the adventures that he would be in on. yes, it would be something different from the wear and tear at home. "if i could only go with the wild geese on their travels, i shouldn't grieve because i'd been transformed," thought the boy. he wasn't afraid of anything--except being sent home; but not even on wednesday did the geese say anything to him about going. that day passed in the same way as tuesday; and the boy grew more and more contented with the outdoor life. he thought that he had the lovely Övid cloister park--which was as large as a forest--all to himself; and he wasn't anxious to go back to the stuffy cabin and the little patch of ground there at home. on wednesday he believed that the wild geese thought of keeping him with them; but on thursday he lost hope again. thursday began just like the other days; the geese fed on the broad meadows, and the boy hunted for food in the park. after a while akka came to him, and asked if he had found anything to eat. no, he had not; and then she looked up a dry caraway herb, that had kept all its tiny seeds intact. when the boy had eaten, akka said that she thought he ran around in the park altogether too recklessly. she wondered if he knew how many enemies he had to guard against--he, who was so little. no, he didn't know anything at all about that. then akka began to enumerate them for him. whenever he walked in the park, she said, that he must look out for the fox and the marten; when he came to the shores of the lake, he must think of the otters; as he sat on the stone wall, he must not forget the weasels, who could creep through the smallest holes; and if he wished to lie down and sleep on a pile of leaves, he must first find out if the adders were not sleeping their winter sleep in the same pile. as soon as he came out in the open fields, he should keep an eye out for hawks and buzzards; for eagles and falcons that soared in the air. in the bramble-bush he could be captured by the sparrow-hawks; magpies and crows were found everywhere and in these he mustn't place any too much confidence. as soon as it was dusk, he must keep his ears open and listen for the big owls, who flew along with such soundless wing-strokes that they could come right up to him before he was aware of their presence. when the boy heard that there were so many who were after his life, he thought that it would be simply impossible for him to escape. he was not particularly afraid to die, but he didn't like the idea of being eaten up, so he asked akka what he should do to protect himself from the carnivorous animals. akka answered at once that the boy should try to get on good terms with all the small animals in the woods and fields: with the squirrel-folk, and the hare-family; with bullfinches and the titmice and woodpeckers and larks. if he made friends with them, they could warn him against dangers, find hiding places for him, and protect him. but later in the day, when the boy tried to profit by this counsel, and turned to sirle squirrel to ask for his protection, it was evident that he did not care to help him. "you surely can't expect anything from me, or the rest of the small animals!" said sirle. "don't you think we know that you are nils the goose boy, who tore down the swallow's nest last year, crushed the starling's eggs, threw baby crows in the marl-ditch, caught thrushes in snares, and put squirrels in cages? you just help yourself as well as you can; and you may be thankful that we do not form a league against you, and drive you back to your own kind!" this was just the sort of answer the boy would not have let go unpunished, in the days when he was nils the goose boy. but now he was only fearful lest the wild geese, too, had found out how wicked he could be. he had been so anxious for fear he wouldn't be permitted to stay with the wild geese, that he hadn't dared to get into the least little mischief since he joined their company. it was true that he didn't have the power to do much harm now, but, little as he was, he could have destroyed many birds' nests, and crushed many eggs, if he'd been in a mind to. now he had been good. he hadn't pulled a feather from a goose-wing, or given anyone a rude answer; and every morning when he called upon akka he had always removed his cap and bowed. all day thursday he thought it was surely on account of his wickedness that the wild geese did not care to take him along up to lapland. and in the evening, when he heard that sirle squirrel's wife had been stolen, and her children were starving to death, he made up his mind to help them. and we have already been told how well he succeeded. when the boy came into the park on friday, he heard the bulfinches sing in every bush, of how sirle squirrel's wife had been carried away from her children by cruel robbers, and how nils, the goose boy, had risked his life among human beings, and taken the little squirrel children to her. "and who is so honoured in Övid cloister park now, as thumbietot!" sang the bullfinch; "he, whom all feared when he was nils the goose boy? sirle squirrel will give him nuts; the poor hares are going to play with him; the small wild animals will carry him on their backs, and fly away with him when smirre fox approaches. the titmice are going to warn him against the hawk, and the finches and larks will sing of his valour." the boy was absolutely certain that both akka and the wild geese had heard all this. but still friday passed and not one word did they say about his remaining with them. until saturday the wild geese fed in the fields around Övid, undisturbed by smirre fox. but on saturday morning, when they came out in the meadows, he lay in wait for them, and chased them from one field to another, and they were not allowed to eat in peace. when akka understood that he didn't intend to leave them in peace, she came to a decision quickly, raised herself into the air and flew with her flock several miles away, over färs' plains and linderödsosen's hills. they did not stop before they had arrived in the district of vittskövle. but at vittskövle the goosey-gander was stolen, and how it happened has already been related. if the boy had not used all his powers to help him he would never again have been found. on saturday evening, as the boy came back to vomb lake with the goosey-gander, he thought that he had done a good day's work; and he speculated a good deal on what akka and the wild geese would say to him. the wild geese were not at all sparing in their praises, but they did not say the word he was longing to hear. then sunday came again. a whole week had gone by since the boy had been bewitched, and he was still just as little. but he didn't appear to be giving himself any extra worry on account of this thing. on sunday afternoon he sat huddled together in a big, fluffy osier-bush, down by the lake, and blew on a reed-pipe. all around him there sat as many finches and bullfinches and starlings as the bush could well hold--who sang songs which he tried to teach himself to play. but the boy was not at home in this art. he blew so false that the feathers raised themselves on the little music-masters and they shrieked and fluttered in their despair. the boy laughed so heartily at their excitement, that he dropped his pipe. he began once again, and that went just as badly. then all the little birds wailed: "to-day you play worse than usual, thumbietot! you don't take one true note! where are your thoughts, thumbietot?" "they are elsewhere," said the boy--and this was true. he sat there and pondered how long he would be allowed to remain with the wild geese; or if he should be sent home perhaps to-day. finally the boy threw down his pipe and jumped from the bush. he had seen akka, and all the wild geese, coming toward him in a long row. they walked so uncommonly slow and dignified-like, that the boy immediately understood that now he should learn what they intended to do with him. when they stopped at last, akka said: "you may well have reason to wonder at me, thumbietot, who have not said thanks to you for saving me from smirre fox. but i am one of those who would rather give thanks by deeds than words. i have sent word to the elf that bewitched you. at first he didn't want to hear anything about curing you; but i have sent message upon message to him, and told him how well you have conducted yourself among us. he greets you, and says, that as soon as you turn back home, you shall be human again." but think of it! just as happy as the boy had been when the wild geese began to speak, just that miserable was he when they had finished. he didn't say a word, but turned away and wept. "what in all the world is this?" said akka. "it looks as though you had expected more of me than i have offered you." but the boy was thinking of the care-free days and the banter; and of adventure and freedom and travel, high above the earth, that he should miss, and he actually bawled with grief. "i don't want to be human," said he. "i want to go with you to lapland." "i'll tell you something," said akka. "that elf is very touchy, and i'm afraid that if you do not accept his offer now, it will be difficult for you to coax him another time." it was a strange thing about that boy--as long as he had lived, he had never cared for anyone. he had not cared for his father or mother; not for the school teacher; not for his school-mates; nor for the boys in the neighbourhood. all that they had wished to have him do--whether it had been work or play--he had only thought tiresome. therefore there was no one whom he missed or longed for. the only ones that he had come anywhere near agreeing with, were osa, the goose girl, and little mats--a couple of children who had tended geese in the fields, like himself. but he didn't care particularly for them either. no, far from it! "i don't want to be human," bawled the boy. "i want to go with you to lapland. that's why i've been good for a whole week!" "i don't want to forbid you to come along with us as far as you like," said akka, "but think first if you wouldn't rather go home again. a day may come when you will regret this." "no," said the boy, "that's nothing to regret. i have never been as well off as here with you." "well then, let it be as you wish," said akka. "thanks!" said the boy, and he felt so happy that he had to cry for very joy--just as he had cried before from sorrow. glimminge castle black rats and gray rats in south-eastern skåne--not far from the sea there is an old castle called glimminge. it is a big and substantial stone house; and can be seen over the plain for miles around. it is not more than four stories high; but it is so ponderous that an ordinary farmhouse, which stands on the same estate, looks like a little children's playhouse in comparison. the big stone house has such thick ceilings and partitions that there is scarcely room in its interior for anything but the thick walls. the stairs are narrow, the entrances small; and the rooms few. that the walls might retain their strength, there are only the fewest number of windows in the upper stories, and none at all are found in the lower ones. in the old war times, the people were just as glad that they could shut themselves up in a strong and massive house like this, as one is nowadays to be able to creep into furs in a snapping cold winter. but when the time of peace came, they did not care to live in the dark and cold stone halls of the old castle any longer. they have long since deserted the big glimminge castle, and moved into dwelling places where the light and air can penetrate. at the time when nils holgersson wandered around with the wild geese, there were no human beings in glimminge castle; but for all that, it was not without inhabitants. every summer there lived a stork couple in a large nest on the roof. in a nest in the attic lived a pair of gray owls; in the secret passages hung bats; in the kitchen oven lived an old cat; and down in the cellar there were hundreds of old black rats. rats are not held in very high esteem by other animals; but the black rats at glimminge castle were an exception. they were always mentioned with respect, because they had shown great valour in battle with their enemies; and much endurance under the great misfortunes which had befallen their kind. they nominally belong to a rat-folk who, at one time, had been very numerous and powerful, but who were now dying out. during a long period of time, the black rats owned skåne and the whole country. they were found in every cellar; in every attic; in larders and cowhouses and barns; in breweries and flour-mills; in churches and castles; in every man-constructed building. but now they were banished from all this--and were almost exterminated. only in one and another old and secluded place could one run across a few of them; and nowhere were they to be found in such large numbers as in glimminge castle. when an animal folk die out, it is generally the human kind who are the cause of it; but that was not the case in this instance. the people had certainly struggled with the black rats, but they had not been able to do them any harm worth mentioning. those who had conquered them were an animal folk of their own kind, who were called gray rats. these gray rats had not lived in the land since time immemorial, like the black rats, but descended from a couple of poor immigrants who landed in malmö from a libyan sloop about a hundred years ago. they were homeless, starved-out wretches who stuck close to the harbour, swam among the piles under the bridges, and ate refuse that was thrown in the water. they never ventured into the city, which was owned by the black rats. but gradually, as the gray rats increased in number they grew bolder. at first they moved over to some waste places and condemned old houses which the black rats had abandoned. they hunted their food in gutters and dirt heaps, and made the most of all the rubbish that the black rats did not deign to take care of. they were hardy, contented and fearless; and within a few years they had become so powerful that they undertook to drive the black rats out of malmö. they took from them attics, cellars and storerooms, starved them out or bit them to death for they were not at all afraid of fighting. when malmö was captured, they marched forward in small and large companies to conquer the whole country. it is almost impossible to comprehend why the black rats did not muster themselves into a great, united war-expedition to exterminate the gray rats, while these were still few in numbers. but the black rats were so certain of their power that they could not believe it possible for them to lose it. they sat still on their estates, and in the meantime the gray rats took from them farm after farm, city after city. they were starved out, forced out, rooted out. in skåne they had not been able to maintain themselves in a single place except glimminge castle. the old castle had such secure walls and such few rat passages led through these, that the black rats had managed to protect themselves, and to prevent the gray rats from crowding in. night after night, year after year, the struggle had continued between the aggressors and the defenders; but the black rats had kept faithful watch, and had fought with the utmost contempt for death, and, thanks to the fine old house, they had always conquered. it will have to be acknowledged that as long as the black rats were in power they were as much shunned by all other living creatures as the gray rats are in our day--and for just cause; they had thrown themselves upon poor, fettered prisoners, and tortured them; they had ravished the dead; they had stolen the last turnip from the cellars of the poor; bitten off the feet of sleeping geese; robbed eggs and chicks from the hens; and committed a thousand depredations. but since they had come to grief, all this seemed to have been forgotten; and no one could help but marvel at the last of a race that had held out so long against its enemies. the gray rats that lived in the courtyard at glimminge and in the vicinity, kept up a continuous warfare and tried to watch out for every possible chance to capture the castle. one would fancy that they should have allowed the little company of black rats to occupy glimminge castle in peace, since they themselves had acquired all the rest of the country; but you may be sure this thought never occurred to them. they were wont to say that it was a point of honour with them to conquer the black rats at some time or other. but those who were acquainted with the gray rats must have known that it was because the human kind used glimminge castle as a grain store-house that the gray ones could not rest before they had taken possession of the place. the stork _monday, march twenty-eighth_. early one morning the wild geese who stood and slept on the ice in vomb lake were awakened by long calls from the air. "trirop, trirop!" it sounded, "trianut, the crane, sends greetings to akka, the wild goose, and her flock. to-morrow will be the day of the great crane dance on kullaberg." akka raised her head and answered at once: "greetings and thanks! greetings and thanks!" with that, the cranes flew farther; and the wild geese heard them for a long while--where they travelled and called out over every field, and every wooded hill: "trianut sends greetings. to-morrow will be the day of the great crane dance on kullaberg." the wild geese were very happy over this invitation. "you're in luck," they said to the white goosey-gander, "to be permitted to attend the great crane dance on kullaberg!" "is it then so remarkable to see cranes dance?" asked the goosey-gander. "it is something that you have never even dreamed about!" replied the wild geese. "now we must think out what we shall do with thumbietot to-morrow--so that no harm can come to him, while we run over to kullaberg," said akka. "thumbietot shall not be left alone!" said the goosey-gander. "if the cranes won't let him see their dance, then i'll stay with him." "no human being has ever been permitted to attend the animal's congress, at kullaberg," said akka, "and i shouldn't dare to take thumbietot along. but we'll discuss this more at length later in the day. now we must first and foremost think about getting something to eat." with that akka gave the signal to adjourn. on this day she also sought her feeding-place a good distance away, on smirre fox's account, and she didn't alight until she came to the swampy meadows a little south of glimminge castle. all that day the boy sat on the shores of a little pond, and blew on reed-pipes. he was out of sorts because he shouldn't see the crane dance, and he just couldn't say a word, either to the goosey-gander, or to any of the others. it was pretty hard that akka should still doubt him. when a boy had given up being human, just to travel around with a few wild geese, they surely ought to understand that he had no desire to betray them. then, too, they ought to understand that when he had renounced so much to follow them, it was their duty to let him see all the wonders they could show him. "i'll have to speak my mind right out to them," thought he. but hour after hour passed, still he hadn't come round to it. it may sound remarkable--but the boy had actually acquired a kind of respect for the old leader-goose. he felt that it was not easy to pit his will against hers. on one side of the swampy meadow, where the wild geese fed, there was a broad stone hedge. toward evening when the boy finally raised his head, to speak to akka, his glance happened to rest on this hedge. he uttered a little cry of surprise, and all the wild geese instantly looked up, and stared in the same direction. at first, both the geese and the boy thought that all the round, gray stones in the hedge had acquired legs, and were starting on a run; but soon they saw that it was a company of rats who ran over it. they moved very rapidly, and ran forward, tightly packed, line upon line, and were so numerous that, for some time, they covered the entire stone hedge. the boy had been afraid of rats, even when he was a big, strong human being. then what must his feelings be now, when he was so tiny that two or three of them could overpower him? one shudder after another travelled down his spinal column as he stood and stared at them. but strangely enough, the wild geese seemed to feel the same aversion toward the rats that he did. they did not speak to them; and when they were gone, they shook themselves as if their feathers had been mud-spattered. "such a lot of gray rats abroad!" said iksi from vassipaure. "that's not a good omen." the boy intended to take advantage of this opportunity to say to akka that he thought she ought to let him go with them to kullaberg, but he was prevented anew, for all of a sudden a big bird came down in the midst of the geese. one could believe, when one looked at this bird, that he had borrowed body, neck and head from a little white goose. but in addition to this, he had procured for himself large black wings, long red legs, and a thick bill, which was too large for the little head, and weighed it down until it gave him a sad and worried look. akka at once straightened out the folds of her wings, and curtsied many times as she approached the stork. she wasn't specially surprised to see him in skåne so early in the spring, because she knew that the male storks are in the habit of coming in good season to take a look at the nest, and see that it hasn't been damaged during the winter, before the female storks go to the trouble of flying over the east sea. but she wondered very much what it might signify that he sought her out, since storks prefer to associate with members of their own family. "i can hardly believe that there is anything wrong with your house, herr ermenrich," said akka. it was apparent now that it is true what they say: a stork can seldom open his bill without complaining. but what made the thing he said sound even more doleful was that it was difficult for him to speak out. he stood for a long time and only clattered with his bill; afterward he spoke in a hoarse and feeble voice. he complained about everything: the nest--which was situated at the very top of the roof-tree at glimminge castle--had been totally destroyed by winter storms; and no food could he get any more in skåne. the people of skåne were appropriating all his possessions. they dug out his marshes and laid waste his swamps. he intended to move away from this country, and never return to it again. while the stork grumbled, akka, the wild goose who had neither home nor protection, could not help thinking to herself: "if i had things as comfortable as you have, herr ermenrich, i should be above complaining. you have remained a free and wild bird; and still you stand so well with human beings that no one will fire a shot at you, or steal an egg from your nest." but all this she kept to herself. to the stork she only remarked, that she couldn't believe he would be willing to move from a house where storks had resided ever since it was built. then the stork suddenly asked the geese if they had seen the gray rats who were marching toward glimminge castle. when akka replied that she had seen the horrid creatures, he began to tell her about the brave black rats who, for years, had defended the castle. "but this night glimminge castle will fall into the gray rats' power," sighed the stork. "and why just this night, herr ermenrich?" asked akka. "well, because nearly all the black rats went over to kullaberg last night," said the stork, "since they had counted on all the rest of the animals also hurrying there. but you see that the gray rats have stayed at home; and now they are mustering to storm the castle to-night, when it will be defended by only a few old creatures who are too feeble to go over to kullaberg. they'll probably accomplish their purpose. but i have lived here in harmony with the black rats for so many years, that it does not please me to live in a place inhabited by their enemies." akka understood now that the stork had become so enraged over the gray rats' mode of action, that he had sought her out as an excuse to complain about them. but after the manner of storks, he certainly had done nothing to avert the disaster. "have you sent word to the black rats, herr ermenrich?" she asked. "no," replied the stork, "that wouldn't be of any use. before they can get back, the castle will be taken." "you mustn't be so sure of that, herr ermenrich," said akka. "i know an old wild goose, i do, who will gladly prevent outrages of this kind." when akka said this, the stork raised his head and stared at her. and it was not surprising, for akka had neither claws nor bill that were fit for fighting; and, in the bargain, she was a day bird, and as soon as it grew dark she fell helplessly asleep, while the rats did their fighting at night. but akka had evidently made up her mind to help the black rats. she called iksi from vassijaure, and ordered him to take the wild geese over to vonib lake; and when the geese made excuses, she said authoritatively: "i believe it will be best for us all that you obey me. i must fly over to the big stone house, and if you follow me, the people on the place will be sure to see us, and shoot us down. the only one that i want to take with me on this trip is thumbietot. he can be of great service to me because he has good eyes, and can keep awake at night." the boy was in his most contrary mood that day. and when he heard what akka said, he raised himself to his full height and stepped forward, his hands behind him and his nose in the air, and he intended to say that he, most assuredly, did not wish to take a hand in the fight with gray rats. she might look around for assistance elsewhere. but the instant the boy was seen, the stork began to move. he had stood before, as storks generally stand, with head bent downward and the bill pressed against the neck. but now a gurgle was heard deep down in his windpipe; as though he would have laughed. quick as a flash, he lowered the bill, grabbed the boy, and tossed him a couple of metres in the air. this feat he performed seven times, while the boy shrieked and the geese shouted: "what are you trying to do, herr ermenrich? that's not a frog. that's a human being, herr ermenrich." finally the stork put the boy down entirely unhurt. thereupon he said to akka, "i'll fly back to glimminge castle now, mother akka. all who live there were very much worried when i left. you may be sure they'll be very glad when i tell them that akka, the wild goose, and thumbietot, the human elf, are on their way to rescue them." with that the stork craned his neck, raised his wings, and darted off like an arrow when it leaves a well-drawn bow. akka understood that he was making fun of her, but she didn't let it bother her. she waited until the boy had found his wooden shoes, which the stork had shaken off; then she put him on her back and followed the stork. on his own account, the boy made no objection, and said not a word about not wanting to go along. he had become so furious with the stork, that he actually sat and puffed. that long, red-legged thing believed he was of no account just because he was little; but he would show him what kind of a man nils holgersson from west vemminghög was. a couple of moments later akka stood in the storks' nest. it had a wheel for foundation, and over this lay several grass-mats, and some twigs. the nest was so old that many shrubs and plants had taken root up there; and when the mother stork sat on her eggs in the round hole in the middle of the nest, she not only had the beautiful outlook over a goodly portion of skåne to enjoy, but she had also the wild brier-blossoms and house-leeks to look upon. both akka and the boy saw immediately that something was going on here which turned upside down the most regular order. on the edge of the stork-nest sat two gray owls, an old, gray-streaked cat, and a dozen old, decrepit rats with protruding teeth and watery eyes. they were not exactly the sort of animals one usually finds living peaceably together. not one of them turned around to look at akka, or to bid her welcome. they thought of nothing except to sit and stare at some long, gray lines, which came into sight here and there--on the winter-naked meadows. all the black rats were silent. one could see that they were in deep despair, and probably knew that they could neither defend their own lives nor the castle. the two owls sat and rolled their big eyes, and twisted their great, encircling eyebrows, and talked in hollow, ghost-like voices, about the awful cruelty of the gray rats, and that they would have to move away from their nest, because they had heard it said of them that they spared neither eggs nor baby birds. the old gray-streaked cat was positive that the gray rats would bite him to death, since they were coming into the castle in such great numbers, and he scolded the black rats incessantly. "how could you be so idiotic as to let your best fighters go away?" said he. "how could you trust the gray rats? it is absolutely unpardonable!" the twelve black rats did not say a word. but the stork, despite his misery, could not refrain from teasing the cat. "don't worry so, monsie house-cat!" said he. "can't you see that mother akka and thumbietot have come to save the castle? you can be certain that they'll succeed. now i must stand up to sleep--and i do so with the utmost calm. to-morrow, when i awaken, there won't be a single gray rat in glimminge castle." the boy winked at akka, and made a sign--as the stork stood upon the very edge of the nest, with one leg drawn up, to sleep--that he wanted to push him down to the ground; but akka restrained him. she did not seem to be the least bit angry. instead, she said in a confident tone of voice: "it would be pretty poor business if one who is as old as i am could not manage to get out of worse difficulties than this. if only mr. and mrs. owl, who can stay awake all night, will fly off with a couple of messages for me, i think that all will go well." both owls were willing. then akka bade the gentleman owl that he should go and seek the black rats who had gone off, and counsel them to hurry home immediately. the lady owl she sent to flammea, the steeple-owl, who lived in lund cathedral, with a commission which was so secret that akka only dared to confide it to her in a whisper. the rat charmer it was getting on toward midnight when the gray rats after a diligent search succeeded in finding an open air-hole in the cellar. this was pretty high upon the wall; but the rats got up on one another's shoulders, and it wasn't long before the most daring among them sat in the air-hole, ready to force its way into glimminge castle, outside whose walls so many of its forebears had fallen. the gray rat sat still for a moment in the hole, and waited for an attack from within. the leader of the defenders was certainly away, but she assumed that the black rats who were still in the castle wouldn't surrender without a struggle. with thumping heart she listened for the slightest sound, but everything remained quiet. then the leader of the gray rats plucked up courage and jumped down in the coal-black cellar. one after another of the gray rats followed the leader. they all kept very quiet; and all expected to be ambushed by the black rats. not until so many of them had crowded into the cellar that the floor couldn't hold any more, did they venture farther. although they had never before been inside the building, they had no difficulty in finding their way. they soon found the passages in the walls which the black rats had used to get to the upper floors. before they began to clamber up these narrow and steep steps, they listened again with great attention. they felt more frightened because the black rats held themselves aloof in this way, than if they had met them in open battle. they could hardly believe their luck when they reached the first story without any mishaps. immediately upon their entrance the gray rats caught the scent of the grain, which was stored in great bins on the floor. but it was not as yet time for them to begin to enjoy their conquest. they searched first, with the utmost caution, through the sombre, empty rooms. they ran up in the fireplace, which stood on the floor in the old castle kitchen, and they almost tumbled into the well, in the inner room. not one of the narrow peep-holes did they leave uninspected, but they found no black rats. when this floor was wholly in their possession, they began, with the same caution, to acquire the next. then they had to venture on a bold and dangerous climb through the walls, while, with breathless anxiety, they awaited an assault from the enemy. and although they were tempted by the most delicious odour from the grain bins, they forced themselves most systematically to inspect the old-time warriors' pillar-propped kitchen; their stone table, and fireplace; the deep window-niches, and the hole in the floor--which in olden time had been opened to pour down boiling pitch on the intruding enemy. all this time the black rats were invisible. the gray ones groped their way to the third story, and into the lord of the castle's great banquet hall--which stood there cold and empty, like all the other rooms in the old house. they even groped their way to the upper story, which had but one big, barren room. the only place they did not think of exploring was the big stork-nest on the roof--where, just at this time, the lady owl awakened akka, and informed her that flammea, the steeple owl, had granted her request, and had sent her the thing she wished for. since the gray rats had so conscientiously inspected the entire castle, they felt at ease. they took it for granted that the black rats had flown, and didn't intend to offer any resistance; and, with light hearts, they ran up into the grain bins. but the gray rats had hardly swallowed the first wheat-grains, before the sound of a little shrill pipe was heard from the yard. the gray rats raised their heads, listened anxiously, ran a few steps as if they intended to leave the bin, then they turned back and began to eat once more. again the pipe sounded a sharp and piercing note--and now something wonderful happened. one rat, two rats--yes, a whole lot of rats left the grain, jumped from the bins and hurried down cellar by the shortest cut, to get out of the house. still there were many gray rats left. these thought of all the toil and trouble it had cost them to win glimminge castle, and they did not want to leave it. but again they caught the tones from the pipe, and had to follow them. with wild excitement they rushed up from the bins, slid down through the narrow holes in the walls, and tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get out. in the middle of the courtyard stood a tiny creature, who blew upon a pipe. all round him he had a whole circle of rats who listened to him, astonished and fascinated; and every moment brought more. once he took the pipe from his lips--only for a second--put his thumb to his nose and wiggled his fingers at the gray rats; and then it looked as if they wanted to throw themselves on him and bite him to death; but as soon as he blew on his pipe they were in his power. when the tiny creature had played all the gray rats out of glimminge castle, he began to wander slowly from the courtyard out on the highway; and all the gray rats followed him, because the tones from that pipe sounded so sweet to their ears that they could not resist them. the tiny creature walked before them and charmed them along with him, on the road to vallby. he led them into all sorts of crooks and turns and bends--on through hedges and down into ditches--and wherever he went they had to follow. he blew continuously on his pipe, which appeared to be made from an animal's horn, although the horn was so small that, in our days, there were no animals from whose foreheads it could have been broken. no one knew, either, who had made it. flammea, the steeple-owl, had found it in a niche, in lund cathedral. she had shown it to bataki, the raven; and they had both figured out that this was the kind of horn that was used in former times by those who wished to gain power over rats and mice. but the raven was akka's friend; and it was from him she had learned that flammea owned a treasure like this. and it was true that the rats could not resist the pipe. the boy walked before them and played as long as the starlight lasted--and all the while they followed him. he played at daybreak; he played at sunrise; and the whole time the entire procession of gray rats followed him, and were enticed farther and farther away from the big grain loft at glimminge castle. the great crane dance on kullaberg _tuesday, march twenty-ninth_. although there are many magnificent buildings in skåne, it must be acknowledged that there's not one among them that has such pretty walls as old kullaberg. kullaberg is low and rather long. it is not by any means a big or imposing mountain. on its broad summit you'll find woods and grain fields, and one and another heather-heath. here and there, round heather-knolls and barren cliffs rise up. it is not especially pretty up there. it looks a good deal like all the other upland places in skåne. he who walks along the path which runs across the middle of the mountain, can't help feeling a little disappointed. then he happens, perhaps, to turn away from the path, and wanders off toward the mountain's sides and looks down over the bluffs; and then, all at once, he will discover so much that is worth seeing, he hardly knows how he'll find time to take in the whole of it. for it happens that kullaberg does not stand on the land, with plains and valleys around it, like other mountains; but it has plunged into the sea, as far out as it could get. not even the tiniest strip of land lies below the mountain to protect it against the breakers; but these reach all the way up to the mountain walls, and can polish and mould them to suit themselves. this is why the walls stand there as richly ornamented as the sea and its helpmeet, the wind, have been able to effect. you'll find steep ravines that are deeply chiselled in the mountain's sides; and black crags that have become smooth and shiny under the constant lashing of the winds. there are solitary rock-columns that spring right up out of the water, and dark grottoes with narrow entrances. there are barren, perpendicular precipices, and soft, leaf-clad inclines. there are small points, and small inlets, and small rolling stones that are rattlingly washed up and down with every dashing breaker. there are majestic cliff-arches that project over the water. there are sharp stones that are constantly sprayed by a white foam; and others that mirror themselves in unchangeable dark-green still water. there are giant troll-caverns shaped in the rock, and great crevices that lure the wanderer to venture into the mountain's depths--all the way to kullman's hollow. and over and around all these cliffs and rocks crawl entangled tendrils and weeds. trees grow there also, but the wind's power is so great that trees have to transform themselves into clinging vines, that they may get a firm hold on the steep precipices. the oaks creep along on the ground, while their foliage hangs over them like a low ceiling; and long-limbed beeches stand in the ravines like great leaf-tents. these remarkable mountain walls, with the blue sea beneath them, and the clear penetrating air above them, is what makes kullaberg so dear to the people that great crowds of them haunt the place every day as long as the summer lasts. but it is more difficult to tell what it is that makes it so attractive to animals, that every year they gather there for a big play-meeting. this is a custom that has been observed since time immemorial; and one should have been there when the first sea-wave was dashed into foam against the shore, to be able to explain just why kullaberg was chosen as a rendezvous, in preference to all other places. when the meeting is to take place, the stags and roebucks and hares and foxes and all the other four-footers make the journey to kullaberg the night before, so as not to be observed by the human beings. just before sunrise they all march up to the playground, which is a heather-heath on the left side of the road, and not very far from the mountain's most extreme point. the playground is inclosed on all sides by round knolls, which conceal it from any and all who do not happen to come right upon it. and in the month of march it is not at all likely that any pedestrians will stray off up there. all the strangers who usually stroll around on the rocks, and clamber up the mountain's sides the fall storms have driven away these many months past. and the lighthouse keeper out there on the point; the old fru on the mountain farm, and the mountain peasant and his house-folk go their accustomed ways, and do not run about on the desolate heather-fields. when the four-footers have arrived on the playground, they take their places on the round knolls. each animal family keeps to itself, although it is understood that, on a day like this, universal peace reigns, and no one need fear attack. on this day a little hare might wander over to the foxes' hill, without losing as much as one of his long ears. but still the animals arrange themselves into separate groups. this is an old custom. after they have all taken their places, they begin to look around for the birds. it is always beautiful weather on this day. the cranes are good weather prophets, and would not call the animals together if they expected rain. although the air is clear, and nothing obstructs the vision, the four-footers see no birds. this is strange. the sun stands high in the heavens, and the birds should already be on their way. but what the animals, on the other hand, observe, is one and another little dark cloud that comes slowly forward over the plain. and look! one of these clouds comes gradually along the coast of Öresund, and up toward kullaberg. when the cloud has come just over the playground it stops, and, simultaneously, the entire cloud begins to ring and chirp, as if it was made of nothing but tone. it rises and sinks, rises and sinks, but all the while it rings and chirps. at last the whole cloud falls down over a knoll--all at once--and the next instant the knoll is entirely covered with gray larks, pretty red-white-gray bulfinches, speckled starlings and greenish-yellow titmice. soon after that, another cloud comes over the plain. this stops over every bit of land; over peasant cottage and palace; over towns and cities; over farms and railway stations; over fishing hamlets and sugar refineries. every time it stops, it draws to itself a little whirling column of gray dust-grains from the ground. in this way it grows and grows. and at last, when it is all gathered up and heads for kullaberg, it is no longer a cloud but a whole mist, which is so big that it throws a shadow on the ground all the way from höganäs to mölle. when it stops over the playground it hides the sun; and for a long while it had to rain gray sparrows on one of the knolls, before those who had been flying in the innermost part of the mist could again catch a glimpse of the daylight. but still the biggest of these bird-clouds is the one which now appears. this has been formed of birds who have travelled from every direction to join it. it is dark bluish-gray, and no sun-ray can penetrate it. it is full of the ghastliest noises, the most frightful shrieks, the grimmest laughter, and most ill-luck-boding croaking! all on the playground are glad when it finally resolves itself into a storm of fluttering and croaking: of crows and jackdaws and rooks and ravens. thereupon not only clouds are seen in the heavens, but a variety of stripes and figures. then straight, dotted lines appear in the east and northeast. these are forest-birds from göinge districts: black grouse and wood grouse who come flying in long lines a couple of metres apart. swimming-birds that live around måkläppen, just out of falsterbo, now come floating over Öresund in many extraordinary figures: in triangular and long curves; in sharp hooks and semicircles. to the great reunion held the year that nils holgersson travelled around with the wild geese, came akka and her flock--later than all the others. and that was not to be wondered at, for akka had to fly over the whole of skåne to get to kullaberg. beside, as soon as she awoke, she had been obliged to go out and hunt for thumbietot, who, for many hours, had gone and played to the gray rats, and lured them far away from glimminge castle. mr. owl had returned with the news that the black rats would be at home immediately after sunrise; and there was no longer any danger in letting the steeple-owl's pipe be hushed, and to give the gray rats the liberty to go where they pleased. but it was not akka who discovered the boy where he walked with his long following, and quickly sank down over him and caught him with the bill and swung into the air with him, but it was herr ermenrich, the stork! for herr ermenrich had also gone out to look for him; and after he had borne him up to the stork-nest, he begged his forgiveness for having treated him with disrespect the evening before. this pleased the boy immensely, and the stork and he became good friends. akka, too, showed him that she felt very kindly toward him; she stroked her old head several times against his arms, and commended him because he had helped those who were in trouble. but this one must say to the boy's credit: that he did not want to accept praise which he had not earned. "no, mother akka," he said, "you mustn't think that i lured the gray rats away to help the black ones. i only wanted to show herr ermenrich that i was of some consequence." he had hardly said this before akka turned to the stork and asked if he thought it was advisable to take thumbietot along to kullaberg. "i mean, that we can rely on him as upon ourselves," said she. the stork at once advised, most enthusiastically, that thumbietot be permitted to come along. "certainly you shall take thumbietot along to kullaberg, mother akka," said he. "it is fortunate for us that we can repay him for all that he has endured this night for our sakes. and since it still grieves me to think that i did not conduct myself in a becoming manner toward him the other evening, it is i who will carry him on my back--all the way to the meeting place." there isn't much that tastes better than to receive praise from those who are themselves wise and capable; and the boy had certainly never felt so happy as he did when the wild goose and the stork talked about him in this way. thus the boy made the trip to kullaberg, riding stork-back. although he knew that this was a great honour, it caused him much anxiety, for herr ermenrich was a master flyer, and started off at a very different pace from the wild geese. while akka flew her straight way with even wing-strokes, the stork amused himself by performing a lot of flying tricks. now he lay still in an immeasurable height, and floated in the air without moving his wings, now he flung himself downward with such sudden haste that it seemed as though he would fall to the ground, helpless as a stone; now he had lots of fun flying all around akka, in great and small circles, like a whirlwind. the boy had never been on a ride of this sort before; and although he sat there all the while in terror, he had to acknowledge to himself that he had never before known what a good flight meant. only a single pause was made during the journey, and that was at vomb lake when akka joined her travelling companions, and called to them that the gray rats had been vanquished. after that, the travellers flew straight to kullaberg. there they descended to the knoll reserved for the wild geese; and as the boy let his glance wander from knoll to knoll, he saw on one of them the many-pointed antlers of the stags; and on another, the gray herons' neck-crests. one knoll was red with foxes, one was gray with rats; one was covered with black ravens who shrieked continually, one with larks who simply couldn't keep still, but kept on throwing themselves in the air and singing for very joy. just as it has ever been the custom on kullaberg, it was the crows who began the day's games and frolics with their flying-dance. they divided themselves into two flocks, that flew toward each other, met, turned, and began all over again. this dance had many repetitions, and appeared to the spectators who were not familiar with the dance as altogether too monotonous. the crows were very proud of their dance, but all the others were glad when it was over. it appeared to the animals about as gloomy and meaningless as the winter-storms' play with the snow-flakes. it depressed them to watch it, and they waited eagerly for something that should give them a little pleasure. they did not have to wait in vain, either; for as soon as the crows had finished, the hares came running. they dashed forward in a long row, without any apparent order. in some of the figures, one single hare came; in others, they ran three and four abreast. they had all raised themselves on two legs, and they rushed forward with such rapidity that their long ears swayed in all directions. as they ran, they spun round, made high leaps and beat their forepaws against their hind-paws so that they rattled. some performed a long succession of somersaults, others doubled themselves up and rolled over like wheels; one stood on one leg and swung round; one walked upon his forepaws. there was no regulation whatever, but there was much that was droll in the hares' play; and the many animals who stood and watched them began to breathe faster. now it was spring; joy and rapture were advancing. winter was over; summer was coming. soon it was only play to live. when the hares had romped themselves out, it was the great forest birds' turn to perform. hundreds of wood-grouse in shining dark-brown array, and with bright red eyebrows, flung themselves up into a great oak that stood in the centre of the playground. the one who sat upon the topmost branch fluffed up his feathers, lowered his wings, and lifted his tail so that the white covert-feathers were seen. thereupon he stretched his neck and sent forth a couple of deep notes from his thick throat. "tjack, tjack, tjack," it sounded. more than this he could not utter. it only gurgled a few times way down in the throat. then he closed his eyes and whispered: "sis, sis, sis. hear how pretty! sis, sis, sis." at the same time he fell into such an ecstasy that he no longer knew what was going on around him. while the first wood grouse was sissing, the three nearest--under him--began to sing; and before they had finished their song, the ten who sat lower down joined in; and thus it continued from branch to branch, until the entire hundred grouse sang and gurgled and sissed. they all fell into the same ecstasy during their song, and this affected the other animals like a contagious transport. lately the blood had flowed lightly and agreeably; now it began to grow heavy and hot. "yes, this is surely spring," thought all the animal folk. "winter chill has vanished. the fires of spring burn over the earth." when the black grouse saw that the brown grouse were having such success, they could no longer keep quiet. as there was no tree for them to light on, they rushed down on the playground, where the heather stood so high that only their beautifully turned tail-feathers and their thick bills were visible--and they began to sing: "orr, orr, orr." just as the black grouse began to compete with the brown grouse, something unprecedented happened. while all the animals thought of nothing but the grouse-game, a fox stole slowly over to the wild geese's knoll. he glided very cautiously, and came way up on the knoll before anyone noticed him. suddenly a goose caught sight of him; and as she could not believe that a fox had sneaked in among the geese for any good purpose, she began to cry: "have a care, wild geese! have a care!" the fox struck her across the throat--mostly, perhaps, because he wanted to make her keep quiet--but the wild geese had already heard the cry and they all raised themselves in the air. and when they had flown up, the animals saw smirre fox standing on the wild geese's knoll, with a dead goose in his mouth. but because he had in this way broken the play-day's peace, such a punishment was meted out to smirre fox that, for the rest of his days, he must regret he had not been able to control his thirst for revenge, but had attempted to approach akka and her flock in this manner. he was immediately surrounded by a crowd of foxes, and doomed in accordance with an old custom, which demands that whosoever disturbs the peace on the great play-day, must go into exile. not a fox wished to lighten the sentence, since they all knew that the instant they attempted anything of the sort, they would be driven from the playground, and would nevermore be permitted to enter it. banishment was pronounced upon smirre without opposition. he was forbidden to remain in skåne. he was banished from wife and kindred; from hunting grounds, home, resting places and retreats, which he had hitherto owned; and he must tempt fortune in foreign lands. so that all foxes in skåne should know that smirre was outlawed in the district, the oldest of the foxes bit off his right earlap. as soon as this was done, all the young foxes began to yowl from blood-thirst, and threw themselves on smirre. for him there was no alternative except to take flight; and with all the young foxes in hot pursuit, he rushed away from kullaberg. all this happened while black grouse and brown grouse were going on with their games. but these birds lose themselves so completely in their song, that they neither hear nor see. nor had they permitted themselves to be disturbed. the forest birds' contest was barely over, before the stags from häckeberga came forward to show their wrestling game. there were several pairs of stags who fought at the same time. they rushed at each other with tremendous force, struck their antlers dashingly together, so that their points were entangled; and tried to force each other backward. the heather-heaths were torn up beneath their hoofs; the breath came like smoke from their nostrils; out of their throats strained hideous bellowings, and the froth oozed down on their shoulders. on the knolls round about there was breathless silence while the skilled stag-wrestlers clinched. in all the animals new emotions were awakened. each and all felt courageous and, strong; enlivened by returning powers; born again with the spring; sprightly, and ready for all kinds of adventures. they felt no enmity toward each other, although, everywhere, wings were lifted, neck-feathers raised and claws sharpened. if the stags from häckeberga had continued another instant, a wild struggle would have arisen on the knolls, for all had been gripped with a burning desire to show that they too were full of life because the winter's impotence was over and strength surged through their bodies. but the stags stopped wrestling just at the right moment, and instantly a whisper went from knoll to knoll: "the cranes are coming!" and then came the gray, dusk-clad birds with plumes in their wings, and red feather-ornaments on their necks. the big birds with their tall legs, their slender throats, their small heads, came gliding down the knoll with an abandon that was full of mystery. as they glided forward they swung round--half flying, half dancing. with wings gracefully lifted, they moved with an inconceivable rapidity. there was something marvellous and strange about their dance. it was as though gray shadows had played a game which the eye could scarcely follow. it was as if they had learned it from the mists that hover over desolate morasses. there was witchcraft in it. all those who had never before been on kullaberg understood why the whole meeting took its name from the crane's dance. there was wildness in it; but yet the feeling which it awakened was a delicious longing. no one thought any more about struggling. instead, both the winged and those who had no wings, all wanted to raise themselves eternally, lift themselves above the clouds, seek that which was hidden beyond them, leave the oppressive body that dragged them down to earth and soar away toward the infinite. such longing after the unattainable, after the hidden mysteries back of this life, the animals felt only once a year; and this was on the day when they beheld the great crane dance. in rainy weather _wednesday, march thirtieth_. it was the first rainy day of the trip. as long as the wild geese had remained in the vicinity of vomb lake, they had had beautiful weather; but on the day when they set out to travel farther north, it began to rain, and for several hours the boy had to sit on the goose-back, soaking wet, and shivering with the cold. in the morning when they started, it had been clear and mild. the wild geese had flown high up in the air--evenly, and without haste--with akka at the head maintaining strict discipline, and the rest in two oblique lines back of her. they had not taken the time to shout any witty sarcasms to the animals on the ground; but, as it was simply impossible for them to keep perfectly silent, they sang out continually--in rhythm with the wing-strokes--their usual coaxing call: "where are you? here am i. where are you? here am i." they all took part in this persistent calling, and only stopped, now and then, to show the goosey-gander the landmarks they were travelling over. the places on this route included linderödsosen's dry hills, ovesholm's manor, christianstad's church steeple, bäckaskog's royal castle on the narrow isthmus between oppmann's lake and ivö's lake, ryss mountain's steep precipice. it had been a monotonous trip, and when the rain-clouds made their appearance the boy thought it was a real diversion. in the old days, when he had only seen a rain-cloud from below, he had imagined that they were gray and disagreeable; but it was a very different thing to be up amongst them. now he saw distinctly that the clouds were enormous carts, which drove through the heavens with sky-high loads. some of them were piled up with huge, gray sacks, some with barrels; some were so large that they could hold a whole lake; and a few were filled with big utensils and bottles which were piled up to an immense height. and when so many of them had driven forward that they filled the whole sky, it appeared as though someone had given a signal, for all at once, water commenced to pour down over the earth, from utensils, barrels, bottles and sacks. just as the first spring-showers pattered against the ground, there arose such shouts of joy from all the small birds in groves and pastures, that the whole air rang with them and the boy leaped high where he sat. "now we'll have rain. rain gives us spring; spring gives us flowers and green leaves; green leaves and flowers give us worms and insects; worms and insects give us food; and plentiful and good food is the best thing there is," sang the birds. the wild geese, too, were glad of the rain which came to awaken the growing things from their long sleep, and to drive holes in the ice-roofs on the lakes. they were not able to keep up that seriousness any longer, but began to send merry calls over the neighbourhood. when they flew over the big potato patches, which are so plentiful in the country around christianstad--and which still lay bare and black--they screamed: "wake up and be useful! here comes something that will awaken you. you have idled long enough now." when they saw people who hurried to get out of the rain, they reproved them saying: "what are you in such a hurry about? can't you see that it's raining rye-loaves and cookies?" it was a big, thick mist that moved northward briskly, and followed close upon the geese. they seemed to think that they dragged the mist along with them; and, just now, when they saw great orchards beneath them, they called out proudly: "here we come with anemones; here we come with roses; here we come with apple blossoms and cherry buds; here we come with peas and beans and turnips and cabbages. he who wills can take them. he who wills can take them." thus it had sounded while the first showers fell, and when all were still glad of the rain. but when it continued to fall the whole afternoon, the wild geese grew impatient, and cried to the thirsty forests around ivös lake: "haven't you got enough yet? haven't you got enough yet?" the heavens were growing grayer and grayer and the sun hid itself so well that one couldn't imagine where it was. the rain fell faster and faster, and beat harder and harder against the wings, as it tried to find its way between the oily outside feathers, into their skins. the earth was hidden by fogs; lakes, mountains, and woods floated together in an indistinct maze, and the landmarks could not be distinguished. the flight became slower and slower; the joyful cries were hushed; and the boy felt the cold more and more keenly. but still he had kept up his courage as long as he had ridden through the air. and in the afternoon, when they had lighted under a little stunted pine, in the middle of a large morass, where all was wet, and all was cold; where some knolls were covered with snow, and others stood up naked in a puddle of half-melted ice-water, even then, he had not felt discouraged, but ran about in fine spirits, and hunted for cranberries and frozen whortleberries. but then came evening, and darkness sank down on them so close, that not even such eyes as the boy's could see through it; and all the wilderness became so strangely grim and awful. the boy lay tucked in under the goosey-gander's wing, but could not sleep because he was cold and wet. he heard such a lot of rustling and rattling and stealthy steps and menacing voices, that he was terror-stricken and didn't know where he should go. he must go somewhere, where there was light and heat, if he wasn't going to be entirely scared to death. "if i should venture where there are human beings, just for this night?" thought the boy. "only so i could sit by a fire for a moment, and get a little food. i could go back to the wild geese before sunrise." he crept from under the wing and slid down to the ground. he didn't awaken either the goosey-gander or any of the other geese, but stole, silently and unobserved, through the morass. he didn't know exactly where on earth he was: if he was in skåne, in småland, or in blekinge. but just before he had gotten down in the morass, he had caught a glimpse of a large village, and thither he directed his steps. it wasn't long, either, before he discovered a road; and soon he was on the village street, which was long, and had planted trees on both sides, and was bordered with garden after garden. the boy had come to one of the big cathedral towns, which are so common on the uplands, but can hardly be seen at all down in the plain. the houses were of wood, and very prettily constructed. most of them had gables and fronts, edged with carved mouldings, and glass doors, with here and there a coloured pane, opening on verandas. the walls were painted in light oil-colours; the doors and window-frames shone in blues and greens, and even in reds. while the boy walked about and viewed the houses, he could hear, all the way out to the road, how the people who sat in the warm cottages chattered and laughed. the words he could not distinguish, but he thought it was just lovely to hear human voices. "i wonder what they would say if i knocked and begged to be let in," thought he. this was, of course, what he had intended to do all along, but now that he saw the lighted windows, his fear of the darkness was gone. instead, he felt again that shyness which always came over him now when he was near human beings. "i'll take a look around the town for a while longer," thought he, "before i ask anyone to take me in." on one house there was a balcony. and just as the boy walked by, the doors were thrown open, and a yellow light streamed through the fine, sheer curtains. then a pretty young fru came out on the balcony and leaned over the railing. "it's raining; now we shall soon have spring," said she. when the boy saw her he felt a strange anxiety. it was as though he wanted to weep. for the first time he was a bit uneasy because he had shut himself out from the human kind. shortly after that he walked by a shop. outside the shop stood a red corn-drill. he stopped and looked at it; and finally crawled up to the driver's place, and seated himself. when he had got there, he smacked with his lips and pretended that he sat and drove. he thought what fun it would be to be permitted to drive such a pretty machine over a grainfield. for a moment he forgot what he was like now; then he remembered it, and jumped down quickly from the machine. then a greater unrest came over him. after all, human beings were very wonderful and clever. he walked by the post-office, and then he thought of all the newspapers which came every day, with news from all the four corners of the earth. he saw the apothecary's shop and the doctor's home, and he thought about the power of human beings, which was so great that they were able to battle with sickness and death. he came to the church. then he thought how human beings had built it, that they might hear about another world than the one in which they lived, of god and the resurrection and eternal life. and the longer he walked there, the better he liked human beings. it is so with children that they never think any farther ahead than the length of their noses. that which lies nearest them, they want promptly, without caring what it may cost them. nils holgersson had not understood what he was losing when he chose to remain an elf; but now he began to be dreadfully afraid that, perhaps, he should never again get back to his right form. how in all the world should he go to work in order to become human? this he wanted, oh! so much, to know. he crawled up on a doorstep, and seated himself in the pouring rain and meditated. he sat there one whole hour--two whole hours, and he thought so hard that his forehead lay in furrows; but he was none the wiser. it seemed as though the thoughts only rolled round and round in his head. the longer he sat there, the more impossible it seemed to him to find any solution. "this thing is certainly much too difficult for one who has learned as little as i have," he thought at last. "it will probably wind up by my having to go back among human beings after all. i must ask the minister and the doctor and the schoolmaster and others who are learned, and may know a cure for such things." this he concluded that he would do at once, and shook himself--for he was as wet as a dog that has been in a water-pool. just about then he saw that a big owl came flying along, and alighted on one of the trees that bordered the village street. the next instant a lady owl, who sat under the cornice of the house, began to call out: "kivitt, kivitt! are you at home again, mr. gray owl? what kind of a time did you have abroad?" "thank you, lady brown owl. i had a very comfortable time," said the gray owl. "has anything out of the ordinary happened here at home during my absence?" "not here in blekinge, mr. gray owl; but in skåne a marvellous thing has happened! a boy has been transformed by an elf into a goblin no bigger than a squirrel; and since then he has gone to lapland with a tame goose." "that's a remarkable bit of news, a remarkable bit of news. can he never be human again, lady brown owl? can he never be human again?" "that's a secret, mr. gray owl; but you shall hear it just the same. the elf has said that if the boy watches over the goosey-gander, so that he comes home safe and sound, and--" "what more, lady brown owl? what more? what more?" "fly with me up to the church tower, mr. gray owl, and you shall hear the whole story! i fear there may be someone listening down here in the street." with that, the owls flew their way; but the boy flung his cap in the air, and shouted: "if i only watch over the goosey-gander, so that he gets back safe and sound, then i shall become a human being again. hurrah! hurrah! then i shall become a human being again!" he shouted "hurrah" until it was strange that they did not hear him in the houses--but they didn't, and he hurried back to the wild geese, out in the wet morass, as fast as his legs could carry him. the stairway with the three steps _thursday, march thirty-first_. the following day the wild geese intended to travel northward through allbo district, in småland. they sent iksi and kaksi to spy out the land. but when they returned, they said that all the water was frozen, and all the land was snow-covered. "we may as well remain where we are," said the wild geese. "we cannot travel over a country where there is neither water nor food." "if we remain where we are, we may have to wait here until the next moon," said akka. "it is better to go eastward, through blekinge, and see if we can't get to småland by way of möre, which lies near the coast, and has an early spring." thus the boy came to ride over blekinge the next day. now, that it was light again, he was in a merry mood once more, and could not comprehend what had come over him the night before. he certainly didn't want to give up the journey and the outdoor life now. there lay a thick fog over blekinge. the boy couldn't see how it looked out there. "i wonder if it is a good, or a poor country that i'm riding over," thought he, and tried to search his memory for the things which he had heard about the country at school. but at the same time he knew well enough that this was useless, as he had never been in the habit of studying his lessons. at once the boy saw the whole school before him. the children sat by the little desks and raised their hands; the teacher sat in the lectern and looked displeased; and he himself stood before the map and should answer some question about blekinge, but he hadn't a word to say. the schoolmaster's face grew darker and darker for every second that passed, and the boy thought the teacher was more particular that they should know their geography, than anything else. now he came down from the lectern, took the pointer from the boy, and sent him back to his seat. "this won't end well," the boy thought then. but the schoolmaster had gone over to a window, and had stood there for a moment and looked out, and then he had whistled to himself once. then he had gone up into the lectern and said that he would tell them something about blekinge. and that which he then talked about had been so amusing that the boy had listened. when he only stopped and thought for a moment, he remembered every word. "småland is a tall house with spruce trees on the roof," said the teacher, "and leading up to it is a broad stairway with three big steps; and this stairway is called blekinge. it is a stairway that is well constructed. it stretches forty-two miles along the frontage of småland house, and anyone who wishes to go all the way down to the east sea, by way of the stairs, has twenty-four miles to wander. "a good long time must have elapsed since the stairway was built. both days and years have gone by since the steps were hewn from gray stones and laid down--evenly and smoothly--for a convenient track between småland and the east sea. "since the stairway is so old, one can, of course, understand that it doesn't look just the same now, as it did when it was new. i don't know how much they troubled themselves about such matters at that time; but big as it was, no broom could have kept it clean. after a couple of years, moss and lichen began to grow on it. in the autumn dry leaves and dry grass blew down over it; and in the spring it was piled up with falling stones and gravel. and as all these things were left there to mould, they finally gathered so much soil on the steps that not only herbs and grass, but even bushes and trees could take root there. "but, at the same time, a great disparity has arisen between the three steps. the topmost step, which lies nearest småland, is mostly covered with poor soil and small stones, and no trees except birches and bird-cherry and spruce--which can stand the cold on the heights, and are satisfied with little--can thrive up there. one understands best how poor and dry it is there, when one sees how small the field-plots are, that are ploughed up from the forest lands; and how many little cabins the people build for themselves; and how far it is between the churches. but on the middle step there is better soil, and it does not lie bound down under such severe cold, either. this one can see at a glance, since the trees are both higher and of finer quality. there you'll find maple and oak and linden and weeping-birch and hazel trees growing, but no cone-trees to speak of. and it is still more noticeable because of the amount of cultivated land that you will find there; and also because the people have built themselves great and beautiful houses. on the middle step, there are many churches, with large towns around them; and in every way it makes a better and finer appearance than the top step. "but the very lowest step is the best of all. it is covered with good rich soil; and, where it lies and bathes in the sea, it hasn't the slightest feeling of the småland chill. beeches and chestnut and walnut trees thrive down here; and they grow so big that they tower above the church-roofs. here lie also the largest grain-fields; but the people have not only timber and farming to live upon, but they are also occupied with fishing and trading and seafaring. for this reason you will find the most costly residences and the prettiest churches here; and the parishes have developed into villages and cities. "but this is not all that is said of the three steps. for one must realise that when it rains on the roof of the big småland house, or when the snow melts up there, the water has to go somewhere; and then, naturally, a lot of it is spilled over the big stairway. in the beginning it probably oozed over the whole stairway, big as it was; then cracks appeared in it, and, gradually, the water has accustomed itself to flow alongside of it, in well dug-out grooves. and water is water, whatever one does with it. it never has any rest. in one place it cuts and files away, and in another it adds to. those grooves it has dug into vales, and the walls of the vales it has decked with soil; and bushes and trees and vines have clung to them ever since--so thick, and in such profusion, that they almost hide the stream of water that winds its way down there in the deep. but when the streams come to the landings between the steps, they throw themselves headlong over them; this is why the water comes with such a seething rush, that it gathers strength with which to move mill-wheels and machinery--these, too, have sprung up by every waterfall. "but this does not tell all that is said of the land with the three steps. it must also be told that up in the big house in småland there lived once upon a time a giant, who had grown very old. and it fatigued him in his extreme age, to be forced to walk down that long stairway in order to catch salmon from the sea. to him it seemed much more suitable that the salmon should come up to him, where he lived. "therefore, he went up on the roof of his great house; and there he stood and threw stones down into the east sea. he threw them with such force that they flew over the whole of blekinge and dropped into the sea. and when the stones came down, the salmon got so scared that they came up from the sea and fled toward the blekinge streams; ran through the rapids; flung themselves with high leaps over the waterfalls, and stopped. "how true this is, one can see by the number of islands and points that lie along the coast of blekinge, and which are nothing in the world but the big stones that the giant threw. "one can also tell because the salmon always go up in the blekinge streams and work their way up through rapids and still water, all the way to småland. "that giant is worthy of great thanks and much honour from the blekinge people; for salmon in the streams, and stone-cutting on the island--that means work which gives food to many of them even to this day." by ronneby river _friday, april first_. neither the wild geese nor smirre fox had believed that they should ever run across each other after they had left skåne. but now it turned out so that the wild geese happened to take the route over blekinge and thither smirre fox had also gone. so far he had kept himself in the northern parts of the province; and since he had not as yet seen any manor parks, or hunting grounds filled with game and dainty young deer, he was more disgruntled than he could say. one afternoon, when smirre tramped around in the desolate forest district of mellanbygden, not far from ronneby river, he saw a flock of wild geese fly through the air. instantly he observed that one of the geese was white and then he knew, of course, with whom he had to deal. smirre began immediately to hunt the geese--just as much for the pleasure of getting a good square meal, as for the desire to be avenged for all the humiliation that they had heaped upon him. he saw that they flew eastward until they came to ronneby river. then they changed their course, and followed the river toward the south. he understood that they intended to seek a sleeping-place along the river-banks, and he thought that he should be able to get hold of a pair of them without much trouble. but when smirre finally discovered the place where the wild geese had taken refuge, he observed they had chosen such a well-protected spot, that he couldn't get near. ronneby river isn't any big or important body of water; nevertheless, it is just as much talked of, for the sake of its pretty shores. at several points it forces its way forward between steep mountain-walls that stand upright out of the water, and are entirely overgrown with honeysuckle and bird-cherry, mountain-ash and osier; and there isn't much that can be more delightful than to row out on the little dark river on a pleasant summer day, and look upward on all the soft green that fastens itself to the rugged mountain-sides. but now, when the wild geese and smirre came to the river, it was cold and blustery spring-winter; all the trees were nude, and there was probably no one who thought the least little bit about whether the shore was ugly or pretty. the wild geese thanked their good fortune that they had found a sand-strip large enough for them to stand upon, on a steep mountain wall. in front of them rushed the river, which was strong and violent in the snow-melting time; behind them they had an impassable mountain rock wall, and overhanging branches screened them. they couldn't have it better. the geese were asleep instantly; but the boy couldn't get a wink of sleep. as soon as the sun had disappeared he was seized with a fear of the darkness, and a wilderness-terror, and he longed for human beings. where he lay--tucked in under the goose-wing--he could see nothing, and only hear a little; and he thought if any harm came to the goosey-gander, he couldn't save him. noises and rustlings were heard from all directions, and he grew so uneasy that he had to creep from under the wing and seat himself on the ground, beside the goose. long-sighted smirre stood on the mountain's summit and looked down upon the wild geese. "you may as well give this pursuit up first as last," he said to himself. "you can't climb such a steep mountain; you can't swim in such a wild torrent; and there isn't the tiniest strip of land below the mountain which leads to the sleeping-place. those geese are too wise for you. don't ever bother yourself again to hunt them!" but smirre, like all foxes, had found it hard to give up an undertaking already begun, and so he lay down on the extremest point of the mountain edge, and did not take his eyes off the wild geese. while he lay and watched them, he thought of all the harm they had done him. yes, it was their fault that he had been driven from skåne, and had been obliged to move to poverty-stricken blekinge. he worked himself up to such a pitch, as he lay there, that he wished the wild geese were dead, even if he, himself, should not have the satisfaction of eating them. when smirre's resentment had reached this height, he heard rasping in a large pine that grew close to him, and saw a squirrel come down from the tree, hotly pursued by a marten. neither of them noticed smirre; and he sat quietly and watched the chase, which went from tree to tree. he looked at the squirrel, who moved among the branches as lightly as though he'd been able to fly. he looked at the marten, who was not as skilled at climbing as the squirrel, but who still ran up and along the branches just as securely as if they had been even paths in the forest. "if i could only climb half as well as either of them," thought the fox, "those things down there wouldn't sleep in peace very long!" as soon as the squirrel had been captured, and the chase was ended, smirre walked over to the marten, but stopped two steps away from him, to signify that he did not wish to cheat him of his prey. he greeted the marten in a very friendly manner, and wished him good luck with his catch. smirre chose his words well--as foxes always do. the marten, on the contrary, who, with his long and slender body, his fine head, his soft skin, and his light brown neck-piece, looked like a little marvel of beauty--but in reality was nothing but a crude forest dweller--hardly answered him. "it surprises me," said smirre, "that such a fine hunter as you are should be satisfied with chasing squirrels when there is much better game within reach." here he paused; but when the marten only grinned impudently at him, he continued: "can it be possible that you haven't seen the wild geese that stand under the mountain wall? or are you not a good enough climber to get down to them?" this time he had no need to wait for an answer. the marten rushed up to him with back bent, and every separate hair on end. "have you seen wild geese?" he hissed. "where are they? tell me instantly, or i'll bite your neck off!" "no! you must remember that i'm twice your size--so be a little polite. i ask nothing better than to show you the wild geese." the next instant the marten was on his way down the steep; and while smirre sat and watched how he swung his snake-like body from branch to branch, he thought: "that pretty tree-hunter has the wickedest heart in all the forest. i believe that the wild geese will have me to thank for a bloody awakening." but just as smirre was waiting to hear the geese's death-rattle, he saw the marten tumble from branch to branch--and plump into the river so the water splashed high. soon thereafter, wings beat loudly and strongly and all the geese went up in a hurried flight. smirre intended to hurry after the geese, but he was so curious to know how they had been saved, that he sat there until the marten came clambering up. that poor thing was soaked in mud, and stopped every now and then to rub his head with his forepaws. "now wasn't that just what i thought--that you were a booby, and would go and tumble into the river?" said smirre, contemptuously. "i haven't acted boobyishly. you don't need to scold me," said the marten. "i sat--all ready--on one of the lowest branches and thought how i should manage to tear a whole lot of geese to pieces, when a little creature, no bigger than a squirrel, jumped up and threw a stone at my head with such force, that i fell into the water; and before i had time to pick myself up--" the marten didn't have to say any more. he had no audience. smirre was already a long way off in pursuit of the wild geese. in the meantime akka had flown southward in search of a new sleeping-place. there was still a little daylight; and, beside, the half-moon stood high in the heavens, so that she could see a little. luckily, she was well acquainted in these parts, because it had happened more than once that she had been wind-driven to blekinge when she travelled over the east sea in the spring. she followed the river as long as she saw it winding through the moon-lit landscape like a black, shining snake. in this way she came way down to djupafors--where the river first hides itself in an underground channel--and then clear and transparent, as though it were made of glass, rushes down in a narrow cleft, and breaks into bits against its bottom in glittering drops and flying foam. below the white falls lay a few stones, between which the water rushed away in a wild torrent cataract. here mother akka alighted. this was another good sleeping-place--especially this late in the evening, when no human beings moved about. at sunset the geese would hardly have been able to camp there, for djupafors does not lie in any wilderness. on one side of the falls is a paper factory; on the other--which is steep, and tree-grown--is djupadal's park, where people are always strolling about on the steep and slippery paths to enjoy the wild stream's rushing movement down in the ravine. it was about the same here as at the former place; none of the travellers thought the least little bit that they had come to a pretty and well-known place. they thought rather that it was ghastly and dangerous to stand and sleep on slippery, wet stones, in the middle of a rumbling waterfall. but they had to be content, if only they were protected from carnivorous animals. the geese fell asleep instantly, while the boy could find no rest in sleep, but sat beside them that he might watch over the goosey-gander. after a while, smirre came running along the river-shore. he spied the geese immediately where they stood out in the foaming whirlpools, and understood that he couldn't get at them here, either. still he couldn't make up his mind to abandon them, but seated himself on the shore and looked at them. he felt very much humbled, and thought that his entire reputation as a hunter was at stake. all of a sudden, he saw an otter come creeping up from the falls with a fish in his mouth. smirre approached him but stopped within two steps of him, to show him that he didn't wish to take his game from him. "you're a remarkable one, who can content yourself with catching a fish, while the stones are covered with geese!" said smirre. he was so eager, that he hadn't taken the time to arrange his words as carefully as he was wont to do. the otter didn't turn his head once in the direction of the river. he was a vagabond--like all otters--and had fished many times by vomb lake, and probably knew smirre fox. "i know very well how you act when you want to coax away a salmon-trout, smirre," said he. "oh! is it you, gripe?" said smirre, and was delighted; for he knew that this particular otter was a quick and accomplished swimmer. "i don't wonder that you do not care to look at the wild geese, since you can't manage to get out to them." but the otter, who had swimming-webs between his toes, and a stiff tail--which was as good as an oar--and a skin that was water-proof, didn't wish to have it said of him that there was a waterfall that he wasn't able to manage. he turned toward the stream; and as soon as he caught sight of the wild geese, he threw the fish away, and rushed down the steep shore and into the river. if it had been a little later in the spring, so that the nightingales in djupafors had been at home, they would have sung for many a day of gripe's struggle with the rapid. for the otter was thrust back by the waves many times, and carried down river; but he fought his way steadily up again. he swam forward in still water; he crawled over stones, and gradually came nearer the wild geese. it was a perilous trip, which might well have earned the right to be sung by the nightingales. smirre followed the otter's course with his eyes as well as he could. at last he saw that the otter was in the act of climbing up to the wild geese. but just then it shrieked shrill and wild. the otter tumbled backward into the water, and dashed away as if he had been a blind kitten. an instant later, there was a great crackling of geese's wings. they raised themselves and flew away to find another sleeping-place. the otter soon came on land. he said nothing, but commenced to lick one of his forepaws. when smirre sneered at him because he hadn't succeeded, he broke out: "it was not the fault of my swimming-art, smirre. i had raced all the way over to the geese, and was about to climb up to them, when a tiny creature came running, and jabbed me in the foot with some sharp iron. it hurt so, i lost my footing, and then the current took me." he didn't have to say any more. smirre was already far away on his way to the wild geese. once again akka and her flock had to take a night fly. fortunately, the moon had not gone down; and with the aid of its light, she succeeded in finding another of those sleeping-places which she knew in that neighbourhood. again she followed the shining river toward the south. over djupadal's manor, and over ronneby's dark roofs and white waterfalls she swayed forward without alighting. but a little south of the city and not far from the sea, lies ronneby health-spring, with its bath house and spring house; with its big hotel and summer cottages for the spring's guests. all these stand empty and desolate in winter--which the birds know perfectly well; and many are the bird-companies who seek shelter on the deserted buildings' balustrades and balconies during hard storm-times. here the wild geese lit on a balcony, and, as usual, they fell asleep at once. the boy, on the contrary, could not sleep because he hadn't cared to creep in under the goosey-gander's wing. the balcony faced south, so the boy had an outlook over the sea. and since he could not sleep, he sat there and saw how pretty it looked when sea and land meet, here in blekinge. you see that sea and land can meet in many different ways. in many places the land comes down toward the sea with flat, tufted meadows, and the sea meets the land with flying sand, which piles up in mounds and drifts. it appears as though they both disliked each other so much that they only wished to show the poorest they possessed. but it can also happen that, when the land comes toward the sea, it raises a wall of hills in front of it--as though the sea were something dangerous. when the land does this, the sea comes up to it with fiery wrath, and beats and roars and lashes against the rocks, and looks as if it would tear the land-hill to pieces. but in blekinge it is altogether different when sea and land meet. there the land breaks itself up into points and islands and islets; and the sea divides itself into fiords and bays and sounds; and it is, perhaps, this which makes it look as if they must meet in happiness and harmony. think now first and foremost of the sea! far out it lies desolate and empty and big, and has nothing else to do but to roll its gray billows. when it comes toward the land, it happens across the first obstacle. this it immediately overpowers; tears away everything green, and makes it as gray as itself. then it meets still another obstacle. with this it does the same thing. and still another. yes, the same thing happens to this also. it is stripped and plundered, as if it had fallen into robbers' hands. then the obstacles come nearer and nearer together, and then the sea must understand that the land sends toward it her littlest children, in order to move it to pity. it also becomes more friendly the farther in it comes; rolls its waves less high; moderates its storms; lets the green things stay in cracks and crevices; separates itself into small sounds and inlets, and becomes at last so harmless in the land, that little boats dare venture out on it. it certainly cannot recognise itself--so mild and friendly has it grown. and then think of the hillside! it lies uniform, and looks the same almost everywhere. it consists of flat grain-fields, with one and another birch-grove between them; or else of long stretches of forest ranges. it appears as if it had thought about nothing but grain and turnips and potatoes and spruce and pine. then comes a sea-fiord that cuts far into it. it doesn't mind that, but borders it with birch and alder, just as if it was an ordinary fresh-water lake. then still another wave comes driving in. nor does the hillside bother itself about cringing to this, but it, too, gets the same covering as the first one. then the fiords begin to broaden and separate, they break up fields and woods and then the hillside cannot help but notice them. "i believe it is the sea itself that is coming," says the hillside, and then it begins to adorn itself. it wreathes itself with blossoms, travels up and down in hills and throws islands into the sea. it no longer cares about pines and spruces, but casts them off like old every day clothes, and parades later with big oaks and lindens and chestnuts, and with blossoming leafy bowers, and becomes as gorgeous as a manor-park. and when it meets the sea, it is so changed that it doesn't know itself. all this one cannot see very well until summertime; but, at any rate, the boy observed how mild and friendly nature was; and he began to feel calmer than he had been before, that night. then, suddenly, he heard a sharp and ugly yowl from the bath-house park; and when he stood up he saw, in the white moonlight, a fox standing on the pavement under the balcony. for smirre had followed the wild geese once more. but when he had found the place where they were quartered, he had understood that it was impossible to get at them in any way; then he had not been able to keep from yowling with chagrin. when the fox yowled in this manner, old akka, the leader-goose, was awakened. although she could see nothing, she thought she recognised the voice. "is it you who are out to-night, smirre?" said she. "yes," said smirre, "it is i; and i want to ask what you geese think of the night that i have given you?" "do you mean to say that it is you who have sent the marten and otter against us?" asked akka. "a good turn shouldn't be denied," said smirre. "you once played the goose-game with me, now i have begun to play the fox-game with you; and i'm not inclined to let up on it so long as a single one of you still lives even if i have to follow you the world over!" "you, smirre, ought at least to think whether it is right for you, who are weaponed with both teeth and claws, to hound us in this way; we, who are without defence," said akka. smirre thought that akka sounded scared, and he said quickly: "if you, akka, will take that thumbietot--who has so often opposed me--and throw him down to me, i'll promise to make peace with you. then i'll never more pursue you or any of yours." "i'm not going to give you thumbietot," said akka. "from the youngest of us to the oldest, we would willingly give our lives for his sake!" "since you're so fond of him," said smirre, "i'll promise you that he shall be the first among you that i will wreak vengeance upon." akka said no more, and after smirre had sent up a few more yowls, all was still. the boy lay all the while awake. now it was akka's words to the fox that prevented him from sleeping. never had he dreamed that he should hear anything so great as that anyone was willing to risk life for his sake. from that moment, it could no longer be said of nils holgersson that he did not care for anyone. karlskrona _saturday, april second_. it was a moonlight evening in karlskrona--calm and beautiful. but earlier in the day, there had been rain and wind; and the people must have thought that the bad weather still continued, for hardly one of them had ventured out on the streets. while the city lay there so desolate, akka, the wild goose, and her flock, came flying toward it over vemmön and pantarholmen. they were out in the late evening to seek a sleeping place on the islands. they couldn't remain inland because they were disturbed by smirre fox wherever they lighted. when the boy rode along high up in the air, and looked at the sea and the islands which spread themselves before him, he thought that everything appeared so strange and spook-like. the heavens were no longer blue, but encased him like a globe of green glass. the sea was milk-white, and as far as he could see rolled small white waves tipped with silver ripples. in the midst of all this white lay numerous little islets, absolutely coal black. whether they were big or little, whether they were as even as meadows, or full of cliffs, they looked just as black. even dwelling houses and churches and windmills, which at other times are white or red, were outlined in black against the green sky. the boy thought it was as if the earth had been transformed, and he was come to another world. he thought that just for this one night he wanted to be brave, and not afraid--when he saw something that really frightened him. it was a high cliff island, which was covered with big, angular blocks; and between the blocks shone specks of bright, shining gold. he couldn't keep from thinking of maglestone, by trolle-ljungby, which the trolls sometimes raised upon high gold pillars; and he wondered if this was something like that. but with the stones and the gold it might have gone fairly well, if such a lot of horrid things had not been lying all around the island. it looked like whales and sharks and other big sea-monsters. but the boy understood that it was the sea-trolls, who had gathered around the island and intended to crawl up on it, to fight with the land-trolls who lived there. and those on the land were probably afraid, for he saw how a big giant stood on the highest point of the island and raised his arms--as if in despair over all the misfortune that should come to him and his island. the boy was not a little terrified when he noticed that akka began to descend right over that particular island! "no, for pity's sake! we must not light there," said he. but the geese continued to descend, and soon the boy was astonished that he could have seen things so awry. in the first place, the big stone blocks were nothing but houses. the whole island was a city; and the shining gold specks were street lamps and lighted window-panes. the giant, who stood highest up on the island, and raised his arms, was a church with two cross-towers; all the sea-trolls and monsters, which he thought he had seen, were boats and ships of every description, that lay anchored all around the island. on the side which lay toward the land were mostly row-boats and sailboats and small coast steamers; but on the side that faced the sea lay armour-clad battleships; some were broad, with very thick, slanting smokestacks; others were long and narrow, and so constructed that they could glide through the water like fishes. now what city might this be? that, the boy could figure out because he saw all the battleships. all his life he had loved ships, although he had had nothing to do with any, except the galleys which he had sailed in the road ditches. he knew very well that this city--where so many battleships lay--couldn't be any place but karlskrona. the boy's grandfather had been an old marine; and as long as he had lived, he had talked of karlskrona every day; of the great warship dock, and of all the other things to be seen in that city. the boy felt perfectly at home, and he was glad that he should see all this of which he had heard so much. but he only had a glimpse of the towers and fortifications which barred the entrance to the harbour, and the many buildings, and the shipyard--before akka came down on one of the flat church-towers. this was a pretty safe place for those who wanted to get away from a fox, and the boy began to wonder if he couldn't venture to crawl in under the goosey-gander's wing for this one night. yes, that he might safely do. it would do him good to get a little sleep. he should try to see a little more of the dock and the ships after it had grown light. the boy himself thought it was strange that he could keep still and wait until the next morning to see the ships. he certainly had not slept five minutes before he slipped out from under the wing and slid down the lightning-rod and the waterspout all the way down to the ground. soon he stood on a big square which spread itself in front of the church. it was covered with round stones, and was just as difficult for him to travel over, as it is for big people to walk on a tufted meadow. those who are accustomed to live in the open--or way out in the country--always feel uneasy when they come into a city, where the houses stand straight and forbidding, and the streets are open, so that everyone can see who goes there. and it happened in the same way with the boy. when he stood on the big karlskrona square, and looked at the german church, and town hall, and the cathedral from which he had just descended, he couldn't do anything but wish that he was back on the tower again with the geese. it was a lucky thing that the square was entirely deserted. there wasn't a human being about--unless he counted a statue that stood on a high pedestal. the boy gazed long at the statue, which represented a big, brawny man in a three-cornered hat, long waistcoat, knee-breeches and coarse shoes, and wondered what kind of a one he was. he held a long stick in his hand, and he looked as if he would know how to make use of it, too--for he had an awfully severe countenance, with a big, hooked nose and an ugly mouth. "what is that long-lipped thing doing here?" said the boy at last. he had never felt so small and insignificant as he did that night. he tried to jolly himself up a bit by saying something audacious. then he thought no more about the statue, but betook himself to a wide street which led down to the sea. but the boy hadn't gone far before he heard that someone was following him. someone was walking behind him, who stamped on the stone pavement with heavy footsteps, and pounded on the ground with a hard stick. it sounded as if the bronze man up in the square had gone out for a promenade. the boy listened after the steps, while he ran down the street, and he became more and more convinced that it was the bronze man. the ground trembled, and the houses shook. it couldn't be anyone but he, who walked so heavily, and the boy grew panic-stricken when he thought of what he had just said to him. he did not dare to turn his head to find out if it really was he. "perhaps he is only out walking for recreation," thought the boy. "surely he can't be offended with me for the words i spoke. they were not at all badly meant." instead of going straight on, and trying to get down to the dock, the boy turned into a side street which led east. first and foremost, he wanted to get away from the one who tramped after him. but the next instant he heard that the bronze man had switched off to the same street; and then the boy was so scared that he didn't know what he would do with himself. and how hard it was to find any hiding places in a city where all the gates were closed! then he saw on his right an old frame church, which lay a short distance away from the street in the centre of a large grove. not an instant did he pause to consider, but rushed on toward the church. "if i can only get there, then i'll surely be shielded from all harm," thought he. as he ran forward, he suddenly caught sight of a man who stood on a gravel path and beckoned to him. "there is certainly someone who will help me!" thought the boy; he became intensely happy, and hurried off in that direction. he was actually so frightened that the heart of him fairly thumped in his breast. but when he came up to the man who stood on the edge of the gravel path, upon a low pedestal, he was absolutely thunderstruck. "surely, it can't have been that one who beckoned to me!" thought he; for he saw that the entire man was made of wood. he stood there and stared at him. he was a thick-set man on short legs, with a broad, ruddy countenance, shiny, black hair and full black beard. on his head he wore a wooden hat; on his body, a brown wooden coat; around his waist, a black wooden belt; on his legs he had wide wooden knee-breeches and wooden stockings; and on his feet black wooden shoes. he was newly painted and newly varnished, so that he glistened and shone in the moonlight. this undoubtedly had a good deal to do with giving him such a good-natured appearance, that the boy at once placed confidence in him. in his left hand he held a wooden slate, and there the boy read: _most humbly i beg you, though voice i may lack: come drop a penny, do; but lift my hat!_ oh ho! the man was only a poor-box. the boy felt that he had been done. he had expected that this should be something really remarkable. and now he remembered that grandpa had also spoken of the wooden man, and said that all the children in karlskrona were so fond of him. and that must have been true, for he, too, found it hard to part with the wooden man. he had something so old-timy about him, that one could well take him to be many hundred years old; and at the same time, he looked so strong and bold, and animated--just as one might imagine that folks looked in olden times. the boy had so much fun looking at the wooden man, that he entirely forgot the one from whom he was fleeing. but now he heard him. he turned from the street and came into the churchyard. he followed him here too! where should the boy go? just then he saw the wooden man bend down to him and stretch forth his big, broad hand. it was impossible to believe anything but good of him; and with one jump, the boy stood in his hand. the wooden man lifted him to his hat--and stuck him under it. the boy was just hidden, and the wooden man had just gotten his arm in its right place again, when the bronze man stopped in front of him and banged the stick on the ground, so that the wooden man shook on his pedestal. thereupon the bronze man said in a strong and resonant voice: "who might this one be?" the wooden man's arm went up, so that it creaked in the old woodwork, and he touched his hat brim as he replied: "rosenbom, by your majesty's leave. once upon a time boatswain on the man-of-war, _dristigheten_; after completed service, sexton at the admiral's church--and, lately, carved in wood and exhibited in the churchyard as a poor-box." the boy gave a start when he heard that the wooden man said "your majesty." for now, when he thought about it, he knew that the statue on the square represented the one who had founded the city. it was probably no less an one than charles the eleventh himself, whom he had encountered. "he gives a good account of himself," said the bronze man. "can he also tell me if he has seen a little brat who runs around in the city to-night? he's an impudent rascal, if i get hold of him, i'll teach him manners!" with that, he again pounded on the ground with his stick, and looked fearfully angry. "by your majesty's leave, i have seen him," said the wooden man; and the boy was so scared that he commenced to shake where he sat under the hat and looked at the bronze man through a crack in the wood. but he calmed down when the wooden man continued: "your majesty is on the wrong track. that youngster certainly intended to run into the shipyard, and conceal himself there." "does he say so, rosenbom? well then, don't stand still on the pedestal any longer but come with me and help me find him. four eyes are better than two, rosenbom." but the wooden man answered in a doleful voice: "i would most humbly beg to be permitted to stay where i am. i look well and sleek because of the paint, but i'm old and mouldy, and cannot stand moving about." the bronze man was not one of those who liked to be contradicted. "what sort of notions are these? come along, rosenbom!" then he raised his stick and gave the other one a resounding whack on the shoulder. "does rosenbom not see that he holds together?" with that they broke off and walked forward on the streets of karlskrona--large and mighty--until they came to a high gate, which led to the shipyard. just outside and on guard walked one of the navy's jack-tars, but the bronze man strutted past him and kicked the gate open without the jack-tar's pretending to notice it. as soon as they had gotten into the shipyard, they saw before them a wide, expansive harbor separated by pile-bridges. in the different harbour basins, lay the warships, which looked bigger, and more awe-inspiring close to, like this, than lately, when the boy had seen them from up above. "then it wasn't so crazy after all, to imagine that they were sea-trolls," thought he. "where does rosenbom think it most advisable for us to begin the search?" said the bronze man. "such an one as he could most easily conceal himself in the hall of models," replied the wooden man. on a narrow land-strip which stretched to the right from the gate, all along the harbour, lay ancient structures. the bronze man walked over to a building with low walls, small windows, and a conspicuous roof. he pounded on the door with his stick until it burst open; and tramped up a pair of worn-out steps. soon they came into a large hall, which was filled with tackled and full-rigged little ships. the boy understood without being told, that these were models for the ships which had been built for the swedish navy. there were ships of many different varieties. there were old men-of-war, whose sides bristled with cannon, and which had high structures fore and aft, and their masts weighed down with a network of sails and ropes. there were small island-boats with rowing-benches along the sides; there were undecked cannon sloops and richly gilded frigates, which were models of the ones the kings had used on their travels. finally, there were also the heavy, broad armour-plated ships with towers and cannon on deck--such as are in use nowadays; and narrow, shining torpedo boats which resembled long, slender fishes. when the boy was carried around among all this, he was awed. "fancy that such big, splendid ships have been built here in sweden!" he thought to himself. he had plenty of time to see all that was to be seen in there; for when the bronze man saw the models, he forgot everything else. he examined them all, from the first to the last, and asked about them. and rosenbom, the boatswain on the _dristigheten_, told as much as he knew of the ships' builders, and of those who had manned them; and of the fates they had met. he told them about chapman and puke and trolle; of hoagland and svensksund--all the way along until --after that he had not been there. both he and the bronze man had the most to say about the fine old wooden ships. the new battleships they didn't exactly appear to understand. "i can hear that rosenbom doesn't know anything about these new-fangled things," said the bronze man. "therefore, let us go and look at something else; for this amuses me, rosenbom." by this time he had entirely given up his search for the boy, who felt calm and secure where he sat in the wooden hat. thereupon both men wandered through the big establishment: sail-making shops, anchor smithy, machine and carpenter shops. they saw the mast sheers and the docks; the large magazines, the arsenal, the rope-bridge and the big discarded dock, which had been blasted in the rock. they went out upon the pile-bridges, where the naval vessels lay moored, stepped on board and examined them like two old sea-dogs; wondered; disapproved; approved; and became indignant. the boy sat in safety under the wooden hat, and heard all about how they had laboured and struggled in this place, to equip the navies which had gone out from here. he heard how life and blood had been risked; how the last penny had been sacrificed to build the warships; how skilled men had strained all their powers, in order to perfect these ships which had been their fatherland's safeguard. a couple of times the tears came to the boy's eyes, as he heard all this. and the very last, they went into an open court, where the galley models of old men-of-war were grouped; and a more remarkable sight the boy had never beheld; for these models had inconceivably powerful and terror-striking faces. they were big, fearless and savage: filled with the same proud spirit that had fitted out the great ships. they were from another time than his. he thought that he shrivelled up before them. but when they came in here, the bronze man said to the wooden man: "take off thy hat, rosenbom, for those that stand here! they have all fought for the fatherland." and rosenbom--like the bronze man--had forgotten why they had begun this tramp. without thinking, he lifted the wooden hat from his head and shouted: "i take off my hat to the one who chose the harbour and founded the shipyard and recreated the navy; to the monarch who has awakened all this into life!" "thanks, rosenbom! that was well spoken. rosenbom is a fine man. but what is this, rosenbom?" for there stood nils holgersson, right on the top of rosenbom's bald pate. he wasn't afraid any longer; but raised his white toboggan hood, and shouted: "hurrah for you, longlip!" the bronze man struck the ground hard with his stick; but the boy never learned what he had intended to do for now the sun ran up, and, at the same time, both the bronze man and the wooden man vanished--as if they had been made of mists. while he still stood and stared after them, the wild geese flew up from the church tower, and swayed back and forth over the city. instantly they caught sight of nils holgersson; and then the big white one darted down from the sky and fetched him. the trip to Öland _sunday, april third_. the wild geese went out on a wooded island to feed. there they happened to run across a few gray geese, who were surprised to see them--since they knew very well that their kinsmen, the wild geese, usually travel over the interior of the country. they were curious and inquisitive, and wouldn't be satisfied with less than that the wild geese should tell them all about the persecution which they had to endure from smirre fox. when they had finished, a gray goose, who appeared to be as old and as wise as akka herself, said: "it was a great misfortune for you that smirre fox was declared an outlaw in his own land. he'll be sure to keep his word, and follow you all the way up to lapland. if i were in your place, i shouldn't travel north over småland, but would take the outside route over Öland instead, so that he'll be thrown off the track entirely. to really mislead him, you must remain for a couple of days on Öland's southern point. there you'll find lots of food and lots of company. i don't believe you'll regret it, if you go over there." it was certainly very sensible advice, and the wild geese concluded to follow it. as soon as they had eaten all they could hold, they started on the trip to Öland. none of them had ever been there before, but the gray goose had given them excellent directions. they only had to travel direct south until they came to a large bird-track, which extended all along the blekinge coast. all the birds who had winter residences by the west sea, and who now intended to travel to finland and russia, flew forward there--and, in passing, they were always in the habit of stopping at Öland to rest. the wild geese would have no trouble in finding guides. that day it was perfectly still and warm--like a summer's day--the best weather in the world for a sea trip. the only grave thing about it was that it was not quite clear, for the sky was gray and veiled. here and there were enormous mist-clouds which hung way down to the sea's outer edge, and obstructed the view. when the travellers had gotten away from the wooded island, the sea spread itself so smooth and mirror-like, that the boy as he looked down thought the water had disappeared. there was no longer any earth under him. he had nothing but mist and sky around him. he grew very dizzy, and held himself tight on the goose-back, more frightened than when he sat there for the first time. it seemed as though he couldn't possibly hold on; he must fall in some direction. it was even worse when they reached the big bird-track, of which the gray goose had spoken. actually, there came flock after flock flying in exactly the same direction. they seemed to follow a fixed route. there were ducks and gray geese, surf-scoters and guillemots, loons and pin-tail ducks and mergansers and grebes and oyster-catchers and sea-grouse. but now, when the boy leaned forward, and looked in the direction where the sea ought to lie, he saw the whole bird procession reflected in the water. but he was so dizzy that he didn't understand how this had come about: he thought that the whole bird procession flew with their bellies upside down. still he didn't wonder at this so much, for he did not himself know which was up, and which was down. the birds were tired out and impatient to get on. none of them shrieked or said a funny thing, and this made everything seem peculiarly unreal. "think, if we have travelled away from the earth!" he said to himself. "think, if we are on our way up to heaven!" he saw nothing but mists and birds around him, and began to look upon it as reasonable that they were travelling heaven-ward. he was glad, and wondered what he should see up there. the dizziness passed all at once. he was so exceedingly happy at the thought that he was on his way to heaven and was leaving this earth. just about then he heard a couple of loud shots, and saw two white smoke-columns ascend. there was a sudden awakening, and an unrest among the birds. "hunters! hunters!" they cried. "fly high! fly away!" then the boy saw, finally, that they were travelling all the while over the sea-coast, and that they certainly were not in heaven. in a long row lay small boats filled with hunters, who fired shot upon shot. the nearest bird-flocks hadn't noticed them in time. they had flown too low. several dark bodies sank down toward the sea; and for every one that fell, there arose cries of anguish from the living. it was strange for one who had but lately believed himself in heaven, to wake up suddenly to such fear and lamentation. akka shot toward the heights as fast as she could, and the flock followed with the greatest possible speed. the wild geese got safely out of the way, but the boy couldn't get over his amazement. "to think that anyone could wish to shoot upon such as akka and yksi and kaksi and the goosey-gander and the others! human beings had no conception of what they did." so it bore on again, in the still air, and everything was as quiet as heretofore--with the exception that some of the tired birds called out every now and then: "are we not there soon? are you sure we're on the right track?" hereupon, those who flew in the centre answered: "we are flying straight to Öland; straight to Öland." the gray geese were tired out, and the loons flew around them. "don't be in such a rush!" cried the ducks. "you'll eat up all the food before we get there." "oh! there'll be enough for both you and us," answered the loons. before they had gotten so far that they saw Öland, there came a light wind against them. it brought with it something that resembled immense clouds of white smoke--just as if there was a big fire somewhere. when the birds saw the first white spiral haze, they became uneasy and increased their speed. but that which resembled smoke blew thicker and thicker, and at last it enveloped them altogether. they smelled no smoke; and the smoke was not dark and dry, but white and damp. suddenly the boy understood that it was nothing but a mist. when the mist became so thick that one couldn't see a goose-length ahead, the birds began to carry on like real lunatics. all these, who before had travelled forward in such perfect order, began to play in the mist. they flew hither and thither, to entice one another astray. "be careful!" they cried. "you're only travelling round and round. turn back, for pity's sake! you'll never get to Öland in this way." they all knew perfectly well where the island was, but they did their best to lead each other astray. "look at those wagtails!" rang out in the mist. "they are going back toward the north sea!" "have a care, wild geese!" shrieked someone from another direction. "if you continue like this, you'll get clear up to rügen." there was, of course, no danger that the birds who were accustomed to travel here would permit themselves to be lured in a wrong direction. but the ones who had a hard time of it were the wild geese. the jesters observed that they were uncertain as to the way, and did all they could to confuse them. "where do you intend to go, good people?" called a swan. he came right up to akka, and looked sympathetic and serious. "we shall travel to Öland; but we have never been there before," said akka. she thought that this was a bird to be trusted. "it's too bad," said the swan. "they have lured you in the wrong direction. you're on the road to blekinge. now come with me, and i'll put you right!" and so he flew off with them; and when he had taken them so far away from the track that they heard no calls, he disappeared in the mist. they flew around for a while at random. they had barely succeeded in finding the birds again, when a duck approached them. "it's best that you lie down on the water until the mist clears," said the duck. "it is evident that you are not accustomed to look out for yourselves on journeys." those rogues succeeded in making akka's head swim. as near as the boy could make out, the wild geese flew round and round for a long time. "be careful! can't you see that you are flying up and down?" shouted a loon as he rushed by. the boy positively clutched the goosey-gander around the neck. this was something which he had feared for a long time. no one can tell when they would have arrived, if they hadn't heard a rolling and muffled sound in the distance. then akka craned her neck, snapped hard with her wings, and rushed on at full speed. now she had something to go by. the gray goose had told her not to light on Öland's southern point, because there was a cannon there, which the people used to shoot the mist with. now she knew the way, and now no one in the world should lead her astray again. Öland's southern point _april third to sixth_. on the most southerly part of Öland lies a royal demesne, which is called ottenby. it is a rather large estate which extends from shore to shore, straight across the island; and it is remarkable because it has always been a haunt for large bird-companies. in the seventeenth century, when the kings used to go over to Öland to hunt, the entire estate was nothing but a deer park. in the eighteenth century there was a stud there, where blooded race-horses were bred; and a sheep farm, where several hundred sheep were maintained. in our days you'll find neither blooded horses nor sheep at ottenby. in place of them live great herds of young horses, which are to be used by the cavalry. in all the land there is certainly no place that could be a better abode for animals. along the extreme eastern shore lies the old sheep meadow, which is a mile and a half long, and the largest meadow in all Öland, where animals can graze and play and run about, as free as if they were in a wilderness. and there you will find the celebrated ottenby grove with the hundred-year-old oaks, which give shade from the sun, and shelter from the severe Öland winds. and we must not forget the long ottenby wall, which stretches from shore to shore, and separates ottenby from the rest of the island, so that the animals may know how far the old royal demesne extends, and be careful about getting in on other ground, where they are not so well protected. you'll find plenty of tame animals at ottenby, but that isn't all. one could almost believe that the wild ones also felt that on an old crown property both the wild and the tame ones can count upon shelter and protection--since they venture there in such great numbers. besides, there are still a few stags of the old descent left; and burrow-ducks and partridges love to live there, and it offers a resting place, in the spring and late summer, for thousands of migratory birds. above all, it is the swampy eastern shore below the sheep meadow, where the migratory birds alight, to rest and feed. when the wild geese and nils holgersson had finally found their way to Öland, they came down, like all the rest, on the shore near the sheep meadow. the mist lay thick over the island, just as it had over the sea. but still the boy was amazed at all the birds which he discerned, only on the little narrow stretch of shore which he could see. it was a low sand-shore with stones and pools, and a lot of cast-up sea-weed. if the boy had been permitted to choose, it isn't likely that he would have thought of alighting there; but the birds probably looked upon this as a veritable paradise. ducks and geese walked about and fed on the meadow; nearer the water, ran snipe, and other coast-birds. the loons lay in the sea and fished, but the life and movement was upon the long sea-weed banks along the coast. there the birds stood side by side close together and picked grub-worms--which must have been found there in limitless quantities for it was very evident that there was never any complaint over a lack of food. the great majority were going to travel farther, and had only alighted to take a short rest; and as soon as the leader of a flock thought that his comrades had recovered themselves sufficiently he said, "if you are ready now, we may as well move on." "no, wait, wait! we haven't had anything like enough," said the followers. "you surely don't believe that i intend to let you eat so much that you will not be able to move?" said the leader, and flapped his wings and started off. along the outermost sea-weed banks lay a flock of swans. they didn't bother about going on land, but rested themselves by lying and rocking on the water. now and then they dived down with their necks and brought up food from the sea-bottom. when they had gotten hold of anything very good, they indulged in loud shouts that sounded like trumpet calls. when the boy heard that there were swans on the shoals, he hurried out to the sea-weed banks. he had never before seen wild swans at close range. he had luck on his side, so that he got close up to them. the boy was not the only one who had heard the swans. both the wild geese and the gray geese and the loons swam out between the banks, laid themselves in a ring around the swans and stared at them. the swans ruffled their feathers, raised their wings like sails, and lifted their necks high in the air. occasionally one and another of them swam up to a goose, or a great loon, or a diving-duck, and said a few words. and then it appeared as though the one addressed hardly dared raise his bill to reply. but then there was a little loon--a tiny mischievous baggage--who couldn't stand all this ceremony. he dived suddenly, and disappeared under the water's edge. soon after that, one of the swans let out a scream, and swam off so quickly that the water foamed. then he stopped and began to look majestic once more. but soon, another one shrieked in the same way as the first one, and then a third. the little loon wasn't able to stay under water any longer, but appeared on the water's edge, little and black and venomous. the swans rushed toward him; but when they saw what a poor little thing it was, they turned abruptly--as if they considered themselves too good to quarrel with him. then the little loon dived again, and pinched their feet. it certainly must have hurt; and the worst of it was, that they could not maintain their dignity. at once they took a decided stand. they began to beat the air with their wings so that it thundered; came forward a bit--as though they were running on the water--got wind under their wings, and raised themselves. when the swans were gone they were greatly missed; and those who had lately been amused by the little loon's antics scolded him for his thoughtlessness. the boy walked toward land again. there he stationed himself to see how the pool-snipe played. they resembled small storks; like these, they had little bodies, long legs and necks, and light, swaying movements; only they were not gray, but brown. they stood in a long row on the shore where it was washed by waves. as soon as a wave rolled in, the whole row ran backward; as soon as it receded, they followed it. and they kept this up for hours. the showiest of all the birds were the burrow-ducks. they were undoubtedly related to the ordinary ducks; for, like these, they too had a thick-set body, broad bill, and webbed feet; but they were much more elaborately gotten up. the feather dress, itself, was white; around their necks they wore a broad gold band; the wing-mirror shone in green, red, and black; and the wing-edges were black, and the head was dark green and shimmered like satin. as soon as any of these appeared on the shore, the others said: "now, just look at those things! they know how to tog themselves out." "if they were not so conspicuous, they wouldn't have to dig their nests in the earth, but could lay above ground, like anyone else," said a brown mallard-duck. "they may try as much as they please, still they'll never get anywhere with such noses," said a gray goose. and this was actually true. the burrow-ducks had a big knob on the base of the bill, which spoiled their appearance. close to the shore, sea-gulls and sea-swallows moved forward on the water and fished. "what kind of fish are you catching?" asked a wild goose. "it's a stickleback. it's Öland stickleback. it's the best stickleback in the world," said a gull. "won't you taste of it?" and he flew up to the goose, with his mouth full of the little fishes, and wanted to give her some. "ugh! do you think that i eat such filth?" said the wild goose. the next morning it was just as cloudy. the wild geese walked about on the meadow and fed; but the boy had gone to the seashore to gather mussels. there were plenty of them; and when he thought that the next day, perhaps, they would be in some place where they couldn't get any food at all, he concluded that he would try to make himself a little bag, which he could fill with mussels. he found an old sedge on the meadow, which was strong and tough; and out of this he began to braid a knapsack. he worked at this for several hours, but he was well satisfied with it when it was finished. at dinner time all the wild geese came running and asked him if he had seen anything of the white goosey-gander. "no, he has not been with me," said the boy. "we had him with us all along until just lately," said akka, "but now we no longer know where he's to be found." the boy jumped up, and was terribly frightened. he asked if any fox or eagle had put in an appearance, or if any human being had been seen in the neighbourhood. but no one had noticed anything dangerous. the goosey-gander had probably lost his way in the mist. but it was just as great a misfortune for the boy, in whatever way the white one had been lost, and he started off immediately to hunt for him. the mist shielded him, so that he could run wherever he wished without being seen, but it also prevented him from seeing. he ran southward along the shore--all the way down to the lighthouse and the mist cannon on the island's extreme point. it was the same bird confusion everywhere, but no goosey-gander. he ventured over to ottenby estate, and he searched every one of the old, hollow oaks in ottenby grove, but he saw no trace of the goosey-gander. he searched until it began to grow dark. then he had to turn back again to the eastern shore. he walked with heavy steps, and was fearfully blue. he didn't know what would become of him if he couldn't find the goosey-gander. there was no one whom he could spare less. but when he wandered over the sheep meadow, what was that big, white thing that came toward him in the mist if it wasn't the goosey-gander? he was all right, and very glad that, at last, he had been able to find his way back to the others. the mist had made him so dizzy, he said, that he had wandered around on the big meadow all day long. the boy threw his arms around his neck, for very joy, and begged him to take care of himself, and not wander away from the others. and he promised, positively, that he never would do this again. no, never again. but the next morning, when the boy went down to the beach and hunted for mussels, the geese came running and asked if he had seen the goosey-gander. no, of course he hadn't. "well, then the goosey-gander was lost again. he had gone astray in the mist, just as he had done the day before." the boy ran off in great terror and began to search. he found one place where the ottenby wall was so tumble-down that he could climb over it. later, he went about, first on the shore which gradually widened and became so large that there was room for fields and meadows and farms--then up on the flat highland, which lay in the middle of the island, and where there were no buildings except windmills, and where the turf was so thin that the white cement shone under it. meanwhile, he could not find the goosey-gander; and as it drew on toward evening, and the boy must return to the beach, he couldn't believe anything but that his travelling companion was lost. he was so depressed, he did not know what to do with himself. he had just climbed over the wall again when he heard a stone crash down close beside him. as he turned to see what it was, he thought that he could distinguish something that moved on a stone pile which lay close to the wall. he stole nearer, and saw the goosey-gander come trudging wearily over the stone pile, with several long fibres in his mouth. the goosey-gander didn't see the boy, and the boy did not call to him, but thought it advisable to find out first why the goosey-gander time and again disappeared in this manner. and he soon learned the reason for it. up in the stone pile lay a young gray goose, who cried with joy when the goosey-gander came. the boy crept near, so that he heard what they said; then he found out that the gray goose had been wounded in one wing, so that she could not fly, and that her flock had travelled away from her, and left her alone. she had been near death's door with hunger, when the white goosey-gander had heard her call, the other day, and had sought her out. ever since, he had been carrying food to her. they had both hoped that she would be well before they left the island, but, as yet, she could neither fly nor walk. she was very much worried over this, but he comforted her with the thought that he shouldn't travel for a long time. at last he bade her good-night, and promised to come the next day. the boy let the goosey-gander go; and as soon as he was gone, he stole, in turn, up to the stone heap. he was angry because he had been deceived, and now he wanted to say to that gray goose that the goosey-gander was his property. he was going to take the boy up to lapland, and there would be no talk of his staying here on her account. but now, when he saw the young gray goose close to, he understood, not only why the goosey-gander had gone and carried food to her for two days, but also why he had not wished to mention that he had helped her. she had the prettiest little head; her feather-dress was like soft satin, and the eyes were mild and pleading. when she saw the boy, she wanted to run away; but the left wing was out of joint and dragged on the ground, so that it interfered with her movements. "you mustn't be afraid of me," said the boy, and didn't look nearly so angry as he had intended to appear. "i'm thumbietot, morten goosey-gander's comrade," he continued. then he stood there, and didn't know what he wanted to say. occasionally one finds something among animals which makes one wonder what sort of creatures they really are. one is almost afraid that they may be transformed human beings. it was something like this with the gray goose. as soon as thumbietot said who he was, she lowered her neck and head very charmingly before him, and said in a voice that was so pretty that he couldn't believe it was a goose who spoke: "i am very glad that you have come here to help me. the white goosey-gander has told me that no one is as wise and as good as you." she said this with such dignity, that the boy grew really embarrassed. "this surely can't be any bird," thought he. "it is certainly some bewitched princess." he was filled with a desire to help her, and ran his hand under the feathers, and felt along the wing-bone. the bone was not broken, but there was something wrong with the joint. he got his finger down into the empty cavity. "be careful, now!" he said; and got a firm grip on the bone-pipe and fitted it into the place where it ought to be. he did it very quickly and well, considering it was the first time that he had attempted anything of the sort. but it must have hurt very much, for the poor young goose uttered a single shrill cry, and then sank down among the stones without showing a sign of life. the boy was terribly frightened. he had only wished to help her, and now she was dead. he made a big jump from the stone pile, and ran away. he thought it was as though he had murdered a human being. the next morning it was clear and free from mist, and akka said that now they should continue their travels. all the others were willing to go, but the white goosey-gander made excuses. the boy understood well enough that he didn't care to leave the gray goose. akka did not listen to him, but started off. the boy jumped up on the goosey-gander's back, and the white one followed the flock--albeit slowly and unwillingly. the boy was mighty glad that they could fly away from the island. he was conscience-stricken on account of the gray goose, and had not cared to tell the goosey-gander how it had turned out when he had tried to cure her. it would probably be best if morten goosey-gander never found out about this, he thought, though he wondered, at the same time, how the white one had the heart to leave the gray goose. but suddenly the goosey-gander turned. the thought of the young gray goose had overpowered him. it could go as it would with the lapland trip: he couldn't go with the others when he knew that she lay alone and ill, and would starve to death. with a few wing-strokes he was over the stone pile; but then, there lay no young gray goose between the stones. "dunfin! dunfin! where art thou?" called the goosey-gander. "the fox has probably been here and taken her," thought the boy. but at that moment he heard a pretty voice answer the goosey-gander. "here am i, goosey-gander; here am i! i have only been taking a morning bath." and up from the water came the little gray goose--fresh and in good trim--and told how thumbietot had pulled her wing into place, and that she was entirely well, and ready to follow them on the journey. the drops of water lay like pearl-dew on her shimmery satin-like feathers, and thumbietot thought once again that she was a real little princess. the big butterfly _wednesday, april sixth_. the geese travelled alongside the coast of the long island, which lay distinctly visible under them. the boy felt happy and light of heart during the trip. he was just as pleased and well satisfied as he had been glum and depressed the day before, when he roamed around down on the island, and hunted for the goosey-gander. he saw now that the interior of the island consisted of a barren high plain, with a wreath of fertile land along the coast; and he began to comprehend the meaning of something which he had heard the other evening. he had just seated himself to rest a bit by one of the many windmills on the highland, when a couple of shepherds came along with the dogs beside them, and a large herd of sheep in their train. the boy had not been afraid because he was well concealed under the windmill stairs. but as it turned out, the shepherds came and seated themselves on the same stairway, and then there was nothing for him to do but to keep perfectly still. one of the shepherds was young, and looked about as folks do mostly; the other was an old queer one. his body was large and knotty, but the head was small, and the face had sensitive and delicate features. it appeared as though the body and head didn't want to fit together at all. one moment he sat silent and gazed into the mist, with an unutterably weary expression. then he began to talk to his companion. then the other one took out some bread and cheese from his knapsack, to eat his evening meal. he answered scarcely anything, but listened very patiently, just as if he were thinking: "i might as well give you the pleasure of letting you chatter a while." "now i shall tell you something, eric," said the old shepherd. "i have figured out that in former days, when both human beings and animals were much larger than they are now, that the butterflies, too, must have been uncommonly large. and once there was a butterfly that was many miles long, and had wings as wide as seas. those wings were blue, and shone like silver, and so gorgeous that, when the butterfly was out flying, all the other animals stood still and stared at it. it had this drawback, however, that it was too large. the wings had hard work to carry it. but probably all would have gone very well, if the butterfly had been wise enough to remain on the hillside. but it wasn't; it ventured out over the east sea. and it hadn't gotten very far before the storm came along and began to tear at its wings. well, it's easy to understand, eric, how things would go when the east sea storm commenced to wrestle with frail butterfly-wings. it wasn't long before they were torn away and scattered; and then, of course, the poor butterfly fell into the sea. at first it was tossed backward and forward on the billows, and then it was stranded upon a few cliff-foundations outside of småland. and there it lay--as large and long as it was. "now i think, eric, that if the butterfly had dropped on land, it would soon have rotted and fallen apart. but since it fell into the sea, it was soaked through and through with lime, and became as hard as a stone. you know, of course, that we have found stones on the shore which were nothing but petrified worms. now i believe that it went the same way with the big butterfly-body. i believe that it turned where it lay into a long, narrow mountain out in the east sea. don't you?" he paused for a reply, and the other one nodded to him. "go on, so i may hear what you are driving at," said he. "and mark you, eric, that this very Öland, upon which you and i live, is nothing else than the old butterfly-body. if one only thinks about it, one can observe that the island is a butterfly. toward the north, the slender fore-body and the round head can be seen, and toward the south, one sees the back-body--which first broadens out, and then narrows to a sharp point." here he paused once more and looked at his companion rather anxiously to see how he would take this assertion. but the young man kept on eating with the utmost calm, and nodded to him to continue. "as soon as the butterfly had been changed into a limestone rock, many different kinds of seeds of herbs and trees came travelling with the winds, and wanted to take root on it. it was a long time before anything but sedge could grow there. then came sheep sorrel, and the rock-rose and thorn-brush. but even to-day there is not so much growth on alvaret, that the mountain is well covered, but it shines through here and there. and no one can think of ploughing and sowing up here, where the earth-crust is so thin. but if you will admit that alvaret and the strongholds around it, are made of the butterfly-body, then you may well have the right to question where that land which lies beneath the strongholds came from." "yes, it is just that," said he who was eating. "that i should indeed like to know." "well, you must remember that Öland has lain in the sea for a good many years, and in the course of time all the things which tumble around with the waves--sea-weed and sand and clams--have gathered around it, and remained lying there. and then, stone and gravel have fallen down from both the eastern and western strongholds. in this way the island has acquired broad shores, where grain and flowers and trees can grow. "up here, on the hard butterfly-back, only sheep and cows and little horses go about. only lapwings and plover live here, and there are no buildings except windmills and a few stone huts, where we shepherds crawl in. but down on the coast lie big villages and churches and parishes and fishing hamlets and a whole city." he looked questioningly at the other one. this one had finished his meal, and was tying the food-sack together. "i wonder where you will end with all this," said he. "it is only this that i want to know," said the shepherd, as he lowered his voice so that he almost whispered the words, and looked into the mist with his small eyes, which appeared to be worn out from spying after all that which does not exist. "only this i want to know: if the peasants who live on the built-up farms beneath the strongholds, or the fishermen who take the small herring from the sea, or the merchants in borgholm, or the bathing guests who come here every summer, or the tourists who wander around in borgholm's old castle ruin, or the sportsmen who come here in the fall to hunt partridges, or the painters who sit here on alvaret and paint the sheep and windmills--i should like to know if any of them understand that this island has been a butterfly which flew about with great shimmery wings." "ah!" said the young shepherd, suddenly. "it should have occurred to some of them, as they sat on the edge of the stronghold of an evening, and heard the nightingales trill in the groves below them, and looked over kalmar sound, that this island could not have come into existence in the same way as the others." "i want to ask," said the old one, "if no one has had the desire to give wings to the windmills--so large that they could reach to heaven, so large that they could lift the whole island out of the sea and let it fly like a butterfly among butterflies." "it may be possible that there is something in what you say," said the young one; "for on summer nights, when the heavens widen and open over the island, i have sometimes thought that it was as if it wanted to raise itself from the sea, and fly away." but when the old one had finally gotten the young one to talk, he didn't listen to him very much. "i would like to know," the old one said in a low tone, "if anyone can explain why one feels such a longing up here on alvaret. i have felt it every day of my life; and i think it preys upon each and every one who must go about here. i want to know if no one else has understood that all this wistfulness is caused by the fact that the whole island is a butterfly that longs for its wings." little karl's island the storm _friday, april eighth_. the wild geese had spent the night on Öland's northern point, and were now on their way to the continent. a strong south wind blew over kalmar sound, and they had been thrown northward. still they worked their way toward land with good speed. but when they were nearing the first islands a powerful rumbling was heard, as if a lot of strong-winged birds had come flying; and the water under them, all at once, became perfectly black. akka drew in her wings so suddenly that she almost stood still in the air. thereupon, she lowered herself to light on the edge of the sea. but before the geese had reached the water, the west storm caught up with them. already, it drove before it fogs, salt scum and small birds; it also snatched with it the wild geese, threw them on end, and cast them toward the sea. it was a rough storm. the wild geese tried to turn back, time and again, but they couldn't do it and were driven out toward the east sea. the storm had already blown them past Öland, and the sea lay before them--empty and desolate. there was nothing for them to do but to keep out of the water. when akka observed that they were unable to turn back she thought that it was needless to let the storm drive them over the entire east sea. therefore she sank down to the water. now the sea was raging, and increased in violence with every second. the sea-green billows rolled forward, with seething foam on their crests. each one surged higher than the other. it was as though they raced with each other, to see which could foam the wildest. but the wild geese were not afraid of the swells. on the contrary, this seemed to afford them much pleasure. they did not strain themselves with swimming, but lay and let themselves be washed up with the wave-crests, and down in the water-dales, and had just as much fun as children in a swing. their only anxiety was that the flock should be separated. the few land-birds who drove by, up in the storm, cried with envy: "there is no danger for you who can swim." but the wild geese were certainly not out of all danger. in the first place, the rocking made them helplessly sleepy. they wished continually to turn their heads backward, poke their bills under their wings, and go to sleep. nothing can be more dangerous than to fall asleep in this way; and akka called out all the while: "don't go to sleep, wild geese! he that falls asleep will get away from the flock. he that gets away from the flock is lost." despite all attempts at resistance one after another fell asleep; and akka herself came pretty near dozing off, when she suddenly saw something round and dark rise on the top of a wave. "seals! seals! seals!" cried akka in a high, shrill voice, and raised herself up in the air with resounding wing-strokes. it was just at the crucial moment. before the last wild goose had time to come up from the water, the seals were so close to her that they made a grab for her feet. then the wild geese were once more up in the storm which drove them before it out to sea. no rest did it allow either itself or the wild geese; and no land did they see--only desolate sea. they lit on the water again, as soon as they dared venture. but when they had rocked upon the waves for a while, they became sleepy again. and when they fell asleep, the seals came swimming. if old akka had not been so wakeful, not one of them would have escaped. all day the storm raged; and it caused fearful havoc among the crowds of little birds, which at this time of year were migrating. some were driven from their course to foreign lands, where they died of starvation; others became so exhausted that they sank down in the sea and were drowned. many were crushed against the cliff-walls, and many became a prey for the seals. the storm continued all day, and, at last, akka began to wonder if she and her flock would perish. they were now dead tired, and nowhere did they see any place where they might rest. toward evening she no longer dared to lie down on the sea, because now it filled up all of a sudden with large ice-cakes, which struck against each other, and she feared they should be crushed between these. a couple of times the wild geese tried to stand on the ice-crust; but one time the wild storm swept them into the water; another time, the merciless seals came creeping up on the ice. at sundown the wild geese were once more up in the air. they flew on--fearful for the night. the darkness seemed to come upon them much too quickly this night--which was so full of dangers. it was terrible that they, as yet, saw no land. how would it go with them if they were forced to stay out on the sea all night? they would either be crushed between the ice-cakes or devoured by seals or separated by the storm. the heavens were cloud-bedecked, the moon hid itself, and the darkness came quickly. at the same time all nature was filled with a horror which caused the most courageous hearts to quail. distressed bird-travellers' cries had sounded over the sea all day long, without anyone having paid the slightest attention to them; but now, when one no longer saw who it was that uttered them, they seemed mournful and terrifying. down on the sea, the ice-drifts crashed against each other with a loud rumbling noise. the seals tuned up their wild hunting songs. it was as though heaven and earth were, about to clash. the sheep the boy sat for a moment and looked down into the sea. suddenly he thought that it began to roar louder than ever. he looked up. right in front of him--only a couple of metres away--stood a rugged and bare mountain-wall. at its base the waves dashed into a foaming spray. the wild geese flew straight toward the cliff, and the boy did not see how they could avoid being dashed to pieces against it. hardly had he wondered that akka hadn't seen the danger in time, when they were over by the mountain. then he also noticed that in front of them was the half-round entrance to a grotto. into this the geese steered; and the next moment they were safe. the first thing the wild geese thought of--before they gave themselves time to rejoice over their safety--was to see if all their comrades were also harboured. yes, there were akka, iksi, kolmi, nelja, viisi, knusi, all the six goslings, the goosey-gander, dunfin and thumbietot; but kaksi from nuolja, the first left-hand goose, was missing--and no one knew anything about her fate. when the wild geese discovered that no one but kaksi had been separated from the flock, they took the matter lightly. kaksi was old and wise. she knew all their byways and their habits, and she, of course, would know how to find her way back to them. then the wild geese began to look around in the cave. enough daylight came in through the opening, so that they could see the grotto was both deep and wide. they were delighted to think they had found such a fine night harbour, when one of them caught sight of some shining, green dots, which glittered in a dark corner. "these are eyes!" cried akka. "there are big animals in here." they rushed toward the opening, but thumbietot called to them: "there is nothing to run away from! it's only a few sheep who are lying alongside the grotto wall." when the wild geese had accustomed themselves to the dim daylight in the grotto, they saw the sheep very distinctly. the grown-up ones might be about as many as there were geese; but beside these there were a few little lambs. an old ram with long, twisted horns appeared to be the most lordly one of the flock. the wild geese went up to him with much bowing and scraping. "well met in the wilderness!" they greeted, but the big ram lay still, and did not speak a word of welcome. then the wild geese thought that the sheep were displeased because they had taken shelter in their grotto. "it is perhaps not permissible that we have come in here?" said akka. "but we cannot help it, for we are wind-driven. we have wandered about in the storm all day, and it would be very good to be allowed to stop here to-night." after that a long time passed before any of the sheep answered with words; but, on the other hand, it could be heard distinctly that a pair of them heaved deep sighs. akka knew, to be sure, that sheep are always shy and peculiar; but these seemed to have no idea of how they should conduct themselves. finally an old ewe, who had a long and pathetic face and a doleful voice, said: "there isn't one among us that refuses to let you stay; but this is a house of mourning, and we cannot receive guests as we did in former days." "you needn't worry about anything of that sort," said akka. "if you knew what we have endured this day, you would surely understand that we are satisfied if we only get a safe spot to sleep on." when akka said this, the old ewe raised herself. "i believe that it would be better for you to fly about in the worst storm than to stop here. but, at least, you shall not go from here before we have had the privilege of offering you the best hospitality which the house affords." she conducted them to a hollow in the ground, which was filled with water. beside it lay a pile of bait and husks and chaff; and she bade them make the most of these. "we have had a severe snow-winter this year, on the island," she said. "the peasants who own us came out to us with hay and oaten straw, so we shouldn't starve to death. and this trash is all there is left of the good cheer." the geese rushed to the food instantly. they thought that they had fared well, and were in their best humour. they must have observed, of course, that the sheep were anxious; but they knew how easily scared sheep generally are, and didn't believe there was any actual danger on foot. as soon as they had eaten, they intended to stand up to sleep as usual. but then the big ram got up, and walked over to them. the geese thought that they had never seen a sheep with such big and coarse horns. in other respects, also, he was noticeable. he had a high, rolling forehead, intelligent eyes, and a good bearing--as though he were a proud and courageous animal. "i cannot assume the responsibility of letting you geese remain, without telling you that it is unsafe here," said he. "we cannot receive night guests just now." at last akka began to comprehend that this was serious. "we shall go away, since you really wish it," said she. "but won't you tell us first, what it is that troubles you? we know nothing about it. we do not even know where we are." "this is little karl's island!" said the ram. "it lies outside of gottland, and only sheep and seabirds live here." "perhaps you are wild sheep?" said akka. "we're not far removed from it," replied the ram. "we have nothing to do with human beings. it's an old agreement between us and some peasants on a farm in gottland, that they shall supply us with fodder in case we have snow-winter; and as a recompense they are permitted to take away those of us who become superfluous. the island is small, so it cannot feed very many of us. but otherwise we take care of ourselves all the year round, and we do not live in houses with doors and locks, but we reside in grottoes like these." "do you stay out here in the winter as well?" asked akka, surprised. "we do," answered the ram. "we have good fodder up here on the mountain, all the year around." "i think it sounds as if you might have it better than other sheep," said akka. "but what is the misfortune that has befallen you?" "it was bitter cold last winter. the sea froze, and then three foxes came over here on the ice, and here they have been ever since. otherwise, there are no dangerous animals here on the island." "oh, oh! do foxes dare to attack such as you?" "oh, no! not during the day; then i can protect myself and mine," said the ram, shaking his horns. "but they sneak upon us at night when we sleep in the grottoes. we try to keep awake, but one must sleep some of the time; and then they come upon us. they have already killed every sheep in the other grottoes, and there were herds that were just as large as mine." "it isn't pleasant to tell that we are so helpless," said the old ewe. "we cannot help ourselves any better than if we were tame sheep." "do you think that they will come here to-night?" asked akka. "there is nothing else in store for us," answered the old ewe. "they were here last night, and stole a lamb from us. they'll be sure to come again, as long as there are any of us alive. this is what they have done in the other places." "but if they are allowed to keep this up, you'll become entirely exterminated," said akka. "oh! it won't be long before it is all over with the sheep on little karl's island," said the ewe. akka stood there hesitatingly. it was not pleasant, by any means, to venture out in the storm again, and it wasn't good to remain in a house where such guests were expected. when she had pondered a while, she turned to thumbietot. "i wonder if you will help us, as you have done so many times before," said she. yes, that he would like to do, he replied. "it is a pity for you not to get any sleep!" said the wild goose, "but i wonder if you are able to keep awake until the foxes come, and then to awaken us, so we may fly away." the boy was so very glad of this--for anything was better than to go out in the storm again--so he promised to keep awake. he went down to the grotto opening, crawled in behind a stone, that he might be shielded from the storm, and sat down to watch. when the boy had been sitting there a while, the storm seemed to abate. the sky grew clear, and the moonlight began to play on the waves. the boy stepped to the opening to look out. the grotto was rather high up on the mountain. a narrow path led to it. it was probably here that he must await the foxes. as yet he saw no foxes; but, on the other hand, there was something which, for the moment, terrified him much more. on the land-strip below the mountain stood some giants, or other stone-trolls--or perhaps they were actual human beings. at first he thought that he was dreaming, but now he was positive that he had not fallen asleep. he saw the big men so distinctly that it couldn't be an illusion. some of them stood on the land-strip, and others right on the mountain just as if they intended to climb it. some had big, thick heads; others had no heads at all. some were one-armed, and some had humps both before and behind. he had never seen anything so extraordinary. the boy stood and worked himself into a state of panic because of those trolls, so that he almost forgot to keep his eye peeled for the foxes. but now he heard a claw scrape against a stone. he saw three foxes coming up the steep; and as soon as he knew that he had something real to deal with, he was calm again, and not the least bit scared. it struck him that it was a pity to awaken only the geese, and to leave the sheep to their fate. he thought he would like to arrange things some other way. he ran quickly to the other end of the grotto, shook the big ram's horns until he awoke, and, at the same time, swung himself upon his back. "get up, sheep, and well try to frighten the foxes a bit!" said the boy. he had tried to be as quiet as possible, but the foxes must have heard some noise; for when they came up to the mouth of the grotto they stopped and deliberated. "it was certainly someone in there that moved," said one. "i wonder if they are awake." "oh, go ahead, you!" said another. "at all events, they can't do anything to us." when they came farther in, in the grotto, they stopped and sniffed. "who shall we take to-night?" whispered the one who went first. "to-night we will take the big ram," said the last. "after that, we'll have easy work with the rest." the boy sat on the old ram's back and saw how they sneaked along. "now butt straight forward!" whispered the boy. the ram butted, and the first fox was thrust--top over tail--back to the opening. "now butt to the left!" said the boy, and turned the big ram's head in that direction. the ram measured a terrific assault that caught the second fox in the side. he rolled around several times before he got to his feet again and made his escape. the boy had wished that the third one, too, might have gotten a bump, but this one had already gone. "now i think that they've had enough for to-night," said the boy. "i think so too," said the big ram. "now lie down on my back, and creep into the wool! you deserve to have it warm and comfortable, after all the wind and storm that you have been out in." hell's hole the next day the big ram went around with the boy on his back, and showed him the island. it consisted of a single massive mountain. it was like a large house with perpendicular walls and a flat roof. first the ram walked up on the mountain-roof and showed the boy the good grazing lands there, and he had to admit that the island seemed to be especially created for sheep. there wasn't much else than sheep-sorrel and such little spicy growths as sheep are fond of that grew on the mountain. but indeed there was something beside sheep fodder to look at, for one who had gotten well up on the steep. to begin with, the largest part of the sea--which now lay blue and sunlit, and rolled forward in glittering swells--was visible. only upon one and another point, did the foam spray up. to the east lay gottland, with even and long-stretched coast; and to the southwest lay great karl's island, which was built on the same plan as the little island. when the ram walked to the very edge of the mountain roof, so the boy could look down the mountain walls, he noticed that they were simply filled with birds' nests; and in the blue sea beneath him, lay surf-scoters and eider-ducks and kittiwakes and guillemots and razor-bills--so pretty and peaceful--busying themselves with fishing for small herring. "this is really a favoured land," said the boy. "you live in a pretty place, you sheep." "oh, yes! it's pretty enough here," said the big ram. it was as if he wished to add something; but he did not, only sighed. "if you go about here alone you must look out for the crevices which run all around the mountain," he continued after a little. and this was a good warning, for there were deep and broad crevices in several places. the largest of them was called hell's hole. that crevice was many fathoms deep and nearly one fathom wide. "if anyone fell down there, it would certainly be the last of him," said the big ram. the boy thought it sounded as if he had a special meaning in what he said. then he conducted the boy down to the narrow strip of shore. now he could see those giants which had frightened him the night before, at close range. they were nothing but tall rock-pillars. the big ram called them "cliffs." the boy couldn't see enough of them. he thought that if there had ever been any trolls who had turned into stone they ought to look just like that. although it was pretty down on the shore, the boy liked it still better on the mountain height. it was ghastly down here; for everywhere they came across dead sheep. it was here that the foxes had held their orgies. he saw skeletons whose flesh had been eaten, and bodies that were half-eaten, and others which they had scarcely tasted, but had allowed to lie untouched. it was heart-rending to see how the wild beasts had thrown themselves upon the sheep just for sport--just to hunt them and tear them to death. the big ram did not pause in front of the dead, but walked by them in silence. but the boy, meanwhile, could not help seeing all the horror. then the big ram went up on the mountain height again; but when he was there he stopped and said: "if someone who is capable and wise could see all the misery which prevails here, he surely would not be able to rest until these foxes had been punished." "the foxes must live, too," said the boy. "yes," said the big ram, "those who do not tear in pieces more animals than they need for their sustenance, they may as well live. but these are felons." "the peasants who own the island ought to come here and help you," insisted the boy. "they have rowed over a number of times," replied the ram, "but the foxes always hid themselves in the grottoes and crevices, so they could not get near them, to shoot them." "you surely cannot mean, father, that a poor little creature like me should be able to get at them, when neither you nor the peasants have succeeded in getting the better of them." "he that is little and spry can put many things to rights," said the big ram. they talked no more about this, and the boy went over and seated himself among the wild geese who fed on the highland. although he had not cared to show his feelings before the ram, he was very sad on the sheep's account, and he would have been glad to help them. "i can at least talk with akka and morten goosey-gander about the matter," thought he. "perhaps they can help me with a good suggestion." a little later the white goosey-gander took the boy on his back and went over the mountain plain, and in the direction of hell's hole at that. he wandered, care-free, on the open mountain roof--apparently unconscious of how large and white he was. he didn't seek protection behind tufts, or any other protuberances, but went straight ahead. it was strange that he was not more careful, for it was apparent that he had fared badly in yesterday's storm. he limped on his right leg, and the left wing hung and dragged as if it might be broken. he acted as if there were no danger, pecked at a grass-blade here and another there, and did not look about him in any direction. the boy lay stretched out full length on the goose-back, and looked up toward the blue sky. he was so accustomed to riding now, that he could both stand and lie down on the goose-back. when the goosey-gander and the boy were so care-free, they did not observe, of course, that the three foxes had come up on the mountain plain. and the foxes, who knew that it was well-nigh impossible to take the life of a goose on an open plain, thought at first that they wouldn't chase after the goosey-gander. but as they had nothing else to do, they finally sneaked down on one of the long passes, and tried to steal up to him. they went about it so cautiously that the goosey-gander couldn't see a shadow of them. they were not far off when the goosey-gander made an attempt to raise himself into the air. he spread his wings, but he did not succeed in lifting himself. when the foxes seemed to grasp the fact that he couldn't fly, they hurried forward with greater eagerness than before. they no longer concealed themselves in the cleft, but came up on the highland. they hurried as fast as they could, behind tufts and hollows, and came nearer and nearer the goosey-gander--without his seeming to notice that he was being hunted. at last the foxes were so near that they could make the final leap. simultaneously, all three threw themselves with one long jump at the goosey-gander. but still at the last moment he must have noticed something, for he ran out of the way, so the foxes missed him. this, at any rate, didn't mean very much, for the goosey-gander only had a couple of metres headway, and, in the bargain, he limped. anyway, the poor thing ran ahead as fast as he could. the boy sat upon the goose-back--backward--and shrieked and called to the foxes. "you have eaten yourselves too fat on mutton, foxes. you can't catch up with a goose even." he teased them so that they became crazed with rage and thought only of rushing forward. the white one ran right straight to the big cleft. when he was there, he made one stroke with his wings, and got over. just then the foxes were almost upon him. the goosey-gander hurried on with the same haste as before, even after he had gotten across hell's hole. but he had hardly been running two metres before the boy patted him on the neck, and said: "now you can stop, goosey-gander." at that instant they heard a number of wild howls behind them, and a scraping of claws, and heavy falls. but of the foxes they saw nothing more. the next morning the lighthouse keeper on great karl's island found a bit of bark poked under the entrance-door, and on it had been cut, in slanting, angular letters: "the foxes on the little island have fallen down into hell's hole. take care of them!" and this the lighthouse keeper did, too. two cities the city at the bottom of the sea _saturday, april ninth_. it was a calm and clear night. the wild geese did not trouble themselves to seek shelter in any of the grottoes, but stood and slept upon the mountain top; and the boy had lain down in the short, dry grass beside the geese. it was bright moonlight that night; so bright that it was difficult for the boy to go to sleep. he lay there and thought about just how long he had been away from home; and he figured out that it was three weeks since he had started on the trip. at the same time he remembered that this was easter-eve. "it is to-night that all the witches come home from blakulla," thought he, and laughed to himself. for he was just a little afraid of both the sea-nymph and the elf, but he didn't believe in witches the least little bit. if there had been any witches out that night, he should have seen them, to be sure. it was so light in the heavens that not the tiniest black speck could move in the air without his seeing it. while the boy lay there with his nose in the air and thought about this, his eye rested on something lovely! the moon's disc was whole and round, and rather high, and over it a big bird came flying. he did not fly past the moon, but he moved just as though he might have flown out from it. the bird looked black against the light background, and the wings extended from one rim of the disc to the other. he flew on, evenly, in the same direction, and the boy thought that he was painted on the moon's disc. the body was small, the neck long and slender, the legs hung down, long and thin. it couldn't be anything but a stork. a couple of seconds later herr ermenrich, the stork, lit beside the boy. he bent down and poked him with his bill to awaken him. instantly the boy sat up. "i'm not asleep, herr ermenrich," he said. "how does it happen that you are out in the middle of the night, and how is everything at glimminge castle? do you want to speak with mother akka?" "it's too light to sleep to-night," answered herr ermenrich. "therefore i concluded to travel over here to karl's island and hunt you up, friend thumbietot. i learned from the seamew that you were spending the night here. i have not as yet moved over to glimminge castle, but am still living at pommern." the boy was simply overjoyed to think that herr ermenrich had sought him out. they chatted about all sorts of things, like old friends. at last the stork asked the boy if he wouldn't like to go out riding for a while on this beautiful night. oh, yes! that the boy wanted to do, if the stork would manage it so that he got back to the wild geese before sunrise. this he promised, so off they went. again herr ermenrich flew straight toward the moon. they rose and rose; the sea sank deep down, but the flight went so light and easy that it seemed almost as if the boy lay still in the air. when herr ermenrich began to descend, the boy thought that the flight had lasted an unreasonably short time. they landed on a desolate bit of seashore, which was covered with fine, even sand. all along the coast ran a row of flying-sand drifts, with lyme-grass on their tops. they were not very high, but they prevented the boy from seeing any of the island. herr ermenrich stood on a sand-hill, drew up one leg and bent his head backward, so he could stick his bill under the wing. "you can roam around on the shore for a while," he said to thumbietot, "while i rest myself. but don't go so far away but what you can find your way back to me again!" to start with, the boy intended to climb a sand-hill and see how the land behind it looked. but when he had walked a couple of paces, he stubbed the toe of his wooden shoe against something hard. he stooped down, and saw that a small copper coin lay on the sand, and was so worn with verdigris that it was almost transparent. it was so poor that he didn't even bother to pick it up, but only kicked it out of the way. but when he straightened himself up once more he was perfectly astounded, for two paces away from him stood a high, dark wall with a big, turreted gate. the moment before, when the boy bent down, the sea lay there--shimmering and smooth, while now it was hidden by a long wall with towers and battlements. directly in front of him, where before there had been only a few sea-weed banks, the big gate of the wall opened. the boy probably understood that it was a spectre-play of some sort; but this was nothing to be afraid of, thought he. it wasn't any dangerous trolls, or any other evil--such as he always dreaded to encounter at night. both the wall and the gate were so beautifully constructed that he only desired to see what there might be back of them. "i must find out what this can be," thought he, and went in through the gate. in the deep archway there were guards, dressed in brocaded and purred suits, with long-handled spears beside them, who sat and threw dice. they thought only of the game, and took no notice of the boy who hurried past them quickly. just within the gate he found an open space, paved with large, even stone blocks. all around this were high and magnificent buildings; and between these opened long, narrow streets. on the square--facing the gate--it fairly swarmed with human beings. the men wore long, fur-trimmed capes over satin suits; plume-bedecked hats sat obliquely on their heads; on their chests hung superb chains. they were all so regally gotten up that the whole lot of them might have been kings. the women went about in high head-dresses and long robes with tight-fitting sleeves. they, too, were beautifully dressed, but their splendour was not to be compared with that of the men. this was exactly like the old story-book which mother took from the chest--only once--and showed to him. the boy simply couldn't believe his eyes. but that which was even more wonderful to look upon than either the men or the women, was the city itself. every house was built in such a way that a gable faced the street. and the gables were so highly ornamented, that one could believe they wished to compete with each other as to which one could show the most beautiful decorations. when one suddenly sees so much that is new, he cannot manage to treasure it all in his memory. but at least the boy could recall that he had seen stairway gables on the various landings, which bore images of the christ and his apostles; gables, where there were images in niche after niche all along the wall; gables that were inlaid with multi-coloured bits of glass, and gables that were striped and checked with white and black marble. as the boy admired all this, a sudden sense of haste came over him. "anything like this my eyes have never seen before. anything like this, they would never see again," he said to himself. and he began to run in toward the city--up one street, and down another. the streets were straight and narrow, but not empty and gloomy, as they were in the cities with which he was familiar. there were people everywhere. old women sat by their open doors and spun without a spinning-wheel--only with the help of a shuttle. the merchants' shops were like market-stalls--opening on the street. all the hand-workers did their work out of doors. in one place they were boiling crude oil; in another tanning hides; in a third there was a long rope-walk. if only the boy had had time enough he could have learned how to make all sorts of things. here he saw how armourers hammered out thin breast-plates; how turners tended their irons; how the shoemakers soled soft, red shoes; how the gold-wire drawers twisted gold thread, and how the weavers inserted silver and gold into their weaving. but the boy did not have the time to stay. he just rushed on, so that he could manage to see as much as possible before it would all vanish again. the high wall ran all around the city and shut it in, as a hedge shuts in a field. he saw it at the end of every street--gable-ornamented and crenelated. on the top of the wall walked warriors in shining armour; and when he had run from one end of the city to the other, he came to still another gate in the wall. outside of this lay the sea and harbour. the boy saw olden-time ships, with rowing-benches straight across, and high structures fore and aft. some lay and took on cargo, others were just casting anchor. carriers and merchants hurried around each other. all over, it was life and bustle. but not even here did he seem to have the time to linger. he rushed into the city again; and now he came up to the big square. there stood the cathedral with its three high towers and deep vaulted arches filled with images. the walls had been so highly decorated by sculptors that there was not a stone without its own special ornamentation. and what a magnificent display of gilded crosses and gold-trimmed altars and priests in golden vestments, shimmered through the open gate! directly opposite the church there was a house with a notched roof and a single slender, sky-high tower. that was probably the courthouse. and between the courthouse and the cathedral, all around the square, stood the beautiful gabled houses with their multiplicity of adornments. the boy had run himself both warm and tired. he thought that now he had seen the most remarkable things, and therefore he began to walk more leisurely. the street which he had turned into now was surely the one where the inhabitants purchased their fine clothing. he saw crowds of people standing before the little stalls where the merchants spread brocades, stiff satins, heavy gold cloth, shimmery velvet, delicate veiling, and laces as sheer as a spider's web. before, when the boy ran so fast, no one had paid any attention to him. the people must have thought that it was only a little gray rat that darted by them. but now, when he walked down the street, very slowly, one of the salesmen caught sight of him, and began to beckon to him. at first the boy was uneasy and wanted to hurry out of the way, but the salesman only beckoned and smiled, and spread out on the counter a lovely piece of satin damask as if he wanted to tempt him. the boy shook his head. "i will never be so rich that i can buy even a metre of that cloth," thought he. but now they had caught sight of him in every stall, all along the street. wherever he looked stood a salesman and beckoned to him. they left their costly wares, and thought only of him. he saw how they hurried into the most hidden corner of the stall to fetch the best that they had to sell, and how their hands trembled with eagerness and haste as they laid it upon the counter. when the boy continued to go on, one of the merchants jumped over the counter, caught hold of him, and spread before him silver cloth and woven tapestries, which shone with brilliant colours. the boy couldn't do anything but laugh at him. the salesman certainly must understand that a poor little creature like him couldn't buy such things. he stood still and held out his two empty hands, so they would understand that he had nothing and let him go in peace. but the merchant raised a finger and nodded and pushed the whole pile of beautiful things over to him. "can he mean that he will sell all this for a gold piece?" wondered the boy. the merchant brought out a tiny worn and poor coin--the smallest that one could see--and showed it to him. and he was so eager to sell that he increased his pile with a pair of large, heavy, silver goblets. then the boy began to dig down in his pockets. he knew, of course, that he didn't possess a single coin, but he couldn't help feeling for it. all the other merchants stood still and tried to see how the sale would come off, and when they observed that the boy began to search in his pockets, they flung themselves over the counters, filled their hands full of gold and silver ornaments, and offered them to him. and they all showed him that what they asked in payment was just one little penny. but the boy turned both vest and breeches pockets inside out, so they should see that he owned nothing. then tears filled the eyes of all these regal merchants, who were so much richer than he. at last he was moved because they looked so distressed, and he pondered if he could not in some way help them. and then he happened to think of the rusty coin, which he had but lately seen on the strand. he started to run down the street, and luck was with him so that he came to the self-same gate which he had happened upon first. he dashed through it, and commenced to search for the little green copper penny which lay on the strand a while ago. he found it too, very promptly; but when he had picked it up, and wanted to run back to the city with it--he saw only the sea before him. no city wall, no gate, no sentinels, no streets, no houses could now be seen--only the sea. the boy couldn't help that the tears came to his eyes. he had believed in the beginning, that that which he saw was nothing but an hallucination, but this he had already forgotten. he only thought about how pretty everything was. he felt a genuine, deep sorrow because the city had vanished. that moment herr ermenrich awoke, and came up to him. but he didn't hear him, and the stork had to poke the boy with his bill to attract attention to himself. "i believe that you stand here and sleep just as i do," said herr ermenrich. "oh, herr ermenrich!" said the boy. "what was that city which stood here just now?" "have you seen a city?" said the stork. "you have slept and dreamt, as i say." "no! i have not dreamt," said thumbietot, and he told the stork all that he had experienced. then herr ermenrich said: "for my part, thumbietot, i believe that you fell asleep here on the strand and dreamed all this. "but i will not conceal from you that bataki, the raven, who is the most learned of all birds, once told me that in former times there was a city on this shore, called vineta. it was so rich and so fortunate, that no city has ever been more glorious; but its inhabitants, unluckily, gave themselves up to arrogance and love of display. as a punishment for this, says bataki, the city of vineta was overtaken by a flood, and sank into the sea. but its inhabitants cannot die, neither is their city destroyed. and one night in every hundred years, it rises in all its splendour up from the sea, and remains on the surface just one hour." "yes, it must be so," said thumbietot, "for this i have seen." "but when the hour is up, it sinks again into the sea, if, during that time, no merchant in vineta has sold anything to a single living creature. if you, thumbietot, only had had an ever so tiny coin, to pay the merchants, vineta might have remained up here on the shore; and its people could have lived and died like other human beings." "herr ermenrich," said the boy, "now i understand why you came and fetched me in the middle of the night. it was because you believed that i should be able to save the old city. i am so sorry it didn't turn out as you wished, herr ermenrich." he covered his face with his hands and wept. it wasn't easy to say which one looked the more disconsolate--the boy, or herr ermenrich. the living city _monday, april eleventh_. on the afternoon of easter monday, the wild geese and thumbietot were on the wing. they travelled over gottland. the large island lay smooth and even beneath them. the ground was checked just as it was in skåne and there were many churches and farms. but there was this difference, however, that there were more leafy meadows between the fields here, and then the farms were not built up with small houses. and there were no large manors with ancient tower-ornamented castles. the wild geese had taken the route over gottland on account of thumbietot. he had been altogether unlike himself for two days, and hadn't spoken a cheerful word. this was because he had thought of nothing but that city which had appeared to him in such a strange way. he had never seen anything so magnificent and royal, and he could not be reconciled with himself for having failed to save it. usually he was not chicken-hearted, but now he actually grieved for the beautiful buildings and the stately people. both akka and the goosey-gander tried to convince thumbietot that he had been the victim of a dream, or an hallucination, but the boy wouldn't listen to anything of that sort. he was so positive that he had really seen what he had seen, that no one could move him from this conviction. he went about so disconsolate that his travelling companions became uneasy for him. just as the boy was the most depressed, old kaksi came back to the flock. she had been blown toward gottland, and had been compelled to travel over the whole island before she had learned through some crows that her comrades were on little karl's island. when kaksi found out what was wrong with thumbietot, she said impulsively: "if thumbietot is grieving over an old city, we'll soon be able to comfort him. just come along, and i'll take you to a place that i saw yesterday! you will not need to be distressed very long." thereupon the geese had taken farewell of the sheep, and were on their way to the place which kaksi wished to show thumbietot. as blue as he was, he couldn't keep from looking at the land over which he travelled, as usual. he thought it looked as though the whole island had in the beginning been just such a high, steep cliff as karl's island--though much bigger of course. but afterward, it had in some way been flattened out. someone had taken a big rolling-pin and rolled over it, as if it had been a lump of dough. not that the island had become altogether flat and even, like a bread-cake, for it wasn't like that. while they had travelled along the coast, he had seen white lime walls with grottoes and crags, in several directions; but in most of the places they were levelled, and sank inconspicuously down toward the sea. in gottland they had a pleasant and peaceful holiday afternoon. it turned out to be mild spring weather; the trees had large buds; spring blossoms dressed the ground in the leafy meadows; the poplars' long, thin pendants swayed; and in the little gardens, which one finds around every cottage, the gooseberry bushes were green. the warmth and the spring-budding had tempted the people out into the gardens and roads, and wherever a number of them were gathered together they were playing. it was not the children alone who played, but the grown-ups also. they were throwing stones at a given point, and they threw balls in the air with such exact aim that they almost touched the wild geese. it looked cheerful and pleasant to see big folks at play; and the boy certainly would have enjoyed it, if he had been able to forget his grief because he had failed to save the city. anyway, he had to admit that this was a lovely trip. there was so much singing and sound in the air. little children played ring games, and sang as they played. the salvation army was out. he saw a lot of people dressed in black and red--sitting upon a wooded hill, playing on guitars and brass instruments. on one road came a great crowd of people. they were good templars who had been on a pleasure trip. he recognized them by the big banners with the gold inscriptions which waved above them. they sang song after song as long as he could hear them. after that the boy could never think of gottland without thinking of the games and songs at the same time. he had been sitting and looking down for a long while; but now he happened to raise his eyes. no one can describe his amazement. before he was aware of it, the wild geese had left the interior of the island and gone westward--toward the sea-coast. now the wide, blue sea lay before him. however, it was not the sea that was remarkable, but a city which appeared on the sea-shore. the boy came from the east, and the sun had just begun to go down in the west. when he came nearer the city, its walls and towers and high, gabled houses and churches stood there, perfectly black, against the light evening sky. he couldn't see therefore what it really looked like, and for a couple of moments he believed that this city was just as beautiful as the one he had seen on easter night. when he got right up to it, he saw that it was both like and unlike that city from the bottom of the sea. there was the same contrast between them, as there is between a man whom one sees arrayed in purple and jewels one day, and on another day one sees him dressed in rags. yes, this city had probably, once upon a time, been like the one which he sat and thought about. this one, also, was enclosed by a wall with towers and gates. but the towers in this city, which had been allowed to remain on land, were roofless, hollow and empty. the gates were without doors; sentinels and warriors had disappeared. all the glittering splendour was gone. there was nothing left but the naked, gray stone skeleton. when the boy came farther into the city, he saw that the larger part of it was made up of small, low houses; but here and there were still a few high gabled houses and a few cathedrals, which were from the olden time. the walls of the gabled houses were whitewashed, and entirely without ornamentation; but because the boy had so lately seen the buried city, he seemed to understand how they had been decorated: some with statues, and others with black and white marble. and it was the same with the old cathedrals; the majority of them were roofless with bare interiors. the window openings were empty, the floors were grass-grown, and ivy clambered along the walls. but now he knew how they had looked at one time; that they had been covered with images and paintings; that the chancel had had trimmed altars and gilded crosses, and that their priests had moved about, arrayed in gold vestments. the boy saw also the narrow streets, which were almost deserted on holiday afternoons. he knew, he did, what a stream of stately people had once upon a time sauntered about on them. he knew that they had been like large workshops--filled with all sorts of workmen. but that which nils holgersson did not see was, that the city--even to-day--was both beautiful and remarkable. he saw neither the cheery cottages on the side streets, with their black walls, and white bows and red pelargoniums behind the shining window-panes, nor the many pretty gardens and avenues, nor the beauty in the weed-clad ruins. his eyes were so filled with the preceding glory, that he could not see anything good in the present. the wild geese flew back and forth over the city a couple of times, so that thumbietot might see everything. finally they sank down on the grass-grown floor of a cathedral ruin to spend the night. when they had arranged themselves for sleep, thumbietot was still awake and looked up through the open arches, to the pale pink evening sky. when he had been sitting there a while, he thought he didn't want to grieve any more because he couldn't save the buried city. no, that he didn't want to do, now that he had seen this one. if that city, which he had seen, had not sunk into the sea again, then it would perhaps become as dilapidated as this one in a little while. perhaps it could not have withstood time and decay, but would have stood there with roofless churches and bare houses and desolate, empty streets--just like this one. then it was better that it should remain in all its glory down in the deep. "it was best that it happened as it happened," thought he. "if i had the power to save the city, i don't believe that i should care to do it." then he no longer grieved over that matter. and there are probably many among the young who think in the same way. but when people are old, and have become accustomed to being satisfied with little, then they are more happy over the visby that exists, than over a magnificent vineta at the bottom of the sea. the legend of smÅland _tuesday, april twelfth_. the wild geese had made a good trip over the sea, and had lighted in tjust township, in northern småland. that township didn't seem able to make up its mind whether it wanted to be land or sea. fiords ran in everywhere, and cut the land up into islands and peninsulas and points and capes. the sea was so forceful that the only things which could hold themselves above it were hills and mountains. all the lowlands were hidden away under the water exterior. it was evening when the wild geese came in from the sea; and the land with the little hills lay prettily between the shimmering fiords. here and there, on the islands, the boy saw cabins and cottages; and the farther inland he came, the bigger and better became the dwelling houses. finally, they grew into large, white manors. along the shores there was generally a border of trees; and within this lay field-plots, and on the tops of the little hills there were trees again. he could not help but think of blekinge. here again was a place where land and sea met, in such a pretty and peaceful sort of way, just as if they tried to show each other the best and loveliest which they possessed. the wild geese alighted upon a limestone island a good way in on goose-fiord. with the first glance at the shore they observed that spring had made rapid strides while they had been away on the islands. the big, fine trees were not as yet leaf-clad, but the ground under them was brocaded with white anemones, gagea, and blue anemones. when the wild geese saw the flower-carpet they feared that they had lingered too long in the southern part of the country. akka said instantly that there was no time in which to hunt up any of the stopping places in småland. by the next morning they must travel northward, over Östergötland. the boy should then see nothing of småland, and this grieved him. he had heard more about småland than he had about any other province, and he had longed to see it with his own eyes. the summer before, when he had served as goose-boy with a farmer in the neighbourhood of jordberga, he had met a pair of småland children, almost every day, who also tended geese. these children had irritated him terribly with their småland. it wasn't fair to say that osa, the goose-girl, had annoyed him. she was much too wise for that. but the one who could be aggravating with a vengeance was her brother, little mats. "have you heard, nils goose-boy, how it went when småland and skåne were created?" he would ask, and if nils holgersson said no, he began immediately to relate the old joke-legend. "well, it was at that time when our lord was creating the world. while he was doing his best work, saint peter came walking by. he stopped and looked on, and then he asked if it was hard to do. 'well, it isn't exactly easy,' said our lord. saint peter stood there a little longer, and when he noticed how easy it was to lay out one landscape after another, he too wanted to try his hand at it. 'perhaps you need to rest yourself a little,' said saint peter, 'i could attend to the work in the meantime for you.' but this our lord did not wish. 'i do not know if you are so much at home in this art that i can trust you to take hold where i leave off,' he answered. then saint peter was angry, and said that he believed he could create just as fine countries as our lord himself. "it happened that our lord was just then creating småland. it wasn't even half-ready but it looked as though it would be an indescribably pretty and fertile land. it was difficult for our lord to say no to saint peter, and aside from this, he thought very likely that a thing so well begun no one could spoil. therefore he said: if you like, we will prove which one of us two understands this sort of work the better. you, who are only a novice, shall go on with this which i have begun, and i will create a new land.' to this saint peter agreed at once; and so they went to work--each one in his place. "our lord moved southward a bit, and there he undertook to create skåne. it wasn't long before he was through with it, and soon he asked if saint peter had finished, and would come and look at his work. 'i had mine ready long ago,' said saint peter; and from the sound of his voice it could be heard how pleased he was with what he had accomplished. "when saint peter saw skåne, he had to acknowledge that there was nothing but good to be said of that land. it was a fertile land and easy to cultivate, with wide plains wherever one looked, and hardly a sign of hills. it was evident that our lord had really contemplated making it such that people should feel at home there. 'yes, this is a good country,' said saint peter, 'but i think that mine is better.' 'then we'll take a look at it,' said our lord. "the land was already finished in the north and east when saint peter began the work, but the southern and western parts; and the whole interior, he had created all by himself. now when our lord came up there, where saint peter had been at work, he was so horrified that he stopped short and exclaimed: 'what on earth have you been doing with this land, saint peter?' "saint peter, too, stood and looked around--perfectly astonished. he had had the idea that nothing could be so good for a land as a great deal of warmth. therefore he had gathered together an enormous mass of stones and mountains, and erected a highland, and this he had done so that it should be near the sun, and receive much help from the sun's heat. over the stone-heaps he had spread a thin layer of soil, and then he had thought that everything was well arranged. "but while he was down in skåne, a couple of heavy showers had come up, and more was not needed to show what his work amounted to. when our lord came to inspect the land, all the soil had been washed away, and the naked mountain foundation shone forth all over. where it was about the best, lay clay and heavy gravel over the rocks, but it looked so poor that it was easy to understand that hardly anything except spruce and juniper and moss and heather could grow there. but what there was plenty of was water. it had filled up all the clefts in the mountain; and lakes and rivers and brooks; these one saw everywhere, to say nothing of swamps and morasses, which spread over large tracts. and the most exasperating thing of all was, that while some tracts had too much water, it was so scarce in others, that whole fields lay like dry moors, where sand and earth whirled up in clouds with the least little breeze. "'what can have been your meaning in creating such a land as this?' said our lord. saint peter made excuses, and declared he had wished to build up a land so high that it should have plenty of warmth from the sun. 'but then you will also get much of the night chill,' said our lord, 'for that too comes from heaven. i am very much afraid the little that can grow here will freeze.' "this, to be sure, saint peter hadn't thought about. "'yes, here it will be a poor and frost-bound land,' said our lord, 'it can't be helped.'" when little mats had gotten this far in his story, osa, the goose-girl, protested: "i cannot bear, little mats, to hear you say that it is so miserable in småland," said she. "you forget entirely how much good soil there is there. only think of möre district, by kalmar sound! i wonder where you'll find a richer grain region. there are fields upon fields, just like here in skåne. the soil is so good that i cannot imagine anything that couldn't grow there." "i can't help that," said little mats. "i'm only relating what others have said before." "and i have heard many say that there is not a more beautiful coast land than tjust. think of the bays and islets, and the manors, and the groves!" said osa. "yes, that's true enough," little mats admitted. "and don't you remember," continued osa, "the school teacher said that such a lively and picturesque district as that bit of småland which lies south of lake vettern is not to be found in all sweden? think of the beautiful sea and the yellow coast-mountains, and of grenna and jönköping, with its match factory, and think of huskvarna, and all the big establishments there!" "yes, that's true enough," said little mats once again. "and think of visingsö, little mats, with the ruins and the oak forests and the legends! think of the valley through which emån flows, with all the villages and flour-mills and sawmills, and the carpenter shops!" "yes, that is true enough," said little mats, and looked troubled. all of a sudden he had looked up. "now we are pretty stupid," said he. "all this, of course, lies in our lord's småland, in that part of the land which was already finished when saint peter undertook the job. it's only natural that it should be pretty and fine there. but in saint peter's småland it looks as it says in the legend. and it wasn't surprising that our lord was distressed when he saw it," continued little mats, as he took up the thread of his story again. "saint peter didn't lose his courage, at all events, but tried to comfort our lord. 'don't be so grieved over this!' said he. 'only wait until i have created people who can till the swamps and break up fields from the stone hills.' "that was the end of our lord's patience--and he said: 'no! you can go down to skåne and make the skåninge, but the smålander i will create myself.' and so our lord created the smålander, and made him quick-witted and contented and happy and thrifty and enterprising and capable, that he might be able to get his livelihood in his poor country." then little mats was silent; and if nils holgersson had also kept still, all would have gone well; but he couldn't possibly refrain from asking how saint peter had succeeded in creating the skåninge. "well, what do you think yourself?" said little mats, and looked so scornful that nils holgersson threw himself upon him, to thrash him. but mats was only a little tot, and osa, the goose-girl, who was a year older than he, ran forward instantly to help him. good-natured though she was, she sprang like a lion as soon as anyone touched her brother. and nils holgersson did not care to fight a girl, but turned his back, and didn't look at those småland children for the rest of the day. the crows the earthen crock in the southwest corner of småland lies a township called sonnerbo. it is a rather smooth and even country. and one who sees it in winter, when it is covered with snow, cannot imagine that there is anything under the snow but garden-plots, rye-fields and clover-meadows as is generally the case in flat countries. but, in the beginning of april when the snow finally melts away in sonnerbo, it is apparent that that which lies hidden under it is only dry, sandy heaths, bare rocks, and big, marshy swamps. there are fields here and there, to be sure, but they are so small that they are scarcely worth mentioning; and one also finds a few little red or gray farmhouses hidden away in some beech-coppice--almost as if they were afraid to show themselves. where sonnerbo township touches the boundaries of halland, there is a sandy heath which is so far-reaching that he who stands upon one edge of it cannot look across to the other. nothing except heather grows on the heath, and it wouldn't be easy either to coax other growths to thrive there. to start with one would have to uproot the heather; for it is thus with heather: although it has only a little shrunken root, small shrunken branches, and dry, shrunken leaves it fancies that it's a tree. therefore it acts just like real trees--spreads itself out in forest fashion over wide areas; holds together faithfully, and causes all foreign growths that wish to crowd in upon its territory to die out. the only place on the heath where the heather is not all-powerful, is a low, stony ridge which passes over it. there you'll find juniper bushes, mountain ash, and a few large, fine oaks. at the time when nils holgersson travelled around with the wild geese, a little cabin stood there, with a bit of cleared ground around it. but the people who had lived there at one time, had, for some reason or other, moved away. the little cabin was empty, and the ground lay unused. when the tenants left the cabin they closed the damper, fastened the window-hooks, and locked the door. but no one had thought of the broken window-pane which was only stuffed with a rag. after the showers of a couple of summers, the rag had moulded and shrunk, and, finally, a crow had succeeded in poking it out. the ridge on the heather-heath was really not as desolate as one might think, for it was inhabited by a large crow-folk. naturally, the crows did not live there all the year round. they moved to foreign lands in the winter; in the autumn they travelled from one grain-field to another all over götaland, and picked grain; during the summer, they spread themselves over the farms in sonnerbo township, and lived upon eggs and berries and birdlings; but every spring, when nesting time came, they came back to the heather-heath. the one who had poked the rag from the window was a crow-cock named garm whitefeather; but he was never called anything but fumle or drumle, or out and out fumle-drumle, because he always acted awkwardly and stupidly, and wasn't good for anything except to make fun of. fumle-drumle was bigger and stronger than any of the other crows, but that didn't help him in the least; he was--and remained--a butt for ridicule. and it didn't profit him, either, that he came from very good stock. if everything had gone smoothly, he should have been leader for the whole flock, because this honour had, from time immemorial, belonged to the oldest whitefeather. but long before fumle-drumle was born, the power had gone from his family, and was now wielded by a cruel wild crow, named wind-rush. this transference of power was due to the fact that the crows on crow-ridge desired to change their manner of living. possibly there are many who think that everything in the shape of crow lives in the same way; but this is not so. there are entire crow-folk who lead honourable lives--that is to say, they only eat grain, worms, caterpillars, and dead animals; and there are others who lead a regular bandit's life, who throw themselves upon baby-hares and small birds, and plunder every single bird's nest they set eyes on. the ancient whitefeathers had been strict and temperate; and as long as they had led the flock, the crows had been compelled to conduct themselves in such a way that other birds could speak no ill of them. but the crows were numerous, and poverty was great among them. they didn't care to go the whole length of living a strictly moral life, so they rebelled against the whitefeathers, and gave the power to wind-rush, who was the worst nest-plunderer and robber that could be imagined--if his wife, wind-air, wasn't worse still. under their government the crows had begun to lead such a life that now they were more feared than pigeon-hawks and leech-owls. naturally, fumle-drumle had nothing to say in the flock. the crows were all of the opinion that he did not in the least take after his forefathers, and that he wouldn't suit as a leader. no one would have mentioned him, if he hadn't constantly committed fresh blunders. a few, who were quite sensible, sometimes said perhaps it was lucky for fumle-drumle that he was such a bungling idiot, otherwise wind-rush and wind-air would hardly have allowed him--who was of the old chieftain stock--to remain with the flock. now, on the other hand, they were rather friendly toward him, and willingly took him along with them on their hunting expeditions. there all could observe how much more skilful and daring they were than he. none of the crows knew that it was fumle-drumle who had pecked the rag out of the window; and had they known of this, they would have been very much astonished. such a thing as daring to approach a human being's dwelling, they had never believed of him. he kept the thing to himself very carefully; and he had his own good reasons for it. wind-rush always treated him well in the daytime, and when the others were around; but one very dark night, when the comrades sat on the night branch, he was attacked by a couple of crows and nearly murdered. after that he moved every night, after dark, from his usual sleeping quarters into the empty cabin. now one afternoon, when the crows had put their nests in order on crow-ridge, they happened upon a remarkable find. wind-rush, fumle-drumle, and a couple of others had flown down into a big hollow in one corner of the heath. the hollow was nothing but a gravel-pit, but the crows could not be satisfied with such a simple explanation; they flew down in it continually, and turned every single sand-grain to get at the reason why human beings had digged it. while the crows were pottering around down there, a mass of gravel fell from one side. they rushed up to it, and had the good fortune to find amongst the fallen stones and stubble--a large earthen crock, which was locked with a wooden clasp! naturally they wanted to know if there was anything in it, and they tried both to peck holes in the crock, and to bend up the clasp, but they had no success. they stood perfectly helpless and examined the crock, when they heard someone say: "shall i come down and assist you crows?" they glanced up quickly. on the edge of the hollow sat a fox and blinked down at them. he was one of the prettiest foxes--both in colour and form--that they had ever seen. the only fault with him was that he had lost an ear. "if you desire to do us a service," said wind-rush, "we shall not say nay." at the same time, both he and the others flew up from the hollow. then the fox jumped down in their place, bit at the jar, and pulled at the lock--but he couldn't open it either. "can you make out what there is in it?" said wind-rush. the fox rolled the jar back and forth, and listened attentively. "it must be silver money," said he. this was more than the crows had expected. "do you think it can be silver?" said they, and their eyes were ready to pop out of their heads with greed; for remarkable as it may sound, there is nothing in the world which crows love as much as silver money. "hear how it rattles!" said the fox and rolled the crock around once more. "only i can't understand how we shall get at it." "that will surely be impossible," said the crows. the fox stood and rubbed his head against his left leg, and pondered. now perhaps he might succeed, with the help of the crows, in becoming master of that little imp who always eluded him. "oh! i know someone who could open the crock for you," said the fox. "then tell us! tell us!" cried the crows; and they were so excited that they tumbled down into the pit. "that i will do, if you'll first promise me that you will agree to my terms," said he. then the fox told the crows about thumbietot, and said that if they could bring him to the heath he would open the crock for them. but in payment for this counsel, he demanded that they should deliver thumbietot to him, as soon as he had gotten the silver money for them. the crows had no reason to spare thumbietot, so agreed to the compact at once. it was easy enough to agree to this; but it was harder to find out where thumbietot and the wild geese were stopping. wind-rush himself travelled away with fifty crows, and said that he should soon return. but one day after another passed without the crows on crow-ridge seeing a shadow of him. kidnapped by crows _wednesday, april thirteenth_. the wild geese were up at daybreak, so they should have time to get themselves a bite of food before starting out on the journey toward Östergötland. the island in goosefiord, where they had slept, was small and barren, but in the water all around it were growths which they could eat their fill upon. it was worse for the boy, however. he couldn't manage to find anything eatable. as he stood there hungry and drowsy, and looked around in all directions, his glance fell upon a pair of squirrels, who played upon the wooded point, directly opposite the rock island. he wondered if the squirrels still had any of their winter supplies left, and asked the white goosey-gander to take him over to the point, that he might beg them for a couple of hazelnuts. instantly the white one swam across the sound with him; but as luck would have it the squirrels had so much fun chasing each other from tree to tree, that they didn't bother about listening to the boy. they drew farther into the grove. he hurried after them, and was soon out of the goosey-gander's sight--who stayed behind and waited on the shore. the boy waded forward between some white anemone-stems--which were so high they reached to his chin--when he felt that someone caught hold of him from behind, and tried to lift him up. he turned round and saw that a crow had grabbed him by the shirt-band. he tried to break loose, but before this was possible, another crow ran up, gripped him by the stocking, and knocked him over. if nils holgersson had immediately cried for help, the white goosey-gander certainly would have been able to save him; but the boy probably thought that he could protect himself, unaided, against a couple of crows. he kicked and struck out, but the crows didn't let go their hold, and they soon succeeded in raising themselves into the air with him. to make matters worse, they flew so recklessly that his head struck against a branch. he received a hard knock over the head, it grew black before his eyes, and he lost consciousness. when he opened his eyes once more, he found himself high above the ground. he regained his senses slowly; at first he knew neither where he was, nor what he saw. when he glanced down, he saw that under him was spread a tremendously big woolly carpet, which was woven in greens and reds, and in large irregular patterns. the carpet was very thick and fine, but he thought it was a pity that it had been so badly used. it was actually ragged; long tears ran through it; in some places large pieces were torn away. and the strangest of all was that it appeared to be spread over a mirror floor; for under the holes and tears in the carpet shone bright and glittering glass. the next thing the boy observed was that the sun unrolled itself in the heavens. instantly, the mirror-glass under the holes and tears in the carpet began to shimmer in red and gold. it looked very gorgeous, and the boy was delighted with the pretty colour-scheme, although he didn't exactly understand what it was that he saw. but now the crows descended, and he saw at once that the big carpet under him was the earth, which was dressed in green and brown cone-trees and naked leaf-trees, and that the holes and tears were shining fiords and little lakes. he remembered that the first time he had travelled up in the air, he had thought that the earth in skåne looked like a piece of checked cloth. but this country which resembled a torn carpet--what might this be? he began to ask himself a lot of questions. why wasn't he sitting on the goosey-gander's back? why did a great swarm of crows fly around him? and why was he being pulled and knocked hither and thither so that he was about to break to pieces? then, all at once, the whole thing dawned on him. he had been kidnapped by a couple of crows. the white goosey-gander was still on the shore, waiting, and to-day the wild geese were going to travel to Östergötland. he was being carried southwest; this he understood because the sun's disc was behind him. the big forest-carpet which lay beneath him was surely småland. "what will become of the goosey-gander now, when i cannot look after him?" thought the boy, and began to call to the crows to take him back to the wild geese instantly. he wasn't at all uneasy on his own account. he believed that they were carrying him off simply in a spirit of mischief. the crows didn't pay the slightest attention to his exhortations, but flew on as fast as they could. after a bit, one of them flapped his wings in a manner which meant: "look out! danger!" soon thereafter they came down in a spruce forest, pushed their way between prickly branches to the ground, and put the boy down under a thick spruce, where he was so well concealed that not even a falcon could have sighted him. fifty crows surrounded him, with bills pointed toward him to guard him. "now perhaps i may hear, crows, what your purpose is in carrying me off", said he. but he was hardly permitted to finish the sentence before a big crow hissed at him: "keep still! or i'll bore your eyes out." it was evident that the crow meant what she said; and there was nothing for the boy to do but obey. so he sat there and stared at the crows, and the crows stared at him. the longer he looked at them, the less he liked them. it was dreadful how dusty and unkempt their feather dresses were--as though they knew neither baths nor oiling. their toes and claws were grimy with dried-in mud, and the corners of their mouths were covered with food drippings. these were very different birds from the wild geese--that he observed. he thought they had a cruel, sneaky, watchful and bold appearance, just like cut-throats and vagabonds. "it is certainly a real robber-band that i've fallen in with," thought he. just then he heard the wild geese's call above him. "where are you? here am i. where are you? here am i." he understood that akka and the others had gone out to search for him; but before he could answer them the big crow who appeared to be the leader of the band hissed in his ear: "think of your eyes!" and there was nothing else for him to do but to keep still. the wild geese may not have known that he was so near them, but had just happened, incidentally, to travel over this forest. he heard their call a couple of times more, then it died away. "well, now you'll have to get along by yourself, nils holgersson," he said to himself. "now you must prove whether you have learned anything during these weeks in the open." a moment later the crows gave the signal to break up; and since it was still their intention, apparently, to carry him along in such a way that one held on to his shirt-band, and one to a stocking, the boy said: "is there not one among you so strong that he can carry me on his back? you have already travelled so badly with me that i feel as if i were in pieces. only let me ride! i'll not jump from the crow's back, that i promise you." "oh! you needn't think that we care how you have it," said the leader. but now the largest of the crows--a dishevelled and uncouth one, who had a white feather in his wing--came forward and said: "it would certainly be best for all of us, wind-rush, if thumbietot got there whole, rather than half, and therefore, i shall carry him on my back." "if you can do it, fumle-drumle, i have no objection," said wind-rush. "but don't lose him!" with this, much was already gained, and the boy actually felt pleased again. "there is nothing to be gained by losing my grit because i have been kidnapped by the crows," thought he. "i'll surely be able to manage those poor little things." the crows continued to fly southwest, over småland. it was a glorious morning--sunny and calm; and the birds down on the earth were singing their best love songs. in a high, dark forest sat the thrush himself with drooping wings and swelling throat, and struck up tune after tune. "how pretty you are! how pretty you are! how pretty you are!" sang he. "no one is so pretty. no one is so pretty. no one is so pretty." as soon as he had finished this song, he began it all over again. but just then the boy rode over the forest; and when he had heard the song a couple of times, and marked that the thrush knew no other, he put both hands up to his mouth as a speaking trumpet, and called down: "we've heard all this before. we've heard all this before." "who is it? who is it? who is it? who makes fun of me?" asked the thrush, and tried to catch a glimpse of the one who called. "it is kidnapped-by-crows who makes fun of your song," answered the boy. at that, the crow-chief turned his head and said: "be careful of your eyes, thumbietot!" but the boy thought, "oh! i don't care about that. i want to show you that i'm not afraid of you!" farther and farther inland they travelled; and there were woods and lakes everywhere. in a birch-grove sat the wood-dove on a naked branch, and before him stood the lady-dove. he blew up his feathers, cocked his head, raised and lowered his body, until the breast-feathers rattled against the branch. all the while he cooed: "thou, thou, thou art the loveliest in all the forest. no one in the forest is so lovely as thou, thou, thou!" but up in the air the boy rode past, and when he heard mr. dove he couldn't keep still. "don't you believe him! don't you believe him!" cried he. "who, who, who is it that lies about me?" cooed mr. dove, and tried to get a sight of the one who shrieked at him. "it is caught-by-crows that lies about you," replied the boy. again wind-rush turned his head toward the boy and commanded him to shut up, but fumle-drumle, who was carrying him, said: "let him chatter, then all the little birds will think that we crows have become quick-witted and funny birds." "oh! they're not such fools, either," said wind-rush; but he liked the idea just the same, for after that he let the boy call out as much as he liked. they flew mostly over forests and woodlands, but there were churches and parishes and little cabins in the outskirts of the forest. in one place they saw a pretty old manor. it lay with the forest back of it, and the sea in front of it; had red walls and a turreted roof; great sycamores about the grounds, and big, thick gooseberry-bushes in the orchard. on the top of the weathercock sat the starling, and sang so loud that every note was heard by the wife, who sat on an egg in the heart of a pear tree. "we have four pretty little eggs," sang the starling. "we have four pretty little round eggs. we have the whole nest filled with fine eggs." when the starling sang the song for the thousandth time, the boy rode over the place. he put his hands up to his mouth, as a pipe, and called: "the magpie will get them. the magpie will get them." "who is it that wants to frighten me?" asked the starling, and flapped his wings uneasily. "it is captured-by-crows that frightens you," said the boy. this time the crow-chief didn't attempt to hush him up. instead, both he and his flock were having so much fun that they cawed with satisfaction. the farther inland they came, the larger were the lakes, and the more plentiful were the islands and points. and on a lake-shore stood a drake and kowtowed before the duck. "i'll be true to you all the days of my life. i'll be true to you all the days of my life," said the drake. "it won't last until the summer's end," shrieked the boy. "who are you?" called the drake. "my name's stolen-by-crows," shrieked the boy. at dinner time the crows lighted in a food-grove. they walked about and procured food for themselves, but none of them thought about giving the boy anything. then fumle-drumle came riding up to the chief with a dog-rose branch, with a few dried buds on it. "here's something for you, wind-rush," said he. "this is pretty food, and suitable for you." wind-rush sniffed contemptuously. "do you think that i want to eat old, dry buds?" said he. "and i who thought that you would be pleased with them!" said fumle-drumle; and threw away the dog-rose branch as if in despair. but it fell right in front of the boy, and he wasn't slow about grabbing it and eating until he was satisfied. when the crows had eaten, they began to chatter. "what are you thinking about, wind-rush? you are so quiet to-day," said one of them to the leader. "i'm thinking that in this district there lived, once upon a time, a hen, who was very fond of her mistress; and in order to really please her, she went and laid a nest full of eggs, which she hid under the store-house floor. the mistress of the house wondered, of course, where the hen was keeping herself such a long time. she searched for her, but did not find her. can you guess, longbill, who it was that found her and the eggs?" "i think i can guess it, wind-rush, but when you have told about this, i will tell you something like it. do you remember the big, black cat in hinneryd's parish house? she was dissatisfied because they always took the new-born kittens from her, and drowned them. just once did she succeed in keeping them concealed, and that was when she had laid them in a haystack, out doors. she was pretty well pleased with those young kittens, but i believe that i got more pleasure out of them than she did." now they became so excited that they all talked at once. "what kind of an accomplishment is that--to steal little kittens?" said one. "i once chased a young hare who was almost full-grown. that meant to follow him from covert to covert." he got no further before another took the words from him. "it may be fun, perhaps, to annoy hens and cats, but i find it still more remarkable that a crow can worry a human being. i once stole a silver spoon--" but now the boy thought he was too good to sit and listen to such gabble. "now listen to me, you crows!" said he. "i think you ought to be ashamed of yourselves to talk about all your wickedness. i have lived amongst wild geese for three weeks, and of them i have never heard or seen anything but good. you must have a bad chief, since he permits you to rob and murder in this way. you ought to begin to lead new lives, for i can tell you that human beings have grown so tired of your wickedness they are trying with all their might to root you out. and then there will soon be an end of you." when wind-rush and the crows heard this, they were so furious that they intended to throw themselves upon him and tear him in pieces. but fumle-drumle laughed and cawed, and stood in front of him. "oh, no, no!" said he, and seemed absolutely terrified. "what think you that wind-air will say if you tear thumbietot in pieces before he has gotten that silver money for us?" "it has to be you, fumle-drumle, that's afraid of women-folk," said rush. but, at any rate, both he and the others left thumbietot in peace. shortly after that the crows went further. until now the boy thought that småland wasn't such a poor country as he had heard. of course it was woody and full of mountain-ridges, but alongside the islands and lakes lay cultivated grounds, and any real desolation he hadn't come upon. but the farther inland they came, the fewer were the villages and cottages. toward the last, he thought that he was riding over a veritable wilderness where he saw nothing but swamps and heaths and juniper-hills. the sun had gone down, but it was still perfect daylight when the crows reached the large heather-heath. wind-rush sent a crow on ahead, to say that he had met with success; and when it was known, wind-air, with several hundred crows from crow-ridge, flew to meet the arrivals. in the midst of the deafening cawing which the crows emitted, fumle-drumle said to the boy: "you have been so comical and so jolly during the trip that i am really fond of you. therefore i want to give you some good advice. as soon as we light, you'll be requested to do a bit of work which may seem very easy to you; but beware of doing it!" soon thereafter fumle-drumle put nils holgersson down in the bottom of a sandpit. the boy flung himself down, rolled over, and lay there as though he was simply done up with fatigue. such a lot of crows fluttered about him that the air rustled like a wind-storm, but he didn't look up. "thumbietot," said wind-rush, "get up now! you shall help us with a matter which will be very easy for you." the boy didn't move, but pretended to be asleep. then wind-rush took him by the arm, and dragged him over the sand to an earthen crock of old-time make, that was standing in the pit. "get up, thumbietot," said he, "and open this crock!" "why can't you let me sleep?" said the boy. "i'm too tired to do anything to-night. wait until to-morrow!" "open the crock!" said wind-rush, shaking him. "how shall a poor little child be able to open such a crock? why, it's quite as large as i am myself." "open it!" commanded wind-rush once more, "or it will be a sorry thing for you." the boy got up, tottered over to the crock, fumbled the clasp, and let his arms fall. "i'm not usually so weak," said he. "if you will only let me sleep until morning, i think that i'll be able to manage with that clasp." but wind-rush was impatient, and he rushed forward and pinched the boy in the leg. that sort of treatment the boy didn't care to suffer from a crow. he jerked himself loose quickly, ran a couple of paces backward, drew his knife from the sheath, and held it extended in front of him. "you'd better be careful!" he cried to wind-rush. this one too was so enraged that he didn't dodge the danger. he rushed at the boy, just as though he'd been blind, and ran so straight against the knife, that it entered through his eye into the head. the boy drew the knife back quickly, but wind-rush only struck out with his wings, then he fell down--dead. "wind-rush is dead! the stranger has killed our chieftain, wind-rush!" cried the nearest crows, and then there was a terrible uproar. some wailed, others cried for vengeance. they all ran or fluttered up to the boy, with fumle-drumle in the lead. but he acted badly as usual. he only fluttered and spread his wings over the boy, and prevented the others from coming forward and running their bills into him. the boy thought that things looked very bad for him now. he couldn't run away from the crows, and there was no place where he could hide. then he happened to think of the earthen crock. he took a firm hold on the clasp, and pulled it off. then he hopped into the crock to hide in it. but the crock was a poor hiding place, for it was nearly filled to the brim with little, thin silver coins. the boy couldn't get far enough down, so he stooped and began to throw out the coins. until now the crows had fluttered around him in a thick swarm and pecked at him, but when he threw out the coins they immediately forgot their thirst for vengeance, and hurried to gather the money. the boy threw out handfuls of it, and all the crows--yes, even wind-air herself--picked them up. and everyone who succeeded in picking up a coin ran off to the nest with the utmost speed to conceal it. when the boy had thrown out all the silver pennies from the crock he glanced up. not more than a single crow was left in the sandpit. that was fumle-drumle, with the white feather in his wing; he who had carried thumbietot. "you have rendered me a greater service than you understand," said the crow--with a very different voice, and a different intonation than the one he had used heretofore--"and i want to save your life. sit down on my back, and i'll take you to a hiding place where you can be secure for to-night. to-morrow, i'll arrange it so that you will get back to the wild geese." the cabin _thursday, april fourteenth_. the following morning when the boy awoke, he lay in a bed. when he saw that he was in a house with four walls around him, and a roof over him, he thought that he was at home. "i wonder if mother will come soon with some coffee," he muttered to himself where he lay half-awake. then he remembered that he was in a deserted cabin on the crow-ridge, and that fumle-drumle with the white feather had borne him there the night before. the boy was sore all over after the journey he had made the day before, and he thought it was lovely to lie still while he waited for fumle-drumle who had promised to come and fetch him. curtains of checked cotton hung before the bed, and he drew them aside to look out into the cabin. it dawned upon him instantly that he had never seen the mate to a cabin like this. the walls consisted of nothing but a couple of rows of logs; then the roof began. there was no interior ceiling, so he could look clear up to the roof-tree. the cabin was so small that it appeared to have been built rather for such as he than for real people. however, the fireplace and chimney were so large, he thought that he had never seen larger. the entrance door was in a gable-wall at the side of the fireplace, and was so narrow that it was more like a wicket than a door. in the other gable-wall he saw a low and broad window with many panes. there was scarcely any movable furniture in the cabin. the bench on one side, and the table under the window, were also stationary--also the big bed where he lay, and the many-coloured cupboard. the boy could not help wondering who owned the cabin, and why it was deserted. it certainly looked as though the people who had lived there expected to return. the coffee-urn and the gruel-pot stood on the hearth, and there was some wood in the fireplace; the oven-rake and baker's peel stood in a corner; the spinning wheel was raised on a bench; on the shelf over the window lay oakum and flax, a couple of skeins of yarn, a candle, and a bunch of matches. yes, it surely looked as if those who had lived there had intended to come back. there were bed-clothes on the bed; and on the walls there still hung long strips of cloth, upon which three riders named kasper, melchior, and baltasar were painted. the same horses and riders were pictured many times. they rode around the whole cabin, and continued their ride even up toward the joists. but in the roof the boy saw something which brought him to his senses in a jiffy. it was a couple of loaves of big bread-cakes that hung there upon a spit. they looked old and mouldy, but it was bread all the same. he gave them a knock with the oven-rake and one piece fell to the floor. he ate, and stuffed his bag full. it was incredible how good bread was, anyway. he looked around the cabin once more, to try and discover if there was anything else which he might find useful to take along. "i may as well take what i need, since no one else cares about it," thought he. but most of the things were too big and heavy. the only things that he could carry might be a few matches perhaps. he clambered up on the table, and swung with the help of the curtains up to the window-shelf. while he stood there and stuffed the matches into his bag, the crow with the white feather came in through the window. "well here i am at last," said fumle-drumle as he lit on the table. "i couldn't get here any sooner because we crows have elected a new chieftain in wind-rush's place." "whom have you chosen?" said the boy. "well, we have chosen one who will not permit robbery and injustice. we have elected garm whitefeather, lately called fumle-drumle," answered he, drawing himself up until he looked absolutely regal. "that was a good choice," said the boy and congratulated him. "you may well wish me luck," said garm; then he told the boy about the time they had had with wind-rush and wind-air. during this recital the boy heard a voice outside the window which he thought sounded familiar. "is he here?"--inquired the fox. "yes, he's hidden in there," answered a crow-voice. "be careful, thumbietot!" cried garm. "wind-air stands without with that fox who wants to eat you." more he didn't have time to say, for smirre dashed against the window. the old, rotten window-frame gave way, and the next second smirre stood upon the window-table. garm whitefeather, who didn't have time to fly away, he killed instantly. thereupon he jumped down to the floor, and looked around for the boy. he tried to hide behind a big oakum-spiral, but smirre had already spied him, and was crouched for the final spring. the cabin was so small, and so low, the boy understood that the fox could reach him without the least difficulty. but just at that moment the boy was not without weapons of defence. he struck a match quickly, touched the curtains, and when they were in flames, he threw them down upon smirre fox. when the fire enveloped the fox, he was seized with a mad terror. he thought no more about the boy, but rushed wildly out of the cabin. but it looked as if the boy had escaped one danger to throw himself into a greater one. from the tuft of oakum which he had flung at smirre the fire had spread to the bed-hangings. he jumped down and tried to smother it, but it blazed too quickly now. the cabin was soon filled with smoke, and smirre fox, who had remained just outside the window, began to grasp the state of affairs within. "well, thumbietot," he called out, "which do you choose now: to be broiled alive in there, or to come out here to me? of course, i should prefer to have the pleasure of eating you; but in whichever way death meets you it will be dear to me." the boy could not think but what the fox was right, for the fire was making rapid headway. the whole bed was now in a blaze, and smoke rose from the floor; and along the painted wall-strips the fire crept from rider to rider. the boy jumped up in the fireplace, and tried to open the oven door, when he heard a key which turned around slowly in the lock. it must be human beings coming. and in the dire extremity in which he found himself, he was not afraid, but only glad. he was already on the threshold when the door opened. he saw a couple of children facing him; but how they looked when they saw the cabin in flames, he took no time to find out; but rushed past them into the open. he didn't dare run far. he knew, of course, that smirre fox lay in wait for him, and he understood that he must remain near the children. he turned round to see what sort of folk they were, but he hadn't looked at them a second before he ran up to them and cried: "oh, good-day, osa goose-girl! oh, good-day, little mats!" for when the boy saw those children he forgot entirely where he was. crows and burning cabin and talking animals had vanished from his memory. he was walking on a stubble-field, in west vemminghög, tending a goose-flock; and beside him, on the field, walked those same småland children, with their geese. as soon as he saw them, he ran up on the stone-hedge and shouted: "oh, good-day, osa goose-girl! oh, good-day, little mats!" but when the children saw such a little creature coming up to them with outstretched hands, they grabbed hold of each other, took a couple of steps backward, and looked scared to death. when the boy noticed their terror he woke up and remembered who he was. and then it seemed to him that nothing worse could happen to him than that those children should see how he had been bewitched. shame and grief because he was no longer a human being overpowered him. he turned and fled. he knew not whither. but a glad meeting awaited the boy when he came down to the heath. for there, in the heather, he spied something white, and toward him came the white goosey-gander, accompanied by dunfin. when the white one saw the boy running with such speed, he thought that dreadful fiends were pursuing him. he flung him in all haste upon his back and flew off with him. the old peasant woman _thursday, april fourteenth_. three tired wanderers were out in the late evening in search of a night harbour. they travelled over a poor and desolate portion of northern småland. but the sort of resting place which they wanted, they should have been able to find; for they were no weaklings who asked for soft beds or comfortable rooms. "if one of these long mountain-ridges had a peak so high and steep that a fox couldn't in any way climb up to it, then we should have a good sleeping-place," said one of them. "if a single one of the big swamps was thawed out, and was so marshy and wet that a fox wouldn't dare venture out on it, this, too, would be a right good night harbour," said the second. "if the ice on one of the large lakes we travel past were loose, so that a fox could not come out on it, then we should have found just what we are seeking," said the third. the worst of it was that when the sun had gone down, two of the travellers became so sleepy that every second they were ready to fall to the ground. the third one, who could keep himself awake, grew more and more uneasy as night approached. "then it was a misfortune that we came to a land where lakes and swamps are frozen, so that a fox can get around everywhere. in other places the ice has melted away; but now we're well up in the very coldest småland, where spring has not as yet arrived. i don't know how i shall ever manage to find a good sleeping-place! unless i find some spot that is well protected, smirre fox will be upon us before morning." he gazed in all directions, but he saw no shelter where he could lodge. it was a dark and chilly night, with wind and drizzle. it grew more terrible and disagreeable around him every second. this may sound strange, perhaps, but the travellers didn't seem to have the least desire to ask for house-room on any farm. they had already passed many parishes without knocking at a single door. little hillside cabins on the outskirts of the forests, which all poor wanderers are glad to run across, they took no notice of either. one might almost be tempted to say they deserved to have a hard time of it, since they did not seek help where it was to be had for the asking. but finally, when it was so dark that there was scarcely a glimmer of light left under the skies and the two who needed sleep journeyed on in a kind of half-sleep, they happened into a farmyard which was a long way off from all neighbours. and not only did it lie there desolate, but it appeared to be uninhabited as well. no smoke rose from the chimney; no light shone through the windows; no human being moved on the place. when the one among the three who could keep awake, saw the place, he thought: "now come what may, we must try to get in here. anything better we are not likely to find." soon after that, all three stood in the house-yard. two of them fell asleep the instant they stood still, but the third looked about him eagerly, to find where they could get under cover. it was not a small farm. beside the dwelling house and stable and smoke-house, there were long ranges with granaries and storehouses and cattlesheds. but it all looked awfully poor and dilapidated. the houses had gray, moss-grown, leaning walls, which seemed ready to topple over. in the roofs were yawning holes, and the doors hung aslant on broken hinges. it was apparent that no one had taken the trouble to drive a nail into a wall on this place for a long time. meanwhile, he who was awake had figured out which house was the cowshed. he roused his travelling companions from their sleep, and conducted them to the cowshed door. luckily, this was not fastened with anything but a hook, which he could easily push up with a rod. he heaved a sigh of relief at the thought that they should soon be in safety. but when the cowshed door swung open with a sharp creaking, he heard a cow begin to bellow. "are you coming at last, mistress?" said she. "i thought that you didn't propose to give me any supper to-night." the one who was awake stopped in the doorway, absolutely terrified when he discovered that the cowshed was not empty. but he soon saw that there was not more than one cow, and three or four chickens; and then he took courage again. "we are three poor travellers who want to come in somewhere, where no fox can assail us, and no human being capture us," said he. "we wonder if this can be a good place for us." "i cannot believe but what it is," answered the cow. "to be sure the walls are poor, but the fox does not walk through them as yet; and no one lives here except an old peasant woman, who isn't at all likely to make a captive of anyone. but who are you?" she continued, as she twisted in her stall to get a sight of the newcomers. "i am nils holgersson from vemminghög, who has been transformed into an elf," replied the first of the incomers, "and i have with me a tame goose, whom i generally ride, and a gray goose." "such rare guests have never before been within my four walls," said the cow, "and you shall be welcome, although i would have preferred that it had been my mistress, come to give me my supper." the boy led the geese into the cowshed, which was rather large, and placed them in an empty manger, where they fell asleep instantly. for himself, he made a little bed of straw and expected that he, too, should go to sleep at once. but this was impossible, for the poor cow, who hadn't had her supper, wasn't still an instant. she shook her flanks, moved around in the stall, and complained of how hungry she was. the boy couldn't get a wink of sleep, but lay there and lived over all the things that had happened to him during these last days. he thought of osa, the goose-girl, and little mats, whom he had encountered so unexpectedly; and he fancied that the little cabin which he had set on fire must have been their old home in småland. now he recalled that he had heard them speak of just such a cabin, and of the big heather-heath which lay below it. now osa and mats had wandered back there to see their old home again, and then, when they had reached it, it was in flames. it was indeed a great sorrow which he had brought upon them, and it hurt him very much. if he ever again became a human being, he would try to compensate them for the damage and miscalculation. then his thoughts wandered to the crows. and when he thought of fumle-drumle who had saved his life, and had met his own death so soon after he had been elected chieftain, he was so distressed that tears filled his eyes. he had had a pretty rough time of it these last few days. but, anyway, it was a rare stroke of luck that the goosey-gander and dunfin had found him. the goosey-gander had said that as soon as the geese discovered that thumbietot had disappeared, they had asked all the small animals in the forest about him. they soon learned that a flock of småland crows had carried him off. but the crows were already out of sight, and whither they had directed their course no one had been able to say. that they might find the boy as soon as possible, akka had commanded the wild geese to start out--two and two--in different directions, to search for him. but after a two days' hunt, whether or not they had found him, they were to meet in northwestern småland on a high mountain-top, which resembled an abrupt, chopped-off tower, and was called taberg. after akka had given them the best directions, and described carefully how they should find taberg, they had separated. the white goosey-gander had chosen dunfin as travelling companion, and they had flown about hither and thither with the greatest anxiety for thumbietot. during this ramble they had heard a thrush, who sat in a tree-top, cry and wail that someone, who called himself kidnapped-by-crows, had made fun of him. they had talked with the thrush, and he had shown them in which direction that kidnapped-by-crows had travelled. afterward, they had met a dove-cock, a starling and a drake; they had all wailed about a little culprit who had disturbed their song, and who was named caught-by-crows, captured-by-crows, and stolen-by-crows. in this way, they were enabled to trace thumbietot all the way to the heather-heath in sonnerbo township. as soon as the goosey-gander and dunfin had found thumbietot, they had started toward the north, in order to reach taberg. but it had been a long road to travel, and the darkness was upon them before they had sighted the mountain top. "if we only get there by to-morrow, surely all our troubles will be over," thought the boy, and dug down into the straw to have it warmer. all the while the cow fussed and fumed in the stall. then, all of a sudden, she began to talk to the boy. "everything is wrong with me," said the cow. "i am neither milked nor tended. i have no night fodder in my manger, and no bed has been made under me. my mistress came here at dusk, to put things in order for me, but she felt so ill, that she had to go in soon again, and she has not returned." "it's distressing that i should be little and powerless," said the boy. "i don't believe that i am able to help you." "you can't make me believe that you are powerless because you are little," said the cow. "all the elves that i've ever heard of, were so strong that they could pull a whole load of hay and strike a cow dead with one fist." the boy couldn't help laughing at the cow. "they were a very different kind of elf from me," said he. "but i'll loosen your halter and open the door for you, so that you can go out and drink in one of the pools on the place, and then i'll try to climb up to the hayloft and throw down some hay in your manger." "yes, that would be some help," said the cow. the boy did as he had said; and when the cow stood with a full manger in front of her, he thought that at last he should get some sleep. but he had hardly crept down in the bed before she began, anew, to talk to him. "you'll be clean put out with me if i ask you for one thing more," said the cow. "oh, no i won't, if it's only something that i'm able to do," said the boy. "then i will ask you to go into the cabin, directly opposite, and find out how my mistress is getting along. i fear some misfortune has come to her." "no! i can't do that," said the boy. "i dare not show myself before human beings." "'surely you're not afraid of an old and sick woman," said the cow. "but you do not need to go into the cabin. just stand outside the door and peep in through the crack!" "oh! if that is all you ask of me, i'll do it of course," said the boy. with that he opened the cowshed door and went out in the yard. it was a fearful night! neither moon nor stars shone; the wind blew a gale, and the rain came down in torrents. and the worst of all was that seven great owls sat in a row on the eaves of the cabin. it was awful just to hear them, where they sat and grumbled at the weather; but it was even worse to think what would happen to him if one of them should set eyes on him. that would be the last of him. "pity him who is little!" said the boy as he ventured out in the yard. and he had a right to say this, for he was blown down twice before he got to the house: once the wind swept him into a pool, which was so deep that he came near drowning. but he got there nevertheless. he clambered up a pair of steps, scrambled over a threshold, and came into the hallway. the cabin door was closed, but down in one corner a large piece had been cut away, that the cat might go in and out. it was no difficulty whatever for the boy to see how things were in the cabin. he had hardly cast a glance in there before he staggered back and turned his head away. an old, gray-haired woman lay stretched out on the floor within. she neither moved nor moaned; and her face shone strangely white. it was as if an invisible moon had thrown a feeble light over it. the boy remembered that when his grandfather had died, his face had also become so strangely white-like. and he understood that the old woman who lay on the cabin floor must be dead. death had probably come to her so suddenly that she didn't even have time to lie down on her bed. as he thought of being alone with the dead in the middle of the dark night, he was terribly afraid. he threw himself headlong down the steps, and rushed back to the cowshed. when he told the cow what he had seen in the cabin, she stopped eating. "so my mistress is dead," said she. "then it will soon be over for me as well." "there will always be someone to look out for you," said the boy comfortingly. "ah! you don't know," said the cow, "that i am already twice as old as a cow usually is before she is laid upon the slaughter-bench. but then i do not care to live any longer, since she, in there, can come no more to care for me." she said nothing more for a while, but the boy observed, no doubt, that she neither slept nor ate. it was not long before she began to speak again. "is she lying on the bare floor?" she asked. "she is," said the boy. "she had a habit of coming out to the cowshed," she continued, "and talking about everything that troubled her. i understood what she said, although i could not answer her. these last few days she talked of how afraid she was lest there would be no one with her when she died. she was anxious for fear no one should close her eyes and fold her hands across her breast, after she was dead. perhaps you'll go in and do this?" the boy hesitated. he remembered that when his grandfather had died, mother had been very careful about putting everything to rights. he knew this was something which had to be done. but, on the other hand, he felt that he didn't care go to the dead, in the ghastly night. he didn't say no; neither did he take a step toward the cowshed door. for a couple of seconds the old cow was silent--just as if she had expected an answer. but when the boy said nothing, she did not repeat her request. instead, she began to talk with him of her mistress. there was much to tell, first and foremost, about all the children which she had brought up. they had been in the cowshed every day, and in the summer they had taken the cattle to pasture on the swamp and in the groves, so the old cow knew all about them. they had been splendid, all of them, and happy and industrious. a cow knew well enough what her caretakers were good for. there was also much to be said about the farm. it had not always been as poor as it was now. it was very large--although the greater part of it consisted of swamps and stony groves. there was not much room for fields, but there was plenty of good fodder everywhere. at one time there had been a cow for every stall in the cowshed; and the oxshed, which was now empty, had at one time been filled with oxen. and then there was life and gayety, both in cabin and cowhouse. when the mistress opened the cowshed door she would hum and sing, and all the cows lowed with gladness when they heard her coming. but the good man had died when the children were so small that they could not be of any assistance, and the mistress had to take charge of the farm, and all the work and responsibility. she had been as strong as a man, and had both ploughed and reaped. in the evenings, when she came into the cowshed to milk, sometimes she was so tired that she wept. then she dashed away her tears, and was cheerful again. "it doesn't matter. good times are coming again for me too, if only my children grow up. yes, if they only grow up." but as soon as the children were grown, a strange longing came over them. they didn't want to stay at home, but went away to a strange country. their mother never got any help from them. a couple of her children were married before they went away, and they had left their children behind, in the old home. and now these children followed the mistress in the cowshed, just as her own had done. they tended the cows, and were fine, good folk. and, in the evenings, when the mistress was so tired out that she could fall asleep in the middle of the milking, she would rouse herself again to renewed courage by thinking of them. "good times are coming for me, too," said she--and shook off sleep--"when once they are grown." but when these children grew up, they went away to their parents in the strange land. no one came back--no one stayed at home--the old mistress was left alone on the farm. probably she had never asked them to remain with her. "think you, rödlinna, that i would ask them to stay here with me, when they can go out in the world and have things comfortable?" she would say as she stood in the stall with the old cow. "here in småland they have only poverty to look forward to." but when the last grandchild was gone, it was all up with the mistress. all at once she became bent and gray, and tottered as she walked; as if she no longer had the strength to move about. she stopped working. she did not care to look after the farm, but let everything go to rack and ruin. she didn't repair the houses; and she sold both the cows and the oxen. the only one that she kept was the old cow who now talked with thumbietot. her she let live because all the children had tended her. she could have taken maids and farm-hands into her service, who would have helped her with the work, but she couldn't bear to see strangers around her, since her own had deserted her. perhaps she was better satisfied to let the farm go to ruin, since none of her children were coming back to take it after she was gone. she did not mind that she herself became poor, because she didn't value that which was only hers. but she was troubled lest the children should find out how hard she had it. "if only the children do not hear of this! if only the children do not hear of this!" she sighed as she tottered through the cowhouse. the children wrote constantly, and begged her to come out to them; but this she did not wish. she didn't want to see the land that had taken them from her. she was angry with it. "it's foolish of me, perhaps, that i do not like that land which has been so good for them," said she. "but i don't want to see it." she never thought of anything but the children, and of this--that they must needs have gone. when summer came, she led the cow out to graze in the big swamp. all day she would sit on the edge of the swamp, her hands in her lap; and on the way home she would say: "you see, rödlinna, if there had been large, rich fields here, in place of these barren swamps, then there would have been no need for them to leave." she could become furious with the swamp which spread out so big, and did no good. she could sit and talk about how it was the swamp's fault that the children had left her. this last evening she had been more trembly and feeble than ever before. she could not even do the milking. she had leaned against the manger and talked about two strangers who had been to see her, and had asked if they might buy the swamp. they wanted to drain it, and sow and raise grain on it. this had made her both anxious and glad. "do you hear, rödlinna," she had said, "do you hear they said that grain can grow on the swamp? now i shall write to the children to come home. now they'll not have to stay away any longer; for now they can get their bread here at home." it was this that she had gone into the cabin to do-- the boy heard no more of what the old cow said. he had opened the cowhouse door and gone across the yard, and in to the dead whom he had but lately been so afraid of. it was not so poor in the cabin as he had expected. it was well supplied with the sort of things one generally finds among those who have relatives in america. in a corner there was an american rocking chair; on the table before the window lay a brocaded plush cover; there was a pretty spread on the bed; on the walls, in carved-wood frames, hung the photographs of the children and grandchildren who had gone away; on the bureau stood high vases and a couple of candlesticks, with thick, spiral candles in them. the boy searched for a matchbox and lighted these candles, not because he needed more light than he already had; but because he thought that this was one way to honour the dead. then he went up to her, closed her eyes, folded her hands across her breast, and stroked back the thin gray hair from her face. he thought no more about being afraid of her. he was so deeply grieved because she had been forced to live out her old age in loneliness and longing. he, at least, would watch over her dead body this night. he hunted up the psalm book, and seated himself to read a couple of psalms in an undertone. but in the middle of the reading he paused--because he had begun to think about his mother and father. think, that parents can long so for their children! this he had never known. think, that life can be as though it was over for them when the children are away! think, if those at home longed for him in the same way that this old peasant woman had longed! this thought made him happy, but he dared not believe in it. he had not been such a one that anybody could long for him. but what he had not been, perhaps he could become. round about him he saw the portraits of those who were away. they were big, strong men and women with earnest faces. there were brides in long veils, and gentlemen in fine clothes; and there were children with waved hair and pretty white dresses. and he thought that they all stared blindly into vacancy--and did not want to see. "poor you!" said the boy to the portraits. "your mother is dead. you cannot make reparation now, because you went away from her. but my mother is living!" here he paused, and nodded and smiled to himself. "my mother is living," said he. "both father and mother are living." from taberg to huskvarna _friday, april fifteenth_. the boy sat awake nearly all night, but toward morning he fell asleep and then he dreamed of his father and mother. he could hardly recognise them. they had both grown gray, and had old and wrinkled faces. he asked how this had come about, and they answered that they had aged so because they had longed for him. he was both touched and astonished, for he had never believed but what they were glad to be rid of him. when the boy awoke the morning was come, with fine, clear weather. first, he himself ate a bit of bread which he found in the cabin; then he gave morning feed to both geese and cow, and opened the cowhouse door so that the cow could go over to the nearest farm. when the cow came along all by herself the neighbours would no doubt understand that something was wrong with her mistress. they would hurry over to the desolate farm to see how the old woman was getting along, and then they would find her dead body and bury it. the boy and the geese had barely raised themselves into the air, when they caught a glimpse of a high mountain, with almost perpendicular walls, and an abrupt, broken-off top; and they understood that this must be taberg. on the summit stood akka, with yksi and kaksi, kolmi and neljä, viisi and knusi, and all six goslings and waited for them. there was a rejoicing, and a cackling, and a fluttering, and a calling which no one can describe, when they saw that the goosey-gander and dunfin had succeeded in finding thumbietot. the woods grew pretty high up on taberg's sides, but her highest peak was barren; and from there one could look out in all directions. if one gazed toward the east, or south, or west, then there was hardly anything to be seen but a poor highland with dark spruce-trees, brown morasses, ice-clad lakes, and bluish mountain-ridges. the boy couldn't keep from thinking it was true that the one who had created this hadn't taken very great pains with his work, but had thrown it together in a hurry. but if one glanced to the north, it was altogether different. here it looked as if it had been worked out with the utmost care and affection. in this direction one saw only beautiful mountains, soft valleys, and winding rivers, all the way to the big lake vettern, which lay ice-free and transparently clear, and shone as if it wasn't filled with water but with blue light. it was vettern that made it so pretty to look toward the north, because it looked as though a blue stream had risen up from the lake, and spread itself over land also. groves and hills and roofs, and the spires of jönköping city--which shimmered along vettern's shores--lay enveloped in pale blue which caressed the eye. if there were countries in heaven, they, too, must be blue like this, thought the boy, and imagined that he had gotten a faint idea of how it must look in paradise. later in the day, when the geese continued their journey, they flew up toward the blue valley. they were in holiday humour; shrieked and made such a racket that no one who had ears could help hearing them. this happened to be the first really fine spring day they had had in this section. until now, the spring had done its work under rain and bluster; and now, when it had all of a sudden become fine weather, the people were filled with such a longing after summer warmth and green woods that they could hardly perform their tasks. and when the wild geese rode by, high above the ground, cheerful and free, there wasn't one who did not drop what he had in hand, and glance at them. the first ones who saw the wild geese that day were miners on taberg, who were digging ore at the mouth of the mine. when they heard them cackle, they paused in their drilling for ore, and one of them called to the birds: "where are you going? where are you going?" the geese didn't understand what he said, but the boy leaned forward over the goose-back, and answered for them: "where there is neither pick nor hammer." when the miners heard the words, they thought it was their own longing that made the goose-cackle sound like human speech. "take us along with you! take us along with you!" they cried. "not this year," shrieked the boy. "not this year." the wild geese followed taberg river down toward monk lake, and all the while they made the same racket. here, on the narrow land-strip between monk and vettern lakes, lay jönköping with its great factories. the wild geese rode first over monksjö paper mills. the noon rest hour was just over, and the big workmen were streaming down to the mill-gate. when they heard the wild geese, they stopped a moment to listen to them. "where are you going? where are you going?" called the workmen. the wild geese understood nothing of what they said, but the boy answered for them: "there, where there are neither machines nor steam-boxes." when the workmen heard the answer, they believed it was their own longing that made the goose-cackle sound like human speech. "take us along with you!" "not this year," answered the boy. "not this year." next, the geese rode over the well-known match factory, which lies on the shores of vettern--large as a fortress--and lifts its high chimneys toward the sky. not a soul moved out in the yards; but in a large hall young working-women sat and filled match-boxes. they had opened a window on account of the beautiful weather, and through it came the wild geese's call. the one who sat nearest the window, leaned out with a match-box in her hand, and cried: "where are you going? where are you going?" "to that land where there is no need of either light or matches," said the boy. the girl thought that what she had heard was only goose-cackle; but since she thought she had distinguished a couple of words, she called out in answer: "take me along with you!" "not this year," replied the boy. "not this year." east of the factories rises jönköping, on the most glorious spot that any city can occupy. the narrow vettern has high, steep sand-shores, both on the eastern and western sides; but straight south, the sand-walls are broken down, just as if to make room for a large gate, through which one reaches the lake. and in the middle of the gate--with mountains to the left, and mountains to the right, with monk lake behind it, and vettern in front of it--lies jönköping. the wild geese travelled forward over the long, narrow city, and behaved themselves here just as they had done in the country. but in the city there was no one who answered them. it was not to be expected that city folks should stop out in the streets, and call to the wild geese. the trip extended further along vettern's shores; and after a little they came to sanna sanitarium. some of the patients had gone out on the veranda to enjoy the spring air, and in this way they heard the goose-cackle. "where are you going?" asked one of them with such a feeble voice that he was scarcely heard. "to that land where there is neither sorrow nor sickness," answered the boy. "take us along with you!" said the sick ones. "not this year," answered the boy. "not this year." when they had travelled still farther on, they came to huskvarna. it lay in a valley. the mountains around it were steep and beautifully formed. a river rushed along the heights in long and narrow falls. big workshops and factories lay below the mountain walls; and scattered over the valley-bottom were the workingmens' homes, encircled by little gardens; and in the centre of the valley lay the schoolhouse. just as the wild geese came along, a bell rang, and a crowd of school children marched out in line. they were so numerous that the whole schoolyard was filled with them. "where are you going? where are you going?" the children shouted when they heard the wild geese. "where there are neither books nor lessons to be found," answered the boy. "take us along!" shrieked the children. "not this year, but next," cried the boy. "not this year, but next." the big bird lake jarro, the wild duck on the eastern shore of vettern lies mount omberg; east of omberg lies dagmosse; east of dagmosse lies lake takern. around the whole of takern spreads the big, even Östergöta plain. takern is a pretty large lake and in olden times it must have been still larger. but then the people thought it covered entirely too much of the fertile plain, so they attempted to drain the water from it, that they might sow and reap on the lake-bottom. but they did not succeed in laying waste the entire lake--which had evidently been their intention--therefore it still hides a lot of land. since the draining the lake has become so shallow that hardly at any point is it more than a couple of metres deep. the shores have become marshy and muddy; and out in the lake, little mud-islets stick up above the water's surface. now, there is one who loves to stand with his feet in the water, if he can just keep his body and head in the air, and that is the reed. and it cannot find a better place to grow upon, than the long, shallow takern shores, and around the little mud-islets. it thrives so well that it grows taller than a man's height, and so thick that it is almost impossible to push a boat through it. it forms a broad green enclosure around the whole lake, so that it is only accessible in a few places where the people have taken away the reeds. but if the reeds shut the people out, they give, in return, shelter and protection to many other things. in the reeds there are a lot of little dams and canals with green, still water, where duckweed and pondweed run to seed; and where gnat-eggs and blackfish and worms are hatched out in uncountable masses. and all along the shores of these little dams and canals, there are many well-concealed places, where seabirds hatch their eggs, and bring up their young without being disturbed, either by enemies or food worries. an incredible number of birds live in the takern reeds; and more and more gather there every year, as it becomes known what a splendid abode it is. the first who settled there were the wild ducks; and they still live there by thousands. but they no longer own the entire lake, for they have been obliged to share it with swans, grebes, coots, loons, fen-ducks, and a lot of others. takern is certainly the largest and choicest bird lake in the whole country; and the birds may count themselves lucky as long as they own such a retreat. but it is uncertain just how long they will be in control of reeds and mud-banks, for human beings cannot forget that the lake extends over a considerable portion of good and fertile soil; and every now and then the proposition to drain it comes up among them. and if these propositions were carried out, the many thousands of water-birds would be forced to move from this quarter. at the time when nils holgersson travelled around with the wild geese, there lived at takern a wild duck named jarro. he was a young bird, who had only lived one summer, one fall, and a winter; now, it was his first spring. he had just returned from south africa, and had reached takern in such good season that the ice was still on the lake. one evening, when he and the other young wild ducks played at racing backward and forward over the lake, a hunter fired a couple of shots at them, and jarro was wounded in the breast. he thought he should die; but in order that the one who had shot him shouldn't get him into his power, he continued to fly as long as he possibly could. he didn't think whither he was directing his course, but only struggled to get far away. when his strength failed him, so that he could not fly any farther, he was no longer on the lake. he had flown a bit inland, and now he sank down before the entrance to one of the big farms which lie along the shores of takern. a moment later a young farm-hand happened along. he saw jarro, and came and lifted him up. but jarro, who asked for nothing but to be let die in peace, gathered his last powers and nipped the farm-hand in the finger, so he should let go of him. jarro didn't succeed in freeing himself. the encounter had this good in it at any rate: the farm-hand noticed that the bird was alive. he carried him very gently into the cottage, and showed him to the mistress of the house--a young woman with a kindly face. at once she took jarro from the farm-hand, stroked him on the back and wiped away the blood which trickled down through the neck-feathers. she looked him over very carefully; and when she saw how pretty he was, with his dark-green, shining head, his white neck-band, his brownish-red back, and his blue wing-mirror, she must have thought that it was a pity for him to die. she promptly put a basket in order, and tucked the bird into it. all the while jarro fluttered and struggled to get loose; but when he understood that the people didn't intend to kill him, he settled down in the basket with a sense of pleasure. now it was evident how exhausted he was from pain and loss of blood. the mistress carried the basket across the floor to place it in the corner by the fireplace; but before she put it down jarro was already fast asleep. in a little while jarro was awakened by someone who nudged him gently. when he opened his eyes he experienced such an awful shock that he almost lost his senses. now he was lost; for there stood _the_ one who was more dangerous than either human beings or birds of prey. it was no less a thing than caesar himself--the long-haired dog--who nosed around him inquisitively. how pitifully scared had he not been last summer, when he was still a little yellow-down duckling, every time it had sounded over the reed-stems: "caesar is coming! caesar is coming!" when he had seen the brown and white spotted dog with the teeth-filled jowls come wading through the reeds, he had believed that he beheld death itself. he had always hoped that he would never have to live through that moment when he should meet caesar face to face. but, to his sorrow, he must have fallen down in the very yard where caesar lived, for there he stood right over him. "who are you?" he growled. "how did you get into the house? don't you belong down among the reed banks?" it was with great difficulty that he gained the courage to answer. "don't be angry with me, caesar, because i came into the house!" said he. "it isn't my fault. i have been wounded by a gunshot. it was the people themselves who laid me in this basket." "oho! so it's the folks themselves that have placed you here," said caesar. "then it is surely their intention to cure you; although, for my part, i think it would be wiser for them to eat you up, since you are in their power. but, at any rate, you are tabooed in the house. you needn't look so scared. now, we're not down on takern." with that caesar laid himself to sleep in front of the blazing log-fire. as soon as jarro understood that this terrible danger was past, extreme lassitude came over him, and he fell asleep anew. the next time jarro awoke, he saw that a dish with grain and water stood before him. he was still quite ill, but he felt hungry nevertheless, and began to eat. when the mistress saw that he ate, she came up and petted him, and looked pleased. after that, jarro fell asleep again. for several days he did nothing but eat and sleep. one morning jarro felt so well that he stepped from the basket and wandered along the floor. but he hadn't gone very far before he keeled over, and lay there. then came caesar, opened his big jaws and grabbed him. jarro believed, of course, that the dog was going to bite him to death; but caesar carried him back to the basket without harming him. because of this, jarro acquired such a confidence in the dog caesar, that on his next walk in the cottage, he went over to the dog and lay down beside him. thereafter caesar and he became good friends, and every day, for several hours, jarro lay and slept between caesar's paws. but an even greater affection than he felt for caesar, did jarro feel toward his mistress. of her he had not the least fear; but rubbed his head against her hand when she came and fed him. whenever she went out of the cottage he sighed with regret; and when she came back he cried welcome to her in his own language. jarro forgot entirely how afraid he had been of both dogs and humans in other days. he thought now that they were gentle and kind, and he loved them. he wished that he were well, so he could fly down to takern and tell the wild ducks that their enemies were not dangerous, and that they need not fear them. he had observed that the human beings, as well as caesar, had calm eyes, which it did one good to look into. the only one in the cottage whose glance he did not care to meet, was clawina, the house cat. she did him no harm, either, but he couldn't place any confidence in her. then, too, she quarrelled with him constantly, because he loved human beings. "you think they protect you because they are fond of you," said clawina. "you just wait until you are fat enough! then they'll wring the neck off you. i know them, i do." jarro, like all birds, had a tender and affectionate heart; and he was unutterably distressed when he heard this. he couldn't imagine that his mistress would wish to wring the neck off him, nor could he believe any such thing of her son, the little boy who sat for hours beside his basket, and babbled and chattered. he seemed to think that both of them had the same love for him that he had for them. one day, when jarro and caesar lay on the usual spot before the fire, clawina sat on the hearth and began to tease the wild duck. "i wonder, jarro, what you wild ducks will do next year, when takern is drained and turned into grain fields?" said clawina. "what's that you say, clawina?" cried jarro, and jumped up--scared through and through. "i always forget, jarro, that you do not understand human speech, like caesar and myself," answered the cat. "or else you surely would have heard how the men, who were here in the cottage yesterday, said that all the water was going to be drained from takern, and that next year the lake-bottom would be as dry as a house-floor. and now i wonder where you wild ducks will go." when jarro heard this talk he was so furious that he hissed like a snake. "you are just as mean as a common coot!" he screamed at clawina. "you only want to incite me against human beings. i don't believe they want to do anything of the sort. they must know that takern is the wild ducks' property. why should they make so many birds homeless and unhappy? you have certainly hit upon all this to scare me. i hope that you may be torn in pieces by gorgo, the eagle! i hope that my mistress will chop off your whiskers!" but jarro couldn't shut clawina up with this outburst. "so you think i'm lying," said she. "ask caesar, then! he was also in the house last night. caesar never lies." "caesar," said jarro, "you understand human speech much better than clawina. say that she hasn't heard aright! think how it would be if the people drained takern, and changed the lake-bottom into fields! then there would be no more pondweed or duck-food for the grown wild ducks, and no blackfish or worms or gnat-eggs for the ducklings. then the reed-banks would disappear--where now the ducklings conceal themselves until they are able to fly. all ducks would be compelled to move away from here and seek another home. but where shall they find a retreat like takern? caesar, say that clawina has not heard aright!" it was extraordinary to watch caesar's behaviour during this conversation. he had been wide-awake the whole time before, but now, when jarro turned to him, he panted, laid his long nose on his forepaws, and was sound asleep within the wink of an eyelid. the cat looked down at caesar with a knowing smile. "i believe that caesar doesn't care to answer you," she said to jarro. "it is with him as with all dogs; they will never acknowledge that humans can do any wrong. but you can rely upon my word, at any rate. i shall tell you why they wish to drain the lake just now. as long as you wild ducks still had the power on takern, they did not wish to drain it, for, at least, they got some good out of you; but now, grebes and coots and other birds who are no good as food, have infested nearly all the reed-banks, and the people don't think they need let the lake remain on their account." jarro didn't trouble himself to answer clawina, but raised his head, and shouted in caesar's ear: "caesar! you know that on takern there are still so many ducks left that they fill the air like clouds. say it isn't true that human beings intend to make all of these homeless!" then caesar sprang up with such a sudden outburst at clawina that she had to save herself by jumping up on a shelf. "i'll teach you to keep quiet when i want to sleep," bawled caesar. "of course i know that there is some talk about draining the lake this year. but there's been talk of this many times before without anything coming of it. and that draining business is a matter in which i take no stock whatever. for how would it go with the game if takern were laid waste. you're a donkey to gloat over a thing like that. what will you and i have to amuse ourselves with, when there are no more birds on takern?" the decoy-duck _sunday, april seventeenth_. a couple of days later jarro was so well that he could fly all about the house. then he was petted a good deal by the mistress, and the little boy ran out in the yard and plucked the first grass-blades for him which had sprung up. when the mistress caressed him, jarro thought that, although he was now so strong that he could fly down to takern at any time, he shouldn't care to be separated from the human beings. he had no objection to remaining with them all his life. but early one morning the mistress placed a halter, or noose, over jarro, which prevented him from using his wings, and then she turned him over to the farm-hand who had found him in the yard. the farm-hand poked him under his arm, and went down to takern with him. the ice had melted away while jarro had been ill. the old, dry fall leaves still stood along the shores and islets, but all the water-growths had begun to take root down in the deep; and the green stems had already reached the surface. and now nearly all the migratory birds were at home. the curlews' hooked bills peeped out from the reeds. the grebes glided about with new feather-collars around the neck; and the jack-snipes were gathering straws for their nests. the farm-hand got into a scow, laid jarro in the bottom of the boat, and began to pole himself out on the lake. jarro, who had now accustomed himself to expect only good of human beings, said to caesar, who was also in the party, that he was very grateful toward the farm-hand for taking him out on the lake. but there was no need to keep him so closely guarded, for he did not intend to fly away. to this caesar made no reply. he was very close-mouthed that morning. the only thing which struck jarro as being a bit peculiar was that the farm-hand had taken his gun along. he couldn't believe that any of the good folk in the cottage would want to shoot birds. and, beside, caesar had told him that the people didn't hunt at this time of the year. "it is a prohibited time," he had said, "although this doesn't concern me, of course." the farm-hand went over to one of the little reed-enclosed mud-islets. there he stepped from the boat, gathered some old reeds into a pile, and lay down behind it. jarro was permitted to wander around on the ground, with the halter over his wings, and tethered to the boat, with a long string. suddenly jarro caught sight of some young ducks and drakes, in whose company he had formerly raced backward and forward over the lake. they were a long way off, but jarro called them to him with a couple of loud shouts. they responded, and a large and beautiful flock approached. before they got there, jarro began to tell them about his marvellous rescue, and of the kindness of human beings. just then, two shots sounded behind him. three ducks sank down in the reeds--lifeless--and caesar bounced out and captured them. then jarro understood. the human beings had only saved him that they might use him as a decoy-duck. and they had also succeeded. three ducks had died on his account. he thought he should die of shame. he thought that even his friend caesar looked contemptuously at him; and when they came home to the cottage, he didn't dare lie down and sleep beside the dog. the next morning jarro was again taken out on the shallows. this time, too, he saw some ducks. but when he observed that they flew toward him, he called to them: "away! away! be careful! fly in another direction! there's a hunter hidden behind the reed-pile. i'm only a decoy-bird!" and he actually succeeded in preventing them from coming within shooting distance. jarro had scarcely had time to taste of a grass-blade, so busy was he in keeping watch. he called out his warning as soon as a bird drew nigh. he even warned the grebes, although he detested them because they crowded the ducks out of their best hiding-places. but he did not wish that any bird should meet with misfortune on his account. and, thanks to jarro's vigilance, the farm-hand had to go home without firing off a single shot. despite this fact, caesar looked less displeased than on the previous day; and when evening came he took jarro in his mouth, carried him over to the fireplace, and let him sleep between his forepaws. nevertheless jarro was no longer contented in the cottage, but was grievously unhappy. his heart suffered at the thought that humans never had loved him. when the mistress, or the little boy, came forward to caress him, he stuck his bill under his wing and pretended that he slept. for several days jarro continued his distressful watch-service; and already he was known all over takern. then it happened one morning, while he called as usual: "have a care, birds! don't come near me! i'm only a decoy-duck," that a grebe-nest came floating toward the shallows where he was tied. this was nothing especially remarkable. it was a nest from the year before; and since grebe-nests are built in such a way that they can move on water like boats, it often happens that they drift out toward the lake. still jarro stood there and stared at the nest, because it came so straight toward the islet that it looked as though someone had steered its course over the water. as the nest came nearer, jarro saw that a little human being--the tiniest he had ever seen--sat in the nest and rowed it forward with a pair of sticks. and this little human called to him: "go as near the water as you can, jarro, and be ready to fly. you shall soon be freed." a few seconds later the grebe-nest lay near land, but the little oarsman did not leave it, but sat huddled up between branches and straw. jarro too held himself almost immovable. he was actually paralysed with fear lest the rescuer should be discovered. the next thing which occurred was that a flock of wild geese came along. then jarro woke up to business, and warned them with loud shrieks; but in spite of this they flew backward and forward over the shallows several times. they held themselves so high that they were beyond shooting distance; still the farm-hand let himself be tempted to fire a couple of shots at them. these shots were hardly fired before the little creature ran up on land, drew a tiny knife from its sheath, and, with a couple of quick strokes, cut loose jarro's halter. "now fly away, jarro, before the man has time to load again!" cried he, while he himself ran down to the grebe-nest and poled away from the shore. the hunter had had his gaze fixed upon the geese, and hadn't observed that jarro had been freed; but caesar had followed more carefully that which happened; and just as jarro raised his wings, he dashed forward and grabbed him by the neck. jarro cried pitifully; and the boy who had freed him said quietly to caesar: "if you are just as honourable as you look, surely you cannot wish to force a good bird to sit here and entice others into trouble." when caesar heard these words, he grinned viciously with his upper lip, but the next second he dropped jarro. "fly, jarro!" said he. "you are certainly too good to be a decoy-duck. it wasn't for this that i wanted to keep you here; but because it will be lonely in the cottage without you." the lowering of the lake _wednesday, april twentieth_. it was indeed very lonely in the cottage without jarro. the dog and the cat found the time long, when they didn't have him to wrangle over; and the housewife missed the glad quacking which he had indulged in every time she entered the house. but the one who longed most for jarro, was the little boy, per ola. he was but three years old, and the only child; and in all his life he had never had a playmate like jarro. when he heard that jarro had gone back to takern and the wild ducks, he couldn't be satisfied with this, but thought constantly of how he should get him back again. per ola had talked a good deal with jarro while he lay still in his basket, and he was certain that the duck understood him. he begged his mother to take him down to the lake that he might find jarro, and persuade him to come back to them. mother wouldn't listen to this; but the little one didn't give up his plan on that account. the day after jarro had disappeared, per ola was running about in the yard. he played by himself as usual, but caesar lay on the stoop; and when mother let the boy out, she said: "take care of per ola, caesar!" now if all had been as usual, caesar would also have obeyed the command, and the boy would have been so well guarded that he couldn't have run the least risk. but caesar was not like himself these days. he knew that the farmers who lived along takern had held frequent conferences about the lowering of the lake; and that they had almost settled the matter. the ducks must leave, and caesar should nevermore behold a glorious chase. he was so preoccupied with thoughts of this misfortune, that he did not remember to watch over per ola. and the little one had scarcely been alone in the yard a minute, before he realised that now the right moment was come to go down to takern and talk with jarro. he opened a gate, and wandered down toward the lake on the narrow path which ran along the banks. as long as he could be seen from the house, he walked slowly; but afterward he increased his pace. he was very much afraid that mother, or someone else, should call to him that he couldn't go. he didn't wish to do anything naughty, only to persuade jarro to come home; but he felt that those at home would not have approved of the undertaking. when per ola came down to the lake-shore, he called jarro several times. thereupon he stood for a long time and waited, but no jarro appeared. he saw several birds that resembled the wild duck, but they flew by without noticing him, and he could understand that none among them was the right one. when jarro didn't come to him, the little boy thought that it would be easier to find him if he went out on the lake. there were several good craft lying along the shore, but they were tied. the only one that lay loose, and at liberty, was an old leaky scow which was so unfit that no one thought of using it. but per ola scrambled up in it without caring that the whole bottom was filled with water. he had not strength enough to use the oars, but instead, he seated himself to swing and rock in the scow. certainly no grown person would have succeeded in moving a scow out on takern in that manner; but when the tide is high--and ill-luck to the fore--little children have a marvellous faculty for getting out to sea. per ola was soon riding around on takern, and calling for jarro. when the old scow was rocked like this--out to sea--its cracks opened wider and wider, and the water actually streamed into it. per ola didn't pay the slightest attention to this. he sat upon the little bench in front and called to every bird he saw, and wondered why jarro didn't appear. at last jarro caught sight of per ola. he heard that someone called him by the name which he had borne among human beings, and he understood that the boy had gone out on takern to search for him. jarro was unspeakably happy to find that one of the humans really loved him. he shot down toward per ola, like an arrow, seated himself beside him, and let him caress him. they were both very happy to see each other again. but suddenly jarro noticed the condition of the scow. it was half-filled with water, and was almost ready to sink. jarro tried to tell per ola that he, who could neither fly nor swim, must try to get upon land; but per ola didn't understand him. then jarro did not wait an instant, but hurried away to get help. jarro came back in a little while, and carried on his back a tiny thing, who was much smaller than per ola himself. if he hadn't been able to talk and move, the boy would have believed that it was a doll. instantly, the little one ordered per ola to pick up a long, slender pole that lay in the bottom of the scow, and try to pole it toward one of the reed-islands. per ola obeyed him, and he and the tiny creature, together, steered the scow. with a couple of strokes they were on a little reed-encircled island, and now per ola was told that he must step on land. and just the very moment that per ola set foot on land, the scow was filled with water, and sank to the bottom. when per ola saw this he was sure that father and mother would be very angry with him. he would have started in to cry if he hadn't found something else to think about soon; namely, a flock of big, gray birds, who lighted on the island. the little midget took him up to them, and told him their names, and what they said. and this was so funny that per ola forgot everything else. meanwhile the folks on the farm had discovered that the boy had disappeared, and had started to search for him. they searched the outhouses, looked in the well, and hunted through the cellar. then they went out into the highways and by-paths; wandered to the neighbouring farm to find out if he had strayed over there, and searched for him also down by takern. but no matter how much they sought they did not find him. caesar, the dog, understood very well that the farmer-folk were looking for per ola, but he did nothing to lead them on the right track; instead, he lay still as though the matter didn't concern him. later in the day, per ola's footprints were discovered down by the boat-landing. and then came the thought that the old, leaky scow was no longer on the strand. then one began to understand how the whole affair had come about. the farmer and his helpers immediately took out the boats and went in search of the boy. they rowed around on takern until way late in the evening, without seeing the least shadow of him. they couldn't help believing that the old scow had gone down, and that the little one lay dead on the lake-bottom. in the evening, per ola's mother hunted around on the strand. everyone else was convinced that the boy was drowned, but she could not bring herself to believe this. she searched all the while. she searched between reeds and bulrushes; tramped and tramped on the muddy shore, never thinking of how deep her foot sank, and how wet she had become. she was unspeakably desperate. her heart ached in her breast. she did not weep, but wrung her hands and called for her child in loud piercing tones. round about her she heard swans' and ducks' and curlews' shrieks. she thought that they followed her, and moaned and wailed--they too. "surely, they, too, must be in trouble, since they moan so," thought she. then she remembered: these were only birds that she heard complain. they surely had no worries. it was strange that they did not quiet down after sunset. but she heard all these uncountable bird-throngs, which lived along takern, send forth cry upon cry. several of them followed her wherever she went; others came rustling past on light wings. all the air was filled with moans and lamentations. but the anguish which she herself was suffering, opened her heart. she thought that she was not as far removed from all other living creatures as people usually think. she understood much better than ever before, how birds fared. they had their constant worries for home and children; they, as she. there was surely not such a great difference between them and her as she had heretofore believed. then she happened to think that it was as good as settled that these thousands of swans and ducks and loons would lose their homes here by takern. "it will be very hard for them," she thought. "where shall they bring up their children now?" she stood still and mused on this. it appeared to be an excellent and agreeable accomplishment to change a lake into fields and meadows, but let it be some other lake than takern; some other lake, which was not the home of so many thousand creatures. she remembered how on the following day the proposition to lower the lake was to be decided, and she wondered if this was why her little son had been lost--just to-day. was it god's meaning that sorrow should come and open her heart--just to-day--before it was too late to avert the cruel act? she walked rapidly up to the house, and began to talk with her husband about this. she spoke of the lake, and of the birds, and said that she believed it was god's judgment on them both. and she soon found that he was of the same opinion. they already owned a large place, but if the lake-draining was carried into effect, such a goodly portion of the lake-bottom would fall to their share that their property would be nearly doubled. for this reason they had been more eager for the undertaking than any of the other shore owners. the others had been worried about expenses, and anxious lest the draining should not prove any more successful this time than it was the last. per ola's father knew in his heart that it was he who had influenced them to undertake the work. he had exercised all his eloquence, so that he might leave to his son a farm as large again as his father had left to him. he stood and pondered if god's hand was back of the fact that takern had taken his son from him on the day before he was to draw up the contract to lay it waste. the wife didn't have to say many words to him, before he answered: "it may be that god does not want us to interfere with his order. i'll talk with the others about this to-morrow, and i think we'll conclude that all may remain as it is." while the farmer-folk were talking this over, caesar lay before the fire. he raised his head and listened very attentively. when he thought that he was sure of the outcome, he walked up to the mistress, took her by the skirt, and led her to the door. "but caesar!" said she, and wanted to break loose. "do you know where per ola is?" she exclaimed. caesar barked joyfully, and threw himself against the door. she opened it, and caesar dashed down toward takern. the mistress was so positive he knew where per ola was, that she rushed after him. and no sooner had they reached the shore than they heard a child's cry out on the lake. per ola had had the best day of his life, in company with thumbietot and the birds; but now he had begun to cry because he was hungry and afraid of the darkness. and he was glad when father and mother and caesar came for him. ulvÅsa-lady the prophecy _friday, april twenty-second_. one night when the boy lay and slept on an island in takern, he was awakened by oar-strokes. he had hardly gotten his eyes open before there fell such a dazzling light on them that he began to blink. at first he couldn't make out what it was that shone so brightly out here on the lake; but he soon saw that a scow with a big burning torch stuck up on a spike, aft, lay near the edge of the reeds. the red flame from the torch was clearly reflected in the night-dark lake; and the brilliant light must have lured the fish, for round about the flame in the deep a mass of dark specks were seen, that moved continually, and changed places. there were two old men in the scow. one sat at the oars, and the other stood on a bench in the stern and held in his hand a short spear which was coarsely barbed. the one who rowed was apparently a poor fisherman. he was small, dried-up and weather-beaten, and wore a thin, threadbare coat. one could see that he was so used to being out in all sorts of weather that he didn't mind the cold. the other was well fed and well dressed, and looked like a prosperous and self-complacent farmer. "now, stop!" said the farmer, when they were opposite the island where the boy lay. at the same time he plunged the spear into the water. when he drew it out again, a long, fine eel came with it. "look at that!" said he as he released the eel from the spear. "that was one who was worth while. now i think we have so many that we can turn back." his comrade did not lift the oars, but sat and looked around. "it is lovely out here on the lake to-night," said he. and so it was. it was absolutely still, so that the entire water-surface lay in undisturbed rest with the exception of the streak where the boat had gone forward. this lay like a path of gold, and shimmered in the firelight. the sky was clear and dark blue and thickly studded with stars. the shores were hidden by the reed islands except toward the west. there mount omberg loomed up high and dark, much more impressive than usual, and, cut away a big, three-cornered piece of the vaulted heavens. the other one turned his head to get the light out of his eyes, and looked about him. "yes, it is lovely here in Östergylln," said he. "still the best thing about the province is not its beauty." "then what is it that's best?" asked the oarsman. "that it has always been a respected and honoured province." "that may be true enough." "and then this, that one knows it will always continue to be so." "but how in the world can one know this?" said the one who sat at the oars. the farmer straightened up where he stood and braced himself with the spear. "there is an old story which has been handed down from father to son in my family; and in it one learns what will happen to Östergötland." "then you may as well tell it to me," said the oarsman. "we do not tell it to anyone and everyone, but i do not wish to keep it a secret from an old comrade. "at ulvåsa, here in Östergötland," he continued (and one could tell by the tone of his voice that he talked of something which he had heard from others, and knew by heart), "many, many years ago, there lived a lady who had the gift of looking into the future, and telling people what was going to happen to them--just as certainly and accurately as though it had already occurred. for this she became widely noted; and it is easy to understand that people would come to her, both from far and near, to find out what they were going to pass through of good or evil. "one day, when ulvåsa-lady sat in her hall and spun, as was customary in former days, a poor peasant came into the room and seated himself on the bench near the door. "'i wonder what you are sitting and thinking about, dear lady,' said the peasant after a little. "'i am sitting and thinking about high and holy things,' answered she. 'then it is not fitting, perhaps, that i ask you about something which weighs on my heart,' said the peasant. "'it is probably nothing else that weighs on your heart than that you may reap much grain on your field. but i am accustomed to receive communications from the emperor about how it will go with his crown; and from the pope, about how it will go with his keys.' 'such things cannot be easy to answer,' said the peasant. 'i have also heard that no one seems to go from here without being dissatisfied with what he has heard.' "when the peasant said this, he saw that ulvåsa-lady bit her lip, and moved higher up on the bench. 'so this is what you have heard about me,' said she. 'then you may as well tempt fortune by asking me about the thing you wish to know; and you shall see if i can answer so that you will be satisfied.' "after this the peasant did not hesitate to state his errand. he said that he had come to ask how it would go with Östergötland in the future. there was nothing which was so dear to him as his native province, and he felt that he should be happy until his dying day if he could get a satisfactory reply to his query. "'oh! is that all you wish to know,' said the wise lady; 'then i think that you will be content. for here where i now sit, i can tell you that it will be like this with Östergötland: it will always have something to boast of ahead of other provinces.' "'yes, that was a good answer, dear lady,' said the peasant, 'and now i would be entirely at peace if i could only comprehend how such a thing should be possible.' "'why should it not be possible?' said ulvåsa-lady. 'don't you know that Östergötland is already renowned? or think you there is any place in sweden that can boast of owning, at the same time, two such cloisters as the ones in alvastra and vreta, and such a beautiful cathedral as the one in linköping?' "'that may be so,' said the peasant. 'but i'm an old man, and i know that people's minds are changeable. i fear that there will come a time when they won't want to give us any glory, either for alvastra or vreta or for the cathedral.' "'herein you may be right,' said ulvåsa-lady, 'but you need not doubt prophecy on that account. i shall now build up a new cloister on vadstena, and that will become the most celebrated in the north. thither both the high and the lowly shall make pilgrimages, and all shall sing the praises of the province because it has such a holy place within its confines.' "the peasant replied that he was right glad to know this. but he also knew, of course, that everything was perishable; and he wondered much what would give distinction to the province, if vadstena cloister should once fall into disrepute. "'you are not easy to satisfy,' said ulvåsa-lady, 'but surely i can see so far ahead that i can tell you, before vadstena cloister shall have lost its splendour, there will be a castle erected close by, which will be the most magnificent of its period. kings and dukes will be guests there, and it shall be accounted an honour to the whole province, that it owns such an ornament.' "'this i am also glad to hear,' said the peasant. 'but i'm an old man, and i know how it generally turns out with this world's glories. and if the castle goes to ruin, i wonder much what there will be that can attract the people's attention to this province.' "'it's not a little that you want to know,' said ulvåsa-lady, 'but, certainly, i can look far enough into the future to see that there will be life and movement in the forests around finspång. i see how cabins and smithies arise there, and i believe that the whole province shall be renowned because iron will be moulded within its confines.' "the peasant didn't deny that he was delighted to hear this. 'but if it should go so badly that even finspång's foundry went down in importance, then it would hardly be possible that any new thing could arise of which Östergötland might boast.' "'you are not easy to please,' said ulvåsa-lady, 'but i can see so far into the future that i mark how, along the lake-shores, great manors--large as castles--are built by gentlemen who have carried on wars in foreign lands. i believe that the manors will bring the province just as much honour as anything else that i have mentioned.' "'but if there comes a time when no one lauds the great manors?' insisted the peasant. "'you need not be uneasy at all events,' said ulvåsa-lady. i see how health-springs bubble on medevi meadows, by vätter's shores. i believe that the wells at medevi will bring the land as much praise as you can desire.' "'that is a mighty good thing to know,' said the peasant. 'but if there comes a time when people will seek their health at other springs?' "'you must not give yourself any anxiety on that account,' answered ulvåsa-lady. i see how people dig and labour, from motala to mem. they dig a canal right through the country, and then Östergötland's praise is again on everyone's lips.' "but, nevertheless, the peasant looked distraught. "'i see that the rapids in motala stream begin to draw wheels,' said ulvåsa-lady--and now two bright red spots came to her cheeks, for she began to be impatient--'i hear hammers resound in motala, and looms clatter in norrköping.' "'yes, that's good to know,' said the peasant, 'but everything is perishable, and i'm afraid that even this can be forgotten, and go into oblivion.' "when the peasant was not satisfied even now, there was an end to the lady's patience. 'you say that everything is perishable,' said she, 'but now i shall still name something which will always be like itself; and that is that such arrogant and pig-headed peasants as you will always be found in this province--until the end of time.' "hardly had ulvåsa-lady said this before the peasant rose--happy and satisfied--and thanked her for a good answer. now, at last, he was satisfied, he said. "'verily, i understand now how you look at it,' then said ulvåsa-lady. "'well, i look at it in this way, dear lady,' said the peasant, 'that everything which kings and priests and noblemen and merchants build and accomplish, can only endure for a few years. but when you tell me that in Östergötland there will always be peasants who are honour-loving and persevering, then i know also that it will be able to keep its ancient glory. for it is only those who go bent under the eternal labour with the soil, who can hold this land in good repute and honour--from one time to another.'" the homespun cloth _saturday, april twenty-third_. the boy rode forward--way up in the air. he had the great Östergötland plain under him, and sat and counted the many white churches which towered above the small leafy groves around them. it wasn't long before he had counted fifty. after that he became confused and couldn't keep track of the counting. nearly all the farms were built up with large, whitewashed two-story houses, which looked so imposing that the boy couldn't help admiring them. "there can't be any peasants in this land," he said to himself, "since i do not see any peasant farms." immediately all the wild geese shrieked: "here the peasants live like gentlemen. here the peasants live like gentlemen." on the plains the ice and snow had disappeared, and the spring work had begun. "what kind of long crabs are those that creep over the fields?" asked the boy after a bit. "ploughs and oxen. ploughs and oxen," answered the wild geese. the oxen moved so slowly down on the fields, that one could scarcely perceive they were in motion, and the geese shouted to them: "you won't get there before next year. you won't get there before next year." but the oxen were equal to the occasion. they raised their muzzles in the air and bellowed: "we do more good in an hour than such as you do in a whole lifetime." in a few places the ploughs were drawn by horses. they went along with much more eagerness and haste than the oxen; but the geese couldn't keep from teasing these either. "ar'n't you ashamed to be doing ox-duty?" cried the wild geese. "ar'n't you ashamed yourselves to be doing lazy man's duty?" the horses neighed back at them. but while horses and oxen were at work in the fields, the stable ram walked about in the barnyard. he was newly clipped and touchy, knocked over the small boys, chased the shepherd dog into his kennel, and then strutted about as though he alone were lord of the whole place. "rammie, rammie, what have you done with your wool?" asked the wild geese, who rode by up in the air. "that i have sent to drag's woollen mills in norrköping," replied the ram with a long, drawn-out bleat. "rammie, rammie, what have you done with your horns?" asked the geese. but any horns the rammie had never possessed, to his sorrow, and one couldn't offer him a greater insult than to ask after them. he ran around a long time, and butted at the air, so furious was he. on the country road came a man who drove a flock of skåne pigs that were not more than a few weeks old, and were going to be sold up country. they trotted along bravely, as little as they were, and kept close together--as if they sought protection. "nuff, nuff, nuff, we came away too soon from father and mother. nuff, nuff, nuff, how will it go with us poor children?" said the little pigs. the wild geese didn't have the heart to tease such poor little creatures. "it will be better for you than you can ever believe," they cried as they flew past them. the wild geese were never so merry as when they flew over a flat country. then they did not hurry themselves, but flew from farm to farm, and joked with the tame animals. as the boy rode over the plain, he happened to think of a legend which he had heard a long time ago. he didn't remember it exactly, but it was something about a petticoat--half of which was made of gold-woven velvet, and half of gray homespun cloth. but the one who owned the petticoat adorned the homespun cloth with such a lot of pearls and precious stones that it looked richer and more gorgeous than the gold-cloth. he remembered this about the homespun cloth, as he looked down on Östergötland, because it was made up of a large plain, which lay wedged in between two mountainous forest-tracts--one to the north, the other to the south. the two forest-heights lay there, a lovely blue, and shimmered in the morning light, as if they were decked with golden veils; and the plain, which simply spread out one winter-naked field after another, was, in and of itself, prettier to look upon than gray homespun. but the people must have been contented on the plain, because it was generous and kind, and they had tried to decorate it in the best way possible. high up--where the boy rode by--he thought that cities and farms, churches and factories, castles and railway stations were scattered over it, like large and small trinkets. it shone on the roofs, and the window-panes glittered like jewels. yellow country roads, shining railway-tracks and blue canals ran along between the districts like embroidered loops. linköping lay around its cathedral like a pearl-setting around a precious stone; and the gardens in the country were like little brooches and buttons. there was not much regulation in the pattern, but it was a display of grandeur which one could never tire of looking at. the geese had left Öberg district, and travelled toward the east along göta canal. this was also getting itself ready for the summer. workmen laid canal-banks, and tarred the huge lock-gates. they were working everywhere to receive spring fittingly, even in the cities. there, masons and painters stood on scaffoldings and made fine the exteriors of the houses while maids were cleaning the windows. down at the harbour, sailboats and steamers were being washed and dressed up. at norrköping the wild geese left the plain, and flew up toward kolmården. for a time they had followed an old, hilly country road, which wound around cliffs, and ran forward under wild mountain-walls--when the boy suddenly let out a shriek. he had been sitting and swinging his foot back and forth, and one of his wooden shoes had slipped off. "goosey-gander, goosey-gander, i have dropped my shoe!" cried the boy. the goosey-gander turned about and sank toward the ground; then the boy saw that two children, who were walking along the road, had picked up his shoe. "goosey-gander, goosey-gander," screamed the boy excitedly, "fly upward again! it is too late. i cannot get my shoe back again." down on the road stood osa, the goose-girl, and her brother, little mats, looking at a tiny wooden shoe that had fallen from the skies. osa, the goose-girl, stood silent a long while, and pondered over the find. at last she said, slowly and thoughtfully: "do you remember, little mats, that when we went past Övid cloister, we heard that the folks in a farmyard had seen an elf who was dressed in leather breeches, and had wooden shoes on his feet, like any other working man? and do you recollect when we came to vittskövle, a girl told us that she had seen a goa-nisse with wooden shoes, who flew away on the back of a goose? and when we ourselves came home to our cabin, little mats, we saw a goblin who was dressed in the same way, and who also straddled the back of a goose--and flew away. maybe it was the same one who rode along on his goose up here in the air and dropped his wooden shoe." "yes, it must have been," said little mats. they turned the wooden shoe about and examined it carefully--for it isn't every day that one happens across a goa-nisse's wooden shoe on the highway. "wait, wait, little mats!" said osa, the goose-girl. "there is something written on one side of it." "why, so there is! but they are such tiny letters." "let me see! it says--it says: 'nils holgersson from w. vemminghög.' that's the most wonderful thing i've ever heard!" said little mats. the story of karr and grayskin karr about twelve years before nils holgersson started on his travels with the wild geese there was a manufacturer at kolmården who wanted to be rid of one of his dogs. he sent for his game-keeper and said to him that it was impossible to keep the dog because he could not be broken of the habit of chasing all the sheep and fowl he set eyes on, and he asked the man to take the dog into the forest and shoot him. the game-keeper slipped the leash on the dog to lead him to a spot in the forest where all the superannuated dogs from the manor were shot and buried. he was not a cruel man, but he was very glad to shoot that dog, for he knew that sheep and chickens were not the only creatures he hunted. times without number he had gone into the forest and helped himself to a hare or a grouse-chick. the dog was a little black-and-tan setter. his name was karr, and he was so wise he understood all that was said. as the game-keeper was leading him through the thickets, karr knew only too well what was in store for him. but this no one could have guessed by his behaviour, for he neither hung his head nor dragged his tail, but seemed as unconcerned as ever. it was because they were in the forest that the dog was so careful not to appear the least bit anxious. there were great stretches of woodland on every side of the factory, and this forest was famed both among animals and human beings because for many, many years the owners had been so careful of it that they had begrudged themselves even the trees needed for firewood. nor had they had the heart to thin or train them. the trees had been allowed to grow as they pleased. naturally a forest thus protected was a beloved refuge for wild animals, which were to be found there in great numbers. among themselves they called it liberty forest, and regarded it as the best retreat in the whole country. as the dog was being led through the woods he thought of what a bugaboo he had been to all the small animals and birds that lived there. "now, karr, wouldn't they be happy in their lairs if they only knew what was awaiting you?" he thought, but at the same time he wagged his tail and barked cheerfully, so that no one should think that he was worried or depressed. "what fun would there have been in living had i not hunted occasionally?" he reasoned. "let him who will, regret; it's not going to be karr!" but the instant the dog said this, a singular change came over him. he stretched his neck as though he had a mind to howl. he no longer trotted alongside the game-keeper, but walked behind him. it was plain that he had begun to think of something unpleasant. it was early summer; the elk cows had just given birth to their young, and, the night before, the dog had succeeded in parting from its mother an elk calf not more than five days old, and had driven it down into the marsh. there he had chased it back and forth over the knolls--not with the idea of capturing it, but merely for the sport of seeing how he could scare it. the elk cow knew that the marsh was bottomless so soon after the thaw, and that it could not as yet hold up so large an animal as herself, so she stood on the solid earth for the longest time, watching! but when karr kept chasing the calf farther and farther away, she rushed out on the marsh, drove the dog off, took the calf with her, and turned back toward firm land. elk are more skilled than other animals in traversing dangerous, marshy ground, and it seemed as if she would reach solid land in safety; but when she was almost there a knoll which she had stepped upon sank into the mire, and she went down with it. she tried to rise, but could get no secure foothold, so she sank and sank. karr stood and looked on, not daring to move. when he saw that the elk could not save herself, he ran away as fast as he could, for he had begun to think of the beating he would get if it were discovered that he had brought a mother elk to grief. he was so terrified that he dared not pause for breath until he reached home. it was this that the dog recalled; and it troubled him in a way very different from the recollection of all his other misdeeds. this was doubtless because he had not really meant to kill either the elk cow or her calf, but had deprived them of life without wishing to do so. "but maybe they are alive yet!" thought the dog. "they were not dead when i ran away; perhaps they saved themselves." he was seized with an irresistible longing to know for a certainty while yet there was time for him to find out. he noticed that the game-keeper did not have a firm hold on the leash; so he made a sudden spring, broke loose, and dashed through the woods down to the marsh with such speed that he was out of sight before the game-keeper had time to level his gun. there was nothing for the game-keeper to do but to rush after him. when he got to the marsh he found the dog standing upon a knoll, howling with all his might. the man thought he had better find out the meaning of this, so he dropped his gun and crawled out over the marsh on hands and knees. he had not gone far when he saw an elk cow lying dead in the quagmire. close beside her lay a little calf. it was still alive, but so much exhausted that it could not move. karr was standing beside the calf, now bending down and licking it, now howling shrilly for help. the game-keeper raised the calf and began to drag it toward land. when the dog understood that the calf would be saved he was wild with joy. he jumped round and round the game-keeper, licking his hands and barking with delight. the man carried the baby elk home and shut it up in a calf stall in the cow shed. then he got help to drag the mother elk from the marsh. only after this had been done did he remember that he was to shoot karr. he called the dog to him, and again took him into the forest. the game-keeper walked straight on toward the dog's grave; but all the while he seemed to be thinking deeply. suddenly he turned and walked toward the manor. karr had been trotting along quietly; but when the game-keeper turned and started for home, he became anxious. the man must have discovered that it was he that had caused the death of the elk, and now he was going back to the manor to be thrashed before he was shot! to be beaten was worse than all else! with that prospect karr could no longer keep up his spirits, but hung his head. when he came to the manor he did not look up, but pretended that he knew no one there. the master was standing on the stairs leading to the hall when the game-keeper came forward. "where on earth did that dog come from?" he exclaimed. "surely it can't be karr? he must be dead this long time!" then the man began to tell his master all about the mother elk, while karr made himself as little as he could, and crouched behind the game-keeper's legs. much to his surprise the man had only praise for him. he said it was plain the dog knew that the elk were in distress, and wished to save them. "you may do as you like, but i can't shoot that dog!" declared the game-keeper. karr raised himself and pricked up his ears. he could hardly believe that he heard aright. although he did not want to show how anxious he had been, he couldn't help whining a little. could it be possible that his life was to be spared simply because he had felt uneasy about the elk? the master thought that karr had conducted himself well, but as he did not want the dog, he could not decide at once what should be done with him. "if you will take charge of him and answer for his good behaviour in the future, he may as well live," he said, finally. this the game-keeper was only too glad to do, and that was how karr came to move to the game-keeper's lodge. grayskin's flight from the day that karr went to live with the game-keeper he abandoned entirely his forbidden chase in the forest. this was due not only to his having been thoroughly frightened, but also to the fact that he did not wish to make the game-keeper angry at him. ever since his new master saved his life the dog loved him above everything else. he thought only of following him and watching over him. if he left the house, karr would run ahead to make sure that the way was clear, and if he sat at home, karr would lie before the door and keep a close watch on every one who came and went. when all was quiet at the lodge, when no footsteps were heard on the road, and the game-keeper was working in his garden, karr would amuse himself playing with the baby elk. at first the dog had no desire to leave his master even for a moment. since he accompanied him everywhere, he went with him to the cow shed. when he gave the elk calf its milk, the dog would sit outside the stall and gaze at it. the game-keeper called the calf grayskin because he thought it did not merit a prettier name, and karr agreed with him on that point. every time the dog looked at it he thought that he had never seen anything so ugly and misshapen as the baby elk, with its long, shambly legs, which hung down from the body like loose stilts. the head was large, old, and wrinkled, and it always drooped to one side. the skin lay in tucks and folds, as if the animal had put on a coat that had not been made for him. always doleful and discontented, curiously enough he jumped up every time karr appeared as if glad to see him. the elk calf became less hopeful from day to day, did not grow any, and at last he could not even rise when he saw karr. then the dog jumped up into the crib to greet him, and thereupon a light kindled in the eyes of the poor creature--as if a cherished longing were fulfilled. after that karr visited the elk calf every day, and spent many hours with him, licking his coat, playing and racing with him, till he taught him a little of everything a forest animal should know. it was remarkable that, from the time karr began to visit the elk calf in his stall, the latter seemed more contented, and began to grow. after he was fairly started, he grew so rapidly that in a couple of weeks the stall could no longer hold him, and he had to be moved into a grove. when he had been in the grove two months his legs were so long that he could step over the fence whenever he wished. then the lord of the manor gave the game-keeper permission to put up a higher fence and to allow him more space. here the elk lived for several years, and grew up into a strong and handsome animal. karr kept him company as often as he could; but now it was no longer through pity, for a great friendship had sprung up between the two. the elk was always inclined to be melancholy, listless, and, indifferent, but karr knew how to make him playful and happy. grayskin had lived for five summers on the game-keeper's place, when his owner received a letter from a zoölogical garden abroad asking if the elk might be purchased. the master was pleased with the proposal, the game-keeper was distressed, but had not the power to say no; so it was decided that the elk should be sold. karr soon discovered what was in the air and ran over to the elk to have a chat with him. the dog was very much distressed at the thought of losing his friend, but the elk took the matter calmly, and seemed neither glad nor sorry. "do you think of letting them send you away without offering resistance?" asked karr. "what good would it do to resist?" asked grayskin. "i should prefer to remain where i am, naturally, but if i've been sold, i shall have to go, of course." karr looked at grayskin and measured him with his eyes. it was apparent that the elk was not yet full grown. he did not have the broad antlers, high hump, and long mane of the mature elk; but he certainly had strength enough to fight for his freedom. "one can see that he has been in captivity all his life," thought karr, but said nothing. karr left and did not return to the grove till long past midnight. by that time he knew grayskin would be awake and eating his breakfast. "of course you are doing right, grayskin, in letting them take you away," remarked karr, who appeared now to be calm and satisfied. "you will be a prisoner in a large park and will have no responsibilities. it seems a pity that you must leave here without having seen the forest. you know your ancestors have a saying that 'the elk are one with the forest.' but you haven't even been in a forest!" grayskin glanced up from the clover which he stood munching. "indeed, i should love to see the forest, but how am i to get over the fence?" he said with his usual apathy. "oh, that is difficult for one who has such short legs!" said karr. the elk glanced slyly at the dog, who jumped the fence many times a day--little as he was. he walked over to the fence, and with one spring he was on the other side, without knowing how it happened. then karr and grayskin went into the forest. it was a beautiful moonlight night in late summer; but in among the trees it was dark, and the elk walked along slowly. "perhaps we had better turn back," said karr. "you, who have never before tramped the wild forest, might easily break your legs." grayskin moved more rapidly and with more courage. karr conducted the elk to a part of the forest where the pines grew so thickly that no wind could penetrate them. "it is here that your kind are in the habit of seeking shelter from cold and storm," said karr. "here they stand under the open skies all winter. but you will fare much better where you are going, for you will stand in a shed, with a roof over your head, like an ox." grayskin made no comment, but stood quietly and drank in the strong, piney air. "have you anything more to show me, or have i now seen the whole forest?" he asked. then karr went with him to a big marsh, and showed him clods and quagmire. "over this marsh the elk take flight when they are in peril," said karr. "i don't know how they manage it, but, large and heavy as they are, they can walk here without sinking. of course you couldn't hold yourself up on such dangerous ground, but then there is no occasion for you to do so, for you will never be hounded by hunters." grayskin made no retort, but with a leap he was out on the marsh, and happy when he felt how the clods rocked under him. he dashed across the marsh, and came back again to karr, without having stepped into a mudhole. "have we seen the whole forest now?" he asked. "no, not yet," said karr. he next conducted the elk to the skirt of the forest, where fine oaks, lindens, and aspens grew. "here your kind eat leaves and bark, which they consider the choicest of food; but you will probably get better fare abroad." grayskin was astonished when he saw the enormous leaf-trees spreading like a great canopy above him. he ate both oak leaves and aspen bark. "these taste deliciously bitter and good!" he remarked. "better than clover!" "then wasn't it well that you should taste them once?" said the dog. thereupon he took the elk down to a little forest lake. the water was as smooth as a mirror, and reflected the shores, which were veiled in thin, light mists. when grayskin saw the lake he stood entranced. "what is this, karr?" he asked. it was the first time that he had seen a lake. "it's a large body of water--a lake," said karr. "your people swim across it from shore to shore. one could hardly expect you to be familiar with this; but at least you should go in and take a swim!" karr, himself, plunged into the water for a swim. grayskin stayed back on the shore for some little time, but finally followed. he grew breathless with delight as the cool water stole soothingly around his body. he wanted it over his back, too, so went farther out. then he felt that the water could hold him up, and began to swim. he swam all around karr, ducking and snorting, perfectly at home in the water. when they were on shore again, the dog asked if they had not better go home now. "it's a long time until morning," observed grayskin, "so we can tramp around in the forest a little longer." they went again into the pine wood. presently they came to an open glade illuminated by the moonlight, where grass and flowers shimmered beneath the dew. some large animals were grazing on this forest meadow--an elk bull, several elk cows and a number of elk calves. when grayskin caught sight of them he stopped short. he hardly glanced at the cows or the young ones, but stared at the old bull, which had broad antlers with many taglets, a high hump, and a long-haired fur piece hanging down from his throat. "what kind of an animal is that?" asked grayskin in wonderment. "he is called antler-crown," said karr, "and he is your kinsman. one of these days you, too, will have broad antlers, like those, and just such a mane; and if you were to remain in the forest, very likely you, also, would have a herd to lead." "if he is my kinsman, i must go closer and have a look at him," said grayskin. "i never dreamed that an animal could be so stately!" grayskin walked over to the elk, but almost immediately he came back to karr, who had remained at the edge of the clearing. "you were not very well received, were you?" said karr. "i told him that this was the first time i had run across any of my kinsmen, and asked if i might walk with them on their meadow. but they drove me back, threatening me with their antlers." "you did right to retreat," said karr. "a young elk bull with only a taglet crown must be careful about fighting with an old elk. another would have disgraced his name in the whole forest by retreating without resistance, but such things needn't worry you who are going to move to a foreign land." karr had barely finished speaking when grayskin turned and walked down to the meadow. the old elk came toward him, and instantly they began to fight. their antlers met and clashed, and grayskin was driven backward over the whole meadow. apparently he did not know how to make use of his strength; but when he came to the edge of the forest, he planted his feet on the ground, pushed hard with his antlers, and began to force antler-crown back. grayskin fought quietly, while antler-crown puffed and snorted. the old elk, in his turn, was now being forced backward over the meadow. suddenly a loud crash was heard! a taglet in the old elk's antlers had snapped. he tore himself loose, and dashed into the forest. karr was still standing at the forest border when grayskin came along. "now that you have seen what there is in the forest," said karr, "will you come home with me?" "yes, it's about time," observed the elk. both were silent on the way home. karr sighed several times, as if he was disappointed about something; but grayskin stepped along--his head in the air--and seemed delighted over the adventure. he walked ahead unhesitatingly until they came to the enclosure. there he paused. he looked in at the narrow pen where he had lived up till now; saw the beaten ground, the stale fodder, the little trough where he had drunk water, and the dark shed in which he had slept. "the elk are one with the forest!" he cried. then he threw back his head, so that his neck rested against his back, and rushed wildly into the woods. helpless, the water-snake in a pine thicket in the heart of liberty forest, every year, in the month of august, there appeared a few grayish-white moths of the kind which are called nun moths. they were small and few in number, and scarcely any one noticed them. when they had fluttered about in the depth of the forest a couple of nights, they laid a few thousand eggs on the branches of trees; and shortly afterward dropped lifeless to the ground. when spring came, little prickly caterpillars crawled out from the eggs and began to eat the pine needles. they had good appetites, but they never seemed to do the trees any serious harm, because they were hotly pursued by birds. it was seldom that more than a few hundred caterpillars escaped the pursuers. the poor things that lived to be full grown crawled up on the branches, spun white webs around themselves, and sat for a couple of weeks as motionless pupae. during this period, as a rule, more than half of them were abducted. if a hundred nun moths came forth in august, winged and perfect, it was reckoned a good year for them. this sort of uncertain and obscure existence did the moths lead for many years in liberty forest. there were no insect folk in the whole country that were so scarce, and they would have remained quite harmless and powerless had they not, most unexpectedly, received a helper. this fact has some connection with grayskin's flight from the game-keeper's paddock. grayskin roamed the forest that he might become more familiar with the place. late in the afternoon he happened to squeeze through some thickets behind a clearing where the soil was muddy and slimy, and in the centre of it was a murky pool. this open space was encircled by tall pines almost bare from age and miasmic air. grayskin was displeased with the place and would have left it at once had he not caught sight of some bright green calla leaves which grew near the pool. as he bent his head toward the calla stalks, he happened to disturb a big black snake, which lay sleeping under them. grayskin had heard karr speak of the poisonous adders that were to be found in the forest. so, when the snake raised its head, shot out its tongue and hissed at him, he thought he had encountered an awfully dangerous reptile. he was terrified and, raising his foot, he struck so hard with his hoof that he crushed the snake's head. then, away he ran in hot haste! as soon as grayskin had gone, another snake, just as long and as black as the first, came up from the pool. it crawled over to the dead one, and licked the poor, crushed-in head. "can it be true that you are dead, old harmless?" hissed the snake. "we two have lived together so many years; we two have been so happy with each other, and have fared so well here in the swamp, that we have lived to be older than all the other water-snakes in the forest! this is the worst sorrow that could have befallen me!" the snake was so broken-hearted that his long body writhed as if it had been wounded. even the frogs, who lived in constant fear of him, were sorry for him. "what a wicked creature he must be to murder a poor water-snake that cannot defend itself!" hissed the snake. "he certainly deserves a severe punishment. as sure as my name is helpless and i'm the oldest water-snake in the whole forest, i'll be avenged! i shall not rest until that elk lies as dead on the ground as my poor old snake-wife." when the snake had made this vow he curled up into a hoop and began to ponder. one can hardly imagine anything that would be more difficult for a poor water-snake than to wreak vengeance upon a big, strong elk; and old helpless pondered day and night without finding any solution. one night, as he lay there with his vengeance-thoughts, he heard a slight rustle over his head. he glanced up and saw a few light nun moths playing in among the trees. he followed them with his eyes a long while; then began to hiss loudly to himself, apparently pleased with the thought that had occurred to him--then he fell asleep. the next morning the water-snake went over to see crawlie, the adder, who lived in a stony and hilly part of liberty forest. he told him all about the death of the old water-snake, and begged that he who could deal such deadly thrusts would undertake the work of vengeance. but crawlie was not exactly disposed to go to war with an elk. "if i were to attack an elk," said the adder, "he would instantly kill me. old harmless is dead and gone, and we can't bring her back to life, so why should i rush into danger on her account?" when the water-snake got this reply he raised his head a whole foot from the ground, and hissed furiously: "vish vash! vish vash!" he said. "it's a pity that you, who have been blessed with such weapons of defence, should be so cowardly that you don't dare use them!" when the adder heard this, he, too, got angry. "crawl away, old helpless!" he hissed. "the poison is in my fangs, but i would rather spare one who is said to be my kinsman." but the water-snake did not move from the spot, and for a long time the snakes lay there hissing abusive epithets at each other. when crawlie was so angry that he couldn't hiss, but could only dart his tongue out, the water-snake changed the subject, and began to talk in a very different tone. "i had still another errand, crawlie," he said, lowering his voice to a mild whisper. "but now i suppose you are so angry that you wouldn't care to help me?" "if you don't ask anything foolish of me, i shall certainly be at your service." "in the pine trees down by the swamp live a moth folk that fly around all night." "i know all about them," remarked crawlie. "what's up with them now?" "they are the smallest insect family in the forest," said helpless, "and the most harmless, since the caterpillars content themselves with gnawing only pine needles." "yes, i know," said crawlie. "i'm afraid those moths will soon be exterminated," sighed the water-snake. "there are so many who pick off the caterpillars in the spring." now crawlie began to understand that the water-snake wanted the caterpillars for his own purpose, and he answered pleasantly: "do you wish me to say to the owls that they are to leave those pine tree worms in peace?" "yes, it would be well if you who have some authority in the forest should do this," said helpless. "i might also drop a good word for the pine needle pickers among the thrushes?" volunteered the adder. "i will gladly serve you when you do not demand anything unreasonable." "now you have given me a good promise, crawlie," said helpless, "and i'm glad that i came to you." the nun moths one morning--several years later--karr lay asleep on the porch. it was in the early summer, the season of light nights, and it was as bright as day, although the sun was not yet up. karr was awakened by some one calling his name. "is it you, grayskin?" he asked, for he was accustomed to the elk's nightly visits. again he heard the call; then he recognized grayskin's voice, and hastened in the direction of the sound. karr heard the elk's footfalls in the distance, as he dashed into the thickest pine wood, and straight through the brush, following no trodden path. karr could not catch up with him, and he had great difficulty in even following the trail. "karr, karri" came the cry, and the voice was certainly grayskin's, although it had a ring now which the dog had never heard before. "i'm coming, i'm coming!" the dog responded. "where are you?" "karr, karr! don't you see how it falls and falls?" said grayskin. then karr noticed that the pine needles kept dropping and dropping from the trees, like a steady fall of rain. "yes, i see how it falls," he cried, and ran far into the forest in search of the elk. grayskin kept running through the thickets, while karr was about to lose the trail again. "karr, karr!" roared grayskin; "can't you scent that peculiar odour in the forest?" karr stopped and sniffed. he had not thought of it before, but now he remarked that the pines sent forth a much stronger odour than usual. "yes, i catch the scent," he said. he did not stop long enough to find out the cause of it, but hurried on after grayskin. the elk ran ahead with such speed that the dog could not catch up with him. "karr, karr!" he called; "can't you hear the crunching on the pines?" now his tone was so plaintive it would have melted a stone. karr paused to listen. he heard a faint but distinct "tap, tap," on the trees. it sounded like the ticking of a watch. "yes, i hear how it ticks," cried karr, and ran no farther. he understood that the elk did not want him to follow, but to take notice of something that was happening in the forest. karr was standing beneath the drooping branches of a great pine. he looked carefully at it; the needles moved. he went closer and saw a mass of grayish-white caterpillars creeping along the branches, gnawing off the needles. every branch was covered with them. the crunch, crunch in the trees came from the working of their busy little jaws. gnawed-off needles fell to the ground in a continuous shower, and from the poor pines there came such a strong odour that the dog suffered from it. "what can be the meaning of this?" wondered karr. "it's too bad about the pretty trees! soon they'll have no beauty left." he walked from tree to tree, trying with his poor eyesight to see if all was well with them. "there's a pine they haven't touched," he thought. but they had taken possession of it, too. "and here's a birch--no, this also! the game-keeper will not be pleased with this," observed karr. he ran deeper into the thickets, to learn how far the destruction had spread. wherever he went, he heard the same ticking; scented the same odour; saw the same needle rain. there was no need of his pausing to investigate. he understood it all by these signs. the little caterpillars were everywhere. the whole forest was being ravaged by them! all of a sudden he came to a tract where there was no odour, and where all was still. "here's the end of their domain," thought the dog, as he paused and glanced about. but here it was even worse; for the caterpillars had already done their work, and the trees were needleless. they were like the dead. the only thing that covered them was a network of ragged threads, which the caterpillars had spun to use as roads and bridges. in there, among the dying trees, grayskin stood waiting for karr. he was not alone. with him were four old elk--the most respected in the forest. karr knew them: they were crooked-back, who was a small elk, but had a larger hump than the others; antler-crown, who was the most dignified of the elk; rough-mane, with the thick coat; and an old long-legged one, who, up till the autumn before, when he got a bullet in his thigh, had been terribly hot-tempered and quarrelsome. "what in the world is happening to the forest?" karr asked when he came up to the elk. they stood with lowered heads, far protruding upper lips, and looked puzzled. "no one can tell," answered grayskin. "this insect family used to be the least hurtful of any in the forest, and never before have they done any damage. but these last few years they have been multiplying so fast that now it appears as if the entire forest would be destroyed." "yes, it looks bad," karr agreed, "but i see that the wisest animals in the forest have come together to hold a consultation. perhaps you have already found some remedy?" when the dog said this, crooked-back solemnly raised his heavy head, pricked up his long ears, and spoke: "we have summoned you hither, karr, that we may learn if the humans know of this desolation." "no," said karr, "no human being ever comes thus far into the forest when it's not hunting time. they know nothing of this misfortune." then antler-crown said: "we who have lived long in the forest do not think that we can fight this insect pest all by ourselves." "after this there will be no peace in the forest!" put in rough-mane. "but we can't let the whole liberty forest go to rack and ruin!" protested big-and-strong. "we'll have to consult the humans; there is no alternative." karr understood that the elk had difficulty in expressing what they wished to say, and he tried to help them. "perhaps you want me to let the people know the conditions here?" he suggested. all the old elk nodded their heads. "it's most unfortunate that we are obliged to ask help of human beings, but we have no choice." a moment later karr was on his way home. as he ran ahead, deeply distressed over all that he had heard and seen, a big black water-snake approached them. "well met in the forest!" hissed the water-snake. "well met again!" snarled karr, and rushed by without stopping. the snake turned and tried to catch up to him. "perhaps that creature also, is worried about the forest," thought karr, and waited. immediately the snake began to talk about the great disaster. "there will be an end of peace and quiet in the forest when human beings are called hither," said the snake. "i'm afraid there will," the dog agreed; "but the oldest forest dwellers know what they're about!" he added. "i think i know a better plan," said the snake, "if i can get the reward i wish." "are you not the one whom every one around here calls old helpless?" said the dog, sneeringly. "i'm an old inhabitant of the forest," said the snake, "and i know how to get rid of such plagues." "if you clear the forest of that pest, i feel sure you can have anything you ask for," said karr. the snake did not respond to this until he had crawled under a tree stump, where he was well protected. then he said: "tell grayskin that if he will leave liberty forest forever, and go far north, where no oak tree grows, i will send sickness and death to all the creeping things that gnaw the pines and spruces!" "what's that you say?" asked karr, bristling up. "what harm has grayskin ever done you?" "he has slain the one whom i loved best," the snake declared, "and i want to be avenged." before the snake had finished speaking, karr made a dash for him; but the reptile lay safely hidden under the tree stump. "stay where you are!" karr concluded. "we'll manage to drive out the caterpillars without your help." the big war of the moths the following spring, as karr was dashing through the forest one morning, he heard some one behind him calling: "karr! karr!" he turned and saw an old fox standing outside his lair. "you must tell me if the humans are doing anything for the forest," said the fox. "yes, you may be sure they are!" said karr. "they are working as hard as they can." "they have killed off all my kinsfolk, and they'll be killing me next," protested the fox. "but they shall be pardoned for that if only they save the forest." that year karr never ran into the woods without some animal's asking if the humans could save the forest. it was not easy for the dog to answer; the people themselves were not certain that they could conquer the moths. but considering how feared and hated old kolmården had always been, it was remarkable that every day more than a hundred men went there, to work. they cleared away the underbrush. they felled dead trees, lopped off branches from the live ones so that the caterpillars could not easily crawl from tree to tree; they also dug wide trenches around the ravaged parts and put up lime-washed fences to keep them out of new territory. then they painted rings of lime around the trunks of trees to prevent the caterpillars leaving those they had already stripped. the idea was to force them to remain where they were until they starved to death. the people worked with the forest until far into the spring. they were hopeful, and could hardly wait for the caterpillars to come out from their eggs, feeling certain that they had shut them in so effectually that most of them would die of starvation. but in the early summer the caterpillars came out, more numerous than ever. they were everywhere! they crawled on the country roads, on fences, on the walls of the cabins. they wandered outside the confines of liberty forest to other parts of kolmården. "they won't stop till all our forests are destroyed!" sighed the people, who were in great despair, and could not enter the forest without weeping. karr was so sick of the sight of all these creeping, gnawing things that he could hardly bear to step outside the door. but one day he felt that he must go and find out how grayskin was getting on. he took the shortest cut to the elk's haunts, and hurried along--his nose close to the earth. when he came to the tree stump where he had met helpless the year before, the snake was still there, and called to him: "have you told grayskin what i said to you when last we met?" asked the water-snake. karr only growled and tried to get at him. "if you haven't told him, by all means do so!" insisted the snake. "you must see that the humans know of no cure for this plague." "neither do you!" retorted the dog, and ran on. karr found grayskin, but the elk was so low-spirited that he scarcely greeted the dog. he began at once to talk of the forest. "i don't know what i wouldn't give if this misery were only at an end!" he said. "now i shall tell you that 'tis said you could save the forest." then karr delivered the water-snake's message. "if any one but helpless had promised this, i should immediately go into exile," declared the elk. "but how can a poor water-snake have the power to work such a miracle?" "of course it's only a bluff," said karr. "water-snakes always like to pretend that they know more than other creatures." when karr was ready to go home, grayskin accompanied him part of the way. presently karr heard a thrush, perched on a pine top, cry: "there goes grayskin, who has destroyed the forest! there goes grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!" karr thought that he had not heard correctly, but the next moment a hare came darting across the path. when the hare saw them, he stopped, flapped his ears, and screamed: "here comes grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!" then he ran as fast as he could. "what do they mean by that?" asked karr. "i really don't know," said grayskin. "i think that the small forest animals are displeased with me because i was the one who proposed that we should ask help of human beings. when the underbrush was cut down, all their lairs and hiding places were destroyed." they walked on together a while longer, and karr heard the same cry coming from all directions: "there goes grayskin, who has destroyed the forest!" grayskin pretended not to hear it; but karr understood why the elk was so downhearted. "i say, grayskin, what does the water-snake mean by saying you killed the one he loved best?" "how can i tell?" said grayskin. "you know very well that i never kill anything." shortly after that they met the four old elk--crooked-back, antler-crown, rough-mane, and big-and-strong, who were coming along slowly, one after the other. "well met in the forest!" called grayskin. "well met in turn!" answered the elk. "we were just looking for you, grayskin, to consult with you about the forest." "the fact is," began crooked-back, "we have been informed that a crime has been committed here, and that the whole forest is being destroyed because the criminal has not been punished." "what kind of a crime was it?" "some one killed a harmless creature that he couldn't eat. such an act is accounted a crime in liberty forest." "who could have done such a cowardly thing?" wondered grayskin. "they say that an elk did it, and we were just going to ask if you knew who it was." "no," said grayskin, "i have never heard of an elk killing a harmless creature." grayskin parted from the four old elk, and went on with karr. he was silent and walked with lowered head. they happened to pass crawlie, the adder, who lay on his shelf of rock. "there goes grayskin, who has destroyed the whole forest!" hissed crawlie, like all the rest. by that time grayskin's patience was exhausted. he walked up to the snake, and raised a forefoot. "do you think of crushing me as you crushed the old water-snake?" hissed crawlie. "did i kill a water-snake?" asked grayskin, astonished. "the first day you were in the forest you killed the wife of poor old helpless," said crawlie. grayskin turned quickly from the adder, and continued his walk with karr. suddenly he stopped. "karr, it was i who committed that crime! i killed a harmless creature; therefore it is on my account that the forest is being destroyed." "what are you saying?" karr interrupted. "you may tell the water-snake, helpless, that grayskin goes into exile to-night!" "that i shall never tell him!" protested karr. "the far north is a dangerous country for elk." "do you think that i wish to remain here, when i have caused a disaster like this?" protested grayskin. "don't be rash! sleep over it before you do anything!" "it was you who taught me that the elk are one with the forest," said grayskin, and so saying he parted from karr. the dog went home alone; but this talk with grayskin troubled him, and the next morning he returned to the forest to seek him, but grayskin was not to be found, and the dog did not search long for him. he realized that the elk had taken the snake at his word, and had gone into exile. on his walk home karr was too unhappy for words! he could not understand why grayskin should allow that wretch of a water-snake to trick him away. he had never heard of such folly! "what power can that old helpless have?" as karr walked along, his mind full of these thoughts, he happened to see the game-keeper, who stood pointing up at a tree. "what are you looking at?" asked a man who stood beside him. "sickness has come among the caterpillars," observed the game-keeper. karr was astonished, but he was even more angered at the snake's having the power to keep his word. grayskin would have to stay away a long long time, for, of course, that water-snake would never die. at the very height of his grief a thought came to karr which comforted him a little. "perhaps the water-snake won't live so long, after all!" he thought. "surely he cannot always lie protected under a tree root. as soon as he has cleaned out the caterpillars, i know some one who is going to bite his head off!" it was true that an illness had made its appearance among the caterpillars. the first summer it did not spread much. it had only just broken out when it was time for the larvae to turn into pupae. from the latter came millions of moths. they flew around in the trees like a blinding snowstorm, and laid countless numbers of eggs. an even greater destruction was prophesied for the following year. the destruction came not only to the forest, but also to the caterpillars. the sickness spread quickly from forest to forest. the sick caterpillars stopped eating, crawled up to the branches of the trees, and died there. there was great rejoicing among the people when they saw them die, but there was even greater rejoicing among the forest animals. from day to day the dog karr went about with savage glee, thinking of the hour when he might venture to kill helpless. but the caterpillars, meanwhile, had spread over miles of pine woods. not in one summer did the disease reach them all. many lived to become pupas and moths. grayskin sent messages to his friend karr by the birds of passage, to say that he was alive and faring well. but the birds told karr confidentially that on several occasions grayskin had been pursued by poachers, and that only with the greatest difficulty had he escaped. karr lived in a state of continual grief, yearning, and anxiety. yet he had to wait two whole summers more before there was an end of the caterpillars! karr no sooner heard the game-keeper say that the forest was out of danger than he started on a hunt for helpless. but when he was in the thick of the forest he made a frightful discovery: he could not hunt any more, he could not run, he could not track his enemy, and he could not see at all! during the long years of waiting, old age had overtaken karr. he had grown old without having noticed it. he had not the strength even to kill a water-snake. he was not able to save his friend grayskin from his enemy. retribution one afternoon akka from kebnekaise and her flock alighted on the shore of a forest lake. spring was backward--as it always is in the mountain districts. ice covered all the lake save a narrow strip next the land. the geese at once plunged into the water to bathe and hunt for food. in the morning nils holgersson had dropped one of his wooden shoes, so he went down by the elms and birches that grew along the shore, to look for something to bind around his foot. the boy walked quite a distance before he found anything that he could use. he glanced about nervously, for he did not fancy being in the forest. "give me the plains and the lakes!" he thought. "there you can see what you are likely to meet. now, if this were a grove of little birches, it would be well enough, for then the ground would be almost bare; but how people can like these wild, pathless forests is incomprehensible to me. if i owned this land i would chop down every tree." at last he caught sight of a piece of birch bark, and just as he was fitting it to his foot he heard a rustle behind him. he turned quickly. a snake darted from the brush straight toward him! the snake was uncommonly long and thick, but the boy soon saw that it had a white spot on each cheek. "why, it's only a water-snake," he laughed; "it can't harm me." but the next instant the snake gave him a powerful blow on the chest that knocked him down. the boy was on his feet in a second and running away, but the snake was after him! the ground was stony and scrubby; the boy could not proceed very fast; and the snake was close at his heels. then the boy saw a big rock in front of him, and began to scale it. "i do hope the snake can't follow me here!" he thought, but he had no sooner reached the top of the rock than he saw that the snake was following him. quite close to the boy, on a narrow ledge at the top of the rock, lay a round stone as large as a man's head. as the snake came closer, the boy ran behind the stone, and gave it a push. it rolled right down on the snake, drawing it along to the ground, where it landed on its head. "that stone did its work well!" thought the boy with a sigh of relief, as he saw the snake squirm a little, and then lie perfectly still. "i don't think i've been in greater peril on the whole journey," he said. he had hardly recovered from the shock when he heard a rustle above him, and saw a bird circling through the air to light on the ground right beside the snake. the bird was like a crow in size and form, but was dressed in a pretty coat of shiny black feathers. the boy cautiously retreated into a crevice of the rock. his adventure in being kidnapped by crows was still fresh in his memory, and he did not care to show himself when there was no need of it. the bird strode back and forth beside the snake's body, and turned it over with his beak. finally he spread his wings and began to shriek in ear-splitting tones: "it is certainly helpless, the water-snake, that lies dead here!" once more he walked the length of the snake; then he stood in a deep study, and scratched his neck with his foot. "it isn't possible that there can be two such big snakes in the forest," he pondered. "it must surely be helpless!" he was just going to thrust his beak into the snake, but suddenly checked himself. "you mustn't be a numbskull, bataki!" he remarked to himself. "surely you cannot be thinking of eating the snake until you have called karr! he wouldn't believe that helpless was dead unless he could see it with his own eyes." the boy tried to keep quiet, but the bird was so ludicrously solemn, as he stalked back and forth chattering to himself, that he had to laugh. the bird heard him, and, with a flap of his wings, he was up on the rock. the boy rose quickly and walked toward him. "are you not the one who is called bataki, the raven? and are you not a friend of akka from kebnekaise?" asked the boy. the bird regarded him intently; then nodded three times. "surely, you're not the little chap who flies around with the wild geese, and whom they call thumbietot?" "oh, you're not so far out of the way," said the boy. "what luck that i should have run across you! perhaps you can tell me who killed this water-snake?" "the stone which i rolled down on him killed him," replied the boy, and related how the whole thing happened. "that was cleverly done for one who is as tiny as you are!" said the raven. "i have a friend in these parts who will be glad to know that this snake has been killed, and i should like to render you a service in return." "then tell me why you are glad the water-snake is dead," responded the boy. "it's a long story," said the raven; "you wouldn't have the patience to listen to it." but the boy insisted that he had, and then the raven told him the whole story about karr and grayskin and helpless, the water-snake. when he had finished, the boy sat quietly for a moment, looking straight ahead. then he spoke: "i seem to like the forest better since hearing this. i wonder if there is anything left of the old liberty forest." "most of it has been destroyed," said bataki. "the trees look as if they had passed through a fire. they'll have to be cleared away, and it will take many years before the forest will be what it once was." "that snake deserved his death!" declared the boy. "but i wonder if it could be possible that he was so wise he could send sickness to the caterpillars?" "perhaps he knew that they frequently became sick in that way," intimated bataki. "yes, that may be; but all the same, i must say that he was a very wily snake." the boy stopped talking because he saw the raven was not listening to him, but sitting with gaze averted. "hark!" he said. "karr is in the vicinity. won't he be happy when he sees that helpless is dead!" the boy turned his head in the direction of the sound. "he's talking with the wild geese," he said. "oh, you may be sure that he has dragged himself down to the strand to get the latest news about grayskin!" both the boy and the raven jumped to the ground, and hastened down to the shore. all the geese had come out of the lake, and stood talking with an old dog, who was so weak and decrepit that it seemed as if he might drop dead at any moment. "there's karr," said bataki to the boy. "let him hear first what the wild geese have to say to him; later we shall tell him that the water-snake is dead." presently they heard akka talking to karr. "it happened last year while we were making our usual spring trip," remarked the leader-goose. "we started out one morning--yksi, kaksi, and i, and we flew over the great boundary forests between dalecarlia and hälsingland. under us we, saw only thick pine forests. the snow was still deep among the trees, and the creeks were mostly frozen. "suddenly we noticed three poachers down in the forest! they were on skis, had dogs in leash, carried knives in their belts, but had no guns. "as there was a hard crust on the snow, they did not bother to take the winding forest paths, but skied straight ahead. apparently they knew very well where they must go to find what they were seeking. "we wild geese flew on, high up in the air, so that the whole forest under us was visible. when we sighted the poachers we wanted to find out where the game was, so we circled up and down, peering through the trees. then, in a dense thicket, we saw something that looked like big, moss-covered rocks, but couldn't be rocks, for there was no snow on them. "we shot down, suddenly, and lit in the centre of the thicket. the three rocks moved. they were three elk--a bull and two cows--resting in the bleak forest. "when we alighted, the elk bull rose and came toward us. he was the most superb animal we had ever seen. when he saw that it was only some poor wild geese that had awakened him, he lay down again. "'no, old granddaddy, you mustn't go back to sleep!' i cried. 'flee as fast as you can! there are poachers in the forest, and they are bound for this very deer fold.' "'thank you, goose mother!' said the elk. he seemed to be dropping to sleep while he was speaking. 'but surely you must know that we elk are under the protection of the law at this time of the year. those poachers are probably out for fox,' he yawned. "'there are plenty of fox trails in the forest, but the poachers are not looking for them. believe me, old granddaddy! they know that you are lying here, and are coming to attack you. they have no guns with them--only spears and knives--for they dare not fire a shot at this season.' "the elk bull lay there calmly, but the elk cows seemed to feel uneasy. "'it may be as the geese say,' they remarked, beginning to bestir themselves. "'you just lie down!' said the elk bull. 'there are no poachers coming here; of that you may be certain.' "there was nothing more to be done, so we wild geese rose again into the air. but we continued to circle over the place, to see how it would turn out for the elk. "we had hardly reached our regular flying altitude, when we saw the elk bull come out from the thicket. he sniffed the air a little, then walked straight toward the poachers. as he strode along he stepped upon dry twigs that crackled noisily. a big barren marsh lay just beyond him. thither he went and took his stand in the middle, where there was nothing to hide him from view. "there he stood until the poachers emerged from the woods. then he turned and fled in the opposite direction. the poachers let loose the dogs, and they themselves skied after him at full speed. "the elk threw back his head and loped as fast as he could. he kicked up snow until it flew like a blizzard about him. both dogs and men were left far behind. then the elk stopped, as if to await their approach. when they were within sight he dashed ahead again. we understood that he was purposely tempting the hunters away from the place where the cows were. we thought it brave of him to face danger himself, in order that those who were dear to him might be left in safety. none of us wanted to leave the place until we had seen how all this was to end. "thus the chase continued for two hours or more. we wondered that the poachers went to the trouble of pursuing the elk when they were not armed with rifles. they couldn't have thought that they could succeed in tiring out a runner like him! "then we noticed that the elk no longer ran so rapidly. he stepped on the snow more carefully, and every time he lifted his feet, blood could be seen in his tracks. "we understood why the poachers had been so persistent! they had counted on help from the snow. the elk was heavy, and with every step he sank to the bottom of the drift. the hard crust on the snow was scraping his legs. it scraped away the fur, and tore out pieces of flesh, so that he was in torture every time he put his foot down. "the poachers and the dogs, who were so light that the ice crust could hold their weight, pursued him all the while. he ran on and on--his steps becoming more and more uncertain and faltering. he gasped for breath. not only did he suffer intense pain, but he was also exhausted from wading through the deep snowdrifts. "at last he lost all patience. he paused to let poachers and dogs come upon him, and was ready to fight them. as he stood there waiting, he glanced upward. when he saw us wild geese circling above him, he cried out: "'stay here, wild geese, until all is over! and the next time you fly over kolmården, look up karr, and ask him if he doesn't think that his friend grayskin has met with a happy end?'" when akka had gone so far in her story the old dog rose and walked nearer to her. "grayskin led a good life," he said. "he understands me. he knows that i'm a brave dog, and that i shall be glad to hear that he had a happy end. now tell me how--" he raised his tail and threw back his head, as if to give himself a bold and proud bearing--then he collapsed. "karr! karr!" called a man's voice from the forest. the old dog rose obediently. "my master is calling me," he said, "and i must not tarry longer. i just saw him load his gun. now we two are going into the forest for the last time. "many thanks, wild goose! i know everything that i need know to die content!" the wind witch in nÄrke in bygone days there was something in närke the like of which was not to be found elsewhere: it was a witch, named ysätter-kaisa. the name kaisa had been given her because she had a good deal to do with wind and storm--and these wind witches are always so called. the surname was added because she was supposed to have come from ysätter swamp in asker parish. it seemed as though her real abode must have been at asker; but she used also to appear at other places. nowhere in all närke could one be sure of not meeting her. she was no dark, mournful witch, but gay and frolicsome; and what she loved most of all was a gale of wind. as soon as there was wind enough, off she would fly to the närke plain for a good dance. on days when a whirlwind swept the plain, ysätter-kaisa had fun! she would stand right in the wind and spin round, her long hair flying up among the clouds and the long trail of her robe sweeping the ground, like a dust cloud, while the whole plain lay spread out under her, like a ballroom floor. of a morning ysätter-kaisa would sit up in some tall pine at the top of a precipice, and look across the plain. if it happened to be winter and she saw many teams on the roads she hurriedly blew up a blizzard, piling the drifts so high that people could barely get back to their homes by evening. if it chanced to be summer and good harvest weather, ysätter-kaisa would sit quietly until the first hayricks had been loaded, then down she would come with a couple of heavy showers, which put an end to the work for that day. it was only too true that she seldom thought of anything else than raising mischief. the charcoal burners up in the kil mountains hardly dared take a cat-nap, for as soon as she saw an unwatched kiln, she stole up and blew on it until it began to burn in a great flame. if the metal drivers from laxå and svartå were out late of an evening, ysätter-kaisa would veil the roads and the country round about in such dark clouds that both men and horses lost their way and drove the heavy trucks down into swamps and morasses. if, on a summer's day, the dean's wife at glanshammar had spread the tea table in the garden and along would come a gust of wind that lifted the cloth from the table and turned over cups and saucers, they knew who had raised the mischief! if the mayor of Örebro's hat blew off, so that he had to run across the whole square after it; if the wash on the line blew away and got covered with dirt, or if the smoke poured into the cabins and seemed unable to find its way out through the chimney, it was easy enough to guess who was out making merry! although ysätter-kaisa was fond of all sorts of tantalizing games, there was nothing really bad about her. one could see that she was hardest on those who were quarrelsome, stingy, or wicked; while honest folk and poor little children she would take under her wing. old people say of her that, once, when asker church was burning, ysätter-kaisa swept through the air, lit amid fire and smoke on the church roof, and averted the disaster. all the same the närke folk were often rather tired of ysätter-kaisa, but she never tired of playing her tricks on them. as she sat on the edge of a cloud and looked down upon närke, which rested so peacefully and comfortably beneath her, she must have thought: "the inhabitants would fare much too well if i were not in existence. they would grow sleepy and dull. there must be some one like myself to rouse them and keep them in good spirits." then she would laugh wildly and, chattering like a magpie, would rush off, dancing and spinning from one end of the plain to the other. when a närke man saw her come dragging her dust trail over the plain, he could not help smiling. provoking and tiresome she certainly was, but she had a merry spirit. it was just as refreshing for the peasants to meet ysätter-kaisa as it was for the plain to be lashed by the windstorm. nowadays 'tis said that ysätter-kaisa is dead and gone, like all other witches, but this one can hardly believe. it is as if some one were to come and tell you that henceforth the air would always be still on the plain, and the wind would never more dance across it with blustering breezes and drenching showers. he who fancies that ysätter-kaisa is dead and gone may as well hear what occurred in närke the year that nils holgersson travelled over that part of the country. then let him tell what he thinks about it. market eve _wednesday, april twenty-seventh_. it was the day before the big cattle fair at Örebro; it rained in torrents and people thought: "this is exactly as in ysätter-kaisa's time! at fairs she used to be more prankish than usual. it was quite in her line to arrange a downpour like this on a market eve." as the day wore on, the rain increased, and toward evening came regular cloud-bursts. the roads were like bottomless swamps. the farmers who had started from home with their cattle early in the morning, that they might arrive at a seasonable hour, fared badly. cows and oxen were so tired they could hardly move, and many of the poor beasts dropped down in the middle of the road, to show that they were too exhausted to go any farther. all who lived along the roadside had to open their doors to the market-bound travellers, and harbour them as best they could. farm houses, barns, and sheds were soon crowded to their limit. meanwhile, those who could struggle along toward the inn did so; but when they arrived they wished they had stopped at some cabin along the road. all the cribs in the barn and all the stalls in the stable were already occupied. there was no other choice than to let horses and cattle stand out in the rain. their masters could barely manage to get under cover. the crush and mud and slush in the barn yard were frightful! some of the animals were standing in puddles and could not even lie down. there were thoughtful masters, of course, who procured straw for their animals to lie on, and spread blankets over them; but there were those, also, who sat in the inn, drinking and gambling, entirely forgetful of the dumb creatures which they should have protected. the boy and the wild geese had come to a little wooded island in hjälmar lake that evening. the island was separated from the main land by a narrow and shallow stream, and at low tide one could pass over it dry-shod. it rained just as hard on the island as it did everywhere else. the boy could not sleep for the water that kept dripping down on him. finally he got up and began to walk. he fancied that he felt the rain less when he moved about. he had hardly circled the island, when he heard a splashing in the stream. presently he saw a solitary horse tramping among the trees. never in all his life had he seen such a wreck of a horse! he was broken-winded and stiff-kneed and so thin that every rib could be seen under the hide. he bore neither harness nor saddle--only an old bridle, from which dangled a half-rotted rope-end. obviously he had had no difficulty in breaking loose. the horse walked straight toward the spot where the wild geese were sleeping. the boy was afraid that he would step on them. "where are you going? feel your ground!" shouted the boy. "oh, there you are!" exclaimed the horse. "i've walked miles to meet you!" "have you heard of me?" asked the boy, astonished. "i've got ears, even if i am old! there are many who talk of you nowadays." as he spoke, the horse bent his head that he might see better, and the boy noticed that he had a small head, beautiful eyes, and a soft, sensitive nose. "he must have been a good horse at the start, though he has come to grief in his old age," he thought. "i wish you would come with me and help me with something," pleaded the horse. the boy thought it would be embarrassing to accompany a creature who looked so wretched, and excused himself on account of the bad weather. "you'll be no worse off on my back than you are lying here," said the horse. "but perhaps you don't dare to go with an old tramp of a horse like me." "certainly i dare!" said the boy. "then wake the geese, so that we can arrange with them where they shall come for you to-morrow," said the horse. the boy was soon seated on the animal's back. the old nag trotted along better than he had thought possible. it was a long ride in the rain and darkness before they halted near a large inn, where everything looked terribly uninviting! the wheel tracks were so deep in the road that the boy feared he might drown should he fall down into them. alongside the fence, which enclosed the yard, some thirty or forty horses and cattle were tied, with no protection against the rain, and in the yard were wagons piled with packing cases, where sheep, calves, hogs, and chickens were shut in. the horse walked over to the fence and stationed himself. the boy remained seated upon his back, and, with his good night eyes, plainly saw how badly the animals fared. "how do you happen to be standing out here in the rain?" he asked. "we're on our way to a fair at Örebro, but we were obliged to put up here on account of the rain. this is an inn; but so many travellers have already arrived that there's no room for us in the barns." the boy made no reply, but sat quietly looking about him. not many of the animals were asleep, and on all sides he heard complaints and indignant protests. they had reason enough for grumbling, for the weather was even worse than it had been earlier in the day. a freezing wind had begun to blow, and the rain which came beating down on them was turning to snow. it was easy enough to understand what the horse wanted the boy to help him with. "do you see that fine farm yard directly opposite the inn?" remarked the horse. "yes, i see it," answered the boy, "and i can't comprehend why they haven't tried to find shelter for all of you in there. they are already full, perhaps?" "no, there are no strangers in that place," said the horse. "the people who live on that farm are so stingy and selfish that it would be useless for any one to ask them for harbour." "if that's the case, i suppose you'll have to stand where you are." "i was born and raised on that farm," said the horse; "i know that there is a large barn and a big cow shed, with many empty stalls and mangers, and i was wondering if you couldn't manage in some way or other to get us in over there." "i don't think i could venture--" hesitated the boy. but he felt so sorry for the poor beasts that he wanted at least to try. he ran into the strange barn yard and saw at once that all the outhouses were locked and the keys gone. he stood there, puzzled and helpless, when aid came to him from an unexpected source. a gust of wind came sweeping along with terrific force and flung open a shed door right in front of him. the boy was not long in getting back to the horse. "it isn't possible to get into the barn or the cow house," he said, "but there's a big, empty hay shed that they have forgotten to bolt. i can lead you into that." "thank you!" said the horse. "it will seem good to sleep once more on familiar ground. it's the only happiness i can expect in this life." meanwhile, at the flourishing farm opposite the inn, the family sat up much later than usual that evening. the master of the place was a man of thirty-five, tall and dignified, with a handsome but melancholy face. during the day he had been out in the rain and had got wet, like every one else, and at supper he asked his old mother, who was still mistress of the place, to light a fire on the hearth that he might dry his clothes. the mother kindled a feeble blaze--for in that house they were not wasteful with wood--and the master hung his coat on the back of a chair, and placed it before the fire. with one foot on top of the andiron and a hand resting on his knee, he stood gazing into the embers. thus he stood for two whole hours, making no move other than to cast a log on the fire now and then. the mistress removed the supper things and turned down his bed for the night before she went to her own room and seated herself. at intervals she came to the door and looked wonderingly at her son. "it's nothing, mother. i'm only thinking," he said. his thoughts were on something that had occurred shortly before: when he passed the inn a horse dealer had asked him if he would not like to purchase a horse, and had shown him an old nag so weather-beaten that he asked the dealer if he took him for a fool, since he wished to palm off such a played-out beast on him. "oh, no!" said the horse dealer. "i only thought that, inasmuch as the horse once belonged to you, you might wish to give him a comfortable home in his old age; he has need of it." then he looked at the horse and recognized it as one which he himself had raised and broken in; but it did not occur to him to purchase such an old and useless creature on that account. no, indeed! he was not one who squandered his money. all the same, the sight of the horse had awakened many, memories--and it was the memories that kept him awake. that horse had been a fine animal. his father had let him tend it from the start. he had broken it in and had loved it above everything else. his father had complained that he used to feed it too well, and often he had been obliged to steal out and smuggle oats to it. once, when he ventured to talk with his father about letting him buy a broadcloth suit, or having the cart painted, his father stood as if petrified, and he thought the old man would have a stroke. he tried to make his father understand that, when he had a fine horse to drive, he should look presentable himself. the father made no reply, but two days later he took the horse to Örebro and sold it. it was cruel of him. but it was plain that his father had feared that this horse might lead him into vanity and extravagance. and now, so long afterward, he had to admit that his father was right. a horse like that surely would have been a temptation. at first he had grieved terribly over his loss. many a time he had gone down to Örebro, just to stand on a street corner and see the horse pass by, or to steal into the stable and give him a lump of sugar. he thought: "if i ever get the farm, the first thing i do will be to buy back my horse." now his father was gone and he himself had been master for two years, but he had not made a move toward buying the horse. he had not thought of him for ever so long, until to-night. it was strange that he should have forgotten the beast so entirely! his father had been a very headstrong, domineering man. when his son was grown and the two had worked together, the father had gained absolute power over him. the boy had come to think that everything his father did was right, and, after he became the master, he only tried to do exactly as his father would have done. he knew, of course, that folk said his father was stingy; but it was well to keep a tight hold on one's purse and not throw away money needlessly. the goods one has received should not be wasted. it was better to live on a debt-free place and be called stingy, than to carry heavy mortgages, like other farm owners. he had gone so far in his mind when he was called back by a strange sound. it was as if a shrill, mocking voice were repeating his thoughts: "it's better to keep a firm hold on one's purse and be called stingy, than to be in debt, like other farm owners." it sounded as if some one was trying to make sport of his wisdom and he was about to lose his temper, when he realized that it was all a mistake. the wind was beginning to rage, and he had been standing there getting so sleepy that he mistook the howling of the wind in the chimney for human speech. he glanced up at the wall clock, which just then struck eleven. "it's time that you were in bed," he remarked to himself. then he remembered that he had not yet gone the rounds of the farm yard, as it was his custom to do every night, to make sure that all doors were closed and all lights extinguished. this was something he had never neglected since he became master. he drew on his coat and went out in the storm. he found everything as it should be, save that the door to the empty hay shed had been blown open by the wind. he stepped inside for the key, locked the shed door and put the key into his coat pocket. then he went back to the house, removed his coat, and hung it before the fire. even now he did not retire, but began pacing the floor. the storm without, with its biting wind and snow-blended rain, was terrible, and his old horse was standing in this storm without so much as a blanket to protect him! he should at least have given his old friend a roof over his head, since he had come such a long distance. at the inn across the way the boy heard an old wall clock strike eleven times. just then he was untying the animals to lead them to the shed in the farm yard opposite. it took some time to rouse them and get them into line. when all were ready, they marched in a long procession into the stingy farmer's yard, with the boy as their guide. while the boy had been assembling them, the farmer had gone the rounds of the farm yard and locked the hay shed, so that when the animals came along the door was closed. the boy stood there dismayed. he could not let the creatures stand out there! he must go into the house and find the key. "keep them quiet out here while i go in and fetch the key!" he said to the old horse, and off he ran. on the path right in front of the house he paused to think out how he should get inside. as he stood there he noticed two little wanderers coming down the road, who stopped before the inn. the boy saw at once that they were two little girls, and ran toward them. "come now, britta maja!" said one, "you mustn't cry any more. now we are at the inn. here they will surely take us in." the girl had but just said this when the boy called to her: "no, you mustn't try to get in there. it is simply impossible. but at the farm house opposite there are no guests. go there instead." the little girls heard the words distinctly, though they could not see the one who spoke to them. they did not wonder much at that, however, for the night was as black as pitch. the larger of the girls promptly answered: "we don't care to enter that place, because those who live there are stingy and cruel. it is their fault that we two must go out on the highways and beg." "that may be so," said the boy, "but all the same you should go there. you shall see that it will be well for you." "we can try, but it is doubtful that they will even let us enter," observed the two little girls as they walked up to the house and knocked. the master was standing by the fire thinking of the horse when he heard the knocking. he stepped to the door to see what was up, thinking all the while that he would not let himself be tempted into admitting any wayfarer. as he fumbled the lock, a gust of wind came along, wrenched the door from his hand and swung it open. to close it, he had to step out on the porch, and, when he stepped back into the house, the two little girls were standing within. they were two poor beggar girls, ragged, dirty, and starving--two little tots bent under the burden of their beggar's packs, which were as large as themselves. "who are you that go prowling about at this hour of the night?" said the master gruffly. the two children did not answer immediately, but first removed their packs. then they walked up to the man and stretched forth their tiny hands in greeting. "we are anna and britta maja from the engärd," said the elder, "and we were going to ask for a night's lodging." he did not take the outstretched hands and was just about to drive out the beggar children, when a fresh recollection faced him. engärd--was not that a little cabin where a poor widow with five children had lived? the widow had owed his father a few hundred kroner and in order to get back his money he had sold her cabin. after that the widow, with her three eldest children, went to norrland to seek employment, and the two youngest became a charge on the parish. as he called this to mind he grew bitter. he knew that his father had been severely censured for squeezing out that money, which by right belonged to him. "what are you doing nowadays?" he asked in a cross tone. "didn't the board of charities take charge of you? why do you roam around and beg?" "it's not our fault," replied the larger girl. "the people with whom we are living have sent us out to beg." "well, your packs are filled," the farmer observed, "so you can't complain. now you'd better take out some of the food you have with you and eat your fill, for here you'll get no food, as all the women folk are in bed. later you may lie down in the corner by the hearth, so you won't have to freeze." he waved his hand, as if to ward them off, and his eyes took on a hard look. he was thankful that he had had a father who had been careful of his property. otherwise, he might perhaps have been forced in childhood to run about and beg, as these children now did. no sooner had he thought this out to the end than the shrill, mocking voice he had heard once before that evening repeated it, word for word. he listened, and at once understood that it was nothing--only the wind roaring in the chimney. but the queer thing about it was, when the wind repeated his thoughts, they seemed so strangely stupid and hard and false! the children meanwhile had stretched themselves, side by side, on the floor. they were not quiet, but lay there muttering. "do be still, won't you?" he growled, for he was in such an irritable mood that he could have beaten them. but the mumbling continued, and again he called for silence. "when mother went away," piped a clear little voice, "she made me promise that every night i would say my evening prayer. i must do this, and britta maja too. as soon as we have said 'god who cares for little children--' we'll be quiet." the master sat quite still while the little ones said their prayers, then he rose and began pacing back and forth, back and forth, wringing his hands all the while, as though he had met with some great sorrow. "the horse driven out and wrecked, these two children turned into road beggars--both father's doings! perhaps father did not do right after all?" he thought. he sat down again and buried his head in his hands. suddenly his lips began to quiver and into his eyes came tears, which he hastily wiped away. fresh tears came, and he was just as prompt to brush these away; but it was useless, for more followed. when his mother stepped into the room, he swung his chair quickly and turned his back to her. she must have noticed something unusual, for she stood quietly behind him a long while, as if waiting for him to speak. she realized how difficult it always is for men to talk of the things they feel most deeply. she must help him of course. from her bedroom she had observed all that had taken place in the living room, so that she did not have to ask questions. she walked very softly over to the two sleeping children, lifted them, and bore them to her own bed. then she went back to her son. "lars," she said, as if she did not see that he was weeping, "you had better let me keep these children." "what, mother?" he gasped, trying to smother the sobs. "i have been suffering for years--ever since father took the cabin from their mother, and so have you." "yes, but--" "i want to keep them here and make something of them; they are too good to beg." he could not speak, for now the tears were beyond his control; but he took his old mother's withered hand and patted it. then he jumped up, as if something had frightened him. "what would father have said of this?" "father had his day at ruling," retorted the mother. "now it is your day. as long as father lived we had to obey him. now is the time to show what you are." her son was so astonished that he ceased crying. "but i have just shown what i am!" he returned. "no, you haven't," protested the mother. "you only try to be like him. father experienced hard times, which made him fear poverty. he believed that he had to think of himself first. but you have never had any difficulties that should make you hard. you have more than you need, and it would be unnatural of you not to think of others." when the two little girls entered the house the boy slipped in behind them and secreted himself in a dark corner. he had not been there long before he caught a glimpse of the shed key, which the farmer had thrust into his coat pocket. "when the master of the house drives the children out, i'll take the key and ran," he thought. but the children were not driven out and the boy crouched in the corner, not knowing what he should do next. the mother talked long with her son, and while she was speaking he stopped weeping. gradually his features softened; he looked like another person. all the while he was stroking the wasted old hand. "now we may as well retire," said the old lady when she saw that he was calm again. "no," he said, suddenly rising, "i cannot retire yet. there's a stranger without whom i must shelter to-night!" he said nothing further, but quickly drew on his coat, lit the lantern and went out. there were the same wind and chill without, but as he stepped to the porch he began to sing softly. he wondered if the horse would know him, and if he would be glad to come back to his old stable. as he crossed the house yard he heard a door slam. "that shed door has blown open again," he thought, and went over to close it. a moment later he stood by the shed and was just going to shut the door, when he heard a rustling within. the boy, who had watched his opportunity, had run directly to the shed, where he left the animals, but they were no longer out in the rain: a strong wind had long since thrown open the door and helped them to get a roof over their heads. the patter which the master heard was occasioned by the boy running into the shed. by the light of the lantern the man could see into the shed. the whole floor was covered with sleeping cattle. there was no human being to be seen; the animals were not bound, but were lying, here and there, in the straw. he was enraged at the intrusion and began storming and shrieking to rouse the sleepers and drive them out. but the creatures lay still and would not let themselves be disturbed. the only one that rose was an old horse that came slowly toward him. all of a sudden the man became silent. he recognized the beast by its gait. he raised the lantern, and the horse came over and laid its head on his shoulder. the master patted and stroked it. "my old horsy, my old horsy!" he said. "what have they done to you? yes, dear, i'll buy you back. you'll never again have to leave this place. you shall do whatever you like, horsy mine! those whom you have brought with you may remain here, but you shall come with me to the stable. now i can give you all the oats you are able to eat, without having to smuggle them. and you're not all used up, either! the handsomest horse on the church knoll--that's what you shall be once more! there, there! there, there!" the breaking up of the ice _thursday, april twenty-eighth_. the following day the weather was clear and beautiful. there was a strong west wind; people were glad of that, for it dried up the roads, which had been soaked by the heavy rains of the day before. early in the morning the two småland children, osa, the goose girl, and little mats, were out on the highway leading from sörmland to närke. the road ran alongside the southern shore of hjälmar lake and the children were walking along looking at the ice, which covered the greater part of it. the morning sun darted its clear rays upon the ice, which did not look dark and forbidding, like most spring ice, but sparkled temptingly. as far as they could see, the ice was firm and dry. the rain had run down into cracks and hollows, or been absorbed by the ice itself. the children saw only the sound ice. osa, the goose girl, and little mats were on their way north, and they could not help thinking of all the steps they would be saved if they could cut straight across the lake instead of going around it. they knew, to be sure, that spring ice is treacherous, but this looked perfectly secure. they could see that it was several inches thick near the shore. they saw a path which they might follow, and the opposite shore appeared to be so near that they ought to be able to get there in an hour. "come, let's try!" said little mats. "if we only look before us, so that we don't go down into some hole, we can do it." so they went out on the lake. the ice was not very slippery, but rather easy to walk upon. there was more water on it than they expected to see, and here and there were cracks, where the water purled up. one had to watch out for such places; but that was easy to do in broad daylight, with the sun shining. the children advanced rapidly, and talked only of how sensible they were to have gone out on the ice instead of tramping the slushy road. when they had been walking a while they came to vin island, where an old woman had sighted them from her window. she rushed from her cabin, waved them back, and shouted something which they could not hear. they understood perfectly well that she was warning them not to come any farther; but they thought there was no immediate danger. it would be stupid for them to leave the ice when all was going so well! therefore they went on past vin island and had a stretch of seven miles of ice ahead of them. out there was so much water that the children were obliged to take roundabout ways; but that was sport to them. they vied with each other as to which could find the soundest ice. they were neither tired nor hungry. the whole day was before them, and they laughed at each obstacle they met. now and then they cast a glance ahead at the farther shore. it still appeared far away, although they had been walking a good hour. they were rather surprised that the lake was so broad. "the shore seems to be moving farther away from us," little mats observed. out there the children were not protected against the wind, which was becoming stronger and stronger every minute, and was pressing their clothing so close to their bodies that they could hardly go on. the cold wind was the first disagreeable thing they had met with on the journey. but the amazing part of it was that the wind came sweeping along with a loud roar--as if it brought with it the noise of a large mill or factory, though nothing of the kind was to be found out there on the ice. they had walked to the west of the big island, valen; now they thought they were nearing the north shore. suddenly the wind began to blow more and more, while the loud roaring increased so rapidly that they began to feel uneasy. all at once it occurred to them that the roar was caused by the foaming and rushing of the waves breaking against a shore. even this seemed improbable, since the lake was still covered with ice. at all events, they paused and looked about. they noticed far in the west a white bank which stretched clear across the lake. at first they thought it was a snowbank alongside a road. later they realized it was the foam-capped waves dashing against the ice! they took hold of hands and ran without saying a word. open sea lay beyond in the west, and suddenly the streak of foam appeared to be moving eastward. they wondered if the ice was going to break all over. what was going to happen? they felt now that they were in great danger. all at once it seemed as if the ice under their feet rose--rose and sank, as if some one from below were pushing it. presently they heard a hollow boom, and then there were cracks in the ice all around them. the children could see how they crept along under the ice-covering. the next moment all was still, then the rising and sinking began again. thereupon the cracks began to widen into crevices through which the water bubbled up. by and by the crevices became gaps. soon after that the ice was divided into large floes. "osa," said little mats, "this must be the breaking up of the ice!" "why, so it is, little mats," said osa, "but as yet we can get to land. run for your life!" as a matter of fact, the wind and waves had a good deal of work to do yet to clear the ice from the lake. the hardest part was done when the ice-cake burst into pieces, but all these pieces must be broken and hurled against each other, to be crushed, worn down, and dissolved. there was still a great deal of hard and sound ice left, which formed large, unbroken surfaces. the greatest danger for the children lay in the fact that they had no general view of the ice. they did not see the places where the gaps were so wide that they could not possibly jump over them, nor did they know where to find any floes that would hold them, so they wandered aimlessly back and forth, going farther out on the lake instead of nearer land. at last, confused and terrified, they stood still and wept. then a flock of wild geese in rapid flight came rushing by. they shrieked loudly and sharply; but the strange thing was that above the geese-cackle the little children heard these words: "you must go to the right, the right, the right!" they began at once to follow the advice; but before long they were again standing irresolute, facing another broad gap. again they heard the geese shrieking above them, and again, amid the geese-cackle, they distinguished a few words: "stand where you are! stand where you are!" the children did not say a word to each other, but obeyed and stood still. soon after that the ice-floes floated together, so that they could cross the gap. then they took hold of hands again and ran. they were afraid not only of the peril, but of the mysterious help that had come to them. soon they had to stop again, and immediately the sound of the voice reached them. "straight ahead, straight ahead!" it said. this leading continued for about half an hour; by that time they had reached ljunger point, where they left the ice and waded to shore. they were still terribly frightened, even though they were on firm land. they did not stop to look back at the lake--where the waves were pitching the ice-floes faster and faster--but ran on. when they had gone a short distance along the point, osa paused suddenly. "wait here, little mats," she said; "i have forgotten something." osa, the goose girl, went down to the strand again, where she stopped to rummage in her bag. finally she fished out a little wooden shoe, which she placed on a stone where it could be plainly seen. then she ran to little mats without once looking back. but the instant her back was turned, a big white goose shot down from the sky, like a streak of lightning, snatched the wooden shoe, and flew away with it. thumbietot and the bears the ironworks _thursday, april twenty-eighth_. when the wild geese and thumbietot had helped osa, the goose girl, and little mats across the ice, they flew into westmanland, where they alighted in a grain field to feed and rest. a strong west wind blew almost the entire day on which the wild geese travelled over the mining districts, and as soon as they attempted to direct their course northward they were buffeted toward the east. now, akka thought that smirre fox was at large in the eastern part of the province; therefore she would not fly in that direction, but turned back, time and again, struggling westward with great difficulty. at this rate the wild geese advanced very slowly, and late in the afternoon they were still in the westmanland mining districts. toward evening the wind abated suddenly, and the tired travellers hoped that they would have an interval of easy flight before sundown. then along came a violent gust of wind, which tossed the geese before it, like balls, and the boy, who was sitting comfortably, with no thought of peril, was lifted from the goose's back and hurled into space. little and light as he was, he could not fall straight to the ground in such a wind; so at first he was carried along with it, drifting down slowly and spasmodically, as a leaf falls from a tree. "why, this isn't so bad!" thought the boy as he fell. "i'm tumbling as easily as if i were only a scrap of paper. morten goosey-gander will doubtless hurry along and pick me up." the first thing the boy did when he landed was to tear off his cap and wave it, so that the big white gander should see where he was. "here am i, where are you? here am i, where are you?" he called, and was rather surprised that morten goosey-gander was not already at his side. but the big white gander was not to be seen, nor was the wild goose flock outlined against the sky. it had entirely disappeared. he thought this rather singular, but he was neither worried nor frightened. not for a second did it occur to him that folk like akka and morten goosey-gander would abandon him. the unexpected gust of wind had probably borne them along with it. as soon as they could manage to turn, they would surely come back and fetch him. but what was this? where on earth was he anyway? he had been standing gazing toward the sky for some sign of the geese, but now he happened to glance about him. he had not come down on even ground, but had dropped into a deep, wide mountain cave--or whatever it might be. it was as large as a church, with almost perpendicular walls on all four sides, and with no roof at all. on the ground were some huge rocks, between which moss and lignon-brush and dwarfed birches grew. here and there in the wall were projections, from which swung rickety ladders. at one side there was a dark passage, which apparently led far into the mountain. the boy had not been travelling over the mining districts a whole day for nothing. he comprehended at once that the big cleft had been made by the men who had mined ore in this place. "i must try and climb back to earth again," he thought, "otherwise i fear that my companions won't find me!" he was about to go over to the wall when some one seized him from behind, and he heard a gruff voice growl in his ear: "who are you?" the boy turned quickly, and, in the confusion of the moment, he thought he was facing a huge rock, covered with brownish moss. then he noticed that the rock had broad paws to walk with, a head, two eyes, and a growling mouth. he could not pull himself together to answer, nor did the big beast appear to expect it of him, for it knocked him down, rolled him back and forth with its paws, and nosed him. it seemed just about ready to swallow him, when it changed its mind and called: "brumme and mulle, come here, you cubs, and you shall have something good to eat!" a pair of frowzy cubs, as uncertain on their feet and as woolly as puppies, came tumbling along. "what have you got, mamma bear? may we see, oh, may we see?" shrieked the cubs excitedly. "oho! so i've fallen in with bears," thought the boy to himself. "now smirre fox won't have to trouble himself further to chase after me!" the mother bear pushed the boy along to the cubs. one of them nabbed him quickly and ran off with him; but he did not bite hard. he was playful and wanted to amuse himself awhile with thumbietot before eating him. the other cub was after the first one to snatch the boy for himself, and as he lumbered along he managed to tumble straight down on the head of the one that carried the boy. so the two cubs rolled over each other, biting, clawing, and snarling. during the tussle the boy got loose, ran over to the wall, and started to scale it. then both cubs scurried after him, and, nimbly scaling the cliff, they caught up with him and tossed him down on the moss, like a ball. "now i know how a poor little mousie fares when it falls into the cat's claws," thought the boy. he made several attempts to get away. he ran deep down into the old tunnel and hid behind the rocks and climbed the birches, but the cubs hunted him out, go where he would. the instant they caught him they let him go, so that he could run away again and they should have the fun of recapturing him. at last the boy got so sick and tired of it all that he threw himself down on the ground. "run away," growled the cubs, "or we'll eat you up!" "you'll have to eat me then," said the boy, "for i can't run any more." immediately both cubs rushed over to the mother bear and complained: "mamma bear, oh, mamma bear, he won't play any more." "then you must divide him evenly between you," said mother bear. when the boy heard this he was so scared that he jumped up instantly and began playing again. as it was bedtime, mother bear called to the cubs that they must come now and cuddle up to her and go to sleep. they had been having such a good time that they wished to continue their play next day; so they took the boy between them and laid their paws over him. they did not want him to move without waking them. they went to sleep immediately. the boy thought that after a while he would try to steal away. but never in all his life had he been so tumbled and tossed and hunted and rolled! and he was so tired out that he too fell asleep. by and by father bear came clambering down the mountain wall. the boy was wakened by his tearing away stone and gravel as he swung himself into the old mine. the boy was afraid to move much; but he managed to stretch himself and turn over, so that he could see the big bear. he was a frightfully coarse, huge old beast, with great paws, large, glistening tusks, and wicked little eyes! the boy could not help shuddering as he looked at this old monarch of the forest. "it smells like a human being around here," said father bear the instant he came up to mother bear, and his growl was as the rolling of thunder. "how can you imagine anything so absurd?" said mother bear without disturbing herself. "it has been settled for good and all that we are not to harm mankind any more; but if one of them were to put in an appearance here, where the cubs and i have our quarters, there wouldn't be enough left of him for you to catch even a scent of him!" father bear lay down beside mother bear. "you ought to know me well enough to understand that i don't allow anything dangerous to come near the cubs. talk, instead, of what you have been doing. i haven't seen you for a whole week!" "i've been looking about for a new residence," said father bear. "first i went over to vermland, to learn from our kinsmen at ekshärad how they fared in that country; but i had my trouble for nothing. there wasn't a bear's den left in the whole forest." "i believe the humans want the whole earth to themselves," said mother bear. "even if we leave people and cattle in peace and live solely upon lignon and insects and green things, we cannot remain unmolested in the forest! i wonder where we could move to in order to live in peace?" "we've lived comfortably for many years in this pit," observed father bear. "but i can't be content here now since the big noise-shop has been built right in our neighbourhood. lately i have been taking a look at the land east of dal river, over by garpen mountain. old mine pits are plentiful there, too, and other fine retreats. i thought it looked as if one might be fairly protected against men--" the instant father bear said this he sat up and began to sniff. "it's extraordinary that whenever i speak of human beings i catch that queer scent again," he remarked. "go and see for yourself if you don't believe me!" challenged mother bear. "i should just like to know where a human being could manage to hide down here?" the bear walked all around the cave, and nosed. finally he went back and lay down without a word. "what did i tell you?" said mother bear. "but of course you think that no one but yourself has any nose or ears!" "one can't be too careful, with such neighbours as we have," said father bear gently. then he leaped up with a roar. as luck would have it, one of the cubs had moved a paw over to nils holgersson's face and the poor little wretch could not breathe, but began to sneeze. it was impossible for mother bear to keep father bear back any longer. he pushed the young ones to right and left and caught sight of the boy before he had time to sit up. he would have swallowed him instantly if mother bear had not cast herself between them. "don't touch him! he belongs to the cubs," she said. "they have had such fun with him the whole evening that they couldn't bear to eat him up, but wanted to save him until morning." father bear pushed mother bear aside. "don't meddle with what you don't understand!" he roared. "can't you scent that human odour about him from afar? i shall eat him at once, or he will play us some mean trick." he opened his jaws again; but meanwhile the boy had had time to think, and, quick as a flash, he dug into his knapsack and brought forth some matches--his sole weapon of defence--struck one on his leather breeches, and stuck the burning match into the bear's open mouth. father bear snorted when he smelled the sulphur, and with that the flame went out. the boy was ready with another match, but, curiously enough, father bear did not repeat his attack. "can you light many of those little blue roses?" asked father bear. "i can light enough to put an end to the whole forest," replied the boy, for he thought that in this way he might be able to scare father bear. "oh, that would be no trick for me!" boasted the boy, hoping that this would make the bear respect him. "good!" exclaimed the bear. "you shall render me a service. now i'm very glad that i did not eat you!" father bear carefully took the boy between his tusks and climbed up from the pit. he did this with remarkable ease and agility, considering that he was so big and heavy. as soon as he was up, he speedily made for the woods. it was evident that father bear was created to squeeze through dense forests. the heavy body pushed through the brushwood as a boat does through the water. father bear ran along till he came to a hill at the skirt of the forest, where he could see the big noise-shop. here he lay down and placed the boy in front of him, holding him securely between his forepaws. "now look down at that big noise-shop!" he commanded. the great ironworks, with many tall buildings, stood at the edge of a waterfall. high chimneys sent forth dark clouds of smoke, blasting furnaces were in full blaze, and light shone from all the windows and apertures. within hammers and rolling mills were going with such force that the air rang with their clatter and boom. all around the workshops proper were immense coal sheds, great slag heaps, warehouses, wood piles, and tool sheds. just beyond were long rows of workingmen's homes, pretty villas, schoolhouses, assembly halls, and shops. but there all was quiet and apparently everybody was asleep. the boy did not glance in that direction, but gazed intently at the ironworks. the earth around them was black; the sky above them was like a great fiery dome; the rapids, white with foam, rushed by; while the buildings themselves were sending out light and smoke, fire and sparks. it was the grandest sight the boy had ever seen! "surely you don't mean to say you can set fire to a place like that?" remarked the bear doubtingly. the boy stood wedged between the beast's paws thinking the only thing that might save him would be that the bear should have a high opinion of his capability and power. "it's all the same to me," he answered with a superior air. "big or little, i can burn it down." "then i'll tell you something," said father bear. "my forefathers lived in this region from the time that the forests first sprang up. from them i inherited hunting grounds and pastures, lairs and retreats, and have lived here in peace all my life. in the beginning i wasn't troubled much by the human kind. they dug in the mountains and picked up a little ore down here, by the rapids; they had a forge and a furnace, but the hammers sounded only a few hours during the day, and the furnace was not fired more than two moons at a stretch. it wasn't so bad but that i could stand it; but these last years, since they have built this noise-shop, which keeps up the same racket both day and night, life here has become intolerable. formerly only a manager and a couple of blacksmiths lived here, but now there are so many people that i can never feel safe from them. i thought that i should have to move away, but i have discovered something better!" the boy wondered what father bear had hit upon, but no opportunity was afforded him to ask, as the bear took him between his tusks again and lumbered down the hill. the boy could see nothing, but knew by the increasing noise that they were approaching the rolling mills. father bear was well informed regarding the ironworks. he had prowled around there on many a dark night, had observed what went on within, and had wondered if there would never be any cessation of the work. he had tested the walls with his paws and wished that he were only strong enough to knock down the whole structure with a single blow. he was not easily distinguishable against the dark ground, and when, in addition, he remained in the shadow of the walls, there was not much danger of his being discovered. now he walked fearlessly between the workshops and climbed to the top of a slag heap. there he sat up on his haunches, took the boy between his forepaws and held him up. "try to look into the house!" he commanded. a strong current of air was forced into a big cylinder which was suspended from the ceiling and filled with molten iron. as this current rushed into the mess of iron with an awful roar, showers of sparks of all colours spurted up in bunches, in sprays, in long clusters! they struck against the wall and came splashing down over the whole big room. father bear let the boy watch the gorgeous spectacle until the blowing was over and the flowing and sparkling red steel had been poured into ingot moulds. the boy was completely charmed by the marvellous display and almost forgot that he was imprisoned between a bear's two paws. father bear let him look into the rolling mill. he saw a workman take a short, thick bar of iron at white heat from a furnace opening and place it under a roller. when the iron came out from under the roller, it was flattened and extended. immediately another workman seized it and placed it beneath a heavier roller, which made it still longer and thinner. thus it was passed from roller to roller, squeezed and drawn out until, finally, it curled along the floor, like a long red thread. but while the first bar of iron was being pressed, a second was taken from the furnace and placed under the rollers, and when this was a little along, a third was brought. continuously fresh threads came crawling over the floor, like hissing snakes. the boy was dazzled by the iron. but he found it more splendid to watch the workmen who, dexterously and delicately, seized the glowing snakes with their tongs and forced them under the rollers. it seemed like play for them to handle the hissing iron. "i call that real man's work!" the boy remarked to himself. the bear then let the boy have a peep at the furnace and the forge, and he became more and more astonished as he saw how the blacksmiths handled iron and fire. "those men have no fear of heat and flames," he thought. the workmen were sooty and grimy. he fancied they were some sort of firefolk--that was why they could bend and mould the iron as they wished. he could not believe that they were just ordinary men, since they had such power! "they keep this up day after day, night after night," said father bear, as he dropped wearily down on the ground. "you can understand that one gets rather tired of that kind of thing. i'm mighty glad that at last i can put an end to it!" "indeed!" said the boy. "how will you go about it?" "oh, i thought that you were going to set fire to the buildings!" said father bear. "that would put an end to all this work, and i could remain in my old home." the boy was all of a shiver. so it was for this that father bear had brought him here! "if you will set fire to the noise-works, i'll promise to spare your life," said father bear. "but if you don't do it, i'll make short work of you!" the huge workshops were built of brick, and the boy was thinking to himself that father bear could command as much as he liked, it was impossible to obey him. presently he saw that it might not be impossible after all. just beyond them lay a pile of chips and shavings to which he could easily set fire, and beside it was a wood pile that almost reached the coal shed. the coal shed extended over to the workshops, and if that once caught fire, the flames would soon fly over to the roof of the iron foundry. everything combustible would burn, the walls would fall from the heat, and the machinery would be destroyed. "will you or won't you?" demanded father bear. the boy knew that he ought to answer promptly that he would not, but he also knew that then the bear's paws would squeeze him to death; therefore he replied: "i shall have to think it over." "very well, do so," assented father bear. "let me say to you that iron is the thing that has given men the advantage over us bears, which is another reason for my wishing to put an end to the work here." the boy thought he would use the delay to figure out some plan of escape, but he was so worried he could not direct his thoughts where he would; instead he began to think of the great help that iron had been to mankind. they needed iron for everything. there was iron in the plough that broke up the field, in the axe that felled the tree for building houses, in the scythe that mowed the grain, and in the knife, which could be turned to all sorts of uses. there was iron in the horse's bit, in the lock on the door, in the nails that held furniture together, in the sheathing that covered the roof. the rifle which drove away wild beasts was made of iron, also the pick that had broken up the mine. iron covered the men-of-war he had seen at karlskrona; the locomotives steamed through the country on iron rails; the needle that had stitched his coat was of iron; the shears that clipped the sheep and the kettle that cooked the food. big and little alike--much that was indispensable was made from iron. father bear was perfectly right in saying that it was the iron that had given men their mastery over the bears. "now will you or won't you?" father bear repeated. the boy was startled from his musing. here he stood thinking of matters that were entirely unnecessary, and had not yet found a way to save himself! "you mustn't be so impatient," he said. "this is a serious matter for me, and i've got to have time to consider." "well, then, consider another moment," said father bear. "but let me tell you that it's because of the iron that men have become so much wiser than we bears. for this alone, if for nothing else, i should like to put a stop to the work here." again the boy endeavoured to think out a plan of escape, but his thoughts wandered, willy nilly. they were taken up with the iron. and gradually he began to comprehend how much thinking and calculating men must have done before they discovered how to produce iron from ore, and he seemed to see sooty blacksmiths of old bending over the forge, pondering how they should properly handle it. perhaps it was because they had thought so much about the iron that intelligence had been developed in mankind, until finally they became so advanced that they were able to build great works like these. the fact was that men owed more to the iron than they themselves knew. "well, what say you? will you or won't you?" insisted father bear. the boy shrank back. here he stood thinking needless thoughts, and had no idea as to what he should do to save himself. "it's not such an easy matter to decide as you think," he answered. "you must give me time for reflection." "i can wait for you a little longer," said father bear. "but after that you'll get no more grace. you must know that it's the fault of the iron that the human kind can live here on the property of the bears. and now you understand why i would be rid of the work." the boy meant to use the last moment to think out some way to save himself, but, anxious and distraught as he was, his thoughts wandered again. now he began thinking of all that he had seen when he flew over the mining districts. it was strange that there should be so much life and activity and so much work back there in the wilderness. "just think how poor and desolate this place would be had there been no iron here! "this very foundry gave employment to many, and had gathered around it many homes filled with people, who, in turn, had attracted hither railways and telegraph wires and--" "come, come!" growled the bear. "will you or won't you?" the boy swept his hand across his forehead. no plan of escape had as yet come to his mind, but this much he knew--he did not wish to do any harm to the iron, which was so useful to rich and poor alike, and which gave bread to so many people in this land. "i won't!" he said. father bear squeezed him a little harder, but said nothing. "you'll not get me to destroy the ironworks!" defied the boy. "the iron is so great a blessing that it will never do to harm it." "then of course you don't expect to be allowed to live very long?" said the bear. "no, i don't expect it," returned the boy, looking the bear straight in the eye. father bear gripped him still harder. it hurt so that the boy could not keep the tears back, but he did not cry out or say a word. "very well, then," said father bear, raising his paw very slowly, hoping that the boy would give in at the last moment. but just then the boy heard something click very close to them, and saw the muzzle of a rifle two paces away. both he and father bear had been so engrossed in their own affairs they had not observed that a man had stolen right upon them. "father bear! don't you hear the clicking of a trigger?" cried the boy. "run, or you'll be shot!" father bear grew terribly hurried. however, he allowed himself time enough to pick up the boy and carry him along. as he ran, a couple of shots sounded, and the bullets grazed his ears, but, luckily, he escaped. the boy thought, as he was dangling from the bear's mouth, that never had he been so stupid as he was to-night. if he had only kept still, the bear would have been shot, and he himself would have been freed. but he had become so accustomed to helping the animals that he did it naturally, and as a matter of course. when father bear had run some distance into the woods, he paused and set the boy down on the ground. "thank you, little one!" he said. "i dare say those bullets would have caught me if you hadn't been there. and now i want to do you a service in return. if you should ever meet with another bear, just say to him this--which i shall whisper to you--and he won't touch you." father bear whispered a word or two into the boy's ear and hurried away, for he thought he heard hounds and hunters pursuing him. the boy stood in the forest, free and unharmed, and could hardly understand how it was possible. the wild geese had been flying back and forth the whole evening, peering and calling, but they had been unable to find thumbietot. they searched long after the sun had set, and, finally, when it had grown so dark that they were forced to alight somewhere for the night, they were very downhearted. there was not one among them but thought the boy had been killed by the fall and was lying dead in the forest, where they could not see him. but the next morning, when the sun peeped over the hills and awakened the wild geese, the boy lay sleeping, as usual, in their midst. when he woke and heard them shrieking and cackling their astonishment, he could not help laughing. they were so eager to know what had happened to him that they did not care to go to breakfast until he had told them the whole story. the boy soon narrated his entire adventure with the bears, but after that he seemed reluctant to continue. "how i got back to you perhaps you already know?" he said. "no, we know nothing. we thought you were killed." "that's curious!" remarked the boy. "oh, yes!--when father bear left me i climbed up into a pine and fell asleep. at daybreak i was awakened by an eagle hovering over me. he picked me up with his talons and carried me away. he didn't hurt me, but flew straight here to you and dropped me down among you." "didn't he tell you who he was?" asked the big white gander. "he was gone before i had time even to thank him. i thought that mother akka had sent him after me." "how extraordinary!" exclaimed the white goosey-gander. "but are you certain that it was an eagle?" "i had never before seen an eagle," said the boy, "but he was so big and splendid that i can't give him a lowlier name!" morten goosey-gander turned to the wild geese to hear what they thought of this; but they stood gazing into the air, as though they were thinking of something else. "we must not forget entirely to eat breakfast today," said akka, quickly spreading her wings. the flood the swans _may first to fourth_. there was a terrible storm raging in the district north of lake mälar, which lasted several days. the sky was a dull gray, the wind whistled, and the rain beat. both people and animals knew the spring could not be ushered in with anything short of this; nevertheless they thought it unbearable. after it had been raining for a whole day, the snowdrifts in the pine forests began to melt in earnest, and the spring brooks grew lively. all the pools on the farms, the standing water in the ditches, the water that oozed between the tufts in marshes and swamps--all were in motion and tried to find their way to creeks, that they might be borne along to the sea. the creeks rushed as fast as possible down to the rivers, and the rivers did their utmost to carry the water to lake mälar. all the lakes and rivers in uppland and the mining district quickly threw off their ice covers on one and the same day, so that the creeks filled with ice-floes which rose clear up to their banks. swollen as they were, they emptied into lake mälar, and it was not long before the lake had taken in as much water as it could well hold. down by the outlet was a raging torrent. norrström is a narrow channel, and it could not let out the water quickly enough. besides, there was a strong easterly wind that lashed against the land, obstructing the stream when it tried to carry the fresh water into the east sea. since the rivers kept running to mälaren with more water than it could dispose of, there was nothing for the big lake to do but overflow its banks. it rose very slowly, as if reluctant to injure its beautiful shores; but as they were mostly low and gradually sloping, it was not long before the water had flooded several acres of land, and that was enough to create the greatest alarm. lake mälar is unique in its way, being made up of a succession of narrow fiords, bays, and inlets. in no place does it spread into a storm centre, but seems to have been created only for pleasure trips, yachting tours, and fishing. nowhere does it present barren, desolate, wind-swept shores. it looks as if it never thought that its shores could hold anything but country seats, summer villas, manors, and amusement resorts. but, because it usually presents a very agreeable and friendly appearance, there is all the more havoc whenever it happens to drop its smiling expression in the spring, and show that it can be serious. at that critical time smirre fox happened to come sneaking through a birch grove just north of lake mälar. as usual, he was thinking of thumbietot and the wild geese, and wondering how he should ever find them again. he had lost all track of them. as he stole cautiously along, more discouraged than usual, he caught sight of agar, the carrier-pigeon, who had perched herself on a birch branch. "my, but i'm in luck to run across you, agar!" exclaimed smirre. "maybe you can tell me where akka from kebnekaise and her flock hold forth nowadays?" "it's quite possible that i know where they are," agar hinted, "but i'm not likely to tell you!" "please yourself!" retorted smirre. "nevertheless, you can take a message that i have for them. you probably know the present condition of lake mälar? there's a great overflow down there and all the swans who live in hjälsta bay are about to see their nests, with all their eggs, destroyed. daylight, the swan-king, has heard of the midget who travels with the wild geese and knows a remedy for every ill. he has sent me to ask akka if she will bring thumbietot down to hjälsta bay." "i dare say i can convey your message," agar replied, "but i can't understand how the little boy will be able to help the swans." "nor do i," said smirre, "but he can do almost everything, it seems." "it's surprising to me that daylight should send his messages by a fox," agar remarked. "well, we're not exactly what you'd call good friends," said smirre smoothly, "but in an emergency like this we must help each other. perhaps it would be just as well not to tell akka that you got the message from a fox. between you and me, she's inclined to be a little suspicious." the safest refuge for water-fowl in the whole mälar district is hjälsta bay. it has low shores, shallow water and is also covered with reeds. it is by no means as large as lake tåkern, but nevertheless hjälsta is a good retreat for birds, since it has long been forbidden territory to hunters. it is the home of a great many swans, and the owner of the old castle nearby has prohibited all shooting on the bay, so that they might be unmolested. as soon as akka received word that the swans needed her help, she hastened down to hjälsta bay. she arrived with her flock one evening and saw at a glance that there had been a great disaster. the big swans' nests had been torn away, and the strong wind was driving them down the bay. some had already fallen apart, two or three had capsized, and the eggs lay at the bottom of the lake. when akka alighted on the bay, all the swans living there were gathered near the eastern shore, where they were protected from the wind. although they had suffered much by the flood, they were too proud to let any one see it. "it is useless to cry," they said. "there are plenty of root-fibres and stems here; we can soon build new nests." none had thought of asking a stranger to help them, and the swans had no idea that smirre fox had sent for the wild geese! there were several hundred swans resting on the water. they had placed themselves according to rank and station. the young and inexperienced were farthest out, the old and wise nearer the middle of the group, and right in the centre sat daylight, the swan-king, and snow-white, the swan-queen, who were older than any of the others and regarded the rest of the swans as their children. the geese alighted on the west shore of the bay; but when akka saw where the swans were, she swam toward them at once. she was very much surprised at their having sent for her, but she regarded it as an honour and did not wish to lose a moment in coming to their aid. as akka approached the swans she paused to see if the geese who followed her swam in a straight line, and at even distances apart. "now, swim along quickly!" she ordered. "don't stare at the swans as if you had never before seen anything beautiful, and don't mind what they may say to you!" this was not the first time that akka had called on the aristocratic swans. they had always received her in a manner befitting a great traveller like herself. but still she did not like the idea of swimming in among them. she never felt so gray and insignificant as when she happened upon swans. one or another of them was sure to drop a remark about "common gray-feathers" and "poor folk." but it is always best to take no notice of such things. this time everything passed off uncommonly well. the swans politely made way for the wild geese, who swam forward through a kind of passageway, which formed an avenue bordered by shimmering, white birds. it was a beautiful sight to watch them as they spread their wings, like sails, to appear well before the strangers. they refrained from making comments, which rather surprised akka. evidently daylight had noted their misbehaviour in the past and had told the swans that they must conduct themselves in a proper manner--so thought the leader-goose. but just as the swans were making an effort to observe the rules of etiquette, they caught sight of the goosey-gander, who swam last in the long goose-line. then there was a murmur of disapproval, even of threats, among the swans, and at once there was an end to their good deportment! "what's this?" shrieked one. "do the wild geese intend to dress up in white feathers?" "they needn't think that will make swans of them," cried another. they began shrieking--one louder than another--in their strong, resonant voices. it was impossible to explain that a tame goosey-gander had come with the wild geese. "that must be the goose-king himself coming along," they said tauntingly. "there's no limit to their audacity!" "that's no goose, it's only a tame duck." the big white gander remembered akka's admonition to pay no attention, no matter what he might hear. he kept quiet and swam ahead as fast he could, but it did no good. the swans became more and more impertinent. "what kind of a frog does he carry on his back?" asked one. "they must think we don't see it's a frog because it is dressed like a human being." the swans, who but a moment before had been resting in such perfect order, now swam up and down excitedly. all tried to crowd forward to get a glimpse of the white wild goose. "that white goosey-gander ought to be ashamed to come here and parade before swans!" "he's probably as gray as the rest of them. he has only been in a flour barrel at some farm house!" akka had just come up to daylight and was about to ask him what kind of help he wanted of her, when the swan-king noticed the uproar among the swans. "what do i see? haven't i taught you to be polite to strangers?" he said with a frown. snow-white, the swan-queen, swam out to restore order among her subjects, and again daylight turned to akka. presently snow-white came back, appearing greatly agitated. "can't you keep them quiet?" shouted daylight. "there's a white wild goose over there," answered snow-white. "is it not shameful? i don't wonder they are furious!" "a white wild goose?" scoffed daylight. "that's too ridiculous! there can't be such a thing. you must be mistaken." the crowds around morten goosey-gander grew larger and larger. akka and the other wild geese tried to swim over to him, but were jostled hither and thither and could not get to him. the old swan-king, who was the strongest among them, swam off quickly, pushed all the others aside, and made his way over to the big white gander. but when he saw that there really was a white goose on the water, he was just as indignant as the rest. he hissed with rage, flew straight at morten goosey-gander and tore out a few feathers. "i'll teach you a lesson, wild goose," he shrieked, "so that you'll not come again to the swans, togged out in this way!" "fly, morten goosey-gander! fly, fly!" cried akka, for she knew that otherwise the swans would pull out every feather the goosey-gander had. "fly, fly!" screamed thumbietot, too. but the goosey-gander was so hedged in by the swans that he had not room enough to spread his wings. all around him the swans stretched their long necks, opened their strong bills, and plucked his feathers. morten goosey-gander defended himself as best he could, by striking and biting. the wild geese also began to fight the swans. it was obvious how this would have ended had the geese not received help quite unexpectedly. a red-tail noticed that they were being roughly treated by the swans. instantly he cried out the shrill call that little birds use when they need help to drive off a hawk or a falcon. three calls had barely sounded when all the little birds in the vicinity came shooting down to hjälsta bay, as if on wings of lightning. these delicate little creatures swooped down upon the swans, screeched in their ears, and obstructed their view with the flutter of their tiny wings. they made them dizzy with their fluttering and drove them to distraction with their cries of "shame, shame, swans!" the attack of the small birds lasted but a moment. when they were gone and the swans came to their senses, they saw that the geese had risen and flown over to the other end of the bay. the new watch-dog there was this at least to be said in the swans' favour--when they saw that the wild geese had escaped, they were too proud to chase them. moreover, the geese could stand on a clump of reeds with perfect composure, and sleep. nils holgersson was too hungry to sleep. "it is necessary for me to get something to eat," he said. at that time, when all kinds of things were floating on the water, it was not difficult for a little boy like nils holgersson to find a craft. he did not stop to deliberate, but hopped down on a stump that had drifted in amongst the reeds. then he picked up a little stick and began to pole toward shore. just as he was landing, he heard a splash in the water. he stopped short. first he saw a lady swan asleep in her big nest quite close to him, then he noticed that a fox had taken a few steps into the water and was sneaking up to the swan's nest. "hi, hi, hi! get up, get up!" cried the boy, beating the water with his stick. the lady swan rose, but not so quickly but that the fox could have pounced upon her had he cared to. however, he refrained and instead hurried straight toward the boy. thumbietot saw the fox coming and ran for his life. wide stretches of meadow land spread before him. he saw no tree that he could climb, no hole where he might hide; he just had to keep running. the boy was a good runner, but it stands to reason that he could not race with a fox! not far from the bay there were a number of little cabins, with candle lights shining through the windows. naturally the boy ran in that direction, but he realized that long before he could reach the nearest cabin the fox would catch up to him. once the fox was so close that it looked as if the boy would surely be his prey, but nils quickly sprang aside and turned back toward the bay. by that move the fox lost time, and before he could reach the boy the latter had run up to two men who were on their way home from work. the men were tired and sleepy; they had noticed neither boy nor fox, although both had been running right in front of them. nor did the boy ask help of the men; he was content to walk close beside them. "surely the fox won't venture to come up to the men," he thought. but presently the fox came pattering along. he probably counted on the men taking him for a dog, for he went straight up to them. "whose dog can that be sneaking around here?" queried one. "he looks as though he were ready to bite." the other paused and glanced back. "go along with you!" he said, and gave the fox a kick that sent it to the opposite side of the road. "what are you doing here?" after that the fox kept at a safe distance, but followed all the while. presently the men reached a cabin and entered it. the boy intended to go in with them; but when he got to the stoop he saw a big, shaggy watch-dog rush out from his kennel to greet his master. suddenly the boy changed his mind and remained out in the open. "listen, watch-dog!" whispered the boy as soon as the men had shut the door. "i wonder if you would like to help me catch a fox to-night?" the dog had poor eyesight and had become irritable and cranky from being chained. "what, i catch a fox?" he barked angrily. "who are you that makes fun of me? you just come within my reach and i'll teach you not to fool with me!" "you needn't think that i'm afraid to come near you!" said the boy, running up to the dog. when the dog saw him he was so astonished that he could not speak. "i'm the one they call thumbietot, who travels with the wild geese," said the boy, introducing himself. "haven't you heard of me?" "i believe the sparrows have twittered a little about you," the dog returned. "they say that you have done wonderful things for one of your size." "i've been rather lucky up to the present," admitted the boy. "but now it's all up with me unless you help me! there's a fox at my heels. he's lying in wait for me around the corner." "don't you suppose i can smell him?" retorted the dog. "but we'll soon be rid of him!" with that the dog sprang as far as the chain would allow, barking and growling for ever so long. "now i don't think he will show his face again to-night!" said the dog. "it will take something besides a fine bark to scare that fox!" the boy remarked. "he'll soon be here again, and that is precisely what i wish, for i have set my heart on your catching him." "are you poking fun at me now?" asked the dog. "only come with me into your kennel, and i'll tell you what to do." the boy and the watch-dog crept into the kennel and crouched there, whispering. by and by the fox stuck his nose out from his hiding place. when all was quiet he crept along cautiously. he scented the boy all the way to the kennel, but halted at a safe distance and sat down to think of some way to coax him out. suddenly the watch-dog poked his head out and growled at him: "go away, or i'll catch you!" "i'll sit here as long as i please for all of you!" defied the fox. "go away!" repeated the dog threateningly, "or there will be no more hunting for you after to-night." but the fox only grinned and did not move an inch. "i know how far your chain can reach," he said. "i have warned you twice," said the dog, coming out from his kennel. "now blame yourself!" with that the dog sprang at the fox and caught him without the least effort, for he was loose. the boy had unbuckled his collar. there was a hot struggle, but it was soon over. the dog was the victor. the fox lay on the ground and dared not move. "don't stir or i'll kill you!" snarled the dog. then he took the fox by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the kennel. there the boy was ready with the chain. he placed the dog collar around the neck of the fox, tightening it so that he was securely chained. during all this the fox had to lie still, for he was afraid to move. "now, smirre fox, i hope you'll make a good watch-dog," laughed the boy when he had finished. dunfin the city that floats on the water _friday, may sixth_. no one could be more gentle and kind than the little gray goose dunfin. all the wild geese loved her, and the tame white goosey-gander would have died for her. when dunfin asked for anything not even akka could say no. as soon as dunfin came to lake mälar the landscape looked familiar to her. just beyond the lake lay the sea, with many wooded islands, and there, on a little islet, lived her parents and her brothers and sisters. she begged the wild geese to fly to her home before travelling farther north, that she might let her family see that she was still alive. it would be such a joy to them. akka frankly declared that she thought dunfin's parents and brothers and sisters had shown no great love for her when they abandoned her at Öland, but dunfin would not admit that akka was in the right. "what else was there to do, when they saw that i could not fly?" she protested. "surely they couldn't remain at Öland on my account!" dunfin began telling the wild geese all about her home in the archipelago, to try to induce them to make the trip. her family lived on a rock island. seen from a distance, there appeared to be nothing but stone there; but when one came closer, there were to be found the choicest goose tidbits in clefts and hollows, and one might search long for better nesting places than those that were hidden in the mountain crevices or among the osier bushes. but the best of all was the old fisherman who lived there. dunfin had heard that in his youth he had been a great shot and had always lain in the offing and hunted birds. but now, in his old age--since his wife had died and the children had gone from home, so that he was alone in the hut--he had begun to care for the birds on his island. he never fired a shot at them, nor would he permit others to do so. he walked around amongst the birds' nests, and when the mother birds were sitting he brought them food. not one was afraid of him. they all loved him. dunfin had been in his hut many times, and he had fed her with bread crumbs. because he was kind to the birds, they flocked to his island in such great numbers that it was becoming overcrowded. if one happened to arrive a little late in the spring, all the nesting places were occupied. that was why dunfin's family had been obliged to leave her. dunfin begged so hard that she finally had her way, although the wild geese felt that they were losing time and really should be going straight north. but a little trip like this to the cliff island would not delay them more than a day. so they started off one morning, after fortifying themselves with a good breakfast, and flew eastward over lake mälar. the boy did not know for certain where they were going; but he noticed that the farther east they flew, the livelier it was on the lake and the more built up were the shores. heavily freighted barges and sloops, boats and fishing smacks were on their way east, and these were met and passed by many pretty white steamers. along the shores ran country roads and railway tracks--all in the same direction. there was some place beyond in the east where all wished to go to in the morning. on one of the islands the boy saw a big, white castle, and to the east of it the shores were dotted with villas. at the start these lay far apart, then they became closer and closer, and, presently, the whole shore was lined with them. they were of every variety--here a castle, there a cottage; then a low manor house appeared, or a mansion, with many small towers. some stood in gardens, but most of them were in the wild woods which bordered the shores. despite their dissimilarity, they had one point of resemblance--they were not plain and sombre-looking, like other buildings, but were gaudily painted in striking greens and blues, reds and white, like children's playhouses. as the boy sat on the goose's back and glanced down at the curious shore mansions, dunfin cried out with delight: "now i know where i am! over there lies the city that floats on the water." the boy looked ahead. at first he saw nothing but some light clouds and mists rolling forward over the water, but soon he caught sight of some tall spires, and then one and another house with many rows of windows. they appeared and disappeared--rolling hither and thither--but not a strip of shore did he see! everything over there appeared to be resting on the water. nearer to the city he saw no more pretty playhouses along the shores--only dingy factories. great heaps of coal and wood were stacked behind tall planks, and alongside black, sooty docks lay bulky freight steamers; but over all was spread a shimmering, transparent mist, which made everything appear so big and strong and wonderful that it was almost beautiful. the wild geese flew past factories and freight steamers and were nearing the cloud-enveloped spires. suddenly all the mists sank to the water, save the thin, fleecy ones that circled above their heads, beautifully tinted in blues and pinks. the other clouds rolled over water and land. they entirely obscured the lower portions of the houses: only the upper stories and the roofs and gables were visible. some of the buildings appeared to be as high as the tower of babel. the boy no doubt knew that they were built upon hills and mountains, but these he did not see--only the houses that seemed to float among the white, drifting clouds. in reality the buildings were dark and dingy, for the sun in the east was not shining on them. the boy knew that he was riding above a large city, for he saw spires and house roofs rising from the clouds in every direction. sometimes an opening was made in the circling mists, and he looked down into a running, tortuous stream; but no land could he see. all this was beautiful to look upon, but he felt quite distraught--as one does when happening upon something one cannot understand. when he had gone beyond the city, he found that the ground was no longer hidden by clouds, but that shores, streams, and islands were again plainly visible. he turned to see the city better, but could not, for now it looked quite enchanted. the mists had taken on colour from the sunshine and were rolling forward in the most brilliant reds, blues, and yellows. the houses were white, as if built of light, and the windows and spires sparkled like fire. all things floated on the water as before. the geese were travelling straight east. they flew over factories and workshops; then over mansions edging the shores. steamboats and tugs swarmed on the water; but now they came from the east and were steaming westward toward the city. the wild geese flew on, but instead of the narrow mälar fiords and the little islands, broader waters and larger islands spread under them. at last the land was left behind and seen no more. they flew still farther out, where they found no more large inhabited islands--only numberless little rock islands were scattered on the water. now the fiords were not crowded by the land. the sea lay before them, vast and limitless. here the wild geese alighted on a cliff island, and as soon as their feet touched the ground the boy turned to dunfin. "what city did we fly over just now?" he asked. "i don't know what human beings have named it," said dunfin. "we gray geese call it the 'city that floats on the water'." the sisters dunfin had two sisters, prettywing and goldeye. they were strong and intelligent birds, but they did not have such a soft and shiny feather dress as dunfin, nor did they have her sweet and gentle disposition. from the time they had been little, yellow goslings, their parents and relatives and even the old fisherman had plainly shown them that they thought more of dunfin than of them. therefore the sisters had always hated her. when the wild geese landed on the cliff island, prettywing and goldeye were feeding on a bit of grass close to the strand, and immediately caught sight of the strangers. "see, sister goldeye, what fine-looking geese have come to our island!" exclaimed prettywing, "i have rarely seen such graceful birds. do you notice that they have a white goosey-gander among them? did you ever set eyes on a handsomer bird? one could almost take him for a swan!" goldeye agreed with her sister that these were certainly very distinguished strangers that had come to the island, but suddenly she broke off and called: "sister prettywing! oh, sister prettywing! don't you see whom they bring with them?" prettywing also caught sight of dunfin and was so astounded that she stood for a long time with her bill wide open, and only hissed. "it can't be possible that it is she! how did she manage to get in with people of that class? why, we left her at Öland to freeze and starve." "the worse of it is she will tattle to father and mother that we flew so close to her that we knocked her wing out of joint," said goldeye. "you'll see that it will end in our being driven from the island!" "we have nothing but trouble in store for us, now that that young one has come back!" snapped prettywing. "still i think it would be best for us to appear as pleased as possible over her return. she is so stupid that perhaps she didn't even notice that we gave her a push on purpose." while prettywing and goldeye were talking in this strain, the wild geese had been standing on the strand, pluming their feathers after the flight. now they marched in a long line up the rocky shore to the cleft where dunfin's parents usually stopped. dunfin's parents were good folk. they had lived on the island longer than any one else, and it was their habit to counsel and aid all newcomers. they too had seen the geese approach, but they had not recognized dunfin in the flock. "it is strange to see wild geese land on this island," remarked the goose-master. "it is a fine flock--that one can see by their flight." "but it won't be easy to find pasturage for so many," said the goose-wife, who was gentle and sweet-tempered, like dunfin. when akka came marching with her company, dunfin's parents went out to meet her and welcome her to the island. dunfin flew from her place at the end of the line and lit between her parents. "mother and father, i'm here at last!" she cried joyously. "don't you know dunfin?" at first the old goose-parents could not quite make out what they saw, but when they recognized dunfin they were absurdly happy, of course. while the wild geese and morten goosey-gander and dunfin were chattering excitedly, trying to tell how she had been rescued, prettywing and goldeye came running. they cried "_welcome"_ and pretended to be so happy because dunfin was at home that she was deeply moved. the wild geese fared well on the island and decided not to travel farther until the following morning. after a while the sisters asked dunfin if she would come with them and see the places where they intended to build their nests. she promptly accompanied them, and saw that they had picked out secluded and well protected nesting places. "now where will you settle down, dunfin?" they asked. "i? why i don't intend to remain on the island," she said. "i'm going with the wild geese up to lapland." "what a pity that you must leave us!" said the sisters. "i should have been very glad to remain here with father and mother and you," said dunfin, "had i not promised the big, white--" "what!" shrieked prettywing. "are you to have the handsome goosey-gander? then it is--" but here goldeye gave her a sharp nudge, and she stopped short. the two cruel sisters had much to talk about all the afternoon. they were furious because dunfin had a suitor like the white goosey-gander. they themselves had suitors, but theirs were only common gray geese, and, since they had seen morten goosey-gander, they thought them so homely and low-bred that they did not wish even to look at them. "this will grieve me to death!" whimpered goldeye. "if at least it had been you, sister prettywing, who had captured him!" "i would rather see him dead than to go about here the entire summer thinking of dunfin's capturing a white goosey-gander!" pouted prettywing. however, the sisters continued to appear very friendly toward dunfin, and in the afternoon goldeye took dunfin with her, that she might see the one she thought of marrying. "he's not as attractive as the one you will have," said goldeye. "but to make up for it, one can be certain that he is what he is." "what do you mean, goldeye?" questioned dunfin. at first goldeye would not explain what she had meant, but at last she came out with it. "we have never seen a white goose travel with wild geese," said the sister, "and we wonder if he can be bewitched." "you are very stupid," retorted dunfin indignantly. "he is a tame goose, of course." "he brings with him one who is bewitched," said goldeye, "and, under the circumstances, he too must be bewitched. are you not afraid that he may be a black cormorant?" she was a good talker and succeeded in frightening dunfin thoroughly. "you don't mean what you are saying," pleaded the little gray goose. "you only wish to frighten me!" "i wish what is for your good, dunfin," said goldeye. "i can't imagine anything worse than for you to fly away with a black cormorant! but now i shall tell you something--try to persuade him to eat some of the roots i have gathered here. if he is bewitched, it will be apparent at once. if he is not, he will remain as he is." the boy was sitting amongst the wild geese, listening to akka and the old goose-master, when dunfin came flying up to him. "thumbietot, thumbietot!" she cried. "morten goosey-gander is dying! i have killed him!" "let me get up on your back, dunfin, and take me to him!" away they flew, and akka and the other wild geese followed them. when they got to the goosey-gander, he was lying prostrate on the ground. he could not utter a word--only gasped for breath. "tickle him under the gorge and slap him on the back!" commanded akka. the boy did so and presently the big, white gander coughed up a large, white root, which had stuck in his gorge. "have you been eating of these?" asked akka, pointing to some roots that lay on the ground. "yes," groaned the goosey-gander. "then it was well they stuck in your throat," said akka, "for they are poisonous. had you swallowed them, you certainly should have died." "dunfin bade me eat them," said the goosey-gander. "my sister gave them to me," protested dunfin, and she told everything. "you must beware of those sisters of yours, dunfin!" warned akka, "for they wish you no good, depend upon it!" but dunfin was so constituted that she could not think evil of any one and, a moment later, when prettywing asked her to come and meet her intended, she went with her immediately. "oh, he isn't as handsome as yours," said the sister, "but he's much more courageous and daring!" "how do you know he is?" challenged dunfin. "for some time past there has been weeping and wailing amongst the sea gulls and wild ducks on the island. every morning at daybreak a strange bird of prey comes and carries off one of them." "what kind of a bird is it?" asked dunfin. "we don't know," replied the sister. "one of his kind has never before been seen on the island, and, strange to say, he has never attacked one of us geese. but now my intended has made up his mind to challenge him to-morrow morning, and drive him away." "oh, i hope he'll succeed!" said dunfin. "i hardly think he will," returned the sister. "if my goosey-gander were as big and strong as yours, i should have hope." "do you wish me to ask morten goosey-gander to meet the strange bird?" asked dunfin. "indeed, i do!" exclaimed prettywing excitedly. "you couldn't render me a greater service." the next morning the goosey-gander was up before the sun. he stationed himself on the highest point of the island and peered in all directions. presently he saw a big, dark bird coming from the west. his wings were exceedingly large, and it was easy to tell that he was an eagle. the goosey-gander had not expected a more dangerous adversary than an owl, and how he understood that he could not escape this encounter with his life. but it did not occur to him to avoid a struggle with a bird who was many times stronger than himself. the great bird swooped down on a sea gull and dug his talons into it. before the eagle could spread his wings, morten goosey-gander rushed up to him. "drop that!" he shouted, "and don't come here again or you'll have me to deal with!" "what kind of a lunatic are you?" said the eagle. "it's lucky for you that i never fight with geese, or you would soon be done for!" morten goosey-gander thought the eagle considered himself too good to fight with him and flew at him, incensed, biting him on the throat and beating him with his wings. this, naturally, the eagle would not tolerate and he began to fight, but not with his full strength. the boy lay sleeping in the quarters where akka and the other wild geese slept, when dunfin called: "thumbietot, thumbietot! morten goosey-gander is being torn to pieces by an eagle." "let me get up on your back, dunfin, and take me to him!" said the boy. when they arrived on the scene morten goosey-gander was badly torn, and bleeding, but he was still fighting. the boy could not battle with the eagle; all that he could do was to seek more efficient help. "hurry, dunfin, and call akka and the wild geese!" he cried. the instant he said that, the eagle flew back and stopped fighting. "who's speaking of akka?" he asked. he saw thumbietot and heard the wild geese honking, so he spread his wings. "tell akka i never expected to run across her or any of her flock out here in the sea!" he said, and soared away in a rapid and graceful flight. "that is the self-same eagle who once brought me back to the wild geese," the boy remarked, gazing after the bird in astonishment. the geese had decided to leave the island at dawn, but first they wanted to feed awhile. as they walked about and nibbled, a mountain duck came up to dunfin. "i have a message for you from your sisters," said the duck. "they dare not show themselves among the wild geese, but they asked me to remind you not to leave the island without calling on the old fisherman." "that's so!" exclaimed dunfin, but she was so frightened now that she would not go alone, and asked the goosey-gander and thumbietot to accompany her to the hut. the door was open, so dunfin entered, but the others remained outside. after a moment they heard akka give the signal to start, and called dunfin. a gray goose came out and flew with the wild geese away from the island. they had travelled quite a distance along the archipelago when the boy began to wonder at the goose who accompanied them. dunfin always flew lightly and noiselessly, but this one laboured with heavy and noisy wing-strokes. "we are in the wrong company. it is prettywing that follows us!" the boy had barely spoken when the goose uttered such an ugly and angry shriek that all knew who she was. akka and the others turned to her, but the gray goose did not fly away at once. instead she bumped against the big goosey-gander, snatched thumbietot, and flew off with him in her bill. there was a wild chase over the archipelago. prettywing flew fast, but the wild geese were close behind her, and there was no chance for her to escape. suddenly they saw a puff of smoke rise up from the sea, and heard an explosion. in their excitement they had not noticed that they were directly above a boat in which a lone fisherman was seated. however, none of the geese was hurt; but just there, above the boat, prettywing opened her bill and dropped thumbietot into the sea. stockholm skansen a few years ago, at skansen--the great park just outside of stockholm where they have collected so many wonderful things--there lived a little old man, named clement larsson. he was from hälsingland and had come to skansen with his fiddle to play folk dances and other old melodies. as a performer, he appeared mostly in the evening. during the day it was his business to sit on guard in one of the many pretty peasant cottages which have been moved to skansen from all parts of the country. in the beginning clement thought that he fared better in his old age than he had ever dared dream; but after a time he began to dislike the place terribly, especially while he was on watch duty. it was all very well when visitors came into the cottage to look around, but some days clement would sit for many hours all alone. then he felt so homesick that he feared he would have to give up his place. he was very poor and knew that at home he would become a charge on the parish. therefore he tried to hold out as long as he could, although he felt more unhappy from day to day. one beautiful evening in the beginning of may clement had been granted a few hours' leave of absence. he was on his way down the steep hill leading out of skansen, when he met an island fisherman coming along with his game bag. the fisherman was an active young man who came to skansen with seafowl that he had managed to capture alive. clement had met him before, many times. the fisherman stopped clement to ask if the superintendent at skansen was at home. when clement had replied, he, in turn, asked what choice thing the fisherman had in his bag. "you can see what i have," the fisherman answered, "if in return you will give me an idea as to what i should ask for it." he held open the bag and clement peeped into it once--and again--then quickly drew back a step or two. "good gracious, ashbjörn!" he exclaimed. "how did you catch that one?" he remembered that when he was a child his mother used to talk of the tiny folk who lived under the cabin floor. he was not permitted to cry or to be naughty, lest he provoke these small people. after he was grown he believed his mother had made up these stories about the elves to make him behave himself. but it had been no invention of his mother's, it seemed; for there, in ashbjörn's bag, lay one of the tiny folk. there was a little of the terror natural to childhood left in clement, and he felt a shudder run down his spinal column as he peeped into the bag. ashbjörn saw that he was frightened and began to laugh; but clement took the matter seriously. "tell me, ashbjörn, where you came across him?" he asked. "you may be sure that i wasn't lying in wait for him!" said ashbjörn. "he came to me. i started out early this morning and took my rifle along into the boat. i had just poled away from the shore when i sighted some wild geese coming from the east, shrieking like mad. i sent them a shot, but hit none of them. instead this creature came tumbling down into the water--so close to the boat that i only had to put my hand out and pick him up." "i hope you didn't shoot him, ashbjörn?" "oh, no! he is well and sound; but when he came down, he was a little dazed at first, so i took advantage of that fact to wind the ends of two sail threads around his ankles and wrists, so that he couldn't run away. 'ha! here's something for skansen,' i thought instantly." clement grew strangely troubled as the fisherman talked. all that he had heard about the tiny folk in his childhood--of their vindictiveness toward enemies and their benevolence toward friends--came back to him. it had never gone well with those who had attempted to hold one of them captive. "you should have let him go at once, ashbjörn," said clement. "i came precious near being forced to set him free," returned the fisherman. "you may as well know, clement, that the wild geese followed me all the way home, and they criss-crossed over the island the whole morning, honk-honking as if they wanted him back. not only they, but the entire population--sea gulls, sea swallows, and many others who are not worth a shot of powder, alighted on the island and made an awful racket. when i came out they fluttered about me until i had to turn back. my wife begged me to let him go, but i had made up my mind that he should come here to skansen, so i placed one of the children's dolls in the window, hid the midget in the bottom of my bag, and started away. the birds must have fancied that it was he who stood in the window, for they permitted me to leave without pursuing me." "does it say anything?" asked clement. "yes. at first he tried to call to the birds, but i wouldn't have it and put a gag in his mouth." "oh, ashbjörn!" protested clement. "how can you treat him so! don't you see that he is something supernatural!" "i don't know what he is," said ashbjörn calmly. "let others consider that. i'm satisfied if only i can get a good sum for him. now tell me, clement, what you think the doctor at skansen would give me." there was a long pause before clement replied. he felt very sorry for the poor little chap. he actually imagined that his mother was standing beside him telling him that he must always be kind to the tiny folk. "i have no idea what the doctor up there would care to give you, ashbjörn," he said finally. "but if you will leave him with me, i'll pay you twenty kroner for him." ashbjörn stared at the fiddler in amazement when he heard him name so large a sum. he thought that clement believed the midget had some mysterious power and might be of service for him. he was by no means certain that the doctor would think him such a great find or would offer to pay so high a sum for him; so he accepted clement's proffer. the fiddler poked his purchase into one of his wide pockets, turned back to skansen, and went into a moss-covered hut, where there were neither visitors nor guards. he closed the door after him, took out the midget, who was still bound hand and foot and gagged, and laid him down gently on a bench. "now listen to what i say!" said clement. "i know of course that such as you do not like to be seen of men, but prefer to go about and busy yourselves in your own way. therefore i have decided to give you your liberty--but only on condition that you will remain in this park until i permit you to leave. if you agree to this, nod your head three times." clement gazed at the midget with confident expectation, but the latter did not move a muscle. "you shall not fare badly," continued clement. "i'll see to it that you are fed every day, and you will have so much to do there that the time will not seem long to you. but you mustn't go elsewhere till i give you leave. now we'll agree as to a signal. so long as i set your food out in a white bowl you are to stay. when i set it out in a blue one you may go." clement paused again, expecting the midget to give the sign of approval, but he did not stir. "very well," said clement, "then there's no choice but to show you to the master of this place. then you'll be put in a glass case, and all the people in the big city of stockholm will come and stare at you." this scared the midget, and he promptly gave the signal. "that was right," said clement as he cut the cord that bound the midget's hands. then he hurried toward the door. the boy unloosed the bands around his ankles and tore away the gag before thinking of anything else. when he turned to clement to thank him, he had gone. just outside the door clement met a handsome, noble-looking gentleman, who was on his way to a place close by from which there was a beautiful outlook. clement could not recall having seen the stately old man before, but the latter must surely have noticed clement sometime when he was playing the fiddle, because he stopped and spoke to him. "good day, clement!" he said. "how do you do? you are not ill, are you? i think you have grown a bit thin of late." there was such an expression of kindliness about the old gentleman that clement plucked up courage and told him of his homesickness. "what!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "are you homesick when you are in stockholm? it can't be possible!" he looked almost offended. then he reflected that it was only an ignorant old peasant from hälsingland that he talked with--and so resumed his friendly attitude. "surely you have never heard how the city of stockholm was founded? if you had, you would comprehend that your anxiety to get away is only a foolish fancy. come with me to the bench over yonder and i will tell you something about stockholm." when the old gentleman was seated on the bench he glanced down at the city, which spread in all its glory below him, and he drew a deep breath, as if he wished to drink in all the beauty of the landscape. thereupon he turned to the fiddler. "look, clement!" he said, and as he talked he traced with his cane a little map in the sand in front of them. "here lies uppland, and here, to the south, a point juts out, which is split up by a number of bays. and here we have sörmland with another point, which is just as cut up and points straight north. here, from the west, comes a lake filled with islands: it is lake mälar. from the east comes another body of water, which can barely squeeze in between the islands and islets. it is the east sea. here, clement, where uppland joins sörmland and mälaren joins the east sea, comes a short river, in the centre of which lie four little islets that divide the river into several tributaries--one of which is called norriström but was formerly stocksund. "in the beginning these islets were common wooded islands, such as one finds in plenty on lake mälar even to-day, and for ages they were entirely uninhabited. they were well located between two bodies of water and two bodies of land; but this no one remarked. year after year passed; people settled along lake mälar and in the archipelago, but these river islands attracted no settlers. sometimes it happened that a seafarer put into port at one of them and pitched his tent for the night; but no one remained there long. "one day a fisherman, who lived on liding island, out in salt fiord, steered his boat toward lake mälar, where he had such good luck with his fishing that he forgot to start for home in time. he got no farther than the four islets, and the best he could do was to land on one and wait until later in the night, when there would be bright moonlight. "it was late summer and warm. the fisherman hauled his boat on land, lay down beside it, his head resting upon a stone, and fell asleep. when he awoke the moon had been up a long while. it hung right above him and shone with such splendour that it was like broad daylight. "the man jumped to his feet and was about to push his boat into the water, when he saw a lot of black specks moving out in the stream. a school of seals was heading full speed for the island. when the fisherman saw that they intended to crawl up on land, he bent down for his spear, which he always took with him in the boat. but when he straightened up, he saw no seals. instead, there stood on the strand the most beautiful young maidens, dressed in green, trailing satin robes, with pearl crowns upon their heads. the fisherman understood that these were mermaids who lived on desolate rock islands far out at sea and had assumed seal disguises in order to come up on land and enjoy the moonlight on the green islets. "he laid down the spear very cautiously, and when the young maidens came up on the island to play, he stole behind and surveyed them. he had heard that sea-nymphs were so beautiful and fascinating that no one could see them and not be enchanted by their charms; and he had to admit that this was not too much to say of them. "when he had stood for a while under the shadow of the trees and watched the dance, he went down to the strand, took one of the seal skins lying there, and hid it under a stone. then he went back to his boat, lay down beside it, and pretended to be asleep. "presently he saw the young maidens trip down to the strand to don their seal skins. at first all was play and laughter, which was changed to weeping and wailing when one of the mermaids could not find her seal robe. her companions ran up and down the strand and helped her search for it, but no trace could they find. while they were seeking they noticed that the sky was growing pale and the day was breaking, so they could tarry no longer, and they all swam away, leaving behind the one whose seal skin was missing. she sat on the strand and wept. "the fisherman felt sorry for her, of course, but he forced himself to lie still till daybreak. then he got up, pushed the boat into the water, and stepped into it to make it appear that he saw her by chance after he had lifted the oars. "'who are you?' he called out. 'are you shipwrecked?' "she ran toward him and asked if he had seen her seal skin. the fisherman looked as if he did not know what she was talking about. she sat down again and wept. then he determined to take her with him in the boat. 'come with me to my cottage,' he commanded, 'and my mother will take care of you. you can't stay here on the island, where you have neither food nor shelter!' he talked so convincingly that she was persuaded to step into his boat. "both the fisherman and his mother were very kind to the poor mermaid, and she seemed to be happy with them. she grew more contented every day and helped the older woman with her work, and was exactly like any other island lass--only she was much prettier. one day the fisherman asked her if she would be his wife, and she did not object, but at once said yes. "preparations were made for the wedding. the mermaid dressed as a bride in her green, trailing robe with the shimmering pearl crown she had worn when the fisherman first saw her. there was neither church nor parson on the island at that time, so the bridal party seated themselves in the boats to row up to the first church they should find. "the fisherman had the mermaid and his mother in his boat, and he rowed so well that he was far ahead of all the others. when he had come so far that he could see the islet in the river, where he won his bride, he could not help smiling. "'what are you smiling at?' she asked. "'oh, i'm thinking of that night when i hid your seal skin,' answered the fisherman; for he felt so sure of her that he thought there was no longer any need for him to conceal anything. "'what are you saying?' asked the bride, astonished. 'surely i have never possessed a seal skin!' it appeared she had forgotten everything. "'don't you recollect how you danced with the mermaids?' he asked. "'i don't know what you mean,' said the bride. 'i think that you must have dreamed a strange dream last night.' "if i show you your seal skin, you'll probably believe me!' laughed the fisherman, promptly turning the boat toward the islet. they stepped ashore and he brought the seal skin out from under the stone where he had hidden it. "but the instant the bride set eyes on the seal skin she grasped it and drew it over her head. it snuggled close to her--as if there was life in it--and immediately she threw herself into the stream. "the bridegroom saw her swim away and plunged into the water after her; but he could not catch up to her. when he saw that he couldn't stop her in any other way, in his grief he seized his spear and hurled it. he aimed better than he had intended, for the poor mermaid gave a piercing shriek and disappeared in the depths. "the fisherman stood on the strand waiting for her to appear again. he observed that the water around him began to take on a soft sheen, a beauty that he had never seen before. it shimmered in pink and white, like the colour-play on the inside of sea shells. "as the glittering water lapped the shores, the fisherman thought that they too were transformed. they began to blossom and waft their perfumes. a soft sheen spread over them and they also took on a beauty which they had never possessed before. "he understood how all this had come to pass. for it is thus with mermaids: one who beholds them must needs find them more beautiful than any one else, and the mermaid's blood being mixed with the water that bathed the shores, her beauty was transferred to both. all who saw them must love them and yearn for them. this was their legacy from the mermaid." when the stately old gentleman had got thus far in his narrative he turned to clement and looked at him. clement nodded reverently but made no comment, as he did not wish to cause a break in the story. "now you must bear this in mind, clement," the old gentleman continued, with a roguish glint in his eyes. "from that time on people emigrated to the islands. at first only fishermen and peasants settled there, but others, too, were attracted to them. one day the king and his earl sailed up the stream. they started at once to talk of these islands, having observed they were so situated that every vessel that sailed toward lake mälar had to pass them. the earl suggested that there ought to be a lock put on the channel which could be opened or closed at will, to let in merchant vessels and shut out pirates. "this idea was carried out," said the old gentleman, as he rose and began to trace in the sand again with his cane. "on the largest of these islands the earl erected a fortress with a strong tower, which was called 'kärnan.' and around the island a wall was built. here, at the north and south ends of the wall, they made gates and placed strong towers over them. across the other islands they built bridges; these were likewise equipped with high towers. out in the water, round about, they put a wreath of piles with bars that could open and close, so that no vessel could sail past without permission. "therefore you see, clement, the four islands which had lain so long unnoticed were soon strongly fortified. but this was not all, for the shores and the sound tempted people, and before long they came from all quarters to settle there. they built a church, which has since been called 'storkyrkan.' here it stands, near the castle. and here, within the walls, were the little huts the pioneers built for themselves. they were primitive, but they served their purpose. more was not needed at that time to make the place pass for a city. and the city was named stockholm. "there came a day, clement, when the earl who had begun the work went to his final rest, and stockholm was without a master builder. monks called the gray friars came to the country. stockholm attracted them. they asked permission to erect a monastery there, so the king gave them an island--one of the smaller ones--this one facing lake mälar. there they built, and the place was called gray friars' island. other monks came, called the black friars. they, too, asked for right to build in stockholm, near the south gate. on this, the larger of the islands north of the city, a 'holy ghost house,' or hospital, was built; while on the smaller one thrifty men put up a mill, and along the little islands close by the monks fished. as you know, there is only one island now, for the canal between the two has filled up; but it is still called holy ghost island. "and now, clement, all the little wooded islands were dotted with houses, but still people kept streaming in; for these shores and waters have the power to draw people to them. hither came pious women of the order of saint clara and asked for ground to build upon. for them there was no choice but to settle on the north shore, at norrmalm, as it is called. you may be sure that they were not over pleased with this location, for across norrmalm ran a high ridge, and on that the city had its gallows hill, so that it was a detested spot. nevertheless the poor clares erected their church and their convent on the strand below the ridge. after they were established there they soon found plenty of followers. upon the ridge itself were built a hospital and a church, consecrated to saint goran, and just below the ridge a church was erected to saint jacob. "and even at södermalm, where the mountain rises perpendicularly from the strand, they began to build. there they raised a church to saint mary. "but you must not think that only cloister folk moved to stockholm! there were also many others--principally german tradesmen and artisans. these were more skilled than the swedes, and were well received. they settled within the walls of the city where they pulled down the wretched little cabins that stood there and built high, magnificent stone houses. but space was not plentiful within the walls, therefore they had to build the houses close together, with gables facing the narrow by-lanes. so you see, clement, that stockholm could attract people!" at this point in the narrative another gentleman appeared and walked rapidly down the path toward the man who was talking to clement, but he waved his hand, and the other remained at a distance. the dignified old gentleman still sat on the bench beside the fiddler. "now, clement, you must render me a service," he said. "i have no time to talk more with you, but i will send you a book about stockholm and you must read it from cover to cover. i have, so to speak, laid the foundations of stockholm for you. study the rest out for yourself and learn how the city has thrived and changed. read how the little, narrow, wall-enclosed city on the islands has spread into this great sea of houses below us. read how, on the spot where the dark tower kärnan once stood, the beautiful, light castle below us was erected and how the gray friars' church has been turned into the burial place of the swedish kings; read how islet after islet was built up with factories; how the ridge was lowered and the sound filled in; how the truck gardens at the south and north ends of the city have been converted into beautiful parks or built-up quarters; how the king's private deer park has become the people's favourite pleasure resort. you must make yourself at home here, clement. this city does not belong exclusively to the stockholmers. it belongs to you and to all swedes. "as you read about stockholm, remember that i have spoken the truth, for the city has the power to draw every one to it. first the king moved here, then the nobles built their palaces here, and then one after another was attracted to the place, so that now, as you see, stockholm is not a city unto itself or for nearby districts; it has grown into a city for the whole kingdom. "you know, clement, that there are judicial courts in every parish throughout the land, but in stockholm they have jurisdiction for the whole nation. you know that there are judges in every district court in the country, but at stockholm there is only one court, to which all the others are accountable. you know that there are barracks and troops in every part of the land, but those at stockholm command the whole army. everywhere in the country you will find railroads, but the whole great national system is controlled and managed at stockholm; here you will find the governing boards for the clergy, for teachers, for physicians, for bailiffs and jurors. this is the heart of your country, clement. all the change you have in your pocket is coined here, and the postage stamps you stick on your letters are made here. there is something here for every swede. here no one need feel homesick, for here all swedes are at home. "and when you read of all that has been brought here to stockholm, think too of the latest that the city has attracted to itself: these old-time peasant cottages here at skansen; the old dances; the old costumes and house-furnishings; the musicians and story-tellers. everything good of the old times stockholm has tempted here to skansen to do it honour, that it may, in turn, stand before the people with renewed glory. "but, first and last, remember as you read about stockholm that you are to sit in this place. you must see how the waves sparkle in joyous play and how the shores shimmer with beauty. you will come under the spell of their witchery, clement." the handsome old gentleman had raised his voice, so that it rang out strong and commanding, and his eyes shone. then he rose, and, with a wave of his hand to clement, walked away. clement understood that the one who had been talking to him was a great man, and he bowed to him as low as he could. the next day came a royal lackey with a big red book and a letter for clement, and in the letter it said that the book was from the king. after that the little old man, clement larsson, was lightheaded for several days, and it was impossible to get a sensible word out of him. when a week had gone by, he went to the superintendent and gave in his notice. he simply had to go home. "why must you go home? can't you learn to be content here?" asked the doctor. "oh, i'm contented here," said clement. "that matter troubles me no longer, but i must go home all the same." clement was quite perturbed because the king had said that he should learn all about stockholm and be happy there. but he could not rest until he had told every one at home that the king had said those words to him. he could not renounce the idea of standing on the church knoll at home and telling high and low that the king had been so kind to him, that he had sat beside him on the bench, and had sent him a book, and had taken the time to talk to him--a poor fiddler--for a whole hour, in order to cure him of his homesickness. it was good to relate this to the laplanders and dalecarlian peasant girls at skansen, but what was that compared to being able to tell of it at home? even if clement were to end in the poorhouse, it wouldn't be so hard after this. he was a totally different man from what he had been, and he would be respected and honoured in a very different way. this new yearning took possession of clement. he simply had to go up to the doctor and say that he must go home. gorgo, the eagle in the mountain glen far up among the mountains of lapland there was an old eagle's nest on a ledge which projected from a high cliff. the nest was made of dry twigs of pine and spruce, interlaced one with another until they formed a perfect network. year by year the nest had been repaired and strengthened. it was about two metres wide, and nearly as high as a laplander's hut. the cliff on which the eagle's nest was situated towered above a big glen, which was inhabited in summer by a flock of wild geese, as it was an excellent refuge for them. it was so secluded between cliffs that not many knew of it, even among the laplanders themselves. in the heart of this glen there was a small, round lake in which was an abundance of food for the tiny goslings, and on the tufted lake shores which were covered with osier bushes and dwarfed birches the geese found fine nesting places. in all ages eagles had lived on the mountain, and geese in the glen. every year the former carried off a few of the latter, but they were very careful not to take so many that the wild geese would be afraid to remain in the glen. the geese, in their turn, found the eagles quite useful. they were robbers, to be sure, but they kept other robbers away. two years before nils holgersson travelled with the wild geese the old leader-goose, akka from kebnekaise, was standing at the foot of the mountain slope looking toward the eagle's nest. the eagles were in the habit of starting on their chase soon after sunrise; during the summers that akka had lived in the glen she had watched every morning for their departure to find if they stopped in the glen to hunt, or if they flew beyond it to other hunting grounds. she did not have to wait long before the two eagles left the ledge on the cliff. stately and terror-striking they soared into the air. they directed their course toward the plain, and akka breathed a sigh of relief. the old leader-goose's days of nesting and rearing of young were over, and during the summer she passed the time going from one goose range to another, giving counsel regarding the brooding and care of the young. aside from this she kept an eye out not only for eagles but also for mountain fox and owls and all other enemies who were a menace to the wild geese and their young. about noontime akka began to watch for the eagles again. this she had done every day during all the summers that she had lived in the glen. she could tell at once by their flight if their hunt had been successful, and in that event she felt relieved for the safety of those who belonged to her. but on this particular day she had not seen the eagles return. "i must be getting old and stupid," she thought, when she had waited a time for them. "the eagles have probably been home this long while." in the afternoon she looked toward the cliff again, expecting to see the eagles perched on the rocky ledge where they usually took their afternoon rest; toward evening, when they took their bath in the dale lake, she tried again to get sight of them, but failed. again she bemoaned the fact that she was growing old. she was so accustomed to having the eagles on the mountain above her that she could not imagine the possibility of their not having returned. the following morning akka was awake in good season to watch for the eagles; but she did not see them. on the other hand, she heard in the morning stillness a cry that sounded both angry and plaintive, and it seemed to come from the eagles' nest. "can there possibly be anything amiss with the eagles?" she wondered. she spread her wings quickly, and rose so high that she could perfectly well look down into the nest. there she saw neither of the eagles. there was no one in the nest save a little half-fledged eaglet who was screaming for food. akka sank down toward the eagles' nest, slowly and reluctantly. it was a gruesome place to come to! it was plain what kind of robber folk lived there! in the nest and on the cliff ledge lay bleached bones, bloody feathers, pieces of skin, hares' heads, birds' beaks, and the tufted claws of grouse. the eaglet, who was lying in the midst of this, was repulsive to look upon, with his big, gaping bill, his awkward, down-clad body, and his undeveloped wings where the prospective quills stuck out like thorns. at last akka conquered her repugnance and alighted on the edge of the nest, at the same time glancing about her anxiously in every direction, for each second she expected to see the old eagles coming back. "it is well that some one has come at last," cried the baby eagle. "fetch me some food at once!" "well, well, don't be in such haste," said akka. "tell me first where your father and mother are." "that's what i should like to know myself. they went off yesterday morning and left me a lemming to live upon while they were away. you can believe that was eaten long ago. it's a shame for mother to let me starve in this way!" akka began to think that the eagles had really been shot, and she reasoned that if she were to let the eaglet starve she might perhaps be rid of the whole robber tribe for all time. but it went very much against her not to succour a deserted young one so far as she could. "why do you sit there and stare?" snapped the eaglet. "didn't you hear me say i want food?" akka spread her wings and sank down to the little lake in the glen. a moment later she returned to the eagles' nest with a salmon trout in her bill. the eaglet flew into a temper when she dropped the fish in front of him. "do you think i can eat such stuff?" he shrieked, pushing it aside, and trying to strike akka with his bill. "fetch me a willow grouse or a lemming, do you hear?" akka stretched her head forward, and gave the eaglet a sharp nip in the neck. "let me say to you," remarked the old goose, "that if i'm to procure food for you, you must be satisfied with what i give you. your father and mother are dead, and from them you can get no help; but if you want to lie here and starve to death while you wait for grouse and lemming, i shall not hinder you." when akka had spoken her mind she promptly retired, and did not show her face in the eagles' nest again for some time. but when she did return, the eaglet had eaten the fish, and when she dropped another in front of him he swallowed it at once, although it was plain that he found it very distasteful. akka had imposed upon herself a tedious task. the old eagles never appeared again, and she alone had to procure for the eaglet all the food he needed. she gave him fish and frogs and he did not seem to fare badly on this diet, but grew big and strong. he soon forgot his parents, the eagles, and fancied that akka was his real mother. akka, in turn, loved him as if he had been her own child. she tried to give him a good bringing up, and to cure him of his wildness and overbearing ways. after a fortnight akka observed that the time was approaching for her to moult and put on a new feather dress so as to be ready to fly. for a whole moon she would be unable to carry food to the baby eaglet, and he might starve to death. so akka said to him one day: "gorgo, i can't come to you any more with fish. everything depends now upon your pluck--which means can you dare to venture into the glen, so i can continue to procure food for you? you must choose between starvation and flying down to the glen, but that, too, may cost you your life." without a second's hesitation the eaglet stepped upon the edge of the nest. barely taking the trouble to measure the distance to the bottom, he spread his tiny wings and started away. he rolled over and over in space, but nevertheless made enough use of his wings to reach the ground almost unhurt. down there in the glen gorgo passed the summer in company with the little goslings, and was a good comrade for them. since he regarded himself as a gosling, he tried to live as they lived; when they swam in the lake he followed them until he came near drowning. it was most embarrassing to him that he could not learn to swim, and he went to akka and complained of his inability. "why can't i swim like the others?" he asked. "your claws grew too hooked, and your toes too large while you were up there on the cliff," akka replied. "but you'll make a fine bird all the same." the eaglet's wings soon grew so large that they could carry him; but not until autumn, when the goslings learned to fly, did it dawn upon him that he could use them for flight. there came a proud time for him, for at this sport he was the peer of them all. his companions never stayed up in the air any longer than they had to, but he stayed there nearly the whole day, and practised the art of flying. so far it had not occurred to him that he was of another species than the geese, but he could not help noting a number of things that surprised him, and he questioned akka constantly. "why do grouse and lemming run and hide when they see my shadow on the cliff?" he queried. "they don't show such fear of the other goslings." "your wings grew too big when you were on the cliff," said akka. "it is that which frightens the little wretches. but don't be unhappy because of that. you'll be a fine bird all the same." after the eagle had learned to fly, he taught himself to fish, and to catch frogs. but by and by he began to ponder this also. "how does it happen that i live on fish and frogs?" he asked. "the other goslings don't." "this is due to the fact that i had no other food to give you when you were on the cliff," said akka. "but don't let that make you sad. you'll be a fine bird all the same." when the wild geese began their autumn moving, gorgo flew along with the flock, regarding himself all the while as one of them. the air was filled with birds who were on their way south, and there was great excitement among them when akka appeared with an eagle in her train. the wild goose flock was continually surrounded by swarms of the curious who loudly expressed their astonishment. akka bade them be silent, but it was impossible to stop so many wagging tongues. "why do they call me an eagle?" gorgo asked repeatedly, growing more and more exasperated. "can't they see that i'm a wild goose? i'm no bird-eater who preys upon his kind. how dare they give me such an ugly name?" one day they flew above a barn yard where many chickens walked on a dump heap and picked. "an eagle! an eagle!" shrieked the chickens, and started to run for shelter. but gorgo, who had heard the eagles spoken of as savage criminals, could not control his anger. he snapped his wings together and shot down to the ground, striking his talons into one of the hens. "i'll teach you, i will, that i'm no eagle!" he screamed furiously, and struck with his beak. that instant he heard akka call to him from the air, and rose obediently. the wild goose flew toward him and began to reprimand him. "what are you trying to do?" she cried, beating him with her bill. "was it perhaps your intention to tear that poor hen to pieces?" but when the eagle took his punishment from the wild goose without a protest, there arose from the great bird throng around them a perfect storm of taunts and gibes. the eagle heard this, and turned toward akka with flaming eyes, as though he would have liked to attack her. but he suddenly changed his mind, and with quick wing strokes bounded into the air, soaring so high that no call could reach him; and he sailed around up there as long as the wild geese saw him. two days later he appeared again in the wild goose flock. "i know who i am," he said to akka. "since i am an eagle, i must live as becomes an eagle; but i think that we can be friends all the same. you or any of yours i shall never attack." but akka had set her heart on successfully training an eagle into a mild and harmless bird, and she could not tolerate his wanting to do as he chose. "do you think that i wish to be the friend of a bird-eater?" she asked. "live as i have taught you to live, and you may travel with my flock as heretofore." both were proud and stubborn, and neither of them would yield. it ended in akka's forbidding the eagle to show his face in her neighbourhood, and her anger toward him was so intense that no one dared speak his name in her presence. after that gorgo roamed around the country, alone and shunned, like all great robbers. he was often downhearted, and certainly longed many a time for the days when he thought himself a wild goose, and played with the merry goslings. among the animals he had a great reputation for courage. they used to say of him that he feared no one but his foster-mother, akka. and they could also say of him that he never used violence against a wild goose. in captivity gorgo was only three years old, and had not as yet thought about marrying and procuring a home for himself, when he was captured one day by a hunter, and sold to the skansen zoölogical garden, where there were already two eagles held captive in a cage built of iron bars and steel wires. the cage stood out in the open, and was so large that a couple of trees had easily been moved into it, and quite a large cairn was piled up in there. notwithstanding all this, the birds were unhappy. they sat motionless on the same spot nearly all day. their pretty, dark feather dresses became rough and lustreless, and their eyes were riveted with hopeless longing on the sky without. during the first week of gorgo's captivity he was still awake and full of life, but later a heavy torpor came upon him. he perched himself on one spot, like the other eagles, and stared at vacancy. he no longer knew how the days passed. one morning when gorgo sat in his usual torpor, he heard some one call to him from below. he was so drowsy that he could barely rouse himself enough to lower his glance. "who is calling me?" he asked. "oh, gorgo! don't you know me? it's thumbietot who used to fly around with the wild geese." "is akka also captured?" asked gorgo in the tone of one who is trying to collect his thoughts after a long sleep. "no; akka, the white goosey-gander, and the whole flock are probably safe and sound up in lapland at this season," said the boy. "it's only i who am a prisoner here." as the boy was speaking he noticed that gorgo averted his glance, and began to stare into space again. "golden eagle!" cried the boy; "i have not forgotten that once you carried me back to the wild geese, and that you spared the white goosey-gander's life! tell me if i can be of any help to you!" gorgo scarcely raised his head. "don't disturb me, thumbietot," he yawned. "i'm sitting here dreaming that i am free, and am soaring away up among the clouds. i don't want to be awake." "you must rouse yourself, and see what goes on around you," the boy admonished, "or you will soon look as wretched as the other eagles." "i wish i were as they are! they are so lost in their dreams that nothing more can trouble them," said the eagle. when night came, and all three eagles were asleep, there was a light scraping on the steel wires stretched across the top of the cage. the two listless old captives did not allow themselves to be disturbed by the noise, but gorgo awakened. "who's there? who is moving up on the roof?" he asked. "it's thumbietot, gorgo," answered the boy. "i'm sitting here filing away at the steel wires so that you can escape." the eagle raised his head, and saw in the night light how the boy sat and filed the steel wires at the top of the cage. he felt hopeful for an instant, but soon discouragement got the upper hand. "i'm a big bird, thumbietot," said gorgo; "how can you ever manage to file away enough wires for me to come out? you'd better quit that, and leave me in peace." "oh, go to sleep, and don't bother about me!" said the boy. "i'll not be through to-night nor to-morrow night, but i shall try to free you in time for here you'll become a total wreck." gorgo fell asleep. when he awoke the next morning he saw at a glance that a number of wires had been filed. that day he felt less drowsy than he had done in the past. he spread his wings, and fluttered from branch to branch to get the stiffness out of his joints. one morning early, just as the first streak of sunlight made its appearance, thumbietot awakened the eagle. "try now, gorgo!" he whispered. the eagle looked up. the boy had actually filed off so many wires that now there was a big hole in the wire netting. gorgo flapped his wings and propelled himself upward. twice he missed and fell back into the cage; but finally he succeeded in getting out. with proud wing strokes he soared into the clouds. little thumbietot sat and gazed after him with a mournful expression. he wished that some one would come and give him his freedom too. the boy was domiciled now at skansen. he had become acquainted with all the animals there, and had made many friends among them. he had to admit that there was so much to see and learn there that it was not difficult for him to pass the time. to be sure his thoughts went forth every day to morten goosey-gander and his other comrades, and he yearned for them. "if only i weren't bound by my promise," he thought, "i'd find some bird to take me to them!" it may seem strange that clement larsson had not restored the boy's liberty, but one must remember how excited the little fiddler had been when he left skansen. the morning of his departure he had thought of setting out the midget's food in a blue bowl, but, unluckily, he had been unable to find one. all the skansen folk--lapps, peasant girls, artisans, and gardeners--had come to bid him good-bye, and he had had no time to search for a blue bowl. it was time to start, and at the last moment he had to ask the old laplander to help him. "one of the tiny folk happens to be living here at skansen," said clement, "and every morning i set out a little food for him. will you do me the favour of taking these few coppers and purchasing a blue bowl with them? put a little gruel and milk in it, and to-morrow morning set it out under the steps of bollnäs cottage." the old laplander looked surprised, but there was no time for clement to explain further, as he had to be off to the railway station. the laplander went down to the zoölogical village to purchase the bowl. as he saw no blue one that he thought appropriate, he bought a white one, and this he conscientiously filled and set out every morning. that was why the boy had not been released from his pledge. he knew that clement had gone away, but _he_ was not allowed to leave. that night the boy longed more than ever for his freedom. this was because summer had come now in earnest. during his travels he had suffered much in cold and stormy weather, and when he first came to skansen he had thought that perhaps it was just as well that he had been compelled to break the journey. he would have been frozen to death had he gone to lapland in the month of may. but now it was warm; the earth was green-clad, birches and poplars were clothed in their satiny foliage, and the cherry trees--in fact all the fruit trees--were covered with blossoms. the berry bushes had green berries on their stems; the oaks had carefully unfolded their leaves, and peas, cabbages, and beans were growing in the vegetable garden at skansen. "now it must be warm up in lapland," thought the boy. "i should like to be seated on morten goosey-gander's back on a fine morning like this! it would be great fun to ride around in the warm, still air, and look down at the ground, as it now lies decked with green grass, and embellished with pretty blossoms." he sat musing on this when the eagle suddenly swooped down from the sky, and perched beside the boy, on top of the cage. "i wanted to try my wings to see if they were still good for anything," said gorgo. "you didn't suppose that i meant to leave you here in captivity? get up on my back, and i'll take you to your comrades." "no, that's impossible!" the boy answered. "i have pledged my word that i would stay here till i am liberated." "what sort of nonsense are you talking?" protested gorgo. "in the first place they brought you here against your will; then they forced you to promise that you would remain here. surely you must understand that such a promise one need not keep?" "oh, no, i must keep it," said the boy. "i thank you all the same for your kind intention, but you can't help me." "oh, can't i?" said gorgo. "we'll see about that!" in a twinkling he grasped nils holgersson in his big talons, and rose with him toward the skies, disappearing in a northerly direction. on over gÄstrikland the precious girdle _wednesday, june fifteenth_. the eagle kept on flying until he was a long distance north of stockholm. then he sank to a wooded hillock where he relaxed his hold on the boy. the instant thumbietot was out of gorgo's clutches he started to run back to the city as fast as he could. the eagle made a long swoop, caught up to the boy, and stopped him with his claw. "do you propose to go back to prison?" he demanded. "that's my affair. i can go where i like, for all of you!" retorted the boy, trying to get away. thereupon the eagle gripped him with his strong talons, and rose in the air. now gorgo circled over the entire province of uppland and did not stop again until he came to the great water-falls at Älvkarleby where he alighted on a rock in the middle of the rushing rapids below the roaring falls. again he relaxed his hold on the captive. the boy saw that here there was no chance of escape from the eagle. above them the white scum wall of the water-fall came tumbling down, and round about the river rushed along in a mighty torrent. thumbietot was very indignant to think that in this way he had been forced to become a promise-breaker. he turned his back to the eagle and would not speak to him. now that the bird had set the boy down in a place from which he could not run away, he told him confidentially that he had been brought up by akka from kebnekaise, and that he had quarrelled with his foster-mother. "now, thumbietot, perhaps you understand why i wish to take you back to the wild geese," he said. "i have heard that you are in great favour with akka, and it was my purpose to ask you to make peace between us." as soon as the boy comprehended that the eagle had not carried him off in a spirit of contrariness, he felt kindly toward him. "i should like very much to help you," he returned, "but i am bound by my promise." thereupon he explained to the eagle how he had fallen into captivity and how clement larsson had left skansen without setting him free. nevertheless the eagle would not relinquish his plan. "listen to me, thumbietot," he said. "my wings can carry you wherever you wish to go, and my eyes can search out whatever you wish to find. tell me how the man looks who exacted this promise from you, and i will find him and take you to him. then it is for you to do the rest." thumbietot approved of the proposition. "i can see, gorgo, that you have had a wise bird like akka for a foster-mother," the boy remarked. he gave a graphic description of clement larsson, and added that he had heard at skansen that the little fiddler was from hälsingland. "we'll search for him through the whole of hälsingland--from ljungby to mellansjö; from great mountain to hornland," said the eagle. "to-morrow before sundown you shall have a talk with the man!" "i fear you are promising more than you can perform," doubted the boy. "i should be a mighty poor eagle if i couldn't do that much," said gorgo. so when gorgo and thumbietot left Älvkarleby they were good friends, and the boy willingly took his mount for a ride on the eagle's back. thus he had an opportunity to see much of the country. when clutched in the eagle's talons he had seen nothing. perhaps it was just as well, for in the forenoon he had travelled over upsala, Österby's big factories, the dannemora mine, and the ancient castle of Örbyhus, and he would have been sadly disappointed at not seeing them had he known of their proximity. the eagle bore him speedily over gästrikland. in the southern part of the province there was very little to tempt the eye. but as they flew northward, it began to be interesting. "this country is clad in a spruce skirt and a gray-stone jacket," thought the boy. "but around its waist it wears a girdle which has not its match in value, for it is embroidered with blue lakes and green groves. the great ironworks adorn it like a row of precious stones, and its buckle is a whole city with castles and cathedrals and great clusters of houses." when the travellers arrived in the northern forest region, gorgo alighted on top of a mountain. as the boy dismounted, the eagle said: "there's game in this forest, and i can't forget my late captivity and feel really free until i have gone a-hunting. you won't mind my leaving you for a while?" "no, of course, i won't," the boy assured him. "you may go where you like if only you are back here by sundown," said the eagle, as he flew off. the boy sat on a stone gazing across the bare, rocky ground and the great forests round about. he felt rather lonely. but soon he heard singing in the forest below, and saw something bright moving amongst the trees. presently he saw a blue and yellow banner, and he knew by the songs and the merry chatter that it was being borne at the head of a procession. on it came, up the winding path; he wondered where it and those who followed it were going. he couldn't believe that anybody would come up to such an ugly, desolate waste as the place where he sat. but the banner was nearing the forest border, and behind it marched many happy people for whom it had led the way. suddenly there was life and movement all over the mountain plain; after that there was so much for the boy to see that he didn't have a dull moment. forest day on the mountain's broad back, where gorgo left thumbietot, there had been a forest fire ten years before. since that time the charred trees had been felled and removed, and the great fire-swept area had begun to deck itself with green along the edges, where it skirted the healthy forest. however, the larger part of the top was still barren and appallingly desolate. charred stumps, standing sentinel-like between the rock ledges, bore witness that once there had been a fine forest here; but no fresh roots sprang from the ground. one day in the early summer all the children in the parish had assembled in front of the schoolhouse near the fire-swept mountain. each child carried either a spade or a hoe on its shoulder, and a basket of food in its hand. as soon as all were assembled, they marched in a long procession toward the forest. the banner came first, with the teachers on either side of it; then followed a couple of foresters and a wagon load of pine shrubs and spruce seeds; then the children. the procession did not pause in any of the birch groves near the settlements, but marched on deep into the forest. as it moved along, the foxes stuck their heads out of the lairs in astonishment, and wondered what kind of backwoods people these were. as they marched past old coal pits where charcoal kilns were fired every autumn, the cross-beaks twisted their hooked bills, and asked one another what kind of coalers these might be who were now thronging the forest. finally, the procession reached the big, burnt mountain plain. the rocks had been stripped of the fine twin-flower creepers that once covered them; they had been robbed of the pretty silver moss and the attractive reindeer moss. around the dark water gathered in clefts and hollows there was now no wood-sorrel. the little patches of soil in crevices and between stones were without ferns, without star-flowers, without all the green and red and light and soft and soothing things which usually clothe the forest ground. it was as if a bright light flashed upon the mountain when all the parish children covered it. here again was something sweet and delicate; something fresh and rosy; something young and growing. perhaps these children would bring to the poor abandoned forest a little new life. when the children had rested and eaten their luncheon, they seized hoes and spades and began to work. the foresters showed them what to do. they set out shrub after shrub on every clear spot of earth they could find. as they worked, they talked quite knowingly among themselves of how the little shrubs they were planting would bind the soil so that it could not get away, and of how new soil would form under the trees. by and by seeds would drop, and in a few years they would be picking both strawberries and raspberries where now there were only bare rocks. the little shrubs which they were planting would gradually become tall trees. perhaps big houses and great splendid ships would be built from them! if the children had not come here and planted while there was still a little soil in the clefts, all the earth would have been carried away by wind and water, and the mountain could never more have been clothed in green. "it was well that we came," said the children. "we were just in the nick of time!" they felt very important. while they were working on the mountain, their parents were at home. by and by they began to wonder how the children were getting along. of course it was only a joke about their planting a forest, but it might be amusing to see what they were trying to do. so presently both fathers and mothers were on their way to the forest. when they came to the outlying stock farms they met some of their neighbours. "are you going to the fire-swept mountain?" they asked. "that's where we're bound for." "to have a look at the children?" "yes, to see what they're up to." "it's only play, of course." "it isn't likely that there will be many forest trees planted by the youngsters. we have brought the coffee pot along so that we can have something warm to drink, since we must stay there all day with only lunch-basket provisions." so the parents of the children went on up the mountain. at first they thought only of how pretty it looked to see all the rosy-cheeked little children scattered over the gray hills. later, they observed how the children were working--how some were setting out shrubs, while others were digging furrows and sowing seeds. others again were pulling up heather to prevent its choking the young trees. they saw that the children took the work seriously and were so intent upon what they were doing that they scarcely had time to glance up. the fathers and mothers stood for a moment and looked on; then they too began to pull up heather--just for the fun of it. the children were the instructors, for they were already trained, and had to show their elders what to do. thus it happened that all the grown-ups who had come to watch the children took part in the work. then, of course, it became greater fun than before. by and by the children had even more help. other implements were needed, so a couple of long-legged boys were sent down to the village for spades and hoes. as they ran past the cabins, the stay-at-homes came out and asked: "what's wrong? has there been an accident?" "no, indeed! but the whole parish is up on the fire-swept mountain planting a forest." "if the whole parish is there, we can't stay at home!" so party after party of peasants went crowding to the top of the burnt mountain. they stood a moment and looked on. the temptation to join the workers was irresistible. "it's a pleasure to sow one's own acres in the spring, and to think of the grain that will spring up from the earth, but this work is even more alluring," they thought. not only slender blades would come from that sowing, but mighty trees with tall trunks and sturdy branches. it meant giving birth not merely to a summer's grain, but to many years' growths. it meant the awakening hum of insects, the song of the thrush, the play of grouse and all kinds of life on the desolate mountain. moreover, it was like raising a memorial for coming generations. they could have left a bare, treeless height as a heritage. instead they were to leave a glorious forest. coming generations would know their forefathers had been a good and wise folk and they would remember them with reverence and gratitude. a day in hÄlsingland a large green leaf _thursday, june sixteenth_. the following day the boy travelled over hälsingland. it spread beneath him with new, pale-green shoots on the pine trees, new birch leaves in the groves, new green grass in the meadows, and sprouting grain in the fields. it was a mountainous country, but directly through it ran a broad, light valley from either side of which branched other valleys--some short and narrow, some broad and long. "this land resembles a leaf," thought the boy, "for it's as green as a leaf, and the valleys subdivide it in about the same way as the veins of a leaf are foliated." the branch valleys, like the main one, were filled with lakes, rivers, farms, and villages. they snuggled, light and smiling, between the dark mountains until they were gradually squeezed together by the hills. there they were so narrow that they could not hold more than a little brook. on the high land between the valleys there were pine forests which had no even ground to grow upon. there were mountains standing all about, and the forest covered the whole, like a woolly hide stretched over a bony body. it was a picturesque country to look down upon, and the boy saw a good deal of it, because the eagle was trying to find the old fiddler, clement larsson, and flew from ravine to ravine looking for him. a little later in the morning there was life and movement on every farm. the doors of the cattle sheds were thrown wide open and the cows were let out. they were prettily coloured, small, supple and sprightly, and so sure-footed that they made the most comic leaps and bounds. after them came the calves and sheep, and it was plainly to be seen that they, too, were in the best of spirits. it grew livelier every moment in the farm yards. a couple of young girls with knapsacks on their backs walked among the cattle; a boy with a long switch kept the sheep together, and a little dog ran in and out among the cows, barking at the ones that tried to gore him. the farmer hitched a horse to a cart loaded with tubs of butter, boxes of cheese, and all kinds of eatables. the people laughed and chattered. they and the beasts were alike merry--as if looking forward to a day of real pleasure. a moment later all were on their way to the forest. one of the girls walked in the lead and coaxed the cattle with pretty, musical calls. the animals followed in a long line. the shepherd boy and the sheep-dog ran hither and thither, to see that no creature turned from the right course; and last came the farmer and his hired man. they walked beside the cart to prevent its being upset, for the road they followed was a narrow, stony forest path. it may have been the custom for all the peasants in hälsingland to send their cattle into the forests on the same day--or perhaps it only happened so that year; at any rate the boy saw how processions of happy people and cattle wandered out from every valley and every farm and rushed into the lonely forest, filling it with life. from the depths of the dense woods the boy heard the shepherd maidens' songs and the tinkle of the cow bells. many of the processions had long and difficult roads to travel; and the boy saw how they tramped through marshes, how they had to take roundabout ways to get past windfalls, and how, time and again, the carts bumped against stones and turned over with all their contents. but the people met all the obstacles with jokes and laughter. in the afternoon they came to a cleared space where cattle sheds and a couple of rude cabins had been built. the cows mooed with delight as they tramped on the luscious green grass in the yards between the cabins, and at once began grazing. the peasants, with merry chatter and banter, carried water and wood and all that had been brought in the carts into the larger cabin. presently smoke rose from the chimney and then the dairymaids, the shepherd boy, and the men squatted upon a flat rock and ate their supper. gorgo, the eagle, was certain that he should find clement larsson among those who were off for the forest. whenever he saw a stock farm procession, he sank down and scrutinized it with his sharp eyes; but hour after hour passed without his finding the one he sought. after much circling around, toward evening they came to a stony and desolate tract east of the great main valley. there the boy saw another outlying stock farm under him. the people and the cattle had arrived. the men were splitting wood, and the dairymaids were milking the cows. "look there!" said gorgo. "i think we've got him." he sank, and, to his great astonishment, the boy saw that the eagle was right. there indeed stood little clement larsson chopping wood. gorgo alighted on a pine tree in the thick woods a little away from the house. "i have fulfilled my obligation," said the eagle, with a proud toss of his head. "now you must try and have a word with the man. i'll perch here at the top of the thick pine and wait for you." the animals' new year's eve the day's work was done at the forest ranches, supper was over, and the peasants sat about and chatted. it was a long time since they had been in the forest of a summer's night, and they seemed reluctant to go to bed and sleep. it was as light as day, and the dairymaids were busy with their needle-work. ever and anon they raised their heads, looked toward the forest and smiled. "now we are here again!" they said. the town, with its unrest, faded from their minds, and the forest, with its peaceful stillness, enfolded them. when at home they had wondered how they should ever be able to endure the loneliness of the woods; but once there, they felt that they were having their best time. many of the young girls and young men from neighbouring ranches had come to call upon them, so that there were quite a lot of folk seated on the grass before the cabins, but they did not find it easy to start conversation. the men were going home the next day, so the dairymaids gave them little commissions and bade them take greetings to their friends in the village. this was nearly all that had been said. suddenly the eldest of the dairy girls looked up from her work and said laughingly: "there's no need of our sitting here so silent to-night, for we have two story-tellers with us. one is clement larsson, who sits beside me, and the other is bernhard from sunnasjö, who stands back there gazing toward black's ridge. i think that we should ask each of them to tell us a story. to the one who entertains us the better i shall give the muffler i am knitting." this proposal won hearty applause. the two competitors offered lame excuses, naturally, but were quickly persuaded. clement asked bernhard to begin, and he did not object. he knew little of clement larsson, but assumed that he would come out with some story about ghosts and trolls. as he knew that people liked to listen to such things, he thought it best to choose something of the same sort. "some centuries ago," he began, "a dean here in delsbo township was riding through the dense forest on a new year's eve. he was on horseback, dressed in fur coat and cap. on the pommel of his saddle hung a satchel in which he kept the communion service, the prayer-book, and the clerical robe. he had been summoned on a parochial errand to a remote forest settlement, where he had talked with a sick person until late in the evening. now he was on his way home, but feared that he should not get back to the rectory until after midnight. "as he had to sit in the saddle when he should have been at home in his bed, he was glad it was not a rough night. the weather was mild, the air still and the skies overcast. behind the clouds hung a full round moon which gave some light, although it was out of sight. but for that faint light it would have been impossible for him to distinguish paths from fields, for that was a snowless winter, and all things had the same grayish-brown colour. "the horse the dean rode was one he prized very highly. he was strong and sturdy, and quite as wise as a human being. he could find his way home from any place in the township. the dean had observed this on several occasions, and he relied upon it with such a sense of security that he never troubled himself to think where he was going when he rode that horse. so he came along now in the gray night, through the bewildering forest, with the reins dangling and his thoughts far away. "he was thinking of the sermon he had to preach on the morrow, and of much else besides, and it was a long time before it occurred to him to notice how far along he was on his homeward way. when he did glance up, he saw that the forest was as dense about him as at the beginning, and he was somewhat surprised, for he had ridden so long that he should have come to the inhabited portion of the township. "delsbo was about the same then as now. the church and parsonage and all the large farms and villages were at the northern end of the township, while at the southern part there were only forests and mountains. the dean saw that he was still in the unpopulated district and knew that he was in the southern part and must ride to the north to get home. there were no stars, nor was there a moon to guide him; but he was a man who had the four cardinal points in his head. he had the positive feeling that he was travelling southward, or possibly eastward. "he intended to turn the horse at once, but hesitated. the animal had never strayed, and it did not seem likely that he would do so now. it was more likely that the dean was mistaken. he had been far away in thought and had not looked at the road. so he let the horse continue in the same direction, and again lost himself in his reverie. "suddenly a big branch struck him and almost swept him off the horse. then he realized that he must find out where he was. "he glanced down and saw that he was riding over a soft marsh, where there was no beaten path. the horse trotted along at a brisk pace and showed no uncertainty. again the dean was positive that he was going in the wrong direction, and now he did not hesitate to interfere. he seized the reins and turned the horse about, guiding him back to the roadway. no sooner was he there than he turned again and made straight for the woods. "the dean was certain that he was going wrong, but because the beast was so persistent he thought that probably he was trying to find a better road, and let him go along. "the horse did very well, although he had no path to follow. if a precipice obstructed his way, he climbed it as nimbly as a goat, and later, when they had to descend, he bunched his hoofs and slid down the rocky inclines. "'may he only find his way home before church hour!' thought the dean. 'i wonder how the delsbo folk would take it if i were not at my church on time?' "he did not have to brood over this long, for soon he came to a place that was familiar to him. it was a little creek where he had fished the summer before. now he saw it was as he had feared--he was in the depths of the forest, and the horse was plodding along in a south-easterly direction. he seemed determined to carry the dean as far from church and rectory as he could. "the clergyman dismounted. he could not let the horse carry him into the wilderness. he must go home. and, since the animal persisted in going in the wrong direction, he decided to walk and lead him until they came to more familiar roads. the dean wound the reins around his arm and began to walk. it was not an easy matter to tramp through the forest in a heavy fur coat; but the dean was strong and hardy and had little fear of overexertion. "the horse, meanwhile, caused him fresh anxiety. he would not follow but planted his hoofs firmly on the ground. "at last the dean was angry. he had never beaten that horse, nor did he wish to do so now. instead, he threw down the reins and walked away. "'we may as well part company here, since you want to go your own way,' he said. "he had not taken more than two steps before the horse came after him, took a cautious grip on his coat sleeve and stopped him. the dean turned and looked the horse straight in the eyes, as if to search out why he behaved so strangely. "afterward the dean could not quite understand how this was possible, but it is certain that, dark as it was, he plainly saw the horse's face and read it like that of a human being. he realized that the animal was in a terrible state of apprehension and fear. he gave his master a look that was both imploring and reproachful. "'i have served you day after day and done your bidding,' he seemed to say. 'will you not follow me this one night?' "the dean was touched by the appeal in the animal's eyes. it was clear that the horse needed his help to-night, in one way or another. being a man through and through, the dean promptly determined to follow him. without further delay he sprang into the saddle. 'go on!' he said. 'i will not desert you since you want me. no one shall say of the dean in delsbo that he refused to accompany any creature who was in trouble.' "he let the horse go as he wished and thought only of keeping his seat. it proved to be a hazardous and troublesome journey--uphill most of the way. the forest was so thick that he could not see two feet ahead, but it appeared to him that they were ascending a high mountain. the horse climbed perilous steeps. had the dean been guiding, he should not have thought of riding over such ground. "'surely you don't intend to go up to black's ridge, do you?' laughed the dean, who knew that was one of the highest peaks in hälsingland. "during the ride he discovered that he and the horse were not the only ones who were out that night. he heard stones roll down and branches crackle, as if animals were breaking their way through the forest. he remembered that wolves were plentiful in that section and wondered if the horse wished to lead him to an encounter with wild beasts. "they mounted up and up, and the higher they went the more scattered were the trees. at last they rode on almost bare highland, where the dean could look in every direction. he gazed out over immeasurable tracts of land, which went up and down in mountains and valleys covered with sombre forests. it was so dark that he had difficulty in seeing any orderly arrangement; but presently he could make out where he was. "'why of course it's black's ridge that i've come to!' he remarked to himself. 'it can't be any other mountain, for there, in the west, i see jarv island, and to the east the sea glitters around ag island. toward the north also i see something shiny. it must be dellen. in the depths below me i see white smoke from nian falls. yes, i'm up on black's ridge. what an adventure!' "when they were at the summit the horse stopped behind a thick pine, as if to hide. the dean bent forward and pushed aside the branches, that he might have an unobstructed view. "the mountain's bald plate confronted him. it was not empty and desolate, as he had anticipated. in the middle of the open space was an immense boulder around which many wild beasts had gathered. apparently they were holding a conclave of some sort. "near to the big rock he saw bears, so firmly and heavily built that they seemed like fur-clad blocks of stone. they were lying down and their little eyes blinked impatiently; it was obvious that they had come from their winter sleep to attend court, and that they could hardly keep awake. behind them, in tight rows, were hundreds of wolves. they were not sleepy, for wolves are more alert in winter than in summer. they sat upon their haunches, like dogs, whipping the ground with their tails and panting--their tongues lolling far out of their jaws. behind the wolves the lynx skulked, stiff-legged and clumsy, like misshapen cats. they were loath to be among the other beasts, and hissed and spat when one came near them. the row back of the lynx was occupied by the wolverines, with dog faces and bear coats. they were not happy on the ground, and they stamped their pads impatiently, longing to get into the trees. behind them, covering the entire space to the forest border, leaped the foxes, the weasels, and the martens. these were small and perfectly formed, but they looked even more savage and bloodthirsty than the larger beasts. "all this the dean plainly saw, for the whole place was illuminated. upon the huge rock at the centre was the wood-nymph, who held in her hand a pine torch which burned in a big red flame. the nymph was as tall as the tallest tree in the forest. she wore a spruce-brush mantle and had spruce-cone hair. she stood very still, her face turned toward the forest. she was watching and listening. "the dean saw everything as plain as plain could be, but his astonishment was so great that he tried to combat it, and would not believe the evidence of his own eyes. "'such things cannot possibly happen!' he thought. 'i have ridden much too long in the bleak forest. this is only an optical illusion.' "nevertheless he gave the closest attention to the spectacle, and wondered what was about to be done. "he hadn't long to wait before he caught the sound of a familiar bell, coming from the depths of the forest, and the next moment he heard footfalls and crackling of branches--as when many animals break through the forest. "a big herd of cattle was climbing the mountain. they came through the forest in the order in which they had marched to the mountain ranches. first came the bell cow followed by the bull, then the other cows and the calves. the sheep, closely herded, followed. after them came the goats, and last were the horses and colts. the sheep-dog trotted along beside the sheep; but neither shepherd nor shepherdess attended them. "the dean thought it heart-rending to see the tame animals coming straight toward the wild beasts. he would gladly have blocked their way and called 'halt!' but he understood that it was not within human power to stop the march of the cattle on this night; therefore he made no move. "the domestic animals were in a state of torment over that which they had to face. if it happened to be the bell cow's turn, she advanced with drooping head and faltering step. the goats had no desire either to play or to butt. the horses tried to bear up bravely, but their bodies were all of a quiver with fright. the most pathetic of all was the sheep-dog. he kept his tail between his legs and crawled on the ground. "the bell cow led the procession all the way up to the wood-nymph, who stood on the boulder at the top of the mountain. the cow walked around the rock and then turned toward the forest without any of the wild beasts touching her. in the same way all the cattle walked unmolested past the wild beasts. "as the creatures filed past, the dean saw the wood-nymph lower her pine torch over one and another of them. "every time this occurred the beasts of prey broke into loud, exultant roars--particularly when it was lowered over a cow or some other large creature. the animal that saw the torch turning toward it uttered a piercing shriek, as if it had received a knife thrust in its flesh, while the entire herd to which it belonged bellowed their lamentations. "then the dean began to comprehend the meaning of what he saw. surely he had heard that the animals in delsbo assembled on black's ridge every new year's eve, that the wood-nymph might mark out which among the tame beasts would that year be prey for the wild beasts. the dean pitied the poor creatures that were at the mercy of savage beasts, when in reality they should have no master but man. "the leading herd had only just left when another bell tinkled, and the cattle from another farm tramped to the mountain top. these came in the same order as the first and marched past the wood-nymph, who stood there, stern and solemn, indicating animal after animal for death. "herd upon herd followed, without a break in the line of procession. some were so small that they included only one cow and a few sheep; others consisted of only a pair of goats. it was apparent that these were from very humble homes, but they too were compelled to pass in review. "the dean thought of the delsbo farmers, who had so much love for their beasts. 'did they but know of it, surely they would not allow a repetition of this!' he thought. 'they would risk their own lives rather than let their cattle wander amongst bears and wolves, to be doomed by the wood-nymph!' "the last herd to appear was the one from the rectory farm. the dean heard the sound of the familiar bell a long way off. the horse, too, must have heard it, for he began to shake in every limb, and was bathed in sweat. "'so it is your turn now to pass before the wood-nymph to receive your sentence,' the dean said to the horse. 'don't be afraid! now i know why you brought me here, and i shall not leave you.' "the fine cattle from the parsonage farm emerged from the forest and marched to the wood-nymph and the wild beasts. last in the line was the horse that had brought his master to black's ridge. the dean did not leave the saddle, but let the animal take him to the wood-nymph. "he had neither knife nor gun for his defence, but he had taken out the prayer-book and sat pressing it to his heart as he exposed himself to battle against evil. "at first it appeared as if none had observed him. the dean's cattle filed past the wood-nymph in the same order as the others had done. she did not wave the torch toward any of these, but as soon as the intelligent horse stepped forward, she made a movement to mark him for death. "instantly the dean held up the prayer-book, and the torchlight fell upon the cross on its cover. the wood-nymph uttered a loud, shrill cry and let the torch drop from her hand. "immediately the flame was extinguished. in the sudden transition from light to darkness the dean saw nothing, nor did he hear anything. about him reigned the profound stillness of a wilderness in winter. "then the dark clouds parted, and through the opening stepped the full round moon to shed its light upon the ground. the dean saw that he and the horse were alone on the summit of black's ridge. not one of the many wild beasts was there. the ground had not been trampled by the herds that had passed over it; but the dean himself sat with his prayer-book before him, while the horse under him stood trembling and foaming. "by the time the dean reached home he no longer knew whether or not it had been a dream, a vision, or reality--this that he had seen; but he took it as a warning to him to remember the poor creatures who were at the mercy of wild beasts. he preached so powerfully to the delsbo peasants that in his day all the wolves and bears were exterminated from that section of the country, although they may have returned since his time." here bernhard ended his story. he received praise from all sides and it seemed to be a foregone conclusion that he would get the prize. the majority thought it almost a pity that clement had to compete with him. but clement, undaunted, began: "one day, while i was living at skansen, just outside of stockholm, and longing for home--" then he told about the tiny midget he had ransomed so that he would not have to be confined in a cage, to be stared at by all the people. he told, also, that no sooner had he performed this act of mercy than he was rewarded for it. he talked and talked, and the astonishment of his hearers grew greater and greater; but when he came to the royal lackey and the beautiful book, all the dairymaids dropped their needle-work and sat staring at clement in open-eyed wonder at his marvellous experiences. as soon as clement had finished, the eldest of the dairymaids announced that he should have the muffler. "bernhard related only things that happened to another, but clement has himself been the hero of a true story, which i consider far more important." in this all concurred. they regarded clement with very different eyes after hearing that he had talked with the king, and the little fiddler was afraid to show how proud he felt. but at the very height of his elation some one asked him what had become of the midget. "i had no time to set out the blue bowl for him myself," said clement, "so i asked the old laplander to do it. what has become of him since then i don't know." no sooner had he spoken than a little pine cone came along and struck him on the nose. it did not drop from a tree, and none of the peasants had thrown it. it was simply impossible to tell whence it had come. "aha, clement!" winked the dairymaid, "it appears as if the tiny folk were listening to us. you should not have left it to another to set out that blue bowl!" in medelpad _friday, june seventeenth_. the boy and the eagle were out bright and early the next morning. gorgo hoped that he would get far up into west bothnia that day. as luck would have it, he heard the boy remark to himself that in a country like the one through which they were now travelling it must be impossible for people to live. the land which spread below them was southern medelpad. when the eagle heard the boy's remark, he replied: "up here they have forests for fields." the boy thought of the contrast between the light, golden-rye fields with their delicate blades that spring up in one summer, and the dark spruce forest with its solid trees which took many years to ripen for harvest. "one who has to get his livelihood from such a field must have a deal of patience!" he observed. nothing more was said until they came to a place where the forest had been cleared, and the ground was covered with stumps and lopped-off branches. as they flew over this ground, the eagle heard the boy mutter to himself that it was a mighty ugly and poverty-stricken place. "this field was cleared last winter," said the eagle. the boy thought of the harvesters at home, who rode on their reaping machines on fine summer mornings, and in a short time mowed a large field. but the forest field was harvested in winter. the lumbermen went out in the wilderness when the snow was deep, and the cold most severe. it was tedious work to fell even one tree, and to hew down a forest such as this they must have been out in the open many weeks. "they have to be hardy men to mow a field of this kind," he said. when the eagle had taken two more wing strokes, they sighted a log cabin at the edge of the clearing. it had no windows and only two loose boards for a door. the roof had been covered with bark and twigs, but now it was gaping, and the boy could see that inside the cabin there were only a few big stones to serve as a fireplace, and two board benches. when they were above the cabin the eagle suspected that the boy was wondering who could have lived in such a wretched hut as that. "the reapers who mowed the forest field lived there," the eagle said. the boy remembered how the reapers in his home had returned from their day's work, cheerful and happy, and how the best his mother had in the larder was always spread for them; while here, after the arduous work of the day, they must rest on hard benches in a cabin that was worse than an outhouse. and what they had to eat he could not imagine. "i wonder if there are any harvest festivals for these labourers?" he questioned. a little farther on they saw below them a wretchedly bad road winding through the forest. it was narrow and zigzag, hilly and stony, and cut up by brooks in many places. as they flew over it the eagle knew that the boy was wondering what was carted over a road like that. "over this road the harvest was conveyed to the stack," the eagle said. the boy recalled what fun they had at home when the harvest wagons drawn by two sturdy horses, carried the grain from the field. the man who drove sat proudly on top of the load; the horses danced and pricked up their ears, while the village children, who were allowed to climb upon the sheaves, sat there laughing and shrieking, half-pleased, half-frightened. but here the great logs were drawn up and down steep hills; here the poor horses must be worked to their limit, and the driver must often be in peril. "i'm afraid there has been very little cheer along this road," the boy observed. the eagle flew on with powerful wing strokes, and soon they came to a river bank covered with logs, chips, and bark. the eagle perceived that the boy wondered why it looked so littered up down there. "here the harvest has been stacked," the eagle told him. the boy thought of how the grain stacks in his part of the country were piled up close to the farms, as if they were their greatest ornaments, while here the harvest was borne to a desolate river strand, and left there. "i wonder if any one out in this wilderness counts his stacks, and compares them with his neighbour's?" he said. a little later they came to ljungen, a river which glides through a broad valley. immediately everything was so changed that they might well think they had come to another country. the dark spruce forest had stopped on the inclines above the valley, and the slopes were clad in light-stemmed birches and aspens. the valley was so broad that in many places the river widened into lakes. along the shores lay a large flourishing town. as they soared above the valley the eagle realized that the boy was wondering if the fields and meadows here could provide a livelihood for so many people. "here live the reapers who mow the forest fields," the eagle said. the boy was thinking of the lowly cabins and the hedged-in farms down in skåne when he exclaimed: "why, here the peasants live in real manors. it looks as if it might be worth one's while to work in the forest!" the eagle had intended to travel straight north, but when he had flown out over the river he understood that the boy wondered who handled the timber after it was stacked on the river bank. the boy recollected how careful they had been at home never to let a grain be wasted, while here were great rafts of logs floating down the river, uncared for. he could not believe that more than half of the logs ever reached their destination. many were floating in midstream, and for them all went smoothly; others moved close to the shore, bumping against points of land, and some were left behind in the still waters of the creeks. on the lakes there were so many logs that they covered the entire surface of the water. these appeared to be lodged for an indefinite period. at the bridges they stuck; in the falls they were bunched, then they were pyramided and broken in two; afterward, in the rapids, they were blocked by the stones and massed into great heaps. "i wonder how long it takes for the logs to get to the mill?" said the boy. the eagle continued his slow flight down river ljungen. over many places he paused in the air on outspread wings, that the boy might see how this kind of harvest work was done. presently they came to a place where the loggers were at work. the eagle marked that the boy wondered what they were doing. "they are the ones who take care of all the belated harvest," the eagle said. the boy remembered the perfect ease with which his people at home had driven their grain to the mill. here the men ran alongside the shores with long boat-hooks, and with toil and effort urged the logs along. they waded out in the river and were soaked from top to toe. they jumped from stone to stone far out into the rapids, and they tramped on the rolling log heaps as calmly as though they were on flat ground. they were daring and resolute men. "as i watch this, i'm reminded of the iron-moulders in the mining districts, who juggle with fire as if it were perfectly harmless," remarked the boy. "these loggers play with water as if they were its masters. they seem to have subjugated it so that it dare not harm them." gradually they neared the mouth of the river, and bothnia bay was beyond them. gorgo flew no farther straight ahead, but went northward along the coast. before they had travelled very far they saw a lumber camp as large as a small city. while the eagle circled back and forth above it, he heard the boy remark that this place looked interesting. "here you have the great lumber camp called svartvik," the eagle said. the boy thought of the mill at home, which stood peacefully embedded in foliage, and moved its wings very slowly. this mill, where they grind the forest harvest, stood on the water. the mill pond was crowded with logs. one by one the helpers seized them with their cant-hooks, crowded them into the chutes and hurried them along to the whirling saws. what happened to the logs inside, the boy could not see, but he heard loud buzzing and roaring, and from the other end of the house small cars ran out, loaded with white planks. the cars ran on shining tracks down to the lumber yard, where the planks were piled in rows, forming streets--like blocks of houses in a city. in one place they were building new piles; in another they were pulling down old ones. these were carried aboard two large vessels which lay waiting for cargo. the place was alive with workmen, and in the woods, back of the yard, they had their homes. "they'll soon manage to saw up all the forests in medelpad the way they work here," said the boy. the eagle moved his wings just a little, and carried the boy above another large camp, very much like the first, with the mill, yard, wharf, and the homes of the workmen. "this is called kukikenborg," the eagle said. he flapped his wings slowly, flew past two big lumber camps, and approached a large city. when the eagle heard the boy ask the name of it, he cried; "this is sundsvall, the manor of the lumber districts." the boy remembered the cities of skåne, which looked so old and gray and solemn; while here in the bleak north the city of sundsvall faced a beautiful bay, and looked young and happy and beaming. there was something odd about the city when one saw it from above, for in the middle stood a cluster of tall stone structures which looked so imposing that their match was hardly to be found in stockholm. around the stone buildings there was a large open space, then came a wreath of frame houses which looked pretty and cosy in their little gardens; but they seemed to be conscious of the fact that they were very much poorer than the stone houses, and dared not venture into their neighbourhood. "this must be both a wealthy and powerful city," remarked the boy. "can it be possible that the poor forest soil is the source of all this?" the eagle flapped his wings again, and went over to aln island, which lies opposite sundsvall. the boy was greatly surprised to see all the sawmills that decked the shores. on aln island they stood, one next another, and on the mainland opposite were mill upon mill, lumber yard upon lumber yard. he counted forty, at least, but believed there were many more. "how wonderful it all looks from up here!" he marvelled. "so much life and activity i have not seen in any place save this on the whole trip. it is a great country that we have! wherever i go, there is always something new for people to live upon." a morning in Ångermanland the bread _saturday, june eighteenth_. next morning, when the eagle had flown some distance into Ångermanland, he remarked that to-day he was the one who was hungry, and must find something to eat! he set the boy down in an enormous pine on a high mountain ridge, and away he flew. the boy found a comfortable seat in a cleft branch from which he could look down over Ångermanland. it was a glorious morning! the sunshine gilded the treetops; a soft breeze played in the pine needles; the sweetest fragrance was wafted through the forest; a beautiful landscape spread before him; and the boy himself was happy and care-free. he felt that no one could be better off. he had a perfect outlook in every direction. the country west of him was all peaks and table-land, and the farther away they were, the higher and wilder they looked. to the east there were also many peaks, but these sank lower and lower toward the sea, where the land became perfectly flat. everywhere he saw shining rivers and brooks which were having a troublesome journey with rapids and falls so long as they ran between mountains, but spread out clear and broad as they neared the shore of the coast. bothnia bay was dotted with islands and notched with points, but farther out was open, blue water, like a summer sky. when the boy had had enough of the landscape he unloosed his knapsack, took out a morsel of fine white bread, and began to eat. "i don't think i've ever tasted such good bread," said he. "and how much i have left! there's enough to last me for a couple of days." as he munched he thought of how he had come by the bread. "it must be because i got it in such a nice way that it tastes so good to me," he said. the golden eagle had left medelpad the evening before. he had hardly crossed the border into Ångermanland when the boy caught a glimpse of a fertile valley and a river, which surpassed anything of the kind he had seen before. as the boy glanced down at the rich valley, he complained of feeling hungry. he had had no food for two whole days, he said, and now he was famished. gorgo did not wish to have it said that the boy had fared worse in his company than when he travelled with the wild geese, so he slackened his speed. "why haven't you spoken of this before?" he asked. "you shall have all the food you want. there's no need of your starving when you have an eagle for a travelling companion." just then the eagle sighted a farmer who was sowing a field near the river strand. the man carried the seeds in a basket suspended from his neck, and each time that it was emptied he refilled it from a seed sack which stood at the end of the furrow. the eagle reasoned it out that the sack must be filled with the best food that the boy could wish for, so he darted toward it. but before the bird could get there a terrible clamour arose about him. sparrows, crows, and swallows came rushing up with wild shrieks, thinking that the eagle meant to swoop down upon some bird. "away, away, robber! away, away, bird-killer!" they cried. they made such a racket that it attracted the farmer, who came running, so that gorgo had to flee, and the boy got no seed. the small birds behaved in the most extraordinary manner. not only did they force the eagle to flee, they pursued him a long distance down the valley, and everywhere the people heard their cries. women came out and clapped their hands so that it sounded like a volley of musketry, and the men rushed out with rifles. the same thing was repeated every time the eagle swept toward the ground. the boy abandoned the hope that the eagle could procure any food for him. it had never occurred to him before that gorgo was so much hated. he almost pitied him. in a little while they came to a homestead where the housewife had just been baking. she had set a platter of sugared buns in the back yard to cool and was standing beside it, watching, so that the cat and dog should not steal the buns. the eagle circled down to the yard, but dared not alight right under the eyes of the peasant woman. he flew up and down, irresolute; twice he came down as far as the chimney, then rose again. the peasant woman noticed the eagle. she raised her head and followed him with her glance. "how peculiarly he acts!" she remarked. "i believe he wants one of my buns." she was a beautiful woman, tall and fair, with a cheery, open countenance. laughing heartily, she took a bun from the platter, and held it above her head. "if you want it, come and take it!" she challenged. while the eagle did not understand her language, he knew at once that she was offering him the bun. with lightning speed, he swooped to the bread, snatched it, and flew toward the heights. when the boy saw the eagle snatch the bread he wept for joy--not because he would escape suffering hunger for a few days, but because he was touched by the peasant woman's sharing her bread with a savage bird of prey. where he now sat on the pine branch he could recall at will the tall, fair woman as she stood in the yard and held up the bread. she must have known that the large bird was a golden eagle--a plunderer, who was usually welcomed with loud shots; doubtless she had also seen the queer changeling he bore on his back. but she had not thought of what they were. as soon as she understood that they were hungry, she shared her good bread with them. "if i ever become human again," thought the boy, "i shall look up the pretty woman who lives near the great river, and thank her for her kindness to us." the forest fire while the boy was still at his breakfast he smelled a faint odour of smoke coming from the north. he turned and saw a tiny spiral, white as a mist, rise from a forest ridge--not from the one nearest him, but from the one beyond it. it looked strange to see smoke in the wild forest, but it might be that a mountain stock farm lay over yonder, and the women were boiling their morning coffee. it was remarkable the way that smoke increased and spread! it could not come from a ranch, but perhaps there were charcoal kilns in the forest. the smoke increased every moment. now it curled over the whole mountain top. it was not possible that so much smoke could come from a charcoal kiln. there must be a conflagration of some sort, for many birds flew over to the nearest ridge. hawks, grouse, and other birds, who were so small that it was impossible to recognize them at such a distance, fled from the fire. the tiny white spiral of smoke grew to a thick white cloud which rolled over the edge of the ridge and sank toward the valley. sparks and flakes of soot shot up from the clouds, and here and there one could see a red flame in the smoke. a big fire was raging over there, but what was burning? surely there was no large farm hidden in the forest. the source of such a fire must be more than a farm. now the smoke came not only from the ridge, but from the valley below it, which the boy could not see, because the next ridge obstructed his view. great clouds of smoke ascended; the forest itself was burning! it was difficult for him to grasp the idea that the fresh, green pines could burn. if it really were the forest that was burning, perhaps the fire might spread all the way over to him. it seemed improbable; but he wished the eagle would soon return. it would be best to be away from this. the mere smell of the smoke which he drew in with every breath was a torture. all at once he heard a terrible crackling and sputtering. it came from the ridge nearest him. there, on the highest point, stood a tall pine like the one in which he sat. a moment before it had been a gorgeous red in the morning light. now all the needles flashed, and the pine caught fire. never before had it looked so beautiful! but this was the last time it could exhibit any beauty, for the pine was the first tree on the ridge to burn. it was impossible to tell how the flames had reached it. had the fire flown on red wings, or crawled along the ground like a snake? it was not easy to say, but there it was at all events. the great pine burned like a birch stem. ah, look! now smoke curled up in many places on the ridge. the forest fire was both bird and snake. it could fly in the air over wide stretches, or steal along the ground. the whole ridge was ablaze! there was a hasty flight of birds that circled up through the smoke like big flakes of soot. they flew across the valley and came to the ridge where the boy sat. a horned owl perched beside him, and on a branch just above him a hen hawk alighted. these would have been dangerous neighbours at any other time, but now they did not even glance in his direction--only stared at the fire. probably they could not make out what was wrong with the forest. a marten ran up the pine to the tip of a branch, and looked at the burning heights. close beside the marten sat a squirrel, but they did not appear to notice each other. now the fire came rushing down the slope, hissing and roaring like a tornado. through the smoke one could see the flames dart from tree to tree. before a branch caught fire it was first enveloped in a thin veil of smoke, then all the needles grew red at one time, and it began to crackle and blaze. in the glen below ran a little brook, bordered by elms and small birches. it appeared as if the flames would halt there. leafy trees are not so ready to take fire as fir trees. the fire did pause as if before a gate that could stop it. it glowed and crackled and tried to leap across the brook to the pine woods on the other side, but could not reach them. for a short time the fire was thus restrained, then it shot a long flame over to the large, dry pine that stood on the slope, and this was soon ablaze. the fire had crossed the brook! the heat was so intense that every tree on the mountain was ready to burn. with the roar and rush of the maddest storm and the wildest torrent the forest fire flew over to the ridge. then the hawk and the owl rose and the marten dashed down the tree. in a few seconds more the fire would reach the top of the pine, and the boy, too, would have to be moving. it was not easy to slide down the long, straight pine trunk. he took as firm a hold of it as he could, and slid in long stretches between the knotty branches; finally he tumbled headlong to the ground. he had no time to find out if he was hurt--only to hurry away. the fire raced down the pine like a raging tempest; the ground under his feet was hot and smouldering. on either side of him ran a lynx and an adder, and right beside the snake fluttered a mother grouse who was hurrying along with her little downy chicks. when the refugees descended the mountain to the glen they met people fighting the fire. they had been there for some time, but the boy had been gazing so intently in the direction of the fire that he had not noticed them before. in this glen there was a brook, bordered by a row of leaf trees, and back of these trees the people worked. they felled the fir trees nearest the elms, dipped water from the brook and poured it over the ground, washing away heather and myrtle to prevent the fire from stealing up to the birch brush. they, too, thought only of the fire which was now rushing toward them. the fleeing animals ran in and out among the men's feet, without attracting attention. no one struck at the adder or tried to catch the mother grouse as she ran back and forth with her little peeping birdlings. they did not even bother about thumbietot. in their hands they held great, charred pine branches which had dropped into the brook, and it appeared as if they intended to challenge the fire with these weapons. there were not many men, and it was strange to see them stand there, ready to fight, when all other living creatures were fleeing. as the fire came roaring and rushing down the slope with its intolerable heat and suffocating smoke, ready to hurl itself over brook and leaf-tree wall in order to reach the opposite shore without having to pause, the people drew back at first as if unable to withstand it; but they did not flee far before they turned back. the conflagration raged with savage force, sparks poured like a rain of fire over the leaf trees, and long tongues of flame shot hissingly out from the smoke, as if the forest on the other side were sucking them in. but the leaf-tree wall was an obstruction behind which the men worked. when the ground began to smoulder they brought water in their vessels and dampened it. when a tree became wreathed in smoke they felled it at once, threw it down and put out the flames. where the fire crept along the heather, they beat it with the wet pine branches and smothered it. the smoke was so dense that it enveloped everything. one could not possibly see how the battle was going, but it was easy enough to understand that it was a hard fight, and that several times the fire came near penetrating farther. but think! after a while the loud roar of the flames decreased, and the smoke cleared. by that time the leaf trees had lost all their foliage, the ground under them was charred, the faces of the men were blackened by smoke and dripping with sweat; but the forest fire was conquered. it had ceased to flame up. soft white smoke crept along the ground, and from it peeped out a lot of black stumps. this was all there was left of the beautiful forest! the boy scrambled up on a rock, so that he might see how the fire had been quenched. but now that the forest was saved, his peril began. the owl and the hawk simultaneously turned their eyes toward him. just then he heard a familiar voice calling to him. gorgo, the golden eagle, came sweeping through the forest, and soon the boy was soaring among the clouds--rescued from every peril. westbottom and lapland the five scouts once, at skansen, the boy had sat under the steps at bollnäs cottage and had overheard clement larsson and the old laplander talk about norrland. both agreed that it was the most beautiful part of sweden. clement thought that the southern part was the best, while the laplander favoured the northern part. as they argued, it became plain that clement had never been farther north than härnösand. the laplander laughed at him for speaking with such assurance of places that he had never seen. "i think i shall have to tell you a story, clement, to give you some idea of lapland, since you have not seen it," volunteered the laplander. "it shall not be said of me that i refuse to listen to a story," retorted clement, and the old laplander began: "it once happened that the birds who lived down in sweden, south of the great saméland, thought that they were overcrowded there and suggested moving northward. "they came together to consider the matter. the young and eager birds wished to start at once, but the older and wiser ones passed a resolution to send scouts to explore the new country. "'let each of the five great bird families send out a scout,' said the old and wise birds, 'to learn if there is room for us all up there--food and hiding places.' "five intelligent and capable birds were immediately appointed by the five great bird families. "the forest birds selected a grouse, the field birds a lark, the sea birds a gull, the fresh-water birds a loon, and the cliff birds a snow sparrow. "when the five chosen ones were ready to start, the grouse, who was the largest and most commanding, said: "'there are great stretches of land ahead. if we travel together, it will be long before we cover all the territory that we must explore. if, on the other hand, we travel singly--each one exploring his special portion of the country--the whole business can be accomplished in a few days.' "the other scouts thought the suggestion a good one, and agreed to act upon it. "it was decided that the grouse should explore the midlands. the lark was to travel to the eastward, the sea gull still farther east, where the land bordered on the sea, while the loon should fly over the territory west of the midlands, and the snow sparrow to the extreme west. "in accordance with this plan, the five birds flew over the whole northland. then they turned back and told the assembly of birds what they had discovered. "the gull, who had travelled along the sea-coast, spoke first. "'the north is a fine country,' he said. 'the sounds are full of fish, and there are points and islands without number. most of these are uninhabited, and the birds will find plenty of room there. the humans do a little fishing and sailing in the sounds, but not enough to disturb the birds. if the sea birds follow my advice, they will move north immediately.' "when the gull had finished, the lark, who had explored the land back from the coast, spoke: "'i don't know what the gull means by his islands and points,' said the lark. i have travelled only over great fields and flowery meadows. i have never before seen a country crossed by some large streams. their shores are dotted with homesteads, and at the mouth of the rivers are cities; but for the most part the country is very desolate. if the field birds follow my advice, they will move north immediately.' "after the lark came the grouse, who had flown over the midlands. "'i know neither what the lark means with his meadows nor the gull with his islands and points,' said he. 'i have seen only pine forests on this whole trip. there are also many rushing streams and great stretches of moss-grown swamp land; but all that is not river or swamp is forest. if the forest birds follow my advice, they will move north immediately.' "after the grouse came the loon, who had explored the borderland to the west. "i don't know what the grouse means by his forests, nor do i know where the eyes of the lark and the gull could have been,' remarked the loon. there's hardly any land up there--only big lakes. between beautiful shores glisten clear, blue mountain lakes, which pour into roaring water-falls. if the fresh-water birds follow my advice, they will move north immediately.' "the last speaker was the snow sparrow, who had flown along the western boundary. "'i don't know what the loon means by his lakes, nor do i know what countries the grouse, the lark, and the gull can have seen,' he said. 'i found one vast mountainous region up north. i didn't run across any fields or any pine forests, but peak after peak and highlands. i have seen ice fields and snow and mountain brooks, with water as white as milk. no farmers nor cattle nor homesteads have i seen, but only lapps and reindeer and huts met my eyes. if the cliff birds follow my advice, they will move north immediately.' "when the five scouts had presented their reports to the assembly, they began to call one another liars, and were ready to fly at each other to prove the truth of their arguments. "but the old and wise birds who had sent them out, listened to their accounts with joy, and calmed their fighting propensities. "'you mustn't quarrel among yourselves,' they said. 'we understand from your reports that up north there are large mountain tracts, a big lake region, great forest lands, a wide plain, and a big group of islands. this is more than we have expected--more than many a mighty kingdom can boast within its borders.'" the moving landscape _saturday, june eighteenth_. the boy had been reminded of the old laplander's story because he himself was now travelling over the country of which he had spoken. the eagle told him that the expanse of coast which spread beneath them was westbottom, and that the blue ridges far to the west were in lapland. only to be once more seated comfortably on gorgo's back, after all that he had suffered during the forest fire, was a pleasure. besides, they were having a fine trip. the flight was so easy that at times it seemed as if they were standing still in the air. the eagle beat and beat his wings, without appearing to move from the spot; on the other hand, everything under them seemed in motion. the whole earth and all things on it moved slowly southward. the forests, the fields, the fences, the rivers, the cities, the islands, the sawmills--all were on the march. the boy wondered whither they were bound. had they grown tired of standing so far north, and wished to move toward the south? amid all the objects in motion there was only one that stood still: that was a railway train. it stood directly under them, for it was with the train as with gorgo--it could not move from the spot. the locomotive sent forth smoke and sparks. the clatter of the wheels could be heard all the way up to the boy, but the train did not seem to move. the forests rushed by; the flag station rushed by; fences and telegraph poles rushed by; but the train stood still. a broad river with a long bridge came toward it, but the river and the bridge glided along under the train with perfect ease. finally a railway station appeared. the station master stood on the platform with his red flag, and moved slowly toward the train. when he waved his little flag, the locomotive belched even darker smoke curls than before, and whistled mournfully because it had to stand still. all of a sudden it began to move toward the south, like everything else. the boy saw all the coach doors open and the passengers step out while both cars and people were moving southward. he glanced away from the earth and tried to look straight ahead. staring at the queer railway train had made him dizzy; but after he had gazed for a moment at a little white cloud, he was tired of that and looked down again--thinking all the while that the eagle and himself were quite still and that everything else was travelling on south. fancy! suppose the grain field just then running along under him--which must have been newly sown for he had seen a green blade on it--were to travel all the way down to skåne where the rye was in full bloom at this season! up here the pine forests were different: the trees were bare, the branches short and the needles were almost black. many trees were bald at the top and looked sickly. if a forest like that were to journey down to kolmården and see a real forest, how inferior it would feel! the gardens which he now saw had some pretty bushes, but no fruit trees or lindens or chestnut trees--only mountain ash and birch. there were some vegetable beds, but they were not as yet hoed or planted. "if such an apology for a garden were to come trailing into sörmland, the province of gardens, wouldn't it think itself a poor wilderness by comparison?" imagine an immense plain like the one now gliding beneath him, coming under the very eyes of the poor småland peasants! they would hurry away from their meagre garden plots and stony fields, to begin plowing and sowing. there was one thing, however, of which this northland had more than other lands, and that was light. night must have set in, for the cranes stood sleeping on the morass; but it was as light as day. the sun had not travelled southward, like every other thing. instead, it had gone so far north that it shone in the boy's face. to all appearance, it had no notion of setting that night. if this light and this sun were only shining on west vemmenhög! it would suit the boy's father and mother to a dot to have a working day that lasted twenty-four hours. _sunday, june nineteenth_. the boy raised his head and looked around, perfectly bewildered. it was mighty queer! here he lay sleeping in some place where he had not been before. no, he had never seen this glen nor the mountains round about; and never had he noticed such puny and shrunken birches as those under which he now lay. where was the eagle? the boy could see no sign of him. gorgo must have deserted him. well, here was another adventure! the boy lay down again, closed his eyes, and tried to recall the circumstances under which he had dropped to sleep. he remembered that as long as he was travelling over westbottom he had fancied that the eagle and he were at a standstill in the air, and that the land under them was moving southward. as the eagle turned northwest, the wind had come from that side, and again he had felt a current of air, so that the land below had stopped moving and he had noticed that the eagle was bearing him onward with terrific speed. "now we are flying into lapland," gorgo had said, and the boy had bent forward, so that he might see the country of which he had heard so much. but he had felt rather disappointed at not seeing anything but great tracts of forest land and wide marshes. forest followed marsh and marsh followed forest. the monotony of the whole finally made him so sleepy that he had nearly dropped to the ground. he said to the eagle that he could not stay on his back another minute, but must sleep awhile. gorgo had promptly swooped to the ground, where the boy had dropped down on a moss tuft. then gorgo put a talon around him and soared into the air with him again. "go to sleep, thumbietot!" he cried. "the sunshine keeps me awake and i want to continue the journey." although the boy hung in this uncomfortable position, he actually dozed and dreamed. he dreamed that he was on a broad road in southern sweden, hurrying along as fast as his little legs could carry him. he was not alone, many wayfarers were tramping in the same direction. close beside him marched grain-filled rye blades, blossoming corn flowers, and yellow daisies. heavily laden apple trees went puffing along, followed by vine-covered bean stalks, big clusters of white daisies, and masses of berry bushes. tall beeches and oaks and lindens strolled leisurely in the middle of the road, their branches swaying, and they stepped aside for none. between the boy's tiny feet darted the little flowers--wild strawberry blossoms, white anemones, clover, and forget-me-nots. at first he thought that only the vegetable family was on the march, but presently he saw that animals and people accompanied them. the insects were buzzing around advancing bushes, the fishes were swimming in moving ditches, the birds were singing in strolling trees. both tame and wild beasts were racing, and amongst all this people moved along--some with spades and scythes, others with axes, and others, again, with fishing nets. the procession marched with gladness and gayety, and he did not wonder at that when he saw who was leading it. it was nothing less than the sun itself that rolled on like a great shining head with hair of many-hued rays and a countenance beaming with merriment and kindliness! "forward, march!" it kept calling out. "none need feel anxious whilst i am here. forward, march!" "i wonder where the sun wants to take us to?" remarked the boy. a rye blade that walked beside him heard him, and immediately answered: "he wants to take us up to lapland to fight the ice witch." presently the boy noticed that some of the travellers hesitated, slowed up, and finally stood quite still. he saw that the tall beech tree stopped, and that the roebuck and the wheat blade tarried by the wayside, likewise the blackberry bush, the little yellow buttercup, the chestnut tree, and the grouse. he glanced about him and tried to reason out why so many stopped. then he discovered that they were no longer in southern sweden. the march had been so rapid that they were already in svealand. up there the oak began to move more cautiously. it paused awhile to consider, took a few faltering steps, then came to a standstill. "why doesn't the oak come along?" asked the boy. "it's afraid of the ice witch," said a fair young birch that tripped along so boldly and cheerfully that it was a joy to watch it. the crowd hurried on as before. in a short time they were in norrland, and now it mattered not how much the sun cried and coaxed--the apple tree stopped, the cherry tree stopped, the rye blade stopped! the boy turned to them and asked: "why don't you come along? why do you desert the sun?" "we dare not! we're afraid of the ice witch, who lives in lapland," they answered. the boy comprehended that they were far north, as the procession grew thinner and thinner. the rye blade, the barley, the wild strawberry, the blueberry bush, the pea stalk, the currant bush had come along as far as this. the elk and the domestic cow had been walking side by side, but now they stopped. the sun no doubt would have been almost deserted if new followers had not happened along. osier bushes and a lot of brushy vegetation joined the procession. laps and reindeer, mountain owl and mountain fox and willow grouse followed. then the boy heard something coming toward them. he saw great rivers and creeks sweeping along with terrible force. "why are they in such a hurry?" he asked. "they are running away from the ice witch, who lives up in the mountains." all of a sudden the boy saw before him a high, dark, turreted wall. instantly the sun turned its beaming face toward this wall and flooded it with light. then it became apparent that it was no wall, but the most glorious mountains, which loomed up--one behind another. their peaks were rose-coloured in the sunlight, their slopes azure and gold-tinted. "onward, onward!" urged the sun as it climbed the steep cliffs. "there's no danger so long as i am with you." but half way up, the bold young birch deserted--also the sturdy pine and the persistent spruce, and there, too, the laplander, and the willow brush deserted. at last, when the sun reached the top, there was no one but the little tot, nils holgersson, who had followed it. the sun rolled into a cave, where the walls were bedecked with ice, and nils holgersson wanted to follow, but farther than the opening of the cave he dared not venture, for in there he saw something dreadful. far back in the cave sat an old witch with an ice body, hair of icicles, and a mantle of snow! at her feet lay three black wolves, who rose and opened their jaws when the sun approached. from the mouth of one came a piercing cold, from the second a blustering north wind, and from the third came impenetrable darkness. "that must be the ice witch and her tribe," thought the boy. he understood that now was the time for him to flee, but he was so curious to see the outcome of the meeting between the sun and the ice witch that he tarried. the ice witch did not move--only turned her hideous face toward the sun. this continued for a short time. it appeared to the boy that the witch was beginning to sigh and tremble. her snow mantle fell, and the three ferocious wolves howled less savagely. suddenly the sun cried: "now my time is up!" and rolled out of the cave. then the ice witch let loose her three wolves. instantly the north wind, cold, and darkness rushed from the cave and began to chase the sun. "drive him out! drive him back!" shrieked the ice witch. "chase him so far that he can never come back! teach him that lapland is mine!" but nils holgersson felt so unhappy when he saw that the sun was to be driven from lapland that he awakened with a cry. when he recovered his senses, he found himself at the bottom of a ravine. but where was gorgo? how was he to find out where he himself was? he arose and looked all around him. then he happened to glance upward and saw a peculiar structure of pine twigs and branches that stood on a cliff-ledge. "that must be one of those eagle nests that gorgo--" but this was as far as he got. he tore off his cap, waved it in the air, and cheered. now he understood where gorgo had brought him. this was the very glen where the wild geese lived in summer, and just above it was the eagles' cliff. he had arrived! he would meet morten goosey-gander and akka and all the other comrades in a few moments. hurrah! the meeting all was still in the glen. the sun had not yet stepped above the cliffs, and nils holgersson knew that it was too early in the morning for the geese to be awake. the boy walked along leisurely and searched for his friends. before he had gone very far, he paused with a smile, for he saw such a pretty sight. a wild goose was sleeping in a neat little nest, and beside her stood her goosey-gander. he too, slept, but it was obvious that he had stationed himself thus near her that he might be on hand in the possible event of danger. the boy went on without disturbing them and peeped into the willow brush that covered the ground. it was not long before he spied another goose couple. these were strangers, not of his flock, but he was so happy that he began to hum--just because he had come across wild geese. he peeped into another bit of brushwood. there at last he saw two that were familiar. it was certainly neljä that was nesting there, and the goosey-gander who stood beside her was surely kolme. why, of course! the boy had a good mind to awaken them, but he let them sleep on, and walked away. in the next brush he saw viisi and kuusi, and not far from them he found yksi and kaksi. all four were asleep, and the boy passed by without disturbing them. as he approached the next brush, he thought he saw something white shimmering among the bushes, and the heart of him thumped with joy. yes, it was as he expected. in there sat the dainty dunfin on an egg-filled nest. beside her stood her white goosey-gander. although he slept, it was easy to see how proud he was to watch over his wife up here among the lapland mountains. the boy did not care to waken the goosey-gander, so he walked on. he had to seek a long time before he came across any more wild geese. finally, he saw on a little hillock something that resembled a small, gray moss tuft, and he knew that there was akka from kebnekaise. she stood, wide awake, looking about as if she were keeping watch over the whole glen. "good morning, mother akka!" said the boy. "please don't waken the other geese yet awhile, for i wish to speak with you in private." the old leader-goose came rushing down the hill and up to the boy. first she seized hold of him and shook him, then she stroked him with her bill before she shook him again. but she did not say a word, since he asked her not to waken the others. thumbietot kissed old mother akka on both cheeks, then he told her how he had been carried off to skansen and held captive there. "now i must tell you that smirre fox, short of an ear, sat imprisoned in the foxes' cage at skansen," said the boy. "although he was very mean to us, i couldn't help feeling sorry for him. there were many other foxes in the cage; and they seemed quite contented there, but smirre sat all the while looking dejected, longing for liberty. "i made many good friends at skansen, and i learned one day from the lapp dog that a man had come to skansen to buy foxes. he was from some island far out in the ocean. all the foxes had been exterminated there, and the rats were about to get the better of the inhabitants, so they wished the foxes back again. "as soon as i learned of this, i went to smirre's cage and said to him: "'to-morrow some men are coming here to get a pair of foxes. don't hide, smirre, but keep well in the foreground and see to it that you are chosen. then you'll be free again.' "he followed my suggestion, and now he is running at large on the island. what say you to this, mother akka? if you had been in my place, would you not have done likewise?" "you have acted in a way that makes me wish i had done that myself," said the leader-goose proudly. "it's a relief to know that you approve," said the boy. "now there is one thing more i wish to ask you about: "one day i happened to see gorgo, the eagle--the one that fought with morten goosey-gander--a prisoner at skansen. he was in the eagles' cage and looked pitifully forlorn. i was thinking of filing down the wire roof over him and letting him out, but i also thought of his being a dangerous robber and bird-eater, and wondered if i should be doing right in letting loose such a plunderer, and if it were not better, perhaps, to let him stay where he was. what say you, mother akka? was it right to think thus?" "no, it was not right!" retorted akka. "say what you will about the eagles, they are proud birds and greater lovers of freedom than all others. it is not right to keep them in captivity. do you know what i would suggest? this: that, as soon as you are well rested, we two make the trip together to the big bird prison, and liberate gorgo." "that is just the word i was expecting from you, mother akka," returned the boy eagerly. "there are those who say that you no longer have any love in your heart for the one you reared so tenderly, because he lives as eagles must live. but i know now that it isn't true. and now i want to see if morten goosey-gander is awake. "meanwhile, if you wish to say a 'thank you' to the one who brought me here to you, i think you'll find him up there on the cliff ledge, where once you found a helpless eaglet." osa, the goose girl, and little mats the year that nils holgersson travelled with the wild geese everybody was talking about two little children, a boy and a girl, who tramped through the country. they were from sunnerbo township, in småland, and had once lived with their parents and four brothers and sisters in a little cabin on the heath. while the two children, osa and mats, were still small, a poor, homeless woman came to their cabin one night and begged for shelter. although the place could hardly hold the family, she was taken in and the mother spread a bed for her on the floor. in the night she coughed so hard that the children fancied the house shook. by morning she was too ill to continue her wanderings. the children's father and mother were as kind to her as could be. they gave up their bed to her and slept on the floor, while the father went to the doctor and brought her medicine. the first few days the sick woman behaved like a savage; she demanded constant attention and never uttered a word of thanks. later she became more subdued and finally begged to be carried out to the heath and left there to die. when her hosts would not hear of this, she told them that the last few years she had roamed about with a band of gipsies. she herself was not of gipsy blood, but was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer. she had run away from home and gone with the nomads. she believed that a gipsy woman who was angry at her had brought this sickness upon her. nor was that all: the gipsy woman had also cursed her, saying that all who took her under their roof or were kind to her should suffer a like fate. she believed this, and therefore begged them to cast her out of the house and never to see her again. she did not want to bring misfortune down upon such good people. but the peasants refused to do her bidding. it was quite possible that they were alarmed, but they were not the kind of folk who could turn out a poor, sick person. soon after that she died, and then along came the misfortunes. before, there had never been anything but happiness in that cabin. its inmates were poor, yet not so very poor. the father was a maker of weavers' combs, and mother and children helped him with the work. father made the frames, mother and the older children did the binding, while the smaller ones planed the teeth and cut them out. they worked from morning until night, but the time passed pleasantly, especially when father talked of the days when he travelled about in foreign lands and sold weavers' combs. father was so jolly that sometimes mother and the children would laugh until their sides ached at his funny quips and jokes. the weeks following the death of the poor vagabond woman lingered in the minds of the children like a horrible nightmare. they knew not if the time had been long or short, but they remembered that they were always having funerals at home. one after another they lost their brothers and sisters. at last it was very still and sad in the cabin. the mother kept up some measure of courage, but the father was not a bit like himself. he could no longer work nor jest, but sat from morning till night, his head buried in his hands, and only brooded. once--that was after the third burial--the father had broken out into wild talk, which frightened the children. he said that he could not understand why such misfortunes should come upon them. they had done a kindly thing in helping the sick woman. could it be true, then, that the evil in this world was more powerful than the good? the mother tried to reason with him, but she was unable to soothe him. a few days later the eldest was stricken. she had always been the father's favourite, so when he realized that she, too, must go, he fled from all the misery. the mother never said anything, but she thought it was best for him to be away, as she feared that he might lose his reason. he had brooded too long over this one idea: that god had allowed a wicked person to bring about so much evil. after the father went away they became very poor. for awhile he sent them money, but afterward things must have gone badly with him, for no more came. the day of the eldest daughter's burial the mother closed the cabin and left home with the two remaining children, osa and mats. she went down to skåne to work in the beet fields, and found a place at the jordberga sugar refinery. she was a good worker and had a cheerful and generous nature. everybody liked her. many were astonished because she could be so calm after all that she had passed through, but the mother was very strong and patient. when any one spoke to her of her two sturdy children, she only said: "i shall soon lose them also," without a quaver in her voice or a tear in her eye. she had accustomed herself to expect nothing else. but it did not turn out as she feared. instead, the sickness came upon herself. she had gone to skane in the beginning of summer; before autumn she was gone, and the children were left alone. while their mother was ill she had often said to the children they must remember that she never regretted having let the sick woman stop with them. it was not hard to die when one had done right, she said, for then one could go with a clear conscience. before the mother passed away, she tried to make some provision for her children. she asked the people with whom she lived to let them remain in the room which she had occupied. if the children only had a shelter they would not become a burden to any one. she knew that they could take care of themselves. osa and mats were allowed to keep the room on condition that they would tend the geese, as it was always hard to find children willing to do that work. it turned out as the mother expected: they did maintain themselves. the girl made candy, and the boy carved wooden toys, which they sold at the farm houses. they had a talent for trading and soon began buying eggs and butter from the farmers, which they sold to the workers at the sugar refinery. osa was the older, and, by the time she was thirteen, she was as responsible as a grown woman. she was quiet and serious, while mats was lively and talkative. his sister used to say to him that he could outcackle the geese. when the children had been at jordberga for two years, there was a lecture given one evening at the schoolhouse. evidently it was meant for grown-ups, but the two småland children were in the audience. they did not regard themselves as children, and few persons thought of them as such. the lecturer talked about the dread disease called the white plague, which every year carried off so many people in sweden. he spoke very plainly and the children understood every word. after the lecture they waited outside the schoolhouse. when the lecturer came out they took hold of hands and walked gravely up to him, asking if they might speak to him. the stranger must have wondered at the two rosy, baby-faced children standing there talking with an earnestness more in keeping with people thrice their age; but he listened graciously to them. they related what had happened in their home, and asked the lecturer if he thought their mother and their sisters and brothers had died of the sickness he had described. "very likely," he answered. "it could hardly have been any other disease." if only the mother and father had known what the children learned that evening, they might have protected themselves. if they had burned the clothing of the vagabond woman; if they had scoured and aired the cabin and had not used the old bedding, all whom the children mourned might have been living yet. the lecturer said he could not say positively, but he believed that none of their dear ones would have been sick had they understood how to guard against the infection. osa and mats waited awhile before putting the next question, for that was the most important of all. it was not true then that the gipsy woman had sent the sickness because they had befriended the one with whom she was angry. it was not something special that had stricken only them. the lecturer assured them that no person had the power to bring sickness upon another in that way. thereupon the children thanked him and went to their room. they talked until late that night. the next day they gave notice that they could not tend geese another year, but must go elsewhere. where were they going? why, to try to find their father. they must tell him that their mother and the other children had died of a common ailment and not something special brought upon them by an angry person. they were very glad that they had found out about this. now it was their duty to tell their father of it, for probably he was still trying to solve the mystery. osa and mats set out for their old home on the heath. when they arrived they were shocked to find the little cabin in flames. they went to the parsonage and there they learned that a railroad workman had seen their father at malmberget, far up in lapland. he had been working in a mine and possibly was still there. when the clergyman heard that the children wanted to go in search of their father he brought forth a map and showed them how far it was to malmberget and tried to dissuade them from making the journey, but the children insisted that they must find their father. he had left home believing something that was not true. they must find him and tell him that it was all a mistake. they did not want to spend their little savings buying railway tickets, therefore they decided to go all the way on foot, which they never regretted, as it proved to be a remarkably beautiful journey. before they were out of småland, they stopped at a farm house to buy food. the housewife was a kind, motherly soul who took an interest in the children. she asked them who they were and where they came from, and they told her their story. "dear, dear! dear, dear!" she interpolated time and again when they were speaking. later she petted the children and stuffed them with all kinds of goodies, for which she would not accept a penny. when they rose to thank her and go, the woman asked them to stop at her brother's farm in the next township. of course the children were delighted. "give him my greetings and tell him what has happened to you," said the peasant woman. this the children did and were well treated. from every farm after that it was always: "if you happen to go in such and such a direction, stop there or there and tell them what has happened to you." in every farm house to which they were sent there was always a consumptive. so osa and mats went through the country unconsciously teaching the people how to combat that dreadful disease. long, long ago, when the black plague was ravaging the country, 'twas said that a boy and a girl were seen wandering from house to house. the boy carried a rake, and if he stopped and raked in front of a house, it meant that there many should die, but not all; for the rake has coarse teeth and does not take everything with it. the girl carried a broom, and if she came along and swept before a door, it meant that all who lived within must die; for the broom is an implement that makes a clean sweep. it seems quite remarkable that in our time two children should wander through the land because of a cruel sickness. but these children did not frighten people with the rake and the broom. they said rather: "we will not content ourselves with merely raking the yard and sweeping the floors, we will use mop and brush, water and soap. we will keep clean inside and outside of the door and we ourselves will be clean in both mind and body. in this way we will conquer the sickness." one day, while still in lapland, akka took the boy to malmberget, where they discovered little mats lying unconscious at the mouth of the pit. he and osa had arrived there a short time before. that morning he had been roaming about, hoping to come across his father. he had ventured too near the shaft and been hurt by flying rocks after the setting off of a blast. thumbietot ran to the edge of the shaft and called down to the miners that a little boy was injured. immediately a number of labourers came rushing up to little mats. two of them carried him to the hut where he and osa were staying. they did all they could to save him, but it was too late. thumbietot felt so sorry for poor osa. he wanted to help and comfort her; but he knew that if he were to go to her now, he would only frighten her--such as he was! the night after the burial of little mats, osa straightway shut herself in her hut. she sat alone recalling, one after another, things her brother had said and done. there was so much to think about that she did not go straight to bed, but sat up most of the night. the more she thought of her brother the more she realized how hard it would be to live without him. at last she dropped her head on the table and wept. "what shall i do now that little mats is gone?" she sobbed. it was far along toward morning and osa, spent by the strain of her hard day, finally fell asleep. she dreamed that little mats softly opened the door and stepped into the room. "osa, you must go and find father," he said. "how can i when i don't even know where he is?" she replied in her dream. "don't worry about that," returned little mats in his usual, cheery way. "i'll send some one to help you." just as osa, the goose girl, dreamed that little mats had said this, there was a knock at the door. it was a real knock--not something she heard in the dream, but she was so held by the dream that she could not tell the real from the unreal. as she went on to open the door, she thought: "this must be the person little mats promised to send me." she was right, for it was thumbietot come to talk to her about her father. when he saw that she was not afraid of him, he told her in a few words where her father was and how to reach him. while he was speaking, osa, the goose girl, gradually regained consciousness; when he had finished she was wide awake. then she was so terrified at the thought of talking with an elf that she could not say thank you or anything else, but quickly shut the door. as she did that she thought she saw an expression of pain flash across the elf's face, but she could not help what she did, for she was beside herself with fright. she crept into bed as quickly as she could and drew the covers over her head. although she was afraid of the elf, she had a feeling that he meant well by her. so the next day she made haste to do as he had told her. with the laplanders one afternoon in july it rained frightfully up around lake luossajaure. the laplanders, who lived mostly in the open during the summer, had crawled under the tent and were squatting round the fire drinking coffee. the new settlers on the east shore of the lake worked diligently to have their homes in readiness before the severe arctic winter set in. they wondered at the laplanders, who had lived in the far north for centuries without even thinking that better protection was needed against cold and storm than thin tent covering. the laplanders, on the other hand, wondered at the new settlers giving themselves so much needless, hard work, when nothing more was necessary to live comfortably than a few reindeer and a tent. they only had to drive the poles into the ground and spread the covers over them, and their abodes were ready. they did not have to trouble themselves about decorating or furnishing. the principal thing was to scatter some spruce twigs on the floor, spread a few skins, and hang the big kettle, in which they cooked their reindeer meat, on a chain suspended from the top of the tent poles. while the laplanders were chatting over their coffee cups, a row boat coming from the kiruna side pulled ashore at the lapps' quarters. a workman and a young girl, between thirteen and fourteen, stepped from the boat. the girl was osa. the lapp dogs bounded down to them, barking loudly, and a native poked his head out of the tent opening to see what was going on. he was glad when he saw the workman, for he was a friend of the laplanders--a kindly and sociable man, who could speak their native tongue. the lapp called to him to crawl under the tent. "you're just in time, söderberg!" he said. "the coffee pot is on the fire. no one can do any work in this rain, so come in and tell us the news." the workman went in, and, with much ado and amid a great deal of laughter and joking, places were made for söderberg and osa, though the tent was already crowded to the limit with natives. osa understood none of the conversation. she sat dumb and looked in wonderment at the kettle and coffee pot; at the fire and smoke; at the lapp men and lapp women; at the children and dogs; the walls and floor; the coffee cups and tobacco pipes; the multi-coloured costumes and crude implements. all this was new to her. suddenly she lowered her glance, conscious that every one in the tent was looking at her. söderberg must have said something about her, for now both lapp men and lapp women took the short pipes from their mouths and stared at her in open-eyed wonder and awe. the laplander at her side patted her shoulder and nodded, saying in swedish, "bra, bra!" (good, good!) a lapp woman filled a cup to the brim with coffee and passed it under difficulties, while a lapp boy, who was about her own age, wriggled and crawled between the squatters over to her. osa felt that söderberg was telling the laplanders that she had just buried her little brother, mats. she wished he would find out about her father instead. the elf had said that he lived with the lapps, who camped west of lake luossajaure, and she had begged leave to ride up on a sand truck to seek him, as no regular passenger trains came so far. both labourers and foremen had assisted her as best they could. an engineer had sent söderberg across the lake with her, as he spoke lappish. she had hoped to meet her father as soon as she arrived. her glance wandered anxiously from face to face, but she saw only natives. her father was not there. she noticed that the lapps and the swede, söderberg, grew more and more earnest as they talked among themselves. the lapps shook their heads and tapped their foreheads, as if they were speaking of some one that was not quite right in his mind. she became so uneasy that she could no longer endure the suspense and asked söderberg what the laplanders knew of her father. "they say he has gone fishing," said the workman. "they're not sure that he can get back to the camp to-night; but as soon as the weather clears, one of them will go in search of him." thereupon he turned to the lapps and went on talking to them. he did not wish to give osa an opportunity to question him further about jon esserson. the next morning ola serka himself, who was the most distinguished man among the lapps, had said that he would find osa's father, but he appeared to be in no haste and sat huddled outside the tent, thinking of jon esserson and wondering how best to tell him of his daughter's arrival. it would require diplomacy in order that jon esserson might not become alarmed and flee. he was an odd sort of man who was afraid of children. he used to say that the sight of them made him so melancholy that he could not endure it. while ola serka deliberated, osa, the goose girl, and aslak, the young lapp boy who had stared so hard at her the night before, sat on the ground in front of the tent and chatted. aslak had been to school and could speak swedish. he was telling osa about the life of the "saméfolk," assuring her that they fared better than other people. osa thought that they lived wretchedly, and told him so. "you don't know what you are talking about!" said aslak curtly. "only stop with us a week and you shall see that we are the happiest people on earth." "if i were to stop here a whole week, i should be choked by all the smoke in the tent," osa retorted. "don't say that!" protested the boy. "you know nothing of us. let me tell you something which will make you understand that the longer you stay with us the more contented you will become." thereupon aslak began to tell osa how a sickness called "the black plague" once raged throughout the land. he was not certain as to whether it had swept through the real "saméland," where they now were, but in jämtland it had raged so brutally that among the saméfolk, who lived in the forests and mountains there, all had died except a boy of fifteen. among the swedes, who lived in the valleys, none was left but a girl, who was also fifteen years old. the boy and girl separately tramped the desolate country all winter in search of other human beings. finally, toward spring, the two met. aslak continued: "the swedish girl begged the lapp boy to accompany her southward, where she could meet people of her own race. she did not wish to tarry longer in jämtland, where there were only vacant homesteads. i'll take you wherever you wish to go,' said the boy, 'but not before winter. it's spring now, and my reindeer go westward toward the mountains. you know that we who are of the saméfolk must go where our reindeer take us.' the swedish girl was the daughter of wealthy parents. she was used to living under a roof, sleeping in a bed, and eating at a table. she had always despised the poor mountaineers and thought that those who lived under the open sky were most unfortunate; but she was afraid to return to her home, where there were none but the dead. 'at least let me go with you to the mountains,' she said to the boy, 'so that i sha'n't have to tramp about here all alone and never hear the sound of a human voice.' "the boy willingly assented, so the girl went with the reindeer to the mountains. "the herd yearned for the good pastures there, and every day tramped long distances to feed on the moss. there was not time to pitch tents. the children had to lie on the snowy ground and sleep when the reindeer stopped to graze. the girl often sighed and complained of being so tired that she must turn back to the valley. nevertheless she went along to avoid being left without human companionship. "when they reached the highlands the boy pitched a tent for the girl on a pretty hill that sloped toward a mountain brook. "in the evening he lassoed and milked the reindeer, and gave the girl milk to drink. he brought forth dried reindeer meat and reindeer cheese, which his people had stowed away on the heights when they were there the summer before. "still the girl grumbled all the while, and was never satisfied. she would eat neither reindeer meat nor reindeer cheese, nor would she drink reindeer milk. she could not accustom herself to squatting in the tent or to lying on the ground with only a reindeer skin and some spruce twigs for a bed. "the son of the mountains laughed at her woes and continued to treat her kindly. "after a few days, the girl went up to the boy when he was milking and asked if she might help him. she next undertook to make the fire under the kettle, in which the reindeer meat was to be cooked, then to carry water and to make cheese. so the time passed pleasantly. the weather was mild and food was easily procured. together they set snares for game, fished for salmon-trout in the rapids and picked cloud-berries in the swamp. "when the summer was gone, they moved farther down the mountains, where pine and leaf forests meet. there they pitched their tent. they had to work hard every day, but fared better, for food was even more plentiful than in the summer because of the game. "when the snow came and the lakes began to freeze, they drew farther east toward the dense pine forests. "as soon as the tent was up, the winter's work began. the boy taught the girl to make twine from reindeer sinews, to treat skins, to make shoes and clothing of hides, to make combs and tools of reindeer horn, to travel on skis, and to drive a sledge drawn by reindeer. "when they had lived through the dark winter and the sun began to shine all day and most of the night, the boy said to the girl that now he would accompany her southward, so that she might meet some of her own race. "then the girl looked at him astonished. "'why do you want to send me away?' she asked. 'do you long to be alone with your reindeer?' "'i thought that you were the one that longed to get away?' said the boy. "'i have lived the life of the saméfolk almost a year now,' replied the girl. i can't return to my people and live the shut-in life after having wandered freely on mountains and in forests. don't drive me away, but let me stay here. your way of living is better than ours.' "the girl stayed with the boy for the rest of her life, and never again did she long for the valleys. and you, osa, if you were to stay with us only a month, you could never again part from us." with these words, aslak, the lapp boy, finished his story. just then his father, ola serka, took the pipe from his mouth and rose. old ola understood more swedish than he was willing to have any one know, and he had overheard his son's remarks. while he was listening, it had suddenly flashed on him how he should handle this delicate matter of telling jon esserson that his daughter had come in search of him. ola serka went down to lake luossajaure and had walked a short distance along the strand, when he happened upon a man who sat on a rock fishing. the fisherman was gray-haired and bent. his eyes blinked wearily and there was something slack and helpless about him. he looked like a man who had tried to carry a burden too heavy for him, or to solve a problem too difficult for him, who had become broken and despondent over his failure. "you must have had luck with your fishing, jon, since you've been at it all night?" said the mountaineer in lappish, as he approached. the fisherman gave a start, then glanced up. the bait on his hook was gone and not a fish lay on the strand beside him. he hastened to rebait the hook and throw out the line. in the meantime the mountaineer squatted on the grass beside him. "there's a matter that i wanted to talk over with you," said ola. "you know that i had a little daughter who died last winter, and we have always missed her in the tent." "yes, i know," said the fisherman abruptly, a cloud passing over his face--as though he disliked being reminded of a dead child. "it's not worth while to spend one's life grieving," said the laplander. "i suppose it isn't." "now i'm thinking of adopting another child. don't you think it would be a good idea?" "that depends on the child, ola." "i will tell you what i know of the girl," said ola. then he told the fisherman that around midsummer-time, two strange children--a boy and a girl--had come to the mines to look for their father, but as their father was away, they had stayed to await his return. while there, the boy had been killed by a blast of rock. thereupon ola gave a beautiful description of how brave the little girl had been, and of how she had won the admiration and sympathy of everyone. "is that the girl you want to take into your tent?" asked the fisherman. "yes," returned the lapp. "when we heard her story we were all deeply touched and said among ourselves that so good a sister would also make a good daughter, and we hoped that she would come to us." the fisherman sat quietly thinking a moment. it was plain that he continued the conversation only to please his friend, the lapp. "i presume the girl is one of your race?" "no," said ola, "she doesn't belong to the saméfolk." "perhaps she's the daughter of some new settler and is accustomed to the life here?" "no, she's from the far south," replied ola, as if this was of small importance. the fisherman grew more interested. "then i don't believe that you can take her," he said. "it's doubtful if she could stand living in a tent in winter, since she was not brought up that way." "she will find kind parents and kind brothers and sisters in the tent," insisted ola serka. "it's worse to be alone than to freeze." the fisherman became more and more zealous to prevent the adoption. it seemed as if he could not bear the thought of a child of swedish parents being taken in by laplanders. "you said just now that she had a father in the mine." "he's dead," said the lapp abruptly. "i suppose you have thoroughly investigated this matter, ola?" "what's the use of going to all that trouble?" disdained the lapp. "i ought to know! would the girl and her brother have been obliged to roam about the country if they had a father living? would two children have been forced to care for themselves if they had a father? the girl herself thinks he's alive, but i say that he must be dead." the man with the tired eyes turned to ola. "what is the girl's name, ola?" he asked. the mountaineer thought awhile, then said: "i can't remember it. i must ask her." "ask her! is she already here?" "she's down at the camp." "what, ola! have you taken her in before knowing her father's wishes?" "what do i care for her father! if he isn't dead, he's probably the kind of man who cares nothing for his child. he may be glad to have another take her in hand." the fisherman threw down his rod and rose with an alertness in his movements that bespoke new life. "i don't think her father can be like other folk," continued the mountaineer. "i dare say he is a man who is haunted by gloomy forebodings and therefore can not work steadily. what kind of a father would that be for the girl?" while ola was talking the fisherman started up the strand. "where are you going?" queried the lapp. "i'm going to have a look at your foster-daughter, ola." "good!" said the lapp. "come along and meet her. i think you'll say that she will be a good daughter to me." the swede rushed on so rapidly that the laplander could hardly keep pace with him. after a moment ola said to his companion: "now i recall that her name is osa--this girl i'm adopting." the other man only kept hurrying along and old ola serka was so well pleased that he wanted to laugh aloud. when they came in sight of the tents, ola said a few words more. "she came here to us saméfolk to find her father and not to become my foster-child. but if she doesn't find him, i shall be glad to keep her in my tent." the fisherman hastened all the faster. "i might have known that he would be alarmed when i threatened to take his daughter into the lapps' quarters," laughed ola to himself. when the man from kiruna, who had brought osa to the tent, turned back later in the day, he had two people with him in the boat, who sat close together, holding hands--as if they never again wanted to part. they were jon esserson and his daughter. both were unlike what they had been a few hours earlier. the father looked less bent and weary and his eyes were clear and good, as if at last he had found the answer to that which had troubled him so long. osa, the goose girl, did not glance longingly about, for she had found some one to care for her, and now she could be a child again. homeward bound! the first travelling day _saturday, october first_. the boy sat on the goosey-gander's back and rode up amongst the clouds. some thirty geese, in regular order, flew rapidly southward. there was a rustling of feathers and the many wings beat the air so noisily that one could scarcely hear one's own voice. akka from kebnekaise flew in the lead; after her came yksi and kaksi, kolme and neljä, viisi and kuusi, morten goosey-gander and dunfin. the six goslings which had accompanied the flock the autumn before had now left to look after themselves. instead, the old geese were taking with them twenty-two goslings that had grown up in the glen that summer. eleven flew to the right, eleven to the left; and they did their best to fly at even distances, like the big birds. the poor youngsters had never before been on a long trip and at first they had difficulty in keeping up with the rapid flight. "akka from kebnekaise! akka from kebnekaise!" they cried in plaintive tones. "what's the matter?" said the leader-goose sharply. "our wings are tired of moving, our wings are tired of moving!" wailed the young ones. "the longer you keep it up, the better it will go," answered the leader-goose, without slackening her speed. and she was quite right, for when the goslings had flown two hours longer, they complained no more of being tired. but in the mountain glen they had been in the habit of eating all day long, and very soon they began to feel hungry. "akka, akka, akka from kebnekaise!" wailed the goslings pitifully. "what's the trouble now?" asked the leader-goose. "we're so hungry, we can't fly any more!" whimpered the goslings. "we're so hungry, we can't fly any more!" "wild geese must learn to eat air and drink wind," said the leader-goose, and kept right on flying. it actually seemed as if the young ones were learning to live on wind and air, for when they had flown a little longer, they said nothing more about being hungry. the goose flock was still in the mountain regions, and the old geese called out the names of all the peaks as they flew past, so that the youngsters might learn them. when they had been calling out a while: "this is porsotjokko, this is särjaktjokko, this is sulitelma," and so on, the goslings became impatient again. "akka, akka, akka!" they shrieked in heart-rending tones. "what's wrong?" said the leader-goose. "we haven't room in our heads for any more of those awful names!" shrieked the goslings. "the more you put into your heads the more you can get into them," retorted the leader-goose, and continued to call out the queer names. the boy sat thinking that it was about time the wild geese betook themselves southward, for so much snow had fallen that the ground was white as far as the eye could see. there was no use denying that it had been rather disagreeable in the glen toward the last. rain and fog had succeeded each other without any relief, and even if it did clear up once in a while, immediately frost set in. berries and mushrooms, upon which the boy had subsisted during the summer, were either frozen or decayed. finally he had been compelled to eat raw fish, which was something he disliked. the days had grown short and the long evenings and late mornings were rather tiresome for one who could not sleep the whole time that the sun was away. now, at last, the goslings' wings had grown, so that the geese could start for the south. the boy was so happy that he laughed and sang as he rode on the goose's back. it was not only on account of the darkness and cold that he longed to get away from lapland; there were other reasons too. the first weeks of his sojourn there the boy had not been the least bit homesick. he thought he had never before seen such a glorious country. the only worry he had had was to keep the mosquitoes from eating him up. the boy had seen very little of the goosey-gander, because the big, white gander thought only of his dunfin and was unwilling to leave her for a moment. on the other hand, thumbietot had stuck to akka and gorgo, the eagle, and the three of them had passed many happy hours together. the two birds had taken him with them on long trips. he had stood on snow-capped mount kebnekaise, had looked down at the glaciers and visited many high cliffs seldom tramped by human feet. akka had shown him deep-hidden mountain dales and had let him peep into caves where mother wolves brought up their young. he had also made the acquaintance of the tame reindeer that grazed in herds along the shores of the beautiful torne lake, and he had been down to the great falls and brought greetings to the bears that lived thereabouts from their friends and relatives in westmanland. ever since he had seen osa, the goose girl, he longed for the day when he might go home with morten goosey-gander and be a normal human being once more. he wanted to be himself again, so that osa would not be afraid to talk to him and would not shut the door in his face. yes, indeed, he was glad that at last they were speeding southward. he waved his cap and cheered when he saw the first pine forest. in the same manner he greeted the first gray cabin, the first goat, the first cat, and the first chicken. they were continually meeting birds of passage, flying now in greater flocks than in the spring. "where are you bound for, wild geese?" called the passing birds. "where are you bound for?" "we, like yourselves, are going abroad," answered the geese. "those goslings of yours aren't ready to fly," screamed the others. "they'll never cross the sea with those puny wings!" laplander and reindeer were also leaving the mountains. when the wild geese sighted the reindeer, they circled down and called out: "thanks for your company this summer!" "a pleasant journey to you and a welcome back!" returned the reindeer. but when the bears saw the wild geese, they pointed them out to the cubs and growled: "just look at those geese; they are so afraid of a little cold they don't dare to stay at home in winter." but the old geese were ready with a retort and cried to their goslings: "look at those beasts that stay at home and sleep half the year rather than go to the trouble of travelling south!" down in the pine forest the young grouse sat huddled together and gazed longingly after the big bird flocks which, amid joy and merriment, proceeded southward. "when will our turn come?" they asked the mother grouse. "you will have to stay at home with mamma and papa," she said. legends from hÄrjedalen _tuesday, october fourth_. the boy had had three days' travel in the rain and mist and longed for some sheltered nook, where he might rest awhile. at last the geese alighted to feed and ease their wings a bit. to his great relief the boy saw an observation tower on a hill close by, and dragged himself to it. when he had climbed to the top of the tower he found a party of tourists there, so he quickly crawled into a dark corner and was soon sound asleep. when the boy awoke, he began to feel uneasy because the tourists lingered so long in the tower telling stories. he thought they would never go. morten goosey-gander could not come for him while they were there and he knew, of course, that the wild geese were in a hurry to continue the journey. in the middle of a story he thought he heard honking and the beating of wings, as if the geese were flying away, but he did not dare to venture over to the balustrade to find out if it was so. at last, when the tourists were gone, and the boy could crawl from his hiding place, he saw no wild geese, and no morten goosey-gander came to fetch him. he called, "here am i, where are you?" as loud as he could, but his travelling companions did not appear. not for a second did he think they had deserted him; but he feared that they had met with some mishap and was wondering what he should do to find them, when bataki, the raven, lit beside him. the boy never dreamed that he should greet bataki with such a glad welcome as he now gave him. "dear bataki," he burst forth. "how fortunate that you are here! maybe you know what has become of morten goosey-gander and the wild geese?" "i've just come with a greeting from them," replied the raven. "akka saw a hunter prowling about on the mountain and therefore dared not stay to wait for you, but has gone on ahead. get up on my back and you shall soon be with your friends." the boy quickly seated himself on the raven's back and bataki would soon have caught up with the geese had he not been hindered by a fog. it was as if the morning sun had awakened it to life. little light veils of mist rose suddenly from the lake, from fields, and from the forest. they thickened and spread with marvellous rapidity, and soon the entire ground was hidden from sight by white, rolling mists. bataki flew along above the fog in clear air and sparkling sunshine, but the wild geese must have circled down among the damp clouds, for it was impossible to sight them. the boy and the raven called and shrieked, but got no response. "well, this is a stroke of ill luck!" said bataki finally. "but we know that they are travelling toward the south, and of course i'll find them as soon as the mist clears." the boy was distressed at the thought of being parted from morten goosey-gander just now, when the geese were on the wing, and the big white one might meet with all sorts of mishaps. after thumbietot had been sitting worrying for two hours or more, he remarked to himself that, thus far, there had been no mishap, and it was not worth while to lose heart. just then he heard a rooster crowing down on the ground, and instantly he bent forward on the raven's back and called out: "what's the name of the country i'm travelling over?" "it's called härjedalen, härjedalen, härjedalen," crowed the rooster. "how does it look down there where you are?" the boy asked. "cliffs in the west, woods in the east, broad valleys across the whole country," replied the rooster. "thank you," cried the boy. "you give a clear account of it." when they had travelled a little farther, he heard a crow cawing down in the mist. "what kind of people live in this country?" shouted the boy. "good, thrifty peasants," answered the crow. "good, thrifty peasants." "what do they do?" asked the boy. "what do they do?" "they raise cattle and fell forests," cawed the crow. "thanks," replied the boy. "you answer well." a bit farther on he heard a human voice yodeling and singing down in the mist. "is there any large city in this part of the country?" the boy asked. "what--what--who is it that calls?" cried the human voice. "is there any large city in this region?" the boy repeated. "i want to know who it is that calls," shouted the human voice. "i might have known that i could get no information when i asked a human being a civil question," the boy retorted. it was not long before the mist went away as suddenly as it had come. then the boy saw a beautiful landscape, with high cliffs as in jämtland, but there were no large, flourishing settlements on the mountain slopes. the villages lay far apart, and the farms were small. bataki followed the stream southward till they came within sight of a village. there he alighted in a stubble field and let the boy dismount. "in the summer grain grew on this ground," said bataki. "look around and see if you can't find something eatable." the boy acted upon the suggestion and before long he found a blade of wheat. as he picked out the grains and ate them, bataki talked to him. "do you see that mountain towering directly south of us?" he asked. "yes, of course, i see it," said the boy. "it is called sonfjället," continued the raven; "you can imagine that wolves were plentiful there once upon a time." "it must have been an ideal place for wolves," said the boy. "the people who lived here in the valley were frequently attacked by them," remarked the raven. "perhaps you remember a good wolf story you could tell me?" said the boy. "i've been told that a long, long time ago the wolves from sonfjället are supposed to have waylaid a man who had gone out to peddle his wares," began bataki. "he was from hede, a village a few miles down the valley. it was winter time and the wolves made for him as he was driving over the ice on lake ljusna. there were about nine or ten, and the man from hede had a poor old horse, so there was very little hope of his escaping. "when the man heard the wolves howl and saw how many there were after him, he lost his head, and it did not occur to him that he ought to dump his casks and jugs out of the sledge, to lighten the load. he only whipped up the horse and made the best speed he could, but he soon observed that the wolves were gaining on him. the shores were desolate and he was fourteen miles from the nearest farm. he thought that his final hour had come, and was paralyzed with fear. "while he sat there, terrified, he saw something move in the brush, which had been set in the ice to mark out the road; and when he discovered who it was that walked there, his fear grew more and more intense. "wild beasts were not coming toward him, but a poor old woman, named finn-malin, who was in the habit of roaming about on highways and byways. she was a hunchback, and slightly lame, so he recognized her at a distance. "the old woman was walking straight toward the wolves. the sledge had hidden them from her view, and the man comprehended at once that, if he were to drive on without warning her, she would walk right into the jaws of the wild beasts, and while they were rending her, he would have time enough to get away. "the old woman walked slowly, bent over a cane. it was plain that she was doomed if he did not help her, but even if he were to stop and take her into the sledge, it was by no means certain that she would be safe. more than likely the wolves would catch up with them, and he and she and the horse would all be killed. he wondered if it were not better to sacrifice one life in order that two might be spared--this flashed upon him the minute he saw the old woman. he had also time to think how it would be with him afterward--if perchance he might not regret that he had not succoured her; or if people should some day learn of the meeting and that he had not tried to help her. it was a terrible temptation. "'i would rather not have seen her,' he said to himself. "just then the wolves howled savagely. the horse reared, plunged forward, and dashed past the old beggar woman. she, too, had heard the howling of the wolves, and, as the man from hede drove by, he saw that the old woman knew what awaited her. she stood motionless, her mouth open for a cry, her arms stretched out for help. but she neither cried nor tried to throw herself into the sledge. something seemed to have turned her to stone. 'it was i,' thought the man. 'i must have looked like a demon as i passed.' "he tried to feel satisfied, now that he was certain of escape; but at that very moment his heart reproached him. never before had he done a dastardly thing, and he felt now that his whole life was blasted. "'let come what may,' he said, and reined in the horse, 'i cannot leave her alone with the wolves!' "it was with great difficulty that he got the horse to turn, but in the end he managed it and promptly drove back to her. "'be quick and get into the sledge,' he said gruffly; for he was mad with himself for not leaving the old woman to her fate. "'you might stay at home once in awhile, you old hag!' he growled. 'now both my horse and i will come to grief on your account.' "the old woman did not say a word, but the man from hede was in no mood to spare her. "'the horse has already tramped thirty-five miles to-day, and the load hasn't lightened any since you got up on it!' he grumbled, 'so that you must understand he'll soon be exhausted.' "the sledge runners crunched on the ice, but for all that he heard how the wolves panted, and knew that the beasts were almost upon him. "'it's all up with us!' he said. 'much good it was, either to you or to me, this attempt to save you, finn-malin!' "up to this point the old woman had been silent--like one who is accustomed to take abuse--but now she said a few words. "'i can't understand why you don't throw out your wares and lighten the load. you can come back again to-morrow and gather them up.' "the man realized that this was sound advice and was surprised that he had not thought of it before. he tossed the reins to the old woman, loosed the ropes that bound the casks, and pitched them out. the wolves were right upon them, but now they stopped to examine that which was thrown on the ice, and the travellers again had the start of them. "'if this does not help you,' said the old woman, 'you understand, of course, that i will give myself up to the wolves voluntarily, that you may escape.' "while she was speaking the man was trying to push a heavy brewer's vat from the long sledge. as he tugged at this he paused, as if he could not quite make up his mind to throw it out; but, in reality, his mind was taken up with something altogether different. "'surely a man and a horse who have no infirmities need not let a feeble old woman be devoured by wolves for their sakes!' he thought. 'there must be some other way of salvation. why, of course, there is! it's only my stupidity that hinders me from finding the way.' "again he started to push the vat, then paused once more and burst out laughing. "the old woman was alarmed and wondered if he had gone mad, but the man from hede was laughing at himself because he had been so stupid all the while. it was the simplest thing in the world to save all three of them. he could not imagine why he had not thought of it before. "'listen to what i say to you, malin!' he said. 'it was splendid of you to be willing to throw yourself to the wolves. but you won't have to do that because i know how we can all three be helped without endangering the life of any. remember, whatever i may do, you are to sit still and drive down to linsäll. there you must waken the townspeople and tell them that i'm alone out here on the ice, surrounded by wolves, and ask them to come and help me.' "the man waited until the wolves were almost upon the sledge. then he rolled out the big brewer's vat, jumped down, and crawled in under it. "it was a huge vat, large enough to hold a whole christmas brew. the wolves pounced upon it and bit at the hoops, but the vat was too heavy for them to move. they could not get at the man inside. "he knew that he was safe and laughed at the wolves. after a bit he was serious again. "'for the future, when i get into a tight place, i shall remember this vat, and i shall bear in mind that i need never wrong either myself or others, for there is always a third way out of a difficulty if only one can hit upon it.'" with this bataki closed his narrative. the boy noticed that the raven never spoke unless there was some special meaning back of his words, and the longer he listened to him, the more thoughtful he became. "i wonder why you told me that story?" remarked the boy. "i just happened to think of it as i stood here, gazing up at sonfjället," replied the raven. now they had travelled farther down lake ljusna and in an hour or so they came to kolsätt, close to the border of hälsingland. here the raven alighted near a little hut that had no windows--only a shutter. from the chimney rose sparks and smoke, and from within the sound of heavy hammering was heard. "whenever i see this smithy," observed the raven, "i'm reminded that, in former times, there were such skilled blacksmiths here in härjedalen, more especially in this village--that they couldn't be matched in the whole country." "perhaps you also remember a story about them?" said the boy. "yes," returned bataki, "i remember one about a smith from härjedalen who once invited two other master blacksmiths--one from dalecarlia and one from vermland--to compete with him at nail-making. the challenge was accepted and the three blacksmiths met here at kolsätt. the dalecarlian began. he forged a dozen nails, so even and smooth and sharp that they couldn't be improved upon. after him came the vermlander. he, too, forged a dozen nails, which were quite perfect and, moreover, he finished them in half the time that it took the dalecarlian. when the judges saw this they said to the härjedal smith that it wouldn't be worth while for him to try, since he could not forge better than the dalecarlian or faster than the vermlander. "'i sha'n't give up! there must be still another way of excelling,' insisted the härjedal smith. "he placed the iron on the anvil without heating it at the forge; he simply hammered it hot and forged nail after nail, without the use of either anvil or bellows. none of the judges had ever seen a blacksmith wield a hammer more masterfully, and the härjedal smith was proclaimed the best in the land." with these remarks bataki subsided, and the boy grew even more thoughtful. "i wonder what your purpose was in telling me that?" he queried. "the story dropped into my mind when i saw the old smithy again," said bataki in an offhand manner. the two travellers rose again into the air and the raven carried the boy southward till they came to lillhärdal parish, where he alighted on a leafy mound at the top of a ridge. "i wonder if you know upon what mound you are standing?" said bataki. the boy had to confess that he did not know. "this is a grave," said bataki. "beneath this mound lies the first settler in härjedalen." "perhaps you have a story to tell of him too?" said the boy. "i haven't heard much about him, but i think he was a norwegian. he had served with a norwegian king, got into his bad graces, and had to flee the country. "later he went over to the swedish king, who lived at upsala, and took service with him. but, after a time, he asked for the hand of the king's sister in marriage, and when the king wouldn't give him such a high-born bride, he eloped with her. by that time he had managed to get himself into such disfavour that it wasn't safe for him to live either in norway or sweden, and he did not wish to move to a foreign country. 'but there must still be a course open to me,' he thought. with his servants and treasures, he journeyed through dalecarlia until he arrived in the desolate forests beyond the outskirts of the province. there he settled, built houses and broke up land. thus, you see, he was the first man to settle in this part of the country." as the boy listened to the last story, he looked very serious. "i wonder what your object is in telling me all this?" he repeated. bataki twisted and turned and screwed up his eyes, and it was some time before he answered the boy. "since we are here alone," he said finally, "i shall take this opportunity to question you regarding a certain matter. "have you ever tried to ascertain upon what terms the elf who transformed you was to restore you to a normal human being?" "the only stipulation i've heard anything about was that i should take the white goosey-gander up to lapland and bring him back to skåne, safe and sound." "i thought as much," said bataki; "for when last we met, you talked confidently of there being nothing more contemptible than deceiving a friend who trusts one. you'd better ask akka about the terms. you know, i dare say, that she was at your home and talked with the elf." "akka hasn't told me of this," said the boy wonderingly. "she must have thought that it was best for you not to know just what the elf _did_ say. naturally she would rather help you than morten goosey-gander." "it is singular, bataki, that you always have a way of making me feel unhappy and anxious," said the boy. "i dare say it might seem so," continued the raven, "but this time i believe that you will be grateful to me for telling you that the elf's words were to this effect: you were to become a normal human being again if you would bring back morten goosey-gander that your mother might lay him on the block and chop his head off." the boy leaped up. "that's only one of your base fabrications," he cried indignantly. "you can ask akka yourself," said bataki. "i see her coming up there with her whole flock. and don't forget what i have told you to-day. there is usually a way out of all difficulties, if only one can find it. i shall be interested to see what success you have." vermland and dalsland _wednesday, october fifth_. to-day the boy took advantage of the rest hour, when akka was feeding apart from the other wild geese, to ask her if that which bataki had related was true, and akka could not deny it. the boy made the leader-goose promise that she would not divulge the secret to morten goosey-gander. the big white gander was so brave and generous that he might do something rash were he to learn of the elf's stipulations. later the boy sat on the goose-back, glum and silent, and hung his head. he heard the wild geese call out to the goslings that now they were in dalarne, they could see städjan in the north, and that now they were flying over Österdal river to horrmund lake and were coming to vesterdal river. but the boy did not care even to glance at all this. "i shall probably travel around with wild geese the rest of my life," he remarked to himself, "and i am likely to see more of this land than i wish." he was quite as indifferent when the wild geese called out to him that now they had arrived in vermland and that the stream they were following southward was klarälven. "i've seen so many rivers already," thought the boy, "why bother to look at one more?" even had he been more eager for sight-seeing, there was not very much to be seen, for northern vermland is nothing but vast, monotonous forest tracts, through which klarälven winds--narrow and rich in rapids. here and there one can see a charcoal kiln, a forest clearing, or a few low, chimneyless huts, occupied by finns. but the forest as a whole is so extensive one might fancy it was far up in lapland. a little homestead _thursday, october sixth_. the wild geese followed klarälven as far as the big iron foundries at monk fors. then they proceeded westward to fryksdalen. before they got to lake fryken it began to grow dusky, and they lit in a little wet morass on a wooded hill. the morass was certainly a good night quarter for the wild geese, but the boy thought it dismal and rough, and wished for a better sleeping place. while he was still high in the air, he had noticed that below the ridge lay a number of farms, and with great haste he proceeded to seek them out. they were farther away than he had fancied and several times he was tempted to turn back. presently the woods became less dense, and he came to a road skirting the edge of the forest. from it branched a pretty birch-bordered lane, which led down to a farm, and immediately he hastened toward it. first the boy entered a farm yard as large as a city marketplace and enclosed by a long row of red houses. as he crossed the yard, he saw another farm where the dwelling-house faced a gravel path and a wide lawn. back of the house there was a garden thick with foliage. the dwelling itself was small and humble, but the garden was edged by a row of exceedingly tall mountain-ash trees, so close together that they formed a real wall around it. it appeared to the boy as if he were coming into a great, high-vaulted chamber, with the lovely blue sky for a ceiling. the mountain-ash were thick with clusters of red berries, the grass plots were still green, of course, but that night there was a full moon, and as the bright moonlight fell upon the grass it looked as white as silver. no human being was in sight and the boy could wander freely wherever he wished. when he was in the garden he saw something which almost put him in good humour. he had climbed a mountain-ash to eat berries, but before he could reach a cluster he caught sight of a barberry bush, which was also full of berries. he slid along the ash branch and clambered up into the barberry bush, but he was no sooner there than he discovered a currant bush, on which still hung long red clusters. next he saw that the garden was full of gooseberries and raspberries and dog-rose bushes; that there were cabbages and turnips in the vegetable beds and berries on every bush, seeds on the herbs and grain-filled ears on every blade. and there on the path--no, of course he could not mistake it--was a big red apple which shone in the moonlight. the boy sat down at the side of the path, with the big red apple in front of him, and began cutting little pieces from it with his sheath knife. "it wouldn't be such a serious matter to be an elf all one's life if it were always as easy to get good food as it is here," he thought. he sat and mused as he ate, wondering finally if it would not be as well for him to remain here and let the wild geese travel south without him. "i don't know for the life of me how i can ever explain to morten goosey-gander that i cannot go home," thought he. "it would be better were i to leave him altogether. i could gather provisions enough for the winter, as well as the squirrels do, and if i were to live in a dark corner of the stable or the cow shed, i shouldn't freeze to death." just as he was thinking this, he heard a light rustle over his head, and a second later something which resembled a birch stump stood on the ground beside him. the stump twisted and turned, and two bright dots on top of it glowed like coals of fire. it looked like some enchantment. however, the boy soon remarked that the stump had a hooked beak and big feather wreaths around its glowing eyes. then he knew that this was no enchantment. "it is a real pleasure to meet a living creature," remarked the boy. "perhaps you will be good enough to tell me the name of this place, mrs. brown owl, and what sort of folk live here." that evening, as on all other evenings, the owl had perched on a rung of the big ladder propped against the roof, from which she had looked down toward the gravel walks and grass plots, watching for rats. very much to her surprise, not a single grayskin had appeared. she saw instead something that looked like a human being, but much, much smaller, moving about in the garden. "that's the one who is scaring away the rats!" thought the owl. "what in the world can it be? it's not a squirrel, nor a kitten, nor a weasel," she observed. "i suppose that a bird who has lived on an old place like this as long as i have ought to know about everything in the world; but this is beyond my comprehension," she concluded. she had been staring at the object that moved on the gravel path until her eyes burned. finally curiosity got the better of her and she flew down to the ground to have a closer view of the stranger. when the boy began to speak, the owl bent forward and looked him up and down. "he has neither claws nor horns," she remarked to herself, "yet who knows but he may have a poisonous fang or some even more dangerous weapon. i must try to find out what he passes for before i venture to touch him." "the place is called mårbacka," said the owl, "and gentlefolk lived here once upon a time. but you, yourself, who are you?" "i think of moving in here," volunteered the boy without answering the owl's question. "would it be possible, do you think?" "oh, yes--but it's not much of a place now compared to what it was once," said the owl. "you can weather it here i dare say. it all depends upon what you expect to live on. do you intend to take up the rat chase?" "oh, by no means!" declared the boy. "there is more fear of the rats eating me than that i shall do them any harm." "it can't be that he is as harmless as he says," thought the brown owl. "all the same i believe i'll make an attempt...." she rose into the air, and in a second her claws were fastened in nils holgersson's shoulder and she was trying to hack at his eyes. the boy shielded both eyes with one hand and tried to free himself with the other, at the same time calling with all his might for help. he realized that he was in deadly peril and thought that this time, surely, it was all over with him! now i must tell you of a strange coincidence: the very year that nils holgersson travelled with the wild geese there was a woman who thought of writing a book about sweden, which would be suitable for children to read in the schools. she had thought of this from christmas time until the following autumn; but not a line of the book had she written. at last she became so tired of the whole thing that she said to herself: "you are not fitted for such work. sit down and compose stories and legends, as usual, and let another write this book, which has got to be serious and instructive, and in which there must not be one untruthful word." it was as good as settled that she would abandon the idea. but she thought, very naturally, it would have been agreeable to write something beautiful about sweden, and it was hard for her to relinquish her work. finally, it occurred to her that maybe it was because she lived in a city, with only gray streets and house walls around her, that she could make no headway with the writing. perhaps if she were to go into the country, where she could see woods and fields, that it might go better. she was from vermland, and it was perfectly clear to her that she wished to begin the book with that province. first of all she would write about the place where she had grown up. it was a little homestead, far removed from the great world, where many old-time habits and customs were retained. she thought that it would be entertaining for children to hear of the manifold duties which had succeeded one another the year around. she wanted to tell them how they celebrated christmas and new year and easter and midsummer day in her home; what kind of house furnishings they had; what the kitchen and larder were like, and how the cow shed, stable, lodge, and bath house had looked. but when she was to write about it the pen would not move. why this was she could not in the least understand; nevertheless it was so. true, she remembered it all just as distinctly as if she were still living in the midst of it. she argued with herself that since she was going into the country anyway, perhaps she ought to make a little trip to the old homestead that she might see it again before writing about it. she had not been there in many years and did not think it half bad to have a reason for the journey. in fact she had always longed to be there, no matter in what part of the world she happened to be. she had seen many places that were more pretentious and prettier. but nowhere could she find such comfort and protection as in the home of her childhood. it was not such an easy matter for her to go home as one might think, for the estate had been sold to people she did not know. she felt, to be sure, that they would receive her well, but she did not care to go to the old place to sit and talk with strangers, for she wanted to recall how it had been in times gone by. that was why she planned it so as to arrive there late in the evening, when the day's work was done and the people were indoors. she had never imagined that it would be so wonderful to come home! as she sat in the cart and drove toward the old homestead she fancied that she was growing younger and younger every minute, and that soon she would no longer be an oldish person with hair that was turning gray, but a little girl in short skirts with a long flaxen braid. as she recognized each farm along the road, she could not picture anything else than that everything at home would be as in bygone days. her father and mother and brothers and sisters would be standing on the porch to welcome her; the old housekeeper would run to the kitchen window to see who was coming, and nero and freja and another dog or two would come bounding and jumping up on her. the nearer she approached the place the happier she felt. it was autumn, which meant a busy time with a round of duties. it must have been all these varying duties which prevented home from ever being monotonous. all along the way the farmers were digging potatoes, and probably they would be doing likewise at her home. that meant that they must begin immediately to grate potatoes and make potato flour. the autumn had been a mild one; she wondered if everything in the garden had already been stored. the cabbages were still out, but perhaps the hops had been picked, and all the apples. it would be well if they were not having house cleaning at home. autumn fair time was drawing nigh, everywhere the cleaning and scouring had to be done before the fair opened. that was regarded as a great event--more especially by the servants. it was a pleasure to go into the kitchen on market eve and see the newly scoured floor strewn with juniper twigs, the whitewashed walls and the shining copper utensils which were suspended from the ceiling. even after the fair festivities were over there would not be much of a breathing spell, for then came the work on the flax. during dog days the flax had been spread out on a meadow to mould. now it was laid in the old bath house, where the stove was lighted to dry it out. when it was dry enough to handle all the women in the neighbourhood were called together. they sat outside the bath house and picked the flax to pieces. then they beat it with swingles, to separate the fine white fibres from the dry stems. as they worked, the women grew gray with dust; their hair and clothing were covered with flax seed, but they did not seem to mind it. all day the swingles pounded, and the chatter went on, so that when one went near the old bath house it sounded as if a blustering storm had broken loose there. after the work with the flax, came the big hard-tack baking, the sheep shearing, and the servants' moving time. in november there were busy slaughter days, with salting of meats, sausage making, baking of blood pudding, and candle steeping. the seamstress who used to make up their homespun dresses had to come at this time, of course, and those were always two pleasant weeks--when the women folk sat together and busied themselves with sewing. the cobbler, who made shoes for the entire household, sat working at the same time in the men-servants' quarters, and one never tired of watching him as he cut the leather and soled and heeled the shoes and put eyelets in the shoestring holes. but the greatest rush came around christmas time. lucia day--when the housemaid went about dressed in white, with candles in her hair, and served coffee to everybody at five in the morning--came as a sort of reminder that for the next two weeks they could not count on much sleep. for now they must brew the christmas ale, steep the christmas fish in lye, and do their christmas baking and christmas scouring. she was in the middle of the baking, with pans of christmas buns and cooky platters all around her, when the driver drew in the reins at the end of the lane as she had requested. she started like one suddenly awakened from a sound sleep. it was dismal for her who had just dreamed herself surrounded by all her people to be sitting alone in the late evening. as she stepped from the wagon and started to walk up the long lane that she might come unobserved to her old home, she felt so keenly the contrast between then and now that she would have preferred to turn back. "of what use is it to come here?" she sighed. "it can't be the same as in the old days!" on the other hand she felt that since she had travelled such a long distance, she would see the place at all events, so continued to walk on, although she was more depressed with every step that she took. she had heard that it was very much changed; and it certainly was! but she did not observe this now in the evening. she thought, rather, that everything was quite the same. there was the pond, which in her youth had been full of carp and where no one dared fish, because it was father's wish that the carp should be left in peace. over there were the men-servants' quarters, the larder and barn, with the farm yard bell over one gable and the weather-vane over the other. the house yard was like a circular room, with no outlook in any direction, as it had been in her father's time--for he had not the heart to cut down as much as a bush. she lingered in the shadow under the big mountain-ash at the entrance to the farm, and stood looking about her. as she stood there a strange thing happened; a flock of doves came and lit beside her. she could hardly believe that they were real birds, for doves are not in the habit of moving about after sundown. it must have been the beautiful moonlight that had awakened these. they must have thought it was dawn and flown from their dove-cotes, only to become confused, hardly knowing where they were. when they saw a human being they flew over to her, as if she would set them right. there had been many flocks of doves at the manor when her parents lived there, for the doves were among the creatures which her father had taken under his special care. if one ever mentioned the killing of a dove, it put him in a bad humour. she was pleased that the pretty birds had come to meet her in the old home. who could tell but the doves had flown out in the night to show her they had not forgotten that once upon a time they had a good home there. perhaps her father had sent his birds with a greeting to her, so that she would not feel so sad and lonely when she came to her former home. as she thought of this, there welled up within her such an intense longing for the old times that her eyes filled with tears. life had been beautiful in this place. they had had weeks of work broken by many holiday festivities. they had toiled hard all day, but at evening they had gathered around the lamp and read tegner and runeberg, "_fru"_ lenngren and "_mamsell"_ bremer. they had cultivated grain, but also roses and jasmine. they had spun flax, but had sung folk-songs as they spun. they had worked hard at their history and grammar, but they had also played theatre and written verses. they had stood at the kitchen stove and prepared food, but had learned, also, to play the flute and guitar, the violin and piano. they had planted cabbages and turnips, peas and beans in one garden, but they had another full of apples and pears and all kinds of berries. they had lived by themselves, and this was why so many stories and legends were stowed away in their memories. they had worn homespun clothes, but they had also been able to lead care-free and independent lives. "nowhere else in the world do they know how to get so much out of life as they did at one of these little homesteads in my childhood!" she thought. "there was just enough work and just enough play, and every day there was a joy. how i should love to come back here again! now that i have seen the place, it is hard to leave it." then she turned to the flock of doves and said to them--laughing at herself all the while: "won't you fly to father and tell him that i long to come home? i have wandered long enough in strange places. ask him if he can't arrange it so that i may soon turn back to my childhood's home." the moment she had said this the flock of doves rose and flew away. she tried to follow them with her eyes, but they vanished instantly. it was as if the whole white company had dissolved in the shimmering air. the doves had only just gone when she heard a couple of piercing cries from the garden, and as she hastened thither she saw a singular sight. there stood a tiny midget, no taller than a hand's breadth, struggling with a brown owl. at first she was so astonished that she could not move. but when the midget cried more and more pitifully, she stepped up quickly and parted the fighters. the owl swung herself into a tree, but the midget stood on the gravel path, without attempting either to hide or to run away. "thanks for your help," he said. "but it was very stupid of you to let the owl escape. i can't get away from here, because she is sitting up in the tree watching me." "it was thoughtless of me to let her go. but to make amends, can't i accompany you to your home?" asked she who wrote stories, somewhat surprised to think that in this unexpected fashion she had got into conversation with one of the tiny folk. still she was not so much surprised after all. it was as if all the while she had been awaiting some extraordinary experience, while she walked in the moonlight outside her old home. "the fact is, i had thought of stopping here over night," said the midget. "if you will only show me a safe sleeping place, i shall not be obliged to return to the forest before daybreak." "must i show you a place to sleep? are you not at home here?" "i understand that you take me for one of the tiny folk," said the midget, "but i'm a human being, like yourself, although i have been transformed by an elf." "that is the most remarkable thing i have ever heard! wouldn't you like to tell me how you happened to get into such a plight?" the boy did not mind telling her of his adventures, and, as the narrative proceeded, she who listened to him grew more and more astonished and happy. "what luck to run across one who has travelled all over sweden on the back of a goose!" thought she. "just this which he is relating i shall write down in my book. now i need worry no more over that matter. it was well that i came home. to think that i should find such help as soon as i came to the old place!" instantly another thought flashed into her mind. she had sent word to her father by the doves that she longed for home, and almost immediately she had received help in the matter she had pondered so long. might not this be the father's answer to her prayer? the treasure on the island on their way to the sea _friday, october seventh_. from the very start of the autumn trip the wild geese had flown straight south; but when they left fryksdalen they veered in another direction, travelling over western vermland and dalsland, toward bohuslän. that was a jolly trip! the goslings were now so used to flying that they complained no more of fatigue, and the boy was fast recovering his good humour. he was glad that he had talked with a human being. he felt encouraged when she said to him that if he were to continue doing good to all whom he met, as heretofore, it could not end badly for him. she was not able to tell him how to get back his natural form, but she had given him a little hope and assurance, which inspired the boy to think out a way to prevent the big white gander from going home. "do you know, morten goosey-gander, that it will be rather monotonous for us to stay at home all winter after having been on a trip like this," he said, as they were flying far up in the air. "i'm sitting here thinking that we ought to go abroad with the geese." "surely you are not in earnest!" said the goosey-gander. since he had proved to the wild geese his ability to travel with them all the way to lapland, he was perfectly satisfied to get back to the goose pen in holger nilsson's cow shed. the boy sat silently a while and gazed down on vermland, where the birch woods, leafy groves, and gardens were clad in red and yellow autumn colours. "i don't think i've ever seen the earth beneath us as lovely as it is to-day!" he finally remarked. "the lakes are like blue satin bands. don't you think it would be a pity to settle down in west vemminghög and never see any more of the world?" "i thought you wanted to go home to your mother and father and show them what a splendid boy you had become?" said the goosey-gander. all summer he had been dreaming of what a proud moment it would be for him when he should alight in the house yard before holger nilsson's cabin and show dunfin and the six goslings to the geese and chickens, the cows and the cat, and to mother holger nilsson herself, so that he was not very happy over the boy's proposal. "now, morten goosey-gander, don't you think yourself that it would be hard never to see anything more that is beautiful!" said the boy. "i would rather see the fat grain fields of söderslätt than these lean hills," answered the goosey-gander. "but you must know very well that if you really wish to continue the trip, i can't be parted from you." "that is just the answer i had expected from you," said the boy, and his voice betrayed that he was relieved of a great anxiety. later, when they travelled over bohuslän, the boy observed that the mountain stretches were more continuous, the valleys were more like little ravines blasted in the rock foundation, while the long lakes at their base were as black as if they had come from the underworld. this, too, was a glorious country, and as the boy saw it, with now a strip of sun, now a shadow, he thought that there was something strange and wild about it. he knew not why, but the idea came to him that once upon a time there were many strong and brave heroes in these mystical regions who had passed through many dangerous and daring adventures. the old passion of wanting to share in all sorts of wonderful adventures awoke in him. "i might possibly miss not being in danger of my life at least once every day or two," he thought. "anyhow it's best to be content with things as they are." he did not speak of this idea to the big white gander, because the geese were now flying over bohuslän with all the speed they could muster, and the goosey-gander was puffing so hard that he would not have had the strength to reply. the sun was far down on the horizon, and disappeared every now and then behind a hill; still the geese kept forging ahead. finally, in the west, they saw a shining strip of light, which grew broader and broader with every wing stroke. soon the sea spread before them, milk white with a shimmer of rose red and sky blue, and when they had circled past the coast cliffs they saw the sun again, as it hung over the sea, big and red and ready to plunge into the waves. as the boy gazed at the broad, endless sea and the red evening sun, which had such a kindly glow that he dared to look straight at it, he felt a sense of peace and calm penetrate his soul. "it's not worth while to be sad, nils holgersson," said the sun. "this is a beautiful world to live in both for big and little. it is also good to be free and happy, and to have a great dome of open sky above you." the gift of the wild geese the geese stood sleeping on a little rock islet just beyond fjällbacka. when it drew on toward midnight, and the moon hung high in the heavens, old akka shook the sleepiness out of her eyes. after that she walked around and awakened yksi and kaksi, kolme and neljä, viisi and kuusi, and, last of all, she gave thumbietot a nudge with her bill that startled him. "what is it, mother akka?" he asked, springing up in alarm. "nothing serious," assured the leader-goose. "it's just this: we seven who have been long together want to fly a short distance out to sea to-night, and we wondered if you would care to come with us." the boy knew that akka would not have proposed this move had there not been something important on foot, so he promptly seated himself on her back. the flight was straight west. the wild geese first flew over a belt of large and small islands near the coast, then over a broad expanse of open sea, till they reached the large cluster known as the väder islands. all of them were low and rocky, and in the moonlight one could see that they were rather large. akka looked at one of the smallest islands and alighted there. it consisted of a round, gray stone hill, with a wide cleft across it, into which the sea had cast fine, white sea sand and a few shells. as the boy slid from the goose's back he noticed something quite close to him that looked like a jagged stone. but almost at once he saw that it was a big vulture which had chosen the rock island for a night harbour. before the boy had time to wonder at the geese recklessly alighting so near a dangerous enemy, the bird flew up to them and the boy recognized gorgo, the eagle. evidently akka and gorgo had arranged the meeting, for neither of them was taken by surprise. "this was good of you, gorgo," said akka. "i didn't expect that you would be at the meeting place ahead of us. have you been here long?" "i came early in the evening," replied gorgo. "but i fear that the only praise i deserve is for keeping my appointment with you. i've not been very successful in carrying out the orders you gave me." "i'm sure, gorgo, that you have done more than you care to admit," assured akka. "but before you relate your experiences on the trip, i shall ask thumbietot to help me find something which is supposed to be buried on this island." the boy stood gazing admiringly at two beautiful shells, but when akka spoke his name, he glanced up. "you must have wondered, thumbietot, why we turned out of our course to fly here to the west sea," said akka. "to be frank, i did think it strange," answered the boy. "but i knew, of course, that you always have some good reason for whatever you do." "you have a good opinion of me," returned akka, "but i almost fear you will lose it now, for it's very probable that we have made this journey in vain. "many years ago it happened that two of the other old geese and myself encountered frightful storms during a spring flight and were wind-driven to this island. when we discovered that there was only open sea before us, we feared we should be swept so far out that we should never find our way back to land, so we lay down on the waves between these bare cliffs, where the storm compelled us to remain for several days. "we suffered terribly from hunger; once we ventured up to the cleft on this island in search of food. we couldn't find a green blade, but we saw a number of securely tied bags half buried in the sand. we hoped to find grain in the bags and pulled and tugged at them till we tore the cloth. however, no grain poured out, but shining gold pieces. for such things we wild geese had no use, so we left them where they were. we haven't thought of the find in all these years; but this autumn something has come up to make us wish for gold. "we do not know that the treasure is still here, but we have travelled all this way to ask you to look into the matter." with a shell in either hand the boy jumped down into the cleft and began to scoop up the sand. he found no bags, but when he had made a deep hole he heard the clink of metal and saw that he had come upon a gold piece. then he dug with his fingers and felt many coins in the sand. so he hurried back to akka. "the bags have rotted and fallen apart," he exclaimed, "and the money lies scattered all through the sand." "that's well!" said akka. "now fill in the hole and smooth it over so no one will notice the sand has been disturbed." the boy did as he was told, but when he came up from the cleft he was astonished to see that the wild geese were lined up, with akka in the lead, and were marching toward him with great solemnity. the geese paused in front of him, and all bowed their heads many times, looking so grave that he had to doff his cap and make an obeisance to them. "the fact is," said akka, "we old geese have been thinking that if thumbietot had been in the service of human beings and had done as much for them as he has for us they would not let him go without rewarding him well." "i haven't helped you; it is you who have taken good care of me," returned the boy. "we think also," continued akka, "that when a human being has attended us on a whole journey he shouldn't be allowed to leave us as poor as when he came." "i know that what i have learned this year with you is worth more to me than gold or lands," said the boy. "since these gold coins have been lying unclaimed in the cleft all these years, i think that you ought to have them," declared the wild goose. "i thought you said something about needing this money yourselves," reminded the boy. "we do need it, so as to be able to give you such recompense as will make your mother and father think you have been working as a goose boy with worthy people." the boy turned half round and cast a glance toward the sea, then faced about and looked straight into akka's bright eyes. "i think it strange, mother akka, that you turn me away from your service like this and pay me off before i have given you notice," he said. "as long as we wild geese remain in sweden, i trust that you will stay with us," said akka. "i only wanted to show you where the treasure was while we could get to it without going too far out of our course." "all the same it looks as if you wished to be rid of me before i want to go," argued thumbietot. "after all the good times we have had together, i think you ought to let me go abroad with you." when the boy said this, akka and the other wild geese stretched their long necks straight up and stood a moment, with bills half open, drinking in air. "that is something i haven't thought about," said akka, when she recovered herself. "before you decide to come with us, we had better hear what gorgo has to say. you may as well know that when we left lapland the agreement between gorgo and myself was that he should travel to your home down in skåne to try to make better terms for you with the elf." "that is true," affirmed gorgo, "but as i have already told you, luck was against me. i soon hunted up holger nilsson's croft and after circling up and down over the place a couple of hours, i caught sight of the elf, skulking along between the sheds. "immediately i swooped down upon him and flew off with him to a meadow where we could talk together without interruption. "i told him that i had been sent by akka from kebnekaise to ask if he couldn't give nils holgersson easier terms. "'i only wish i could!' he answered, 'for i have heard that he has conducted himself well on the trip; but it is not in my power to do so.' "then i was wrathy and said that i would bore out his eyes unless he gave in. "'you may do as you like,' he retorted, 'but as to nils holgersson, it will turn out exactly as i have said. you can tell him from me that he would do well to return soon with his goose, for matters on the farm are in a bad shape. his father has had to forfeit a bond for his brother, whom he trusted. he has bought a horse with borrowed money, and the beast went lame the first time he drove it. since then it has been of no earthly use to him. tell nils holgersson that his parents have had to sell two of the cows and that they must give up the croft unless they receive help from somewhere." when the boy heard this he frowned and clenched his fists so hard that the nails dug into his flesh. "it is cruel of the elf to make the conditions so hard for me that i can not go home and relieve my parents, but he sha'n't turn me into a traitor to a friend! my father and mother are square and upright folk. i know they would rather forfeit my help than have me come back to them with a guilty conscience." the journey to vemminghÖg _thursday, november third_. one day in the beginning of november the wild geese flew over halland ridge and into skåne. for several weeks they had been resting on the wide plains around falköping. as many other wild goose flocks also stopped there, the grown geese had had a pleasant time visiting with old friends, and there had been all kinds of games and races between the younger birds. nils holgersson had not been happy over the delay in westergötland. he had tried to keep a stout heart; but it was hard for him to reconcile himself to his fate. "if i were only well out of skåne and in some foreign land," he had thought, "i should know for certain that i had nothing to hope for, and would feel easier in my mind." finally, one morning, the geese started out and flew toward halland. in the beginning the boy took very little interest in that province. he thought there was nothing new to be seen there. but when the wild geese continued the journey farther south, along the narrow coast-lands, the boy leaned over the goose's neck and did not take his glance from the ground. he saw the hills gradually disappear and the plain spread under him, at the same time he noticed that the coast became less rugged, while the group of islands beyond thinned and finally vanished and the broad, open sea came clear up to firm land. here there were no more forests: here the plain was supreme. it spread all the way to the horizon. a land that lay so exposed, with field upon field, reminded the boy of skåne. he felt both happy and sad as he looked at it. "i can't be very far from home," he thought. many times during the trip the goslings had asked the old geese: "how does it look in foreign lands?" "wait, wait! you shall soon see," the old geese had answered. when the wild geese had passed halland ridge and gone a distance into skåne, akka called out: "now look down! look all around! it is like this in foreign lands." just then they flew over söder ridge. the whole long range of hills was clad in beech woods, and beautiful, turreted castles peeped out here and there. among the trees grazed roe-buck, and on the forest meadow romped the hares. hunters' horns sounded from the forests; the loud baying of dogs could be heard all the way up to the wild geese. broad avenues wound through the trees and on these ladies and gentlemen were driving in polished carriages or riding fine horses. at the foot of the ridge lay ring lake with the ancient bosjö cloister on a narrow peninsula. "does it look like this in foreign lands?" asked the goslings. "it looks exactly like this wherever there are forest-clad ridges," replied akka, "only one doesn't see many of them. wait! you shall see how it looks in general." akka led the geese farther south to the great skåne plain. there it spread, with grain fields; with acres and acres of sugar beets, where the beet-pickers were at work; with low whitewashed farm- and outhouses; with numberless little white churches; with ugly, gray sugar refineries and small villages near the railway stations. little beech-encircled meadow lakes, each of them adorned by its own stately manor, shimmered here and there. "now look down! look carefully!" called the leader-goose. "thus it is in foreign lands, from the baltic coast all the way down to the high alps. farther than that i have never travelled." when the goslings had seen the plain, the leader-goose flew down the Öresund coast. swampy meadows sloped gradually toward the sea. in some places were high, steep banks, in others drift-sand fields, where the sand lay heaped in banks and hills. fishing hamlets stood all along the coast, with long rows of low, uniform brick houses, with a lighthouse at the edge of the breakwater, and brown fishing nets hanging in the drying yard. "now look down! look well! this is how it looks along the coasts in foreign lands." after akka had been flying about in this manner a long time she alighted suddenly on a marsh in vemminghög township and the boy could not help thinking that she had travelled over skåne just to let him see that his was a country which could compare favourably with any in the world. this was unnecessary, for the boy was not thinking of whether the country was rich or poor. from the moment that he had seen the first willow grove his heart ached with homesickness. home at last _tuesday, november eighth_. the atmosphere was dull and hazy. the wild geese had been feeding on the big meadow around skerup church and were having their noonday rest when akka came up to the boy. "it looks as if we should have calm weather for awhile," she remarked, "and i think we'll cross the baltic to-morrow." "indeed!" said the boy abruptly, for his throat contracted so that he could hardly speak. all along he had cherished the hope that he would be released from the enchantment while he was still in skåne. "we are quite near west vemminghög now," said akka, "and i thought that perhaps you might like to go home for awhile. it may be some time before you have another opportunity to see your people." "perhaps i had better not," said the boy hesitatingly, but something in his voice betrayed that he was glad of akka's proposal. "if the goosey-gander remains with us, no harm can come to him," akka assured. "i think you had better find out how your parents are getting along. you might be of some help to them, even if you're not a normal boy." "you are right, mother akka. i should have thought of that long ago," said the boy impulsively. the next second he and the leader-goose were on their way to his home. it was not long before akka alighted behind the stone hedge encircling the little farm. "strange how natural everything looks around here!" the boy remarked, quickly clambering to the top of the hedge, so that he could look about. "it seems to me only yesterday that i first saw you come flying through the air." "i wonder if your father has a gun," said akka suddenly. "you may be sure he has," returned the boy. "it was just the gun that kept me at home that sunday morning when i should have been at church." "then i don't dare to stand here and wait for you," said akka. "you had better meet us at smygahök early to-morrow morning, so that you may stay at home over night." "oh, don't go yet, mother akka!" begged the boy, jumping from the hedge. he could not tell just why it was, but he felt as if something would happen, either to the wild goose or to himself, to prevent their future meeting. "no doubt you see that i'm distressed because i cannot get back my right form; but i want to say to you that i don't regret having gone with you last spring," he added. "i would rather forfeit the chance of ever being human again than to have missed that trip." akka breathed quickly before she answered. "there's a little matter i should have mentioned to you before this, but since you are not going back to your home for good, i thought there was no hurry about it. still it may as well be said now." "you know very well that i am always glad to do your bidding," said the boy. "if you have learned anything at all from us, thumbietot, you no longer think that the humans should have the whole earth to themselves," said the wild goose, solemnly. "remember you have a large country and you can easily afford to leave a few bare rocks, a few shallow lakes and swamps, a few desolate cliffs and remote forests to us poor, dumb creatures, where we can be allowed to live in peace. all my days i have been hounded and hunted. it would be a comfort to know that there is a refuge somewhere for one like me." "indeed, i should be glad to help if i could," said the boy, "but it's not likely that i shall ever again have any influence among human beings." "well, we're standing here talking as if we were never to meet again," said akka, "but we shall see each other to-morrow, of course. now i'll return to my flock." she spread her wings and started to fly, but came back and stroked thumbietot up and down with her bill before she flew away. it was broad daylight, but no human being moved on the farm and the boy could go where he pleased. he hastened to the cow shed, because he knew that he could get the best information from the cows. it looked rather barren in their shed. in the spring there had been three fine cows there, but now there was only one--mayrose. it was quite apparent that she yearned for her comrades. her head drooped sadly, and she had hardly touched the feed in her crib. "good day, mayrose!" said the boy, running fearlessly into her stall. "how are mother and father? how are the cat and the chickens? what has become of star and gold-lily?" when mayrose heard the boy's voice she started, and appeared as if she were going to gore him. but she was not so quick-tempered now as formerly, and took time to look well at nils holgersson. he was just as little now as when he went away, and wore the same clothes; yet he was completely changed. the nils holgersson that went away in the spring had a heavy, slow gait, a drawling speech, and sleepy eyes. the one that had come back was lithe and alert, ready of speech, and had eyes that sparkled and danced. he had a confident bearing that commanded respect, little as he was. although he himself did not look happy, he inspired happiness in others. "moo!" bellowed mayrose. "they told me that he was changed, but i couldn't believe it. welcome home, nils holgersson! welcome home! this is the first glad moment i have known for ever so long!" "thank you, mayrose!" said the boy, who was very happy to be so well received. "now tell me all about father and mother." "they have had nothing but hardship ever since you went away," said mayrose. "the horse has been a costly care all summer, for he has stood in the stable the whole time and not earned his feed. your father is too soft-hearted to shoot him and he can't sell him. it was on account of the horse that both star and gold-lily had to be sold." there was something else the boy wanted badly to know, but he was diffident about asking the question point blank. therefore he said: "mother must have felt very sorry when she discovered that morten goosey-gander had flown?" "she wouldn't have worried much about morten goosey-gander had she known the way he came to leave. she grieves most at the thought of her son having run away from home with a goosey-gander." "does she really think that i _stole_ the goosey-gander?" said the boy. "what else could she think?" "father and mother must fancy that i've been roaming about the country, like a common tramp?" "they think that you've gone to the dogs," said mayrose. "they have mourned you as one mourns the loss of the dearest thing on earth." as soon as the boy heard this, he rushed from the cow shed and down to the stable. it was small, but clean and tidy. everything showed that his father had tried to make the place comfortable for the new horse. in the stall stood a strong, fine animal that looked well fed and well cared for. "good day to you!" said the boy. "i have heard that there's a sick horse in here. surely it can't be you, who look so healthy and strong." the horse turned his head and stared fixedly at the boy. "are you the son?" he queried. "i have heard many bad reports of him. but you have such a good face, i couldn't believe that you were he, did i not know that he was transformed into an elf." "i know that i left a bad name behind me when i went away from the farm," admitted nils holgersson. "my own mother thinks i am a thief. but what matters it--i sha'n't tarry here long. meanwhile, i want to know what ails you." "pity you're not going to stay," said the horse, "for i have the feeling that you and i might become good friends. i've got something in my foot--the point of a knife, or something sharp--that's all that ails me. it has gone so far in that the doctor can't find it, but it cuts so that i can't walk. if you would only tell your father what's wrong with me, i'm sure that he could help me. i should like to be of some use. i really feel ashamed to stand here and feed without doing any work." "it's well that you have no real illness," remarked nils holgersson. "i must attend to this at once, so that you will be all right again. you don't mind if i do a little scratching on your hoof with my knife, do you?" nils holgersson had just finished, when he heard the sound of voices. he opened the stable door a little and peeped out. his father and mother were coming down the lane. it was easy to see that they were broken by many sorrows. his mother had many lines on her face and his father's hair had turned gray. she was talking with him about getting a loan from her brother-in-law. "no, i don't want to borrow any more money," his father said, as they were passing the stable. "there's nothing quite so hard as being in debt. it would be better to sell the cabin." "if it were not for the boy, i shouldn't mind selling it," his mother demurred. "but what will become of him, if he returns some day, wretched and poor--as he's likely to be--and we not here?" "you're right about that," the father agreed. "but we shall have to ask the folks who take the place to receive him kindly and to let him know that he's welcome back to us. we sha'n't say a harsh word to him, no matter what he may be, shall we mother?" "no, indeed! if i only had him again, so that i could be certain he is not starving and freezing on the highways, i'd ask nothing more!" then his father and mother went in, and the boy heard no more of their conversation. he was happy and deeply moved when he knew that they loved him so dearly, although they believed he had gone astray. he longed to rush into their arms. "but perhaps it would be an even greater sorrow were they to see me as i now am." while he stood there, hesitating, a cart drove up to the gate. the boy smothered a cry of surprise, for who should step from the cart and go into the house yard but osa, the goose girl, and her father! they walked hand in hand toward the cabin. when they were about half way there, osa stopped her father and said: "now remember, father, you are not to mention the wooden shoe or the geese or the little brownie who was so like nils holgersson that if it was not himself it must have had some connection with him." "certainly not!" said jon esserson. "i shall only say that their son has been of great help to you on several occasions--when you were trying to find me--and that therefore we have come to ask if we can't do them a service in return, since i'm a rich man now and have more than i need, thanks to the mine i discovered up in lapland." "i know, father, that you can say the right thing in the right way," osa commended. "it is only that one particular thing that i don't wish you to mention." they went into the cabin, and the boy would have liked to hear what they talked about in there; but he dared not venture near the house. it was not long before they came out again, and his father and mother accompanied them as far as the gate. his parents were strangely happy. they appeared to have gained a new hold on life. when the visitors were gone, father and mother lingered at the gate gazing after them. "i don't feel unhappy any longer, since i've heard so much that is good of our nils," said his mother. "perhaps he got more praise than he really deserved," put in his father thoughtfully. "wasn't it enough for you that they came here specially to say they wanted to help us because our nils had served them in many ways? i think, father, that you should have accepted their offer." "no, mother, i don't wish to accept money from any one, either as a gift or a loan. in the first place i want to free myself from all debt, then we will work our way up again. we're not so very old, are we, mother?" the father laughed heartily as he said this. "i believe you think it will be fun to sell this place, upon which we have expended such a lot of time and hard work," protested the mother. "oh, you know why i'm laughing," the father retorted. "it was the thought of the boy's having gone to the bad that weighed me down until i had no strength or courage left in me. now that i know he still lives and has turned out well, you'll see that holger nilsson has some grit left." the mother went in alone, and the boy made haste to hide in a corner, for his father walked into the stable. he went over to the horse and examined its hoof, as usual, to try to discover what was wrong with it. "what's this!" he cried, discovering some letters scratched on the hoof. "remove the sharp piece of iron from the foot," he read and glanced around inquiringly. however, he ran his fingers along the under side of the hoof and looked at it carefully. "i verily believe there is something sharp here!" he said. while his father was busy with the horse and the boy sat huddled in a corner, it happened that other callers came to the farm. the fact was that when morten goosey-gander found himself so near his old home he simply could not resist the temptation of showing his wife and children to his old companions on the farm. so he took dunfin and the goslings along, and made for home. there was not a soul in the barn yard when the goosey-gander came along. he alighted, confidently walked all around the place, and showed dunfin how luxuriously he had lived when he was a tame goose. when they had viewed the entire farm, he noticed that the door of the cow shed was open. "look in here a moment," he said, "then you will see how i lived in former days. it was very different from camping in swamps and morasses, as we do now." the goosey-gander stood in the doorway and looked into the cow shed. "there's not a soul in here," he said. "come along, dunfin, and you shall see the goose pen. don't be afraid; there's no danger." forthwith the goosey-gander, dunfin, and all six goslings waddled into the goose pen, to have a look at the elegance and comfort in which the big white gander had lived before he joined the wild geese. "this is the way it used to be: here was my place and over there was the trough, which was always filled with oats and water," explained the goosey-gander. "wait! there's some fodder in it now." with that he rushed to the trough and began to gobble up the oats. but dunfin was nervous. "let's go out again!" she said. "only two more grains," insisted the goosey-gander. the next second he let out a shriek and ran for the door, but it was too late! the door slammed, the mistress stood without and bolted it. they were locked in! the father had removed a sharp piece of iron from the horse's hoof and stood contentedly stroking the animal when the mother came running into the stable. "come, father, and see the capture i've made!" "no, wait a minute!" said the father. "look here, first. i have discovered what ailed the horse." "i believe our luck has turned," said the mother. "only fancy! the big white goosey-gander that disappeared last spring must have gone off with the wild geese. he has come back to us in company with seven wild geese. they walked straight into the goose pen, and i've shut them all in." "that's extraordinary," remarked the father. "but best of all is that we don't have to think any more that our boy stole the goosey-gander when he went away." "you're quite right, father," she said. "but i'm afraid we'll have to kill them to-night. in two days is morten gooseday[ ] and we must make haste if we expect to get them to market in time." [footnote : in sweden the th of november is called morten gooseday and corresponds to the american thanksgiving day.] "i think it would be outrageous to butcher the goosey-gander, now that he has returned to us with such a large family," protested holger nilsson. "if times were easier we'd let him live; but since we're going to move from here, we can't keep geese. come along now and help me carry them into the kitchen," urged the mother. they went out together and in a few moments the boy saw his father coming along with morten goosey-gander and dunfin--one under each arm. he and his wife went into the cabin. the goosey-gander cried: "thumbietot, come and help me!"--as he always did when in peril--although he was not aware that the boy was at hand. nils holgersson heard him, yet he lingered at the door of the cow shed. he did not hesitate because he knew that it would be well for him if the goosey-gander were beheaded--at that moment he did not even remember this--but because he shrank from being seen by his parents. "they have a hard enough time of it already," he thought. "must i bring them a new sorrow?" but when the door closed on the goosey-gander, the boy was aroused. he dashed across the house yard, sprang up on the board-walk leading to the entrance door and ran into the hallway, where he kicked off his wooden shoes in the old accustomed way, and walked toward the door. all the while it went so much against the grain to appear before his father and mother that he could not raise his hand to knock. "but this concerns the life of the goosey-gander," he said to himself--"he who has been my best friend ever since i last stood here." in a twinkling the boy remembered all that he and the goosey-gander had suffered on ice-bound lakes and stormy seas and among wild beasts of prey. his heart swelled with gratitude; he conquered himself and knocked on the door. "is there some one who wishes to come in?" asked his father, opening the door. "mother, you sha'n't touch the goosey-gander!" cried the boy. instantly both the goosey-gander and dunfin, who lay on a bench with their feet tied, gave a cry of joy, so that he was sure they were alive. some one else gave a cry of joy--his _mother_! "my, but you have grown tall and handsome!" she exclaimed. the boy had not entered the cabin, but was standing on the doorstep, like one who is not quite certain how he will be received. "the lord be praised that i have you back again!" said his mother, laughing and crying. "come in, my boy! come in!" "welcome!" added his father, and not another word could he utter. but the boy still lingered at the threshold. he could not comprehend why they were so glad to see him--such as he was. then his mother came and put her arms around him and drew him into the room, and he knew that he was all right. "mother and father!" he cried. "i'm a big boy. i am a human being again!" the parting with the wild geese _wednesday, november ninth_. the boy arose before dawn and wandered down to the coast. he was standing alone on the strand east of smyge fishing hamlet before sunrise. he had already been in the pen with morten goosey-gander to try to rouse him, but the big white gander had no desire to leave home. he did not say a word, but only stuck his bill under his wing and went to sleep again. to all appearances the weather promised to be almost as perfect as it had been that spring day when the wild geese came to skåne. there was hardly a ripple on the water; the air was still and the boy thought of the good passage the geese would have. he himself was as yet in a kind of daze--sometimes thinking he was an elf, sometimes a human being. when he saw a stone hedge alongside the road, he was afraid to go farther until he had made sure that no wild animal or vulture lurked behind it. very soon he laughed to himself and rejoiced because he was big and strong and did not have to be afraid of anything. when he reached the coast he stationed himself, big as he was, at the very edge of the strand, so that the wild geese could see him. it was a busy day for the birds of passage. bird calls sounded on the air continuously. the boy smiled as he thought that no one but himself understood what the birds were saying to one another. presently wild geese came flying; one big flock following another. "just so it's not my geese that are going away without bidding me farewell," he thought. he wanted so much to tell them how everything had turned out, and to show them that he was no longer an elf but a human being. there came a flock that flew faster and cackled louder than the others, and something told him that this must be _the_ flock, but now he was not quite so sure about it as he would have been the day before. the flock slackened its flight and circled up and down along the coast. the boy knew it was the right one, but he could not understand why the geese did not come straight down to him. they could not avoid seeing him where he stood. he tried to give a call that would bring them down to him, but only think! his tongue would not obey him. he could not make the right sound! he heard akka's calls, but did not understand what she said. "what can this mean? have the wild geese changed their language?" he wondered. he waved his cap to them and ran along the shore calling. "here am i, where are you?" but this seemed only to frighten the geese. they rose and flew farther out to sea. at last he understood. they did not know that he was human, had not recognized him. he could not call them to him because human beings can not speak the language of birds. he could not speak their language, nor could he understand it. although the boy was very glad to be released from the enchantment, still he thought it hard that because of this he should be parted from his old comrades. he sat down on the sands and buried his face in his hands. what was the use of his gazing after them any more? presently he heard the rustle of wings. old mother akka had found it hard to fly away from thumbietot, and turned back, and now that the boy sat quite still she ventured to fly nearer to him. suddenly something must have told her who he was, for she lit close beside him. nils gave a cry of joy and took old akka in his arms. the other wild geese crowded round him and stroked him with their bills. they cackled and chattered and wished him all kinds of good luck, and he, too, talked to them and thanked them for the wonderful journey which he had been privileged to make in their company. all at once the wild geese became strangely quiet and withdrew from him, as if to say: "alas! he is a man. he does not understand us: we do not understand him!" then the boy rose and went over to akka; he stroked her and patted her. he did the same to yksi and kaksi, kolme and neljä, viisi and kuusi--the old birds who had been his companions from the very start. after that he walked farther up the strand. he knew perfectly well that the sorrows of the birds do not last long, and he wanted to part with them while they were still sad at losing him. as he crossed the shore meadows he turned and watched the many flocks of birds that were flying over the sea. all were shrieking their coaxing calls--only one goose flock flew silently on as long as he could follow it with his eyes. the wedge was perfect, the speed good, and the wing strokes strong and certain. the boy felt such a yearning for his departing comrades that he almost wished he were thumbietot again and could travel over land and sea with a flock of wild geese. table of pronunciation the final _e_ is sounded in skåne, sirle, gripe, etc. the _å_ in skåne and småland is pronounced like _o_ in ore. _j_ is like the english _y_. nuolja, oviksfjällen, sjangeli, jarro, etc., should sound as if they were spelled like this: nuolya, oviksfyellen, syang [one syllable] elee, yarro, etc. _g_, when followed by _e, i, y, ä, ö_, is also like _y_. example, göta is pronounced yöta. when _g_ is followed by _a, o, u_, or _å_, it is hard, as in go. _k_ in norrköping, linköping, kivik (pronounced cheeveek), etc., is like _ch_ in cheer. _k_ is hard when it precedes _a, o, u_, or _å_. example, kaksi, kolmi, etc. _ä_ is pronounced like _ä_ in fare. example, färs. there is no sound in the english language which corresponds to the swedish _ö_. it is like the french _eu_ in jeu. gripe is pronounced greep-e. in sirle, the first syllable has the same sound as _sir_, in sirup. the names which miss lagerlöf has given to the animals are descriptive. smirre fox, is cunning fox. sirle squirrel, is graceful, or nimble squirrel. gripe otter, means grabbing or clutching otter. mons is a pet name applied to cats; like our tommy or pussy. monsie house-cat is equivalent to tommy house-cat. mårten gåskarl (morten goosie-gander) is a pet name for a tame gander, just as we use dickie-bird for a pet bird. fru is the swedish for mrs. this title is usually applied to gentlewomen only. the author has used this meaning of "fru." a goa-nisse is an elf-king, and corresponds to the english puck or robin goodfellow. velma swanston howard. waihoura, the maori girl, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ waihoura, the maori girl, by w.h.g. kingston. chapter one. the new colony. arrival of the families of mr pemberton, farmer greening and others, in new zealand.--inspect land.--encamp near the port till they can settle on the land they have selected. a fine emigrant ship, her voyage happily terminated, had just entered her destined port in the northern island of new zealand. her anchor was dropped, the crew were aloft furling sails, and several boats were alongside ready to convey the passengers to the shore. all was bustle and excitement on board, each person anxious to secure his own property,--and people were running backwards and forwards into the cabins, to bring away any minor articles which might have been forgotten. the water was calm and bright, the sky intensely blue. on either hand were bold picturesque headlands running out into the sea, fringed by dark rocks, while beyond the sandy beach, which bordered the bay, on a partially cleared space, were seen numerous cottages, interspersed with tents and huts, many of the latter rudely constructed of boughs. further off arose forests of tall trees, reaching to the base, and climbing the sides of a range of high mountains, here and there broken by deep ravines, with sparkling streams rushing down them, finding their way into a broad river which flowed into the bay. beyond the first range appeared others--range beyond range, the summits of several towering to the sky, covered with mantles of snow shining with dazzling whiteness in the bright rays of the sun. in several places the forest gave way to wide open tracts, clothed with fern or tall waving grass. "here we are safe at last," exclaimed valentine pemberton, a young gentleman about eighteen, as he stepped from one of the first boats on to the ledge of rocks which formed the chief landing-place of the settlement. "father, let me help you," he added, extending his arm towards a middle-aged fine-looking man who followed him. "now, lucy, take my hand; the rocks are somewhat slippery. harry, you can look out for yourself." he addressed his young sister, a fair sweet-looking girl of about fifteen, and his brother, a fine active boy, who sprang on to the rock after him. "take care of betsy, though," said lucy, not forgetful of her faithful maid, whose attachment to her young mistress had induced to leave home for a strange land. "paul greening is helping her," answered harry. mr pemberton, with his daughter and two sons, soon made their way to the more even beach, followed by betsy and paul greening. paul's father, farmer greening, a sturdy english yeoman, with his wife and two younger sons, james and little tobias, as the latter was called, though as big as his brothers, were the next to land. "my boys and i will look after your things, mr pemberton," shouted the farmer. "do you go and find lodgings for miss lucy and betsy." "thank you, my friend," said mr pemberton, "but we have made up our mind to rough it, and purpose camping out under tents until we can get a roof of our own over our heads. before we begin work, however, i wish to return thanks to him who has guided and protected us during our voyage across the ocean. will you and your family join us?" "aye, gladly sir," answered farmer greening. "we are ready enough to be angry with those who are thankless to us when we have done them a kindness, and i have often thought how ungrateful we are apt to be to him who gives us everything we enjoy in this life." mr pemberton led the way to a sheltered spot, where they were concealed by some high rocks from the busy throng on the beach. he there, with his own children and the farmer's family, knelt down and offered a hearty thanksgiving to the merciful god who had heretofore been their friend and guide, and a fervent prayer for protection from future dangers. then, with cheerful hearts and strong hands, they returned to the boat, to assist in landing their goods and chattels, while valentine and paul went back to the ship to bring off the remainder of the luggage. mr pemberton and farmer greening, meantime, set off to get the surveying officer to point out a plot of ground on which they might encamp, the rest of the party remaining on the beach to look after their property. while they were thus employed, a bustling little man, in a green velveteen shooting coat, approached lucy, who, with betsy and mrs greening were removing the lighter articles of their baggage. underneath a broad-brimmed hat, which he wore far back on his bullet-like head, covered with short cropped hair, appeared a pair of round eyes, and a funny turned up nose. "oh, miss pemberton, i am shocked to see you so employed!" he exclaimed. "let me assist you. my own things will not be brought on shore to-day, i am told, and i have no wish to go on board the ship again to look for them." "thank you, mr nicholas spears," said lucy, who had already discovered that the little man was never happy unless attending other people's concerns, to the neglect of his own, and had no wish to encourage him in his bad habit. "my brother harry and our friends here can do all that is necessary." "oh, i beg ten thousand pardons, miss lucy, but i thought that i could be of use to you. it would be such a pleasure, believe me." mr nicholas spears rolled his round eyes about, and twitched his mouth in such a curious manner when he spoke, that lucy could scarcely refrain from laughing outright. "if you don't look after your own property, mr spears, i don't think anybody else will," observed mrs greening. "just let me advise you to go back in the first boat, and see if any of your goods have been got out of the hold, or they may be sent on shore, and you will not know what have become of them." the little man seemed very unwilling to follow this wise counsel, but hearing his name called by some of the other emigrants, he hurried away to join them, and was seen running up and down the beach, carrying their boxes and parcels. most of the other passengers had now come on shore, and were busily employed in looking after their property, and conveying it from the beach. valentine and paul had just returned with the remainder of their goods, and soon afterwards mr pemberton and farmer greening returned, accompanied by four dark-skinned men, dressed in shirts and trousers, the few tattoo marks on their faces, and the shaggy state of their black hair, showing them to be of the lower order of natives. they brought also a small dray, drawn by bullocks, with which to transport the heavier articles of their luggage. "wherever you go, mr pemberton, with your leave, i and mine will go too," said farmer greening, as they walked along. "we have been neighbours in the old country, and you have ever been a kind friend to me, and if i can be of any use to you in choosing land, which i ought to know something about, why, you see, sir, it's just what i shall be glad to do." mr pemberton knew the value of the farmer's friendship and assistance too well to decline it, and thanked him heartily. he had himself gone through many trials. after enjoying a good fortune derived from west indian property, and living the life of a country gentleman, he found himself, at the time he was about to send his eldest son to the university, and his second boy into the navy, deprived of nearly the whole of his income. soon afterwards he lost his wife, a far greater blow to his happiness, and believing that he could best provide for his children by emigrating to one of the colonies, with the small remainder of his fortune, he had embarked with them for new zealand. a cleared space on some rising ground overlooking the harbour had been selected for encamping. to this the property of the party was soon conveyed. mr pemberton had brought with him two tents, the largest of which served as a store-house for his goods, and there was also space in it for beds for himself and his sons, while a much smaller one was appropriated to the use of lucy and betsy, which lucy had invited mrs greening to share with them. the farmer and his sons, with the assistance of the maoris, as the new zealanders are called, were putting up a hut in which they might find shelter till the land they had purchased had been fixed on. it was composed simply of stakes driven into the ground, interwoven with branches of trees, beams being secured to the top, while other branches were placed on them and thatched with long grass, an operation quickly performed by the maoris. before dark it was in a sufficiently forward state to afford shelter to the farmer and his sons,--some heaps of fern, brought in by their active assistants, serving them for beds. while the pakehas, the strangers, as the natives call the english, slept at one end, the four maoris occupied the other. before they lay down to rest mr pemberton invited them into his tent to join in family worship, a practice he had kept up during the voyage, and hoped in future to maintain under all circumstances. "it's a great blessing and advantage, miss lucy, to be associated with a gentleman like the squire," said mrs greening, when they returned to their tent. "my boys especially might be inclined to run wild in this strange country, if they hadn't the good example he sets before them." "we, i am sure, shall be a mutual help to each other, mrs greening," answered lucy. "your husband's practical experience in farming will greatly assist my father and brothers, and i was truly thankful when i heard that you wished to settle near us." "we know what it is to have bad land, with a high rent to pay," observed mrs greening with a sigh, "and i hope, now that we are to have a farm of our own, with a kind soil, we shall get on better than we did in the old country. few are ready to work harder than my good man and our boys, and i have never been used to be idle since i was big enough to milk a cow." the following day mr pemberton and the farmer, accompanied by valentine and paul, prepared to set off, with one of the maoris as a guide, to inspect a block of land lately surveyed, about ten miles from the coast, with a fine stream flowing through it. before starting they surveyed from the hill the road they were to take. at a short distance appeared the outskirts of the forests, composed of the lofty kauri, or yellow pine, kahikatea, or white pine, the rimu, with its delicate and gently weeping foliage, and several others, interspersed by the shade-loving tree-fern, the most graceful of all forest trees. from the boughs hung parasites and creepers of brilliant hues,--some, like loose ropes from the rigging of a ship, others, in festoons winding from stem to stem, uniting far-off trees with their luxuriant growth. "how shall you be able to pass through that thick forest?" asked lucy, of her father. "we shall have to make good use of our axes, i suppose," said valentine. "we shall find but little difficulty," observed mr pemberton. "although the foliage is so dense overhead, there is no jungle or underwood to obstruct our passage, and in this hot weather we shall have the advantage of travelling thoroughly shaded from the rays of the sun. we shall find it far more fatiguing walking over the fern land, which, at a distance, looks so smooth and even." mr pemberton took his fowling-piece; but the only weapons carried by the rest of the party were their axes, to mark the trees round the land they hoped to select. they expected not to be absent more than three days. lucy and harry accompanied them a short distance. they found, on their return, mrs greening busily employed with her sons in arranging the hut,--indeed, the good woman was never idle, and set an example of industry which some of the other settlers would have done wisely to follow. leaving her boys to go on with the work, she commenced making preparations for dinner. "you must let me act as your cook, miss lucy," she said. "you and betsy will have enough to do, and it's what i am used to." the cooking, however, was of necessity somewhat after the gipsy fashion, a pot being hung from a triangle over a fire on the ground, and when the pot was removed the tea-kettle took its place. they had no difficulty in procuring provisions, as there were several bakers in the village, and the maoris brought in pigs and wild-fowl, and various roots and vegetables to the market. chapter two. waihoura. natives arrive at mr pemberton's camp.--they bring with them on a litter a young girl--waihoura apparently very ill.--a doctor is sent for, and a hut is built for her accommodation. "oh mother! mother! miss lucy! betsy! do look at the strange savages who are coming this way," exclaimed little tobias, as he rushed up to the door of the tent the following morning. "i never did see such wild creatures, except once at the fair, and they were white men painted up to make believe they had come from foreign parts. there's no doubt about these, though." lucy and her companions being thus summoned, hurried from the tent and joined harry and the two young greenings, who were standing on the brow of the hill, watching a band of twenty or thirty maoris, who, emerging from the forest, were coming towards where they stood. at their head stalked a tall savage-looking warrior. his face, as he drew near, was seen to be thickly covered with blue lines, some in spirals, others in circles and curls of various devices. his black hair was gathered in a knot at the top of his head, and secured with a polished bone, while several large rings hung from his ears. over his shoulders was thrown a large mat cloak, which almost completely enveloped his form. in one hand he carried a musket, more on the present occasion to add to his dignity than for use, as swords were formerly worn by gentlemen in europe. his companions had their faces tattooed, though in a much less degree than was that of their leader. some wore merely long kilts round their waists, but many had cloaks of matting. the hair of most of them was cut short, looking like a black mop at the top of their heads. savages though they looked, they walked with a dignity and freedom that showed they felt their own consequence and independence. they were followed by several women, also clothed in mats, though of a finer texture than those of the men. their hair hung loosely over their shoulders, and several wore a wreath of flowers or shells, which assisted to keep it off their eyes. their faces were but slightly tattooed, the chin, and lips only being marked, giving the latter a curious blue look, which lucy thought detracted much from their otherwise comely appearance. they were walking on either side of a small litter, covered with boughs, and carried by four young men. the party of natives advanced as if about to ascend the hill; but when the chief saw that it was occupied by the tents, he ordered them to halt at its base, and they immediately began to make preparations for encamping, while the young men were sent off towards the woods to collect fuel for the fires and materials for building huts. the litter having been placed on the ground, the women gathered round it, as if much interested in whatever it contained. the chief himself then approached, and the boughs being partially removed, lucy perceived that its occupant was a young girl. the chief seemed to be speaking to her with tender interest. at length, on seeing lucy and her companions watching him, he advanced towards them. "oh! miss lucy, let's run away--the savage is coming, and i don't know what he will do," cried betsy, in great alarm. "i am sure he will not hurt us, from the gentle way he was speaking to the young girl," said lucy, holding her ground, though she felt a little nervous. "he looks terribly fierce, though," observed mrs greening. "but it won't do to run away, as if we were afraid." the chief, whose eye had been fixed on lucy, now approached her, and pointing to the litter, seemed to invite her to come down and speak to his daughter, for such she felt the girl must be. "oh miss, don't go," cried betsy. "you don't know what they will do;" but lucy, struck by the appearance of the occupant of the litter, was eager to learn more about her, and overcoming any fears she might have felt, at once accompanied the chief. the women made way for her as she got close to the litter. on it reclined, propped up by matting, which served as a pillow, a girl apparently of about her own age. her complexion was much fairer than that of any of her companions, scarcely darker, indeed, than a spanish or italian brunette. no tattoo marks disfigured her lips or chin; her features were regular and well-formed, and her eyes large and clear, though at present their expression betokened that she was suffering pain. she put out her hand towards lucy, who instinctively gave her her's. "maori girl ill, berry ill," she said. "tell pakeha doctor come, or waihoura die--pakeha doctor make waihoura well." although the words may not have been so clearly pronounced as they have been written, lucy at once understood their meaning. "oh yes, i will send for a doctor," she answered, hoping that dr fraser, the surgeon who came out with them in the ship, would be found on shore. she beckoned to harry, and told him to run and bring dr fraser without delay. the chief comprehended her intentions, and seemed well pleased when harry and tobias, who also offered to go, set off towards the village. as no one addressed her, lucy guessed rightly that the maori girl was the only person of her party who could speak english, and curious to know how she had learned it, she asked the question. "waihoura learn speak pakeha tongue of missionary," she answered, "but near forget now," and she put her hand to her brow, as if it ached. "the doctor will come soon, i hope, and give you medicine to make you better," said lucy, taking the young girl's hand, which felt hot and feverish. waihoura shook her head, and an expression of pain passed across her countenance. "we will pray to god, then, to make you well," said lucy. "he can do everything, so be not cast down, but trust him." the maori girl fixed her large eyes on her as she was speaking, evidently trying to understand her meaning, though apparently she did not entirely comprehend it. savage in appearance as were the people who surrounded her, lucy did not feel afraid of them, while they evidently regarded her with much respect. betsy having at length gained courage, came down the hill with mrs greening. "poor dear," said the farmer's wife, when she saw the maori girl. "what she wants is good food, a comfortable bed, and a little careful nursing. if we had our house up, i'll be bound we would bring her round in the course of a few weeks, so that that painted-faced gentleman, her father, would not know her again." "we would make room for her in our tent," said lucy. "or, perhaps, her friends would build a hut for her close to it; they probably would soon put one up, and it would be far better for her to remain with us than to return to her home." the chief had been watching them while they were speaking, and seemed to understand that they were discussing some plan for his daughter's benefit. he spoke a few words to her. "what say?" she asked, looking at lucy, and then pointing to her father. "we wish you to stop here and let us nurse you," said lucy, trying still further to explain her meaning by signs. the young girl's countenance brightened, showing that she understood what lucy had said, and wished to accept her offer. perhaps the remembrance of her stay with the missionary's family brought some pleasing recollections to her mind. while they were still speaking, a person was seen hurrying along the somewhat dusty road which led from the village, and lucy soon recognised mr nicholas spears. "has not he come yet?" he exclaimed, as he drew near. "dr fraser, i mean. i met master harry, and that big lout tobias. i beg your pardon, mrs greening. i did not see you were there, and so i told them i would find him and send him on; so i did, for i understood from them that a princess, or some great person, wanted his services. if he has not come i must go back and hurry him. is that the princess? she don't look much like one, however, she may be a princess for all that. your servant, miss, and that old gentleman, with the curious marks on his face, is her father, i suppose? your servant, sir," he added, making the chief a bow with his broad-brimmed hat. the chief bent his head in acknowledgment, and seemed somewhat inclined to rub noses with the little man as a further sign of his good-will; but mr spears sprang back in alarm, evidently thinking it safer to keep at a distance from the savage-looking warrior; observing, however, the confidence shown by lucy and her companions, he walked round them once or twice, gazing at them as if they had been wild beasts at a show. as he passed again near lucy, she reminded him of his promise to look for dr fraser, and much to her satisfaction, off he set at full speed. in a short time the doctor was seen coming along the road, followed by harry and tobias. "oh, dr fraser, i am so glad you are come," said lucy. "here is a sweet interesting maori girl, and she is very ill, i fear. can you do anything for her?" "i am afraid, miss lucy, unless she can speak english, or we have an efficient interpreter, there may be some difficulty in ascertaining her disease, but i will do my best." "oh, she understands a little english," said lucy, "and seems very intelligent." the doctor approached the litter, and stooping down, remained some time by the girl's side, asking her questions, and endeavouring to comprehend her answers. "unless i can have her for some time as my patient, i fear, miss pemberton, that i cannot do much for her," he said at length. "my lodgings are very small, and i suspect that among the settlers there are none who would be willing to receive her." lucy then told him of the plan she and mrs greening had proposed. "that would certainly afford the best prospect of her recovery," he answered. "if we can explain that to her friends, perhaps they would be willing to allow her to remain." lucy was very glad to hear this, for she already felt a deep interest in the young maori girl. "there is her father," said lucy, pointing to the chief, "perhaps you can make him understand what we propose." "i will try," said dr fraser, "but, if not, i must get mr clifton, the surveyor, who speaks their language, to explain it to him." the chief, who had been looking on all the time with an expression of anxiety visible on his stern countenance, now drew near, and with the assistance of his daughter, was made to comprehend what their new friends proposed. he stopped some time, apparently considering the matter, and then having consulted with several of his companions, he returned, and taking lucy's hand, placed it in that of waihoura, as if confiding her to her care. "but we must make them understand that they must build her a comfortable house," said lucy. this the doctor managed to do without much difficulty, and leading the chief up the hill, showed the position in which he wished it to be placed. the natives, who appeared to render implicit obedience to their chief, immediately went off to cut timber. the doctor, meantime, marked the dimensions of the building, and showed the height he desired to have it, which was nearly three times that of the ordinary native huts. "we must have a proper door and a couple of windows, too," he remarked. "the poor girl requires fresh air more than anything else, probably she has been shut up in the smoke and heat of a native hut, and unless we have one of a very different character, she will have little chance of recovery." idle and averse to work, as lucy heard that the maoris were, she was pleased to see the rapid way in which they erected the hut. while some dug the holes for the posts, and others cut them down, a third party brought them up the hill. they were evidently surprised at the size of the building, and uttered numerous exclamations of astonishment when the doctor made them understand that it must be in no respect smaller than he proposed. harry, with james and tobias, got their spades and levelled the ground for the floor, rendering considerable assistance also in digging the holes. among the articles mr pemberton had brought were several doors and window sashes, intended for his own cottage. lucy suggested that these should be unpacked, and a door and two windows be used for the hut. "i am sure that my father will not object," she said, "and it will make the house much more comfortable." "i wish that all our countrymen had as much consideration for the natives as you show, miss lucy," observed the doctor, "and i feel sure mr pemberton will approve of what you propose doing." the door and two windows were accordingly fixed, the maoris showing themselves very expert carpenters. the doctor having seen that the plan he proposed for the house was likely to be properly carried out, returned to the town to get some medicine, while mrs greening arranged a comfortable english bed, in which his patient might be placed. before nightfall the hut was completely finished. mrs greening removed her own bedding to it, that, as she said, she could be at hand to attend to the young native girl; and dr fraser having given her some medicine, took his departure, promising to come back, early the next morning. the chief showed by his manner the perfect confidence he placed in his new friends, and leaving his daughter in their charge, he and his companions retired to the foot of the hill, where they spent the night round their camp fire. lucy sat for some time by the side of waihoura, who showed no inclination to go to sleep; she evidently was astonished at finding herself in an english bed, and watched over by a fair pakeha girl instead of her own dark-skinned people. she talked on for some time, till at length her words grew more and more indistinct, and closing her eyes, to lucy's satisfaction, she fell asleep. "now, do you go back to your tent," said mrs greening. "i'll look after the little girl, and if i hear any noise i'll be up in a moment and call you or betsy; but don't be fancying you will be wanted, the little girl will do well enough, depend on that." lucy very unwillingly retired to her tent, and was much surprised when she awoke to find that it was already daylight. chapter three. in camp. dr fraser arrives with mr marlow, a missionary, who recognises waihoura.--he persuades her father to allow her to remain.--return of mr pemberton, who has selected his land, and begins to settle on it.-- the farm described.--he leaves them again for it accompanied by mr spears.--waihoura recovers and learns english, while lucy learns maori.--a vessel arrives with sheep, some of which the doctor buys, and are looked after by toby.--lucy tries to explain the gospel to waihoura. "i am not quite happy about her, miss lucy," said mrs greening, when lucy, as soon as she was dressed, went into the hut. "if she was an english girl i should know what to do, but these natives have odd ways, which puzzle me." the young maori girl lay as she had been placed on the bed, with her eyes open, but without moving or speaking. there was a strange wild look in her countenance, so lucy thought, which perplexed her. "i wish the doctor were here," she said; "if he does not come soon, we will send harry to look for him." "little tobias shall go at once, miss," answered mrs greening. "the run will do him no harm, even if he misses the doctor." tobias was called, and taking his stick in hand, the young giant set off at a round trot down the hill. lucy sat watching the sick girl, while mrs greening and betsy made preparations for breakfast. every now and then she cast an anxious glance through the open doorway, in the hopes of seeing the doctor coming up the hill. "oh! how sad it would be if she were to die in her present heathen state; when should she recover, she may have an opportunity of learning the blessed truths of the gospel," thought lucy. "how thankful i should feel could i tell her of the love of christ, and how he died for her sake, and for that of all who accept the gracious offers of salvation freely made to them. i must try, as soon as possible, to learn her language, to be able to speak to her." such and similar thoughts occupied lucy's mind for some time. at length, turning round and looking through the open doorway, she saw several natives coming up the hill. she recognised the first as waihoura's father. the party approached the hut, and stopped before the entrance. "dear me, here comes some of those savage-looking natives," exclaimed mrs greening. "what shall we say to them? i hope they are not come to take the poor little girl away." "i will try and make them understand that we have sent for the doctor, and that if they wish her to recover, they must let her remain under his charge," said lucy, rising and going to the door. though still feeling somewhat nervous in the presence of the maoris, her anxiety to benefit waihoura gave her courage, and she endeavoured, by signs, to make the chief understand what she wished. she then led him to the bedside of his daughter, who lay as unconscious as before. he stood for some time gazing down at her, the working of his countenance showing his anxiety. lucy felt greatly relieved on hearing toby's voice shouting out, "the doctor's a-coming mother, i ran on before to tell you, and there's a gentleman with him who knows how to talk to the savages." in a short time the doctor arrived, accompanied by an englishman of middle age, with a remarkably intelligent and benignant expression of countenance. "mr marlow kindly agreed to come with me," said dr fraser. "he understands the maori language, and i shall now be able to communicate with my patient, and to explain to her friends what is necessary to be done to afford her a prospect of recovery." "i am afraid she is very ill," said lucy, as she led the doctor and mr marlow into the hut. the latter addressed the young girl in a low gentle voice. at first she paid no attention, but at length her eyes brightened and her lips moved. mr marlow continued speaking, a smile lighted up her countenance. she replied, and taking his hand, pressed it to her lips. "i thought so," he said, turning to lucy, "we are old acquaintances. when still a child, she was for a short time at my missionary school, but her father resisted the truth, and took her away. through god's providence she may once more have an opportunity of hearing the message of salvation. we must endeavour to persuade ihaka, her father, to allow her to remain. he loves his daughter, and though unconscious of the value of her soul, for the sake of preserving her life, he may be induced to follow our advice." dr fraser, through mr marlow, put several questions to waihoura, and then administered some medicine he had brought, leaving a further portion with mrs greening, to be given as he directed. mr marlow then addressed ihaka the chief, who seemed to listen to him with great attention. he told him what the english doctor had said, and urged him, as he loved his daughter, to leave her under his care. ihaka at first hesitated, unwilling to be separated from his child. mr marlow pressed the point with great earnestness, and at length the chief signified his readiness to comply with the doctor's advice. "tell him if he restores my daughter, i and my people will be friends to him and the pakehas, for his sake, for ever," he said, pointing to dr fraser. "the life of your daughter, as well as that of all human beings, is in the hands of the great god who rules this world, and allows not a sparrow to fall to the ground without knowing it," answered mr marlow. "the doctor is but his instrument, and can only exert the knowledge which has been given him. to that loving god we will kneel in prayer, and petition that she may be restored to health." saying this, mr marlow summoned the english lads; and betsy, who had hitherto kept at a distance, and kneeling on the ground, offered up an earnest prayer to god, that if it was in accordance with his will, and for the benefit of the young maori girl, he would spare her life. all present earnestly repeated the "amen," with which he concluded his prayer. the savages, during the time, stood round in respectful silence; and, though not understanding the words uttered, were evidently fully aware of the purpose of what had been said. ihaka once more entering the hut, waihoura recognised him. taking her hand, he beckoned lucy and mrs greening to approach, and placed it in theirs, as if confiding her to their charge. "please, sir," said mrs greening to mr marlow, "tell the chief we will do the best we can for his little girl. she is a sweet young creature, and i little expected to find such among the savages out here." "they have hearts and souls, my dear lady, as we have, and though their colour is different to ours, god cares for them as he does for us." the chief seemed content, and after again addressing the missionary, he and his people took their departure. "the savages are all going, mother," exclaimed little tobias some time afterwards, as he came puffing and blowing up the hill. "i could not feel quite comfortable while they were near us, and i am glad that we are rid of them." "we should not judge from outside looks, tobias," remarked mrs greening. "as the good missionary said just now, they have hearts and souls like ours, and i am sure that chief, fierce and savage as he looks, loves his daughter as much as any english father can do." dr fraser and mr marlow had before this returned to the town, promising to come back in the evening to see how their patient was getting on. the consumption of firewood in the camp was considerable, as mrs greening kept up a good fire in the open air for the cooking operations. harry and tobias had brought in a supply in the morning, and harry's hands and clothes gave evidence how hard he had laboured. "we shall want some more wood before morning," observed mrs greening, turning to her sons. "i am ready to go again," said harry, "if james will stay in the camp." "no; master harry, its my turn to go if you will stop behind," said james. "if you wish it i'll stay," replied harry. "one of us ought to remain, or strangers coming up to the camp might be troublesome, and i would not permit that." while james and tobias set off with axes in their hands, and pieces of rope to bind their faggots, harry got his gun, and began to march up and down on guard. he evidently considered himself like a sentinel in the presence of an enemy. now he looked on one side of the hill, now on the other. no person could have entered the camp without receiving his challenge. he had thus been passing up and down for some time, when he caught sight, in the distance, of some persons emerging from the forest. "here they come," he shouted out, "papa and valentine, mr greening and paul, and the two natives who went with them." he was examining them with his spy-glass. "yes, it's them, and they will soon be here. pray get supper ready, mrs greening; depend upon it they will be very hungry after their long march." mrs greening, aided by betsy, at once got her pots and saucepans on the fire. harry, though feeling much inclined to run down and meet the party, restrained his eagerness. "a sentry must not quit his post," he said to himself, "though no harm will happen, i'll keep to mine on principle." in a short time mr pemberton, with his companions, appeared at the foot of the hill. lucy ran down to meet them, eager to welcome her father, and to tell him about waihoura. "i am glad you can be of assistance to the young girl, and it is most desirable that we should be able to show our friendly disposition towards the natives," he observed. "oh, i do so hope she will recover," said lucy. "but i am afraid that some time must pass before she is well enough to be moved." "that would decide me in a plan i propose," said mr pemberton. "greening and i have settled our ground, and i hope that we may be put in possession of it in a day or two; we will then leave you here with harry and tobias, while we go back and build our houses, and make preparations for your reception." lucy had expected to set out as soon as the ground was chosen; but as she could not hope that waihoura would be in a fit state to be moved for some time, she felt that the arrangement now proposed was the best. mr pemberton and farmer greening were highly pleased with the ground they had selected. "we propose to place our houses on the slope of a hill, which rises within a quarter of a mile of the river," he observed. "greening will take one side and i the other. our grounds extend from the river to the hill, and a little way beyond it; when the high road is formed, which will, from the nature of the country, pass close to our farm, we shall have both land and water communication. close also to the foot of the hill, a village probably will be built, so that we shall have the advantage of neighbours. among other advantages, our land is but slightly timbered, though sufficiently so to afford us an ample supply of wood for building, and as much as we shall require for years to come for fencing and fuel. from the spot i have chosen for our house, we have a view over the country in this direction, so that, with our telescope, we can distinguish the vessels, as they come into the harbour, or pass along the coast." "we shall have plenty of fishing too, harry," exclaimed valentine. "and we may, if we go a little distance, fall in with wild boars and plenty of birds, though there are none which we should call game in england." "oh! how i long to be there, and begin our settlers' life in earnest," said harry. "i hope the little savage girl will soon get well enough to move." "i wish we could be with you also to help you in the work," said lucy. "how can you manage to cook without us?" "valentine and paul have become excellent cooks, and though we shall miss your society, we shall not starve," observed mr pemberton. "our camp life is a very pleasant one," remarked valentine. "for my part i shall be rather sorry when it is over, and we have to live inside a house, and go to bed regularly at night." this conversation took place while they were seated at supper on the ground in front of the large tent. it was interrupted by the arrival of mr fraser, accompanied by mr marlow, to see waihoura. "she is going on favourably," said the doctor, as he came out; "but she requires great care, and i feel sure that had you not taken charge of her, her life would have been lost. now, however, i trust that she will recover. mr marlow will let her father understand how much he is indebted to you, as it is important that you should secure the friendship a chief of his power and influence." in two days mr pemberton and farmer greening were ready to start for their intended location. each had purchased a strong horse, and these were harnessed to a light dray, which mr pemberton had bought. it was now loaded with all the articles they required, and sufficient provisions and stores to last them till their cottages were put up, and they could return for the rest of the party. by that time it was hoped that the young maori girl would be in a fit state to be moved. "i will not let her, if i can help it, go back to her own people," said lucy. "she will become, i am sure, attached to us. i may be of use to her, and she will teach me her language, and it will be interesting to learn from her the habits and customs of the natives." "yes, indeed, it would be a pity to let the poor little girl turn again into a savage," observed mr greening. "i can't fancy that their ways are good ways, or suited to a christian girl, and that i hope, as miss lucy says, she will turn into before long." it had been arranged that lucy and betsy should take up their abode in the large tent, in which there was now sufficient room for their accommodation, the small one being packed up for mr pemberton's use. the dray being loaded, the farmer went to the horses' heads, and the young men, with the two maoris, going on either side to keep back the wheels, it slowly descended the hill. "we shall not make a very rapid journey," observed valentine. "but we shall be content if we come to the end of it in time without a break down." harry felt very proud at being left in charge of the camp, and tobias promised that there should be no lack of firewood or water, while he could cut the one, and draw the other from the sparkling stream which ran at the foot of the hill. "we shall do very well, never fear, sir," said mrs greening to mr pemberton, "and as soon as you and my good man come back, we shall be ready to start." just as her father had wished lucy good-bye, mr spears, with a pack on his back, and a stout stick in his hand, was observed coming up the hill. "just in time, neighbour," he exclaimed, as he came up to mr pemberton. "i found out, at the surveyor's office, where you had selected your land, and i made up my mind at once to take a piece of ground close to it. as i am all alone, i have only bought a few acres, but that will be enough to build a house on, and to have a garden and paddock. with your leave i'll accompany you. there are several more of our fellow passengers who will select land on the same block when they hear that you and i have settled on it, and we shall soon have, i hope, a pleasant society about us. we shall all be able to help each other; that's the principle i go on." mr pemberton told mr spears that he was very willing to have him as a companion on the journey, and that he was glad to hear that a settlement was likely soon to be formed near him. he was well aware that the differences of social rank could not be maintained in a new colony, and he had made up his mind to be courteous and kind to all around him, feeling assured that all the respect he could require would thus be paid him by his neighbours. he at once gave a proof of his good intentions. "your pack is heavy, mr spears, and we can easily find room on our waggon for it," he said, and taking off the pack, he secured it to the vehicle which they had just then overtaken. "thank you, good sir, thank you," answered mr spears, as he walked forward, with a jaunty elastic step, highly pleased at being relieved of his somewhat heavy burden. "one good turn deserves another, and i hope that i may have many opportunities of repaying it." mr pemberton had promised lucy to send over, from time to time, to let her know what progress was made, and to obtain intelligence in return from her. notwithstanding this, she looked forward eagerly to the day when he would come back to take her and the rest of the party to their new abode. though she did her best to find employment, the time would have hung somewhat heavily on her hands had she not had waihoura to attend to. the maori girl, in a short time, so far recovered as to be able to sit up and try to talk. she seemed as anxious to become acquainted with english as lucy was to learn her language. they both got on very rapidly, for though waihoura had some difficulty in pronouncing english words, she seldom forgot the name of a thing when she had once learned it. she would ask lucy to say the word over and over again, then pronouncing it after her. at the end of a week she could speak a good many english sentences. lucy made almost as rapid progress in maori, she having the advantage of several books to assist her, and at length the two girls were in a limited degree able to exchange ideas. no one in the camp, however, was idle. harry, who always kept guard, was busy from morning to night in manufacturing some article which he thought likely to prove useful. betsy either went with tobias to cut wood, or bring up water, or assist mrs greening, and frequently accompanied her into the town when she went marketing; and sometimes tobias, when he was not wanted to cut wood, went with his mother. one day he came back with the information that a vessel, which had come to an anchor in the morning, had brought over from australia several head of cattle, and a large flock of sheep. "i wish father were here, he would be down on the shore, and buying some of them pretty quickly," he exclaimed. "could we not send to let him know," said lucy. "harry, i heard papa say, too, that he wished to purchase a small flock of sheep as soon as he could find any at a moderate price. i should so like to have charge of them. i have always thought the life of a shepherd or shepherdess the most delightful in the world." harry laughed. "i suspect when it began to rain hard, and your sheep ran away and got lost in the mountains and woods, you would wish yourself sewing quietly by the fireside at home, and your sheep at jericho," he exclaimed, continuing his laughter. "still i should be very glad if we could get the sheep, though i am afraid they will all be sold before we can receive papa's answer." while the conversation was going on, dr fraser arrived to see waihoura. harry told him that he would very much like to send to his father to give notice of the arrival of the sheep. "would you like to turn shepherd?" asked the doctor. "i should like nothing better, for i could take my books with me, or anything i had to make, and look after the sheep at the same time; it would suit me better than lucy, who has a fancy to turn shepherdess, and have a crook, and wear a straw hat set on one side of her head, surrounded with a garland, just as we see in pictures." "i suspect miss lucy would find home duties more suited to her," said the doctor; "but if you, harry, will undertake to look after a small flock of sheep, i think i may promise to put one under your charge, and to give you a portion of the increase as payment. i was thinking of buying a hundred sheep, but hesitated from not knowing any one i could trust to to keep them. from what i have seen of you, i am sure you will do your best; and as your father and farmer greening will probably purchase some more, they will run together till they are sufficiently numerous to form separate flocks. if you will write a letter to your father i will send a messenger off at once," said the doctor. "indeed, so certain am i that they would wish to purchase some, that i will, when i go back, make an offer for a couple of hundred in addition to mine." the next day the doctor told them that he had purchased the sheep as he had proposed, and he brought a letter from mr pemberton thanking him for doing so, and saying that they had made such good progress in their work, that they hoped, in another week, to come back for the rest of the party. "i am rather puzzled to know what to do with the sheep in the meantime," said the doctor. "i cannot entrust them to natives, and there is not a european in the place who has not his own affairs to look after. what do you say, harry, can you and tobias take care of them?" "i cannot quit my post," answered harry, though he was longing to go and see the sheep. "if they were sent up here, i could watch them, but i am afraid they would not remain on the hill while there is better pasture below." "tobias could take charge of them, sir," said mrs greening. "and if we had our old dog `rough,' i'll warrant not one would go astray." "rough," who had accompanied farmer greening all the way from england, had mysteriously disappeared the morning of their arrival; he could not be found before they had quitted the ship, and they had since been unable to discover him. "that is curious," said the doctor; "for this morning, when i bought the sheep, a man offered me a shepherd's dog for sale. i told him that should he not in the meantime have found a purchaser, i would treat with him in the evening after i had seen the dog. should he prove to be `rough,' i will not fail to purchase him." tobias, on hearing this, was very eager to accompany dr fraser. "the old dog will know me among a thousand, and the man will have a hard job to hold him in," he observed, grinning from ear to ear. the doctor, after he had seen waihoura, told lucy she need have no further anxiety about her friend, who only required good food and care completely to recover. "i must get mr marlow to see her father, and persuade him to allow her to remain with you, and he may assure him very truly that she will probably fall ill again if she goes back again to her own people," he said. tobias accompanied the doctor into the town in the hopes of hearing about his favourite "rough." he had not been long absent, when back he came with his shaggy friend at his heels. "here he is mother, here he is master harry," he shouted. "i know'd how it would be, the moment he caught sight of me, he almost toppled the man who held him down on his nose, and so he would if the rope hadn't broken, and in another moment he was licking me all over. the doctor gave the man a guinea; but i said it was a shame for him to take it, and so did everybody, for they saw that the dog knew me among twenty or thirty standing round. the man sneaked off, and `rough' came along with me. now i must go back and bring the sheep round here to the foot of the hill. there's some ground the surveyor says that we may put them on till we can take them to our own run, but we must give `rough' his dinner first, for i'll warrant the fellow has not fed him over well." "rough" wagged his stump of a tail to signify he understood his young master's kind intentions, and mrs greening soon got a mess ready, which "rough" swallowed up in a few moments, and looked up into toby's face, as much as to say, "what do you want with me next?" "come along `rough,' i'll show you," said toby, as he set off at a round trot down the hill. the party at the camp watched him with no little pleasure, when a short time afterwards, he, with the aid of "rough," was seen driving a flock of sheep from the town past the hill to a meadow partly enclosed by a stream which made its way into the sea, a short distance off. "rough" exhibited his wonderful intelligence, as he dashed now on one side, now on the other, keeping the sheep together, and not allowing a single one to stray away. it was a difficult task for toby and him, for the sheep, long pent up on board ship, made numberless attempts to head off into the interior, where their instinct told them they would find an abundance of pasture. without the assistance of "rough," toby would have found it impossible to guide them into the meadow, and even when there, he and his dog had to exert all their vigilance to keep them together. harry was sorely tempted to go down to assist. "i must not quit my post though," he said. "as soon as i am relieved, then i'll try if i cannot shepherd as well as toby. it seems to me that `rough' does the chief part of the work." the doctor had engaged a couple of natives to assist toby in looking after the sheep, but he was so afraid of losing any, that he would only come up to the camp for a few minutes at a time to take his meals, and to get "rough's" food. the maoris had built him a small hut, where he passed the night, with the flock lying down close to him, kept together by the vigilant dog. the maoris were, however, very useful in bringing firewood and water to the camp. waihoura was now well enough to walk about. lucy had given her one of her own frocks and some other clothes, and she and betsy took great pains to dress her in a becoming manner, they combed and braided her dark tresses, which they adorned with a few wild flowers that betsy had picked, and when her costume was complete, mrs greening, looking at her with admiration, exclaimed, "well, i never did think that a little savage girl could turn into a young lady so soon." waihoura, who had seen herself in a looking-glass, was evidently very well satisfied with her appearance, and clapped her hands with delight, and then ran to lucy and rubbed her nose against her's, and kissed her, to express her gratitude. "now that you are like us outside, you must become like us inside," said lucy, employing a homely way of speaking such as her maori friend was most likely to understand. "we pray to god, you must learn to pray to him. we learn about him in the book through which he has made himself known to us as a god of love and mercy, as well as a god of justice, who desires all people to come to him, and has shown us the only way by which we can come. you understand, all people have disobeyed god, and are rebels, and are treated as such by him. the evil spirit, satan, wishes to keep us rebels, and away from god. god in his love desires us to be reconciled to him; but we all deserve punishment, and he cannot, as a god of justice, let us go unpunished. in his great mercy, however, he permitted another to be punished for us, and he allowed his well-beloved son jesus christ, a part of himself, to become the person to suffer punishment. jesus came down on earth to be obedient in all things, because man had been disobedient. he lived a holy pure life, going about doing good, even allowing himself to be cruelly treated, to be despised and put to shame by the very people among whom he had lived, and to whom he had done so much good. then, because man justly deserves punishment, he willingly underwent one of the most painful punishments ever thought of, thus suffering instead of man. when nailed to the cross, his side was pierced with a spear, and the blood flowed forth, that the sacrifice might be complete and perfect. then he rose again, to prove that he was truly god, and that all men will rise from the dead; and he ascended into heaven, there to plead with the father for all who trust him, and to claim our freedom from punishment, on the ground that he was punished in our stead." "jesus sent also, as he had promised, the holy spirit to dwell on earth with his people, to be their comforter, their guide and instructor, and to enable them to understand and accept his father's loving plan of salvation, which he had so fully and completely carried out." "do you understand my meaning," said lucy, who felt that she had said more than waihoura was likely to comprehend. she shook her head. "lucy not bad woman;" pointing to mrs greening, "not bad; maori girl bad, maori people very bad," she answered slowly. "god no love maori people." "but we are all bad when compared to him--all unfit to go and live in his pure and holy presence," exclaimed lucy. "and in spite of their wickedness, god loves the maori people as much as he does us; their souls are of the same value in his sight as ours, and he desires that all should come to him and be saved." "why god not take them then, and make them good?" asked waihoura. "because he in his wisdom thought fit to create man a free agent, to give him the power of choosing between the good and the evil. why he allows evil to exist, he has not revealed to us. all we know is that evil does exist, and that satan is the prince of evil, and tries to spread it everywhere throughout the world. god, if he chose, could overcome evil, but then this world would no longer be a place of trial, as he has thought fit to make it. he has not left man, however, without a means of conquering evil. jesus christ came down on earth to present those means to man; they are very simple, and can very easily be made use of; so simple and so easy that man would never have thought of them. man has nothing to do in order to get rid of his sins, to become pure and holy, and thus fit to live in the presence of a pure and holy god. he has only to put faith in jesus christ, who, though free from sin, as i have told you, took our sins upon himself, and was punished in our stead, while we have only to turn from sin, and to desire not to sin again. we are, however, so prone to sin, that we could not do even this by ourselves; but christ, knowing our weakness, has, as he promised, when he ascended into heaven, sent his holy spirit to be with us to help us to hate sin, and to resist sin." lucy kept her eyes fixed on her friend to try and ascertain if she now more clearly understood her. waihoura again shook her head. lucy felt convinced that her knowledge of english was still too imperfect to enable her to comprehend the subject. "i must try more than ever to learn to speak maori," she said, "and then perhaps i shall better be able to explain what i mean." "maori girl want to know much, much, much," answered waihoura, taking lucy's hand. "maori girl soon die perhaps, and then wish to go away where lucy go." "ah, yes, it is natural that we should wish to be with those we have loved on earth, but if we understand the surpassing love of jesus, we should desire far more to go and dwell with him. try and remember, waihoura, that we have a friend in heaven who loves us more than any earthly friend can do, who knows how weak and foolish and helpless we are, and yet is ever ready to listen to us, and to receive us when we lift up our hearts to him in prayer." "maori girl not know how to pray," said waihoura, sorrowfully. "i cannot teach you," said lucy, "but if you desire to pray, jesus can and will send the holy spirit i told you of. if you only wish to pray, i believe that you are praying, the mere words you utter are of little consequence, god sees into our hearts, and he knows better than even we ourselves do, whether the spirit of prayer is there." "i am afraid, miss lucy, that the little girl can't take in much of the beautiful things you have been saying," observed mrs greening, who had all the time been listening attentively. "but i have learned more than i knew before, and i only wish tobias and the rest of them had been here to listen to you." "i am very sure my father will explain the subject to them more clearly than i can do," said lucy, modestly. "i have only repeated what he said to me, and what i know to be true, because i have found it all so plainly set forth in god's word. my father always tells us not to take anything we hear for granted till we find it there, and that it is our duty to search the scriptures for ourselves. it is because people are often too idle, or too ignorant to do this, that there is so much false doctrine and error among nominal christians. i hope mr marlow will pay us a visit when we are settled in our new home, and bring a maori bible with him, and he will be able to explain the truth to waihoura far better than i can. you will like to learn to read, waihoura, and we must get some books, and i will try and teach you, and you will teach me your language at the same time." lucy often spoke on the same subject to her guest; but, as was to be expected, waihoura very imperfectly understood her. with more experience she would have known that god often thinks fit to try the faith and patience even of the most earnest and zealous christians who are striving to make known the truth of the gospel to others. the faithful missionary has often toiled on for years among the heathen before he has been allowed to see the fruit of his labours. chapter four. settling down. return of waggon to the camp for lucy and the rest of the party, who set off for the farm.--scenery on the road.--arrival at farm.--mr spears again.--plans for the future. "here comes the waggon," shouted harry, as he stood on the brow of the hill waving his hat. "there's farmer greening and val. papa has sent for us at last." harry was right, and val announced that he had come for all the lighter articles, including lucy and her companions, who were to set out at once with farmer greening, while he, with a native, remained to take care of the heavier goods. the waggon was soon loaded, leaving places within it for lucy and waihoura, mrs greening and betsy insisting on walking. "now val, i hand over my command to you, and see that you keep as good a watch as i have done," said harry, as he shook hands with his brother. "i must go and take charge of the sheep." valentine smiled at the air of importance harry had assumed. "there's the right stuff in the little fellow," he said to himself, as he watched him and young tobias driving the sheep in the direction the waggon had taken. lucy was delighted with the appearance of the country, as they advanced, though she could not help wishing very frequently that the road had been smoother; indeed, the vehicle bumped and rolled about so much at times that she fully expected a break down. waihoura, who had never been in a carriage before, naturally supposed that this was the usual way in which such vehicles moved along, and therefore appeared in no degree alarmed. she pointed out to lucy the names of the different trees they passed, and of the birds which flew by. lucy was struck with the beauty of the fern trees, their long graceful leaves springing twenty and thirty feet from the ground; some, indeed, in sheltered and damp situations, were twice that height, having the appearance of the palm trees of tropical climates. the most beautiful tree was the rimu, which rose without a branch to sixty or seventy feet, with graceful drooping foliage of a beautiful green, resembling clusters of feathers; then there was the kahikatea, or white pine, resembling the rimu in foliage, but with a light coloured bark. one or two were seen rising ninety feet high without a branch. there were numerous creepers, some bearing very handsome flowers, and various shrubs; one, the karaka, like a large laurel, with golden coloured berries in clusters, which contrasted finely with the glossy greenness of its foliage. some of the fruits were like large plums, very tempting in appearance; but when lucy tasted some, which the farmer picked for her, she was much disappointed in their flavour. the best was the poro poro, which had a taste between that of apple peel and a bad strawberry. birds were flitting about from tree to tree; the most common was the tui, with a glossy black plumage, and two white feathers on the throat like bands, and somewhat larger than an english blackbird, which appeared always in motion, now darting up from some low bush to the topmost bough of a lofty tree, when it began making a number of strange noises, with a wonderful volume of tone. if one tui caught sight of another, they commenced fighting, more in sport, apparently, than in earnest, and ending with a wild shout; they would throw a summer-set or two, and then dart away into the bush to recommence their songs and shouts. there was a fine pigeon, its plumage richly shaded with green purple and gold, called the kukupa. occasionally they caught sight of a large brown parrot, marked with red, flying about the tops of the tallest trees, and uttering a loud and peculiar cry; this was the kaka. waihoura pointed out to lucy another bird of the parrot tribe, of a green plumage, touched with gold about the head, and which she called the kakarica. as the waggon could only proceed at a snail's pace, they had made good but half the distance, when they had to stop for dinner by the side of a bright stream which ran through the forest. the horses, which were tethered, cropped the grass, and mrs greening unpacked her cooking utensils. while dinner was getting ready, waihoura led lucy along the bank of the stream to show her some more birds. they saw several, among them an elegant little fly-catcher, with a black and white plumage, and a delicate fan-tail, which flew rapidly about picking up sun-flies; this was the tirakana. and there was another pretty bird, the makomako, somewhat like a green linnet. several were singing together, and their notes reminded lucy of the soft tinkling of numerous little bells. they had seen nothing of harry and tobias with the sheep since starting, and farmer greening began to regret that he had not sent one of his elder sons to drive them. "never fear, father," observed mrs greening, "our little tobias has got a head on his shoulders, and so has master harry, and with `rough' to help them, they will get along well enough." mrs greening was right, and just as the horses were put too, "rough's" bark was heard through the woods. in a short time the van of the flock appeared, with a native, who walked first to show the way. though "rough" had never been out in the country before, he seemed to understand its character, and the necessity of compelling the sheep to follow the footsteps of the dark-skinned native before them. "it's capital fun," cried harry, as soon as he saw lucy. "we have to keep our eyes about us though, when coming through the wood especially, but we have not let a single sheep stray away as yet." "well, boys, our fire is still burning, and my missus has cooked food enough for you all," said farmer greening. "so you may just take your dinner, and come on after us as fast as you can." "we will not be long," answered harry. "hope, mother, you have left some bones for `rough' though," said toby. "he deserves his dinner as much as any of us." "here's a mess i put by for him to give when we got to the end of our journey," answered mrs greening, drawing out a pot which she had stowed away in the waggon. she called to "rough," who quickly gobbled it up. the waggon then moved on, while harry and his companions sat round the fire to discuss their dinner. "rough," in the meantime, vigilantly keeping the sheep together. the remainder of the journey was found more difficult than the first part had been. sometimes they had to climb over steep ranges, when the natives assisted at the wheels, while mrs greening and betsy pushed behind; then they had to descend on the other side, when a drag was put on, and the wheels held back. several wide circuits had to be made to avoid hills on their way, and even when over level ground, the fern in many places was so very thick that it was rather hard work for the horses to drag the waggon through it. "this is a rough country," observed mrs greening, as she trudged on by her husband's side. "i didn't expect to see the like of it." "never fear, dame," answered the farmer. "in a year or two we shall have a good road between this and the port, and a coach-and-four may be running on it." at length the last range was passed, and they reached a broad open valley, with a fine extent of level ground. in the distance rose a hill, with a sparkling river flowing near it, and thickly wooded heights. further on beyond, it appeared a bold range of mountains, their highest peaks capped with snow. "this is, indeed, a beautiful scene," exclaimed lucy. "that's our home, miss," said the farmer, pointing to the hill. "if your eyes could reach as far, you would just see the roof of your new house among the trees. we shall come well in sight of it before long." the waggon now moved on faster, as the fern had been cut away or trampled down, and the horses seemed to know that they were getting near home. mr pemberton and the farmer's sons came down to welcome them, and to conduct them up to the house. lucy was surprised to find what progress had already been made. the whole of it was roofed over, and the room she was to occupy was completely finished. the building was not very large. it consisted of a central hall, with two bed-rooms on either side, and a broad verandah running entirely round it; behind it were some smaller detached buildings for the kitchen and out-houses. in front and on one side a space was marked off for a flower garden, beyond which, extending down the side of the hill to the level ground, was a large space which mr pemberton said he intended for the orchard and kitchen garden. on that side of the house were sheds for the waggons and horses, though now occupied by the native labourers. "they consider themselves magnificently lodged," said mr pemberton. "and they deserve it, for they worked most industriously, and enabled me to put up the house far more rapidly than i had expected. i believe, however, that they would have preferred the native wahre, with the heat and smoke they delight in, to the larger hut i have provided for them, and i have been sometimes afraid they would burn it down with the huge fire they made within." farmer greening's cottage, which was a little way round on the other side of the hill, was built on a similar plan to mr pemberton, but it was not so far advanced. "you must blame me, mrs greening, for this," said mr pemberton. "your husband insisted on helping me with my house before he would begin yours, declaring that he should have the advantage of having mine as a model. i hope, therefore, that you will take up your abode with us till yours is finished, as harry and i can occupy the tent in the meantime." mrs greening gladly accepted the invitation; she thought, indeed, that she should be of use to lucy in getting the house in order. the sitting-room was not yet boarded, but a rough table had been put in it, and round this the party were soon seated at tea. "beg pardon, i hope i don't intrude, just looked in to welcome you and my good friend mrs greening to `riverside.' glad to find that you have arrived safe. well, to be sure, the place is making wonderful progress, we have three families already arrived in the village, and two more expected tomorrow, and i don't know how many will follow. i have been helping my new friends to put up their houses, and have been obliged to content myself with a shake-down of fern in the corner of a shed; but we settlers must make up our minds to rough it, mr pemberton, and i hope to get my own house up in the course of a week or two." these words were uttered by mr nicholas spears, who stood poking his head into the room at the doorway, as if doubtful whether he might venture to enter. "i thank you for your kind inquiries, mr spears," said mr pemberton, who, though he could not feel much respect for the little man, treated him, as he did everybody else, with courtesy. "if you have not had your tea come in and take a seat at our board. we have but a three-legged stool to offer you." this was just what mr spears wished; and sitting down he began forthwith to give the party all the news of the settlement. from his account lucy was glad to find that two families, one that of a naval, the other of a military officer, who had just arrived in the colony, had taken land close to theirs, and were about to settle on it. although the midsummer day was drawing to a close, harry and toby, with the sheep, had not yet made their appearance. paul and james went off to meet them, and take the flock where they were to remain for the night, so as to relieve the boys of their charge. there was a fine bright moon, so they would have no difficulty in finding their way. not long afterwards harry's voice was heard, echoed by toby's, shouting to the sheep, and the two boys rushed up to the house. "here we are, papa," cried harry. "we have brought the sheep along all safe, and now paul and james have got charge of them, we may eat our supper with good consciences." mrs greening quickly placed a plentiful meal before the two young shepherds, who did ample justice to it. "we must get some cows, farmer, if we can procure any at a moderate price, when you next go back to town," said mr pemberton. "that's just what i was thinking," answered the farmer. "and some pigs and poultry," added mrs greening. "i should not think myself at home without them, and miss lucy and betsy will be wanting some to look after." "and a few goats, i suspect, would not be amiss," observed the farmer. "i saw several near the town, and i hear they do very well." waihoura, who was listening attentively to all that was said, seemed to comprehend the remark about the goats, and made lucy understand that she had several at her village, and she should like to send for some of them. supper being over, mr pemberton, according to his usual custom, read a chapter in the bible, and offered up evening prayer; and after mr spears had taken his departure, and the rest of the family had retired to their respective dormitories, heaps of fern serving as beds for most of them, mr pemberton and the farmer sat up arranging their plans for the future. the latter agreed to return to town the next day to bring up the remainder of the stores, and to make the proposed purchases. although they all knew that at no great distance there were several villages inhabited by savages, till lately, notorious for their fierce and blood-thirsty character, they lay down to sleep with perfect confidence, knowing that the missionary of the gospel had been among them, and believing that a firm friendship had been established between them and the white occupants of their country. chapter five. ihaka's visit. life at riverside.--waihoura begins to learn the truth.--her father, accompanied by several chiefs, comes to take her to his pah, and she quits her friends at riverside. the settlement made rapid progress. in the course of a few weeks mr pemberton's and farmer greening's houses were finished, their gardens dug and planted; and they had now, in addition to the sheep, which harry and toby continued to tend, several cows and pigs and poultry. lucy, assisted by betsy, was fully occupied from morning till night; she, however, found time to give instruction to waihoura, while mr pemberton or valentine assisted harry in his studies. he seldom went out without a book in his pocket, so that he might read while the vigilant "rough" kept the sheep together. several other families had bought land in the neighbourhood, and had got up their cottages. some of them were very nice people, but they, as well as lucy, were so constantly engaged, that they could see very little of each other. the maoris employed by mr pemberton belonged to ihaka's tribe, and through them he heard of his daughter. he had been so strongly urged by mr marlow to allow her to remain with her white friends, that he had hitherto abstained from visiting her, lest, as he sent word, he should be tempted to take her away. lucy was very glad of this, as was waihoura. the two girls were becoming more and more attached to each other, and they dreaded the time when they might be separated. "maori girl wish always live with lucy--never, never part," said waihoura, as one evening the two friends sat together in the porch, bending over a picture-book of scripture subjects, with the aid of which lucy was endeavouring to instruct her companion. lucy's arm was thrown round waihoura's neck, while betsy, who had finished her work, stood behind them, listening to the conversation, and wondering at the way her young mistress contrived to make herself understood. "god does not always allow even the dearest friends to remain together while they dwell on earth," replied lucy to waihoura's last remark. "i used to wish that i might never leave my dear mother; but god thought fit to take her to himself. i could not have borne the parting did not i know that i should meet her in heaven." "what place heaven?" asked waihoura. "jesus has told us that it is the place where we shall be with him, where all is love, and purity, and holiness, and where we shall meet all who have trusted to him while on earth, and where there will be no more parting, and where sorrow and sickness, and pain, and all things evil, will be unknown." "maori girl meet lucy in heaven?" said waihoura, in a tone which showed she was asking a question. "i am sure you will," said lucy, "if you learn to love jesus and do his will." waihoura was silent for some minutes, a sad expression coming over her countenance. "maori girl too bad, not love jesus enough," she said. "no one is fitted for heaven from their own merits or good works, and we never can love jesus as much as he deserves to be loved. but he knows how weak and wayward we are, and all he asks us is to try our best to love and serve him, to believe that he was punished instead of us, and took our sins upon himself, and he then, as it were, clothes us with his righteousness. he hides our sins, or puts them away, so that god looks upon us as if we were pure and holy, and free from sin, and so will let us come into a pure and holy heaven, where no unclean things--such as are human beings--of themselves can enter. do you understand me?" waihoura thought for some time, and then asked lucy again to explain her meaning. at length her countenance brightened. "just as if maori girl put on lucy's dress, and hat and shawl over face, and go into a pakeha house, people say here come pakeha girl." "yes," said lucy, inclined to smile at her friend's illustration of the truth. "but you must have a living faith in christ's sacrifice; and though the work and the merit is all his, you must show, by your love and your life, what you think, and say, and do, that you value that work. if one of your father's poor slaves had been set free, and had received a house and lands, and a wife, and pigs, and many other things from him, ought not the slave to remain faithful to him, and to try and serve him, and work for him more willingly than when he was a slave? that is just what jesus christ requires of those who believe in him. they were slaves to satan and the world, and to many bad ways, and he set them free. he wants all such to labour for him. now he values the souls of people more than anything else, and he wishes his friends to make known to others the way by which their souls may be saved. he also wishes people to live happily together in the world; and he came on earth to show us the only way in which that can be done. he proved to us, by his example, that we can only be happy by being kind, and gentle, and courteous to others, helping those who are in distress, doing to others as we should wish they would do to us. if, therefore, we really love jesus, and have a living active faith in him, we shall try to follow his example in all things. if all men lived thus, the gospel on earth would be established, there would be really peace and good will among men." "very different here," said waihoura. "maori people still quarrel, and fight, and kill. in pakeha country they good people love jesus, and do good, and no bad." "i am sorry to say that though there are many who do love jesus, there are far more who do not care to please him, and that there is much sin, and sorrow, and suffering in consequence. oh, if we could but find the country where all loved and tried to serve him! if all the inhabitants of even one little island were real followers of jesus, what a happy spot it would be." waihoura sighed. "long time before maori country like that." "i am afraid that it will be a long time before any part of the world is like that," said lucy. "but yet it is the duty of each separate follower of jesus to try, by the way he or she lives, to make it so. oh, how watchful we should be over ourselves and all our thoughts, words and acts, and remembering our own weakness and proneness to sin, never to be trusting to ourselves, but ever seeking the aid of the holy spirit to help us." lucy said this rather to herself than to her companion. indeed, though she did her best to explain the subject to waihoura, and to draw from her in return the ideas she had received, she could not help acknowledging that what she had said was very imperfectly understood by the maori girl. she was looking forward, however, with great interest, to a visit from mr marlow, and she hoped that he, from speaking the native language fluently, would be able to explain many points which she had found beyond her power to put clearly. the work of the day being over, the party were seated at their evening meal. a strange noise was heard coming from the direction of the wahre, which the native labourers had built for themselves, a short distance from the house. harry, who had just then come in from his shepherding, said that several natives were collected round the wahre, and that they were rubbing noses, and howling together in chorus. "i am afraid they have brought some bad news, for the tears were rolling down their eyes, and altogether they looked very unhappy," he remarked. waihoura, who partly understood what harry had said, looked up and observed-- "no bad news, only meet after long time away." still she appeared somewhat anxious, and continued giving uneasy glances at the door. valentine was about to go out to make inquiries, when ihaka, dressed in a cloak of flax, and accompanied by several other persons similarly habited, appeared at the door. waihoura ran forward to meet him. he took her in his arms, rubbed his nose against hers, and burst into tears, which also streamed down her cheeks. after their greeting was over, mr pemberton invited the chief and his friends to be seated, fully expecting to hear that he had come to announce the death of some near relative. the chief accepted the invitation for himself and one of his companions, while the others retired to a distance, and sat down on the ground. ihaka's companion was a young man, and the elaborate tattooing on his face and arms showed that he was a chief of some consideration. both he and ihaka behaved with much propriety, and their manners were those of gentlemen who felt themselves in their proper position; but as lucy noticed the countenance of the younger chief, she did not at all like its expression. the tattoo marks always give a peculiarly fierce look to the features; but, besides this, as he cast his eyes round the party, and they at last rested on waihoura, lucy's bad opinion of him was confirmed. ihaka could speak a few sentences of english, but the conversation was carried on chiefly through waihoura, who interpreted for him. the younger chief seldom spoke; when he did, either ihaka or his daughter tried to explain his meaning. occasionally he addressed her in maori, when she hung down her head, or turned her eyes away from him, and made no attempt to interpret what he had said. mr pemberton knew enough of the customs of the natives not to inquire the object of ihaka's visit, and to wait till he thought fit to explain it. lucy had feared, directly he made his appearance, that he had come to claim his daughter, and she trembled lest he should declare that such was his intention. her anxiety increased when supper was over, and he began, in somewhat high-flown language, to express his gratitude to her and mr pemberton for the care they had taken of waihoura. he then introduced his companion as hemipo, a rangatira, or chief of high rank, his greatly esteemed and honoured friend, who, although not related to him by the ties of blood, might yet, he hoped, become so. when he said this waihoura cast her eyes to the ground, and looked greatly distressed, and lucy, who had taken her hand, felt it tremble. ihaka continued, observing that now, having been deprived of the company of his daughter for many months, though grateful to the friends who had so kindly sheltered her, and been the means of restoring her to health, he desired to have her return with him to his pah, where she might assist in keeping the other women in order, and comfort and console him in his wahre, which had remained empty and melancholy since the death of her mother. waihoura, though compelled to interpret this speech, made no remark on it; but lucy saw that the tears were trickling down her cheeks. mr pemberton, though very sorry to part with his young guest, felt that it would be useless to beg her father to allow her to remain after what he had said. lucy, however, pleaded hard that she might be permitted to stay on with them sometime longer. all she could say, however, was useless; for when the chief appeared to be yielding, hemipo said something which made him keep to his resolution, and he finally told waihoura that she must prepare to accompany him the following morning. he and hemipo then rose, and saying that they would sleep in the wahre, out of which it afterwards appeared they turned the usual inhabitants, they took their departure. waihoura kept up her composure till they were gone, and then throwing herself on lucy's neck, burst into tears. "till i came here i did not know what it was to love god, and to try and be good, and to live as you do, so happy and peaceable, and now i must go back and be again the wild maori girl i was before i came to you, and follow the habits of my people; and worse than all, lucy, from what my father said, i know that he intends me to marry the rangatira hemipo, whom i can never love, for he is a bad man, and has killed several cookies or slaves, who have offended him. he is no friend of the pakehas, and has often said he would be ready to drive them out of the country. he would never listen either to the missionaries; and when the good mr marlow went to his pah, he treated him rudely, and has threatened to take his life if he has the opportunity. fear only of what the pakehas might do has prevented him." waihoura did not say this in as many words, but she contrived, partly in english and partly in her own language, to make her meaning understood. lucy was deeply grieved at hearing it, and tried to think of some means for saving waihoura from so hard a fate. they sat up for a long time talking on the subject, but no plan which lucy could suggest afforded waihoura any consolation. "i will consult my father as to what can be done," lucy said at last; "or when mr marlow comes, perhaps he can help us." "oh no, he can do nothing," answered waihoura, bursting into tears. "we must pray, then, that god will help us," said lucy. "he has promised that he will be a present help in time of trouble." "oh yes, we will pray to god. he only can help us," replied the maori girl, and ere they lay down on their beds they together offered up their petitions to their father in heaven for guidance and protection; but though they knew that that would not be withheld, they could not see the way in which it would be granted. next morning waihoura had somewhat recovered her composure. lucy and mrs greening insisted on her accepting numerous presents, which she evidently considered of great value. several of the other settlers in the neighbourhood, who had become acquainted with the young maori girl, and had heard that she was going away, brought up their gifts. waihoura again gave way to tears when the moment arrived for her final parting with lucy; and she was still weeping as her father led her off, surrounded by his attendants, to return to his pah. chapter six. among the maoris. riverside.--mr marlow the missionary, visits the pembertons.--lucy and her friends visit ihaka.--a native pah described.--a feast--native amusements.--return to riverside. the appearance of riverside had greatly improved since mr pemberton and farmer greening had settled there. they had each thirty or forty acres under cultivation, with kitchen gardens and orchards, and lucy had a very pretty flower garden in front of the cottage, with a dairy and poultry yard, and several litters of pigs. harry's flock of sheep had increased threefold, and might now be seen dotting the plain as they fed on the rich grasses which had sprung up where the fern had been burnt. there were several other farms in the neighbourhood, and at the foot of the hill a village, consisting of a dozen or more houses, had been built, the principal shop in which was kept by mr nicholas spears. the high road to the port was still in a very imperfect state, and the long talked of coach had not yet begun to run. communication was kept up by means of the settlers waggons, or by the gentlemen, who took a shorter route to it on horseback. mr marlow at length paid his long promised visit. lucy eagerly inquired if he had seen waihoura. "i spent a couple of days at ihaka's pah on my way here," he replied, "and i am sorry to say that your young friend appears very unhappy. her father seems resolved that she shall marry hemipo, notwithstanding that he is a heathen, as he has passed his word to that effect. i pointed out to him the misery he would cause her; and though he loves his child, yet i could not shake him. he replied, that a chief's word must not be broken, and that perhaps waihoura's marriage may be the means of converting her husband. i fear that she would have little influence over him, as even among his own people he is looked upon as a fierce and vindictive savage." "poor waihoura!" sighed lucy. "do you think her father would allow her to pay us another visit? i should be so glad to send and invite her." "i am afraid not," answered mr marlow. "ihaka himself, though nominally a christian, is very lukewarm; and though he was glad to have his daughter restored to health, he does not value the advantage she would derive from intercourse with civilised people. however, you can make the attempt, and i will write a letter, which you can send by one of his people who accompanied me here." the letter was written, and forthwith despatched. in return ihaka sent an invitation to the pakeha maiden and her friends to visit him and his daughter at his pah. mr marlow advised lucy to accept it. "the chief's pride possibly prevents him from allowing his daughter to visit you again, until, according to his notions, he has repaid you for the hospitality you have shown her," he observed. "you may feel perfectly secure in going there; and, at all events, you will find the visit interesting, as you will have an opportunity of seeing more of the native customs and way of living than you otherwise could." mr pemberton, after some hesitation, agreed to the proposal, and valentine undertook to escort his sister. harry said he should like to go; "but then about the sheep--i cannot leave them for so long," he said. james greening offered to look after his flock during his absence. a lady, miss osburn, a very nice girl, who was calling on lucy, expressed a strong wish to accompany her. "i think that i am bound to go with you, as i have advised the expedition, and feel myself answerable for your safe conduct," said mr marlow. "i may also prove useful as an interpreter, and should be glad of an opportunity of again speaking to ihaka and his people." a message was accordingly sent to the chief, announcing the intention of lucy and her friends to pay a visit to his pah. the road, though somewhat rough, was considered practicable for the waggon, which was accordingly got ready. they were to start at daybreak, and as the pah was about twelve miles off, it was not expected that they would reach it till late in the afternoon. two natives had been sent by ihaka to act as guides, and as they selected the most level route, the journey was performed without accident. about the time expected they came in sight of a rocky hill rising out of the plain, with a stream running at its base. on the summit appeared a line of palisades, surmounted by strange looking figures, mounted on poles, while in front was a gateway, above which was a larger figure, with a hideous countenance, curiously carved and painted. the natives pointed, with evident pride, at the abode of their chief. as the path to it was far too steep to allow of the waggon going up it, lucy and her friend got out to ascend on foot. as they did so, the chief and a number of his people emerged from the gateway, and came down to meet them. the usual salutations were offered, and the chief, knowing the customs of his guests, did not offer to rub noses. lucy inquired anxiously for waihoura. she was, according to etiquette, remaining within to receive her visitors. after passing through a gateway, they found a second line of stockades, within which was a wide place occupied by numerous small wahres, while at the further end stood two of somewhat larger size, ornamented with numerous highly carved wooden figures. on one side was a building, raised on carved posts, with a high-pitched roof--it was still more highly ornamented than the others, in grotesque patterns, among which the human face predominated. this latter was the chief's store-house, and it was considerably larger and handsomer than his own abode. the dwelling-houses were of an oblong shape, about sixteen feet long and eight wide, with low walls, but high sloping roofs; the doors were so low that it was necessary to stoop when entering. the roofs were thatched with rampo, a plant which grows in the marshes; and the walls were of the same material, thickly matted together, so as to keep out both rain and wind. as the party advanced, waihoura appeared from her wahre, and throwing her arms on lucy's neck, began to weep as if her heart would break. she then conducted her friends into the interior, while the chief took charge of mr marlow, valentine, and harry. waihoura's abode was clean and neat, the ground on each side covered thickly with fern, on the top of which mats were placed to serve as couches. here the maori girl begged her guests to be seated, and having recovered her composure, she thanked lucy warmly for coming, and made inquiries about her friends at riverside. she smiled and laughed, and became so animated, that she scarcely appeared like the same person she had been a few minutes before. she became very grave, however, when lucy asked if her father still insisted on her marrying hemipo. "he does," she answered, in a sad tone. "but i may yet escape, and i will, if i can, at all risks." she pressed her lips together, and looked so firm, that lucy hoped that she would succeed in carrying out her resolution. their conversation was interrupted by a summons to a feast, which the chief had prepared, to do honour to his guests. in the centre of the pah a scaffold was erected, with bars across it, on which were hung up various fish, pieces of pork, and wild-fowl, while on the top were baskets full of sweet and ordinary potatoes, and a variety of other vegetables; and a number of women were employed in cooking, in ovens formed in the ground. these ovens were mere holes filled with hot stones, on the top of which the provisions were placed, and then covered up with leaves and earth. in deference to the customs of their white friends, the natives had prepared seats for them, composed of fern and mats, in the shade of the chief's wahre, while they themselves sat round, at a respectful distance, on the ground, in the hot sun. when all were arranged, the chief, wrapped in his cloak, walked into the centre, and marching backwards and forwards, addressed the party, now turning to his guests, now to his countrymen, the rapidity of his movements increasing, till he appeared to have worked himself into a perfect fury. waihoura, who sat by lucy's side, begged her and her friend not to be alarmed, he was merely acting according to custom. suddenly he stopped, and wrapping his cloak around him, sat down on the ground. mr marlow considered this a good opportunity of speaking to the people, and rising, he walked into their midst. his address, however, was very different to that of the chief's. he reminded them that god, who rules the world, had given them all the food he saw there collected; that he desires to do good to the bodies of men, and to enable them to live in happiness and plenty; but that he loves their souls still more, and that he who had provided them with the food was ready to bestow on them spiritual blessings, to feed their souls as well as their bodies: that their bodies must perish, but that their souls must live for ever--he had sent the missionaries to them with his message of love, and he grieved that they were often more ready to accept only the food for their bodies, and to reject that which he offers for their souls. much more he spoke to the same effect, and explained all that god, their father had done for them when they were banished for their sins, to enable them again to become his dear children. earthly fathers, he continued, are too often ready to sacrifice their children for their own advantage, regardless of their happiness here and of their eternal welfare. ihaka winced when he heard these remarks, and fixed his eyes on the speaker, but said nothing. other chiefs, who had come as guests, also spoke. lucy was glad to find that hemipo was not among them. the feast then commenced, the provisions were handed round in neat clean baskets to each guest. ihaka had provided plates and knives and forks for his english friends, who were surprised to find the perfect way in which the fish and meat, as well as the vegetables, were cooked. after the feast, the young people hurried out of the pah towards a post stuck in the ground, on one side of a bank, with ropes hanging from the top; each one seized a rope, and began running round and round, now up, now down the bank, till their feet were lifted off the ground, much in the way english boys amuse themselves in a gymnasium. in another place a target was set up, at which the elder boys and young men threw their spears, composed of fern stems, with great dexterity. several kites, formed of the flat leaves of a kind of sedge, were also brought out and set flying, with songs and shouts, which increased as the kite ascended higher and higher. a number of the young men exhibited feats of dancing, which were not, however, especially graceful, nor interesting to their guests. when the sun set the party returned to the pah. mr marlow, accompanied by val, went about among the people, addressing them individually, and affording instruction to those who had expressed an anxiety about their souls. ihaka had provided a new wahre for his visitors, while waihoura accommodated lucy and miss osburn in her hut. lucy had hoped to persuade ihaka to allow his daughter to return with her, but he made various excuses, and waihoura expressed her fears that she was not allowed to go on account of hemipo, who objected to her associating with her english friends. next morning the party set out on their return, leaving waihoura evidently very miserable, and anxious about the future. they had got a short distance from the pah, when a chief with several attendants passed them, and lucy felt sure, from the glimpse she got of his features, that he was hemipo, especially as he did not stop, and only offered them a distant salutation. mr marlow again expressed his regret that he had been unable to move ihaka. "still, i believe, that he is pricked in his conscience, and he would be glad of an opportunity of being released from his promise," he remarked. "the chief considers himself, however, in honour bound to perform it, though he is well aware that it must lead to his daughter's unhappiness. i do not, however, suppose that he is biased by any fears of the consequences were he to break off the marriage, though probably if he did so hemipo would attack the fort, and attempt to carry off his bride by force." when the party got back to riverside, their friends were very eager to hear an account of their visit, and several regretted that they had not accompanied them. "who would have thought, miss lucy, when we first came here, that you would ever have slept inside one of those savage's huts!" exclaimed mrs greening. "my notion was, that they would as likely as not eat anybody up who got into their clutches; but i really begin to think that they are a very decent, good sort of people, only i do wish the gentlemen would not make such ugly marks on their faces--it does not improve them, and i should like to tell them so." chapter seven. the beginning of trouble. prosperous condition of the settlement--mr pemberton and his sons go out shooting.--waihoura is observed flying from hemipo, who fires and wounds her.--rescued by mr pemberton and taken to riverside.--val goes for dr fraser.--on their return, rahana, a native chief, saves their lives.--ihaka arrives with his followers to defend the farm, as also do rahana's, but no enemy appears, and they, with waihoura, return to ihaka's pah. the little settlement went on prosperously, the flocks and herds increased, and more land was brought under cultivation; the orchards were producing fruit, and the kitchen gardens an abundance of vegetables. there had been outbreaks of the natives in the northern part of the island, but those in their immediate neighbourhood were supposed to be peaceably disposed, and friendly towards the english. lucy had been for some time expecting to hear from waihoura, and she feared, from the last account she had received from her, that the marriage the poor girl so much dreaded with hemipo, might soon take place. "i am afraid it can't be helped," observed mrs greening, who was trying to console her. "after all, he is her own countryman, and maybe she will improve him when they marry." "oh, but i mourn for her because he is a heathen, and a cruel bad man," said lucy, "and i am sure she is worthy of a better fate." mr pemberton and valentine had shortly after this gone out with their guns to shoot some wild-fowl which had visited the banks of the river. the young pembertons and greenings had built a boat, and as the birds appeared more numerous on the opposite side, harry, who met them, offered to paddle them across. while harry remained in the canoe, they proceeded up a small stream which ran into the main river. they were approaching the border of the forest. although the foliage, entwined by creepers, was so dense towards the upper part of the trees that the rays of the sun were unable to penetrate through it, the lower part was open and free from underwood, thus enabling them to pass among the trees without difficulty, and to see for a considerable distance into its depths. "we shall find no birds there," observed val. "had we not better turn back and continue along the bank of the main stream?" they were just about to do as val proposed, when they caught sight of a figure running at full speed through the forest towards them. "it is a woman, i believe," exclaimed val. "yes, and there is a man following her. she is endeavouring to escape from him. she is crying out, and making signs for us to come to her assistance. she is waihoura!" as he spoke, the savage stopped, then levelled his rifle and fired. waihoura shrieked out, and running a few paces further towards them, fell. "i must punish the villain," exclaimed val, dashing forward. "stay, my boy," said mr pemberton, "he deserves punishment, but not at our hands,--let us try and assist the poor girl." they hurried to where waihoura lay. the bullet had wounded her in the shoulder. meantime the savage had retreated, and when they looked round for him, he was nowhere to be seen. "we must take the poor girl to the house and endeavour to obtain surgical assistance for her," said mr pemberton. they lifted her up and bore her along towards the river. valentine shouted for harry, who quickly came up with the canoe. waihoura was too much agitated to speak, or to tell them by whom she had been wounded. still her countenance exhibited an expression rather of satisfaction than of alarm. harry having secured the canoe, ran on before his father and brother to prepare lucy for the arrival of her friend. waihoura was carried into the house, and placed on the bed she had formerly occupied, while harry ran on to get mrs greening to assist in taking care of her. left with lucy and betsy, waihoura soon recovered her composure. "i have escaped from him," she said, in her broken english. "i have done what i long intended. hemipo came for me to my father's pah, and i was delivered in due form to him, and so my father's honour was satisfied. i went quietly for some distance, as if i was no longer unwilling to accompany him, and then, watching my opportunity, i ran off, hoping to make my escape without being discovered. he saw me, however, and followed, though i was already a long way off. i hoped to reach the river and swim across to you, when he was nearly overtaking me. just then, as he caught sight of your father and brother, in his rage and disappointment he fired at me, and would have killed me had they not come up to prevent him." such was the meaning of the account waihoura gave lucy, as she and betsy were endeavouring to staunch the blood which continued to flow from the wound. as soon as mrs greening arrived, she advised val to set off and obtain dr fraser's assistance. "we may be able to stop the blood, but the hurt is a bad one, and if the bullet is still in the wound, will need a surgeon to take it out," she observed. valentine required no second bidding. harry, indeed, had already got a horse ready. he galloped away, taking the shortest cut across the country to the fort. valentine had to spend some time in searching for dr fraser, who had gone off to a distance, and when he returned he had a patient to whom it was absolutely necessary he should attend. "i'll not be a moment longer than i can help," exclaimed the doctor. "i felt great interest in that pretty little native girl. there's one comfort, that the natives seldom suffer from fever through injuries. you ride back and say i am coming." "i would rather wait for you," answered valentine. though he was sorely annoyed at the delay, it enabled him to give his horse a feed, and to rest the animal, so that there was not so much time lost as he supposed. at length the doctor was ready, and they set off to take the way by which valentine had come. they had gone rather more than half the distance, and were approaching a defile between two high hills, covered thickly with trees, and wild rugged rocks on either side. they were just about to enter it when a maori, who, by the way he was dressed, appeared to be a chief, was seen hurrying down the side of the hill towards them, and beckoning to them to stop. "he wishes to speak to us," said valentine, "shall we wait for him?" "i hope that his intentions are friendly," observed the doctor. "these fellows have been playing some treacherous tricks to the settlers in the north, and it is as well to be prepared." "his manner does not appear to be hostile," observed valentine. "i will ride forward to speak to him." valentine had not gone many paces before he met the native, who hurriedly addressed him in broken english. "go back and take another path," he exclaimed. "if you go forward you will be killed, there's a bad chief, with several men, lying in wait to shoot you. i have only just discovered their intentions, and hurried forward to give you warning." "can you tell us who the chief is?" asked valentine, not feeling very willing to believe the stranger's statement. "his name does not matter," answered the young stranger. "he supposes me to be his friend, and begged me to assist him, so that i do not wish further to betray him, but i could not allow you to suffer." "there may be some truth in what the young man says, and we should be unwise not to take his advice," observed the doctor. valentine warmly thanked the stranger, who offered to lead them by a path he was acquainted with, which would enable them to escape the ambush and reach the river side with little loss of time. he accordingly led them back for some distance, and then striking off to the right over the hills, conducted them through another valley, which in time took them out on to the open plain. "you are safe now," he said. "ride on as fast as you can, so that your enemy may not overtake you." "i should like to know who you are, that we may thank you properly for the benefit you have done us," said valentine, "and i am sure ihaka's daughter, on whose account dr fraser is going to our settlement, will desire to express her gratitude. she is sorely wounded, and i fear in much danger." "wounded and in danger," exclaimed the young stranger. "how has she received an injury?" "she was basely shot at by a maori," answered val. "the chief told me that it was your sister who was ill, and that you having grossly insulted him, he was determined to revenge himself on you." he stopped for a few moments as if for consideration. "i will accompany you," he said. "if i go back i shall not be able to resist accusing him of his treachery, and bloodshed may be the consequence." "come along then, my friend," said the doctor, "you are fleet of foot, and will keep up with our horses." the stranger, a fine young man, one of the handsomest natives valentine had as yet seen--his face being, moreover, undisfigured by tattoo marks,--on this ran forward, and showed by the pace he moved at, that he was not likely to detain them. it was dark when they reached riverside, but lucy had heard the sound of their horses' feet, and came out to meet them. "i am so thankful you have come, doctor," she exclaimed. "waihoura is, i fear, suffering much pain, and we have been able to do little to relieve her." the doctor hurried into the house. his report was more favourable than lucy had expected. he quickly extracted the bullet, and promised, with the good constitution the young girl evidently possessed, that she would soon recover. valentine invited the young stranger to remain, and he evidently showed no desire to take his departure. "i wish to stay for your sakes as well as my own," he said, "and i would advise you to keep a vigilant watch round the house during the night. the man who has committed so foul a deed as to shoot ihaka's daughter, must from henceforth be rahana's foe, and i now confess that it was hemipo who intended to waylay and murder you. i am myself a rangatira, chief of a numerous tribe. my father ever lived on friendly terms with the english, and seeing the folly of war, wished also to be at peace with his neighbours, and i have desired to follow his example. among our nearest neighbours was hemipo, who, though one i could never regard with esteem, has always appeared anxious to retain my friendship. hitherto i have, therefore, frequently associated with him, but from henceforth he must be to me as a stranger. he is capable, i am convinced, of any treachery, and when he finds that you have escaped him on this occasion, will seek another opportunity of revenging himself." this was said partly in english and partly in maori. mr pemberton, following the advice he received, sent to farmer greening and several other neighbours, asking their assistance in guarding waihoura, thinking it possible that hemipo might attack the place and attempt to carry her off. among others who came up was mr spears, with a cartouche-box hanging by a belt to his waist, and a musket in his hand. "neighbours should help each other, mr pemberton," he said as he made his appearance, "and so i have locked up the shop, and shall be happy to stand sentry during the night at any post you may assign me. place me inside the house or outside, or in a cow-shed, it's all the same to me. i'll shoot the first man i see coming up the hill." valentine suggested that mr spears was as likely to shoot a friend as a foe, and therefore placed him, with a companion, in one of the sheds, strictly enjoining him not to fire unless he received an order to do so. from the precautions taken by mr pemberton, it was not likely that hemipo would succeed even should he venture on an attack, especially as every one in the settlement was on the alert. the night passed off quietly, and in the morning dr fraser gave a favourable report of waihoura. a messenger was then despatched to ihaka, to inform him of what had occurred. he arrived before sunset with several of his followers, well-armed, and at once requested to have an interview with his daughter. on coming out of her room he met mr pemberton, and warmly thanked him for having again preserved her life. "from henceforth she is free to choose whom she will for a husband," he observed. "i gave her, as i was bound to do by my promise, to hemipo; but she escaped from him, and as he has proved himself unworthy of her, though war between us be the result, i will not again deliver her to him." lucy, who overheard this, was greatly relieved. not knowing the customs of the maoris, she was afraid that the chief might still consider himself bound to restore waihoura to her intended husband. "i must go at once and tell her," she said. "i am sure that this will greatly assist her recovery." "she knows it. i have already promised her," said ihaka. "and i will remain here and defend her and you, my friends, from hemipo,--though boastful as he is, i do not believe that he will venture to attack a pakeha settlement." rahana, who had hitherto remained at a distance, now came forward, and the two chiefs greeted each other according to their national custom, by rubbing their noses together for a minute or more. they then sat down, and the young chief gave ihaka an account of the part he had taken in the affair. "we have ever been friends," answered ihaka, "and this will cement our friendship closer than ever." they sat for some time talking over the matter, and rahana agreed to send for a band of his people to assist in protecting their friends, and afterwards to escort waihoura to her home. till this time, the only natives who frequented the settlement were the labourers employed on the farm, but now a number of warriors might be seen, with rifles in their hands, some seated on the hillside, others stalking about among the cottages. they all, however, behaved with the greatest propriety, declining even to receive provisions from the inhabitants, both ihaka's and rahana's people having brought an abundant supply. though scouts were sent out in every direction, nothing was heard of hemipo, and it was supposed that he had returned to his own village--either being afraid of meeting those he had injured, or to hatch some plan of revenge. dr fraser, who had gone home when he considered waihoura out of danger, returned, at the end of a fortnight, and pronounced her sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey home, to which ihaka was anxious to convey her, as she would be there safer from any design hemipo might entertain, than in the unprotected cottage at riverside. lucy, although she would gladly have had her remain longer, felt that this was the case. the maori girl warmly embraced her before taking her seat on the covered litter constructed for her conveyance, and willingly gave a promise to return to riverside as soon as her father considered it safe for her to do so. the young chief had constituted himself her chief attendant, and when they set out placed himself by her side, which he showed no intention of quitting. it appeared that they had hitherto been strangers to each other, but lucy, having observed the admiration with which he had regarded waihoura the first time they met, pleased with his manners, could not help hoping that he might become a christian, and a successful suitor of her friend. she watched the party as they took their way along the road, till they were lost to sight among the trees; and from the judicious precautions they took of throwing out scouts, she trusted that they would, escape being surprised even should hemipo be on the watch for them, and would reach their destination in safety. as soon as they were gone the settlement returned to its usual quiet state. after the character they had heard of hemipo, mr pemberton considered it prudent to keep a watch at night, and to advise the greenings, as well as his own sons, to carry arms in their hands, and never to go singly to a distance from the house. day after day passed by, till at length they began to feel that such precautions were unnecessary, and by degrees they abandoned the habit, only occasionally taking their guns when they went out to shoot birds, or when the traces of a wild pig, which happened to stray from the mountains, were discovered in the neighbourhood. few countries in the world are so destitute of game or animals of any description, or of noxious reptiles, as new zealand; the only reptile, indeed, being a harmless lizard, while the only wild beasts are the descendants of pigs originally introduced by europeans, which having escaped from their owners to the forests where they roam at large. unhappily, although many of the natives lived on the most friendly terms with the english, and had made considerable advancement in civilisation, a large number still, at that period, retained much of their former savage character, and, instigated perhaps by evilly-disposed persons, from time to time rose in aims against the english, and though inferior in numbers to the settlers, were enabled, in their mountain fastnesses, to resist the attacks of well-trained troops sent against them. they sometimes descended on the unprepared settlements, murdered the inhabitants, and committed many fearful atrocities. of late years, however, finding resistance vain, they have submitted to the english government, and as they possess equal rights and privileges with the settlers, and are treated in every respect as british subjects, it may be hoped that they will become, ere long, thoroughly civilised and contented with their lot, so infinitely superior to that of their former savage state. at the time, however, that the occurrences which have been described took place, although cannibalism and their more barbarous customs were almost abandoned, still a number of the tribes were hostile to the english, and also carried on a fierce warfare among themselves. our friends at riverside were destined shortly to feel the ill effects of this state of things. chapter eight. carried off. disturbance among the natives.--volunteers from the settlement.--mr pemberton and val called away.--the settlers, to their dismay, discover that the young pembertons have been carried off. lucy had made tea, and her father and brother, who had come in from their work, had just taken their seats, when mr spears, announced by betsy, popped his head in at the door. "beg pardon, mr pemberton, for intruding, but i thought you would like to have this letter at once," he said, handing an official-looking envelope. "i have sent several others of similar appearance to a number of gentlemen in our neighbourhood, and i suspect they mean something." lucy observed that her father's countenance assumed a grave expression as he read the document; after requesting the bearer to sit down and take a cup of tea. "more disturbances among the natives?" asked mr spears. "i hope, though, that they will keep quiet in these parts." "yes, i am sorry to say that they have risen in much greater numbers than heretofore, and matters look very serious," answered mr pemberton. "the governor has requested me to assist in organising a body of volunteers to co-operate with the loyal natives in this district, and to keep in check any of the maoris who may be inclined to rebel, while the troops are engaged with the main body of the insurgents. i am afraid this will compel me to be absent from home for some time." "may i go with you?" exclaimed harry. "i should so like to have some soldiering." "no, you must stay at home to take care of lucy and the farm," answered mr pemberton. "val, you are named, and though i would rather have left you in charge, we must obey the calls of public duty. farmer greening will assist harry; paul and james will probably accompany me." "put my name down as a volunteer," exclaimed mr spears. "i'll have my musket and cartouche-box ready in a trice. i shall be proud to go out and fight my country's battles." "take my advice, mr spears, and stay at home to look after your shop and the settlement--some must remain behind to guard it," said mr pemberton. "i am ready for the field, or for garrison duty," answered the little man, rising, and drawing himself up. "i must go back with the news to the village; the people are suspecting that there is something in the wind." mr pemberton and valentine soon made the necessary preparations for their departure, and early the next morning, in company with several other settlers, set out on their expedition. as the natives in their immediate neighbourhood had always appeared very friendly, they had no anxiety about the safety of riverside. time passed on; news reached the settlement that the volunteers had on several occasions been engaged, and that the insurgents still made head against them. lucy could not help feeling anxious at the prolonged absence of her father and brother; but as they wrote word that they were well, she kept up her spirits, hoping that the natives would soon be convinced of the uselessness and folly of their rebellion, and that peace would be established. she also received visits from mary osburn and other friends, and mrs greening never failed to look in on her two or three times in the day, while her husband kept his eye on the farm, and assisted harry in managing affairs. lucy had hoped that by this time it would be safe for waihoura to pay her a visit, and she had sent a message inviting her to come to riverside. in reply, waihoura expressed her thanks for the invitation, but stated that as her father was absent with many of his people, taking a part in the war, she could not venture to quit home. she also mentioned that hemipo was supposed to have joined the rebels, as he had not for some time been seen in the neighbourhood. a short time after this, as harry was standing on the bank of the river, near which his sheep were feeding, he observed a small canoe gliding down the stream. a single native was in it, who, as soon as he saw him, paddled up to where he stood. the stranger leaped on shore, and asked harry, in maori, pointing to the hill, whether he did not belong to that place. as harry understood very little maori, he could but imperfectly comprehend what the man, who appeared to be delivering a message, was saying. the stranger, perceiving this, tried to help his meaning by dumb show, and harry heard him repeat the name of hemipo several times. the man placed himself on the ground, and shut his eyes, as if he was asleep, then he jumped up, and, moving away, ran up to the spot, and pretended to be lifting up a person whom he carried to the canoe. he did this several times then he flourished his arms as if engaged with a foe, leaping fiercely about from side to side, and then jumped into his canoe and began to shove it off, as if he was going to paddle up the stream. he returned, however, again coming up to harry, and, with an inquiring look, seemed to ask whether he was understood? harry asked him to repeat what he had said, and at length made out, as he thought, that the stranger wished to warn him that the settlement would be attacked at night, while the inhabitants were asleep, by hemipo, whose object was to carry them off as prisoners, but when this was likely to take place he could not discover. the stranger, who was evidently in a great hurry to be off again, seemed satisfied that he was understood, and, getting into his canoe, paddled rapidly up the river. "i wish that i understood the maori better," thought harry, "i should not then be in doubt about the matter; however, it will be as well to be prepared. we will fortify our house, and keep a bright look out, and i'll tell the other people to be on the watch." he soon after met toby, and telling him to look to the sheep, hurried homewards. lucy listened calmly to his account. "there is, i fear, no doubt that some harm is intended us," she observed. "but we must pray that it may be averted, and do what we can to guard against it. i think our six native labourers are faithful, and we must place three of them in the house, and send the other three out as scouts to give us notice of the approach of an enemy. i propose also that we have a large pile of firewood made above the house, that, as soon as danger threatens it may be lighted as a signal to our friends in the neighbourhood. you must tell them of our intention, and ask them to come to our assistance as soon as they see the fire blazing up." "you ought to have been a man, and you would have made a first-rate soldier," exclaimed harry, delighted at lucy's idea. "it is the wisest thing that could be done; i'll tell everybody you thought of it, and i am sure they will be ready to help us." "but perhaps they will think that the whole place is to be attacked, and if so, the men will not be willing to leave their own homes and families," observed lucy. "oh, but i am sure the maori intended to warn us especially, for he pointed to our hill while he was speaking," said harry. "then he mentioned hemipo, who probably has a spite against us for rescuing waihoura from him. however, there's no time to be lost. i'll tell the men to cut the wood for the bonfire, and go on to let mr osburn and our other friends know about the matter." having charged lucy and betsy to close the doors and windows, and not to go out of the house, he went to tell the other people. the farmer was out, but he told mrs greening what he had heard. "oh, it would be terrible if any harm was to happen to miss lucy, and the squire and master val away," exclaimed the good woman; "i'd sooner our place were all burned down than that--i'll go round to her and persuade her to come here--then, if the savages go to your house they will not find her, and if they come here, the farmer and tobias, i'll warrant, will fight for her as long as they have got a bullet or a charge of powder remaining." harry warmly thanked mrs greening for her generous intentions, though he doubted very much whether lucy would consent to leave the house. he then hurried on to the village. mr spears, at whose house he first called, was thrown into a great state of agitation on hearing of his apprehensions. "i'll go round and tell all the other people, and we will see what can be done," he exclaimed, getting down his musket. "we will fight bravely for our homes and hearths; but dear me, i wish all the people who are away would come back. these savages are terrible fellows, and if they were to come suddenly upon us at night, as you fancy they will, we may find ourselves in a very unpleasant predicament." while mr spears went off in one direction, harry continued on to the house of their friend mr osburn, which was at no great distance. he, though expressing a hope that the stranger had been amusing himself at harry's expense, undertook to collect the rest of the neighbours, and to make preparations to go to his assistance should the signal-fire give them notice that the house had been attacked. "i would offer at once to go up and assist in guarding you," he said. "but i am afraid that our other friends will not be willing to leave their own cottages undefended; indeed, i think we shall more effectually assist you by following the plan you propose. still, i would advise you not to be over anxious about the matter, though you will do wisely to take the precautions you propose." harry, feeling somewhat proud of himself, and tolerably well satisfied with the arrangements he had made, returned home. he found the farmer and mr greening at the house. they had in vain attempted to persuade lucy to pass the night at their house--she would not leave harry, who said that, as he had charge of the place, nothing would induce him to desert his post, and they hoped, with the precautions taken, they might escape the threatened danger. "depend upon it, if the savages really come and find us prepared they will not venture to attack the house," said harry. "well, well, i like your spirit, master harry," said the farmer. "i'll be on the watch, and if i hear the sound of a musket i shall know what it means, and will be quickly round with my four natives." at length the farmer and mrs greening took their departure. harry had spoken to the native servants, who seemed fully to understand what was expected of them, and promised to be vigilant. betsy had undertaken to keep a lantern burning, and to run out at the back-door at the first signal of danger, and light the bonfire. harry tried to persuade lucy to go to bed. "of course i shall sit up myself and keep watch for anything that happens," he said; "and if you fall asleep, lucy, i'll awaken you if necessary." after commending themselves to the care of god, and reading together, as usual, a chapter in the bible, the two young people sat down with their books before them to wait the issue of events, harry, however, every now and then got up and ran to the door to listen, fancying he heard some sounds in the distance. hour after hour passed by, and neither foe nor friend appeared. the night seemed very long, but at length the morning light streamed through the openings above the shutters. harry opened the door, the air was pure and fresh, and the scene before him appeared so calm and peaceful, that he felt much inclined to laugh at his own fears. the native servants, who had been on the watch, came in also, and declared that they had seen no one, nor heard the slightest sound during the night to alarm them. in a short time farmer greening arrived, and expressed his satisfaction at finding that they had had no cause for alarm. "perhaps after all, master harry, the man was only passing a joke on you, though it was as well to be on the safe side, and to be prepared." lucy had several visitors during the day, who appeared much inclined to consider they had been unnecessarily alarmed. "we may or may not have been," observed harry, "but i intend to keep the same look out tonight as before." the second night passed over like the former, and harry himself now owned that unless the stranger purposely intended to deceive him, he must have misunderstood his meaning. the evening came on, the cows had been milked, the pigs and poultry fed, and other duties attended to. they were in their sitting-room reading, when betsy came in and announced mr spears. "i hope i don't intrude, miss lucy," he said, putting his head in at the doorway in his usual half-hesitating manner, "but i could not shut up my house for the night without coming to inquire how you are getting on. well, master harry, the maoris who were to attack us have turned out to be phantoms after all, pleasanter foes to fight with than real savages. however, you behaved very well, my young friend, and i hope you will get a quiet night's rest, and sleep free from alarm." "thank you for your kind wishes," answered lucy, "but still i hope that you and our other friends will be on the watch, for i cannot feel altogether secure till our father and brother return." "never fear, miss lucy, we will be ready if your phantom foes come. pardon me, master harry, for calling them phantom foes, but such they are, i suspect. ah! ah! ah!" and mr spears laughed at his own conceit. as lucy did not wish to encourage the little man, she did not invite him to sit down, and, somewhat to her relief, he soon went away. mr spears had reached home, and was shutting up his cottage, when, looking towards the hill, he saw the beacon fire blazing up. he rushed back for his musket, and began to load it in great haste; but in vain he pulled the trigger, it would not go off--no wonder, for he had forgotten to put on a cap. not discovering this, having knocked at the doors of his immediate neighbours, and told them that the settlement was attacked, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to mr osburn. though that gentleman turned out immediately, it was sometime before he could collect the rest of the inhabitants, when some with firearms, and others with pitchforks, or any weapons they could lay hands on, rushed up the hill towards mr pemberton's farm. they were joined on the way by farmer greening and tobias. all round the house seemed quiet, and not a sign of a maori could be discovered. "there's been some trick played," said farmer greening, "for all my servants went off this evening, and i should not be surprised that mr pemberton's have done the same; but i hope master harry has kept the door shut, and not let the enemy inside." as may be supposed, on reaching the house, their consternation and grief was very great when they discovered that the inmates had gone; and from the overturned chairs, and the back and front doors being open, their alarm for the safety of their young friends was greatly increased. "the savages have undoubtedly come and carried them off, but we may yet be in time to overtake them, if we can ascertain in what direction they have gone," said mr osburn. "see, the orchard gate is open," said farmer greening. "they must have gone this way, by the path which leads to the river." they went on a little farther, when tobias picked up a handkerchief. "that must be miss lucy's," he exclaimed, "and probably dropped on purpose," observed mr osburn. on reaching the river, no signs, however, of the savages nor their captives were to be seen; and though they hurried along the bank for some distance, they were at length compelled to return, in a state of increased anxiety for their young friends, to the settlement. chapter nine. the rescue. lucy and harry carried off by hemipo, who takes them to his pah.--lucy explains the truth to a native girl who attends her.--waihoura appears, and assists them to escape.--encounter hemipo, who is conquered by rahana.--hemipo allowed to go free.--happy return to riverside with waihoura and her party.--great rejoicings.--hemipo becomes a christian.--waihoura marries rahana, and the settlement flourishes. lucy and harry were spending their evening, as was their usual custom, harry reading aloud while his sister sat by his side working. mr spears had not long gone away, when a slight knock was heard at the door. "i do believe it must be that mr spears come back again," observed betsy, getting up to open it. as she did so, what was her horror to see the figure of a tall maori warrior, his face painted red, with his merai or axe in his hand. "run, miss lucy! run, master harry, and hide yourselves!" she exclaimed, attempting to push back the door. her efforts were vain, the savage dashed it open and stalked in, followed by a dozen or more maoris. "light the bonfire!" exclaimed lucy,--and betsy, springing by her, made her escape at the back-door. harry tried to drag off lucy in the same direction, but they were both instantly seized by the maoris, two of whom sprang after betsy. scarcely a word was spoken by any of the natives, and lucy had been too much agitated and alarmed to shriek out. the leader, in whom, by his sinister features and fierce looks, lucy recognised hemipo, had raised his weapon as if to strike harry, but he restrained himself on finding that there was no opposition. he and one of his companions now bound harry's arms, making signs to him that if he made any noise his brains would be dashed out. two others then lifted up lucy, and taking a cloak which hung on the wall, threw it round her. plunder did not appear to be their object; for, although numerous articles were lying about which would have been of value to them, none were taken. the savages now lifted up lucy and harry in their arms and carried them out of the house. harry looked round, hoping to see some of the native servants. no one appeared. "i hope, at all events, that betsy may have set light to the signal-fire, that if we are carried away our friends will come in pursuit of us," he said to himself. great was his disappointment when directly afterwards he saw betsy brought along in the arms of two of the savages. "i have done it though, master harry," she exclaimed, loud enough for him to hear. "i had just time to throw the candle in among the sticks and paper before they caught me,--i do not think they saw what i had been about, or they would have stopped and put it out." a savage growl, and the hand of one of her captors placed over her mouth, prevented betsy from saying any more. the whole party now moved down the hill at a rapid rate towards the river. on reaching the bank the young captives were placed on board a canoe, several of which were collected at the spot. harry felt a little relieved when his arms were unbound, and he was allowed to sit at his ease beside lucy. the savages evidently supposed that he would not attempt to leap out and swim on shore. the flotilla shoved off. the night was very dark, but the maoris, well acquainted with the river, navigated dexterously amid the rocks and occasional rapids in their course. now and then the water could be seen bubbling up on either side, and sometimes leaping over the gunwale, and once or twice so much came in that harry feared the canoe would be swamped. "if we are upset, stick to me, lucy," he whispered. "i'll swim with you to the shore, and we will then run off and try and make our escape." lucy felt confident of her young brother's courage, but feared that there was little prospect of his succeeding in the attempt. poor betsy shrieked out with alarm. a threatening sound from the man who steered the canoe warned her to keep silence. there had been for sometime a strong wind, it now increased, and blowing directly against them, greatly impeded the progress of the canoes. still the maoris persevered. at length a loud clap of thunder burst from the sky. it was succeeded by several terrific peals, while vivid flashes of forked lightning darting forth showed that they were passing between high rugged cliffs which rose on either side of the stream, overhung with trees, amid which the wind roared and whistled as they waved to and fro above their heads, threatening every instant, torn up by the roots, to fall over and crush them. the thunder rattled louder than ever, reverberating among the cliffs. just then a flash, brighter than its predecessors, which came hissing along close to the canoe, showed harry the savage features of hemipo, who was sitting in the stern steering. still the canoe went on, indeed, as far as harry could see there was no place on either side where they could have landed, and he earnestly prayed that, should any accident happen, it might be further on, where there would be a hope of reaching the shore. lucy sat with her hands clasped in his, and her calmness and self-possession gave him courage. "oh, what a dear brave little sister mine is," he thought to himself. "i would willingly give up my life to save her's. i wonder what these savages will do with us. they surely cannot be so barbarous as to intend to kill her,--they may knock me on the head very likely, and i only wonder they did not do so at first, it would have been more like their usual custom." the rain was now falling in torrents. harry drew the cloaks which had been thrown over lucy and betsy closer round them. he was himself quickly wet through, but for that he cared little. though it was evident that the paddlers were straining every nerve to urge the canoe onwards, he could judge by the appearance of the cliffs that they were making but slow progress, sometimes, indeed, they were almost brought to a standstill, then again they would redouble their efforts, and the wind lulling for a short time, they would stem the rapid current and get into calmer water. it was difficult to judge, under the circumstances, how time went by, but it seemed to harry that the whole night was thus spent. still the darkness continued, and hour after hour passed. at length the banks came more clearly into view, and he could distinguish the other canoes in company. suddenly the cliffs on either side ceased, and he found that they had entered a lake. covered, however, as it was with foaming waves stirred up by the storm, it seemed scarcely possible for the canoes to make their way across it. after they had in vain attempted to do so, and several of them had been nearly swamped, harry perceived that they were steering towards the shore. they made their way up a small inlet, where, sheltered from the gale, the canoes at length floated quietly, and their crews set to work to bail them out. this being done, harry observed that they were examining their muskets, and fresh priming them, lest they should have become damp with the rain. he hoped from this that they had not yet reached hemipo's district, and were still in that of some friendly tribe. meantime a man was sent on shore, who ran to the summit of a neighbouring height, where harry saw him looking round, as if to ascertain whether any one was approaching. on his return, after he had given his report, hemipo landed, and with scant ceremony dragged his prisoners out of the canoe, and signed to them that they were to accompany him. eight of the savages immediately landed and closed round them. having issued orders to the remainder, he led the way towards the entrance of a valley which extended up from the water. lucy and betsy could with difficulty walk after having been so long cramped up in the canoe. harry begged his sister to lean on him, that he might help her along, and poor betsy did her best to keep up with them, for the savages showed no inclination to slacken their pace. every now and then, indeed, one of them gave her a rough push to make her move faster. harry felt very indignant, but knew that it would be useless to expostulate, and dreaded lest lucy might be treated in the same way. the valley through which they were proceeding he found ran parallel with the lake, and concluded, as was the case, that it would at length conduct them to an upper part of the stream, which, had it not been for the storm, hemipo intended to have reached in the canoes. the chief stalked on ahead, every now and then turning round to order his followers to move faster. the valley, as they proceeded, narrowed considerably; the sides, composed of wild rugged rocks with overhanging trees crowning their summits, rising precipitously on either hand. harry observed that the chief, as they advanced, looked cautiously ahead, as if he thought it possible that an enemy might appear to intercept him. suddenly he stopped altogether, and addressed a few words to his followers, while he pointed up the valley. what he said harry could not understand, but several of the savages directly afterwards drew their merais from their belts, and cast fierce looks at their captives, which too clearly indicated their cruel designs. "oh, our dear father, my poor brother," murmured lucy, as her eye glanced at the savages' weapons, and she clung closer to harry, thinking of those she loved more than of herself. "yet they cannot be so cruel." "are they going to kill us?" cried betsy. "dear, dear miss lucy," and she stretched out her arms as if to protect her young mistress. after waiting a short time hemipo ordered two of his men to go ahead, apparently to ascertain if the road was clear. they seemed satisfied that such was the case, for at a sign from them he and the rest proceeded as before. harry, as they advanced, could not help looking up frequently at the cliffs on either side, and more than once he fancied he saw some person moving among the rocks as if observing them, while at the same time endeavouring to remain concealed. if such was the case, the person managed to escape the keen eyes of the maoris, for hemipo went on, evidently not supposing that he was watched. at length they emerged from the defile, and proceeding over a more open, though still a hilly and picturesque country, till they again came in sight of the river. by this time lucy and betsy were nearly dropping with fatigue, and even harry, though accustomed to exercise, felt very tired, but the savages still urged them on, regardless of their weary legs. harry felt very indignant, but lucy entreated him not to show his resentment. at last a hill, round the base of which the river made its way, rose directly before them, with a stockade on its summit, similar to that surrounding ihaka's village. hemipo led the way towards it, and ascended a narrow path, at the top of which appeared a gateway, with a huge hideous figure above it. as he approached a number of women and children and old men issued forth eyeing his captives with no pleasant looks. scarcely a word, however, was exchanged between the inhabitants and him till they entered the pah, when the whole party seated themselves on the ground, each of them singling out one of the new comers, and began rubbing their noses together, howling and weeping, while the tears, in copious torrents, flowed down their brown cheeks. under other circumstances, harry, who with his sister and betsy, were left standing alone, would have felt inclined to laugh heartily at the odd scene, but matters were too serious to allow him to do so now. after the savages had rubbed their noses, howled, and shed a sufficiency of tears to satisfy their feelings, they got up with dry eyes and unconcerned looks, as if nothing of the sort had occurred. they then came round their captives, who were allowed to stand unmolested, while hemipo was apparently giving an account of his adventures. lucy and betsy trembled as they saw the fierce glances cast at them during the chief's address; their lives seemed to hang on a thread, for any moment his auditors, whom he appeared to be working into a fury, might rush forward and cut them down with the merais, which, ever and anon, they clutched as if eager to use them. at length he ceased, when another orator got up, and appeared to be endeavouring to calm the angry feelings of the assembly. others spoke in the same strain, and at last the orator, who had opposed hemipo, having gained his object, so it seemed, came up to the captives and signed to them to accompany him. leading them to a large wahre on one side of the pah, he told them to enter. lucy, overcome with fatigue, sank on a heap of fern, which covered part of the floor. "cheer up," said harry, "they do not intend to kill us, and i hope that chief, who looks more good-natured than hemipo, will think of bringing us some food. i'll let him know that we want it." harry went back to the door at which the chief was still standing, and made signs that they were very hungry. the chief evidently understood him, and in a short time a girl appeared with a basket of sweet potatoes, some baked fish, and a bowl of water. lucy thanked her warmly in maori, saying that she might some day have the opportunity of rewarding her, adding-- "our people will be grateful for any kindness shown us, and though we have been most cruelly carried away from our home, yet they will not revenge themselves on the innocent." the girl, whom lucy supposed from her appearance to be a slave, looked very much surprised. "our religion teaches us that we should forgive our enemies, and do good to those who injure us, and therefore still more should we be grateful to all who do us good," she continued. "do you understand that?" the girl shook her head, and made signs to lucy and her companions to eat while the food was hot; they needed, indeed, no second bidding, the girl standing by while they discussed the meal. lucy feeling the importance of gaining the good-will of any person in the village, again spoke to the girl, much to the same effect as before. the latter evidently understood her, and made a sign that if discovered in helping them to escape she would be killed. lucy's words had, however, it seemed, made an impression on her mind, for when she stooped down to take up the basket and bowl, she whispered that she would do what she could to be of use to them. they were now left alone. harry entreated his companions to go to sleep, declaring that he was able to sit up and keep watch; and in spite of their anxiety, they were so weary, that in a few minutes their eyes closed, and they happily forgot all that had occurred. harry kept awake as well as he could, and every now and then he observed women and children, and sometimes men, peering at them through the open door of the hut. discovering, however, a chick mat spread on a framework leaning against the side of the hut, he conjectured that it was intended to use as a door, and, accordingly, placing it across the entrance, shut out the intruders. having now nothing to distract his attention, he very soon dropped off to sleep. it was dark when he awoke, and as there were no sounds in the village he concluded that it was night, and he hoped that they might therefore be allowed to rest in quiet. he went to the door of the hut and looked out. no one was stirring, the storm had ceased, and the stars were shining brightly overhead. he again carefully closed the entrance, securing it with some poles, so that it could not be opened from the outside, and throwing himself on the fern at lucy's feet, was soon fast asleep. he was awakened by hearing some one attempting to open the door--the daylight was streaming in through the crevices--on pulling it aside the slave girl, who had brought their supper, appeared with a basket of food and a bowl of water, as before. the light awoke lucy and betsy, who seemed refreshed by their slumbers, though their faces were still pale and anxious. the girl pointed to the food and bade them eat, but seemed unwilling to stay. "let us say our prayers, harry, as we should do at home, before breakfast," said lucy, "though we have not a bible to read." they knelt down, and lucy offered up a prayer of thanksgiving to god for having preserved them, and for further protection, while the maori girl stood by wondering what they were about. she then hurried away, as they supposed, from having received orders not to remain with them. they were left alone all the morning, and at noon the girl brought them a further supply of food. "this looks as if the maoris did not intend to do us any harm, perhaps they expect to get a ransom for us," observed harry. "i trust so," said lucy, "and i am sure our friends would pay it should our father and val be still absent from home; but, perhaps, hemipo has some other object in carrying us off." "what can that be?" asked harry. "the idea came into my mind, and i fear it is too likely that he has done so, in order to get waihoura into his power. if she believes that our lives are in danger, she will, i am sure, be ready to do anything to save them," answered lucy. "how should she know that we have been carried away," asked harry. "she will suspect something when our labourers suddenly return to her village, and will send to ascertain what has occurred," observed lucy. "if it was not for your sake, lucy, i would run every risk rather than let the poor girl fall into the power of the savage," exclaimed harry. "i hope that our father and val, and the volunteers, will find out where we have been carried to, and will come to attack the pah and rescue us." "that would cause great loss of life, and, perhaps, seal our fate," answered lucy. "i have been praying, and he who does not allow a sparrow to fall to the ground without knowing it, will arrange matters for the best. the knowledge that he does take care of us should give us confidence and hope." "i am sure you are right," observed harry, after a few minutes reflection. "still we cannot help talking of what we wish." in the afternoon, harry going to the door of the hut, heard voices as if in loud discussion at a distance, and observing no one about, he crept on among the huts till he came in sight of a number of people seated on the ground, apparently holding a debate, for one after the other got up and addressed the rest. keeping himself concealed behind the hut, he watched them for some time, at length he saw hemipo and a body of armed men issue out by the gate. he crept back to the hut with this information. as far as he could ascertain, only the old men, and women, and children, were left in the pah. late in the evening the slave girl again visited them, and, as she appeared less anxious than before to hurry away, lucy spoke to her. at last she answered-- "what manima can do she will do for the pakehas, but they must wait-- perhaps something will happen." she said this in a very low voice, and taking up the basket and bowl, hurried away. harry found that no one interfered with him as he walked about outside the hut; but he did not like to go far from lucy and betsy, and darkness coming on, he returned. after he had closed the door, they offered up their prayers as usual, and lying down, soon fell asleep. lucy was awakened by feeling a hand pressed on her shoulder. she was inclined to cry out, when she heard a low voice saying in maori-- "don't be afraid, call your brother and betsy." lucy, to her astonishment, recognised the voice of waihoura, and without waiting to ask questions, awakened harry and betsy. a few words served to explain what she had heard, and they at once got up and followed waihoura out of the hut. she led the way among the wahres the inmates of which, they knew from the sounds which issued forth, were fast asleep. they soon reached the inner end of the pah, behind the public store-house, the largest building in the village, when waihoura pointed to an opening in the stockade. it was so narrow that only slight people could have passed through it. waihoura, taking lucy's hand, led her through it, but betsy almost stuck as she made the attempt. with some assistance from harry, she however succeeded in getting on the other side, when he following, found that they were standing on the top of a cliff. waihoura again taking lucy's hand, showed them a narrow and zigzag path which led down it. they followed her, as she cautiously descended towards the river, which harry saw flowing below them. on reaching the edge of the water waihoura stepped into a canoe, which had hitherto been hidden by a rock. the rest of the party entering it, two men who were sitting with their paddles ready, immediately urged the canoe out into the stream, down which they impelled it with rapid strokes, while waihoura, taking another paddle, guided its course. not a word was spoken, for all seemed to know exactly what was to be done. they had entirely lost sight of the hills on which the pah stood, before waihoura uttered a word. she then, in a whisper, addressed lucy, who was sitting close to her, apparently considering, even then, that great caution was necessary. they were passing between high cliffs, amid which the slightest sound, harry rightly guessed, might be carried, and heard by any one posted on them. the paddlers redoubled their efforts, till at length they got into a broader part of the river. lucy then, in a low voice, told harry that waihoura had heard of their capture from the labourers, who had returned home, and had immediately formed a plan for their rescue. she had friends in hemipo's pah, for all were not as bad as he was, and among them was manima, who belonged to a friendly tribe, and had been carried off some time before by hemipo, with others, as a slave. she had herself, with a party of her people, immediately set out, and knowing the route they would have to take, had remained in ambush with the intention of rescuing them; but fearing that hemipo would put them to death should he find himself attacked, she resolved to employ stratagem to set them at liberty. she had at once sent a message to manima, and on finding that hemipo had set out on another expedition, she had herself that very night entered the pah in disguise, and arranged the plan which had thus far been carried out. "she tells us," added lucy, "that her only fear arises from the possibility of meeting hemipo, who has gone down the river in his war canoes, though for what object she could not ascertain. she advises us to keep very silent, as should he be anywhere near, he is certain to have scouts on the watch, though we may hope to escape them in the darkness of night." "as i said of you, lucy, she would make a first-rate general," observed harry, "and i hope for her sake, as well as ours, that she will prove herself a successful leader." scarcely had harry spoken when a loud voice hailed them from the shore, and a bullet whistled close to them. "don't cry out," whispered waihoura. "the man will take some time to load again, and we may get beyond his reach." her hopes were, however, vain, for directly afterwards several canoes darted from behind some rocks, and surrounding them, their canoe was towed to the shore. "they are hemipo's people," said waihoura. "but keep silence, he is not among them, and they will merely keep us prisoners till he comes, and something may happen in the meantime." the country was tolerably level beyond the bank where the canoes lay. there was sufficient light from the stars to enable harry to see for some distance inland, and he recognised the spot as the same place at which they had been taken on shore on their way up the river. after waiting a considerable time, he observed a party of men moving along from the direction of the valley, and coming towards the canoes. he was afraid that they were hemipo and his band. "how will the savage treat us, and those who have been trying to aid our escape?" he thought. just then he caught sight of another and very much larger party coming from nearly the opposite direction. the first stopped and seemed trying to hide themselves behind some rocks and bushes, but the others had seen them, and uttering loud cries, rushed forward, then came the flashes and rattle of musketry, with reiterated cries for a few minutes, when the smaller party giving way, attempted to fly, but were quickly surrounded. the people in the canoes, on seeing this, shoved off from the bank, and endeavoured to drag waihoura's canoe with them. the crew resisted; a blow on his head, however, struck down one of the men, and it appeared too probable that their enemies would succeed in their object. they had got out into the middle of the stream, when several more canoes were seen rounding a point below them. waihoura uttered a loud cry, and the canoes came rapidly paddling towards them. their captors, on seeing this, allowed her to go free, and began making their way as fast as they could up the river. "who are you?" asked waihoura, as the strangers' canoes approached. "we are rahana's people, and he ordered us to come here to stop hemipo from descending the river, while he proceeded on by land," was the answer. "then it is rahana who has gained the victory," exclaimed waihoura, and, escorted by her friends, she guided her canoe towards the shore, harry taking the paddle of the poor man who had been struck down. they quickly landed, when a messenger despatched to rahana brought him to where waihoura and her english companions were seated on some rocks by the bank of the river. he spoke earnestly for a few minutes to waihoura. lucy, from what he said, learned that she had sent to ask his assistance, and that ascertaining the proceedings of hemipo, he had set out with all his followers to meet him and compel him to restore the prisoners he had carried off. "he and many of his people are now in my hands, for before they could escape we surrounded them and captured them all," he said, addressing lucy and harry. "they deserve death,--do you wish that we should kill them, or give them into the hands of your countrymen?" "oh no, no, spare their lives," exclaimed lucy. "we should do good to our enemies, and we would far rather let them go free. we are thankful to have been rescued from their power, but more than that we do not desire." "that is a strange thing the pakeha girl says," remarked rahana to waihoura. "is it according to the religion you desire to teach me?" "oh yes, yes," exclaimed waihoura. "i know that lucy is right. she has told me that he who came to die and be punished that men might enjoy happiness hereafter, blessed his enemies, and did good to those who injured him." "then they shall live," said rahana. "i will set hemipo free, and tell him that it is by the wish of the pakehas, and that he must henceforth be their friend and ally, and abandoning the cruel customs of our people, learn the good religion, which has made them act thus towards him." lucy and harry knowing the alarm their disappearance must have caused to mrs greening and their other friends, were anxious to return home immediately. waihoura offered to accompany them, and begged rahana that he would allow one of his canoes to convey them down the river. "i will myself take charge of them, and i shall be proud to deliver them in safety to their friends," he answered. "i will, however, first obey their wish, and set hemipo and his followers free, after i have deprived them of their arms, which belong to my warriors." while the canoes were getting ready for the voyage down the river, fires were lighted, and fish and other provisions were cooked, some of which were presented to waihoura and her friends, greatly to harry's satisfaction, who declared that he had seldom felt so hungry in his life; though lucy and betsy, still scarcely recovered from their agitation, partook of the repast but sparingly. meantime rahana had gone back to where he had left his warriors and their prisoners. he shortly returned, accompanied by another person. as they approached the spot where waihoura and her friends sat, the light of the fire showed that rahana's companion was hemipo. he looked greatly crestfallen, but recovering himself, he addressed waihoura. neither lucy nor harry could clearly understand him; but they gathered from what he said that he desired to express his gratitude for having his life spared, and sorrow for his conduct towards her, as also for having carried off her friends, and that if they would send a missionary to him he would gladly listen to his instruction. it evidently cost him much to speak as he did. she was glad when the interview was over, and rahana told him that he might now depart in peace. waihoura and her friends were now conducted to the largest canoe, in which rahana also took his seat. they had not proceeded far down the river when day broke, and the neighbouring woods burst forth with a chorus of joyful song, the sky overhead was blue and pure, the waters bright and clear, and the grass and shrubs, which grew on the banks, sparkled with bright dewdrops. "see, see," exclaimed harry. "there's a whole fleet of boats coming up the river." rahana, on observing them, went ahead of his flotilla with a flag waving at the bow of his canoe. "there is our father, there is val," exclaimed harry. the canoe was soon alongside one of the largest boats. a few words explained all that had occurred. mr pemberton and his companions had returned home the day after his children and servant had been carried off, when an expedition had immediately been organised to sail up the river and attack hemipo's pah, it being at once suspected that he had committed the outrage. as there was now no necessity to proceed further, the boats' bows were turned down the stream, harry, with his sister and betsy, having gone on board mr pemberton's. accompanied by the canoes, a strong current being in their favour, they soon reached "riverside," where the safe return of the young people caused almost as much satisfaction as the news which had just before arrived of the termination of the war. waihoura soon afterwards became the wife of rahana, who built a house after the english model, on some land which he owned in the neighbourhood near the river, and receiving instruction from their friends, both became true and earnest christians. they had the satisfaction also of hearing that hemipo, who had gladly received mr marlow and other missionaries, had, with all his people, become christians, and he showed by his changed life and peaceable conduct, that he was one in reality as well as in name. "riverside" continued to increase and prosper, and protected by the friendly natives who surrounded it, escaped the disasters from which many other places in subsequent years suffered. honest mr spears must not be forgotten. though still showing a readiness to help everybody, having learned the necessity of attending to his own affairs, he became one of the leading tradesmen in the place. both mr pemberton and farmer greening had, in course of time, the satisfaction of seeing their children married, and settled happily around them. the end. five little peppers midway by margaret sidney to my little margaret who is phronsie pepper to all who know her this book is lovingly inscribed contents phronsie's pie cousin eunice chatterton the rehearsal welcome home! after the play the little brown house old times again some badgertown calls a sudden blow the party separates poor polly! new work for polly a piece of news mamsie's wedding mrs. chatterton has a new plan where is phronsie? phronsie is found the girls have polly again phronsie is well again the secret the whitneys' little plan joel of many things away i phronsie's pie "jefferson," said phronsie, with a grave uplifting of her eyebrows, "i think i will go down into the kitchen and bake a pie; a very little pie, jefferson." "bless you, miss," replied the cook, showing his white teeth in glee, "it is the making of the kitchen when you come it." "yes, jefferson," said phronsie slowly, "i think i will go down make one. it must be very, very full of plums, you know," looking up at him anxiously, "for polly dearly loves plums." "it shall be that plummy," said jefferson convincingly, "that you'd think you never saw such a one for richness. oh, my! what a pie that shall be!" exclaimed the cook, shutting up one eye to look through the other in a spasm of delight at an imaginary pie; "so it's for miss mary, is it?" "yes," said phronsie, "it is. oh, jefferson, i'm so glad you like to have me make one," she clasped her hands in silent rapture, and sat down on the lowest stair to think it over a bit, jefferson looking at her, forgetful that the under cook was fuming in the deserted domains over his delay to return. at last he said, bowing respectfully, "if you please, miss, it's about time to begin. such a pie ain't done without a deal of care, and we'd best have it a-baking as soon as may be." "yes," said phronsie, getting off from her stair, and surrendering her hand to his big black palm, "we ought to go right this very minute. but i must get my apron on;" she stopped and looked down at her red dress. "oh! you can take one of my aprons," said the cook, "they're as fine, and big, and white, and i'll just put you in one of 'em and tie you up as snug; you'll come out as clean and sweet when we're through, as you are now, miss." "tie me up?" laughed phronsie in glee. "oh! how nice, jefferson. do you know i love you very much, jefferson, you're so very good to me?" the big fellow drew a long breath. "no, miss, i'm big and black, and just fit to stay downstairs," he managed to say. "but i love you better because you are black, jefferson," insisted phronsie, "a great deal better. you are not like everybody else, but you are just yourself," clinging to his hand. "well, miss, i ain't just fit for a lily to touch and that's the truth," looking down at his palm that the small white hand grasped closely. "it's clean, miss," he added with pardonable pride, "but it's awful black." "i like it better black, jefferson," said phronsie again, "really and truly i do, because then it's your very, very own," in a tone that thrilled him much as if a queen had knighted him on the spot. this important declaration over, the two set forth on their way toward the kitchen, phronsie clinging to his hand, and chatting merrily over the particular pie in prospect, with varied remarks on pies in general, that by and by would be ventured upon if this present one were a success--and very soon tied up in one of the cook's whitest aprons she was seated with due solemnity at the end of the baking table, the proper utensils and materials in delightful confusion before her, and the lower order of kitchen satellites revolving around her, and jefferson the lesser sphere. "now all go back to your work," said that functionary when he considered the staring and muttered admiration had been indulged in long enough, "and leave us." "i want you," said his assistant, touching his elbow. "clear out," said jefferson angrily, his face turned quite from phronsie. but she caught the tone and immediately laid down the bit of dough she was moulding. "do go," she begged, "and come back quickly," smiling up into his face. "see, i'm going to pat and pat and pat, oh! ever so much before you come back." so jefferson followed the under cook, the scullery boy went back to cleaning the knives, susan, the parlor maid who was going through the kitchen with her dustpan and broom, hurried off with a backward glance or two, and phronsie was left quite alone to hum her way along in her blissful culinary attempt. "bless me!" exclaimed a voice close to her small ear, as she was attempting for the fifth time to roll out the paste quite as thin as she had seen jefferson do, "what is this? bless my soul! it's phronsie!" phronsie set down the heavy rolling-pin and turned in her chair with a gleeful laugh. "dear, dear grandpapa!" she cried, clasping her floury hands, "oh! i'm so glad you've come to see me make a pie all by myself. it's for polly, and it's to be full of plums; jefferson let me make it." "jefferson? and where is he, pray?" cried mr. king irately. "pretty fellow, to bring you down to these apartments, and then go off and forget you. jefferson!" he called sharply, "here, where are you?" "oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed phronsie in dire distress, "i sent him; jefferson didn't want to go, grandpapa dear, really and truly, he went because i asked him." "if you please, sir," began jefferson, hurrying up, "i only stepped off a bit to the cellar. bassett sent down a lot of turnips, they ain't first-rate, and"-- "all right," said mr. king, cutting him short with a wave of his hand, "if miss phronsie sent you off, it's all right; i don't want to hear any more elaborate explanations." "little miss hasn't been alone but a few minutes," said jefferson in a worried way. "and see," said phronsie, turning back to her efforts, while one hand grasped the old gentleman's palm, "i've almost got it to look like jefferson's. almost, haven't i?" she asked, regarding it anxiously. "it will be the most beautiful pie," cried mr. king, a hearty enthusiasm succeeding his irritability, "that ever was baked. i wish you'd make me one sometime, phronsie." "do you?" she cried in a tremor of delight, "and will you really have it on the table, and cut it with aunt whitney's big silver knife?" "that i will," declared mr. king solemnly. "then some day i'll come down here again, jefferson," cried phronsie in a transport, "and bake one for my dear grandpapa. that is, if this one is good. oh! you do suppose it will be good, don't you?" appealingly at him. "it shall," said jefferson stoutly, and seizing the rolling-pin with extreme determination. "you want a bit more butter worked in, here," a dab with skillful fingers, and a little manipulation with the flour, a roll now and then most deftly, and the paste was laid out before phronsie. "now, miss, you can put it in the dish." "but is isn't my pie," said phronsie, and, big girl as she felt herself to be, she sat back in her chair, her lower lip quivering. "not your pie?" repeated the cook, bringing himself up straight to gaze at her. "no," said phronsie, shaking her yellow head gravely, "it isn't my pie now, jefferson. you put in the things, and rolled it." "leave your fingers off from it, can't you?" cried mr. king sharply. "goodness! this pie isn't to have a professional touch about it. get some more flour and stuff, whatever it is you make a pie of, and let her begin again. there, i'll sit down and watch you; then there'll be some chance of having things straight." so he drew up a chair to the side of the table, first calling off pete, the scullery boy, from his knives to come and wipe it off for him, and mrs. tucker who was in kitchen dialect "tucker," to see that the boy did his work well. "lor' bless you, sir," said tucker, bestowing a final polish with her apron, "'twas like satin before, sir--not a wisp of dust." "i don't want any observations from you," said the old gentleman, depositing himself in the chair. "there, you can go back to your work, mrs. tucker, and you too, pete. now i'll see that this pie is to your liking, phronsie." but phronsie still sat back in her chair, thoughtfully surveying jefferson. "grandpapa," she said at last slowly, "i think i'd rather have the first pie, i really would, grandpapa, may i?" she brought her yellow head forward by a sudden movement, and looked deep into his keen eyes. "bless my soul! rather have the first pie?" repeated the old gentleman in astonishment, "why, i thought you wanted to make one all yourself." "i think i'd rather do part of it," said phronsie with great deliberateness, "then polly'll like it, and eat it, and i'll do yours, grandpapa dear, just as jefferson fixed mine, all alone. please let me." she held him fast with her eyes, and waited for his answer. "so you shall!" cried mr. king in great satisfaction, "make mine all alone. this one would better go as it is. put away the flour and things, jefferson; miss phronsie doesn't want them." phronsie gave a relieved little sigh. "and, jefferson, if you hadn't showed me how, i couldn't ever in all this world make grandpapa's. now give me the little plate, do." "here 'tis, miss," said the cook, all his tremor over the blunder he had made, disappearing, since, after all, things were quite satisfactory. and the little plate forthcoming, phronsie tucked away the paste lovingly in its depths, and began the important work of concocting the mixture with which the pie was to be filled, mr. king sitting by with the gravity of a statue, even to the deliberate placing of each plum. "where's phronsie?" called a voice above in one of the upper halls. "oh! she's coming, polly is!" cried phronsie, deserting a plum thrust in endwise in the middle of the pie, to throw her little sticky fingers around jefferson's neck; "oh! do take off my apron; and let me go. she'll see my pie!" "stop!" cried mr. king, getting up somewhat stiffly to his feet, "i'll take off the apron myself. there, phronsie, there you are. whew! how hot you keep your kitchen, jefferson," and he wiped his face. "now we'll run," said phronsie softly, "and not make a bit of noise, grandpapa dear, and, jefferson, please put on my top to the pie, and don't let it burn, and i'll come down very, very soon again, and bake one all alone by myself for grandpapa." the old gentleman kept up very well with the soft patter of her feet till they reached the foot of the staircase. "there, there, child," he said, "there's not the least need of hurry now." "but she will come down," said phronsie, in gentle haste pulling at his hand, "then if she should see it, grandpapa!" "to be sure; that would indeed be dreadful," said mr. king, getting over the stairs very creditably. "there, here we are now. whew! it's terribly warm in this house!" but there was no danger from polly; she was at this very instant, not being able to find phronsie, hurrying off toward the library in search of mrs. whitney. "we want to do the very loveliest thing!" she cried, rushing in, her cheeks aflame. "oh! pray excuse me." she stopped short, blushing scarlet. "don't feel badly, polly dear," said mrs. whitney, over in the dim light, where the divan was drawn up in the east window, and she held out her hand and smiled; the other lady whose tete-a-tete was thus summarily disturbed was elderly and very tall and angular. she put up her eyeglass at the intrusion and murmured "ah?" "this is polly pepper," said mrs. whitney, as polly, feeling unusually awkward and shy, stumbled across the library to get within the kind arms awaiting her. "one of the children that your kindness received in this house?" said the tall lady, making good use of the eyeglass. the color mounted steadily on polly's already rosy cheek, at the scrutiny now going on with the greatest freedom. "one of the dear children who make this house a sunny place for us all," said mrs. whitney distinctly. "ah? i see. you are extremely good to put it in that way." a low, well-bred laugh followed this speech. its sound irritated the young girl's ear unspeakably, and the brown eyes flashed, and though there was really no occasion to feel what was not addressed to her, polly was quite sure she utterly disliked the lady before her. "my dear mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney in the gentlest of accents, "you do not comprehend; it is not possible for you to understand how very happy we all are here. the house is quite another place, i assure you, from the abode you saw last before you went abroad." mrs. chatterton gave another low, unpleasant laugh, and this time shrugged her shoulders. "polly dear," said mrs. whitney with a smile, "say good-morning to mrs. chatterton, and then run away. i will hear your wonderful plan by and by. i shall be glad to, child," she was guilty of whispering in the small ear. "good-morning, mrs. chatterton," said polly slowly, the brown eyes looking steadily into the traveled and somewhat seamed countenance before her. "good-morning," and polly found herself once more across the floor, and safely out in the hall, the door closed between them. "who is she?" she cried in an indignant spasm to jasper, who ran up, and she lifted her eyes brimming over with something quite new to him. he stopped aghast. "who?" he cried. "oh, polly! what has happened?" "mrs. chatterton. and she looked at me--oh! i can't tell you how she looked; as if i were a bug, or a hateful worm beneath her," cried polly, quite as much aghast at herself. "it makes me feel horridly, jasper--you can't think. oh! that old"--he stopped, pulling himself up with quite an effort. "has she come back--what brought her, pray tell, so soon?" "i don't know, i am sure," said polly, laughing at his face. "i was only in the room a moment, i think, but it seemed an age with that eyeglass, and that hateful little laugh." "oh! she always sticks up that thing in her eye," said jasper coolly, "and she's everlastingly ventilating that laugh on everybody. she thinks it high-bred and elegant, but it makes people want to kill her for it." he looked and spoke annoyed. "to think you fell into her clutches!" he added. "well, who is she?" cried polly, smoothing down her ruffled feathers, when she saw the effect of her news on him. "i should dearly love to know." "cousin algernon's wife," said jasper briefly. "and who is he?" cried polly, again experiencing a shock that this dreadful person was a relative to whom due respect must be shown. "oh! a cousin of father's," said jasper. "he was nice, but he's dead." "oh!" said polly. "she's been abroad for a good half-dozen years, and why she doesn't stay there when everybody supposed she was going to, astonishes me," said jasper, after a moment. "well, it will not be for long, i presume, that we shall have the honor; she'll be easily tired of america, and take herself off again." "she doesn't stay in this house, does she, jasper?" cried polly in a tone of horror. "no; that is, unless she chooses to, then we can't turn her off. she's a relative, you know." "hasn't she any home?" asked polly, "or any children?" "home? yes, an estate down in bedford county?-dunraven lodge; but it's all shut up, and in the hands of agents who have been trying for the half-dozen years she was abroad, to sell it for her. she may have come back to settle down there again, there's no telling what she will do. in the meantime, i fancy she'll make her headquarters here," he said gloomily. "oh, jasper!" exclaimed polly, seizing his arm, feeling that here was need of comfort indeed, "how very dreadful! don't you suppose something will happen to take her away?" "i don't see what can," said jasper, prolonging the gloom to feel the comfort it brought. "you see she has nobody who wants her, to step in and relieve us. she has two nephews, but oh! you ought to see them fight!" "fight?" repeated polly aghast. "yes; you can't dignify their skirmishes by any other name," said jasper, in disgust. "so you see our chances for keeping her as long as she condescends to stay are really very good." polly clung to his arm in speechless dismay. meanwhile conversation fast and brisk was going on between the two shut up in the library. "it is greatly to your discredit, marian," said mrs. chatterton in a high, cold voice, "that you didn't stop all this nonsense on your father's part, before the thing got to such a pass as to install them in this house." "on the contrary," said mrs. whitney with a little laugh, "i did everything i could to further the plan that father wisely made." "wisely!" cried mrs. chatterton in scorn. "oh, you silly child! don't you see what it will all tend to?" "i see that it has made us all very happy for five years," said mrs. whitney, preserving her composure, "so i presume the future doesn't hold much to dread on that score." "the future is all you have to dread," declared mrs. chatterton harshly. "the present may be well enough; though i should think existence with that low, underbred family here, would be a"? "you may pause just where you are, mrs. chatterton," said marian, still with the gentlest of accents, but with a determination that made the other look down at her in astonishment, "not another word shall you utter in that strain, nor will i listen to it." and with fine temper undisturbed in her blue eyes, she regarded her relative. "dear me, marian! i begin to notice your age more now. you shouldn't fly into such rages; they wear on one fearfully; and especially for a stranger too, and against your own people--how can you?" mrs. chatterton drew out a vinaigrette, then a fan from a silken bag, with clasps that she was always glad to reflect were heirlooms. "it's trying, i must confess," she declared, alternately applying the invigorating salts and waving the combination of gauze and sandalwood, "to come home to such a reception. but," and a heavy sigh, "i must bear it." "you ought to see father," cried mrs. whitney, rising. "i must go at once and tell him of your arrival." "oh! i don't know that i care about seeing cousin horatio yet," said mrs. chatterton carelessly. "he will probably fall into one of his rages, and my nerves have been upset quite enough by you. i think i'll go directly to my apartments." she rose also. "father must at once be informed of your arrival," repeated marian quietly. "i'll send him in to see you." "and i shall go to my apartments," declared mrs. chatterton determinedly. "hoity-toity!" exclaimed mr. king's voice, and in he came, with phronsie, fresh from the kitchen, clinging to his hand. ii cousin eunice chatterton phronsie dropped one small hand by her side, and stood quite still regarding the visitor. "oh, my goodness me," ejaculated mrs. chatterton, startled out of her elegance, and not pausing to adjust the glass, but using her two good eyes to the best advantage. "hoity-toity! so you are back again!" exclaimed mr. king by way of welcome. "well, and if i may ask, what brought you now, eunice?" mrs. chatterton gathered herself up and smiled in a superior way. "never mind my reasons, cousin horatio. what a fine child you have there;" now the glass came into play; "pray tell me all about her." "you have well said," observed mr. king, seating himself with the utmost deliberateness, and drawing phronsie to her accustomed place on his knee, where she nestled, regardless of his immaculate linen and fine waistcoat, "phronsie pepper is indeed a fine child; a very fine child, madam." "oh, my, and oh, my!" cried mrs. chatterton, holding up her hands, "to think that you can so demean yourself; why, she's actually mussing your shirt-front with her dirty little hands!" "phronsie pepper's hands are never dirty, madam," said the old gentleman gravely. "sit still, child," as phronsie in a state of alarm struggled to slip down from his lap, thrusting the two members thus referred to, well out before her. mrs. chatterton burst into a loud laugh. "to think i have come to see horatio king in such a state! jasper horatio king!" she repeated scornfully. "i heard about it through the bascombs' letters, but i wouldn't believe it till i used my eyes. it's positively dreadful!" mr. king put back his head and laughed also; so heartily, that phronsie ceased to struggle, and turned to regard him in silent astonishment; and mrs. whitney, charmed that the rage usually produced by conversation with cousin algernon's wife was not forthcoming, began to laugh, too, so that the amusement of the tall lady was quenched in the general hilarity. "what you can find in my words to cause such an unseemly outburst, i cannot see," she cried in a passion. "i'm under the impression that you led off the amusement yourself," said mr. king, wiping his eyes. "phronsie, it's all very funny, isn't it?" looking down into the little wondering face. "is it really funny?" asked phronsie. "does the lady like it?" "not particularly, i suspect," said mr. king carelessly. "and that you can talk with that chit, ignoring me, your cousin's wife, is insufferable." mrs. chatterton now arose speedily from the divan, and shook out a flounce or two with great venom. "i had intended to make you a visit. now it is quite impossible." "as you like," said the old gentleman, also rising, and placing phronsie on her feet, observing ostentatious care to keep her hand. "my house is open to you, eunice," with a wave of his disengaged hand in old-time hospitality, "but of course you must suit yourself." "it's rather hard upon a person of sensibility, to come home after a six years' absence," said cousin eunice with a pathetic sniff, and once more seeking her vinaigrette in the depths of the silken bag, "to meet only coldness and derision. in fact, it is very hard." "no doubt, no doubt," said the old gentleman hastily, "i can imagine such a case, but it has nothing to do with you. now, if you are going to stay, eunice, say so at once, and proceed to your room. if not, why you must go, and understand it is no one's fault but your own." he drew himself up and looked long and hard into the thin pale face before him. phronsie pulled at his hand. "i want to ask the lady to stay, grandpapa dear." "she doesn't need urging," said old mr. king quite distinctly, and not moving a muscle. "but, grandpapa dear, she isn't glad about something." "no more am i." "grandpapa," cried phronsie, moving off a bit, though not deserting his hand, and standing on her tiptoes, "i want her to stay, to see me. perhaps she hasn't any little girls." "to see you?" cried mr. king irately. "say no more, child, say no more. she's been abusing you right and left, like a pick-pocket." "what is a pick-pocket?" asked phronsie, getting down from her tiptoes. "oh! a scoundrel who puts his hands into pockets; picks out what doesn't belong to him, in fact." phronsie stood quite still, and shook her head gravely at the tall figure. "that was not nice," she said soberly. "now do you want her to stay?" cried the old gentleman. "insufferable!" repeated mrs. chatterton between her teeth, "to mix me up with that chit!" "yes, i do," said phronsie decidedly, "i do, grandpapa. now i know she hasn't any little girls--if she had little girls, she wouldn't say such very unnice things; i want the poor lady to stay with me." mrs. chatterton turned and went abruptly off to the door, hesitated, and looked back. "i see your household is in a very chaotic state, cousin horatio. still i will remain a few days," with extreme condescension, "on condition that these peppers are not thrust upon my attention." "i make no conditions," said the old gentleman coolly. "if you stay, you must accept my household as you find it." "come, marian," said mrs. chatterton, holding out her hand to mrs. whitney. "you may help me to my apartments if you like. i am quite unstrung by all this," and she swept out without a backward glance. "has she gone?" cried jasper, hurrying in with polly running after. "it's 'stay,' isn't it, father?" as he saw the old gentleman's face. "yes," said mr. king grimly, "it is 'stay' indeed, jasper." "well, now then, you've a piece of work on your hands about the biggest you ever did yet, polly pepper!" cried jasper, "to make things comfortable in this house. i shall be just as cross as can be imagined, to begin with." "you cross!" cried polly. "cross as a bear; marian will fight against the prevailing ill wind, but it will finally blow her down to a state of depression where her best friend wouldn't recognize her, and"-- "you don't mention me, my boy," said mr. king dryly. jasper looked into his father's eyes, and they both laughed. "and if you, polly pepper, don't keep things bright, why, we shall all go to the dogs," said the old gentleman, sobering down. "so mind you do, and we'll try to bear cousin algernon's relict." "i will," said polly stoutly, though "relict" sounded very dreadful to begin with. "give us your hand, then," said jasper's father, putting out his palm. "there!" releasing it, "now i'm much more comfortable about matters." "and give me your hand, polly," cried jasper, his own brown hand flying to meet hers. "there! and now i'm comfortable too! so it's a compact, and a sure one!" "and i want to give my hand," cried phronsie, very much aggrieved. "here, jasper." "bless my soul, so you must!" cried old mr. king; "to think we didn't ask you first. there--and there!" "and, phronsie darling," cried polly in a rapture, "you must promise with me, after you have with the others. i couldn't ever get along in all this world without that." so the ceremony of sealing the compact having been observed with great gravity, phronsie drew a long breath, and now felt that the "poor lady" might come down at any time to find all things prepared for her. "now tell our plan," cried jasper to polly, "and put this disagreeable business out of our heads. it's a fine one," he added to his father. "of course it is," cried the old gentleman. "well, you know joel and davie and van and percy are coming home from school next week for the christmas holidays," began polly, trying to still the wild beating of her heart. "bless me! so they are," said mr. king. "how time flies, to be sure! well, go on, polly." "and we ought to do something to celebrate," said polly, "at least don't you think so?" she asked anxiously, looking up in his face. "to be sure i do," cried the old gentleman heartily. "well, what would you do, polly child, to show the youngsters we're proud of them, and glad to get them back--hey?" "we want to get up a little play," said polly, "jasper and i, and act it." "and have music," cried jasper. "polly shall play on the piano. the boys will be so delighted to see how she has improved." "and jasper will play too," cried polly eagerly. "oh, jasper! will you play that concerto, the one you played when mary gibbs was here at tea last week? do, jasper, do." "that nearly floored me," said jasper. "no; you said it was mary's watching you like a lynx--you know you did," said polly, laughing merrily. "never mind," said the old gentleman. "what next, polly? the play is all right." "i should think it was," cried jasper. "it's the three dragons, and the princess clotilde." "oh, my goodness," exclaimed mr. king, "what a play for christmas eve!" "well, you'll say it's a splendid hit!" cried jasper, "when you see it from the private box we are going to give you." "so you are intending to honor me, are you?" cried his father, vastly pleased to find himself as ever, the central figure in their plans. "well, well, i dare say it will all be as fine as can be to welcome these young scapegraces home. what next, polly?" "it must be kept a perfect surprise," cried polly, clasping her hands while the color flew over her face. "no one must even whisper it to each other, the day before christmas when the boys get here, for joel is so very dreadful whenever there is a secret." "his capacity certainly is good," said mr. king dryly. "we will all be very careful." "and phronsie is to be princess clotilde," cried jasper, seizing her suddenly, to prance around the room, just like old times. "oh, jasper! i'm eight years old," she cried, struggling to free herself. "nonsense! what of it--you are the baby of this household." but he set her on her feet nevertheless, one hand still patting the soft yellow waves over her brow. "go on, polly, do, and lay the whole magnificence before father. he will be quite overcome." "that would be disastrous," said mr. king; "better save your effects till the grand affair comes off." "jasper is to be one of the dragons," announced polly, quite in her element, "that is, the head dragon; ben is to be another, and we haven't quite decided whether to ask archy hurd or clare to take the third one." "clare has the most 'go' in him," said jasper critically. "then i think we'll decide now to ask him," said polly, "don't you, jasper?" "a dragon without 'go' in him would be most undesirable, i should fancy. well, what next do you propose to do, polly?" asked mr. king. "now that we know that you will allow us to have it," cried polly in a rapture, "why, we can think up splendid things. we've only the play written so far, sir." "polly wrote the most," said jasper. "oh, no, jasper! i only put in the bits," said polly. "he planned it?--every single bit, jasper did." "well, she thought up the dragons, and the cave, and"?-- "oh! that was easy enough," said polly, guilty of interrupting, "because you see something has to carry off the princess clotilde." "oh, now! you are not going to frighten my little girl," cried mr. king. "i protest against the whole thing if you do," and he put out his hand. "come, phronsie," when, as of old, she hurried to his side obediently. "oh! we are going to show her the boys, and how we dress them up just like dragons," cried polly, "and while they are prancing around and slashing their tails at rehearsal, i'm going to keep saying, 'that's nothing but jasper and ben and clare, you know, phronsie,' till i get her accustomed to them. you won't be frightened, will you, pet, at those dear, sweet old dragons?" she ended, and getting on her knees, she looked imploringly into phronsie's brown eyes. "n--no," said phronsie, slowly, "not if they are really jasper and ben and clare." "they really will be," cried polly, enchanted at her success, "jasper and ben and clare; and they will give you a ride, and show you a cave, oh! and perfect quantities of things; you can't think how many!" phronsie clapped her hands and laughed aloud in glee. "oh! i don't care if they are true dragons, polly, i don't," she cried, dreadfully excited. "make 'em real big live ones, do; do make them big, and let me ride on their backs." "these will be just as real," said polly comfortingly, "that is, they'll act real, only there will be boys inside of them. oh! we'll have them nice, dear, don't you fear." "but i'd really rather have true ones," sighed phronsie. iii the rehearsal "now, phronsie," said polly, on her knees before the princess, who was slowly evolving into "a thing of beauty," "do hold still just a minute, dear. there," as she thrust in another pin, then turned her head critically to view her work, "i do hope that is right." phronsie sighed. "may i just stretch a wee little bit, polly," she asked timidly, "before you pin it up? just a very little bit?" "to be sure you may," said polly, looking into the flushed little face; "i'll tell you, you may walk over to the window and back, once; that'll rest you and give me a chance to see what is the matter with that back drapery." so phronsie, well pleased, gathered up the embyro robe of the princess and moved off, a bewildering tangle of silver spangles and floating lace, drawn over the skirt of one of mrs. whitney's white satin gowns. "there ought to be a dash of royal purple somewhere," said polly, sitting on the floor to see her go, and resting her tired hands on her knees. "now where shall i get it, and where shall i put it when i do have it?" she wrinkled up her eyebrows a moment, lost in thought over the momentous problem. "oh! i know," and she sprang up exultingly. "phronsie, won't this be perfectly lovely? we can take that piece of tissue paper auntie gave you, and i can cut out little knots and sashes. it is so soft, that in the gaslight they will look like silk. how fine!" "can't i be a princess unless you sew up that purple paper?" asked phronsie, pausing suddenly to look over her shoulder in dismay at polly. "why, yes, you can be, of course," said polly, "but you can't be as good a one as if you had a dash of royal purple about you. what's a bit of tissue paper to the glory of being a princess?" she cried, with sparkling eyes. "dear me, i wish i could be one." "well, you may have it, polly," said phronsie with a sigh, "and then afterwards i'll rip it all off and smooth it out, and it will be almost as good as new." "i think there won't be much left of it when the play is over," cried polly with a laugh; "why, the dragons are going to carry you off to their cave, you know, and you are to be rescued by the knight, just think, phronsie! you can't expect to have such perfectly delightful times, and come out with a quantity of tissue paper all safe. something has to be scarified to royalty, child." phronsie sighed again. but as polly approved of royalty so highly, she immediately lent herself to the anticipations of the pleasure before her, smothering all lesser considerations. "when you get your little silver cap on with one of auntie's diamond rings sewed in it, why, you'll be too magnificent for anything," said polly, now pulling and patting with fresh enthusiasm, since the "purple dash" was forthcoming. "princesses don't wear silver caps with diamond rings sewed in them," observed phronsie wisely. "of course not; they have diamonds by the bushel, and don't need to sew rings in their caps to make them sparkle," said polly, plaiting and pinning rapidly, "but in dressing up for a play, we have to take a poetic license. there, turn just one bit to the right, phronsie dear." "what's poetic license?" demanded phronsie, wrenching her imagination off from the bushel of diamonds to seize practical information. "oh! when a man writes verses and says things that aren't so," said polly, her mind on the many details before her. "but he ought not to," cried phronsie, with wide eyes, "say things that are not so. i thought poets were always very good, polly." "oh! well, people let him," said polly, carelessly, "because he puts it into poetry. it would never do in prose; that would be quite shocking." "oh!" said phronsie, finding the conversation some alleviation to the fitting-on process. "now this left side," said polly, twisting her head to obtain a good view of the point in question, "is just right; i couldn't do it any better if i were to try a thousand times. why won't this other one behave, and fall into a pretty curve, i wonder?" phronsie yawned softly as the brown eyes were safely behind her. "i shall gather it up anyway, so," and polly crushed the refractory folds recklessly in one hand; "that's the way mary gibbs's hat trimmings look, and i'm sure they're a complete success. oh! that's lovely," cried polly, at the effect. "now, that's the treatment the whole drapery needs," she added in the tone of an art connoisseur. "oh!" a rushing noise announced the approach of two or three boys, together with the barking of prince, as they all ran down the wide hall. "o dear, dear!" exclaimed polly, hurriedly pulling and pinning, "there come the boys to rehearse. it can't be four o'clock," as the door opened and three members of the cast entered. "it's quarter-past four," said jasper, laughing and pulling out his watch; "we gave you an extra fifteen minutes, as you had such a lot to do. dear me! but you are fine, phronsie. i make my obeisance to princess clotilde!" and he bowed low to the little silver and white figure, as did the other two boys, and then drew off to witness the final touches. "it's a most dreadful thing," cried polly, pushing back the brown waves from her brow, as she also fell off to their point of view, "to get up a princess. i had no idea it was such a piece of work." "you have scored an immense success," said jasper enthusiastically. "oh, phronsie! you will make the hit of the season." "you'll think it is even much nicer when it is done," said polly, vastly relieved that jasper had given such a kind verdict. "it's to have a dash of royal purple on that right side, and in one of the shoulder knots, and to catch up her train." "that will be very pretty, i don't doubt," said jasper, trying to resolve himself into the cold critic, "but it seems to me it is almost perfect now, polly." "oh! thank you so much," she cried, with blooming cheeks. "how do you like it, clare and bensie?" "i can't tell," said ben, slowly regarding the princess on all sides; "it's so transforming." "it's tiptop!" cried clare. "it out-princesses any princess i've ever imagined." "well, it's a perfect relief," said polly, "to have you boys come in. i've been working so over it that i was ready to say it was horrid. it's too bad, isn't it, that dick can't be here to-day to rehearse his part?" "to be sure," exclaimed jasper, looking around, "where is the princess's page?" "he's gone to the dentist's," said polly, making a wry face. "auntie had to make the appointment for this afternoon, and we couldn't put off the rehearsal; clare can't come any other time, you know." phronsie turned an anxious face to the window. "i hope he's not being hurt very much," she said slowly. "i don't believe he is," polly made haste to answer most cheerfully, "it was only one tooth, you know, phronsie, to be filled. auntie says dr. porter told her the rest are all right." but a cloud rested on the princess's face. "one tooth is something," she said. "just think how nice it will be when it is all over, and dick comes scampering in," cried jasper, with great hilarity. "do climb up on the sofa, phronsie," urged polly, looking into the pale little face, "you must sit down and rest a bit, you're so tired." "i will read the prologue while she rests," said jasper. "so you can," said polly. "take care, child," in alarm, "you mustn't curl up in the corner like that; princesses don't ever do so." "don't they?" said phronsie, flying off from the lovely corner, to straighten out again into the dignity required; "not when they are little girls, polly?" "no, indeed," said polly, with a rescuing hand among the silver spangles and lace; "they must never forget that they are princesses, phronsie. there now, you're all right." "oh!" said phronsie, sitting quite stiffly, glad if she could not be comfortable, she could be a princess. "'gentle ladies and brave sirs,'" began jasper in a loud, impressive tone, from the temporary stage, the large rug in front of the crackling hearth fire. clare burst into a laugh. "see here now," cried jasper, brandishing his text at him, "if you embarrass me like that, you may leave, you old dragon!" "you ought to see your face," cried clare. "jap, you are anything but a hit." "you'll be yet," declared jasper with a pretended growl, and another flourish of the manuscript. "go on, do," implored polly, "i think it is lovely. clare, you really ought to be ashamed," and she shook her brown head severely at him. "if i don't quench such melodrama in the outset," said clare, "he'll ruin us all. fair ladies and brave sirs," mimicking to perfection jasper's tones. "thank you for a hint," cried jasper, pulling out his pencil. "i didn't say 'fair'; that's better than 'gentle.' i wish critics would always be so useful as to give one good idea. heigho! here goes again: "'fair ladies and brave sirs, the player's art is to amuse, instruct, or to confuse by too much good advice, but poorly given: that no one follows, because, forsooth, 'tis thrown at him, neck and heels. the drama, pure and simple, is forgot in tugging in the moral'"? "i thought you were going to alter 'tugging in' to something more elegant," said polly. "lugging in," suggested clare, with another laugh. "morals are always tugged in by the head and shoulders," said jasper. "why not say so?" "we should have pretty much the whole anatomy of the human form divine, if you had your way," cried clare. "listen! "'because, forsooth, 'tis thrown at him, neck and heels' and 'tugging in the moral, head and shoulders.' now just add 'by the pricking of my thumbs,' etc., and you have them all." jasper joined as well as polly and ben in the laugh at the prologue's expense, but phronsie sat erect winking hard, her royal hands folded quite still in her lap. "you're bound for a newspaper office, my boy," said jasper at length. "how you will cut into the coming poet, and maul the fledgling of the prose writer! well, i stand corrected. "'the drama pure and simple, is forgot, in straining at the moral.'" "is that any better?" (to the audience.) "yes, i think it is," said polly, "but i do believe it's time to talk more elegantly, jasper. it is due to the people in the private boxes, you know." "oh! the boxes are to have things all right before the play is over; never you fear, polly," said jasper. "'a poor presentment, you will say we give; but cry you mercy, sirs, and'"? "i don't like 'cry you mercy,'" announced ben slowly, "because it doesn't seem to mean anything." "oh! don't cut that out," exclaimed polly, clasping her hands and rushing up to ben. "that's my pet phrase; you mustn't touch that, bensie." "but it doesn't mean anything," reiterated ben in a puzzled way. "who cares?" cried jasper defiantly. "a great many expressions that haven't the least significance are put in a thing of this sort. padding, you know, my dear sir." "oh!" said ben literally, "i didn't know as you needed padding. all right, if it is necessary." "it's antique, and perfectly lovely, and just like shakespeare," cried polly, viewing ben in alarm. "oh! let the bard of avon have one say in this production," cried clare. "go on, do, with your 'cry you mercy.' what's next, jap?" "are you willing, ben?" asked jasper, with a glance at polly. "ye--es," said ben, also gazing at the rosy face and anxious eyes, "it can go as padding, i suppose." "oh! i am so glad," exclaimed polly in glee, and dancing around the room. "and you won't be sorry, i know, bensie; the audience will applaud that very thing i'm almost sure," which made jasper sternly resolve something on the spot. "well, i shall never be through at this rate," he said, whirling over the manuscript to find his place. "oh! here i am: "'but cry you mercy, sirs and ladies fair, we aim but to be dragons, not mortals posing for effect. we have a princess, to be sure'"? "i should think we have," interrupted clare with a glance over at the sofa. "goodness me, she's fast asleep!" "poor little thing, she is tired to death," cried polly remorsefully, while they all rushed over to the heap of lace and spangles, blissfully oblivious of "prologues." "do let her sleep through this piece of stupidity," said jasper, bundling up another satin skirt that mrs. whitney had loaned for polly to make a choice from. "there," putting it under the yellow head, "we'll call her when the dragons come on." "take care," cried polly, with intercepting hand, "that's auntie's lovely satin gown." "beg pardon," said jasper, relinquishing it speedily. "here's the sofa pillow, after all," dragging it from its temporary retirement under the theatrical debris. "now let's get back to work; time is going fast." in a lowered voice: "'we have a princess, to be sure, a sweet and gracious clotilde, and a knight who does her homage, but the rest of us are fishy, scaly, horny and altogether horrid, and of very low degree who scarce know why we are upon the boards, except for your amusement, so prithee'"? "hold!" cried clare, "what stuff." "give me an inch of time," cried jasper, hurrying on, "and i'll end the misery: "'so prithee, be amused; we're undone, if you are not, and all our labor lost. pray laugh, and shake your sides, and say "'tis good; i' faith, 'tis very good." and we shall say "your intellects do you credit." and so we bid you a fond adieu, and haste away to unshackle the dragons, who even now do roar without.'" clare threw himself into the part of the dragons, and forgetful of phronsie, gave a loud roar. polly clapped her hands and tossed an imaginary bouquet as jasper bowed himself off. "hush!" said ben, "you'll wake up phronsie," but it was too late; there she sat rubbing her eyes in astonishment. "oh! you darling," cried polly, running over to her, to clasp her in her arms, "i'm so sorry i tired you all out, phronsie dear, do forgive me." "i'm not tired," said phronsie, with dewy eyes. "has jasper got through reading? what was it all about, polly?" "indeed and i have finished," he cried with a yawn and throwing the manuscript on the table, "and i don't know in the least what it is all about, phronsie." "just a lot of dreadful words," said clare over in the corner, pulling at a heap of costumes on the floor. "never mind; the horrible spell is broken; come on, you fellows, and tumble into your dragon skins!" with that the chief dragon deserted phronsie, and presently there resounded the rattle of the scales, the clanking of chains, and the dragging about of the rest of their paraphernalia. "now, phronsie," said jasper, coming back, half-within his dragon skin and gesticulating, "you see that it's only i in this thing. look, dear! here goes in my head," and he pulled on the scaly covering, observing great care to smile reassuringly the last thing before his countenance was obscured. phronsie screamed with delight and clapped her hands. "oh, jasper! let me have one on, do, jasper! i'd much rather be a dragon than a princess. really and truly i would, jasper." "i don't agree with you," said jasper, in a muffled voice. "phew! this is no end stuffy, fellows. i can't stand it long." "i'm all coming to pieces," said ben, turning around to regard his back where the scales yawned fearfully. "i'll run and ask mamsie to come and sew you up," cried polly, flying off. "she said she would help, if we wanted her." iv welcome home! "marian," said old mr. king, putting his head in at the door of her little writing-room, "can't you get her comfortably out of the way this morning? i want your services without interruption." "she's going down to pinaud's," said mrs. whitney, looking up from the note she was writing. "capital! when she once gets there, she'll stay the morning," declared mr. king, greatly pleased. "now, then, after she's cleverly off, you may come to me." "i will, father," said marian, going back with a smile to her correspondence. half an hour later thomas, with the aid of the horses and the shopping coupe having carried off mrs. chatterton, mrs. whitney pushed aside her notes, and ran down to her father's study. she found him in his velvet morning-gown seated before his table, busy with a good-sized list of names that was rapidly growing longer under his pen. "oh! i forgot," he said, looking up; "i intended to tell you to bring some of your cards and envelopes. i want some invitations written." "are you going to give a dinner?" asked marian, looking over his shoulder. "oh, no! i see by the length of your list it's an evening affair, or a musicale." "you run along, daughter," said the old gentleman, "and get what i tell you. this is my affair; it's a musicale and something else combined. i don't just know myself." and he laughed at the sight of her face. "if father is only pleased, i don't care what it is," said mrs. whitney to herself, hurrying over the stairs and back again, never once thinking of polly's and jasper's surprise for the boys. "you see, marian," said mr. king as she sat down by the table, and laid the cards and envelopes in front of him, "that i'm going to help out that affair that jasper and polly are getting up." "oh, father! how good of you!" exclaimed mrs. whitney in a delighted tone, which immensely pleased the old gentleman, to begin with. "they've been working very hard, those two, at their studies this autumn. i've seen them," cried mr. king with a shrewd air, "and i'm going now to give them a little pleasure." marian said nothing, but let him have the comfort of doing all the talking, which he now enjoyed to his heart's content. "whether the other chaps have done well, i don't know. davie may have kept at it, but i suspect the rest of the boys haven't killed themselves with hard study. but they shall have a good home-coming, at any rate." mrs. whitney smiled, and he proceeded: "now i'm going to send out these invitations"--he pushed the list toward her--"i shall have the drawing-room and music-room floors covered, and all extra seats arranged, give turner carte blanche as to flowers, if he can't furnish enough out of our own conservatories--and the evening will end with a handsome 'spread,' as jasper calls it. in short, i shall recognize their attempt to make it pleasant for the boys' holiday, by helping them out on the affair all i can." the old gentleman now leaned back in his big chair and studied his daughter's face. "and you'll never regret it, father," she cried, with an enthusiasm that satisfied him, "for these young people will all repay you a thousand-fold, i do believe, in the time to come." "don't i know it?" cried mr. king, getting out of his chair hastily to pace the floor. "goodness me! they repay me already. they're fine young things, every one of them--whitneys, peppers and my boy--as fine as they are made. and whoever says they're not, doesn't know a good piece of work when it's before his eyes. bless me!" pulling out his handkerchief to mop his face violently, "i don't want to see any finer." "i hope i shall have a sight of jasper's and polly's faces when you tell them what you intend to do," said mrs. whitney; "where are your cards, father?" "tell them? i shan't tell them at all," cried the old gentleman; "i'm going to have a surprise, too. no one must know it but you and mrs. pepper." "oh!" said mrs. whitney. "it was very stupid in me not to understand that. it will be all right, father; mrs. pepper and i will keep our secret, you needn't fear." "if you can only keep her out of the way," exclaimed mr. king, pointing irascibly in the direction of mrs. chatterton's apartments, "all will be well. but i doubt if you can; her meddlesome ears and tongue will be at work as usual," he added in extreme vexation. "here comes jasper," exclaimed mrs. whitney, which had the satisfactory result of bringing her father out of his irritation, into a flutter over the concealment of the party preparations. "jasper," cried polly that evening, as they ran into the music-room to play a duet, "we're all right about everything now, as your father says we may invite the girls and your friends." "and he said when i asked him if we ought not to have cake and coffee, 'i'll attend to that,'" said jasper, "so everything is all straight as far as i can see, polly." "the private boxes trouble me, i must confess," said polly, drumming absently on the keys, while jasper spread the sheet of music on the rack. "you know there must be two; one for dear mr. king and one for the boys as guests of honor. now how shall we manage them?" she took her hand off suddenly from the keys and folded it over its fellow on her knee, to study his face anxiously. "it's pretty hard to get them up, that's a fact," said jasper truthfully, "but then, you know, polly, we've always found that when a thing had to be done, it was done. you know the little brown house taught us that." "so it did," said polly, brightening up. "dear little old brown house, how could i ever forget it! well, i suppose," with a sigh, "it will come to us as an inspiration when it's time to fix them." "i suppose so too," said mrs. pepper, passing the door, as usual with her mending basket, "and when two people start to play a duet, i think they much better put their minds on that, and not waste precious time on all sorts of questions that will take care of themselves when the time comes." "you are right, mrs. pepper," cried jasper with a laugh, and seating himself before the piano. "come, polly!" "mamsie is always right, isn't she, jasper?" cried polly with pride, putting her hands down for the first chords. "indeed she is," responded the boy heartily. "here now, polly, remember, you slipped up a bit on that first bar. now!" the twenty-first of december came all too soon for polly and jasper, whose school duties had engrossed them till two days before, but after hard work getting up the stage properties, and the many rehearsals, everything was at last pronounced ready, the drawing-room and music-room locked, the keys given to mrs. whitney who promised faithfully to see that no one peeped in who should not, and polly hurried into her hat and jacket, to go to the station with jasper to meet the boys. thomas drove furiously, as they were a bit late, and they arrived only a minute before the train puffed in. "here they are!" cried polly, and "here they are!" cried jasper, together, in great excitement, on the platform. "halloo, polly!" cried joel, prancing out of the car first, and "how d'ye do, polly?" as they all hurried after. "halloo, jasper!" "oh, polly! it's good to see you!" this from davie, not ashamed to set a kiss on her red lips. van and percy looked as if they wanted to, but contented themselves with wringing her hand nearly off, while joel declared he would look after the luggage. "no, i will," cried van, dropping polly's hand. "you forget," said percy quietly, "i hold the checks, i'll attend to it myself." he unclosed his brown traveling glove, and van, at sight of them, turned back. "go along, do, then," he cried; "i don't want to, i'm sure; i'd much rather stay with polly. how d'ye do, thomas?" he called carelessly to the coachman on his box, who was continually touching his hat and indulging in broad smiles of content. polly was tiptoeing in very delight, holding davie's hand closely while her eyes roved from one to the other of the boys, and her tongue ran fast indeed. a group of girls, who had also come down to the station to meet friends, stopped a bit as they came laughing and chatting by. "how d'ye, boys?" they said carelessly to the three home-comers. "oh, polly! won't it be entrancing to-night?" cried one of them, seizing her arm as she spoke. "hush!" said polly, as she tried to stop her. "may i bring elsie fay? she's come on the train to stay over christmas with her aunt. may i, polly?" begged another girl eagerly. "yes, yes," said polly in a paroxysm of fear lest joel, who was crowding up between them, should catch a word; "do be still," she whispered. "bring anybody; only stop, alexia." "he won't hear," said alexia carelessly; "that boy doesn't mind our talking; his head's full of skating and coasting." "you're going to have something to-night that you don't want me to know about," declared joel, his chubby face set defiantly, and crowding closer; "so there; now i'm going to find out what it is." "if we don't want you to know, you ought not to try to find out, joel pepper," cried alexia. "and you shan't, either." "there, now you see," cried polly, unable to keep still, while her face grew red too. "o dear! what shall we do?" "you are--you are," cried joel, capering up and down the platform, his black eyes shining with delight. "now i know for certain, and it's at our house, too, for you asked polly if you might bring some other girl, elsie somebody or other, so! oh! i'll soon know." "joel," exclaimed jasper suddenly, clapping him on the shoulder, "i'm going round to the gymnasium; want to go with me?" joel stopped his capering at once, this new idea thrusting out the old one. "don't i, though!" he cried, with a nod at polly and her friends. "but i'll find out when i do get home," the nod declared plainly. but jasper also nodded. he said, "he won't get home till late; depend on me." and then "come on, joe," he cried; "i'm going to walk," and they were off. alexia pinched polly's gray woolen jacket sleeve convulsively. "what an escape," she breathed. "here comes percy," cried polly nervously, and she broke away from her and the other girls, and ran to meet him, and the two boys following. "where's jasper?" asked percy, rendered quite important in air and step, from his encounter with the baggage officials. "oh! he isn't going home with us," said polly. "come, do let us get in," and she scampered off to the carriage and climbed within. "that's funny," said percy, jumping in after. van opened his lips to tell where jasper had gone, but remembering percy's delight in such an expedition, he closed them quickly, and added himself to the company in the carriage. davie followed, and closed the door quickly. "stop! where's joel?" asked percy. "thomas, we've forgotten joe," rapping on the glass to the coachman. "no, we haven't; he isn't going to drive," said polly. "oh!" and percy, thinking that joel had stolen a march on them on his good strong legs, now cried lustily, "go on, thomas; get ahead as fast as you can," and presently he was lost in the babel of laughter and chatter going on in the coach. "i've a piece of news," presently cried van in a lull. "davie's bringing home a prize; first in classics, you know." "oh, davie!" screamed polly, and she leaned over to throw her arms around him; "mamsie will be so glad. davie, you can't think how glad she'll be!" davie's brown cheek glowed. "it isn't much," he said simply, "there were so many prizes given out." "well, you've taken one," cried polly, saying the blissful over and over. "how perfectly elegant!" van drummed on the carriage window discontentedly. "i could have taken one if i'd had the mind to." "hoh-oh!" shouted percy over in his corner. "well, you didn't have the mind; that's what was wanting." "you keep still," cried van, flaming up, and whirling away from his window. "you didn't take any, either. polly, his head was under water all the time, unless some of the boys tugged him along every day. we hardly got him home at all." "no such thing," contradicted percy flatly, his face growing red. "polly, he tells perfectly awful yarns. you mustn't believe him, polly, you won't, will you?" he leaned over appealingly toward her. "oh! don't, don't," cried polly, quite dismayed, "talk so to each other." "well, he's so hateful," cried van, "and the airs he gives himself! i can't stand them, polly, you know"-- "and he's just as mean," cried percy vindictively. "oh! you can't think, polly. here we are," as thomas gave a grand flourish through the stone gateway, and up to the steps. "i'll help you out," and he sprang out first. "no, i will," declared van, opening the door on the other side, jumping out and running around the carriage. "here, polly, take my hand, do." "no, i got here first," said percy eagerly, his brown glove extended quite beyond van's hand. "i don't want any one to help me, who speaks so to his brother," said polly in a low voice, and with her most superb air stepping down alone, she ran up the steps to leave them staring in each other's faces. here everybody came hurrying out to the porch, and they were soon drawn into the warm loving welcome awaiting them. "oh, felicie! i don't want that dress," said polly as she ran into her room after dinner, to mrs. whitney's french maid, "i'm going to wear my brown cashmere." "oh, mademoiselle!" remonstrated felicie, adjusting the ruffle in the neck of the white nun's veiling over her arm. "oh, no, polly! i wouldn't," began mrs. pepper, coming in, "the white one is better for to-night." "mamsie!" cried polly, breaking away from the mirror where she was pulling into place the bright brown waves over her forehead, "how lovely! you've put on your black silk; and your hair is just beautiful!" "madame has ze fine hair," said felicie, "only i wish zee would gif it to me to prepaire." "yes, i have good hair," said mrs. pepper, "and i'm thankful for it. no one looks dressed up, in my opinion, with a ragged head. the finer the gown, the worse it makes careless hair look. no, polly, i wouldn't wear the brown dress to-night." "why, mamsie!" exclaimed polly in surprise, "i thought you'd say it was just the thing when only the girls and jappy's friends are coming to the play. besides, i don't want to look too dressed up; the princess ought to be the only one in a white gown." "you won't be too conspicuous," said her mother; adding slowly, "you might wear the nun's veiling well enough as you haven't any part in the play, polly," and she scanned the rosy face keenly. "i don't want any part," cried polly; "they all play better than i do. somebody must see that everything goes off well behind the scenes; that's my place, mamsie. besides, you forget i am to play my sonata." "i don't forget," said her mother; "all the more reason you should wear the white gown, then." "all right," cried polly, merrily dashing across the room to felicie, "put it over my head, do. well, i'm glad you think it is right to wear it, mamsie," as the soft folds fell around her. "i just love this dress. oh, auntie! how perfectly exquisite!" mrs. whitney came in smilingly and put a kiss on the tall girl's cheek. "do i look nicely?" she asked naively, turning around under the chandelier. "nicely?" exclaimed polly, lifting her hands, "why you are fresh from fairyland. you are so good to put on that lovely blue moire and your diamond cross, just for the boys and girls." "i am glad you like it," said mrs. whitney hastily. "now, polly, don't you worry about anything; i'll see that the last things are done." "well, i am worrying," confessed polly, quite in a tremble; "i must see to one corner of the private box for the boys. you know the last india shawl you lent me wasn't pinned up straight and i couldn't fix it, for van wanted me just then, and i couldn't get away without his suspecting something. oh, auntie! if you would see to that." "i will," said mrs. whitney, not daring to look at mrs. pepper, "and to all the other things; don't give a thought to them, polly." "how good you are," cried polly with a sigh of relief. "oh, auntie! we couldn't do anything without you." "and you don't need to go into the drawing-room at all," said mrs. whitney, going to the door. "just keep behind the scenes, and get your actors and phronsie ready, and your mother and i will receive your friends. come, mrs. pepper." "that is splendid," cried polly, left behind with the maid, "now i can get ready without flying into a flurry, felicie; and then for phronsie and the rest!" "there is a dreadful commotion in there among the audience," said jasper, out in the green room; "i imagine every one who had an 'invite,' has come. but i don't see how they can make such a noise." "oh! a few girls and boys make just about as much confusion as a good many," observed polly. "jasper, wouldn't you like to see joel's eyes when aunt whitney leads him into the private box?" she allowed herself time to exclaim. "yes," laughed jasper, pulling out his watch from beneath his dragon-skin; "well, we have only five minutes more, polly. we must have the curtain up sharp." "o dear, dear!" cried polly, flying here and there to bestow last touches on the different members of her cast. "now, clare, you must remember not to give such a shriek when you go on, mustn't he, jappy? just a dull, sullen roar, your part is." "well, i'm nearly dead under here," cried clare, glaring beneath his dragon face. "i'll shriek, or roar, just as i like, so!" "very well," said polly, "i don't know but it's as well, after all, that you are cross; you'll be more effective," she added coolly. "let me see--oh! the door of the cave wants a bit more of gray moss; it looks thin where it hangs over. you get it, will you, hannah?" to one of the maids who was helping. "and just one thing more," scanning hastily the stage setting, "another chinese lantern is needed right here," going toward the front of the stage, "and that green bush is tumbling over; do set it straight, somebody; there now, i believe everything is all ready. now let us peep out of the curtain, and get one good look at the audience. come, phronsie, here's a fine place; come, boys!" the different members of the cast now applied their eyes to as many cracks in the curtain as could be hastily managed. there was a breathing space. "what, what?" cried polly, gazing into the sea of faces, and the dragons nearly knocked the princess over as mr. king gave the signal for the band stationed in the wide hall, to send out their merriest strains. v after the play it was all over. phronsie had been swept off, a vision of loveliness, to the cave; the dragons had roared their loudest, and the gallant knight had covered himself with glory in the brilliant rescue of the princess; the little page had won the hearts of all the ladies; mr. king had applauded himself hoarse, especially during the delivery of the prologue, when "i cry you mercy, sirs, and ladies fair," rang out; the musical efforts of polly and jasper in the "wait" between the two acts were over, and the crowded house, in every way possible, had expressed itself delighted with all things from beginning to end. "phronsie, phronsie, they're calling you," whispered polly excitedly, out in the green room. "come, princess." the head dragon held out his hand. "hurry dear! see the flowers!" "they can't be for me," said phronsie, standing quite still; "polly has done all the work; they're hers." "nonsense, child!" cried polly, giving her a gentle push forward. "go on, and take them." "polly, you come too," begged phronsie, refusing to stir, and holding her by the gown. "i can't, phronsie," cried polly in distress; "don't you see they haven't called me. go on, child, if you love me," she implored. phronsie, not being able to resist this, dropped polly's gown and floated before the footlights. "thank you," she said, bowing gravely to the sea of faces, as her hands were filled with roses, "but i shall give these to polly, because we couldn't any of us have done it without her." and so she brought them back to put into dismayed polly's lap. "the authors--the authors of the play!" cried a strong voice, privately urged on by mr. king. "there, now's your turn," cried clare to polly. "and go ahead, old dragon," to jasper, "make your prettiest bow." so the chief dragon led up blushing polly to the front of the stage, to hear a neat little speech from mr. alstyne, thanking them for the pleasure of the evening and congratulating them on its success; and the band played again, the camp chairs were folded up and removed, the green-room and stage were deserted, and actors and audience mingled in a gay, confusing throng. phronsie, in her little silver and white gown and gleaming cap, began to wander among the guests, unconscious that she had not on the red cashmere dress she had worn all day. groups stopped their conversation to take her into their midst, passing her on at last as one might hand over a precious parcel to the next waiting hands. polly, seeing that she was well cared for, gave herself up to the enjoyment of the evening. "well, sir, how did you like it?" asked jasper, with a small pat on joel's back. "well enough," said joel, "but why didn't you make more of it? you could have crawled up on top of the cave, and slashed around there; and you old dragons were just three muffs in the last act. i'd rather have had polly in the play; she's twice the go in her. "so would we all have preferred polly," cried jasper, bursting into a laugh, "but she wouldn't act--she directed everything; she was all the play, in fact." polly meanwhile was saying to pickering dodge, "no, not to-night; you must dance with one of the other girls." "but i don't choose to dance with anybody but you," said pickering, holding out his hand. "come, polly, you can't refuse; they're forming the lancers. hurry!" polly's feet twitched nervously under her white gown, and she longed more than ever after the excitement she had passed through, to lose herself in the witching music, and the mazy dance. she hesitated a bit, but just then glancing across the room, "come," she said, "i want you to dance with ray simmons. you can't refuse," using his own words; and before he was conscious how it was done, he was by ray's side, and asking for the pleasure of the dance. polly stood quite still and saw them go away and take the last places in the set, and a sorry little droop fell upon the curves of the laughing mouth. she was very tired, and the elation that had possessed her over the success of the evening was fast dropping out, now that everybody was enjoying themselves in their own way, leaving her alone. she felt left out in the cold; and though she fought against it, a faint feeling of regret stole over her for what she had done. she almost wished she was standing there by the side of pickering dodge, one of the bright group on whom the eyes of the older people were all turned, as they waited for the first figure to begin. "well, polly"--it was mr. alstyne who spoke, and he acted as if he had come to stay by her side--"you've covered yourself with glory this evening." "have i, sir?" asked polly absently, wishing there had been less of the glory, and a little more fun. "yes, indeed," said mr. alstyne, his keen eyes searching her face. "well, now, polly, your dragons, although not exactly like any living ones extant, made me think of some i saw at the zoo, in london. do you want me to tell you how?" "oh! if you please," cried polly, her color coming back, and beginning to forget the dance and the dancers. "let us sit down here, then," said mr. alstyne, drawing her off to two chairs in a corner, "and you shall have the tale. no pun, polly, you know." and he plunged into it at once. "yes, alstyne has her all right," mr. king was saying at the further end of the drawing-room to mrs. pepper; he spied the whole thing; "he'll take care of her, you may depend." and two more people had seen; one was jasper. nevertheless his partner, alexia rhys, thought it necessary to enlighten him. "just think, polly's given up her chance with the best dancer in the room, and sent pickering dodge off with that horrid ray simmons." jasper pretended not to hear. "this is our figure," he said hastily, and they whirled off, finished it, and were back again. "isn't she a goose?" as he fanned her, and tried to introduce another subject. "i suppose she best pleases herself," said the boy indifferently. "why should any one else interfere in the matter?" "but some one else ought to interfere," cried alexia, with a little pout, provoked at his indifference; "that's just the way she does in school all the time. oh! i'm vexed at her, i can tell you. she's so silly--dear me, it's our turn again." by the next interim she had forgotten all about polly and whether she was having a nice time or the stupidest one imaginable, for joel, who held dancing in great contempt, sauntered up. "aren't you glad now that you didn't find out about the secret?" cried alexia radiantly. "oh! you are such a nuisance, joey," she added frankly. "phooh!" exclaimed joel, "it wasn't worth finding out, that old secret. but it's as good as girls ever get up," he finished with a supercilious air. "it was a perfectly splendid play!" cried alexia, "and much too good for a lot of boys. goodness, joey, i wouldn't celebrate if you four were coming home from school to our house. i'd have the jollification the night before you went back." "i wouldn't go home if 'twas to your house," declared joel with equal candor. "i'd run off to sea, first." "come, come, you two, stop sparring," cried jasper, holding out his hand; "its our turn again, alexia. joel, take yourself off." alexia flashing joel a bright, making-up smile, dashed off into the figure. "good-by," said joel with a smile as cheery, for he really liked her the best of all polly's girl friends. after the dance, supper was announced, and everybody marched out to the supper room; the dancers with their partners following. "will you allow me?" mr. alstyne seeing the movement, got out of his chair and offered his arm to polly with a courtly bow. "oh! don't think of me, sir," she began, blushing very hard. "joel will look out for me." "i much prefer waiting upon miss polly pepper to any other lady in the room," said mr. alstyne, with another bow, courtlier than the first, "since mrs. alstyne is provided for. see, polly, mr. king is taking her out. and your mother has her cavalier, in mr. cabot; and mrs. whitney has already gone out with mr. fairfax. so if you don't accept my services, i shall be entirely left out in the cold." he stood offering his arm, and polly, laughing merrily, put her hand within it. "it's very good of you, sir," she said simply, as they fell into step and joined the procession. "i'm afraid if you had trusted to joel's tender mercies, you would have fared hardly," said mr. alstyne, laughing. "look, polly, over yonder in the corner." they were just passing into the supper room, and now caught sight of joel chatting away to a very pretty little creature, in blue and white, as busily and unconcernedly as if he had done that sort of thing for years. "why!" cried polly quite aghast, "that can't be joel. he just hates girls, you know, mr. alstyne, and never goes to parties." "he seems to be able to endure it all very well to-night," said her companion dryly. "shall i get you an ice, miss polly?" "yes, thank you," said polly absently, not being able to take her eyes from joel and his friend. at last, by the force of attraction, he turned and looked at her. but instead of showing self-consciousness, his round eyes surveyed her coolly, while he went on talking and laughing with the little blue-and-white thing. "polly, polly," exclaimed alexia rhys, hurrying up, while jasper was storming the supper table for her, "do look at joel pepper! he actually brought in a girl to supper!" "i see," said polly, gazing at the two in a fascinated way. "on the other hand," said alexia, sending swift, bird-like glances around the supper room, "there are van and percy moping off by themselves as if they hadn't a friend in the world. what a pity; they used to be so lively at parties." polly wrenched her gaze away from the astonishing sight on which it had been fixed, and following alexia's glance, took a keen look over at the young whitneys. "oh! oh! i must go to them," she cried remorsefully. "tell mr. alstyne, please, when he comes back, where i am," and without another word she dashed back of some gaily dressed ladies just entering the supper room, and was out of the door. "if i ever did!" cried alexia irritably to herself, "see anything so queer! now she thinks she must race after those boys. i wish i'd kept still. jasper, she's just as funny as ever," as he came up with a plate of salad, and some oysters. "who?" said the boy; "is this right, alexia?" offering the plate. "why, polly," said alexia; "yes, that's lovely," with a comforted glance at the plate and its contents. "oh! she's gone off, mr. alstyne," to that gentleman, approaching with polly's ice. "you can't expect her to stay for the goodies," beginning to nibble at her own. "where is she?" cried mr. alstyne, laughing, and sweeping the room with his brown eyes. "oh! i see," his glance lighting on the whitney boys' corner. "yes, she told me to tell you," said alexia, between her mouthfuls of salad and oyster, "where she is," as he started. "oh, percy and van!" polly was whispering hurriedly, "i'm sorry i hurt your feelings, only it was so very dreadful, you know, to hear you go on so to each other." "we didn't mean anything," said percy, pushing one foot back and forth in an embarrassed way, and looking as if he did not know what to do with his hands, which confused him more than anything else, as he had been quite sure of them on all previous occasions. van thrust his into his pockets, and seemed on the point of whistling, but remembering where he was, took his lips speedily out of their curves, and looked the other way. just then mr. alstyne came up. "oh!" cried polly suddenly, the color rushing over her face. "could you, mr. alstyne, give that to some one else? percy and van are going to wait upon me." "yes, indeed," said mr. alstyne in a flash, "nothing easier;" and he disappeared as suddenly as he came. "now, boys," said polly, turning back to them and whispering busily, "i know you won't ever say such perfectly dreadful things to each other again. and so i'm going to ask you both to get me something to eat, will you?" "how do you know we won't?" cried percy slowly. he was sorry enough for the episode in the coach, yet couldn't resist the temptation to show he was not to be driven. "because i shall then have nothing whatever to eat," said polly merrily, "for of course i can't take a bit from anybody else after refusing mr. alstyne's kindness. don't you see? oh, percy! you wouldn't quite do that?" van laughed. "she's got us, percy," he said, "quite fast. you know you won't fight, and i won't again; we both said so a little while back; so what's the good of holding out now?" percy drew himself up very slowly and decidedly. "i won't trouble you so again, polly," holding out his hand. "now would you like oysters?" all in the same breath. "and here's mine," cried van, extending his brown one. "can't i bring you some salad?" "yes, yes," cried polly gaily, and she released their hands after a cordial grasp. "you may bring me everything straight through, boys," as they rushed off, heads erect, to the crowded supper-table. "you've had a good time?" asked mrs. pepper slowly, with a keen glance into the flushed face and sparkling eyes, as they turned up the gas in polly's bedroom. "dear me! it is half-past eleven." "splendid," said polly, shaking herself free from the white gown and beginning to braid her hair for the night. "percy and van were perfectly lovely, and mr. alstyne was so good to me. and oh! mamsie, isn't dear mr. king just the dearest dear, to give all this to the boys? we haven't thanked him half enough." "he is indeed," said mrs. pepper heartily. "why, where is phronsie?" looking around the room. "she was right back of you," said polly. "she wanted to take off her things herself. did you ever see such a sweet"--she began, but mrs. pepper did not stop to hear, hurrying out to the adjoining room, shared by the mother and her baby. "she isn't here," polly heard her say in bewildered tones. so polly, her long hair blown about her face, ran in, brush in hand. "why, where"--she began laughingly. "she wouldn't go downstairs, i don't think," said mrs. pepper, peering in all the corners, and even meditating a look under the bed. "no, no," cried polly, "the lights are all turned out," investigating all possible and impossible nooks that a mouse could creep into. "where can she be? phronsie--phronsie!" "well, of course she is downstairs," declared mrs. pepper at last, hurrying out of the room. "take a candle, mamsie, you'll fall," cried polly, and throwing on her bath wrapper, she seized the light from the mantel and hurried after her. half-way down she could hear phronsie's gay little laugh, and catch the words "good-night, my dear grandpapa," and then she came slowly out from mr. king's sitting-room, and softly closed the door. "phronsie!" exclaimed polly, sitting down on the middle of the stairs, the candle shaking ominously, "how could"-- "hush!" said mrs. pepper, who had fumbled her way along the hall. "don't say anything. oh, phronsie dear, so you went down to bid grandpapa good-night, did you?" phronsie turned a glance of gentle surprise on her mother, and then looked up at polly. "no, not exactly to bid him good-night," she said slowly. "i was afraid he was sick; i heard him coughing, so i went down." "he is quite well, isn't he?" asked mrs. pepper. "here, give me your hand, child; we must get up to bed." "oh, yes! he is quite really and truly all well," declared phronsie, breaking into another glad little laugh. "he said he never had such a beautiful time in his life, and he is just as well as he can be. oh, polly!" as she picked up her princess gown and prepared to ascend the stairs, "how funny you look sitting there!" "funny?" said polly grimly. "i dare say, and i feel funny too, phronsie." vi the little brown house they were all sitting around the library fire; polly under the pretext of holding phronsie's head in her lap, was sitting on the rug beside her, the boys on either hand; old mr. king was marching up and down the long room, and looking at them. the merriest of stories had been told, polly urging on all the school records of jolly times, and those not so enjoyable; songs had been sung, and all sorts of nonsense aired. at last joel sprang up and ran over to pace by the old gentleman's side. "christmas was good enough," said the boy, by way of beginning conversation. "hey?" responded the old gentleman, looking down at him, "i should think it was. well, and how about the wonderful play on the twenty-first? and that was good enough, too, i dare say." "that was well enough," said joel indifferently, "i don't care for such stuff, though." "tut--tut!" cried mr. king in pretended anger, "now i won't have anything said against that wonderful production. not a thing, sir, do you hear?" joel laughed, his chubby face twinkling all over in secret amusement. "well, i know something better, if you'll only let us do it, sir, than a hundred old plays." "and pray what is it?" demanded mr. king, "let's have it at once. but the idea of surpassing the play! oh, no, no, it can't be done, sir!" "it's to go and see the little brown house," said joel, standing up on his tiptoes to a level with the old gentleman's ear, and one eye looking backward to see that nobody heard. mr. king started, pulled his handsome moustache thoughtfully, looked at joel sharply, and then over at the group in the firelight. "they don't know anything about it," cried the boy in a whisper, "don't tell them. it's my secret, and yours," he added generously. "oh! if we might only go and look at it." "it's winter," observed the old gentleman, and stepping to the window he put aside the draperies, to peer out into the black evening. "yes, it really is winter," he added with a shiver, to the boy who was close behind, and as if no longer in doubt about it, he added most emphatically, "it really is winter, joel." "well, but you never saw anything like it, how magnificent winter is in badgertown," cried joel in an excited whisper. "such hills to coast down; the snow is always crisp there, sir, not like this dirty town mud. and the air is as dry as punk," he added artfully. "oh! 'twould be such a lark;" he actually clasped his hands. "badgertown isn't so very far off," said mr. king thoughtfully, "i'll think about it and see if we can manage it." "ugh-ow!" squealed joel, utterly forgetful of his caution of secrecy, "we can, we can; we can open the little brown house, and build great fires there, and"--but he got no further. into the midst of van's liveliest sally, came the words "little brown house," bringing all the young people to their feet, phronsie running to the old gentleman's side, with, "what is it, grandpapa? he said the little brown house." "get away!" cried joel crossly to the besiegers, each and all wildly clamoring. "what is it? what are you talking about? it's my secret," he cried, "and his," pointing with a dismayed finger to mr. king. "well, it isn't a secret any longer," cried polly, flushing with excitement. "you said 'little brown house,' we heard you just as plainly; and you re getting up something, i know you are." "people don't usually select a roomful of listeners, and then shout out their secrets," said jasper. "you are in for it now, joe, and no mistake. go ahead, old fellow, and give us the rest of it." joel whirled away from them all in desperation. "you might as well," laughed the old gentleman, "the mischief is done now, and no mistake." so joel, thus set upon, allowed the whole beautiful plan to be wrung from him, by slow and torturing installments; how they all were to go to badgertown, open the little brown house, and stay there--here he glanced at mr. king--"perhaps a week," he brought out suddenly, filling the time with all sorts of frolics, and playing they were there again, and really and truly living in the old home. at last it was all out, to be received in different ways by the listeners. "oh, joe!" cried davie with shining eyes. "we never could come away again if we once get there, never!" polly stood quite still, a mist gathering before her glad eyes, out of which she dimly saw the little brown house arise and beckon to her. phronsie jumped up and down and clapped her hands in glee. "oh, grandpapa, grandpapa!" she screamed, "please take us to the little brown house, please!" that settled it. "i do not think we need to consider it longer," said mr. king, glancing at ben, whose face told what he thought, "children, we will go--that is, if mrs. pepper says yes. "i will ask her," cried joel with a howl, springing off. "come on," cried jasper, "let's all 'be in at the death.'" and the library was deserted in a twinkling. but mother was nowhere to be found. "upstairs, downstairs, and in the lady's chamber," they sought her wildly. "oh! i forgot," exclaimed polly, when at last they gathered in the wide hall, disposing themselves on the chairs and along the stairs, all tired out. "she has gone to evening meeting with auntie. how stupid of me not to remember that." "well, i declare!" cried a voice above them, and looking up they met the cold blue eyes of mrs. chatterton regarding them over the railing. "cousin horatio, do you keep a menagerie, or a well-ordered house, i beg to inquire?" "a menagerie," said mr. king coolly, leaning on the balustrade at the foot of the stairs, and looking up at her. "all sorts of strange animals wander in here, cousin." "hum; i understand. i'm not so dull as you think. well, you've changed, let me tell you, vastly, and not for the better either, in the last six years. who would ever suppose i see before me fastidious horatio king!" she exclaimed, lifting her long thin hands to show him their horror-stricken palms. "i dare say, i dare say, cousin eunice," assented mr. king carelessly, "but i consider all you say as a compliment." "compliment?" she repeated disdainfully, and added with a rising note of anger, forgetting herself, "there's no fool like an old fool." "so i think," said mr. king in the same tone as before. "children, come into my room now, and close the door." and cousin eunice was left to air further opinions to her own ear. but when mother pepper and mrs. whitney did come home from the meeting, oh! what a time there was. they all fell upon her, as soon as the door opened, and the whole air was filled with "little brown house." "may we--may we?" "a whole week." "two days, mamsie, do say yes," and phronsie's glad little chirp "grandpapa wants to go, he does!" ending every other exclamation. "what a babel," cried mrs. pepper, her black eyes roving over the excited group. "now what is it all about? baby, you tell mother first." phronsie was not too big to jump into the comfortable lap, and while her fingers played with the bonnet strings, she laid the whole delightful plan open, the others hanging over them in ill-suppressed excitement. "well, you see, mamsie," she began deliberately. "oh! you are so slow, phronsie," exclaimed polly, "do hurry." "let her take her own time," said mr. king, "go on, child." "dear grandpapa," proceeded phronsie, turning her yellow head to look at him, her hand yet among the bonnet strings, "is going to take us all, every single one, to see the little brown house, and just touch it once, and be sure it's there, and peek in the doors and windows and"-- "no, no," roared joel, "we're going to stay, and a week too," hopping confidently up and down. "oh, joe! not a week," corrected polly with glowing cheeks, "perhaps two days; we don't know yet." "three--three," begged van, pushing his head further into the center of the group. "mrs. pepper, do say you want to stay three days," he begged. "i haven't said i wanted to go yet," she answered with a smile. "now, every one of you keep quiet," commanded mr. king, raising his hand, "or you'll spoil the whole thing. phronsie shall tell her story as she likes." thereupon the rest, with the shadow of his warning that the whole might be spoiled, fell back to a vigorous restraint once more. "perhaps," cried phronsie with shining eyes, and grasping the strings tighter she leaned forward and pressed her red lips on the mother's mouth, "we'll go in and stay. oh, mamsie!" that "oh, mamsie!" carried the day, and every one hanging on the conversation knew as soon as they heard it that a victory had been won. "it's no use to contend against the fates," said mrs. whitney, laughing, "mrs. pepper, you and i know that." "that's so," cried old mr. king, "and whoever finds it out early in life, is the lucky one. now, children, off with you and talk it over," he cried, dismissing them as if they were all below their teens. "i want to talk with mrs. pepper now." and in two days they were ready to go. mrs. chatterton with nose high in the air, and plentiful expressions of disgust at such a mid-winter expedition, taking herself off to make a visit of corresponding length to some distant relatives. "i hope and pray this may not get into a society paper," she cried at the last, as she was seated in the carriage, "but of course it will; outre things always do. and we shall be disgraced for life. one comfort remains to me, i am not in it." mr. king, holding the carriage door, laughed long and loudly. "no, cousin eunice," he said, "you are not in it. take comfort in that thought. good-by," and the carriage rolled off. mother pepper and the five little peppers were going back to the little brown house. "really and truly we are," as phronsie kept saying over and over again with every revolution of the car-wheels, in a crooning fashion, and making it impossible for mr. king to shiver in apprehension at the step he was taking. were not two cases of blankets and household comforts safely packed away in the luggage car? "it's not such a dreadful risk," said the old gentleman gruffly to himself, "it's quite a common occurrence nowadays to take a winter outing in the country. we're all right," and he re-enforced himself further by frequent glances at mrs. pepper's black bonnet, two seats off. it was to be a three-days' frolic, after all. not that the whole party were to stay in the little brown house. o dear, no! how could they? it was only big enough for the peppers. so mrs. whitney and her three boys, with mr. king, and jasper, who concealed many disappointed feelings, planned to settle down in the old hotel at hingham. and before anybody imagined they could reach there so soon, there they were at badgertown center, to find mr. tisbett waiting there on his stage-box as if he had not stirred from it for five years. "sho, now!" he called out from his elevated position to mrs. pepper, as she stepped down from the car, "it's good to see you, though. land! how many of ye be there? and is that phronsie? sho, now!" "did you get my letter?" exclaimed mother pepper to mrs. henderson, who was pressing up to grasp her hand, and preparing to fall on the young folks separately. the parson stood just back, biding his time with a smile. "is it possible?" he exclaimed; "are these tall boys and girls the five little peppers? it can't be, mrs. pepper," as at last he had her hand. "you are imposing on us." and then the village people who had held back until their pastor and his wife paid their respects, rushed up and claimed their rights, and it was high holiday indeed for badgertown. "my goodness!" exclaimed mr. king at a little remove and viewing the scene with great disfavor, "this is worse than the danger of taking cold. have they no sense, to carry on like this?" "they're so glad to see the peppers again, father," said mrs. whitney with bright eyes. "you took them away from all these good people, you know; it's but fair to give them up for one day." the old gentleman fumed and fretted, however, in a subdued fashion; at last wisely turning his back, he began to stalk down the platform, under pretense of examining the landscape. "your friends will stay with us," mrs. henderson was saying in a gently decisive manner, "the old parsonage is big enough," she added with a laugh. "oh! you are so good and thoughtful, dear mrs. henderson," cried mrs. pepper with delight at the thought of the homelike warmth of the parsonage life awaiting the old gentleman, for whom she was dreading the dreary hotel. "i'm good to ourselves," declared the parson's wife gaily. jasper gave a shout when the new arrangement was declared, as it presently was by percy and van, who flung themselves after him as he was seeing to the luggage with ben, and his face glowed with the greatest satisfaction. "that is jolly," he exclaimed, "and that's a fact! now, ben, we're but a stone's throw apart. rather different, isn't it, old fellow, from the time when i used to race over from hingham with prince at my heels?" dr. fisher's little thin, wiry figure was now seen advancing upon the central group, and everybody fell away to let him have his chance to welcome the peppers. "i couldn't get here before," he cried, his eyes glowing behind his spectacles. "i've left a very sick patient. this is good," he took them all in with a loving glance, but his hand held to polly. "now i'm going to drive you down in my gig," he said to her at last. "will you come?" "yes, indeed," cried polly in delight, as her mother smiled approval, and she ran off to let him help her in. "it's only yesterday since you took me to drive, dr. fisher, and you gave me my stove--is it?" and so she rambled on, the little doctor quite charmed to hear it all. but mr. tisbett had a truly dreadful time placing his party in the old stage, as the townsfolk, fearful that so good a chance for seeing the peppers would not happen during the three days' stay, insisted on crowding up close to the ancient vehicle, and getting in everybody's way, thereby calling forth some exclamations from mr. king that could not be regarded as exactly complimentary. and quite sure that he was a frightful tyrant, they fell back with many a pitying glance at the pepper family whom he was endeavoring to assist into their places. at last it was all accomplished in some way, and mr. tisbett cracked his whip, mrs. pepper and phronsie leaned out of the window to bow right and left into smiling faces, ben and davie did the same over their heads. "good-by," sang out joel, whom the stage driver had taken up beside him. "here we are, off for the little brown house. g'lang!" vii old times again "don't let me look--oh! don't let me look," cried polly in the old gig, and twisting around, she hid her face against the faded green cloth side. "i ought not to see the little brown house before mamsie and the others do." "i'll turn down the lane," said the little doctor, "so"; and suiting the action to the word, polly could feel that they were winding down the narrow little road over toward grandma bascom's. she could almost smell the violets and anemones under the carpet of snow, and could scarcely restrain herself from jumping out for a riotous run. "don't go too far away," she cried in sudden alarm. "we must be there by the time the stage does." and she applied her eye to the little circular glass in the back of the gig. "will it never come--oh! here it is, here it is, dear dr. fisher." and with a quick flourish around of the old horse, they were soon before the little brown house, and helping out the inmates of the stage, who with more speed than grace were hurrying over the steps. joel was down before mr. tisbett had fairly drawn up in front of the gate. "hold on," roared the stage driver, "i don't want you to break your neck with me." "it's really here!" cried phronsie with wide eyes, standing quite still on a hummock of frozen snow, with her eyes riveted on the house. "it really is!" polly had raced up the winding path, and over the flat stone to drop a kiss on the little old door. "oh! oh! mamsie, do come!" she cried to mrs. pepper on the path. "hum! i think, jasper, you and i will let them alone for a few moments," said mr. king, who was still within the stage. "here, my good fellow," to mr. tisbett, "you say it's all comfortable in there for them?" "yes, yes, sir," said mr. tisbett heartily. "good land! mis' henderson had her boys come down airly this mornin' and make the fires; and there's a mighty sight of things to eat." the stage-driver put one foot on the hind wheel to facilitate conversation, and smacked his lips. "all very well. now you may drive us down the road a bit," said mr. king, withdrawing his head to the depths of the lumbering old vehicle again. "ain't goin' in?" cried mr. tisbett, opening his round eyes at him in astonishment. "get up and drive us on, i say," commanded the old gentleman, "and cease your talking," which had the effect to send honest mr. tisbett clambering expeditiously up to the box, where he presently revenged himself by driving furiously over all the hard frozen ruts he could quickly select, determined not to stop till he was obliged to. "goodness!" exclaimed mr. king within, holding to the strap at the side, as well as to the leather band of the swinging seat in front. "what an abominable road!" "the road is well enough," said jasper, who couldn't bear to have a word uttered against badgertown, "it's the fellow's driving that makes it rough. here, can't you be a little more careful to keep the road?" he called, thrusting his head out of the window. but he only narrowly escaped losing his brown traveling cap for his pains, as the stage gave a worse lurch than before, to introduce a series of creakings and joltings hitherto unparalleled. "i cannot endure this much longer," said old mr. king, growing white around the mouth, and wishing he had strength for one-half the exclamations he felt inwardly capable of. outside, honest mr. tisbett was taking solid comfort in the reflection that he was teaching a rich city man that he could not approach with anything less than respect a citizen of badgertown. "ain't i as good as he?" cried mr. tisbett to himself, with an extra cut to the off horse, as he spied a sharp ragged edge of ice along the cart track in front of him. "now that's good; that'll shake him," he added cheerfully. "land! but i hain't been spoke to so since i was sassed at school by jim bently, and then i licked him enough to pay twice over. g'lang there--easy!" the first thing he knew, one of the glass windows was shivered to fragments; the bits flying off along the quiet road, to fall a gleaming shower upon the snow. "whoa!" called mr. tisbett, to his smoking horses, and leaning over, he cried, "what's the matter in there?" "the matter is," said jasper, putting his face out, "that as i could not possibly make you hear my calls, i chose to break the window. have the goodness to let my father and me at once out of this vehicle." mr. tisbett got down slowly over the wheel. "beg your pardon," he said awkwardly, pulling open the door, "ain't you goin' to ride back?" "heavens!" cried mr. king. he was glad to find he could ejaculate so much as he tremblingly worked his way out to terra firma. "nothing on earth would tempt me to step foot inside there again." "here is the money for your window," said jasper, putting a bill into the fur mitten, covering mr. tisbett's brawny right hand. "kindly bring our traps to the little brown house; here, father, take my arm," and he ran after the tall figure, picking its way along the frozen road. "hey--what's this?" exclaimed mr. tisbett, looking into the center of his fur mitten, "five dollars! gee--thumps! i ain't a-goin' to take it, after shaking that old party almost to pieces." he stood staring at the bill in stupid perplexity till the uneasy movements of his horses warned him that his position was not exactly the proper one for a stage-driver who was on his box from morning till night, so he clambered over the wheel, full of vexed thoughts, and carefully tucked the bill under the old cushion before he took his seat. "ill give it back to him, that's cert'in," he said, picking up the reins, "and p'raps they've had enough walkin' so they'll let me pick 'em up," which raised him out of his depression not a little. but the stern faces of the old gentleman and the tall boy smote him with a chill, long before he passed them, and he drove by silently, well knowing it would not do to broach the subject by so much as a look. not daring to go near the little brown house without the occupants of the stage who had driven down the road with him, mr. tisbett drew up miserably to a convenient angle, and waited till the two came up. then without trusting himself to think, he sprang to the ground, and with shame written all over his honest face, called out, "see here, you young chap, i want to speak to you, when you've got him in the house." "i will see you then," said jasper, as the two hurried on to meet the peppers rushing out from the little brown house, and down the small path. "i've made an awful mess for 'em all, and they just come home," groaned mr. tisbett; drawing his fur mitten across his eyes, and leading his horses, he followed at a funeral pace, careful not to stop at the gate until the door was closed, when he began furiously to unload. a footstep crunching the snow, broke into the noise he was making. "hoh! well," he exclaimed, pausing with a trunk half-off the rack, "it's a mighty awkward thing for a man to say he's sorry, but you bet i be, as cert'in as my name's john tisbett." his face became so very red that jasper hastened to put his young shoulder under the trunk, a movement that only added to the stage-driver's distress. "it don't pay to get mad, now i tell you," declared mr. tisbett, dumping the trunk down on the snow, and then drawing himself to his full height; "fust place, your pa sassed me, and"-- "he didn't intend to," cried jasper eagerly, "and i'll apologize for him, if that's what you want." he laid his strong right hand in the old fur mitten. "good land! tain't what i want," cried honest john, but he gripped the hand nevertheless, a fact that the boy never forgot; "i say i'm sorry i shook up your pa." "his age ought to have protected him," said the boy simply. "sho! that's a fact," cried mr. tisbett, sinking in deeper distress, "but how is anybody to remember he's so old, when he steps so almighty high, as if he owned all badgertown--say!" "i think we shall be good friends, mr. tisbett," said jasper cordially, as he turned to wave his hand toward the little brown house; simultaneously the door opened, and all the young peppers and whitneys rushed out to help in the delightful unloading. it was well along in the afternoon. the dusk of the december twilight shut down speedily, around the little brown house and its happy occupants, but no one wanted the candles lighted till the last moment. "oh, polly!" cried joel, who was prancing as of old over the kitchen floor, "don't you remember that night when you said you wished you had two hundred candles, and you'd light them all at once?" "i said a good many silly things in those days," said polly meditatively, and smoothing phronsie's yellow hair that was lying across her lap. "some silly ones, and a good many wise ones," observed mother pepper, over in her little old rocker in the west window, where she used to sit sewing up coats and sacks for the village storekeeper. "you kept us together many a time, polly, when nothing else could." "oh! no, i didn't, mamsie," protested polly, guilty of contradicting, "you and bessie did. i just washed dishes, and swept up, and"-- "baked and brewed, and fussed and stewed," finished joel, afraid of being too sentimental. "polly was just lovely in those days," said davie, coming across the room to lay a cool cheek against her rosy one. "i liked the rainy days best when we all could stay in the house, and hear her sing and tell stories while she was working." "she was cross sometimes," cried joel, determined not to let reminiscences become too comfortable; "she used to scold me just awfully, i know." polly broke into a merry laugh; yet she exclaimed, "you poor joey, i suppose i was dreadful!" "you didn't catch one half as bad scoldings as belonged to you," put in ben, thrusting another stick in the stove. "you were a bad lot, joe, in those days." "and not over good in these," cried old mr. king, ensconced in the snuggest corner in the seat of honor, the high-backed rocker that comforted phronsie after her little toe was hurt. "there, now, my boy, how's that?" with a grim smile. "do you remember when the old stove used to plague you, polly?" cried joel, suddenly changing the conversation. "and how ben's putty was everlastingly tumbling out? hoh--hoh!" "and you two boys were always stuffing up the holes for me, when ben was away," cried polly, with affectionate glances at davie and joel. "i didn't so much," said joel honestly, "dave was always giving boot-tops and such things." "boot-tops!" repeated mr. king in astonishment. "bless me, i didn't know that they had anything in common with stoves." "oh! that was before we knew you," said joel, ready in advance of any one else with the explanation; "it wasn't this stove. dr. fisher gave polly this one after she had the measles; but it was a lumbering old affair that was full of holes that had to be stopped up with anything we could get. and leather was the best; and davie saved all the old boot-heels and tops he could find, you know." "oh!" said the old gentleman, wondering if other revelations would come to light about the early days of the peppers. "isn't dr. fisher lovely?" cried polly, with sparkling eyes, "just the same as ever. mamsie, i ought to do something for him. "he is as good as gold," assented mrs. pepper heartily. "you've done something, i'm sure, polly. the medical books you bought out of your pocket money, and sent him, pleased him more than anything you could give him." "but i want to do something now," said polly. "oh! just think how good he was to us." "may we never forget it!" exclaimed mrs. pepper, wiping her eyes. "but he's very unwise," said mr. king a trifle testily, "not to take up with my offer to establish him in the town. a man like him could easily hold a good practice, because the fellow's got ability." "oh! dr. fisher wouldn't leave badgertown," cried all the peppers in a bunch. "and what would the poor people here do without him?" finished polly. "well, well, never mind, he won't come to town, and that's enough," said the old gentleman quickly. "aside from that, he's a sensible chap, and one quite to my liking." "oh, polly!" cried phronsie suddenly, and lifting her head, she fastened her brown eyes on the face above her, "wasn't mamsie's birthday cake good?" "the flowers were pretty, but the cake was heavy, don't you remember?" said polly, who hadn't recovered from that grief even yet. "i thought it was just beautiful," cried mrs. pepper hastily. "no one could have baked it better in the old stove you had. i'm sure we ate it all up, every crumb." "we kept it in the old cupboard," cried joel, rushing over to the corner to swing the door open. "and we never once peeked, mamsie, so afraid you'd suspect." "you kept staring at the cupboard door all the evening, joe, you know you did," cried ben; "you were just within a hair's breadth of letting the whole thing out ever so many times. polly and i had to drag you away. we were glad enough when you went to bed, i can tell you." "you were always sending me off to bed in those days," said joel, taking his head out of the cupboard to throw vindictive glances over to the group around the stove. "i wish we could do so now," said ben. "and those two," joel went on, pointing to polly and ben, "used to go whispering around a lot of old secrets, that they wouldn't tell us. oh! it was perfectly awful, wasn't it, dave?" bestowing a small pinch on that individual's shoulder. "i liked the secrets best not to know them till polly and ben got ready to tell us," said david slowly; "then they were just magnificent." phronsie had laid her head back in the waiting lap, and was crooning softly to herself. "i want to go and see dear good mr. beebe," she said presently, "and nice mrs. beebe, can i, mamsie?" looking over at her. "to be sure," cried mrs. pepper, "you shall indeed, child." "beebe-beebe, and who is he, pray?" demanded mr. king. "oh! he keeps the shoe shop over in the center," explained three or four voices, "and phronsie's new shoes were bought there, you know." "and he gave me pink and white candy-sticks," said phronsie, "and he was very nice; and i like him very much." "and mrs. beebe gave us doughnuts all around," communicated joel; "i don't know but that i liked those best. there was more to them." "so you always bought your new shoes of the beebes?" asked the old gentleman, a question that brought all the five peppers around his chair at once. "we didn't ever have new shoes that i can remember," said joel quickly, "except phronsie's, and once ben had a new pair. he had to, because he was the oldest, you know." "oh!" said mr. king. "you see," said phronsie, shaking her head gravely, while she laid one hand on his knee, "we were very poor, grandpapa dear. don't you understand?" "yes, yes, child," said old mr. king; "there, get up here," and he took her within his arms. "no, no, you're not going to talk yet," seeing percy and van beginning violent efforts to join in the conversation. "let the peppers have a chance to talk over old times first. see how good jasper is to wait." "i would much prefer to hear the peppers talk forever," said jasper, smiling down on the two whitneys, "than to have the gates opened for a general flood. go on, do, polly and ben, and the rest of you." "oh! there is so much," said polly despairingly, clasping her hands, "we shouldn't get through if we talked ten years, should we, ben? mamsie," and she rushed over to her, "can we have a baking time to-morrow, just as we used to in the old days? oh! do say yes." "yes, do say yes," echoed jasper, also rushing to the side of the little rocking-chair. "you will, won't you, mrs. pepper?" "hoh! hoh!" cried the two whitneys derisively, "i thought you could 'hear the peppers talk forever.' that's great, jasper." "well, when it comes to hearing a proposal for a baking frolic, my principles are thrown to the wind," said jasper recklessly. "why, boys, that's the first thing i remember about the little brown house. do say yes, mrs. pepper!" viii some badgertown calls "well, i declare!" exclaimed grandma bascom, opening the door and looking in, "i never!" "come in," cried mr. king sociably. his night over at the parsonage had been a most fortunate experiment. "i haven't slept so finely in ten years," he confided to mrs. whitney as they met at breakfast at the minister's table. so now, his face wreathed with smiles, he repeated his invitation. "come in, do, mrs. bascom; we're glad to see you." "i never!" said grandma bascom once more, for want of something better to say, and coming close to the center of operations. jasper, attired in one of mrs. pepper's long aprons, which was fastened in the style of the old days, by the strings around his neck, was busily engaged in rolling out under polly's direction, a thin paste, expected presently under the genial warmth of the waiting stove, to evolve into most toothsome cakes. ben was similarly attired, and similarly employed; while joel and david were in a sticky state, preparing their dough after their own receipt, over at the corner table, their movements closely followed by the three whitneys. phronsie, before a board laid across two chairs, was enlightening old mr. king who sat by her, into the mysteries of baking day. "do bake a gingerbread boy," he begged. "i never had anything half so good as the one you sent over to hingham." "you were my poor sick man then," observed phronsie, with slow, even pats on her bit of dough. "please, the rolling-pin now, grandpapa dear." "to be sure," cried the old gentleman; "here, jappy, my boy, be so good as to hand us over that article." "and you see," continued phronsie, receiving the rolling-pin, and making the deftest of passes with it over the soft mass, "i couldn't send you anything better, though i wanted to, grandpapa dear." "better?" cried mr. king. "i should think not; you couldn't have made me anything that pleased me more, had you tried a thousand times." phronsie never tired of hearing this, and now humming a soft note of thanks, proceeded with her task, declaring that she would make the best gingerbread boy that could possibly be achieved. grandma bascom was still reiterating "i never," and going slowly from one group to another to inspect operations. when she came to phronsie, she stopped short, raising her hands in surprise. "seems as ef 'twas only yesterday when the peppers went away, though land knows i've missed 'em all most dretfully, 'an there sets that blessed child baking, as big as any of 'em. i never!" "have you any more raisins to give us, grandma?" shouted joel across the kitchen. "they were terribly hard," he added in his natural voice; "almost broke our teeth." "hey?" called grandma back again. "raisins, grandma, or peppermints," cried joel. "oh, joe, for shame!" called ben. "i'm going to have the fun of going after them," declared joel, throwing down his dough-pat, and wiping his sticky fingers on his apron; "just like old times--so there!" "i'll go over and get 'em," said grandma; "you come along with me," looking admiringly up at the tall boy; so the two, joel laughing and hopping by her side as if he were five years younger, disappeared, well-pleased with each other. "now i shall take his dough," declared dick, rushing around the end of the table to joel's deserted place. "no such thing," declared van, flying out of his chair. "leave your hands off, youngster! that's to be mine." polly looked up from the little cookies she was cutting with the top of a tin baking powder box and their eyes met. "i didn't promise not to have it out with dicky," said van stoutly. "he's a perfect plague, and always under foot. i never thought of such a thing as not making him stand around, polly." but the brown eyes did not return to their task, as polly mechanically stamped another cooky. "i only promised not to have a bout with percy," van proceeded uncomfortably. and in the same breath, "go ahead, if you want it, dicky, i don't care." "i do want it," declared dick, clambering into van's chair, while van returned to his own, "and i'm going to have it too. i guess you think you'd better give it up now, sir; i'm getting so big." "softly there, dicky," said mrs. whitney, over in the window-seat with her fancy work; "if van gives up, you should thank him; i think he is very good to do it." and the bigger boy's heart warmed with the radiant smile she sent him. dick gave several vicious thrusts to his dough, and looked up at last to say very much against his will, "thank you," and adding brightly, "but you know i'm getting big, sir, and you'd better give up." "all right," said van, with that smile in his heart feeling equal to anything. "now," cried jasper, with a flourish of his baking apron, "mine are ready. here goes!" and he opened the oven door and pushed in a pan of biscuit. "jappy's always ahead in everything," grumbled percy, laboring away at his dough. "how in the world do you make the thing roll out straight? mine humps up in the middle." "put some more flour on the board," said polly, running over to him. "there, now see, percy, if that doesn't roll smooth." "it does with you," said percy, taking the rolling-pin again, to send it violently over the long-suffering dough, "and--i declare, it's going to do with me," he cried, in delight at the large flat cake staring up at him from the board. "now, says i, i'll beat you, jappy!" and presently the whole kitchen resounded with a merry din, as the several cakes and biscuits were declared almost ready for their respective pans. "but, i can tell you, this gingerbread boy is going in next," declared mr. king from phronsie's baking-board. "it's almost done, isn't it, child?" "not quite, grandpapa," said phronsie; "this eye won't stay in just like the other. it doesn't look the same way, don't you see?" pointing to the currant that certainly showed no inclination to do its duty, as any well-bred eye should. "wait just a moment, please; i'll pull it out and stick it in again." "take another," advised the old gentleman, fumbling over the little heap of currants on the saucer. "there, here's a good round one, and very expressive, too, phronsie." "that's lovely," hummed phronsie, accepting the new eye with very sticky fingers. "now, he's all ready," as she set it in its place, and took the boy up tenderly. "give me a pan, do, polly." "did you cut that out?" cried dick, turning around in his chair, and regarding her enviously, "all alone by yourself? didn't grandpapa help you just one teeny bit to make the legs and the hands?" "no; she made it all herself," said the old gentleman, with justifiable pride. "there, phronsie, here's your pan," as polly set it down before her with a "you precious dear, that's perfectly elegant!" phronsie placed the boy within the pan, and gave it many a loving pat. "grandpapa sat here, and looked at it, and smiled," she said, turning her eyes gravely on dick, "and that helped ever so much. i couldn't ever have made it so nice alone. good-by; now bake like a good boy. let me put it in the oven all by myself, do, polly," she begged. so phronsie, the old gentleman escorting her in mortal dread that she would be burned, safely tucked her long pan into the warmest corner, shut the door, and gravely consulted the clock. "if i look at it in twenty-one minutes, i think it will be done," she said, "quite brown." in twenty-one minutes the whole kitchen was as far removed from being the scene of a baking exploit as was possible. everything was cleared away, and set up primly in its place, leaving only a row of fine little biscuits and cookies, with phronsie's gingerbread boy in the midst, to tell the tale of what had been going on. outside there was a great commotion. deacon brown's old wagon stood at the gate, for the peppers and their friends; and, oh! joy, not the old horse between the shafts, but a newer and much livelier beast. and on the straw laid in the bottom of the wagon, the seats being removed, disported all the merry group, mr. king alone having the dignity of a chair. deacon brown, delighted with his scheme of bringing the wagon over as a surprise for the peppers to take a drive in, was on the side of the narrow foot-path, chuckling and rubbing his hands together. "you won't have to drive so easy as you used to, ben," he called out, "this fellow's chirk; give him his head. sho! what you goin' that way for?" as ben turned off down the lane. "to grandma bascom's," shouted two or three voices. "joel's over there," sang out polly. "we couldn't go without him, you know," chirped phronsie, poking a distressed little face up from the straw heap. "'twould serve him just right if we did," said van. "he's a great chap to stay over there like this." "no--no," cried dick in terror, "don't go without joel; i'd rather have him than any of you," he added, not over politely. phronsie began to cry piteously at the mere thought of joel's being left behind. "he wanted to see mr. beebe," she managed to say, "and dear mrs. beebe. oh! don't go without him." so mr. king made them hand her up to him, and at the risk of their both rolling out, he held her in his lap until the wagon, stopping at the door of grandma bascom's cottage, brought joel bounding out with a whoop. "jolly! where'd you get that, and where are you going?" all in one breath, as he swung himself up behind. "deacon brown brought it over just now," cried polly. "as a surprise," furnished percy. "isn't he a fine old chap? here's for the very jolliest go!" "we're going to see dear mr. beebe, and dear mrs. beebe," announced phronsie, smiling through her tears, and leaning out of the old gentleman's lap to nod at him. "hurrah!" screamed joel. "good-by, grandma," to the old lady, whose cap-frills were framed in the small window. "i've had a fine time in there," he condescended to say, but nothing further as to the details could they extract from him; and so at last they gave it up, and lent their attention to the various things to be seen as the wagon spun along. and so over and through the town, and to the very door of the little shoe-shop, and there, to be sure, was mr. beebe the same as ever, to welcome them; and joel found to his immense satisfaction that the stone pot was as full of sugary doughnuts as in the old days; and phronsie had her pink and white sticks, and mrs. beebe "oh-ed" and "ah-ed" over them all, and couldn't bear to let them go when at last it was time to say "good-by." and at last they all climbed into the old wagon, and were off again on their round of visits. it was not till the gray dusk of the winter afternoon settled down unmistakably, so that no one could beg to stay out longer, that they turned deacon brown's horse toward the little brown house. "it's going to snow to-morrow, i think," observed jasper, squinting up at the leaden sky, "isn't it, father?" "whoop!" exclaimed joel, "then we will have sport, i tell you!" "it certainly looks like it," said old mr. king, wrapping his fur-lined coat closer. "phronsie, are you sure you are warm enough?" "yes, grandpapa dear," she answered, curling up deeper in the straw at his feet. "do you remember how you would carry the red-topped shoes home with you, phronsie?" cried polly, and then away they rushed again into "oh, don't you remember this, and you haven't forgotten that?" jasper as wildly reminiscent now as the others, for hadn't he almost as good as lived at the little brown house, pray tell? so the whitneys looked curiously on, without a chance to be heard in all the merry chatter; and then they drew up at the gate of the parsonage, where they were all to have supper. when phronsie woke up in the big bed by the side of her mother the next morning, polly was standing over her, and looking down into her face. "oh, phronsie!" she exclaimed in great glee, "the ground is all covered with snow!" "o--oh!" screamed phronsie, her brown eyes flying wide open, "do give me my shoes and stockings, polly, do! i'll be dressed in just one--minute," and thereupon ensued a merry scramble as she tumbled out of the big bed, and commenced operations, polly running out to help mamsie get the breakfast. "mush seems good now we don't have to eat it," cried joel, as they all at last sat around the board. "'twas good then," said mrs. pepper, her black eyes roving over the faces before her. "how funny," cried percy whitney, who had run over from the parsonage to breakfast, "this yellow stuff is." and he took up a spoonful of it gingerly. "you don't like it, percy; don't try to eat it. i'll make you a slice of toast," cried polly, springing out of her chair, "in just one moment." "no, you mustn't," cried dick, bounding in in time to catch the last words. "mamma said no one was to have anything different, if we came to breakfast, from what the peppers are going to eat. i like the yellow stuff; give me some, do," and he slid into a chair and passed his plate to mrs. pepper. "so you shall, dicky," she said hastily. "and you will never taste sweeter food than this," giving him a generous spoonful. "grandpapa is eating ham and fried eggs over at the minister's house," contributed dick, after satisfying his hunger a bit. "ham and fried eggs!" exclaimed mother pepper, aghast. "why, he never touches them. you must be mistaken, my boy." "no, i'm not," said dick, obstinately. "the minister's wife said it was, and she asked me if i wouldn't have some, and i said i was going over to the peppers to breakfast; i'd rather have some of theirs. and grandpapa said it was good--the ham and fried eggs was--and he took it twice; he did, mrs. pepper." "took it twice?" she repeated, faintly, with troubled visions of the future. "well, well, the mischief is done now, so there is no use in talking about it; but i'm worried, all the same." "hurry up, percy," called joel across the table, "and don't dawdle so. we're going to make a double ripper, four yards long, to go down that hill there." he laid down his spoon to point out the window at a distant snow-covered slope. percy shivered, but recalling himself in time, said "splendid," and addressed himself with difficulty to his mush. "well, you'll never be through at that speed," declared joel. "see i've eaten three saucerfuls," and he handed his plate up, "and now for the fourth, mamsie." "oh! baked potatoes," cried ben, rolling one around in his hand before he took off its crackling skin. "weren't they good, though, with a little salt. i tell you, they helped us to chop wood in the old times!" "i really think i shall have to try one," said percy, who deeply to his regret was obliged to confess that indian meal mush had few charms for his palate. "there's real milk in my mug now," cried phronsie, with long, deep draughts. "polly, did i ever have anything but make-believe in the little brown house; ever, polly?" polly was saved from answering by a stamping of snowy boots on the flat doorstone. "hurrah, there!" cried van, rushing in, followed by jasper. "hoh, you slow people in the little brown house, come on for the double ripper!" ix a sudden blow "mamsie," cried polly, suddenly, and resting her hands on her knees as she sat on the floor before the stove, "do you suppose there is any one poor enough in badgertown to need the little brown house when we lock it up to-morrow?" "not a soul," replied mrs. pepper, quickly; "no more than there was when we first locked it up five years ago, polly. i've been all over that with the parson last evening; and he says there isn't a new family in the place, and all the old ones have their homes, the same as ever. so we can turn the key and leave it with a clear conscience." polly drew a long breath of delight, and gazed long at the face of the stove that seemed to crackle out an answering note of joy as the wood snapped merrily; then she slowly looked around the kitchen. "it's so perfectly lovely, mamsie," she broke out at length, "to see the dear old things, and to know that they are waiting here for us to come back whenever we want to. and to think it isn't wicked not to have them used, because everybody has all they need; oh! it's so delicious to think they can be left to themselves." she folded her hands now across her knees, and drew another long breath of content. phronsie stole out of the bedroom, and came slowly up to her mother's side, pausing a bit on the way to look into polly's absorbed face. "i don't think, mamsie," she said quietly, "that people ought to be so very good who've never had a little brown house; never in all their lives." "oh, yes, they had, child," said mrs. pepper briskly; "places don't make any difference. it's people's duty to be good wherever they are." but phronsie's face expressed great incredulity. "i'm always going to live here when i am a big, grown-up woman," she declared, slowly gazing around the kitchen, "and i shall never, never go out of badgertown." "oh, phronsie!" exclaimed polly, turning around in dismay, "why, you couldn't do that. just think, child, whatever in the world would grandpapa do, or any of us, pray tell?" "grandpapa would come here," declared phronsie decidedly, and shaking her yellow head to enforce her statement. "of course grandpapa would come here, polly. we couldn't live without him." "that's it," said polly, with a corresponding shake of her brown head, "of course we couldn't live without grandpapa; and just as 'of course' he couldn't leave his own dear home. he never would be happy, phronsie, to do that." phronsie took a step or two into the sunshine lying on the middle of the old kitchen floor. "then i'd rather not come, polly," she said. but she sighed and polly was just about saying, "we'll run down now and then perhaps, phronsie, as we have done now," when the door was thrown open suddenly, and joel burst in, his face as white as a sheet, and working fearfully. "oh, polly! you must tell mrs. whitney--i can't." polly sprang to her feet; mrs. pepper, who had just stepped into the pantry, was saying, "i think, polly, i'll make some apple dumplings, the boys like them so much." "what is it, joe?" cried polly hoarsely, and standing quite still. phronsie, with wide eyes, went up and took the boy's cold hand, and gazed into his face as he leaned against the door. "dick!" groaned joel; "oh! oh! i can't bear it," and covering his face with one hand, he would have pulled the other from phronsie's warm little palm, but she held it fast. "tell me at once, joe," commanded polly. "hush!--mother"--but mrs. pepper was already out of the pantry. "joel," said mrs. pepper, "whatever it is, tell us immediately." the look in her black eyes forced him to gasp in one breath, "dick fell off the double ripper, and both of his legs are broken--may be not," he added in a loud scream. phronsie still held the boy's hand. he was conscious of it, and that she uttered no word, and then he knew no more. "leave him to me, polly," said mrs. pepper, through drawn lips, "and then do you run as you have never run before, to the parsonage. oh! if they should bring him there before the mother hears." phronsie dropped the hand she held, and running on unsteady little feet into the bedroom, came back with polly's hood and coat. "let me go," cried polly wildly, rushing away from the detaining hand to the door, "i don't want those things on. let me go, phronsie!" "you'll be cold," said phronsie. with all her care, her little white lips were quivering as she held out the things. "please, polly," she said piteously. "the child is right; put them on," commanded mrs. pepper, for one instant taking her thought from her boy; and polly obeyed, and was gone. in the parsonage "best room" sat mrs. whitney. her rocking-chair was none of the easiest, being a hair-cloth affair, its cushion very much elevated in the world just where it should have been depressed, so that one was in constant danger of slipping off its surface; moreover, the arms and back of the chair were covered with indescribable arrangements made and presented by loving parishioners and demanding unceasing attention from the occupant. but the chair was drawn up in the sunshine pouring into the window, and mrs. whitney's thoughts were sunny, too; for she smiled now and then as she drew her needle busily in and out through the bright wools. "how restful it all is here, and so quaint and simple." she glanced up now to the high-backed mantel with its wealth of daguerreotypes, and surprising collection of dried leaves in tall china vases; and over the walls, adorned with pine-cone framed pictures, to the center table loaded with "annuals," and one or two volumes of english poetry, and then her gaze took in the little paths the winter sunshine was making for itself along the red and green ingrain carpet. "i am so glad father thought to bring us all. dear father, it is making a new man of him, this winter frolic. why"-- she was looking out of the window now, and her hands fell to her lap as polly pepper came running breathlessly down the village street, her hood untied, and the coat grasped with one hand and held together across her breast. but it was the face that terrified mrs. whitney, and hurrying out of her chair, she ran out to the veranda as the girl rushed through the gateway. "polly, child," cried mrs. whitney, seizing her with loving arms and drawing her on the steps--"oh! what is it, dear?" polly's lips moved, but no words came. "oh!" at last, "don't hate us for--bringing you to the--little--brown house. why did we come!" and convulsively she threw her young arms around the kind neck. "oh, auntie! dicky is hurt--but we don't know how much--his legs, joel says, but it may not be as bad as we think; dear auntie." mrs. whitney trembled so that she could scarcely stand. around them streamed the same winter sunshine that had been so bright a moment since. how long ago it seemed. and out of gathering clouds in her heart she was saying, "polly dear, god is good. we will trust him." she did not know her own voice, nor realize when polly led her mercifully within, as a farmer's wagon came slowly down the street, to stop at the parsonage gate; nor even when dick was brought in, white and still, could she think of him as her boy. it was some other little figure, and she must go and help them care for him. her boy would come bounding in presently, happy and ruddy, with a kiss for mamma, and a world of happy nonsense, just as usual. it was only when mrs. henderson came in, and took her hand to lead her into the next room, that it all came to her. "oh, dick!" and she sprang to the side of the sofa where he lay. "my child--my child!" and then came dr. fisher, and the truth was known. one of dick's legs was broken below the knee; the other badly bruised. only jasper and the mother remained in the room while the little doctor set the limb; and after what seemed an age to the watchers, the boy came out. "he bore it like a trojan," declared jasper, wiping his forehead. "i tell you, dick's our hero, after this." "now i should like to know how all this happened," demanded mr. king. the old gentleman had remained at the parsonage to get a good morning nap while the snow frolic was in progress. and he had been awakened by the unusual bustle below stairs in time to hear the welcome news that dicky was all right since dr. fisher was taking care of him. he now presented himself in his dressing-gown, with his sleeping cap awry, over a face in which anger, distress and impatience strove for the mastery. "speak up, my boy," to jasper, "and tell us what you know about it." "well, the first thing i knew of any danger ahead," said jasper, "was hearing dick sing out 'hold up!' i supposed the double ripper all right; didn't you, ben?" "yes," said ben sturdily, "and it was all right; just exactly as we used to make them, we boys; there wasn't a weak spot anywhere in her, sir." "who was steering?" demanded old mr. king almost fiercely. "i was," said van, beginning boldly enough, to let his voice die out in a tremulous effort. "humph--humph," responded mr. king grimly. "a bad business," shaking his head. "van would"--began percy, but his eye meeting polly's he added, "we'd none of us done any better, i don't believe, sir, than van." van was now choking so badly that the greatest kindness seemed to be not to look at him. accordingly the little company turned their eyes away, and regarded each other instead. "well, so dick rolled off?" proceeded the old gentleman. "oh! no, he didn't," said all three boys together; "he stuck fast to the double ripper; we ran into a tree, and dick was pitched off head-first." "but honestly and truly, father," said jasper, "i do not think that it was the fault of the steerer." "indeed it was not," declared ben stoutly; "there was an ugly little gully that we hadn't seen under the snow. we'd been down four or five times all right, but only missed it by a hair-breadth; this time the ripper struck into it; i suppose dick felt it bump, as it was on his side, and sang out, and as quick as lightning we were against that tree. it was as much my fault as any one's, and more, because i ought to have known that old hill thoroughly." "i share the blame, ben," broke in jasper, "old fellow, if you pitch into yourself, you'll have to knock me over too." "come here, vanny," said old mr. king, holding out his hand. "why, you needn't be afraid, my boy," aghast at the tears that no power on earth could keep back. "now all leave the room, please." "where's polly?" asked ben, on the other side of the door. "she's run home," said david, "i guess. she isn't here." "and that's where i must be too," cried ben, bounding off. when van was next seen he was with old mr. king, and wearing all signs of having received his full share of comfort. phronsie, just tying on her little hood, to go down to the parsonage to ask after dicky, looked out of the window to exclaim in pleased surprise, "why, here comes dear grandpapa," and then she rushed out to meet him. "here's my little girl," cried the old gentleman, opening his arms, when she immediately ran into them. "now we're all right." "is dicky all right?" asked phronsie anxiously, as she fell into step by his side. "yes, indeed; as well as a youngster can be, who's broken his leg." phronsie shivered. "but then, that's nothing," mr. king hastened to add; "i broke my own when i was a small shaver no bigger than dick, and i was none the worse for it. boys always have some such trifling mishaps, phronsie." "ben never broke his leg, nor joel, nor davie," said phronsie. "must they yet, grandpapa?" "o dear, no," declared mr. king hastily; "that isn't necessary. i only meant they must have something. now you see, ben had the measles, you know." "yes, he did," said phronsie, quite relieved to think that this trial could take the place of the usual leg-breaking episode in a boy's career. "and so did joel, and davie--all of them, grandpapa dear." "exactly; well, and then ben had to work hard, and joel and davie too, for that matter. so, you see, it wasn't as essential that they should break their legs, child." "but jasper and percy and van don't have to work hard; oh! i don't want them to break their legs," said phronsie, in a worried tone. "you don't think they will, grandpapa dear, do you? please say they won't." "i don't think there is the least danger of it," said mr. king, "especially as i shall put an end to this double-ripper business, though not because this upset was anybody's fault; remember that, phronsie." van's head which had dropped a bit at the last words, came up proudly. "van, here, has acted nobly"--he put his hand on the boy's shoulder--"and would have saved dicky if he could. it was a pure accident that nobody could help except by keeping off from the abominable thing. well, here we are at the little brown house; and there's your mother, phronsie, waiting for us in the doorway." "halloo!" cried van, rushing over the flat stone, and past mrs. pepper, "where's joel? oh--here, you old chap!" "well, mrs. pepper," said the old gentleman, coming up to the step, phronsie hanging to his hand, "this looks like starting for town to-morrow, doesn't it?" "oh! what shall we do, sir?" cried mrs. pepper, in distress. "to think you have come down here in the goodness of your heart, to be met with such an accident as this. what shall we do?" she repeated. "goodness of my heart," repeated mr. king, nevertheless well pleased at the tribute. "i've had as much pleasure out of it all as you or the young people. i want you to realize that." "so does any one who does a kind act," replied mrs. pepper, wiping her eyes; "well, sir, now how shall we manage about going back?" "that remains to be seen," said mr. king slowly, and he took a long look at the winter sky, and the distant landscape before he ventured more. "it very much looks as if we all should remain for a few days, to see how dick is to get on, all but the four boys; they must pack off to school to-morrow, and then probably mrs. whitney will stay over with the boy till he can be moved. dr. fisher will do the right thing by him. oh! everything is all right, mrs. pepper." mrs. pepper sighed and led the way into the house. she knew in spite of the reassuring words that the extreme limit of the "outing" ought to be passed on the morrow. x the party separates "good-by to the little brown house!" joel and david, percy and van sang out in doleful chorus, from the old stage coach; two of the boys on the seat shared by john tisbett, the other two within as companions to mrs. pepper and jasper, who were going home to start the quartette off to school. "ben and i will take good care of everything, mamsie," said polly for the fiftieth time, and climbing up on the steps to tuck the traveling shawl closer. thereupon phronsie climbed up too, to do the same thing. "don't you worry; we'll take care of things," she echoed. "i shan't worry," said mrs. pepper in a bright assured way. "mother knows you'll both do just right. and phronsie'll be a good girl too," with a long look into the bright eyes peering over the window casing of the old coach. "i'll try," said phronsie. "good-by, mamsie," and she tried to stand on tiptoe to reach her mouth up. "goodness me!" cried polly, "you nearly tumbled off the steps. throw her a kiss, phronsie; mamsie'll catch it." "if that child wants to kiss her ma agen, she shall do it," declared mr. tisbett; and throwing down the reins, he sprang to the ground, seized phronsie, and swung her lightly over the window edge. "there you be--went through just like a bird." and there she was, sure enough, in mrs. pepper's lap. "i should like to go with you," phronsie was whispering under mrs. pepper's bonnet strings, "mamsie, i should." "oh, no, phronsie!" mrs. pepper made haste to whisper back. "you must stay with polly. why, what would she ever do without you? be mother's good girl, phronsie; you're all coming home, except auntie and dick, in a few days." phronsie cast one look at polly. "good-by," she said slowly. "take me out now," holding her arms towards mr. tisbett. "here you be!" exclaimed mr. tisbett merrily, reversing the process, and setting her carefully on the ground. "now, says i; up i goes," his foot on the wheel to spring to the box. "stay!" a peremptory hand was laid on his shaggy coat sleeve, and he turned to face old mr. king. "when i meet a man who can do such a kind thing, it is worth my while to say that i trust no words of mine gave offense. bless you, man!" added the old gentleman, abruptly changing the tone of his address as well as its form, "it's my way; that's all." john tisbett had no words to offer, but remained, his foot on the wheel, stupidly staring up at the handsome old face. "we shall be late for the train," called jasper within the coach, "if you don't start." "get up, do!" cried joel, who had seized the reins, "or i'll drive off without you, mr. tisbett," which had the effect to carry honest john briskly up to his place. when there, he took off his fur cap without a word, and bowed to mr. king, cracked his whip and they were off, leaving the four on the little foot-path gazing after them, till the coach was only a speck in the distance. "mamma dear," said dick, one afternoon three weeks later (the little brown house had been closed a fortnight, and all the rest of the party back in town), "when are we going home?" "next week," said mrs. whitney brightly; "the doctor thinks if all goes well, you can be moved from here." dick leaned back in the big chintz-covered chair. "mamma," he said, "your cheeks aren't so pink, and not quite so round, but i think you are a great deal nicer mamma than you were." "do you, dick?" she said, laughing. "well, we have had a happy time together, haven't we? the fortnight hasn't been so long for you as i feared when the others all went away." "it hasn't been long at all," said dick promptly, and burrowing deeper into the chair-back; "it's just flown, mamma. i like polly and phronsie; but i'd rather have you than any girl i know; i had really, mamma." "i'm very glad to hear it, dick," said mrs. whitney, with another laugh. "and when i grow up, i'm just going to live with you forever and ever. do you suppose papa will be always going to europe then?" "i trust not," said mrs. whitney fervently. "dicky, would you like to have a secret?" she asked suddenly. the boy's eyes sparkled. "wouldn't i mamma?" he cried, springing forward in the chair; "ugh!" "take care, darling," warned his mother. "you must remember the poor leg." dick made a grimace, but otherwise took the pain pluckily. "tell me, do, mamma," he begged, "the secret." "yes, i thought it would be a pleasant thing for you to have it to think of, darling, while you are getting well. dicky, papa is coming home soon." "right away?" shouted dick so lustily that mrs. henderson popped her head in the door. "oh! beg your pardon," she said; "i thought you wanted something." "isn't it lovely," cried mrs. whitney, "to have a boy who is beginning to find his lungs?" "indeed it is," cried the parson's wife, laughing; "i always picked up heart when my children were able to scream. it's good to hear you, dicky," as she closed the door. "is he--is he--is he?" cried dick in a spasm of excitement, "coming right straight away, mamma?" "next week," said mamma, with happy eyes, "he sails in the servia. next week, dicky, my boy, we will see papa. and here is the best part of the secret. listen; it has all been arranged that mr. duyckink shall live in liverpool, so that papa will not have to go across any more, but he can stay at home with us. oh, dicky!" that "oh, dicky!" told volumes to the boy's heart. "mamma," he said at last, "isn't it good that god didn't give boys and girls to mr. duyckink? because you see if he had, why, then mr. duyckink wouldn't like to live over there." "mr. duyckink might not have felt as your father does, dicky dear, about having his children educated at home; and mrs. duyckink wants to go to england; she hasn't any father, as i have, dicky dear, who clings to the old home." "only i wish god had made mr. duyckink and mrs. duyckink a little sooner," said dick reflectively. "i mean, made them want to go to england sooner, don't you, mamma?" "i suppose we ought not to wish that," said his mother with a smile, "for perhaps we needed to be taught to be patient. only now, dicky, just think, we can actually have papa live at home with us!" "your cheeks are pink now," observed dick; "just the very pink they used to be, mamma." mrs. whitney ran to the old-fashioned looking-glass hanging in its pine-stained frame, between the low windows, and peered in. "do i look just as i did when papa went away six months ago, dicky?" she asked, anxiously. "yes," said dick, "just like that, only a great deal nicer," he added enthusiastically. his mother laughed and pulled at a bright wave on her forehead, dodging a bit to avoid a long crack running across the looking-glass front. "here's dr. fisher!" shouted dick suddenly. "now, you old fellow, you," and shaking his small fist at his lame leg, "you've got to get well, i tell you. i won't wait much longer, sir!" and as the doctor came in, "i've a secret." "well, then, you would better keep it," said dr. fisher. "good morning," to mrs. whitney. "our young man here is getting ahead pretty fast, i should think. how's the leg, dicky?" sitting down by him. "the leg is all right," cried dick; "i'm going to step on it," trying to get out of the chair. "dicky!" cried his mother in alarm. "softly--softly now, young man," said dr. fisher. "i suppose you want me to cure that leg of yours, and make it as good as the other one, don't you?" "why, of course," replied dick; "that's what you are a doctor for." "well, i won't agree to do anything of the sort," said the little doctor coolly, "if you don't do your part. do you know what patience means?" "i've been patient," exclaimed dick, in a dudgeon, "forever and ever so many weeks, and now papa is coming home, and i"-- and then he realized what he had done, and he turned quite pale, and looked at his mother. her face gave no sign, but he sank back in his chair, feeling disgraced for life, and ready to keep quiet forever. and he was so good while dr. fisher was attending to his leg that when he was through, the little doctor turned to him approvingly: "well, sir, i think that i can promise that you can go home saturday. you've improved beyond my expectation." but dick didn't "hurrah," nor even smile. "dicky," said mrs. whitney, smiling into his downcast face, "how glad we are to hear that; just think, good dr. fisher says we may go next saturday." "i'm glad," mumbled dick, in a forlorn little voice, and till after the door closed on the retreating form of the doctor, it was all that could be gotten out of him. then he turned and put out both arms to his mother. "i didn't mean--i didn't mean--i truly didn't mean--to tell--mamma," he sobbed, as she clasped him closely. "i know you didn't, dear," she soothed him. "it has really done no harm; papa didn't want the home people to know, as he wants to surprise them." "but it was a secret," said dick, between his tears, feeling as if he had lost a precious treasure entrusted to him. "oh, mamma! i really didn't mean to let it go." "mamma feels quite sure of that," said mrs. whitney gently. "you are right, dicky, in feeling sorry and ashamed, because anything given to you to keep is not your own but belongs to another; but, my boy, the next duty is to keep back those tears--all this is hurting your leg." dick struggled manfully, but still the tears rolled down his cheeks. at last he said, raising his head, "you would much better let me have my cry out, mamma; it's half-way, and it hurts to send it back." "well, i don't think so," said mrs. whitney, with a laugh. "i've often wanted to have a cry out, as you call it. but that's weak, dicky, and should be stopped, for the more one cries, the more one wants to." "you've often wanted to have a cry out?" repeated dick, in such amazement that every tear just getting ready to show itself immediately rushed back again. "why, you haven't anything to cry for, mamma." "indeed i have," she declared; "often and often, i do many things that i ought not to do"-- "oh! never, never," cried dick, clutching her around the neck, to the detriment of her lace-trimmed wrapper. "my sweetest, dearingest mamma is ever and always just right." "indeed, dick," said mrs. whitney earnestly, "the longer i live, i find that every day i have something to be sorry for in myself. but god, you know, is good," she whispered softly. dick was silent. "and then when papa goes," continued mrs. whitney, "why, then, my boy, it is very hard not to cry." here was something that the boy could grasp; and he seized it with avidity. "and you stop crying for us," he cried; "i know now why you always put on your prettiest gown, and play games with us the evening after papa goes. i know now." "here are three letters," cried the parson, hurrying in, and tossing them over to the boy. "and polly pepper has written to me, too." dick screamed with delight. "two for me; one from ben, and one from grandpapa!" "and mine is from phronsie," said mrs. whitney, seizing an epistle carefully printed in blue crayon. but although there were three letters from home, none of them carried the news of what was going on there. none of them breathed a syllable that cousin eunice chatterton was ill with a low fever, aggravated by nervous prostration; and that mrs. pepper and polly were having a pretty hard time of it. on the contrary, every bit of news was of the cheeriest nature; jasper tucked on a postscript to his father's letter, in which he gave the latest bulletin of his school life. and polly did the same thing to ben's letter. even phronsie went into a long detail concerning the new developments of a wonderful kitten she had left at home, to take her visit to badgertown, so the two recipients never missed the lack of information in regard to the household life, from which they were shut out. only once mrs. whitney said thoughtfully, as she folded her letter and slipped it back into its envelope, "they don't speak of mrs. chatterton. i presume she has changed her plans, and is going to remain longer at her nephew's." "i hope she'll live there always," declared dick, looking up savagely from ben's letter. "what an old guy she is, mamma!" "dick, dick," said his mother reprovingly, "she is our guest, you know." "not if she is at her nephew's," said dick triumphantly, turning back to his letter. polly at this identical minute was slowly ascending the stairs, a tray in one hand, the contents of which she was anxiously regarding on the way. "i do hope it is right now," she said, and presently knocked at mrs. chatterton's door. "come in," said that lady's voice fretfully. and "do close the door," before polly and her tray were well within. polly shut the door gently, and approached the bedside. "i am so faint i do not know that i can take any," said mrs. chatterton. whether it was her white cashmere dressing-robe, and her delicate lace cap that made her face against the pillows seem wan and white, polly did not know. but it struck her that she looked more ill than usual, and she said earnestly, "i am so sorry i wasn't quicker." "there is no call for an apology from you," said mrs. chatterton coldly. "set the tray down on the table, and get a basin of water; i need to be bathed." polly stood quite still, even forgetting to deposit the tray. "set the tray down, i told you," repeated mrs. chatterton sharply, "and then get the basin of water." "i will call hortense," said polly quietly, placing the tray as desired. "hortense has gone to the apothecary's," said mrs. chatterton, "and i will not have one of the other maids; they are too insufferable." and indeed polly knew that it would be small use to summon one of them, as martha, the most obliging, had airily tossed her head when asked to do some little service for the sick woman that very morning, declaring, "i will never lift another finger for that madame chatterton." "my neck aches, and my side, and my head," said mrs. chatterton irritably; "why do you not do as i bid you?" for one long instant, polly hesitated; then she turned to rush from the room, a flood of angry, bitter feelings surging through her heart, more at the insufferable tone and manner, than at what she was bidden to do. only turned; and she was back by the side of the bed, and looking down into the fretful, dictatorial old face. "i will bathe you, mrs. chatterton," she said gently; "i'll bring the water in a minute." xi poor polly! "you are very awkward, child," observed mrs. chatterton to polly on her knees, "and abrupt. move the sponge more slowly; there, that is better." polly shifted her position from one aching knee to another, set her lips closer together, and bent all her young energies to gentler effects. but mrs. chatterton cried out irritably: "have you never taken care of a sick person, pray tell, or is it all your back-country training that makes you so heavy-handed?" "i helped mother take care of phronsie when she had the measles, and ben and joel," said polly, "five years ago; we haven't been sick lately." "humph!" ejaculated mrs. chatterton, not very elegantly. but what was the use of a fine manner when there was nobody but a little back-country maiden to see it? "i shall have to endure it till hortense returns," she said with a sigh; "besides, it is my duty to give you something useful to do in this house. you should be thankful that i allow you to bathe me." polly's eyes flashed, and the hand holding the sponge trembled. nothing but the fear of troubling mamsie, and dear old mr. king whose forbearance was worn to the finest of threads, kept her at her post. "now get the violet water," said mrs. chatterton, with an air she would never have dared employ towards hortense; "it is the bottle in the lower left-hand corner of the case." polly got up from her knees, and stiffly stumbled across the room to the case of silver-mounted toilet articles: in her tumult bringing away the upper right-hand corner vial. "stupide!" exclaimed mrs. chatterton among her pillows. "go back, and do as i bid you, girl; the lower left-hand corner bottle!" without a word polly returned, and bringing the right vial set about its use as directed, in a rapidly growing dismay at the evil feelings surging through her, warning her it would not be safe to stay in the room much longer. "do you understand," presently began mrs. chatterton, fastening her cold blue eyes upon her, "what your position is in this house? everybody else appears to be blind and idiotic to the last degree; you seem to have a little quickness to catch an idea." as polly did not answer, the question was repeated very sharply: "do you understand what your position is in this house?" "yes," said polly, in a low voice, and dashing out the violet water with a reckless hand, "i do." "take care," impatiently cried mrs. chatterton. then she pushed her pillow into a better position, and returned to the charge. "what is it, pray, since you understand it so well?" "i understand that i am here in this house," said polly, quite cold and white, "because dear mr. king wants me to be here." "dear mr. king!" echoed mrs. chatterton, in shrill disdain. "stuff and nonsense," and she put her head back for an unpleasant cackle; it could hardly be called a laugh. "what an idiot the man is to have the wool pulled over his eyes in this fashion. i'll tell you, polly"--and she raised herself up on her elbow, the soft lace falling away from the white, and yet shapely arm. this member had been one of her strongest claims to beauty, and even in her rage, mrs. chatterton paused a second to glance complacently at it in its new position--"you are, when all is said about your dear mr. king, and your absurd assumption of equality with refined people who frequent this house, exactly the same underbred country girl as you were in your old brown house, goodness knows wherever that is." "i'm glad i am," declared polly. and she actually laughed merrily, while she squared her sturdy shoulders. nothing could be sweeter than to hear it said she was worthy of the dear little old brown house, and didn't disgrace mamsie's bringing up. the laugh was the last feather that overthrew mrs. chatterton's restraint. she was actually furious now that she, widow of algernon chatterton, who was own cousin to jasper horatio king, should be faced by such presumption, and her words put aside with girlish amusement. "and i'll tell you more," she went on, sitting quite erect now on the bed, "your mother thinks she is doing a fine thing to get all her family wormed in here in this style, but she'll"-- polly pepper, the girlish gladness gone from heart and face, waited for no more. "our mother!" she cried stormily, unable to utter another word--"oh--oh!" her breath came in quick, short gasps, the hot indignant blood mounting to the brown waves of hair on her brow, while she clasped her hands so tightly together, the pain at any other time would have made her scream. mrs. chatterton, aghast at the effect of her words, leaned back once more against her pillows. "don't try to work up a scene," she endeavored to say carelessly. but she might as well have remonstrated with the north wind. the little country maiden had a temper as well as her own, and all the more for its long restraint, now on breaking bounds, it rushed at the one who had provoked it, utterly regardless that it was the great mrs. algernon chatterton. for two minutes, so breathlessly did polly hurl the stinging sentences at the figure on the bed, cousin eunice was obliged to let her have her own way. then as suddenly, the torrent ceased. polly grew quite white. "what have i done--oh! what have i done?" she cried, and rushed out of the room. "polly--polly!" called jasper's voice below. she knew he wanted her to try a new duet he had gone down town to purchase; but how could she play with such a storm in her heart? and, worse than all else, was the consciousness that she had spoken to one whose gray hairs should have made her forget the provocation received, words that now plunged her into a hot shame to recall. she flew over the stairs--up, away from every one's sight, to a long, dark lumber room, partially filled with trunks, and a few articles of furniture, prized as heirlooms, but no longer admissible in the family apartments. polly closed the door behind her, and sank down in the shadow of a packing box half filled with old pictures, in a distress that would not even let her think. she covered her face with her hands, too angry with herself to cry; too aghast at the mischief she had done, to even remember the dreadful words mrs. chatterton had said to her. "for of course, now she will complain to mamsie, and i'm really afraid mr. king will find it out; and it only needs a little thing to make him send her off. he said yesterday dr. valentine told him there was nothing really the matter with her--and--dear! i don't know what will happen." to poor polly, crouching there on the floor in the dim and dusty corner, it seemed as if her wretchedness held no hope. turn whichever way she might, the dreadful words she had uttered rang through her heart. they could not be unsaid; they were never to be forgotten but must always stay and rankle there. "oh--oh!" she moaned, clasping her knees with distressed little palms, and swaying back and forth, "why didn't i remember what mamsie has always told us--that no insult can do us harm if only we do not say or do anything in return. why--why couldn't i have remembered it?" how long she stayed there she never knew. but at last, realizing that every moment there was only making matters worse, she dragged herself up from the little heap on the floor, and trying to put a bit of cheerfulness into a face she knew must frighten mamsie, she went slowly out, and down the stairs. but no one looked long enough at her face to notice its change of expression. polly, the moment she turned towards the household life again, could feel that the air was charged with some intense excitement. hortense met her on the lower stairs; the maid was startled out of her usual nonchalance, and was actually in a hurry. "what is the matter?" cried polly. "oh! the madame is eel," said the maid; "the doctaire says it is not a lie dees time," and she swept past polly. polly clung to the stair-railing, her face whitening, and her gaze fastened upon mrs. chatterton's door, where hortense was now disappearing. inside, was a sound of voices, and that subdued stir that gives token of a sick room. "i have killed her!" cried polly's heart. for one wild moment she was impelled to flight; anywhere, she did not care where, to shake off by motion in the free air this paralysis of fear. but the next she started and, rushing down the stairs and into mr. king's room, cried out, "oh! dear grandpapa, will mrs. chatterton die?" "no, no, i think not," replied the old gentleman, surprised at her feeling. "cousin eunice never did show much self-control; but then, i don't believe this piece of bad news will kill her." "bad news?" gasped polly, hanging to the table where mr. king was writing letters. "oh, grandpapa! what do you mean?" "bless me! where have you been, polly pepper," said mr. king, settling his eyeglass to regard her closely, "not to hear the uproar in this house? yes, mrs. chatterton received a telegram a half-hour since that her nephew, the only one that she was very fond of among her relatives, was drowned at sea, and she has been perfectly prostrated by it, till she really is quite ill." polly waited to hear no more, but on the wings of the wind, flew out and up the stairs once more. "where have you been, polly?" cried jasper, coming out of a side passage in time to catch a dissolving view of her flying figure. "polly--polly!" and he took three steps to her one, and gained her side. "oh! don't stop me," begged polly, flying on, "don't, jasper." he took a good look at her face. "anything i can help you about?" he asked quickly. she suddenly stopped, her foot on the stair above. "oh, jasper!" she cried, with clasped hands, "you don't know--she may die, and i said horribly cruel things to her." "who--mrs. chatterton?" said the boy, opening his dark eyes; "why, you couldn't have said cruel things to her, polly. don't be foolish, child." he spoke as he would to phronsie's terror, and smiled into her face. but it did not reassure polly. "jasper, you don't know; you can't guess what dreadful things i said," cried poor overwhelmed polly, clasping her hands tightly together at the mere thought of the words she had uttered. "then she must have said dreadful things to you," said the boy. "she--but, oh, jasper! that doesn't make it any better for me," said polly. "don't stop me; i am going to see if they won't let me do something for her." "there are ever so many people up there now," said jasper. "your mother, and hortense, and two or three maids. what in the world could you do, polly? come down into the library, and tell us all about it." but polly broke away from him with an "oh! i must do something for her," speeding on until she softly worked her way into the sick room. mrs. pepper was busy with the doctor in the further part of the room, and polly stood quite still for a moment, wishing she were one of the maids, to whom a bit of active service was given. she could not longer endure her thoughts in silence, and gently going up to her mother's side, with a timorous glance at the bed, as she passed it, she begged, "mamsie, can't i do something for her?" mrs. pepper glanced up quickly. "no--yes, you can; take this prescription down to oakley's to be prepared." polly seized the bit of paper from dr. valentine's hand, and hurried out. again she glanced fearfully at the bed, but the curtain on that side was drawn so that only the outline of the figure could be seen. she was soon out on the street, the movement through the fresh air bringing back a little color to her cheek and courage to her heart. things did not seem quite so bad if she only might do something for the poor sick woman that could atone for the wretched work she had done; at least it would be some comfort if the invalid could be helped by her service. thus revolving everything in her mind, polly did not hear her name called, nor rapid footsteps hurrying after. "wait!" at last cried a voice; "o, dear me! what is the matter, polly?" alexia rhys drew herself up flushed and panting at polly's side. "i'm on the way to the apothecary's," said polly, without looking around. "so i should suppose," said alexia; "o, dear! i'm so hot and tired. do go a bit slower, polly." "i can't," said polly. "she's very sick, and i must get this just as soon as i can." she waved the prescription at her, and redoubled her speed. "who?" gasped alexia, stumbling after as best she could. "mrs. chatterton," said polly, a lump in her throat as she uttered the name. "o, dear me! that old thing," cried alexia, her enthusiasm over the errand gone. "hush!" said polly hoarsely; "she may die. she has had bad news." "what?" asked alexia; the uncomfortable walk might be enlivened by a bit of stray gossip; "what is it, polly? what news?" "a telegram," said polly. "her favorite nephew was drowned at sea." "oh! i didn't know she had any favorite nephew. doesn't she fight with everybody?" "do be quiet," begged polly. "no; that is, perhaps, other people are not kind to her." "oh!" said alexia, in a surprised voice. "well, i think she's perfectly and all-through-and-through horrid, so! don't race like this through the streets, polly. you'll get there soon enough." but polly turned a deaf ear, and at last the prescription was handed over the counter at oakley's, and after what seemed an endless time to polly, the medicine was given to her. "now as soon as you carry that thing home," observed alexia, glancing at the white parcel in polly's hand, "i hope you'll come with us girls. that's what i ran after you for." "what girls?" asked polly. "why, philena and the cornwalls; we are going to have a sleighing party to-night, and a supper at lilly drexell's. mrs. cornwall chaperones the thing." polly was surprised to feel her heart bound. it hadn't seemed as if it could ever be moved by any news of girlish frolics, but that its dull ache must go on forever. "oh! i can't," she cried the next moment. "i must stay at home, and help take care of mrs. chatterton." "nonsense!" exclaimed alexia in a provoked tone; "you are not wanted there, polly pepper; the idea, with that great house full of servants." "well, i shall not go," declared polly sharply; "you needn't ask me, alexia. i shall stay home till she gets well." "you little idiot!" cried alexia, thoroughly out of temper. but as this produced no effect on polly, she began to wheedle and coax. "now, polly, do be reasonable. you know we can't go without you; you wouldn't spoil the whole thing; you know you wouldn't. i shall just tell the cornwalls that you are coming," and she turned off to the corner of the avenue. "indeed you will not," called polly after her. "don't you dare do that, alexia rhys," she said, with flashing eyes. "you are the most uncomfortable girl i ever saw," cried alexia, stopping, to come slowly back. "you spoil every bit of fun with your absurd notions. i'm quite, quite put out with you, polly." "i'm sorry," said poor polly, fairly longing for the snow-revel, and dismayed at disappointing the girls. "no, you're not," pouted alexia, "and i shall tell them all so," and she broke away and ran off in the opposite direction. polly was met at the door by mrs. pepper, who grasped the packet of medicine quickly. "isn't there anything else i can do, mamsie?" begged polly. "no; sit down and rest; you're hot and tired, you've run so." "i'm not tired," said polly, not daring to ask "is she better?" "well, you must be," said mrs. pepper, hurrying off, "going all the way down to oakley's." so polly had nothing to do but to sit out in the hall, and listen and watch all the movements in the sick room, every one of which but increased her terror. at least she could bear it no longer, and as dr. valentine came out, putting on his gloves, she rushed after him. "oh! will she die?" she begged; "please do tell me, sir?" "die? no indeed, i hope not," said dr. valentine. "she has had a severe shock to her nerves and her age is against her, but she is coming around all right, i trust. why, polly, i thought better things of you, my girl." he glanced down into the distressed face with professional disfavor. "i'm so glad she won't die," breathed polly, wholly lost to his opinion of her; and her face gleamed with something of her old brightness. "i didn't know you were so fond of her," observed dr. valentine grimly; "indeed, to speak truthfully, i have yet to learn that anybody is fond of her, polly." "now if you really want to help her," he continued thoughtfully, pulling his beard, as polly did not answer, "i can give you one or two hints that might be of use." "oh! i do, i do," cried polly with eagerness. "it will be tiresome work," said dr. valentine, "but it will be a piece of real charity, and perhaps, polly, it's as well for you to begin now as to wait till you can belong to forty charity clubs, and spend your time going to committee meetings." and he laughed not altogether pleasantly. how was polly to know that mrs. valentine was immersed up to her ears in a philanthropic sea with the smallest possible thought for the doctor's home? "now that maid," said the physician, dropping his tone to a confidential one, "is as well as the average, but she's not the one who is to amuse the old lady. it's that she needs more than medicine, polly. she actually requires diversion." poor polly stood as if turned to stone. diversion! and she had thrown away all chance of that. "she is suffering for the companionship of some bright young nature," dr. valentine proceeded, attributing the dismay written all over the girl's face to natural unwillingness to do the service. "after she gets over this attack she needs to be read to for one thing; to be told the news; to be made to forget herself. but of course, polly," he said hastily, buttoning his top coat, and opening the outer door, "it's too much to ask of you; so think no more about it, child." xii new work for polly it was saturday morning, and polly ran upstairs with a bright face, the morning journal in her hand. "i'm going to stay with mrs. chatterton, hortense," she announced to that functionary in the dressing-room. "and a comfairte may it gif to you," said hortense, with a vicious shake of the silk wrapper in her hand, before hanging it in its place. "madame has the tres diablerie, cross as de two steeks, what you call it, dis morning." polly went softly into the room, closing the door gently after her. in the shadow of one corner of the large apartment, sat mrs. chatterton under many wrappings in the depths of an invalid's chair. polly went up to her side. "would you like to have me read the news, mrs. chatterton?" she asked gently. mrs. chatterton turned her head and looked at her. "no," she was about to say shortly, just as she had repulsed many little offers of polly's for the past few days; but somehow this morning the crackling of the fresh sheet in the girl's hand, suggestive of crisp bits of gossip, was too much for her to hear indifferently, especially as she was in a worse state of mind than usual over hortense and her bad temper. "you may sit down and read a little, if you like," she said ungraciously. so polly, happy as a queen at the permission, slipped into a convenient chair, and began at once. she happened fortunately on just the right things for the hungry ears; a description of a large church wedding, the day before; two or three bits about society people that mrs. chatterton had lost sight of, and a few other items just as acceptable. polly read on and on, from one thing to another, not daring to look up to see the effect, until at last everything in the way of gossip was exhausted. "is that all?" asked mrs. chatterton hungrily. polly, hunting the columns for anything, even a murder account if it was but in high life, turned the paper again disconsolately, obliged to confess it was. "well, do put it by, then," said mrs. chatterton sharply, "and not whirl it before my face; it gives me a frightful headache." "i might get the town talk" suggested polly, as a bright thought struck her. "it came yesterday. i saw it on the library table." "so it is saturday." mrs. chatterton looked up quickly. "yes, you may, polly," her mouth watering for the revel she would have in its contents. so polly ran over the stairs with delighted feet, and into the library, beginning to rummage over the papers and magazines on the reading table. "where is it?" she exclaimed, turning them with quick fingers. "o dear! it was right here last evening." "what is it?" asked phronsie, from the depths of a big arm-chair, and looking up from her book. then she saw as soon as she had asked the question that polly was in trouble, so she laid down her book, and slid out of the chair. "what is it, polly? let me help you, do." "why, the town talk--that hateful old society thing," said polly, throwing the papers to right and left. "you know, phronsie; it has a picture of a bottle of ink, and a big quill for a heading. o dear! do help me, child, for she will get nervous if i am gone long." "oh! i know where that is," said phronsie deliberately, laying a cool little hand on polly's hot one. "where?" demanded polly feverishly. "oh, phronsie! where?" "jack rutherford has it." polly threw down the papers, and started for the door. "he has gone," said phronsie; "he went home almost an hour ago." polly turned sharply at her. "what did he want town talk for?" "he said it was big, and he asked grandpapa if he might have it, and grandpapa said, yes. i don't know what he wanted it for," said phronsie. "and he took other newspapers, too, polly; oh! ever so many." "well, i don't care how many he took, nor what they were," cried polly, "only that very identical one. o dear me! well, i'll ask jasper." and rushing from the library, phronsie following in a small panic over polly's distress, she knocked at the door of jasper's den, a little room in the wing, looking out on the east lawn. "oh! i am so glad you are here," she exclaimed as "come in!" greeted her, and both phronsie and she precipitated themselves with no show of ceremony, in front of his study table. "o jasper! could you get me a copy of "town talk?" jack rutherford has gone off with ours." "town talk!" repeated jasper, raising his head from his hands to stare at her. "yes; jack has taken ours off; grandpapa gave it to him. can you, jasper? will it break up your study much?" she poured out anxiously. "no--that is--never mind," said jasper, pushing the book away and springing from his chair. "but whatever in the world do you want that trash for?" he turned, and looked at her curiously. "mrs. chatterton will let me read it to her; she said so," cried polly, clasping her hands nervously, "but if i don't get the paper soon, why, i'm afraid she'll change her mind." jasper gave a low whistle as he flung himself into his coat. "inestimable privilege!" he exclaimed at last, tossing on his cap. "oh, jasper! you are so good," cried polly in a small rapture. "i'm so sorry to have to ask you." "i'll go for you, jasper," declared phronsie; "mamsie will let me; i almost know she will." "no, no, phronsie," said jasper, as she was flying off; "it isn't any place for you to go to. i shall get one at the hotel--the allibone. i'll be back in a trice, polly." polly went out, and sat down in one of the big oaken chairs in the hall to seize it as it came, and phronsie deposited herself in an opposite chair, and watched polly. and presently in came jasper, waving the desired journal. polly, with a beaming face, grasped it and rushed off upstairs. "polly," called the boy, looking after her, "it isn't too late now for you to go with them. lucy bennett met me at the corner and she said they will take the twelve o'clock train, instead of the eleven, and she wanted me to beg you to come." "no, no," tossed back polly, rushing on, "i am quite determined to stay at home." then she went into mrs. chatterton's room, and closed the door. but she couldn't so easily shut out the longings that would rise in her heart for the saturday outing that the other girls were to have. how lovely it would be! the run out to silvia horne's charming house some ten miles distant; the elegant luncheon they would have, followed by games, and a dance in the ball-room upstairs, that silvia's older sisters used for their beautiful parties. then the merry return before dusk, of the twelve girls, all capital friends at school! oh--oh! "you've been an unconscionable time," exclaimed mrs. chatterton in a sharp, high key, "just to get a paper. well, do sit down; i am quite tired waiting for you." polly sat down, and resolutely plunged into the column where the news items promised the most plentiful yield but in between the lines ran the doings of the girls: how they were all assembling by this time at lucy bennett's; how they were hurrying off to the train, and all the other delightful movements of the "outing" flashed before her eyes, as she finished item after item of her dreary task. but how mrs. chatterton gloated over it! at last polly, feeling as if she could not endure another five minutes of it, glanced up to see the old lady's eyes actually sparkling; her mouth had fallen into contented curves, and the jeweled hand resting on the chair-arm was playing with the fringe, while she leaned forward that she might not lose a word. "read that again, polly," she said, "the list of presents exhibited at arabella granger's wedding. i didn't hear any mention of the archibalds. it can't be that they have fallen out; and read more slowly." so polly began once more the long lists of gifts that ushered in the matrimonial happiness of mrs. john westover nee miss arabella granger; this time, however, stimulated by the pleasure she was giving, to find it an endurable task. it seemed to polly as if mrs. john westover had everything on earth given to her that could possibly be presented at a wedding; nevertheless the list was gone through again bravely, polly retracing her steps two or three times to read the items over for her listener's slow digestion. "the archibalds are not mentioned, either as being there or sending a gift, nor the harlands, nor the smythes, so i am very glad i didn't remember her," said mrs. chatterton, drawing herself up with a relieved sigh. "those presents sound fine on paper, but it isn't as well as she might have done if she had made a different match. now something else, polly," and she dismissed mrs. westover with a careless wave of her hand. polly flew off into the fashion hints, and was immediately lost in the whirl of coming toilets. no one noticed when the door opened, so of course no one saw mrs. whitney standing smiling behind the old lady's big chair. "well, polly," said a pleasant voice suddenly. down went town talk to the floor as polly sprang up with a glad cry, and mrs. chatterton turned around nervously. "oh, auntie--auntie!" cried polly, convulsively clinging to her, "are you really here, and is dicky home?" "dear child," said mrs. whitney, as much a girl for the moment as polly herself. and pressing kisses on the red lips, while she folded her close--"yes, dick is at home. there, go and find him; he is in mrs. pepper's room." "i am glad to see you so much better, mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney, leaning over the invalid's chair to lay the tenderest of palms on the hand resting on the chair-arm. "oh, yes, marian; i am better," said mrs. chatterton, looking around for polly, then down at the delicious town talk carelessly thrown on the floor. "will you send her back as soon as possible?" she asked with her old imperativeness. "who--polly?" said mrs. whitney, following the glance. "why, she has gone to see dick, you know. now, why cannot i read a bit?" and she picked up the paper. "you don't know what has been read," said mrs. chatterton as mrs. whitney drew up a chair and sat down, running her eye in a practiced way over the front page. "dear me, it makes me quite nervous, marian, to see you prowling around all over the sheet that way." "oh! i shall find something interesting quite soon, i fancy," said mrs. whitney cheerfully, her heart on her boy and the jolly home-coming he was having. "here is the washington news; i mean all about the receptions and teas." "she has read that," said mrs. chatterton. "now for the fashion department." mrs. whitney whirled the paper over dexterously. "do you know, mrs. chatterton, gray stuffs are to be worn more than ever this spring?" "i don't care about that," said mrs. chatterton quickly, "and besides, quite likely there'll be a complete revolution before spring really sets in, and gray stuffs will go out. find some description of tea gowns, can't you? i must have one or two more." "and here are some wonderfully pretty caps, if they are all like the descriptions," said mrs. whitney, unluckily dropping on another paragraph. "caps! who wants to hear about them?" cried mrs. chatterton in a dudgeon. "i hope i'm not at the cap period yet." "oh! those lovely little lace arrangements," said mrs. whitney hastily; "don't you know how exquisite they are at pinaud's?" she cried. "i'm sure i never noticed," said mrs. chatterton indifferently. "hortense always arranges my hair better without lace. if you can't find what i ask you, marian," raising her voice to a higher key, "you needn't trouble to read at all." fortunately the description of the gown worn by lady hartly cavendish at a london high tea, stood out in bold relief, as mrs. whitney's eyes nervously ran over the columns again, and she seized upon it. but in just two moments she was interrupted. "send that girl back again, marian," cried mrs. chatterton. "i had just got her trained so that she suits me. it tires me to death to hear you." "i do not know whether polly can come now," said mrs. whitney gently; "she"-- "do not know whether polly can come!" repeated mrs. chatterton sharply, and leaning forward in her chair. "didn't i say i wanted her?" "you did." marian's tone did not lose a note of its ordinary gentleness. "but i shall ask her if she is willing to do it as a favor, mrs. chatterton; you quite understand that, of course?" she, too, leaned forward in her chair, and gazed into the cold, hard face. "just like your father," cried mrs. chatterton, settling herself irascibly back in the chair-depths again. "there is no hope that affairs in this house will mend. i wash my hands of you." "i am so glad that you consider me like my father," said mrs. whitney gleefully as a child. "we surely are united on this question." "may i read some more?" cried polly, coming in softly, and trying to calm the impetuous rush of delight as her eyes met mrs. whitney's. "yes; i am waiting for you," said mrs. chatterton. "begin where you left off." mrs. whitney bit her pretty lips and slipped out of her chair, just pausing a moment to lay her hand on the young shoulder as she passed, and a world of comfort fell upon polly, shut in once more to her dreary task. "how perfectly splendid that i didn't go to silvia home's luncheon party now!" cried polly's heart over and over between the lines. "if i had, i should have missed dear auntie's home-coming, and dicky's." she glanced up with luminous eyes as she whirled the sheet. mrs. chatterton, astonishing as it may seem, was actually smiling. "it's some comfort to hear you read," she observed with a sigh of enjoyment, "because you enjoy it yourself. i wouldn't give a fig for anybody to try to do it." polly felt like a guilty little thing to take this quietly, and she eased her conscience by being more glad that she was in that very room doing that very task. and so the moments sped on. outside, dick was holding high revel as every one revolved around him, the hero of the coasting accident, till the boy ran considerable danger from all the attention he was receiving. but one glance and a smile from mrs. whitney brought him back to himself. "don't talk any more about it," he cried a trifle impatiently. "i was a muff to stick on, when i knew we were going over. mamma, won't you stop them?" and she did. "do you know, dicky and i have a secret to tell all of you good people." the color flew into her soft cheek, and her eyes beamed. "really, marian," said her father, whose hand had scarcely ceased patting dick's brown head since the boy's home-coming, "you've grown young in badgertown. i never saw you look so well as you do to-day." mrs. whitney laughed and tossed him a gay little smile, that carried him back to the days when marian king stood before him looking just so. "now listen, father, and all you good people, to my secret--dicky's and mine; we are allowed to tell it now. papa whitney sailed in the servia, and he ought to be in to-day!" a shout of joy greeted her announcement. polly, off in her prison, could hear the merry sounds, and her happy heart echoed them. the misery of the past week, when she had been bearing an unatoned fault, seemed to drop away from her as she listened, and to say, "life holds sunshine yet." then a hush dropped upon the gay uproar. she did not know that dicky was proclaiming "yes, and he is never, never going back again. that is, unless he takes mamma and me, you know." mrs. chatterton turned suddenly upon the young figure. "do go!" she tossed an imperative command with her jeweled fingers. "you have ceased to be amusing since your interest is all in the other room with that boy." polly dashed the newspaper to the floor, and rushing impulsively across the room, threw herself, with no thought for the consequences, on her knees at mrs. chatterton's chair. "oh--oh!" she cried, the color flying up to the brown waves on her temples, "don't send me off; then i shall know you never will forgive me." "get up, do!" exclaimed mrs. chatterton, in disgust; "you are crushing my gown, and besides i hate scenes." but polly held resolutely to the chair-arm, and never took her brown eyes from the cold face. "i must say, polly pepper," cried mrs. chatterton with rising anger, "you are the most disagreeable girl that i ever had the misfortune to meet. i, for one, will not put up with your constant ebullitions of temper. go out of this room!" polly rose slowly and drew herself up with something so new in face and manner that the old lady instinctively put up her eyeglass and gazed curiously through it, as one would look at a strange animal. "humph!" she said slowly at last, "well, what do you want to say? speak out, and then go." "nothing," said polly in a low voice, but quite distinctly, "only i shall not trouble you again, mrs. chatterton." and as the last words were spoken, she was out of the room. "pretty doings these!" mr. king, by a dexterous movement, succeeded in slipping back of the portiere folds into the little writing-room, as polly rushed out through the other doorway into the hall. "a fortunate thing it was that i left dick, to see what had become of polly. now, cousin eunice, you move from my house!" and descending the stairs, he called determinedly, "polly, polly, child!" polly, off in her own room now, heard him, and for the first time in her life, wished she need not answer. "polly--polly!" the determined call rang down the passage, causing her to run fast with a "yes, grandpapa, i'm coming." "now, i should just like to inquire," began mr. king, taking her by her two young shoulders and looking down into the flushed face, "what she has been saying to you." "oh, grandpapa!" down went polly's brown head, "don't make me tell. please don't, grandpapa." "i shall!" declared mr. king; "every blessed word. now begin!" "she--she wanted me to go out of the room," said polly, in a reluctant gasp. "indeed!" snorted mr. king. "well, she will soon go out of that room. indeed, i might say, out of the house." "oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed polly, in great distress, and raising the brown eyes--he was dismayed to find them filling with tears--"don't, don't send her away! it is all my fault; indeed it is, grandpapa!" "your fault," cried mr. king irately; "you must not say such things, child; that's silly; you don't know the woman." "grandpapa," cried polly, holding back the storm of tears to get the words out, "i never told you--i couldn't--but i said perfectly dreadful words to her a week ago. oh, grandpapa! i did, truly." "that's right," said the old gentleman in a pleased tone. "what were they, pray tell? let us know." "oh, grandpapa, don't!" begged polly, with a shiver; "i want to forget them." "if you would only follow them up with more," said mr. king meditatively; "when it comes to tears, she must march, you know." "i won't cry," said polly, swallowing the lump in her throat, "if you will only let her stay." she turned to him such a distressed and white face that mr. king stood perplexedly looking down at her, having nothing to say. "i'm tired of her," at last he said; "we are all tired of her; she has about worn us out." "grandpapa," cried polly, seeing her advantage in his hesitation, "if you will only let her stay, i will never beg you for anything again." "well, then she goes," cried mr. king shortly. "goodness me, polly, if you are going to stop asking favors, cousin eunice marches instanter!" "oh! i'll beg and tease for ever so many things," cried polly radiantly, her color coming back. "will you let her stay, grandpapa--will you?" she clasped his arm tightly and would not let him go. "well," said mr. king slowly, "i'll think about it, polly." "will you?" cried polly. "dear grandpapa, please say yes." mr. king drew a long breath. "yes," he said at last. xiii a piece of news "collect the whole bunch of peppers and send them into my writing-room, marian." old mr. king mounting the stairs, turned to see that his command was heard. "you want mother pepper too, i presume?" said mrs. whitney, pausing at the foot. "mother pepper? no, indeed; the last person in the world i wish to see," cried her father irritably. "the bunch of pepper children, i want, and at once; see that they all report to me directly." with that he redoubled his efforts and was soon at the top of the long oaken steps. polly and ben closely followed by joel, david and phronsie soon rushed over the same ascending thoroughfare, and presented themselves, flushed and panting, at the writing-room door. "come in," called mr. king from within. "here we are, sir," said ben, spokesman by virtue of being the eldest. "yes, yes," said mr. king nervously, and turning away from some papers he was fumbling to occupy the waiting moments. "well, do sit down, all of you. i sent for you to have a talk about something that you--that you--well, do sit down." so all the peppers deposited themselves in various resting-places; all but joel. he immediately marched up to the old gentleman's chair. "if it's good news," he said abruptly, "please let us have it right this minute. but if it's bad, why," a gathering alarm stole over his chubby countenance, as he scanned the face before him, "i'm going out-doors." "it's good or bad news according as you take it," said the old gentleman. "it ought to be good. but there," pushing back his chair to look at the row of anxious figures the other side of the table, "do sit down with the rest, joe, and stop staring me out of countenance." polly at that, pushed a chair over toward joel, who persuading himself into it, sat uncomfortably perched on its edge, where he stared harder than ever. "hum! well, children, now you are all remarkably sensible boys and girls. remarkably sensible. i've always said so, and i see no reason to change my opinion of you now. and so, although at first my news may not be quite to your liking, why, you'll quickly make it so, and be very happy about it in the end. hem! well, did you ever think that--that your mother might possibly marry again?" the last words were brought out so abruptly, that to the five pairs of ears strained to catch their import, it seemed as if the news had shot by harmlessly. but after a breathing space the dreadful "marry," and "your mother," came back to them, bringing the several owners of the ears out of their chairs at one bound. "our mother!" ben hoarsely exclaimed. "oh! how can you?" cried polly passionately, a little white line showing around her mouth, "say such perfectly dreadful things, sir!" phronsie clasped her hands in silent terror, and raised big eyes to his face. david began to walk helplessly down the apartment. "see here!" said joel, turning to the others, "wait a minute, and hold on. perhaps it's you, sir," whirling back to question, with piercing eyes, the old gentleman, "who's going to marry our mother. then it's all right!" "me!" roared the old gentleman. "oh! bless my soul, what should i want to marry for at my time of life? oh! my goodness me." his distress was now so frightful to see, that it brought the peppers in a measure out of theirs; and they began at once to endeavor to soothe him. "don't--oh! don't," they cried, and a common trouble overwhelming them, they rushed around the table, seized his hands, and patted his shoulders and hair. "oh! this is very dreadful," gasped polly, "but don't you feel badly, dear, dear grandpapa." "i should think it was," said mr. king. "phronsie, here, child, get into my lap. i'll come to myself then. there, now, that's something like," as phronsie, with a low cry, hopped into her usual nest. "now perhaps i can communicate the rest of my news, when i get my breath." the peppers held theirs, and he began once more. "now, children, it isn't in the course of nature for such a fine bright woman as your mother to remain single the rest of her life; somebody would be sure to come and carry her off. i'm glad it's to be in my lifetime, for now i can be easy in my mind, and feel that you have a protector when i am gone. there, there, we won't talk about that," as the young faces turned dark with sudden pain, while joel rushed convulsively to the window, "you can see how i feel about it." "are you glad?" cried ben hoarsely. polly for her life could not speak. the whole world seemed turning round, and sinking beneath her feet. "yes, i am," said the old gentleman, "and it won't alter the existing state of things, for he will live here with us, and things will be just the same, if only you children will take it rightly. but i've no doubt you will in the end; no doubt at all," he added, brightening up, "for you are very sensible young people. i've always said so." "who is he?" the dreadful question trembled on all the lips; but no one asked it. seeing this, mr. king broke out, "well, now of course you want to know who is going to marry your mother, that is, if you are willing. for she won't have him unless you are to be happy about it. would you like dr. fisher for a father?" joel broke away from the window with a howl, while polly tumultuously threw herself within the kind arms encircling phronsie. "next to you," cried the boy, "why, he's a brick, dr. fisher is!" "why didn't you tell us before that it was he?" sobbed polly, with joyful tears running over her face. davie, coming out of his gloomy walk, turned a happy face towards the old man's chair, while ben said something to himself that sounded like "thank god!" phronsie alone remained unmoved. "what is dr. fisher going to do?" she asked presently, amid the chatter that now broke forth. "he's going to live here," said old mr. king, looking down at her, and smoothing her yellow hair. "won't that be nice, phronsie?" "yes," said phronsie, "it will. and he'll bring his funny old gig, won't he, and ill drive sometimes, i suppose?" she added with great satisfaction. "yes; you will," said the old gentleman, winking furiously to keep back the excited flow of information that now threatened the child. "well, phronsie, you love dr. fisher, don't you?" "yes, i do," said the child, folding her hands in her lap, "love him very much indeed." "well, he's going to be your father," communicated mr. king, cautiously watching her face at each syllable. "oh, no!" cried phronsie, "he couldn't be; he's dr. fisher." she laughed softly at the idea. "why, grandpapa, he couldn't be my father." "listen, phronsie," and mr. king took both her hands in his, "and i'll tell you about it so that you will understand. dr. fisher loves your mother; he has loved her for many years--all those years when she was struggling on in the little brown house. but he couldn't tell her so, because he had others depending on him for support. they don't need him now, and as soon as he is free, he comes and tells your mother and me, like a noble good man as he is, all about it. he's a gentleman, children," he declared, turning to the others, "and you will be glad to call him father." "i don't know what you mean," said phronsie, with puzzled eyes. "dear grandpapa, please tell me." "why, he is going to marry your mother, child, and we are all to live here together just the same, and everything is going to be just as happy as possible." phronsie gave a sharp and sudden cry of distress. "but mamsie, my mamsie will be gone!" and then she hid her face in the old gentleman's breast. "o dear, dear! get a glass of water, polly," cried mr. king. "one of you run and open the window. phronsie, phronsie--there, child, look up and let me tell you." but phronsie burrowed yet deeper in the protecting nest, regardless of his spotless linen. "polly, speak to her," he cried in despair; "where is she? gone for the water? o dear! here, ben, you try. dear, dear, what a blunderer i am." "phronsie," said ben, leaning over the shaking figure, "you are making grandpapa sick." up came phronsie's yellow head. "oh, grandpapa!" she wailed, putting out an unsteady little hand, "i didn't mean to, dear grandpapa, only--only mamsie will be gone now." "bless your heart, you'll have mamsie more than ever," cried mr. king heartily. "here, you children, tell her. polly, we don't want the water now, she's come to," as polly came rushing in with a glassful. "make her understand; i can't." so polly, setting down her glass, the others crowding around, took up the task of making the piece of news as delightful as possible, and presently phronsie came out of her despair, to ask questions. "are you really and truly very glad, polly?" she asked. "really and truly i am so glad i don't know what to do," said polly, kneeling down by the chair-side. "don't you see we are so much the richer, phronsie? we have lost nothing, and we gain dr. fisher. dear splendid dr. fisher!" "you've always wanted to repay dr. fisher for his kindness," said mr. king, "and now's your chance, polly." "i guess he'll get his pay back for his stove," cried joel in a burst; "polly will wait on him, and kill herself doing things for him." "and for your new eyes," sang phronsie in a pleased way. "oh, polly!" she jumped out of the old gentleman's lap, and began to dance around the room, softly clapping her hands and exclaiming, "oh, polly!" "well, now, children," said mr. king, as the excitement ran low, "you just run and tell your mother, every one of you, how happy she will make you by bringing dr. fisher here as your father. scamper, now!" no need to urge them. on the wings of the wind ran the five peppers up into mamsie's own room. mrs. pepper for once turning aside from the claim of her pressing duties, was standing by the work table. here stood the mending basket before her, piled to the brim with the weekly installment of stockings big and little, clamoring for attention. but the usually busy needle lay idle, and the busier hands were folded, as the mother-heart went over the words she knew were being rehearsed downstairs by the kind friend who had made a home for them. he was pleading her cause with her children. "they shall be happy, anyway," she said softly to herself, "bless their hearts!" as they burst in. "mother," said ben--how the boy's cheek glowed! and what a world of joy rang in the usually quiet tones!--"we want to thank you for giving us dr. fisher for a father." "mamsie," polly hid her happy face on the dear neck, "i've always loved him, you know; oh! i'm so glad." joel whooped out something incoherent, but his face told the words, while davie clasped one of the firm, closely folded hands. "if you'll take me in your lap as much as ever," said phronsie deliberately, and patting the other hand, "why i shall be really and truly glad, mamsie." "bless your dear heart!" cried mother pepper, clasping her tightly, "and you children, all of you," and she drew them all within her arms. "now i want you to understand, once for all, that it isn't to be unless you all wish it. you are sure mr. king hasn't persuaded you to like it?" "look at us," cried ben, throwing back his head to see her eyes. "do we act as if we had been talked over?" at that, polly burst into a merry laugh; and the others joining, mother pepper laughing as heartily as the rest, the big room became the jolliest place imaginable. "no, i don't really think you do," said mrs. pepper, wiping her eyes. "dear me!" cried jasper, putting his head in the doorway, "what good fun is going on? i'm not going to be left out." "come in, jasper," they all called. "and we've a piece of news that will make your hair stand on end," said joel gaily. "joe, don't announce it so," cried polly in dismay, who dearly enjoyed being elegant. "ben must tell it; he is the oldest." "no, no; let polly," protested ben. "polly shall," said jasper, hurrying in to stand the picture of patience before the group. "hurry, do, for i must say my curiosity is hard to keep within bounds." so polly was gently pushed into the center of the circle. "go on," said joel, "and hurry up, or i shall tell myself." "jasper," said polly, her breath coming fast, "oh! you can't think; we are so glad"--but she got no further, for phronsie, rushing out of mother pepper's arms, piped out suddenly: "dr. fisher is coming here to live always and forever, and i'm going to ride in his gig, and mamsie likes him, and i'm going to call him father; now, jasper, i told you!" "i should think you did," exclaimed ben. "whew!" cried jasper, "that is a piece of news all in one breath. well, mrs. pepper, i'm glad of it, too. i congratulate you." with that, he marched up to her, phronsie hanging to his arm, and shook her hand heartily. and in two days everybody in the king set knew that the mother of the five little peppers was going to be married. "i should think you'd want to be condoled with, ben," said pickering dodge, clapping him on the shoulder as he rushed down the aisle of the store occupied by cabot & van meter. "halloo!" said ben, "can't stop," rushing past. "i suppose not," said pickering carelessly, and striding after, "so i'll whisper my gentle congratulations in your ear 'on the wing.' but i'm awfully sorry for you, ben," he added, as he came up to him. "you needn't be," said ben brightly, "we are all as glad as can be." "sweet innocent, you don't know a stepfather," said pickering lugubriously. "i know dr. fisher," said ben, "that's enough." "well, when you want comfort, come to me," said pickering, "or your uncle!" "don't you fill ben's ears with your foolishness," said the senior partner, coming out of the counting-room. "take yourself off, pickering; you're hindering ben." pickering laughed. "i'm caught in the very act. now, ben, remember i'm your friend when you get into trouble with your dear pa. good-by, uncle," with a bright nod, and a lazy shake of his long figure. "trade always demoralizes me. i'll get back to my books," and he vanished as quickly as he came. "back to your books," said his uncle grimly, "hum, i wish you would. see here, ben," he put a controlling hand on the boy's shoulder, "one word with you," marching him into the private office of the firm. "don't you follow pickering too closely, my boy," he said abruptly; "he's a good lad in the main, but if he is my nephew, i must give you warning. he's losing ground." ben lifted his head in sudden alarm. "oh! i hope not, sir," he said. "it's a fact. master nelson says he could be first scholar in the grammar, but for the last six months he's failed steadily. there's no particular reason, only ambition's gone. and when you say that, you mean there's a general collapse of all my hopes concerning him." "oh! no, sir," ben kept on protesting, his ruddy cheek losing its color. "he'll take hold by and by and give a pull at his books again." "it isn't a pull now and then that gets a man up hill," observed mr. cabot, leaning back in his revolving chair to look into the blue eyes, "that you know as well as i. now, ben, i'm not going to see you throw away your prospects, too. don't let him influence you in the wrong way. he's bright and attractive, but don't pay attention to his ridicule of good things." "i've a mother," said ben proudly, "and i don't believe any boy could say much to me, that i'd think of twice, if she didn't like it." "you always tell her everything, do you, ben?" asked mr. cabot with a curious glance. "i should think so, sir," said ben, with a short laugh. "you'll do, then," said mr. cabot, bringing his palm down on a pile of unread letters awaiting him. "go ahead. i don't promise anything, but i will say this. if you work on as you have done these two years since you came in here as errand boy, ben, i'll make you a power in the house. understand i don't expect you to do brilliant things; that isn't in your line. you will be a success only as a steady, faithful worker. but keep at it, and hang on to cabot & van meter, and we'll hang on to you." xiv mamsie's wedding "polly," said dr. fisher, coming suddenly out of a corner of the library as she ran around the portiere folds, "you are sure you are willing--are willing it should go on?" the little man peered at her anxiously through his big glasses, and he looked so exactly as he did on that morning so long ago when polly's eyes were at their worst, that she could do nothing but gaze speechlessly into his face. "i see you don't consider it quite best, child," said the little doctor brokenly, "but you are trying with your good heart, to make it so. don't be afraid; it is not too late to end it all." "i was thinking," cried polly with a gasp, "how good you were to me, when you saved my eyes, and how you kept joel from dying of the measles. oh! i couldn't speak--but i love you so." she threw her young arms around him. "papa fisher--for you are almost my father now--i am the very, very happiest girl because you are going to live here, and now i can show you just how much i really and truly love you." the little man beamed at her. then he took off his spectacles, wiped them, and clapped them into place again. "you see, polly," he said deliberately, "it was impossible to see your mother and not love her. she has had--well, there, child, i cannot bear to talk about it," and he walked to the window, blew his nose violently on an immense pocket-handkerchief, leaving the words poised in mid-air. "it was the greatest trial of my life that i couldn't show her then when she was struggling so bravely to keep the wolf from the door, how i felt. but my hands were tied, child," he added, coming back, his usual self again. "now i can make her, she says, happy, that is, if you children like it. just think, polly, she said happy! it's stupendous, but she said so, polly, she really did!" he folded his hands and looked at her in astonishment, behind which shone an intense gratification, that lighted up his plain little face till he seemed to grow younger every instant. "indeed she did!" repeated polly like a bird, and laughing merrily. "oh, papa fisher! you ought to hear mamsie sing. she doesn't know i'm hearing her, but she sings at her work now." "does she?" cried the doctor radiantly. "well, polly, we must see that she sings every day, after this." "yes, let us," cried polly, clasping his hand; "we will." "and," proceeded the doctor, "after the wedding is over--i it really dread the wedding, polly--but after that is over, i do believe we shall all be comfortable together!" polly gave a little cry of delight. then she said, "you needn't dread the wedding one bit, papa fisher. there will be only the people that we love, and who love us--grandpapa promised that." "but that will make it very big," said dr. fisher, with round eyes and a small shiver he could not suppress. "oh, no!" said polly cheerily, "sixty-five friends; that's all we are going to ask; mamsie and i made out the list last night." "sixty-five people!" exclaimed dr. fisher in dismay. "oh! isn't is possible to be married without sixty-five friends to stare at you?" "oh! that's not many," said polly; "sixty-five is the very smallest number that we could manage. we've been over the list ever so many times, and struck out quantities of names. you see, everybody loves mamsie, and they'll want to see her married." "i know--i know," assented the doctor, "but that makes one hundred and thirty eyes. did you ever think of that, polly?" polly burst into such a laugh that jasper popped in, and after him, phronsie, and a general hilarity now reigning, the dreaded wedding preparations soon sank away from the doctor's perturbed vision. but they went on merrily nevertheless. all over the old stone mansion there were hints of the on-coming festivities; and though all signs of it were tucked away from the little doctor on his occasional visits, the smothered excitement flamed afresh immediately his departure became an assured thing. everybody had the wildest plans for the occasion; it appearing impossible to do enough for the one who had stood at the helm for five long years, and who was to be reigning housekeeper for as much longer as her services were needed. and dr. fisher never knew how perilously near he had been to the verge of brilliant evening festivities, in the midst of which he was to be ushered into matrimony. for polly had suddenly waked one morning, to find herself, not "famous," but alive with the sense of being--as her mother had so often expressed it--"mamsie's little right-hand woman." "it will be much better to have everything plain," said polly, communing with herself, as she turned on her pillow. "mamsie has always been without show, of any kind, and so," but here polly's heart stood still. dearly she loved the bright, conspicuous accompaniments to the wedding whereby mr. king was determined to show his respect for the family under his care. and her soul secretly longed for the five hundred guests named on a list of the old gentleman's drawing up. and the feast and the lights, and the pretty dresses, and the dancing party for the young people to follow. for mr. king had announced himself as about to usher in the brightest of days for the young peppers to remember. "besides it brings our new physician into notice," he would answer when any faint protest was made. "and we shall all have reason to be immensely proud of him, i tell you!" "oh, dear!" cried polly, burrowing deeper within the pillow folds, "why aren't pleasant things best to do? why, i wonder!" cherry, twittering in the window, chirped something vague and unsatisfactory. polly brought up her brown head suddenly and laughed. "nonsense! our happiness doesn't depend upon a lot of people coming together to help it along. mamsie's face, whenever grandpapa plans all this magnificence, is enough to make me feel wretched at the thought of it. dear mamsie! she's afraid of ingratitude if she doesn't try to like it. she shall have the little morning wedding with a few people around, and the gray silk gown instead of the lavender one grandpapa wants her to wear, for mamsie always knows just what is right." with that, polly sprang out of bed, and rushed at her toilet, and after breakfast she quietly captured mr. king on the edge of some other extravagant plan, and led him into the library. "everything is going on finely, polly," he cried in elation. "ring for thomas, child; stay, i'll do it myself. i shall go in an hour to give my orders for the wedding supper." "grandpapa," cried polly, turning quite pale, and laying a quick, detaining hand on his arm, "oh! do wait, dear grandpapa, i have something to say." "well, child," but he still retained his hand on the cord. "oh, grandpapa!" how could she say it! but she must. "mamsie will be ever so much happier if the wedding might be a quiet one. she really would, grandpapa." "no doubt mrs. pepper finds it a little hard to adjust her ideas to the large affair," said the old gentleman, considerably disturbed, and by no means relinquishing the bell-cord, "but it is due to you children to have a bright time, and i must see that you all have it. that is my affair," and this time the cord was pulled, and the bell rang a loud, insistent message. polly stood still in despair. "grandpapa," she said distinctly, finding it hard to proceed, with his face before her, "we children do not want the large party; that is i do not." it was all out at last. "stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed mr. king sharply, for his surprise was too great to allow of composure, "who has been putting this idea into your head? your mother couldn't have done it, for she promised it should all be as you young people wanted." "mamsie never said a word," cried polly, recovering herself as she saw a chance to make things right for mother pepper; "it all came to me, grandpapa, all alone by myself. oh! i hate the big display!" she declared with sudden vehemence, astonishing herself with the repulsion that now seized her. "hoity toity!" exclaimed mr. king, "it's not quite the thing, polly, my child, to express yourself so decidedly, considering your years." "grandpapa," cried polly, with a sudden rush of tears, "forgive me, do; i did not mean to be so naughty. i did not, dear grandpapa." she looked like phronsie now, and the old gentleman's heart melted. "but i am quite sure that none of us children would be a bit happy not to have it as mamsie would like." "well, but i am not sure that the others wouldn't like it," said mr. king persistently. "ben wouldn't," said polly triumphantly, "i know, for he all along shrank from the big party." "oh! well, ben, i suppose, would object somewhat," conceded the old gentleman slowly. "and davie," cried polly eagerly; "oh, grandpapa! david would much prefer the morning wedding and the plain things." "but how about joel and phronsie?" interrupted mr. king, utterly ignoring davie's claims to be heard. "ah! polly, my dear, until you tell me that they will prefer to give up the fine party, you mustn't expect me to pay any attention to what you say. it's due to phronsie that your mother's wedding is a thing worthy to remember as a fine affair." "perhaps joel and phronsie will think as we do," said polly. but her heart said no. "all right if they do," said mr. king easily, "but unless you come and tell me it is their own choice, why, i shall just go on with my plans as mapped out," he added obstinately. "thomas," as that functionary appeared in the doorway, "take the letters to the post at once; you will find them on my writing table." "all right, sir." "i'll give you till to-morrow to find out," said mr. king. "now come and kiss me, polly dear. you'll see it's all right after it's over, and be glad i had the sense to keep my mind about it." polly put up her lips obediently. but it was a sad little kiss that was set upon his mouth, and it left him feeling like a criminal. and running out, she met her difficult task without a moment of preparation. "halloo, polly!" whooped joel, rushing around an angle in the hall, "grandpapa promised me that i might go out with him, to give the supper orders, and all that kind of nonsense." polly's heart stood still. "joel," she began, seizing his jacket with trembling fingers, "come up into my room a minute." "what's up?" cried joel with curiosity; "some more mysteries? there's nothing but whisperings, and secrets, and no end of jolly understandings, ever since mamsie commenced to marry dr. fisher. go ahead, i'll come." "and phronsie, too," said polly, seeing the yellow head emerge from the breakfast-room doorway. "come on, phron," sang out joel, "up in polly's room--she wants you," and the three hurried off. "now, joel," said polly, closing the door and facing him desperately, "you are mamsie's own boy." "i should think so," said joel, "i'm not anybody's else. is that all you brought me up here to say?" thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking at her. "and you can make her happy, or just as miserable as i can't say what," went on polly incoherently. "what in the world are you firing at?" demanded the boy, visions of certain pranks at school unpleasantly before him. "don't shoot over my head, polly, but keep somewhere near your mark," he advised irritably. phronsie surveyed the two with wide eyes, and a not wholly pleased manner. "mamsie does not want a big wedding," declared polly, going to the heart of the matter, "but dear kind grandpapa thinks it will please us children, and so he wants to give her one." "and so it will," cried joel, "please us children. whoop la! give us your hand, phronsie, this is the way we'll dance afterwards at the party." "i don't want to dance," said phronsie, standing quite still in the middle of the room. the morning sun shone across her yellow hair, but no light came into the large eyes. "polly wants something, first; what is it, joel?" "i'm sure i don't know," said joel, poised on a careless foot, and executing a remarkable pas seul. "i don't believe she knows herself. polly is often queer, you know, phronsie," he added cheerfully. "tell me, polly, do," whispered phronsie, going over to her. "phronsie," said polly very slowly, "mamsie doesn't want a big party in the evening to see her married, but to have a cunning little company of friends come in the morning, and"-- "ugh!" cried joel in disgust, coming down suddenly to both feet. "it will please mamsie best," went on polly, with a cold shoulder to joel. "and i never should be happy in all this world to remember that i helped to make my mamsie unhappy on her wedding day." phronsie shivered, and her voice held a miserable little thrill as she begged, "oh! make her be married just as she wants to be, polly, do." "now that's what i call mean," cried joel in a loud, vindictive tone back of polly, "to work on phronsie's feelings. you can't make me say i don't want mamsie to have a wedding splurge, so there, polly pepper!" polly preserved a dignified silence, and presented her shoulder again to his view. "you can't make me say it, polly pepper!" shouted joel shrilly. "oh, phronsie!" exclaimed polly in a rapture, throwing her arms around the child, "mamsie will be so pleased--you can't think. let us go and tell her; come!" "see here!" called joel, edging up, "why don't you talk to me?" "i haven't anything to say," polly condescended to give him, without turning her head. "come, phronsie," holding out her hand. "wait a minute." "well, what is it?" polly's hand now held phronsie's, but she paused on the way to the door. "i guess i can give up things as well as she can, if i know mamsie wants me to," said joel, with a deeply injured manner. "mamsie doesn't want any of us to give up anything unless we do it as if we were glad to," said polly. for her life, she couldn't conceal a little scornful note in her voice, and joel winced miserably. "i--i wish she wouldn't have the big party," he whined. "i thought you wanted it," said polly, turning to him. "i--i don't. i'd rather mamsie would be happy. o, dear! don't look at me so." "i'm not looking at you so," said polly. "you acted just as if you had your heart set on the party." "well, it isn't. i'll--i'll--if you say party to me again!" and he faced her vindictively. "joel pepper!" cried polly, holding him with her brown eyes, "do you really mean that you are glad to give up that big evening party, and have the little teeny one in the morning?" "yes," said joel, "as true as i live and breathe, i do!" "oh! oh! oh!" cried polly, and seizing his arm, she led off in a dance, so much surpassing his efforts, that phronsie screamed with delight to see them go. when they could dance no more, polly, flushed and panting, ran out of the room, leaving the two to find out as best they might, the cause of the strange demeanor. "grandpapa," polly rushing over the stairs, met him coming up to mrs. whitney's room, "joel says it's the little morning wedding--please; and phronsie too!" the old gentleman gave no sign of his defeat, beyond a "humph! and so i'm beaten, after all!" and dr. fisher never knew all this. mamsie's wedding-day! at last it came! was any other ever so bright and beautiful? phronsie thought not, and thereupon she impeded the preparations by running up to kiss her mother every few moments, until such time as felicie carried her off to induct her into a white muslin gown. polly, here, there, and everywhere, was in such a rapture that she seemed to float on wings, while the boys of the household, with the exception of jasper, lost their heads early in the day, and helplessly succumbed to all demands upon them. every flower had to be put in place by the young people. old turner for once stood one side. and polly must put the white satin boxes filled with wedding cake on the little table where one of the waiters would hand them to departing guests. and phronsie must fasten mamsie's pearl broach--the gift of the five little peppers--in her lace collar the very last thing. and jasper collected the rice and set the basket holding it safely away from joel's eager fingers till such time as they could shower the bride's carriage. and all the boys were ushers, even little dick coming up grandly to offer his arm to the tallest guest as it happened. and old mr. king gave the bride away! and dr. fisher at the last forgot all the one hundred and thirty eyes, and his "i will," rang out like a man's who has secured what he has long wanted. and ever so many of the guests said "what a good father he will make the children," and several attempted to tell the peppers so. "as if we didn't know it before," said joel indignantly. and alexia and all the other girls of polly's set were there, and joel's little blue and white creature came, to his great satisfaction, with her aunt, who was quite intimate in the family; and pickering dodge was there of course, and the alstynes, and hosts of others. and mother pepper in her silver-gray gown and bonnet, by the side of her husband, with phronsie clinging to one hand, heard nothing but heart-felt wishes for her happiness and that of the five little peppers. and there was not so much as the shadow of a skeleton at the wedding breakfast. and cousin mason whitney took charge of the toasts--and everybody felt that just the right things had been said. and then there was a flutter of departure of the bridal party, and in the rattle of the wheels phronsie piped out bravely as she threw the slipper after the departing coach: "mamsie has been taking care of us all these years; now we're going to be good and let her be happy." xv mrs. chatterton has a new plan "polly is learning to play beautifully," mused phronsie, nursing one foot contemplatively, as she curled up on the floor. "and ben is to be a capital business man, so papa fisher says, and joel is going to buy up this whole town sometime, and davie knows ever so many books from beginning to end, but what can i do?" down went the little foot to the floor, and the yellow head drooped over the white apron. "nothing," mourned phronsie, "just nothing at all; not even the wee-est teeniest bit of anything do i know how to do. o, dear!" outside, jasper was calling to prince. phronsie could hear the big dog rushing over the lawn in response, barking furiously as he went. but she did not move. "and mamsie will never be glad for me, unless i learn how to do things too. if i don't hurry, i shall never be grown up." "tweet--tweet--ch-r-r-r"--cherry in his cage over her head, chirped vigorously by way of consolation, but phronsie did not lift her head. cherry seeing all his efforts in vain, stopped his song and rolled one black eye down at her in astonishment, and soon became quite still. presently the rustle of a stiff black satin gown became the chief intruder upon the silence. it was so asserting that phronsie lifted her head to look into the face of mrs. chatterton, standing before her, playing with the rings on her long white hands, and regarding her as if she would soon require an explanation of such strange conduct. "what are you doing, phronsie?" at last demanded the lady. "thinking," said phronsie; and she laid her chin in her hand, and slowly turned her gaze upon the thin, disagreeable face before her, but not as if in the slightest degree given up to a study of its lines and expression. "so i perceive," said mrs. chatterton harshly. "well, and what are you thinking of, pray tell?" still phronsie looked beyond her, and it was not until the question had been repeated, that an answer came. "of many things," said phronsie, "but i do not think i ought to tell you." "and why not, pray?" cried the lady, with a short and most unpleasant laugh. "because i do not think you would understand them," said phronsie. and now she looked at the face she had before overlooked, with a deliberate scrutiny as if she would not need to repeat the attention. "indeed!" exclaimed mrs. chatterton angrily, "and pray how long since your thoughts have been so valuable?" "my thoughts are nice ones," said phronsie slowly, "because they are about nice people." "ah!" "and they won't tell themselves. and i ought not to make them. they would fly away then, and i should never find them again, when i wanted to think them." "your mother brought you up well, i must say," observed mrs. chatterton, deliberately drawing up a chair and putting her long figure within it, "to talk in this style to a lady as old as i am." phronsie allowed one foot to gently trace the pattern on the carpet before she answered. "i know you are very old," she said at last, "but i cannot tell my thoughts to you." "very old!" cried mrs. chatterton, her chin in the air. "indeed! well, i am not, i would have you know, miss phronsie," and she played with the silk cord of her satin wrapper. "i hate a child that is made a prig!" she added explosively under her breath. phronsie made no reply, being already deep in her own calculations once more. "now, phronsie," said mrs. chatterton, suddenly drawing herself out of her angry fit, and clearing her brow, "i want you to give your attention to me a moment, for i have something i must say to you. that's why i came in here, to find you alone. come, look at me, child. it isn't polite to be staring at the carpet all the time." phronsie, thus admonished, took her gaze from the floor, to bestow it on the face above her. "it's something that nobody is to know but just you and me," began mrs. chatterton, with a cautious glance at the door. then she got out of her chair, and going across the room, closed it carefully. "there, that's better; polly is always around. now we are quite alone," coming back to her seat. "you see, phronsie," she proceeded, not caring that the brown eyes were slowly adding to their astonishment an expression that augured ill for any plans she might be hoping to carry out toward propitiation. "it is necessary to be careful not to be overheard, for what i am going to say to you must be kept quite secret." "i must tell mamsie," said phronsie distinctly. "indeed you will not," declared mrs. chatterton. "she is the very one of all others who ought not to know. you can help her, phronsie, if you only keep quiet." phronsie's eyes now became so very large that mrs. chatterton hastened to add: "you know polly is learning to be a music teacher when she grows up." phronsie made no reply. "and a very creditable one she will be, from all acounts i can gather," contributed mrs. chatterton carelessly. "well, ben is doing well in cabot & van meter's, so he's no trouble to your mother. as for the two boys, i know nothing about them, one way or the other. but you, as you are a girl, and the only one not provided for, why, i shall show a little kindness in your direction. it's wholly disinterested and quixotic, i know," added mrs. chatterton, with a sweeping gaze at the walls and ceilings, "for me to give myself a thought about you or your future. and i shall never receive so much as a thank you for it. but i've passed all my life in thinking of others, phronsie," here she brought down her attention to the absorbed little countenance, "and i cannot change now," she finished pensively. a silence fell upon them, so great that mrs. chatterton broke it nervously. "goodness me, phronsie, you are not like a child; you are too uncanny for anything. why don't you ask questions about my secret?" "because i ought not to know it," said phronsie, finding her tongue. "haven't i told you that you will help your mother only by not telling her?" said mrs. chatterton. "how would you like to learn how to take care of yourself when you are a big girl?" a light slowly gathered in the brown eyes, becoming at last so joyous and assured, that mrs. chatterton's face dropped its hard lines, to lose itself in a gratified smile. "now you make me see some real hope that my scheme won't be wholly a wild piece of philanthropy," she exclaimed. "only look like that, phronsie, and i'll do anything for you." "if i can do anything for mamsie," cried phronsie, clasping her hands in rapture. "oh! do tell me, dear mrs. chatterton," she pleaded. "oh! now i am dear mrs. chatterton," cried that lady, with a hard, ill-favored smile. but she lowered her tone to a gentler one, and extending one jeweled hand, took the little folded ones in her clasp. "i will be a good friend to you, and show you how you can learn to do something so that when you grow up, you can take care of yourself, just as polly will. just think, phronsie, just as polly will," cried mrs. chatterton artfully. "how--how?" demanded phronsie, scarcely breathing. "listen, phronsie. now you know i haven't any little girl." phronsie drew a long breath. "well, i have been looking for one for a long time. i want one who will be a daughter to me; who will grow up under my direction, and who will appreciate what i sacrifice in taking her. she must be nice-looking, for i couldn't stand an ill-favored child. i have found several who were much better looking than you, phronsie; in fact, they were beauties; but i don't like the attitude of their families. the poor things actually thought they were doing me a favor by accepting my proposition for the children." as this statement required no remark on the part of the hearer, phronsie was silent, not removing her eyes from mrs. chatterton's face. "now, although you haven't as much to recommend you as many other children that i have fancied, i hope to make you serve my purpose. i am going to try you, at least. every day, phronsie, you can come to my room. it's lucky that you don't go to school, but do pretty much as you like in this house, so no questions will be asked." "i go to grandpapa's room every day," said phronsie, in a distressed tone, "to my lessons." "of course. i know that; a very silly thing it is too. there's no use in trying to break it up now, i suppose, or i'd put my hand to the attempt. but you can come to me after you've got through toadying mr. king." "what is toding?" asked phronsie. "never mind; that hasn't anything to do with the business in hand," replied mrs. chatterton impatiently. "now if you come to me every day, and give me as much time as you can, why, i'll show you what i want of you, and teach you many things. then after a while, phronsie, when you learn to appreciate it, i shall tell you what i am going to do. the adoption will be an easy matter, i fancy, when the child is interested," she added, taking the precaution to mutter it. "you must do everything as i tell you," mrs. chatterton leaned forward, and said with great deliberateness, "else you will lose this chance to help your mother. and you will never have another like it, but will grow up to be a good-for-nothing little thing when polly and all the rest are earning money for your mamsie, as you call her." "i shall earn money too," declared phronsie on a high note, and nodding her yellow head with great decision. "never!" mrs. chatterton brought her foot, incased in its black satin slipper, down with force on the carpet. "you will never earn a cent of money in all this world, unless you do exactly as i say; for you are a child who hasn't it in her to learn anything. but you can help me, and i shall teach you many things, and do well by you." "when i grow a big girl, will anybody want me to do those things that you are going to teach me?" asked phronsie, drawing near to lay her hand on the stiff black gown, and speaking earnestly. "then if they will, i'll try to do them just exactly as you tell me." "of course they will," declared mrs. chatterton carefully, edging off from the little fingers; "ever so many people will want you, phronsie. and i shall give you a great deal of money." "i shall give it all to mamsie," interrupted phronsie, her brown eyes dilating quickly, "every single twenty-five cents you give me. then i guess she will be glad, don't you?" she cried, clasping her hands in sudden rapture, while she began to dance up and down. "i shall give you so many twenty-five cents," cried mrs. chatterton, beginning to feel her old heart beat with more enthusiasm than she had known for many a day, "that you will be very rich, phronsie." "oh-oh!" cried phronsie, coming to an abrupt pause in the middle of the floor, her cheek paling in excitement. and then she could say no more. "but you must do exactly as i tell you." mrs. chatterton leaned forward suddenly, and seized the little hands, now so still in their delight. "remember, it is only when you follow my commands in every single thing that you will have any chance of earning all this money for your mother, and helping her just at polly is going to do. remember now, phronsie!" "i will remember," said phronsie slowly, as her hands were released. "very good. we will begin now then." mrs. chatterton threw herself back in her chair, and drew a long breath. "lucky i found the child alone, and so tractable. it's singularly good fortune," she muttered. "well," aloud, with a light laugh, "now, phronsie, if you are going to be your mother's helper, why, this is your first duty. let us see how well you perform it. run upstairs to the closet out of the lumber-room, and open the little black box on the shelf in front of the door--the box isn't locked--and bring me the roll of black velvet ribbon you will find there." phronsie was about to ask, "why does not hortense go up for it?" but mrs. chatterton forestalled the question by saying with a frown, "hortense has gone down to the dressmaker's. no child who calls me to account for anything i ask of her can be helped by me. do as you like, phronsie. no one will compel you to learn how to do things so that you can be a comfort to your mother. only remember, if you don't obey me, you will lose your only chance." after this speech, mrs. chatterton sat back and played with her rings, looking with oblique glances of cold consideration at the child. "i'll go," said phronsie with a long sigh, "and do every thing you say." "i do really believe i can bend one of those dreadful pepper children to my will," thought mrs. chatterton exultingly. "she is my only hope. polly does better than she did, but she is too old to be tractable, and she has a shrewd head on her practical body, and the others are just horrible!" she gave a shiver. "but phronsie will grow up to fit my purpose, i think. three purposes, i may say--to get the peppers gradually out from under horatio king's influence, and to train up a girl to wait on me so that i can get away from these french villains of maids, and to spite alexander's daughter by finally adopting this phronsie if she suits me. but i must move carefully. the first thing is to get the child fastened to me by her own will." phronsie, ascending the stairs to the lumber-room, with careful deliberateness, found no hint of joy at the prospect before her, reaching into the dim distance to that enchanted time when she should be grown up. but there was a strangely new sense of responsibility, born in an hour; and an acceptance of life's burdens, that made her feel very old and wise. "i shall be a comfort to my mother," she said confidently, and mounted on. xvi where is phronsie? phronsie shut the door of the lumber-room, and with a great sigh realized that she had with her own hand cut herself off from the gay life below stairs. "but they are not so very far off," she said, "and i shall soon be down again," as she made her way across the room and opened the closet door. a little mouse scurried along the shelf and dropped to the floor. phronsie peered into the darkness within, her small heart beating fearfully as she held the knob in her hand. "there may be more," she said irresolutely. "i suppose he wouldn't live up here all alone. please go away, mousie, and let me get the box." for answer there was a scratching and nibbling down in the corner that held more terrors for the anxious ears than an invading army. "i must go in," said phronsie, "and bring out the box. please, good mouse, go away for one moment; then you may come back and stay all day." but the shadowy corner only gave back the renewed efforts of the sharp little teeth; so at last, phronsie, plucking up courage, stepped in. the door swung to after her, giving out a little click, unnoticed in her trepidation as she picked her way carefully along, holding her red gown away from any chance nibbles. it was a low narrow closet, unlighted save by a narrow latticed window, in the ceiling, for the most part filled with two lines of shelves running along the side and one end. phronsie caught her breath as she went in, the air was so confined; and stumbling over in the dim light, put her hand on the box desired, a small black affair, easily found, as it was the only one there. "i will take it out into the lumber-room; then i can get the velvet roll," and gathering it up within her arms, she speedily made her way back to the door. "why"--another pull at the knob; but with the same result, and phronsie, setting the box on the floor, still with thoughts only of the mouse, put both hands to the task of opening the door. "it sticks, i suppose, because no one comes up here only once in a great while," she said in a puzzled way. "i ought to be able to pull it open, i'm sure, for i am so big and strong." she exerted all her strength till her face was like a rose. the door was fast. phronsie turned a despairing look upon the shadowy corner. "please don't bite me," she said, the large tears gathering in her brown eyes. "i am locked in here in your house; but i didn't want to come, and i won't do anything to hurt you if you'll let me sit down and wait till somebody comes to let me out." meanwhile mrs. chatterton shook out her black satin gown complacently, and with a satisfied backward glance at the mirror, sailed off to her own apartments. "madame," exclaimed hortense breathlessly, meeting her within the door, "de modiste will not send de gown; you must"-- "will not send it?" repeated her mistress in a passion. "a pretty message to deliver. go back and get it at once." "she say de drapery--de tournure all wrong, and she must try it on again," said the maid, glad to be defiant, since the dressmaker supported her. "what utter nonsense! yet i suppose i must go, or the silly creature will have it ruined. take off this gown, hortense, and bring my walking suit, then ring and say i'd like to have thomas take me down there at once," and throwing off her bracelets, and the various buckles and pins that confined her laces, she rapidly disrobed and was expeditiously inducted by hortense into her walking apparel, and, a parlor maid announcing that thomas with the coupe was at the door, she hurried downstairs, with no thought for anything beyond a hasty last charge to her maid. "where's phronsie?" cried polly, rushing into mother fisher's room; "o dear me, my hair won't stay straight," pushing the rebellious waves out of her eyes. "it looks as if a brush wouldn't do it any harm," observed mother fisher critically. "o dear, dear! well, i've brushed and brushed, but it does no good," said polly, running over to the mirror; "some days, mamsie, no matter what i do, it flies all ways." "good work tells generally," said her mother, pausing on her way to the closet for a closer inspection of her and her head; "you haven't taken as much pains, polly, lately with your hair; that is the trouble." "well, i'm always in such a hurry," mourned polly, brushing furiously on the refractory locks. "there, will you stay down?" to a particularly rebellious wave. "one at a time is the best way to take things," said mrs. fisher dryly. "when you dress yourself, polly, i'd put my mind on that, if i were you." with that, she disappeared within the closet. "o dear, i suppose so," sighed polly, left to her own reflections and brushing away. "well, that's the best i can make it look now, for i can't do the braid over. where is phronsie, i wonder! mamsie," she threw down the brush and ran over to put her head in the closet, "where did she go?" "i told her she might run over to helen fargo's, right after breakfast," said mrs. fisher, her head over a trunk, from which she was taking summer dresses. "polly, i think you'll get one more season's wear out of this pink cambric." "oh! i am so glad," cried polly, "for i had such splendidly good times in it," with a fond glance at the pink folds and ruffles. "well, if phronsie is over at helen's, there's no use in asking her to go down town with us." "where are you going?" asked mrs. fisher, extricating one of phronsie's white gowns from its winter imprisonment. "down to candace's," said polly. "jasper wants some more pins for his cabinet. no, i don't suppose phronsie would tear herself away from helen for all the down-towns in the world." "you would better let her stay where she is," advised mother fisher; "she hasn't been over to helen's for quite a while, so it's a pity to call her away," and she turned to her unpacking again, while polly ran off on the wings of the wind, in a tremor at having kept jasper waiting so long. "candace" was the widow of an old colored servant of mr. king's; she called herself a "relict;" that, and the pride in her little shop, made her hold her turbaned head high in the air, while a perennial smile enwreathed her round face. the shop was on temple place, a narrow extension thrown out from one of the city's thoroughfares. she was known for a few specialties; such as big sugary doughnuts that appealed alike to old and young. they were always fresh and sweet, with just the proper amount of spice to make them toothsome; and she made holders of various descriptions, with the most elaborate patterns wrought always in yellow worsted; with several other things that the ladies protested could never be found elsewhere. jasper had been accustomed to run down to candace's little shop, since pinafore days, when he had been taken there by his nurse, and set upon a high stool before the small counter, and plied with dainties by the delighted candace. "the first thing i can remember," he had often told polly, "is candace taking out huge red and white peppermint drops, from the big glass jar in the window, and telling me to hold out both hands." and after the "pinafore days" were over, candace was the boy's helper in all his sports where a woman's needle could stitch him out of any difficulty. she it was who made the sails to his boats, and marvelous skate bags. she embroidered the most intricate of straps for his school-books, and once she horrified him completely by working in red cotton, large "j's" on two handkerchiefs. he stifled the horror when he saw her delight in presenting the gift, and afterwards was careful to remember to carry a handkerchief occasionally when on an errand to the shop. latterly candace was occupied in preparing pins for jasper's cabinet, out of old needles that had lost their eyes. she cleverly put on red and black sealing wax heads, turning them out as round as the skillful manipulation of deft fingers could make them. in this new employment, the boy kept her well occupied, many half-dollars thereby finding their way into her little till. "i wish phronsie had come," said polly, as she and jasper sorted the pins in the little wooden tray candace kept for the purpose. "how many red ones you will have, jasper--see--fifteen; well, they're prettier than the others." "ef little miss had come wid you," said candace, emerging from the folds of a chintz curtain that divided the shop from the bedroom, "she'd 'a' seen my doll i made for her. land! but it's a beauty." "oh, candace!" exclaimed polly, dropping the big pin she held, and allowing it to roll off the counter to the floor. "what a pity we didn't bring her! do let us see the doll." "she's a perfec' beauty!" repeated candace in satisfaction, "an' i done made her all myself fer de little miss," and she dodged behind the curtain again, this time bringing out a large rag doll with surprising black bead eyes, a generous crop of wool on its head, and a red worsted mouth. "dat's my own hair," said candace, pointing to the doll's head with pride, "so i know it's good; an' ain't dat mouf pretty?" "oh, candace!" exclaimed polly, seizing the doll, and skillfully evading the question, "what a lovely dress--and the apron is a dear"-- "ain't it?" said candace, her black face aglow with delight. "ole miss gimme dat yeller satin long ago, w'en i belonged to her befo' de war. an' dat yere apun was a piece of ole miss's night-cap. she used to have sights of 'em, and dey was all ruffled like to kill, an' made o' tambour work." polly had already heard many times the story of madame carroll's night-caps, so she returned to the subject of the doll's beauty as a desirable change. "do you want us to take this to phronsie?" she asked. "jasper, won't she be delighted?" "land, no!" cried candace, recovering the doll in alarm; "i'd never sleep a week o' nights ef i didn't put dat yere doll into dat bressed child's arms." "then i'll tell phronsie to come over to-morrow," said polly. "shall i, candace?" "yes," said candace, "you tell her i got somefin' fer her; don't you tell her what, an' send her along." "all right," said jasper. "just imagine phronsie's eyes when she sees that production. candace, you've surpassed yourself." "you go 'long!" exclaimed candace, in delight, and bestowing a gentle pat of deprecation on his shoulder, "'tain't like what i could do; but la! well, you send de bressed chile along, and mabbe she'll like it." "jasper, we'll stop at helen's now," said polly as the two hurried by the tall iron fence, that, lined with its thick hedge, shut out the fargo estate from vulgar eyes, "and get phronsie; she'll be ready to come home now; it's nearly luncheon time." "all right," said jasper; so the two ran over the carriage drive to a side door by which the king family always had entree. "is phronsie ready to come home?" asked polly of the maid. "tell her to hurry and get her things on; we'll wait here. oh, jasper!" turning to him, "why couldn't we have the club next week, wednesday night?" "miss mary," said the maid, interrupting, "what do you mean? i haven't seen miss phronsie to-day." polly whirled around on the step and looked at her. "oh! she's upstairs in the nursery, playing with helen, i suppose. please ask her to hurry, hannah." "no, she isn't, miss mary," said hannah. "i've been sweeping the nursery this morning; just got through." she pointed to her broom and dustpan that she had set in a convenient corner, as proof of her statement. "well, she's with helen somewhere," said polly, a little impatiently. "yes; find helen, and you have the two," broke in jasper. "just have the goodness, hannah, to produce helen." "miss helen isn't home," said hannah. "she went to greenpoint yesterday with mrs. fargo to spend sunday." "why," exclaimed polly in bewilderment, "mamsie said she told phronsie right after breakfast that she could come over here." "she hasn't been here," said the maid positively. "i know for certain sure, miss mary. has she, jane?" appealing to another maid coming down the hall. "no," said jane. "she hasn't been here for ever so many days." "phronsie played around outside probably," said jasper quickly; "anyway, she's home now. come on, polly. she'll run out to meet us." "oh, jasper! do you suppose she will?" cried polly, unable to stifle an undefinable dread. she was running now on frightened feet, jasper having hard work to keep up with her, and the two dashed through the little gate in the hedge where phronsie was accustomed to let herself through on the only walk she was ever allowed to take alone, and into the house where polly cried to the first person she met, "where's phronsie?" to be met with what she dreaded, "gone over to helen fargo's." and now there was indeed alarm through the big house. not knowing where to look, each fell in the other's way, quite as much concerned for mr. king's well-being; for the old gentleman was reduced to such a state by the fright that the entire household had all they could do to keep him in bounds. "madame is not to come home to luncheon," announced hortense to mrs. whitney in the midst of the excitement. "she told me to tell you that de mees taylor met her at de modiste, and took her home with her." mrs. whitney made no reply, but raised her eyes swollen with much crying, to the maid's face. "hortense, run as quickly as possible down to dr. fisher's office, and tell him to come home." "thomas should be sent," said hortense, with a toss of her head. "it's not de work for me. beside i am madame's maid." "do you go at once," commanded mrs. whitney, with a light in her blue eyes that the maid never remembered seeing. she was even guilty of stamping her pretty foot in the exigency, and hortense slowly gathered herself up. "i will go, madame," with the air of conferring a great favor, "only i do not such t'ings again." xvii phronsie is found "i am glad that you agree with me." mrs. chatterton bestowed a complacent smile upon the company. "but we don't in the least agree with you," said madame dyce, her stiff brocade rustling impatiently in the effort to put her declaration before the others, "not in the least." "ah? well, you must allow that i have good opportunities to judge. the pepper entanglement can be explained only by saying that my cousin's mental faculties are impaired." "the rest of the family are afflicted in the same way, aren't they?" remarked hamilton dyce nonchalantly. "humph! yes." mrs. chatterton's still shapely shoulders allowed themselves a shrug intended to reveal volumes. "what jasper horatio king believes, the rest of the household accept as law and gospel. but it's no less infatuation." "i'll not hear one word involving those dear peppers," cried madame dyce. "if i could, i'd have them in my house. and it's a most unrighteous piece of work, in my opinion, to endeavor to arouse prejudice against them. it goes quite to my heart to remember their struggles all those years." mrs. chatterton turned on her with venom. was all the world arrayed against her, to take up with those hateful interlopers in her cousin's home? she made another effort. "i should have credited you with more penetration into motives than to allow yourself to be deceived by such a woman as mrs. pepper." "do give her the name that belongs to her. i believe she's mrs. dr. fisher, isn't she?" drawled livingston bayley, a budding youth, with a moustache that occasioned him much thought, and a solitary eyeglass. "stuff and nonsense! yes, what an absurd thing that wedding was. did anybody ever hear or see the like!" mrs. chatterton lifted her long jeweled hands in derision, but as no one joined in the laugh, she dropped them slowly into her lap. "i don't see any food for scorn in that episode," said the youth with the moustache. "possibly there will be another marriage there before many years. i'm sweet on polly." mrs. chatterton's face held nothing but blank dismay. the rest shouted. "you needn't laugh, you people," said the youth, setting his eyeglass straight, "that girl is going to make a sensation, i tell you, when she comes out. i'm going to secure her early." "not a word, mind you, about miss polly's preferences," laughed hamilton dyce aside to miss mary. "'tisn't possible that she could be anything but fascinated, of course," mary laughed back. "of course not. the callow youth knows his power. anybody else in favor of the peppers?" aloud, and looking at the company. "don't ask us if we like the peppers," cried two young ladies simultaneously. "they are our especial and particular pets, every one of them." "the peppers win," said hamilton dyce, looking full into mrs. chatterton's contemptuous face. "i'm glad to record my humble self as their admirer. now"-- "well, pa!" mary could not refrain from interrupting as her father suddenly appeared in the doorway. "i can't sit down," he said, as the company made way for him to join them. "i came home for some important papers. i suppose you have heard the trouble at the kings? i happened to drop in there. well, dyce," laying his hand on that gentleman's chair, "i scarcely expected to see you here to-day. why aren't you at the club spread?" "cousin horatio! i suppose he's had a paralytic attack," interrupted mrs. chatterton, with her most sagacious air. "what's the trouble up there?" queried mr. dyce, ignoring the question thrust at him. "it's the little beauty--phronsie," said mr. taylor. "nothing's happened to that child i hope!" cried madame dyce, paling. "now, mr. taylor, you are not going to harrow our feelings by telling us anything has harmed that lovely creature," exclaimed the two young ladies excitedly. "phronsie can't be found," said mr. taylor. "can't be found!" echoed all the voices, except mrs. chatterton's. she ejaculated "ridiculous!" hamilton dyce sprang to his feet and threw down his napkin. "excuse me, miss taylor. come, bayley, now is the time to show our devotion to the family. let us go and help them out of this." young bayley jumped lightly up and stroked his moustache like a man of affairs. "all right, dyce. bon jour, ladies." "how easily a scene is gotten up," said mrs. chatterton, "over a naughty little runaway. i wish some of the poor people in this town could have a tithe of the attention that is wasted on these peppers," she added virtuously. madame dyce turned uneasily in her seat, and played with the almonds on her plate. "i think we do best to reserve our judgments," she said coolly. "i don't believe phronsie has run away." "of course she has," asserted mrs. chatterton, in that positive way that made everybody hate her to begin with. "she was all right this morning when i left home. where else is she, if she hasn't run away, pray tell?" not being able to answer this, no one attempted it, and the meal ended in an uncomfortable silence. driving home a half-hour later, in a cab summoned for that purpose, mrs. chatterton threw off her things, angry not to find hortense at her post in the dressing-room, where she had been told to finish a piece of sewing, and not caring to encounter any of the family in their present excitement, she determined to take herself off upstairs, where "i can kill two birds with one stone; get rid of everybody, and find my box myself, because of course that child ran away before she got it." so she mounted the stairs laboriously, counting herself lucky indeed in finding the upper part of the house quite deserted, and shutting the lumber-room door when she was well within it, she proceeded to open the door of the closet. "hortense didn't tell me there was a spring lock on this door," she exclaimed, with an impatient pull. "oh! good heavens." she had nearly stumbled over phronsie pepper's little body, lying just where it fell when hope was lost. "i have had nothing to do with it," repeated mrs. chatterton to herself, following mr. king and jasper as they bore phronsie downstairs, her yellow hair floating from the pallid little face. "goodness! i haven't had such a shock in years. my heart is going quite wildly. the child probably went up there for something else; i am not supposed to know anything about it." "is she dead?" cried dick, summoned with the rest of the household by mrs. chatterton's loud screams, and quite beside himself, he clambered up the stairs to get in every one's way. mrs. chatterton, with an aimless thrust of her long jeweled hands, pushed him one side. and dick boiled over at that. "what are you here for?" he cried savagely. "you don't love her. you would better get out of the way." and no one thought to reprove him. polly was clinging to the post at the foot of the stairs. "i shall die if phronsie is dead," she said. then she looked at mother fisher, waiting for her baby. "give her to me!" said phronsie's mother, holding out imperative arms. "you would better let us carry her; well put her in your bed. only get the doctor." mr. king was almost harsh as he endeavored to pass her. but before the words were over his lips, the mother held her baby. "mamsie," cried polly, creeping over to her like a hurt little thing, "i don't believe but that she'll be all right. god won't let anything happen to our phronsie. he couldn't, mamsie." dr. fisher met them at the door. polly never forgot the long, slow terror that clutched at her heart as she scanned his face while he took the child out of the arms that now yielded up their burden. and everything turned dark before her eyes--was phronsie dead? but there was mamsie. and polly caught her breath, beat back the faintness, and helped to lay phronsie on the big bed. "clearly i have had nothing to do with it," said mrs. chatterton to herself, stumbling into a room at the other end of the hall. but her face was gray, and she found herself picking nervously at the folds of lace at her throat. "the child went up there, as all children will, to explore. i shall say nothing about it--nothing whatever. oh! how is she?" grasping blindly at jasper as he rushed by the door. "still unconscious"-- "stuff and--oh! well," muttering on. "she'll probably come to. children can bear a little confinement; an hour or two doesn't matter with them--hortense!" aloud, "bring me my sal volatile. dear me! this is telling on my nerves." she caught sight of her face in the long mirror opposite, and shivered to see how ghastly it was. "where is the girl? hortense, i say, come here this instant!" a maid, summoned by her cries, put her head in the door. "hadn't you better go into your own room, mrs. chatterton?" she said, in pity at the shaking figure and blanched face. "no--no," she sharply repulsed her. "bring hortense--where is that girl?" she demanded passionately. "she's crying," said the maid, her own eyes filling with tears. "i'll help you to your room." "crying?" madame chatterton shrieked. "she's paid to take care of me; what right has she to think of anything else?" "she says she was cross to phronsie once--though i don't see how she could be, and--and--now that she's going to die, she"--and the maid burst into tears and threw her apron over her face. "die--she shan't! what utter nonsense everybody does talk in this house!" madame chatterton seized her arm, the slender fingers tightening around the young muscles, and shook her fiercely. the maid roused by her pain out of her tears looked in affright into the gray face above her. "let me go," she cried. "oh! madame, you hurt me." "give me air," said madame chatterton, her fingers relaxing, and making a great effort not to fall. "help me over to the window, and open it, girl"--and leaning heavily on the slight figure, she managed to get across the room. "there--now," drawing a heavy breath as she sank into a chair and thrust her ashen face out over the sill, "do you go and find out how the child is. and come back and tell me at once." "madame, i'm afraid to leave you alone," said the girl, looking at her. "afraid? i'm not so old but that i can take care of myself," said mrs. chatterton with a short laugh. "go and do as i tell you," stamping her foot. "still unconscious"-- would no one ever come near her but this detestable maid, with her still more detestable news? mrs. chatterton clutched the window casing in her extremity, not feeling the soft springy air as she gasped for breath. the maid, too frightened to leave her, crept into a corner where she watched and cried softly. there was a stir in the household that they might have heard, betokening the arrival of two other doctors, but no word came. and darkness settled upon the room. still the figure in the window niche held to its support, and still the maid cried at her post. as the gray of the twilight settled over the old stone mansion, phronsie moved on her pillow. "dear mouse,"--the circle of watchers around the bed moved closer,--"i'll go away when some one comes to open the door." "hush!" dr. fisher put his hand over the mother's lips. "don't please bite me very hard. i won't come up again to your house. oh! where's grandpapa?" old mr. king put his head on his hands, and sobbed aloud. the little white face moved uneasily. "grandpapa always comes when i want him," in piteous tones. "father," said jasper, laying a hand on the bowed shoulders, "you would better come out. we'll call you when she comes to herself." but mr. king gave no sign of hearing. a half-hour ticked slowly away, and phronsie spoke again. "it's growing dark, and i suppose they will never come. dear mouse"--the words died away and she seemed to sleep. "i shall not tell," mrs. chatterton was saying to herself in the other room; "what good could it do? oh! this vile air is stifling. will no one come to say she is better?" and so the night wore on. as morning broke, phronsie opened her eyes, and gave a weak little cry. polly sprang from her knees at the foot of the bed, and staggered toward the child. "don't!" cried jasper, with a hand on her arm. "let her alone," said dr. fisher quickly. "oh, polly!" phronsie raised herself convulsively on the bed. "you did come--you did!" winding her little arms around polly's neck. "has the mouse gone?" "yes, yes," said polly as convulsively; "he's all gone, phronsie, and i have you fast; just see. and i'll never let you go again." "never?" cried phronsie, straining to get up further into polly's arms. "no dear; i'll hold you close just as long as you need me." "and he won't come again?" "he can't phronsie; because, you see, i have you now." "and the door will open, and i'll have mamsie and dear grandpapa?" "yes, yes, my precious one," began mr. king, getting out of the large arm-chair into which they had persuaded him. "don't do it. stay where you are," said dr. fisher, stopping him half-way across the room. "but phronsie wants me; she said so," exclaimed old mr. king hoarsely, and trying to push his way past the doctor. "why, man, don't stop me." dr. fisher planted his small body firmly in front of the old gentleman. "you must obey me." obey? when had mr. king heard that word addressed to himself. he drew a long breath, looked full into the spectacled eyes, then said, "all right, fisher; i suppose you know best," and went back to his arm-chair. "i'm so tired, polly," phronsie was saying, and the arms, polly could feel, were dropping slowly from her neck. "are you, pet? well, now, i'll tell you what we'll do. let us both go to sleep. there, phronsie, now you put your arms down, so"--polly gave them a swift little tuck under the bed-clothes--"and i'll get up beside you, so"--and she crept on to the bed--"and we'll both go right to 'nid-nid-nodland,' don't you know?" "you're sure you won't let me go?" whispered phronsie, cuddling close, and feeling for polly's neck again. "oh! just as sure as i can be," declared polly cheerfully, while the tears rained down her cheek in the darkness. "i feel something wet," said phronsie, drawing back one hand. "what is it, polly?" "oh! that," said polly with a start. "oh--well, it's--well, i'm crying, phronsie; but i'm so glad--oh! you don't know how glad i am, sweet," and she leaned over and kissed her. "if you're glad," said phronsie weakly, "i don't care. but please don't cry if you are not glad, polly." "well, now we're fixed," said polly as gaily as she could. "give me your hand, pet. there, now, good-night." "good-night," said phronsie. polly could feel her tucking the other hand under her cheek on the pillow, and then, blessed sound--the long quiet breathing that told of rest. "oh! better, is she?" mrs. chatterton looked up quickly to see mrs. whitney's pale face. "well, i supposed she would be. i thought i'd sit here and wait to know, since you were all so frightened. but i knew it wouldn't amount to much. now, girl," nodding over to the maid still in the corner, "you may get me to bed." and she stretched her stiff limbs, and held out her hand imperatively. "it was very fortunate that i did not tell," she said, when the slow passage to her own apartments had been achieved. "now if the child will only keep still, all will be well." xviii the girls have polly again "phronsie shall have a baked apple this morning," said mother fisher, coming into the sunny room where phronsie lay propped up against the pillows. "did papa-doctor say so?" asked phronsie, a smile of supreme content spreading over her wan little face. "yes, he did," said her mother; "as nice an apple, red and shiny as we could find, is downstairs baking for you, phronsie. when it's done, sarah is to bring it up." "that will be very nice," breathed phronsie slowly. "and i want my little tea-set--just the two cups and saucers--and my own little pot and sugar-bowl. do let me, mamsie, and you shall have a cup of milk with me," she cried, a little pink color stealing into either cheek. "yes, yes, child," said mother fisher. "there, you mustn't try to lean forward. i'll bring the little table grandpapa bought, so;" she hurried over across the room and wheeled it into place. "now isn't that fine, phronsie?" as the long wing swung over the bed. "did you ever see such a tea-party as you and i'll have?" "breakfast party, mamsie!" hummed phronsie; "isn't that just lovely?" wriggling her toes under the bed-clothes. "do you think sarah'll ever bring that apple?" "yes, indeed--why, here she is now!" announced mrs. fisher cheerily. "come in, sarah," as a rap sounded on the door. "our little girl is all ready for that good apple. my! what a fine one." "bless honey's heart!" ejaculated sarah, her black face shining with delight. "ain't he a beauty, though?" setting down on the table-wing a pink plate in the midst of which reposed an apple whose crackling skin disclosed a toothsome interior. "i bring a pink sasser so's to match his insides. but ain't he rich, though!" "sarah," said phronsie, with hungry eyes on the apple, "i think he is very nice indeed, and i do thank you for bringing him." "bless her precious heart!" cried sarah, her hands on her ample hips, and her mouth extended in the broadest of smiles. "do get me a spoon, mamsie," begged phronsie, unable to take her gaze from the apple. "i'm so glad he has a stem on, sarah," carefully picking at it. "well, there," said sarah, "i had the greatest work to save that stem. but, la! i wouldn't 'a' brung one without a stem. i know'd you'd want it to hold it up by, when you'd eat the most off." "yes, i do," said phronsie, in great satisfaction fondling the stem. "and here's your spoon," said her mother, bringing it. "now, child, enjoy it to your heart's content." phronsie set the spoon within the cracked skin, and drew it out half-full. "oh, mamsie!" she cried, as her teeth closed over it, "do just taste; it's so good!" "hee-hee!" laughed sarah, "i guess 'tis. such works as i had to bake dat apple just right. but he's a beauty, ain't he, though?" phronsie did not reply, being just at that moment engaged in conveying a morsel as much like her own as possible, to her mother's mouth. "seems to me i never tasted such an apple," said mother fisher, slowly swallowing the bit. "did you, now?" cried sarah. downstairs polly was dancing around the music-room with three or four girls who had dropped in on their way from school. "give me a waltz now, polly," begged philena. "dear me, i haven't had a sight of you hardly, for so long, i am positively starved for you. i don't care for you other girls now," she cried, as the two went whirling down the long room together. "thank you, miss philena," cried the others, seizing their partners and whirling off too. "i feel as if i could dance forever," cried polly, when amy garrett turned away from the piano and declared she would play no more--and she still pirouetted on one foot, to come up red as a rose to the group. "look at polly's cheeks!" cried amy. "you've been a white little minx so long," said alexia, putting a fond arm around polly; "i went home and cried every day, after i would steal around the back way to see how phronsie was"-- "won't phronsie be downstairs soon?" asked amy. "i don't know," said polly. "papa-doctor is going to be dreadfully careful of her, that she doesn't get up too soon." "say, polly," cried another girl, "don't you have to take a lot of pills and stuff, now that dr. fisher is your father?" polly threw back her head and laughed merrily. it sounded so strangely to her to hear the sound echoing through the room so long silent, that she stopped suddenly. "oh, girls! i can't hardly believe even yet that phronsie is almost well," she cried. "well, you'd better," advised alexia philosophically, "because she is, you know. do laugh again, polly; it's good to hear you." "i can't help it," said polly, "cathie asked such a funny question." "cathie's generally a goose," said alexia coolly. "thank you," said cathie, a tall girl, with such light hair and sallow face that she looked ten years older than her fourteen summers. "i sometimes know quite as much as a few other people of my acquaintance," she said pointedly. "i didn't say but that you did," said alexia composedly. "i said you were generally a goose. and so you are. why, everybody knows that, cath." "come, come, girls, don't fight," said polly. "how can you when phronsie is getting better? alexia didn't mean anything, cathie." "yes, she did," declared cathie with a pout; "she's always meaning something. she's the hatefullest thing i ever saw!" "nonsense!" said polly, with a gay little laugh. "she says perfectly dreadful things to me, and so i do to her, but we don't either of us mind them." "well, those are in fun," said cathie; "that's a very different matter"-- "so you must make these in fun," said polly. "i would if i were you." but she drew away from alexia's arm. "polly, don't be an idiot and fight with me," whispered alexia in her ear. "go away," said polly, shaking her off. "polly, polly, i'll say anything if you won't look like that. see here, cathie, let's make up," and she ran over, seized the tall girl by the waist and spun her around till she begged to stop. "is that your way of making up?" cried cathie, when she had the breath to speak. "yes; it is as good as any other way. it spins the nonsense out of you. there!" with a last pat on the thin shoulder, she left her, and ran back to polly. "it's all done," she cried. "i'm at peace with the whole world. now don't look like an ogre any longer." "phronsie's actually hungry now all the time," confided polly in a glow, "and we can't get enough to satisfy her." "good--good!" cried the girls. "i'm going to send her some of my orange jelly," declared alexia. "i'll make it just as soon as i go home. do you think she will like it, polly?" she asked anxiously. "yes, i do believe she will," said polly, "because she loves oranges so." "well, i shan't make any old orange jelly," cried cathie, her nose in the air. "faugh! it's insipid enough!" "but 'tisn't when it's made the way alexia makes it," said polly, viewing in alarm the widening of the breach between the two. "i've eaten some of hers, and it's too splendid for anything." "i don't know anything about hers, but all orange jelly i have tasted is just horrid. i hate it! i'm going to make almond macaroons. they're lovely, polly." "oh! don't, cathie," begged polly in distress. "why not, pray tell," whirling on one set of toes. "you needn't be afraid they won't be good. i've made them thousands of times." "but she couldn't eat them," said polly. "just think, almond macaroons! why, papa-doctor would"-- "now i know the doctor makes you take perfectly terrible things, and won't let you eat anything. and macaroons are the only things i can make. it's a shame!" and down sat cathie in despair on an ottoman. "what's the matter?" dr. fisher put his head in at the doorway, his spectacled eyes sending a swift glance of inquiry around. "o dear me!" exclaimed cathie in a fright, jumping up and clutching the arm of the girl next to her. "don't let polly tell him what i said--don't." "polly won't tell," said the girl, with a superb air; "don't you know any better, cathie harrison, you goose, you!" to be called a goose by two persons in the course of an hour was too much for cathie's endurance, and flinging off the girl's arm, she cried out passionately, "i won't stay; i'm going home!" and rushed out the door. dr. fisher turned from a deliberate look at the girl's white cheeks, as she ran past, to the flushed ones before him. "i'm very sorry that anything unpleasant has happened. i dropped in to tell you of a little surprise, but i see it's no time now." "oh, papa-doctor!" cried polly, flying up to him from the center of the group, "it was nothing--only"-- "a girl's quarrel is not a slight thing, polly," said little dr. fisher gravely, "and one of your friends has gone away very unhappy." "oh! i know it," said polly, "and i'm so sorry." "we can't any of us help it," said alexia quickly. "cathie harrison has the temper of a gorilla--so there, dr. fisher." dr. fisher set his spectacles straight, and looked at alexia, but he did not even smile, as she hoped he would do. "i can't help it," she said, tracing the pattern of the carpet with the toe of her boot, "she makes us all so uncomfortable, oh! you can't think. and i wish she'd stay home forever." still no answer from the doctor. he didn't act as if he heard, but bowing gravely, he withdrew his head and shut the door. "o dear, dear!" cried alexia, when they had all looked at each other a breathing space. "why didn't he speak? i'd much rather he'd scold like everything than to look like that. polly, why don't you say something?" "because there isn't anything to say." polly got no further, and turned away, suspiciously near to tears. was this the first meeting with the girls to which she had looked forward so long? "to think of that cathie harrison making such a breeze," cried alexia angrily; "a girl who's just come among us, as it were, and we only let her in our set because miss salisbury asked us to make things pleasant for her. if it had been any one else who raised such a fuss!" meantime dr. fisher strode out to the west porch, intending to walk down to his office, and buttoning up his coat as he went along. as he turned the angle in the drive, he came suddenly upon a girl who had thrown herself down on a rustic seat under a tree, and whose shoulders were shaking so violently that he knew she was sobbing, though he heard no sound. "don't cry," said the little doctor, "and what's the matter?" all in the same breath, and sitting down beside her. cathie looked up with a gasp, and then crushed her handkerchief over her eyes. "those girls in there are perfectly horrid." "softly, softly," said dr. fisher. "i can't--help it. no matter what i say, they call me names, and i'm tired of it. o dear, dear!" "now see here," said the doctor, getting up on his feet and drawing a long breath. "i'm on my way to my office; suppose you walk along with me a bit and tell me all about it." cathie opened her mouth, intending to say, "oh! i can't"--instead, she found herself silent, and not knowing how, she was presently pacing down the drive by the doctor's side. "polly pepper!" exclaimed alexia, as a turn in the drive brought the two figures in view of the music-room windows, "did you ever see such a sight in your life? cathie is walking off with dr. fisher! there isn't anything her tongue won't say!" "did you tell polly?" cried jasper, a half-hour later, putting his head into dr. fisher's office. "oh! beg pardon; i didn't know you were busy, sir." "come in," said the doctor, folding up some powders methodically. "no, i didn't tell polly." "oh!" said jasper, in a disappointed tone. "i hadn't a fair chance"-- "but she ought to know it just as soon as it's talked of," said jasper, fidgeting at a case of little vials on the table. "oh! beg pardon again. i'm afraid i've smashed that chap," as one rolled off to the floor. "i'm no end sorry," picking up the bits ruefully. "i have several like it," said the doctor kindly, and settling another powder in its little paper. "there were a lot of girls with polly when i looked in upon her on my way out. but we'll catch a chance to tell her soon, my boy." "oh! i suppose so. a lot of giggling creatures. how polly can stand their chatter, i don't see," cried jasper impatiently. "they've been shut off from polly for some time, you know," said dr. fisher quietly. "we must remember that." "polly doesn't like some of them a bit better than i do," said jasper explosively, "only she puts up with their nonsense." "it's rather a difficult matter to pick and choose girls who are in the same classes," said the doctor, "and polly sees that." "don't i know it?" exclaimed jasper, in an astonished tone. "dear me, dr. fisher, i've watched polly for years now. and she's always done so." he stopped whirling the articles on the office table, and bestowed a half-offended look on the little physician. "softly, softly, jasper," said dr. fisher composedly. "of course you've used your eyes. now don't spoil things by saying anything, but let polly 'go her own gait,' i beg of you." then he turned to his powders once more. "she will, anyway," declared jasper. "whatever she makes up her mind to do, polly does that very thing." "not a bad characteristic," laughed the doctor. "i should say not." "now when i come up home for dinner, you and i will find polly, and tell her the good news. if she's with a lot of those silly girls, i'll--i'll tear her off this time." dr. fisher glared so fiercely as he declared this determination that jasper laughed outright. "i thought no one was to disturb polly's good intentions in that line," he cried. "well, there's an end to all things, and patience ceases to be a virtue sometimes." "so i've thought a good many times, but i've borne it like a man." jasper drew himself up, and laughed again at the doctor's face. "oh! you go along," cried dr. fisher, his eyes twinkling. "i'll meet you just before dinner." "all right," as jasper rushed off. dr. fisher jumped to his feet, pushing aside the litter of powder papers, and bottles, and ran his fingers through the shock of gray hair standing straight on his head. "yes, yes," he muttered, walking to the window, "it will be a good thing for polly, now i tell you, adoniram." he always preferred to address himself by his first name; then he was sure of a listener. "a vastly good thing. it's quite time that some of the intimacies with these silly creatures are broken up a bit, while the child gains immensely in other ways." he rubbed his palms gleefully. "oh! good-morning, good-morning!" a patient walking in, looked up at the jolly little doctor. "i wish i could laugh like that," he ejaculated, his long face working in the unusual effort to achieve a smile. "you would if you had a gay crowd of children such as i have," cried the little doctor proudly. "why, man, that's better than all my doses." "but i haven't the children," said the patient sourly, and sitting down with a sigh. "i pity you, then," said dr. fisher, with the air of having been a family man for years. "well, besides owning the peppers, i'm going off with them to"--there he stopped, for before he knew it, the secret was well-nigh out. xix phronsie is well again but polly was not to be told yet. when papa fisher walked in to dinner, the merry party around the oak table were waiting over the ices and coffee for his appearance. "oh, papa fisher!" cried polly in dismay, turning from one of alexia's sallies, and dropping her spoon. "now you're all tired out--too bad!" mother fisher flushed up, and set her lips closely together. ben looked disapproval across the board, and polly knew that the wrong thing had been said. "oh! i didn't mean--of course you must take care of the sick people," she said impulsively. "yes, i must," said dr. fisher wearily, and pushing up the shock of gray hair to a stiffer brush over his brow. "that's what i set out to do, i believe." "but that's no reason why you should tire yourself to death, and break down the first year," said mr. king, eyeing him sharply. "zounds, man, that isn't what i brought you up from the country for." dr. fisher looked into his wife's eyes and smiled. "i believe you brought me," the smile said. but he kept his tongue still. "and you must get accustomed to seeing suffering that you can't help. why, man alive, the town's full of it; you can't expect to stop it alone." "i'll do what i can to help," said the little doctor between his teeth, and taking a long draught of the coffee his wife put by his plate. "i suppose there's no objection to that. now, that's good," smacking his lips in a pleased way. "of course not, if you help in the right way," said old mr. king stoutly, "but i'll wager anything that you're picking up all sorts of odd jobs among the poor, that belong to the young doctors. your place is considerably higher, where you can pick and choose your patients." dr. fisher laughed--an odd little laugh, that along with its pleasant note, carried the ring of a strong will. "oh! well, you know, i'm too old to learn new ways," he said. "better let me wag on at the old ones." mr. king gave an exclamation of disapproval. "it's lucky your time is short," he said grimly, and the secret was nearly out! "phronsie is coming downstairs to-morrow, isn't she?" asked jasper quickly, over to the doctor. "oh! no, indeed, i think not," answered mr. king before dr. fisher had time to reply. "she would better wait a day or two longer. isn't that so, doctor?" at last appealing to him. "i don't agree with you," the little doctor drew off his attention from his plate. "you see she has regained her strength remarkably. now the quicker she is in the family life again, the better for her." "oh, good! good!" cried polly, delighted at the safe withdrawal from the precipice of dangerous argument. "alexia, now you must help us think up something to celebrate her coming downstairs." "not so fast, polly." the little doctor beamed at her in a way surprising to see after the morning's affair. "phronsie won't be ready for any celebration before next week. then i think you may venture." alexia pouted and played with her spoon. "o dear!" cried dick dolefully, "what's the reason we must wait a whole week, pray tell?" "because father fisher says so," replied ben across the table; "that's the principal reason--and it doesn't need any more to support it"-- "well, i tell you," broke in polly in her brightest way, "let us think up perfectly splendid things. it's best as it is, for it will take us a week to get ready." "i shall get her a new doll," declared mr. king. the rest shouted. "her others must be quite worn out." "what could you get her," cried mr. whitney, "in the way of a doll? do tell us, for i really do not see." "why, one of those phonograph dolls, to be sure," cried mr. king promptly. "are they on sale yet?" asked jasper. "i thought they had not perfected them enough for the market." "i think i know where one can be bought," said his father. "they must be perfected--it's all nonsense that i can't find one if phronsie wants it! yes, she shall have a phonograph doll." "that will be perfectly elegant," exclaimed polly, with sparkling eyes. "won't phronsie be delighted when she hears it talk?" "she ought to have a punch and judy show," said mrs. whitney, "she's always so pleased with them, father." mr. king pushed away his coffee-cup, and pulled out his note-book. "'punch and judy,' down that goes," he said, noting it after "phonograph doll." "what else?" "can't we have some of those boys up from the orphan asylum?" asked polly, after a minute in which everybody had done a bit of hard thinking. "phronsie loves to hear them sing when she goes there. oh! they are so cunning." "she'll want to give them her best toys and load them down with all her possessions. you see if she doesn't," warned jasper. "well, she won't give away her new doll, anyway," cried polly. "no, she never gives away one of the dolls you've given her, father," said mrs. whitney slowly, "not a single one. i tried her one day, asking her to give me one to bestow on a poor child, and she quite reproached me by the look in her brown eyes. i haven't asked her since." "what did she say?" asked mr. king abruptly. "'i can't, auntie; dear grandpapa gave them to me himself.' then she ran for her savings bank, and poured out the money in my lap. 'let's go out and buy the poor child a doll,' she begged, and i really had to do it. and there must be at least two hundred dolls in this house." "two hundred dolls!" cried alexia in astonishment, and raising her hands. "why, yes; father has been bringing phronsie dolls for the last five years, with the greatest faithfulness, till her family has increased to a painful extent." "o dear me!" cried alexia, with great emphasis. "i should think they'd be under foot in every room." "well, indeed they're not," said polly; "she keeps them up in her playroom." "and the playroom closet," said mrs. whitney, "that is full. i peeped in there yesterday, and the dolls are ranged according to the times when father gave them to her." "and the baby-house is just crowded," laughed jasper. "i know, because i saw her moving out her chairs and tables to make room." "o dear me!" exclaimed alexia again, for want of something else to say. "i just hate dolls," exploded dick. "faugh! how can girls play with them; they're so silly. and phronsie always has something to do for hers, so she can't come when i want her to. i wish they were burned up," he added vindictively. mr. king rubbed his forehead in a puzzled way. "perhaps she has enough," he said at last. "yet what shall i give her if i don't buy a doll?" "i'd give her the phonograph one, father," said mrs. whitney, "anyway." "yes, of course; but after that, what shall i do?" he looked so troubled that mrs. whitney hastened to say, "oh, well, father! you know when you are abr"--and the secret was nearly out for the second time! but they were saved by the appearance of alexia's father, who often dropped in on the edge of the dinner hour, for a second cup of coffee. the next morning phronsie was waiting for grandpapa king, who insisted that no one else should carry her downstairs, the remainder of the household in various stages of delight and expectation, revolving around her, and curbing their impatience as best they might, in hall and on staircase. "oh, grandpapa! do hurry," begged dick, kicking his heels on the stairs. "hush, dicky boy," said mamma. "grandpapa can't come till his agent is gone. don't you hear them talking in the library?" "well i wish mr. frazer would take himself off; he's a nuisance," declared the boy. "he's been here a whole hour." "here comes grandpapa!" announced polly gleefully, from a station nearer the library. "hush, now, mr. frazer's going!" the library door opening at this announcement, and a few sentences charged with business floating up the staircase, the bustle around phronsie became joyfully intense. "mamsie, don't you think she ought to have a shawl on?" cried polly anxiously, running over the stairs. "she's been shut up so long!" "no," said mother fisher. "doctor told me particularly not to bundle her up. it was the last thing he said before he went to his office." "well," said polly with a sigh, "then there isn't absolutely anything more to do for her. why doesn't grandpapa come?" "you are worse than dicky," said mrs. fisher with a little laugh. "dear me, polly, just think how old you are." phronsie stood quite still in the middle of the floor and folded her hands. "i want to see grandpapa all alone when he comes up," she said. "what for?" cried polly, pausing in astonishment. "do you want us all to go out, phronsie?" asked her mother slowly. "yes," said phronsie, shaking her yellow head with great decision, "please every single one go out, mamsie. i want to see grandpapa quite alone." "all right, child," said mrs. fisher, with a look at polly. so after a little demur and consequent delay on the part of the others, the door was closed and she was left standing all alone. phronsie drew a long breath. "i wish grandpapa would come," she said to herself. "and so you wanted me, did you, dear?" cried mr. king joyfully, as he hurried in and closed the door carefully. "well, now, see if i can guess what you want to tell me." "grandpapa," said phronsie, standing quite still and turning a puzzled face toward him, "i don't want to tell you anything; i want to ask you something." "well, well, dear, what is it?" old mr. king, not stopping for a chair, leaned over her and stroked her yellow head. "now, then, look up, and ask me right off, phronsie." "must a person keep a promise?" asked phronsie, "a really and truly promise, grandpapa?" "yes, yes," said the old gentleman with great abruptness, "to be sure one must, phronsie. to be sure. so now if any one has promised you anything, do you make him stick to it. it's mean enough to break your word, child." phronsie drew a long breath. "that's all, grandpapa," she said, and lifting up her arms; "now take me downstairs, please." she laid a cool little cheek against his, as he raised her to his shoulder. "remember what i say, phronsie," laughed mr. king, his mind more intent on the delightful fact that he was carrying down the longed-for burden to the family life, than on what he was saying, "and if any one has promised you anything, keep him up sharp to pay you. i verily believe it is that scamp dick. here goes!" and reaching the door he threw it wide. "forward, march!" "well, is the important conference over?" asked polly, with a keen look at them both. mrs. fisher's eyes did their duty, but she said nothing. "yes, indeed," declared mr. king, marching on gaily. "now clear the way there, all you good people. here, you dick, drumming your heels, go ahead, sir." "i'm glad enough to," shouted dick, racing down the remainder of the stairs. "halloo, phronsie," waving his hand at her, "three cheers and a tiger! bother! here comes mrs. chatterton." which was quite true. to every one's astonishment the door of that lady's apartment opened slowly, disclosing her in new morning wrapper, preparing to join the cavalcade. "good morning, cousin eunice," cried mr. king gaily. he could be merry with any one this day. "come on, this is a festal occasion, you see; phronsie's going downstairs for the first time. fall into line!" "i'm not able to go down," said mrs. chatterton, coming slowly out into the hall, "but i'll stand here and see the parade." "bully!" exploded dick softly, peering up from the foot of the stairs. phronsie looked over mr. king's shoulder at her as she was borne down the stairs, and, putting out her hand, "i'm all well now," she said. "yes, i see," said mrs. chatterton. then she pulled up her white shawl with a shiver. "it's rather cold here," she said; "after all, i believe i must get back to my room." nobody noticed when she crept back, the hilarity now being so great below stairs. "i certainly am losing ground," she muttered, "every little thing affects me so. i'll step into bartram's office next time i go down town and set that little matter straight, since i've made up my mind to do it. it never would do to let him come to the house. horatio would suspect something to see my lawyer here, and the whole household imagine i was going to die right off. no, no; i must go there, that's clear. then if it's attended to, i'll live all the longer, with nothing on my mind." phronsie, meanwhile, was going around from room to room in a pleased way, and touching different objects gently "everything's new, isn't it, polly," she said at last, "when you stay upstairs? oh! there's my kittens in the basket," pointing to a bisque vase on the table. "yes," said polly; "mamsie brought it in here. and we've some flowers; alexia sent them over. they're out in the back hall; we saved them for you to put in yourself." "oh!" exclaimed phronsie, "that's so good in you, polly." "don't stop now," cried dick in disgust. "faugh! you can fix flowers any time. come out into the dining-room--and you'll see something you'll like." phronsie smothered a sigh, and turned slowly away from the kittens waiting in their basket for alexia's flowers. "come on!" shouted dick, seizing her hand. "you never can guess what it is, in all this world." "is it a new dog?" asked phronsie fearfully, whose memory of dick's latest purchase was not altogether happy. "no," said dick, pulling her on, "better than that." "don't hurry her so," said polly. "what have you got, dick?" "now, do you mind, sir," cried jasper, "else well stop your pretty plan." "i won't hurry her," said dick, slackening his gait. "well, here we are," opening the dining-room door. "why, jane has let it out!" phronsie fell back a step at this and tried to cover her feet with her gown, searching the floor for the "it." "lookout!" cried dick suddenly. "there he goes!" and something whirred over phronsie's head. "oh! what is it?" she cried, tumbling into jasper's arms and clasping his neck. "oh! oh!" "why, it's a swallow," cried dick, in the babel that ensued, "a beautiful one, too. i've just caught him, and i made jane let me bring it in here to surprise you," he added proudly. "well, you've succeeded," cried jasper, holding phronsie close. "there, there, child, it's all right. it's a bird, phronsie, and he's gone upstairs." "he'll frighten my dolls," cried phronsie in new alarm, hanging to jasper's neck. "oh! do let us go upstairs, and tell them he's only a bird." "run along, dick, and catch your old bird," cried jasper, "and clear out with him--quick now!" "he's the best thing there is in this house," cried dick, going over the back stairs two at a time. "girls are so silly." "bring him down," said polly, moving along to the foot, "and i'll show him to phronsie, and tell her about him. then she'll like him, dick." "i'll like him, dick," echoed phronsie, "if he doesn't frighten my dolls." this episode taking the family life to the rear of the house, no one noticed that soft footsteps were passing through the open front door, that jane, who was sweeping the vestibule, had left ajar to run and tell dick that she had not let the bird out of the dining-room. so the uninvited guest to the household let himself up easily to the scene of his hopes--the location of the ladies' jewel-boxes. xx the secret mrs. chatterton, standing by her toilet table, carefully examining her wealth of gray hair to note the changes in its tint, was suddenly surprised in the very act of picking out an obnoxious white hair, by a slight noise in the further corner of the apartment. and dropping her fingers quickly and turning away from the glass, she exclaimed, "how dare you, hortense, come in without knocking?" "if you make a noise i'll kill you," declared a man, standing in the shadow of a portiere and watching her underneath a slouched black hat. there was a slight click that caused the listener's nerves to thrill. but her varied life had brought her nothing if not self-control, and she coolly answered, "if you want my money, say so." "not exactly money, ma'am," said the man, "for i don't suppose you have much here. but i'll thank you to hand over that there box of diamonds." he extended the other hand with its dingy fingers toward a large ebony jewel-case elaborate with its brass hinges, and suggestive of double locks, on a corner of the table. "if you are determined to take it, i suppose i must give it to you," said mrs. chatterton, with evident reluctance handing the box designated, very glad to think she had but a few days before changed the jewels to another repository to escape hortense's prying eyes. in making the movement she gave a sweeping glance out the window. should she dare to scream? michael was busy on the lawn, she knew; she could hear his voice talking to one of the under gardeners. "see here, old lady," warned the man, "you keep your eyes in the room. now then," his greedy glance fastened on the glittering gems on her fingers, "i'll thank you to rip them things off." dick, racing along the further end of the hall after his bird with a "whoop, la--i've almost caught you," startling him, he proceeded to perform the service for himself. "there he goes!" cried dick, "in her room. bother! well, i must catch him." so without the preamble of knocking, the boy dashed into the dressing-room. the bird whizzing ahead of him, flashed between the drawn folds of the portiere. "excuse me," cried dick, rushing in, "but my swallow--oh!" "go back!" cried mrs. chatterton hoarsely, "you'll be killed." the bird flying over his head, and the appearance of the boy, disconcerted the robber for one instant. he held the long white hand in his, tearing off the rings. there was no chance for her to escape, she knew, but she could save dick. "go back!" she screamed again. there was only a moment to think, but dick dashed in, and with a mighty spirit, but small fists, he flung himself against the stalwart arms and shoulders. "o heavens!" screamed mrs. chatterton. "he's but a boy, let him go. you shall have the rings. help--help!" dick, clutching and tearing blindly at whatever in the line of hair or ragged garment he could lay hold of, was waging an unequal warfare. but what he did was accomplished finely. and the bird, rushing blindly into the midst of the contention, with whirrings and flappings indescribable, helped more than an army of servants, to confuse the man. notwithstanding, it was soon over, but not before mrs. chatterton had wrenched her fingers free, and grasped the pistol from its loose hold in his other hand. the box under his arm fell to the floor, and dick was just being tossed to the other side of the room; she could hear him strike the cheval-glass with a dull thud. "i can shoot as well as you," said mrs. chatterton, handling the pistol deftly. "make a noise, and i will." he knew it, by her eyes, and that she had taken good aim. "where are you, dick?" cried polly's voice outside, and rapping at the door. "mrs. chatterton, have you seen him?" "come in," called mrs. chatterton, with firmest of fingers on the trigger and her flashing eyes fastened upon the seamed, dirty face before her. polly threw wide the door. "we have a man here that we don't want," said mrs. chatterton. "i'll take care of him till you get help. hurry!" "oh, dick!" cried polly in a breath, with a fearful glance at the boy lying there. "i think he's all right, polly." she dared say no more, for dick had not stirred. polly clasped her hands, and rushed out almost into jasper's face. "a burglar--a burglar!" and he dashed into mrs. chatterton's room. "don't interfere," said mrs. chatterton. "i'm a splendid markswoman." "you needn't shoot," said the man sullenly. "i won't stir." "no, i don't think you will," said the gray-haired woman, her eyes alight, and hand firm as a rock. "well, here are the men." jasper had seized a table-spread, and as michael and the undergardeners advanced, he went back of the robber, and cleverly threw it over his head. it was easy to secure and bind him then. polly rushed over to dick. "turn the creature over and let us see how he looks," said mr. king, hurrying in as the last knot of the rope was made fast. the old slouched hat had fallen off in the struggle, and the man's features came plainly to view. "he's no beauty, and that's a fact." "i've seen that fellow round here for many a day," said michael, giving the recumbent legs a small kick. "oncet he axed me ef we wanted ony wourk done. i mind yees, yer see," with another attention from his gardening boot. "i want to tie one rope," cried a voice. dick opened his eyes, rubbed them, and felt of his head. "i'm all right, polly. i saw stars, but i've got over it, i guess. let me give him the last knot." he staggered blindly to his feet. "i'll tie for you," said jasper, "trust me, dick's all right, only stunned," he telegraphed to the rapidly increasing group. "tell his mother so, do, somebody," said old mr. king. "well, cousin eunice, you've covered yourself with glory," he turned on her warmly. she had thrown aside the pistol, and now sank into a chair. "never mind," she waved it off carelessly, "i'll imagine the compliments. just now i want a glass of wine. call hortense, will you?" the man on the floor tried to raise his head. but he couldn't, so was obliged to content himself with an ugly grin. "that bird has flown," he said. "i'll peep. she put me up to it; we was goin' shares on the old lady's stuff." with that mrs. chatterton's spirit returned. she sprang from her chair, and rushed around from bureau to closet to see the extent of her maid's dishonesty. but beyond a few minor deficiencies of her wardrobe, there was no robbery to speak of. evidently hortense had considered it unwise to be burdened with much impedimenta. so the robber was hauled off to justice, and phronsie, coming wonderingly up the stairs, came softly in upon them, in time to see dick rush up to mrs. chatterton with a "you're a brick!" before them all. after that, there was no more hope of keeping things quiet in the house for phronsie's sake. meanwhile the bird, who had played no mean part in the engagement, now asserted himself, and blindly rushed into capture. "isn't he lovely!" cried phronsie, tearing her gaze off from the wonderful wings, as the swallow fluttered under the mosquito netting speedily brought in. "yes, his wings are," said polly. "oh, dick! do tell over again how it all happened." so dick rehearsed once more as far as he knew the story, tossing off lightly his part of it. "your poor head, does it ache?" cried polly, feeling of the big bump on the crown. "no, not a bit," declared dick, shaking his brown poll. "i'm glad i didn't crack the glass." "that heavy plate?" cried polly, looking over at the cheval-glass with a shiver. phronsie deserted the fascinating bird, and began to smooth dick's head with both hands. "do let me bathe it," she begged. "i'll get the pond's extract." "no, i won't," said dick. "it smells awfully, and i've had so much of it for my leg. i'm all right, phronsie. see his wings now--he's stretching." but phronsie was not to be diverted from her purpose. "i'll get bay rum," she said. "may i?" dick made a wry face. "worse and worse." "cologne, then." "no, i hate it." "he doesn't want it bathed, phronsie dear," said polly. "boys like to get hurt, you know. 'tisn't manly to be fixed up." phronsie gave a sigh, which so went to dick's heart, that he said, "all right, bring on some water if you want to. but don't get any brown paper; i had enough of that when i was a boy." and at the end of that exciting day, the secret came out, after all, in rather a tame fashion. dr. fisher and jasper met polly in an angle of the hall, as she was running upstairs after dinner for her schoolbooks. "polly," asked the little doctor, putting both hands on her shoulders, and looking into the brown eyes, "should you be willing to go abroad with your mother and phronsie, mr. king and jasper?" "oh!" polly gasped. "but you?" came in a later breath, "we couldn't leave you," she cried loyally. "well, i suppose i should go along too," said the little doctor, enjoying her face. "why, jasper elyot king!" cried polly, slipping out from under the doctor's palms, and seizing the two hands extended, she began to spin around as in the olden days, "did you ever, ever hear of anything so perfectly magnificent! but ben and joel and davie!" and she paused on the edge of another pirouette. dr. fisher made haste to answer, "polly, mrs. whitney will take care of them." and jasper led her off into the dance again. "how can we ever leave the boys! oh! i don't see," cried polly, a bit reproachfully, her hair blown over her rosy cheeks. as they danced lightly down the long hall, dr. fisher leaned against a pillar, and watched them. "have to," said jasper, guiding his partner deftly in the intricacies of the chairs and statuary. "that's a good spin, polly," he said, as they brought up by the little doctor's side. "lovely!" said polly, pushing back her locks from the sparkling eyes. "i'm almost tempted to dance myself," said dr. fisher. "if i wasn't such an old fellow, i'd try; that is, if anybody asked me." "i will," said polly, laughing. "come, papa fisher," holding out her hand, "do give me the honor." "all right," said dr. fisher bravely. so jasper took the deserted post by the pillar, and whistled a strauss waltz. thereupon a most extraordinary hopping up and down the hall was commenced, the two figures bobbing like a pair of corks on a quivering water-surface. the doors opened, and several faces appeared, amongst the number mrs. fisher's. "i couldn't help it," said the little doctor, coming up red and animated, and wiping his forehead. his spectacles had fallen off long since, and he had let them go. "it looked so nice to see jasper and polly, i thought i'd try it. i didn't suppose i'd get on so well; i really believe i can dance." "humph!" laughed mr. king, "it looks like it. just see polly." "oh, papa fisher!" cried polly with a merry peal in which jasper, unpuckering his lips from the strauss effort, had joined, "we must have looked"--here she went off again. "yes," said jasper, "you did. that's just it, polly, you did. lucky you two caperers didn't break anything." "well, if you've got through laughing," observed dr. fisher, "i'll remark that the secret is out." "do you like it, polly?" asked mr. king, holding out his hand. "say, my girl?" and then before she could answer, he went on, "you see, we can't do anything without a doctor on our travels. now providence has given us one, though rather an obstinate specimen," he pointed to father fisher. "and he wants to see the hospitals, and you want to study a bit of music, and your mother wants rest, and jasper and phronsie and i want fun, so we're going, that's all." "when?" demanded polly breathlessly. "in a month." xxi the whitneys' little plan "i think it's a mean shame," cried joel, on a high vindictive key. "you've had burglars here twice, and i haven't been home." "you speak as if we appointed the meeting, joe," said ben with a laugh. "well, it's mean, anyway," cried joel, with a flash of his black eyes. "now there won't any come again in an age." "goodness, i hope not," ejaculated mr. king, lowering his newspaper to peer over its top. "i'd have floored him," declared joel, striking out splendidly from the shoulder, "if i'd only have been here." "all very well," said percy negligently, "but you weren't here," and he laughed softly. "do you mean to say that i couldn't have handled the burglar?" demanded joel belligerently, and advancing on percy, "say? because if you do, why, i'll try a bout with you." "i didn't say anything what you could or couldn't do. i said you weren't here, and you weren't. that's enough," and percy turned his back on him, thrust his hands in the pockets of his morning jacket and stalked to the window. van opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it, and gave a low whistle. joel, finding no enthusiasm for tales of his fighting prowess, ran off to interview dick on the old topic of the burglary and to obtain another close account of its details. "to think phronsie saw the other burglar five years ago, and now dick was on hand for this one--those two babies," he fumed, "and none of us men around." "percy," said van, "come out in the hall, will you?" "what do you want?" asked percy lazily. "oh! you come along," cried van, laying hold of his jacket. "see here," dropping his voice cautiously, as he towed him successfully out, "let's give joe a chance to see a burglar; he wants to so terribly." "what do you mean?" asked percy, with astonished eyes, his hands still in his pockets. van burst into a loud laugh, then stopped short. "it'll take two of us," he whispered. "oh, van!" exclaimed percy, and pulling his hands from their resting places, he clapped them smartly together. "but we ought not, i really suppose," he said at last, letting them fall to his sides. "mamma mightn't like it, you know." "she wouldn't mind," said van, yet he looked uneasy. "it would be a great comfort to every one, to take joe down. he does yarn so." "it's an old grudge with you," said percy pleasantly. "you know he beat you when you were a little fellow, and he'd just come." "as if i cared for that," cried van in a dudgeon, "that was nothing. i didn't half try; and he went at me like a country sledge-hammer." "yes, i remember," percy nodded placidly, "and you got all worsted and knocked into a heap. everybody knew it." "do you suppose i'd pound a visitor?" cried van wrathfully, his cheeks aflame. "say, percy whitney?" "no, i don't," said percy, "not when 'twas joe." "that's just it. he was polly's brother." at mention of polly, percy's color rose, and he put out his hand. "beg pardon, van," he said. "here, shake, and make up. i forgot all about our promise," he added penitently. "i forgot it, too," declared van, quieting down, and thrusting out his brown palm to meet his brother's. "well, i don't care what you say if you'll only go halves in this lark," he finished, brightening up. "well, i will," said percy, to make atonement. "come up to our room, then, and think it out," cried van gleefully, flying over the stairs three at a bound. "sh--sh! and hurry up!" just then the door-bell gave a loud peal, and jencks the butler opened it to receive a box about two feet long and one broad. "for miss phronsie pepper," said the footman on the steps, holding it out, "but it's not to be given to her till to-morrow." "all right," said jencks, taking it. "that's the sixth box for miss phronsie that i've took in this morning," he soliloquized, going down the hall and reading the address carefully. "and all the same size." "ding-a-ling," jencks laid the parcel quickly on one of the oaken chairs in the hall, and hurried to the door, to be met by another parcel for "miss phronsie pepper: not to be given to her till to-morrow." "and the i-dentical size," he ejaculated, squinting at it as he went back to pick up the first parcel, "as like as two peas, they are." upstairs polly was at work with happy fingers, alexia across the room, asking every third minute, "polly, how does it go? o dear! i can't do anything unless you look and see if it's right." and polly would turn her back on a certain cloud of white muslin and floating lace, and flying off to alexia to give the necessary criticism, with a pull here and a pat there, would set matters straight, presently running back to her own work again. "you see," she said, "everything must be just right, for next to mamsie's wedding, this is to be the most important occasion, alexia rhys, that we've ever known. we can't have anything too nice for phronsie's getting-well party." "that's so," said alexia, twitching a pink satin bow on the handle of a flower-basket. "o dear me! this bow looks like everything! i've tried six different times to make it hang down quite careless and refined. and just to provoke me, it pokes up like a stiff old thing in my face. do come and tie it, polly." so polly jumped up again, and laying determined fingers on the refractory bow, sent it into a shape that alexia protested was "too lovely for anything." "are you going to have a good-by party?" asked alexia after a minute. "i suppose so," said polly. "grandpapa said i would better, but o dear me, i don't believe i can ever get through with it in all this world," and polly hid her face behind a cloud of muslin that was slowly coming into shape as a dress for one of phronsie's biggest dolls. "it will be dreadful," said alexia, with a pathetic little sniff, and beginning on a second pink bow, "but then, you know, it's your duty to go off nicely, and i'm sure you can't do it, polly, without a farewell party." "yes," said polly slowly, "but then i'd really rather write little notes to all the girls. but i suppose they'll all enjoy the party," she added. "indeed they will," declared alexia quickly. "o dear me, i wish i was going with you. you'll have a perfectly royal time. "i'm going to work hard at my music, you know," declared polly, raising her head suddenly, a glow on her round cheek. "oh! well, you'll only peg away at it when you've a mind," said alexia carelessly, and setting lazy stitches. "most of the time you'll be jaunting around, seeing things, and having fun generally. oh! don't i wish i was going with you." "alexia rhys!" cried polly in astonishment, and casting her needle from her, she deserted the muslin cloud summarily. "only peg away when i have the mind?" she repeated indignantly. "well, i shall have the mind most of the time, i can tell you. why, that's what i am going abroad for, to study music. how can i ever teach it, if i don't go, pray tell?" she demanded, and now her eyes flashed, and her hands worked nervously. "oh! nonsense," cried alexia, not looking at the face before her, and going on recklessly, "as if that meant anything, all that talk about your being a music-teacher, polly," and she gave a little incredulous laugh. polly got out of her chair somehow, and stood very close to the fussing fingers over the pink satin bow. "do you never dare say that to me again," she commanded; "it's the whole of my life to be a music-teacher--the very whole." "oh, polly!" down went the satin bow dragging with it alexia's spool of silk and the dainty scissors. "don't--don't--i didn't mean anything; but you really know that mr. king will never let you be a music-teacher in all this world. never; you know it, polly. oh! don't look like that; please don't." "he will," said polly, in a low but perfectly distinct voice, "for he has promised me." "well, he'll get out of it somehow," said alexia, her evil genius urging her on, "for you know, polly, it would be too queer for any of his family, and--and a girl of our set, to turn out a music-teacher. you know, polly, that it would." and alexia smiled in the most convincing way and jumped up to throw her arms around her friend. "if any of the girls in our set," said polly grandly, and stepping off from alexia, "wish to draw away from me, they can do so now. i am to be a music-teacher; i'm perfectly happy to be one, i want you all to understand. just as happy as i can possibly be in all this world. why, it's what i've been studying and working for, and how else do you suppose i can ever repay dear grandpapa for helping me?" her voice broke, and she stopped a minute, clasping her hands tightly to keep back the rush of words. "oh, polly!" cried alexia in dismay, and beginning to whimper, she tried again to put her arm around her. "don't touch me," said polly, waving her off with an imperative hand. "oh, polly! polly!" "and the rest of our set may feel as you do; then i don't want them to keep on liking me," said polly, with her most superb air, and drawing off further yet. "polly, if you don't stop, you'll--you'll kill me," gasped alexia. "oh, polly! i don't care what you are. you may teach all day if you want to, and i'll help get you scholars. i'll do anything, and so will all the girls; i know they will. polly, do let me be your friend just as i was. o, dear, dear! i wish i hadn't said anything--i wish i had bitten my tongue off; i didn't think you'd mind it so much," and now alexia broke down, and sobbed outright. "you've got to say it's glorious to teach," said polly, unmoved, and with her highest air on, "and that you're glad i'm going to do it." "it's glo--glorious to teach," mumbled poor alexia behind her wet handkerchief. "and i'm glad you're going to do it," dictated polly inflexibly. "i'm glad you're going to do it," echoed alexia in a dismal tone. "then i'll be your friend once more," consented polly with a slow step toward alexia, "that is, if you never in all this world say such a dreadful thing again, alexia rhys." "don't ask me. you know i won't," promised alexia, her spirits rising. so polly went over to her and set a kiss on her wet cheek, comforting her as only polly could, and before long the pink satin bow, with the spool of silk hanging to it, and the scissors were found under the table, and polly attacked the muslin cloud with redoubled vigor, and the girls' voices carried merry laughter and scraps of happy talk, and mrs. chatterton stole out of the little reading-room next to them and shut herself up in her own apartment. "dear me, how fine that doll's gown is to be, polly," exclaimed alexia after a bit. "is the lace going on all around the bottom?" "yes," said polly, biting off her thread, and giving the muslin breadths a little shake; "felicie is tucking the flounce; then i shall have to sew on the lace." "how many dolls are there to refurbish before to-morrow?" asked alexia suddenly. "four--no, five," said polly, rapidly counting; "for the one that grandpapa gave her christmas before last, celestine, you know, does need a new waist. i forgot her. but that doesn't count the new sashes, and the hair ribbons and the lace ruffles around the necks; i guess there are almost fifty of them. dear me, i must hurry," and she began to sew faster yet. "what a nuisance all those dolls are," said alexia, "they take up every bit of your spare time." "that isn't the worst of it," said polly. "alexia, i don't know what we shall do, for phronsie works over them till she's quite tired out. you ought to see her this morning." "she's up in the play-house at it now, i suppose," said alexia, "dressing every one of them for the party to-morrow." "yes," said polly, "she is." "well, i hope no one will give her a doll to-morrow," said alexia, "at least no one but mr. king. of course he will." "oh! no one else will," declared polly cheerfully. "of course not, alexia." and then jencks walked in with his seven boxes exactly alike as to size, and deposited them solemnly in a row on the blue and white lounge. "for miss phronsie pepper, and not to be opened till to-morrow, miss mary." "polly," said alexia in a stage whisper, and jumping up as jencks disappeared, to run over to the row, "do you suppose they are dolls?" "i shall die if they are," declared polly desperately, and sitting quite still. "they surely look like dolls on the very covers," said alexia, fingering the cords. "would it be so very wrong to open one box, and just relieve our suspense? just one, polly?" "no, no, don't," cried polly sharply. "they belong to phronsie. but o dear me!" "and just think," said alexia, like a job's comforter, and looking over at the clock, "it's only half-past eleven. polly pepper, there's time for oceans more to come in yet." "it's perfectly horrid to get such a scrap of an outing," said joel that night, sprawling on the rug before the library fire, "only four days! why couldn't mr. marks be sick longer than that, if he was going to be sick at all, pray?" "these four days will give you strength for your 'exams,' won't they, joe?" asked van. joel turned his black eyes on him and coolly said "yes," then made a wry face, doubled up a bit of paper, and aimed it at van. davie sighed, and looked up anxiously. "i hope mr. marks will come out all right so that we can go back monday." "i only hope he'll stay ill," said joel affectionately. "'tisn't safe anyway for us to go back monday. it may be typhoid fever, you know, mamsie," looking over at her. "they'll let us know soon enough if that's the case," said mother fisher in the lamp-light over by the center-table. "no, i expect your letter to-morrow will say 'come monday.'" "well, it's a downright shame for us to be pulled off so soon," cried joel indignantly, sitting straight. "think how soon the term ends, joe," cried polly, "then you have such a long outing." she sighed as she thought of the separation to come, and the sea between them. "that's nothing; only a dreadful little time--soon will be gone," grunted joel, turning his face to look at the brightly-leaping flames the cool evening had made necessary. ben glanced over at polly. "don't talk of the summer," he was going to say, but stopped in time. phronsie set her doll carefully in the corner of the sofa, and went over to joel. "does your head ache often at school, joel?" she asked, softly laying her cool little palm on his stubby hair. "yes," said joel, "it does, awfully, phronsie; and nobody cares, and says 'stop studying." a shout greeted this. "that's too bad," said phronsie pityingly, "i shall just write and ask mr. marks if he won't let you stop and rest when it aches." "'twouldn't do any good, phronsie," said joel, "nothing would. he's a regular old grinder, marks is." "mr. marks," said phronsie slowly, "i don't know who you mean by marks, joel. and what is a grinder, please?" getting down on her knees to look in his face. "and he works us boys so, phronsie--you can't think," said joel, ignoring the question. "what is a grinder, joel, please tell me," repeated phronsie with gentle persistence. "oh! a grinder is a horrid buffer," began joel impatiently. "joel," said mrs. fisher, reprovingly. the fire in her black eyes was not pleasant to look at, and after one glance, he turned back to the blazing logs once more. "i can't help it," he muttered, picking up the tongs to poke the fire. "don't ever let me hear that excuse from a son of mine," said mother fisher scornfully. "can't help it. i'd be master of myself, that's one thing." joel set the tongs back with an unsteady hand. they slipped and fell to the hearth with a clang. "mamsie, i didn't mean," he began, finding his feet. and before any one could draw a long breath, he rushed out of the room. there was a dreadful pause. polly clasped her hands tightly together, and looked at her mother. mrs. fisher quietly put her sewing into the big basket and got out of her chair. "oh! what is the matter with joey?" cried phronsie, standing quite still by the deserted hearth-rug. "mamsie, do you suppose his head aches?" "i think it must," said mrs. fisher gravely. then she went out very quietly and they could hear her going up the stairs. with a firm step she went into her own room, and turned up the gas. the flash revealed joel, face downward on the broad, comfortable sofa. mrs. fisher went over and closed the door, then came to his side. "i thought, my boy," she said, "that i should find you here. now then, tell mother all about it," and lifting his head, she sat down and took it into her lap. "o dear!" cried joel, burrowing deep in the comfortable lap, "o dear--o dear!" "now, that is silly, joey," said mother fisher, "tell me at once what all this trouble is about," passing her firm hands over his hot forehead, and trying to look in his face. but he struggled to turn it away from her. "in the first place i just hate school!" he exploded. xxii joel "hate school?" cried mother fisher. "oh, joey! think how ben wanted more schooling, only he wouldn't take the chance when mr. king offered it to him because he felt that he must be earning money as soon as possible. oh, joey!" that "oh, joey!" cut deeply. joel winced and burrowed deeper under his mother's fingers. "that's just it," he cried. "ben wanted it, and i don't. i hate it, and i don't want to go back." "don't want to go back?" repeated mrs. fisher in dismay. "no, i don't. the fellows are always twitting me, and every one gets ahead of me, and i'm everlastingly staying in from ballgames to make up lessons, and i'd like to fire the books, i would," cried joel with venom. mrs. fisher said nothing, but the hands still stroked the brown stubby head in her lap. "and nobody cares for me because i won't be smart like the others, but i can't help it, i just hate school!" finished joel in the same strain. "joel," said mrs. fisher slowly, "if that is the case, i shall go down to mr. king and tell him that we, father fisher and i, polly and phronsie, will not go abroad with him." joel bolted upright and, putting down his two hands, brought his black eyes to bear on her. "what?" "i shall go directly downstairs and tell mr. king that father fisher and i, polly and phronsie, will not go abroad with him," repeated his mother slowly and distinctly while she looked him fully in the face. "you can't do that," said joel in amazement. "he's engaged the state-rooms." "that makes no difference," said mrs. fisher, "when a woman has a boy who needs her, nothing should stand in the way. and i must stay at home and take care of you, joel." joel sprang to his feet and began to prance up and down the floor. "i'm big enough to take care of myself, mother," he declared, coming up to her, to prance off again. "so i thought," said mrs. fisher composedly, "or i shouldn't have placed you at mr. marks's school." "the idea, mamsie, of your staying at home to take care of me," said joel excitedly. "why, feel of that." he bared his arm, and coming up, thrust it out for inspection. "isn't that splendid? i do verily believe i could whip any fellow in school, i do," he cried, regarding his muscles affectionately. "if you don't believe it, just pinch them hard. you don't mean it really, mamsie, what you said, of course. the idea of staying at home to take care of me," and he began to prance again. "i don't care how many boys you can whip," observed mother fisher coolly, "as long as you can't whip your own self when you're naughty, you're too weak to go alone, and i must stay at home." joel stopped suddenly and looked at her. "and before i'd give up, a boy of thirteen, and beg to be taken away from school because the lessons were hard, and i didn't like to study, i'd work myself to skin and bone but i'd go through creditably." mrs. fisher sat straight now as an arrow in her corner of the sofa. "i've said my say, joel," she finished after a pause, "and now i shall go down and tell mr. king." "mother," howled joel, dashing across the room to her, "don't go! i'll stay, i will. don't say that again, about my having to be taken care of like a baby. i'll be good, mother, and study." "study doesn't amount to much unless you are glad of the chance," said mrs. fisher sharply. "i wouldn't give a fig for it, being driven to it," and her lips curled scornfully. joel wilted miserably. "i do care for the chance," he cried; "just try me, and see." mrs. fisher took his sunburnt face between her two hands. "do you really wish to go back to school, and put your mind on your books? be honest, now." "yes, i do," said joel, without winking. "well, you never told me a lie, and i know you won't begin now," said mother fisher, slowly releasing him. "you may go back, joe; i'll trust you." "phronsie," said jasper, as the sound of the two voices could be heard in mother fisher's room, "don't you want to come into my den? i've some new bugs in the cabinet--found a regular beauty to-day." phronsie stood quite still just where joel had left her; her hands were clasped and tears were rolling slowly down her cheeks. "no," she said, without looking at him, "jasper, i don't." "do come, phronsie," he begged, going over to her, and holding out his hand. "you can't think how nice the new one is, with yellow stripes and two long horns. come and see it, phronsie." "no, jasper," said the child quietly. then in the next breath, "i think joey must be very sick." "oh! mamsie is taking care of him, and he'll soon be all right," broke in polly cheerily. "do go with jasper, phronsie, do, dear." she took hold of the clasped hands, and smiled up into the drooping face. but phronsie shook her head and said "no." "if grandpapa should come in and find her so 'twould be very dreadful!" exclaimed polly, looking over at the five boys, who in this sudden emergency were knocked speechless. "do let us all play some game. can't some one think of one?" "let us play 'twenty questions,'" proposed jasper brightly. "i'll begin it, i've thought of something." "that's horrid," cried van, finding his tongue, "none of us want to play that, i'm sure." "i do," said david. "i think 'twenty questions' is always nice. is it animal, vegetable or mineral, jasper?" "i'm sick of it. do play something not quite as old as the hills, i beg." "well, you think of something yourself, old man," said jasper, nodding furiously at him. "hurry up." "i'd rather have polly tell a story than any game you could possibly think of," said van, going over to her, where she sat on the rug at phronsie's feet. "polly, will you?" he asked wheedlingly. "don't ask her to-night," interposed jasper. "yes, i shall. it's the only time we shall have," said van, "before we go back to school. do, polly, will you?" he begged again. "i can't think of the first thing," declared polly, pushing back little rings of brown hair from her forehead. "don't try to think; just spin it off," said van. "now begin." "you're a regular nuisance, van!" exclaimed jasper indignantly. "polly, i wouldn't indulge him." "i know phronsie wants a story; don't you, phronsie?" asked van artfully, and running over to peer into her face. but to his astonishment, phronsie stood perfectly still. "no," she said again, "i don't want a story; joey must be sick." "jasper," cried polly in despair, and springing up, "something must be done. grandpapa's coming; i hear him." "phronsie," said jasper, bending to speak into her ear, "do you know you are making polly feel very unhappy? just think; the next thing i don't know but what she'll cry." phronsie unfolded her hands. "give me your handkerchief, polly," she said, winking back the rest of the tears. "now, there's a dear," cried polly, pulling out her handkerchief and wiping the wet, little face. none too soon; the door opened and mr. king came in. "well--well--well!" he exclaimed, looking over his spectacles at them all. "playing games, hey?" "we're going to," said ben and jasper together. "no, polly is going to tell a story," said van loudly, "that is, if you want to hear it, grandpapa. do say you do," he begged, going over to whisper in his ear. "i want immensely to hear it!" declared the old gentleman, pulling up an easy-chair to the fireside. "there now," sitting down, "i'm fixed. now proceed, my dear." van softly clapped his hands. "phronsie," mr. king beckoned to her, and then suggestively touched his knee, "here, dear." phronsie scurried across the room to his side. "yes, grandpapa." "there, up she goes!" sang mr. king, swinging her into position on his lap. "now then, polly, my child, we are all ready for the wonderful tale. stay, where is joel?" "joel went upstairs a little while ago," said jasper quickly. "well, now, polly, do begin." "i'll tell how we went to buy phronsie's shoes," said polly, drawing up an ottoman to mr. king's side. "now, boys, bring your chairs up." "joel ought to know that you are going to tell a story, polly," said mr. king. "one of you boys run out and call him at the foot of the stairs." "he's in mamsie's room," said ben. "i suppose when she gets through with him, he'll come down." "oh! ah!" said the old gentleman. "well, polly, then perhaps you would better proceed." so polly began on the never tiresome recital, how phronsie fell down the stairs leading from the kitchen to the "provision room" in the little brown house, with the bread-knife in her hand; and how, because she cut her thumb so that it bled dreadfully, mother decided that she could at last have a pair of shoes bought especially for her very own self; and how deacon brown's old horse and wagon were procured, and they all set forth, except mother, and how they rode to town, and how the beebes were just as good as gold, and how the red-topped shoes fitted as if they were made for phronsie's feet, and how they all went home, and how phronsie danced around the kitchen till she was all tired out, and then went to bed carrying the new shoes with her, and how she fell asleep with-- "why, i declare," exclaimed polly, reaching this denouement in a delightfully roundabout way, "if she isn't asleep now!" and indeed she was. so she had to be carried up to bed in the same old way; only this time it was jasper instead of polly who held her. "don't you believe we'd better put it off till some other night?" whispered percy to van on the way upstairs to bed, the library party having broken up early. "a fellow doesn't want to see a burglar on top of the time joel has had." "no, no," said van; "it'll be good for him, and knock the other thing out of his head, don't you see, percy? i should want something else to think of if i were joel. you can't back out; you promised, you know." "well, and i'll do it," said percy testily. "it's no use trying to sleep," declared joel, in the middle of the night, and kicking the bed-clothes for the dozenth time into a roll at the foot, "as long as i can see mamsie's eyes. i'll just get up and tackle that latin grammar now. whew! haven't i got to work, though! might as well begin at it," and he jumped out of bed. stepping softly over to the door that led into david's little room, he closed it carefully, and with a sigh, lighted the gas. then he went over to the table where his schoolbooks ought to have been. but instead, the space was piled with a great variety of things--one or two balls, a tennis racket, and a confusion of fishing tackle, while in front, the last thing that had occupied him that day, lay a book of artificial flies. joel set his teeth together hard, and looked at them. "suppose i shan't get much of this sort of thing this summer," he muttered. "here goes!" and without trusting himself to take another look, he swept them all off down to the floor and into a corner. "there," he said, standing up straight, "lie there, will you?" but they loomed up in a suggestive heap, and his fingers trembled to just touch them once. "i must cover up the things, or else i know i'll be at them," he said, and hurrying over to the bed, he dragged off the cover-lid. "now," and he threw it over the fascinating mass, "i've got to study. dear me, where are my books?" for the next five minutes joel had enough to do to collect his working instruments, and when at last he unearthed them from the corner of his closet where he had thrown them under a pile of boots, he was tired enough to sit down. "i don't know which to go at first," he groaned, whirling the leaves of the upper book. "it ought to be latin--but then it ought to be algebra just as much, and as for history--well there--here goes, i'll take them as they come." with a very red face joel plunged into the first one under his hand. it proved to be the latin grammar, and with a grimace, he found the page, and resting his elbows on the table, he seized each side of his stubby head with his hands. "i'll hang on to my hair," he said, and plunged into his task. and now there was no sound in the room but his hard breathing, and the noise he made turning the leaves, for he very soon found he was obliged to go back many lessons to understand how to approach the one before him; and with cheeks growing every instant more scarlet with shame and confusion, the drops of perspiration ran down his forehead and fell on his book. "whew!" he exclaimed, "it's horribly hot," and pushing back his book, he tiptoed over to the other window and softly raised it. the cool air blew into his face, and leaning far out into the dark night, he drew in deep breaths. "i've skinned through and saved my neck a thousand times," he reflected, "and now i've got to dig like sixty to make up. there's dave now, sleeping in there like a cat; he doesn't have anything to do, but to run ahead of the class like lightning--just because he"-- "loves it," something seemed to sting the words into him. joel drew in his head and turned abruptly away from the window. "pshaw! well, here goes," he exclaimed again, throwing himself into his chair. "she said, 'i'd work myself to skin and bone but i'd get through creditably.'" joel bared his brown arm and regarded it critically. "i wonder how 'twould look all skin and bone," and he gave a short laugh. "but this isn't studying." he pulled down his sleeve, and his head went over the book again. outside, a bright blue eye applied to the keyhole, gave place to a bright brown one, till such time as the persons to whom the eyes belonged, were satisfied as to the condition of the interior they were surveying. "what do you suppose he's doing?" whispered the taller figure, putting his face concealed under a black mask, closely to the ear of the other person, whose countenance was similarly adorned. "don't know," whispered the second black mask. "he acts dreadfully queer, but i suppose he's got a novel. so you see it's our duty to break it up," he added virtuously. the taller figure shook his head, but as it was very dark on their side of joel's door, the movement was unobserved. "well, come on," whispered the second black mask. "are you ready?" yes. "come then." "o, dear, dear!" grunted joel, "i'd rather chop wood as i used to, years ago, to help the little brown house out," swinging his arms up over his head. "why"-- and he was left in darkness, his arms falling nervously to his side, while a cautious step across the room made his black eyes stand out in fright. "a burglar--a burglar!" flashed through his mind. he held his breath hard and his knees knocked together. but mamsie's eyes seemed to look with scorn on him again. joel straightened up, clenched his fist, and every minute expecting to be knocked on the head, he crept like a cat to the further corner, even in this extremity, grumbling inwardly because mr. king would not allow firearms. "if i only had them now!" he thought. "well, i must get my club." but there was no time to get it. joel creeping along, feeling his way cautiously, soon knew that there were two burglars instead of one in the room, and his mind was made up. "they'll be after grandpapa's money, sure," he thought. "i have got to get out, and warn him." but how? that was the question. getting down on all-fours, holding his breath, yet with never a thought of danger to himself, he crept along toward the door leading into the hall, then stopped and rested under cover of the heavy window drapery. but as quick as a flash, two dark figures, that now, his eyes becoming more accustomed to the darkness, he could dimly distinguish, reached there before him, and the key clicking in the lock, joel knew that all hope from escape by that quarter was gone. like a cat, he sprang to his feet, swung the drapery out suddenly toward the figures, and in the next second hurled himself over the window-sill, hanging to the edge, grasping the blind, crawling to the next window, and so on and over, and down, down, by any friendly thing he could grasp, to the ground. two black masks hung over the deserted window-edge. "joe--joe! it's only we boys--percy and van. joe--joe!" "he'll be killed!" gasped van, his face as white as joel's robe fluttering below them in his wild descent. "stop him, percy. oh! do stop him." percy clung to the window-sill, and danced in distress. "stop him!" he was beyond uttering anything more. "yes, oh, joe! don't you see it's only percy and van?" cried van persuasively, and hanging out of the window to the imminent danger of adding himself to joel's company. percy shoved him back. "he's 'most down," he said, finding his breath. "now we'll run downstairs and let him in." van flew off from the window. "i'll go; it's my scrape," and he was unlocking the door. "i'm the oldest," said percy, hurrying to get there first. "i ought to have known better." this made van furious, and pushing percy with all his might, he wriggled out first as the door flew open, and not forgetting to tiptoe down the hall, he hurried along, percy behind him, to hear the noise of men's feet coming over the stairs. van tried to rush forward shouting, "thomas, it's we boys--percy and van." instead, he only succeeded in the darkness, in stumbling over a chair, and falling flat with it amid a frightful racket that drowned his voice. old mr. king who had been awakened by the previous noise, and had rung his burglar alarm that connected with thomas's and jencks's rooms in the stable, now cried out from his doorway. "make quick work, thomas," and percy saw the gleam of a pistol held high in thomas's hand. up with a rush came bare feet over the back stairs; a flutter of something white, and joel sprang in between them. "it's percy--it's percy!" he screamed, "don't you see, thomas?" "i'm percy--don't shoot!" the taller burglar kept saying without intermission, while the flaring of candles and frightened voices, told of the aroused household. "make quick work, jencks!" shouted mr. king from his doorway, to add to the general din. thomas, whose blood was up, determined once for all to put an end to the profession of burglary as far as his master's house was concerned, now drew nearer, steadying his pistol and trying to sight the nearest fellow. this proved to be van, now struggling to his feet. joel took one wild step forward. "thomas--don't shoot! it's van!" "make quick work, thomas!" called mr. king. there was but a moment in which to decide. it was either van or he; and in an instant joel had stepped in front of the pistol. xxiii of many things van threw his arms around joel. "make quick work, thomas," called mr. king from his doorway. the pistol fell from thomas's hand. "i've shot one of the boys. och, murther!" he screamed. and everybody rushing up supposed it was van, who was writhing and screaming unintelligibly in the corner. "oh! i've killed him," they finally made out. "who--who? oh, van! who?" "joey," screamed van, bending over a white heap on the floor. "oh! make him get up. oh! i've killed him." the mask was hanging by one end from his white face, and his eyes protruded wildly. up flew another figure adorned with a second black mask. "no, no, it was i," and percy rushed forward with an "oh, joel, joel!" somebody lighted the gas, that flashed suddenly over the terrified group, and somebody else lifted the heap from the corner. and as they did so, joel stirred and opened his eyes. "don't make such a fuss," he said crossly. one hand had gripped the sleeve of his night-dress, trying to hold it up in a little wad on the shoulder, the blood pouring down the arm. at sight of this, van collapsed and slid to the floor. "don't frighten mamsie," said joel, his head drooping, despite his efforts to hold it up. "i'm all right; nothing but a scratch. ugh! let me be, will you?" to mr. whitney and jasper, who were trying to support him. and mother fisher, for the first time since the children had known her, lost her self-control. "oh, joey! and mother was cross to you," she could only sob as she reached him. polly, at a nod from the little doctor's night-cap and a few hurried words, ran as in a dream for the case of instruments in his bedroom. "all right, mamsie!" exclaimed joel in surprise, and trying to stagger to his feet. "good heavens and earth!" cried old mr. king, approaching. "what? oh! it's monstrous--joel!" "och, murther!" thomas sidled along the edge of the group, rolling fearful eyes at them, and repeating over and over, "i've shot that boy--that boy!" all this occupied but an instant, and joel was laid on his bed, and the wound which proved to be only a flesh one, the ball cutting a little furrow as it grazed the shoulder, was dressed, and everybody drew a long breath. "tell van that i'm all right," joel kept saying all the time. polly undertook to do this. "van--van!" she cried, running out into the hall to lay a shaking hand on his arm, where he lay on the floor. "joel sent me to say that he is all right." "polly, i've killed him!" van thrust his head up suddenly and looked at her, with wild eyes. "i have--don't speak to me, or look at me. i've killed joel!" "take off this dreadful thing," said polly with a shiver, and kneeling down, she seized the strings that tied the mask. "o dear! it's all in a knot. wait, i'll get the scissors," and she found her feet, and ran off to her room. "now you are all right;" he gave a little sob as the mask tumbled off. "oh! how could you?" she wanted to say, but van's distress was too dreadful for anything but comfort. "don't you see," said polly, sitting down on the floor and cuddling up his head in her lap, "that joel is really all right now? suppose we hadn't a father fisher who was a doctor, what should we do then?" and she even managed a faint laugh. "o dear! but i've killed joel." van covered his face with the folds of her flannel dress and wailed on. "now, just see here, van whitney," said polly, with the air of authority, "i tell you that joel is all right now. don't you say that again--not once more, vanny." "but i have ki--i mean i saw thomas shoot, and i couldn't stop him," and van writhed fearfully, ending with a scream "i've ki"--but polly, clapping her hand over his mouth, kept the words back. meanwhile percy had rushed out of the house. "oh!" cried polly, when this new alarm sprang up, and everybody was running hither and thither to comfort him by the assurance that joel was not much hurt, "do, uncle mason and jasper, let me go with you." "no, no, you stay here, polly," cried jasper, throwing wide the heavy front door. "brother mason and i will find him. don't worry, polly." "i know i could help," said polly, hanging over the stair-railing. "oh! do let me," she begged. "no, no, child," said mr. whitney, quickly. "stay where you are, and take care of the others. now, then, jasper, is jencks ready with the lantern?" "all right," said jasper. "come on." polly, longing to fly to the window to watch, at least, the lantern's twinkling light across the lawn, hurried off to comfort aunt whitney, who at this new stage in the affairs, was walking her room, biting her lips to keep from screaming the terror that clutched at her heart. "oh, polly!" she cried, "i'm so glad you've come. i should die if left alone here much longer;" her soft hair floated down the white robe, and the blue eyes were filled with tears. "do tell me, don't you think they will find percy?" "yes, indeed!" declared polly, cuddling up to the little woman. "oh, auntie! remember when dicky's leg was broken." "but this is much worse," said mrs. whitney, sobbing, and holding close to polly's warm hand. "but we thought he was dead," and polly gave a little shiver. "don't--don't," begged mrs. whitney, clasping her hands; "oh, polly! don't." "but he wasn't, you see, auntie," polly hurried on, "and so now you know it will come out all right about per--there! oh! they've found him!" as a shout from the lawn rang out. "do you suppose it, polly?" cried mrs. whitney, breathlessly. "oh! do run to the window and see!" so polly ran to the window in the next room that overlooked that part of the lawn where mr. whitney and jasper were searching, and strained her gaze up and down, and in every direction. "have they? oh! have they?" cried mrs. whitney. "oh, polly! do tell me." "i don't see any of them," said polly, listening eagerly for another cry, "but i do believe they've found him." "do come back," implored mrs. whitney; "there, now, don't go again, polly," as polly hurried to her side, "but just hold my hand." "i will," said polly, "just as tight as i can, auntie." "oh--oh! percy is so much worse off than joel," wailed mrs. whitney. "oh! to do such a thing, polly!" she groaned. "they only meant it in fun," said polly, swallowing hard the lump in her throat, "don't let us talk about it, auntie." "and van," cried mrs. whitney, running on. "oh! my poor, poor boys. will your mother ever forgive me, polly?" "oh, auntie! don't talk so," said polly tenderly; "and we both ought to be out helping. there's van, auntie; just think how he feels." "i can't go near him," cried mrs. whitney in distress, "as long as he is in joel's room, for i can see your mother's eyes, polly. it would kill me to have her look at me." the door opened at this, and the trail of a long silken wrapper was heard on the floor. "mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney, raising her head and looking at the new-comer with as much anger as her gentle face could contain, "i really cannot see you in my room to-night. excuse me, but i am unstrung by all that has occurred. will you please not come in"-- "i thought i might sit with you," said mrs. chatterton. in the brief interval since the arousing of the household, she had contrived to make a perfect breakfast toilet, and she folded her hands over her handsome gown. "polly might then be with her mother. but if you don't wish me to remain, i will go." "i do not need you," said mrs. whitney, decidedly, and she turned to polly again. mrs. chatterton moved away, and closed the door after her. "auntie," said polly, "she really wants to help you." "polly, you needn't say anything about it," exclaimed mrs. whitney, like many other gentle creatures, when roused, becoming unreasonably prejudiced; "i cannot bear the sight of that woman. she has been here so long, and is so intensely disagreeable to us all." polly's eyes became very round, and she held her breath in astonishment. "don't look so, child," said mrs. whitney at length, "you don't understand, my dear. but you would if you were in my place"-- "she's sorry for it," said polly, finding her tongue at last. "and father is nearly worn out with her," continued mrs. whitney. "and now to come parading her attentions upon me, it"-- "who--who?" dicky, now that the excitement in joel's room had died down, had lost his relish for it, and he now pranced into mrs. whitney's room. "who, mamma?" "mrs. chatterton," said mrs. whitney unguardedly. "she has disagreeably intruded herself upon me." "has she been in here?" asked dick in astonishment. "yes; asking if she can sit with me," and polly started at the look in the usually soft blue eyes. "and you wouldn't let her?" asked dick, stopping short and regarding his mother curiously. "of course not, dicky," she made haste to say. "then i think you did very wrong," declared dick flatly. "oh, dick!" exclaimed polly in consternation. "and you don't act like my mother at all," said dick, standing quite stiffly on his sturdy legs, and gazing at her with disapprobation. "didn't mrs. chatterton save my life," he exploded, "when the real burglar was going for me? say, didn't she?" he cried. "i have yet to find out that is the truth," said mrs. whitney, finding her voice. "oh, dicky," she added, hurt that he should defend another, worst of all, mrs. chatterton, "don't talk about her." "but i ought to talk about her," persisted dick. "she saved me as much as she could. because she won't let anybody thank her, i like her more myself. i'm going to stay with her." with that, he held his head high, and marched to the door. "dick, dick!" called his mother, "come back, dear." dick slowly turned and made his way to her side, but he still regarded her with disapproval. "dick, i want you to go to mrs. chatterton's room, and say that i am sorry i refused her offer to help, and that i would like to have her sit with me. remember, say i am sorry i refused her offer to help, dicky." she leaned forward and kissed her boy, her long, soft hair falling like a veil around the two faces. dick threw his arms around her neck. "now, you're a brick!" he declared impulsively. "i'll bring the old lady, and we'll both sit with you." so polly was free to run back to mamsie. on the way there she opened the door of phronsie's little room, just out of father and mother fisher's. "how good it is that she sleeps through it all," said polly, listening to the regular breathing. then she stole across the room and stood beside the small bed. "she looks just as she did the night she took her new shoes to bed," thought polly; "one hand is over her head, exactly as it was then. oh, phronsie! to think that you're to have no party to-morrow," and she turned off with a sigh, went out, and closed the door. "percy's here--all right!" cried jasper, running over the stairs to meet her at the top. his eyes were gleaming with excitement, and his face was torn and bleeding. "are you hurt?" cried polly, feeling as if the whole family were bound to destruction. "oh, jasper! did you fall?" "nothing but a scratch. i was fool enough to forget the ledge, and walked off for my pains"-- "oh, jasper!" cried polly, with paling cheeks, "let me bathe it for you, do;" her strength began to return at the thought of action, and she sprang for a basin of water. "nonsense. no, polly!" cried jasper, with a quick hand detaining her, "it's nothing but a mere scratch, i tell you, but i suppose it looks terribly. i'll go and wash it off. run and tell his mother that percy is found." "is he all right?" asked polly fearfully, holding her breath for the answer. "sound as a nut," declared jasper; "we found him streaking it down the locust path; he said he was going to run off to sea." "run off to sea!" repeated polly. "oh, jasper!" "well, he was so frightened, of course he didn't know what to say," replied jasper. "and ashamed, too. he didn't care to show his head at home. i don't know as i blame him, polly. well, it's too bad about phronsie's party, isn't it?" added jasper, mopping up his face as the two went down the hall. "yes," said polly with a sigh, stopping at mrs. whitney's door, "but, oh! think how happy we are now that percy is safe, jasper." "still, it's too bad for phronsie," repeated jasper, looking back. but joel flatly declared that the first one that even so much as hinted that a single item of the arrangements for phronsie's getting-well party should be changed, he'd make it disagreeable as only he knew how, for that one when he got up from his bed. "yes, sir!" and he scolded, and fretted, and fussed, and laid down the law so generally to all, not excepting the doctor, that at last it was decided to let the party go on. then he lay back against the pillows quite exhausted, but with a beatific face. "i should think you would be tired, joe," exclaimed jasper, "you've bullied us so. dear me! people ought to be angelic when they're sick, at least." "if you'd had him to take care of as i did," observed dr. fisher, "you'd know better; goodness me! the little brown house scarcely held him when he was getting over the measles." "what's the use of being sick," said joel reflectively, turning on his pillow, "if you can't make people stand around, i'd like to know. now that point's settled about phronsie's party, won't you all go out? i'd like to speak to father fisher a moment." "you don't mean me, joey?" said mother fisher at the head of the bed, holding her boy's hand. "yes; you, too, mamsie," said joel, giving her an affectionate glance, "it's something that only the doctor and i are to know." "you're not hurt anywhere else, are you, joey?" asked his mother, a sudden alarm leaping to her black eyes. "not a scratch," said joel promptly. "i want to see father fisher about something. sometime you shall know, mamsie." he gave her hand a sudden pressure, then let it go. "perhaps you would better step out, my dear," said the little doctor, nodding to his wife. so mrs. fisher, smothering a sigh, went out reluctantly. "all out?" asked joel, trying to raise his head to see for himself. "every soul," said dr. fisher. "well, see here, will you," said joel, pointing to the table, the schoolbooks scattered as he had left them, "pack those things all away in the closet on the shelf, you know, and put the rubbish on the floor there, back on the table?" dr. fisher could not for his life, refrain from asking curiously, as he did as requested, "been having a pull at the books, eh, joe?" "um--um--maybe," said joel, twisting uneasily. "well, now, come here, please, father fisher." the little man turned away from the table, with its sprawling array of delightful things, to stand by the bedside. "you must get me well as soon as you can," said joel confidentially. "all right; i understand," dr. fisher nodded professionally. "and whatever you say, don't let it be that i must be careful of my eyes," said joel. "all right; that is, if you get up quickly," agreed the doctor. "that's all," said joel in great satisfaction. "now, call mamsie in and the others." and in the morning, no one told phronsie what had happened the night before. she only knew that joel was not very well, and was going to keep his room; all her pleadings to do something for him being set one side by grandpapa's demands upon her instant attention whenever the idea suggested itself to her. and so the time wore along till the party began. alexia was the first to arrive, her bowl of orange jelly in her hand, and after her, a tall slight figure jumped from the carriage, her flaxen hair streaming out in two pale braids. "i thought i'd pick cathie up," said alexia carelessly; "had to pass her door, you know. o dear me, what perfectly dreadful times you had last night, polly pepper." "i didn't bring macaroons," said cathie, "as i really think that they wouldn't be good for phronsie. besides, i've forgotten how to make them, and our cook was cross and said i shouldn't come into her kitchen. but i bought a doll for phronsie; my mother said it would be a great deal more sensible present," and she hugged the long box under her arm with great satisfaction. "o dear! dear!" groaned alexia, falling back with polly as the three raced along the hall, "she showed it to me in the carriage, and it's a perfect guy, besides counting one more." but afflictions like this were small to polly now, and although for the next hour it rained dolls into phronsie's puzzled hands, polly helped her to thank the givers and to dispose them safely on neighboring chairs and tables and sofas. mrs. chatterton's was the pattern of old mr. king's phonograph doll, at which discovery he turned upon her with venom in his eye. "my gift to my little granddaughter," taking especial care to emphasize the relationship, "has always been a doll, i suppose you knew that, cousin eunice; and to try to procure one exactly like the one i have purchased, is very presuming in you, to say the least." "and why may i not present a doll to phronsie pepper, if i care to, pray tell?" demanded mrs. chatterton in a high, cold tone. "why? because you have always showed a marked dislike for the child," cried old mr. king angrily, "that's why, cousin eunice." "grandpapa--grandpapa," said phronsie, laying her hand on his arm. "and to parade any special affection, such as the presentation of a gift indicates, is a piece of presumption on your part, i say it again, cousin eunice." "grandpapa!" said phronsie again at his elbow. "now, phronsie," turning to her, "you are to take that doll," pointing to a gorgeous affair reposing on the sofa, with mrs. algernon chatterton's card attached to it, "and go over to mrs. chatterton, and say, very distinctly, 'i cannot accept this gift;' mind you say it distinctly, phronsie, that there may be no mistake in the future." "oh, grandpapa!" cried phronsie in dismay. "yes, child; i know what is best for you. take that doll, and do exactly as i bid you." a dreadful pause fell upon the room. polly clasped her hands, while alexia and the other girls huddled into a corner saying softly, "oh! how perfectly dreadful!" "no use to say anything to father when he looks like that," groaned jasper, when polly besought him to try his influence, "his blood is up now; he's borne a good deal, you know, polly." "o dear, dear!" whispered polly, back again, "just look at mrs. chatterton's face, and at poor phronsie's; can't you do something, jasper?" "i'm afraid not," said jasper gloomily. "no; he's making her give it back; see, polly." "you'll know it's for the best," mr. king was repeating as he led the child to mrs. chatterton standing cold and silent at the end of the room, "sometime, child, and then you'll thank me that i saved you from further annoyance of this sort. there, cousin eunice, is your gift," taking the doll from phronsie's hand, and placing it in the long, jeweled one. "my little granddaughter receives presents only from those who love her. all others are unwarranted, and must be returned." phronsie burst out tearfully, "she's sorry, grandpapa, i know she is, and she loves me now. please let me keep the doll." but mrs. chatterton had left the room, the doll in her hand. xxiv away and after that everybody had to be as gay as possible, to keep phronsie's sad little face from being flooded with tears. "dear me!" exclaimed jasper, "here comes candace! now what do you suppose she has for you, phronsie?" candace sailed through the doorway with ample satisfaction with everything and herself in particular. "whar's little miss?" she demanded, her turban nodding in all directions, and her black eyes rolling from side to side. "there, candace," said some one, "over in the corner with jasper." "oh! i see her," said candace, waddling over to them. "well, now, phronsie, seein' you couldn't come to me for somethin' i made 'xpressly fer you, w'y, candace has to come to you. see dat now, chile!" she unrolled the parcel, disclosing the wonderful doll adorned with candace's own hair, and "ole missus' ruffles," then stood erect, her bosom swelling with pride and delight. "o my goodness me!" exclaimed alexia, tumbling back after the first and only glance, and nearly overturning cathie who was looking over her shoulder. "polly pepper, o dear me!" then she sat down on the floor and laughed till she cried. "hush--hush!" cried polly, running over to her, "do stop, alexia, and get up. she'll hear you, and we wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world. do stop, alexia." "o dear me!" cried alexia gustily, and holding her sides while she waved back and forth; "if it had been--a--respectable doll, but that--horror! o dear me!" "stop--stop!" commanded polly, shaking her arm. but alexia was beyond stopping herself. and in between candace's delighted recital how she combed "de ha'r to take de curl out," and how "ole missus' ruffles was made into de clothes," came the peals of laughter that finally made every one in the room stop and look at the girls. "candace, come into my 'den' and get a pattern for some new pins i want you to make for me," cried jasper, desperately dragging her off. "it's no use to lecture me," said alexia, sitting straight as candace's feet shuffled down the hall, and wiping her face exhaustedly. "i know it was dreadful--o dear me! don't anybody speak to me, or i shall disgrace myself again!" "now, phronsie, what do you suppose we are to do next?" phronsie looked up into old mr. king's face. "i don't know, grandpapa," she said wonderingly. "well, now, my dear, you've had punch and judy, and these nice children," waving his hand to indicate the delegation from the orphan asylum, "have sung beautifully for you. now what comes next, phronsie?" "i don't know, grandpapa," repeated phronsie. "when gifts become burdensome they no longer are kindnesses," said mr. king. "now, phronsie, i have found out--never mind how; little birds, you now, sometimes fly around telling people things they ought to know. well, i have discovered in some way that my little girl has too many children to care for." here phronsie's brown eyes became very wide. "and when there are too many children in the nest, phronsie, why, they have to go out into the world to try their fortunes and make other homes. now there are so many poor little girls who haven't any children, phronsie. think of that, dear; and you have so many." phronsie at this drew nearer and stole her hand into his. "now what is to be done about it?" asked the old gentleman, putting his other broad palm over her little one and holding it fast. "hey, my pet?" "can't we buy them some children?" asked phronsie with warm interest. "oh, grandpapa dear, do let us; i have money in my bank." "phronsie," said the old gentleman, going to the heart of the matter at once and lifting her to his lap, "i really think the time has come to give away some of your dolls. i really do, child." phronsie gave a start of incredulity and peered around at him. "i really do. you are going abroad to be gone--well, we'll say a year. and your dolls would be so lonely without anything to do but to sit all day and think of their little mother. and there are so many children who would love them and make them happy." now mr. king's white hair was very near the yellow waves floating over his shoulder, so that none but phronsie's ears caught the next words. "it's right, phronsie dear; i'd do it if i were you," he said in a low voice. "do you want it, grandpapa?" asked phronsie softly. "i do, child; but not unless you are willing"-- "then i do," declared phronsie, sitting quite straight on his knee. and she gave a relieved sigh. "oh, grandpapa, if we only had the poor children now!" she exclaimed, dreadfully excited. "come, then." old mr. king set her on her feet. "clear the way there, good people; we are going to find some poor children who are waiting for dolls," and he threw wide the door into a back passage, and there, presided over by jencks, and crowding for the first entrance, was a score of children with outstretched hands. "oh--oh!" exclaimed phronsie with cheeks aflame. "please, he said we was to have dolls," cried one hungry-eyed girl, holding out both her hands. "i've never had one. please give me one quick." "never had one?" echoed phronsie, taking a step toward her. "only a piece, miss, i found in a rag-barrel. please give me one quick." "she's never had a doll--only a piece," repeated phronsie, turning back to the family, unable to contain this information. "ask the others if they have had any," said mr. king, leaning against a tall cabinet. "try that girl there in a brown plaid dress." "have you ever had a doll?" asked phronsie obediently, looking over at the girl indicated, and holding her breath for the answer. at this, the girl in the brown plaid dress burst into tears, which so distressed phronsie that she nearly cried. "yes, but it died," said the girl after a little. "oh, grandpapa, her doll died!" exclaimed phronsie in horror. "no, it didn't, jane," corrected another girl, "the dog et it; you know he did." "yes, i know," said jane, between small sobs, "it died, and we couldn't have any fun'ral, 'cause the dog had et it." "well, now, phronsie," exclaimed mr. king, getting away from the support of the cabinet, "i think it's time that we should make some of these children happy. don't you want to take them up to the playroom and distribute the dolls?" "no, no," protested phronsie suddenly. "i must go up and tell my children. they will understand it better then, grandpapa. i'll be back in a very few minutes," and going out she went quickly upstairs, and after a while returned with both arms full. "this doll is for you," she said gravely, putting a doll attired in a wonderful pink satin costume into jane's arms. "i've told her about your dog, and she's a little frightened, so please be careful." "what's the fun down there now?" asked joel of van, who with percy could not be persuaded to leave his bedside a moment, "open the door, do, and let's hear it." so van threw wide the door. "go out and listen, percy, will you?" he said. "i don't want to," said percy, who shared van's wish to keep in the background. "you two fellows act like muffs," said joel. "now if you want me to get well, go out, do, and tell me what the fun is going on down there." so persuaded, the two boys stole out into the hall in time to see phronsie go down the stairs with her armful, and carefully using their ears they soon rushed back with "phronsie's giving away her dolls!" "stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed joel, "if you can't bring back anything better than that yarn, you might as well stay here." "but i tell you it's true," declared van, "isn't it, percy?" "yes, it is," said percy. "i heard her distinctly say, 'this doll is for you'--and she had her arms full, so i suppose she's going to give those away too"-- "a likely story," said joel, bursting into a laugh. at the noise up in the boys' room, mother fisher ran quickly over the stairs. "oh, boys! what is it? joel, are you worse?" "no, indeed," said joel, "i was laughing. percy and van have been telling such a big story. mamsie, they actually said that phronsie was giving away her dolls." "is that all?" cried mrs. fisher in relief. "well, so she is, joel." "phronsie giving away her dolls, mamsie?" screamed joel. "why, what does grandpapa say?" "he's the very one that proposed it," said mrs. fisher. "there, joey, don't get excited, for i don't know what the doctor will say," as joel sank back on his pillow, overcome by this last piece of news. when phronsie went to bed that night she clasped mr. king's new gift to her breast. "grandpapa, dear," she said confidingly as they went up the stairs together, "do you know i really think more of this doll, now that the others are gone? really i do, grandpapa, and i can take better care of her, because i shall have more time." "so you will, dear," assented mr. king. "well, phronsie, i think you and i, dear, haven't made a bad day's work." "i think my children will be happy," said phronsie with a small sigh, "because you see it's so nice to make good times for their new mothers. and, grandpapa, i couldn't play with each one more than once a week. i used to try to, but i couldn't, grandpapa." "why didn't you tell me, phronsie," asked the old gentleman a bit reproachfully as they reached the top step, "how it was, dear? you should have given them away long ago." "ah, but," said phronsie, slowly shaking her head, "i didn't want to give them away before; only just now, grandpapa, and i think they will be happy. and now i'm going to take this newest one to bed, just as i used to take things to bed years ago, when i was a little girl." and after all, there was an extension of time for the three boys' vacation, dr. marks not getting up from his sudden attack of fever as quickly as was expected. but there came a day at last, when percy, van and david bade joel "good-by." "it won't be for long," observed that individual cheerfully, "you'll be back in three weeks." "o dear!" groaned percy when safe within the coach, "we've ruined all his chances. he certainly will be plucked now--with those three weeks to make up." van gathered himself up and leaned forward in his corner. "don't look so, dave," he cried desperately. david tried to smooth the troubled lines out of his face, but only succeeded in making it look worse than before. "and it will kill mrs. fisher," percy continued gloomily, "if he does get plucked, as of course he will." "keep still, will you?" cried van, his irritation getting beyond bounds. "what's the use of talking about a thing till it's done," which had the effect to make percy remember his promise to polly and close his mouth. but joel's wound healed quicker than any one supposed it possibly could, and percy and van, who both hated to write letters, gave up much time on the playground to indite daily bulletins, so that he declared that it was almost as good as being there on the spot. and mother fisher and her army of servants cleaned the great stone house from top to bottom, and sorted, and packed away, and made things tidy for the new housekeeper who was to care for them in her absence, till dr. fisher raised his eyebrows and hands in astonishment. "i really must," he said one day, "put in a remonstrance, wife, or you'll kill yourself before we start." "oh! i'm used to working," mrs. fisher would say cheerily, and then off she would fly to something so much worse that the little doctor was speechless. and polly set herself at all her studies, especially french, with redoubled vigor, notwithstanding that she was hampered with the faithful attentions of the schoolgirls who fought among themselves for her company, and showered her with pathetic "o--dear--me--ow--i--shall--miss--you," and with tears when they got over it. and jasper buried himself in his den, only bursting forth at meal times, and mrs. whitney bemoaned all preparations for the travelers' departure, and wished a thousand times that she had not given her promise to keep the house and look after the boys. and everybody who had the slightest claim to a calling acquaintance, now dropped in upon the kings, and polly had her "good-by party," and it was pronounced perfectly elegant by alexia and her set, and the three boys came home for the long vacation--and in two days the party would sail. "who do you think is going abroad with us?" asked mr. king suddenly, as they all sat in the library for a last evening talk; "guess quickly." "who?" cried several voices. "why, i thought you didn't want any outsiders, father," exclaimed jasper in surprise. "well, and i didn't when i said so, but circumstances are changed now--come, guess quickly, some one?" "the cabots," said jasper at a venture. "no, no; guess again." "mr. alstyne?" "no; again." "the bayleys, the dyces, the herrings," shouted mr. whitney and van and joel. "no, i know," broke in percy, "it's mrs. chatterton," with a quick glance to make sure that she was not in the room. "no!" thundered mr. king. "oh! how stupid people can be when they want to. two persons are to meet us in new york to-morrow. i didn't tell you till i was sure; i had no desire that you should be disappointed. now guess again." "auntie, do you know?" asked polly suddenly, leaning back, as she sat on the rug in front of the fire, to lay her head in mrs. whitney's lap. "no, i'm sure i don't," said mrs. whitney, stroking lightly the brown hair, with a pang to think how long it would be before she should caress it again. "how any one can desire to cross the ocean," remarked mr. whitney, folding his hands back of his head and regarding meditatively the glowing fire, "is more than i can see. that i never shall do it again unless whipped over, i'm morally certain." "are the persons men?" asked ben suddenly. "one is," replied mr. king. "and the other is a woman?" "the other is a woman," said mr. king. "well, what are their names? isn't anybody smart enough to guess them? dear me, i've always said that the peppers were remarkably bright, and the rest of you children are not behind other young people. go on, try again. now who are they?" polly took her head out of mrs. whitney's lap, and rested her chin in her hands, davie walked up and down the room, while ben and the two whitney boys hung over mother fisher's chair. "dear me!" fumed joel. "who ever could guess. there's such a lot or people in the world that grandpapa knows. it might be any two of them that he had asked." little dr. fisher's eyes roved from one to the other of the group. "i couldn't begin to guess because i don't know many of your friends," he said quietly. "you know these two people very well," said mr. king, laughing, to see the little man's face. "now i think i know," said jasper slowly, a light coming into his gray eyes, "but i don't suppose it's fair to guess, for i saw the address on a letter father was writing two or three weeks ago." "you did, you young scamp, you!" cried mr. king, turning on him. "well, then, 'tisn't a guess for you, jasper. keep still, my boy, and let them work away at it. will no one guess?" "mamsie," cried polly, bounding up from the ring, nearly upsetting phronsie, who was sitting beside her in a brown study, "can it be--do you suppose it is nice, dear mr. and mrs. henderson?" "well, polly," said mr. king, beaming at her, "you've done what the others couldn't. yes, it is mr. and mrs. henderson, and they are going with us to stay until the autumn." "good, good!" cried every one till the big room seemed full of joy. "oh, father!" exclaimed mrs. whitney, "i'm so glad you've done this. they were so kind to dicky and to me when he was hurt." "they were kind to dicky and to you," said her father; "and besides, marian, mr. henderson is a man who doesn't preach at you only once a week, and mrs. henderson is a fine woman. so it's a pity not to ease up things for them now and then. well, how do you like the plan?" he spoke to dr. fisher, but his gaze took them all in. "immensely," said the little doctor; which being again echoed heartily by all the rest, old mr. king began to feel very much elated at his part in the proceedings, and in a quarter of an hour it seemed as if the expedition had been especially planned for the benefit of the hendersons, so naturally had it all come about. and on the morrow, the whole family, kings, whitneys, fishers and peppers, turned their backs on the gray stone mansion and went down to the city. and alexia rhys persuaded her aunt to do her semi-annual shopping at this time, and to take her too; and mr. alstyne also had business that necessitated his going, and mr. cabot and mary taylor, and her father found they must go along too; and hamilton dyce was there, and pickering dodge, of course, went to be company for ben on the way back. and at the last moment who should jump on the train but livingston bayley. "had a telegram," he explained; "must be there at noon. so glad of the unexpected pleasure of meeting you all." and cousin eunice chatterton went; for, at the last minute, she had suddenly discovered that she had visited at the gray stone mansion as long as she cared to, and notified the family accordingly. and mr. king had so far made up for his part in the late unpleasantness as to ask her to go with the party, on her way to her nephew's in the city. so there she was with the others, bidding them good-by on the steamer. "phronsie," she said slowly, under cover of the babel of tongues, "you are a good child, and i've done well by you. this little bit of paper," putting it into her hands, "contains a message to mr. king, which you are to give him after you have started." "i will go and give it to him now," said phronsie, her fingers closing over the bit. "no, no," said mrs. chatterton sharply, "do as i say. remember, on no account to let any one see it till after you have started. you are a good child, phronsie. now, remember to do as you are bidden. and now, will you kiss me, child?" phronsie lifted her eyes and fixed them on the long, white face, and suddenly raising herself on her tiptoes, she put up her lips. "look at phron," cried joel in the midst of the group, "actually kissing mrs. chatterton!" and everybody turned and stared. cousin eunice dropped her veil with a quick hand, and moved off with a stately step, but not in time to lose young bayley's drawl: "'pon me word--it's the most extraordinary thing. phronsie, come here, and tell us what 'twas like." but phronsie stood quite still as if she had not heard. "yes, i hope you'll have a nice time," pickering dodge was saying for the dozenth time, with eyes for no one but polly, "now don't stay away for a year." polly with her heart full of the boys, who were hanging on either side, answered at random. "oh, ben! i can't go," she was exclaiming, and she hid her head on his shoulder, so pickering turned off. but joel set his teeth together. "you must," he said, for ben was beyond speech with the effort to control himself. "i can't," said poor polly, "leave you, ben, and the boys." and then mrs. whitney came up just as polly was near breaking down. "my dear child," she said, taking polly's hands, "you know it is right for you to go." "yes, i know," said polly, fighting her tears. "then, polly, be brave, dear, and don't begrudge me my three new boys," she added playfully. "just think how happy i'm to be, with six such splendid fellows to call my own." polly smiled through her tears. "and one thing more," said mrs. whitney in a low voice, "when you feel badly," looking steadily at polly and the three boys, "remember what dr. fisher said; that if your mother didn't stop working, and rest, she would break down." "i'll remember," said ben hoarsely. "so will i," said david. "and i will," said joel, looking everywhere but into polly's eyes. "well, i hope, miss polly," said young mr. bayley, sauntering up, "that you'll have an uncommonly nice time, i do indeed. i may run across in september; if i do, we shall probably meet." "miss mary pepper?" suddenly asked a man with a huge basket of flowers, and pausing in front of her. young mr. bayley smiled indulgently as he could not help reading the card thrust into the flowers. "she will receive my flowers at intervals all the way over, if the steward doesn't fail me," he reflected with satisfaction, "while this boy's will fade in an hour." "miss mary pepper?" the florist's messenger repeated, extending the basket to polly. "it's for you, miss polly," said young mr. bayley. "let me relieve you," taking the basket. "oh! are they for me?" cried polly. "i believe you are miss mary pepper," said young bayley. "pretty, aren't they?" fingering the roses, and glad to think that there were orchids among the flowers to which his card was attached, and just placed under the steward's care. "i suppose i am," said polly, with a little laugh, "but it seems as if i couldn't be anything but polly pepper. oh! thank you, pickering, for these lovely roses," catching sight of him. "glad you like them," said pickering radiantly. "say, polly, don't stay away a whole year, will you?" young mr. bayley set the basket in his hand and turned on his heel with a smile. "come, polly, i want you," cried alexia, trying to draw her off. "you know she's my very best friend, pickering, and i haven't had a chance to say one word to her this morning. come, polly." "polly, come here," called mrs. fisher. "o dear!" cried alexia impatiently, "now that's just the way it always is. it's polly here, and polly there," as polly deserted her and ran off with her basket of roses. "you don't do any of the calling, of course," said pickering, with a laugh. "well, i'll have her to myself," declared alexia savagely, "before it's time for us to get off the steamer, see if i don't." "i don't believe it," said pickering. "look at her now in a maelstrom of relatives. you and i, alexia, are left out." and the next thing alexia knew somebody unceremoniously helped her from the steamer with a "beg pardon, miss, but you must get off," and she was standing on the wharf in a crowd of people, looking in a dazed way at polly pepper's fluttering handkerchief, while fast-increasing little ripples of greenish water lay between them. and phronsie was running up to mr. king: "here, grandpapa, mrs. chatterton wanted me to give you this," unclasping her warm little palm where the bit of white paper lay. "the dickens she did," exclaimed the old gentleman; "so she has had a last word with you, has she? well, she won't get another for a long spell; so never mind. now, let's see what cousin eunice says. something interesting, no doubt." he spread the crumpled bit straight and read, phronsie standing quite still by his side: cousin horatio: i have made phronsie pepper my sole heir. you may like it or not, as you please. the thing is done, and may god bless phronsie. eunice chatterton. a christmas morality [illustration: remember my ears are so quick i can hear the grass grow. _frontispiece._] [illustration] little peter a christmas morality for children of any age by lucas malet author of 'colonel enderby's wife' etc. [illustration] with numerous illustrations by paul hardy london kegan paul, trench, & co., paternoster square to cecily in token of affection towards herself, her mother, and her stately home this little story is dedicated by her obedient servant lucas malet contents. chapter page i. which deals with the opinions of a cat, and the sorrows of a charcoal-burner ii. which introduces the reader to an admirer of the ancient romans iii. which improves our acquaintance with the grasshopper-man iv. which leaves some at home, and takes some to church v. which is both social and religious vi. which attempts to show why the skies fall vii. which describes a pleasant dinner party, and an unpleasant walk viii. which proves that even philosophic politicians may have to admit themselves in the wrong ix. which is very short because, in some ways, it is rather sad x. which ends the story _illustrations._ 'remember my ears are so quick i can hear the grass grow' _frontispiece_ 'what will happen? please tell me' _to face p._ 'go to bed when you are told' " 'you all despise me' " going to church " lost " waiting " found " the charcoal-burner visits little peter " [illustration: little peter.] chapter i. which deals with the opinions of a cat, and the sorrows of a charcoal burner. the pine forest is a wonderful place. the pine-trees stand in ranks like the soldiers of some vast army, side by side, mile after mile, in companies and regiments and battalions, all clothed in a sober uniform of green and grey. but they are unlike soldiers in this, that they are of all ages and sizes; some so small that the rabbits easily jump over them in their play, and some so tall and stately that the fall of them is like the falling of a high tower. and the pine-trees are put to many different uses. they are made into masts for the gallant ships that sail out and away to distant ports across the great ocean. others are sawn into planks, and used for the building of sheds; for the rafters and flooring, and clap-boards and woodwork of our houses; for railway-sleepers, and scaffoldings, and hoardings. others are polished and fashioned into articles of furniture. turpentine comes from them, which the artist uses with his colours, and the doctor in his medicines; which is used, too, in the cleaning of stuffs and in a hundred different ways. while the pine-cones, and broken branches and waste wood, make bright crackling fires by which to warm ourselves on a winter's day. but there is something more than just this i should like you to think about in connection with the pine forest; for it, like everything else that is fair and noble in nature, has a strange and precious secret of its own. you may learn the many uses of the trees in your school books, when men have cut them down or grubbed them up, or poked holes in their poor sides to let the turpentine run out. but you can only learn the secret of the forest itself by listening humbly and reverently for it to speak to you. for nature is a very great lady, grander and more magnificent than all the queens who have lived in sumptuous palaces and reigned over famous kingdoms since the world began; and though she will be very kind and gracious to children who come and ask her questions modestly and prettily, and will show them the most lovely sights and tell them the most delicious fairy tales that ever were seen or heard, she makes very short work with conceited and impudent persons. she covers their eyes and stops their ears, so that they can never see her wonderful treasures or hear her charming stories, but live, all their lives long, shut up in the dark fusty cupboard of their own ignorance, and stupid self-love, and self-satisfaction, thinking they know all about everything as well as if they had made it themselves, when they do not really know anything at all. and because you and i dislike fusty cupboards, and because we want to know anything and everything that nature is condescending enough to teach us, we will listen, to begin with, to what the pine forest has to tell. when the rough winds are up and at play, and the pine-trees shout and sing together in a mighty chorus, while the hoarse voice of them is like the roar of the sea upon a rocky coast, then you may learn the secret of the forest. it sings first of the winged seed; and then of the birth of the tiny tree; of sunrise and sunset, and the tranquil warmth of noon-day, and of the soft, refreshing rain, and the kindly, nourishing earth, and of the white moonlight, and pale, moist garments of the mist, all helping the tree to grow up tall and straight, to strike root deep and spread wide its green branches. it sings, too, of the biting frost, and the still, dumb snow, and the hurrying storm, all trying and testing the tree, to prove if it can stand firm and show a brave face in time of danger and trouble. then it sings of the happy spring-time, when the forest is girdled about with a band of flowers; while the birds build and call to each other among the high branches; and the squirrel helps his wife to make her snug nest for the little, brown squirrel-babies that are to be; and the dormice wake up from their long winter sleep, and sit in the sunshine and comb their whiskers with their dainty, little paws. and then the forest sings of man--how he comes with axe and saw, and hammer and iron wedges, and lays low the tallest of its children, and binds them with ropes and chains, and hauls them away to be his bond-servants and slaves. and, last of all, it sings slowly and very gently of old age and decay and death; of the seed that falls on hard, dry places and never springs up; of the tree that is broken by the tempest or scathed by the lightning flash, and stands bare and barren and unsightly; sings how, in the end, all things shrink and crumble, and how the dust of them returns and is mingled with the fruitful soil from which at first they came. this is the song of the pine forest, and from it you may learn this lesson: that the life of the tree and of beast and bird are subject to the same three great laws as the life of man--the law of growth, of obedience, and of self-sacrifice. and perhaps, when you are older, if you take care to avoid that spirit of conceit and impudence which, as we have already said, gets people into such trouble with nature, you may come to see that these three laws are after all but one, bound for ever together by the golden cord of love. once upon a time, just on the edge of the pine forest, there lived a little boy. he lived in a big, brown, wooden house, with overhanging eaves and a very deep roof to it, which swept down from the high middle gable like the wings of a hen covering her chickens. the wood-sheds, and hay-barn, and the stable where the brown-eyed, sweet-breathed cows lay at night, and the clean, cool dairy, and the cheese-room with its heavy presses were all under this same wide sheltering roof. before the house a meadow of rich grass stretched down to a stream, that hurried along over rocky limestone ledges, or slipped away over flat sandy places where you might see the little fishes playing at hide-and-seek or puss in the corner among the bright pebbles at the bottom. while on the shallow, marshy puddles by the stream side, where the forget-me-not and brook-lime and rushes grow, the water-spiders would dance quadrilles and jigs and reels all day long in the sunshine, and the frogs would croak by hundreds in the still spring evenings, when the sunset was red behind the pine-trees to the west. and in this pleasant place little peter lived, as i say, once upon a time, with his father and mother, and his two brothers, and eliza the servant-maid, and gustavus the cowherd. he was the youngest of the children by a number of years, and was such a small fellow that susan lepage, his mother, could make him quite a smart blouse and pair of trousers out of antony's cast-off garments, even when all the patches and thin places had been cut out. he had a black, curly head, and very round eyes--for many things surprised him, and surprise makes the eyes grow round as everybody knows--and a dear, little, red mouth, that was sweet to kiss, and nice, fat cheeks, which began to look rather cold and blue, by the way, as he stood on the threshold one evening about christmas time, with cincinnatus, the old, tabby tom-cat, under his arm. he was waiting for his brother antony to come home from the neighbouring market-town of nullepart. it was growing dusk, yet the sky was very clear. the sound of the wind in the pine branches and of the chattering stream was strange in the frosty evening air; so that little peter felt rather creepy, as the saying is, and held on very tight to cincinnatus for fear of--he didn't quite know what. 'come in, little man, come in,' cried his mother, as she moved to and fro in the ruddy firelight, helping eliza to get ready the supper. 'you will be frozen standing there outside; and we shall be frozen, too, sitting here with the door open. antony will get home none the quicker for your watching. that which is looked for hardest, they say, comes last.' but peter only hugged cincinnatus a little closer--thereby making that long-suffering animal kick spasmodically with his hind legs, as a rabbit does when you hold it up by the ears--and looked more earnestly than ever down the forest path into the dimness of the pines. just then john paqualin, the charcoal-burner, came up to the open door, with a couple of empty sacks across his shoulders. now the charcoal-burner was a great friend of little peter's, though he was a queer figure to look at. for his red hair hung in wild locks down over his shoulders, and his eyes glowed red too--as red as his own smouldering charcoal fires--and his back was bent and crooked; while his legs were so inordinately long and thin, that all the naughty little boys in nullepart, when he went down there to sell his sacks of charcoal, used to run after him up the street, shouting:-- 'hurrah, hurrah! here's the grasshopper man again! hey, ho! grasshopper, give us a tune--haven't you brought your fiddle?' but when paqualin got annoyed, as he sometimes did, and turned round upon them with his glowing eyes, they would all scuttle away as hard as their legs could carry them. for, like a good many other people, they were particularly courageous when they could only see the enemy's back. you may be sure our little peter never called the charcoal-burner by any offensive names, and therefore, having a good conscience, had no cause to be afraid of him. 'eh! but what is this?' he cried, in his high cracked voice as he flung down the sacks, and stood by the little lad in the doorway. 'remember my ears are so quick i can hear the grass grow. just now i heard the best mother in the world call her little boy to go indoors, and here he stands still on the threshold. if you do not go in do you know what will happen, eh?' 'no; what will happen? please tell me,' said peter. [illustration: 'what will happen? please tell me.' _page ._] the charcoal-burner stretched out one long arm and pointed away into the forest, and sunk his voice to a whisper:-- 'the old, grey she-wolf will assuredly come pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat over the moss and the stones, pit-a-pat over the pine-needles and the fallen twigs and branches, pit-a-pat out of the wood, and--snap!--like that, catch your poor cincinnatus by the tail and carry him off to make into soup for her little ones. picture to yourself poor cincinnatus in the wolf's great, black, steaming soup-pot, and all the wolf-cubs with their wicked, little mouths wide open, sitting round, with their wooden spoons in their hands, all ready to begin.' peter retreated hastily into the kitchen, cat and all, and took up his stand rather close to his mother. 'is it true, mother?' he said. 'but where do the wolves buy their wooden spoons, do you think--in the shop at nullepart?' 'nay, how should i know?' said susan lepage, as she stooped down and kissed the child, and then looking up kindly nodded to the charcoal-burner. 'you must ask the old she-wolf herself if you want to know where she buys her spoons, and her soup pot too for that matter. she is no friend of mine, little one.' after a moment's pause, she added:-- 'you will stay to supper, john paqualin? my husband and sons will be in soon, and there is plenty for all, thank god. you will be welcome.' but paqualin shook his head, and the light died away in those strange eyes of his. 'welcome?' he said. 'the pretty, false word has little meaning for me. and yet perhaps in your mouth it is honest, susan lepage, for you are gentle and merciful as a saint in heaven, and the child, here, takes after you. but, for the rest, who welcomes a mad, mis-shapen, half-finished creature on whom nature herself has had no mercy? master lepage will come in hungry. will he like to have his stomach turned by the sight of the hump-backed charcoal-burner? no, no, i go home to my hut. good-night, little peter. i will tell the grey wolf to look elsewhere for her supper.--ah! i see wonderful things though sometimes, for all that i live alone and in squalor. the red fire and the white moon tell me stories, turn by turn, all the night through.' and with that he swung the empty sacks across his back again and shambled away into the growing darkness. [illustration] 'a good riddance,' muttered eliza, as she set the cheese on the table. 'it is an absolute indignity to ask a respectable servant to wait at table on a wild animal like that.' but susan lepage sighed as she turned from the doorway. 'poor, unhappy one,' she said. 'god gave thee thy fair soul, but who gave thee thy ungainly body?' then she reproved eliza for her conduct in various matters which had nothing in the world to do with her remarks upon the charcoal-burner. even the best of women are not always quite logical. meanwhile little peter had sat down on his stool by the fire. for a little while he sat very still, for he was thinking over the visit of his friend john paqualin. he felt rather unhappy about him, he could not quite have said why. but when we are children it is not easy to think of any one person or one thing for long together. there are such lots of things to think about, that one chases another out of our heads very quickly. and so peter soon gave up puzzling himself about the charcoal-burner, and began counting the sparks as they flew out of the blazing, crackling, pine logs up the wide chimney. unfortunately, however, he was not a great arithmetician; and though he began over and over again at plain one, two, three, he always got wrong among the fifteens and sixteens; and never succeeded in counting up to twenty at all. nothing is more tedious than making frequent mistakes. so he got off his stool, and began hopping from one stone quarry in the kitchen floor to the next. suddenly he became entangled in eliza's full petticoats--she was whirling them about a good deal, it is true, being in rather a bad temper--and nearly tumbled down on his poor, little nose. 'bless the child, what possesses him?' cried eliza. peter retired to his stool again, in a hurry; and after thinking for a minute pulled a long bit of string, with a cross-bar of stick at the end of it, out of the bulging side pocket of his short trousers, and drew it backwards and forwards, and bobbed it up and down just in front of cincinnatus' nose. but cincinnatus would not play. cincinnatus sat up very stiff and straight, with all his four paws in a row and his tail curled very tight over them, blinking his yellow eyes at the fire. for cincinnatus was offended! even cats have feelings. and on thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that he had not been treated with sufficient respect. 'soup-pots and wooden spoons--fiddledee-dee,' he said to himself in the cat-language. 'why pervert a child's mind with such inane fictions?' for you see cincinnatus was not a common cat; being first cousin once removed, indeed, to the sacristan's cat at nullepart--who knew all the feast and fast days in the church calendar as well as the sacristan himself, and had not eaten a mouse on a friday for i cannot say how long. when you have a scholar in the family it obliges you to be dignified. and so poor little peter, as nothing and nobody would help to amuse him and pass away the time, pressed his two fat, little hands together in a sort of despair, and gave a terrible sigh. 'bless the child, what possesses him?' cried eliza again. 'ah, my heart! how you made me jump!' 'what is the matter, peter?' asked his mother. 'oh! i don't believe antony will ever come home,' said the boy, while the great tears began to run down over his chubby cheeks. 'and i am so tired of waiting. and i want so badly to know whether they have dressed the stable in the big church at nullepart; and whether we shall really go there on sunday, to see the dear baby jesus, and the blessed virgin, and good st. joseph, and the donkeys and cows, you told me about. i have never seen them yet. and i want so dreadfully to go.' then his mother took up peter in her arms, and sat down in the wooden chair in the chimney-corner, and held him gently on her lap. 'there, there,' she said, as she stroked his pretty hair, 'what cause have you to fret? the stable will be dressed all in good time; and the donkeys and cows certainly won't run away before sunday. and st. joseph and the blessed virgin will be glad that a little lad like you should come and burn a candle before them--never fear. if the day is fair we will certainly all go to church on sunday. what is to be will be, and antony's coming late or early can make no difference. patience is a great virtue, dear, little one--you cannot learn that too soon.' but cincinnatus sat up very stiff, though he was growing slightly sleepy; and still winked his yellow eyes at the fire. he was not at all sure that it was not incumbent upon him to spit at the charcoal-burner next time he saw him. it was an extreme measure certainly, and before adopting it he would have been glad to take his cousin the sacristan's cat's opinion on the matter. social position brings its responsibilities. yet all the same, it is a fine thing to have a scholar in the family. [illustration] chapter ii. which introduces the reader to an admirer of the ancient romans. now, peter's father was a person of some consequence, or, to speak quite correctly, thought himself of some consequence, which, as you will probably find when you grow older, often comes to much the same thing. he had his own piece of land, and his own herd of cows, which the boys, in the spring time, would help gustavus to drive, along with the cows of their neighbours, to the wide, grass lands that border the forest on the west, where the blue salvias, and gentians, and campanulas, and st. bruno's white lilies grow in the long grass. but years ago peter's father had been a soldier in the french army, and had fought in great battles, and had been in italy, and even across the sea to africa. he could tell surprising stories of sandy deserts, and camels, and lions, and arabs, and a number of other remarkable things that he had seen during his travels. and when he went down, as he frequently did, and sat in the wine shop at nullepart, everybody treated him with deference and distinction, and called him not plain lepage, but master lepage, and listened respectfully to all that he had to say. then master lepage was very well pleased, and he would take his pipe out of his mouth, and spread out his hands like some celebrated orator, and give the company the benefit of his views upon any subject--even those he did not very well understand. for the great thing is to talk, if you want to make an impression upon society--the sense of that which you say is quite a secondary consideration. lepage was a handsome man; with a bright, grey eye, and a nose like a hawk's beak; and a fine, grey moustache, the ends of which curled up till they nearly touched his eyebrows. he held himself very erect, so that even in his blue blouse and peg-top trousers, with a great, brown umbrella under his arm, he still looked every inch a soldier. [illustration] but master lepage, notwithstanding his superior knowledge of the world, did not always contrive to please his friends and companions. for he was--so he said--a philosophic politician; and, like most other philosophers and politicians, he sometimes became both tedious and irritable. on such occasions his voice would grow loud, and he would thump the table with his fist till the plates danced and the glasses rattled again; and the more the person with whom he was conversing smiled and apologised, while he differed from him in opinion, the louder his voice would grow, and the more he would thump the table, and stamp and violently declare that all who did not agree with him were idiots and dolts, and traitors. he had two fixed ideas. he venerated the republican form of government, and he despised the prussians. if one of his sons was idle, loitering over his work or complaining that he had too much to do, master lepage would say to him sternly:--'sluggard, you are unworthy to be the child of a glorious republic.' or if one of the cows kicked, when gustavus was milking her, he would cry out:--'hey then, thou blue imbecile, recollect that thou art the cow of a free citizen, and do not behave like a cut-throat prussian!' and during the long evenings of all the winters that little peter could remember--they were not so very many, though, after all--when the supper was cleared away and the hearth swept, his father, after putting on a big pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and drawing his chair close up to the table so that the lamp-light might fall full on his book, would read to himself the history of the famous roman republic. and always once or twice, during the course of the evening, he would lay down the book and take off his spectacles, and as he rubbed the glasses of them with his red pocket-handkerchief, would sigh to himself and say quite gently:--'ah! but those were times worth living in! they had men worth looking at in those days.' the elder of little peter's brothers was named antony. he was a smart, brisk young fellow. he was always in a little bit of a hurry and full of business. he liked to go down to the town to market. he liked to drive a sharp bargain, and when he had nothing else to do he would roam away to the railway station, and hang over the blue wooden railings at the back of the platform, staring at the crowded passenger or heavily laden freight trains going through to paris, or over the frontier into switzerland. and if he ever happened to catch sight of any soldiers on the trains, his eyes grew bright and his face eager, and he would whistle a stirring march as he walked home through the forest, and would chatter all the evening about the glorious fun he meant to have when the time came for him to serve his term in the army. and, at that, master lepage would look up from the pages of his roman history book, and nod confidentially to his wife, and say:-- 'eh! our antony is a fine fellow. he will help some day to thrash those rascally prussians.' but she would answer rather sadly:-- 'that will be as the lord pleases. there is sorrow and sin enough in the world already, it seems to me, without war to make it greater.' then lepage would shrug his shoulders with an air of slight disgust, and say:-- 'my wife, you are no doubt an excellent woman. but your mind is narrow. only a secular education, and, above all, a careful study of ancient history, can enable us to speak intelligently on these great questions.' then he would wipe his spectacles and return once again to the campaigns of the romans. [illustration] paul, the second boy, was very different to his brother. he was tall and lanky, with quiet, brown eyes and straight, black hair. he had a great turn for mechanics, and made little peter all manner of charming toys--mill-wheels that turned all splashing and sparkling in the clear water of the stream; or windmills, to set up in the garden, and scare the birds away from the fruit with their clatter, and many other pretty ingenious things. paul did not talk much about himself; he was a quiet, silent fellow, but he was always busy with his fingers making little models of all the machinery he could see or get pictures of, and, though his father was not quite so partial to him as to antony, he would sometimes say:-- 'eh! our paul, too, will distinguish himself, and bring credit upon his family and country.' now on the particular evening that i was telling you about in the last chapter, antony did not come in till quite late. the rest of the family had had their supper, and eliza was grumbling to gustavus as she rummaged about in the back kitchen. 'why can't people be punctual?' she said. 'it would vex a saint to be kept muddling about till just upon bed-time unable to complete the day's work and wash up the plates and dishes. those who come in late should go to bed supperless if i had my way.' 'umph,' said gustavus--which was a remarkably safe answer, since it meant chiefly nothing at all. master lepage sat studying the story of the gallant horatius, how he and two others defended the falling bridge over the river tiber against all the host of clusium and the allied cities. paul, with a pocket-knife and a number of bits of wood on the table before him, was making a model of a force-pump. and susan lepage sat in the chimney corner knitting, little peter on a stool at her feet resting his head against her knees. he was getting so sleepy that his eyes would shut though he tried very hard to keep them open. sometimes his poor, little head nodded over all on one side; and then he woke up with a great start, dreaming that he had tumbled out of the old pear-tree in the garden, bump, on to the ground. and the dream was so vivid that it took him quite a minute and a half to remember where he was, and to realise that he was sitting on his own little stool in the kitchen, instead of lying on the asparagus bed under the pear-tree. but sleepy or not, peter was determined not to go to bed till he had heard the news from nullepart. the longest waiting must needs end at last. there was a sound of brisk footsteps, the door was thrown open, and antony entered the kitchen, with the rush and bustle of a healthy, young whirlwind. peter was wide awake in a moment. he jumped up and caught hold of the skirt of his brother's blouse. 'oh, tell me, tell me,' he cried, 'have they dressed the stable in the church, and can i go on sunday and see it?' now, it is always a great mistake to rush at people with questions when they are full of their own affairs; and so little peter found in this case. for antony had some money to pay over to his father, and a great many things to say on his own account; and then, too, he was very hungry and wanted his supper, so he pushed poor peter aside rather roughly, and told him to get out of the way and mind his own business, and intimated generally that he was an inconvenient and superfluous person. peter retired to his stool again feeling very small. between sleepiness and disappointment he was very much inclined to cry. perhaps, indeed, he would have done so, had not cincinnatus got up and rubbed gently against his legs, with a high back and a very upstanding tail, purring very loud, too, and saying as plain as cat-language could say it:-- 'console yourself. i, cincinnatus, regret what has occurred. i am your friend. confide in me. all will yet go well.' for cincinnatus was a cat of feeling, and never lost an opportunity of making himself agreeable if he could do it without loss of dignity. however, when antony had transacted his business, and eaten his supper, and bragged a little about his own performances of one sort and another, he became a trifle ashamed of having behaved so roughly to his little brother. he did not say so, for few people have courage to make a public confession of their faults. but he described, with great animation, how the workmen and the good sisters were busy in the church; how bright everybody said the virgin's blue mantle would be, how there was real straw in the stable, how charmingly natural the cattle and the donkey looked, and how ingeniously a lamp would be arranged--just like the star, in fact--to shine above the manger. peter felt satisfied again. but he was still a little hurt; so he sat quiet and rubbed cincinnatus' head in silence, though there were a hundred and one questions he was longing to ask. 'you will come with us, _mon ami_?' said susan lepage, looking across at her husband, who had just laid down his book, and was wiping his spectacles with his red handkerchief. 'your sons will take good care of you,' he answered. 'as for me, i will keep house.' 'it is the first time we take our little peter,' she said, and there was a pleading tone in her voice. the little boy loved both his father and mother; though perhaps he loved his mother best, for he was rather afraid of his father sometimes. but now for some reason he grew very bold. he jumped up and trotted across the kitchen, and climbed up on his father's knee. 'oh, it will be so beautiful,' he said--'and we shall all be so happy--do come, father, do come too.' master lepage looked at him very kindly out of his shrewd, grey eyes, and gently pinched his cheek. [illustration] 'no, no, my son,' he answered, 'go with your mother and your brothers. these shows are admirable for pious women and for the young. but you see i am no longer very young, and they no longer greatly interest me. those who think deeply upon politics and philosophy outgrow the satisfaction that others derive from such devout illusions. every age has its appropriate pastimes. go, my children. as for me, i will remain at home, read the newspaper, and pursue my studies in ancient history.' 'cannot you think of something better than the doings of those unhappy, old heathens for one day in the week, _mon ami_?' asked his wife. little peter looked up at her quickly. she had laid aside her knitting, and coming across the room placed her hand lightly on her husband's shoulder. master lepage made a grimace, moved a little in his chair, and smiled good-humouredly at her. 'ah! my dear, you are the best of women,' he said. 'then why will you not oblige me?' lepage pressed his lips together and put up his eyebrows. 'there are points,' he said, 'on which compliance would be a mere manifestation of weakness. we will not discuss the situation. about those small matters upon which we do not, unfortunately, quite agree, it is wise to maintain silence. there are your three sons--an escort worthy of a roman matron! be contented, then. i remain at home.' susan lepage turned away, and calling to eliza bade her clear the table. 'indeed, is it worth while? it will be breakfast time directly,' replied eliza, who was still in a bad temper at antony having been late for supper. susan lepage looked up at the cuckoo clock in the corner. 'it is late,' she said. 'come, come, peter, we will go upstairs; it is long past your bedtime.' but the boy did not want to go to bed. he felt a little disturbed and unhappy, and wanted lepage more than ever to go with the rest of the family on sunday to church at nullepart. so he rubbed his black head against his father's shoulder coaxingly:-- 'mother wants you to go, and we all want it. do please go with us to the church on sunday.' master lepage took the child and stood him down on the floor in front of him. 'go to bed, when you are told to,' he said. 'obedience was a virtue greatly prized by those grand old romans.' [illustration: 'go to bed when you are told.' _page ._] 'out of the mouth of babes--' murmured susan lepage, gently. for some reason this observation appeared to incense her husband. 'ten thousand plagues!' he burst out vehemently. 'twenty thousand cut-throat prussians! this is a conspiracy. can i not stay at home when i please? can i not sit peaceably in my own kitchen, without cabals and flagrant acts of insubordination? the rights of a husband and father are supreme and without limit, i tell you--read the domestic history of the ancient romans.' susan lepage waited till her husband had finished speaking; and then taking poor, frightened, little peter by the hand, she said calmly:-- 'do not trouble your father any more, my child. he has his reasons for remaining at home, and doubtless they are good ones.' perhaps it was a dream--for peter was very tired and sleepy, and it came to him when he was snugly tucked up in his little bed, just before his mother put out the candle and left him alone with a faint glimmer of starlight coming in at the uncurtained window at the end of the room. perhaps it was a dream; but certainly he seemed to hear master lepage's voice saying softly:-- 'forgive me, my wife. i was over hasty. your path appears to lie in one direction and mine in another, at present; but let us both be tolerant. who knows but that they may yet meet in the end!' then someone stooped down over the little boy's bed and kissed him. yes, it must have been his father, for on his forehead he felt the rough scrape of a thick moustache. chapter iii. which improves our acquaintance with the grasshopper man. 'i am going to nullepart on sunday,' cried little peter. '_pfui!_ what a traveller,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'and how do you go? in a coach and four, on the back of a fiery dragon, in the giant's seven-league boots, or flying through the air with the wild ducks, there, crying "quack, quack, quack, we are all going south because the snow is coming? "' 'i shall walk, of course, like a big boy,' said little peter. 'but the snow isn't coming just yet, is it?' 'they all say it will be here in a day or two.' john paqualin shook his head, and looked up at the sky. he was sitting on the rough, wooden bench set against the southern wall of his hut, with his back bent, and his elbows resting on his thin knees. little peter climbed up on to the bench beside him. it was rather difficult, you see, because the bench was a very high one, to suit the length of the charcoal-burner's long legs. 'who are they?' asked the boy, as soon as he had settled himself comfortably. he tried to lean forward with his elbows on his knees like his companion; but his short legs were dangling, and his feet were far off the ground, and he did not find it altogether easy to keep his balance. 'who are they?' he asked. 'oh, the earth spirits, who live underground, and the air spirits, who wander up and down the sky. look at the great arc of white light they are setting up in the north-east as a signal. and the wild ducks, flying overhead. and the moaning in the pine-trees. and madelon, the old sow there; see how she runs about with her mouth full of grass, wanting to make herself a lair, because she sees the storm-wind coming. they are all telling what will happen. they are wiser than men. they know beforehand. men only know afterwards.' paqualin paused a moment, and sat staring at madelon, the old black sow, with her floppety ears, as she ran to and fro, and grouted about in the heaps of charcoal refuse and in the tumble-down garden fence--half smothered in tall withered grass and weeds--grunting and barking the while like one distracted. 'everything in the world talks to me,' he continued, speaking slowly. 'all day long, all night long, the air is full of voices.' peter wriggled himself a little further back on the bench, for, in the excitement of conversation, he had slipped very near the edge of it and was in great danger of falling head first on to the ground. 'i don't hear them,' he said presently. paqualin laughed. his laugh was cracked and shrill, like his voice; and peter was always a trifle startled by it somehow. 'never hear them, little peter,' he cried, 'never hear them. a few men will call you a poet, but most men will only call you mad, if you do.' 'what is mad?' asked peter. he felt very much interested. 'is it a good or a bad thing?' the charcoal-burner looked round at the boy sharply, with his mouth a little open. his strange eyes were glowing dull red. he waited a minute before replying. 'eh,' he said, 'what an innocent! why, it is a good thing, of course. an excellent, splendid, glorious thing. look at me, little peter. i'll tell you a secret. can you keep it? here--quite close--i'll whisper--i am mad--yes, that's the secret. a grand one. see all the blessings it brings me. i live alone in the wood and burn charcoal.' 'yes,' said peter, 'i should like that.' 'i have no wife or child to bother me. on feast-days, when i was a lad, the pretty girls never plagued me to dance with them, or asked me to steal kisses.' the charcoal-burner laughed again--'i am saved from all sins of pride and vanity. think what a gain!--for as i go down the street, the very children tell me my faults, crying, "look at the grasshopper legs, look at the crook-back;" and the women shut their eyes and turn their heads away, saying, "heaven avert the bad omen! what a frightful fellow!" such observations, little peter, are sharp discipline; and teach humility more thoroughly than any penance the priest can lay on you. oh, yes! no doubt it is a capital thing to be mad. it saves you a deal of trouble--nobody cares for you, nurses you when you're sick, feeds you when you're hungry, mourns for you when you die.' paqualin laughed again, and getting up stretched his long, ungainly limbs, and shook himself till his hair hung like a red cloud about his stooping shoulders. 'ah! ha, it's splendid,' he cried, 'all alone with the spirits and voices, with the beasts, and the trees, and the rain, and the starlight. no one to love you but the fire when you feed it with branches, or the swine when you drive them back to their stye in the twilight.' now, to tell the truth, poor little peter was becoming rather confused and nervous, with all this wild, incomprehensible talk of the charcoal-burner's. he had never seen his friend in this strange humour before. and he felt as much alarmed and embarrassed as he would have done if that well-conducted animal cincinnatus had suddenly turned upon him, with bristling hair and a great tail, spitting and swearing, in the middle of their innocent games of play. he sat very still, staring anxiously at his companion. but when paqualin threw himself down on the bench again, and putting his lean, brown face very close to little peter's, said to him with a sort of cry:-- 'think of it, think of it, child, nobody, day nor night, all through the long years of life, nobody ever to love you!'--the boy's embarrassment changed into absolute fear, and he scrambled down off the bench in a great hurry, hardly able to keep from sobbing. 'if you please, john paqualin, i should like to go home to my mother,' he said; and then he trotted away as fast as he could along the black cinder-path across the little garden. 'mother, mother,' echoed the charcoal-burner. 'sweet, fair wife, and sweet mother! have pity, dear lord, on those who may have neither.' then he got up, and walked after the child, in his awkward way, calling gently to him:-- 'here, little mouse, come here. don't run away so fast. there is nothing to hurt you.' peter had nearly reached the garden gate; but there in the opening stood madelon, the sow, grunting and snorting, her great jaws working, and her wicked, little eyes twinkling. 'come, come,' called paqualin again, coaxingly. 'there are no more disquieting secrets to tell you. never fear. see now, i have a box of nuts indoors, under my bed--beauties--beauties; will you try them? cr-r-rack go the shells, out pop the nice kernels--crunch, crunch, crunch, between sharp, white, little teeth eating them all up. eh! nuts are appetising, are they? you will not run away just yet, then, will you, dear little mouse.' now peter would have felt a great deal safer at home it is true; but in the first place, there stood the hideous madelon blocking the way, and he was very much afraid of her. and then in the second place, he did not wish to be uncivil to his old friend the charcoal-burner. so, finally, he went back, and climbed up the high bench again. 'i will not have any of those nuts, though, please,' he said decidedly. for he wished paqualin to understand that it was not greediness but friendship that made him return. 'no nuts!' cried the charcoal-burner, smiling kindly at him. 'eh, what a proud, little soul.' and then john paqualin really became delightful. and as he and the little boy sat together in the shelter of the high pine-trees, and of the brown, wooden wall of the tumble-down dwelling-house behind them, he told many most interesting stories. for, you see, the charcoal-burner, perhaps from living so much alone, perhaps from being what some persons call 'mad,' knew a number of things which you could not find in the pages of the very largest encyclopædia of universal information--though they really are every bit as true as half the information you would find there. he knew all about the elves who live in the fox-glove bells; and the water-nixies who haunt the stream side; and about the gnomes who work with tiny spades and pickaxes, searching for the precious metals underground. and he could tell where the will-of-the-wisp gets the light for his lantern, with which he dances over bogs and marshy places, trying to lead weak-minded and unscientific travellers astray; and he knew all about the pot of fairy gold that stands just where the base of the rainbow touches the earth, and which moves away and away as you run to find it, shifting its ground forever, so that those who will seek it in the end come home hot, and breathless, and angry, and empty handed, for all their pains. and he could also tell of the old black dwarf who lives in a cave in the heart of the forest, which no one can ever find, though they may search for it for a year and a day; and who, being a mischievous and ill-conditioned dwarf, bewitches the cows so that they go dry; and the hens so that they steal their nests and lay their eggs in all manner of holes and corners, instead of in the hen-roosts like right-minded, well-conducted fowls; and who rides the horses all night long in the stable, so that when the carter goes in, in the dewy morning, to give them their fodder, he finds them trembling and starting and bathed in sweat; and who turns the cream sour in summer, or sits on the handle of the churn--though you can't see him--so that though the good housewife turns and turns, till her arms and back ache, and the heat stands in drops on her forehead, the butter will not come and the day's work is well-nigh wasted. and paqualin could tell the story, moreover, of the dirty little boy, eli, who insisted on eating raw turnips and cabbages, and distressing his friends and relatives by picking bits out of the pig pail, instead of sitting up to table like a little gentleman, and who utterly refused to have his hair combed or his face washed:-- 'and, at last, one night,' said the charcoal-burner, 'as a punishment for all his nasty ways, the fairies came and turned him into a great black crow, which flew out of the bedroom window in the chilly dawn. you may often hear him now, little peter, croaking in the tree-tops, or see him skulking about the farmyard and gardens looking out for scraps and refuse.' 'how long ago was he turned into a crow?' asked peter. 'eh, many and many a year ago,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'i saw him only yesterday, and he has grown quite old and grey. but the time of his probation will not be over yet awhile, for bad habits are slow to die, though quick enough to breed in us, little peter. i throw him a crust of bread now and again, the poor old villain. i've a sort of fellow feeling for him, you see, for i am an ugly, old vagabond too.' 'bless the child, there he is at last! ah, my poor heart, how it beats with all this running.' the speaker was eliza. she stood on the other side of the tumble-down garden fence, with her hand pressed to her side, and a shawl over her head. she was breathing very hard. eliza was one of those persons who like to make the most of an injury. 'come home, peter, come at once,' she went on. 'don't you know it's half an hour past dinner-time? here have i been trapesing half over the country to find you--a pretty occupation for a respectable, young, servant woman like me, too. all the men were out, and nothing would do but that i must go racing about like a wild creature, wasting good shoe leather in looking for you. ah! my poor heart.' eliza leant up against the fence and panted a little. as peter got down off the bench, paqualin bent forward and patted the boy's curly head. 'run away, little mouse,' he said, 'but come again some day and see me.' 'am i to wait here all night,' cried eliza, 'for you, peter? have you not had enough yet of the society of his highness the charcoal-burner? no, no, don't speak to me,' she added, addressing paqualin. 'i have no desire to hold any communication with you. why, merely seeing you as you pass makes me squint for an hour afterwards. come along, child.' [illustration] and seizing peter's fat, pudgy hand in her large, red one, eliza marched him off at a sharp pace down the forest path. 'hey ho, hey ho, life is a bit long for some of us,' said the charcoal-burner. chapter iv. which leaves some at home and takes some to church. little peter woke up very early on sunday morning, feeling excited and glad. he sat up on end in bed, but he had to rub his eyes very hard and get the sleep out of them before he could remember exactly what there was to be so very glad about. when he did remember, he was so much delighted that he was compelled to express his feelings in some rather violent manner. he went on all fours and burrowed very quick, like a rabbit, head first, down under the clothes to the bottom of the bed, and then rushed up again, with very red cheeks, puffing, and pushing his curly hair out of his eyes. but it really was not light yet--only the rushlight his mother burnt at night glimmered feebly in the corner. peter could hear master lepage snoring peacefully in his bed on the other side of the wooden partition which divided the big room into two unequal halves--the small half for little peter and his little bed, and the large half for his father and mother and their large bed. it would be a long while yet before his mother got up and called him to her to help dress and wash him, for gustavus, the cowherd, had only just gone downstairs from his attic, clumpety-clump with his big, heavy boots over the stairs, and he always got up long before anybody else. peter wondered what he could do to amuse himself till it was time to dress. and then it struck him as just possible that when gustavus went down into the kitchen he might have left the door open, and that in that case cincinnatus, the cat, might have stepped upstairs and be waiting outside on the landing--it had happened so once before on a very delightful and never to be forgotten occasion. peter waited a moment and held his breath listening, for it seemed to him extremely adventurous to be on the move so very early in the morning. he was not quite sure whether the little, hairy house-bogies and hobgoblins who undoubtedly, so eliza said at least, wander about the empty rooms and chase each other up and down the silent passages and stairways every night, with impish frolic and laughter, when we are all safe in bed, might not still be holding their revels; and he knew, at least eliza said so, that it was extremely unlucky for any person to see them, for they don't like to be looked at by mortal eyes, and will come and sit on your pillow, and tickle your nose with a feather out of the bedding, and squat on your chest, till you feel as though you lay under the weight of a mountain, and treat you in a number of other odious and disturbing ways. it made the cold shivers run down peter's back as he sat up there, in his little, white night-shirt, even to think of coming face to face with the hairy goblins and bogies. but then, on the other hand, the society of cincinnatus would be so very delightful. peter slipped one sturdy, bare leg down over the side of the bed. ah! how cold the smooth boards of the floor felt! however, the other leg very soon followed. then he crept across the room very quietly, avoiding the oak chest, and the chairs, and the corner of the high cupboard, with his mother's initials and the date of her wedding-day carved on the doors of it; and, when he reached the door, paused, listening at the keyhole. oh, dear me, there really was something outside on the landing moving about stealthily on small, soft feet. little peter's heart stood still. was it dear, old cincinnatus, or a dreadful, roundabout, hairy hobgoblin? at last he plucked up courage to put his lips close to the keyhole, and whisper in a rather trembling voice:-- 'pussy, puss, cincinnatus, oh, please, is that you?' 'miau,' answered cincinnatus, quite composedly and comfortably. in a great hurry little peter opened a crack of the door. 'oh! come in quick, please, cincinnatus,' he said. [illustration: "oh! come in quick, please, cincinnatus."] but cats of quality never permit themselves to be hurried. cincinnatus came just half-way through the door, then he stopped and rubbed himself--very tall--up against the side-post and purred; and then, stretching out his fore legs as far as ever he could, sharpened his claws, crick, crack, crick, crack, on the boards of the bedroom flooring. 'oh! do be quick, cincinnatus,' said the little boy under his breath again; and to hasten matters, he gave the cat a poke in the ribs with his cold bare toes. 'miau,' cried cincinnatus quite sharply, jumping on one side, for he was taken rather by surprise. subsequently he added in the cat language:--'manners, my good child, manners! let us before all things cultivate a polite address and a calm, unagitated exterior.' meanwhile peter had succeeded in shutting the door quietly, and that, to his great relief, without catching a single glimpse of one of the blobbety-bodied, spindle-legged house-bogies. he pattered across the room as fast as ever he could, and jumped into his warm bed again. 'he is young and inexperienced,' murmured cincinnatus reflectively. 'i am magnanimous. i scorn to bear malice.' and he, too, jumped into the warm bed. now, this was really charming. little peter pushed up the bedclothes in front, making them into a snug, little, dark cavern, inside which there was just room enough for himself and cincinnatus. 'see,' he said, 'we will play at robbers. i will be the captain and you shall be my first lieutenant.' but unfortunately, cincinnatus did not seem to care very much about that particular game. he had arrived at an age and temper of mind at which material comfort is far more valuable than pleasures derived from a lively exercise of the imagination. perhaps you do not quite understand what that means? well, so much the better. for my part, i hope you never may understand it. there are a number of things in this world that it is very much the best to be ignorant about if you can possibly manage it. cincinnatus, anyway, understood it well enough, so he tucked his fore legs under his chest, until nothing was visible of them but just the furry elbows, and laid his tail neatly along his soft side, and settled himself down on the warm sheet, with his eyes more than half shut, purring all the while as loud as if he had got a small steam-engine inside him. 'that's not the way to play at robbers,' said little peter. but cincinnatus only purred a trifle louder. it was rather provoking. still, peter was too glad of the cat's comfortable company, and was, moreover, really too sweet-tempered a boy to get cross and angry. so he just lay down on his stomach, resting his chin in one hand, while with the other he gently rubbed cincinnatus about the ears; and amused himself by thinking of the nice, new clothes that lay folded up on the chair at the bottom of his bed, and of the representation of the stable, and the manger in which the infant saviour was cradled, that he hoped to see in the great church in the town, before the day was done. and meanwhile, the pale dawn broadened over the dark stretches of the great pine forest, and the cows lowed as gustavus drove them out to pasture, and eliza bustled down stairs to begin dusting and sweeping, and making ready the savoury sunday breakfast. and at last his mother, with her sweet, pale face, got up and washed and dressed him, listening as tenderly, as only mothers know how, to his happy, prattle, and his simple morning prayer. 'ask the dear lord to send a special blessing to us all to-day,' she said. 'may i ask him to send a blessing to my friend john paqualin, too?' asked peter. 'he told me yesterday he should never have anybody to love him, and that it saved him a great deal of trouble. but he doesn't look as if it made him happy, does he, mother?' 'alas, no, poor soul,' said susan lepage. 'yes, pray for him, also, little one, pray that the long disgrace and lonely sorrow of his life here may be counted unto him for righteousness hereafter, and i will say amen.' it must have been quite half-past eight o'clock before they were all ready to start for nullepart. eliza was going too, you see, and she was furiously busy up to the very last moment. consequently she was rather late, and rushed out of the house after the rest of the party, pinning her blue shawl, and giving sundry pats to the crown of her stiff, white, muslin cap, to make sure it sat quite straight over her plaits of hair behind. 'eh, but you are smart, eliza,' said gustavus, opening his eyes very wide, as he rested the two pails of water he was carrying on the ground for a moment, and rubbed his elbows, which ached a little with the weight. '_imbécile!_ do not detain me!' cried eliza, haughtily--though, in truth, she was prodigiously gratified by the cowherd's observation. 'don't you see how breathless and flurried i am with all the work? bless me, where's my prayer-book? oh! thank you, yes, gustavus, tied up in my pocket-handkerchief. of course--i knew where it was--at least, i should have found out for myself directly. good-bye, gustavus, take care of yourself; and remember the evening's milk is to be set on the left-hand shelf, two from the bottom.' eliza pursed up her mouth and nodded, as she walked away with a very impressive swinging of petticoats. 'poor young man, his head is completely turned,' she said to herself. 'but then, what wonder? my appearance in my _fête_ day clothes has always been a subject of remark and respectful admiration!' 'farewell, my wife; enjoy to the full the emotions called forth by the pious exhibition you are about to witness. they are becoming to your sex. boys, take good care of your mother; and conduct yourselves in all things as worthy sons of our glorious republic.' master lepage raised his soft felt hat from his head, as he spoke, with an elegant flourish; but whether in compliment to his wife or in honour of the democratic form of government, i really cannot say. at that moment the charcoal-burner came hurriedly from the narrow forest path, that led from his hut, on to the open space outside the farmhouse. madelon, the sow, ran beside him, shaking her lean sides as she ran, and grunting now and then, apparently with pleasure at being taken out walking. sometimes she bundled up against her master's long, thin legs, nearly knocking him over; sometimes she stopped and forced her ugly snout into a tuft of grass or weeds by the wayside. the charcoal-burner's red hair streamed out behind him as he came rapidly along; his strange eyes were dull and vacant as those of a sleep-walker. 'i have a message,' he cried hoarsely--'a message to you from the beasts, and the birds, from the pine-trees, and the storm-clouds and the voices. all night long they have told it me, over and over again.' paqualin, a wild, ragged, unkempt figure, came up close to master lepage, who stood there erect and superior as a general officer on parade, surrounded with his family and servants--gustavus had left his pails of water and joined the little company--in their sunday best, and all animated with pleasant expectation of a holiday, in which amusement promised to be agreeably mingled with spiritual edification. 'well, well, out with it quickly then, my good fellow, this wonderful message of yours,' lepage said, in a bantering, patronising tone. 'you see my wife and my sons here are just ready to start on a long walk. i cannot have them delayed.' 'they must not go, or you must go with them,' cried the charcoal-burner. he stretched out his hands like a man in the dark groping for something he cannot find. 'my head is troubled,' he went on. 'i cannot tell you plainly; but i have an aching in all my bones which foretells misfortune. and i say, they must not go.' 'pooh,' said lepage. 'your head is troubled, just so. but when people's heads are troubled they had best keep at home and not trouble their neighbours into the bargain with all their crazy fancies. calm yourself, paqualin. and as for you,' added lepage, nodding encouragingly to his wife and the boys, 'forward, march. do not let this untoward little incident affect the pleasures of the day.' but susan lepage looked kindly and compassionately at the charcoal-burner, and then turning to her husband, said:-- 'have a moment's patience with him, _mon ami_; let us at least hear what he has to say.' 'yes, give me time,' cried paqualin imploringly. 'there are so many of you staring at me--ah! i begin to remember. you must go with them if they go, for the snow is coming, master lepage. the storm hung out its streaming, white flag in the north-east yesterday, and the wild ducks flew south; there were signs in the earth and in the heavens, and in my ears the sound of many voices. do not let your wife and children go. the snow will be here before evening, and the way will be difficult to find, and the house door will stand open long into the night before the feet of those you love cross the threshold.' the charcoal-burner spoke as though he was so certain of the truth of that which he said, and his voice sounded so sad, that poor little peter felt quite dismayed. even eliza had no opprobrious observation to make, and as for gustavus, he stood with his big mouth wide open, staring as if he saw a ghost. master lepage, however, remained quite unmoved; and his composure was very reassuring. 'well, well, my good fellow,' he said, 'i for one need no further proof that your head is very much troubled, so much so indeed that if i had my way you should find a lodging for a time in the _maison dieu_ at nullepart--an excellent institution, which is calculated to cure troubled heads, or at all events to restrain the possessors of them from being inconvenient to other people. but the worst of it is,' lepage added, rather angrily, 'that this superstitious nonsense is infectious. you, for instance, my wife, begin to look quite disconcerted.' lepage folded his arms, and nodded his head argumentatively, quite as though he had been addressing an audience in the wine shop. 'now i put it to you,' he said, 'the day is mild and even sunshiny at present. and which, pray, is likely to be the best weather prophet? i, francis louis lepage, householder, citizen, veteran, and i may add philosophic-politician and student of ancient history, or that poor half-wit--unsound, as anyone can see, both in mind and body?' 'of course the grasshopper's afraid of the snow,' chimed in antony, switching at madelon, the sow, with the little stick he held in his hand. 'it puts his fiddle out of tune.' then antony laughed rather loud, as people do sometimes when they have made a joke they are not sure is a very good one. 'for shame, antony,' said his mother quickly. and john paqualin turned on the lad, his eyes glowing like live coals. 'ah! it is noble and generous in a handsome fellow like you to taunt me and scoff at me! heaven pay you back in your own coin.' eliza gave a scream, and seized gustavus by the arm as though she required protection from some most fearful danger. 'for the love of the saints, ma'am, let us go on, and get out of the way of this wild animal,' she said, in a very loud whisper. 'he looks wicked enough to commit a crime. keep off, gustavus! what are you thinking about, catching hold like that of a respectable, young, servant woman?' 'why it was you who caught hold of me, eliza,' answered the cowherd mildly. paqualin, meanwhile, looked round the little group with a sort of despair in his poor ugly face. 'it is all useless,' he said; 'you will not listen to or believe me. i only get jeered at. you all despise me.' [illustration: 'you all despise me.' _page ._] he turned away with a bitter cry, and shambled off into the forest. 'good-bye, dear john paqualin, good-bye.--no, i won't hush, eliza. i love him, he is a very kind friend to me.--good-bye, dear john paqualin,' little peter called after him. he felt very very sorry for the poor charcoal-burner. 'whoof,' went madelon, the sow, making a run at cincinnatus--who sat washing his face on the clean flags just outside the door of the farm-house--and taking him so by surprise that he leapt up, with a prodigious tail, on to the window ledge, without even waiting to scratch. then she cantered off, grunting and shaking her great bristly, floppety ears, after her master. 'next time i see the charcoal-burner, it will undoubtedly be my duty to spit at him,' said cincinnatus to himself in the cat-language. 'after that which has just occurred, i feel it is quite unnecessary to take any second opinion upon the subject.' 'forward, march,' cried master lepage gaily. 'enjoy yourselves. let no thought of that unfortunate being's prognostications disturb you. the day will be charming.' and so, after all, they started for nullepart. chapter v. which is both social and religious. now, undoubtedly, it is extremely easy to most persons not to believe a thing if they do not wish to believe it. and very soon our friends, wending their way along the soft moist forest path, in the languid december sunshine, began to forget about john paqualin and his alarming warning. 'it was all spite,' said eliza, tossing her head, white muslin cap and all, with a great show of dignity. 'he hates me because i won't receive his advances and always keep him at a proper distance. it was just a trick to deprive a poor, hard-working, young woman of a well-earned holiday.' 'i think he was wrong about the weather,' remarked paul quietly. 'it's generally colder before snow.' 'he ought to be shut up in the madhouse, as my father suggested,' said antony, who was still smarting from the reproof his mother had given him. 'i'd have all those sort of fellows kept under lock and key. there ought to be a law about it. they've no right to be about loose.' 'you are young, my son,' said susan lepage, 'and the young, too often, are thoughtless and cruel. perhaps life will teach you, among other lessons, to be merciful if you would obtain mercy.' antony's handsome face grew very sulky. 'you're always scolding me for something or other,' he said crossly. [illustration] meanwhile our little peter was very happy. he had been sorry for the charcoal-burner, it is true; but he would have been very much more sorry not to go to nullepart. a light breeze ruffled the dark branches of the pine-trees; here and there a scarlet or yellow leaf still hung on the brambles that grew on the skirts of the wood; the little birds looked at him merrily with their round, bright eyes, as they flew chirping to and fro among the trees and bushes. as to the snow, peter did not give it a thought, as he ran, just like a little dog, first a long way on in front of the rest of the party, and then dawdled ever so far behind them--looking at the quaint little huts, and houses, and castles that the pine needles make where they fall and gather on the small twigs and branches at the base of the younger trees; and then, seeing that his mother and brothers had got on a long way ahead of him, scuttled up to them again in a great fuss and hurry, with very red cheeks, and a curious bumping at his heart, what with excitement and exercise, and just a trifle of fright, too, lest the old dwarf whom john paqualin had told him about should suddenly nod and grin at him from under the pine boughs, saying:-- 'hey, my fine fellow, so we've met at last!' but i suppose the black dwarf was plotting mischief at home within the recesses of his mysterious cavern on that particular sunday morning; for though he kept a very sharp look-out, little peter saw no trace of his naughty, mocking face, even where the path was narrowest and the pine-trees thickest. now the town of nullepart is an exceedingly ancient place, as you will gather from its name if you are anything of a scholar. it lies down in a remote valley along the banks of a river, with hills on either hand clothed below with oak, and beech, chestnut, and walnut, and, at their summits, crowned with pine-trees, that make a dark, ragged, saw-like edge against the sky. some of the houses in the main street are built of stone, and roofed with fine, red, fluted tiles; but the major part of them are of wood, like the farm-house in the forest, with deep eaves, and quaint gables and stairways, and galleries. and i am sorry to say that the good people of nullepart are somewhat old-fashioned in their habits, and do not pay quite as strict a regard to cleanliness as might be desired; and permit their ducks, and chickens, and pigs to walk about the crooked streets along with the foot-passengers, in rather too friendly and confidential a manner. [illustration: going to church. _page _] but little peter, never having seen any other town, thought nullepart a very fine place indeed; and quite believed that nowhere else in the world were there such grand houses, or such inviting shops, or so many people, or half so much chatter and bustle. you see the justice of our opinions is very much dependent upon the extent of our experience--a fact which few persons always manage to bear in mind, at least where their own opinions are concerned--with the opinions of their neighbours it is, of course, different. little peter clung rather tight to his mother's hand on one side, and to his brother paul's on the other, for he was somewhat afraid of being lost in the crowd and never found again. antony did not offer to hold the little boy's hand. he walked on the other side of his mother, with his cap set jauntily over one ear and his handsome face all smiles again. he nodded and said good-day to all his acquaintances, and stared hard at all the pretty girls when he passed them, as a young man should who has a good opinion of himself and who intends some day to be a soldier. but if little peter thought nullepart street dangerously full of people, what did he think when passing under the carved porch, and pushing aside the heavy, leathern curtain that hung across the doorway, he entered the church itself, still clinging tightly to his mother's hand? he could see nothing but trousers and petticoats, the broad backs of men, and the comfortable backs of women--it would be uncivil to call them broad, too, you know; you should select your adjectives carefully in speaking of ladies--and the straight backs of lads, and the slim, neat backs of young girls all around him; while the close, heavy air of the church was full of the hum of many voices, and the shuffling of many feet over the stone pavement. 'ouf, how hot!' said eliza, in a loud whisper, unpinning her blue shawl. 'heaven forgive me, but it's like being in a saucepan with the lid on. why, there's my cousin ursula jacqueline lambert. ah, my dear cousin! how have you been this long while? yes, it is seldom we meet. and time passes and leaves its mark behind it. not that i change much--no, the saints be praised, i keep my looks. but i see you have altered. well, it cannot be helped. your husband is a good, faithful soul, and i daresay he doesn't observe it. there's the advantage of having married an old man. his eyes grow dim just in time--now with me....' but peter did not hear any more of eliza's conversation, for his mother moved forward into the middle of the nave of the church, from whence it was possible to see the high altar, with its lights and flowers, and the great picture behind it, of which the people of nullepart are very proud, for it was painted by a famous artist and is worth a great deal of money, and is, moreover, so dark with age, and, perhaps, with a proportion of dirt as well, that it affords an immense amount of interesting conversation, as nobody has ever yet discovered what subject it represents. priests in rich vestments stood before the altar, their backs looking like those of great gold and silver beetles; and there were boys with tall candles, and boys chanting; and the plaintive sound of the organ; and many persons kneeling on low chairs or on the rough pavement saying their prayers. susan lepage knelt down too; and little peter stood bare-headed close beside her. the church, somehow, seemed very different to what he had expected. it was very large and high, and the painted windows up in the roof let in but scanty light. it seemed to peter a very mysterious place; and he felt a wee bit frightened. at last susan rose again from her knees. 'now for thy pleasure, little one,' she said, looking lovingly at the child. 'where is the stable, antony?' 'it is there,' he answered, pointing to the southern aisle of the church. 'i've just been to see; but the crowd is so thick about it we must wait awhile--we can't get through yet.' susan lepage sat down on one of the low, rush-bottomed chairs, and took peter on her lap. 'all in good time,' she said. 'antony will let us know when to be moving. meanwhile, we will rest. your poor, little legs must be tired.' presently a stout, genial-looking, old gentleman, in a black cassock and funny, little, black cape, came up to them. he wore a black skull-cap, too, for the church was draughty, and his head was bald, save just at the back, where his short, bristly, white hair stood out like a neat trimming round the edge of his cap. 'well, well, susan lepage, it isn't often that we see you here, now,' he said. 'don't move, don't move, my good woman. ah, yes! i know the walk is long and fatiguing; you would come oftener if you could. the spirit is willing, as it is written, but the flesh is weak. yet you do well to come to-day, and bring these fine lads, your sons, with you. the good god remembers those who remember him. but where is the husband?' [illustration] peter looked at his mother as the priest asked this question, and it seemed to him that for some reason she seemed troubled and sad. 'ah, my father, he has remained at home to keep house. we live, as you know, in a lonely place.' the priest smiled and shook his head. 'exactly,' he said, 'i understand. politics have a word to say in the matter, though, haven't they?' but susan lepage did not smile in return. 'alas, my father!' she said. peter stared at both speakers wonderingly. he did not understand what they meant. but then it must be admitted there are a good many things we do not quite understand at five years old. 'do not vex yourself,' answered the priest kindly. 'it is written that the faithful wife may save her husband. all times are in the hands of god. that which he has ordained cannot fail to be accomplished.' then he laid his hand gently on little peter's round, black head, saying:-- 'and this is your youngest, the autumn child, who brings the blessing to the house?' 'yes,' she said. 'he has come for the first time to burn a candle before the infant jesus. but the worshippers are so many that as yet we have been unable to get a sight of the stable.' just then eliza bustled up. 'ah,' she exclaimed, 'one thing is certain, my poor cousin's temper is sadly soured with age. i made myself agreeable to her, in the assurance that she would at least ask me in to dinner.--forgive me, your reverence, i did not observe that you were conversing with my mistress'--eliza curtsied to the priest.--'but not a bit of it. she has treated me with marked coldness, and not so much as hinted at an invitation. it seems to me--' 'my daughter,' said the priest, 'lower your voice. we do not discuss these things so shrilly in this sacred place. turn your thoughts to religion. think here of your own sins, not of the shortcomings of others.' eliza got very red in the face. 'believe me, i was not thinking of myself, your reverence,' she answered, quickly, 'but of my mistress. i wished to save her the expense of my dinner at the inn, by dining with my relations.--we ought to be going to the red horse soon, ma'am,' she added, 'or there will be no room for us.' 'oh! but i haven't seen the stable yet,' cried little peter, quite out loud, forgetting that he was in church. 'i don't want any dinner. but i can't go home till i have seen the stable, please.' the little boy had jumped down off his mother's lap and stood there with the big tears in his eyes, and with the corners of his mouth quivering. it seemed to him a terrible thing to have come this long way full of expectation and hope, and then to be disappointed after all. but the priest took his hand kindly, and led him towards the southern aisle of the church, where the crowd was, while susan lepage and paul and antony followed behind them. 'room, my friends; have the amiability to make room,' said the priest, 'for a little lad who comes from a considerable distance to see this pious and instructive representation for the first time.' then little peter felt quite proud and distinguished, for the people, at the request of the priest, moved aside to the right hand and the left, making a narrow lane for him to pass along to the gilded railings in front of the chapel, where the stable was dressed. once there, he stood quite still, staring with very round eyes, for the sight seemed to him very beautiful and strange, and his heart was filled with wonder and awe. in a rough, rocky cave, on the straw in a wooden manger, lay the image of the infant jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes, with a golden circle above his baby head. on one side knelt the virgin mother, in a white robe and blue mantle, with her hands clasped meekly on her heart; and, as she bent towards her babe, she seemed to little peter to look at him with mild and loving eyes. on the other side stood st. joseph, in a brown habit, leaning upon his staff. and in the dusky background the boy could just make out the form of an ass and some cows. while above the entrance of the cave shone a bright star. 'ah, how beautiful!' said susan lepage softly. 'it should have been finer had we had more money,' answered the priest with a sigh. 'not that i complain. the parish has been generous, and the good sisters have done their best. still, i myself greatly desired to have the three kings offering treasures. it would have been an effective incident--but our means are limited. they would have been too expensive for us.' and little peter was puzzled and could not quite comprehend what the priest meant; for he had often heard his father say that kings were old-fashioned rubbish, worth nothing at all, and that a republic was worth ten thousand of them any day in the week. 'kneel down, my son,' said the priest to peter presently:--'and pray to be kept pure, and innocent, and devout, so that, when your earthly warfare is accomplished--be it late or soon--you may behold the face of the saviour in heaven as you now behold this poor, unworthy image of him on earth.' then he turned and left them. each of the boys bought a candle from the old woman who sat on the chapel steps, and stuck them in the round iron frame standing just by the gilded rails, and lighted them with the long taper she gave them. and eliza bought one, too, though she was a little disposed to haggle with the old woman and accuse her of overcharging. but susan lepage bought three candles, and set them in the frame and lighted them. 'for,' she said, 'we must remember those who are absent--whether by choice or by misfortune--when we are in the house of god.' [illustration] chapter vi. which attempts to show why the skies fall. do you know what the snow is and where it comes from? the dictionary says it is 'a frozen moisture, which falls from the atmosphere in white flakes.' but that description doesn't seem to make us know very much more about it somehow. some people say the snow is caused by the angels shaking the feather beds up in heaven; but that, both scientifically and spiritually too, appears to me an improbable solution. other people, again, say it is all the time spirit plucking his geese. and who are the time spirit's geese?--well, if you really want to know, they are all the little poets, and little painters, and little musicians, and little players and all the little inventors of little theories, and little writers of little books, who spend their time in diligently trying to persuade themselves and others that they are great writers of great books, and discoverers of a universal panacea for the healing of the nations; and that, in short, they are not any of them geese at all, but as fine swans as you can see on any river or pond in the three kingdoms. and they come cackling, and hissing, and sidling, and waddling up to the time spirit every year--specially in the spring and about christmastide--in great flocks, and all cry out together:-- 'is it possible to deny, o time spirit, that we are every one of us swans?' and then, i am sorry to say--for though it is perfectly right and just, it isn't the least bit agreeable, as some of us know to our cost--the time spirit turns up his sleeves and sets to work with a will, and catches them, though they mostly make a terrible noise and fluster, and plucks them one by one--big feathers first and then small--and sends them away looking sadly bare and foolish, and thereby leaving the world in no doubt whatsoever that they are only geese after all. and some wise persons, who have a perfect right to speak on the matter, think that why we have had so much more snow than usual the last few winters, is because--what with higher education and women's colleges, and one thing and another--the flocks of geese grow larger and larger, so that the poor time spirit is getting worn to fiddle strings with everlasting plucking, and it seems not unlikely we may soon have snowstorms nine months in the year. but what if a real swan does come among the geese, once in a way?--ah! that is quite another matter. for the time spirit discovers it in a very few minutes, and jumps up and pulls down his sleeves, and slips off his hat--he has to wear one, you know, to keep the goose down from lodging in his hair--and draws his heels together with a snap and makes a bow from the waist, like an accomplished courtier, and says:-- 'all hail to you, my master or my mistress!'--as the case may be.--'for you the stars shine by night, and the sun rises at morning. all the world is yours, or shall soon be, if you have patience, and faith, and daring, and are true to the voice of the dæmon within.' but there is yet another explanation of the snowfall besides this, and it is, perhaps, after all, the most reasonable one to believe in. for when the nights are long and the days are short, and the sunlight is feeble as a sick man's smile, the north wind wakes from his summer sleep and calls to his brother the east wind, and they go forth over the earth driving the heavy-laden snow-clouds before them, and the pale snow-fairies who do their will. down from the ice floes, and the dim, silent, polar wastes, over land and sea, with a shout like the roar of a battle, and a laugh like the crackle of thunder, while the hills grow white with fear under his tread, and the forests bow themselves and shriek in his fierce breath as the planks and rigging of a ship shriek in a storm at sea, the north wind comes. he was born hundreds of thousands of years ago, in the ice age, when the glaciers crawled out from the heart of the mountains, mile-long, grey-green monsters, over what are now fertile meadows and sunny plains--before man or beast, so vigorous was the keen-toothed frost, roamed over the surface of the earth. his eyes are blue and clear; and they dance as you may see the sky dance on a sharp winter's night; and his white beard hangs low on his chest, which is broad and firm as a hill-side; and he is in the full vigour of a lusty manhood still, and it promises to be a very long while yet before his eye grows dim or his limbs grow weak with age. some think, indeed, that as he saw man first born into the world, he may live to see him die off it again--to see this great ball, which so long has been our human dwelling-place and home, rolling silent out into immeasurable space, a dead planet, locked in the arms of everlasting frost. but be that as it may, on the fair sunday morning, when our friend little peter, his mother, and brothers, and eliza, were going through the pine forest to the church at nullepart, the north wind was up and walking southward, southward over europe, with the great, grey snow-clouds hurrying on before, for he had hard work to do. and, as the day wore on, he gathered the clouds from east and west, and packed them together in a vast, dusky mass over the town, and the forest and the limestone crags and gorges, and the wide, flat meadows where the cows pasture in summer, and over little peter's home. and then he bade the snow-fairies bestir themselves, and prick the clouds as full of holes as the top of a flour-dredge, and wrap all the country in a robe of spotless white. now, it happened that among the snow-fairies there was one who was very young and tender-hearted. indeed she was not really a snow-fairy at all, but a child of the soft south wind, who, when all her sisters flew away--as the swallows fly in autumn--to the tropics, overslept herself and got left behind by mistake. and she had joined the snowfairies because she was dull and lonely, and could find no other playfellows, and nothing to do. but, for all that, she did not care to help them in their work, for she had not been brought up to it, you see, and it seemed to her a sad, chilly business. so instead of laughing and playing and flitting about, and easing the great lumbering clouds of their burden, she sat down by herself in a hollow of one of them and cried, and cried. for she could not help thinking of all the sheep on lonely hillsides; and of the small birds seeking food and finding none in the snow-buried fields, and lanes, and hedges; and of little neglected children, of whom, alas! there are always so many, in bare cottage or dreary, city cellar, with no warm clothes, or food, or firing; and of wayfarers on barren heaths and bleak moors; and of the beggars, and vagabonds, and outcasts, the sorry throng of refuse humanity, that tramps the high roads of every country of the civilised world, with neither home, nor hope, nor money, and as she thought of their frost-nipped hands, and bleeding feet, and scanty rags, she cried as if her little heart would break. but the snow-fairies were vexed with her, and scolded and flouted her, for it is, as you all know, a great nuisance to have somebody crying and sobbing and making a fuss, when you yourselves feel quite happy and comfortable. and at last, in their irritation against her, they made such a noise and clamour, and so pushed and plagued and hustled the poor little creature, that the squabbling and commotion reached the ears of the north wind himself, and he asked what in the name of common-sense was the matter. then the snow-fairies all pointed at her, and all began chattering at once, as you may hear a flock of starlings chattering in the tops of the beeches at sunset, on a mild march day. but the north wind told them to go about their business; and he took up the little fairy and stood her in the hollow of his great hand, and asked her quite gently--for the stronger a man is the gentler he can be, as you will very likely find out some fine day--why she was so sad. then, though she was horribly frightened and blushed up to the tips of her pretty ears, as a modest young maiden should, she looked the great north wind bravely in the face and told him her little story--how she had been left behind, how she loved the sunshine and the summer, and how she grieved for the misery and famine that winter brings, too often, on man and bird and beast. 'and i don't see _why_ it should all happen,' she said; 'or why there cannot be summer all the year.' still, though she spoke up so courageously, the poor, little fairy trembled, for she thought that the north wind would be angry, as the snow-fairies had been, and that he might crush her tiny life into nothingness in the grasp of his great hand. but the north wind did nothing of the kind. he looked at her till his clear, dancing eyes grew dim and misty; and when, at last, he spoke his voice was low and sweet and sad as church bells that the sailor hears far out at sea, as he sails at evening in sight of some fair, foreign coast. 'ah, my child!' he said, 'all those who have once been happy, young and old, wise and foolish, mortal and immortal, mighty princes, prophets, psalmists, all living creatures, nay, the very earth herself, all that my eyes have looked on through unnumbered centuries, have asked and still ask that question in some form or other; but the answer is not granted yet. and so, knowing that till the end it may not be told us, we grow humble and grow wise; and learn that it is best to do the work that is appointed us without doubt or hesitation, careless whether it be known or unknown, pleasant or unpleasant, hard or soft, kind or cruel even, so that we get it well and honestly done. as for you, you have lost your way and have wandered from the business set for you to do, and therefore you are filled with sadness, and fears, and questionings. but have patience for a while, and have faith, too, that the mysterious purposes of the almighty, your master and mine, will certainly be made plain at last.--meanwhile, go and help your cousins the snow-fairies. and then, because, though you are honest and brave, you still are frail and tender, when the night of my winter reign is over, i will give you back into the keeping of my kinsman the south wind, who will find less sharp and cutting work for you to do.' and all this, though you may not at first see exactly how, has a great deal to do with the story of our friend, little peter; and therefore, even at the risk of your thinking it somewhat dry and puzzling, it has seemed to me well to set it down for you to read here. chapter vii. which describes a pleasant dinner-party, and an unpleasant walk. for when little peter and his mother and brothers came out of the church at nullepart, the sun had been hidden some time behind thick clouds. fierce gusts of wind rushed down the street, blowing off hats, and blowing about petticoats, and making window-shutters rattle, and doors slam. 'make haste, children, make haste,' cried susan lepage. 'we must get our dinner at the red horse and start homewards as quickly as we can.' 'oh! i have been hearing something so terrible,' said eliza, to her mistress, as she came down the church steps. 'not that i am surprised at it--no, no, no. i have always suspected it. i am sure his appearance this morning was enough to confirm one's worst suspicions.' eliza pursed up her lips and shook her head with an air of extreme wisdom. 'they do say that paqualin is a wizard,' she went on. 'take care, peter; if you look one way and walk another, you will unquestionably tumble down. and you needn't stare at me so. i wasn't talking to you.--joseph berri, the watchmaker's brother, has just been telling me all about it. there is no doubt he overlooked one of miller georgeon's draught oxen three years ago, so that it would not eat, and grew daily thinner and thinner, and had, at last, to be killed.--go on, peter; your ears will grow as long as a donkey's if you are always listening like that.--and they do say he can call up evil spirits, and storms, and thunder and lightning, and whirlwinds, when he wants them for his own vicious purposes.' 'nonsense, eliza, nonsense,' said susan lepage. 'you are far too willing to listen to idle, ill-natured tales.' eliza sighed profoundly and turned up her eyes. 'ah!' she murmured, 'some day, ma'am, you will see who was in the right, and give credit where it is due. for my part, if it does snow to-day, i shall know what to think.' 'make haste, children,' said susan lepage again. 'the time draws on, and we have no time to waste.' but it was not so easy to make haste. the large dining-room of the red horse, with its tall, white-curtained windows, was crowded. from up the valley and down the valley in their long, narrow, country carts--for all the world like tea-trays set on four wheels--with cracking whips and jangling bells, or on foot, from lonely hamlets in the forest, or solitary herdsmen's huts on the steep grass slopes beneath the grey limestone cliffs and crags, all the inhabitants of the district had gathered to attend the church, and see the show, and spend a merry sunday. and among all these good people were many friends of susan lepage, who detained her with greetings and questions. then, too, the places at the tables were already taken, and it was some time before the boys and their mother could get seats. even so little peter had to squeeze himself into a very small space between madame georgeon,--the stout, comely wife of monsieur georgeon, the miller at oùdonc--and his mother. but little peter thought it all delightful, though he was rather pinched as to elbow-room. he liked the rattle of the knives and forks, and the many voices, and the talk and laughter; and watched with great curiosity the active serving-maids, balancing in their hands--and indeed all up their arms, too, so it seemed--an incredible number of plates and dishes. even the floor sprinkled with sawdust, and the not altogether spotless table-cloth, were interesting. for it was all new, you see, to little peter; and even things not very nice in themselves are charming when they are new. then, too, peter was very hungry; and though madame georgeon's full skirts overflowed his small legs, and her handsome shawl, thrown gracefully back from her shoulders--the room was warm, what with the great, china stove in the corner and all the company--and though her shawl, i say, enveloped him entirely now and then in a cloud of many coloured cashmere, the miller's wife was very kind, and coaxed and petted him, and piled up his plate with all manner of dainty things. 'eh, _par exemple_,' she said, smiling and nodding at him as she sipped her glass of red wine--'it is not every day we go into society, is it, to meet old friends and make new ones? you, susan lepage, from a child were of a serious turn of mind. that is an excellent thing, too, no doubt. it secures the future. but the present should not be despised either. the members of my family--the saints be praised--have ever possessed a little grain of gaiety in their composition. for my part i think it is only economical to make the most of this world while you are permitted to be in it. and i regard it as an actual impiety to neglect any opportunity of innocent entertainment. eat, my child, eat then--a spoonful or so more of this admirable pastry. see, on my plate here. i was provident when the dish came round, and secured a double portion.' then, turning, she smiled at susan lepage again:-- 'do not alarm yourself. it will not injure him. he will walk it off. exercise is a fine thing to prevent food lying heavy on the stomach.' 'perhaps moderation is a finer one still,' answered the other gently. 'but are you not ready, my sons? we must not linger, though you in your kindness would tempt us to do so, good madame georgeon. we do not drive home by the high road as you do, but go on foot through the forest, and the days are short.--antony, we should surely be moving.' but antony was in no haste to be going, for he, too, was making the most of this opportunity of innocent enjoyment. he sat beside marie georgeon, the miller's pretty daughter, who certainly took after her mother's family in respect of gaiety. and, clean glasses being somewhat scarce at the red horse from the unusual number of guests, it happened that she and antony shared one; and her brown eyes were as full of mischief as a may morning is full of sunshine as she glanced up at him over the rim of it, and laughed and talked, and fingered the gold and garnet necklace that fitted so neatly about her throat. and what with her pretty looks and merry words, the young fellow's head was completely turned--and if you do not quite understand what that means, you need only wait a little, for you are bound to find out clearly enough some day. and, as the inevitable consequence of his head being turned, he hardly heard his mother when she spoke to him, and made no haste in the world to finish his dinner, and loitered and dawdled about upon one excuse and another as long as possible; and, i am sorry to say, spoke quite snappishly to his brother paul, when the latter pointed out to him that the clock had struck three already, and that it was high time to be going. you see, it is just as well not to understand--by experience, anyhow--what it is to have your head turned, since it leads to these deplorable errors both of manners and conduct. so it fell out that when at last our friends left the jovial company at the red horse, and came out from the steaming dining-room into the street, the snow-fairies had already been some half-hour at work, and the roadway and house-roofs were all lightly powdered with snow. to little peter, warm with his dinner, this seemed the crowning piece of fun of a glorious day. he could hardly get along for turning to look at the marks his nailed boots made in the snow. but susan lepage thought very differently. she glanced up at the dull, clouded sky, and remembered the sad words of john paqualin, the charcoal-burner, that everyone had treated so lightly some few hours ago. 'will it last, do you think?' she asked of antony. antony, however, was still thinking of pretty marie georgeon, with whom he had shared the kernel of a double almond at parting, both wishing as they eat it. he was wishing his wish still, and it was such an agreeable one that he felt quite superior to all inconvenient incidents in the way of snowstorms and such like.--he cocked his cap more on one side than ever, and assumed quite a patronising air, even towards his mother, which, to say the least, was very silly of him. 'it may last or it may not,' he answered. 'but really, it doesn't very much matter.' 'i wish that your father was with us,' added susan. 'why?' cried antony. 'he couldn't stop it snowing any more than i can. and pray remember, mother, that this isn't by any means the first time i have walked home from nullepart in bad weather. i believe i could find my way back blindfold or at midnight for that matter.' 'i am not at all troubled about you, my son,' replied his mother quietly, 'but about our poor little peter here, with his little short legs.' 'oh, peter will do well enough,' said the lad impatiently. some find it difficult to make room in their hearts for more than one person at a time, you know; and antony's heart was still pretty well occupied by marie georgeon. he walked along briskly humming the tune of _partant pour la syrie_, which is a song about a young soldier who was pious as well as brave; and a lucky fellow into the bargain, for when he came back from the war he married his master the count's daughter, and lived happily ever after. 'never mind, mother,' said paul; 'if the snow is deep, or peter is tired, i can carry him pick-a-back. he's not very heavy, you know.' 'i shan't be tired. i like the snow,' cried little peter, and he clapped his hands and pranced about, till eliza--who was still rather cross because her cousin had neglected to invite her to dinner--caught hold of him and made him walk soberly. 'if you laugh so now there will be tears before night,' she said. 'laugh at breakfast, cry at dinner, laugh at dinner, cry at supper-time. ah, dear me! this cold wind; i wish i had thought to put some wool in my ears--i shall be martyred with the toothache.' so they passed down the main street. it was almost deserted now, for the storm had driven people to take shelter in the wine shops, or, which was far wiser, in their own houses. even the pigs had gone to their styes, and the fowls to their roosts; and the goats, with their little tinkling bells, were safe housed, too, in their sheds, munching the dry, brown hay that in the summer-time had waved as green grass full of a rainbow of flowers. they passed by the smaller houses and out-buildings, and the great saw-mills where the pine logs from the mountains are cut up, that stand along the bank of the swift river; and crossed the bridge with the dark water rushing underneath; and began climbing the road that zig-zags up the long hill between the great, bare walnut-trees and stubble fields, and wild rocky pastures, to the edge of the pine forest--four tall straight figures, and one short roundabout one, showing black against the ever-deepening snow. [illustration] for, alas! the snow was falling thicker and thicker--here in the open it was already up to the second lace-hole of little peter's boots--scurrying and racing in wild confusion before the icy breath of the north wind; twisting, and twirling, and dancing; clinging to grass blade, and bush, and branch, and tree stem; hiding the road so that you could no longer see the margin of it; covering the wheel tracks and marks of the horse hoofs; filling up hollows under the grey rocks and boulders, and blurring the jagged outline of the pine-trees where they rise against the sky. hundreds of thousands of white, hurrying flakes, soft, silent multitudes, filling the air as far as eye could see. there was no fun now in turning round to look at the marks of his nailed boots, for peter found the snow hid them again almost as soon as they were made; and it was hard work, too, struggling up the steep hill and battling with the wind. still the little fellow trudged along without making any complaint. for, you see, he had often heard his father praise the virtues of the ancient romans, their courage and endurance; and so peter had got the notion into his head that it is rather a grand thing not to mind what is uncomfortable and disagreeable, and that it is rather a shameful and unworthy thing to grumble and make a fuss, and cry when your chilblains itch, or you happen to bump your head against the table, or when your legs ache, as his legs began to ache now, with the length and steepness of the hill. more than once his mother stopped and called him to her, and told him he was a good, brave, little man, and pulled the collar of his overcoat up about his red, little ears. and peter, though he would not have said so for three dozen baking apples, or half a washing-basket full of sugar pigs, did find it very comfortable to stand still in the shelter of her petticoats for a minute or two and get his breath. the town below was hidden in the driving snow, and the dark wall of the pine-trees loomed nearer and nearer. at last the forest path was reached, and here it was better walking. the snow was lighter, and there was shelter from the force of the wind. but they had taken so much time in climbing the hill that the dusk was coming on, and there was still a long way to go. antony no longer whistled. he walked on steadily ahead of the others, turning round now and then with a fine air of superiority and command. antony, indeed, was as yet not at all displeased with the adventure. he believed that this was an occasion on which he showed to great advantage. his mother followed him in silence. little peter came next. he had taken his brother paul's hand now, and trotted along as fast as his sturdy little legs would carry him, for to tell the honest truth he was getting a trifle frightened. the birds had all hidden themselves away in the thick brushwood, and no longer welcomed him with their merry round eyes. the well-known path looked mysterious, almost awful, in the half-light, with the tall ranks of the pine-trees on either side of it swaying in the blast. sometimes the snow would slip in great masses from the high branches and fall close to little peter's feet, as if the black dwarf was throwing snowballs at him. poor peter began to feel very shivery and creepy, and did not the least care to look round lest _something_, he did not exactly know what--and that made it all the worse, perhaps--should be coming tripping, tripping, tripping over the white ground behind him. but the only person who really came behind little peter was eliza; and though i do not want to be rude to eliza, who was a very worthy young woman in her way, i cannot pretend to say that she was doing anything so graceful as tripping over the snow. not a bit of it. eliza was extremely disgruntled by the events of the day, and was as full of complaints and lamentations as a hedgehog's back is full of spines. the wet snow had made her fine, white cap limp and drabbled; so that instead of standing up like the vizor of an ancient helmet, the big, lace frill of it tumbled in the most melancholy manner about her face. she had turned the skirt of her dress up over her head; and what with holding it, and her books tied up in her handkerchief, and what with the tightness of her boots, which were a pair of brand new ones and half a size too small for her into the bargain, eliza came very much nearer floundering than tripping over the snow. the forest opens out in places into wide spaces of waste moorland. across these by daylight or in fine weather it is easy enough to find the right road; but on such an evening as i am telling you about it is by no means easy. on the edge of the moorland, susan lepage called to antony to stop. 'go slowly,' she said, 'and pray be careful. if we once mistake the path we may find ourselves in a sad plight. i wish your father was with us! go on in front,' she added, turning to paul, 'and i will follow you.' now his mother's words rather nettled antony. [illustration: lost. _page ._] 'you haven't any real confidence in me,' he said sulkily; 'or you wouldn't be repeating all the while that you wish my father was here.' you see, antony had been a good deal flattered and excited by his pretty companion at the red horse at nullepart. and it often happens, unfortunately, that pleasure when it is past makes us quarrelsome. he kicked the snow about with his foot, and his handsome, young face looked quite rebellious and naughty. 'no, no, my son,' susan lepage answered gently. 'i have every confidence in your good intentions. but the way must needs be difficult to find. i merely caution you to be careful.' 'of course i shall be careful,' said the lad angrily, as he stepped from the shelter of the pine trees into the dim, white waste beyond. for a time all went well; but, all of a sudden, the ground began to grow rough and uneven under foot. peter stumbled and fell, and scrambled up again half smothered in snow, his poor, little mouth and eyes full of it, and his hands scratched with the harsh heath roots and stones beneath. 'antony, antony, we are wandering!' cried his mother, as she wiped the snow out of peter's eyes and off his clothes, and kissed him. the little boy clung to her, for he felt very desolate and cheerless. he did not think it in the least amusing now to be out in the storm. he longed for the warm, cosy kitchen and for the society of cincinnatus; but he choked down his tears as his mother kissed him, and tried to be very brave and not to mind his tumble. antony turned back, he was a few steps ahead. 'we can only have missed the path by a yard or two,' he said hurriedly. 'you just stand still and i'll find it.' and he did find it. but, alas! he could not keep to it, for the light faded and darkness came on quicker and quicker, and still the snow fell in hundreds of thousands of soft white flakes. eliza groaned and lamented, and our poor, little peter's snow-clogged boots began to chill his feet through, and his hands grew as cold as frogs' paws, and he got more and more hungry and tired. but he did not grumble about it, for he knew his mother and brothers were cold and weary too; so he struggled on manfully through the ankle-deep snow. and, at last, he got too tired even to feel hungry, and began to cry quite gently to himself. [illustration] 'please, mother,' he said, 'i can't go any further.' susan lepage took him up in her arms and held him close against her bosom. she did not speak; but, if it had been light enough to see, i think peter would have found that she was crying too. for the ground was all rough and uneven under foot again; and though antony went first to the right hand and then to the left he could not make out the road at all. 'i've come all wrong, mother,' he said, and his voice trembled. 'i don't know where we are or which way we are walking. we are lost.' there was a silence before his mother answered him. 'you have done your best,' she said. 'the event is in the hands of god.' chapter viii. which proves that even philosophic politicians may have to admit themselves in the wrong. but now it is quite time for us to go back to the old, wooden farm-house on the edge of the forest, and see what master lepage, and gustavus, and that intelligent and experienced person, cincinnatus, are doing, while the rest of the household are wandering, alas! not without growing alarm, and even suffering, in the darkness and cold and snow. in point of fact, then, though master lepage had been so very determined to please himself by sitting at home, he had found the day uncommonly long and dull. for he was one of those sociable persons who are never quite happy without an audience to hold forth to and instruct, and convince of their own remarkable wisdom and the hearers' equally remarkable folly. and then, too, for all that he appeared somewhat dictatorial and high-handed, lepage was at bottom an affectionate and warm-hearted man, who loved his wife and children tenderly. and so, as the afternoon drew on, and the wind rose and the clouds gathered, he began to get into a fine fume and fret. he walked up and down the warm, cosy kitchen as restless as a bear in a pit; and knocked double postman's knocks on the weather glass, and declared out loud that the mercury was going up, when he saw perfectly well that it was going down; and did a number of other useless things to try to persuade himself that he was not one bit anxious or uneasy. 'how inferior is the education of men to that of cats!' thought cincinnatus. 'before i was old enough to lap milk out of a saucer, my mother had taught me the vulgarity of giving way to purposeless agitation. "calm," she would say, "is even a greater sign of good-breeding than a curl of hair inside the ears." in my poor master, there, calm and ear-curls alike are wanting. what a situation! thank heaven, i at least was born a cat!' but, you see, master lepage had really some cause for his restlessness, for all this while he was struggling with an unseen enemy. deep down in that innermost chamber of the heart--the door of which we most of us keep so tight shut because we know truth sits within weighing and judging all our thoughts and actions, and letting us know from time to time just what she thinks about them in the very plainest language--in that innermost heart-chamber, i say, lepage was aware that there was a busy, active feeling of shame and remorse. and while truth pushed hard at the door inside to let the feeling out, he pushed equally hard on the outside to keep the feeling in. but when finally the snow began to fall, and the daylight lessen, and the storm grow fierce and fiercer, truth pushed and bumped and banged upon the poor door so unmercifully that master lepage, sturdy veteran though he was, grew quite weary of opposing her. and so the busy feeling popped out first its head, and then its two arms, and then squeezed itself out all together, and began racing up and down the whole length and breadth of the old soldier's heart in the most audacious manner. 'you were obstinate and conceited this morning,' said the feeling; 'you wouldn't listen to john paqualin, the charcoal-burner. look at the snow!' 'the glass was rising,' answered lepage. 'i am perfectly certain it was. and john paqualin is a madman.' 'madman yourself,' said the feeling--for feelings are very free-spoken, you know, and don't mince matters--'madman yourself for letting your wife, who is a delicate woman, and that poor child, little peter, run such a risk of cold, and fatigue, and perhaps worse.' 'antony knows the way,' answered lepage again. 'and he's an able fellow.' 'he is a boy, and like most boys is thoughtless and self-opinionated. he takes after you in that last, by the same token,' said the feeling. 'i am a philosophic politician,' cried lepage, somewhat hotly. 'i worship the goddess of reason.' 'do you?' said the feeling. 'and these newspapers you were so anxious to sit at home and read to-day, full--as you perfectly well know--of garbled news, and one-sided statements, and of cheap party cries--they are the voice of reason, are they?' 'hang you!' answered lepage--which was not at all a pretty way of answering. but then, you see, poor master lepage was getting very angry because he was very uncomfortable; and when persons are both uncomfortable and angry they are liable to make use of expressions which, very properly, are not printed in the french and english conversation books that you study in the schoolroom.--'i won't listen to you. so away with you. i have no doubt--' 'no doubt, haven't you?' said the feeling. 'well, i am glad to hear that.' 'no doubt at all--ten thousand plagues on you--no doubt at all, i say, that my wife and children will be home in ten minutes at the latest. meanwhile i will read a little. i will improve my mind with the history of those grand, old romans.' so lepage got down the history book, and it fell open at one of his favourite passages--the account of the consul, marcus attilius regulus, who, rather than break his word, left his home and kindred and gave himself up to his pitiless enemies, and bore in silence all the cruel tortures to which they subjected him. 'there was a man!' cried lepage, as he wiped his spectacles with his red pocket-handkerchief. 'yes, indeed, a very different man to you, francis louis lepage,' said the feeling. 'why, why what do you mean? twenty thousand cut-throat prussians!--at least i am no coward. no one has ever accused me of that before. what was i ever afraid of?' [illustration: waiting. _page ._] 'of a little trouble,' answered the feeling. 'of a walk, for instance, when you felt inclined to sit at home smoking--of what one or two silly, feather-headed fellows, who fancy themselves mighty sharp and clever, might perhaps say about you, if you were seen kneeling down beside your wife and sons, in the church there, with your head uncovered, praying god to forgive you your sins.--pooh, don't talk about your courage to me!' said the feeling. master lepage sat very still for some time after that in the window-seat, with the roman history wide open before him; but he did not care to go on reading about the consul regulus. he remembered how little peter had climbed on his knee on friday evening, and coaxed him to go to nullepart to see the infant jesus and the stable; and had said--poor, little lad, what a nice, little face he had--lepage rubbed the end of his hooked nose, and sniffed--that if only his father came with them they would all be so happy. 'well, i hope they have been happy,' he said to himself. 'it is more than i have been, in any case.' he turned and looked out of window. ah! how it snowed, and how dark it was growing. 'and with this wind, on the moorland the snow will drift. if they have the intelligence of a blue owl between them they will have started early!' he cried quite fiercely. 'ten thousand plagues--poor dear souls,' he added, for master lepage was getting a little confused somehow. [illustration] he hurried across the kitchen to the house-door and flung it wide open, and standing on the threshold, gazed long and earnestly down the dim forest path, drawing his shaggy eyebrows together till they stood out like _chevaux de frise_ above his keen, grey eyes. 'ho-la, ho-la, hey!' he shouted. but there was no answer save the roaring of the wind among the pines and the soft 'hush, hush,' of the falling snow. now for some time past cincinnatus had been sitting very composedly staring with his great, yellow eyes into the glowing log fire, and meditating pleasantly on the inferiority of men to cats. but when master lepage, a prey to that remorseful feeling which truth had let loose to tramp where it would up and down his heart, threw the house-door wide open, the icy breath of the north wind rushed wildly into the kitchen, and made our friend cincinnatus feel uncommonly cool about the back. 'neither calm nor ear-curls, dear me!' he murmured to himself as he rose slowly, stretching one fore leg and then the other, and then each hind leg in turn--shaking the last leg rapidly for a moment, too, because it was slightly cramped--and yawning the while so wide, that his pink tongue was curled up quite tight, like a rolling-pin, at the back of his mouth. then he moved away with dignity, intending to take up his station upon the cushion of the big arm-chair that stood in the corner nicely out of the draught. but all of a sudden cincinnatus heard something that made him jump all on one side with an arched back and a bristling tail, and say 'pffzsh!' twice over, as loud as ever he had said it in his life. it was an unfamiliar sound that so startled cincinnatus, for master lepage was pulling strongly at the rope of the big bell that hung under the centre gable of the old house, and the urgent clang of its iron voice rang through the thick, snow-laden air far over the forest. the bell had been placed there long years before to summon neighbours--the house standing in a solitary place--in case of fire or accident. and now lepage rang it with a double purpose, trusting that even if its friendly tones failed to reach the ears of the poor wanderers, it might at least bring gustavus, the cowherd, from his father's cottage on the edge of the pastures, where he was spending the sunday, and that he might help him search for the wife and children whom he loved so well. 'by my great-grandmother's whiskers!' exclaimed cincinnatus, as he settled himself down on the chair cushion, 'what with draughts, and bell-ringing, and one thing and another, this house will soon be impossible for a cat of any pretensions to gentility. compare it with the sacristan's establishment, now, where you can't tell one day from another except by the smell of the different soups for dinner.--delightful!--with an occasional vocal evening, too, in the back garden, when the moon is full. lots are strangely unequal in this world!--pffzsh! and to add to everything else, if there actually is not that intolerable charcoal-burner.' john paqualin stood on the threshold, a flaming torch of pine boughs in his hand; his long, unkempt hair was white with snow, and so was the tattered cloth cloak that hung in so many folds from his stooping shoulders. his eyes were bright and glowing. 'ah! the wind,' he said, 'the glorious wind, the roar and the shout of it; the cry of the trees that strain, and the passionate snap of the branches--like heart-strings that snap under the blast of incurable sorrow. and the snow, soft and pure, and light as the coverlet a young mother lays on her first-born's cradle--getting a little too thick just now, though, that coverlet.--eh! what's this? have you smothered the infant--laid it over the face as well? be careful, then, with your--but the bell,' he added suddenly, interrupting himself, and catching hold of master lepage with his hard, thin fingers--'it called to me, while i was listening to the roll of the drums, and the blare of the trumpets, and the scream of the fifes in the forest there, and made me come hither whether i would or no. what do you want spoiling all my splendid wind-music with your infernal bell-clatter?' 'want!' cried lepage hoarsely; 'i want help.' paqualin laughed aloud. 'hey-ho,' he said. 'times are changed, are they? i never heard you sing that song before.' lepage let go the bell-rope, and raised his clenched fist. but he did not strike the blow. something stopped him. perhaps it was that same remorseful feeling which truth had let loose in his heart. 'come inside, paqualin,' he said quite quietly, after a moment or two. 'now try to remember.--my wife and sons and our maid-servant went to church at nullepart this morning. you did your best to prevent them going. you said the snow was coming, and it has come. they should have been back a good two hours ago, and they are not here yet.' 'not here yet,' repeated the charcoal-burner slowly. 'no, not yet.' lepage drew his hand across his eyes. 'would to god,' he said, 'i had gone along with them.--but see now, i will light the lamp and leave the house-door open; and then will go out to search for them. you can find your way like a hound, they say, by night or day, through the forest. will you come with me and help me?' paqualin stood in front of the fire; the snow on his hair and cloak melted and ran down, forming a little pool of water about his ill-shod feet. 'i am not over and above fond of you, francis lepage,' he said presently, 'as you most likely know already. love and hatred alike can tell their own story without much need of spoken words. i think you a vain man and a hard one; but your wife is as pitiful as the saints in heaven. you want me to help you to find her? you have not got a dog to do the work for you, and so you'll take me. ah, well! i've known the dog's place pretty well all my life long;--the kicks and the cuffs, and the grudging crust from the master's table; and then the "here! my good fellow, good cur, here! nose down, tail up, the scent's cold, but still you're sharp enough to find it; and sweat and faint to catch the hare that will make your owner a savoury supper, while you slink home to the dirty straw and the mouldy crust again." yes, yes--to be sure, i'll go with you and find them and bring them home; your fair wife and your children, and leave you happy and go back to my hut and the voices--not for your sake though, mind you, but for hers--the only woman whose eyes have ever looked kindly upon me.' 'come on your own terms,' said lepage. just then gustavus, in his heavy boots, came clumping into the kitchen. 'the bell, master--has the red cow calved of a sudden?' he asked. for once in his life gustavus appeared to be quite excited. he forgot to take off his hat or put down his big cotton umbrella, from off which the wet snow slipped in little avalanches, _sthlop_, on to the floor. 'calf thyself, with thy great, stupid, cheese face!' cried the charcoal-burner. then while lepage gave the cowherd his orders, and got some things together to take with them, paqualin stood murmuring to himself, with his head bent low, and his lean, grimy hands stretched out towards the comfortable blaze of the fire:-- [illustration] 'you, the man, welcome, and brave, and beloved. i, the dog, to show the man the way. gustavus, there, the ass, to trot behind loaded up with the blankets, and the food, and the brandy. and in the end, what? a bone for the dog, a thistle for the ass, and for the man kisses. which has the best of it? hardly fair, is it, eh?' 'umph,' said gustavus, as he got the big bundle on to his back. 'perhaps she'll be a bit soft-hearted when she sees me. maybe the snow will have taken some of the starch out of our eliza.' chapter ix. which is very short, because, in some ways, it is rather sad. have you ever looked for something you cared for very much and failed to find it? a dolly, for instance, forgotten at play in the garden, swept up with the dead leaves, and never seen after. or, still worse, a dear little kitten of an adventurous turn of mind, that went out in the woods for a walk by himself and never came home again, though you ran down the church-lane and up to the top of the pasture, crying, 'puss, puss, puss!' till you were quite hoarse, and cross, and tired, and nurse said you must come in because it was past bed-time and the dew was rising, and a number of other things which were perfectly true, but which didn't throw any light on the whereabouts of the kitten. how did you feel? why, just the most miserable little boy or girl in all the world, to be sure. or supposing, on the other hand, that you found dolly at last, after all; but with all the red washed off her lips and cheeks, and the mould mixed up with her yellow hair, and her smart frock wet and torn, and one of her waxen legs squashed flat where the wheel of the gardener's barrow had gone over it. or that the keeper brought back poor kitty some three or four days later, stiff and cold, and said:--'bin poaching, bin caught in a gin; thought little missy 'ud like to know the end of 'er.' well, did that make matters much better? i don't think so myself, and at one time of my life i had a good deal of experience in these things, so i have the right to speak. for it is a poor pleasure at best to play that dolly is sick of a fever, when you see that she does not get a bit better, even though you dose her ten times a day with an elaborate preparation of slate-pencil scrapings. and as to begging a candle-box of the housemaid for a coffin, and having a grand funeral in the shrubbery for the kitten, that is terrible work indeed, and makes your eyes so red with crying that you are quite ashamed to go down to dessert in the evening. now, if you and i have felt so very unhappy over our dolls and kittens when we lost them--and found them again, maybe, but always a good deal the worse for the losing--how do you think master lepage felt as he went out that dark, stormy, snowy night, with the charcoal-burner and gustavus, into the forest? he was very silent as he tramped through the snow, while the wind roared in the pines above him, and blew about the flame of his torch, making it twist and twirl, and flicker and glimmer, sometimes casting a red glare far over the white ground and the great, grey tree-stems and john paqualin's crooked, uncouth form flitting on just ahead of him; and sometimes dying down till all the scene was wrapped in darkness. he was very silent, i say, and not a bit like vivacious, loquacious master lepage who used to sit and hold forth in the wine-shop, and thump the table and make the glasses ring; but more like sergeant lepage, who, with his teeth set and his face fierce and white, had marched up under fire of the enemies' guns in battle long ago in italy or africa. lepage marched under fire now, and the battlefield was his own heart. and oh! dear me, how many of his most cherished ideas and beliefs the shot from those guns knocked over--his pride, his self-importance, his trust in his own intellect and insight and acuteness, his politics, his philosophy; nothing, in short, nothing was left standing, except a sense of remorse for his past folly and his love for his wife and his children. 'if they have been merely delayed by the storm, we shall meet them on the road here. if they are lost, they will have begun wandering on the first stretch of moorland,' said john paqualin. 'see, the snow is ceasing, the stars begin to show in heaven. eh! the frost, how it bites!' and so it did. as the snow stopped, the night grew colder and colder, for all the ice-fairies came tripping out far and wide over hill and valley, and built transparent piers and bridges across the streams and pools, and hung icicles from the rocks and from the overhanging eaves of the houses, and froze the breath on lepage's long moustache, and made the earth like iron beneath his feet. yet he and his two companions still marched on through the forest. they could go but slowly, for in the open spaces the snow had drifted deep, and where the forest paths crossed each other it required all the charcoal-burner's knowledge and skill to tell which was the right one. now and again they would halt for a minute or two and call aloud, and then listen hoping for an answer; but it was close upon midnight, and they had walked more than half the way to nullepart before they came upon any trace of those they so earnestly searched for. here, as i have already told you, the path crosses a wide stretch of rolling moorland, covered with heather and stunted bushes, thorns and brambles and whortle-berry and juniper; while in places crop out large limestone blocks and boulders, some standing together and looking like the ruins of a giant's castle, others but just peeping above the rough soil and encrusted with stone-crop, and ferns and many kinds of mosses--a lovely play-place on a summer day, when the butterflies sport over the heath, and the dragon-flies over the pools in the marshes, but bleak and desolate enough on a december night, with the harsh north wind and the snowstorm. on the edge of this moorland, before leaving the shelter of the pines, paqualin stopped. 'shout,' he said, turning to the others, 'shout your loudest. the frost has caught me by the throat, and squeezed my crooked windpipe till i am as hoarse as a raven. but you are strong men. shout, lepage, for love of your wife. and you, good ass, there, for love of eliza your sweetheart; she'll pay you in thistles, prickles and all, if you find her.' so they shouted, and this time there was an answer--a boy's voice half choked with crying. and with a pale, haggard face, and in his eyes a look of terror, from among the snow-laden pine-trees, came antony. 'you alone!' cried lepage. 'i trusted her to you; where are your mother and brothers?' 'she sent us on to try to get help. paul is here just behind me. we lost ourselves, and wandered. she could get no further, and little peter is dead asleep, under the big rocks, there to the right, out on the moor. eliza does nothing but cry, and won't move.' the boy was utterly faint and disheartened. he threw himself down on the snow, and covered his face with his hands. 'i did my best, father,' he said, 'indeed, indeed i did; but i couldn't find the way. it was dark, and there was nothing to guide us, and i got bewildered with the cold. we were too late in starting, i know--that was my fault. but i did my best afterwards. oh! father, i did try to take care of them. i couldn't help it. say you forgive me.' paqualin did not wait to hear more. 'the big rocks out to the right,' he repeated. [illustration: found. _page ._] his limbs were stiff with the sharp cold, which had penetrated his threadbare clothes, and his feet were numb with the snow that had worked its way in through the worn, cracked leather of his wretched boots. oh, yes! i am afraid he was a very funny figure indeed; and that all the little boys in nullepart would have hooted louder than ever if they could have seen him, as with his long grasshopper legs, wild red hair, and tattered cloak streaming out behind him, he shambled along, slipping and staggering, in the half darkness over that long half-mile of heath, and stone, and prickly bushes, and sly, deceitful snow-drifts that stretched between the edge of the forest and the rocks. 'here is help,' he shrieked in his shrill voice. 'it is i--i, john paqualin. here is help.' as he passed round in front into the shelter of the tall, grey rocks, susan lepage rose up from the foot of them with a great cry. she flung her arms about him, and rested her fair head on his shoulder. 'ah! god has sent you,' she sobbed. 'i called upon him in the bitterness of my anguish, and he has heard me. save us, john paqualin; in mercy save me and my children.' the charcoal-burner's torch slipped from his grasp, and fell hissing upon the ground. 'the dog gets something more than his bone for once,' he said between his teeth. for a minute or so, in that mysterious, ghostly radiance of dancing star-light and white snow, he stood holding the weeping woman in his arms. 'god sent me, though, did he?' he murmured at last. 'then i must do his good pleasure, not my own.' paqualin spoke low, and quite softly, notwithstanding that queer crack in his voice. 'look up, and take courage; there is better comfort than mine at hand. your two boys are safely cared for already, and your husband is coming. the trouble is over. for you, at least, the morning begins to break.' then, as he heard the crunch of hurried footsteps coming over the snow behind him, he turned and cried:-- 'here, take your wife, lepage!' paqualin moved aside. 'for the man,' he said, half aloud--'well--what he's a right to. get back to your kennel, you hound.' now eliza was sitting with her back against one of the rocks in the burrow, where the snow was lightest, and little peter, closely wrapped in his mother's shawl, lay stupefied with sleep, with his head in her lap. as paqualin turned round, she moaned out:-- 'no, no, don't come near me. i am dreadfully ill--probably i shall never recover. i think i shall die. but i won't give way, i won't listen to you. to the last i am true to gustavus. ah! my poor heart, how it beats. yes, i should like to have bidden a last farewell to gustavus.' 'don't fret,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'thy mooncalf is on the road. he'll be here in plenty of time to say a good deal besides good-bye to you, unless i am very much mistaken.' eliza gave a prodigious sigh. 'he will be too late, i know it, i know it. ah! how will he live without me, poor, faithful, broken-hearted gustavus?' whether it was his mother's cry that roused him, or the sudden lights and the voices, i do not know; but little peter half awoke from the heavy torpor of sleep into which the cold and fatigue had plunged him. 'i will not hush, eliza. i love john paqualin. yes, i love him,' he murmured. chapter x. which ends the story. 'something has gone very wrong,' said cincinnatus to himself in the cat language. 'i don't pretend to understand it. this, is one of those many matters that i should be glad to take my cousin the sacristan's cat's opinion upon. dear me! what a misfortune it is to live here in the country, away from the centre of social intercourse and civilisation.' then cincinnatus fell to washing his face with his paws, for he had lately had his five o'clock saucer of milk, you see; and it is etiquette in cat-land always to wash after meals, not before them as we do. the yellow earthenware stove was lighted in the bedroom, and cincinnatus sat opposite to the open door of it, and blinked at the heart of crimson wood embers, set in a fringe of flaky, grey ashes. it was very warm there, but cincinnatus blinked and washed his face slowly. as to the heat, it soothed him, and inclined him to make a number of reflections. 'at the risk of repeating myself, i must observe that men are poor, improvident, thoughtless creatures,' he went on presently; 'subject to illness and accidents of all kinds. however, a thoughtful cat will not be hard upon them. _noblesse oblige._ those who have the advantage can afford to be generous. fancy coming into this world, now, where the weather is so extremely uncertain, all pink and bare as they do, poor things, without any comfortable fur to cover them; and having to make up for it by enclosing themselves in all sorts of shapeless, foreign substances, prepared from sheep's wool or vegetables. and no tail either! imagine being deprived of that most dignified and expressive member. yet, you must give them their due. necessity has certainly made them very ingenious.' cincinnatus stretched himself lazily in the hot glow of the stove fire. 'but with all their ingenuity only one life,' he said yawning. 'and that one, as i observed just now, subject to all manner of illness and accident. we have nine lives! who would be one of them if he could help it? poor things, no wonder if they envy us.' then cincinnatus went across the boarded floor with his noiseless tread, and jumped up on to little peter's bed, and began purring in the most amiable and engaging manner, sticking out all his claws and then drawing them in again and making a nice tight little fist, as he trampled on the bed-clothes, first with one fore-foot and then with the other. he even went so far as to rub his head along against the little boy's shoulder, which, considering his opinion of the relative position of cats and mankind in the universal scale of being, was really very condescending of him, to my thinking. but little peter did not speak or pay any attention to cincinnatus. he only sighed in his sleep, and turned his round, black head on the pillow. poor little peter had lain just like that, quite still and quiet, in bed ever since his father and the charcoal-burner had placed him there when they had got home from that terrible walk in the snow, about four o'clock in the morning. the ice-fairies, who really are very elegant people and not at all disagreeable when you know them, had come at sunrise and spread the most beautiful patterns--crowns and crosses, and stars and diamonds, and ice flowers of a hundred exquisite shapes--all over the window panes; but little peter had been too tired and sleepy to get up and look at them. and when, in the afternoon, not without struggle and difficulty, for the road was dangerous with snow-drifts, the kind, old doctor, with his red nose and his snuffbox, had ridden over from nullepart, and sat by the little boy's bed and felt his pulse, and examined him carefully, with a face as wise as an owl's, from behind his large spectacles, peter had been too fired and sleepy to look at him either. the old doctor had taken an extra pinch of snuff, and shaken his head quite seriously, i am sorry to say, at leaving. now it was past five o'clock, and peter still lay in his little bed dozing and sleeping--dreaming too, but not of the snow and the pain of the winter. he dreamed of sunshine and of pleasant places, of the singing of birds and the sound of the cow-bells in the flowery fields in the spring-time. the elder boys and their father had gone to see the doctor safe part of his way home again. and susan lepage had sunk down in the big chair in the kitchen, and had fallen asleep, worn out with fatigue and anxiety. and eliza, hearing gustavus come into the back kitchen with the milk-pans, had slipped downstairs from watching beside the child, just to have a word with him. 'poor fellow,' she said, 'he really is so over-joyed at my being restored to him, that there is no saying if he won't mix this evening's milk with this morning's, or ruin the cream by shaking it, or commit some other folly. he is not clever, and my family will certainly reproach me with having married beneath me; but he has a good heart, and i think he really appreciates me as he ought to, does gustavus.' so it happened that little peter was left quite alone, but for the society of the cat, up in the bedroom. john paqualin came along the flagged path to the front of the house; and pressing his face close against the glass, for it was difficult to see through them, the panes being frosty, looked in at the kitchen window. then he went to the house door, lifted the latch carefully, entered, and stood still, listening. there was no sound save the singing of the kettle, and eliza's chatter in the distant dairy, with the clump of the cowherd's boots on the flags and the clink of the milk-pans. from the rows of copper kettles and saucepans, and the china high on the dresser, to the red tiled floor under the charcoal-burner's feet, the large kitchen actually shone with exquisite cleanliness. the light of the lamp on the table fell upon susan lepage's high, white cap, showing it and her pure, grave profile, as she leaned her head back in the arm-chair, clear cut against the ruddy dusk of the chimney corner behind her. [illustration] paqualin, as he stood there silent and watchful, with his sunken eyes, ungainly figure, and dilapidated garments, seemed strangely out of place. he shaded his eyes with his hand, for the light dazzled him, as he looked for a minute or two at the sleeping mother. then he went quietly across the kitchen and up the wide, wooden staircase. 'the house is asleep,' he murmured in his high, cracked tones:--'or would be but for the voice of eliza. pah! the woman's tongue cuts like a whip. but her sweetheart, the ass, has a good thick hide of his own; he finds the lash only pleasantly tickling.' paqualin went into the warm, dimly-lighted bedroom above. 'the house is asleep,' he repeated. 'hey-ho, sleep's a kindly fellow, with his turban of nodding poppies. he cures the heart-ache. but he's forgetful, sadly forgetful. he hasn't been near me these five nights; and god knows, i have had the heart-ache as badly as any of the others.' he knelt down by little peter's bed, and looked closely at the child. [illustration: the charcoal-burner visits little peter. _page ._] 'eh! sleep is hardly a kind friend to you, i'm afraid, though,' he said under his breath. 'a little too much of the smell of the drowsy poppies here to be quite healthful.' as he spoke, cincinnatus, who had been curled up comfortably in a nice, warm depression in the bed-clothes, jumped down on to the floor with glaring eyes and a great tail. 'i won't spit though,' he said. 'it really isn't worth the trouble. no, an air of absolute indifference will be even more impressive and chilling.' so he walked away very stiffly, and sat down opposite the open stove door again. the charcoal-burner placed one of his lean hands on the little boy's soft, pudgy one, that lay palm upward on the pillow, and with the other patted him tenderly on the cheek. 'little peter,' he said, 'wake up. come back to us, dear, little mouse. you said you loved me--nobody ever said that to me before. don't go away from me, do not desert me.' he paused a minute, and then went on pleadingly:-- 'think of all the stories i have told you, remember the nuts and the apples.--eh! wake up, little lad, and come back to poor, ugly john paqualin, to whom his fellow men have shown such scant mercy.' but the child lay quite still; his long, black eyelashes resting on his pale cheeks, and his pretty, round mouth a wee bit open as he sighed softly in that strange stupor of sleep. tears dimmed the charcoal-burner's eyes. he bent his wild shock head and rested it down on the white coverlet. 'ah, great god!' he murmured, 'thou who art all powerful, listen to me. see here, can't we make an exchange?--take my poor, battered, weary, old soul instead of his fresh, innocent, white one. let me give him my life for his mother's sake, the sweetest and most compassionate of women. she will grieve if she loses him, her darling, her baby; and kind as she is, she won't miss me very much. why should she?--an outcast of nature, a shameful, misshapen mistake; one sorry sight the less in the world when i'm gone, that's all.--death's dreadful, they say--yes, i know i am afraid of it. but, after all, it can't be so very much worse than life--at least for some of us.' he threw back his head, and clasped his hard hands together. 'here, take me,' he cried. 'i will come. a trifle of suffering, more or less, what does it matter? spare the little lamb, o lord, and take me, john paqualin, as ransom.' now the charcoal-burner was not quite right in his head, you see, and that accounts for his eccentric prayer and very original behaviour. you had better bear this in mind. i won't tell you why; you will probably find out for yourselves when you have seen more of the world and grown rather older. paqualin knelt on there for some time, looking up as though he expected a direct and visible answer to his singular petition. but nothing happened save that eliza came upstairs on the tips of her toes--a way of stepping which she intended to be particularly quiet, but which was, in fact, particularly noisy--and peeped into the room. seeing the charcoal-burner kneeling by the bed-side, she gave a fearful gasp, and sank down into the nearest chair. 'the saints help and preserve us!' she exclaimed in a loud whisper, holding her side, 'what next? ah! how it startled me. the helpless, sick child in the arms of that ogre! go away, john paqualin, go away. how on earth did you get here? i've only been downstairs three minutes giving some necessary instructions to gustavus.--he really is beside himself with joy, poor fellow.--go away, i say; if peter woke up suddenly he would have a fit at seeing you. look at yourself in the looking-glass, and you'll understand why, fast enough. a rush of blood to the head from fright and the child would be dead. and if half the stories one hears of you are true, there is enough down on the wrong side of your account already without adding wilful murder. go along with you.--ah! i am so weak--my poor heart, how it beats.' eliza advanced, creaking across the boarded floor, towards the charcoal-burner. he had risen to his feet. 'there is no answer,' he said, in a low voice. 'you fool, learn your lesson. god doesn't want your wretched, worthless soul, john paqualin. who are you, indeed, that you should try to strike a bargain with the almighty, and offer such miserable refuse and offscourings as your life in place of that of the pure and sinless child there?' he looked back towards the bed. 'good-bye,' he said, 'dear, little peter. when you are gone there will be nothing left on earth to love me; and in heaven it's clear they can do very well without me yet awhile.' then, as eliza came close to him, whispering, pointing towards the door, and signing to him, he turned upon her with a terrible face. 'woman, leave me alone,' he said. 'have not i enough to bear already, without the maddening gnat-bites of your spiteful ignorance and cruel folly?' and the grasshopper man went out of the room, and down the stairs, and into the dark frosty night. [illustration] eliza leant up against the bottom of the bed, with her eyes half shut. 'are you gone yet,' she murmured, 'you savage, wild animal?--if the child had woke up and screamed there would have been a fine fuss, and all the blame would have been laid on me, of course. it isn't fair that crazy men like that should be allowed to persecute respectable, young servant-women. i'll get gustavus to lay an information against him at the police station at nullepart for using threatening language to me. of course it is all jealousy; but i can't help my good looks.' eliza opened her eyes again, arranged the mauve silk handkerchief about her neck, and smiled complacently. 'it is a comfort to know that you have no cause to be ashamed of your face--or of your disposition, for that matter, either,' she added. now this all happened on monday evening, as no doubt you have made out already. very early, before it was light on wednesday morning, little peter, who all that long time had lain sleeping unconscious of what went on around him, suddenly seemed to find himself very wide awake indeed. there was a strange light in the room, bright and yet soft like an early summer dawn. and as the little boy opened his eyes, he saw that at his bedside there stood a young man, with a calm, beautiful face and shining hair. he was clothed down to the feet in a long, white, linen garment. as peter looked up wonderingly, the young man bent over him. there was something very still and gentle in his glance, and the little boy smiled, for it seemed to him that the young man's face was that of an old friend, though he could not remember ever to have seen him before. then the young man spoke to him, and said:-- 'little peter, you have been sick and tired. will you come away with me to a far-off country where there is no more sickness and trouble, and where the children play all the year round among blooming flowers in green, sunny pastures by the river-side?' peter did not feel a bit afraid; but he thought of his parents and his brothers, and asked:-- 'but, please, will my mother, and father, and paul, and antony, and my cat cincinnatus, come too? paul is very kind, and he makes such nice mill-wheels to turn in the brook, and weathercocks to stick up in the pear-tree and show which way the wind blows. and cincinnatus would be dull and lonely if i left him behind. he likes to come to bed with me in the morning, and the old grey wolf might come out of the wood and catch him, and make him into soup for little wolves when i was gone.' the young man smiled as he answered:--'never fear. your mother and father and paul and antony will certainly join you some day if they are good. time seems very short while we wait in that happy country. and as to cincinnatus, who knows but that he may come also? in any case, he will be quite safe, for our heavenly father loves all his living creatures--not only angels and men, but fish, and birds, and beasts as well. will you come, little peter?' 'ah! but there's john paqualin,' said the boy. 'you know whom i mean--the charcoal-burner. i can't leave him very well, you see, because he is often very unhappy; and he says nobody will ever care for him because he is rather odd and ugly-looking. and i do care for him very much indeed.' then the young man bent lower and looked into little peter's eyes. 'why, why you are john paqualin!' cried the child. 'yes,' said the other, and his face was radiant with the peace that passes understanding. 'i am john paqualin. god be praised.' 'but how you have changed!' little peter said; for he was a good deal surprised, you know, and no wonder. 'with the lord one day is as a thousand years,' answered the young man. 'will you come with me now, little peter?' then peter stretched out his hands and laughed out loud with joy; he was so very glad about quite a number of things--the thought of his playfellows in that fair and happy country, and of the coming of his parents and brothers, and of cincinnatus the cat, and most of all at the delightful change for the better that had taken place in the personal appearance of his friend the charcoal-burner. 'yes,' he said, 'i'll come.' so then the young man took him up very tenderly in his strong arms, and laid the little, tired head upon his breast and carried little peter away. now it happened, strangely enough, that though both susan lepage and her husband sat watching by their child's bedside, they neither of them saw the young man with the calm face and shining hair, or heard a word he said. they only saw that the little boy opened his eyes suddenly and seemed to gaze at something with a kind of glad wonder, and that he smiled, and that his dear, little lips moved, and then that he stretched out his hands and laughed joyfully. after that he lay very still. susan lepage waited a moment or two, then she rose and took a candle that stood on the oak chest near the bed's head. shading it with her hand, she stooped down and looked closely at the child. 'ah, my little one!' she cried. she put the candle back again, and coming round the foot of the bed, stood by master lepage, with her hand resting on his shoulder. 'my husband,' she said, 'our child will suffer no more. the dear lord loved him and has called for him. a child has died on earth. a child is born in paradise.' there was a long silence. master lepage sat bolt upright with his arms hanging down at his sides--more as though he was standing before the general officer on parade, than sitting in the rush-bottomed chair in his own bedroom. the big tears ran down over his cheeks and fell from his moustache on to his blue blouse as thick as a summer shower. 'my wife,' he said slowly, 'our paths have joined at last--joined beside an open grave, but better there than nowhere. there shall be no more silence between us. the god whom you have served so faithfully in time will surely heal the smart of your sorrow. and perhaps he will condescend to listen to the prayers of a foolish, vain-glorious, wrong-headed, old soldier, whom grief and repentance have humbled. pardon me, my wife. i have been wrong and you right all along.' lepage stood up, took her two hands in his, and kissed her. 'ah, my dear, let us talk only of love and hope, not of pardon,' susan lepage answered gently. she turned and looked at little peter, still and smiling, with his round, black head resting so cosily on the white pillow. 'the autumn child has brought a blessing to the house,' she murmured. 'ten thousand plagues!' broke out master lepage hoarsely. 'twenty thousand cut-throat prussians!--but i loved the little one.' * * * * * and is that the end of the story? well, yes, as far as a story can be said to have an end--most stories go on for ever, only we get tired or stupid and leave off reading them--if the story has an end, i say, i suppose this is it. still there are just one or two little things i can mention which you might like to know. for instance, when next day gustavus happened to pass the charcoal-burner's hut, he heard such a horrible barking, and yelling, that, though he was not of a very active or curious order of mind, he really had to go and see what was the matter. and on getting to the back of the hut he found madelon, the sow, standing up on her hind legs in her sty, with her fore-feet resting on the rough, wooden door of it, her long, black snout high in the air, her floppety ears shaking, her great mouth wide open as she squealed aloud, and not a single scrap of food in her trough. this seemed to gustavus such a singular thing, that though he had no great fancy for the society of the charcoal-burner, he thought he would just look inside the hut door, which stood half open. the snow had drifted in at it and lay thick on the mud floor within, there was no fire on the hearth, and the place was deathly chill. yet paqualin sat there sure enough, on a wooden bench, with his elbows on the table in front of him, and his head resting on his hands. his back was towards gustavus. the cowherd did not quite like to go inside the hut somehow. he stood in the snow on the door-sill and called. at last he plucked up his courage, and going forward pulled at paqualin's ragged sleeve. [illustration] 'umph,' said gustavus, as he stumbled out again in a desperate hurry. he took off his hat and wiped his face round, for notwithstanding the frosty day, he felt quite uncomfortably warm. 'here, i'll give you something, granny,' he called out to the sow. 'if you wait till your master brings it you'll wait a long time for your breakfast to-day. bless me! but i shall have something to tell our eliza this evening at supper that'll make her open her eyes!' antony has gone to serve his time in the army; and when his time is up and he comes back again to the old, wooden farm-house in the forest, i think it is very likely that the wish he wished in the dining-room of the red horse at nullepart, when he shared the double filbert kernel with pretty marie georgeon, may really come true. paul is apprenticed to an engineer in paris, and lives among whirling machines in the great, crowded workshops; and his employers are much impressed with his ability and talent, and prophesy that he will make a name for himself some day. cincinnatus is quite an old cat now, and his whiskers are almost white; but he still sits opposite the glowing wood fire in the kitchen, and blinks his big, yellow eyes and reflects on the superiority of cats to men. and master lepage still reads the history of the famous roman republic in the winter evenings, and takes off his spectacles and wipes them with his red pocket-handkerchief; but he rarely talks politics now, and never sits in the wine-shop, though on fine sundays he often walks with his gentle, sweet-faced wife through the forest, and kneels humbly beside her in the church, and prays god to guide and teach him, and forgive him all his sins. [illustration] and is this a true story? yes, as true as i can make it, and i have taken a good deal of pains. but did it all really happen? ah! that is quite another question. for you will find as you grow older, that some of the very truest stories are those which, as most people in this world count happening, have never happened at all. and if you can't understand how that can be, i advise you, the first fine day, to ask your way to nullepart and take the opinion of the sacristan's cat upon the matter. he is a scholar, you know, so he is sure to be able to explain it. the end. printed by spottiswoode and co., new-street square london transcriber's note: variations in hyphenation have been retain as in the original publication. punctuation has been standardised. that girl in black by mrs molesworth published by chatto and windus, piccadilly, london. this edition dated . that girl in black, by mrs molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ that girl in black, by mrs molesworth. chapter one. he was spoilt--deplorably, absurdly spoilt. but, so far, that was perhaps the worst that could fairly be said against him. there was genuine manliness still, some chivalry even, yet struggling spasmodically to make itself felt, and--what was practically, perhaps, of more account as a preservative--some small amount of originality in his character. he had still a good deal to learn, and something too to unlearn before he could take rank as past-master in the stupid worldliness of his class and time. for he was neither so _blase_ nor so cynical as he flattered himself, but young enough to affect being both to the extent of believing his own affectations real. he was popular; his position and income were fair enough to have secured this to a considerable extent in these, socially speaking, easy-going days, even had he been without the further advantages of good looks and a certain arrogance, not to say insolence of bearing, which, though nothing can be acquired with greater facility and at less expenditure of brain tissue, appears to be the one not-to-be-disputed hall-mark of the period. why he went to mrs englewood's reception that evening he could scarcely have told, or perhaps he would have vaguely shrunk from owning even to himself the real motives--of sincere though feeble loyalty to old associations, of faintly stirring gratitude for much kindness in the past--which had prompted the effort. for mrs englewood was neither very rich, nor very beautiful, nor--worst of "nors"--very fashionable; scarcely, indeed, to be reckoned as of _notre monde_ in any very exclusive sense of the words, though kindly, and fairly refined, irreproachable as wife and mother, and so satisfied with her lot as to be uninterestingly free from social ambition. but her house was commonplace, she herself not specially amusing. "if she'd be content to ask me there when they're alone--i like talking to her herself well enough," thought despard, as he dressed. in his heart, however, he knew that would not do. he was more or less of a lion from mrs englewood's point of view; she was not above a certain pride in knowing that for "old sake's sake" she could count upon him for her one party of the season. and for this, as she retained a real affection for the man she had known as that delightful thing--a bright, intelligent, and unspoilt boy, and as she thought of him still far more highly than he deserved to be thought of, her conscience left her unrebuked. year after year, it is true, her husband wet-blanketed her innocent pleasure in seeing the young man's name on her invitation list. "that fellow! in your place, my dear gertrude!" and an expressive raising of the eyebrows said the rest. "but, harry," she would mildly expostulate, "you forget. i knew him when he was--" "so high--at whipmore. oh, yes; i know all about it. well, well, take your way of it; it doesn't hurt me if you invite people who don't want to come." "but who always _do_ come, you must allow," she would reply triumphantly. "and think themselves mighty condescending for doing so," mr englewood put in. "you don't do despard justice. it's always the way with men, i suppose." "come now, don't be down upon me about it," he would say good-naturedly. "i don't stop your asking him. it isn't as if we had daughters. in that case--" but the rest was left to the imagination. and this particular year mrs englewood had smiled to herself at this point of the discussion. "one can make plans even though one _hasn't_ daughters," she reflected. "if harry would let me ask him to dinner now--but i know there's no chance of that. and, after all, a good deal may be done at an evening party. i should like to do despard a good turn, and give him a start before any other. if i could give him a hint! but then there's my promise to her father,--and despard is sure to be sensitive on those points. i might spoil it all. no; i shall appeal to his kindheartedness; that is the best. how tender he used to be to poor lily when she was a tiny child! how he used to mount her up on his shoulders when she couldn't see the fireworks! i will tell maisie that story! it is the sort of thing she will appreciate." it was a hot, close evening. though only may, there was thunder in the air, people said. despard's inward dissatisfaction increased. "upon my soul it's too bad," he ejaculated while examining the flowers in his button-hole. "why, when one's made up one's mind to do a disagreeable thing, should everything conspire to make it more odious than it need be, i wonder? i have really--more than half a mind--not to--" poor gertrude englewood, at that moment smilingly receiving her guests! she little knew how her great interest in the evening was trembling in the balance! it was late when he arrived. not that he had specially intended this. he cared too little about it to have considered whether he should be late or early, and, as he slowly made his way through the crowd at the doorway, he was conscious of but one wish--to get himself at once seen by his hostess, and then to make his escape as soon as possible. as to the first part of this little programme there was no difficulty. scarcely did the first syllables of his name, "mr despard norreys," fall on the ear, before mrs englewood's outstretched hand was in his, her pleasant face smiling up at him, her pleasant voice bidding him welcome. yes, there was something difficult to resist about her; it was refreshing, somehow, and--there lay the secret--it brought back other days, when poor jack's big sister, gertrude, had welcomed the orphan schoolboy just as heartily, and when he had glowed with pride and gratification at her notice of him. despard's resigned, not to say sulky, expression cleared; it was no wonder mrs englewood's old liking for him had suffered no diminution; he did show at his best with her. "so pleased you've come, so good of you," she was saying simply. her words made the young man feel vaguely ashamed of himself. "good of me!" he repeated, flushing a little, though the same or a much more fervent greeting from infinitely more exalted personages than gertrude had often failed to disturb his composure. "no, indeed, very much the reverse. i'm sorry," with a glance round, "to be so late, especially as--" "no, no, you're not to begin saying you can't stay long, the very moment you've come. listen, despard," and she drew him aside a little; "i want you to do something to please me to-night. i have a little friend here--a miss fforde--that i want you to be very good to. poor little thing, she's quite a stranger, knows nobody, never been out. but she's a nice little thing. will you ask her to dance? or--" for the shadow of a frown on her favourite's forehead became evident even to mrs englewood's partial eyes--"if you don't care to dance, will you talk to her a little? anything, you know, just to please her." despard bowed. what else could he do? gertrude slid her hand through his arm. "there she is," she said. "that girl in black over there by the fireplace. maisie, my dear," for a step or two had brought them to the indicated spot, "i want to introduce my old friend, mr despard norreys, to you. mr norreys--miss fforde;" and as she pronounced the names she drew her hand quietly away, and turned back towards her post at the door. despard bowed and, with the very slightest possible instinct of curiosity, glanced at the girl before him. she was of middle height, rather indeed under than above it; she was neither very fair nor very dark; there was nothing very special or striking in her appearance. she was dressed in black; there was nothing remarkable about her attire, rather, as despard saw in an instant, an absence of style, of finish, which found its epithet at once in his thoughts--"countrified, of course," he said to himself. but before he had time to decide on his next movement she raised her eyes, and for half an instant his attention deepened. the eyes were strikingly fine; they were very blue, but redeemed from the shallowness of very blue eyes by the depth of the eyelashes, both upper and lower. and just now there was a brightness, an expectancy in the eyes which was by no means their constant expression. for, lashes notwithstanding, miss fforde's blue eyes could look cold enough when she chose. "good eyes," thought despard. but just as he allowed the words to shape themselves in his brain, he noticed that over the girl's clear, pale face a glow of colour was quickly spreading. "good gracious!" he ejaculated mentally, "she is blushing! what a bread-and-butter miss she must be--to _blush_ because a man's introduced to her. and i am to draw her out! it is really too bad of mrs englewood;" and he half began to turn away with a sensation of indignation and almost of disgust. but positive rudeness where a woman was concerned did not come easy to him. he stopped, and muttered something indistinctly enough about "the pleasure of a dance." the girl had grown pale again by this time, and in her eyes a half startled, almost pained expression was replacing the glad expectancy. as he spoke, however, something of the former look returned to them. "i--i shall be very pleased," she said. "i am not engaged for anything." "i should think not," he said to himself. "i am _quite_ sure you dance atrociously." but aloud he said with the slow, impassive tone in which some of his admirers considered him so to excel that "despard's drawl" had its school of followers-- "shall we say the--the tenth waltz? i fear it is the first i can propose." "thank you," miss fforde replied. she looked as if she would have been ready to say more had he in the least encouraged it, but he, feeling that he had done his duty, turned away--the more eagerly as at that moment he caught sight in the crowd of a lady he knew. "mrs marrinder! what a godsend!" he exclaimed. he did not see miss fforde's face as he left her, and, had he done so, it would have taken far more than his very average modicum of discernment to have rightly interpreted the varying and curiously intermingling expressions which rapidly crossed it, like cloud shadows alternating with dashes of sunshine on an april morning. she stood for a moment or two where she was, then glancing round and seeing a vacant seat in a corner she quietly appropriated it. "the tenth waltz," she repeated to herself with the ghost of a smile. "i wonder--" but that was all. the evening wore on. miss fforde had danced once--but only once. it was with a man whom her host himself introduced to her, and, though good-natured and unaffected, he was boyish and commonplace; and she had to put some force on herself to reply with any show of interest to his attempts at conversation. she was engaged for one or two other dances, but it was hot, and the rooms were crowded, and with a scarcely acknowledged reflection--for miss fforde was young and inexperienced enough to think it hardly fair to make an engagement even for but a dance, to break it deliberately--that if her partners did _not_ find her it would not much matter, the girl withdrew quietly into a corner, where a friendly curtain all but screened her from observation, and allowed her to enjoy in peace the dangerous but delightful refreshment of an open window hard by. the draught betrayed its source, however. she was scarcely seated when voices approaching caught her ears. "here you are--there must be a window open, it is ever so much cooler in this corner. are you afraid of the draught?" said a voice she thought she recognised. "no-o--at least--oh, this corner will do beautifully. the curtain will protect me. what a blessing to get a little air!" replied a second speaker--a lady evidently. "people have no business to cram their rooms so. and these rooms are-- well, not spacious. how in the world did you get marrinder to come?" the second speaker laughed. "it was quite the other way," she replied. "how did he get me to come? you might ask. he has something or other to do with our host, and made a personal matter of my coming, so, of course, i gave in." "how angelic!" "it is a penance; but we're going immediately." "i shall disappear with you." "you! why you told me a moment ago that you were obliged to dance with some _protegee_ of mrs englewood's--that she had made a point of it. and you haven't danced with her yet, to my certain knowledge," said the woman's voice again. a sort of groan was the reply. "why, what's the matter?" with a light laugh. "i had forgotten; you might have let me forget and go off with a clear conscience." "what is there so dreadful about it?" "it is that girl in black i have to dance with for my sins. such a little dowdy. i am convinced she can't waltz. it was truly putting old friendship to the test to expect it of me. and of all things i do detest a bread-and-butter miss. you can see at a glance that this one has never left a country village before. she--" but his further confidences were interrupted by the arrival of mr marrinder in search of his wife. "you don't care to stay any longer, i suppose?" said the new-comer. "oh,--no; i am quite ready. i _was_ engaged for this dance--the tenth, isn't it? but i am tired, and it doesn't matter. my partner, whoever he was, can find some one else. good-night, mr norreys." "let me go with you to the door at least," he replied. "i'll look about for that girl in black on my way, so that if i don't see her i can honestly feel i have done my duty." then there came a flutter and rustling, and miss fforde knew that her neighbours had taken their departure. she waited an instant, and then came out of her corner. "he is not likely to come back to look for me in this room," she thought; "but in case he possibly should, i--i shall not hide myself." she had had a moment's sharp conflict with herself before arriving at this decision; and her usually pale face was still faintly flushed when, slowly making his way in the direction of the sofa where she had now conspicuously placed herself, she descried mr norreys. "our dance--the tenth--i believe," he said, with an exaggeration of indifference, sounding almost as if he wished to irritate her into making some excuse to escape. in her place nine girls out of ten would have done so, and without troubling themselves to hide their indignation. but maisie fforde was not one of those nine. she rose quietly from her seat and took his arm. "yes," she said, "it is our dance." something in her voice, or tone, made him glance at her with a shade more attention than he had hitherto condescended to bestow on "mrs englewood's _protegee_" she was looking straight before her; her features, which he now discovered to be delicate in outline, and almost faultlessly regular in their proportions, wore an expression of perfect composure; only the slight, very slight, rose-flush on her cheeks would have told to one who knew her well of some inward excitement. "by jove!" thought despard, "she's almost pretty--no, pretty's not the word. i never saw a face quite like it before. i suppose i didn't look at her, she's so badly, at least so desperately plainly dressed. i don't, however, suppose she can talk, and i'd bet any money she can't dance." as regarded the first of his predictions, she gave him at present no opportunity of judging. she neither spoke nor looked at him. he hazarded some commonplace remark about the heat of the rooms; she replied by a monosyllable. despard began to get angry. "_won't_ talk, whether she _can_ or not," he said to himself, when a second observation had met with no better luck. he glanced round the room; all the other couples were either dancing, or smiling and talking. he became conscious of a curious sensation as disagreeable as novel--he felt as if he were looking ridiculous. he turned again to his partner in a sort of desperation. "will you dance?" he said, and his tone was almost rough; it had entirely lost its usual calm, half-insolent indifference. "certainly," she said, while a scarcely perceptible smile faintly curved her lips. "it is, i suppose, what we are standing up here for, is it not?" despard grew furious. "she is laughing at me," he thought. "impertinent little nobody. where in heaven's name has gertrude englewood unearthed her from? upon my soul, it is the very last time she will see me at her dances!" and somehow his discomfiture was not decreased by a glance, and almost involuntary glance, at miss fforde as they began to dance. she was certainly not striking in appearance; she was middle-sized, barely that indeed; her dress was now, he began to perceive, plain with the plainness of intention, not of ignorance or economy. but yet, with it all--no, he could not honestly feel that he was right; she did not look like "a nobody." there was a further discovery in store for him. the girl danced beautifully. mr norreys imagined himself to have outlived all enthusiasm on such subjects, but now and then, in spite of the _role_ which was becoming second nature to him, a bit of the old despard--the hearty, unspoilt boy--cropped out, so to speak, unawares. this happened just now--his surprise had to do with it. "you dance perfectly--exquisitely!" he burst out when at last they stopped. it was his second dance that evening only; neither he nor miss fforde was the least tired, and the room was no longer so crowded. she looked up. there was no flush of gratification on her face, only a very slight--the slightest possible--sparkle in the beautiful eyes. "yes," she said quietly; "i believe i can dance well." despard bit his lips. for once in his life he felt absolutely at a loss what to say. yet remain silent he would not, for by so doing it seemed to him as if he would be playing into the girl's hands. "i _will_ make her talk," he vowed internally. it was not often he cared to exert himself, but he could talk, both intelligently and agreeably, when he chose to take the trouble. and gradually, though very gradually only, miss fforde began to thaw. she, too, could talk; though her words were never many, they struck him as remarkably well chosen and to the point. yet more, they incited him to further effort. there was the restraint of power about them; not her words only, but her tone and expression, quick play of her features, the half-veiled glances of her eyes, were full of a curious fascination, seeming to tell how charming, how responsive a companion she might be if she chose. but the fascination reacted as an irritant on mr norreys. he could not get rid of a mortifying sensation that he was being sounded, and his measure taken by this presumptuous little girl. yet he glanced at her. no; "presumptuous" was not the word to apply to her. he grew almost angry at last, to the extent of nearly losing his self-control. "you are drawing me out, miss ford," he said, "in hopes of my displaying my ignorance. you know much more about the book in question, and the subject, than i do. if you will be so good as to tell me all about it, i--" she glanced up quickly with, for the first time, a perfectly natural and unconstrained expression on her face. "indeed--indeed, no," she said. "i am very ignorant. in _some_ ways i have had little opportunity of learning." despard's face cleared. there was no question of her sincerity. "i thought you were playing me off," he said boyishly. miss fforde burst out laughing, but she instantly checked herself. "what a pity," thought mr norreys. "i never heard a prettier laugh." "i did, indeed," he repeated, exaggerating his tone in hopes of making her laugh again. but it was no use. her face had regained the calm, formal composure it had worn at the beginning of the dance. "she is like three girls rolled into one," thought despard. "the shy, country-bred miss she seemed at first," and a feeling of shame shot through him at the recollection of his stupid judgment, "then this cold, impassive, princess-like damsel, and by fitful glimpses yet another, with nothing in common with either. and, notwithstanding the _role_ she has chosen to play, i--i strongly suspect it is _but_ a _role_," he decided hastily. the riddle interested him. "may i--will you not give me another dance?" he said deferentially. for the tenth waltz had come to an end. "i am sorry i cannot," she replied. the words were simple and girlish, but the tone was regal. "good-night, mr norreys. i congratulate you on your self-sacrifice at the altar of friendship. you may now take your departure with a clear conscience." he stared. she was repeating some of his own words. miss fforde bowed coldly, and turned away. and despard, bewildered, mortified even, though he would not own it, yet strangely attracted, and disgusted with himself for being so, after a passing word or two with his hostess, left the house. an hour or two later gertrude englewood was bidding her young guest good-night. "and oh, maisie!" she exclaimed, "how did you get on with despard? is he not delightful?" miss fforde smiled quietly. they were standing in her room, for she was to spend a night or two with her friend. "i--to tell you the truth, i would _much_ rather not speak about him," she said. "he is very good looking, and--well, not stupid, i dare say. but i am not used to men, you know, gertrude--not to men of the day, at least, of which i suppose he is a type. i cannot say that i care to see more of them. i am happier at home with papa." she turned away quickly. gertrude did not see the tears that rose to the girl's eyes, or the rush of colour that overspread her face at certain recollections of that evening. she was nineteen, but it was her first "real" dance, and she felt as if years had passed since the afternoon only two days ago when she had arrived. mrs englewood looked and felt sadly disappointed. she had been so pleased with her own diplomacy. "it will be different when you are a little more in the way of it," she said. "and--i really don't think your father should insist on your dressing _quite_ so plainly. it will do the very thing he wants to avoid--it will make you remarkable." "no, no," said maisie, shaking her head. "papa is quite right. you must allow it had not that effect this evening. no one asked to be introduced to me." "there was such a crowd--" gertrude began, but this time maisie's smile was quite a hearty one as she interrupted her. "never mind about that," she said. "but do tell me one thing. i saw mr norreys speaking to you for a moment as he went out. you didn't say anything about me to him, i hope?" "no," said mrs englewood, "i did not. i would have liked to do so," she added honestly, "but somehow he looked queer--not exactly bored, but not encouraging. so i just let him go." "that's right," said maisie; "thank you. i am so glad you didn't. i do hope i shall never see him again," she added to herself. chapter two. a hope not destined to be fulfilled. for though maisie wrote home to "papa" the morning after mrs englewood's dance, earnestly begging for leave to return to the country at once instead of going on to her next visit, and assuring him that she felt she would never be happy in fashionable society, never be happy _anywhere_, indeed, away from him and everything she cared for, papa was inexorable. it was natural she should be homesick at first, he replied; natural, and indeed unavoidable, that she should feel strange and lonely; and, as she well knew, she could not possibly long more, to be with him again, than he longed to have her; but there were all the reasons she knew full well why she should stay in town as had been arranged; the very reasons which had made him send her now made him say she must remain. her own good sense would show her the soundness of his motives, and she must behave like his own brave maisie. and the girl never knew what this letter had cost her invalid father, nor how he shrank from opposing her wishes. "she set off so cheerfully," he said to himself, "and she has only been there three days. and she seemed rather to have enjoyed her first dinner-party and the concert, or whatever it was, that gertrude englewood took her to. what can have happened at the evening party? she dances well, i know; and she is not the sort of girl to expect or care much about ball-room admiration." poor man! it was, so far, a disappointment to him. he would have liked to get a merry, happy letter that morning as he sat at his solitary breakfast. for he had no fear, no shadow of a fear, that his maisie's head ever could be turned. "i have guarded against any dangers of that kind for her, at least," he said to himself, "provided i have not gone too far and made her too sober-minded. but no; after all, it is erring on the safe side-- considering everything." three or four evenings after mrs englewood's dance despard found himself at a musical party. he was in his own _milieu_ this time, and proportionately affable--with the cool, condescending affability which was the nearest approach to making himself agreeable that he recognised. he had been smiled at by the beauty of the evening, much enjoying her discomfiture when he did _not_ remain many minutes by her side; he had been all but abjectly entreated by the most important of the dowagers, a very great lady indeed, in every sense of the word, to promise his assistance at her intended theatricals; he had, in short, received the appreciation which was due to him, and was now resting on his oars, comfortably installed in an easy chair, debating within himself whether it was worth while to give mrs belmont a fright by engrossing her pretty daughter, and thus causing to retire from her side in the sulks sir henry gayburn, to whom the girl was talking. for sir henry was rich, and was known to be looking out for a wife, and despard had long since been erased from the maternal list of desirable possibilities. "shall i?" he was saying to himself as he lay back with a smile, when a voice beside him made him look up. it was that of the son of the house, a friend of his own; the young man seemed annoyed and perplexed. "norreys! oh, do me a good turn, will you? i have to look after the lady who has just been singing, and my mother is fussing about a girl who has been sitting all the evening alone. she's a stranger. will you be so awfully good as to take her down for an ice or something?" despard looked round. he could scarcely refuse a request so couched, but he was far from pleased. "where is she? who is she?" he asked, beginning languidly to show signs of moving. "there--over by the window--that girl in black," his friend replied. "who she is i can't say. my mother told me her name was ford. come along, and i'll introduce you, that's a good fellow." despard by this time had risen to his feet. "upon my soul!" he ejaculated. but mr leslie was in too great a hurry to notice the unusual emphasis with which he spoke. and in half a second he found himself standing in front of the girl, who, the last time they met, had aroused in him such unwonted emotions. "miss ford," murmured young leslie, "may i introduce mr norreys?" and then mr leslie turned on his heel and disappeared. despard stood there perfectly grave. he would hazard no repulse; he waited for her. she looked up, but there was no smile on her face--only the calm self-composedness which it seemed to him he knew so well. how was it so? had he met her before in some former existence? why did all about her seem at once strange and yet familiar? he had never experienced the like before. these thoughts--scarcely thoughts indeed--flickered through his brain as he looked at her. they served one purpose at least, they prevented his feeling or looking awkward, could such a state of things have been conceived possible. seeing that he was not going to speak, remembering, perhaps, that if _he_ remembered the last words she had honoured him with, he could scarcely be expected to do so, she at last opened her lips. "that," she said quietly, slightly inclining her head in the direction where young leslie had stood, "was, under the circumstances, unnecessary." "he did not know," said despard. "i suppose not; though i don't know. perhaps you told him you had forgotten my name." "no," he replied, "i did not. it would not have been true." she smiled very slightly. "there is no dancing to-night," she said. "may i ask--?" and she hesitated. "why i ventured to disturb you?" he interrupted. "i was requested to take you downstairs for an ice or whatever you may prefer to that. the farce did not originate with me, i assure you." "do you mean by that that you will _not_ take me downstairs?" she said, smiling again as she got up from her seat. "i should like an ice very much." despard bowed without speaking, and offered her his arm. but when he had piloted her through the crowd, and she was standing quietly with her ice, he broke the silence. "miss ford," he began, "as the fates have again forced me on your notice, i should like to ask you a question." she raised her eyes inquiringly. no--he had not exaggerated their beauty. "i should like to know the meaning of the strange words you honoured me with as i was leaving mrs englewood's the other evening. i do not think you have forgotten them." "no," she replied, "i have not forgotten them, and i meant them, and i still mean them. but i will not talk about them or explain anything i said." there was nothing the least flippant in her tone--only quiet determination. but despard, watching keenly, saw that her lips quivered a little as she spoke. "as you choose," he said. "of course, in the face of such a very uncompromising refusal, i can say nothing more." "then shall we go upstairs again?" proposed miss fforde. mr norreys acquiesced. but he had laid his plans, and he was a more diplomatic adversary than miss fforde was prepared to cope with. "i finished reading the book we were speaking of the other evening," he began in a matter-of-fact voice; "i mean--" and he named the book. "at least, i fancy it was you i was discussing it with. the last volume falls off greatly." "oh, _do_ you think so?" said the girl in a tone of half-indignant disappointment, falling blindly into the trap. "i, on the contrary, felt that the last volume made amends for all that was unsatisfactory in the others. you see by it what he was driving at all the time, and that the _persiflage_ and apparent cynicism were only means to an end. i do _hate_ cynicism--it is so easy, and such a little makes such a great effect." something in her tone made despard feel irritated. "is she hitting at me again?" he thought. and the idea threw him, in his turn, off his guard. the natural result was that both forgot themselves in the interest of the discussion. and despard, when he, as it were, awoke to the realisation of this, took care not to throw away the advantage he had gained. he drew her out, he talked as he but seldom exerted himself to do, and when, at the end of half-an-hour or so, an elderly lady, whom he knew by name only, was seen approaching them, and miss fforde sprang to her feet, exclaiming,-- "have you been looking for me? i hope not--" he smiled quietly as he prepared to withdraw--he had succeeded! "good-night, mr norreys," said maisie simply. "two evenings ago she would not say good-night at all," he thought. but he made no attempt to do more than bow quietly. "you are very--cold, grim--no, i don't know what to call it, maisie, dear," said the lady, her cousin and present chaperone, as they drove away, "in your manner to men; and that man in particular--despard norreys. it is not often he is so civil to any girl." "i detest all men--all young men," replied maisie irritably. "but, my dear, you should be commonly civil. and he had been giving himself, for him, unusual trouble to entertain you." "can he know about her? oh, no, it is impossible," she added to herself. miss fforde closed her lips firmly. but in a moment or two she opened them again. "cousin agnes," she said, half smiling, "i am afraid you are quite mistaken. if i had not been what you call `commonly civil,' would he have gone on talking to me? on the contrary, i am sadly afraid i was far too civil." "my dear child," ejaculated her cousin, "what do you mean?" "oh," said maisie, "i don't know. never mind the silly things i say. i like being with you, cousin agnes, but i don't like london. i am much happier at home in the country." "but, my dear child, when i saw you at home a few months ago you were looking forward with pleasure to coming. what has changed you? what has disappointed you?" "i am not suited for anything but a quiet country life--that is all," said miss fforde. "but, then, maisie, afterwards, you know, you will _have_ to come to town and have a house of your own and all that sort of thing. it is necessary for you to see something of the world to prepare you for--" "afterwards isn't _now_, cousin agnes. and i am doing my best, as papa wished," said the girl weariedly. "do let us talk of something else. really sometimes i do wish i were any one but myself." "maisie," said her cousin reproachfully, "you know, dear, that isn't right. you must take the cares and responsibilities of a position like yours along with the advantages and privileges of it." "i know," miss fforde replied meekly enough; "but, cousin agnes, do tell me who was that very funny-looking man with the long fluffy beard whom you were talking to for some time." "oh, that, my dear, was count dalmiati, the celebrated so-and-so," and once launched in her descriptions cousin agnes left maisie in peace. two days later came the afternoon of lady valence's garden-party. it was one of the garden parties to which "everybody" went--despard norreys for one, as a matter of course. he had got more gratification and less annoyance out of his second meeting with miss fforde; for he flattered himself he knew how to manage her now--"that little girl in black, who thinks herself so wonderfully wise, forsooth!" yet the sting was there still; the very persistence with which he repeated to himself that he had mastered her showed it. his thoughts recurred to her more than they were in the habit of doing to any one or anything but his own immediate concerns. out of curiosity, merely, no doubt; curiosity increased by the apparent improbability of satisfying it. for no one seemed to know anything about her. she might have dropped from the skies. he had indeed some difficulty in recalling her personality to the two or three people to whom he applied for information. "a girl in black--at the leslies' musical party? why, my dear fellow, there were probably a dozen girls in black there. there usually is a good sprinkling of black frocks at evening parties," said one of the knowers of everybody whom he had selected to honour with his inquiries. "what was there remarkable about her? there must have been something to attract _your_ notice." "no, on the contrary," despard replied, "she was remarkably unremarkable;" and he laughed lightly. "it was only rather absurd. i have seemed haunted by her once or twice lately, and yet nobody knows anything about her, except that her name is ford." "ford," said his companion; "that does _not_ tell much. and not pretty, you say?" "pretty, oh, yes. no, not exactly pretty," and a vision of maisie's clear cold profile and--yes, there was no denying it--_most_ lovely eyes, rose before him. "more than pretty," he would have said had he not been afraid of being laughed at. "i don't really know how to describe her, and it is of less than no consequence. i don't suppose i shall ever see her again," and he went on to talk of other matters. he did see her again, however, and it was, as will have already been supposed, at lady valence's garden-party that he did so. it was a cold day, of course. the weather, with its usual consideration, had changed that very morning, after having been, for may, really decently mild and agreeable. the wind had veered round to the east, and it seemed not improbable that the rain would look in, an uninvited guest, in the course of the afternoon. lady valence declared herself in despair, but as nobody could remember the weather ever being anything but highly detestable the day of her garden-party, it is to be hoped that she in reality took it more philosophically than she allowed, despard strode about feeling very cold, and wondering why he had come, and why, having come, he stayed. there was a long row of conservatories and ferneries, and glass-houses of every degree of temperature not far from the lawn, where at one end the band was playing, and at the other some deluded beings were eating ices. despard shivered; the whole was too ghastly. a door in the centre house stood invitingly open, and he turned in. voices near at hand, female voices, warned him off at one side, for he was not feeling amiable, and he hastened in the opposite direction. by degrees the pleasant warmth, the extreme beauty of the plants and flowers amidst which he found himself, the solitariness, too, soothed and subdued his irritation. "if i could smoke," he began to say to himself, when, looking round with a half-formed idea of so doing, he caught sight amidst the ferns of feminine drapery. some one was there before him--but a very quiet, mouse-like somebody. a somebody who was standing there motionless, gazing at the tall tropical plants, enjoying, apparently, the warmth and the quiet like himself. "that girl in black, that sphinx of a girl again--by jove!" murmured despard under his breath, and as he did so, she turned and saw him. her first glance was of annoyance; he saw her clearly from where he stood, there was no mistaking the fact. but, so quickly, that it was difficult to believe it had been there, the expression of vexation passed. the sharply contracted brows smoothed; the graceful head bent slightly forward; the lips parted. "how do you do, mr norreys?" she said. "we are always running against each other unexpectedly, are we not?" her tone was perfectly natural, her manner expressed simple pleasure and gratification. she was again the third, the rarest of her three selves--the personality which despard, in his heart of hearts, believed to be _herself_. he smiled--a slightly amused, _almost_ a slightly condescending smile, but a very pleasant one all the same. he could afford to be pleasant now. poor silly little girl--she had given in with a good grace, a truce to her nonsense of regal airs and dignity; a truce, too, to the timid self-consciousness of her first introduction. "she understands better now, i see," he thought. "understands that a little country girl is but--ah, well--but a little country girl. still, i must allow--" and he hesitated as his glance fell on her; it was the first time he had seen her by daylight, and the words he had mentally used did not quite "fit"--"i must allow that she has brains, and some character of her own." "i can imagine its seeming so to you," he said aloud. "you have, i think you told me, lived always in the country. of course, in the country one's acquaintances stand out distinctly, and one remembers every day whom one has and has not seen. in town it is quite different. i find myself constantly forgetting people, and doing all sorts of stupid things, imagining i have seen some one last week when it was six months ago, and so on. but people are really very good-natured." she listened attentively. "how difficult it must be to remember all the people you know!" she said, with the greatest apparent simplicity; indeed, with a tone of almost awe-struck reverence. "i simply don't attempt it," he replied. "how--dear me, i hardly know how to say it--how _very_ good and kind of you it is to remember me," she said. mr norreys glanced at her sharply. was she playing him off? for an instant the appalling suggestion all but took his breath away, but it was quickly dismissed. its utter absurdity was too self-evident; and the expression on her face reassured him. she seemed so innocent as she stood there, her eyes hidden for the moment by their well-fringed lids, for she was looking down. a faint, the very faintest, suspicion of a blush coloured her cheeks, there was a tiny little trembling about the corners of her mouth. but somehow these small evidences of confusion did not irritate him as they had done when he first met her. on the contrary. "poor little girl," he said to himself. "i see i must be careful. still, she will live to get over it, and one cannot be positively brutal." for an instant or two he did not speak. then: "i never pay compliments, miss ford," he said, "but what i am going to say may sound to you like one. however, i trust you will not dislike it." and again he unaccountably hesitated--what was the matter with him? he meant to be kindly encouraging to the girl, but as she stood beside him, looking up with a half-curious, half-deprecating expression in her eyes, he was conscious of his face slightly flushing; the words he wanted refused to come, he felt as if he were bewitched. "won't you tell me what you were going to say?" she said at last. "i should so like to hear it." "it's not worth saying," he blurted out. "indeed, though i know what i mean, i cannot express it. you--you are quite different from other girls, miss ford. it would be impossible to confuse you with the crowd. that's about the sum of what i was thinking, though--i meant to express it differently. certainly, in the way i have said it, no one by any possibility could take it for a compliment." to his surprise she looked up at him with a bright smile, a smile of pleasure, and--of something else. "on the contrary, i do take it as a compliment, as a very distinct compliment," she said, "considering whom it comes from. though, after all, it is scarcely _i_ that should accept it. the--the circumstances of my life may have made me different--my having been so little in town, for instance. i suppose there are some advantages in everything, even in apparent disadvantages." her extreme gentleness and deference put him at his ease again. "oh, certainly," he said. "for my part, i often wish i had never been anywhere or seen anything! life would, in such a case, seem so much more interesting. there would be still things left to dream about." he sighed, and there was something genuine in his sigh. "i envy people who have never travelled, sometimes," he added. "have you travelled much?" she asked. "oh, dear, yes--been everywhere--the usual round." "but the usual round is just what with me counts for nothing," she said sharply. "real travelling means living in other countries, leading the life of their peoples, not rushing round the capitals of europe from one cosmopolitan hotel to another." he smiled a superior smile. "when you have rushed round the capitals of europe you may give an opinion," his smile seemed to say. "that sort of thing is impossible, except for bohemians," he said languidly. "i detest talking about travels." "do you really?" she said, with a very distinct accent of contempt. "then i suppose you have not read--" and she named a book on everybody's table at the moment. despard's face lighted up. "oh, indeed, yes," he said. "that is not an ordinary book of travels;" and he went on to speak of the volume in question in a manner which showed that he had read it intelligently, while miss fforde, forgetting herself and her companion in the interest of what he said, responded sympathetically. half unconsciously, as they talked they strolled up and down the wide open space in front of the ferns. suddenly voices, apparently approaching them, caught the girl's ear. "oh, dear," she said, "my friends will be wondering what has become of me! i must go. good-bye, mr norreys," and she held out her hand. there was something simple and perfectly natural in her manner as she did so, which struck him. it was almost as if she were throwing off impulsively a part which she was tired of playing. he held her hand for a quarter of an instant longer than was actually necessary. "i--i hope we may meet again, miss ford," he said, simply but cordially--something in her present manner was infectious--"and continue our talk." she glanced up at him. "i hope so, too," she said quickly. but then her brows contracted again a little. "at least--i don't know that it is very probable," she added disconnectedly, as she hastened away in the direction whence came the voices. "hasn't many invitations, i dare say," he said to himself as he looked after her. "if she had been still with gertrude englewood i might, perhaps, have got one or two people to be civil to them. but i daresay it would have been quixotic, and it's the sort of thing i dislike doing--putting one's self under obligation for no real reason." if he had heard what maisie fforde was thinking to herself as she made her way quickly to her cousin! "what a pity!" she thought. "what a real pity that a man who must have had good material in him should have so sunk--to what i can't help thinking vulgarity of _feeling_, if not of externals--to such contemptible self-conceit and affectations! i can understand, however, that he may have been a nice boy once, as gertrude maintains. poor gertrude--how her hero has turned out! i must never let her know how impossible i find it to resist drawing him out--it surely is not wrong? oh, how i should _love_ to see him thoroughly humbled! the worst of it is, that when he becomes a reasonable being, as he does now and then, he can be so nice--interesting even--and i forget whom i am talking to. but not for long! no, indeed--`mrs englewood's dowdy _protegee_,' the `bread-and-butter miss,' for whom the tenth waltz was too much condescension, hasn't such a bad memory. and when i had looked forward to my first dance so, and fancied the world was a good and kind place! _oh_!" and she clenched her hands as the hot mortification, the scathing _desillusionnement_, of that evening recurred to her in its full force. "oh, i hope it is not wicked and un-christian, but i should _love_ to see him humbled! i wonder if i shall meet him again. i hope not--and yet i hope i shall." the "again" came next at a dinner-party, to which she accompanied her cousin. mrs maberly was old-fashioned in some of her ideas. nothing, for instance, would persuade her that it was courteous to be _more_ than twenty minutes later than the dinner-hour named, in consequence of which she not unfrequently found herself the first arrival. this in no way annoyed maisie, as it might have done a less simple-minded maiden; indeed, on the contrary, it rather added to her enjoyment. she liked to get into a quiet corner and watch the various guests as they came in; she felt amused by, and yet sorry for, the little perturbations she sometimes discerned on the part of the hostess, especially if the latter happened to be young and at all anxious-minded. this was the case on the evening in question, when fully half-an-hour had been spent by miss fforde in her corner before dinner was announced. "it is too bad," maisie overhead the young _chatelaine_ whisper to a friend, "such affectation really amounts to rudeness. but yet it is so awkward to go down--" then followed some words too low for her to understand, succeeded by a joyful exclamation--"ah, there he is at last," as again the door opened, and "mr norreys" was announced. and maisie's ears must surely have been praeter-naturally sharp, for through the buzz of voices, through the hostess's amiably expressed reproaches, they caught the sound of her own name, and the fatal words "that girl in black." "you must think me a sort of frankenstein's nightmare," she could not help saying with a smile, as despard approached to take her down to dinner. but she was scarcely prepared for the rejoinder. "i won't contradict you, miss ford, if you like to call yourself names. no, i should have been both surprised and disappointed had you not been here. i have felt sure all day i was going to meet you." maisie felt herself blush, felt too that his eyes were upon her, and blushed more, in fury at herself. "fool that i am," she thought. "he is going to play now at making me fall in love with him, is he? how contemptible, how absurd! does he really imagine he can take me in?" she raised her head proudly and looked at him, to show him that she was not afraid to do so. but the expression on his face surprised her again. it was serious, gentle, and almost deprecating, yet with an honest light in the eyes such as she had never seen there before. "what an actor he would make," she thought. but a little quiver of some curious inexplicable sympathy which shot through her as she caught those eyes, belied the unspoken words. "i am giving far more thought to the man and his moods than he is worth," was the decision she had arrived at by the time they reached the dining-room door. "after all, the wisest philosophy is to take the goods the gods send us and enjoy them. i shall forget it all for the present, and speak to him as to any other pleasant man i happen to meet." and for that evening, and whenever they met, which was not unfrequently in the course of the next few weeks, maisie fforde kept to this determination. it was not difficult, for when he chose, despard norreys could be more than pleasant. and--"miss ford" in her third personality was not hard to be pleasant to; and--another "and"--they were both young, both--in certain directions--deplorably mistaken in their estimates of themselves; and, lastly, human nature is human nature still, through all the changes of philosophies, fashions, and customs. the girl was no longer acting a part; had she been doing so, indeed, she could not so perfectly have carried out the end she had, in the first fire of her indignation, vaguely proposed to herself. for the time being she was, so to speak, "letting herself go" with the pleasant insidious current of circumstances. yet the memory of that first evening was still there. she had not forgotten. and despard? chapter three. the london season was over. mr norreys had been longing for its close; so, at least, he had repeated to his friends, and with even more insistence to himself, a great many, indeed a very great many, times, during the last hot, dusty weeks of the poor season's existence. he wanted to get off to norway in a friend's yacht for some fishing, he said; he seemed for once really eager about it, so eager as to make more than one of his companions smile, and ask themselves what had come to norreys, he who always took things with such imperturbable equanimity, what had given him this mania for northern fishing? and now the fishing and the trip were things of the past. they had not turned out as delightful in reality as in anticipation somehow, and yet what had gone wrong despard, on looking back, found it hard to say. that nothing had gone wrong was the truth of the matter. the weather had been fine and favourable; the party had been well chosen; lennox-brown, the yacht's owner, was the perfection of a host. "it was a case of the workman, not of the tools, i suspect," despard said to himself one morning, when, strolling slowly up and down the smooth bit of gravel path outside the drawing-room windows at markerslea vicarage, he allowed his thoughts to wander backwards some little way. "i am sick of it all," he went on, with an impatient shake, testifying to inward discomposure. "i'm a fool after all, no wiser, indeed a very great deal more foolish, than my neighbours. and i've been hard enough upon other fellows in my time. little i knew! i cannot throw it off, and what to do i know not." he was staying with his sister, his only near relation. she was older than he, had been married for several years, and had but one trouble in life. she was childless. naturally, therefore, she lavished on despard an altogether undue amount of sisterly devotion. but she was by no means an entirely foolish woman. she had helped to spoil him, and she was beginning to regret it. "he is terribly, quite terribly _blase_," she was saying to herself as she watched him this morning, herself unobserved. "i have never seen it so plainly as this autumn," and she sighed. "he is changed, too; he is moody and irritable, and that is new. he has always been so sweet-tempered. surely he has not got into money difficulties--i can scarcely think so. he is too sensible. though, after all, as charles often says, perhaps the best thing that could befall the poor boy would be to have to work hard for his living--" a most natural remark on the part of "charles," seeing that he himself had always enjoyed a thoroughly comfortable sufficiency,--and again mrs selby sighed. her sigh was echoed; she started slightly, then, glancing round, she saw that the glass door by which she stood was ajar, and that her brother had arrested his steps for a moment or two, and was within a couple of yards of her. it was his sigh that she had heard. her face clouded over still more; it is even probable that a tear or two rose unbidden to her eyes. she was a calm, considering woman as a rule; for once she yielded to impulse, and, stepping out, quickly slipped her hand through mr norreys' arm. "my dear despard," she said, "what a sigh! it sounded as if from the very depths of your heart, if," she went on, trying to speak lightly, "if you have one that is to say, which i have sometimes doubted." but he threw back no joke in return. "i have never given _you_ reason to doubt it, surely, maddie?" he said half reproachfully. "no, no, dear. i'm in fun, of course. but seriously--" "i'm serious enough." "yes, that you are--too serious. what's the matter, despard, for that there is something the matter i am convinced?" he did not attempt to deny it. "yes, madeline," he said slowly, "i'm altogether upset. i've been false to all my own theories. i've been a selfish enough brute always, i know, but at least i think i've been consistent. i've chosen my own line, and lived the life, and among the people that suited me, and--" "been dreadfully, _miserably_ spoilt, despard." he glanced up at her sharply. no, she was not smiling. his face clouded over still more. "and that's the best even you can say of me?" he asked. mrs selby hardly let him finish. "no, no. i am blaming myself more than you," she said quickly. "you are much--much better than you know, despard. you are not selfish really. think of what you have done for others; how consistently you have given up those evenings to that night school." "one a week--what's that? and there's no credit in doing a thing one likes. i enjoy those evenings, and it's more than i can say for the average of my days." but his face cleared a very little as he spoke. "well," she went on, "that shows you are not at heart an altogether selfish brute," and now she smiled a little. "and all the more does it show how much better you might still be if you chose. i am very glad, delighted, despard, that you _are_ discontented and dissatisfied; i knew it would come sooner or later." mr norreys looked rather embarrassed. "maddie," he began again, "you haven't quite understood me. i didn't finish my sentence. i was going on to say that at least i had done no harm to anyone else; if no one's any better through me, at least no one's the _worse_ for my selfishness--oh, yes, don't interrupt," he went on. "i know what you'd like to say--`no man liveth to himself,' the high-flown sort of thing. i don't go in for that. but _now_--i have not even kept my consistency. you'd never guess what i've gone and done--at least, maddie, _can_ you guess?" and his at all times sweet voice sweetened and softened as he spoke, and into his eyes stole a look madeline had never seen there before. "despard," she exclaimed breathlessly, "have you, can you, have fallen in love?" he nodded. "oh, dear despard," she exclaimed, "i am so very glad. it will be the making of you. that's to say, if--but it must be somebody _very_ nice." "nice enough in herself--nice," he repeated, and he smiled. "yes, if by nice you mean everything sweet and womanly, and original and delightful, and--oh, you mustn't tempt me to talk about her. but what she is _herself_ is not the only thing, my poor maddie." mrs selby gave a start. "oh, despard," she exclaimed, "you don't mean that she's a married woman." "no, no." "or, or any one very decidedly beneath you?" she continued, with some relief, but anxiously still. despard hesitated. "that's exactly what i can't quite say," he replied. "she's a lady by birth, that i'm sure of. but she has seen very little. lived always in a village apparently--she has been in some ways unusually well and carefully educated. but i'm quite positive she's poor, really with nothing of her own, i fancy. i'm not sure--it has struck me once or twice that perhaps she had been intended for a governess." mrs selby gasped, but checked herself. "she has friends who are kind to her. i met her at some good houses. it was at mrs englewood's first of all, but since then i've seen her at much better places." "but why do you speak so doubtfully--you keep saying `i fancy'--`i suppose.' it must be easy to find out all about her." "no; that's just it. she's curiously, no--not reserved--she's too nice and well-bred for that sort of thing--but, if you can understand, she's _frankly_ backward in speaking of herself. she'll talk of anything but herself. she has an old invalid father whom she adores--and--upon my soul, that's about all she has ever told me." "you can ask mrs englewood, surely." despard frowned. "i can, and i have; at least, i tried it. but it was not easy. she's been rather queer to me lately. she would volunteer no information, and of course--you see--i didn't want to seem interested on the subject. it's only just lately, since i came here in fact, that i've really owned it to myself," and his face flushed. "i went yachting and fishing to put it out of my head, but--it's been no use--i won't laugh at all that sort of thing again as i have done, i can tell you." "he's very much in earnest," thought mrs selby. "what--you don't mind telling me--what is her name?" she asked. "ford--miss ford. i fancy her first name is mary. there's a pet name they call her by," but he did not tell it. "mary ford--that does not sound aristocratic," mused mrs selby. "despard, tell me--mrs englewood is really fond of you. do you think she knows anything against the girl, or her family, or anything like that, and that she was afraid of it for you?" "oh, dear no! quite the contrary, mai--miss ford is a great pet of hers. gertrude was angry with me for not being civil to her," and he laughed. "not being civil to her," she repeated. "and you were falling in love with her? how do you mean?" "that was afterwards. i was brutally uncivil to her at first. that's how it began somehow," he said, disconnectedly. mrs selby felt utterly perplexed. was he being taken in by a designing girl? it all sounded very inconsistent. "despard," she said after a little silence, "shall i try to find out all about her from mrs englewood? she would not refuse any information if it was for your sake." he considered. "well, yes," he said, "perhaps you'd better." "and--" she went on, "if all is satisfactory--" "well?" "you will go through with it?" "i--suppose so. altogether satisfactory it can't be. i'm fairly well off as a bachelor, but that's a very different matter. and--maddie--i should hate poverty." "you would have no need to call it poverty," she said rather coldly. "well--well--i'm speaking comparatively of course," he replied, impatiently. "it would be what _i_ call poverty. and i am selfish, i know. the best of me won't come out under those circumstances. i've no right to marry, you see--that's what's been tormenting me." "but if she likes to face it--would not that bring out the best of you?" said mrs selby hopefully, though in her heart rather shocked by his way of speaking. "perhaps--i can't say. but of course if she did--" "and you are sure she would?" asked madeline, suddenly awaking to the fact that miss ford's feelings in the matter had been entirely left out of the question. despard smiled. "do you mean am i sure she cares for me?" he said. "oh, yes--as for that--" "i don't like a girl who--who lets it be seen if she cares for a man," she said. mr norreys turned upon her. "lets it be seen," he repeated angrily. "maddie, you put things very disagreeably. would i--tell me, is it likely that _i_ would take to a girl so utterly devoid of delicacy as your words sound? and is it so improbable that a girl would care for me?" he smiled in spite of himself, and mrs selby's answering smile as she murmured: "i did not mean that, you know," helped to smooth him down. "she did her best to make me think she detested me," he added. "but--" "ah, yes, but--" said his sister fondly. "then it is settled, despard," she went on. "i shall tackle mrs englewood in my own way. you can trust me. you don't know where miss ford is at present?" she added. he shook his head despondently. "not the ghost of an idea. i didn't try to hear. i thought i didn't want to know, you see. but--maddie," he added, half timidly, "you'll write at once?" "as soon as i possibly can," she replied kindly, for glancing at him she saw that he looked really ill and worn. "and," she went on, "as my reward, you will go with me to the densters' garden-party this afternoon. charles can't, and i hate going alone. i don't know them-- it is their first year here, though everybody says they are very nice people." "oh, dear," said despard. "very well, maddie. i must, i suppose." "then be ready at a quarter to four. i'll drive you in the pony-carriage," and madeline disappeared through the glass door whence she had emerged. "i wonder if she will write to-day," thought mr norreys, though he would have been ashamed to ask it. "i should like to know it's done--a sort of crossing the rubicon. and it's a good while now since that last day i saw her. she was never quite so sweet as that day. supposing i heard she was married?" his heart seemed to stop beating at the thought, and he grew white, though there was no one to see. but he reassured himself. few things were less likely. portionless girls, however charming, don't marry so quickly nowadays. madeline's feelings were mingled. she was honestly and unselfishly glad of what she believed might be a real turning point towards good for despard. yet--"if only he had not chosen a girl quite so denuded of worldly advantages as she evidently is," she reflected. "for of course if she had either money or connection mrs englewood would not have kept it a secret. she is far too outspoken. i must beg her to tell everything she knows, not to be afraid of my mixing her name up in the matter in any way. when she sees that charles and i do not disapprove she will feel less responsibility." and it was with a comfortable sense of her own and "charles's" unworldliness that mrs selby prepared to indite the important letter. she saw little of her brother till the afternoon. he did not appear at luncheon, having left word that he had gone for a long walk. "provided only that he is not too late for the densters'," thought madeline, with a little sigh over the perversity of mankind. but her fears were unfounded. at ten minutes to four mr norreys made his appearance in the hall, faultlessly attired, apologising with his usual courtesy, in which to his sister he never failed, for his five minutes' delay, and mrs selby, feeling pleased with herself outwardly and inwardly, for she was conscious both of looking well in a very pretty new bonnet, and of acting a truly high-minded part as a sister, seated herself in her place, with a glance of satisfaction at her companion. "everybody will be envying me," she said to herself, with a tiny sigh as she remembered former air-castles in despard's behoof. "the flores-carter girls and edith and bertha byder, indeed all the neighbourhood get quite excited if they know he's here. he might have had his choice of the best matches in this county, to my own knowledge, and there are several girls with money. ah, well!" the grounds seemed already fall of guests when the brother and sister drove up to the densters' door. mrs selby was at once seized upon by some of her special cronies, and for half an hour or so despard kept dutifully beside her, allowing himself to be introduced to any extent, doing his best to please his sister by responding graciously to the various attentions which were showered upon him. but he grew very tired of it all in a little while--a curious dreamy feeling began to come over him, born no doubt of the unwonted excitement of his conversation with madeline that morning. he had gone a long walk in hopes of recovering his usual equanimity, but had only succeeded in tiring himself physically. the mere fact of having put in words to another the conflict of the last few months seemed to have given actual existence to that which he had by fits and starts been trying to persuade himself was but a passing fancy. and even to himself he could not have told whether he was glad or sorry that the matter had come to a point--had, as it were, been taken out of his own hands. for that madeline had already written to mrs englewood he felt little doubt. "women are always in such a desperate hurry," he said to himself, which, all things considered, was surely most unreasonable. nor could he have denied that it was so, for even as he made the reflection he began to calculate in how many, or how few rather, days they might look for an answer, and to speculate on the chances of mrs englewood's being acquainted with maisie's present whereabouts. "maisie," he called her to himself, though he had somehow shrunk from telling the name to his sister. it was so sweet--so _like_ her, he repeated softly, though, truth to tell, sweetness was not the most conspicuous quality in our heroine. but despard was honestly in love after all, as many better and many worse men have been before him, and will be again. and love of the best kind, which on the whole his was, is clairvoyant--he was not wrong about maisie's real sweetness. "i do care for her, as deeply, as thoroughly as ever a man cared for a woman. but i don't want to marry; it's against all my plans and ideas. i didn't want to fall in love either, for that matter. the whole affair upsets everything i had ever dreamt of." he felt dreaming now--he had managed to leave his sister and her friends, absorbed in the excitement of watching a game of lawn tennis between the best players of the county, and had stolen by himself down some shady walks away from the sparkle and chatter of the garden-party. the quiet and dimness soothed him, but increased the strange unreal feeling, of which he had been conscious since the morning. he felt as if nothing that could happen would surprise him--he was actually, in point of fact, _not_ surprised, when at a turn in the path he saw suddenly before him, advancing towards him, her cloudy black drapery-- for she was in black as ever--scarcely distinguishable from the dark shrubs at each side, the very person around whom all his thoughts were centring--maisie--maisie ford herself! he did not start, he made no exclamation. a strange intent look came into his eyes, as he walked on towards her. long afterwards he remembered, and it helped to explain things, that she too had testified no surprise. but her face flushed a little, and the first expression he caught sight of was one of pleasure--afterwards, long afterwards, he remembered this too. they met--their hands touched. but for a moment he did not speak. "how do you do, mr norreys?" she said then. "it is hot and glaring on the lawn, is it not? i have just been seeing my father off. he was too tired to stay longer, and i was glad to wander about here in the shade a little." "your father?" he repeated half mechanically. "yes--we are staying, he and i, for a few days at laxter's hill. i am so sorry he has gone--i would so have liked you to see him." she spoke eagerly, and with the peculiar, bright girlishness really natural to her, which was one of her greatest charms. despard looked at her; her voice and manner helped him a little to throw off the curious sensation of unreality. but he was, though he scarcely knew it, becoming inwardly more and more wrought up. "i should have liked to see him exceedingly," he began, "any one so dear to you. i may hope some other time, perhaps, to do so? i--i was thinking of you when i first caught sight of you just now, miss ford-- indeed, i have done nothing--upon my word, you may believe me--i have done little else than think of you since we last met." the girl's face grew strangely still and intent, yet with a wistful look in the eyes telling of feelings not to be easily read. it was as if she were listening, in spite of herself, for something she still vaguely hoped she was mistaken in expecting. "indeed," she began to say, but he interrupted her. "no," he said, "do not speak till you have heard me. i had made up my mind to it before i met you just now. i was just wondering how and when it could be. but now that this opportunity has come so quickly i will not lose it. i love you--i have loved you for longer than i knew myself, than i would own to myself--" "from the very first, from that evening at mrs englewood's?" she said, and but for his intense preoccupation, he would have been startled by her tone. "yes," he said simply, yet with a strain of retrospection in his eyes, as if determined to control himself and speak nothing but the unexaggerated truth--"yes, i almost think it began that first evening, rude, brutally rude as i was to you. i would not own it--i struggled against it, for i did not want to marry. i had no thought of it. i am selfish, very selfish, i fear, and i preferred to keep clear of all ties and responsibilities, which too often become terribly galling on small means. i am no hero--but now--you will forgive my hesitation and--and reluctance, will you not? you are generous i know, and my frankness will not injure me with you, will it? you will believe that i loved you almost from the first, though i could not all at once make up my mind to marrying on small means? and now--now that i understand--that--that all seems different to me--that nothing seems of consequence except to hear you say you love me, as--as i have thought sometimes--maisie--you will not be hard on me?--" he stopped; he could have gone on much longer, and there was nothing now outwardly to interrupt him. she had stood there motionless, listening. her face he could scarcely see, it was half turned away, but that seemed not unnatural. what then caused his sudden misgiving? "maisie," he repeated more timidly. then she turned--there was a burning spot of red on each cheek, her eyes were flaming. yet her voice was low and quiet. "hard on you!" she repeated. "i am too sorry for myself to think or care much about you. i am--yes, i may own it, i am so horribly disappointed. i had really allowed myself to think of you as sincere, as, in spite of your unmanly affectations, your contemptible conceit, an honest man, a possible friend i was beginning to forgive your ill-bred insolence to me as a stranger at the first, thinking there was something worthy of respect about you after all. but--oh, dear! and to try to humbug me by this sham honesty--to dare to say you did not think you could have cared for me enough to risk curtailing your own self-indulgences, but that now--it is too pitiful. but, oh, dear--it is too horribly disappointing!" and as she looked at him again, he saw that her eyes were actually full of tears. his brain was in a whirl of bewilderment, bitterest mortification and indignation. for the moment the last had the best of it. "you have a right to refuse me, to despise my weakness if you choose-- whether it is generous to take advantage of my misplaced confidence in you in having told you all--yes, _all_, is another matter. but one thing you shall not accuse me of, and that is, of lying to you. i have not said one untruthful word. i did--yes, i _did_ love you, mary ford-- what i feel to you now is something more like--" he hesitated. "hate, i suppose," she suggested mockingly. "all the better. it cannot be a pleasant feeling to hate any one, and i do not wish you anything pleasant. if i could believe," she went on slowly, "if i could believe you had loved me, i think i should be glad, for it would be what you deserve. i would have liked to make you love me from that very first evening if i could--just to but unluckily i am not the sort of woman to succeed in anything of that kind. however--" she stopped; steps approaching them were heard through the stillness. maisie turned. "i have nothing more to say, and i do not suppose you wish to continue this conversation. good-bye, mr norreys." and almost before he knew she had gone, she had quite disappeared. despard was a strong man, but for a moment or two he really thought he was going to faint. he had grown deathly white while maisie's hard, bitter words rained down upon him like hailstones; now that she had left him he grew so giddy that, had he not suddenly caught hold of a tree, he would have fallen. "it feels like a sunstroke," he said vaguely to himself, as he realised that his senses were deserting him, not knowing that he spoke aloud. he did not know either that some one had seen him stagger, and almost fall. a slightly uneasy feeling had made maisie stop as she hurried off and glance back, herself unobserved. "he looked so fearfully white," she said; "do--do men always look like that when girls refuse them, i wonder?" for maisie's experience of such things actually coming to the point, was, as should be the case with all true women, but small. "i thought--i used to think i would enjoy seeing him humbled. but he did seem in earnest." and then came the glimpse of the young fellow's physical discomfiture. maisie was horribly frightened; throwing all considerations but those of humanity to the winds she rushed back again. "perhaps he has heart-disease, though he looks so strong," she thought, "and if so--oh, perhaps i have killed him." she was beside him in an instant. a rustic bench, which despard was too dizzy to see, stood near. the girl seized hold of his arm and half drew it round her shoulder. he let her do so unresistingly. "try to walk a step or two, mr norreys," she said, "i am very strong. there, now," as he obeyed her mechanically, "here is a seat," and she somehow half pushed, half drew him on to it. "please smell this," and she took out a little silver vinaigrette, of strong and pungent contents, "i am never without this, for papa is so delicate, you know." despard tried to open his eyes, tried to speak, but the attempt was not very successful. maisie held the vinaigrette close to his nose; he started back, the strong essence revived him almost at once. he took it into his own hand and smelt it again. then his face grew crimson. "i beg your pardon a thousand times. i am most ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself," he began. but maisie was too practically interested in his recovery to feel embarrassed. "keep sniffing at that thing," she said, "you will soon be all right. only just tell me--" she added anxiously, "there isn't anything wrong with your heart, is there?" "for if so," she added to herself, "i must at all costs run and see if there is a doctor to be had." despard smiled--a successfully bitter smile. "no, thank you," he said. "i am surprised that you credit me with possessing one," he could not resist adding. "the real cause of this absurd faintness is a very prosaic one, i fancy. i went a long walk in the hot sun this morning." "oh, indeed, that quite explains it," said maisie, slightly nettled. "good-bye again then," and for the second time she ran off. "all the same, i will get conrad or somebody to come round that way," she said to herself. "i will just say i saw a man looking as if he was fainting. _he_ won't be likely to tell." and despard sat there looking at the little silver toy in his bands. "i did not thank her," he said to himself. "i suppose i should have done so, though she would have done as much, or more, for a starving tramp on the road." then he heard again steps coming nearer like those which had startled maisie away. they had apparently turned off elsewhere the first time--this time they came steadily on. chapter four. as despard heard the steps coming nearer he looked round uneasily, with a vague idea of hurrying off so as to escape observation. but when he tried to stand up and walk, he found that anything like quick movement was beyond him still. so he sat down again, endeavouring to look as if nothing were the matter, and that he was merely resting. another moment or two, and a young man appeared, coming hastily along the path by which despard had himself made his way into the shrubbery. he was quite young, two or three and twenty at most, fair, slight, and boyish-looking. he passed by mr norreys with but the slightest glance in his direction, but just as despard was congratulating himself on this, the new-comer stopped short, hesitated, and then, turning round and lifting his hat, came up to him. "excuse me," he said, "do you know lady margaret--by sight? has she passed this way?" he spoke quickly, and mr norreys did not catch the surname. "no," he replied, "i have not the honour of the lady's acquaintance." "i beg your pardon," said the other. "i've been sent to look for her, and i can't find her anywhere." then he turned, but again hesitated. "there's nothing the matter, is there? you've not hurt yourself--or anything? you look rather--as if a cricket ball had hit you, you know." mr norreys smiled. "thank you," he said. "i have got a frightful pain in my head. i was out too long in the sun this morning." the boyish-looking man shook his head. "touch of sunstroke--eh? stupid thing to do, standing in the sun this weather. should take a parasol; i always do. then i can't be of any service?" "yes," said despard, as a sudden idea struck him. "if you happen to know my sister, mrs selby, by sight, i'd be eternally grateful to you if you would tell her i'm going home. i'll wait for her at the old church, would you say?" "don't know her, but i'll find her out. mrs selby, of markerslea, i suppose? well, take my advice, and keep on the shady side of the road." "i shall go through the woods, thank you. my sister will understand." with a friendly nod the young fellow went off. despard had been roused by the talk with him. he got up now and went slowly round to the back of the house--it was a place he had known in old days--thus avoiding all risk of coming across any of the guests. by a path behind the stables he made his way slowly into the woods, and in about half an hour's time he found himself where these ended at the high road, along which his sister must pass. there was a stile near, over which, through a field, lay a footpath to the church, known thereabouts as the old church, and here on the stile mr norreys seated himself to await mrs selby. "i've managed that pretty neatly," he said, trying to imagine he was feeling as usual. "i wonder who that fellow was. he seemed to have heard maddie's name though he did not know her." he was perfectly clear in his head now, but the pain in it was racking. he tried not to think, but in vain. clearer, and yet more clearly, stood out before his mind's eye the strange drama of that afternoon. and the more he thought of it, the more he looked at it, approaching it from every side, the more incapable he became of explaining miss ford's extraordinary conduct. the indignation which had at first blotted out almost all other feeling gradually gave way to his extreme perplexity. "she had no sort of grounds for speaking to me as she did," he reflected. "accusing me vaguely of unworthy motives--what _could_ she mean?" then a new idea struck him. "some one has been making mischief," he thought: "that must be it, though what and how, i cannot conceive. gertrude englewood would not do it intentionally--but still-- i saw that she was changed to me. i shall have it out with her. after all, i hope madeline's letter _has_ gone." and a vague, very faint hope began to make itself felt that perhaps, after all, all was _not_ lost. if _she_ had been utterly misled about him--if-- he drew a deep breath, and looked round. it was the very sweetest moment of a summer's day existence, that at which late afternoon begins softly and silently to fade into early evening. there was an almost sabbath stillness in the air, a tender suggestion of night's reluctant approach, and from where despard sat the white headstones of some graves in the ancient churchyard were to be seen among the grass. the man felt strangely moved and humbled. "if i could hope ever to win her," he thought, "i feel as if i had it in me to be a better man--i am not _all_ selfish and worldly, maisie-- surely not? but what has made her judge me so cruelly? it is awful to remember what she said, and to imagine what sort of an opinion she must have of me to have been able to say it. for--no, that was _not_ my contemptible conceit--" and his face flushed. "she _was_ beginning to care for me. she is too generous to have remembered vindictively my insolence, for insolence it was, at the first. besides, she said herself that she had been getting to like and trust me as a friend. till to-day--has the change in her all come from what i said to-day? no girl can despise a man for the fact of his caring for her--what can it be? good heavens, i feel as if i should go mad!" and he wished that the pain in his head, which had somewhat subsided, would get worse again, if only it would stop his thinking. but just then came the sound of wheels. in another moment mrs selby's pony-carriage was in sight. despard got off his stile, and walked slowly down the road to meet her. "so you faithless--" she began--for, to tell the truth, she had not attached much credence to the story which had reached her of the frightful headache--but she changed her tone the moment she caught sight of his face. "my poor boy, you do look ill!" she exclaimed. "i am so sorry. i would have come away at once if i had known." "it doesn't matter," despard replied, as he got into the carriage; "but did you not get my message?" "oh, yes; but i thought it was just that you were tired and bored. what in the matter, dear despard? you don't look the least like yourself." "i fancy it was the sun this morning," he said. "but it's passing off, i think." madeline felt by no means sure that it was so. "i am so sorry," she repeated, "and so vexed with myself. do you know who the young man was that gave me your message?" despard shook his head. "it was mr conrad fforde, lord southwold's nephew and heir--heir at least to the title, but to little else." "so i should suppose," said norreys indifferently. "the southwolds are very poor." "how queer that he knew your name if you have never met him before," said mrs selby. "but i dare say it's through the flores-carters; they're such great friends of mine, you know, and they are staying at laxter's hill as well as the southwold party." "yes," despard agreed, "he had evidently heard of you." "and of you too in that case. people do so chatter in the country. the carters are dying to get you there. they have got the southwolds to promise to go to them next week. they--the carter girls--are perfectly wild about lady margaret. i think it would be better taste not to make up to her so much; it does _look_ as if it was because she was what she is, though i know it isn't really that. they get up these fits of enthusiasm. and she is very nice--not _very_ pretty, you know, but wonderfully nice and unspoilt, considering." "unspoilt," repeated despard. he was glad to keep his sister talking about indifferent matters. "i don't see that poor lord southwold's daughter has any reason to be spoilt." "oh, dear yes--didn't you know? i thought you knew everything of that kind. it appears that she is a tremendous heiress; i forget the figures. the fortune comes from her aunt's husband. her mother's elder sister married an enormously wealthy man, and as they had no children or near relations on his side, he left all to this girl. of course she and her father have always known it, but it has been kept very quiet. they have lived in the country six months of the year, and travelled the other six. she has been most carefully brought up and splendidly educated. but she has never been `out' in society at all till this year." "i never remember hearing of them in town," said despard. "oh, lord southwold himself never goes out. he is dreadfully delicate-- heart-disease, i think. but she--lady margaret--will be heard of _now_. it has all come out about her fortune now that he has come into the title. his cousin, the last earl, only died two months ago." "and," said despard, with a strange sensation, as if he were listening to some one else speaking rather than speaking himself, "till he came into the title, what was he called? he was the last man's cousin, you say?" "yes, of course; he was mr fforde--fforde with two `f's' and an `e,' you know. it's the family name of the southwolds. that young man--the one you spoke to--is mr conrad fforde, as i told you. they say that--" but a glance at her brother made her hesitate. "despard, is your head worse?" she asked anxiously. "it comes on by fits and starts," he replied. "but don't mind; go on speaking. what were you going to say?" "oh, only about young mr fforde. they say he is to marry lady margaret; they are only second cousins. but i don't think he looks good enough for her. she seems such a womanly, nice-feeling girl. we had just been introduced when mr fforde came up with your message, and she wanted him to go back to you at once. but he said you would be gone already, and i--well, i didn't quite believe about your head being so bad, and perhaps i seemed very cool about it, for lady margaret really looked quite vexed. wasn't it nice of her? the carters had been telling her about us evidently. i think she was rather disappointed not to see the famous despard norreys, do you know? i rather wonder you never met her this summer in town, though perhaps you would scarcely have remarked her just as miss fforde, for she isn't--" but an exclamation from despard startled her. "maddie," he said, "don't you understand? it _must_ be she--she, this lady margaret--the great heiress! good heavens!" mrs selby almost screamed. "despard!" was all she could say. but she quickly recovered herself. "well, after all," she went on, "i don't see that there's any harm done. she will know that you were absolutely disinterested, and surely that will go a long way. but--just to think of it! oh, despard, fancy your saying that you half thought she was going to be a governess! oh, dear, _how_ extraordinary! and i that was so regretting that you had not met her! what a good thing you did not--i mean _what_ a good thing that my letter showing your ignorance was written and sent before you knew who she was! don't you see how lucky it was?" she turned round, her eyes sparkling with excitement and eagerness. but there was no response in mr norreys' face; on the contrary, its expression was such that mrs selby's own face grew pale with dread. "despard," she said, "why do you look like that? you are not going to say that now, because she is an heiress--just because of _money_," with a tone of supreme contempt, "that you will give it up? you surely--" but mr norreys interrupted her. "has the letter gone, maddie?" she nodded her head. "then i must write again at once--myself--to gertrude englewood to make her promise on her honour never to tell what you wrote. even if i thought she would believe it--and i am not sure that she would--i could never allow myself to be cleared in her eyes _now_." madeline stared at him. had the sunstroke affected his brain? "despard," she said, "what do you mean?" he turned his haggard face towards her. "i don't know how to tell you," he said. "i wish i need not, but as you know so much i must. i _did_ see her, madeline. i met her when i was strolling about the shrubbery over there. she was quite alone and no one near. it seemed to have happened on purpose, and--i told her all." "you proposed to her?" he nodded. "as--as miss fforde, or as--" began mrs selby. "as miss ford, of course, without the two `f's' and the `e' at the end," he said bitterly. "i didn't know till this moment either that her father was an earl, or, which is much worse, that she was a great heiress." "and what is wrong, then?" "just that she refused me--refused me with the most biting contempt-- the--the bitterest scorn--no, i cannot speak of it. she thought i knew, had found out about her--and now i see that my misplaced honesty, the way i spoke, must have given colour to it. she taunted me with my insolence at the first--good god! what an instrument of torture a woman's tongue can be! there is only one thing to do--to stop gertrude's ever telling of that letter." "oh, despard!" exclaimed mrs selby, and her eyes filled with tears. "what a _horrid_ girl she must be! and i thought she looked so sweet and nice. she seemed so sorry when her cousin told me about you. tell me, was that after? oh, yes, of course, it must have been. despard, i believe she was already repenting her cruelty." "hush, madeline," said mr norreys sternly. "you mean it well, but--you must promise me never to allude to all this again. you will show me mrs englewood's letter when it comes--that you must do, and i will write to her. but there is no more to be said. let to-day be between us as if it had never been. promise me, dear." he laid his hand on her arm. madeline turned her tearful eyes towards him. "very well," she said. "i must, i suppose. but, oh, what a dreadful pity it all seems. you to have fallen in love with her for herself--you that have never really cared for any one before--when you thought her only a governess; and now for it to have all gone wrong! it would have been so nice and delightful." "a sort of lord burleigh business, with the characters reversed--yes, quite idyllic," said despard sneeringly. "despard, don't. it does so pain me," mrs selby said with real feeling. "there is one person i am furious with," she went on in a very different tone, "and that is mrs englewood. she had no business to play that sort of trick." "perhaps she could not help herself. you say the father--mr fforde as he then was--did not wish her to be known as an heiress," said mr norreys. "she might have made an exception for you," said madeline. despard's brows contracted. mrs selby thought it was from the pain in his head, but it was more than that. a vision rose before him of a sweet flushed girlish face, with gentle pleasure and appeal in the eyes--and of gertrude's voice, "if you don't dance, will you talk to her? anything to please her a little, you know." "i think gertrude did all she could. i believe she is a perfectly loyal and faithful friend," he said; "but for heaven's sake, maddie, let us drop it for ever. i will write this evening to gertrude myself, and that will be the last act in the drama." no letter, however, was written to mrs englewood that evening--nor the next day, nor for that matter during the rest of the time that saw despard norreys a guest at markerslea rectory. and several days passed after the morning that brought her reply to mrs selby's letter of inquiry, before the person it chiefly concerned was able to see it. for the pain in his head, the result of slight sunstroke in the first place, aggravated by unusual excitement, had culminated in a sharp attack which at one time was not many degrees removed from brain fever. the risk was tided over, however, and at no time was the young man in very serious danger. but mrs selby suffered quite as much as if he had been dying. she made up her mind that he would not recover, and as her special friends received direct information to that effect, it is not to be wondered at that the bad news flew fast. it reached laxter's hill one morning in the week following lady denster's garden-party. it was the day which was to see the breaking-up of the party assembled there to meet lord southwold and his daughter, and it came in a letter to edith flores-carter from mrs selby herself. "oh, dear," the girl ejaculated, her usually bright, not to say jolly-looking countenance clouding over as she spoke, "oh, dear, i'm so sorry for the selbys--for mrs selby particularly. just fancy, doesn't it seem awful--her brother's dying." she glanced round the breakfast-table for sympathy: various expressions of it reached her. "that fellow i found in the grounds at that place, is it?" inquired mr fforde. "i'm not surprised, he did look pretty bad, and he would walk home, and he hadn't even a parasol." "conrad, how _can_ you be so unfeeling? i perfectly detest that horrid trick of joking about everything," said in sharp, indignant tones a young lady seated opposite him. it was lady margaret. several people looked up in surprise. "beginning in good time," murmured a man near the end of the table. "why, do you believe in that? i don't," replied his companion in the same low tone. conrad looked across the table at his cousin in surprise. "come now, maisie," he said, "you make me feel quite shy, scolding me so in company. and i'm sure i didn't _mean_ to say anything witty at the poor chap's expense. if i did, it was quite by mistake i assure you." "anything `witty' from you would be that, i can quite believe," lady margaret replied, smiling a little. but the smile was a feeble and forced one. conrad saw, if no one else did, that his cousin was thoroughly put out, and he felt repentant, though he scarcely knew why. half an hour later lord southwold and his daughter were talking together in the sitting-room, where the former had been breakfasting in invalid fashion alone. "i would promise to be home to-morrow, or the day after at latest, papa," lady margaret was saying; "mrs englewood will be very pleased to have me, i know, even at the shortest notice, for last week when i wrote saying i feared it would be impossible, she was very disappointed." "very well, my dear, only don't stay with her longer than that, for you know we have engagements," and lord southwold sighed a little. margaret sighed too. "my darling," said her father, "don't look so depressed. i didn't mean to grumble." "oh no, papa. it isn't you at all. i shall be glad to be at home again; won't you? thank you very much for letting me go round by town." mrs englewood's drawing-room--but looking very different from the last time we saw it. mrs englewood herself, with a more anxious expression than usual on her pleasant face, was sitting by the open window, through which, however, but little air found its way, for it was hot, almost stifling weather. "it is really a trial to have to come back to town before it is cooler," she was saying to herself, as the door opened and lady margaret, in summer travelling gear, came in. "so you are really going, dear maisie," said her hostess. "i do wish you could have waited another day." "but," said maisie, "you will let me know at once what you hear from mrs selby. i cannot help being unhappy, gertrude, and, of course, what you have told me has made me still more self-reproachful, and--and ashamed." she was very pale, but a sudden burning blush overspread her face as she said the last words. "i do _so_ hope he will recover," she added, trying to speak lightly, "though if he does i earnestly hope i shall never meet him again." "even if i succeed in making him understand _your_ side, and showing him how generously you regret having misjudged him?" said mrs englewood. "i don't see that there need be any enmity between you." "not _enmity_, oh no; but still less, friendship," said maisie. "i just _trust_ we shall never meet again. good-bye, dear gertrude: i am so glad to have told you all. you will let me know what you hear?" and she kissed mrs englewood affectionately. "good-bye, dear child. i am glad you have not a long journey before you. stretham will take good care of you. you quite understand that i can do nothing indirectly--it will only be when i see him himself that i can tell him how sorry you have been." "sorry and _ashamed_, be sure to say `ashamed,'" said lady margaret: "yes, of course, it can only be if--if he gets better or you see him yourself." two or three days later came a letter to lady margaret from mrs englewood, inclosing one which that lady had just received from mrs selby. her brother, she allowed for the first time, was out of danger, but "terribly weak." and at intervals during the next few weeks the girl heard news of mr norreys' recovery. and "i wonder," she began to say to herself, "i wonder if gertrude has seen him, or will be seeing him soon." but this hope, if hope it should be called, was doomed to disappointment. late in october came another letter from her friend. "i am sorry," wrote mrs englewood, "that i see no probability of my meeting mr norreys for a long time. he is going abroad. after all, your paths in life are not likely to cross each other again. perhaps it is best to leave things." but the tears filled maisie's eyes as she read. "i should have liked him to know i had come to do him justice," she thought. she did not understand mrs englewood's view of the matter. "it would be cruel," gertrude had said to herself, "to tell him how she blames herself, and how my showing her mrs selby's letter had cleared him. it would only bring it all up again when he has doubtless begun to forget it." nevertheless, despard did not leave england without knowing how completely lady margaret had retracted her cruel words, and how bitterly she regretted them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ time passes quickly, we are told, when we are hard at work. and doubtless this is true while the time in question is the present. but to look back upon time of which every day and every hour have been fully occupied, gives somewhat the feeling of a closely-printed volume when one has finished reading it. it seems even longer than in anticipation. to despard norreys, when at the end of two busy years he found himself again in england, it appeared as if he had been absent five or six times as long as was really the case. he had been a week in england, and was still detained in town by details connected with the work he had successfully accomplished. he was under promise to his sister to run down to markerslea the first day it should be possible, and time meanwhile hung somewhat heavily on his hands. the waters had already closed over his former place in society, and he did not regret it. still there were friends whom he was glad to meet again, and so he not unwillingly accepted some of the invitations that began to find him out. one evening, after dining at the house of the friend whose influence had obtained for him the appointment which had just expired, he accompanied the ladies of the family to an evening party in the neighbourhood. he had never been in the house before; the faces about him were unfamiliar. feeling a little "out of it," he strolled into a small room where a select quartette was absorbed at whist, and seated himself in a corner somewhat out of the glare of light, which, since his illness, rather painfully affected his eyes. suddenly the thought of maisie fforde as he had last seen her seemed to rise before him as in a vision. "i wonder if she is married," he said to himself. "sure to be so, i should think. yet i should probably have heard of it." and even as the words formed themselves in his mind, a still familiar voice caught his ear. "thank you. yes, this will do nicely. i will wait here till mabel is ready to go." and a lady--a girl, he soon saw--came forward into the room towards the corner where he was sitting. he rose at once; she approached him quickly, then with a sudden, incoherent exclamation, made as if she would have drawn back. but it was too late; she could not, if she wished, have pretended she did not see him. "mr norreys," she began; "i had no idea--" "that i was in england," he said. "no, i have only just returned. pardon me for having startled you, miss fforde--lady margaret, i mean. i on my side had no idea of meeting you here or--" "or you would not have come," she in her turn interrupted him with. "thank you; you are frank at all events," she added haughtily. he turned away. there was perhaps some involuntary suggestion of reproach in his manner, for hers changed. "no," she said. "i am very wrong. please stay for two minutes, and listen to me. i have hoped and prayed that i might never meet you again, but at the same time i made a vow--a real vow," she went on girlishly, "that _if_ i did so i would swallow my pride, and--and ask you to forgive me. there now--i have said it. that is all. will you, mr norreys?" he glanced round; the whist party was all unconscious of the rest of the world still-- "will you not sit down for a moment, lady margaret?" he said, and as she did so he too drew a chair nearer to hers. "it is disagreeable to be overheard," he went on in a tone of half apology. "you ask me what i cannot now do," he added. the girl reared her head, and the softness of her manner hardened at once. "then," she said, "we are quits. it does just as well. my conscience is clear now." "so is mine, as to _that_ particular of--of what you call forgiving you," he said, and his voice was a degree less calm. "i cannot do so now, for--i forgave you long, long ago." "you have seen mrs englewood? she has told you at last that all was explained to me--your sister's letter and all," she went on confusedly, "that i saw how horrid, how low and mean and suspicious and everything i had been?" "i knew all you refer to before i left england," he said simply. "but i asked mrs englewood to leave it as it was, unless she was absolutely forced to tell you. i knew you must hate the sound of my name, and she promised to drop the subject." "and i have scarcely seen her for a long time," said maisie. "i saw she did avoid it, and i suppose she thought it no use talking about it." "i did not need her explanation," despard went on gently. "i had--if you will have the word--i had forgiven you long before. indeed, i think i did so almost at once. it was all natural on your part. what had i done, what was i that you should have thought any good of me? when you remembered the way i behaved to you at first," and here his voice grew very low. "i have never been able to--i shall never be able to forgive myself--" "mr norreys!" said maisie in a very contrite tone. but despard kept silence. "are you going to stay at home now, or are you going away again?" she asked presently, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact way. "i hardly know. i am waiting to see what i can get to do. i don't much mind what, but i shall never again be able to be idle," he said, smiling a little for the first time. "it is my own fault entirely--the fault of my own past folly--that i am not now well on in the profession i was intended for. so i must not grumble if i have to take what work i can get in any part of the world. i would rather stay in england for some reasons." "why?" she asked. "i cannot stand heat very well," he said. "my little sunstroke left some weak points--my eyes are not strong." she did not answer at once. then, "how crooked things are," she said at last suddenly; "you want work, and i--oh, i am _so_ busy and worried. papa impressed upon me that i must look after things myself, and accept the responsibilities, but--i don't think he quite saw how difficult it would be," and her eyes filled with tears. "but--" said despard, puzzled by her manner, "he is surely able to help you?" she turned to him more fully--the tears came more quickly, but she did not mind his seeing them. "didn't you know?" she said; "papa is dead--more than a year ago now. just before i came of age. i am quite alone. that silly--i shouldn't say that, he is kind and good--conrad is lord southwold now. but i don't want to marry him, though he is almost the only man who, i _know_, cares for me for myself. how strange you did not know about my being all alone! didn't you notice this?" and she touched her black skirt. "i have never seen you except in black," said despard. "no--i had no idea. i am so grieved." "if--if you stay in england," she began again half timidly, "and you say you have forgiven me,"--he made a little gesture of deprecation of the word--"can't we be friends, mr norreys?" despard rose to his feet. the whist party had dispersed. the little room was empty. "no," he said, "i am afraid that could never be, lady margaret. the one reason why i wish to leave england again is that i know now, i cannot--i must not risk seeing you." maisie looked up, the tears were still glimmering about her eyes and cheeks; was it their soft glistening that made her face look so bright and almost radiant? "oh, do say it again--don't think me not nice, oh, _don't_!" she entreated. "but why--oh, why, if you care for me, though i can scarcely believe it, why let my horrible money come between us? _i_ shall never care for anybody else--there now, i have said it!" and she tried to hide her face, but he would not let her. "do you really mean it, dear?" he said. "if you do, i--i will swallow _my_ pride, too; shall i?" she looked up, half laughing now. "quits again, you see. oh, dear, how dreadfully happy i am! and you know, as you are so fond of work now, you will have _lots_ to do. all manner of things for poor people that i want to manage, and don't know how--and all our own--i won't say `my' any more--tenants to look after-- and--and--" "`that girl in black' herself to take care of, and make as happy as all my love and my strength, and my life's devotion can," said despard. "maisie, my darling; god grant that you may never regret your generosity and goodness." "no, no," she murmured, "yours are far greater, far, far greater." there was a moment's silence. then suddenly despard put his hand into his pocket and held out something to maisie. "look," he said, "do you remember? i should have returned it to you, but i could not make up my mind to it. i have never parted with it night or day, all these years." it was the little silver vinaigrette. this all happened several years ago, and, by what i can gather, there are few happier people than despard norreys and lady margaret, his wife. chapter five. bronzie. it was in church i saw her first. she was seated some little way in front of me, somewhat to one side. my eyes had been roving about, i suppose, for i was only a boy, fifteen or thereabouts at most, and she was--let me see--she could not have been more than nine, though by the pose of her head, the dignity of the small figure altogether, the immaculate demeanour--which said all over her, "i am in church, and behaving myself accordingly"--one might well have taken her for at least five years older. i remember positively starting when i first caught sight of her--of _it_, i should rather say; for _her_, in the ordinary sense of seeing a person--that is to say, her face--i never once saw during the whole of the first stage of our one-sided acquaintance--the first act of the drama, so to speak. the "it" was her hair. never--never before or since, i do verily believe, has such hair gladdened mortal eyes. "golden" was no word for it, or, rather, was but one of the many words it suggested. it was in great floods of waving and wavering shades of reddish--reddish, not _red_, mind you--brown, dark brown. the mass of it was certainly dark, though the little golden lights gleamed out all over as you will see the sparkling threads of the precious metal ever and anon through the texture of some rich antique silk with which they are cunningly interwoven. i worried myself to find an adjective in any sense suitable for this marvellous colour, or colours; but it was no use, and at last, in a sort of despair, i hit upon the very inadequate but not unsuggestive one of "bronze." it seemed to come a degree nearer it than any other, and it struck me, too, as not commonplace. from "bronze" i went a step further; i found i must have a name for her--a same all my own, that no one would understand even if they heard it; and, half without knowing it, i slipped into calling her to myself, into thinking of my little lady-love as "bronzie." for i had fallen in love with her--looking back now i am sure of it--i had fallen in love with her in the sweet, vague, wholly ridiculous, wholly poetical way that a boy falls in love. and yet i had never seen her face; nay, stranger still, i did not want to see it! it was not so at first; for two or three sundays after the fateful one on which the glorious hair dazzled me into fairy-land, my one idea was to catch sight of bronzie's face. but from where i sat it was all but impossible; she wore a shady hat, too--a hat with a long ostrich feather drooping over the left side, which much increased the difficulty. in time, and with patience, no doubt i should have succeeded; but, as i have said, before long the wish to succeed left me. i was only in london for my christmas holidays, and, somehow, i fancied that bronzie, too, was but a visitor there. "i shall never see her again," i reflected, with a certain sentimental enjoyment of the thought; "but i can always think of her. and if her face were not in accordance with her hair and her figure--that dear little dignified, erect figure--what a disappointment! if she had an ugly mouth, or if she squinted, or even if she were just commonplace and expressionless--no, i don't want to see her." accident favoured me; all those sundays, as i have said, i never did see her face. the church was crowded; we made our exit by different aisles, and, as i was staying with cousins who were never in time for anything, we always came in late--later than bronzie, any way. the little figure, the radiant hair, were always there in the same corner for my eyes to rest upon from the moment i ensconced myself in my place. and so it was to the end of the holidays--somewhat longer that year than usual, from illness of an infectious nature, having broken out among the brothers and sisters at my home. i went back to school, to latin verses and football, to the mingled work and play which make up the intense _present_ of a boy's life; i was, to all appearance, just the same as before, and yet i was changed. i never talked about my bronzie to any one, i made up no dreams about her, built no castles in the air of ever seeing her again, and yet i never forgot her. no, truly, strange and almost incredible as it may seem, i never did forget her; i feel almost certain there was no day in which the remembrance of her did not flash across my mental vision. it was three years later. school-days were over--so recently over that i had scarcely realised the fact, not, certainly, to the extent of feeling sad or pathetic about it--such regrets come afterwards, and come to stay; my feeling was rather one of rejoicing in my new liberty, and pride in being considered man enough to escort an elder sister on a somewhat distant journey had effectually put everything else out of my head that christmas-time--it was always at christmas-time--when--i saw _her_ again. we were at a railway station, a junction; our through carriage was being shunted and bumped about in the mysterious way peculiar to those privileged vehicles. we had been "sided" into a part of the station different from that where we had arrived; i was leaning out, staring about me, when suddenly, some little way off, there gleamed upon me for a moment the glow of that wonderful hair. the platform was crowded; bronzie was walking away in an opposite direction, though slowly. she was with two ladies; as usual, it was only the hair and figure i saw--no glimpse of the face was possible; yet i knew it was she. nor, of course, would the sight of a face i never had seen have helped to identify her. "by jove!" i exclaimed aloud, unconscious that my sister was close behind me; "by jove! how she has grown!" "who?" isabel exclaimed; "whom are you speaking of? is there some one there we know?" and in another instant she too was craning her neck out of the window. "i don't see any one," she added, withdrawing her head, in disappointment. "who was it, vic?" i think i had turned pale; i felt myself now grow crimson. "oh!" i blurted out, saying, of course, in my confusion exactly what i would _not_ have said: "only a--a little girl with such wonderful hair." "where?" asked isabel, again poking her head out--in the wrong direction, of course; she was tired of the long waiting, and jumped at the smallest excitement. "oh, yes! i see! at the door of the refreshment, room. yes, it _is_ magnificent hair; but, vic, you said--" "nonsense!" i interrupted, "she's nowhere near the refreshment room; it's not possible it's the same." nor was it. bronzie was by this time out of sight, far off among the throng of travellers at the left extremity of the platform, and the refreshment room was some yards to our right. it was absolutely, practically impossible. "nonsense!" i repeated peevishly, looking out, nevertheless, in expectation of seeing some childish head of ordinary fair hair at the spot my sister indicated. but i started violently-- yes, it _was_ bronzie again; the self-same hair, at least. and the girl was standing, with her back to us, at the door of the first-class refreshment room, as isabel had said. i felt as if i were dreaming; my brain was in a whirl. i sat down in my place for a moment to recover myself. "i wonder," said my sister, "if her face is as lovely as her hair? she is sure to turn round directly. wait a minute, vic, i'll tell you if she oh, how tiresome! i do believe we are off; after waiting so long, they might as well have waited one moment longer." and off we were--in the opposite direction too. we could see no more of her--bronzie, or not bronzie! on the whole i was not sorry that my sister's curiosity was doomed to be unsatisfied. but my own perplexity was great. how _could_ the child have been spirited all the length of the station in that instant of time? "she is a fairy; that is the only explanation," i said to myself, laughingly. "perhaps i have dreamt her only--in church, that christmas too--but no; isabel saw the hair as well as i." time went on, faster and faster. i was a man--very thoroughly a man-- for seven years had passed since that winter day's journey. i was five-and-twenty; i had completed my studies, travelled for a couple of years, and was about settling down to my own home and its responsibilities--for my father was dead, and i was an eldest son--when the curtain rises for the third and last time in this simplest of dramas. i was unmarried, yet no misogamist, nor was there the shadowiest of reasons why i should not marry; rather, considerably even, the other way. my family wished it; i wished it myself in the abstract. i had money enough and to spare. i loved my home, and was ready to love it still more; but i had never cared for any woman as i knew i must care for _the_ woman i could make happy, and be happy with, as my wife. it was strange--strange and disappointing. i had never fallen in love, though i may really say i had _wished_ to do so. never, that is to say since i was fifteen, and the gleaming locks of my bronzie--like aslauga's golden tresses--had irradiated for me the corner of the gloomy old london church where she sat. that was ten years ago now, yet i had not forgotten my one bit of romance. it was christmas again. for the day itself i was due at home, of course; but on the way thither i had promised to spend a night with greatrex, a friend of some few years' standing, whom i had not seen since his marriage, at which something or other had prevented my being present. he had invited me before, but i had not felt specially keen about it. he was rapturously in love with his wife i could see by his letters, and that sort of thing, under the circumstances, made me feel rather "out in the cold"--not unnaturally. but at last i had given in: i was to stay a night, possibly two, at moresham, greatrex's home, where, as he had written, on receiving my acceptance, "you will see her at last," for all the world as if i had been dying to behold mrs greatrex, and counting the hours till my longings for this privilege should be gratified. greatrex met me at the door. it was afternoon, but clear daylight still, though december, when i drove up. "so delighted, so uncommonly pleased, old fellow, at last," he ejaculated, shaking me vigorously by the hand; "and so will bessie be. i don't know much about your taste, but you can't but agree that _i_ have shown some, when you see her. one of her great beauties is her hair; i wonder if you'll like the way she--; what's the matter?" as the footman interrupted him with a "beg pardon, sir," "oh yes, i'll tell barnes myself;" and he turned back to the groom, still at the door. "excuse me one instant, old fellow. bessie is in the drawing-room." "don't announce me. i will introduce myself," i said hastily to the servant. a queer, a very queer feeling had come over me, at that mention, by her husband, of mrs greatrex's _hair_--could it be? and her name was bessie. i could not imagine bronzie by that name--my stately little maiden--what if it _were_ though? and my dream to end thus? i stepped quietly into the room. she was standing by the window; there was snow outside. i saw her, all but her face, perfectly: i saw _it_-- the hair--and for an instant i felt positively faint. it was _it_--it must be she; the way she wore it was peculiar, though very graceful; the head was pretty, but the small figure, though neat and well proportioned, was by no means what i had pictured bronzie as a woman. but what did it matter? she was greatrex's wife. "i must introduce myself; mrs greatrex," i began, and then, as my words caught her ears, she turned, and for the first time i saw the face--the face i had so often pictured as a fit accompaniment to that glorious hair. oh, the disappointment--the strange disappointment--and yet the still stranger relief! for she was greatrex's wife! but she wasn't bronzie-- my bronzie had never been. there _was_ no bronzie! yet it was a sweet and a pretty little face, and a good little face too. now that i know it well i do not hesitate to call it a very dear and charming little face, though the features are _only_ pretty; the eyes nothing particular, except for their pleasant expression; the nose distinctly insignificant. i exerted myself to be agreeable. when greatrex came in, a moment or two afterwards, he was evidently quite satisfied as to the terms on which we already stood. then followed afternoon tea. it seemed to go to my head. i felt curiously excited, reckless, and almost bitter, and yet unable mentally to drop the subject as it were. the absurdity of the whole filled me with a sort of contempt for myself, and still there was a fascination about it. i determined to go through with it, to punish myself well for my own fantastic nonsense, to show my own folly up to myself. "you may be surprised, mrs greatrex," i said, suddenly, "to hear that-- i feel sure i am not mistaken in saying so--that i have seen you before." she was surprised, but she smiled pleasantly. "indeed," she said; while "where? when? let's hear all about it. why didn't you tell us before?" exclaimed greatrex, in his rather clumsy way. "can you carry your memory back, let me see, nine, ten years?" i asked. "do you remember if at that time you spent a winter in london; or was london your home?" she shook her head. "no, it was not; but i did spend the winter of in london." "had you--can you possibly recollect if you wore a large, rather slouching, felt hat, with a long feather--grey, the hat, too, was grey-- that fell over the left side? and a coat of grey, too, some kind of velvet, i think, trimmed with dark fur?" greatrex looked extremely astonished. "come, now," he ejaculated. mrs bessie smiled. "yes," she said, "i remember the whole get-up perfectly." greatrex looked triumphant. i did not, for i did not feel so. "and," i went on listlessly, almost--i felt so sure of it now--"did you not come to church for several sundays that winter; and on christmas day, to saint edric's, in ---square?" for the first time mrs greatrex shook her head. "no," she said. "i never remember being in saint edric's in my life." greatrex's face fell; he had been quite excited and delighted, poor fellow. "come, now," he said again, in a different tone, "are you sure, bessie? i think you must be mistaken." "i think so, too," i added, a little more eager myself now. "you may have forgotten the name. saint edric's is--" and i went on to describe the church. "you came with a lady who looked like a governess," and i concluded with some details as to this person's appearance. "yes," mrs greatrex said, "that sounds like our governess--mrs mills; she was with us several years. but it is not only that i was never at saint edric's; i was never at church all those weeks in london at all. i had a bad attack of bronchitis. i remember particularly how vexed i was not to wear my new things, especially as we--" suddenly a curious change of expression came over her face, and just at that instant her husband interrupted her. "i have it," he began excitedly, but he got no farther. "_bessie_," he exclaimed, with almost a shriek, "my dearest child, you've scalded me!" and he looked up ruefully from the contents of a cup of tea deposited on his knee. "no, no," his wife exclaimed, "it was only a little water i was pouring into my cup, and it was not very hot. but come along, i have a cloth in the conservatory, where i was arranging some flowers. i'll rub it dry in an instant." she almost dragged him off--with unnecessary vehemence, it seemed to me. i could not make her out. "an odd little woman," i thought. "i hope, for greatrex's sake, she's not given to nerves or hysterics, or that sort of thing." but they were back in two minutes, greatrex quite smiling and content, though he has owned to me since that his knee _was_ scalded, all the same. no more was said on the subject of reminiscences. indeed, it seemed to me that bessie rather avoided it, and a new idea struck me--perhaps greatrex was given to frightful jealousy, though he hid it so well, and his wife had got him off into the conservatory to smooth him down. yes, his manner _was_ queer. poor little woman! i forgave her her hair. we strolled off to the stables, then to have a smoke, and thus idled away the time till the dressing-bell rang. "we're very punctual people," said greatrex, as he showed me to my room. so i made haste, and found myself entering the drawing-room some few minutes before the hands of my watch had reached the dinner-hour. "_she_ is punctual," i thought, as i caught sight of a white-robed figure standing with its back to me, full in the light of a suspended lamp, whose rays caught the gleam of her radiant hair. "not--not very wise to be down before him, if he has the uncomfortable peculiarity that i suspect. by jove! how much taller she looks in evening dress! strange that it should make such a difference!" "so your husband is the laggard, in spite of his boasted punctuality, mrs greatrex?" i began. she turned towards me. "i am not mrs greatrex," she said, while she raised her soft brown eyes to my face, and a little colour stole into her cheeks. the words were unnecessary. i stood silent, motionless, spell-bound. "i--i am only her sister--imogen grey," she went on. i have asked her since if she thought me mad: she says not; but i feel as if i must have seemed so. for still i could not speak, though certain words seemed dancing like happy fairies across my brain. "bronzie, my bronzie! found at last. bronzie!" and in another instant good little bessie greatrex was in the room, busy introducing me to her sister, "miss grey," and explaining that she had not been sure of imogen's arriving in time for dinner--had i heard the wheels just as we went up to dress? she was a little confused; but it was not till afterwards that i thought of it. in a sort of dream i went in to dinner; in a sort of dream i went through that wonderful evening. they were as unlike as sisters could well be, except for the hair: unlike, and yet alike; for, if there is one woman in this world as good and true as my bronzie, it is her sister bessie. yes, she was--she _is_ my bronzie, though no one knows the name, nor the whole story, but our two happy selves. and i had it out with bessie; she suspected the truth while i was questioning her about her recollections, and then she saw it must have been imogen, and not herself: the dragging off poor greatrex into the conservatory was to tell him to hold his tongue. she wanted so to "surprise" me! i believe, at the bottom of my heart, that greatrex and she had planned something of the kind even before they heard my unexpected reminiscences; and if they did, there was no harm in it. but--if she hadn't been my bronzie, nothing would have been any use; i should have lived and died unmarried. dean's illustrated farthing books. * * * * * be kind one to another. [illustration] london: dean & son, , ludgate hill. be kind one to another. [illustration] lily stuart and ellie graham were very near neighbours, and very dear friends. they attended the same school, and when that was over, they spent most of their leisure time in playing with each other. ellie's younger sister, may, was also a great friend of lily's, and joined with them in all their plays; but as she was in a different class at school, ellie and lily were rather more constantly together. at any other time, however, wherever you saw one of the little girls, you were almost sure of seeing the three; indeed, the two sisters were so seldom separated, that lily's little brother frank, who was very fond of them both, used to call each of them "ellie and may"--he heard them so constantly spoken of together. at a school which these little girls attended, there was a reward given for good conduct and perfect lessons, at the end of each week. this was a beautiful silver medal, with "reward of merit" engraved upon it. this was to be worn the following week, and very happy it made any little girl to show her friends this proof of her good scholarship. there were so many good children at this school, that the kind teacher was sometimes puzzled to know on whom to bestow it, and thus she was obliged to make her rules quite strict; and one of them was, that the children must not miss a day from school, if they wished to receive the medal. [illustration] ellie and lily had been longer at this school than may; so when she entered it, she became very anxious to deserve the medal. two or three times she almost gained it, and then, by necessary absence, lost it again. finally, four days of the week had passed, and may had not once missed in her lessons or conduct. very perfectly did she study her task for friday, and went to sleep to dream of the medal. alas! when she woke the next morning, she found the ground covered with snow, and the streets looking quite impassable. still she hoped she might get to school, when a man who lived in the neighbourhood of the school-house, came to mrs. stuart on an errand, and he told may's grandmamma, that no child could get past a crossing a few streets off, on the way to school. so may, who was rather a delicate child, had to stay at home. bitter was her disappointment, and still worse did she feel, when, a few moments after, ellie and lily came running in--their cheeks as red as roses--to see if may was ready for school. they, too, felt very badly when they heard she had to stay at home, for they, like generous children, were very anxious that she should receive the medal. [illustration] may's grandma asked them if they thought they could get over the bad crossing; they said, "oh, yes; they had on their india-rubber-boots, and were not afraid." so off they went, leaving may very sadly behind. they trudged along through the snow-drifts, until they came to the crossing of which the man had warned them. they looked one way, and the other, and then ellie made a jump over the worst place, and helped lily across; thus they got over very nicely. "oh!" cried ellie, as she reached the school-door, "how i do wish may had come; for now she will lose the medal; i do believe i will go back for her." no sooner said than done. hastily closing the door behind lily, she ran as quickly as possible to mrs. stuart's. "may, may!" cried she, "do ask your grandma to let you go back with me; that crossing is not at all bad; i came back to tell you so." of course, mrs. stuart consented; and in a few minutes, off the little girls started, as merrily as possible. when they reached school they were a little late. we hardly know which was the happiest that afternoon--may, when the medal, with its pretty pink ribbon, was put about her neck--or ellie, to remember that she had helped may to obtain it. before i bid my little readers "good-bye," i would whisper to them that this is no fairy tale or fancy sketch, but a true story. thus you will see that i have asked you to do nothing impossible--since little children, like yourselves, have shown how pleasant it is to "be kind one to another." [illustration] transcriber's note obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. https://www.pgdp.net (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. small uppercase have been replaced with regular uppercase. blank pages have been eliminated. variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original. frontispiece. [illustration: _see page ._] the wishing-cap. by mrs. sherwood, author of "little henry and his bearer," &c. &c. _new edition._ london: houlston and stoneman, , paternoster row. the wishing-cap. there lived once a lady in london, who had a great deal of money, but who had never given her heart to god. this lady had the care of five children: four of them were brothers and sisters; and their names were james and edward, charlotte and louisa. the fifth child was an orphan, and had no brothers or sisters. the name of this little boy was charles. little charles's papa and mamma had been dead only a very few months: they were very pious people, and had brought up their little boy in the fear of god. charles thought of his papa and mamma every day: he knew they were gone to heaven, and he knew, also, who that blessed person was, for whose sake they had been received into that happy place. [illustration] every day little charles read a few chapters in a bible which his papa had given him, and he tried to remember the good things which had been taught him: so god blessed little charles, and helped him to be good. it happened, one sunday afternoon, in the christmas holidays, that the lady came into the children's play-room, and sat down among them. "i am come," she said, "to drink tea with you this evening; after which we will put on a wishing-cap; and then we shall see what fine things the wishing-cap will produce." the children were all pleased to see the lady sit down among them; and while they were drinking their tea, they talked a great deal about the wishing-cap. "what can a wishing-cap be?" said louisa, who was the youngest: "and how can it bring fine things?" "i never heard of a wishing-cap in all my life," said james. "i want tea to be over, that we may see it." "o!" said charlotte, "i know what is meant by a wishing-cap. i remember reading of a man, in a fairy tale, who had a wishing-cap; and when he put this cap on, and wished for any thing, he had it immediately: but i thought there were no such things really as wishing-caps, except in fairy tales." "well, well," said the lady, "we shall see what kind of wishing-cap i can make: but i must tell you, my wishing-cap is not so good a one as the man's in the fairy tale; it will only produce such things as may be easily had, it will not bring wonders to pass." in this manner they went on talking till tea was over, and the tea-things carried away. then the lady drew her chair to the fire, and bidding the children sit round her, she put her hand into her pocket, and pulled out a sheet of white paper. she then folded up the paper in the shape of a cap, and holding it up in her hand, "this is the wishing-cap," she said; "you shall put it on, and try what it is good for. come, who will be the first to wear the cap?" then the lady placed the cap on charlotte's head. "now," she said, "think! what do you wish for?" [illustration] "but will what i wish for really come?" said charlotte. "perhaps it may," answered the lady: "we shall know to-morrow morning." "then," said charlotte, "i wish for a muslin frock, trimmed with satin ribbon." "very well," said the lady. "who comes next?" "i! i!" cried james, snatching the cap from his sister's head, and putting it on his own; "i wish for a rocking-horse." "now for me," said edward; "give me the cap. i wish for a coachman's whip. now, louisa, it is your turn." "i wish for a wax doll, with flaxen hair, and blue eyes," said louisa. "now you have all had your turns," said the lady, "but charles: come, louisa, give the cap to charles." "there, take it," cried louisa, throwing the cap at him, "and make haste." the cap fell at charles's feet: he took it up, and laid it on the table. "put it on your head, you foolish boy," said james, "and wish a wish." charles smiled, but he did not offer to take up the cap. "what are you about?" said james, giving him a push; "put on the cap, and tell us your wish." "charles," said the lady, "don't you understand what you are to do? put on the cap, and don't be stupid." "i thank you, ma'am," answered charles; "but i beg that you will not be angry, if i don't put on the wishing-cap." [illustration] "but you shall have it on," said james, taking it off the table, and putting it on his head. charles took it quietly off his head, and laid it on the table. the lady looked surprised; and drawing charles to her, she said, "what is the meaning of your behaviour? why will you not play with us?" "perhaps you may not be pleased, if i tell you, ma'am; and i do not wish to make you angry," answered little charles. "but i will know," said the lady, looking vexed. "my poor papa, when he was alive," said charles, "used to tell me that i ought not to wish for any thing but god's blessing: and he taught me this verse--_seek ye first the kingdom of god, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you_: (matt. vi. .) and this is the reason why i do not like to put on the wishing-cap." while little charles was speaking, the rest of the children stood staring and laughing; and when he had done, the lady pushed him away, saying, "you are a strange, foolish boy, and not fit to play with other children. go to bed immediately." charles went up to his room. his cheeks were wet with tears, and his heart was very sad. he remembered, that he once had a papa to lean his head against when he was unhappy, and a dear mamma to wipe away his tears; but they were both dead: yet still he had a saviour to whom he might freely go. so he tried to lift up his heart to this dear saviour, and laying his little head on his pillow, he fell asleep. in his sleep he had a very sweet dream about heaven: and when he awoke in the morning, he remembered these words in the prophet isaiah--_as one whom his mother comforteth, so will i comfort you_. (isaiah lxvi. .) [illustration] while charles was dressing himself, he heard a very great noise down stairs. he made haste, and running into the play-room, he found the rest of the children screaming and jumping for joy. charlotte dressed in a new muslin frock; louisa with the wax doll she had wished for; james riding on a large new rocking-horse; and edward with a coachman's whip. "look here, master charles," said james, "see what the wishing-cap has brought us! are you not sorry now that you were such a fool as to refuse to put on the wishing-cap?" then the rude boy began to shout and halloo, riding up and down as hard as the horse would go; while edward kept cutting and lashing the heels of the wooden horse with his coachman's whip, whistling, and smacking his lips, like a coachman; louisa sung to her doll; and charlotte danced about in her new frock, singing and laughing: and, all together, there was such a noise, that it might have been heard to the end of the street; the boys every now and then crying out, "well, master charles, what do you think of us now?" every thing went on very well, and all were in the greatest good-humour, till edward, without intending it, instead of lashing the wooden legs of the horse, gave his brother a most terrible cut with his long whip, over one knee, and across one hand. james, being made very angry with the pain, jumped from his horse; and flying at his brother, began to beat him with all his strength. edward ran to his sisters for help; and james followed, continuing to beat him, and saying, "you sha'n't horse-whip me for nothing, sir, i can tell you that." at length, james pushed edward against louisa; by which means, her doll was thrown down, and broken to pieces: and edward, as he fell, caught his foot in charlotte's new frock, and tore it sadly. charlotte and louisa now began to scream and cry in their turns; and there was such a dreadful noise, that the lady came in haste to see what was the matter. the children were all quiet, as soon as they saw the lady, and very much frightened too. "so," she said, "you have been fighting, you naughty children, instead of enjoying the pretty things i got for you! you, charlotte, have torn your frock; and you, louisa, have broken your doll. and as to you, you naughty boys, you have been beating each other: go up to your bed-rooms; and there you shall stay all day, and have nothing but bread and water. as for the rocking-horse and the whip, i shall send them back to the shop." so the four children were taken up to their rooms; and the whip and the rocking-horse were sent back to the shop: but little charles was asked to breakfast with the lady in the parlour. and she said to him, "i begin to think your papa was a wise man, when he taught you to seek for nothing but god's blessing: for i see that having the things we wish for, does not always make us the happier." little charles was much pleased, when he heard the lady speak so kindly; and he asked her to forgive the other children, but she would not. [illustration] and now i will tell you how little charles received at last what he had secretly desired above all things, and how happy it made him. about two months after this time, all the children were taken ill with a fever which was then going about london. they all recovered, however, but little charles; for though the lady took great care of him, because she now began to love him, and though a very skilful doctor came often to see him, yet he got worse and worse. for many days he could not speak, and did not know any body. at last, the time of his death drew very near. he had been asleep; and opened his eyes, while the lady was standing by his bed. he looked quite cheerful; and holding out his hand to her, "i am going to die, ma'am," he said, "i feel death approaching; but i am very happy. that dear saviour whose love my father taught me to seek, is very near me, though my eyes do not now see him. he comforts me with his promises, and tells me that for his sake death shall be made easy to me." [illustration] "it was because i desired his love alone, that i ceased to wish for other things. i knew that they could not make me happy. all the world, my papa taught me, could not make me happy without my saviour's love. and now i am going to this dear saviour; and i know that he will forgive my sins, because he gave me grace to seek him." then little charles prayed that god would bless the lady, and the other children under her care: and soon afterwards he died. i am happy to tell you, that the lady never forgot little charles's words upon his dying bed. from that time, she gave her heart to seek heavenly blessings instead of earthly possessions: and she used often to say to the other children, when they were wishing for toys, or other foolish things, "remember little charles; and, like him, put away the wishing-cap." and so i say to you, my dear little children, who may hereafter read this story,-- don't put on the wishing-cap. finis. snow-white; or, the house in the wood by laura e. richards author of "captain january," "melody," "three margarets," "queen hildegarde," etc. boston dana estes & company publishers _copyright, _ by dana estes & company colonial press: electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u.s.a. to e. a. r. with affectionate greeting contents. chap. page i. the house ii. the child iii. the man iv. asking questions v. phillips; and a story vi. milking the cow vii. the story viii. the key of the fields ix. restored to life x. good-bye snow-white; or, the house in the wood. chapter i. the house. the house was so well hidden, one might almost stumble against it before one became aware of it. all round the woods stood tall and dense, old woods of pine and hemlock, with here and there great smooth, squat beeches, and ragged, glistening yellow birches. for the most part they jostled one another so close that one almost fancied they must be uncomfortable; but in one spot they fell away from a steep, rocky bank or ledge, drawing back and standing in a circle at some little distance, leaving an open space of sunny green, at the foot of the rock. it was on this open space that the house looked; and as the house was built of stone, and leaned up against the ledge behind it, one could hardly tell where man's hand had begun, or where left off. the stones might almost have been flung together by a boy at play; yet, rough as they were, they fitted close, and kept the weather out. the roof was of bark; the whole thing was half-covered with creepers that made their way down in a leisurely fashion from the ledge above, not too inquisitive, but still liking to know what was going on. to this end they looked in at the windows, which stood open all summer long, and saw many things which must have surprised them. the squirrels went in boldly, several times a day; so did the birds, the braver of them; and all came out looking pleased with themselves and with things in general. so there was necessarily something or somebody pleasant inside the house. i said that the trees stood well back from the house in the wood. i ought to have excepted three, a stately pine, and two glorious yellow birches, which stood close to it, as close as might be. in fact, part of the hut seemed to be built round the bole of the pine, which disappeared for several feet, as if the stones had clasped it in a rough embrace, and refused to let go their hold. the birches were a few feet from the door, but near enough for one to lean out of window and pull off the satin fringes. their roots swelled out above the ground, and twisted themselves into curves that might make a delightful seat, under the green bending canopy, through whose waving folds the trunk glistened like a giant prince of rags and tatters. in the centre of the tiny glade stood a buttonwood-tree, whose vast girth seemed curiously out of proportion to its surroundings. the pine and the birches were noble trees; all the forest round was full of towering stems and knotted, powerful branches; but beside the great buttonwood, they seemed like sturdy dwarfs. if there had been any one to measure the trunk, he would have found a girth of twenty-five feet or more, near the base; while above the surrounding forest, it towered a hundred feet and more in air. at a height of twelve or fifteen feet appeared an opening, two or three feet in diameter. a hollow? surely! not so large as that in the lycian plane-tree, where licinius mucianus dined with nineteen companions,--yes, and slept too, and enjoyed himself immensely,--but large enough to hold two or three persons with all comfort, if not convenience. as for the number of squirrels it might hold, that was past counting; they were running in and out all day long, and made such a noise that they disturbed the woodpeckers, and made them irritable on a hot day. there never was such a wood for birds! partly from its great age, partly from favourable accidents of soil and aspect, it had accumulated an unusual variety of trees; and any bird, looking about for a good building site, was sure of finding just the particular tree he liked best, with building materials, food, and every other requisite to heart's desire. so the trees rustled and quivered with wings, and rang with song, all day long, except in the hot sleepy noons, when most respectable birds keep within nests, and only the woodthrush from time to time sends out his few perfect notes, to show that all times are alike to the true singer. not content with the forest itself, some families--i think they were ruby-crowned wrens and bluebirds--had made their nests in the creepers that matted the roof of the hut with green; and the great buttonwood was a positive metropolis, densely populated with titmice, warblers, and flycatchers of every description. if anybody lived in the stone hut, he would not want for company, what with the birds and the squirrels, and the woodchucks that came and went across the little green as unconcernedly as if it were their own front dooryard. decidedly, the inhabitant, if there were one, must be of kin to the wildwood creatures, for his dwelling and its surroundings evidently belonged as much to the forest people as to him. on the day when my story begins, the house in the wood was the only lifeless thing, or so it seemed, in the whole joyous little scene. it was a day in early may, and the world was so delighted with itself that it laughed and twinkled all over. the trees were hardly yet in full leaf, but had the gray-green misty look of spring, that makes one see erl-könig's daughters shimmering in every willow, and rustling out of sight behind the white birch-trunks. the great buttonwood had put out its leaves, covered with thick white down; the air was full of sweet smells, for it had rained in the night, and wet leaves, pine needles, new ferns, and a hundred other lovely awakening things, made the air a life-giving ether. the little green was starred with anemones and eyebrights; under the cool of the trees one might see other things glimmering, exquisite shadowy forms,--hepaticas, were they, or fairies in purple and gray fur? one felt the presence of mayflowers, though one could not see them unless one went close and pulled away the brown dry leaves; then the lovely rosy creatures would peep out and laugh, as only mayflowers can when they play at hide and seek. there seemed to be a robin party going on under the buttonwood-tree. a dozen of them or more were running and hopping and strutting about, with their breasts well forward, doing amazing things in the matter of worms. yes, it must surely have rained in the night, or there could not have been such a worm-harvest. there seemed almost to be enough for the robins, and any one who knows robins is aware that this is an extravagant statement. the titmice had apparently not been invited; they sat in the branches and looked on, or hopped and ran about their green leafy city. there was no need for them to travel all that distance to the ground; besides, they considered worms vulgar and coarse food. a self-respecting titmouse, who provides over two hundred grubs a day for himself and his family, may well be content to live in his own city, the murmuring, rustling place where grubs lie close on the bough and under the bark, and where flies are ready for the bill; he has no need to pierce the friendly earth, and drag up her unsightly creeping things, to swallow piecemeal. a titmouse has his opinion of robins, though he is on intimate terms with most birds in the forest. now and then some sudden wave of instinct or purpose would run through all the great army of birds,--those in the buttonwood city, the robins struggling on the green, and far in the dim forest depths thrush and song-sparrow and warbler. first a stray note here and there, setting the pitch, it might be; then, fuller and fuller, a chorus, rising high and higher, fluting, trilling, whistling, singing away like mad, every little ruffled throat of them all. praise, was it, or profession of belief, or simply of joy of being alive and able to sing under green leaves and summer sun? but even these outbursts of rapture did not rouse the house in the wood. it lay there in the morning glory, gray, silent, senseless, crouched against the wall of rock behind it. chapter ii. the child. the child had grown tired of the road. at first it had been delightful to patter along in the soft white dust, leaving the print of her feet so clear behind her. she might be a hundred little girls, she thought, instead of one. the prints reached away back, as far as she could see, hundreds and hundreds of little trotty feet, each with its toes marked as plain as if you drew them with a pencil. and the dust felt soft and smooth, and when you put your foot down it went up puff in the air, and made little clouds; only when it got in your throat it made you cough and sneeze, and it was gritty in your eyes, too. by and by, as i said, she grew tired of this, and it was a new joy to see the little river that came running along just then. "running and running, without any feet; running and running, and isn't it sweet!" that was what the child sang, for she had a way of singing when she was alone. without hesitating, she plumped into the river, and the water was cool and delicious to her hot little toes. she walked along, holding her petticoats high, though there was no need of that, as they were short enough before; splashing just enough to make silver sparkles at every step. the river did not seem to grow deeper; it was just precisely made to wade in, the child thought. for some way the banks were fringed with meadow-rue, and she had to stop every little while to admire the fluffy white blossoms, and the slender, graceful stems. then came alders, stubby and thick, with last year's berries still clinging here and there to the black twigs. then, somehow, all at once there began to be trees along by the river side. the child had been so absorbed in making sparkles and shouting at them, she had forgotten the banks for awhile; now, when she looked up, there was no more meadow-rue. trees came crowding down to the water's edge; trees were all about her, ranks upon ranks of them; wherever she looked, she saw only green rustling tents and waving curtains. "i am in a woods!" said the child. she laughed aloud at the idea, and looked round again, full of joy and wonder. it was pretty enough, surely. the woods were not so thick but that sunbeams could find their way down through the branches, dappling the green gloom with fairy gold. here and there the gold lay on the river, too, and that was a wonderful thing, handfuls of gold and diamonds flung down from the sky, shimmering and sparkling on a crystal floor; but in other places the water slept still and black in the shadow, only broken where a stone humped itself out, shining and mossy, with the silver breaking over it and running down with cheerful babblings into the soft blackness below. by and by there was a stone so big that its top stood out dry and brown above the water. it was a flat top, and the child sat down on it, and gathered her petticoats about her, and let her feet rest in the cool flowing. that was a great pleasure, to be really part of the brook, or of the rock. she laughed aloud, suddenly, and kicked a little; till the bright drops flew over her head; then she began to sing and talk, both together. "and i comed away, and i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay! "well, and if miss tyler won't be surprised! she will say 'oh, dear me! where _is_ that child?' and then she will look everywhere, and everywhere, _and_ everywhere, and i won't be nowhere!" she broke out into a funny little bubbling laugh, and the brook laughed in almost exactly the same way, so that the child nodded at it, and kicked up the sparkles again, to show her appreciation. "and then they will send out all over the village, and everybody will say, 'oh, yes, we seed that child. we seed her going into the store, and we seed her going into the house, and we seed her running about all over the place.' yes! but, nobody seed me run, and nobody seed me go, and nobody don't know nothing, and nothing don't nobody know!" and she bubbled again. this time a green frog came up out of the water and looked at her, and said "croak," in an inquisitive tone. "why did i?" said the child, looking at him sidewise. "well, if i tell, won't you tell anybody, never no more? honest injun? well, then, i won't tell you! i don't tell things to frogs!" she splashed a great splash, and the frog departed in anger. "huh!" said the child. "he was noffin but an old frog. he wasn't a fairy; though there _was_ the frog prince, you know." she frowned thoughtfully, but soon shook her head. "no, that wasn't him, i'm sure it wasn't. he'd have had gold spots on his green, and this frog hadn't a single one, he hadn't. he wasn't a prince; i'd know a frog that was a prince, minute i seed him, i 'spect. and he'd say: "'king's daughter youngest, open the door!' "and then i would, and he would come in, and--and--i'd put him in miss tyler's plate, and wouldn't she yellup and jump? and mamma--" here the child suddenly looked grave. "mamma!" she repeated, "mamma. well, she went away and left me first, and that was how it was. when you leave this kinds of child alone, it runs away, that's what it does; and miss tylers isn't any kind of persons to leave this kinds of child wiz, anyhow, and so i told them at first. "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay! and they teared their hair, and they made despair, and--and-- and i said i thought perhaps i did not care! "that's a long one. when i come to some fairies i'll make more. when i am big, i'll talk that way all the time, wiz poetry in it." she was silent for a few minutes, watching the bubbles that came sailing down the stream. most of the way they were clear like glass, with a little rim of foam where they joined on, she thought; but when they came to a certain place, where a shaft of yellow light came down and made sparkles on the water, every bubble turned rainbow colour, most beautiful. only, some of them would go the wrong way, over into the shadow. "hi!" she shouted to them. "come over here and be rainbows! you are a stupid, you are! if i was a bubble, i would know enough to come to the right place, and be a rainbow, yes, i would. i'll kick you, old bubble, if you go there!" stretching out her foot, she stretched it a little too far, and sat down in the stream with a souse. she scrambled out hastily, but this time on the bank. she had had enough of the brook, and was red with anger. "you needn't have your old stones so slippery!" she said. "i needn't have sat on your old stone, anyhow, but i thought it might be pleased. and my feet was cold, and i won't stay there any more, not a single minute, so you can make all the noise you want to, and noffin but frogs will stay in you, and not prince frogs one bit, only just common ones, so now!" she shook her head at the brook, and turned away. then she turned back again, and her baby forehead clouded. "see here!" said the child. "i 'spect i'm lost." there seemed no doubt about that. there was no sign of a path anywhere. the still trees came crowding down to the water's edge, sometimes leaning far over, so that their drooping branches met across the still pools. on every side were green arcades, long reaches of shimmering leaves, cool deeps of fern; nothing else. the child had never known fear, and it did not come to her now. she reflected for a moment; then her brow cleared. "i must find a house in the wood!" she announced to the brook. she spoke with decision, and cheerfulness reigned in her mind. of course there was a house somewhere; there always was, in every wood. sometimes two children lived in it, and the brother was a white fawn all day, and turned into a boy at night; that would be fun! and sometimes it was an old woman--oh, dear, yes, but sometimes that old woman was a witch, and put you in a chicken-coop, and ate you up when you were fat. yes; but you would know that house, because it was all made of candy and pancakes and things, and you could just run round behind it, and pull off some pancakes from the shed, p'r'aps, and then run away as fast as ever you could, and old womans couldn't run half so fast as children, and so! but the best house, on the whole, would be the dwarf house. yes, that was the one to look for. the house where seven dwarfs lived, and they had the table all ready set when you came, and you took a little out of one bowl, and a little out of another cup; and then they came in and found you asleep, and said, "who is this sweet maiden?" and then you stayed and cooked for them, just like snow-white, and--and--it was just lovely! "well, i wish it would be pretty soon!" said the child. "i'm pretty hungry, i 'spect p'raps." she was a brave child; she was hungry, and her legs and feet ached; but she pushed on cheerfully, sometimes talking and singing, sometimes silent, making her way through the tangle of ferns and hanging branches; following the brook, because there was a little boy in the newspaper that her papa read, and he got lost, and just he followed the brook, and it brought him right along to where there were people, and he had blackberries all the way. she looked for blackberries, but they are hard to find in early may, except in the fairy books. there, as the child knew very well, you had only to go to the right place and take a broom and brush away the snow, and there you found strawberries, the finest that ever were seen, to take home to your sick sister. it was true that you had to be very good and polite to the proper old woman, or else you would never find the strawberries; but the child would be polite, she truly would. she would sweep the old woman's house, and give her half her own bread--only she had no bread! here a great pang of emptiness smote the child; she felt that there was a sob about somewhere, waiting to get into her throat. it should not come in; she shook her head, and pressed on. it was all right; god was close by, anyhow, and he had to take care of children, because he said he would. so it was all right, only-- suddenly the child stopped; for it _was_ all right. she had found the house in the wood. standing breast-high in ferns, she looked away from the brook; and there was a break in the trees, and beyond the break a space of sunny green, with a huge tree in the middle; and on the farther side the house itself. gray and silent; leaning against a great rock-face behind it; the door shut, but the windows standing wide open; the roof all green and blossoming, like a queer little garden place,--there it was, exactly the way it was in the fairy books. the child saw at once that there was no danger of cannibal old women here. this house was not made of pancakes, and the windows were not barley sugar at all, but plain glass. no, this was the house of the seven dwarfs; and she was really in a fairy story, and she was going to have the best time she had ever had in her life. the child stood quiet for a few minutes, looking in pure delight. perhaps one of the dwarfs would come out. she thought she might feel a little shy if one were to come out just this very minute. then she remembered that they must all be out at work in the forest, for they always were, and they did not come back till night. "well, i can't wait!" she said, decidedly. "first place, snow-white didn't, not a minute she didn't wait. and besides, i'm too hungry, and i s'pose everything is ready and waiting inside, and so i'll go." she advanced boldly across the green, but paused again at the door. no sound came from the house. the creepers waved on the roof, the birds made an amazed and amazing chatter in the great buttonwood-tree; but that was all. the child pushed the door, the latch yielded, and the door swung slowly open. two steps, and she stood inside. even the very bravest child may be excused for feeling a little strange in such a house as this. she felt her heart beating in her ears, and her throat was dry; but as she looked about her, everything was so perfectly right that her sense of fitness asserted itself once more, and she was content and glad. the room in which she stood was not large, except for dwarfs; for them it would be a great hall. it was floored and walled with clean, shining wood, and there were two doors, one at either end. there was an open fire-place, in which two black iron dogs with curly tails held up some logs of wood that were smouldering and purring in a comfortable way, as if they had been lighted more for pleasure than for warmth. near the fire stood an easy-chair, and another chair was drawn up by a table that stood in the window. it was on seeing this table that the child began to fear all was not quite right. it was a neat little table, just about high enough for dwarfs, if they were not very short dwarfs; it was laid with a snowy cloth, as they always are; but--where were the seven places? there was only one at this table. there was a plate, a knife and fork, a cup and saucer, a little loaf of bread and a little pat of butter, a pitcher of milk, and a comb of golden honey. what did this mean? "well, i can't help it," said the child, suddenly. "if they is gone away all but one of them, i can't help it; they shouldn't play that way, and i'm hungry. just i'll take a little bit, as snow-white did. just that's what i'll do!" she seated herself at the table, and poured some milk into the cup. oh, how good it was! she broke off a bit of bread, and nibbled it; her spirits rose, and she began to feel again that she was having the most splendid time that ever was. she broke out into her song-- "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not--" then she stopped, for the door of the further room opened quietly, and the dwarf came in. chapter iii. the man. the child's song broke off in a little scream, for things are sometimes startling even when you have been expecting them; but the scream bubbled into a laugh. "ah! i--i mean i'm laughing because you look so funny. i took some bread and milk because i was hungry." she stopped abruptly, feeling that sob somewhere about her again. the dwarf advanced toward her, and she held on to the back of the chair; but he held out his hand and smiled. "how do you do?" he said. "i am very glad to see you; pray sit down again and finish your supper." "it's your supper," said the child, who was honest. "i didn't mean to steal it; i don't know p'r'aps there isn't enough for both of us." she had a way of leaving out words in her sentences that sometimes confused people, but the dwarf seemed to understand. "there's plenty for both!" he said. "come! i'll sit down here, and you shall give me some milk. i am hungry, too. have some honey!" he nodded at her, and smiled again; he had the most delightful smile the child had ever seen. somebody once said you could warm yourself at it as at a fire. the child took a piece of bread, and looked at him over it as she nibbled. he was not a tiny dwarf, not one of the kind that get into flowers, and fight with grass-blades, and that sort of thing. no, indeed! he was just a little man; why, he was taller than she was, though not so very much taller. he had brown hair and a soft brown beard; his eyes were brown, too, and full of light. all brown and gray, for his dress was gray and soft, "kind of humplety velvet," the child said to herself, though it was really only corduroy. he seemed all of a piece with the house, and the gray rock behind it. now he looked at her, and smiled again. "you look as if you were wondering something very much," he said. "have some more milk! what are you wondering?" "partly i was wondering where the rest of you was!" said the child. "the rest of me?" said the man. "there isn't any more of me. this is all there is. don't you think it's enough?" he smiled still, but this time it was only his mouth, and his eyes looked dark, as if something hurt him. "i mean the others," the child explained. "the rest of the seven. i guess it's six, p'r'aps. there was seven of 'em where snow-white came to, you know." "seven what?" asked the man. "dwarfs!" said the child. "oh!" said the man. he was silent for a moment, as if he were thinking; then he laughed, and the child laughed, too. "isn't it funny?" she said. "what are you laughing at?" "yes, it is funny!" said the man. "why, you are just like snow-white, aren't you? but there aren't any more dwarfs. i'm the only one there is here." the child thought that was a pity. "you could have much more fun if there were seven of you," she said. "why don't you get some more?" then suddenly recollecting herself, she added, hastily, "i never did cook, but i can stir porridge, and dust i can, too, and i 'spect i could make your bed, 'cause it wouldn't be so big, you see. i tried to make beds, but i get all mixed up in the sheets, and the blankets are horrid, and i never know which is the wrong side of the spread. so you see!" "i see!" said the man. "but i 'spect i could make yours, don't you? should you mind if once i didn't get the spread right, you know?" "not a bit. besides, i don't like spreads. we'll throw it away." "oh, let's!" said the child. "hurrah! do you say hurrah?" "hurrah!" said the man. "do you mind if i smoke a pipe?" no, the child did not mind at all. so he brought a most beautiful pipe, and filled and lighted it; then he sat down, and looked at the child thoughtfully. "i suppose you ought to tell me where you came from," he said. "it isn't half so much fun, but i suppose they will be missing you at home, don't you? your mamma--" the child hastened to explain. her mamma was away, had gone quite away with her papa, and left her, the child, alone with miss tyler and the nurse. now miss tyler was no kinds of a person to leave a child wiz; she poked and she fussed, and she said it was shocking whenever you did anything, but just anything at all except sit still and learn hymns. "i hate hymns!" said the child. "so do i!" said the man, fervently. "it's a pity about miss tyler. where is it you came from, snow-white?" "oh! it's somewhere else; a long way off. i can't go back there. dwarfs never send people back there; they let them stay and do the work. and i'm almost as big as you are!" the child ended, with a little quaver. "so you are," said the man. "now we'll wash the dishes, and forget all about it for to-night, anyhow." it was glorious fun washing the dishes, such pretty dishes, blue and white, with houses and birds on them. they went into the kitchen through one of the doors, and there all the things were bright and shining, as if they were made of silver. the child asked the dwarf if they were really silver, but he said oh, dear, no, only britannia. that sounded like nonsense, because the child knew that britannia ruled the waves, her papa sang a song about it; but she thought perhaps dwarfs didn't understand about that, so she said nothing. the dwarf brought a little cricket, and she stood on that and wiped the dishes while he washed them; and he said he never liked washing them so much before, and she said she never liked wiping them so much. everything was as handy as possible. the dish-pan was as bright as the rest of the things, and there were plenty of clean towels, and when you shook the soap-shaker about, it made the most charming bubbles in the clean hot water. "do you ever make bubbles in your pipe?" said the child. "not in this one," said the dwarf. "i used to have a pipe for them; perhaps i can find one for you by and by." "i made bubbles in the river," she announced, polishing a glass vigorously. "there was a stone, and i sat on it, and bubbles i made wiz kicks, you know, in the water; and songs i made, too, and the river went bubble, too, all the time. there was a frog, too, and he came and said things to me, but i kicked at him. he wasn't the frog prince, 'cause he had no gold spots on him. do you know the frog prince? does he live here in this river? do you have gold balls when you play ball?" "i'll get one," said the dwarf, recklessly. "it's no fun playing ball alone, but now we'll have one, i shouldn't wonder. how far did you come along the river, snow-white?" "miles!" said snow-white. "and didn't you have shoes and stockings when you started?" yes, the child had had shoes and stockings, but she took them off to see her toes make dust-toes in the dust. did ever the dwarf do that? it was fun! she left them away back there, miles away, before she came to the river and the woods. and her hat-- she laughed suddenly. "did ever you put flowers in your hat and send it sailing for a boat?" "is that what you did, snow-white?" "yes! and it was fun. it went bob, bob, right along wiz the water and bubbles; and then it tipped against a stone, and then it went round the corner, and--and that's all i know," she ended, suddenly. "you are sleepy, snow-white," said the dwarf. "see! the dishes are all done; now we will put them away in the cupboard, and then we will see about putting you away to bed." the child objected that it was still daylight; she tried to look wide awake, and succeeded for a few minutes, while they were putting away the dishes in the most charming little hanging cupboard with glass doors; but after that her head grew heavy, and her eyelids, as she expressed it, kept flopping into her eyes. "where am i going to sleep?" she asked. "there ought to be little white beds, you know, and one would be too big, and the next would be too small, and--no, that's the three bears, isn't it? i don't see any beds at all in this place." she began to rub her eyes, and it was clear that there must be no further delay. "come in here," said the man. "here is your bed, all ready for you." he led her through the other door, and there was a tiny bedroom, all shining and clean, like the other rooms. the bed stood in one corner, white and smooth, with a plumpy pillow that seemed to be waiting for the child. she sighed, a long sigh of contented weariness, and put up her arms in a fashion which the man seemed to understand. he sat down in a low chair and took her in his arms, where she nestled like a sleepy kitten. he rocked her gently, patting her in an absent fashion; but presently she raised her eyes with an indignant gleam. "you aren't singing anything!" she said. "sing!" "hush!" said the man. "how can i sing unless you are quiet?" he hummed under his breath, as if trying to recall something; then he laughed, in a helpless sort of way, and said to the door, "look at this, will you?" but there was really nothing to look at; and after awhile he began to sing, in a soft, crooning voice, about birds, and flowers, and children, all going to sleep: such a drowsy song, the words seemed to nod along the music till they nodded themselves sound asleep. when he finished, the child seemed to be asleep too; but she roused herself once more. she sat up on his knee and rubbed her eyes. "does dwarfs know about prayers?" she said, drowsily. "do you know about them?" the man's eyes looked dark again. "not much," he said; "but i know enough to hear yours, snow-white. will you say it on my knee here?" but the child slipped down to the floor, and dropped her head on his knee in a business-like way. "'now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep.' "i don't say the rest, 'cause i don't like it. and god bless papa and mamma, and make me a goo'--l'--girl--amen. and god bless this dwarf," she added. "that's all." then she lifted her head, and looked at the dwarf; and something in her look, flushed as she was with sleep, the light in her eyes half veiled, made the man start and flinch, and turn very pale. "no!" he said, putting out his hands as if to push the child away. "no; leave me alone!" the child opened her eyes a little wider, and looked at him. "what is the matter of you, dwarf?" she said. "i wasn't touching you. are you cross?" "no," said the man; and he smiled again. "snow-white, if i don't put you to bed, you'll be going to sleep on my best floor, and i can't have that." he laid her in the little bed, and tucked the bed-clothes round her smoothly; she was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. the man stood looking at her a long time. presently he took up one of her curls and examined it, holding it up to the fading light. it was a pretty curl, fine and soft, and of a peculiar shade of reddish brown. he went to a box and took out a folded paper. unfolding this, took out another curl of hair, and laid it beside the child's; they might have grown on the same head. "though i take the wings of the morning--" said the man. then he laid the curl back in the box, and went out and shut the door softly behind him. chapter iv. asking questions. "how many birds have you got, dwarf?" asked the child. they were sitting at breakfast the next morning. to look at the child, no one would have thought she had ever been sleepy in her life; she was twinkling all over with eagerness and curiosity. "how many?" repeated the man, absently. he hardly seemed to hear what the child said; he looked searchingly at her, and seemed to be trying to make out something that was puzzling him. "yes, how many?" repeated the child, with some asperity. "seems to me you are rather stupid this morning, dwarf; but perhaps you are like bats, and sleep in the daytime. are you like bats? are dwarfs like bats? can you hang up by your heels in trees? have you got claws on them?" her eyes dilated with awful joy; but the man shook his head and laughed. "no, no, snow-white. i wasn't sleepy at all; i was only thinking." "did you sleep last night?" asked the child, slightly disappointed. "i was in your bed, so you couldn't sleep. if you did sleep, where did you? please give me some more bread. i don't see where you get bread; and i don't see where you slept; and you didn't tell me how many birds you had. i shall be angry pretty soon, i don't wonder." "snow-white," said the dwarf, "if you talk so fast, your tongue will be worn out before you are seventy." "what is seventy?" said the child. "i hate it, anyway, and i won't be it." "hurrah!" said the man, "i hate it, too, and i won't be it, either. but as to the birds; how many should you think there were? have you seen any of them?" "i've seen lots and lots!" said the child, "and i've heard all the rest. when i woke up, they were singing and singing, as if they were seeing who could most. one of them came in the window, and he sat on my toe, and he was yellow. then i said, 'boo!' and then he flew away just as hard as he could fly. do you have that bird?" "yes," said the man. "that is my cousin goldfinch. i'm sorry you frightened him away, snow-white. if you had kept quiet, he would have sung you a pretty song. he isn't used to having people say 'boo!' to him. he comes in every morning to see me, and sing me his best song." "are they all your birds?" queried the child. "aren't you ever going to tell me how many you have? i don't think you are very polite. miss tyler says it's horrid rude not to answer questions." "miss tyler is not here!" said the man, gravely. "i thought you said we were not to talk about her." "so i did!" cried the child. "i say hurrah she isn't here, dwarf. do you say it, too?" "hurrah!" said the man, fervently. "now come, snow-white, and i'll show you how many birds i have." "before we wash the dishes? isn't that horrid?" "no, not at all horrid. wait, and you'll see." the man crumbled a piece of bread in his hand, and went out on the green before the house, bidding the child stay where she was and watch from the window. watching, the child saw him scatter the crumbs on the shining sward, and heard him cry in a curious kind of soft whistle: "coo! coo! coo!" immediately there was a great rustling all about; in the living green of the roof, in the yellow birches, but most of all in the vast depths of the buttonwood tree. in another moment the birds appeared, clouds and clouds of them, flying so close that their wings brushed each other; circling round and round the man, as he stood motionless under the great tree; then settling softly down, on his head, on his shoulders, on his outstretched arms, on the ground at his feet. he broke another piece from the loaf, and crumbled it, scattering the crumbs lavishly. the little creatures took their morning feast eagerly, gratefully; they threw back their tiny heads and chirped their thanks; they hopped and ran and fluttered about the sunny green space, till the whole seemed alive with swift, happy motion. standing still among them, the man talked to them gently, and they seemed to understand. now and then he took one in his hand and caressed it, with fingers as light as their own fluffy wings; and when he did that, the bird would throw back its head and sing; and the others would chime in, till the whole place rang with the music of them. it was a very wonderful thing, if any one had been there who understood about wonderful things; but to the child it seemed wholly natural, being like many other matters in the fairy books; only she wished she could do it, too, and determined she would, as soon as she learned a little more about the ways of dwarfs. by and by, when he had fed and caressed and talked to them, the man raised his arm; and the gray fluttering cloud rose in the air with merry cries, and vanished in the leafy gloom. the child was at the door in a moment. "how do you do that?" she asked, eagerly. "who telled you that? why can't i do it, too? what is their names of all those birds? why don't you answer things when i say them at you?" "snow-white," said the man, "i haven't yet answered the questions you asked me last night, and i haven't even begun on this morning's batch." "but you will answer them all?" cried the child. "yes, i will answer them all, if you give me time." "'cause i have to know, you know!" said the child, with a sigh of relief. "yes, you have to know. but first i must ask you some questions, snow-white. come and sit down here on the roots of the birch; see, it makes an arm-chair just big enough for you." the child came slowly, and seated herself as she was bid. but, though the seat was easy as a cradle, her brow was clouded. "i don't like to answer things," she announced. "only i like to ask them." "but we must play fair," said the man. "it wouldn't be fair for you to have all the fun." "no more it would. well, i'll answer a fewly, dwarf; not many i won't, 'cause when you're little you don't have to know things first; only you have to find out about them." "snow-white, why did you run away from home?" "last night i told you that, dwarf. i made a song, too. i'll sing it for you." she sat up, folded her hands, shut her eyes tight, and sang at the top of her voice: "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay; and they tore their hair, and they made despair. and i said i thought perhaps i did not care." "do you like that song?" she said, opening her eyes wide at the man. yes, the man liked it very much, but she was not answering his question. "i sang it that way because that way miss tyler sings. she shuts her eyes and opens her mouth, and screeches horrid; but i don't screech, i truly sing. don't i truly sing? don't you think i was a bird if you didn't see me? don't you, dwarf?" the dwarf said he was not going to answer any more questions. the child fidgetted on her seat, sighed, said he was stupid, and finally resigned herself. "i told you that last night!" she said again. "my mamma went to new york, and my papa, too. they leaved me alone after i told them not to. and i told them; i said if they did, then i would; and they would, and so i did. and so you see!" she looked up suddenly at the man, and once more he winced and drew in his breath. "what's the matter?" asked the child, with quick sympathy. "have you got a pain? is it here? is it in your front? often i have them in my front. you take a tablet, and then you curl up wiz the hot-water bottle, and perhaps it goes away pretty soon. green apples makes it!" she nodded wisely. "dwarfs didn't ought to eat them, any more than children. where is the tree?" the man did not answer this time. he seemed to be trying to pull up a weight that lay on him, or in him and sat moodily looking on the ground. at last-- "what is your mother's name?" he said; and then one saw that he had got the weight up. "evelyn!" said the child. "yes, of course!" said the man. "what makes you say that?" asked the child. "did ever you see her?" "did ever you see a toad with three tails?" said the man. "aren't you funny? say, is all dwarfs funny? aren't there really any more of you? didn't there ever was? where did the rest of them go? why do you stay in this place alone? i want to know all those things." she settled herself comfortably, and looked at the man confidently. but he seemed still to be labouring with something. "would your mother--would she be very unhappy, if she should come home and find you gone, snow-white?" the child opened her eyes at him. "oh, i s'pose she'd go crazy distracted; but she isn't coming home, not a long time isn't she coming home; that's why i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said--what makes you look like that, dwarf?" "i suppose i ought to send you home, snow-white. i suppose you ought to go this very day, don't you?" he stopped abruptly, for the signs were ominous; the child's lower lip was going up in the middle and coming down at the corners; her eyes were growing wider and wider, rounder and rounder; now they began to glitter. "don't cry!" said the man, hastily. "don't cry, snow-white. the other snow-white never cried, you know." the child sniffed tearfully. "the other snow-white never was treated so!" she said. "never those dwarfs tried to send her away, never. she cooked their dinner, and she swept, and they liked her, and they never said noffin, and--i haven't any hanky!" she concluded suddenly, after a vain search in her pink calico pocket. the man handed her a great square of white cobweb linen, and she dried her eyes. "never i heard of dwarfs sending children away!" she said, in conclusion. "i don't believe p'r'aps you aren't the right kind. is you got any name? not ever dwarfs has names." "i'm afraid i have a kind of name!" the man admitted. "but it isn't much of one. you might call me mark, though, if you like." "that isn't no name at all. it's just you do it wiz a pencil. aren't you funny? truly is it your name? what made you have such a name?" but the man declared he had lost his way in the questions. "i haven't begun on this morning's yet," he protested, "and now you are asking me to-morrow's, snow-white. but we must do the dishes now, and then i'll show you where i slept last night. you asked me that the very first thing this morning, and you have not been still long enough yet for me to tell you." that would be great! the child thought. on the whole, she thought perhaps he was the right kind of dwarf, after all. why did he have a hump on his back, though? not in the snow-white picture they did. wasn't it funny, when she stood on the cricket she was just as tall as he? wasn't that nice? wasn't he glad he wasn't any taller? didn't he think he was made that way just for little girls? did ever he see any little girls before? did he think she looked like snow-white? why didn't he talk when she spoke to him? it was a merry time, the dish-washing. the man had put away whatever it was that kept his eyes dark, and was smiling again, and chatting cheerfully. it appeared that he was an extraordinary person, after all, and quite like the books. he lived here all alone. yes, always alone. no; he never had wanted any one else till now, but then he didn't know there were any snow-whites; that made a great difference, you see. did--she broke off to laugh--did he like snow-whites, honest and true, black and blue? did he think she was beautiful, more beautiful than wicked stepmothers if she had one, only she hadn't, only mamma was awfully beautiful; did he know that? how did he know that? did ever he see mamma? what made him look so queer in his eyes? did he get soap in them? poor dwarf! well, why weren't there any more dwarfs, anyhow? why didn't he get six more when he comed here the first time? it appeared that he did not want any more. it appeared that when he came away he never wished to see anybody again as long as he lived. the child thought this so funny that she bubbled quite over, and dropped the cup she was wiping back into the hot water. why didn't he want to see people? had they been horrid to him? yes, they had been very horrid. he came away into the woods to stay till he was tired, and then he was going farther away. where? oh, he did not know; to wherever he belonged; he was not sure where it was, but he knew the way to get there. no, not by the brook, that was too slow, he knew a quick way. show it to her? well, no, he thought not. how long had he been here? oh, a good while. at first, after they had been horrid to him--no, he could not stop to tell her now; sometime, perhaps, when they had nothing else to do; at first he had gone across the sea, oh, a long way across; yes, he would tell her all about that by and by. then, when he came back-- "why do you keep stopping like that?" asked the child. "do you forget what you was going to say? often i do! you said when you came back; did you go and tell them they was mean old things to be horrid to you, and never you wouldn't play wiz them no more?" "no," said the man, slowly. "no, snow-white, i didn't do that; it wouldn't have done any good, you see. i came here instead." "didn't you tell them at all that they was mean?" "no; where was the use?" "don't they know you are here, dwarf?" "no." the child grew red in the face. "well, i think you was dreadfully silly!" she said. "i would told 'em all about it, and stamped my foot at 'em, so! and--" but the stamp was too much for the composure of the cricket, which turned over at this point, bringing the child down suddenly, with her chin against the hot dish-pan. this was a grievous matter, and consolation was the only possible thing to be thought of. the man took her in his arms, and carried her out-of-doors; she was sobbing a little, but the sobs died away as he stood with her under the great buttonwood, and bade her look up into the rustling dome. "you asked where i slept last night, snow-white," he said. "i slept up there, in my tree-room. look! a good way up, just above that great branch, do you see a hole? well, in there is a hollow, big enough to sit in or lie down and sleep in. i often go up there and sit with the brother birds; and last night i slept there, and very well i slept, too." "did you"--the child hesitated between a sob and a chuckle--"did you have any bed?" "the finest bed in the world, moss and dry leaves. would you like to come up and see, snow-white? i think i can manage to get you up." "oh, what a nice dwarf you are!" cried the child, slipping down from his arms and dancing around him. "aren't you glad i came? i'm glad you were here. how i shall get up? stand on your hump? isn't it nice you have a hump, dwarf? was it made for little girls to stand up on? did you have them make it? did you think about little girls when you had it made? do you like to have it for me to stand on? can i jump up and down on it?" standing on the hump, which certainly made an excellent thing to stand on, she could grasp the lowest branch of the tree. could she put her arms round that and hang for just a moment? yes, she could, and did; and in an instant the active dwarf was beside her, and had her up on the branch beside him. from there it was easy to ascend, branch by branch, till they reached the black hole. the child caught her breath a moment as the man swung her in; then her laughter broke and bubbled up so loud and clear that the birds rose in a cloud from the murmuring depths of the tree, and then sank down again with chirp and twitter and gurgle of welcome, as if recognising one of their own kind. chapter v. phillips; and a story. "well, mr. ellery, here i am!" the dwarf had come down from the tree, leaving the child asleep in the tree-hollow, with cousin goldfinch to keep watch over her; now he was sitting in the root-seat of the yellow birch, looking up at a man who stood before him. "yes," said the dwarf; "here you are. anything new? it isn't a month since you came." the man said it was more than a month. "i've brought the papers," he said. "there are deeds to sign, and a lot of things to look over. hadn't we better come into the house, sir?" "presently!" said the dwarf, looking up at the tree. he was not absolutely sure that the child was sound asleep, and if she waked suddenly she might be frightened to find herself alone. "you are not looking well, phillips!" he remarked, easily. "i'm not well, mr. ellery," said the man, with some heat. "i'm worn out, sir, with all this business. how you can persist in such foolishness passes my comprehension. here are leases running out, petitions coming in, bills and letters and--the office looks like the dead letter office," he broke out, "and the clerks are over their heads in work, and i am almost broke down, as i tell you, and you are--" "by the way!" said the dwarf, settling himself comfortably, "where am i, phillips?" "in thibet!" replied the other, sulkily. "hunting the wild ass." "and a fine sport!" said the dwarf, musingly. "that shows invention, phillips. that really shows ingenuity, do you know? you grumble, my good fellow, but you don't seem to realise what this is doing for you. you have lived forty odd years without imagination; now you are developing one; against your will, it is true, but the effect is no less admirable. i admire you, phillips; i do indeed." he smiled up at the man, who regarded him gloomily, yet with a look of affection. "i wish you would give it up," he said, simply. "i wish to goodness you would give it up, mr. ellery, and come home. a man like you living this life--the life of an animal, sir--it's monstrous. think of your interests, think of your estate, of all the people who looked to you; of--" "by the way," said the dwarf again, "have you paid those legacies?" "i know nothing about any legacies," replied the man, peevishly. "i'll have nothing to do with any such talk as that. when i see you dead and in your coffin, mark ellery, it'll be time enough to talk about legacies." "i don't like coffins!" murmured the dwarf, looking up at the black hole in the great buttonwood tree. "i never intend--go on, phillips. you paid the money, did you say?" "yes, sir, i did; but i did not tell the old ladies you were dead, because you were not, and i am not engaged to tell lies of that description. professional fiction i must use, since you drive me to it; but lie to those old women i could not and did not!" "no," said the dwarf, soothingly, "surely not; i could not expect that, phillips. and you told them that i was--" "in thibet," said the man. "hunting the wild ass. i told you that before." "precisely," said the dwarf. "don't limit yourself too strictly, phillips. you might vary the place a little oftener than you do, and find it more amusing. it would have impressed the old ladies more, for instance, if you had said that i was in mashonaland, converting the wild ass--i mean the black man. the old ladies are well, i trust?" "pretty feeble, mr. ellery. they cried a good deal, and said you were the best and--" "et cetera!" said the dwarf. "suppose we skip that part, phillips. a--before i forget it, i want you to get me some things in town. let me see,"--he considered, and began to check off items on his fingers. "a doll, the handsomest doll that can be found, with a trunk full of clothes, or you might say two trunks, phillips. and--some picture-books, please, and a go-cart--no, i can make that myself. well, then, a toy dinner-set. you might get it in silver, if you find one; and some bonbons, a lot of bonbons, say ten pounds or so. and--get me a couple of new rugs, thick, soft ones, the best you can find; and--oh! cushions; get a dozen or so cushions, satin and velvet; down pillows, you understand. what's the matter?" the man whom he called phillips was looking at him in a kind of terror that sent the dwarf into a sudden fit of laughter. he gave way to it for a few minutes, then restrained himself, and wiped his eyes with a fine handkerchief, like the one he had given the child. "phillips, you certainly have the gift of amusing," he murmured. "i am not mad, my dear man; never was saner in my life, i assure you. observe my eye; feel my pulse; do. you see i am calm, if only you wouldn't make me laugh too much. far calmer than you are, phillips. now we'll come in and go over the papers. first, though,"--he glanced up at the tree again, and seemed to listen, but all was silent, save for the piping and trilling that was seldom still,--"first, is there any news? i don't mean politics. i won't hear a word of politics, you know. i mean--any--any news among--people i used to know?" the man brightened visibly; then seemed to search his mind. "mr. tenby is dead, sir; left half a million. you can have that place now for a song, if you want to invest. old mrs. vivian had a stroke the other day, and isn't expected to live. she'll be worth--" the dwarf made a movement of impatience. "old people!" he said. "why shouldn't they die? who cares whether they die or live, except themselves and their heirs? are there no--young people--left in the place?" phillips pondered. "no one that you'd be interested in, sir," he said. "there's been a great to-do about a lost child, yesterday. mr. valentine's little girl ran away from home, and can't be found. wild little thing, they say; given her governess no end of trouble. parents away from home. they're afraid the child has been kidnapped, but i think it's likely she'll turn up; she has run away before, they say. pretty little girl, six years old; image of her mother. mother was a miss--" here he stopped, for the dwarf turned upon him in a kind of fury and bade him be still. "what do i care about people's children?" he said. "you are an idle chatterer. come and let me see this business, whatever it is. curse the whole of it, deed and house, land and letter! come on, i tell you, and when you have done, begone, and leave me in peace!" * * * * * when the child woke, she was at first too much surprised to speak. she had forgotten things, for she had been sleeping hard, as children do in their noonday naps; and she would naturally have opened her eyes upon a pink nursery with gold trimmings. instead, here she was in--what kind of place? around her, on all sides save one, were brown walls; walls that felt soft and crumbly, and smelt queer; yet it was a pleasant queerness. on the one side where they were not, she looked out into a green sky; or perhaps--no, it wasn't a sky, it was woods, very thick woods, and there was no ground at all. she was lying on something soft, and partly it rustled, and partly it felt like thick cold velvet. now some of the rustling came alive, and two or three birds hopped down from somewhere and sat on her foot and sang. at that the child laughed aloud, instead of screaming, as she had just been beginning to think she might; and then in a moment there was the dwarf, looking in at the green entrance, smiling and nodding at her. "oh, you dear dwarf!" said the child. "i am glad to see you. i forgotted where i was in this funny place. isn't it a funny place, dwarf? how did you get here? what made you know about it? why don't you always live here all the time? what's that that's bright up there?" indeed, the hollow in the tree made a good-sized room enough, if a person were not too big. the walls were pleasant to sight, touch, and smell; their colours ran from deepest black-brown up to an orange so rich and warm that it glowed like coals. when you touched the surface, it crumbled a little, soft and sympathetic, as if it came away to please you. the cushion of moss was thicker than any mattress ever made by man; altogether, a delightful place--always supposing one to be the right size. now the dwarf and the child were exactly the right size, and there seemed no reason why they should not live here all their lives. this was evident to the child. in one place, a natural shelf ran part way round the tree-wall; and on this shelf lay something that glittered. "what is that that's bright?" the child repeated. "give it to me, please, dwarf!" she stretched out her hand with an imperious gesture. the man took the object down, but did not give it to her. "this," he said "is a key, snow-white." "huh!" said the child. "it looks like a pistol. what for a key is it to? where did you get it? is there doors like bluebeard? why don't you tell me, dwarf?" "yes, it does look like a pistol," the man assented, weighing the object in his hand. "but it is a key, snow-white, to--oh! all kinds of places. i don't know about the bluebeard chamber; you see, i haven't used it yet. but it is the key of the fields, you understand." he was speaking slowly, and for the time seemed to forget the child, and to be speaking to himself. "freedom and forgetfulness; the sting left behind, instead of carried about with one, world without end. the weary at rest--at rest!" "no wives?" asked the child. the man looked at her with startled eyes. "wives?" he repeated. "dead ones," said the child. "hanging up by their hairs, you know, dwarf, just heads of 'em, all the rest gone dead. isn't that awful? would you go in just the same? i would!" "no, no wives!" said the dwarf; and he laughed, not his pleasant laugh, but one that sounded more like a bark, the child told him. "no wives!" he repeated; "my own or other people's, snow-white. what should i have to do with wives, dead or alive?" the child considered him attentively. "i don't suppose you could get one, anyhow, do you?" she said. "always, you know, the dwarfs try to get the princesses, but never they do. you never was yellow, was you?" she asked, with a sudden note of apprehension in her voice. "no, snow-white, never yellow; only green." the child bubbled over. "was you truly green?" she cried. "isn't that funny, dwarf? and then you turned brown, didn't you? you don't suppose i'll turn brown, do you? because i ain't green, am i? but i was just thinking, suppose you should be the yellow dwarf, wouldn't it be awful?" "probably it would. he was a pretty bad sort of fellow, was he, snow-white? i--it's a good while since i heard anything about him, you see." "oh, he was just puffickly frightful! he--do you want me to tell you the story, dwarf?" yes, the dwarf wanted that very much indeed. "well, then, if i tell you that, you must tell me one about some dwarfs what you knew. i suppose you knew lots and lots of them, didn't you? was they different colours? was they blue and green and red? what made you turn brown when you was green? well! "once they was a queen, and she had twenty children, and they was all dead except the princess all-fair, and she wouldn't marry any of the kings what wanted to marry her, and so her mother went to ask the desert fairy what she should do wiz her. so she took a cake for the lions, and it was made of millet and sugar-candy and crocodiles' eggs, but she went to sleep and lost it. did ever you eat a cake like that? should you think it would be nasty? i should! well, and so there was the yellow dwarf sitting in the tree--why, just the way you are, dwarf. we might play i was the queen, and you was the yellow dwarf. let's play it." "but i don't want to be a horrid one," the man objected, "and i want to hear the story, besides." "oh, well, so i will. well, he said he would save her from the lion, if she would let him marry the princess, and she didn't want to one bit, but she said she supposed she'd have to, so he saved her, and she found herself right back there in the palace. well, and so then she was very unhappy all the time, and the princess didn't know what upon earth _was_ the matter wiz her, so she thought _she_ would go and ask the desert fairy. so she went just the same way what her mother went, but she ate so many oranges off the tree that she lost her cake, too. that was greedy, don't you think so?" "very greedy! she was old enough to know better." "why, yes! why, i'm only six, and i don't eat so many as all that, only till i feel queer in front, and then i _always_ stop. do always you stop when you feel queer in front? well! so then the yellow dwarf comed along, and he said her mother said she had to marry him, anyway. and the princess said, '_how!_ my mother promised me to you in marriage! _you_, such a fright as _you_!' "and he was puffickly horrid. he said, 'well, if you don't, the lions will get you, and eat you up every scrap, and i sha'n't care a bit.' wasn't he mean? so she said she s'posed she'd have to; and right off then she went to sleep, and there she was in her own bed, and all trimmed up wiz ribbons, and on her finger was a ring, and it was just one red hair, and she couldn't get it off. wasn't that puffickly awful, dwarf?" "it chills my marrow, snow-white. go on!" "what is your marrow? what does it look like? why do you have it, if it gets cold so easy as that? i wouldn't! well! so at last the princess said she guessed she would marry the king of the golden mines, 'cause he was puffickly beautiful, and most prob'ly the old dwarf wouldn't dare to say a word when he found how beautiful he was, and strong and big and rich and everything." "no!" said the dwarf, bitterly. "the poor dwarf would have no chance, certainly, against that kind of king. he might as well have given up in the beginning." "but, mark, this dwarf wasn't poor, or anything else but just as horrid as he could be. why, when the princess and the king was going to be married, all in gold and silver, wiz roses and candy and everything lovely, they saw a box coming along, and an old woman was on it and she said she was the desert fairy, and the yellow dwarf was her friend, and they shouldn't get married. so they said they didn't care, they would--oh, and she said if they did she would burn her crutch; and they said they didn't care one bit if she did. they were just as brave! and the king of the golden mines told her get out, or he would kill her; and then the top of the box comed off, and there was the yellow dwarf, and he was riding on a cat,--did ever you ride on a cat, mark?" "no, never." "well, he was; and he said the princess promised to marry him, and the king said he didn't care, she shouldn't do _noffing_ of the kind. so they had a fight, and while they were fighting that horrid old fairy hit the princess, and then the yellow dwarf took her up on the cat, and flewed away wiz her. that's all about the first part. don't you think it's time for luncheon?" "oh, but you are never going to stop there, snow-white! i want to know what became of them. even if the dwarf did carry off the princess, and even if she had promised to marry him,--for she did promise, you say,--still, of course he did not get her. dwarfs have no rights that anybody is bound to respect, have they, snow-white?" "well, i don't like the last part, because it doesn't end right. the desert fairy falled in love wiz the king, and she hoped he would marry her, but he said no indeed, he wouldn't have her in the same place wiz him at all; so he wouldn't stay in the house, but he went out to walk by the wall that was made of emeralds, and a mermaid came up and said she was sorry, and if he hit everything wiz this sword it would kill them, but he must never let go of it. so he thanked her very much, and he went along, and he killed lots of things, spinxes and nymps and things, and at last he came to the princess, but then he was so glad to see her that he let go of the sword _just a minute_, and what do you think that horrid dwarf did? why, he comed right along and took it, and said he shouldn't have it back unless he would give up the princess. 'no,' said the king, 'i scorn thy favour on such terms.' and then that mean old thing stabbed him to the heart, and so he was dead; and the princess said, 'you puffickly hideous old horrid thing, i won't marry you, anyway!' and then she fell down and perspired wizout a sigh. and that's all. and the mermaid turned them into palm-trees, because that was all she knew how to do, don't you know? and that's all. aren't you going to get me something to eat? can't we have it up here in this place? aren't you glad i'm here to keep you company and tell you stories? don't you say hurrah for us, dwarf? i do; hurrah!" chapter vi. milking the cow. "what let's do now?" said the child. they had had dinner; a most exciting dinner, all coming out of tin boxes and delightful china pots. it was almost as good as little two-eyes' feasts in "little kid milk, table appear," as the child preferred to call the story. the child shut her eyes and said what she wanted, and when she opened them, there it mostly was, standing on the table before her. at least, that was the way it happened when she said chicken, and jam, and albert biscuits; but when she said sponge cake, there was none, and the dwarf was mortified, and said he would tell the people they ought to be ashamed of themselves. "where all do you get them?" asked the child. "do you stamp your foot on the floor, and say, 'jam!' like that, hard, just as loud as you can? do you? does it come up pop through holes? will you do it now, this minute?" no, the dwarf could not do it now, he had not the right kind of shoes on. besides, there were other reasons. "well, then, what let's do?" asked the child again. "let us go and milk the cow," said the dwarf. oh, that _was_ exciting! was it a truly cow? did it turn into things all day, and be a cow at night, or the other way? what did it turn into? sometimes they were fawns and sometimes they were ducks, and sometimes--what would he like to be if he didn't have to be a dwarf? could he be things if he wanted to? was he only just playing dwarf, and by and by he would turn into a beautiful prince all gold and silver, wiz diamond clothes and a palace all made of candy? would he? "and then you could marry me, you know!" said the child. "i shall be grown up by that time--" "yes, i think you will!" said the dwarf. "and we will be married, and i will wear a dress like the sun, and we will go in a gold coach, wiz six black horses--or do you say white, mark?" "i say white." "so do i say! and fezzers on their heads; and--and--so--well, anyhow, you will show me all your treasures, you know, dwarf. you haven't showed me any yet, not any at all. where are they?" "i haven't but one," said the dwarf. "and that i stole." "really stole it? but stealing is wicked, don't you know that? can dwarfs do it? mans can't, unless they are bad. are dwarfs like mans at all much, mark?" "not much, snow-white. but, after all, i did not steal my treasure, i only found it." the child was greatly relieved. that made it all right, she assured him. always everybody could keep the things they found, though of course the wicked fairies and dragons tried to get the treasure away. she cited many cases from the fairy books, and the dwarf said he felt a great deal better. "tell me all about it," she urged. "tell me that story what you said you knew. you haven't told me any story at all yet, mark!" she looked at him with marked disapproval. "it isn't the way they do!" she explained. "why, when the bear came to snow-white and rosy red's house, he told them stories all the time till he turned into a prince." "yes, but i am not a bear," said the dwarf, "and i am not going to turn into a prince, you see. however, i will tell you a story, snow-white, i truly will; only, you see, that poor cow has to be milked." "all i forgot her!" cried the child. "now we will hurry, mark, and run. we will run all the way. you can't run much faster than me, 'cause your legs is short, too. are you glad? i am! 'most i wish i was a dwarf, to stay little like you." "come!" said the man. his voice sounded rough and harsh; but when the child looked up, startled, he took her in his arms, and kissed her very tenderly, and set her on his back. he would be her horse now, he said, and give her a good ride. and wasn't the hump comfortable to sit on? now she must hold on tight, and he would trot. he trotted gently through the green wood, and the child shouted with joy, and jumped up and down on the hump. it was a round, smooth hump, and made a good seat. they did not get on very fast, in spite of the trotting, there was so much to see by the way. little paths wound here and there through the forest, as if some one walked in it a great deal. the trees in this part were mostly pine and hemlock, and the ground was covered with a thick carpet of brown needles. the hermit thrush called them from deeper depths of woodland; close by, squirrels frisked and chattered among the branches, and dropped bits of pine-cone on the child's head. were they tame? she asked; the dwarf said she should judge for herself. they sat down, and he bade her keep still, and then gave a queer whistle. presently a squirrel came, then another, and another, till there were half a dozen of them, gray and red, with one little striped beauty. they sat up on the brown needles, and looked at the dwarf with bright, asking eyes. he took some nuts from his pocket, and then there was a scramble for his knee and his shoulder, and he fed them, talking to them the while, they whisking their tails and cocking their heads, and taking the nuts in their paws as politely as possible. one big gray fellow made a little bow, and that was charming to see. "good boy!" said the dwarf. "good old simeon! i taught him to do that, snow-white. you need not be afraid, sim. this is only snow-white. she has come to do my cooking and all my work, and she will not touch you. his name is simeon stylites, and he lives on a pillar--i mean a dead tree, with all the branches gone. simeon, if you are greedy, you'll get no more. consider the example you have to set!" "why is he named that?" asked the child. "because when he sits up straight on top of his tree, and folds his paws, he looks like an old gentleman of that name, who used to live on top of a pillar, a long time ago." "why did he? but why couldn't he get down? but how did he get up? what did he have to eat? why don't you tell me?" "i never thought much about his getting up," said the dwarf. "i suppose he must have shinned, don't you? and as for getting down, he just didn't. he stayed there. he used to let down a basket every day, or whenever he was hungry, and people put food in it, and then he pulled it up. what did they put? oh, figs, i suppose, and black bread, and honey. rather fun, don't you think, to see what would come up?" the child sprang up and clapped her hands. "mark," she cried, "i will be him!" "on a pillar?" said the dwarf. "see, you have frightened simeon away, and he hadn't had half enough; and you couldn't possibly climb his tree, snow-white." "in your tree! in the hole! it will be _just_ as good as little kid milk. not in _any_ of the stories a little girl did that; all mineself i will do it. i love you, mark!" she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him till he choked. when the soft arms loosened their hold, his eyes were dark. "you love me because i have a tree?" he said, "and because you like the things in the china pots?" "yes!" said the child, "and because you are a dwarf, and because you are nice. _most_ because you are nice, mark, when those other dwarfs is yellow and horrid and all kinds of things." "all right!" said the dwarf. "i love you, too. now soon we are coming to the cow. we must hurry, snow-white." but it was not easy to hurry. he had to look and see how the ferns were unrolling, and to say what they looked like. the child thought they were like the little brown cakes, only green, what you bought them at the cake-shop. didn't he know the cake-shop? but could he buy things? did they let dwarfs buy things just as if they were mans? could he have money, or did he have to dig up pearls and diamonds and rubies, out of the ground? was there a place here where he dug them up? when would he show it to her? then there were the anemones just out; and at sight of them the child jumped up and down, and had to be told what they were. the name was very funny, she thought. "i can make a song wiz that!" she said, and then she sang: "any money, ain't it funny? ain't it funny, any money? "it hasn't any money, this frower hasn't. all it's white, just like milk. do you like money, mark?" "no, i hate it!" "me, too!" cried the child, bubbling into a laugh. "in my bank, i had lots and lots of money; and the man with the black shirt said about the poor children, and so i took it out and gave it to him, and then they said i couldn't have it back!" "who said so?" asked the dwarf. "miss tyler! well, but so i said i would, and so she punished me, and so i beat her, and she said to stay in my room, and i runned away. are you glad i runned away, mark?" "very glad, to-day, snow-white; i don't know how it will be to-morrow. but tell me what you wanted to do with your money!" it appeared that the child wanted to buy candy, and a pony, and a watch, and a doll with wink-eyes and hair down to her feet, and a real stove, and a popgun, and--what was this place? the wood broke open suddenly, and there was a bit of pasture-land, with rocks scattered about, and a little round blue pond, and by the pond a brown cow grazing. at the sound of voices the cow raised her head, and seeing the dwarf, lowed gently and began to move leisurely toward him. the child clapped her hands and danced. "is she saying 'hurrah'?" she cried. "does she love you? do you love her? is she"--her voice dropped suddenly--"is she real, mark?" "real, snow-white? why, see her walk! did you think i wound her up? she's too big; and besides, i haven't been near her." the child brushed these remarks aside with a wave. "does she stay all the time a cow?" she whispered, putting her mouth close to the dwarf's ear. "or does she turn at night into a princess?" she drew back and pointed a stern finger at him. "tell me the troof, mark!" the dwarf was very humble. so far as he knew, he said, she was a real cow. she mooed like one, and she acted like one; moreover, he had bought her for one. "but you see," he added, "i don't stay here at night, so how can i tell?" they both looked at the cow, who returned the stare with unaffected interest, but with no appearance of any hidden meaning in her calm brown gaze. "i think," said the child, after a long, searching inspection, "i think--she's--only just a cow!" "i think so, too," said the dwarf, in a tone of relief. "i'm glad, aren't you, snow-white? i think it would be awkward to have a princess. now i'll milk her, and you can frisk about and pick flowers." the child frisked merrily for a time. she found a place where there were some brownish common-looking leaves; and stepping on them just to hear them crackle, there was a pink flush along the ground, and lo! a wonder of mayflowers. they lay with their rosy cheeks close against the moss, and seemed to laugh out at the child; and she laughed, too, and danced for joy, and put some of them in her hair. then she picked more, and made a posy, and ran to stick it in the dwarf's coat. he looked lovely, she told him, with the pink flowers in his gray coat; she said she didn't care much if he never turned into anything; he was nice enough the way he was; and the dwarf said it was just as well, and he was glad to hear it. "and you look _so_ nice when you smile in your eyes like that, mark! i think i'll kiss you now." "i never kiss ladies when i am milking," said the dwarf. and then the child said he was a horrid old thing, and she wouldn't now, anyhow, and perhaps she wouldn't at all ever in her life, and anyhow not till she went to bed. by and by she found a place where the ground was wet, near the edge of the pond, and she could go pat, pat with her feet, and make smooth, deep prints. this grew more and more pleasant the farther she went, till presently the water came lapping cool and clear over her feet. yes, but just then a butterfly came, a bright yellow one, and she tried to catch it, and in trying tripped and fell her length in the pond. that was sad, indeed; and it was fortunate the milking was ended just at that time, for at first she meant to cry hard, and the only thing that stopped her was riding home on the dwarf's hump, dripping water all over his gray velvet clothes. he didn't care, he said, so long as she did not drip into the milk. chapter vii. the story. "i aspect, mark," said the child,--"do you like better i call you mark all the time than dwarf? then i will. i do really aspect you'll have to get me a clean dress to put on." she held up her frock, and the dwarf looked at it anxiously. it was certainly very dirty. the front was entirely covered with mud, and matters had not been improved by her scrubbing it with leaves that she pulled off the trees as they came along. "dear me, snow-white!" said the dwarf. "that is pretty bad, isn't it?" "yes," said the child; "it is _too_ bad! you'll have to get me another. what kind will you get?" "well," said the dwarf, slowly; "you see--i hardly--wait a minute, snow-white." he went into the house, and the child waited cheerfully, sitting in the root-seat. of course he would find a dress; he had all the other things, and most prob'ly likely there was a box that had dresses and things in it. she hoped it would be blue, because she was tired of this pink one. there might be a hat, too; when you had that kind of box, it was just as easy to have everything as only something; a pink velvet hat with white feathers, like the lady in the circus. the child sighed comfortably, and folded her hands, and watched the robins pulling up worms on the green. but the dwarf went into the bedroom, and began pulling out drawers and opening chests with a perplexed air. piles of handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, all of the finest and best; gray suits like the one he had on--but never a sign of a blue dress. he took down a dressing-gown from a peg, and looked it over anxiously; it was of brown velvet, soft and comfortable-looking, but it had evidently been lived in a good deal, and it smelt of smoke; no, that would never do. he hung it up again, and looked about him helplessly. suddenly his brow cleared, and his eyes darkened. he laughed; not his usual melodious chuckle, but the short harsh note that the child compared to a bark. "why not?" he said. "it's all in the family!" he opened a deep carved chest that stood in a corner; the smell that came from it was sweet and old, and seemed to belong to far countries. he hunted in the corners, and presently brought out a folded paper, soft and foreign looking. this he opened, and took out, and shook out, a shawl or scarf of eastern silk, pale blue, covered with butterflies and birds in bright embroidery. he looked at it grimly for a moment; then he shut the chest, for the child was calling, "mark! where are you?" and hastened out. "never i thought you were coming," said the child. "see at that robin, mark. he ate all a worm five times as longer as him, and now he's trying to get away that other one's. i told him he mustn't, and he will. isn't he a greedy?" "he's the greediest robin on the place," said the dwarf. "i mean to put him on allowance some day. see here, snow-white, i'm awfully sorry, but i can't find a dress for you." the child opened great eyes at him. "can't find one, mark? has you looked?" "yes, i have looked everywhere, but there really doesn't seem to be one, you know; so i thought, perhaps--" "but not in all the boxes you've looked, mark!" cried the child. "why, you got everything, don't you 'member you did, for dinner?" yes; but that was different, the dwarf said. dresses didn't come in china pots, nor in tin cans either. no, he didn't think it would be of any use to stamp his foot and say to bring a blue dress this minute. but, look here, wouldn't this do? couldn't she wrap herself up in this, while he washed her dress? he held up the gay thing, and at sight of it the child clasped her hands together and then flung them out, with a gesture that made him wince. but it was the most beautiful thing in the world, the child said. but it was better than dresses, ever and ever so much better, because there were no buttons. and she might dress up in it? that would be fun! like the pictures she would be, in the japanesy book at home. did ever he see the japanesy book? but it was on the big table in the long parlour, and he could see it any time he went in, but any time, if his hands were clean. always he had to show his hands, to make sure they were clean. and she would be like the pictures, and he was a _very_ nice dwarf, and she loved him. in a wonderfully short time the child was enveloped in the blue silk shawl, and sitting on the kitchen-table cross-legged like a small idol, watching the dwarf while he washed the dress. he was handy enough at the washing, and before long the pink frock was moderately clean (some of the stains would not come out, and could hardly be blamed for it), and was flapping in the wind on a low-hanging branch. now, the child said to the dwarf, was the time for him to tell her a story. what story? oh, a story about a dwarf, any of the dwarfs he used to know, only except the yellow dwarf, or the seven ones in the wood, or the one in "snow-white and rosy red," because she knowed those herself. the dwarf smiled, and then frowned; then he lighted his pipe and smoked for a time in silence, while the child waited with expectant eyes; then, after about a week, she thought, he began. "once upon a time--" the child nodded, and drew a long breath of relief. she had not been sure that he would know the right way to tell a story, but he did, and it was all right. "once upon a time, snow-white, there was a man--" "not a man! a dwarf!" cried the child. "you are right!" said mark ellery. "i made a mistake, snow-white. not a man,--a dwarf! i'll begin again, if you like. once upon a time there was a dwarf." "that's right!" said the child. she drew the blue shawl around her, and sighed with pleasure. "go on, mark." "the trouble is," he went on, "he--this dwarf--was born a man-thing, a man-child; it was not till his nurse dropped him that it was settled that he was to be a dwarf-thing, and never a man. that was unfortunate, you see, for he had some things born with him that a dwarf has no business with. what things? oh, nothing much; a heart, and brains, and feelings; that kind of thing." "feelings? if you pinched him did it hurt, just like a man?" "just; you would have thought he was a man sometimes, if you had not seen him. the trouble was, his mother let him grow up thinking he was a man. she loved him very much, you see, and--she was a foolish woman. she taught him to think that the inside of a man was what mattered; and that if that were all right,--if he were clean and kind and right-minded, and perhaps neither a fool nor a coward,--people would not mind about the outside. he grew up thinking that." "was he quite stupid?" the child asked. "he must have been, i think, mark." "yes, he was very stupid, snow-white." "because he might have looked in the glass, you know." "of course he might; he did now and then. but he thought that other women, other people, were like his mother, you see; and they weren't, that was all. "he was very rich, this dwarf--" the child's eyes brightened. the story had been rather stupid so far, but now things were going to begin. did he live in a gold house? she asked. did he have chariots and crowns and treasure, bags and bags of treasure? was there a princess in it? when was he going to tell her about her? why didn't he go on? "i can't go on if you talk, snow-white. he was rich, i say, and for that reason everybody made believe that he was a man, and treated him like one. silly? yes, very silly. but he was stupid, as you say, and he thought it was all right; and everybody was kind, and his mother loved him; and so--he grew up." "but he still stayed a dwarf?" "yes, still a dwarf." "what like did he look? was he puffickly frightful, wiz great goggle eyes and a long twisty nose? was he green? you said once you was green, mark, before you turned brown." "yes, he was rather green; not a bright green, you understand; just a dull, blind sort of green." "wiz goggle eyes?" "n-no! i don't know that they goggled particularly, snow-white. i hope not. "well, when he was grown up,--only he never grew up!--his mother died." the child was trying hard to be good, but her patience gave out at last, the man was silent so long. "what is the matter wiz you, mark? i think this is a stupid story. didn't anything happen to him at all? why do you bark?" "yes, things happened to him. this is a slow story, snow-white, and you must have patience. you see, i never told it before, and the words don't come just as i want to have them." the child nodded sympathetically, and promised to be patient; she knew how it was herself sometimes, when she tried to tell a story what she didn't know it very well. didn't he know this one very well, perhaps? was there another he knowed better? "no, no other i know half so well, little girl. his mother died, i say and then--then he met the princess." the child beamed again. "was she beautiful as the day? did she live in a nivory tower, and let her hair down out of the window? was there dragons? did the dwarf fall in love wiz her right off that minute he seed her?" "the tower was brown," said the dwarf, "brown stone. no, she didn't let her hair down, and there were no dragons; quite the contrary, the door was always open--always open, and the way seemed clear. but she was beautiful, and he fell in love with her. oh, yes! she had soft clear eyes, and soft pale cheeks, and soft dark hair; everything about her was soft and sweet and-- "well, this dwarf fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her. yes, as you say, they always do. for a long time, a very long time, he did not dare to think of its being possible that she could love him. he would have been content--content and thankful--just to be her friend, just to be allowed to see her now and then, and take her hand, and feel her smile through and through him like wine. but--her eyes were so soft--and she looked at him so--that he asked her--" "mark, what for do you keep stopping like that? never you must, when you are telling a story; always they go right on." "what was i saying?" the dwarf looked at the child, with eyes that seemed not to see her, but something beyond her. "what was i saying, snow-white?" "he asked her would she marry him!" said the child, promptly. "and she said no indeed, she wouldn't do noffin of the kind, she was going to marry a beautiful prince, wiz--" "i beg your pardon, snow-white; you are wrong this time. she said she would marry him. she looked at him with her soft eyes, and said she loved him. she said--the kind of things his mother had said; and the dwarf, being stupid, believed her." the child bubbled over with laughter. "wasn't he silly? but of course she didn't, mark!" "of course not. but he thought she was going to; so he built a house,--well, we'll call it a palace if you like, snow-white; perhaps it was as good as some palaces. at any rate, it was the best he could build. and he filled it full of things,--what kind of things? oh, pictures and statues and draperies, and,--yes, silver and gold and jewels, any quantity of jewels; and he sent abroad for silks and satins and shawls,--" "like this what i've got on?" "very like it. he meant to have in the house everything that her heart could desire, so that when she wished for anything, he could say, 'here it is, ready for you, my beloved!' "well, and so the dwarf worked away, and heaped up treasures, the regular dwarf way, and saw the princess every day, and was happy; and she looked at him with her soft eyes, and told him she loved him; and so it came near the time of the wedding. then--one day--" "the prince came!" cried the child, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "i know! let me tell a little bit now, mark. may i? well, the prince came, and he was tall and handsome, wiz golden hair and blue eyes, and he was ever and ever so much richer than the dwarf; and so the princess falled in love wiz him the minute she seed him, and he falled in love wiz her, too; and he said, 'this is my princess!' and she said, 'this is my prince!' isn't that the way, mark?" "precisely!" said the dwarf. "i couldn't have told it better myself, snow-white; perhaps not so well. the prince was richer, and handsomer, and younger, and that settled it. it always does, doesn't it?" "and then what became of the dwarf, mark?" "oh! it doesn't matter what became of the dwarf, does it? he was only a dwarf, you know. the story always ends when the prince and princess are married. 'they lived happily ever after.' that's the end, don't you remember?" the child reflected, with a puzzled look. "yes," she said, presently. "but you see, mark, this is a different kind of story. that other kind is when you begin wiz the princess, and tell all about her; and then the dwarf just comes in, and is puffickly horrid, and then the prince comes, and so--but this story began wiz the dwarf, don't you see?" "what difference does that make, snow-white? nobody cares what becomes of a dwarf." "but yes, but when it is his own story, mark. but aren't you stupid? and besides, them all was horrid, and this was a nice dwarf. was he like you, mark?" "a little--perhaps." "then he was _very_ nice, and i love him. like this." the child threw her arms around the dwarf, and gave him a strangling hug; then she drew back and looked at him. "it _seems_," she said, "as if most likely p'r'aps i loved you better than princes. do you s'pose could i?" the dwarf's eyes were very kind as he looked at her, but he shook his head, and loosed the little arms gently. "no, snow-white," he said, "i don't believe you could. but as to this other dwarf, there isn't very much to tell. he gave her back her freedom, as they call it in the books, and then he shut up the fine house and went away." "where did he go?" "oh, he went everywhere, or pretty near it. he travelled, and saw strange places and people. but nothing mattered much to him, and at last he found that there was only one country he really cared to see, and that was the country that has never been discovered." "then how did he know it was there, mark? but where was it? was it like 'east o' the sun and west o' the moon,' and old womans told him about it?" "yes, perhaps; at least, his mother used to tell him about it. but he never thought then--he didn't think much about it. but now he was tired, and nothing mattered, and so he thought he would go and see that country--if it were really there--and possibly he might find his mother, if the things she said were true. so--did i say his mother was dead? so i did! oh, well, never mind that now. so he bought a key that would open the door of that country--yes, something like that thing i called a key--and then he came to a place--well, it was something like this place, snow-white. he wanted to be quiet, you see, for some time, before he went away. he wanted to be alone, and think--think--gather up the threads and thoughts of his life and try to straighten them into something like an even skein. then, if he were allowed, if there should be any possibility that he might take them with him, he could say to his mother--he could excuse himself--he could tell her--" "mark," said the child, "do you know what i think?" the man started, and looked at her. "what you think, snow-white?" "yes! i think you are talking puffick foolishness. i don't know one word what you are saying, and i don't believe do you either." "no more i do, snow-white. i think this is enough story, don't you? you see i was right, it didn't matter what became of the dwarf. let us come out and feed the birds." "let's," said the child. chapter viii. the key of the fields. "the question before the court is, what next?" it was mark ellery who spoke. he was sitting on the green at the foot of the buttonwood-tree. it was noon, and the birds were all quiet, save one confidential titmouse, who had come to make a call, and was perched on the tip of the dwarf's shoe, cocking his bright eye at him expressively. "tweet-tweet," said the titmouse. "precisely," said the dwarf. "what next?" was he speaking to the bird, or was it merely that the sound of his own voice had grown friendly to him during these silent years? he went on. "how if i waited still a little longer, and took a little pleasure before i go? "but as in wailing there's naught availing, and death unfailing will strike the blow, then for that reason, and for a season, let us be merry before we go!" "do you agree, brother titmouse? see now. she--they--went away and left their treasure. i did not send them away, did i? no fault of mine in that, at least. fate--or something--call it god, if you like--brought the treasure to my door; have i no right to keep it, for a little, at least? the joy i might have! and i have not had too much, perhaps. they have each other. this is a solitary little creature, living in her fairy stories, left pretty much to nurse and governess; no mother touches to tell another kind of story. the prince and princess"--again his laugh sounded like a bark, the child would have said--"don't need her very much, if they can go off for two months and leave her, the little pearl, the little flower, the little piece of delight, alone with strangers. i could make her happy; i could fill her little hands full, full. she should have all the things that are waiting there shut up; those, and as many more, ten times over. we might have our play for a few weeks or a few months; and then, when she was tired--no, before she was tired, oh, surely before that!--i would give her back. give her back! and how should i do that? there are several ways." he moved his foot, tossing the bird up in the air. it fluttered, hovered a moment over his head, then settled on his wrist, and smoothed its feathers in absolute content. "well, brother, well," said mark ellery. "you like me pretty well, do you? you find me pleasant to live with? you think i could make a child happy?" the titmouse flirted its tail and looked at him; it seemed a pity it could not smile; but it rubbed its bill against his hand, and he understood all it wanted to say. "several ways," the dwarf repeated. "i could simply take the child in my hand and go to them; hobble up the steps,--i hear their house is twice as fine as the one i built,--and stand at the door humbly, asking admission. 'here is your child, madam; you left her to wander about uncared for, and she came to me. you took all else i had, take now this also, as a gift from the dwarf.' i think i could bring the trouble into her eyes, and the colour into her soft pale cheeks. if only she would not speak! if i should hear her speak-- "or i might send for her to come to me. that would be the dramatic thing to do! wait for her here, under the tree. it might be a time like this, the little one asleep up there. "'i sent for you, madam, to ask if you had lost anything. oh, i don't know how greatly you value it,--a child, a little girl, who wandered here some time ago. she was lost in the wood; it is a wonder she did not starve. she came to me barefoot and hungry, and i took her in. she is asleep now, up in her favourite chamber in yonder tree. it seems a pity to wake her; she sleeps very sweetly. oh, i would gladly keep her, and i think it might not be difficult; at least, she has never tried to run away; but we are old neighbours, and i thought it right to let you know that she was here.' "then to wake the child, and bring her down, flushed with her lovely sleep, clinging with both arms round my neck--no horror of the hateful dwarf, no shrinking; the little velvet cheek pressed against my brown, rough face, the sweet eyes looking at me--me, mark ellery--with love in them. yes, by heaven, love; no lying here! ah, yes, that would be the dramatic thing. the trouble is, i am not a dramatic figure; am i, brother titmouse? "well, then, there remains the third way, the easy, clear, blessed way, and i swear i believe i'll do it. just let things take their own course; let fate--or god, if you like--have right of way, do the work without me. why should i meddle? he is capable, surely? the child is here; very well, let them find her, since they lost her. keep my jewel, treasure it, make much of it, till they search far enough afield. they are sure to do that. they will send out search-parties--very likely they are afoot now. it would be a pity, if they could not find this bit of forest, only a few miles from the town. private property, belonging to the eccentric dwarf millionaire who threw over his life, and went abroad seven years ago? that will not hinder them from searching it. when i hear them coming, call my lamb, fill her hands with trinkets,--phillips can get me trinkets,--kiss her good-bye, push her into their arms. 'lost child? surely! here she is. how should i know whose child it was, living so retired? take her! make my apologies to the parents for saving her life, and feeding and caring for her these days, or weeks.' "then, when she is gone, and the house empty again, and dark--how dark it will be!--why, then, the key of the fields!" he whistled softly to the titmouse, which ruffled and cheeped in answer; then glanced upward at the tree, and repeated, "the key of the fields!" it was days since he had held it in his hands, his favourite toy, the smooth shining thing he had played with so long. he had been afraid the child might get hold of it, so had left it untouched on its shelf. he missed the habit that had grown upon him of taking it out every day, holding it in his hand, polishing it, pressing the cold circle of the barrel against his temple, and fancying how it would be. how often--he could not tell how often!--he had said, "it shall be to-day!" and had set things in decent order and looked forward to his journey. but always he had decided to wait a little, and again a little; till the young birds were fledged, till they were flown, till the autumn trees brightened, till the snow was gone and he could find the first mayflowers once more. the world was so fair, he still put off leaving it, since at any time he could go, since the key was in his hand, and rest under the crook of his finger. but when the child was gone, he would not stay behind alone. it would be different now; he must make haste to be gone on his journey--that is, if there were a journey! some flight of the spirit from the crumpled, unsightly chrysalis, some waking in new, unthinkable conditions; unthinkable, not unimaginable. he had no knowledge that he might not see his mother's face, and feel her hand on his head. there was no proof against it. then, if it might be, he would tell her all, as he had so often told her, alone here in the wood. how he had come near to what we call heaven, here on earth; how he had drunk the waters of hell,--six streams, were there? styx, acheron, phlegethon, lethe--only one never could get a taste of that! scraps of school latin ran together in his head; sleepy, was he? but as he was saying, he would tell his mother all--if she existed, if he should still exist; if-- or on the other hand, if it should be rest simple, rest absolute, no sound or sight for ever,--why, then,--all the more should the key be turned, since then could be no question of right or wrong, sin or virtue, heaven or hell. sleep! meantime, he was alive, on a day like this! no one could think of shutting his eyes for ever, or of starting on a pilgrimage,--or a wild-goose chase,--on a day like this. the sunlight of early may, softly brilliant, came sifting down through the branches of the great tree. the leaves rustled, and the sound was hardly rougher than if all the flocks that nestled in its deep, airy bowers should plume themselves at once. the birds slept their noonday sleep with the child; even the titmouse was gone now to his siesta; but other wildwood creatures came and went at their ease across the green, hardly even glancing at the familiar gray figure curled up at the foot of the tree. that was where he often sat. it seemed stupid, when there were branches to swing on, pleasant burrows under the forest-mould; since he even had his own nest, bigger than any fish-hawk's, up there in the tree itself; but it was his way. brother chipmunk, passing by on an errand, regarded him benignantly. he was a harmless monster, and often useful in the way of victual. if smoke came out of his mouth now and then, what did brother chipmunk care? that was the way the creature was made; the question of importance was, had he any nuts in his side-pouches? the pretty creature ran up the man's leg, and sat on his knee, looking at him with bright, expectant eyes; but he met no friendly answering glance; the brown eyes were closed, the man was asleep. yet, that was his kind of note, surely! was he speaking? no; the sound came from above. oh! listen, brother chipmunk; kind little forest brother, listen! and let the sound speak to you, and warn you to wake the slumbering figure here, ere it be too late, ere horror seize him, and despair take his heart for her own. what is that voice above? wake, wake, mark ellery, if there be life in you! * * * * * a sleepy babble at first, the waking murmur of a happy child; then a call, "mark! mark, where are you?" silence, and then a livelier prattle. "i guess most prob'ly p'r'aps he's getting dinner; that's what he is. well, then, i'll play a little till he comes; only there's noffin' here to play wiz. oh! yes, there is mark's silver key, what looks like a pistol. i believe it is a pistol, and he doesn't know, 'cause he's a dwarf. dwarfs has swords and daggers and things; never a dwarf had a pistol, not even the yellow one. well, mark said i mustn't; well, of course, i won't, only just i'll take it down and see what it is. you see, that can't possumbly do any harm, just to look and see what it is; and if it is a pistol, then he ought not to have it there, 'cause they go off and kill people dead. and when they aren't loaded, in the newspapers all the same they kill people; and--just i can reach it if i stand on my tippy-toe-toes--my tippy-toe-toes--and--" mark ellery woke. woke, staggering to his feet, with a crack shattering his ears, with a cry ringing through his soul. "mark! mark! it killed me!" then silence; and the man fell on his knees, and the pistol-smoke drifted down, and floated across his face like a passing soul. * * * * * was it a heart-beat, was it a lifetime, before that silence was broken? the forest held its breath; its myriad leaves hung motionless; there was no movement save the drifting of that blue cloud, that was now almost gone, only the ragged edges of its veil melting away among the tree-trunks. surely neither sound nor motion would come from that gray image kneeling under the tree, its hands locked together till the nails pierced the flesh, its eyes set and staring. is it death they are staring at? lo! this man has been playing with death; toying, coquetting, dallying with him, month after month, sure of his own power, confident that his own hand held both scythe and hour-glass. now death has laughed, and reached behind him and taken his own. o god! can this thing be? god of terror and majesty, working thine awful will in steadfastness while we play and fret and strut under thy silent heavens--has he sinned enough for this, this terrible damnation? is there no hope for him, now or hereafter through the ages? but hark! oh, hark! o god, once more! god of mercy and tenderness; god who givest sight to the blind, and bringest the dead heart into life again--is _this_ thy will, and has he won heaven so soon? what sound now from above? a bird, is it, waked from its sleep in fear? no! no bird ever sobbed in its throat; no bird ever cried through tears like this. "mark! i want you, mark! not killed i is, but i's frightened, and i want you, mark, my mark!" * * * * * when the child was going to bed that night the dwarf took her in his arms, and held her a long, long time, silent. then he said: "snow-white, i want you to say your prayer with me to-night." "wiz you, mark? i thought never dwarfs said prayers." "kneel down with me here, snow-white, little darling child. hold hands with me--so! now say after me the words i say." and wondering, the child repeated after him: "'whither shall i go from thy spirit? or whither shall i flee from thy presence? if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if i make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. if i take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea: even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. amen.'" "amen," said the child. "that's kind of a funny prayer, isn't it, mark? i like that prayer. i think i'll have that for mine, 'stead of 'now i lay me.' mark!" "yes, snow-white." "is you terrible glad i wasn't killed wiz that pistol key?" "yes, snow-white; terrible glad!" "is you glad enough not to be cross wiz me 'cause i took it? 'cause i was naughty, 'cause you told me not." "yes, snow-white." "not one single bit cross?" "not one single bit, my little darling child." the child drew a long sigh of content, and put up her arms. "here i want to go to sleep," she said. "your lap is so nice, mark; and your shoulder comes just right for my head. is you comfy so, mark?" "very comfy, snow-white." "do you love me?" "very much, little one; very, very much." "me too you. good-night, mark. i'm glad--you was--a dwarf, and--just right--for me!" through the long night those tender arms held her. her sweet head rested on his shoulder; he never moved; he timed his breathing so that it might come and go with hers, softly rising, softly falling, hour after hour. only toward morning, when the dawn chill came on, he laid the lax limbs and heavy head on the bed, and covered them tenderly, and sat and watched beside the bed till day. it was more than the child's mother had ever done, but why should she do it, when the nurses were always there? chapter ix. restored to life. so it came to pass that james phillips, driving in painful state toward the forest, met the third great surprise of his life. the first had been when, as a child, he was snatched from the hands of the brutal father whose lash still, whenever he thought of it, whistled its way down on his cringing body. he often recalled that moment; the centring of agony in one nerve and another of his tortured frame as the blows fell, the setting of his teeth to keep the screams back because that other should not have the pleasure of hearing him scream; then the sudden flash, the cry, the little figure, no bigger than his own, standing over him, ablaze with wrath, the hulking bully cowering abject, the lash dropped and never raised again. following this, the years of kindness without intermission; the watching, befriending, educating. phillips was not a man of expression, or he would have said that, if god almighty created him, mark ellery made him. and always so wise, so kind, with the light in his eyes, and the smile that people would turn in the street to look after. and on all this had come the second surprise. suddenly, with no reason given--or asked--the light gone out of his master's kind eyes, the smile coming no more, though he would still laugh sometimes, a harsh, unlovely laugh, in place of the mellow sound that used to warm the heart like wine. then--the life changed with the nature; the grave cares, the beneficent responsibilities cast aside, the ceaseless flow of cordial kindness checked, all business thrown into his own willing but timid hands. the wandering life abroad, of which a few random lines dropped now and then had told him; then the return, unguessed by any save himself alone; the seclusion in the bit of lonely forest that bordered the wide ellery domain, the life--or death-in-life--for to phillips it seemed that his master might as well be nailed in his coffin as living like this. so it had seemed, at least; but now, it appeared that yet worse might be. at least the man, mark ellery, had been there, alive and sane, however cruelly changed. but now, if his mind were indeed failing, if some obscure and terrible disease were depriving him of his faculties,--what would happen? what must happen? so far he, phillips, had simply obeyed every dictate, however whimsical and fantastic. here he was, for instance, the carriage filled with things which for very shame and grief he had hidden in boxes and baskets,--toys, cushions, frippery of every description. he had bought them with a sinking heart; he could have wept over every foolish prettiness, but he had bought sternly and faithfully, and every article was the best of its kind. what did it mean? his best hope was that some farmer's child, straying near the wood, had struck and pleased his master's wandering fancy; his worst--but when he thought of that, james phillips straightened his shoulders, and a dark flush crept over his sallow cheek. to him, thus riding in state and misery, came, i say, the third great surprise of his life. suddenly the coachman uttered an exclamation, and checked his horses. now the coachman, like all mark ellery's servants, was as near deaf and dumb as was possible for a man possessed of all his faculties. phillips raised his eyes, and beheld two figures advancing along the road toward him. his master, mark ellery, walking erect and joyful, as he used to walk, his eyes alight, his mouth smiling the old glad way; and holding his hand, dancing and leaping beside him, a child. no farmer's child, though its feet were bare, and bare its curly head, and though the pink frock fluttered in torn folds about it. the child who was now mourned as dead in the splendid house where till now careless pleasure had reigned prodigal and supreme. the child whose dainty hat, dripping and broken, but still half-filled with flowers, had this very day been brought to the distracted woman who now lay prone on her velvet couch, waking from one swoon only to shriek and moan and shudder away into another,--for in most women the mother nature wakes sooner or later, only sometimes it is too late. the child for whose drowned body the search-parties were fathoming every black pool and hidden depth in the stream that, flowing far through woodland and meadow, had brought the flower-laden hat to the very gates of the town, to the very feet of her father, as he rode out on his last frantic search. the same child, not dead, not stolen or lost or mazed, tripping and dancing and swinging by mark ellery's hand, talking and chattering like any squirrel, while her curls blew in the may wind. "they _is_ white! mark, the horses is white, just the way you said. oh, i do love you! who is that? is it a man? is he real? why like a doll does he look wiz his eyes? does he wind up behind? what for is his mouth open? can he speak?" "no, he can't speak!" said the dwarf, laughing. "at least, he'd better not. it isn't good for his health,--is it, phillips? see, snow-white, the carriage has stopped now, and we will get in and go home to mamma. oh! yes, you do want to go, very much indeed; and she'll have brought you something pretty from new york, i shouldn't wonder." "always she mostly sometimes does!" said the child. "but i am coming back here; very soon i am coming, mark? both together we are coming back to live parts of the times? because you know, mark!" "yes, i know, snow-white! yes, if mamma--and papa--are willing, we will come back now and then." "because the squirrels, you know, mark!" "yes, i know." "and the birds! do you think all day those crumbs will last them, do you? do you think cousin goldfinch understood when you asplained to him? do you think simeon is lonely? _poor_ simeon! why don't you speak and tell me, mark? _mark!_" "well, snow-white?" "_the cow!_" "what of her, my child?" "mark, who will milk her? you know--whisper!" she put her mouth to his ear. "you know _real_ cows _has_ to be milked; and we said she was real, both we did, mark!" "this man will milk her," said mark, smiling at the speechless image opposite him. "did you ever milk a cow, phillips?" but phillips did not speak, and the child said, openly, that he needed winding up. so they drove back to the town and through the streets, where people started at sight of them, and stared after them, and whispered to one another; to the splendid house where, above the marble steps, the white ribbons waved on the door, with white roses above them to show that a child was mourned as dead. the child wanted to know why the ribbons were there, and whether it was a party, and a party for her; but for once no one answered her. the carriage stopped, and she flung her arms around mark ellery's neck, and clung tight. "you will take me in, mark?" "yes, snow-white!" "you will carry me up the steps, and into the house?" "yes, snow-white." "because i love you! because i love you better as--" "hush, my child! hush, my little darling child!" * * * * * the white-faced butler tore down the ribbons and flung them behind him as he opened the door. he could not speak, but he looked imploringly at the stately gentleman who stood before him with the child in his arms. "yes," said mark ellery, "i am coming in, barton. take me to your mistress." * * * * * james phillips sat in the carriage outside, and faced the gathering crowd. the rumour spread like wildfire; men and women came running with eager questions, with wide incredulous eyes. was it true? could it be true? who had seen her? here was james phillips; what did phillips say? was the child found? was she alive? had mark ellery brought her back? they surged and babbled about the carriage. phillips, who had received his instructions in a few quiet words, turned an impassive face to the crowd. yes, he said, it was true. mr. ellery had found the little girl. yes, she was alive and well, had no hurt of any kind. yes, mr. ellery had taken her into the house; he was in the house now. he had come back; his own house was to be opened; he would be at the office to-morrow. "where has he been?" cried several eager voices. for here was a fresh wonder, almost as great as that of the dead restored to life. "where has mark ellery been, james phillips?" james phillips searched his mind for a painful instant; groped for some new light of imagination, but found none; could only make the old answer that he had made so many times before: "he has been in thibet--hunting the wild ass!" chapter x. good-bye. the birds did not know what to make of it. at first--for several days--they flew at the windows, as they were in the habit of doing when they felt that a little change from worms would be pleasant. it had come to be an understood thing that when they came to the places where the air was hard, they should flap and beat against it with wings and beak. then their friend would push up the hard air, or open his tree and come out, and would scatter food for them, food which they could not name, but which was easy and pleasant to eat, and did not wriggle. then they would flutter about him, and perch on head and hand and shoulder, and tell him all the news. he was always interested to hear how the nest was getting on, and how many eggs there were; and later, of the extraordinary beauty and virtue of the nestlings. he listened to all the forest gossip with evident pleasure, and often made noises as if he were trying to reply; though, having no bill, of course he only produced uncouth sounds. he meant so well, though, and was so liberal with his food, that all loved him, and not the youngest titmouse ever thought of making fun of him. now he was gone, and the birds did not know what to make of it. they flew and beat against the hard air spaces, but there was no movement within. they consulted the squirrels, and the squirrels went and told simeon stylites, who came down from his pillar in distress, and climbed down the hard red hollow tree that stood on top of the house. he was gone some time, and when he reappeared the squirrels and birds screamed and chattered in affright, for he had gone down a gray squirrel, and he came up black as a crow. but he soothed them, and explained that the inside of the tree was covered with black fur which came off on him. moreover, all was as usual in the place below where their friend lived; only, he was not there. he had found some nuts, but intended to keep them for his trouble; and so he departed. for a long time the birds called and sang and swooped about the house; but no friendly face appeared, no voice answered their call, no hand scattered the daily dole. the creepers rustled and swung their green tendrils down over the house, but it remained senseless, silent, crouched against the wall of gray rock behind it. * * * * * so it stands, and the forest blooms and fades and shrivels round it, year after year. only, once in every year, when the mayflowers are blossoming warm and rosy under the brown leaves, the owner of the house comes back to it. comes with weary step and careworn brow,--life being so full, and the rush of it bringing more work and thought and anxiety than the days can hold,--yet with serene countenance, and eves full of quiet peace, ready to break on the instant into light and laughter. in his hand he brings the child, growing every year into new beauty, new grace, and brightness. and there for a happy week they live and play, and wash the pretty dishes, and feed the birds, and milk the brown cow which is always mysteriously there in the pasture, ready to be milked. "do you know, mark?" said the child once, when they had patted the cow, and were turning away with their shining pail full--the child was a big girl now, but she had the same inconsequent way of talking-- "know what, snow-white?" "i really did think perhaps she was a princess, that first time. wasn't that funny?" she bubbled over with laughter, just the old way. "but we can play just as well now, can't we, mark?" "just as well, snow-white." "and i am not so horribly big, mark, am i?" "not yet, snow-white. not yet, my big little girl." "but you will love me just the same if i do get horribly big, mark?" "just the same, snow-white! a little more every year, to allow for growth." "because i can't help it, you know, mark." "surely not, my dear. surely mark would not have you help it." "but always i shall be the right size for you, mark, and always you will be my own dwarf?" "always and always, snow-white!" "because i love you!" says the child. so the two saunter back through the wood, and the ferns unroll beside their path, and the mayflowers peep out at them from under the leaves, and overhead the birds flit and the squirrels frisk, and all is as it has always been in the good green wood. only, when the milk is carefully set away, mark ellery comes out of the house, and stands under the great buttonwood-tree, silent, with bent head. and seeing him so, the girl comes out after him, and puts her arms around his neck, and leans her head on his breast, and is silent too; for she knows he is saying his prayer, the prayer that is now this long time his life, that she means shall guide and raise her own life, and bring it a little nearer his. "even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me!" the end. * * * * * _books by laura e. richards._ "mrs. richards has made for herself a little niche apart in the literary world, from her delicate treatment of new england village life."--_boston post._ the captain january series captain january. a charming idyl of new england coast life, whose success has been very remarkable. one reads it, is thoroughly charmed by it, tells others, and so its fame has been heralded by its readers, until to-day it is selling by the thousands, constantly enlarging the circle of its delighted admirers. melody. the story of a child. "had there never been a 'captain january,' 'melody' would easily take first place."--_boston times._ marie. "seldom has mrs. richards drawn a more irresistible picture, or framed one with more artistic literary adjustment."--_boston herald._ "a perfect literary gem."--_boston transcript._ narcissa, and a companion story, in verona. "each is a simple, touching, sweet little story of rustic new england life, full of vivid pictures of interesting character, and refreshing for its unaffected genuineness and human feeling."--_congregationalist._ jim of hellas; or, in durance vile, and a companion story, bethesda pool. rosin the beau. a sequel to "melody." snow-white; or the house in the wood. isla heron. a charming prose idyl of quaint new england life. nautilus. a very interesting story, with illustrations. five minute stories. a charming collection of short stories and clever poems for children. three margarets. one of the most clever stories for girls that the author has written. margaret montfort. the second volume in the series of which "three margarets" was so successful as the initial volume. peggy. the third volume in the series of which the preceding ones have been so successful. rita. the fourth volume in the series, being an account of rita, the cuban margaret, and her friends. love and rocks. a charming story of one of the pleasant islands that dot the rugged maine coast. with etching frontispiece by mercier. _dana estes & company, publishers, boston._ the apricot tree. published under the direction of the committee of general literature and education, appointed by the society for promoting christian knowledge. london: printed for the society for promoting christian knowledge; sold at the depository, great queen street, lincoln's inn fields; and , royal exchange. . * * * * * price twopence. _r. clay, printer_, _bread street hill_. [illustration] the apricot-tree. it was a fine evening in the beginning of autumn. the last rays of the sun, as it sunk behind the golden clouds, gleamed in at the window of a cottage, which stood in a pleasant lane, about a quarter of a mile from the village of ryefield. on each side of the narrow gravel walk that led from the lane to the cottage-door, was a little plot of cultivated ground. that on the right hand was planted with cabbages, onions, and other useful vegetables; that on the left, with gooseberry and currant-bushes, excepting one small strip, where stocks, sweet-peas, and rose-trees were growing; whose flowers, for they were now in full bloom, peeping over the neatly trimmed quick-hedge that fenced the garden from the road, had a gay and pretty appearance. not a weed was to be found in any of the beds; the gooseberry and currant-bushes had evidently been pruned with much care and attention, and were loaded with fine ripe fruit. but the most remarkable thing in the garden was an apricot-tree, which grew against the wall of the cottage, and which was covered with apricots of a large size and beautiful colour. the cottage itself, though small and thatched with straw, was clean and cheerful, the brick floor was strewed with sand, and a white though coarse cloth was spread on the little deal table. on this table were placed tea-things, a loaf of bread, and some watercresses. a cat was purring on the hearth, and a kettle was boiling on the fire. near the window, in a large arm-chair, sat an old woman, with a bible on her knees. she appeared happy and contented, and her countenance expressed cheerfulness and good temper. after reading for some time with great attention, she paused to look from the window into the lane, as if expecting to see some one. she listened as if for a footstep; but all was silent. she read again for about ten minutes longer, and then closing the sacred volume, rose, and, having laid the book carefully on a shelf, opened the door, and went out into the garden, whence she could see farther into the lane, and remained for a considerable time leaning over the little wicket gate, in anxious expectation. "what can be the reason that ned is so late?" she said, half aloud, to herself. "he always hastens home to his poor old grandmother as soon as he has done work. what can make him an hour later than usual? i hope nothing has happened to him. but, hush!" she continued, after a few minutes' pause, "surely i hear him coming now." she was not mistaken, for in a minute or two ned appeared, running quite fast up the lane, and in a few moments more he was standing by her side, panting and breathless. "dear grandmother," he exclaimed, as soon as he had recovered breath enough to speak, "i have a great deal of good news to tell you. farmer tomkyns says he will employ me all through the winter, and pay me the same wages that he does now. this is one piece of good news. and the other is, that mr. stockwell, the greengrocer, will buy all my apricots, and give me a good price for them. i am to take them to him next market-day. i had to wait more than half-an-hour before i could speak to him, and that made me so late. o how beautiful they are!" continued he, gazing with admiration at the tree. "o grandmother, how happy i am!" his grandmother smiled, and said she was glad to hear this good news. "and now come in and have your tea, child," she added; "for i am sure you must be hungry." "o grandmother," said ned, as they sat at tea, "now that mr. stockwell will buy the fruit, you will be able to have a cloak to keep you warm this winter. it often used to grieve me, last year, to see you obliged to go to church such bitter cold weather, with only that thin old shawl on. i know you said you could not spare money to get a cloak for yourself, because you had spent all you could save in buying me a jacket. my tree has never borne fruit till this year; and you always said that when it did, i should do what i pleased with the money its fruit would fetch. now, there is nothing i should like to spend it on better than in getting a cloak for you." "thank you, ned," replied his grandmother; "it would indeed be a very great comfort. i do not think i should have suffered so much from rheumatism last winter, if i had had warmer clothing. if it was not for your apricot-tree, i must have gone without a cloak this winter also; for, what with our pig dying, and your having no work to do in the spring, this has been but a bad year for us." "the money mr. stockwell is going to give me," resumed ned, "will be enough all but sixpence; and i have a new sixpence, you know, in a little box upstairs, that my aunt gave me last june, when i went to spend the day with her; so when i carry him the fruit, i shall take that in my pocket, and then when i come home in the evening i can bring the cloak with me. o that will be a happy day!" continued ned, getting up to jump and clap his hands for joy. "there is another thing i am very glad of," said he, sitting down again. "master is going to turn tom andrews away next week." "you ought not to be glad of that, ned. tom is one of a large family; and his father being very poor, it must be a great help to have one of his children earning something." "but he is ill-natured to me, and often plagues me very much. it was only yesterday he broke the best hoe, by knocking stones about with it, and then told master it was my doing. besides, he is idle, and does not mind what is said to him, and often gets into mischief." "and do you think being turned away from farmer tomkyns's will help to cure these faults?" "no," answered ned; "i do not suppose it will." "on the contrary, is it not likely that he will grow more idle, and get oftener into mischief, when he has no master to look after him, and nothing to do all day long but play about the streets?" "why, yes, that is true. still, it will serve him right to be turned away. i have heard mr. harris, our rector, say that those who do wrong ought to be punished." "pray, ned," asked his grandmother, "can you tell me what is the use of punishment?" "the use of punishment!--" repeated ned, thoughtfully. "let me think. the use of punishment, i believe, is to make people better." "right. now, ned, you have allowed that tom's being turned away is not likely to make him better, but worse; so that i am afraid the true reason why you rejoice at his disgrace is because you bear resentment against him, for having been ill-natured to yourself. think a minute, and tell me if this is not the case." ned owned that his grandmother was right; and then observed, "it is very difficult not to bear ill-will against any one who has done us wrong." "yet," rejoined his grandmother, "it is our duty to pardon those who have injured us. st. paul says, in his epistle to the ephesians, 'be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as god for christ's sake hath forgiven you.' and our blessed saviour has commanded us to 'love our enemies,' to 'do good to them that hate us, and to pray for those that despitefully use us, and persecute us.' if you will look at the fourteenth and fifteenth verses of the sixth chapter of st. matthew, you will see what else our lord says on the subject." ned took the bible, and having found the place, read, "for if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly father will also forgive you: but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly father forgive your trespasses." "before you go to bed," said his grandmother, when he had finished reading, "i wish you to get by heart these three texts, and repeat them to me." ned did as he was desired, and then his grandmother kissed him, and bid him good-night. ned loved his grandmother very much, for she had always been kind to him. his parents had both died when he was very young; and she then brought him home to live with her, and had taken care of him ever since. she taught him to read and write, and cast up sums; to be steady and industrious; and, above all, it was her great care to instil into his mind religious principles. she had often told him that the way to profit by what we read, as well as by the good advice that may be given us, is to think upon it afterwards; and she frequently desired him to make a practice of saying over to himself every night whatever verses from the bible he had learnt by heart during the day. this evening, when ned repeated his texts, he felt that he had been wrong to rejoice at tom andrews's disgrace, because he had behaved ill to himself; and he prayed god to make tom see his faults, and leave off his bad ways. the next day ned, as usual, went early to his work. tom andrews was very teasing, but ned tried not to be provoked; and when tom said ill-natured things to him, he checked the angry replies he was tempted to make. two days afterwards, when ned came home to tea, he thought with pleasure that to-morrow was market-day at the town where mr. stockwell lived; and he ran in and out twenty times, to look at, and admire, his beautiful apricot-tree. "i must get up very early indeed to-morrow morning," he said to his grandmother, "that i may gather the apricots, and take them to mr. stockwell before i go to my work." accordingly the next morning he rose as soon as it was light, and, taking a basket the greengrocer had lent him in his hand, went into the little garden to line it with fresh green leaves, before putting the fruit into it. what was his surprise and sorrow when he saw that every one of his apricots was gone, and the tree itself sawn nearly in two, close to the root! throwing down his basket, ned ran to his grandmother, who was just come down stairs, and had begun to light the fire. he could only exclaim, "o my apricots, my apricots, they are all gone! and my beautiful tree--" then covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears. "what is the matter, my dear?" inquired his grandmother. ned replied by taking her by the hand, and leading her into the garden. "who can have done this?" he exclaimed, sobbing. "if they had only stolen the apricots, i could have borne it better! but to see my dear tree spoiled--it must die--it must be quite killed--only look how it is cut!" "i am very sorry for you, my poor boy," said his grandmother, kindly. "it is a most vexatious thing." "oh!" cried ned, "if i did but know who it was that had done it--" "i would be revenged on them, some how or other," he was going to have added; but the texts which he had learned a few days before concerning the forgiveness of injuries, and which he had frequently repeated to himself since, came into his mind, and he stopped short. on looking round the garden, to see if they could discover any traces of the thief, ned and his grandmother saw the prints of a boy's shoe, rather bigger than ned's, in several of the beds, and hanging on the quick-hedge were some tattered fragments of a red cotton handkerchief checked with white. "i know this handkerchief," said ned; "it is tom andrews's; i have often seen him with it tied round his neck. it must be he who stole my apricots." "you cannot be sure that it is tom who stole your apricots," rejoined his grandmother. "many other people besides him have red handkerchiefs." "but i am sure it can be no one but tom; for only yesterday, when i told him about my apricots, and the money i expected to get for them, he said he wished he knew how to get some, that he might have money too. oh! if i could but get hold of him--" again he stopped, and thought of our saviour's words; then, turning to his grandmother, he said, "whoever it is that has robbed us of the fruit, i forgive him, even if it is tom andrews." ned went to work that day with a heavy heart. tom andrews was in high glee; for his master had said he would give him another week's trial. ned told him of the misfortune that had happened to him, and thought that tom looked rather confused. he also remarked that his companion had not got the red handkerchief on that he usually wore about his neck; and he asked him the reason. "i tore it last night, scrambling through a hedge," replied tom carelessly. "how came you to be scrambling through a hedge last night?" inquired ned. "what makes you ask me that question?" returned the other, sharply. "because," answered ned, fixing his eyes upon him, "because the person who stole my apricots left part of a red handkerchief hanging on our hedge." "do you mean to say, then, that _i_ stole them?" exclaimed his companion, in an angry tone. "i'll teach you to tell this of me." so saying, he struck ned a blow on the face with his fist, before ned was aware what he was going to do. ned was very much tempted to strike in return; but just as he raised his arm, something seemed to whisper that he ought not to do so; and, drawing back a few steps, he called after tom, who was beginning to run away, saying, "you need not be afraid of me. i am not going to strike you, though you did strike me; because it is wrong to return evil for evil." "fine talking, indeed!" rejoined tom, tauntingly. "i know very well the reason why you will not strike me again. you dare not, because i am the biggest and strongest. you are afraid of me." now ned was no coward. he would have fought in a good cause with a boy twice his size; and he was very much provoked at the words and manner of his companion. he had a hard struggle with himself not to return the blow; but he kept firm to the good resolution he had made, and went away. as he was returning home very sorrowful, he could not help thinking how happy he had expected to be that evening; and he regretted extremely that his grandmother would have no cloak to keep her warm in the cold weather. still, the recollection that he had patiently borne the blow and insulting speeches of tom, and thus endeavoured to put in practice the good precepts he had been taught, consoled him, and made him feel less sad than he would otherwise have been. "how did you get that black eye, ned?" asked his grandmother, as soon as she saw him. "i hope you have not been fighting." "no, grandmother, indeed i have not," replied ned; and he told her how it had happened. his grandmother said that he was a good boy to have acted as he did, and added, "it makes me happier to find that you behave well, than twenty new cloaks would." the next day, at dinner time, when ned went into the little outhouse where he and tom usually ate this meal, he found tom sitting there crying. "what makes you cry, tom?" inquired ned. "because i have no dinner," was the reply. "how happens that?" asked ned. "because, now father's out of work, mother says she can only give us two meals a-day. i only had a little bit of bread this morning; and i shall have nothing else till i go home in the evening, and then she will give me a cold potato or two." ned's grandmother had given him that day for his dinner a large slice of bread, and a piece of cold bacon. ned had been working hard, and was very hungry. he could have eaten all the bread and bacon with pleasure, and felt certain that if he had got no dinner and tom had, tom would not have given him any of his. he recollected that tom had never in his life shown him any kindness; that, a fortnight ago, when tom had had four apples given him, he had eaten them all himself, without even offering him part of one; and, above all, he called to mind that tom was in all probability the person who had robbed him of his apricots, and killed his favourite apricot-tree. but he remembered our saviour's command, "do good to them that hate you;" and though tom was a bad boy, yet it grieved ned to see him crying with hunger, whilst he himself had food to eat. so he divided both the bread and the bacon into two equal shares, with his knife, and then, going up to tom, gave him one portion, and desired him to eat it. tom looked at ned in some surprise, and then, taking the food that was offered him, ate it in a ravenous manner, without saying a word. "he might just have thanked me," thought ned to himself; but he forbore to tell tom so. ned always read a chapter in the bible to his grandmother every night when he came home from work. it happened that this evening the chapter fixed on was the twelfth of st. paul's epistle to the romans. he was much struck by one of the verses in it: "therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head." "grandmother," said ned, when he had concluded the chapter, "i understand the first part of this verse very well, it is plain enough; but what is meant by the words, 'for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head?'" his grandmother replied, that this passage had once puzzled her; but that an old lady with whom she had lived when she was a girl, and who kindly took great pains in explaining different parts of the bible that were hard to be understood, had made this quite clear to her. "she told me," continued his grandmother, "that the apostle alludes to the custom of melting gold and other metals by fire; and his meaning is, that as coals of fire melt and soften the metals on which they are heaped, so by kindness and gentleness we may melt and soften our enemy, and make him love, instead of hating us." ned thanked his grandmother for this explanation, and then was silent for some little time. "perhaps," he said to himself, "if i go on being kind to tom andrews, i shall at last make him love me, and leave off teasing me and saying ill-natured things." he would not tell his grandmother that he had given tom part of his dinner, for fear she should another day give him more; and he knew she could not do this without robbing herself. tom's father remained out of work for several weeks; and tom would have been obliged to go without a dinner most days, if ned had not regularly given him half his. for some time tom received his companion's kindness sulkily, and without appearing at all grateful; but at last ned's good-natured conduct appeared to touch him, and he said-- "how kind you are to me, ned! though i am sure i have done nothing to deserve kindness from you. father often says he wishes i was more like you; and i do think i should be happier if i was, for you always seem cheerful and contented, though you work harder than i do." "i like working," answered ned; "nothing makes me so dull as being idle. besides, as grandmother says, people are far more likely to do wrong when they are not employed. you know the lines in the hymn,-- 'for satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do,'" tom looked down and coloured. ned, who had not meant to give him pain by what he said, added, on observing tom's confusion-- "i have so many things i like to do when i go home after work, that i don't deserve praise for not being idle." "i wish i had anything i liked to do when work is over," returned tom; "but i have nothing to do but play, and i soon get tired of that." "so do i," rejoined ned. "i like a game of ball or cricket every now and then as well as anybody; but it is a great waste of time, to say the least of it, to spend all one's spare hours in play; besides, as you say, we get tired, and do not enjoy play if we have too much of it." "what do you do of an evening, that is so pleasant?" inquired tom. "why i keep our little garden in order;--that takes up a good deal of time; and i write a copy, and do a sum or two, and read the bible to grandmother." "i should like that very well," observed tom, "all except reading the bible." "oh, do not say so!" exclaimed ned; "surely you do not mean it." "i dare say," rejoined tom, "that i should like the bible well enough if i could understand it; but it's so hard! _you_ understand it all, i suppose?" "oh, dear no! that i do not; but grandmother sometimes explains what is hard, and tells me a great many pleasing things about the manners of the country where our saviour and his apostles lived. i never am happier than when i read to her, and she talks to me about what i have read." "well," said tom, "mother hears me read a chapter now and then, but she always seems to think it a trouble; and so i read as fast as i can, to get it the sooner over. father commonly says, he's too tired to listen." ned said no more on the subject then; but when they had both done work, he asked tom if he would like to walk home with him, and look at his garden. tom hesitated at first; there seemed to be something in the idea that made him uncomfortable. but he had been gradually growing fond of ned, and ned's account of the pleasures and comfort of his home had made him wish to go there; so he told his companion that he would go with him. ned's grandmother received the two boys very kindly, and gave them some tea and bread and butter. having learned from tom that his parents would not be uneasy at his absence, she asked him to stay with them all the evening. the next day tom looked wistfully at ned, as if he wished to go home with him, but did not like to say anything about it. ned observed this, and told him that his grandmother had said he might come whenever he liked. "then i'll go to-night," said tom. and accordingly he went home with ned that evening, and almost every evening afterwards for some time. he helped ned to work in his garden, and took a part in all his other employments. ned always read the bible after tea, which tom at first thought very tiresome; and he would not have stayed, had he not wished for ned's company afterwards to walk part of the way back with him to the village; but soon he became so much interested in what he heard read, as well as by the improving and interesting conversation of ned's grandmother, that he looked forward to the evening's reading as one of the pleasantest events of the day. one afternoon, as the two boys were digging a bed in the garden, tom said to his companion-- "i have long been going to tell you of something that makes me very uncomfortable; but i have never yet had courage to do it. i know you think that i stole your apricots, don't you?" ned did not immediately reply. his good-nature made him unwilling to own that he _did_ suspect tom; and he could not tell an untruth, by saying that he did not suspect him. "well," continued tom, "i am sure you must; and i do not wonder at it. now the truth is, that when you told me about your apricots, i thought to myself that i would come when it was dusk, and take two or three of them just to eat, thinking that you would not miss such a small number. but i did not like to go by myself; so i asked fred morris if he would go with me. he said, 'o yes; he would go anywhere, or do anything, to get some apricots.' he did not know of your tree, he added; or he should have paid it a visit before. i began to be sorry i had told him, and made him promise that he would not take more than three. when it got dark, and we were set out, i felt that i was doing very wrong. i wished to turn back; but fred would not let me. he said i need not take any fruit myself if i wanted to back out; but that if i did not go with him to show him the tree, he would beat me within an inch of my life. so we came to the wicket together; it was fastened, and we clambered over the hedge. fred had a large basket with him, which i had several times asked him about, and tried to make him say what he brought it for. he told me that i should see when the time came. as soon as he got to the tree, he began gathering the apricots as fast as he could, and putting them into his basket. i tried to hinder him, and said i would shout and wake you; but he declared that, if i did, he would kill me; and you know, ned, he is nearly twice as big as i am, and terribly violent; so all i could do was to hold my tongue, and let him alone. just as we were going away, he caught up a saw that was lying in the garden, and spoiled the tree with it. i do believe he did this just for the love of mischief, or maybe partly to spite me, because i had told him not to steal all the apricots. he would not let me have one for my share; though i do not think i could have eaten it if he had, i was so much frightened, and so surprised at him for stealing all your fruit. he besides ordered me not to tell what he had done, and bullied me a great deal about it, till at last i got away from him. i was too much afraid to tell you for a good while, but i could not bear that you should think i had been so very wicked; and at last i made up my mind to tell you exactly how it was. "i know that i have been very wrong," continued tom; "and that if it had not been for me the apricots would not have been stolen. i can't be more sorry than i am. and now that you have heard all, ned, will you forgive me, and try not to think as badly of me as i deserve?" ned said he was glad to hear tom had had no more share in the affair; and then, holding out his hand to tom, he assured him of his entire forgiveness. "indeed, tom," he added, "i forgave you in my heart long ago." "i am sure you did," rejoined tom warmly, "or you would not have been so kind to me. o ned, you cannot think how unhappy it makes me when i recollect how often i have been teasing and ill-natured to you, notwithstanding your good-nature to me!" "say no more about that," replied ned; "you have not been teasing or ill-natured lately. we shall, i hope, always be good friends for the future." when tom was gone, ned related this conversation to his grandmother. "i think," she observed, when he concluded, "that all tom's sin in this matter came from breaking the tenth commandment. if he had not first coveted the apricots, he would not have been tempted to steal them. through earnestly desiring what did not belong to him, he was led not only to commit a great sin himself, but to be the means of leading a fellow-creature into sin also. fred morris would not have thought of robbing the apricot-tree had not tom put it into his head. in the bible we are frequently charged not to lead our brother into sin; and heavy punishments are denounced against him who shall cause another to do evil." "i used to think, grandmother," observed ned, "that the tenth commandment must be the least important of all; i did not suppose there could be any very great harm in merely wishing for what belongs to another person; but i shall never think so in future." several weeks passed away, and the weather began to grow cold and winterly. ned could not help sighing when he saw his grandmother suffering from the cold, and recollected that she had no cloak to keep her warm, and would have none all the winter. he sometimes sighed, too, as he looked at the apricot-tree, whose branches were now dead and withering; and so did tom. both the boys agreed that it had better be cut down, and taken away entirely. "how i wish," exclaimed tom, "that we had another to put in its place!" "so do i," rejoined ned; "but apricot-trees, i believe, are very dear to buy. a gardener my father used to work for, and who is now dead, gave me this. i fear there is no chance of our ever getting another." "how i do wish i was rich!" cried tom; "i would give you an apricot-tree, and all manner of things besides. i should like to be as rich as our squire best; but it would do to be as rich as farmer tomkyns. oh, if i had only half as many sheep, and pigs, and cows, and haystacks, as he has, how happy i should be! don't you wish you had some of the squire's or farmer tomkyns's riches, ned?" "no," replied ned, "i don't; because we ought not to wish for other people's things." he then told tom all that he could remember of what his grandmother had said to him about the sin of coveting what does not belong to us; and that doing so, besides breaking one commandment, is very likely to lead to the breaking of others also. "but," asked tom, "how is it possible to help longing sometimes for things we have not got, and yet see other people have?" "we may not," said ned's grandmother, who had come out to call the boys in to tea, and had overheard the latter part of their conversation; "we may not, perhaps, be always able to prevent covetous or envious thoughts from entering our mind; but we should directly endeavour to drive them away, and pray to god to make us contented with 'that state of life in which it has pleased him to place us.' 'be content with such things as ye have,' says st. paul. and again, speaking of himself, he tells us, 'i have learned, in whatever state i am, therewith to be content.' besides, tom, the rich are not always happy. they have a great many cares and anxieties that we know nothing of. you cannot have forgotten what trouble farmer tomkyns was in last spring when so many of his cattle died of the distemper, and he was afraid he should lose the rest. it is true the squire can afford to have always a grand dinner to sit down to; but of what use is that when he is, and has been for years, in such a bad state of health that the choicest dainties afford him no pleasure! do not you think, tom, that if you were in his place, you would gladly give all the fine clothes, dainty food, and wealth that you possessed, to be strong and hearty again, even though you had only a poor cottage to live in, and a crust of bread to eat?" "yes," replied tom, "that i would, i am sure." "we are all," resumed the old woman, "too apt, i fear, to think more of the blessings and comforts we want, or fancy we want, than of those we already possess. we forget that c those among us who have least, have far more than they deserve.'" "what you say, grandmother," observed ned, "puts me in mind of some verses in one of watts's hymns, that i learned by heart a little while ago. may i say them?" "do so, my dear," replied his grandmother. and ned repeated the following verses:-- "not more than others i deserve, yet god hath given me more; for i have food while others starve, or beg from door to door. "while some poor wretches scarce can tell where they may lay their head, i have a home wherein to dwell, and rest upon my bed. "while others early learn to swear, and curse, and lie, and steal; lord, i am taught thy name to fear, and do thy holy will. "are these thy favours, day by day, to me above the rest; then let me love thee more than they, and try to serve thee best." "they are very pretty verses indeed," said his grandmother, when ned had finished; "and i am glad that you remember them at the right time." the day after this conversation, tom told ned that he should not be able to go home with him when work was over that evening, because his uncle was coming. it was frosty, and nothing could be done in the garden; so when ned had mended a rail in the little wicket gate that was broken, and had had his tea, read the bible, got by heart a column-of spelling, and said it to his grandmother, he sat down on a stool near the fire, and amused himself by going on with a stocking he had begun to knit. "how thankful i am to you for having taught me to knit," said he, "because it is something pleasant to do when i am in-doors of a winter's evening." just as ned left off speaking a knock was heard at the cottage door. he ran to open it, and was rather surprised to see tom, and with him a well-dressed, pleasant-looking man, whom he did not remember to have seen before. "this is my uncle," said tom. ned bowed, and set a chair for their visitor. "i come," said mr. graham, for that was the name of tom's uncle, "to thank you, my young friend, for your kindness to my nephew. i have long intended adopting tom, and taking him to live with me when he was old enough to learn my trade, which is that of a carpenter, but when i came to ryefield, a year ago, i found him so different in many respects from what i could have wished, that i gave up my intention, for i could not undertake to teacli a boy who was idle and unsteady. i now find him so much altered for the better, and farmer tomkyns gives me such a good account of his behaviour, that i am quite ready to give him a trial. he tells me that he has to thank you, ned, for his improvement; that he has learned from your example to be steady and industrious, and to try to correct his faults; and that it is you and your good grandmother who have taught him to love his bible, and take pleasure in going to church. tom also tells me that it is his fault your nice apricot tree was spoiled. now there is a nurseryman, a friend of mine, whom i have several times had an opportunity of obliging, and i have no doubt that he will give me for you a strong young tree, at the proper time for planting fruit trees." ned thanked mr. graham, who then added-- "the town where i live is several miles off, so that you and tom will not be able to see each other as often as you used, but tom can walk over here on sundays, and go with you to ryefield church sometimes, and i hope your grandmother will allow you now and then to come and see him." ned's grandmother promised that she would; and then tom told ned that farmer tomkyns had very kindly said he would employ robert, his younger brother, in place of himself. "i am glad to hear it," said ned. "and so am i," said his grandmother. "it will be a great help to your father, tom, to have you taken quite off his hands, and one of your brothers employed also." tom then said he had heard that fred morris had been caught stealing some faggots, and taken before the magistrates, who had sent him to prison. the next day farmer tomkyns told ned that in consequence of his good behaviour since he had been in his service, he was going to raise his wages. "now," said he to himself, "i shall very soon, i trust, be able to get grandmother a cloak with my own earnings." this thought, and the prospect of having another apricot tree, made him feel happy; and so he told his grandmother. "but, granny," added he, "do you know there is something that makes me feel happier still than the thought of the cloak or the apricot tree either; and that is poor tom's good fortune, and"---- he stopped and hesitated. "what were you going to say, my dear?" inquired his grandmother. "and knowing that his good fortune is partly owing to me, i was going to have said, grandmother," answered ned, blushing; "only it sounds like praising myself." "it is very natural that you should feel glad at this, my dear boy," rejoined his grandmother, smiling kindly; "for there is no pleasure so great as that we feel when conscious of having contributed to the welfare and happiness of a fellow-creature." r. clay, printer, bread street hill. melody by laura e. richards to the lovely memory of my sister, julia romana anagnos. contents i. the child ii. the doctor iii. on the road iv. rosin the beau v. in the churchyard vi. the serpent vii. lost viii. waiting ix. blondel x. darkness xi. light "_minded of nought but peace, and of a child_." sidney lanier. chapter i. the child. "well, there!" said miss vesta. "the child has a wonderful gift, that is certain. just listen to her, rejoice! you never heard our canary sing like that!" miss vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of light into the room where miss rejoice lay. the window was open, and melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with sweetness and life and joy. "it's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said miss rejoice, folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air of perfect content,--"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in the poetry-books. what is she doing, vesta?" miss rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. she could see the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the june breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her. miss vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "she's sitting on the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. it is wonderful, the way the creatures know her! that old top-knot hen, that never has a good word for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. she says she understands their talk, and i really believe she does. 'tis certain none of them cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'tis a manner of marvel, to my mind." "it is so," assented miss rejoice, mildly. "there, sister! you said you had never heard her sing 'tara's harp.' do listen now!" both sisters were silent in delight. miss vesta stood at the window, leaning against the frame. she was tall, and straight as an arrow, though she was fifty years old. her snow-white hair was brushed straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and bright as a sword. she wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds. no one would have thought that she and miss rejoice were sisters, unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed between them when they were alone together. the face that lay on the pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. the dark eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal. miss rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge, very different from the clear white of miss vesta's. it curled, too, in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. in short, miss vesta was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling miss rejoice anything but lovely. the younger sister lay always in bed. it was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. a party of pleasure,--gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,--this was miss rejoice's little story. people in the village had forgotten that there was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that rejoice had ever been other than she was now. but miss vesta never forgot. she left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never been separated for a day since. once, when the bitter pain began to abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they were bad enough to merit such suffering, if god was the person she supposed),--in those first days miss rejoice ventured to question her sister about her engagement. she was afraid--she did hope the breaking of it had nothing to do with her. "it has to do with myself!" said miss vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. the sisters had lived their life together, without a thought save for each other, till melody came into their world. but here is melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. a girl of twelve years old, with a face like a flower. a broad white forehead, with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which makes the stranger turn to look at them again. he may look several times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. the lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or soften, for melody is blind. she came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread, which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty. "see, aunt joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. you were saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one for you." she stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the glowing blossom beside it. "thank you, dear," said miss rejoice; "i might have known you would find the first blossom, wherever it was. where was this, now? on the old bush behind the barn?" "not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "the smell came to me a few minutes ago, and i went hunting for it. it was in mrs. penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see it." "well, i never!" exclaimed miss vesta. "and she let you have it?" "of course," said the child. "i told her it was for aunt joy." "h'm!" said miss vesta. "martha penny doesn't suffer much from giving, as a rule, to aunt joy or anybody else. did she give it to you at the first asking, hey?" "now, vesta!" remonstrated miss rejoice, gently. "well, i want to know," persisted the elder sister. melody laughed softly. "not quite the first asking," she said. "she wanted to know if i thought she had no nose of her own. 'i didn't mean that,' said i; 'but i thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite as much as aunt joy would.' and when she asked why, i said, 'you don't sound as if you would.' was that rude, aunt vesta?" "humph!" said miss vesta, smiling grimly. "i don't know whether it was exactly polite, but martha penny wouldn't know the difference." the child looked distressed, and so did miss rejoice. "i am sorry," said melody. "but then mrs. penny said something so funny. 'well, gaffle onto it! i s'pose you're one of them kind as must always have what they want in this world. gaffle onto your rose, and go 'long! guess i might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses for me!' so i told her i would bring her a whole bunch of our white ones as soon as they were out, and told her how i always tried to get the first cinnamon-rose for aunt joy. she said, 'she ain't your aunt, nor mine either.' but she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any more; so i took the rose, and here it is." miss vesta was angry. a bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was about to speak hastily; but miss rejoice raised a gentle hand, and motioned her to be silent. "martha penny has a sharp way, melody," said miss rejoice; "but she meant no unkindness, i think. the rose is very sweet," she added; "there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. and how are the hens this morning, dearie?" the child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "oh, we have had such fun!" she cried. "top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. so i took one under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a good humor. that made the plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. he is such a dear!" "you do spoil those hens, melody," said miss vesta, with an affectionate grumble. "do you suppose they'll eat any better for being talked to and sung to as if they were persons?" "poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do live, oughtn't they, auntie? is it time to make the cake now, aunt vesta, or shall i get my knitting, and sing to auntie joy a little?" at that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "the doctor!" cried melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of joy. "i must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate. "now he'll carry her off," said miss vesta, "and we sha'n't see her again till dinner-time. you'd think she was his child, not ours. but so it is, in this world." "what has crossed you this morning, sister?" asked miss rejoice, mildly. "you seem put about." "oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister. "don't fret your blessed self if i am cross. i can't stand martha penny, that's all,--speaking so to that blessed child! i wish i had her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. dear knows it's long enough! it isn't the first time i've had four parts of a mind to pull it for her." "why, vesta dale, how you do talk!" said miss rejoice, and then they both laughed, and miss vesta went out to scold the doctor. chapter ii. the doctor. the doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the child. a florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the west wind in person. he was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him; and miss vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger. "good-morning, vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "you came out to shoot me, because you thought i was coming to carry off melody, eh? you needn't say no, for i know your musket-shot expression. dr. anthony, let me present you to miss vesta dale,--a woman who has never had the grace to have a day's sickness since i have known her, and that's forty years at least." "miss dale is a fortunate woman," said dr. anthony, smiling. "have you many such constitutions in your practice, brown?" "i am fool enough to wish i had," growled dr brown. "that woman, sir, is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of disgusting health. how is rejoice this morning, vesta? does she want to see me?" miss vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers, searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then-- "i should like it if you could spare melody for half an hour this morning," said the doctor. "i want her to go down to phoebe jackson's to see little ned." "oh, what is the matter with ned?" cried melody, with a quick look of alarm. "tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said dr. brown, grimly. "his eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since he had the measles in the winter. i've kept one eye on the child, knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect one, which is worse. yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: ned was going blind, and would i please come that minute, and save the precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest of it. i went down mad enough, i can tell you; found the child's eyes looking like a ploughed field. 'what have you been doing to this child, phffibe?' 'we-ell, doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along back, the last week. i did cal'late to send for you before; but one o' the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice in them.' 'thunder and turf!' says i. 'what sa-ay?' says phoebe. ''n' then old mis' barker come in last night. you know she's had consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all her children's after her. and _she_ said to try vitriol; but i kind o' thought i'd ask you first, doctor, so i waited till morning. and now his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, what shall i do if my poor little neddy goes blind?' 'do, madam?' i said. 'you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. that's what you will do, and much good may it do you.'" "oh, doctor," cried melody, shrinking as if the words had been addressed to her, "how could you say that? but you don't think--you don't think ned will really be blind?" the child had grown very pale, and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense. "no, i don't," replied the doctor. "i think he will come out all right; no thanks to his mother if he does. but it was necessary to frighten the woman, melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an impression on a fool. now, i want you to run down there, like a good child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. run down and comfort the little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and the smarting of the tobacco-juice. imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "a--i don't mean that. comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about jack-and-the-beanstalk. you'll soon bring him round, i'll warrant. but stop," he added, as the child, after touching miss vesta's hand lightly, and making and receiving i know not what silent communication, turned toward the house,--"stop a moment, melody. my friend dr. anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to hear you sing just one song. are you in singing trim this morning?" the child laughed. "i can always sing, of course," she said simply. "what song would you like, doctor?" "oh, the best," said dr. brown. "give us 'annie laurie.'" the child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. it was just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept them lightly to and fro. miss vesta said something about her bread, and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the window was open, and rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not worth so much as "annie laurie." melody folded her hands lightly on her lap, and sang. dr. brown thought "annie laurie" the most beautiful song in the world; certainly it is one of the best beloved. ever since it was first written and sung (who knows just when that was? "anonymous" is the legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. we do not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and sang, and made music for all coming generations of english-speaking people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered symphonies and fugues),--ever since it was first sung, i say, men and women and children have loved this song. we hear of its being sung by camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. was it not at the siege of lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who heard it? the cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it, through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna, some patti or nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in freshness and beauty. but i am apt to think that no lover, no tender mother, no splendid italian or noble swede, could sing "annie laurie" as melody sang it. sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. he started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung quivering on the air,-- "maxwellton braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew." what wonder was this? dr. anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite knew what,--a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, of course. his good friend brown was an excellent physician, but with no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert? brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been discourteous for him, dr. anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had been rather wearily given: dr. anthony detested juvenile prodigies. but what was this? a voice full and round as the voices of italy; clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. amazement and delight made dr. anthony's face a study, which his friend perused with keen enjoyment. he knew, good dr. brown, that he himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor not know?) what anthony was thinking as they drove along. but he knew melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the discomfiture of his knowing friend. the song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark when she sinks into her nest at sunset. the listeners drew breath, and looked at each other. there was a brief silence, and then, "thank you, melody," said dr. brown. "that's the finest song in the world, i don't care what the next is. now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to neddy jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great pair of ears." the child laughed. "neddy will want 'the british grenadier,'" she said. "that is _his_ greatest song." she ran into the house to kiss miss rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and lifted her face to kiss miss vesta. "i sha'n't be gone long, auntie," she said brightly. "there'll be plenty of time to make the cake after dinner." miss vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "doctor doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to tea to-night. i suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. i should not want the child to fret." "good-by, doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face toward the buggy. "good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to dr. anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess. "good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she walked quickly away. dr. anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "blind from birth?" he asked presently. "from birth," replied dr. brown. "no hope; i've had strong down to see her. but she's the happiest creature in the world, i do believe. how does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "pretty well for a country child, eh?" "she sings like an angel," said dr. anthony,--"like an angel from heaven." "she has a right to, sir," said miss vesta, gravely. "she is a child of god, who has never forgotten her father." dr. anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in his intense interest in the child. "this lovely child is your own niece, madam?" he inquired. "she must be unspeakably dear to you." miss vesta flushed. she did not often speak as she had just done, being a new england woman; but "annie laurie" always carried her out of herself, she declared. the answer to the gentleman's question was one she never liked to make. "she is not my niece in blood," she said slowly. "we are single women, my sister and i; but she is like our own daughter to us." "twelve years this very month, vesta, isn't it," said dr. brown, kindly, "since the little one came to you? do you remember what a wild night it was?" miss vesta nodded. "i hear the wind now when i think of it," she said. "the child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend. "her mother was a young irish woman, who came here looking for work. she was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so on. she died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. tell dr. anthony how it happened, vesta." miss vesta frowned and blushed. she wished doctor would remember that his friend was a stranger to her. but in a moment she raised her head. "there's nothing to be ashamed of, after all," she said, a little proudly. "i don't know why i should not tell you, sir. i went up to the poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. we had a great quantity, and i thought some of the people up there might like them, for they had few luxuries, though i don't believe they ever went hungry. and when i came there, mrs. green, who kept the farm then, came out looking all in a maze. 'did you ever hear of such a thing in your life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'i don't know, i'm sure,' said i. 'perhaps i did, and perhaps i didn't. how's the baby that poor soul left?' i said. it was two weeks since the mother died; and to tell the truth, i went up about as much to see how the child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though i don't know that i realized it till this very minute." she smiled grimly, and went on. "'that's just it,' mrs. green screams out, right in my face. 'dr. brown has just been here, and he says the child is blind, and will be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and i'd like to know if i haven't got enough to do without feedin' blind children?' i just looked at her. 'i don't know that a deaf woman would be much better than a blind child,' said i; 'so i'll thank you to speak like a human being, liza green, and not scream at me. aren't you ashamed?' i said. 'the child can't help being blind, i suppose. poor little lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in the world.' 'i don't care,' says liza, crazy as ever; 'i can't stand it. i've got all i can stand now, with a feeble-minded boy and two so old they can't feed themselves. that polly is as crazy as a loon, and the rest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. i won't stand no more, for dr. brown nor anybody else.' and she set her hands on her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnet and all. 'let me see the child,' i said. i went in, and there it lay,--the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyes wide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its little face. well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw it in--well, i don't know exactly what i'm saying. you must excuse me, sir!" and miss vesta paused in some confusion. "'somebody ought to adopt it,' said i. 'it's a beautiful child; any one might be proud of it when it grew up.' 'i guess when you find anybody that would adopt a blind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs,' said liza green. i sat and held the child a little while, trying to think of some one who would be likely to take care of it; but i couldn't think of any one, for as she said, so it was. by and by i kissed the poor little pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it up well, though it was a warm night. 'you'll take care of that child, liza,' i said, 'as long as it stays with you, or i'll know the reason why. there are plenty of people who would like the work here, if you're tired of it,' i said. she quieted down at that, for she knew that a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn't going to have that blind child slighted, well i knew. well, sir, i came home, and told rejoice." "her sister," put in dr. brown,--"a crippled saint, been in her bed thirty years. she and melody keep a small private heaven, and vesta is the only sinner admitted." "doctor, you're very profane," said miss vesta, reprovingly. "i've never seen my sister rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when i told her. 'where is the child?' she says. 'why, where do you suppose?' said i. 'in its cradle, of course. i tucked it up well before i came away, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' i said. 'go and get it!' says my sister rejoice. 'how dared you come home without it? go and get it this minute, do you hear?' i stared as if i had seen a vision. 'rejoice, what are you thinking of?' i asked. 'bring that child here? why, what should we do with it? i can't take care of it, nor you either.' my sister turned the color of fire. 'no one else shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was bunker hill monument on a pillow. 'go and get it this minute, vesta. don't wait; the lord must not be kept waiting. go, i tell you!' she looked so wild i was fairly frightened; so i tried to quiet her. i thought her mind was touched, some way. 'well, i'll go to-morrow,' says i, soothing her; 'i couldn't go now, anyhow, rejoice. just hear it rain and blow! it came on just as i stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. be quiet,' i said, 'and i'll go up in the morning and see about it.' my sister sat right up in the bed. 'you'll go now,' she says, 'or i'll go myself. now, this living minute! quick!' i went, sir. the fire in her eyes would have scorched me if i had looked at it a minute longer. i thought she was coming out of the bed after me,--she, who had not stirred for twenty years. i caught up a shawl, threw another over my shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 't was a perfect tempest, but i never felt it. something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laid across my shoulders. i thought it was my sister's eyes, that had never looked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something else besides. they say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't know everything yet. i ran in at the farm, before them all, dripping, looking like a maniac, i don't doubt. i caught up the child out of the cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl i'd brought, and ran off again before they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if i was a spirit of evil. how my breath held out, don't ask me; but i got home, and ran into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my sister rejoice." miss vesta paused, and the shadow of a great awe crept into her keen blue eyes. "the poor-farm was struck by lightning that night!" she said. "the cradle where that baby was lying was shattered into kindling-wood, and liza green has never been the same woman from that day to this." chapter iii. on the road. melody went singing down the road. she walked quickly, with a light swaying motion, graceful as a bird. her hands were held before her, not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out its delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goes from flower to flower. truly, the child's light fingers were like butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch the hanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowers that sprang up along the footpath. she sang, too, as she went, a song the doctor had taught her:-- "who is silvia, and what is she, that all our swains commend her? holy, fair, and wise is she; the heavens such grace did lend her, that adored she might be." one might have thought that silvia was not far to seek, on looking into the fair face of the child. now she stopped, and stood for a moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended. "meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "isn't it out early? the dear. i must find it for aunt joy." she stooped, and passed her light, quick hands over the wayside grasses. every blade and leaf was a familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving their names into her song in childish fashion,-- "buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating, mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting." then she laughed outright. "when i grow up, i will make songs, too," she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "i will make the words, and rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:-- meadow-sweet is a treat; columbine's a fairy; mallow's fine, sweet as wine,-- what rhymes with fairy, i wonder. dairy; but that won't come right. airy, hairy,--yes, now i have it!-- mallow's fine, sweet as wine, to feed my pet canary. i'll sing that to neddy," said melody, laughing to herself as she went along. "i can sing it to the tune of 'lightly row.' dear little boy!" she added, after a silence. "think, if he had been blind, how dreadful it would have been! of course it doesn't matter when you have never seen at all, because you know how to get on all right; but to have it, and then lose it--oh dear! but then,"--and her face brightened again,--"he _isn't_ going to be blind, you see, so what's the use of worrying about it? the worry cow might have lived till now, if she'd only saved her breath. she thought the hay wouldn't last all day, so she choked herself to death." presently the child stopped again, and listened. the sound of wheels was faintly audible. no one else could have heard it but melody, whose ears were like those of a fox. "whose wagon squeaks like that?" she said, as she listened. "the horse interferes, too. oh, of course; it's eben loomis. he'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won't take so long." she walked along, turning back every now and then, as the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. at last, "good-morning, eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me on a piece, please?" "wal, i might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, "if i was sure you was all right, mel'dy. how d'you know't was me comin', i'd like to know? i never said a word, nor so much as whistled, since i come in sight of ye." the man, a wiry, yellow-haired yankee, bent down as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the seat beside him. melody laughed joyously. "i should know your wagon if i heard it in russia, eben," she said. "besides, poor old jerry knocks his hind feet together so, i heard him clicking along even before i heard the wagon squeak. how's mandy, eben?" "mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "she's ben havin' them weakly spells right along lately. seems though she was failin' up sometimes, but i dono." "oh, no, she isn't, eben," answered melody, cheerfully. "you said that six years ago, do you know it? and mandy isn't a bit worse than she was then." "well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "that is so, mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. come to think of it, i dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six years ago. wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and i shouldn't, seein' her every day and all day? how do you account for that, now, hey?" he turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half expecting her to meet his gaze. "it's easy enough!" said melody, with her quiet smile. "it's just because you see her so much, eben, that you can't tell. besides, i can tell from mandy's voice. her voice used to go down when she stopped speaking, like this, 'how do you _do_?' [with a falling inflection which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up cheerfully, at the end, 'how do you do?' don't you see the difference, eben?--so of course i know she must be a great deal better." "i swan!" replied eben loomis, simply. "'how do you _do_?' '_how_ do you do?' so that's the way you find out things, is it, mel'dy? well, you're a curus child, that's what's the matter with you.--where d'you say you was goin'?" he added, after a pause. "i didn't say," said melody. "but i'm going to mrs. jackson's, to see neddy." "want to know," said her companion. "goin'--hevin' some kind o' trouble with his eyes, ain't he?" he stopped short, with a glance at the child's clear eyes. it was impossible not to expect to find some answering look in them. "they thought he was going blind," said melody; "but it is all right now. i do wish people wouldn't tell mrs. jackson to keep putting things in his eyes. why can't they let her do what the doctor tells her, and not keep wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense?" "wal, that's so," assented eben,--"that's so, every time. i was down there a spell back, and i says, 'phoebe,' i says, 'don't you do a thing folks tells you,' says i. 'dr. brown knows what he's about, and don't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet his eyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says i. 'there's nothin' like tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course i knew doctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. wal, here we be to jackson's now," added the good man, pulling up his horse. "hold on a minute, and i'll help ye down. wal, there!" as melody sprang lightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting as she went, "if you ain't the spryest ever i see!" "good-by, eben, and thank you ever so much," said the child. "good-by, jerry." "come down an' see us, mel'dy!" eben called after her, as she turned toward-the house with unfaltering step. "t'would do mandy a sight o' good. come down and stop to supper. you ain't took a meal o' victuals with us i don't know when." melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the grassy path, while the countryman gazed after her with a look of wondering admiration. "that child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" he soliloquized. "what's she doin' now? oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, for the child, likely. now they'll all swaller her alive. yes; thar they come. look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? he's e'en a'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten times over, from the way she handles him. look at her set down on the doorstep, tellin' him a story, i'll bet. i tell ye! hear that little feller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, mandy says. i wouldn't mind hearin' that story myself. faculty, that gal has; that's the name for it, sir. git up, jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and with many a glance over his shoulder, the good man drove on. chapter iv. rosin the beau. the afternoon light was falling soft and sweet, as an old man came slowly along the road that led to the village. he was tall and thin, and he stooped as he walked,--not with the ordinary round-shouldered slouch, but with a one-sided droop, as if he had a habit of bending over something. his white hair was fancifully arranged, with a curl over the forehead such as little boys used to wear; his brown eyes were bright and quick as a bird's, and like a bird's, they glanced from side to side, taking in everything. he carried an oblong black box, evidently a violin-case, at which he cast an affectionate look from time to time. as he approached the village, his glances became more and more keenly intelligent. he seemed to be greeting a friend in every tree, in every straggling rose-bush along the roadside; he nodded his head, and spoke softly from time to time. "getting on now," he said to himself. "here's the big rose-bush she was sitting under, the last time i came along. nobody here now; but she'll be coming directly, up from the ground or down from the sky, or through a hole in the sunset. do you remember how she caught her little gown on that fence-rail?" he bent over, and seemed to address his violin. "sat down and took out her needle and thread, and mended it as neat as any woman; and then ran her butterfly hands over me, and found the hole in my coat, and called me careless boy, and mended that. yes, yes; rosin remembers every place where he saw his girl. old rosin remembers. there's the turn; now it's getting time for to be playing our tune, sending our letter of introduction along the road before us. hey?" he sat down under a spreading elder-bush, and proceeded to open his violin-case. drawing out the instrument with as much care as if he were a mother taking her babe from the cradle, he looked it all over with anxious scrutiny, scanning every line and crack, as the mother scans face and hands and tiny curled-up feet. finding all in order, he wiped it with a silk handkerchief (the special property of the instrument; a cotton one did duty for himself), polished it, and tuned it, and polished again. "must look well, my beauty," he murmured; "must look well. not a speck of dust but she'd feel it with those little fingers, you know. ready now? well, then, speak up for your master; speak, voice of my heart! 'a welcome for rosin the beau.' ask for it, music!" do people still play "rosin the beau," i wonder? i asked a violinist to play it to me the other day, and he had never heard of the tune. he played me something else, which he said was very fine,--a fantasia in e flat, i think it was; but i did not care for it. i wanted to hear "rosin the beau," the cradle-song of the fiddle,--the sweet, simple, foolish old song, which every "blind crowder" who could handle a fiddle-bow could play in his sleep fifty years ago, and which is now wellnigh forgotten. it is not a beautiful air; it may have no merit at all, musically speaking; but i love it well, and wish i might hear it occasionally instead of the odious "carnival of venice," which tortures my ears and wastes my nervous system at every concert where the queen of instruments holds her court. the old man took up his fiddle, and laid his cheek lovingly against it. a moment he stood still, as if holding silent commune with the spirit of music, the tricksy ariel imprisoned in the old wooden case; then he began to play "rosin the beau." as he played, he kept his eyes fixed on the bend of the road some rods ahead, as if expecting every moment to see some one appear from the direction of the village. "i've travelled this country all over, and now to the next i must go; but i know that good quarters await me, and a welcome for rosin the beau." as he played, with bold but tender touch, the touch of a master, round the corner a figure came flying,--a child's figure, with hair all afloat, and arms wide-opened. the old man's face lightened, softened, became transfigured with joy and love; but he said no word, only played steadily on. "rosin!" cried melody, stopping close before him, with outstretched arms. "stop, rosin; i want to kiss you, and i am afraid of hurting her. put her down, do you hear?" she stamped her foot imperiously, and the old man laid the fiddle down and held out his arms in turn. "melody," he said tenderly, taking the child on his knee,--"little melody, how are you? so you heard old rosin, did you? you knew the old man was here, waiting for his little maid to come and meet him, as she always has. where were you, melody? tell me, now. i didn't seem to hear you till just as you came to the corner; i didn't, now." "i was down by the heater-piece," said the child. "i went to look for wild strawberries, with aunt vesta. i heard you, rosin, the moment you laid your bow across her; but aunt vesta said no, she knew it was all nonsense, and we'd better finish our strawberries, anyhow. and then i heard that you wondered why i didn't come, and that you wanted me, and i kissed auntie, and just flew. you heard how fast i was coming, when you did hear me; didn't you, rosin dear?" "i heard," said the old man, smoothing her curls back. "i knew you'd come, you see, jewel, soon as you could get here. and how are the good ladies, hey; and how are you yourself?--though i can tell that by looking at you, sure enough." "do i look well?" asked the child, with much interest. "is my hair very nice and curly, rosin, and do my eyes still look as if they were real eyes?" she looked up so brightly that any stranger would have been startled into thinking that she could really see. "bright as dollars, they are," assented the old man. "dollars? no, that's no name for it. the stars are nearest it, melody. and your hair--" "my hair is like sweet alice's," said the child, confidently,--"sweet alice, whose hair was so brown. i promised auntie joy we would sing that for her, the very next time you came, but i never thought you would be here to-day, rosin. 'where have you been, my long, long love, this seven long years and more?' that's a ballad, rosin; doctor taught it to me. it is a beauty, and you must make me a tune for it. but where _have_ you been?" "i've been up and down the earth," the old man replied,--"up and down the earth, melody. sometimes here and sometimes there. i'd feel a call here, and i'd feel a call there; and i seemed to be wanted, generally, just in those very places i'd felt called to. do you believe in calls, melody?" "of course i do," replied the child, promptly. "only all the people who call you can't get you, rosin, 'cause you'd be in fifty pieces if they did." she laughed joyously, throwing her head back with the birdlike, rapturous motion which seemed the very expression of her nature. the old fiddler watched her with delight. "you shall hear all my stories," he said; "everything you shall hear, little melody; but here we are at the house now, and i must make my manners to the ladies." he paused, and looked critically at his blue coat, which, though threadbare, was scrupulously clean. he flecked some imaginary dust from his trousers, and ran his hand lightly through his hair, bringing the snowy curl which was the pride of his heart a little farther over his forehead. "now i'll do, maybe," he said cheerfully. "and sure enough, there's miss vesta in the doorway, looking like a china rose in full bloom." he advanced, hat in hand, with a peculiar sliding step, which instantly suggested "chassez across to partners." "miss vesta, i hope your health's good?" miss vesta held out her hand cordially. "why, mr. de arthenay, [footnote: pronounced dee arthenay] is this you?" she cried. "this is a pleasure! melody was sure it was you, and she ran off like a will-o'-the-wisp, when i could not hear a sound. but i'm very glad to see you. we were saying only yesterday how long a time it was since you'd been here. now you must sit down, and tell us all the news. stop, though," she added, with a glance at the vine-clad window; "rejoice would like to see you, and hear the news too. wait a moment, mr. de arthenay! i'll go in and move her up by the window, so that she can hear you." she hastened into the house; and in a few minutes the blinds were thrown back, and miss rejoice's sweet voice was heard, saying, "good-day, mr. de arthenay. it is always a good day that brings you." the old man sprang up from his seat in the porch, and made a low bow to the window. "it's a treat to hear your voice, miss rejoice, so it is," he said heartily. "i hope your health's been pretty good lately? it seems to me your voice sounds stronger than it did the last time i was here." "oh, i'm very well," responded the invalid, cheerfully. "very well, i feel this summer; don't i, vesta? and where have you been, mr. de arthenay, all this time? i'm sure you have a great deal to tell us. it's as good as a newspaper when you come along, we always say." the old fiddler cleared his throat, and settled himself comfortably in a corner of the porch, with melody's hand in his. miss vesta produced her knitting; melody gave a little sigh of perfect content, and nestled up to her friend's side, leaning her head against his shoulder. "begin to tell now, rosin," she said. "tell us all that you know." "tell you everything," he repeated thoughtfully. "not all, little melody. i've seen some things that you wouldn't like to hear about,--things that would grieve your tender heart more than a little. we will not talk about those; but i have seen bright things too, sure enough. why, only day before yesterday i was at a wedding, over in pegrum; a pretty wedding it was too. you remember myra bassett, miss vesta?" "to be sure i do," replied miss vesta. "she married john andrews, her father's second cousin once removed. don't tell me that myra has a daughter old enough to be married: or is it a son? either way, it is ridiculous." "a daughter!" said the old man,--"the prettiest girl in pegrum. like a ripe chestnut, more than anything. two lads were in love with her; there may have been a dozen, but these two i know about. one of them--i'll name no names, 'tis kinder not--found that she wanted to marry a hero (what girl does not?), so he thought he would try his hand at heroism. there was a picnic this spring, and he hired a boy (or so the boy says--it may be wicked gossip) to upset the boat she was in, so that he, the lover, might save her life. but, lo and behold! he was taken with a cramp in the water, and was almost drowned, and the second lover jumped in, and saved them both. so she married the second (whom she had liked all along), and then the boy told his story." "miserable sneak!" ejaculated miss vesta. "to risk the life of the woman he pretended to love, just to show himself off." "still, i am sorry for him!" said miss rejoice, through the window. (miss rejoice was always sorry for wrongdoers, much sorrier than for the righteous who suffered. _they_ would be sure to get good out of it, she said, but the poor sinners generally didn't know how.) "what did he do, poor soul?" "he went away!" replied the fiddler. "pegrum wouldn't hold him; and the other lad was a good shot, and went about with a shot-gun. but i was going to tell you about the wedding." "of course!" cried melody. "what did the bride wear? that is the most important part." de arthenay cleared his throat, and looked grave. he always made a point of remembering the dresses at weddings, and was proud of the accomplishment,--a rare one in his sex. "miss andrews--i beg her pardon, mrs. nelson--had on a white muslin gown, made quite full, with three ruffles round the skirt. there was lace round the neck, but i cannot tell you what kind, except that it was very soft and fine. she had white roses on the front of her gown, and in her hair, and pink ones in her cheeks; her eyes were like brown diamonds, and she had little white satin slippers, for all the world like cinderella. they were a present from her grandmother anstey, over at bow mills. her other grandmother, mrs. bowen, gave her the dress, so her father and mother could lay out all they wanted to on the supper; and a handsome supper it was. then after supper they danced. it would have done your heart good, miss vesta, to see that little bride dance. ah! she is a pretty creature. there was another young woman, too, who played the piano. kate, they called her, but i don't know what her other name was. anyway, she had an eye like black lightning stirred up with a laugh, and a voice like the 'fisherman's hornpipe.'" he took up his fiddle, and softly, delicately, played a few bars of that immortal dance. it rippled like a woman's laugh, and melody smiled in instant sympathy. "i wish i had seen her," she cried. "did she play well, rosin?" "she played so that i knew she must be either french or irish!" the fiddler replied. "no yankee ever played dance-music in that fashion; i made bold to say to her, as we were playing together, 'etes-vous compatriote?' "'more power to your elbow,' said she, with a twinkle of her eye, and she struck into 'saint patrick's day in the morning.' i took it up, and played the 'marseillaise,' over it and under it, and round it,--for an accompaniment, you understand, melody; and i can tell you, we made the folks open their eyes. yes; she was a fine young lady, and it was a fine wedding altogether. "but i am forgetting a message i have for you, ladies. last week i was passing through new joppa, and i stopped to call on miss lovina green; i always stop there when i go through that region. miss lovina asked me to tell you--let me see! what was it?" he paused, to disentangle this particular message from the many he always carried, in his journeyings from one town to another. "oh, yes, i remember. she wanted you to know that her uncle reuel was dead, and had left her a thousand dollars, so she should be comfortable the rest of her days. she thought you'd be glad to know it." "that is good news!" exclaimed miss vesta, heartily. "poor lovina! she has been so straitened all these years, and saw no prospect of anything better. the best day's work reuel green has ever done was to die and leave that money to lovina." "why, vesta!" said miss rejoice's soft voice; "how you do talk!" "well, it's true!" miss vesta replied. "and you know it, rejoice, my dear, as well as i do. any other news in joppa, mr. de arthenay? i haven't heard from over there for a long time." "why, they've been having some robberies in joppa," the old man said,--"regular burglaries. there's been a great excitement about it. several houses have been entered and robbed, some of money, others of what little silver there was, though i don't suppose there is enough silver in all new joppa to support a good, healthy burglar for more than a few days. the funny part of it is that though i have no house, i came very near being robbed myself." "you, rosin?" "you, mr. de arthenay? do tell us!" melody passed her hand rapidly over the old man's face, and then settled back with her former air of content, knowing that all was well. "you shall hear my story," the old man said, drawing himself up, and giving his curl a toss. "it was the night i came away from joppa. i had been taking tea with william bradwell's folks, and stayed rather late in the evening, playing for the young folks, singing old songs, and one thing and another. it was ten o'clock when i said good-night and stepped out of the house and along the road. 't was a fine night, bright moonlight, and everything shining like silver. i'd had a pleasant evening, and i felt right cheered up as i passed along, sometimes talking a bit to the lady, and sometimes she to me; for i'd left her case at the house, seeing i should pass by again in the morning, when i took my way out of the place. "well, sir,--i beg your pardon; _ladies_, i should say,--as i came along a strip of the road with the moon full on it, but bordered with willow scrub,--as i came along, sudden a man stepped out of those bushes, and told me to stand and throw up my hands.--don't be frightened, melody," for the child had taken his hand with a quick, frightened motion; "have no fear at all! i had none. i saw, or felt, perhaps it was, that he had no pistols; that he was only a poor sneak and bully. so i said, 'stand yourself!' i stepped clear out, so that the light fell full on my face, and i looked him in the eye, and pointed my bow at him. 'my name is de arthenay,' i said. 'i am of french extraction, but i hail from the androscoggin. i am known in this country. this is my fiddle-bow; and if you are not gone before i can count three, i'll shoot you with it. one!' i said; but i didn't need to count further. he turned and ran, as if the--as if a regiment was after him; and as soon as i had done laughing, i went on my way to the tavern." all laughed heartily at the old man's story; but when the laughter subsided, melody begged him to take "the lady," and play for her. "i have not heard you play for so long, rosin, except just when you called me." "yes, mr. de arthenay," said miss vesta, "do play a little for us, while i get supper. suppose i bring the table out here, melody; how would you like that?" "oh, so much!" cried the child, clapping her hands. "so very much! let me help!" she started up; and while the fiddler played, old sweet melodies, such as miss rejoice loved, there was a pleasant, subdued bustle of coming and going, clinking and rustling, as the little table was brought out and set in the vine-wreathed porch, the snowy cloth laid, and the simple feast set forth. there were wild strawberries, fresh and glowing, laid on vine-leaves; there were biscuits so light it seemed as if a puff of wind might blow them away; there were twisted doughnuts, and coffee brown and as clear as a mountain brook. it was a pleasant little feast; and the old fiddler glanced with cheerful approval over the table as he sat down. "ah, miss vesta," he said, as he handed the biscuits gallantly to his hostess, "there's no such table as this for me to sit down to, wherever i go, far or near. look at the biscuit, now,--moulded snow, i call them. take one, melody, my dear. you'll never get anything better to eat in this world." the child flushed with pleasure. "you're praising her too much to herself," said miss vesta, with a pleased smile. "melody made those biscuit, all herself, without any help. she's getting to be such a good housekeeper, mr. de arthenay, you would not believe it." "you don't tell me that she made these biscuit!" cried the old man. "why, melody, i shall be frightened at you if you go on at this rate. you are not growing up, are you, little melody?" "no! no! no!" cried the child, vehemently. "i am _not_ growing up, rosin. i don't want to grow up, ever, at all." "i should like to know what you can do about it," said miss vesta, smiling grimly. "you'll have to stop pretty short if you are not going to grow up, melody. if i have let your dresses down once this spring, i've let them down three times. you're going to be a tall woman, i should say, and you've a right good start toward it now." a shade stole over the child's bright face, and she was silent,--seeming only half to listen while the others chatted, yet never forgetting to serve them, and seeming, by a touch on the hand of either friend, to know what was wanted. when the meal was over, and the tea-things put away, melody came out again into the porch, where the fiddler sat smoking his pipe, and leaning against one of the supports, felt among the leaves which hid it. "here is the mark!" she said. "am i really taller, rosin? really much taller?" "what troubles the child?" the old man asked gently. "she does not want to grow? the bud must open, melody, my dear! the bud must open!" "but it's so unreasonable," cried melody, as she stood holding by the old man's hand, swaying lightly to and fro, as if the wind moved her with the vines and flowers. "why can't i stay a little girl? a little girl is needed here, isn't she? and there is no need at all of another woman. i can't be like aunt vesta or auntie joy; so i think i might stay just melody." then shaking her curls back, she cried, "well, anyhow, i am just melody now, and nothing more; and i mean to make the most of it. come, rosin, come! i am ready for music. the dishes are all washed, and there's nothing more to do, is there, auntie? it is so long since rosin has been here; now let us have a good time, a perfect time!" de arthenay took up his fiddle once more, and caressed its shining curves. "she's in perfect trim," he said tenderly. "she's fit to play with you to-night, melody. come, i am ready; what shall we have?" melody sat down on the little green bench which was her own particular seat. she folded her hands lightly on her lap, and threw her head back with her own birdlike gesture. one would have said that she was calling the spirit of song, which might descend on rainbow wings, and fold her in his arms. the old man drew the bow softly, and the fiddle gave out a low, brooding note,--a note of invitation. "oh, don't you remember sweet alice, ben bolt? sweet alice, whose hair was so brown? she wept with delight when you gave her a smile, and trembled with fear at your frown." softly the old man played, keeping his eyes fixed on the child, whose glorious voice floated out on the evening air, filling the whole world with sweetest melody. miss vesta dropped her knitting and folded her hands, while a peaceful, dreamy look stole into her fine face,--a face whose only fault was the too eager look which a new england woman must so often gain, whether she will or no. in the quiet chamber, the bedridden woman lay back on her pillows smiling, with a face as the face of an angel. her thoughts were lifted up on the wings of the music, and borne--who shall say where, to what high and holy presence? perhaps--who can tell?--the eyes of her soul looked in at the gate of heaven itself; if it were so, be sure they saw nothing within that white portal more pure and clear than their own gaze. and still the song flowed on. presently doors began to open along the village street. people came softly out, came on tiptoe toward the cottage, and with a silent greeting to its owner sat down beside the road to listen. children came dancing, with feet almost as light as melody's own, and curled themselves up beside her on the grass. tired-looking mothers came, with their babies in their arms; and the weary wrinkles faded from their faces, and they listened in silent content, while the little ones, who perhaps had been fretting and complaining a moment before, nestled now quietly against the mother-breast, and felt that no one wanted to tease or ill-treat them, but that the world was all full of mother, who loved them. beside one of these women a man came and sat him down, as if from habit; but he did not look at her. his face wore a weary, moody frown, and he stared at the ground sullenly, taking no note of any one. the others looked at one another and nodded, and thought of the things they knew; the woman cast a sidelong glance at him, half hopeful, half fearful, but made no motion. "oh, don't you remember the school, ben bolt, and the master so kind and so true; and the little nook by the clear running brook, where we gathered the flowers as they grew?" the dark-browed man listened, and thought. her name was alice, this woman by his side. they had been schoolmates together, had gathered flowers, oh, how many times, by brook-side and hill. they had grown up to be lovers, and she was his wife, sitting here now beside him,--his wife, with his baby in her arms; and he had not spoken to her for a week. what began it all? he hardly knew; but she had been provoking, and he had been tired, impatient; there had been a great scene, and then this silence, which he swore he would not break. how sad she looked! he thought, as he stole a glance at the face bending over the child. "oh, don't you remember sweet alice, ben bolt, sweet alice, whose hair was so brown?" was she singing about them, this child? she had sung at their wedding, a little thing of seven years old; and old de arthenay had played, and wished them happiness, and said they were the handsomest couple he had played for that year. now she looked so tired: how was it that he had never seen how tired she looked? perhaps she was only sick or nervous that day when she spoke so. the child stirred in its mother's arms, and she gave a low sigh of weariness, and shifted the weight to the other arm. the young man bent forward and took the baby, and felt how heavy it had grown since last he held it. he had not said anything, he would not say anything--just yet; but his wife turned to him with such a smile, such a flash of love and joy, imploring, promising, that his heart leaped, and then beat peacefully, happily, as it had not beaten for many days. all was over; and alice leaned against his arm with a little movement of content, and the good neighbors looked at one another again, and smiled this time to know that all was well. what is the song now? the blind child turns slightly, so that she faces miss vesta dale, whose favorite song this is,-- "all in the merry month of may, when green buds were a-swellin", young jemmy grove on his death-hed lay, for love of barbara allan." why is miss vesta so fond of the grim old ballad? perhaps she could hardly tell, if she would. she looks very stately as she leans against the wall, close by the room where her sister rejoice is lying. does a thought come to her mind of the youth who loved her so, or thought he loved her, long and long ago? does she see his look of dismay, of incredulous anger, when she told him that her life must be given to her crippled sister, and that if he would share it he must take rejoice too, to love and to cherish as dearly as he would cherish her? he could not bear the test; he was a good young fellow enough, but there was nothing of the hero about him, and he thought that crippled folk should be taken care of in hospitals, where they belonged. "'oh, dinna ye mind, young man,' she said, 'when the red wine was a-fillin', ye bade the healths gae round an' round, and slighted barbara allan?'" if the cruel barbara had not repented, and "laid her down in sorrow," she might well have grown to look like this handsome, white-haired woman, with her keen blue eyes and queenly bearing. miss vesta had never for an instant regretted the disposition of her life, never even in the shadow of a thought; but this was the song she used to sing in those old days, and somehow she always felt a thrill (was it of pleasure or pain? she could not have told you) when the child sang it. but there may have been a "call," as rosin the beau would have said, for some one else beside vesta dale; for a tall, pale girl, who has been leaning against the wall pulling off the gray lichens as she listened, now slips away, and goes home and writes a letter; and to-morrow morning, when the mail goes to the next village, two people will be happy in god's world instead of being miserable. and now? oh, now it is a merry song; for, after all, melody is a child, and a happy child; and though she loves the sad songs dearly, still she generally likes to end up with a "dancy one." "'come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, come boat me o'er to charlie; i'll gi'e john ross anither bawbee to boat me o'er to charlie. we'll o'er the water an' o'er the sea, we'll o'er the water to charlie, come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, and live and die wi' charlie.'" and now rosin the beau proves the good right he has to his name. trill and quavers and roulades are shaken from his bow as lightly as foam from the prow of a ship. the music leaps rollicking up and down, here and there, till the air is all a-quiver with merriment. the old man draws himself up to his full height, all save that loving bend of the head over the beloved instrument. his long slender foot, in its quaint "congress" shoe, beats time like a mill-clapper,--tap, tap, tap; his snowy curl dances over his forehead, his brown eyes twinkle with pride and pleasure. other feet beside his began to pat the ground; heads were lifted, eyes looked invitation and response. at length the child melody, with one superb outburst of song, lifted her hands above her head, and springing out into the road cried, "a dance! a dance!" instantly the quiet road was alive with dancers. old and young sprang to their feet in joyful response. the fiddle struck into "the irish washerwoman," and the people danced. children joined hands and jumped up and down, knowing no steps save nature's leaps of joy; youths and maidens flew in graceful measures together; last, but not least, old simon parker the postmaster seized mrs. martha penny by both hands, and regardless of her breathless shrieks whirled her round and round till the poor old dame had no breath left to scream with. alone in the midst of the gay throng (as strange a one, surely, as ever disturbed the quiet of a new england country road) danced the blind child, a figure of perfect grace. who taught melody to dance? surely it was the wind, the swaying birch-tree, the slender grasses that nod and wave by the brookside. light as air she floated in and out among the motley groups, never jostling or touching any one. her slender arms waved in time to the music; her beautiful hair floated over her shoulders. her whole face glowed with light and joy, while only her eyes, steadfast and unchanging, struck the one grave note in the symphony of joy and merriment. from time to time the old fiddler stole a glance at miss vesta dale, as she sat erect and stately, leaning against the wall of the house. she was beginning to grow uneasy. her foot also began to pat the ground. she moved slightly, swayed on her seat; her fingers beat time, as did the slender, well-shaped foot which peeped from under her scant blue skirt. suddenly de arthenay stopped short, and tapped sharply on his fiddle, while the dancers, breathless and exhausted, fell back by the roadside again. stepping out from the porch, he made a low bow to miss vesta. "chorus jig!" he cried, and struck up the air of that time-honored dance. miss vesta frowned, shook her head resolutely,--rose, and standing opposite the old fiddler, began to dance. here was a new marvel, no less strange in its way than melody's wild grace of movement, or the sudden madness of the village crowd. the stately white-haired woman moved slowly forward; the old man bowed again; she courtesied as became a duchess of nature's own making. their bodies erect and motionless, their heads held high, their feet went twinkling through a series of evolutions which the keenest eye could hardly follow. "pigeon-wings?" whole flocks of pigeons took flight from under that scant blue skirt, from those wonderful shrunken trousers of yellow nankeen. they moved forward, back, forward again, as smoothly as a wave glides up the shore. they twinkled round and round each other, now back to back, now face to face. they chasséd into corners, and displayed a whirlwind of delicately pointed toes; they retired as if to quarrel; they floated back to make it up again. all the while not a muscle of their faces moved, not a gleam of fun disturbed the tranquil sternness of their look; for dancing was a serious business thirty years ago, when they were young, and they had no idea of lowering its dignity by any "quips and cranks and wanton wiles," such as young folks nowadays indulge in. briefly, it was a work of art; and when it was over, and the sweeping courtesy and splendid bow had restored the old-time dancers to their places, a shout of applause went up, and the air rang with such a tumult as had never before, perhaps, disturbed the tranquillity of the country road. chapter v. in the churchyard. god's acre! a new england burying-ground,--who does not know the aspect of the place? a savage plot of ground, where nothing else would grow save this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless and grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through the scanty soil. other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim, protecting arm, a ragged wall, all jagged, formless, rough. the grass is long and yet sparse; here and there a few flowers cling, hardy geraniums, lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out of place. the stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as if they exchanged confidences, and speculated on the probable spiritual whereabouts of the souls whose former bodies they guard. most of these stones are gray slate, carved with old-fashioned letters, round and long-tailed; but there are a few slabs of white marble, and in one corner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one buys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight legs. this is not the "cemetery," be it understood. that is close by the village, and is the favorite walk and place of sunday resort for its inhabitants. it is trim and well-kept, with gravel paths and flower-beds, and store of urns and images in "white bronze," for the people are proud of their cemetery, as well-regulated new england people should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in the matter of "moniments." but melody cares nothing whatever about the fine cemetery. it is in the old "berrin'-groun'" that her mother lies,--indeed, she was the last person buried in it; and it is here that the child loves to linger and dream the sweet, sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. she knows nothing of "old mortality," yet she is his childish imitator in this lonely spot. she keeps the weeds in some sort of subjection; she pulls away the moss and lichens from head and foot stones,--not so much with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read the inscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of the older gravestones. she has a sense of personal acquaintance with all the dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in her happy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. see her now, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress gleaming against the dusky gray of the stone on which she leans. melody is very fond of white. it feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she would wear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. one arm is thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand she follows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no other fingers were fine enough to trace. sacred to the memory of susan dyer. true to her name, she died aug. th, , in the th year of her age. the soul of my susan is gone to heighten the triumphs above; exalted to jesus's throne and clasped in the arms of his love. melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. "susan," she said, "i wonder who wrote your verses. i wonder if you were pretty, dear, and if you liked to be alive, and were sorry to be dead. but you must be used to it by this time, anyhow. i wonder if you 'shout redeeming love,' like your cousin (i suppose she is your cousin) sophia dyer, over in the corner there. i never liked sophia, susan dear. i seem to think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentle and shy. see how her stone perks up, making every inch it can of itself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the good green grass. i think we liked the same things a good deal, susan, don't you? and i think you would like me to go and see the old gentleman now, because he has so many dandelions; and i really must pull them up. you know i am never sure that he isn't your grandfather. so many of you are related here, it is a regular family party. good-by, susan dear." she bent over, and touched the stone lightly with her lips, then passed on to another which was half buried in the earth, the last letters of the inscription being barely discernible. "how do you do, mr. bascom?" said this singular child, laying her hand respectfully on the venerable headstone. "are your dandelions very troublesome this morning, dear sir?" her light fingers hovered over the mound like butterflies, and she began pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the grass over the bare places. then she fell to work on the inscription, which was an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. along every line she passed her delicate fingers, not because she did not know every line, but that she might trace any new growth of moss or lichen. "farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes, those snares and fetters of the mind my god, nor let this frame arise till every dust be well refined." "you were very particular, mr. bascom, weren't you?" inquired melody. "you were a very neat old gentleman, with white hair always brushed just so, and a high collar. you didn't like dust, unless it was well refined. i shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every time you came home, like mr. cuter, over at the corners. here's something growing in the tail of your last _y_. never mind, mr. bascom, i'll get it out with a pin. there, now you are quite respectable, and you look very nice indeed. good-by, and do try not to fret more than you can help about the dandelions. they will grow, no matter how often i come." melody, in common with most blind persons, always spoke of seeing, of looking at things, precisely as if she had the full use of her eyes. indeed, i question whether those wonderful fingers of hers were not as good as many pairs of eyes we see. how many people go half-blind through the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things! how many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they might be raised to the skies, seeing the glory of the lord, which he has spread abroad over hill and meadow, for all eyes to behold! how many walk with introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while their neighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their ministration! the blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. every leaf was her acquaintance, every flower her friend and gossip. she knew every tree of the forest by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how. more than this,--some subtle sense for which we have no name gave her the power of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she was with; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she knew whether the friend were glad or gay, before hearing the sound of his voice. another power she had,--that of attracting to her "all creatures living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run." not a cat or dog in the village but would leave his own master or mistress at a single call from melody. she could imitate every bird-call with her wonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told miss rejoice quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, and that the red squirrels had sat on the branches to listen. miss vesta said, "nonsense, child! you fell asleep, and had a pretty dream." but miss rejoice believed every word, and melody knew she did by the touch of her thin, kind old hand. it might well have been true; for now, as the child sat down beside a small white stone, which evidently marked a child's grave, she gave a low call, and in a moment a gray squirrel came running from the stone wall (he had been sitting there, watching her with his bright black eyes, looking so like a bit of the wall itself that the sharpest eyes would hardly have noticed him), and leaped into her lap. "brother gray-frock, how do you do?" cried the child, joyously, caressing the pretty creature with light touches. "i wondered if i should see you to-day, brother. the last time i came you were off hunting somewhere, and i called and called, but no gray brother came. how is the wife, and the children, and how is the stout young man?" the "stout young man" lay buried at the farther end of the ground, under the tree in which the squirrel lived. the inscription on his tombstone was a perpetual amusement to melody, and she could not help feeling as if the squirrel must know that it was funny too, though they had never exchanged remarks about it. this was the inscription: "i was a stout young man as you would find in ten; and when on this i think, i take in hand my pen and write it plainly out, that all the world may see how i was cut down like a blossom from a tree. the lord rest my soul." the young man's name was faithful parker. melody liked him well enough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with susan dyer and the dear child love good, who slept beneath this low white stone. this was melody's favorite grave. it was such a dear quaint little name,--love good. "good" had been a common name in the village seventy years ago, when this little love lived and died; many graves bore the name, though no living person now claimed it. love good, four years old. our white rose withered in the bud. this was all; and somehow melody felt that she knew and cared for these parents much more than for those who put their sorrow into rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel. melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, and murmured loving words to it. the squirrel sat still in her lap, content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through the branches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace and silence brooded like a dove over the holy place. a flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves,--was it a fairy alighting on the old cedar-tree? no, only an oriole; though some have said that this bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win the love of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his own form. this cannot be true, however; for melody knows golden robin well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has never changed a feather at sight of her. he will sing for her, though; and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, only smiles, and sings to him in return. they are singing together now, the child and the bird. it is a very wonderful thing, if there were any one by to hear. the gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child's lap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else should be near to listen to such music as this? nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening with keenest interest,--this man with the dark, eager face and bold black eyes? his eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder and delight, but with something else too,--some passion which strikes a jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. what is this man doing here? why does he eye the blind child so strangely, with looks of power, almost of possession? cease, cease your song, melody! fly, bird and tiny beast, to your shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to the home where is love and protection and tender care! for the charm is broken, and your paradise is invaded. chapter vi. the serpent. "but i'm sure you will listen to reason, ma'am." the stranger spoke in a low, persuasive tone; his eyes glanced rapidly hither and thither as he spoke, taking the bearings of house and garden, noting the turn of the road, the distance of the neighboring houses. one would have said he was a surveyor, only he had no instruments with him. "i am sure you will listen to reason,--a fine, intelligent lady like yourself. think of it: there is a fortune in this child's voice. there hasn't been such a voice--there's never been such a voice in this country, i'll be bold to say. i know something about voices, ma'am. i've been in the concert business twenty years, and i do assure you i have never heard such a natural voice as this child has. she has a great career before her, i tell you. money, ma'am! there's thousands in that voice! it sings bank-notes and gold-pieces, every note of it. you'll be a rich woman, and she will be a great singer,--one of the very greatest. her being blind makes it all the better. i wouldn't have her like other people, not for anything. the blind prima-donna,--my stars! wouldn't it draw? i see the posters now. 'nature's greatest marvel, the blind singer! splendid talent enveloped in darkness.' she will be the success of the day, ma'am. lord, and to think of my chancing on her here, of all the little out-of-the-way places in the world! why, three hours ago i was cursing my luck, when my horse lost a shoe and went lame, just outside your pleasant little town here. and now, ma'am, now i count this the most fortunate day of my life! is the little lady in the house, ma'am? i'd like to have a little talk with her; kind o' open her eyes to what's before her,--her mind's eye, horatio, eh? know anything of shakspeare, ma'am? is she in the house, i say?" "she is not," said miss vesta dale, finding her voice at last. "the child is away, and you should not see her if she were here. she is not meant for the sort of thing you talk about. she--she is the same as our own child, my sister's and mine. we mean to keep her by us as long as we live. i thank you," she added, with stately courtesy. "i don't doubt that many might be glad of such a chance, but we are not that kind, my sister and i." the man's face fell; but the next moment he looked incredulous. "you don't mean what you say, ma'am!" he cried; "you can't mean it! to keep a voice like that shut up in a god-forsaken little hole like this,--oh, you don't know what you're talking about, really you don't.' and think of the advantage to the child herself!" he saw the woman's face change at this, saw that he had made a point, and hastened to pursue it. "what can the child have, if she spends her life here? no education, no pleasure,--nothing. nice little place, no doubt, for those that are used to it, but--lord! a child that has the whole world before her, to pick and choose! she must go to europe, ma'am! she will sing before crowned heads; go to russia, and be decorated by the czar. she'll have horses and carriages, jewels, dresses finer than any queen! patti spends three fortunes a year on her clothes, and this girl has as good a voice as patti, any day. why, you have to support her, don't you?--and hard work, too, sometimes, perhaps--her and maybe others?" miss vesta winced; and he saw it. oh, rejoice! it was a joy to save and spare, to deny herself any little luxury, that the beloved sister might have everything she fancied. but did she have everything? was it, could it be possible that this should be done for her sister's sake? the man pursued his advantage relentlessly. "you are a fine woman, ma'am, if you'll allow me to say so,--a remarkably fine woman. but you are getting on in life, as we all are. this child will support you, ma'am, instead of your supporting her. support you, do i say? why, you'll be rolling in wealth in a few years! you spoke of a sister, ma'am. is she in good health, may i ask?" his quick eye had spied the white-curtained bed through the vine-clad window, and his ear had caught the tender tone of her voice when she said, "my sister." "my sister is an invalid," said miss vesta, coldly. "another point!" exclaimed the impresario. "you will be able to have every luxury for your sister,--wines, fruits, travelling, the best medical aid the country affords. you are the--a--the steward, i may say, ma'am,"--with subtle intuition, the man assumed a tone of moral loftiness, as if calling miss vesta to account for all delinquencies, past and future,--"the steward, or even the stewardess, of this great treasure. it means everything for you and her, and for your invalid sister as well. think of it, think of it well! i am so confident of your answer that i can well afford to wait a little. take a few minutes, ma'am, and think it over." he leaned against the house in an easy attitude, with his hands in his pockets, and his mouth pursed up for a whistle. he did not feel as confident as he looked, perhaps, but miss vesta did not know that. she also leaned against the house, her head resting among the vines that screened miss rejoice's window, and thought intensely. what was right? what should she do? half an hour ago life lay so clear and plain before her; the line of happy duties, simple pleasures, was so straight, leading from the cottage door to that quiet spot in the old burying-ground where she and rejoice would one day rest side by side. they had taught melody what they could. she had books in raised print, sent regularly from the institution where she had learned to read and write. she was happy; no child could ever have been happier, miss vesta thought, if she had had three pairs of eyes. she was the heart of the village, its pride, its wonder. they had looked forward to a life of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tending the sick with that marvellous skill which seemed a special gift from heaven; cheering, comforting, delighting old and young, by the magic of her voice and the gentle spell of her looks and ways. a quiet life, a simple, humdrum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. but now, what picture was this that the stranger had conjured up? as in a glass, miss vesta seemed to see the whole thing. melody a woman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living like a queen, with everything rich and beautiful about her; jewels in her shining hair, splendid dresses, furs and laces, such as even elderly country women love to dream about sometimes. she saw this; and she saw something else besides. the walls of the little room within seemed to part, to extend; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, but stretched wide and long, rose lofty and airy. there were couches, wheeled chairs, great sunny windows, through which one looked out over lovely gardens; there were pictures, the most beautiful in the world, for those dear eyes to rest on; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything that luxury could devise or heart desire. and on one of these splendid couches (oh, she could move as she pleased from one to the other, instead of lying always in the one narrow white bed!),--on one of them lay her sister rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as miss vesta had read about once in a fashion magazine; all lace, creamy and soft, with delicate ribbons here and there. there she lay; and yet--was it she? miss vesta tried hard to give life to this image, to make it smile with her sister's eyes, and speak with her sister's voice; but it had a strange, shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced the likeness of rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with the old surroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed walls, the old green flag-bottomed chair on which the medicine-cups always stood. but all the other things might be hers, just by melody's singing. by melody's singing! miss vesta stood very still, her face quiet and stern, as it always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going on within. the stranger was very still too, biding his time, stealing an occasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably sure of success, yet wishing she had not quite such a set look about the mouth. all by melody's singing! no effort, no exertion for the child, only the thing she loved best in the world,--the thing she did every day and all day. and all for rejoice, for rejoice, whom melody loved so; for whom the child would count any toil, any privation, merely an added pleasure, even as vesta herself would. miss vesta held her breath, and prayed. would not god answer for her? she was only a woman, and very weak, though she had never guessed it till now. god knew what the right thing was: would he not speak for her? she looked up, and saw melody coming down the road, leading a child in each hand. she was smiling, and the children were laughing, though there were traces of tears on their cheeks; for they had been quarrelling when melody found them in the fields and brought them away. it was a pretty picture; the stranger's eyes brightened as he gazed at it. but for the first time in her life miss vesta was not glad to see melody. the child began to sing, and the woman listened for the words, with a vague trouble darkening over her perturbed spirit as a thunder-cloud comes blackening a gray sky, filling it with angry mutterings, with quick flashes. what if the child should sing the wrong words, she thought! what were the wrong words, and how should she know whether they were of god or the devil? it was an old song that melody was singing; she knew few others, indeed,--only the last verse of an old song, which vesta dale had heard all her life, and had never thought much about, save that it was a good song, one of the kind rejoice liked. "there's a place that is better than this, robin ruff, and i hope in my heart you'll go there; where the poor man's as great, though he hath no estate, ay, as though he'd a thousand a year, robin ruff, as though he'd a thousand a year'" "so you see," said melody to the children, as they paced along, "it doesn't make any real difference whether we have things or don't have them. it's inside that one has to be happy; one can't be happy from the outside, ever. i should think it would be harder if one had lots of things that one must think about, and take care of, and perhaps worry over. i often am so glad i haven't many things." they passed on, going down into the little meadow where the sweet rushes grew, for melody knew that no child could stay cross when it had sweet rushes to play with; and miss vesta turned to the stranger with a quick, fierce movement. "go away!" she cried. "you have your answer. not for fifty thousand fortunes should you have the child! go, and never come here again!" * * * * * it was two or three days after this that dr. brown was driving rapidly home toward the village. he had had a tiresome day, and he meant to have a cup of vesta dale's good tea and a song from melody to smooth down his ruffled plumage, and to put him into good-humor again. his patients had been very trying, especially the last one he had visited,--an old lady who sent for him from ten miles' distance, and then told him she had taken seventy-five bottles of vegetine without benefit, and wanted to know what she should do next. "i really do not know, madam," the doctor replied, "unless you should pound up the seventy-five bottles with their labels, and take those." whereupon he got into his buggy and drove off without another word. but the dale girls and melody--bless them all for a set of angels!--would soon put him to rights again, thought the doctor, and he would send old mrs. prabbles some pills in the morning. there was nothing whatever the matter with the old harridan. here was the turn; now in a moment he would see vesta sitting in the doorway at her knitting, or looking out of rejoice's window; and she would call the child whom his heart loved, and then for a happy, peaceful evening, and all vexations forgotten! but what was this? instead of the trim, staid figure he looked to see, who was this frantic woman who came running toward him from the little house, with white hair flying on the wind, with wild looks? her dress was disordered; her eyes stared in anguish; her lips stammered, making confused sounds, which at first had no meaning to the startled hearer. but he heard--oh, he heard and understood, when the distracted woman grasped his arm, and cried,-- "melody is stolen! stolen! and rejoice is dead!" chapter vii. lost. miss rejoice was not dead; though the doctor had a moment of dreadful fright when he saw her lying all crumpled up on the floor, her eyes closed, her face like wrinkled wax. between them, the doctor and miss vesta got her back into bed, and rubbed her hands, and put stimulants between her closed lips. at last her breath began to flutter, and then came back steadily. she opened her eyes; at first they were soft and mild as usual, but presently a wild look stole into them. "the child!" she whispered; "the child is gone!" "we know it," said dr. brown, quietly. "we shall find her, rejoice, never fear. now you must rest a few minutes, and then you shall tell us how it happened. why, we found you on the floor, my child,"--miss rejoice was older than the doctor, but it seemed natural to call her by any term of endearment,--"how upon earth did you get there?" slowly, with many pauses for breath and composure, miss rejoice told her story. it was short enough. melody had been sitting with her, reading aloud from the great book which now lay face downward on the floor by the window. milton's "paradise lost" it was, and rejoice dale could never bear to hear the book named in her life after this time. a carriage drove up and stopped at the door, and melody went out to see who had come. as she went, she said, "it is a strange wagon; i have never heard it before." they both supposed it some stranger who had stopped to ask for a glass of water, as people often did, driving through the village on their way to the mountains. the sick woman heard a man speaking, in smooth, soft tones; she caught the words: "a little drive--fine afternoon;" and melody's clear voice replying, "no, thank you, sir; you are very kind, but my aunt and i are alone, and i could not leave her. shall i bring you a glass of water?" then--oh, then--there was a sound of steps, a startled murmur in the beloved voice, and then a scream. oh, such a scream! rejoice dale shrank down in her bed, and cried out herself in agony at the memory of it. she had called, she had shrieked aloud, the helpless creature, and her only answer was another cry of anguish: "help! help! auntie! doctor! rosin! oh, rosin, rosin, help!" then the cry was muffled, stifled, sank away into dreadful silence; the wagon drove off, and all was over. rejoice dale found herself on the floor, dragging herself along on her elbows. paralyzed from the waist down, the body was a weary weight to drag, but she clutched at a chair, a table; gained a little way at each movement; thought she was nearly at the door, when sense and strength failed, and she knew nothing more till she saw her sister and the doctor bending over her. then miss vesta, very pale, with lips that trembled, and voice that would not obey her will, but broke and quavered, and failed at times, like a strange instrument one has not learned how to master,--miss vesta told her story, of the dark stranger who had come three days before and taken her up to a pinnacle, and showed her the kingdoms of the earth. "i did not tell you, rejoice," she cried, holding her sister's hand, and gazing into her face in an agony of self-reproach; "i did not tell you, because i was really tempted,--not for myself, i do believe; i am permitted to believe, and it is the one comfort i have,--but for you, rejoice, my dear, and for the child herself. but mostly for you, oh, my god! mostly for you. and when i came to myself and knew you would rather die ten times over than have luxuries bought with the child's happy, innocent life,--when i came to myself, i was ashamed, and did not tell you, for i did not want you to think badly of me. if i had told you, you would have been on your guard, and have put me on mine; and i should never have left you, blind fool that i was, for you would have showed me the danger. doctor, we are two weak women,--she in body, i in mind and heart. tell us what we shall do, or i think we must both die!" dr. brown hardly heard her appeal, so deeply was he thinking, wondering, casting about in his mind for counsel. but rejoice dale took her sister's hand in hers. "'though a thousand fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand, yet it shall not come nigh thee,'" she said steadfastly. "our blind child is in her father's hand, sister; he leads her, and she can go nowhere without him. go you now, and seek for her." "i cannot!" cried vesta dale, wringing her hands and weeping. "i cannot leave you, rejoice. you know i cannot leave you." both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeakable, the burden of restraint. the strong woman wrung her hands again, and moaned like a dumb creature in pain; the helpless body of the cripple quivered and shrank away from itself, but the soul within was firm. "you must go," said miss rejoice, quietly. "neither of us could bear it if you stayed. if i know you are searching, i can be patient; and i shall have help." "amanda loomis could come," said miss vesta, misunderstanding her. "yes," said rejoice, with a faint smile; "amanda can come, and i shall do very well indeed till you come back with the child. go at once, vesta; don't lose a moment. put on your bonnet and shawl, and doctor will drive you over to the corners. the stage goes by in an hour's time, and you have none too long to reach it." dr. brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful dream in which he had been plunged. "yes, i will drive you over to the stage, vesta," he said. "god help me! it is all i can do. i have an operation to perform at noon. it is a case of life and death, and i have no right to leave it. the man's whole life is not worth one hour of melody's," he added with some bitterness; "but that makes no difference, i suppose. i have no choice in the matter. girls!" he cried, "you know well enough that if it were my own life, i would throw it down the well to give the child an hour's pleasure, let alone saving her from misery,--and perhaps from death!" he added to himself; for only he and the famous physician who had examined melody at his instance knew that under all the joy and vigor of the child's simple, healthy life lay dormant a trouble of the heart, which would make any life of excitement or fatigue fatal to her in short space, though she might live in quiet many happy years. yes, one other person knew this,--his friend dr. anthony, whose remonstrances against the wickedness of hiding this rare jewel from a world of appreciation and of fame could only be silenced by showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heart of the rose. rejoice dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a few soothing words. they had known each other ever since their pinafore days, these three people. he was younger than miss rejoice, and he had been deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. they had called him "doctor" at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his native village; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave title that "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he had once been "jack" to the whole village. "doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more than you can help! there are all the sick people looking to you as next to the hand of god; your path is clear before you." dr. brown groaned. he wished his path were not so clear, that he might in some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "i will give vesta a note to dr. anthony," he said, brightening a little at the thought. "he will do anything in his power to help us. there are other people, too, who will be kind. yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help." he fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till miss vesta came in, in her bonnet and shawl. "i have no choice," he repeated doggedly, hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. "but how can you go alone, vesta, my poor girl? you are not fit; you are trembling all over. god help us!" cried dr. brown, again. for a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to grapple. the sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. god would help, in his good way. she knew no more, and no more was needed. there were a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they knew not what,--a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble. suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. faint and far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. it deepened still; took form, rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the ear. and at the sound of it, vesta dale fell away again into helpless weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "rosin the beau." "who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, and rocking to and fro,--"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our life and his is gone out?" chapter viii. waiting. how did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the little chamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, the voices, which did not come? miss rejoice was very peaceful, very quiet,--too quiet, thought mandy loomis, the good neighbor who watched by her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul for a good dish of gossip. if rejoice would only "open her mind!" it would be better for her, and such a relief to poor mandy, unused to silent people who bore their troubles with a smile. "where do you s'pose she is, rejoice?" mrs. loomis would cry, twenty times a day. "where do you s'pose she is? ef we only knew, 't would be easier to bear, seems 's though. don't you think so, rejoice?" but rejoice only shook her head, and said, "she is cared for, mandy, we must believe. all we have to do is to be quiet, and wait for the lord's time." "dear to goodness! she can wait!" exclaimed mrs. loomis to mrs. penny, when the latter came in one evening to see if any news had come. "she ain't done anything but wait, you may say, ever sence time was, rejoice ain't. but i do find it dretful tryin' now, mis' penny, now i tell ye. settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet in there, well, i do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though. well, i am glad to see you, to be sure. the' ain't a soul ben by this day. set down, do. you want to go in 'n' see rejoice? jest in a minute. i do think i shall have a sickness if i don't have some one to open my mind to. now, mis' penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose that child is?" then, without waiting for a reply, she plunged headlong into the stream of talk. "no, we ain't heard a word. vesta went off a week ago, and mr. de arthenay with her. providential, wasn't it, his happenin' along just in the nick o' time? i do get out of patience with rejoice sometimes, takin' the lord quite so much for granted as she doos; for, after all, the child was stole, you can't get over that, and seems's though if there'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks,--well, there! i don't want to be profane; but i will say 'twas a providence, mr. de arthenay happenin' along. well, they went, and not a word have we heard sence but just one letter from vesta, sayin' they hadn't found no trace yet, but they hoped to every day,--and land sakes, we knew that, i should hope. dr. brown comes in every day to cheer her up, though i do declare i need it more than she doos, seems's though. he's as close as an oyster, dr. brown is; i can't even get the news out of him, most times. how's that boy of 'bind parker's,--him that fell and hurt his leg so bad? gettin' well, is he?" "no, he isn't," said mrs. penny, stepping in quickly on the question, as her first chance of getting in a word. "he's terrible slim; i heard doctor say so. they're afraid of the kangaroo settin' in in the j'int, and you know that means death, sartin sure." both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish. "'t will be a terrible loss to his mother," said mandy loomis. "such a likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'bind so little good, one way and another." "do you think they'll hear news of melody?" asked mrs. penny, changing the subject abruptly. amanda loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward; it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak! "i don't," she said, with gloomy emphasis. "if you ask me what i reelly think, mis' penny, it's that. i don't think we shall ever set eyes on that blessed child again. rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes my hopes get away with me, and i forgit my jedgment for a spell. but there! see how it is! now, mind, what i say is for this room only." she spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "i've ben here a week now, mis' penny. every night the death-watch has ticked in mel'dy's room the endurin' night. i don't sleep, you know, fit to support a flea. i hear every hour strike right straight along, and i know things that's hid from others, mis' penny, though i do say it. last night as ever was i heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, as plain as i hear you this minute. some might ha' said't was the wind, but there's other things besides wind, mis' penny; and i solemnly believe that was mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. it ain't my interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change of tone, putting her apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. what that child has been to me nobody knows. when i've had them weakly spells, the' warn't nobody but mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'em alive, well i know. she tended me and sung to me like all the angels in heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me--well, there! seems's though my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. i've ben a well woman--that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poor health--sence dr. brown sent that blessed child to me. she has a gift, if ever any one had. dr. brown had ought to give her half of what he makes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever _he_ gives. i never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. why, i've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd give me was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would lay on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing,--not so much as you'd give to a canary-bird. i do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knew the use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o' health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. why, there's old dr. jalap, over to the corners. he give beulah pegrum seven liver pills at one dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost of the pills. now _that's_ what i call doctorin',--not but what i like dr. brown well enough. but mel'dy--well, there! and now to have her took off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buried respectable, or buried at all! you hear awful stories of city ways, these times. now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tell a soul! it's as true as i live, they have a furnace where they burn folks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. my cousin salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. he thought it was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. mis' penny, if rejoice dale was to know that mel'dy was made into gas--" martha penny clutched the speaker's arm, and laid her hand over her mouth, with a scared look. the door of the bedroom had swung open in the breeze, and in the stress of feeling mandy loomis had raised her voice higher and higher, till the last words rang through the house like the wail of a sibyl. but above the wail another sound was now rising, the voice of rejoice dale,--not calm and gentle, as they had always heard it, but high-pitched, quivering with intense feeling. "i see her!" cried the sick woman. "i see the child! lord, save her! lord, save her!" the two women hurried in, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyes wide, her arm outstretched, pointing--at what? involuntarily they turned to follow the pointing finger, and saw the yellow-washed wall, and the wreath of autumn leaves that always hung there. "what is it, rejoice?" cried mandy, terrified. "what do you see? is it a spirit? tell us, for pity's sake!" but even at that moment a change came. the rigid muscles relaxed, the whole face softened to its usual peaceful look; the arm dropped gently, and rejoice dale sank back upon her pillow and smiled. "thy rod and thy staff!" she said. "thy rod and thy staff! they comfort me." and for the first time since melody was lost, she fell asleep, and slept like a little child. chapter ix. blondel. noontide in the great city! the july sun blazes down upon the brick sidewalks, heating them through and through, till they scorch the bare toes of the little street children, who creep about, sheltering their eyes with their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. the apple-women crouch close to the wall, under their green umbrellas; the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted as their own wares. men pass along, hurrying, because they are americans, and business must go on whether it be hot or cold; but they move in a dogged jog-trot, expressive of weariness and disgust, and wipe their brows as they go, muttering anathemas under their breath on the whole summer season. most of the men are in linen coats, some in no coats at all; all wear straw hats, and there is a great display of palm-leaf fans, waving in all degrees of energy. here and there is seen an umbrella, but these are not frequent, for it seems to the american a strange and womanish thing to carry an umbrella except for rain; it also requires attention, and takes a man's mind off his business. each man of all the hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, carrying his little world, which is all the world there is, about with him, seeing the other hurrying mites only "as trees walking," with no thought or note of them. who cares about anybody else when it is so hot? get through the day's work, and away to the wife and children in the cool by the sea-shore, or in the comfortable green suburb, where, if one must still be hot, one can at least suffer decently, and not "like a running river be,"--with apologies to the boy chatterton. among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce stream of sunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. nobody looks at anybody else, or this figure might attract some attention, even in the streets of the great city. an old man, tall and slender, with snowy hair falling in a single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes which glance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking in every face, every shadow of a vanishing form that hurries along and away from him; with fiddle-bow in hand, and fiddle held close and tenderly against his shoulder. de arthenay, looking for his little girl! not content with scanning every face as it passes, he looks up at the houses, searching with eager eye their blank, close-shuttered walls, as if in hope of seeing through the barriers of brick and stone, and surprising the secrets that may lurk within. now and then a house seems to take his fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at the windows, plays a tune. it is generally the same tune,--a simple, homely old air, which the street-boys can readily take up and whistle, though they do not hear it in the music-halls or on the hand-organs. a languid crowd gathers round him when he pauses thus, for street-boys know a good fiddler when they hear him; and this is a good fiddler. when a crowd has collected, the old man turns his attention from the silent windows (they are generally silent; or if a face looks out, it is not the beloved one which is in his mind night and day, day and night) and scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. then, stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, and asks in a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a blind child, with beautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and the most wonderful voice in the world. no one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negro who can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman who tells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. he shakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes on to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the next disappointment. sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper who hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and who engages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. he goes readily enough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have taken the child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track that presents itself. so the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot, noisy place. at first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degree of refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense of his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers and old-fashioned stock. but he heeds them not; and once he begins to play, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance, and say there never was such music for dancing. when a pleasant-looking girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her to him, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen or heard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. he is careful whom he asks, however; he would not insult melody by asking for her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hair and disordered looks. so he sits and plays, a quaint, old-world figure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. old de arthenay, from the androscoggin,--what would his ancestor, the gallant marquis who came over with baron castine to america, what would the whole line of ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant in such a place as this? he has always held his head high, though he has earned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time. he has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rather go hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regard the decencies of life. even in this place, people come to feel the quality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; and voices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on his stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music. all the old tunes he plays, "money musk," and "portland fancy," and "lady of the lake." now he quavers into the "chorus jig;" but no one here knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airs again. and as he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops away from the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees the soft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, and the graceful elms bending in an arch overhead, as if to watch the child melody as she dances. the slender figure swaying hither and thither, with its gentle, wind-blown motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness, the floating tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world; then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the roadside, watching with breathless interest his darling, their darling, the flower of the whole country-side; miss vesta's tall, stately figure in the doorway; the vine-clad window, behind which rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharing all the sweet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment,--all this the old fiddler sees, set plain before him. the "lady" on his arm (for de arthenay's fiddle is a lady as surely as he is a gentleman),--the lady feels it too, perhaps, for she thrills to his touch, as the bow goes leaping over the strings; and more than one wild girl and rough fellow feels a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for many a day, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid cellar the better for that night's music. and when it is over, de arthenay makes his stately bow once more, and walks round the room, asking his question in low tones of such as seem worthy of it; and then home, patient, undaunted, to the quiet lodging where vesta dale is sitting up for him, weary after her day's search in other quarters of the city, hoping little from his coming, yet unwilling to lie down without a sight of his face, always cheery when it meets hers, and the sound of his voice saying,-- "better luck to-morrow, miss vesta! better luck tomorrow! there's one has her in charge, and he didn't need us to-day; that's all, my dear." god help thee, de arthenay! god speed and prosper thee, rosin the beau! but is not another name more fitting even than the fantastic one of his adoption? is not this blondel, faithful, patient, undaunted, wandering by tower and town, singing his song of love and hope and undying loyalty under every window, till it shall one day fall like a breath from heaven on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness and the shadow of death? chapter x. darkness. "and how's our sweet little lady to-day? she's looking as pretty as a picture, so it's a pleasure to look at her. how are you feeling, dearie?" it was a woman's voice that spoke, soft and wheedling, yet with a certain unpleasant twang in it. she spoke to melody, who sat still, with folded hands, and head bowed as if in a dream. "i am well, thank you," answered the child; and she was silent again. the woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who had followed her into the room,--a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontented eyes; the same man who had watched melody over the wall of the old burying-ground, and heard her sing. he had never heard her sing since, save for that little snatch of "robin ruff," which she had sung to the children the day when he stood and pleaded with vesta dale to sell her soul for her sister's comfort. "and here's mr. anderson come to see you, according to custom," said the woman; "and i hope you are glad to see him, i'm sure, for he's your best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quite surprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like a flower all in the dark." she paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. the two exchanged a glance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; but her voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech. "and you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? to think that you've been here near a week now, and i haven't heard the sound of that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. it's sweet as an angel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what mr. anderson has told me about his hearing you sing that day! such a particular gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! why, i've seen girls with voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friends with them, and mr. anderson would no more listen to them than the dirt under his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. and you that he thinks so much of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that comfort in him as you might. why, he wants to be a father to you, dearie. he hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give you everything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to get a little fond of him, and realize all he's doing for you. why, most young ladies would give their two eyes for your chance, i can tell you." she was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man anderson pulled her aside. "it's no use," he said. "we shall just have to wait. you know, my dear," he continued, addressing the child, "you know that you will never see your aunts again unless you _do_ sing. you sense that, do you?" no reply. melody shivered a little, then drew herself together and was still,--the stillest figure that ever breathed and lived. anderson clenched his hands and fairly trembled with rage and with the effort to conceal it. he must not frighten the child too much. he could not punish her, hurt her in any way; for any shock might injure the precious voice which was to make his fortune. he was no fool, this man. he had some knowledge, more ambition. he had been unsuccessful on the whole, had been disappointed in several ventures; now he had found a treasure, a veritable gold-mine, and-he could not work it! could anything be more exasperating? this child, whose voice could rouse a whole city--a city! could rouse the world to rapture, absolutely refused to sing a note! he had tried cajolery, pathos, threats; he had called together a chosen company of critics to hear the future catalani, and had been forced to send them home empty, having heard no note of the marvellous voice! the child would not sing, she would not even speak, save in the briefest possible fashion, little beyond "yes" and "no." what was a poor impresario to do? he longed to grasp her by the shoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched to get hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in her childishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, and set all his cherished plans at nought. and yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to do so. he was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. he could steal a child, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as well as his own; but he could not hurt a child. he had once had a little girl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play a father's part to melody, if she would only have behaved herself. in the grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was a most charming role that he had laid out for himself. anderson the benefactor, anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the prodigy, the patron of music. crowds hailing him with rapturous gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurel crown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to be his due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness into light! instead of this, what part was this he was really playing? anderson the kidnapper; anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invader of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. he did not say all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save when carried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but he felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not knowing which way to turn. as he stood thus, irresolute, the woman by his side eying him furtively from time to time, melody turned her face toward him and spoke. "if you will take me home," she said, "i will sing to you. i will sing all day, if you like. but here i will never sing. it would not be possible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? you made a mistake, that is all." "oh, that's all, is it?" repeated anderson. "yes, truly," the child went on. "perhaps you do not mean to be unkind,--mrs. brown says you do not; but then why _are_ you unkind, and why will you not take me home?" "it is for your own good, child," repeated anderson, doggedly. "you know that well enough. i have told you how it will all be, a hundred times. you were not meant for a little village, and a few dull old people; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion and power. if you were not either a fool or--or--i don't know what, you would see the matter as it really is. mrs. brown is right: most girls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance as you have. you are only a child, and a very foolish child; and you don't know what is good for you. some day you will be thankful to me for making you sing." melody smiled, and her smile said much, for anderson turned red, and clenched his hands fiercely. "you belong to the world, i tell you!" he cried again. "the world has a right to you." "to the world?" the child repeated softly. "yes, it is true; i do belong to the world,--to god's world of beauty, to the woods and fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. when the birds sing to me i can answer them, and they know that my song is as sweet as their own. the brook tells me its story, and i tell it again, and every ripple sounds in my voice; and i know that i please the brook, and all who hear me,--little beasts, and flowers that nod on their stems to hear, and trees that bend down to touch me, and tell me by their touch that they are well pleased. and children love to hear me sing, and i can fill their little hearts with joy. i sing to sick people, and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they may sleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long nights. this is my life, my work. i am god's child; and do you think i do not know the work my father has given me to do?" with a sudden movement she stepped forward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. "you are god's child, too!" she said, in a low voice. "are you doing his work now?" there was silence in the room. anderson was as if spellbound, his eyes fixed on the child, who stood like a youthful prophetess, her head thrown back, her beautiful face full of solemn light, her arm raised in awful appeal. the woman threw her apron over her head and began to cry. the man moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, but no words came. at length he made a sign of despair to his accomplice; moved back from that questioning, warning hand, whose light touch seemed to burn through and through him,--moved away, groping for the door, his eyes still fixed on the child's face; stole out finally, as a thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him. melody stood still, looking up to heaven. a great peace filled her heart, which had been so torn and tortured these many days past, ever since the dreadful moment when she had been forced away from her home, from her life, and brought into bondage and the shadow of death. she had thought till to-day that she should die. not that she was deserted, not that god had forgotten,--oh, no; but that he did not need her any longer here, that she had not been worthy of the work she had thought to be hers, and that now she was to be taken elsewhere to some other task. she was only a child; her life was strong in every limb; but god could not mean her to live here, in this way,--that would not be merciful, and his property was always to have mercy. so death would come,--death as a friend, just as auntie joy had always described him; and she would go hence, led by her father's hand. but now, what change was coming over her? the air seemed lighter, clearer, since anderson had left the room. a new hope entered her heart, coming she knew not whence, filling it with pulses and waves of joy. she thought of her home; and it seemed to grow nearer, more distinct, at every moment. she saw (as blind people see) the face of rejoice dale, beaming with joy and peace; she felt the strong clasp of miss vesta's hand. she smelt the lilacs, the white lilacs beneath which she loved to sit and sing. she heard--oh, god! what did she hear? what sound was this in her ears? was it still the dream, the lovely dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice of hope,--of hope fulfilled, of life and love? "i've travelled this country all over, and now to the next i must go; but i know that good quarters await me, and a welcome to rosin the beau." oh, father of mercy! never doubted, always near in sorrow and in joy! oh, holy angels, who have held my hands and lifted me up, lest i dash my foot against a stone! a welcome,--oh, on my knees, in humble thanksgiving, in endless love and praise,--a welcome to rosin the beau! * * * * * an hour later mrs. brown stood before her employer, flushed and disordered, making her defence. "i couldn't have helped it, not if i had died for it, mr. anderson. you couldn't have helped it yourself, if you had been there. when she heard that fiddle, the child dropped on her knees as if she had been shot, and i thought she was going to faint. but the next minute she was at the window, and such a cry as she gave! the sound of it is in my bones yet, and will be till i die." she paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run bareheaded through the blazing streets. "then he came in,--the old man. he was plain dressed, but he came in like a king to his throne; and the child drifted into his arms like a flake of snow, and there she lay. mr. anderson, when he held her there on his breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like two black coals, all power was taken from me, and i couldn't have moved if it had been to save my own life. he pointed at me with his fiddle-bow, but it might have been a sword for all the difference i knew; anyway, his voice went through and through me like something sharp and bright. 'you cannot move,' he said; 'you have no power to move hand or foot till i have taken my child away. i bid you be still!' mr. anderson, sir, i _had_ no power! i stood still, and they went away. they seemed to melt away together,--he with his arm round her waist, holding her up like; and she with her face turned up to his, and a look like heaven, if i ever hope to see heaven. the next minute they was gone, and still i hadn't never moved. and now i've come to tell you, sir," cried mrs. brown, smoothing down her ruffled hair in great agitation; "and to tell you something else too, as i would burst if i didn't. i am glad he has got her! if i was to lose my place fifty times over, as you've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, still i say it, i'm glad he has got her. she wasn't of your kind, sir, nor of mine neither. and--and i've never been a professor," cried the woman, with her apron at her eyes, "but i hope i know an angel when i see one, and i mean to be a better woman from this day, so i do. and she asked god to bless me, mr. anderson, she did, as she went away, because i meant to be kind to her; and i did mean it, the blessed creature! and she said good-by to you too, sir; and she knew you thought it was for her good, only you didn't know what god meant. and i'm so glad, i'm so glad!" she stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been in her life; for edward anderson was shaking her hand violently, and telling her that she was a good woman, a very good woman indeed, and that he thought the better of her, and had been thinking for some time of raising her salary. chapter xi. light. i love the morning light,--the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, the fairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call it spider-web, but to such i speak not), the silver fog curling up from river and valley. i love it so much that i am loath to confess that sometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. yet is there a softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of common things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough or unsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect time of all the perfect hours. it was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when the people came out from their houses to watch for melody's coming. it is a pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, but lovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which have not found out that they are again in the fashion out of which they were driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with a respect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time to time. it is always pretty, i say, but this evening it had received some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the day knew what was coming, and had pranked herself in her very best for the festival. the sunbeams slanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway it became an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here and there with emerald. the elms met over head in triumphal arches; the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and banners of welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. and as the people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawing near, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain new england men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in a venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stones for once in their lives, though they knew it not. but not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face was the glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, and the laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it. they were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whom they had mourned as lost. they were telling of her gracious words and ways, so different from anything else they had known,--her smiles, and the way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found things out, without ever any one telling her. wonderful, was it not? why, one dared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, one tried to hide them away, deep down, so that melody should not see them with her blind eyes. do you remember how joel pottle took too much one day (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks all temperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the folks coming out of meeting, and how melody came along and took him by the hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him till he was a sober man again? and every one knew joel had never touched a drop of liquor from that day on. again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby,--jane pegrum's baby,--that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burning house? they shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing, hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall; and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmoved above the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on, catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, just ready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to the woman who lay fainting on the grass below! vesta had never forgiven them for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, and when she came back and found melody's eyebrows all singed off, it did seem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? and doctor was just as bad. but, there! they couldn't have held her back, once she knew the child was there; and rejoice was purely thankful. melody seemed to favor rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough. isn't it about time for them to be coming? doctor won't waste time on the road, you may be sure. dreadful crusty he was this morning, if any one tried to speak to him. miss meechin came along just as he was harnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease up her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "take it to the guinea coast and drown it!" not another word could she get out of him. now, that's no way to talk to a patient. but doctor hasn't been himself since melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth. look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept him from going to find the child himself! he never said a word to him, they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he got hurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in the yard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood cold to hear him. it's gospel truth, for i had it from the nurse, and she said it chilled her marrow. yes, a violent man, doctor always was; and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt,--reaching out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because he had a spite against him. seemed trifling, some thought, but he's like to pay for it. did you hear the sound of wheels? look at alice and alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have the first sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? they are as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. yes, melody's doing too, that was. she didn't know it; but she doesn't know the tenth of what she does. just the sight of her coming along the road--hark! surely i heard the click of the doctor's mare. does seem hard to wait, doesn't it? but rejoice,--what do you suppose it is for rejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say. yes, rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? in the little white cottage now, mandy loomis, in a fever of excitement, is running from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron, opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distracted creature; but in the quiet room, where rejoice lies with folded hands, all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. the sick woman does not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept, if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes,--the most patient eyes in the world,--and turn them toward the window. yes, rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the far-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs. with her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one might think the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on the road, hovering round the returning travellers as they make their triumphal entry. for all can see them now. first the brown mare's head, with sharp ears pricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision of waving hair, a light form bending forward. melody! melody has come back to us! they shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. alfred and alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown mare with tears of joy, holding the baby up for melody to feel and kiss, because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. mrs. penny is weeping down behind the hedge; mandy loomis is hurling herself out of the window as if bent on suicide; dr. brown pishes and pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculous noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, as sure as his name is john brown. on the seat behind him sits melody, with miss vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand of each. she has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful hands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almost convulsive pressure. very high de arthenay holds his head, be sure! no marquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. he kisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, and then shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. vesta dale has lost something of her stately carriage. her face is softer than people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblance to her sister. and dr. brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people, and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot drive ten paces without turning round to make sure that it is all true,--that here is melody on the back seat, come home again, home, never to leave them again. but, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries of joy and happy laughter! quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out from every throat, making the little street echo from end to end! quiet all, for melody is singing! standing up, held fast by those faithful hands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her heart to god, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn,-- "jubilate, jubilate! jubilate, amen!" the people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer. what is prayer, if this be not it? the evening light streams down, warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple. the sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of god ascending and descending, ministering to her. put off thy shoes from thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. "jubilate, jubilate! jubilate, amen!" the end. hildegarde's harvest. the "queen hildegarde" series. by laura e. richards. =hildegarde's harvest.= the _fifth volume_ of the hildegarde series. illustrated with eight full-page cuts. square mo, cloth, $ . . a new volume in the "hildegarde" series, some of the best and most deservedly popular books for girls issued in recent years. this new volume is fully equal to its predecessors in point of interest, and is sure to renew the popularity of the entire series. =hildegarde's neighbors.= fourth volume. illustrated from original designs. illustrated by l. j. bridgman. square mo, cloth, $ . . =hildegarde's home.= third volume. illustrated with original designs by merrill. square mo, cloth, $ . . =hildegarde's holiday.= second volume. illustrated with full-page plates by copeland. square mo, cloth, $ . . =queen hildegarde.= first volume. illustrated from original designs by garrett ( pp.). square mo, cloth, $ . . "we would like to see the sensible, heroine-loving girl in her early teens who would not like this book. not to like it would simply argue a screw loose somewhere."--_boston post._ =the hildegarde series.= as above. vols., square mo, put up in a neat box, $ . . ***next to miss alcott's famous "little women" series they easily rank, and no books that have appeared in recent times may be more safely put into the hands of a bright, intelligent girl than these five "queen hildegarde" books. =estes & lauriat, publishers, boston.= [illustration: "hildegarde danced the virginia reel with the colonel."] hildegarde's harvest by laura e. richards author of "captain january," "hildegarde's neighbours," "queen hildegarde," etc. illustrated boston dana estes & company publishers _copyright, ,_ by estes and lauriat. colonial press: electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u.s.a. contents. chapter page i. the morning mail ii. the christmas drawer iii. aunt emily iv. greetings v. at the exchange vi. more greetings vii. merry weather signs viii. christmasing ix. an evening hour x. die edle musica xi. the boys xii. jimmy's pond xiii. merry christmas xiv. bellerophon xv. at last list of illustrations. page "hildegarde danced the virginia reel with the colonel" _frontispiece_ bell's letter "mrs. delansing scrutinised her as she came through the long room" "'hildegarde grahame, in the name of all that's wonderful!'" "'consider the beauty of your offspring'" die edle musica on jimmy's pond "a little figure . . . stood out clear against the dark firs" hildegarde's harvest. chapter i. the morning mail. hildegarde was walking home from the village, whither she had gone to get the mail. she usually rode the three miles on her bicycle, but she had met a tack on the road the day before, and must now wait a day or two till the injured tire could be mended. save for missing the sensation of flying, which she found one of the most delightful things in the world, she was hardly sorry to have the walk. one could not see so much from the wheel, unless one rode slowly; and hildegarde could not ride slowly,--the joy of flying was too great. it was good to look at everything as she went along, to recognise the knots on the trees, and stop for a friendly word with any young sapling that looked as if it needed encouragement. also, the leaves had fallen, and what could be pleasanter than to walk through them, stirring them up, and hearing the crisp, clean crackle of them under her feet? also,--and this was the most potent reason, after all,--she could read her letters as she walked, and she had good letters to-day. the first that she opened was addressed in a round, childish hand to "mis' hilda," the "grahame" being added in a different hand. the letter itself was written in pencil, and read as follows: "my deer, "i hop you are well. i am well. aunt wealthy is well. martha is well. dokta jonson is well; these are all the peple that is well. germya has the roomatiks so bad he sase he thinks he is gon this time for sure. i don't think he is gon, he has had them wers before. aunt wealthy gave me a bantim cock and hens, his nam is goliath of gath, and there nams is buty and topknot. the children has gon away from joyus gard; they were all well and they went home to scool. i miss them; i go to scool, but i don't lik it, but i am gone to have tee with mista peny pakr tonite, aunt wealthy sade i mite. he has made a new hous and it is nise. "so goodbi from "benny." hildegarde laughed a good deal over this letter, and then wiped away a tear or two that certainly had no business in her happy eyes. "dear little benny!" she said. "dear little boy! but when is the precious lamb going to learn to spell? this is really dreadful! i suppose 'germya' is jeremiah, though it looks more like some new kind of porridge. and mr. pennypacker with a new house! this is astonishing! i must see what cousin wealthy says about it." the next letter, bearing the same postmark, of bywood, and written in a delicate and tremulous hand, was from miss bond herself. it told hildegarde in detail the news that benny had outlined; described the happy departure of the children, who had spent their convalescence at the pleasant summer home, all rosy-cheeked, and shouting over the joy they had had. then she went on to dilate on the wonderful qualities of her adopted son benny, who, it appeared, was making progress in every branch of education. "i may be prejudiced, my dear," the good old lady wrote, "but i am bound to say that martha agrees with me in thinking him a _most remarkable_ child." miss bond further told of the event of the neighbourhood, the building of mr. galusha pennypacker's new house. the neighbourhood of so many little children, his friendship with benny, "but more than all, his _remembrance of you_, my dear hildegarde," had, it appeared, wrought a marvellous change in the old hermit. the kindly neighbours had met him half-way in his advances, and were full of good-will and helpfulness; and when, by good fortune, his miserable old shanty had burned down one summer night, the whole neighbourhood had turned out and built him a snug cottage which would keep him comfortable for the rest of his days. "mr. pennypacker came here yesterday to invite benny to drink tea with him (i employ the current expression, my dear, though of course the child drinks nothing but milk at his tender age; i have always considered tea a beverage for the aged, or those who are not robust), and in the course of conversation, he begged me _most earnestly_ to convey to you the assurance that, in his opinion, the comfort which surrounds his later days is owing entirely to you. his actual expression, though not refined, was forcible, and martha thinks you would like to hear it: "'i was a-livin' a hog's life, an' i should ha' died a hog's death if it hadn't been for that gal.' "i trust your dear mother will not think it coarse to have repeated these words. there is something in the very mention of swine that is repugnant to ears polite, but martha was of the opinion that you would prefer to have the message in his own words. and i am bound to say that galusha pennypacker, though undoubtedly _an eccentric_, is a thoroughly well-intentioned person." "dear cousin wealthy!" said hildegarde, as she folded the delicate sheet and put it back into its pearl-gray envelope with the silver seal. "it must have cost her an effort to repeat mr. pennypacker's words. poor old man! i am glad he is comfortable. i must send him a little box at christmas,--some little things to trim up his new house and prettify it. oh! and now, bell, now for your letter! i have kept it for the last, my dear, as if it were raisins or chocolate, only it is better than either." [illustration: bell's letter] the fat square envelope that she now opened contained several sheets of paper, closely covered, every page filled from top to bottom with a small, firm handwriting, but no line of crossing. the merryweathers were not allowed to cross their letters, under penalty of being condemned to write entirely on postal cards. let us peep over hildegarde's shoulder, and see what bell has to say. "dearest hildegarde: "it is two full weeks since i have written, and i am ashamed; but it is simply because they _have_ been full weeks,--very full! there is so much to tell you, i hardly know where to begin. a week ago to-night our play came off,--'the mouse trap.' it went beautifully,--not a hitch anywhere, though we had only had five rehearsals. i was willis, as i told you. i wore my ulster without the cape, and really looked quite masculine, i think. i had a curly, dark-brown wig (my hair tucked down my neck,--it didn't show at all!) and the prettiest little moustache! marion wilson was amy, and she screamed most delightfully. in fact, they all screamed in such a natural and heartfelt way, that some of the ladies in the audience seemed to feel quite uncomfortable, and i am sure i saw madame mirabelle tuck her skirts close around her feet, and put her feet up on the bench in front of her. well, we all did our best, though clarice hammond was the best; she is a born actress! and the audience was very cordial, and we were called before the curtain five times; and altogether it was a great success. i enclose a flower from a bouquet that was thrown at me. it was a beauty, and it struck me right on the head. i thought it was for clarice, and was going to hand it to her, but somebody in the audience cried out, 'why don't you speak for yourself, willis?' and everybody laughed, and they said it was really for me, so i kept it, and was pleased and proud. i have pressed two or three flowers in my blue-print book, with the pictures of the play. i am going to send you some as soon as i can print some more. the girls snatched all the first batch, so that i have not a single one left. "let me see! what comes next? oh, next you must hear about my surprise party. i was in my room one evening, grinding hard at my greek (do you think your mother would object to 'grinding?' it is such old, respectable college slang, mamma allows it once in a while), when i heard whispering and giggling in the hall outside. i don't mind telling you, my dear, that my heart sank, for i had a good lot of pindar to do, and there is no sense in shirking one's lessons. but i went to the door with as good a grace as i could, and there was our dear gerty, and clara lyndon, and three or four other girls from miss russell's school. they said they had double permission, from miss russell at that end, and mrs. tower at this, to come and give me a surprise party; and here they were, and they were coming in whether i liked it or not. of course i did like it after the first minute, for they were all so dear and jolly. they had borrowed chairs as they came along through the hall, and one had her pocket full of spoons, and another had a basket,--oh, but i am getting on too fast. well, gerty and i sat on the bed, and the others on the chairs, and we chattered away, and i heard all the school news. then presently mabel norton opened a basket, and took out--oh, hilda! the most beautiful, _beautiful_ rose-bush, simply covered with blossoms. it was for me, with a card from miss russell and the whole school; and when i asked what it all meant, why, it seems that this was the anniversary of the day last year when i pulled a little girl out of the river, down near the mill-dam. it was the simplest thing in the world to do, for any one who was strong and knew how to tread water; but these dear people had remembered the date, and had done this lovely thing to--well, hilda, i didn't cry that evening, but somehow i want to now, when i come to tell you about it. you will understand! it is so lovely to have such dear, kind friends, that i cannot help it. well, then out of another basket came a most wonderful cream tart, with my initials on it in caramel, and a whole lot, dozens and dozens, of the little sponge-cakes that i am so fond of. they cannot make them anywhere in the world, i think, except at miss russell's, and dear good miss cary, the housekeeper, remembered that i was fond of them. oh, and a huge box of marshmallows; and we all knew what _that_ meant. marshmallows are the--what shall i say?--the unofficial emblem of miss russell's school; and soon two or three were toasting over the gas on hat-pins, and i was cutting the tart, and gerty was handing round the sponge-cakes, and we were all as happy as possible. i ran and asked the girls along the hall to come in, and as many of them did come as could get in the door, and the rest sat in a semicircle on the floor in the hall, and we sang everything we could think of. all of a sudden we heard a knocking at the window. i ran and looked out, and there was something hanging and bobbing against the glass. i opened the window, and drew in a basket, full of all kinds of things, oranges and bananas and candy, with a card, 'compliments of the third floor!' so of course i was running up to thank them, and say how sorry we were that there was not room for them, when i almost ran plump into mrs. tower, who was coming along the entry, very stately and superb. she had heard all about it, and she came to say that, if we liked, we might dance for half an hour in the parlour. you can imagine--no, you cannot, for you never were at college!--the wild rush down those stairs. we called the third floor (they are mostly freshmen), and they came careering down like a herd of ponies; and the first floor came out of their studies when they heard the music, and we had the wildest, merriest, most enchanting dance for just half an hour. then it was hurry-scurry off, for miss russell's girls were on the very edge of their time allowance, and had to run most of the way home (it is only a very little way, and one of the maids had come with them, and waited for them). and we all thanked mrs. tower as prettily as we knew how, and she said pleasant things, and then some of the girls helped me to take back the chairs and straighten things up generally. so the great frolic was over, and most delightful it was; but, my dear, i had to get up at five o'clock to finish my greek next morning, and the ground floor was not much better off with its philosophy. and now there are no more gaieties, for the examinations are 'on,' and we must buckle to our work in good earnest. i don't expect to have much trouble, as i have kept up pretty well; but there is enough for any one to do, no matter how well up she is. so this is the last letter you will have, my dear, before the happy day that brings us all out to the beloved pumpkin house. oh, what a glorious time we shall have, all together once more! roger is still out west, but hopes to get back for the last part of the holidays, at least; and phil's and jerry's vacation begins two days before gerty's and mine. altogether, the prospect is enchanting, and one of the very best parts of it is the seeing you again, dear hilda. only three weeks more! gerty paints a star on her screen for every day that is gone. funny little gerty! give my love to your mother, please, and believe me always, dear hilda, "your affectionate "isabel merryweather." hildegarde gave a half-sigh, as she finished this letter, and walked on in silence, thinking many things. bell's life seemed very free and full and joyous; it suited her exactly, the strong, sensible, merry girl; and oh, how much she was learning! this letter said little about studies, but hildegarde knew from former ones how much faithful work was going on, and how firm a foundation of scholarship and thoroughness her friend was laying. "whereas i," she said aloud, "am as ignorant as a hedge-sparrow." as she spoke, a sparrow hopped upon a twig close by her, and cocked his bright eye at her expressively. "i beg your pardon!" said hildegarde, humbly. "no doubt you are right, and i am a hundred times more ignorant. i could not even imagine how to build a nest; but neither can you crack a nut--ask mr. emerson!--or play the piano." the sparrow chirped defiance, flirted his tail saucily, and was gone. "and all girls cannot be students!" said hildegarde, stopping to address a young maple that looked strong-minded. "everybody cannot go to college; there must be some who are to be just girls,--plain girls,--and stay at home. as for a girl going to college when there is only herself to--to help make a home--why,--she might as well be nero, and done with it." she nodded at the maple-tree, as if she had settled it entirely, and walked on more quickly; the cloud--it was a slight one, but still a cloud--vanished from her brow, leaving it clear and sunny. "the place one is in," she said, "is the place to be happy in. of course i do miss them all; of--course--i do! but if ever any girl ought to be thankful on her knees all day long for blessings and happinesses, hildegarde grahame, why, you know who she is, and that she does not spell her name tompkins." chapter ii. the christmas drawer. christmas was coming. christmas was only three weeks off. oh, how the time was flying! "how shall i ever get ready?" cried hildegarde, quickening her pace as she spoke, as if the holiday season were chasing her along the road. "one is always busy, of course; but it does seem as if i were going to be about five times as busy as i ever was before. naturally! there are so many more people that i want to make presents for. last christmas, there was mammina, and col. ferrers and hugh, and the box to send to jack,--dear jack!--and auntie, and mrs. lankton and the children, and,--well, of course, cousin wealthy and benny, and all the dear people at bywood,--why, there were a good many, after all, weren't there? but now i have all my merryweathers in addition, you see. of course i needn't give anything to the boys,--or to any of them, for that matter,--but i do want to, so very much; if only there were a little more time! i will go up this minute, if mammina does not want me, and look over my drawer. i really haven't looked at it--thoroughly, that is--for three days! hilda grahame, what a goose you are!" by this time she had arrived at braeside, the pretty house where she and her mother passed their happy, quiet life. running lightly up the steps, and into the house, the girl peeped into the sitting-room and parlour, and finding both empty, went on up the stairs. she paused to listen at her mother's door; there was no sound from within, and hildegarde hoped that her mother was sleeping off the headache, which had made the morning heavy for her. kissing her hand to the door, she went on to her own room, which always greeted her as a friend, no matter how many times a day she entered it. she looked round at books and pictures with a little sigh of contentment, and sank down for a moment in the low rocking-chair. "just to breathe, you know!" she said. "one must breathe to live." involuntarily her hand moved towards the low table close by, on which lay a tempting pile of books. just one chapter of "the fortunes of nigel," while she was getting her breath? "no," she said, replying to herself with severity, "nothing of the kind. you can rest just as well while you are looking over the drawer. i am surprised,--or rather, i wish i were surprised at you, hilda grahame. you are a hard case!" exchanging a glance of mutual sympathy and understanding with sir walter scott, who looked down on her benignly from the wall, hildegarde now drew her chair up beside a tall chest of drawers, and proceeded to open the lowest drawer, which was as deep and wide as the whole of some modern bureaus. it was half filled with small objects, which she now took out one by one, looking them over carefully before laying them back. first came a small table-cover of heavy buff linen, beautifully embroidered with nasturtiums in the brilliant natural colors. it was really a thing of beauty, and the girl looked at it first with natural pride, then went over it carefully, examining the workmanship of each bud and blossom. "it will pass muster!" she said, finally. "it is well done, if i do say it; the beloved perfecter will be satisfied, i think." this was for her mother, of course; and she laid it back, rolled smoothly round a pasteboard tube, and covered with white tissue paper, before she went on to another article. next came a shawl, like an elaborate collection of snowflakes that had flitted together, yet kept their exquisite shapes of star and wheel and triangle. cousin wealthy would be pleased with this! hildegarde felt the same pleasant assurance of success. "there ought to be a bit of pearl-coloured satin ribbon somewhere! oh, here it is! a bit of ribbon gives a finish that nothing else can. there! now that is ready, and that makes two. now, benny, my blessed lamb, where are you?" she drew out a truly splendid scrap-book, bound in heavy cardboard, and marked "benny's book," with many flourishes and curlicues. within were pictures of every imaginable kind, the coloured ones on white, the black and white on scarlet cardboard. under every picture was a legend in hildegarde's hand, in prose or verse. for example, under a fine portrait of an imposing black cat was written: "is this benny's pillow-cat? no! it is not half so fat! no! it is not half so fair, so it mews in sad despair, feeling that it has not any chance for to belong to benny." hildegarde had spent many loving hours over this book; her verses were not remarkable, but benny would like them none the less for that, she thought, and she laid the book back with a contented mind. then there was a noble apron for martha, with more pockets than any one else in the world could use; and a pincushion for mrs. brett, and a carved tobacco-stopper for jeremiah. beside the tobacco-stopper lay a pipe, also carved neatly, and hildegarde took this up with a sigh. "i don't like to part with it!" she said. "papa brought it from berne, all those years ago, and i am so used to it; but after all, i am _not_ likely to smoke a pipe, even if i have succumbed to the bicycle, and i do want to send some little thing to dear mr. hartley. dear old soul! how i should like to see him and marm lucy! we really must make a pilgrimage to hartley's glen next summer, if it is a possible thing. marm lucy will like this little blue jug, i know. we have the same taste in blue jugs, and she will not care a bit about its only costing fifteen cents. ah! if everything one wanted to buy cost fifteen cents, one would not be so distracted; but i _do_ want to get 'robin hood' for hugh, and where am i to get the three dollars, i ask you?" she addressed william the silent; the hero drew her attention, in his quiet way, to his own sober dress and simple ruff, and seemed to think that hugh would be just as well off without the record of a ruffling knave who wore lincoln green, and was not particular how he came by it. "ah! but that is all you know, dear sir!" said hildegarde. "we all have our limitations, and if you had only known robin, you would see how right i am." and then hildegarde fell a-dreaming, and imagined a tea-party that she might give, to which should come william of orange and robin hood, alan breck stuart and jim hawkins. "and who else? let me see! hugh, of course, and jack, if he were here, and the boys and--and captain roger; only i am afraid he would think it nonsense. but bell would love it, and i would invite dundee, just to show her how wrong she is about him. and--oh, none of the king arthur knights, because they had no sense of humour, and alan would be at their throats in five minutes; but--why, i have left out david balfour himself,--roger would love david, anyhow,--and robin might bring little john and will scarlet and allan-a-dale. we would have tea out on the veranda, of course, and auntie would make one of her wonderful chicken pies, and i would ask robin whether it was not just as good as a venison pasty. alan would have his hand at his sword, ready to leap up if it was denied; but jolly robin would make me a courtly bow, and say with his own merry smile--come in! oh! what is it?" rudely awakened from her pleasant dream by a knock at the door, hildegarde looked up, half expecting to see one of her heroes standing cap in hand before her. instead, there stood, ducking and sidling,--the widow lankton. "how do you do, mrs. lankton?" said hildegarde, with an effort. it was a sudden change, indeed, from robin hood and alan breck, to this forlorn little body, with her dingy black dress and crumpled bonnet; but hildegarde tried to "look pleasant," and waited patiently for the outpouring that she knew she must expect. "_good_-mornin', dear!" said the widow, ducking a little further to one side, so that she looked like an apologetic crab in mourning for his claws. "i hope your health is good, miss grahame. there! you look pretty well, i must say!" "i hope you are not sorry, mrs. lankton," smiling; for the tone was that of heartfelt sorrow. "no, dear! why, no, certainly not! i'm pleased enough to have you look young and bloomin' while you can. looks ain't allers what we'd oughter go by, but we must take 'em and be thankful for so much, as i allers say. yes, dear. your blessed mother's lyin' down, mis' auntie told me. _she_ seems slim now, don't she? if i was in your place, i should be dretful anxious about her, alone in the world as you'd be if she was took. the lord's ways is--" "did you want to see me about anything special, mrs. lankton?" said hildegarde, interrupting. she felt that she was not called upon to bear this kind of thing. the widow sniffed sadly and shook her head. "yes, dear! you're quick and light, ain't you, as young folks be! like to brisk up and have done with a thing. well, i come to see if i could borry a crape bunnit, to go to a funeral; there, miss grahame, i hope you won't think me forth-puttin', but i felt that anything your blessed ma had worn would be a privilege, i'm sure, and so regardin' it, i come." "oh!" said hildegarde, with a little shudder. "we--we have no crape, mrs. lankton. my father--that is, my mother never wore it." "didn't!" said mrs. lankton. "well, now, folks has their views. i was one that never liked to spare where feelin's was concerned. ah! i've wore crape enough in my time to bury me under, you might say. when my poor husband died, i got a veil measured three yards, countin' the hem; good crape it was, too. there! i took and showed it to him the day before he was took. he'd been failin' up quite a spell, and i was never one to hide their end from them that was comin' to it. 'there, peleg!' says i. 'i want you should know that i sha'n't slight nothin' when you're gone,' i says. 'i'll keep you as long as i can,' i says, 'and i'll have everything right and fittin' as far as my means goes,' i says. he was real gratified. i was glad to please him, goin' so soon as he was. "he turned up his toes less than twenty-four hours after i said them words; died off real nice. his moniment is handsome, if i do say it. i have it scrubbed every spring, come house-cleanin' time, and it looks as good as new. yes, dear! i've got a great deal to be thankful for, if i have suffered more than most." hildegarde set her teeth. inwardly she was saying, "you dreadful old ghoul! when will you stop your grisly recollections, and go away?" but all she said aloud was, "well, mrs. lankton, i am sorry that we cannot help you. perhaps one of the neighbours,--but i ought to ask,--i trust it is no near relative that is dead?" "no, dear!" replied the widow, with unction. "no relation, only by marriage. my sister's husband married this man's sister for his third wife; old man topliffe it is, keeps the grocery over t' the corners." "why, i did not know he was dead!" said hildegarde. "not yet he ain't, dear!" said mrs. lankton. "but he's doomed to die, and the doctors don't give him more than a few hours. i'm one that likes to be beforehand in such matters,--there's them that looks to me to do what's right and proper,--and i shouldn't want to be found without a bunnit provided. well, dear, i must be goin'. ah! 'twill seem nat'ral to be goin' to a funeral again, miss grahame. i ain't b'en to one for as much as five months. i've seen the time when three funerals a week was no uncommon thing round these parts, and most all of 'em kin to me by blood _or_ marriage. yes, no one knows what i've b'en through. you're gettin' fleshy, ain't you, dear? i hope the lord'll spare you _and_ your ma,--she's like a mother to me, i allers say,--through _my_ time. it ain't likely to be long, with these spells that ketches me. _good_-by, dear!" with a tender smile, and another sidelong duck, the widow took herself off; and hildegarde drew a long breath, and felt like opening all the windows, to let the sunshine come in more freely. the door of her room being still open, she became aware of sounds from below; sounds as of clashing metal, and rattling crockery. what could auntie be about? she would wake mamma at this rate. running down-stairs, hildegarde went into the kitchen, and was confronted by the sight of auntie, perched on top of a tall step-ladder, with the upper part of her portly person buried in the depths of a cupboard. "auntie, what _are_ you about?" she cried. "do you know what a noise you are making? mamma is asleep, and i don't want her to wake till tea-time, for her head has ached all day." auntie did not seem to hear at first, but continued to rattle tins in an alarming way; till hildegarde, in despair, grasped the step-ladder, and shook it with some force. then the good woman drew her head out of the depths, and looked down in astonishment. "why, for goodness sake, honey, is dat you?" she said. "i t'ought 'twas dat old image cacklin' at me still. she gone, is she? well, dat's mercy enough for one day!" she sat down on the top of the ladder and panted; and hildegarde burst out laughing. "auntie, did you go up there to get rid of mrs. lankton?" "for shore i did, chile! i'd ha' riz through de roof if i could, but dis was as fur as i could git. she was in hyar an hour, 'most, 'fore she went up-stairs,--and i told her not go near you, but she snoke up, and i dassn't holler, fear ob waking yer ma,--and my head is loose on my shoulders now, listenin' to her clack. so when i hear her comin' down again, i jest put up de ladder here, and i didn't hear no word she said. did she hab de imp'dence to ask you lend her a crape bunnit?" "yes; that is what she came for. we had none, of course." auntie snorted. "none ob her business whedder you had none or a hunderd!" she said. "i tole her if she ask you dat, i'd pull her own bunnit off'n her next time she come; and i will so!" "oh, no, you won't, auntie!" said hildegarde. "well, now, you'll see. miss hildy chile! i had 'nuff ob dat woman. ole barn-cat, comin' snoopin' round here to see what she can git out'n you and yer ma, 'cause she sees yer like two chillen. what yer want for supper, honey, waffles, or corn-pone?" "waffles," said hildegarde, with decision. "but--auntie, what have you there? no, not the pitcher; those little tin things that you just laid down. i want to see them, please." "i been rummagin' dis shelf," said auntie. "i put a lot ob odd concerns up here,--foun' em in de place when we come,--and dey ain't no good, and i want de room. dose? dem's little moulds, i reckon. well, now, i don't seem as if i noticed dem before. kin' o' pretty, ain't dey, honey?" she handed down a set of tin moulds, of fairy size and quaint, pretty shapes. tulips, lilies, crocuses,--"why, it is a tin flower-bed!" cried hildegarde. "why did you never show me these before, auntie?" but auntie was not conscious of having noticed them before. she had cleaned them,--of course,--but her mind must have been on her cooking, and she did not remember them. "and what could one do with them?" hildegarde went on. "oh, see! here is a scrap of parchment fastened to the ring of one of them. 'the moulds for the almond cakes. the receipt is in the manuscript book with yellow covers.' why, how interesting this is! almond cakes! it sounds delightful! do you remember where i put that queer old book, auntie? you thought the receipts so extravagant that i have not used it at all. oh! here it is, in your table-drawer. i might have been sure that you would know exactly where it was. now let us see. this may be a special providence, auntie." "i don't unnerstand what you talkin' 'bout, chile," said auntie, good-naturedly. "i made you almond cake last week, and i guess dat was good 'nuff, 'thout lookin' in de grandmother books. but you can see,--mebbe you find somethin' different." hildegarde was already deep in the old manuscript book. its leaves were yellow with age, the ink faded, but the receipts were perfectly legible, many of the later ones being in miss barbara aytoun's fine, crabbed, yet plain hand. "'bubble and squeak!' auntie, i wish you would give us bubble and squeak for dinner some day. you are to make it of cold beef, and then at the end of the receipt she tells you that pork is much better.--'china chilo! mince a pint basin of undressed neck of mutton'--how _is_ one to mince a basin, do you suppose? i should have to drop it from the roof of the house, and then it would not be fine enough.--'serve it fried of a beautiful colour'--no! that's not it!--'pigs' feet. wash your feet thoroughly, and boil, or rather stew them gently'--miss barbara, i am surprised at you!--'ramakins'--those might be good. 'excellent negus'--ah! here we are! 'almond cakes!' h'm! 'beat a pound of almonds fine'--and a pleasant thing it is to do--'with rose water--half a pound of sifted sugar--beat with a spoon'--ah, this is the part i was looking for, auntie! 'bake them in the flower-moulds, watching carefully; when a beautiful light gold colour, take them out, and fill when cold with cream into which is beat shredded peaches or apricots.' o--oh! doesn't that sound good, auntie?" "good 'nuff," auntie assented, nodding her turbaned head. "good deal of bodder to make, 'pears to me, miss hildy. i'm gittin' old for de fancy cakes, 'pears like." "oh, you dear soul! i don't want you to make them," cried hildegarde. "i want to make them myself. now, auntie, i am going to be very confidential." auntie's dark face glowed with pleasure. she loved a little confidence. "you see," hildegarde went on, "i want some money. not that i don't have enough for everything; but i want to earn a little myself, so that i can make all the christmas presents i want, without feeling that i am taking it out of the family purse. you understand, i am sure, auntie!" and auntie, who had held hildegarde in her arms when she was a baby, nodded her head, and understood very well. "so i thought that possibly i might make something to send to the woman's exchange in new york. i saw in a magazine the other day that the ladies who give a great many lunches are always wishing to find new little prettinesses for their tables. i saw something of that myself, when i was there this fall." but hildegarde checked herself, feeling that she was getting rather beyond auntie's depth. "and i had been wondering what i could make, this very afternoon, and thinking of one thing and another; and when i saw these pretty little moulds, it seemed the very thing i had been looking for. what do you think, auntie?" "t'ink? i t'ink dem noo york ladies better be t'ankful to git anything you make for 'em, miss hildy; dat's my 'pinion! and i'll help ye make de cake, and fuss round a little wid de creams, too, if you let me." but hildegarde declared she would not let her have any hand whatever in the making of the almond cakes, and ran off, hearing her mother's voice calling her from up-stairs. "my dear suz!" said the black woman, gazing after her. "t'ink ob my little baby missy growed into dat capable young lady, wat make anything she touch her finger to. ain't her match in noo york, tell yer; no, nor virginny, nudder!" chapter iii. aunt emily. "and you really think i would better stay several days, mammina? i don't like to leave you alone. some one might come and carry you off! how should i feel if i came back next week, and found you gone?" hildegarde looked down at her mother, as she sat in her low chair by the fire; she spoke playfully, but with an undertone of wistfulness. mrs. grahame had grown rather shadowy in the last year; she looked small and pale beside hildegarde's slender but robust figure; and the girl's eyes dwelt on her with a certain anxiety. but nothing could be brighter or more cheerful than mrs. grahame's smile, nor could a voice ring more merrily than hers did as she responded to hildegarde's tone, rather than her words. "there _have_ been rumours of a griffin lurking in the neighbourhood. he is said to have a particular fancy for old--there, there, hilda! don't kill me!--well, for middle-aged ladies, and his preference is for the small and bony. i feel that i am in imminent peril; but still, under all the circumstances, i prefer to abide my fate; and i think you would decidedly better spend two or three days at least with your aunt emily. she has never invited you before, and her note sounds pretty forlorn, poor old lady! besides, if you really want to do something at the exchange, you could hardly manage it in one day. so you shall pack the small trunk, and take an evening gown, and make a little combination trip, missionary work and money-making." "and what will you do?" asked hildegarde, still a little wistfully. "clean your room!" replied her mother, promptly. "mamma! as if i would let you do that while i was away!" "kindly indicate how you would prevent it while you were away, my dear! but indeed, i don't mean a revolutionary, spring cleaning; i just want to have the curtains washed, and the paint touched up a little; i saw several places where it was getting shabby. indeed, hilda, i think the trip to new york is rather a special providence, do you know?" "humph!" said hildegarde, looking suspiciously at her parent. "and while i _am_ gone, it might be a good plan to take up the matting, and re-cover some of the chairs, and have the sofa done over, you think?" "exactly!" said mrs. grahame, falling innocently into the trap. whereupon she was pounced on, shaken gently, embraced severely, and forbidden positively to attempt anything of the kind. finally a compromise was effected, allowing the washing of the curtains, but leaving the details of painting, etc., till hildegarde's return; and the rest of the evening was spent in the ever-pleasant and congenial task of making out a list. "you cannot be expected to make visits, of course, dear, in so short a stay; but there are one or two people you ought to see if possible," said mrs. grahame. hildegarde looked up apprehensively from her jottings of towels, gloves, and ribbons to be bought. her mother's ideas of family duty were largely developed. "aunt emily will expect you to call on cousin amelia, and no doubt the girls will come to see you. your aunt anna is in washington." "for what we are about to escape--" murmured the daughter. "hildegarde, i wonder at you!" "yes, dear mamma! what else were you going to say?" mrs. grahame tried to look severe for a moment, did not succeed, and put the subject by. "then there is old madam burlington; she would take it as a kindness if you went to see her; you need not stay more than a quarter of an hour. a cranford call is all that is necessary, but do try to find an hour to go and sit with poor cousin harriet wither; it cheers her so to see some young life. poor harriet! she is a sad wreck! you will probably dine at your cousin robert grahame's, and if aunt emily wishes you to call on any of the delansings--" "were you expecting me to stay away over christmas?" inquired hildegarde, calmly. "why, darling, surely not! what do you mean?" "only that you seem to have started on a month's programme, my love, that's all. don't look so, angel! i will go to see all of them; i will spend a month with each in turn; only don't look troubled!" by and by everything was settled as well as might be. mother and daughter went to sleep with peaceful hearts, and the next day hildegarde departed for new york, determined to make as short a visit as she could in propriety to aunt emily delansing. of her reception by that lady she herself shall tell: "blessedest mother: "as usual, you were quite right, and i am glad i came. hobson was at the station, and brought me up here in a hansom, and aunt emily was in the drawing-room to receive me. she is very kind, and seems glad to have me here. i have not done much yet, naturally, as i have not been here two hours yet. i could not let the six o'clock mail go without sending you a line, just to say that i am safe and well. very well indeed, dearest, and no more homesick than is natural, and loving you more than you can possibly imagine. but oh, the streets are so noisy, and there are no birds, and--no, i will not! i will be good. good-bye, dearest and best! always your very ownest, "hilda." hilda sealed and addressed her letter, and then rang the bell. a grave footman in plum-coloured livery appeared, received the letter as if it were an official document of terrible import, and departed. then, when the door was closed and she was alone again, hildegarde leaned back in her chair and gave herself up to reverie. her eyes wandered over the room in which she was sitting,--a typical city room, large and lofty, with everything proper in the way of furnishing. "everything proper, and nothing interesting!" said hildegarde, aloud. the oak furniture was like all other oak furniture; the draperies were irreproachable, but without character; the pictures were costly, and that was all. rather wearily hildegarde rose and began the somewhat elaborate toilet which was necessary to please the taste of the aunt with whom she had come to stay. mrs. delansing was her father's aunt. since mr. grahame's death, his widow and child had seen little of her. she considered their conduct, in moving to the country, reprehensible in the extreme, and signified to mrs. grahame that she could never regard her as a sane woman again. mrs. grahame had borne this affliction as bravely as she might, and possibly, in the quietly happy years that followed the move, she and her daughter did not give much thought to aunt emily or her wrath. she was well, and did not need them, and they were able to get on very tolerably by themselves. now, however, things had happened. mrs. delansing was much out of health; her own daughters were settled in distant homes, and could not leave their own families to be with her; she felt her friends dropping away year by year, and loneliness coming upon her. for the first time in years, emily delansing felt the need of some new face, some new voice, to keep her from her own thoughts. accordingly she had written to mrs. grahame a note which meant to be stately, and was really piteous, holding out the olive-branch, and intimating that she should be glad to have a visit from hildegarde, unless her mother thought it necessary to keep the girl buried for her whole life. in replying, mrs. grahame did not think it necessary to reply to the last remark, nor to remind mrs. delansing that hildegarde had spent a month in new york the winter before, with an aunt on the bond side, who was not in the delansing set. she said simply that hildegarde would be very glad to spend a few days in gramercy park, and that she might be expected on the day set. and, accordingly, here hildegarde was. she had fully agreed with her mother that it was her duty to come, if aunt emily really needed her; but she confessed to private doubts as to the reality of the need. "and you do want me, mrs. grahame, deny it if you dare!" she said. "heigh ho!" said hildegarde again, looking about her for something to talk to, as was her way. "well, so i packed my trunk, and i came away, and here i am." she addressed a small china sailor, who was sitting on a pink barrel that contained matches. "and if you think i like it so far, my friend, why, you have less intelligence than your looks would indicate. what dress would you put on, if you were i? i think your pink-striped shirt would be extremely becoming to me, but i don't want to be grasping. you advise the brown velveteen? i approve of your taste!" hildegarde nodded to the sailor, feeling that she had made a friend; and proceeded to array herself in the brown velveteen gown. it was a pretty gown, made half-low, with full elbow-sleeves, and heavy old lace in the neck. when hildegarde had clasped the gold beads round her slender neck, she felt that she was well dressed, and sat down with a quiet conscience to read "montcalm and wolfe" till dinner-time. presently came a soft knock at the door, and the announcement that dinner was served; and hildegarde laid aside her book and went down to the drawing-room. [illustration: "mrs. delansing scrutinised her as she came through the long room."] mrs. delansing, seated in her straight, high-backed armchair, was on the watch for her grandniece, and scrutinised her as she came through the long room. then she nodded, and, rising, laid her hand on the arm that hildegarde offered her. "who taught you to enter a room?" she asked, abruptly. "you have been taught, i perceive." "my mother," said hildegarde, quietly. "humph!" said mrs. delansing. "in my time, one of the most important accomplishments was to enter a room properly. nowadays i see young women skip, and shuffle, and amble into the drawing-room; i do not often see one enter it properly. you will, perhaps, tell your mother that i have mentioned this; she may be gratified." hildegarde bowed in silence, and as they came into the dining-room, took the place to which her aunt motioned her, at the foot of the table. it was a long table, and hildegarde could only see the bows of mrs. delansing's cap over the stately epergne that rose between them; but she was conscious of the old lady's sharp black eyes watching her through the ferns and roses. this awoke a rebellious spirit in our young friend, and she found herself wondering what would be the effect of her putting her knife in her mouth, or drinking out of the finger-bowl. the dinner seemed interminable. it is not easy to talk to some one whom you cannot see; but hildegarde replied as well as she could to the occasional searching questions that were darted at her like spear-points through the ferns, preserved her composure, and was not too unhappy to enjoy the good food set before her. it was a relief to go back to the drawing-room, which seemed a shade less formal than the one they left; also, she found a comfortable chair, and received permission to take out her embroidery. "where did you get that lace?" asked mrs. delansing, suddenly, after a silence during which hildegarde had thought her asleep, till, on looking up, she met the steady gaze of the black eyes, still fixed on her. "it is extremely valuable lace; are you aware of it?" the tone was reproachful, but hildegarde preserved a quiet mind. "yes, i know it is valuable!" she said. "old mr. aytoun left all his personal property to mamma, you know, aunt emily; there was a great deal of lace, some of it very fine indeed; this is a small piece that went with some broad flounces. beautiful flounces they are!" mrs. delansing's eyes lightened, and her fingers moved nervously. lace was one of her few passions, and she could not see it, or even hear of it, unmoved. "and what does your mother propose to do with all this lace?" she asked. "she cannot wear it herself, in the wilderness that she chooses to live in." "oh, she keeps it!" said hildegarde. "it is delightful to have good lace, don't you think so? even if you don't wear it. and when either of us wants a bit to put on a gown,--like this, for example,--why, there it is, all ready." "it seems wanton; it seems almost criminal," said mrs. delansing, with energy, "to keep valuable lace shut up in a mouldering country-house. i--it distresses me to think of it. i shall feel it a point of duty to write to your mother." hildegarde wondered what her aunt would feel it her duty to say. it was hardly her mother's fault that the lace had been left to her; it seemed even doubtful whether she should be expected to mould her life upon the lines of lace; but this seemed an unsafe point to suggest. "that is very beautiful lace on your dress, aunt emily!" said this wily young woman. mrs. delansing's brow smoothed, and she looked down with a shade of complacency. "yes, this is good," she said. "this is very good. your grandfather,--i should say your great-uncle, bought this lace for me in brussels. it is peculiarly fine, you may perceive. the young woman who made it lost her eyesight in consequence." "oh, how dreadful!" cried hildegarde. "how could you--" "how could you bear to wear it?" was what she was going to say, but she checked herself, and the old lady went on, placidly. "your great-uncle paid something more than the price asked on that account. he thought something more was due; he was a man of great benevolence. this is point lace." "yes," said hildegarde, "point d'alençon; i never saw a more delicate piece." "ah! you know point lace!" said mrs. delansing. her voice took on a new tone, and she looked at the girl with more friendly eyes. "i did not know that any young women of the new generation understood point. these matters seem to be thought of little consequence nowadays. i have myself spent months in the study of a special point, and felt myself well repaid." she put some searching questions, relative to the qualities of spanish, venice, and rose point, and nodded her head at each modest but intelligent answer. hildegarde blessed her mother and cousin wealthy, who had expounded to her the mysteries of lace. at the end of the catechism, the old lady sighed and shook her head. "it is an exceptional thing," she said, "to find any knowledge of laces in the younger generations. i instructed my own daughters most carefully in this branch of a gentlewoman's education, but they have not thought proper to extend the instruction to their own children. i--a shocking thing happened to me last year!" she paused, and hildegarde looked up in sympathy. "what was it, aunt emily?" she asked. mrs. delansing was still silent, lost in distressful reverie. at length, "it is painful to dwell upon," she said, "and yet these things are a warning, and it is, perhaps, a duty to communicate them. you have met my granddaughters, your cousins, violette and blanche?" "oh, yes!" said hildegarde, smiling a little, and colouring a little too. these cousins were rather apt to attempt the city-cousin rôle, and to treat her as a country cousin and poor relation. she did not think they had had the best of it at their last meeting. "yes, i know them," she said, simply. "they are girls of lively disposition," mrs. delansing continued. "their mother--your cousin amelia--has been something of an invalid,--i make allowance for all this, and yet there are things--" she broke off; then, after a moment, went on again. "violette made me a visit last winter, here, in this house. she was engaged in what she called fancy work, for a bazaar (most objectionable things to my mind), that was to be held in the neighbourhood. one day she came to hobson--i was unwell at the time--and said,--hobson remembers her very words: "'oh, hobson, see what a lovely thing i have made out of a bit of old rubbishy lace that was in this bureau drawer.' "hobson looked, and turned pale to her soul, as she expressed it in her homely way. she recognised the pattern of the lace. "'i cut out the flowers,' said the unhappy girl, 'and applied them'--she _said_ 'appliquéd' them, a term which i cannot reproduce--'applied them to this crimson satin ribbon; it will make a lovely picture-frame; so unique!' "she had--she had taken a piece of my old mechlin, which hobson had just done up and had laid in the drawer till i should feel strong enough to examine and approve its appearance,--she had taken this and cut it to pieces, cut out the flowers, to sew them-- there are things that have to be lived through, my dear. it was weeks before hobson felt able to tell me what had occurred. i was in danger of a relapse for several weeks, though she did it as delicately as possible,--good hobson. i did not trust myself to speak to violette in person; i sent for her mother, and told her of the occurrence. she--she--laughed!" there was silence for some minutes. hildegarde wanted to show the sympathy that she truly felt, for she liked lace, and the idea of its stupid destruction filled her with indignation. she ventured to lay her hand timidly on the old lady's arm, but mrs. delansing took no notice of the caress; she sat bolt upright, gazing out of the window with stony eyes. presently she said: "you may ring for hobson, if you please. i feel somewhat shaken, and will have my malted milk in my own room. another evening, i may ask your patience in a game of backgammon,--you have been taught to play backgammon? yes; but not to-night. you will find books in the library, and the piano does not disturb me. good-night, my niece." she shook hands with hildegarde, and departed on hobson's arm, looking old and feeble, though holding herself studiously erect. hildegarde went to her room, feeling half sad, half amused, and wholly homesick. she greeted the china sailor with effusion, as if he were a friend of years. "oh, you dear fellow!" she said. "you are young, aren't you? and happy, aren't you? well, mind you stay so, do you hear?" she nodded vehemently at him, and took up her book, to read till bedtime. chapter iv. greetings. there was no family breakfast at the house in gramercy park. a smiling chambermaid brought up a tray to hildegarde's room, with all manner of pleasant things under suggestive little covers. hilda ate and was thankful, and then, finding that her aunt would not be visible before noon, she put on her hat and went for a walk. the streets were chilly, in the november morning, but the air was fresh and good, and hildegarde breathed it in joyously. this was just a walk, she said to herself. she had many visits to make, of course, and more or less shopping to do, but there was time enough for all that. now she would walk, and get her bearings, and consider that one might live well in a city. the brick sidewalks seemed at once strange and familiar; she had known the brown-stone streets all her life. once they had seemed her own, the only place worth walking in; now they were a poor apology, indeed, for shady lanes and broad sunny roads along which the feet trod or the wheel spun, winged by "the joy of mere living." she passed the house where her childhood had been spent, and paused to look up at the tall windows, in loving thought of the dear father who had made that early home so bright and full of cheer. dear father! there was his smoking-room window, where he used to sit and read aloud to her, so many happy hours. how he would dislike those heavy brocade curtains; he used to thunder, almost as loud as colonel ferrers, about curtains that kept out the blessed sunshine. how--the house was a corner one, and at this moment, as hildegarde stood gazing up at the windows, a gentleman turned the corner, and ran plump into her. "upon my soul," said the gentleman, with great violence, "it is a most extraordinary thing that a human being should turn himself into a post for the express purpose of--i beg your pardon, madam. i was not conscious that i was addressing a lady! can i serve you in any way? command me, i beg of you!" the moment hildegarde caught the sound of the gentleman's voice, she turned her head away, so that he could not see her face; and now she spoke over her shoulder. "a place in thy memory, dearest--sir, is all that i ask at thy hands. it is hard to be forgotten so soon, so utterly!" "what! what! what! what!" said the colonel. "who! who! why--why the mischief will you not turn your head round, young woman? there is only one young woman in the world who would address me in this manner, and she is a hundred miles away. now, in the name of all that is elfish, hildegarde grahame, what are you doing here?" hildegarde turned round, her eyes full of happy laughter, and took her friend's arm. "and in the name of all that is occult, and necromantic, and rosicrucian, colonel ferrers, what are _you_ doing here?" she asked. "i thought you were in washington." "i was, till last night!" the colonel replied. "we have seen all the sights, the boy and i, and now we have come to see the sights here on our way home. well! well! and the first sight i see is the best one for sair een that i know. what a pity i left the boy at the hotel! he was still asleep. we arrived late last night. i went to wake him, and i give you my word, i could as soon have thought of waking an angel from a dream of paradise; the little fellow smiled, you understand, hildegarde, and--and moved his little arms, and--i came away, sir,--my dear, i should say,--and left him to sleep as long as he would. where are you going now, my child? have you had breakfast? if not,--" "oh, yes, i have had breakfast, dear sir!" said hildegarde. "and you were thinking, if i had had it, how pleasant for me to go in and surprise that blessed lamb in his crib; now, weren't you?" "the point, as usual!" cried the colonel. "country neighbours learn to know each others' thoughts, they say, but i never believed it, till i had neighbours. well, shall we go? now, upon my soul, this is the most surprising and delightful thing that has happened to me for forty years. but you have not told me where you are staying, hilda, nor why you are here, nor in fact anything; have simply wormed information out of the confiding friend, and remained silent yourself!" and the colonel looked injured, and twirled his moustaches with mock ferocity. "i like that!" said hildegarde. "that really pleases me! kindly indicate, dear sir, the moment at which i could have got in a word edgewise, since you began your highly interesting remarks! i have been simply panting with eagerness to tell you that i left home yesterday, and arrived in new york at five o'clock in the afternoon; that i am staying with my great-aunt in gramercy park; that i am wofully homesick, and that the sound of your voice was the most ecstatic sound i have heard for half a century." "ha!" said the colonel. "humph! mockery, i perceive! of the aged, too! very well, miss grahame, your punishment will be decided hereafter. meanwhile, here we are at my hotel, and we will go straight up and wake the boy,--if he seems to be ready to wake, my dear. i am sure you will agree with me that it would be a pity to rouse him from a sound sleep. 'sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,' you remember, hildegarde!" "yes, dear colonel ferrers!" said hildegarde. "but i don't believe hugh's sleeve is very deeply ravelled, do you? and indeed, it is high time for him to be awake." they turned in at a great white marble portal, and the elevator soon brought them to the colonel's door. he opened it softly with a latch-key, and led the way into the apartment; then paused, and beckoned hilda to come in quietly. "listen!" he whispered. "hugh is awake!" they listened, and heard a clear, sweet voice discoursing calmly: "i have three pillows to my head, though i am not ill. i wish that other boy was here, that was in bed, and made songs about himself, and said it was the land of counterpane. he was the giant great and still, that sits upon the pillow-hill, and i am that kind of giant too. now i play he is here, and he sits up against that pillow, and i sit up against this. and i say, 'how can you say all the things that come in your mind? i can have the things in my mind, too, but they will not have rhyme-tails to them. how do you make the rhyme-tails?' "and then he says,--i call him louis, for that is the prettiest part of his name,--louis says, 'it has to be a part of you. i think of things in short lines, and after every line i look for the rhyme-tail, and i see it hanging somewhere. but perhaps your colonel can help you about that,' louis says. "but i say, 'no! my colonel cannot help me about that. my colonel is good, and i love him with love that grows like a tree, but he cannot make rhymes. now, if my beloved were here, she might be able to help me; but she is far away, and the high walls shut her out from me. the walls are very high here, louis, and my colonel has gone away now, and i don't know how soon he will come back; so don't you leave me, louis, for i am alone in a sandy waste, and there are no quails. but manna would be nasty, i think.'" at this point the listeners could bear no more. hilda ran into the room, and had hugh in her arms, and was laughing and crying and cooing over him all at once. the colonel followed, very red in the face, blowing his nose and clearing his throat portentously. "why, darling," hilda was saying between the kisses, "darling boy, did you want me? and did you think your colonel would leave you for more than a few little minutes? of course he would not! and where do you suppose i came from, boy, when i heard you say you wanted me? do you think i came down the chimney?" hugh gravely inspected her spotless attire; the blue serge showed no wrinkle, no speck of dust. "i should say _not_ the chimney!" he announced, "but from some strange where you must have come, beloved, if it was a place where you heard me talking when i was not there. was it the up-stairs of the land of counterpane?" he added, his eyes lighting up with their whimsical look. "was it the counterpane garret? then it must have been over the top of the bed that you came from, and you seemed to come in at the door. did louis tell you to come?" "louis?" said the colonel. "what does the boy mean? stuff and nonsense! i met your beloved in the street, ran into her, and thought she was a post; and then i brought her along, and here she is; and what do you think about breakfast, young sir?" young sir thought very well of breakfast, but he could not think of eating it without his two friends looking on; so hildegarde waited in the parlour, chatting merrily with the colonel till young sir's toilet was completed, and then breakfast was brought, and hugh ate, and the others watched him; and hildegarde found that she was quite hungry enough to eat black hamburg grapes, even if it was only two hours since breakfast, and altogether they were very merry. "and what shall we do now?" asked the colonel, when the pleasant meal was over. "the metropolitan, eh? the boy must see pictures, hilda, hey? 'the eye that ne'er on beauty dwells,' h'm! ha! folderol! i forget the rest, but the principle remains the same. never seen any pictures except those at home, and the few in washington. chiefly rubbish there, i observe. what do you say, miss braeside? will you give roseholme the honour of your company as far as the metropolitan?" "why not?" thought hildegarde. "hobson said positively that aunt emily would not see me before lunch, and there is no one else that i need go to see quite so very immediately." "yes, i will go with pleasure!" she said. so off they started, the cheerfullest three in new york that morning. busy men, hurrying down-town to their business, turned to look back at them, and felt the load of care lightened a little just by the knowledge that there were three people who had no care, and were going to enjoy themselves somewhere. hugh walked in the middle, holding a hand of each friend, chattering away, and looking up from one to the other with clear, joyful looks that made the whole street brighter. the colonel was in high feather; flourishing his stick, he strode along, pointing out the various objects of interest on the way. he paused before a mercer's window, filled with shimmering silks and satins. "now here," he said, "is frippery of a superior description; frippery enough to delight the hearts of a dozen women." "possibly of two dozen, dear sir," put in hildegarde; "consider the number of yards in all those shining folds." "hum! ha! precisely!" said the colonel. "now, hildegarde, you have some taste in dress, i believe; you appear to me to be a well-dressed young woman. now, i say, what seems to you the handsomest gown in all this folderol, hey? the handsomest, mind you?" "'said the kangaroo to the duck, this requires a little reflection!'" hildegarde quoted. "perhaps, on the whole, that splendid purple velvet; don't you think so, colonel ferrers?" "hum!" said the colonel. "ha! possibly; but--ha! hum! that--i may be wrong, hildegarde--but that seems to me hardly suited to a young person, hey? more a gown for a dowager, it strikes me? i may be wrong, of course." "not in the least wrong, dear sir," said hilda, laughing. "but you said nothing about a young person. you said 'the handsomest.'" "precisely," said the colonel again. "and after all, a gown is a temporary thing, hugh. now, a bit of jewelry--but now, hildegarde, i put it to you, if you were going to choose a gown for elizabeth beadle, for example; suppose hugh and i were going to take a present home to elizabeth beadle; there's no better woman of her station in the mortal universe, sir, i don't care who the second may be. what do you think suitable, hey?" "oh, guardian!" and "oh, colonel ferrers!" cried hugh and hildegarde, in a breath. "how delightful!" "i think hugh ought to choose," said hildegarde, with some self-denial; and she added to herself: "if only he will not choose the blue and red plaid; though there is nothing she would like so well, to be sure!" hugh surveyed the shining prospect with radiant eyes. "i think you are the very kindest person in all the world!" he said. "i think--my mind is full of thoughts, but now i will make my choice." he was silent, and the three stood absorbed, heedless of the constantly increasing crowd that surged and elbowed past them. "my great-aunt is fond of bright colours," said the child, at last. hildegarde shivered. "she would like best the red and blue plaid. _but_, people must not always have the things they like best. you remember the green apples, guardian, and how they weren't half as good as the medicine was horrid." "most astonishing boy in the habitable universe!" murmured the colonel, under his breath. "don't undertake to say what kind of boys there may be in mars, you understand, but so far as this planet goes,--hey? ha! well, have you made your choice, young sir?" hugh pointed out a gray silk, with a pretty purple figure. "that is the very best thing for my great-aunt," he said. "that will fill her with delirious rapture, and it will not put out the eyes of anybody. we shall all be happy with that silk." so in they went to the shop, and hugh bought the silk, and the colonel paid for it, and then they all went off to the metropolitan, and spent the rest of the morning in great joy. chapter v. at the exchange. "and how have you spent the morning, my dear?" asked mrs. delansing. they were sitting at the luncheon-table. hildegarde could just see the tip of her aunt's cap above the old-fashioned epergne which occupied the centre of the table; but her tone sounded cheerful, and hildegarde hastened to tell of her delightful morning. she had enjoyed herself so heartily that she made the recital with joyful eagerness, forgetting for the moment that she was not speaking to her mother, who always enjoyed her good times rather more than she did herself; but a sudden exclamation from mrs. delansing brought her to a sudden realisation of her position. "what!" exclaimed the old lady, and at her tone the very ferns seemed to stiffen. "what are you telling me, hildegarde? you have been spending the morning with--with a gentleman, and that gentleman--" "colonel ferrers!" said hildegarde, hastily, fearing that she had not been understood. "surely you know colonel ferrers, aunt emily." "i _do_ know thomas ferrers!" replied mrs. delansing, with awful severity; "but i do _not_ know why--i must add that i am at a loss to imagine _how_--my niece should have been careering about the streets of new york with thomas ferrers or any other young man." hildegarde was speechless for a moment; indeed, mrs. delansing only paused to draw breath, and then went on. "that your mother holds many dangerous and levelling opinions i am aware; but that she could in any degree countenance anything so--so monstrous as this, i refuse to believe. i shall consider it my duty to write to her immediately, and inform her of what you have done." hildegarde was holding fast to the arms of her chair, and saying over and over to herself, "never speak suddenly or sharply to an old person!" it was one of her mother's maxims, and she had never needed it before; but now it served to keep her still, though the indignant outcry had nearly forced itself from her lips. she remained silent until she was sure of her voice; then said quietly, "aunt emily, there is some mistake! colonel ferrers is over sixty years old; he was a dear friend of my father's, and--and i have already written to my mother." mrs. delansing was silent; hildegarde saw through the screen of leaves a movement, as if she put her hand to her brow. "sixty years old!" she repeated. "wild tom ferrers,--sixty years old! what does it mean? then--then how old am i?" there was a painful silence. hildegarde longed for her mother; longed for the right word to say; the wrong word would be worse than none, yet this stillness was not to be endured. her voice sounded strange to herself as she said, crumbling her bread nervously: "he is looking very well indeed. he has been in washington with little hugh, his ward; he had been suffering a great deal with rheumatism, but the warm weather there drove it quite away, he says." there was no reply. "colonel ferrers is the kindest neighbour that any one could possibly have!" the girl went on. "i don't know what we should have done without him, mamma and i; he has really been one of the great features in our life there. you know he is a connection of dear papa's,--on the lancaster side,--as well as a lifelong friend." "i was not aware of it!" said mrs. delansing. she had recovered her composure, and her tone, though cold, was no longer like iced thunderbolts. "i withdraw my criticism of your conduct,--in a measure. but i cannot refrain from saying that i think your time would have been better employed in your room, than in gadding about the street. i was distinctly surprised when hobson told me that you had gone out. hobson was surprised herself. she has always lived in the most careful families." hildegarde "saw scarlet." "aunt emily," she said, "blame me if you will; but i cannot suffer any reflection on my mother. i do not consider that it would be possible for any one to be more careful of every sensible propriety than my mother is; though she does not mould her conduct on the opinions of servants!" she added. she should not have said this, and was aware of it instantly; but the provocation had been great. "you admit that your mother is human?" said the old lady, grimly. "she has faults, i presume, in common with the rest of humankind?" "she may have!" said hildegarde. "i have never observed them." silence again. hildegarde tried to eat her chicken, but every morsel seemed to choke her; her heart beat painfully, and she saw through a mist of angry tears. oh, why had she come here? what would she not give to be at home again! presently mrs. delansing spoke again, and her tone was perceptibly gentler. "my dear, you must not think that i mean to be unkind, nor did i mean--consciously--to reflect upon your mother, for whom your affection is commendable, though perhaps strongly expressed." "i am sorry!" said hildegarde, impulsively. "i ought not to have spoken so. i beg your pardon, aunt emily!" mrs. delansing bowed. "you are freely pardoned! i was about to say, when this little interruption occurred, that i had hoped you could be content for a few days under my roof, without seeking pleasure elsewhere; but age is poor company for youth." "but you could not see me this morning, aunt emily! you said last night that you never saw anybody before lunch. and what should i do in my room? it is a charming room, but you surely did not expect me to stay in it all the morning, doing nothing?" "i should have thought you might find plenty of occupation!" said mrs. delansing. "in my time it was thought not too much for a young lady to devote the greater part of the day to the care of her person; this, of course, included fine needlework and other feminine occupations." "i did not bring any work with me," said hildegarde. "you see, i must go back to-morrow, aunt emily, and there are so many errands that i have to do. this afternoon i must go out again; and is there anything i can do for you? i shall be going by arnold's, if you want anything there." "i thank you; hobson makes my purchases for me!" said mrs. delansing, stiffly. "she would better accompany you to arnold's; there is apt to be a crowd in these large shops, which i consider unsuited for gentlewomen. i will tell hobson to accompany you." but hildegarde protested against this, saying, with truth, that she must pay a visit first. the idea of going about with hobson at her heels was intolerable for the girl who had spent the first sixteen years of her life in new york. she finally carried her point, and also obtained permission to read to her aunt for an hour before going out. it was a particularly dull weekly that was chosen, but she read as well as she knew how, and had the pleasure of seeing mrs. delansing's stern face relax into something like cheerfulness as she went through two chapters of the vapid, semi-religious story. at length the cold, gray eyes closed; the stately head nodded forward; aunt emily was asleep. hildegarde read on for some time, till she was sure that the slumber was deep and settled. then she sat for a moment looking at the old lady, and contrasting her face and form, rigid even in sleep, with those of dear cousin wealthy bond, who always looked like the softest and most kissable elderly rose in her afternoon nap. "poor soul," she said, softly, as she slipped out of the room to find hobson. "so lonely, and so unloved and unloving! i can't bear to hear blanche and violette speak of her,--i can hardly keep my hands off them,--and yet--why exactly should they be fond of her? she is not fond of them, or of anybody, i fear, unless it be hobson." * * * * * the visit was paid, and hildegarde took her way towards the woman's exchange, with a beating heart. it beat happily, for she had enjoyed the half-hour's talk with the kind cousin, an elderly woman, who seldom moved from her sofa, but whose life was full of interest, and who was the friend and confidante of all the young people in the neighbourhood. she had heard with pleasure of the proposed plan, and had given hildegarde a note to the manager of the exchange, whom she knew well; had tasted a crumb of one of the cakes, and predicted a ready sale for them. moreover, and this was the best of all, she had talked so wisely and kindly, and with such a note of the dear mother in her voice, that hildegarde's homesickness had all floated away, and she had decided that it was not, after all, such a hardship to spend three days in new york as she had thought it an hour ago. as i said, she took her way towards the exchange, carrying her neat paper box carefully. as she went, she amused herself by building castles, _à la_ perrette. how many things she would buy with the money, if she sold the cakes; and she should surely sell them. no one could resist who once tasted them, and she had made several tiny ones for samples; just a mouthful of "goody" in each. fine linen, several yards of it, and gold thread, and "underwoods" in green morocco,--that was really _almost_ a necessity, for mamma's birthday; and some pink chiffon to freshen up her silk waist, and--and--here she was almost run over, and was shouted at and seized by a policeman, and piloted gently to a place of safety, with an admonition to be more careful. much ashamed, hildegarde stood still to look about her, and found herself at the very door of the exchange. she went in. the room was filled with customers. "i ought to have come in the morning," she said to herself, and the quick blush mounted to her cheeks, as she made her way to the counter at the back of the shop, where a sweet-faced woman was trying to answer four questions at once. "no, the nuns have not come in yet. yes, they are generally here before this. no, i cannot tell the reason of the delay. yes, it happened once before, when the maker was ill. i do not know why more people do not make them. yes, just the one person, so far as i know. marguerites? yes, madam,--in one moment. the orange biscuits will come in at two o'clock. no, we have never had them earlier than that. perhaps you are thinking of the lemon cheese-cakes. these are the lemon cheese-cakes." she paused for breath, and looked anxiously round. it was plain that she was expecting assistance, and equally plain that it was late in coming. hildegarde stepped quietly round behind the counter. "can i help you?" she whispered. the lady gave her a grateful glance. "i should be so thankful," she murmured. "all these ladies must be served instantly. the prices are all marked." the lady who had demanded the "nuns" had also paused for breath, being stout as well as clamorous; but she now returned to the attack. hildegarde met her with a calm front, and eyes which tried not to smile. "can you--oh! this is a different person. perhaps _you_ can tell me why the nuns are not here. it really seems an extraordinary thing that they should not be here at the usual time." "the messenger may have lost a train, or something of that sort," suggested hildegarde, soothingly. "oh, but that would be no excuse! no excuse at all! when one is in the habit of supplying things to people of consequence, one must not lose trains. now, are you _perfectly sure_ that they have not come? you know what they are, do you? little round cakes, with a raisin in the middle, and flavoured with something special. i don't remember what the flavour is, but it is something special, of that i am sure. have you looked--have you looked everywhere? what is in that box at your elbow? they might have been brought in and laid down without your noticing it. oblige me by looking in that box at your elbow." a sudden thought flashed into hildegarde's mind; she began to unfasten the box, which was her own, whispering at the same time into the ear of her companion in distress. "oh! oh, yes, certainly!" said the latter, also in a whisper. "anything, i am sure, that will give satisfaction! if you can only--" "stop her noise," was evidently what the patient saleswoman longed to say; but she checked the words, and only gave hildegarde an eloquent glance, as she turned to meet a wild onset in demand of macaroons. perhaps hildegarde's fingers trembled a little as she untied the narrow blue ribbon that bound up her hopes; perhaps she was purposely slow, collecting her thoughts and words. the stout lady fumed and fidgeted. "you should never allow things to be tied in a hard knot! it should be one of the first rules in a place like this, that boxes should be fastened with india-rubber bands. surely you know the usefulness of india-rubber bands? i hope those nuns are fresh. if you did not see them come in, or speak to the person who brought them, how can you be sure of their being fresh? stale cakes are out of the question, you know; nobody could think of enduring stale cakes; and nuns, in particular, must be eaten the same day they--" "these are not nuns, madam," said hildegarde, as she opened the box. "perhaps you would like to see--" "_not nuns!_ then why did you tell me they were nuns? what are they, i should like to know? h'm! ha! very pretty! what do you call these?" "novices!" said hildegarde, with a flash of inspiration. "aha! novices, eh? yes, yes! a good name, if they are--are they something new? i have never seen them here before." "entirely new!" hildegarde assured her. "this is the first box that has ever been brought in." "eh? the first? then how do you know they are good? how can you conscientiously recommend them? i always expect conscientious treatment here, you know." "will you try one?" hildegarde handed her the box; and she was soon crunching and nodding and smiling, all at the same moment. "de-licious! i assure you, delicious! something entirely new--novices! why, they are exactly what i want for my party to-night. much better than nuns,--nuns have really become quite tiresome. what is the price of the novices?" hildegarde hesitated, and glanced at the saleswoman. the latter leaned swiftly forward, looked, tasted a crumb,-- "five cents apiece!" she said, quietly. five! hildegarde had thought of three, and had built all her castles on that basis. but the stout lady was crying to heaven against the price. "impossible! absurd! why, nuns were only two cents apiece, marguerites only three! the price was ridiculous, exorbitant. she could not think of paying--" here a small lady, richly but quietly dressed, came up, and looked at the box. "pretty!" she said. "graceful and ingenious! five cents apiece, you say? give me a dozen and a half, please! i should like to have them sent to me once a week for the season; they are just the things to please my daughter's lunch-club." she nodded kindly to hildegarde, and passed on. the stout lady gazed after her reverentially. "mrs. cameron pine!" she murmured. "she will make them the fashion instantly. i--i will take the rest!" she cried, wildly. "put them up, and send them to me,--mrs. newcomb rich, madison avenue. send me two dozen every week,--wait! send them the _day before_ you send mrs. pine's, do you hear? the day before! don't forget! it is most important!" and puffing and nodding, she, too, went on. there was a little lull now, during which the saleswoman turned to thank hildegarde so heartily that our heroine would have felt well repaid even if she had not sold all her cakes. "i cannot imagine where miss berden is; she is always so punctual. this is our busiest day, and one of our busiest hours, and some of the ladies, as you saw, rather hard to please. i really don't know what i should have done if you had not helped me; it was very kind and thoughtful of you." she gazed earnestly at hildegarde, and added, "you have a good mother, i know, who has taught you to think and help." hildegarde nodded and smiled, but said nothing, for the tears came springing to her eyes. "and you sold all the pretty cakes!" added the saleswoman. "i knew they would make a hit the moment i saw them. that was partly why i put a good price on them; but it was also because i knew there must be a good deal of nice and careful work in making them. i wonder--you have been so good, i am ashamed to ask you anything more, but there is no one here now; would you be willing to hold the fort while i run to the corner and post a letter?" hildegarde assented cheerfully, and miss adams (for by this name she now introduced herself) put on her hat and went out. hildegarde remained mistress of the situation, and occupied herself in tidying up the marble counter, brushing away the crumbs, and rearranging some biscuits that had fallen from their dainty pyramid. [illustration: "'hildegarde grahame, in the name of all that's wonderful!'"] now voices were heard at the door, and a gay group entered. a splendid carriage stood without, and these rustling, high-plumed ladies had evidently just dismounted from it. there were four of them, and they were joined in another moment by two or three more. apparently, all had been at some concert, for they were talking all at once, and hildegarde heard the words, "exquisite!" "technique!" "andante!" etc., repeated over and over. she became interested, and forgot for the moment her position, when something curious recalled it to her. she recognised, in one of the younger ladies, her cousin blanche van dene, one of mrs. delansing's granddaughters; and almost at the same instant, she became aware that blanche had recognised her, and that she was anxious to avoid any open recognition. her eyes had met hildegarde's for one second; the next, she had turned her back squarely, and was chattering volubly in the ear of her neighbour. a wave of anger surged over hildegarde, leaving the very tips of her ears pink as it receded; but the wave of amusement followed it quickly, and the second wave bore a little spray of malice. should she call to her, and say, "dearest blanche, how is your dear mother?" or she might put on a twang--hildegarde had an excellent twang at her disposal, and say, "hello, blanchey! haow's yer haalth, and haow's the folks to home?" oh! it would be fun! and surely the girl deserved it! such bad form, to say nothing of bad feeling! but here hildegarde seemed to hear a certain familiar voice saying, "my dear, a debt of rudeness is one that should never be paid!" so she held her tongue, and contented herself with looking hard at blanche's back, which showed consciousness and discomfort in every line. so intent was hildegarde on her cousin's back, that she did not notice that one of the other ladies had turned round, and was gazing at her in perplexity; next moment a shout rang out, in a clear, joyous voice that made every one start. "hilda grahame, in the name of all that is wonderful! my dear, what sky have you dropped from?" hildegarde started, and saw a splendid vision advancing towards her with outstretched hand. a girl somewhat older than herself, with the walk and figure of a goddess and the dress of a queen; a face of almost faultless beauty, and large clear eyes through which looked a soul like a child's; she was one of the famous beauties of the day, famous alike for her loveliness, her great fortune, and the pride of her ancient name. "my dear," she repeated, taking both hildegarde's hands in hers, "what sky have you dropped from, and what are you doing here?" "dear imperia!" said hildegarde, calling her by the old familiar school name that came naturally to her lips. "how delightful to see you! i am selling cakes; will you have some? there were some that i made myself, but they are all sold. here are various others, doubtless inferior, but still good." "of course i will have some!" cried imperia. "why, this is perfectly delightful! do you really come here? regularly, i mean, and have all the cakes you want? i never heard of such fun. give me three dozen of everything, and we'll have a carouse. here, girls!" she turned and called to the others, who were looking curiously at the two; "come here, and tell me who this is! shade of madame haut-ton, hover over us, and bless this reunion!" "hildegarde grahame! hilda! queen hildegarde!" cried several voices; and hildegarde was instantly surrounded by the crowd of butterflies, all caressing and questioning, laughing and talking at once. one or two looked puzzled, other one or two sad, as they saw their gay schoolmate of former days standing behind the counter, quiet and self-possessed, and apparently entirely at home. but visible distress was on one countenance, and hildegarde, charitable, refrained from looking at her cousin, when imperia exclaimed, "why, here is blanche van dene! she is your cousin, isn't she? blanche, here is hilda, who used to be so good to you at school, and help you with your spelling. dear me, hilda, _do_ you remember how blanchey used to spell?" hildegarde shook hands with her cousin composedly, and only her dancing eyes showed any consciousness of the situation. blanche muttered some greeting, and then recollected an engagement and hurried off. the lady imperia looked after her with good-natured contempt. "same little animal, my dear! i beg your pardon, hilda, but really, you know, we remember her in her pinafores, and she was a snob then. but now tell us all about it, like a good girl! you are not in trouble, dear old thing?" at this moment the door opened and miss adams came hurrying in, breathless and apologetic. there had been a block in the street--she was on the wrong side and could not get back--would hildegarde _please_ excuse her for being so long? "oh, but i have had a delightful time, miss adams!" cried hildegarde. "and i have sold three dozen of everything--was that a real offer, imperia?" imperia vowed that it was; and hildegarde and miss adams together tied up the parcels, while all chatted together like old friends. the situation was explained, and so many dozens of "novices" were ordered for every week that hildegarde declared her intention of taking back with her to braeside a _chef_ and three kitchen-maids to help her in the manufacture. finally, she was whirled away in her friend's purple chariot for a drive in the park, and had the pleasure of passing her cousin blanche on the way, looking sad and sorry. chapter vi. more greetings. "and you won't think better of it? hilda, i am in despair! think of it, my dear! calvé, and both the de reszkes--there will never be such a performance again, perhaps, in our lifetimes! and all the good time we should have between the acts--and our box will be simply _full_ of people all the evening--oh, you must come, hilda grahame!" people said of helena desmond that if she had a fault, it was that of speaking too loud. she was so full of the joy of living, so powerful and vigorous in all her emotions, pleasurable or painful, that her clear, resonant voice was apt to be heard like the sound of a trumpet, dominating other and feebler organs. mrs. delansing, sitting erect behind her tea equipage, heard it, and shivered slightly; but hildegarde's reply was spoken so low that she could not catch a syllable. then came: "no, no, i shouldn't! don't tell me! i should do nothing of the sort! we are to take our opportunities as they come,--time enough for sacrifices when lent comes. you know i don't mean that, hilda; and you know you are a dear, dear,--" here followed the sound of good hearty kisses, and mrs. delansing shivered again; then the door closed with a solid slam, and all was silent. hildegarde came into the room, her hands full of roses. "aunt emily," she said, "helena desmond sent you these! she would have come in, but she was late already for a reception. aren't they lovely?" mrs. delansing bent her head over the flowers; they were among the few things she enjoyed. "beautiful!" she said. "it was very kindly done of miss desmond. i should have been glad to see her. was--was that she at the door, speaking so loud?" "yes," said hildegarde. "she was speaking rather loud, perhaps; but her voice is so musical, i don't think one minds it in her, somehow. she is a glorious creature!" mrs. delansing seemed absent and disturbed. "she--it is not always possible to avoid overhearing portions of conversations, when carried on in a high key--i gathered that some invitation had been extended to you, hildegarde--for this evening." "yes!" said hildegarde, rather reluctantly. "she wanted me to go to the opera with her, but i didn't think i would better." "why not?" demanded her aunt, severely. "miss desmond is not accustomed to have her invitations refused,--and you are bound to take advantage of such opportunities as may present themselves to you, living in the extraordinary way that your mother thinks suitable for you." "oh, well!" said hildegarde, "helena understood perfectly, and i thought it best not to go." she was arranging the flowers as she spoke, and did not see the curious change that seemed to come over mrs. delansing's face. it was as if the stony repose of her features were broken,--some shifting light seemed to pass over her, changing into shadow, but a shadow softened into something approaching tenderness. "hildegarde, it is not on my account that you are making this sacrifice? i cannot permit--" hildegarde looked up; then laid down her roses, and crossed the room to lay her hand on her aunt's shoulder. "of course it is, aunt emily!" she said, impulsively. "i came here to see you, not to go to the opera. i have been out already more than i should to-day, but--but things happened, somehow. and this is the last evening we shall have together, and you know we are to play the grand final rubber; and--and i _wanted_ to stay." the old lady began to tremble in her chair; a mist came over her keen black eyes. "my grandchildren would have gone!" she cried. "blanche and violette would have gone, and not have thought it necessary even to tell me. i have done everything for them, and nothing-- blanche has been here this afternoon!" she added, in a different voice, struggling for her usual composure. "she said--but it is of no consequence what she said." "no, it really isn't, aunt emily!" said hildegarde, venturing to stroke the silken shoulder affectionately. "suppose we don't mind about blanche now; she is very young for her age, don't you think? i can finish that story before i go to dress for dinner." but mrs. delansing had something else to say. "thomas ferrers came to see me, also!" she said. "did you ask him to do so?" "oh--no!" said hildegarde. "i--i only told him that you did not go out very much, and--and he said at once that he should come to see you before he left town." "he is grown an old man!" said mrs. delansing. "wild tom ferrers! we had a great deal of talk; much of it about you. i am bound to say that he gave me a different impression of your life. you--you must all be very happy there together!" the tone was piteous in its wistfulness, and hildegarde responded heartily. "you must come and see for yourself some day, aunt emily! we _are_ happy, as happy as the day is long!" the evening passed quickly and pleasantly. mrs. delansing unbent more than hildegarde could have supposed possible, and even smiled as she told, over the backgammon board, some anecdotes of colonel ferrers's wild youth. one could not imagine her laughing under any circumstances, but her smile, when she was amused, was fine and delicate, and made a wonderful difference in her face. when bedtime came, she held hildegarde's hands in hers for several minutes, looking at her with a searching gaze. "you have not found it too dull?" she said. "hobson says she heard you singing in your room to-day! you do not find this a dreary cage, where no young life could be happy?" hildegarde had found it so the first day, but now all was changed, and she could answer heartily, "no, indeed, aunt emily! i have had a very pleasant visit, and i am--oh, _so_ glad i came! i don't believe i should ever have known you if i had not been here in the house; and i am very, very glad to know you, aunt emily. may i come again?" she bent, and kissed the old lady's cheek, and was delighted to have her kiss warmly returned. "come whenever you will, my child!" mrs. delansing said. "come as often as you can; i shall be better for every time i see you." so it was arranged that later in the winter hildegarde was to come to gramercy park for a good visit, and hear the german opera; and when the aunt and niece finally said good-bye at the bedroom door, hildegarde felt that she had made a new friend; while the lonely old woman went to bed with a warmer heart than she had felt in her bosom for years. "why, mum," said hobson, "i declare to goodness, you look ten years younger since that young lady come here!" "i _am_ ten years younger, hobson!" said mrs. delansing, gravely. "i will have the nightcap with the valenciennes frill, if you please." hildegarde sent her little trunk off by the expressman, and after bidding good-bye to hobson, who begged her most earnestly to come again soon, started off for her final shopping-bout. she had some idea of lunching at purcell's, and taking an afternoon train for home. there were still several things to be attended to, and she might--it was not very far from blank & blank's--she might be able to run round and see if rose flower were at home. it was doubtful, for she had been away most of the fall, but there was always a chance of her having returned. the dear rose! how good it would be to see her, and doctor flower, and, perhaps, bubble! it was eleven o'clock before she reached blank & blank's, and the vast shop was filled with a surging crowd of women, young and old, smart and dowdy, rich and poor. here and there a lone man was seen, standing bewildered, with a sample in his hand of something that he was to match; here and there, too, stood the floor-walkers, in calm and conscious dignity, the heroes of the shopping-world; but these were only occasional flecks on the frothing tide of womanhood. hildegarde, after several vain attempts, succeeded in reaching the counter she sought. before it stood a row of women, elbow to elbow, each bent on her own quest; behind it were the shop-women, endeavouring to satisfy all demands at one and the same moment. endeavouring, most of them, that is; but even the shop-woman, tried as she is in the furnace, is not always pure gold. the young woman who stood near hildegarde may have been too tired, or may have been ill; she certainly was rude. hildegarde had taken her stand directly behind a plainly dressed, elderly woman, shrewdly judging that she would be likely to make some definite purchase and then depart, instead of fingering half the goods on the counter, as many of the customers were doing. the elderly woman was evidently in haste. she held up the black cashmere that she had been examining, and said, civilly, "will you please tell me the price of this?" the question was repeated several times; the shop-woman, after one glance at the quiet, unstylish figure, turned her shoulder, and began to press some goods volubly on a departing shopper. "please!" said the quiet woman again. "i am in haste, and want to buy some of this. will you please tell me the price?" "you'll have to wait your turn, lady!" was the reply; and voice and tone were equally ill-bred. "i can't wait on everybody at once." "i have been waiting fifteen minutes," was the reply; "and my turn has come over and over again." that was enough for hildegarde. she reached over the woman's shoulder, and rapped sharply on the counter. "will you tell the lady the price of this cashmere, or shall i call mr. jones?" the shop-woman looked up hastily, caught sight of two blazing eyes, and a face like white lightning, and quailed. "i--i'm sure i was doing my best!" she muttered. "it's sixty cents a yard." "if this is your best, you have no place here!" said the flashing person before her. "how many yards would you like, madam? you shall--oh! oh, my dear! oh, nurse lucy, it is not really you?" "oh, my blessed lamb!" cried nurse lucy, "am i awake or dreaming, i says to myself the minute i heard your darling voice!" and the stately maiden in blue serge, and the gray-haired woman in black alpaca, fell on each other's neck, and fairly cried for joy, while the roar of the shopping actually ceased--for one moment. then it rose again,--what did it matter to anybody, when a bargain sale was on, who met or who parted? and the two friends, holding each other fast by the hand, got into a quiet corner apart, in a haven dedicated to marseilles quilts, which nobody was buying, and sat down on two stools, and gazed their fill. "i wonder what is the meaning of it all!" cried hildegarde. "one after another, i keep meeting all the people i care most about; first one friend, and then another,--and now you, you dear, blessed nurse lucy. oh! what _are_ you doing here? and where is mr. hartley? and--and--have you seen rose and bubble? i was wondering whether i could find them. and--oh, do tell me all about everything, _please_!" she paused, breathless, and nurse lucy took up the tale, drying her joyful tears the while. "my pretty! to think of it being you! and me thinking of you miles away, and wishing i could run down and see you and your blessed mother, as you've asked me a many times so kind. and jacob,--why, he's right outside, dear, waiting for me. he can't abear a crowd of people, you know, and new york almost smothers him anyway, poor soul. we came up for the day, dear, to see pinkrosia, and bubble, and the doctor. we had a note from doctor flower--ah! what a good man he is!--and he wouldn't take no for an answer, but we must come up and see them in their own home; and so here we are,--came up on the early train this morning, as jacob had business in the city. and now!--and my dear looking so well and so beautiful, and the living spirit of her mother--" "oh, hush, nurse lucy! you must not flatter me!" cried hildegarde. "see! there is your parcel all done up! i will take it for you; and i don't think that young woman will neglect a customer again for one while." arm in arm, they passed through the crowd. as they reached the street, mrs. hartley pressed hildegarde's arm. "hush, dear! stop a minute! there's jacob; waiting so patient, poor soul! to think how surprised he will be! what shall we say to him?" "i know!" said hildegarde. "let me tell him, nurse lucy!" a tall, stalwart man was standing with his back to them; his legs were rather wide apart, his shoulders squared, and he seemed to have planted himself against the throng of people that hurried and jostled by him. discontent was visible in every line of his figure, and hildegarde knew just how his mouth was puckered, though she could not see it. hildegarde stepped up softly behind him, and spoke in his ear. "and what do you expect to get for winter wheat, mr. hartley?" the farmer turned round as if he had been shot. "what in--now take me away! take me away home, before i lose any senses this place has left me. this ain't huldy grahame, no way of the world!" convinced that it was that young person herself, he seized her two hands, and drew her forcibly along, as he made his way through the crowd. "lucy found ye?" he said. "i bet lucy found ye. nothin' like women! i've been thinkin' about ye all this blessed day, and looked at every gal that went by, and they was about ten thousand of 'em, and not one i'd look at twice. come along, lucy! i've done all the shoppin' i want! let's get home to doctor flower's, and have a sight at this gal, before i wake up and find she's a dream!" as the good man spoke, he hurried hildegarde along at a surprising rate, nurse lucy following as best she might. hildegarde was fairly bewildered by all these sudden meetings. she began to feel as if every street corner must reveal some new vision; she looked for bubble,--for the merryweathers; it seemed to her, too, almost dreamlike in its strangeness. yet after all, there is nothing wonderful in meeting all sorts and conditions of men in the course of two days in new york. a short walk brought them to a quiet, pleasant street, where the usual brown stone houses had rather a special look of care and neatness. there were many flowers in the windows; the curtains were more often muslin than lace, but they were fresh and white, and one felt that it was a pleasant neighbourhood, a neighbourhood of homes. "you have been here before, dear?" asked mrs. hartley. "no," replied hildegarde. "i have been meaning all the fall to come, ever since they came back from europe and took this house, but one thing and another has prevented. as i told you, i meant to try to see them to-day, in any case. but rose does not know i am in town; it will be another surprise. dear rose!" "well, i do suppose pinkrosia'll be glad to see you!" said jacob hartley. "but if she sets up to be as glad as marm lucy and i be, she'll have to hear something, that's all. huldy grahame's my gal this time, and no mistake!" hildegarde wondered what the colonel would say to this; wondered also if there were any one else--but the thought dismissed itself unfinished. here they were now, in a pretty, homelike parlour, hung with rose-colour,--ah! doctor fowler always had the prettiest ideas!--waiting for their hostess. a light step on the stairs! as it came down, quickly and steadily, hildegarde saw many pictures, all in a moment. first, a girl in a wheeled chair, pale and sweet-faced, saying quietly that she could not walk,--that she had not walked since she was three years old,--pointing out the beauty and convenience of her precious chair, in which she was a prisoner. then, herself, hildegarde grahame, walking up and down the anteroom of the hospital, waiting in an agony of suspense for news; then her mother's face, and doctor flower behind her, both smiling, and the blessed words, "it is all right!" the tears sprang to her eyes. then came the vision of their two selves, herself and her friend, in their happy, happy holiday summer at cousin wealthy bond's; the gradual recovery, the roses coming in the pale cheeks, the step, growing ever firmer, more elastic. then--but there was time for no more. here she was at the door, rose flower, no longer a cripple, no longer even an invalid, but the happy wife of one of the best men in the world. rose's cry of surprise was very different from the clarion shout with which helena desmond had greeted her friend. it was soft and low,--a note like that of a bird coming home to its nest. "hilda! my hilda! oh, happy, happy day!" the two girls (for rose was a girl still, if she was a married woman!) held each other close for a little, without a word; the words did not come, nor was there need of them; each knew the other's heart was full of love that had had steady life and growth for five years. "my dear!" they said; and then again, "my dear!" and that was all. but a few minutes later, when all four were seated in a circle, the girls hand in hand, the old people looking from one to the other with eyes of delight, the words came fast enough. rose had to tell of her summer abroad, of all the new worlds that had opened before the country-bred girl,--worlds of which she had dreamed all her life, which she had never thought to see with her bodily eyes. then hildegarde must tell of her summer, all the wonders of the camp, the new friends, grown so dear in so short a time; of hugh and the colonel, and all the delights of braeside and roseholme; and then both girls must hear all about affairs at hartley's glen, from the greatest to the least. "oh, nurse lucy, is the old yellow hen still alive--mrs. whittaker, i mean? surely you know the hen we always called mrs. whittaker. she used to tell us her name whenever she laid an egg. and the cats! how are the dear cats? do you think camaralzaman remembers me, nurse lucy? and do you try to say his whole name once in a while, so that he will not forget it? and how are all the people in the village? how is miss bean? does she still trim hats?-- oh, rose, do you remember the funny hats? there was a green satin one, the first time i went there--my dear! she wanted me to buy it! but she was so good, and kind, and nice! everybody in the village is nice!" "hilda, do you remember when bubble sprained his ankle, and the letter he wrote you? oh, such a funny letter, wasn't it?" "remember it? i have it in one of my most precious portfolios! but, oh, nurse lucy, you haven't told us a word about the cows. dear cows! how are they all?" and so on, and so on, happy, foolish talk, with laughter breaking through it at every moment, as one recollection brought up another. and in the midst of it all, who is this tall youth who comes silently into the hall, and stands silent in the doorway, gazing at all the merry talkers? no one sees him; he stands and looks from one to the other, with shining eyes. a slight, trim figure, well-dressed, alert, quickness and energy in every line of it; a face not handsome, certainly, but so full of life and intelligence and good-will that whoever looks at it once is sure to look again. there he stands, silent, absorbed; and so standing, he, too, sees visions. a garden, and a boy at work in it; a freckled, towsled boy, fighting weeds with a hoe, but keeping one eye on a tattered spelling-book that lies beside him. ten weeds to a word, that was the rule; big weeds, of course,--he did not count chickweed. what was the word,--ah! yes! _anticipate!_ that was it! and then he looked up, and saw the face looking through the hedge,--the beautiful face, with the proud, pretty mouth, and the bright eyes. it had hardly changed, save that the mouth was now gentle, instead of proud. and then she came forward, and talked to him,--to him, in his old shirt and trousers, and asked about his lessons, and offered to teach him. ah, yes! that was the beginning of it all, the new life, the new world, the new joy! there was a suspicion of moisture in the youth's bright blue eyes, but they twinkled nevertheless; and when he spoke, it was in the old, homely speech that he loved, and in the very words that he had spoken that day, all these happy years ago. "i swan!" said zerubbabel chirk. "i reelly do! i swan to man!" chapter vii. merry weather signs. but the best of all, perhaps, was telling about it afterward. sitting by the fire that evening, in the pleasant sitting-room, hildegarde told her mother all about the great frisk, as she called it; and it would have been hard to say whether narrator or listener were the more interested. "but, child," said mrs. grahame, "how was it possible for you to do so much, and see so many people in three days, or, rather, two days and a half? i cannot comprehend it!" "nor can i!" laughed hildegarde. "but--it just happened, you know! why, dear, it seemed to _rain_ friends! wherever i turned i ran into some one i loved. oh, i feel so rich,--rich in every way! the money in my pocket is the least part of it all, and yet i am glad enough of that, too. only _think_ of my getting such a price! and eight or ten dozen to send every week! it is like a fairy story, isn't it, darling? and then to meet helena,--dear helena! oh, she was so delightful! and just to see her was enough to fill one with beauty for the whole day. she wears her hair brushed back now,--you remember how it waves,--wonderful hair! and she was in dark blue velvet, trimmed with chinchilla, and--and altogether, my love, if the queen of sheba had seen her, her spirit would have died within her twice over. and just the same dear, whole-souled creature as ever! she never can change. she promises to come out here before she goes to washington." "that will be delightful!" said mrs. grahame. "i shall be very glad to see helena again; i have always hoped that when she came back you would see something of her again. she was the one of your schoolmates that my heart always warmed to. how came mrs. desmond to be willing to leave paris? when she went away, she said it was for life." "oh, helena would come!" said hildegarde. "she told me about it; they must have had a scene. she said to her mother, 'mamma, i am an american! i have never committed any crime, and i refuse to be exiled from my native country any longer. if you will come with me, it will be much the pleasantest thing; if not, i go alone.' well, it was not the thing to say, of course, but--" "i am not sure about that!" said mrs. grahame, flushing slightly. "i am inclined to think helena was perfectly justified. when a woman has not sense enough to guide her daughter, she must submit to be guided. the idea of keeping that girl over there five years, frittering about the continent; preposterous! my sympathy is entirely with helena." mrs. grahame sat very erect, and her eyes were very bright; then, catching hildegarde's eyes, full of laughter, she relaxed her muscles, and began to laugh too. "i am sorry, dear," she said. "i never could like mrs. desmond." "i should think not!" said hildegarde, promptly. "i should be under the painful necessity of disowning you if you did. but you love mrs. honiton, mammina!" "ah, mrs. honiton! how could two sisters be so different? it is margaret honiton who should be helena's mother,--they are wonderfully alike." "yes. helena feels that. she is lovely with her mother,--firm, but devoted,--but aunt margaret is the one of the world to her. it is a _terrible_ thing for a girl to have an incompetent mother!" "yes, darling, it is indeed," said mrs. grahame, meekly. "i feel it so in your case. no, don't kill me, hildegarde! my time is not yet come. tell me more about rose and her husband. she is very happy, you say?" "happy as the day is long. i told you i did not see doctor flower,--the only one i missed, really; he was in philadelphia. but their house is as pretty as pretty; it is evident that he furnished it,--you know what taste he has; and everywhere roses, roses! carved and painted and embroidered,--it is really the rose-bower, as he calls it. her own little sitting-room, up-stairs--oh, such a little rosy-posy nest! rosewood desk,--and everything soft covered with rose-flowered chintz--curtains, too,--and the most de-lightful sofa i ever did see! and her little work-table, and--oh, well, mammina, i think, after all, that made me happier than anything,--unless it was the sight of nurse lucy's face when she recognised me! but, remembering all that rose suffered, and all the cramped, anxious days and years, and then seeing her, a rose in full bloom, in her own pretty house, with such signs of loving care all about her,--it was good, good!" "yes, indeed!" said mrs. grahame, heartily. "i am sure that was a real treat, darling. and bubble--you say he is grown such a fine lad!" "bubble is enchanting! not handsome--well, but you need not laugh, mammina, for he is _very_ good looking, and certainly has an air of distinction. he holds his head so well; and he walks well, and, altogether--oh, i am proud of bubble. and rose says that doctor flower is sure the boy has a career before him; he never had so apt a pupil. and he speaks such beautiful english, rose says." "rose says!" repeated mrs. grahame. "i thought you had a good little talk with the boy himself." "oh, so i had, but he _would_ not talk anything but the broadest yankee. he insisted that he was precisely the same freckled boy that he was when i first saw him; and he carried on in the most absurd way. he was almost like gerald; dear gerald! i didn't see any of the merryweathers, mamma; so there was something lacking, after all." "it would be a weary world if there were not," said her mother. "but speaking of the merryweathers--have you noticed, hilda dear, whether the night is clear?" "whether the night is clear, mammina? no, i did not look. what do you mean, darling? shall i go to the door--" "no; not to the door," said mrs. grahame. "go to the window, child; the west window, that looks across the hedge. tell me if the stars are out." wondering greatly at this sudden solicitude about the weather, hildegarde crossed the room and drew the curtain. "clear as a bell," she said. "stars all out, and wind,--oh, oh, mammina! why, there are lights in the windows of pumpkin house! mamma, they have come!" she turned upon her mother with eyes alight with happy inquiry. "they have come," mrs. grahame repeated. "some of them, that is. oh, things can happen here as well as in new york, mademoiselle! they came yesterday,--mrs. merryweather and kitty and--" "and you never told me!" cried hildegarde. "and you have let me talk on and on for three,--four hours,--oh, mrs. grahame!" "you never asked me," replied that lady, demurely. "you had a great deal to tell, and i wanted very much to hear it; perhaps, too, i did not want to have your mind distracted until i had had my turn. mrs. merryweather is looking very well." "oh, the dear!" cried hildegarde. "oh, mammina, do you think i might go over? do you think it is too late? it is only half-past eight. _don't_ you think i might run over now?" "hark!" said mrs. grahame, raising her hand. "what is that?" hildegarde, in full tide of excitement, checked herself, and listened. under the window some unseen hand swept the strings of a guitar, lightly, yet firmly; and next moment a voice broke out, singing the old air of "gentle zitella." "under thy window, maiden, i sing, though the night's chilly for this kind of thing. weather is merry, hearts too are light; speak to thy jerry, hilda the bright!" hildegarde threw up the sash. "come in, gerald!" she cried. "oh, you dear boy, i _am_ so glad to see you--hear you, rather! come in, quick!" she shut the window hastily. "did you feel the air, mamma? i thought if i opened it just for a second,--the room seemed pretty warm. sure you are not cold, love?" mrs. grahame was quite positive; but hildegarde must feel her hands to make assurance doubly sure; must tuck a shawl round her mother's shoulders, and throw an encouraging glance towards the fire, before she turned to the door, which now opened to admit mr. gerald merryweather. "you dear boy!" she repeated, going to meet him with outstretched hand. "to think that you have been here two days without my seeing you. gerald, how you have grown!" "'great weeds do grow apace,'" said the tall lad, looking down on her. "i forestall the remark, you observe. it is the one with which i am commonly greeted by my affectionate family. but it's awfully good to see you, hilda. i say, how well you're looking!" "you, too," said hilda. "and they are all well? and all here, or coming? oh, sit down and tell me all about everything, do!" "i have already told her, gerald," said mrs. grahame; "but i don't think she paid much attention; you may as well tell her over again." "well, i was so excited, you see!" cried the girl. "i have been having the most wonderful time in town; and then to come out here and find you,--my cup is rather brimming over, that's all. now tell, jerry." "we came," said gerald, curling up his long legs on the hearth-rug; "we have seen--several things; we expect to conquer--shortly--the dust, and to get the house to rights. our holidays--ferguson's and mine--began on saturday, so the mater thought we'd better come right down and get things ready for the others. then she reflected that she could not trust us; so she decided to come herself; then she further reflected that she could not possibly leave the kids alone with the pater, so she brought them along. behold us! bell and toots arrive next week, and the codger at some time known to himself. he is in arizona, or somewhere this side of it,--sent for to inspect a mine, and see whether it is a good place for planting cabbages." "gerald!" said hildegarde. "honoured miss!" replied the boy. "i may not be quite accurate in the details, but there is a mine, i do assure you." "and what kind of winter have you all had? you have been in boston all the time,--that is, your mother and father?" "in boston, yes. the winter has been such as might have been expected, far from the sun which etcetera. barring the fact that we have all existed in a state of acute anguish at being separated from you, we have all been exceedingly well, thank you." "and how do you and phil like college? is it as much fun as you thought it would be? do you like your rooms? are you doing all right in your greek?" "hilda," put in mrs. grahame, "do let the boy draw breath, and allow yourself to do so. two such panting young creatures i have seldom seen. and gerald is not going away on the night train." "i suppose not!" said hildegarde. "but, oh, it does seem so long since i have heard anything about him and phil. bell, you see, writes the most enchanting letters, but they are mostly about college and music,--her college, i mean; and she tucks in a little postscript to say that all are well at home, and that is all the news i get." "which accounts for your pallid and emaciated appearance!" said gerald. "'thy cheek, my love, of late a living rose, which could the bulbul cheat with its rich hue, looks pale--' "i don't remember any more. i learned that in the finden book, when i was six years old." "why, gerald, did you have the finden books, too? how delightful! dear, ridiculous books! we have them now. i still think the 'diamond' lady the most beautiful creature that ever lived,--and simpered. but you are not telling me a word about college!" "i have had so much opportunity, you observe!" said gerald, appealing to mrs. grahame. "my natural diffidence has been allowed such free play by the silent and unconversational attitude of your daughter--" mrs. grahame shook her head, and declared that there was a pair of them, and she would have nothing to say on either side. finally, however, boy and girl settled down into an amicable and more or less coherent exchange of information. it appeared that the boys were doing well in college, enjoying the new life to the full, and keeping well in their classes. "of course we started in with about three times as much sail as we could carry. i had five courses, and ferguson seven. but some of them were half ones, and after the first term we began to see where we were a bit,--and to perceive that roger and pater were right. we couldn't see it at first, of course, being such as we are." "and such as boys have been since the beginning of colleges!" said mrs. grahame. "dear madam, how well you know! well, greek has been pretty stiff, but still we peg away, and like it no end. then we both have chem. ,--that's great sport! i blew myself up--" "gerald!" "fact, i assure you! pounding something in a mortar--nice little glass mortar, you know,--pounding away, having fine sport; suddenly i pounded a little too hard,--old comprehensive told us we must not pound hard,--and away went the mortar, and away went i. my eyebrows are only just growing out; and you never noticed!" and the boy looked deeply injured. "my dear boy! what a narrow escape! oh, your mother must have had a fright!" "rather!" said gerald. "roger, you know, had that bad time ten years ago, and she thought i had done something of that sort, and would have to live on dark room and excruciating tortures for months. but i got my eyes shut all right, you see; so it only burned my hyacinthine locks a bit, and took off my eyebrows, and spoiled a good suit of clothes. but i learned something, and now i pound the way old comp tells me to." "what is the professor's name?" inquired hildegarde. "comprehensive? oh, well, his real name is worcester, you know. of course no one could stand that, and he is so short that it would never do to call him 'unabridged,' so i suggested 'comprehensive,' which is the size you have in school, you know; and the fellows took to it, and now he is called that altogether, or 'comp' for short." "i see! by the way, what are you and phil called? anything except your own names, i suppose!" "pretty much!" gerald admitted. "phil is called the 'holy poker'--don't know why, i'm sure!--and 'thumbling,'--he has grown about nine feet, phil has; really, he is a whole head taller than i am!" "dear me!" said hildegarde, innocently. "i had no idea your head was so big as _that_, gerald! of course i knew it was _rather_--" "mrs. grahame!" cried gerald, in a tone of anguish. "will you speak to her, please? she is trampling all over my delicate sensibilities, and talking slang besides!" "hildegarde," said mrs. grahame, "i am surprised at you!" "yes, dear madam!" said hildegarde, meekly. "you didn't hear the things _he_ said. go on with the names, gerald!" "they call him 'bottle-washer,' too, and 'cappadocia.' i think that is rather the favourite name for ferguson." "_why_ 'cappadocia?'" asked hildegarde. "oh, well, there isn't really much reason,--but then, it doesn't take much. they call me 'capsicum,' you see, and we are twins, and 'cappadocia' begins,--surely i need explain no further even to a person of limited intelligence?" "go on, master impudence! do they call you 'cayenne,' too?" "yes, indeed! and 'bricks,' and 'mortar,' and 'flag,'--short for 'conflagration,'--and everything of that sort. i don't care; i don't mind any of these; but when they call me 'hamlet,' i knock them down." "dear jerry! why do they call you 'hamlet?'" "oh! just some idiot started it,--you can't tell how these things start. one comfort is,--i called him the 'grave-digger,' and it will stick to him through college, for he looks it to the life. and the joke of it,--i don't know whether it's safe to tell you the joke of it, hilda." "try and see!" "well, the real joke of it is that his father is an undertaker, and i never knew it. "but i haven't finished about the courses!" he added, hastily, seeing hilda look serious. "i am taking french, and ferguson german. we have delightful conversations every evening, i speaking my language, and he his. you shall have a specimen when you see us togeth--hullo! what's that?" mrs. grahame uttered a slight cry, and rose hastily to her feet. "i--i don't know," she said. "i thought--i surely did see a face looking in at the window. hark!" they listened, and heard a rustling in the great linden-tree outside. then something gleamed white at the window,--a face, beyond all doubt. "ferguson!" said gerald. "if i don't give it to him for startling you, mrs. grahame; he shall be flayed, i assure you! set your mind at rest on that point! flayed an inch at a time!" "may i come in?" asked phil's voice, as he swayed back and forth on the linden branch. "'begging for a dole of crumbs, little robin redbreast comes!'" "quick!" said hildegarde, as she threw up the window once more. "when will you boys learn to move and act like reasonable mortals? how are you, phil? i am delighted to see you!" phil wriggled his length swiftly into the room, and closed the sash with a single quick movement. then, after shaking hands warmly with his two friends, he fixed a withering glance on his brother. "how about that box?" he asked. "now may julius cæsar promote you to a captaincy in the skidmore guards!" replied gerald, with great sweetness. "i clean forgot the box, sweet chuck! and i just threatening to flay you! didst open it with thine own fairy paws, beloved?" "i didst, beloved! and i intend to do the same by thy head, at a convenient season. he promised to be back in ten minutes," phil added, turning to mrs. grahame, "to open a box for the mater. i was putting up bookcases the while. it's frightful, the way books multiply in our family. i've put them up all along all the up-stairs passages now, and it gives us a little breathing-space, but not enough." "that is a good idea!" said mrs. grahame. "we must remember that, hilda; though, indeed, there is still plenty of space in these rooms." "i wish there were in ours," said phil. "the disadvantage of the passage bookcase is, that the whole family stops and reads as it goes along, and we seldom get anywhere. which reminds me! i'm afraid i must go back, mrs. grahame, and take this wretched object with me. it is nearly ten o'clock, and my obadiah should have been tucked up in his little nest some time ago." "your obadiah will inquire into the condition of _your_ little nest before he sleeps!" said gerald, threateningly. "but remember that the mater said the next time we scrapped a bedstead to pieces, we must sleep in the pieces. come along, child of doom!" and with many hearty greetings, and promises to meet the next day, the friends separated, the boys saying good-night, and clattering off down the stairs like a regiment of horse. chapter viii. christmasing. the next day seemed to be largely spent in running to and fro between the two houses. kitty and willy were at braeside before breakfast, eager to embrace their dear mrs. grahame and hilda, and full of wonderful tales of school and play. then, as soon as hildegarde had finished breakfast, she must go back with them to greet mrs. merryweather, and tell her how delighted she was at their coming, and hear a more detailed account of the girls' movements. mrs. merryweather was sitting at her desk, with a pile of papers before her, and books heaped as high as her head on every side. "my dear," she said, after greeting hildegarde most affectionately, "i am just looking for the girls' letter. it came this morning, and i put it somewhere,--in quite a safe place, as i knew the boys would want to see it, and then i meant to send it on to your father,--i mean to their father, of course. here it--oh, no! that is an old one! now, this is really unfortunate, for i was to send something to gertrude, and i cannot remember what it was. dear me! i am really too--would you mind saying over a few things, hildegarde, that she would be likely to want? perhaps it will come back to me; and i can keep on looking all the while, not to lose time." much amused, hildegarde began to suggest,--"boots, hat, muff, handkerchiefs, gloves,"--but at each article named mrs. merryweather shook her head, and sighed as she sorted papers. "no, dear, no! thank you just as much; but it was none of those. this only shows, dear hildegarde, the dreadful misfortune of being unmethodical. i have no manner of doubt that i have wasted at least ten good years of life in looking for things. my sister-in-law, now, could find a needle in a top bureau drawer at midnight, without a moment's hesitation. it is a gift! i trust you cultivate--now, you see, i may spend half the morning hunting for this letter, when i might--what amuses you, my dear?" for hildegarde's eyes were dancing, and her whole face eloquent of fun. "dear mrs. merryweather,--i know you will excuse me,--but is not that the letter, pinned to your dress? it looks like gertrude's handwriting." mrs. merryweather looked down, and gave a sigh of relief. "my child, your coming in was providential, nothing less. of course, i remember now, i pinned it there for fear i should do--what i thought i had done. well, well! and it is a roman sash that the child wants,--i am sure i should never have thought of that. ah, dear! i do miss my girls, hildegarde. you see, they inherit from their father a sense of order,--in a measure,--and they help me a great deal. are my glasses on my forehead, dear? whereas gerald and phil are rather like me, i am afraid. i wonder if gerald has found his waistcoat yet? he is wearing--ah, there he is now! gerald, you are really an object for a circus, my son." [illustration: "'consider the beauty of your offspring.'"] gerald looked down thoughtfully at himself. he was attired in white corduroy knickerbockers, an ancient swallow-tail coat so large that it hung in folds upon him, and a red velvet waistcoat reaching to his knee. "i hesitated about coming in," he said. "hildegarde is so susceptible, i fear the impression i shall make upon her tender heart. the lily is painted, the fine gold is gilded. hilda, confess that i am the dream of your existence." "what does it mean?" asked hildegarde, laughing. "trunks not come yet; not mine, at least. upset a bath-tub over my only suit this morning,--lo, the result! wouldst not that i were ever habited thus, mirific mammy? consider the beauty of your offspring." he seated himself on his mother's desk, drawing the folds of the dress-coat about him, and beamed upon her. "if you would send him away, dear mrs. merryweather," said hildegarde, "i should be so glad to help you a little with the papers and books. i have a whole hour to spare,--do let me help!" "my dear, i should be only too thankful," said mrs. merryweather. "jerry, go away, and find something to do! you might unpack the blankets, like a dear." but gerald declared that a wet blanket was the only one with which he had any concern after this cruel treatment, and retired weeping bitterly, wiping his eyes with a long coat-tail. hildegarde devoted the morning to helping her friends, and when she went home at noon the rooms wore a very different aspect. the books were all off the chairs and on the tables, or in the bookcases. "not that it makes any permanent difference," said mrs. merryweather, plaintively. "they _will_ put books on the chairs, hildegarde. it is against the rules,--but it is their nature. i made a rhyme about it once: "'the book is on the chair, and the hat is on the stair, and the boots are anywhere, children mine!'" hildegarde especially enjoyed helping to arrange the girls' room, tacking up the curtains, and putting fresh flowers (from the roseholme greenhouse) in the vases. to-morrow she would see those dear girls, and then who so happy as she! and to-morrow came, and with it bell and gertrude, escorted by their father. all the merryweathers were now here, except roger. the question was on hildegarde's lips several times, "when will he come?" but somehow she waited a little each time, and the moment passed, till she heard mr. merryweather say: "a letter from roger, miranda! he will be here next week,--day uncertain, but surely in time for christmas." a chorus of joy arose, in which hildegarde joined heartily. "think!" said bell. "we have not seen roger since the summer; hardly since we have seen you, hildegarde. oh, my dear, how long it seems since camp! and yet when you look at it the other way, it might be yesterday. heigh, ho! whose turn is it to get supper to-night? and who is going to get the fish for the chowder?" "dear, happy days!" said hildegarde. "i have not lost a minute of one of them, bell. if i should wake up to-morrow morning and find myself at camp, i should not be in the least surprised, but should just 'put the kettle on and stand by to go about.'" "dear old camp motto!" said bell. "it makes a pretty good one anywhere, hilda, do you know? if they give me the class oration,--the girls are talking about it,--i might take that for my text." "are you talking camp and graduation," put in gertrude, who came into the room at this moment, "when christmas is almost here? oh, think of it, and we have not planned what we are going to do, or--or anything!" "speak for yourself, gertrude," laughed hildegarde. "i have three bureau drawers full of things ready, and i ought to be tying up a box this minute, to go out west." "missionary box?" asked bell. "no,--at least, not in the regular way. but there are some distant cousins out in colorado,--they have a hard time to get along, and there are a great many of them,--and mamma and i always send them a box at christmas. a kind of grab-bag box, with clothes and whatever we can think of." "my dear," cried bell, sitting up with shining eyes, "don't you want some contributions? let me tell you,--this is the position! we also have such cousins,--fourteen in number,--in minnesota. and there was an auction at school, and i got all kinds of odd picknickles and bucknickles, thinking they would do for the box,--and i returned to find that mother had sent it off three days ago, filled to overflowing. you see, the boys are just behind ours in age and size, so there are always lots of jackets (never any trousers, of course), and she thought they would be needed for the cold weather,--and i forgot to tell her about my purchases. what do you say, hilda? oh, come up into my room, and see some of the things! they are rather nice, some of them, and others just funny. come on!" away went the three girls, up to bell's sunny room, where the trunks stood open, with trays of hats on the bed, and a general effect of "just-arrived-and-haven't-had-time-to-get-settled" pervading all. bell cleared a chair for hildegarde, and bidding gertrude "perch where she could," began to pull things out of the big, brown trunk, talking as she went. "you see, girls, the way of it was this. there is always an auction at the end of the year, and generally things stay over for that; but this time there had been a fire in the town, and a good many poor families were left destitute. mrs. tower suggested that, perhaps, we might make up a little purse, or take charge of one family for the winter. we agreed to do the latter, and made up a committee to order coal and wood, and another to make clothes for the children,--seven children, poor little things! and the father so badly hurt in saving the youngest baby that he will not be able to work for several weeks. well, i was on the committee to order the things; but when i came to collect the money, some of the girls, who wanted most to help, were very hard up, myself included. so near the end of the term, you see, and we had been buying christmas things and all. so i said, 'suppose we have an auction!' for there were some girls--not many, but i suppose there are a few everywhere--who didn't care a bit about the poor family, and yet we knew they had money, and we were bound to get some of it. i had the sale in my room. it was great fun. i hung out a red flag, and posted flaming notices in all the halls and corridors; and we had a great crowd. me! oh, no, i was not auctioneer! i could not possibly talk fast enough. caroline hazen did it splendidly. her mother was irish, and she can drop into the most delicious brogue you ever heard, and she was so funny, we were in fits of laughter all the time. we made twenty dollars,--think of it!--all in a little over an hour. and some of these things i bought with what little money i had, and the rest were just left over, and as the girls would not take them back, i brought them along for the box. see! here is a pair of knitted shoes,--really perfectly new. anna waring said that she had a dear aunt who sent her a pair every christmas and every birthday, and she has ten pair now, and never hopes to catch up. three pair were sold beside these; got them for ten cents, and see how pretty they are!" "why, charming!" cried hildegarde. "bell, why don't you wear these yourself?" "i! perish the thought! i never wear _any_ shoes in my room, hilda; bare feet are part of my creed." "but--but you have no carpet here, dear," said hildegarde, with a little shiver. "and it must be very cold--" "delightfully cold!" cried bell. "i know few things pleasanter than the touch of a good cold floor to the bare feet on a winter morning." "she is volcanic, hilda!" put in gertrude. "she sleeps under a sheet all winter, and never looks at a blanket; it is true!" bell nodded gaily in answer to hildegarde's horrified look. "no use, dear! i am hardened in mind as well as in body, and cannot change my ways. look here! perhaps one of the boys might like this?" she held up a string of chenille monkeys, and danced them up and down. "of course he would," said hildegarde. "and what--what _is_ that, bell merryweather?" bell looked rather ruefully at the object she now drew from the trunk. "nobody else would buy it," she said. "the girl who brought it down is new and shy, and--well, somehow, you felt that she wanted to help, and had nothing else to bring. i was so sorry for her,--i gave my last quarter for it." it was a long strip of coarse twine lace, with a yellow ribbon quilted in and out its entire length. one of those objects that sometimes appear at fancy fairs, for which no possible use can be imagined. "it _is_ queer," said bell. "i suppose it must have been meant for something; i didn't like to ask her what." "oh, but, my dear, it is a lovely ribbon!" said hildegarde. "why not take the ribbon out, and make bows and things? i am sure you must want ribbon for some of your christmasings." bell confessed that she might, and the ribbon was carefully laid aside, freed from its snarl of twine. "here," said bell, diving into the trunk again, "is a highly interesting article, _mesdames!_ a pheasant, you see, carved,--swiss, i suppose,--with all his feathers spread out. now, i think i did pretty well to bring that home without breaking. is there a boy in your box, hilda? i meant this for a boy." "there is, indeed, and i know he will be enchanted with such a pretty thing. oh, and the marbles! now, bell, will you tell me what college girls do with marbles?" "i will," said bell, laughing. "she--martha sinclair--is very near-sighted, poor thing. she thought these were moth-balls. she brought a lot of them from home, and put them up with her furs this spring, and was horrified to find them--the furs--all moth-eaten this fall. poor martha! that, hildegarde, is the sad tale of the marbles. they are very good ones! i should not dare to let willy see them,--here, put them in your pocket! here are assorted pen-handles,--went in one lot,--forty cents for the dozen of them. some of them are rather nice, i think." "this is a beauty!" cried gertrude. "this scotch plaid one. may i have this, bell?" "certainly, dear! hilda shall have the pearl one,--there! this is the prettiest, hilda--" "but why am i to have all the prettiest?" inquired hildegarde. "you are very reckless, bell." "no, my love, i am not," said bell. "pen-handles are, generally speaking, a drug in this family. for several christmases willy--dear child!--could not think of anything else to give us, so we had pen-handles all round--how many years, gertrude?" "three, i think," said gertrude. "then some one laughed, and hurt his dear little feelings, and he never gave us any more. i miss the christmas pen-handle myself, for i always get mine nibbled pretty short in the course of the fall term. it is the only way i can possibly write a composition." "and is your next composition to be on the 'scottish chiefs?'" asked hildegarde. "or do you hope to cure yourself by the taste of varnish and red paint?" "puppies!" cried bell, emerging once more from the depths of the trunk. "five china puppies in a row. and thereby hangs a tale." "i don't see a sign of a tail," said gertrude, inspecting the five little terriers, all sitting up very straight, with their paws exactly on a line. "spell it the other way, miss; and don't forget your shakespeare," said her sister. "this reminds me of the very most foolish charade i ever heard. we were playing one evening in martha sinclair's room; and janet armour took this row of puppies from the mantelpiece and set it on the floor, and told us to look at it. then she kicked it over with her foot, and told us it was a word of three syllables, all three and the whole word given at once. see if you can guess, hildegarde? you give it up? well, it is too silly to guess. 'kick-a-row,' do you see? cicero, gertrude, my lamb. i explain on account of your tender years." "she must be a silly girl," said gertrude. "we wouldn't put up with such a poor charade as that here, would we, hilda?" "there are different kinds of brains," said bell, laughing. "janet armour leads the whole college in mathematics, and is head of the basket-ball team. so you see, dear, talents vary. well, hildegarde, i am afraid there is nothing else that would do; unless you would like this cologne-bottle doll? she is a superior doll." "very," said hildegarde. "and you know kitty would be enchanted with her. no, bell, i shall take nothing else, and i am ever so much obliged for all these nice things. now you must come over with me and help me fasten up the box. you, too, dear gertrude." the three raced across the lawn and through the hedge, and were soon in hildegarde's room. bell looked round her with a sigh, half admiration, half regret. "hilda, there is no room but this!" she said. "how do you make it so--so--well, your own portrait in a way? if i were to be shown into this room in the furthest corner of the soudan i should say, 'and is hildegarde in, or shall i wait for her?'" hildegarde laughed, and looked about her, her eyes resting lovingly on this or the other treasure of picture or book. "dear room!" she said. "i am glad you like it, for i love it very much. and if it looks like me--" "you must be pretty good-looking!" cried gertrude. "is that what you were going to say, hilda?" "no, you absurd child, it was not. but--well, girls, of course it is different when people have two or three places, in town and country, and move about as you do, to and from school and college, and all that. but this, you see, is my home, my only home and abiding-place; and so my own things grow to be very real to me, and very much a part of my life. i suppose that is it. i know--you will understand what i mean, bell--whenever i go out of this room, it seems as if one part of me stayed here, and was ready to greet me when i came back. but that is enough about me," she added, lightly. "here is the box! now we shall see how nicely all bell's prettinesses will fit into the corners! "this is mamma's present for cousin ursula. a nice, fat down puff, for her feet in winter; it is very cold there, and she is not strong, poor dear. and i trimmed this hat for mary, the daughter. rather pretty, do you think?" "rather pretty!" cried both girls. "hilda, it is a perfect beauty! oh, how did you learn to do these things? will you trim all our hats for us, for the rest of our lives?" "i should be delighted," said hildegarde, laughing. "i learned all i know from my mother. she _is_ clever, if you will. i cannot compare with her in skill. yet i was once offered a position as assistant to a milliner. these things underneath are things we have worn, but they are all good." "this has never been worn!" exclaimed bell, lifting a pretty gray silk blouse, trimmed with knots of cherry-coloured ribbon. "this is just out of the box, hildegarde. oh, what a pretty, dainty thing!" hildegarde laughed. "i am proud of that!" she said. "i made that out of an old underskirt of mamma's. yes, i did!" as the girls exclaimed with one accord. "it was good silk to begin with, you see. i washed it, and pressed it, and made it up on the other side; and it really does look very nice, i think. the ribbon is some that mamma had had put away ever since the last time they wore cherry colour,--twenty-five years, she says. lovely ribbon! well, and i knew that mary, the daughter, is just my age, so i had to 'run for luck,' and make it to fit me. i do hope she will like it!" "like it!" exclaimed bell. "if she does not like it, she deserves to wear brown gingham all her life. it is as pretty a blouse as i ever saw." "what is the matter with brown gingham?" asked hildegarde. "one of my pet dresses, a year or two, was a brown gingham." "oh, but not like _our_ brown gingham!" said bell. "you see--well, it is treasonable, i know, gerty, but hildegarde is almost like ourselves. you see, our blessed mammy (this was long ago, when toots was a baby, and the boys still in kilts) got tired of all our clothes, and felt as if she could not bear to think about them for a while. so she got a whole piece of brown check gingham,--forty mortal yards,--and had it all made up into clothes for us. oh, dear! shall i ever forget those clothes? it was a small check, rather coarse, stout gingham, because she thought that would wear better than the scotch. it did! i had four frocks of it, and the boys each had three kilt suits, and even the baby wore brown slips. you cannot remember it, toots?" gertrude shook her head. "i remember the effect on the family mind," she said, laughing. "yes," said bell. "i don't know whether you have ever noticed, hildegarde, that none of us ever wear brown? well, we never do! pater will never see it. he did not realise for some time what had been done. but one day,--oh, you ought to hear the mammy tell about this! i can't begin to make it as funny as she does. one day he came home, and the twinnies were playing in the front yard. he stood and looked at them for a while. "'are you making mud pies, boys?' "'no, papa!' "'then why have you on these clothes?' "the boys didn't know much about their clothes; he looked at them a little more, and then he came into the house. there was i, in my brown gingham, playing with my doll. "'great cæsar!' says papa. 'here's another! been making mud pies, pussy?' "'no, papa! i am playing with my dolly.' "'do you get dirty, playing with your dolly?' "'why, no, papa!' "'then why do you wear such things as this?' "i was just going to tell him that 'this' was the dress i was wearing every day and all day, when dear mammy came out of the sitting-room with the baby. and, hilda, the baby wore a brown gingham slip, and mammy had on a long, brown gingham apron. "'napoleon bonaparte!' said papa. 'here's two more of 'em.' then he sat down on the stairs, and looked from one to the other. then he went to the door and called the boys; and he took us all into the sitting-room, and stood us in a row, and sat and looked at us. "'miranda,' he said, 'what have you been doing here?' "'doing, my dear miles?' said mamma. 'what should i have been doing? dressing baby after her afternoon nap, to be sure.' "'dressing her!' says pater. '_dressing_ her!' then he broke off, mammy says, and put his hand to his forehead, as if he were in a kind of dream. "'miranda,' he said, 'i have been greatly occupied for the last few weeks, and have not fully realised what was going on. i have been dimly aware that, when i came home, the whole world seemed to turn brown and dingy. at first i thought it was the weather; then i thought it was the condition of business; at last i began to think that my sight must be failing, and cataracts forming, or something of the kind, so that i could see nothing without a brownish tinge over it. now, i--i realise what the matter is; and i ask what--_what_ is this stuff in which my family is masquerading?' "'masquerading, miles? i don't understand you. this is brown gingham, a most excellent material, inexpensive, durable, and neat. i bought forty yards of it, so that the children might all be dressed alike, and without all this fuss and expense of different materials. you know you said we must economise this summer, and i--' "'yes,' said pater. 'yes, i understand now. miranda, you are a good woman, but you have your limitations.' "he would not say another word, but went off into the garden to smoke. we forgot all about what he said, all but mammy, and she thought he would get used to the brown gingham in time, and, anyhow, she had meant to do the best, dear darling. "hildegarde, the next morning, when we all came to dress, our clothes were gone." "gone!" repeated hildegarde. "gone,--vanished; frock and kilt, slip and apron. not an atom of brown gingham was to be found in the house. and the rest of the piece, which mammy had meant to make into a gown for herself, was gone, too. mammy looked everywhere, but in a few minutes she understood how it was. she didn't say a word, but just put on our old dresses, such as were left of them. they were pretty well outworn and outgrown, but we were glad to get into them. we hardly knew how we had hated the brown gingham ourselves, till we got out of it. well, that day there came from one of the big shops a box of clothes; an enormous box, big as a packing-case. oh! dresses and dresses, frocks and pinafores and kilts, everything you can imagine, and all in the brightest colours,--pink and blue, yellow and green,--a perfect flower-garden. white ones, too, three or four apiece; and the prettiest slips for baby, and a lovely flowered silk for mammy. you can imagine how i danced with joy; the boys were delighted, too, and as for old nursey, she beamed all over like an irish sun. when papa came home that afternoon, we were all dressed up, the boys in little white sailor suits, i in a ruffled pink frock, and mammy and baby most lovely in white and flowers. he looked us all over again. 'ha!' he said, 'once more i have a family, and not a shoal of mud-fish. thank you, my dear.' and none of us has ever worn brown since that day, hildegarde." "poor, _dear_ mrs. merryweather!" cried hildegarde, laughing. "i think it was pretty cruel, all the same. and--did you ever find the brown gingham?" "oh, that _was_ naughty!" cried gertrude. "he buried it all in the back garden. that was truly naughty of papa. mammy found them there a week after, when she was setting out the asters. they were all neatly laid in a box, and buried quite deep down. but mammy took them up, and sent them to the orphans' home. dear mammy!" chapter ix. an evening hour. "and what shall we play this evening?" asked mrs. merryweather. hildegarde and her mother had been taking tea at pumpkin house. hugh was there, too, and now colonel ferrers had come in, so the cheerful party was nearly complete. "if we only had roger and papa!" sighed bell. "nothing seems just right without the whole clan together." "we shall have them soon," said her mother. "meanwhile let us be merry, and honour their name. it is too soon after tea for charades, i suppose. why not try the alphabet stories?" "alphabet stories?" repeated hildegarde. "is that a new game? i don't seem to remember it." "brand-new!" cried gerald. "mater invented it one evening, to keep us quiet when pater had a headache. jolly good game, too. tell hildegarde one or two of yours, mater, to show how it's played." "let me see! can i remember any? oh, yes, here is one! listen, hilda, and you will catch the idea at once. this is called 'the actions of alcibiades:' alcibiades, brilliant, careless, dashing, engaging fop, guarded hellas in jeopardy, king-like led many nobles on. pouncing quite rashly, stole (though unduly, violently wailing) xerxes's young zebra. "that is the story. you see, it must have twenty-six words, no more, no less; each word beginning with a successive letter of the alphabet." "oh! delightful! enchanting!" cried hildegarde. "mammina, this is the very game for you and me. we have been longing for a new one, ever since we played 'encyclopædics' to death. tell us another, please, mrs. merryweather!" "let me see! oh, but they are not all mine! bell made some of the best ones. i will give you another, though. this is 'a spanish serenade.' andalusian bowers, castanets, dances, enraptured figaro. gallant hidalgo, infuriately jealous, kittenish lady, made nocturnal orisons. 'peri! queen! star!' then, under veiled windows, ximena yielded. zounds!" "that is extremely connotative!" said mrs. grahame. "this really is an excellent game. colonel ferrers, shall we enter the list?" "not i, my dear madam. curls my brain up into bow-knots, i assure you. clever people, word-plays,--that sort of thing always floors me completely. delightful, you understand! i enjoy it immensely, if i may be allowed to play the listener. let us hear some more, hey? 'alcibiades'--hum, ha! how did that go? quite a ring to it, hey?" "i have one," said bell; "but it is a good deal like mammy's spanish one. still, perhaps it will pass. it is called 'an elopement.' arbitrary barber, charming daughter, engaging foreigner, graceful, handsome, insinuating. jealously kept lady. midnight nuptials; opposing parent. questing, raged savage tonsor,--'ungrateful! vamosed with xenophon young? zooks!'" "oh, but that is a beauty!" cried hildegarde. "where do you get your x's and z's? i cannot think of one." "there aren't many," said bell. "and i rather fear we have used them all up. try, though, hilda, if you can make one. i am sure you can." "give me a few minutes. i am at work,--but, oh, i must have pencil and paper. how do you keep them in order in your head?" "_habeo! habeo!_" cried gerald, who had had his head buried in a sofa-pillow for the past few minutes. "through all the flash of words i have maintained the integrity of mine intellect." (this was lofty!) "hear, now, 'a tale of troy.' agamemnon brutally called diomed 'elephant!' fight! great hector, insolently jocular, kicked lacedæmonian menelaus's nose. 'o phoebus! quit!' roared stentor. turning, ulysses valiantly waded xanthus. 'yield, zealots!'" a general acclamation greeted gerald's story as the best yet. but bell looked up with shining eyes. "strike, but hear me!" she cried. "shall smith yield to harvard? perish the thought! hear, gentles all, the tale of 'the light of persia.' antiochus, braggart chief, devastated ecbatana; finding golden hoards, invested jericho. median nobles, overcome, plead quarter! rescuing, springs through underbrush, victorious, wielding xerxes's yataghan,--zoroaster." "hurrah!" cried both boys. "good for you, smith college! that is a buster!" "boys!" said mrs. merryweather. "yes, mater! we did not mean that. we meant 'that is an exploder!'" "you are very impertinent boys!" said their mother. "shall i send them away, mrs. grahame?" "oh, please don't!" said that lady, laughing. "i am sure we have not had all the stories yet. phil, you have not given us one." "mine won't come right," said phil, rather ruefully. "i shall have to cheat on my x. have i leave?" "well,--for once, perhaps," said his mother. "it must not be a precedent, however. let us hear!" and phil gave what he called "a mewl of music." "a bandit--cheerful dog!--enjoyed fiddling. 'go home!' insolently jawing ki-yied local musician. 'nay! oh, peace, queasy rustic! take unappreciated violin. we execrate your zither!'" "yes!" said mrs. merryweather. "that is imperfect, but the first part is good. next?" "i think," said hildegarde, rather timidly, "i _think_ i have one ready. i hope it is correct,--shall i try it? it is 'the sea.' amid briny, cavernous depths, entrancing fishes gambol, hilarious, iridescent jewels. kittenish, laughing mermaids nod; or perhaps, quietly resting, softly twine, under vanished wave-worn xebecs, yellow zoophytes." "my dear hildegarde, that is the best of all!" said mrs. merryweather, warmly. "that is a little poem, a little picture. we shall have nothing prettier than that to-night, and as we must not overdo a good thing, suppose we stop the stories for this time, and try something else. where is our music, girls?" bell glanced at hildegarde, and then at colonel ferrers. she had heard something of the passages between jack ferrers and his uncle, and knew that classical music was not the thing to make the colonel enjoy himself. but hildegarde nodded brightly in return. "let us sing!" she said. "let us all have a good sing, as we used at camp. where is the old song-book?" bell, comprehending, fetched an ancient volume, rubbed and thumbed into a comfortable mellowness. "here it is!" she said. "come, boys, now for a chorus! sing it as we used to sing it, sixteen campers strong, etc." the whole family clustered round the piano, kitty and will and hugh close beside bell, hildegarde and gertrude looking over their shoulders, while phil and gerald did what the latter called the giraffe act in the background. and then they sang! one song after another, each choosing in turn, the chorus rolling out nobly, in such splendid songs as "october," "a-hunting we will go," and "john peel." then hildegarde must sing "annie laurie" for the colonel, and she sang it in a way that brought tears to the eyes of the ladies, and made the colonel himself cough a good deal, and go to the window to study the weather. "ah, colonel ferrers," said hildegarde, when the sweet notes had died away, and it was time for the silence to be broken, "where is the lad who should play that for us, better than any human voice could sing it? when shall we have our jack home again?" the colonel hummed and hawed, and said it was absurd to suppose that any fiddle, however inoffensive,--and he acknowledged that his nephew's fiddle gave as little offence as any he had ever heard,--still it was absurd to think for an instant that it could be compared with the sound of the human voice. "give me a young woman's voice, my dear madam," he said, turning to mrs. grahame; "give me that organ, singing a song with melody and feeling in it,--none of your discordant dutch cobwebs, none of your italian squalling, or your french caterwauling, but a _song_,--a thing which is necessarily in the english language,--and i ask nothing more,--except that the singer be young and good-looking." "are you so very reasonable, i wonder, as you think, my dear colonel?" said mrs. grahame, laughing. "surely we cannot expect that every person who sings shall be beautiful." "then she has no business to sing, madam," said the colonel. "my opinion,--worth nothing, i am aware, from a musical point of view. now, when i was in washington last week,--stayed at a friend's house,--delightful people,--very good to the boy here. weren't they, young sir?" "they were fountains in the valley!" said hugh. "they were ducks,--but they quacked, instead of singing." "precisely! exactly! the child has described it, my dear madam. there were two young ladies in the family,--charming girls,--when they kept their mouths shut. the moment they opened them to sing,--a pair of grinning idols. i do not exaggerate, mrs. merryweather,--grinning idols, madam!" "really!" said mrs. merryweather. "how distressing!" "distressing? my dear lady, it was excruciating! they opened their mouths--" "but, _dear_ colonel ferrers!" cried hildegarde. "they _had_ to open their mouths, surely! you would not have had them sing with closed lips?" "i am aware that they had to open their mouths, my child, to some extent. they were not, i conceive, forced to assume the aspect of the dentist's chair. they opened their mouths, i say,--red gulfs, in which every molar could be counted,--and they shut their eyes. they hunched their shoulders, and they wriggled their bodies. briefly, such an exhibition that i wondered their mother did not shut them in the coal-cellar, or anywhere else where they might escape being seen. frightful, i assure you! frightful!" hildegarde and bell exchanged glances; the colonel was on his high horse, and riding it hard. "and what did they sing?" asked bell. "they _squalled_, my dear young lady,--i refuse to call such performance singing,--some italian macaroni kind of stuff. macaroni and soap-suds,--that was what it made me think of. when i was a young lad, they made a song about the italian opera,--new, it was then, and people didn't take to it at first,--how did that go, now? hum, ha! i ought to be able to remember that." "was it 'meess nancy,' perhaps, colonel?" asked mrs. merryweather. "i think i can recall that for you." "my dear lady, the very thing! 'meess nancy said unto me'--if you would be so obliging, mrs. merryweather." and mrs. merryweather sang, to the funniest little languishing tune: "meess nancy said unto me one day, 'vill you play on my leetle guitar?' meess nancy said unto me one day, 'vill you play on my leetle guitar? vich goes "tinky-tink-ting!" vich goes "tanky-tank-tang!" vich goes "ting," vich goes "tang," vich goes "ta!"'" "exactly!" said the colonel. "precisely! tanky-tank-tang! that is the essence of half the drawing-room music one hears; and the other half is apt to be the kind of cacophonous folderol that my nephew jack tortures the inoffensive air with. by the way, hildegarde,--hum, ha! nothing of the sort!" "i beg your pardon, colonel ferrers!" said hildegarde, somewhat perplexed, as was no wonder. "nothing of the slightest consequence," said the colonel, looking slightly confused. "my absent way, you know. oblige us with another song, will you, my dear? 'mary of argyle,' if you have no special preference for anything else. my mother was fond of 'mary of argyle'; used to sing it when i was a lad,--hum, ha! several years ago." "in one moment, colonel ferrers. i just wanted to ask you, since you spoke of jack,--have you any idea when we shall see the dear fellow? is there any chance of his getting home in time for christmas?" but here the colonel became quite testy. he vowed that his nephew jack was the most irresponsible human being that ever lived, with the exception of his father. "my brother raymond--jack's father, you are aware, mrs. grahame--never knows, it is my belief, whether it is time to get up or to go to bed. as to eating his meals--it is a marvel that the man is alive to-day. never sits down at a christian table when he is alone. housekeeper has to follow him round with plates of victuals, and put them under his nose wherever he happens to stand still. never sits down, my brother raymond. like shelley the poet in that respect--" "did shelley never sit down?" asked bell, innocently. "i never heard--" "i--hum, ha!--alluded to the other peculiarity," said the colonel. "shelley would stand--or sit--for hours, i have been told, with his dinner under his nose, entirely unconscious of it. i have never believed the story that he wrote a sonnet with a stalk of asparagus one day, taking it for a pen. was surprised, you understand, at finding nothing on the paper. ha!" "colonel ferrers," said hildegarde, gravely, "it is my belief that you made up that story this very instant." "quite possible, my dear," said the colonel, cheerfully. "absence of mind, you know--" "or presence!" said the girl, significantly. "i wonder why we are not to hear about our jack." "possibly, my love, because i do not intend to tell you," said the colonel, with his most beaming smile. "did you say you would be so very obliging as to sing 'mary of argyle' for me?" and hildegarde sang. chapter x. _die edle musica._ bell merryweather was sitting alone in the parlour at braeside. she was waiting for hildegarde to finish some piece of work up-stairs before going for a twilight walk. so waiting, she naturally drifted to the piano, and, opening it, began to play. [illustration: die edle musica.] bell might love her greek and her botany, might delight, too, in rowing and riding, and in all the out-door life that kept her strong, young body in such perfect condition; but, after all, these things filled the second and third place only in her life; her music was first, once and always. all through school and college she had kept it up steadily, seeking always the best instruction, loving always the best music; till now, at eighteen, she was at once mistress and faithful servant of her beloved art. hildegarde played with taste and feeling, but she never cared to touch the piano when she might listen to bell instead; there was all the difference in the world, and she knew it far better than modest bell herself. so when hildegarde now, up-stairs, heard the firm, light touch on the keys below, she nodded to herself, well pleased, and went on with her work. "such a treat for mammina!" she said. "and i do want to finish this, and the dear girl will not know whether she plays five minutes or an hour." hildegarde was right. bell played on and on, one lovely thing after another; and forgot her friend up-stairs, and her walk, and everything else in the world, save herself and _die edle musica_. now, it happened about this time,--or it may have been half an hour after,--that some one else stood and listened to the music that filled the early december twilight with warmth and beauty and sweetness. a young man had come running lightly up the steps of the veranda, with a tread that spoke familiarity, and eagerness, too; had hastened towards the door, but paused there, at the sound of the piano. a young man, not more than twenty at the most, very tall, with a loose-jointed spring to his gait, that might have been awkwardness a year or two ago, but sat not ungracefully on him now. he had curly brown hair, and bright blue eyes, set rather far apart under a broad, white forehead; not a handsome face, but one so honest and so kindly that people liked to look at it, and felt more cheerful for doing so. the blue eyes wore a look of surprise just now; surprise which rapidly deepened into amazement. "oh, i say!" he murmured. "that can't be,--and yet it must, of course. how on earth has she learned to play like this?" he listened again. the notes of schumann's "_faschingsschwank_" sounded full and clear. the bright scene of the vienna carnival rose as in a magic vision; the flower-hung balconies, the gardens and fountains, the bands of dancers, like long garlands, swinging hand in hand through the white streets. the young man saw it all, almost as clearly as his bodily eyes had seen it a year before. and the playing! so sure and clear and brilliant, so full of fire and tenderness-- "but she cannot have learned all this in two years!" said jack ferrers. "it's incredible! she must have worked at nothing else; and she has never said a word-- ah! but, my dear girl, you must have the violin for that!" the player had struck the opening chords of the great mendelssohn concerto for piano and violin. the youth lifted something that he had laid down on the veranda seat,--an oblong black box; lifted it as tenderly as a mother lifts her sleeping child. then he stepped quietly into the twilight hall. so it came to pass that bell, who was very near the gate of heaven already, heard suddenly, as it seemed to her, the music of angels; a tone mingling with her own, pure, thrilling, ecstatic; lifting her on wings of lofty harmony, up, up,--far from earth and its uncertain voices, nearer and ever nearer to where love and light and music were blended in one calm blessedness. it never occurred to her to stop; hardly even to wonder what it meant, or who was doing her this service of heavenly comradeship. she played on and on, as she had never played before; only dreading the end, when the spirit would leave her, and she must sink to earth again, alone. when the end did come, there was silence in the room. it was nearly dark. any form that she should see on turning round would needs be vague and shadowy, yet she dreaded to turn; and she found herself saying aloud, unconsciously: "oh! i thought i was in heaven!" "i _knew_ i was!" said jack ferrers. "oh, hilda, how have you done it? how was it possible for you to do it? my dear--" he was stepping forward eagerly; but two voices cried out suddenly, one in terror, it seemed, the other,--was it joy or pain? the girl at the piano turned round; even in the dark, jack knew instantly that it was not his cousin. he looked helplessly towards the door, and there stood another shadowy figure; what did it all mean? but now, after that pause of an instant, this second figure came forward with outstretched arms. "my dear, dearest old jack! i have been listening; i could not speak at first. oh, welcome, dear old fellow! welcome home a hundred thousand times!" ah! now jack knew where he was. this was the welcome he had thought of, dreamed of, all the way home across the ocean. this was the surprise that he had planned, and carried out so perfectly. this was hilda herself, in flesh and blood; his best friend, better than any sister could be. these were her kind, tender eyes, this was her sweet, cordial voice, in which you felt the heart beating true and steady,--all was just as he had pictured it in many a lonely hour during the past two years. only,--only, who was it he had gone to heaven with just now? a stranger! before his bewildered mind could grasp anything more, hildegarde had put out her hand, and caught the silent shape that was flitting past her through the doorway. "no!" she cried. "you shall not go! it is absurd for you two to pretend to be strangers, after you have been playing together like that; absurd, and you both know it. bell, of course you know this is my cousin jack, whom i have so wanted you to meet. jack, i have written you of my friend isabel merryweather. oh, oh, my dears! it was so beautiful! so beautiful! and i am so happy,--i really think i am going to cry!" "oh, don't!" cried bell and jack together; and the sheer terror in their voices made hildegarde laugh instead. "and you thought it was i!" she cried, still a little hysterical. "jack, how could you? i thought better of you!" "i--i didn't see how it could be," said honest jack. "i didn't see how you could possibly have done it in two years, or,--or in a lifetime, for that matter; but how could i suppose,--how could i know--" "you couldn't, of course. oh, and to think of all the delight you are going to give us, the two of you! jack, your playing is--i can't tell you what it is. my dear, i am afraid to light the lamp. shall i see a totally different jack from the old one? you have learned such an infinity, haven't you?" "i should be a most hopeless muff if i hadn't learned something!" said her cousin. "but you needn't be afraid to light the lamp, hilda. you will see the ostrich, or the giraffe, or the kangaroo, whichever you prefer. but first i must thank miss merryweather for playing so delightfully. you have played with the violin before, of course? i felt that instantly." there was no reply; for bell, feeling simply, desperately, that she must get away, must relieve the two cousins of her presence, since it could not by any possibility be welcome, had seen her moment, and slipped quietly out while hildegarde was busy with the lamp. the light sprang up, and both looked eagerly round. "why, she is gone!" cried jack. "i say! and i never thanked her. what an idiot she must think me!" "she thought nothing of the sort," said hildegarde. "she is the most modest, unselfish creature in the world, and she thought we would rather be without her. i know her!" "well, i suppose she was right," yet hildegarde fancied a shade of regret in his hearty tone; "anyhow, she is a brick, isn't she?" "how would you define a brick?" asked hildegarde, demurely. "a musician," said jack, emphatically; "and a--a good fel--oh, well, you know what i mean, hilda! and isn't it pretty hard, now, when a fellow has been away two years, that he should come back and have the girl of his heart begin to tease him within five minutes? oh, i say, hilda, how well you're looking! you have grown prettier; i didn't suppose you could grow prettier. would you mind shaking hands again?" hildegarde held out her hand gladly, and laughed and blushed when her cousin raised it to his lips in the graceful european fashion. "you have learned something besides violin-playing, jack," she said. "if any one had proposed your kissing hands two years ago, what would you have done?" "taken to the woods," replied jack, promptly. "but--well, they all do it there, of course; and i saw the _gnadige frau_--frau j.--expected it when i went to dine there, so--so i learned. but all the time, hilda, i thought i was only learning so that i could kiss your mother's hand,--and yours!" "dear lad!" said hilda. "mamma will be pleased; she always wishes people would be 'more graceful in their greetings.' can't you hear her say it? but why do we stand here, when she is waiting for us in her room? she has rheumatism to-day, so i would not let her come down, poor darling; and here i am keeping you all to myself, like the highwayman i am." "yes, i always thought you were cut out for a highwayman," said jack. "come along, then! i have a thousand things to tell you both." hand in hand, like happy children, the two ran up-stairs. mrs. grahame was waiting with open arms. indeed, she had been the first to hear the notes of the violin; and her cry--"hilda! jack is come! our boy is come!"--had brought hildegarde flying from the recesses of the linen-closet. her eyes were full of happy tears; and when jack bent to kiss her hand, she folded him warmly in her arms, and pressed more than one kiss on his broad forehead. "my boy!" she said. "my boy has come back to me! hilda, it is your brother; do you understand? it is as if my little son, who went away so long ago, had been sent back to me." "yes, mother," said hildegarde, softly. "i know; we both know, jack and i. dear mother, blessed one! let the tears come a little; it will do you good." they were silent for a little. the two young people pressed close to the elder woman, who felt the years surge up around her like a flood; but there was no bitterness in the waters, only sweet and sacred depths of love and memory. the boy and girl, filled with a passionate longing to cheer and comfort her whom they loved so dearly, felt perhaps more pain than she did, for they were too young to have seen the smile on the face of sorrow. but now mrs. grahame was smiling again. "dears!" she said. "dear children! they are such happy tears, you must not mind them. and now they are all gone, and that is enough about me, and too much. jack, sit down on that stool; draw it close, so that i can see you in the firelight. so! and you are there, hilda?" "on the other stool!" said hildegarde. "here we are, love, close beside you." "that is good! and now, odysseus, let us hear! mr. ferrers has the floor." "he certainly has a good deal of it!" said jack, looking rather ruefully at his long legs, which did extend a prodigious distance along the hearth-rug. "what do you think of my having grown two whole inches since i went away? i call it a shame! uncle tom measured me with his stick before i had been in the house five minutes; six feet four! it is disgraceful, you know!" "dear colonel ferrers!" cried hildegarde. "isn't he coming soon, to tell us how happy he is? why, jack, do you know, he was so funny about you last night! i asked when you were coming, and he quite growled, the dear, and called you irresponsible, and wouldn't tell us a thing." "of course he wouldn't! spoil my surprise, that i had planned so carefully? it is well he did not! but he told me about it, too,--about last night, i mean. he said you would persist in asking questions, and looking straight at him as you asked them, so that his only refuge was in gruffness. yes, hilda, he is coming over after tea,--i may stay to tea, mayn't i? he--i thought they wouldn't mind being alone for a bit,--oh, wait! i haven't come to that yet. where shall i begin? come back to leipsic with me, will you?" both ladies signified their willingness to take the voyage at once. "i have spread the magic carpet!" cried jack. "be seated, if you please! whisk! presto! behold us in leipsic. _mesdames_, let me have the honour of presenting you to herr j,----the greatest living violinist. herr professor, these are the people i love best in the world, except two. well, you see it is very simple, after all. the maestro was going on a tour in russia; was invited to play before the czar, and all kinds of things. he will be gone all winter; so he said, why should i not come home and see my father and uncle, and talk over plans with them? he--the maestro--wants me to work for the royal medal. it's only given out once in three years, and it's a pretty big thing, but he thinks i would better try for it. i--did i write you about the scholarship i got? no? well, i think i did, but it must have been in my last letter, and uncle tom thinks my last letters did not get posted, or something. well, yes; i got a pretty good scholarship, enough to pay my expenses both ways, and leave me a hundred dollars besides." "oh, jack! how splendid!" cried hildegarde, in delight. "that is pretty glorious, i do think. wasn't colonel ferrers enchanted? oh! and when can you see your father? is he still in virginia? of course you want to fly to him." "not in the least!" replied jack. "i am coming to that presently. i think that hundred dollars rather went to my head. the first thing i did when i got it was to cable to my father that i was coming on the _urania_. then i shut myself up in my room and played a bit, and then i turned somersaults till my head was like--like an apple dumpling; and then i went shopping." "shopping, jack? i can hardly fancy you shopping." "well, i did! i got a pipe for my father,--oh, a beauty!--meerschaum, of course, carved with a head of schumann, the most perfect likeness! hilda, when the smoke comes out of it, you expect to hear it sing the 'davidsbündler,' one after another. of course anybody except schumann would have been ridiculous, but it seems to suit him. then for uncle tom--a pipe is horror to him, of course--i got a walking-stick, ebony, with no end of a turk's head on it. he hates the turks so, you know. i knew he would enjoy squeezing it, and rapping it up against things, and he does like it, i think. and then--" the boy began to fumble in his pockets, blushing with eagerness--"mrs. grahame, i--i saw this in a shop, and--it made me think of you. will you put it somewhere, please, where you will see it now and then, and--and think of me?" the tiny parcel he held out was wrapped in folds of soft, foreign-looking paper. mrs. grahame, opening it, found an exquisite little copy of the nuremburg madonna, the sweetest and tenderest figure of motherhood and gracious womanliness. "my dear boy!" she said, much moved. "what a beautiful, beautiful thing! is it really mine? how can i thank you enough?" "so glad you like it! is it right, hilda?" "quite right," said hilda; and they nodded and smiled at each other, while the mother bent over her treasure, absorbed in its beauty. "and you, hilda!" said jack, searching his pockets again. "do you suppose i have anything for you? do you really suppose i had time to stop and think about you?" the boy was in such a glow of happiness, the joy so rippled and shone from him, that hildegarde could not take her eyes from his face. "dear fellow!" she said. "as if i needed anything but just the sight of you, and the sound of your--fiddle! and yet,--oh, jack! jack! how could you? how could you _let_ yourself do it?" jack had put something into her hands, and was now leaning back in perfect content, watching her face in turn, and delighted with every light that danced over it. the something was a bracelet; a little, shining garland of stars, each star a cluster of "aquamarine" stones, clear as crystal, with the faintest, most delicate shade of green, hardly seen in the full light. not a jewel of great value, but as pretty a thing as ever a girl saw. "jack!" sighed hilda again. "how could you? there never was anything so beautiful in the world; that is confessed." "and the clasp is the moon, you see!" jack explained, eagerly. "i thought it looked like the moonlight sonata, hilda, and you used to like me to play it, you know; and so i thought--you do like it? now i am quite happy! fate has nothing better for me than this. except one thing!" he added, turning with boyish shyness from hilda's warm, almost reproachful thanks,--she was hardly reconciled to his spending his hard-earned money on trinkets for her, yet she was genuinely delighted with the exquisite gift, as any right-minded girl would have been. "there is one thing more!" said jack. "and i think i am going to have that now. hark! is not that a step on the veranda? may he--may they come up here, dear mrs. grahame?" mrs. grahame hesitated a moment, glancing at her dainty tea-gown, and then around at the perfection of the pleasant sitting-room. "certainly!" she said, heartily. "if you do not think colonel ferrers will mind,--such an old friend, and he knows i am not well to-day." jack and hilda flew down-stairs as fast as they had flown up; indeed, hilda was nearly overthrown by her cousin's impetuous rush. "i haven't told you yet!" he cried. "hilda, you guess, don't you? you know what the best of all is to be? he is here! he--here he is!" he threw open the door. colonel ferrers's stalwart form loomed against the pale evening sky, and behind it was a tall, slender figure, stooping somewhat, with a shrinking air like a shy boy. "hilda, it is my father!" cried jack, now at the top of his heaven, and "hilda, my dear, my brother raymond!" cried the colonel, not a whit less pleased. hilda found her hand taken between two slender, white hands, that trembled a little, as they drew her towards the light. "my boy's best friend!" said mr. ferrers; and hilda thought that the gentle blue eyes were even kinder than those fierce gray ones of the colonel's, now twinkling with tears, which he brushed away with furious impatience. "my boy's kind sister and helper! god bless you, my dear! i owe you a great debt, which only love can repay. and now take me to your mother. i have not seen her for many a long year." hildegarde hardly knew how they all got up-stairs, she was so flurried, so joyfully shaken and melted and confused. but it was only a moment before the tall man was bending over her mother's chair, taking her hands in turn, and gazing at her wistfully, tenderly. "mildred bond!" said raymond ferrers. "am i fifty years old, or fifteen, mildred? where are the years gone, my child? you are utterly unchanged." but this was more than the colonel could bear. "raymond, you are as great an ass as ever!" he cried, bringing down his hand with formidable violence on the slender, stooping shoulder. "jack, what did i tell you? i said he was a mixture of angel and idiot. look at him! hear him! and contradict me if you dare." and then, as his brother turned and laid an arm round his shoulder, the colonel fairly broke down, and was heard to mutter behind his handkerchief that the world consisted principally of a parcel of fools, and that he was the biggest of them. chapter xi. the boys. "mammina!" "yes, hilda!" "are you quite sure you will not mind my asking?" "i am not at all sure! suppose you try it, and find out." "well,--i don't believe you will really mind. but--was not mr. raymond ferrers--very fond of you, dear?" mrs. grahame coloured like a girl. "yes, dear, he was. he was--i am afraid--very fond of me, hilda. it was years and years ago, of course; he was only a lad. but,--well, it happened that we had never met since, you see; i think we were both a little overcome, for i, too, was very fond of him, hilda, though not in the way he wished. poor raymond!" "you--you couldn't care for him, dear?" "my child! i had seen your father; how could i think of any one else? but raymond did not know that; and--and it was hard for him. i trust i did not appear foolish, hilda?" she spoke anxiously, and hilda laughed outright. "darling, you appeared like an angel, and were perfectly calm. i never should have guessed it from you; but--he, it was all over him, at the first glance." "poor raymond!" said mrs. grahame again, meditatively. "and yet he was very happy in his marriage, i have always heard. his wife was a lovely person, and sincerely attached to him. but--i suppose the seeing me brought back his boyhood, and some of the old feeling,--we are singular creatures, hilda. perhaps you think i might have told you of this before, hilda. you see, i never thought of it as anything belonging to me, dear." "of course," said hilda. "i know! and i should not have asked if--if he had not made it so _very_ obvious. but, oh, how charming,--how lovely he is! and how beautiful to see him with jack, and the dear colonel with both of them! my mother, do you know that we have the very most delightful friends in the habitable universe?" "it really does seem so," said her mother. "and what a christmas we shall have, with so many of them around us! let me see! mr. merryweather came to-day. now the whole smiling signal service, as absurd gerald calls it, is here,--except the good roger." except, indeed! hildegarde's heart gave a great bound, and she felt the colour rushing to cheek and forehead. "we shall be very glad to see roger?" said mrs. grahame. "very glad, daughter dear?" "very glad indeed, dearest mother!" said hilda. she met her mother's loving glance bravely, with her own bright smile; here, the blushing did not matter, for the two hearts, mother's and daughter's, beat in such true time together that words were hardly needed to carry the swift thought from mind to mind. there was a moment's pause; then mrs. grahame went on. "and are they not planning all kinds of merrymaking for christmas week? dear me! why, it is this very coming week, hilda! where has the month gone?" "oh, it is to be a great time!" said hildegarde. "the flower party, and lots of people coming down from town for it; and a toboggan-party,--if the snow will only come! and the tree at roseholme, and i don't know what else. do you know, i almost thought the colonel and mr. merryweather would quarrel about the tree; both wanted it so much. and then they both gave up at the same minute, and each insisted that the other should have it, till i thought they would quarrel over that. but it all ended most happily. hugh, of course! he came up quietly, and held out two straws; and they drew, and neither said another word. oh, mother, hugh is so happy with jack! i met them just now; his little face was shining like a star. jack was chattering german to him, and he did not understand a word, but that made no difference at all. and dear old jack! i believe he would have liked to kiss every stone in the garden wall--there! he is calling me now! i promised to go for a walk when my work was done. are you sure you don't want anything, darling? absolutely sure? then good-bye for an hour!" hildegarde ran down, and found jack pacing the veranda with yard-long strides. "do you remember," he said, abruptly, "the first time i came here, hilda?" "of course i do!" said hilda. "how i fell over a chair, and then knocked down a hanging-basket? hilda, i do believe i should have made away with myself that night, if there had been any weapons about. i was simply _full_ of rage and misery; i hated everybody, myself included; and it did seem to me as if you might let me alone, and not insist upon making me talk. i _couldn't_ talk, you know." "no, dear, you certainly could not; but you had to learn. and you are not sorry now, jack?" "sorry! well, rather not! fancy, if i had stayed the hateful noodle that i was that night! fact is, i was brimful of my own self; that was the trouble with me. ah--who are all these people uncle tom has been telling me about, next door, in the yellow house? i didn't bargain for strangers, hilda!" and my lord looked slightly injured. "no, dear!" said hildegarde. "of course we ought to have thought of that, and have prevented their coming here. we don't own the house, it is true, but we might have turned the hose on them, or put rat-poison about, or kept them off in some way." "oh, there you go!" cried jack. "i say! i haven't been teased for two years. i forget what it's like. but seriously, are they really nice? do you care for them? i--i really _am_ jealous, hilda; you needn't laugh. i thought i was going to have you all to myself, and now here are a lot of people,--with unreasonable names, it seems to me,--and uncle tom says they are your most intimate friends, and that he loves them all like brothers." "that was one of them you met last night," said hildegarde, demurely. "oh, i say! i was going to ask you,--was it, though? of course; i didn't notice her name much, but i remember now. well, hilda, she is a musician, and of course i'm glad you have had such a friend as that. i liked her face, too,--" "you couldn't see her face!" "oh, i saw enough. i saw her eyes just for a minute, and i know what she's like, anyhow; didn't i play the mendelssohn concerto with her? so that's all right, and i mean to get her to play with me a lot, if she will. i like to play with the piano, only you so seldom find any one--any pianist--who understands the violin; they are generally thinking about their own playing. but--well, what was i saying? it is so jolly to be talking one's own language again, and talking to you. i just want to go on and on, whether i say anything or not." "so i infer!" said hildegarde. "oh, i say!" cried jack again. "but--well, to go back to these people,--there are a lot of them, aren't there? a lot of fellows, or something?" "there are!" said hildegarde, gravely "here are two of them coming now, jack. these are the twins, phil and gerald; they are particularly nice fellows, and i want you to meet them." "look here, hilda! i can't, you know. i'm going to cut across the field here. i didn't expect to see anybody this first morning. you won't mind if i--" "i shall mind very much indeed!" said hildegarde, with decision. "jack, you must not be absurd! you are behaving like a child. "oh, good-morning, phil! good-morning, gerald! i am so glad to see you! this is my cousin, john ferrers, who came last night, and is staying at roseholme. jack, these are my neighbours, philip and gerald merryweather." the three bowed with mutual distrust. "glad to see you!" said phil, in a tone which contradicted his words. "fine morning!" said gerald. "you had a pretty rough passage, i ho--i'm afraid!" "thanks!" said jack, with a detestable little drawl, which hildegarde had never heard before. "i had an excellent passage." the three drew back and looked at each other, so exactly like strange dogs that the tails only were wanting, it seemed to hildegarde. she had difficulty in keeping her countenance. "what a comfort," she thought, "if i could only shake them all, and tell them to behave themselves!" but outwardly she was calm and smiling, looking from one scowling face to the other as if all were wreathed in smiles. "and whither are you bound, boys?" she asked. "and what frolic is there on hand for to-day? if the snow would only come! i do want some tobogganing." "there is good skating on jimmy's pond!" said gerald. "we were just coming to see if you would go this afternoon, hilda." at the familiar name, jack ferrers glared so ferociously that hildegarde almost expected to hear him bark, and to see him spring at the other lad's throat. gerald perceived the impression, and hastened in pure malice to deepen it. "i have been counting on a skate with you, hilda; you remember the last we had together? i never shall forget it!" now hildegarde had never skated with gerald in her life, and she had no idea of putting up with this kind of thing. "i shall be delighted to come!" she said, with a little ring of steel in her voice that all three lads knew very well; "if you can find a pair of skates for my cousin. i know you have a whole closet full of them. you would like very much to come, jack? very well, then, that is settled! we will be ready at three o'clock. good-morning, boys! bell and gertrude will come, too, of course!" and with a quick, decided nod she walked on, jack following after, after a defiant bow which was returned with interest. the cousins walked on in silence for a few steps; then-- "i don't think you really misunderstood what i said, hildegarde!" said jack, coldly. "i did _not_ say that i should like to go skating. i said i should be unable to go. of course it is of no consequence." "of none in the world!" said hildegarde, turning upon him with gleaming eyes. "the absurd behaviour of three ridiculous boys,--jack! how could you? i was so mortified,--so ashamed of you all! all! but you are my own; i am responsible for your behaviour. i never--" but here she caught a glimpse of jack's face, and suddenly burst into a fit of laughter. "oh, it was so funny! jack, none of you will ever know how funny it was. i am very angry, but i--cannot--help laughing." "i am glad you are amused!" said jack ferrers, stiffly. "it was worth while to come home for that." "jack! i--i won't laugh any more--if i can help it! oh, dear! if you had only seen--" but hildegarde saw that her cousin was really hurt. instantly she controlled her laughter, and laid her hand quietly on his arm. "dear lad," she said, "you are not really angry, any more than i was. dear jack, think about it a little!" they walked on in silence. jack was still smarting under a sense of injury; yet the steady, friendly hand on his arm seemed to smooth down his ruffled feelings, whether he would or no. "you know how it is," he said, presently, speaking in a more natural voice. "i have been thinking so long about the home-coming! i thought it was going to be--just the same. i thought i should have you all to myself; and now--" "jack, dear," said hildegarde, quietly, "are you thinking of falling in love with me, by any chance?" jack looked down at her with startled eyes. "why--no! i wasn't, hilda; but i will, if you want me to. i--what makes you say that? i thought we were brother and sister." "i thought so, too," said hildegarde, smiling. "but if my brother is going to show his teeth and growl at all the other dogs--i mean boys--he meets, i don't think i shall find it comfortable. there was a dog in a manger once; perhaps you have heard of him." jack winced, but owned he had. "and--and even if you were not my brother," hildegarde went on, "the idea of being jealous of the twins is so funny that--well, when you know them, jack, you will laugh as much as i did. they are not that _kind_ of boy, at all. no boys were ever less so." "that red-haired fellow," said jack, still distrustful; "what was he saying about skating with you before? i thought he _sounded_ decidedly spoony, hilda. i won't be disagreeable any more, but i say this seriously." "gerald! naughty, naughty gerald! that was so like him! he is quick as a flash, jack, and he said that just to torment you. i have never skated with him in my life; i never knew them till this last summer. oh, he is such a funny boy! come on, and i will tell you some of his pranks as we go along!" * * * * * gerald and philip merryweather walked home in moody silence. they came upon a loose stone, and kicked it along before them with savage and purposeful kicks. neither mentioned the fact of the stone's representing any particular person, but when either made a specially successful kick, he looked at the other for sympathy, and found it in a grim nod and chuckle. only once did they break silence. "poor codger!" said gerald. "h'm!" growled philip, assenting. "know when he's coming?" "no! don't suppose it will make any difference, though." "s'pose not!" "h'm!" "h'm!" reaching the house, they sat down on the steps and pitched gravel stones in gloomy rivalry. so sitting, it chanced that bell came upon them; bell, with a face more than commonly bright (though she was always one of the most cheerful of mortals), with her hands full of ground pine, fresh from a walk in the woods, humming a fragment of the mendelssohn concerto. "what's the matter with my boys?" she demanded, promptly. "nothing!" responded the twins, with alacrity. and they lowered like toppling thunderclouds. "then tell me all about it!" said sister bell, sitting down on the step, and taking a hand of each. "what happened to my twinnies? did some one throw away their tadpoles, or did the dog eat their molasses candy?" this allusion to early misfortunes could generally bring a smile, but this time it failed, and bell looked from one to the other in genuine concern. "phil! jerry! what is it?" she asked again. "oh, there has been no bad news, boys? roger!--" gerald groaned. "roger!" he said. "that's just it, bell! no, nothing of the kind you mean. he's well, poor dear old codger. better than he will be, when he hears what is going on." "what _is_ going on? come, boys, i really must know." "we met hilda just now," said gerald. "her cousin's come; kind of fiddler-chap from germany. i'm afraid it's all up with the codger, bell." "indeed!" said bell, quietly. "and what makes you think that, jerry?" "oh, we met them just now! he--he's about nine feet tall, to begin with." "that _is_ a beginning! where does he expect to end? but i have seen mr. ferrers, jerry. i saw him last night." "you did? why didn't you tell a fellow?" "oh, i--i--hardly know!" said downright bell, unused to even the whitest fib. she really could not, perhaps, have put into words the feeling that had kept her silent about the scene of the night before. "but that is no matter!" she went on. "what else is the matter with him, besides height? he can't help that, you know." "i don't suppose he can. but he can help making up to hilda, bell, and he'd better!" savagely. "only it's too late now, i suppose!" despondently. "why on earth the fellow couldn't stay and fiddle over there, where he's wanted,--don't admire their taste, by the way!--instead of coming over here to spoil everything, is more than _i_ know!" "horrid shame!" murmured phil, taking careful aim with a pebble at an innocent cat that was crossing the lawn. bell struck his hand up. "i won't have the cats teased, phil! and as for all this nonsense--" "it isn't nonsense!" cried both boys, earnestly. "i tell you we met them just now," gerald went on, "and when he saw us, he looked black as thunder, and had hardly manners to speak to us. perfectly odious; wasn't he, ferguson?" "absolutely!" echoed phil. "and you were very cordial to him, of course?" said bell. "you let him see that you were glad to meet him, and that as hilda's warm friends you were anxious to welcome her cousin cordially, and to show him all the courtesy you could?" the twins looked at each other. bell had an extraordinary way of putting things sometimes. "we didn't do anything of the sort!" said phil, with an attempt at bluster. "because if you did not," his sister went on, "i am afraid you must have seemed very rude, my children. rude and silly!" "i wouldn't call names, tintinnabula!" said gerald, turning red. "sorry to be obliged to," retorted his sister, in perfect good humour. "but if you looked at mr. ferrers as you are looking now, there really can be no doubt about the matter. now listen, boys! i know--hilda has told me--a great deal about this mr. jack ferrers. hilda loves him dearly, as dearly as if he were her own brother, and in exactly the same way. you need not shake your heads and try to look wise, my dears, because you are _not_ wise! you are two very foolish boys, who are trying to run your heads against a stone wall when there is no wall there. that is the state of the case about mr. ferrers. i know hildegarde pretty well, and i am sure of what i am saying. you need have no fear of him. as for roger,--well, i don't think you need have any fear for roger either." "has he--has she--do you think they are--" "hush!" cried bell, putting a hand over the mouth of each. "i don't think anything! at least--well, that isn't true, of course; but it does no good to talk about these things, dear boys. i do not think hilda and roger are--are engaged." bell dropped her voice to a whisper. "but i feel quite sure they will be some day, when the time comes. i think they understand each other very well. roger will be here soon; suppose you leave it all to him, phil and jerry, and don't worry about it. but there is one thing you can do, and it should be done soon." "what?" cried both boys, eagerly. "put on your good clothes, and your good manners, and go to call at roseholme." "we'll be shot if we will!" cried the twins. "be just as nice as you know how to be to mr. jack ferrers. he--he is a remarkable person, i have reason to think. you see," she spoke rather hastily, "hilda has told me so much about him. and i--well, i heard him play last night, and he is a very wonderful performer, boys. you never, in your little lives, heard anything like his playing. he is too much in love with his art to think of any such nonsense as has been troubling your silly heads; you will understand that, the moment you hear him." gerald made a feeble protest to the effect that he hated fiddling, but there was little hope in his tone. and he was promptly reminded of his having spent his last fifty cents the winter before on a ticket for sarasate's concert, and saying that it was the best investment he ever made. the boys knew that their cause was lost; and when bell added, as a clincher, "ask mammy, and see what she says," they retired from the unequal contest. "oh, we know what mammy will say! don't hit us when we are down, bell. we'll go, and make asses of ourselves as well as we know how." "oh, not that, dears, i entreat!" cried bell; and then ran swiftly into the house, laughing. the twins resumed their occupation of pitching gravel stones, but a change had come over their spirits. phil was actually whistling, and gerald hummed a bass with perfect cheerfulness. the cat came back across the lawn, and they threw stones before her nose and behind her tail, avoiding contact with her person (for she was a beloved cat, in hours of joy), and contenting themselves with seeing her skip hither and thither in uninjured surprise. "philly!" "yes, jerry!" "us feels a lot better, don't us, philly?" "h'm!" said phil, and the sound was now one of content and peace. "she's not a bad sort, the tintinnabula!" gerald went on, meditatively. "she doesn't harry a fellow, as some fellows' sisters do. she pokes you up and smooths you down at the same time, somehow. that's the way a girl ought to be--my opinion. come along, ferguson, and let's do something to celebrate!" "all right!" said phil. "what shall we do?" "oh, any old thing! come along!" and they went and wrestled in the conservatory, and broke three flower-pots, and had a delightful morning. chapter xii. jimmy's pond. so it came to pass that, as jack ferrers was strolling about the garden with hugh after dinner, talking about old times, and pausing at every other step to greet some favourite shrub or stick or stone,--it came to pass that he heard steps at the gate, and, turning, saw the messrs. merryweather, holding themselves very straight, and looking very sheepish. they had compromised with bell on skating dress, instead of the detested "good clothes," and gerald carried several pairs of skates in his hand. they fumbled with the latch a moment, during which jack felt extremely young, and was conscious of redness creeping up to his ears. but then, they were quite as red, he reflected; and, after all, as hilda said, he was two years older than these boys, and if they really were all she made them out to be--why-- so it was a very different-looking jack who advanced to meet the embarrassed boys at the gate. it was perhaps the first time in his young life that gerald had been embarrassed, and he found the sensation unpleasant. before any of them could speak, however, a joyous whoop was heard from another quarter. hugh had been investigating an old nest, and had just caught sight of the friends from pumpkin house. he came running now, his face alight with welcome. "oh, jerry! how do you do? how _do_ you do, phil? i am very well, thank you! do you know my jack? because he has come home; and he is almost the dearest person in the world. and he has grown up his own beanstalk, he says, and that is what makes him so tall. and he has brought me the most beautiful soldiers that ever were, and we are going to have battles, even the prancings, the prancings of their mighty ones! hurrah!" "hurrah it is!" said jack. "how d'ye do?" and he held out his hand cordially enough. "awfully good of you to bring the skates! come in, won't you, and see my father and my uncle?" "didn't know whether you liked acmes or clubs," said gerald, "so i brought both. clubs are the best, we all think." "so do i! these are just right, i think. awfully good of you, i'm sure! you ought to see the things they wear in germany; like the old ones uncle tom has hanging up in that trophy in the hall." chatting cheerfully, they moved on towards the house, taking note of one another as they went. jack found the tones of the boys' voices very clear and good, free from any nasal quality; phil and gerald decided that there must be a good deal of muscle in those long, lean arms, and that it would not be so easy to "lick" the stranger as they had thought on first seeing him. on phil's remarking that his sisters and the "kids" had gone across the fields to the pond, there to await the rest of the party, jack said he would be ready in three minutes, and ushered them into the library, where the two reunited brothers were peacefully smoking together. the colonel received the boys most cordially, and, while jack hurried away to put on jersey and knickerbockers, presented them to "my brother raymond. jack's father, young gentlemen! i trust you and my nephew jack will be friends. the young should be friendly,--eh, raymond? my brother raymond, boys, is a man of genius. he is probably studying the lines of a fiddle at this moment,--an imaginary fiddle, you understand,--and i doubt if he is aware of your presence, or of one word i have been saying." "not quite so bad as that, tom!" said mr. ferrers, holding out his hand to the boys, with the peculiarly sweet smile that won all hearts to him at the first glance, "not quite so bad as that. i am delighted to see you, young gentlemen. i have already heard a good deal about your cheerful circle here. i am, it is true, somewhat absent-minded,--" "absent-minded! jupiter capitolinus! when it comes to a man putting sugar and cream on his mutton-chop at breakfast,--" "how do you know that i do not prefer it so, tom? we have many curious customs in virginia, you know. it wasn't bad, really!" "not bad!" snorted the colonel. "five-year-old mutton, hung a fortnight, and broiled by elizabeth beadle; and this man treats it as a pudding, and then says it was not bad! elizabeth beadle wept when giuseppe told her about it; shed tears, sir! said there was no pleasure in feeding you." "poor elizabeth!" said raymond ferrers, laughing. "dear, good soul! i must go and ask her to make me some molasses cookies with scalloped edges. will that pacify her, tom? where is the boy?" "raymond, do not try me further than i can bear!" said his brother, with marked ferocity. "ask for the boy every five minutes, my dear brother! a shorter interval than that is beyond my powers of endurance, which have their limits. the boy, sir, if you persist in applying that epithet to a young giraffe who has already scraped more paint off my lintels than i can supply in six months,--well, i will make it three, if you specially desire it,--is putting on his togs, to go skating with these young fellows. and what is more, raymond, i know two old fellows who are going to be asses enough to put on _their_ togs and go skating with the youngsters. come along, sir! jimmy's pond, ray! come along!" [illustration: on jimmy's pond.] a pleasant sight was jimmy's pond an hour later, when all the party had assembled. hildegarde came in regal state, escorted by colonel ferrers and his brother, one walking on either side, while the three tall lads strode along before, now thoroughly at ease with each other, and hugh capered and curveted in the rear. the child had a horse's tail fastened to his belt behind, and was pegasus on helicon, oblivious of all things earthly. they found bell and gertrude awaiting them, their cheeks already glowing from a preliminary tour of the pond. in the distance willy and kitty could be seen tugging each other valiantly along, falling and scrambling down and up. bell was looking her best, in her trim suit of brown velveteen, with the pretty little mink cap. hildegarde thought her more like a snow-apple than ever, and hoped jack saw how pretty and sweet she was. air-castles are pleasant building, and our hildegarde had one well under way already; a castle whose walls should rise to the sound of music, and in which two happy people should play, play, play, all day and every day. hildegarde herself, in dark blue corduroy trimmed with chinchilla, was very good to look at, and more than one pair of eyes followed her as she swept along in graceful curves, holding hugh's hands in hers. "a very lovely young creature, tom!" said raymond ferrers, as he stood a while, after fastening his skates. "not so beautiful as her mother. i find mildred more beautiful than ever, tom." "you were always near-sighted, raymond, you will allow me to observe!" cried the colonel, ruffling instantly. "i admire mrs. grahame beyond any woman--of her age--that lives. she is a noble woman, sir! an admirable creature! but to say that she compares in looks with a blooming creature like that,--a princess, by jove! a young diana, the very sight of whom makes a man young again. by the way, raymond," he added, after a pause, in an altered voice. "i don't know, my dear fellow, whether you have noticed any--a--resemblance, any look of--eh?" "yes, indeed, my dear tom; i noticed it instantly. sweet hester! this might be her younger sister. yes! yes! _tempo passato_, eh, brother? we are old fellows, but we once were young." "stuff and nonsense!" cried the colonel, throwing off his mood with sudden violence. "speak for yourself, sir! if a man chooses to spend his days hunched over a table, making fiddles, i don't say how things may turn out with him; but for myself,--here, young sir! bring me a hockey-stick, will you?" hugh, prancing by in full career, paused, and surveyed his guardian with dreamy eyes. "hi-hi-hi!" he replied, with a creditable attempt at a whinny. the colonel stiffened to "attention." "what did i understand you to remark, sir?" he inquired. "i experience a difficulty in following your interesting observation." "hi-hi-hi!" repeated the boy. "i am pegasus; i do not understand your language. i will find bellerophon, and send him to you." he retired a few paces, and gravely removed his tail, then came back, beaming with cheerfulness, every inch a boy. "what was it you wanted, guardian?" he cried. "i was a horse then, you see, so i really couldn't; please excuse me!" "i wanted a hockey-stick, sir!" said the colonel, with some severity. "and it is my opinion that two-legged horses would better keep their wits about them. "a game of hockey, raymond," here he turned to his brother, "will warm your blood, and bring back your wits. 'polo,' they call it nowadays; parcel of fools! it's my belief that nine-tenths of the human race to-day don't know what they are talking about. don't understand their own language, sir! polo, indeed! ha! here are the sticks. now we shall see about this 'old fellow' business!" indeed, it was a marvellous thing to see the agility of the colonel in his favourite sport. he swept here and there, he made the most astonishing hits, he hooked the ball from under the very noses of the amazed and delighted boys. raymond ferrers, too, after watching the sport for a few minutes, yielded to the spirit of the hour, and was soon cutting away with the best of them. a pleasant sight was jimmy's pond, indeed! the pond itself was a thing of beauty, a disk of crystal dropped down in a hollow of dark woods; dropped into the middle of this again, a tiny islet, with a group of slender firs, lovely to behold. and dotted here and there on the shining gray-silver of the ice, these happy players, young and old, darted hither and thither, filled with the joy of the hour and the pleasure of each other's presence. it might have been interesting, could one have stood invisible on the bank, to hear the fragments of talk, as the different groups swept by in the chase. they seemed to drop naturally into couples, without any special prearrangement. first came the two brothers, intent on the ball, bent on keeping it ahead of them, and unconscious of anything else. "now, sir!" the colonel would cry. "let me see you beat that! hi! there she--no! she doesn't! ha! ha! beat you that time, sir! "'poor old raymound, fell into a hay-mound!' "do you remember that, sir? only rhyme i ever made in my life; proud as a peacock i was of it, sir! and what was the scurrilous verse you made about me?" "'tommy, tommy tantrum, crowing like a bantrum!'" said his brother, laughing. "i always call them 'bantrums,' always shall. aha! where are you now, boy? off she goes!" next came gertrude and phil, swinging easily along together. "so glad he is really nice, because he looks so, and it would be so horrid if he were horrid, wouldn't it, phil? and bell says he plays--oh, wonderfully, you know." "playing isn't everything in the world, toots! but he does seem to be a good fellow enough. told us a lot, coming over here, about the way he lived over in germany. i say! i'd like to go there! two or three duels every day; great sport, it must be!" now it was willy and kitty, skating away sturdily, with short, energetic strokes, and holding each other up bravely. "so he asked me if i would swap with him for another hard one, and i said yes, if it was hard enough; for this mexican one, you see, was very hard indeed. he said it was. "so i said all right, hand it over. well, it was just the end of recess, and he handed it over, all scrumpled up, in a kind of hurry, and i crammed it into my pocket without looking. and when i came to look at it after school, it was a mean old three-cent 'norji.' so i knocked him down, and it just happened that one of his old teeth was loose, and it came out. i was glad of it, and so were all the fellows, for he meant to cheat, you see; that's why i had the black marks." now come jack and bell, she a little out of breath, being unused to skating with a giraffe; he all unconscious, discoursing high themes. "yes, a good many people play it short, with a kind of choppiness. i hate to hear a violin chop. but j---- gives it with a long, smooth crescendo that seems to carry you straight out of the room, you know, out into the open air, and up among tree-tops. do you ever feel that way? you seem to feel the air blowing all about you, and--hear all the voices that are shut up in the trees and flowers, and can't get out generally. you know what i mean, i am sure!" "yes," says bell, softly. "but they are all answering to the violin, don't you think? they would not speak to the piano in that way." "depends upon who plays it," says gallant jack. and hildegarde, close behind, hears, and stumbles a little, and catches gerald's hand, laughing. "take them both!" says gerald. "take, incidentally, my heart with them; unless its size and its lacerated condition would make the burden unwelcome, hilda?" "i doubt if i should notice," says hildegarde. "yes, i will take both hands, jerry; let us try the outer edge, now. there! that is a delightful swing! you do skate very well, my child." "ah! you should see roger skate!" cried loyal gerald; and is rewarded by seeing a very pretty blush deepen in his companion's bright cheek. "good old codger! i wish he were here, skating with you, hilda!" "thank you!" says hilda. "i am sorry to incommode you, gerald. i can skate perfectly well alone, thank you. there! don't be absurd, jerry! you'll get out of step if you don't take care. do you think we could do a figure of eight together? let's try!" last of all, alone, yet in a world peopled with fantastic joys, came little hugh. he had his tail on again, and he was skating with a high-stepping gait, rather more suggestive of trotting than was compatible with safety. he murmured to himself as he went, and his talk was far from hockey or any delights of skating. "yonder, dear bellerophon! look yonder, far down below this fleecy cloud that i am just going to plunge into! now wait till i get through it, and you will see. the cloud is all full of monsters, whales, and crocodiles, and--hairy mammoths; and we have to plunge through them, and they claw after us and try to catch us. but i switch my tail, dear bellerophon" (here he switched the tail vigorously), "and that frightens them, so that they crawl back into their holes, the ugly things. but down on the earth there, do you see three little spires of smoke, right by the mouth of that black hole? that is the chimæra, bellerophon! we have come all the way, and now we are going to have the most terrible fight that any one ever had,--samson or hercules or any one else. aha! now is the time, you see, for me to say 'aha' among the trumpets; that is why i made you bring your trumpet along. my neck is clothed with thunder, and i am pawing in the valley. see me paw!" alas, for the winged steed! pawing in the valley is a dangerous pastime on smooth ice, and unsustained by hind legs. pegasus, his head high in air, looking forward to battle and glory, paid little attention to things at his feet. his skate caught in a crack, and, checked in full speed, he came heavily to the ground, and lay motionless. hildegarde and gerald heard the crash, and were at his side in a moment, raising him. the little fellow was stunned, and there was an ugly cut on his forehead. "hugh, dear!" cried hildegarde. "is it very bad, little boy? you are all right now; jerry and i are here, and you will be feeling better in a moment." she took the child's head in her lap, and stanched the blood with her handkerchief, rubbing his temples gently, while gerald chafed his hands. presently hugh opened his eyes. at first his look was vacant, but soon the light came back into the blue eyes, and he tried to smile. "i pawed too hard!" he whispered. "beloved, it wasn't the right valley to paw in." hildegarde and gerald exchanged glances. "he's a little out!" murmured gerald. "we'd better get him home as quick as we can. phil and i will carry him." by this time the others, looking back, had seen that something was wrong, and came hurrying back. colonel ferrers turned very white when he saw hugh lying motionless, his head pillowed on hildegarde's lap, and the red stain on his temple. "my little boy!" he gasped. "jack, where are you? the child! the child is hurt!" jack was already bending over hugh; indeed, the anxious group pressed so close that hildegarde motioned them to back. "i don't think he is much hurt," she said, looking up at the colonel, and speaking as cheerfully as she could. "he spoke to me just now, colonel ferrers. he was stunned by the fall. i don't think the cut amounts to anything, really." "no," said jack, who had been examining the cut, "this isn't anything, uncle tom. it's the shock that is the trouble, and he'll be over that in a minute. you're better already, aren't you, old chap?" hugh opened his eyes again, but slowly, as if it were an effort. "how do you do?" he said, politely. "yes, i am better, thank you, but not quite well yet. you did not seem to understand what i said, so i thought i would wait till i could speak better." seeing jack look bewildered, gerald whispered, "he was talking nonsense. he takes you for me now; it was to me he was talking." "i was not talking nonsense!" said hugh, clearly. "i said i had been pawing in the valley, and that this was not the right valley to paw in. it wasn't! my beloved will understand what i mean, if she uses her mind." "he was a horse!" cried the colonel. "astonishing thing, that nobody can understand that child, when he is speaking perfectly rationally. he was a horse, i tell you! whinnied at me, sir, when i asked him to get me a hockey-stick. try it again, boy! let's hear you once more, eh?" hugh smiled, but could not do more than shake his head. "thank you for explaining, guardian!" he said. "i was pegasus, you see, and bellerophon and i were just going to plunge down through the clouds and kill the chimæra; but i forgot where i was for a minute, and began to paw in the valley, and say 'aha!' and, of course, the cloud broke through, and down we went. i hope dear bellerophon isn't hurt." "bellerophon is all right!" said jack. "right as a trivet. he says he thinks you'd better go home, old man; he thinks it will be better chimæra-hunting to-morrow, anyhow." "yes! yes!" cried the colonel, making a brave effort to enter into the child's idea. "go back to the stable, boy,--i mean dobbin, or whatever your name is, and--and have some hay!" but hugh's brow contracted. "pegasus didn't eat hay!" he murmured, still leaning against hildegarde's shoulder. "no, dear," said the girl. "the colonel did not mean hay; he meant asphodels and amaranth and moly." "that sounds better," said hugh. "i say," whispered gerald, who was beginning to recover from his alarm, "you know, i suppose, that asphodel is a kind of pigweed?" "hush! yes! there is no need of the child's knowing it yet. how shall we get him home, jack?" "but i will walk home!" cried hugh, hearing the last words. "i will perhaps trot home, only slowly." he tried to rise, but sank back again. "it appears as if there were wheels in my head," he murmured. "they go round too fast." "of course they do," said jack, in the most matter-of-fact way. "i'm going to harness myself into them, and take you home that way. put him up on my back, will you, merryweather? so! there we are!" delighted to find himself in the once familiar position, hugh looked up to smile at the anxious colonel, who stood wiping his brow, and wishing for once that he were twenty and a giraffe. "i'm all right now, guardian!" he said. "all right, beloved! my jack is an ostrich again, and i am not pegasus any more just now. i am only hugh. good-bye! good hunting!" "only hugh!" repeated colonel ferrers, gazing after the two, as they went across the field, jack walking steadily, with long, even steps, very different from his usual hop-skip-and-jump method of progression. "only hugh! only the greater part of the world--eh? what are you saying, hilda, my dear?" "only that we will go home together, dear colonel ferrers!" said hildegarde, who had already taken off her skates. "we will go back together, and the others can follow whenever they are ready. we shall find him comfortable already, with mrs. beadle tucking him up in bed, and talking about chicken broth and wine jelly, neither of which he will need in the least. come, dear sir!" "i will come!" said the colonel. "you are a good child, hilda! i--i am rather shaken, i believe. i will come with pleasure, my love! be good enough to take my arm!" chapter xiii. merry christmas. hildegarde awoke in the dark, with the sound of bells in the air. her first thought was that of all women in similar case--fire! she sat up in bed and listened; but these were no fire-bells that rang so joyously, breaking through the hush of the winter morning with glad rejoicing. "glory to the newly born!" she said, softly, and was silent for a little. presently she waved her hand in a comprehensive greeting to the friends on walls and shelves, whom she could not yet see. "merry christmas!" she cried. "merry christmas, sir walter! merry christmas, viscount, and you too, saint william! what a pity i cannot say it in dutch!" she hummed a carol to herself, as she recalled the night before, christmas eve, which she had spent with the merryweathers. they had gone together to the carol service at the little church, which they had all helped to make beautiful with spruce and fir and hemlock. after that they sang hymns and carols at home, in full chorus, with such hearty good-will and earnest feeling as it was a joy to remember; and then came the hanging of the stockings. an only child for so long, hildegarde had never seen before the bewildering, enchanting bustle of christmas eve in a large family; the hanging of the stockings, six in a row, the whole length of the great fireplace in the nursery; the delightful mysteries, the parcels which no one saw, the whisperings which no one heard save those to whom they were addressed, the tiptoeing hither and thither, the rustle of tissue-paper,--ah! it was all very pleasant! the kind friends had begged her to stay with them, and share the morning fun, which they declared to be the best of all; but that hildegarde could not do. "mamma and i have only each other!" she said. "you would not really have me leave her alone, dear people!" and the merryweathers were obliged to confess that they would not, upon any account. so they had parted, with many plans and promises for the next day,--the great, the blessed day of the year. and now it was here! and oh, was it--could it really be snowing? hildegarde listened, and heard a sound as of fairy hands beating softly on the window-panes. it was growing lighter every moment, but the light came through a soft, white dimness. hildegarde ran to the window; the ground was white, the dark branches of the evergreens were bending under a weight of snow, and it was snowing still, not furiously, but in a quiet, determined way, that meant business. oh, joy! at last, the longed-for winter had come! this ungrateful girl had already received many favours from the frost king; she had skated, she had had icicles to eat, she had broken through the ice, and got a good wetting,--still she was not content, but longed for snow; and now she had her heart's desire. "and we'll all go tobogganing, bog, bog, bogganing!" she sang, as she dressed herself, stopping now and then to dance about the room a little when she felt cold; for the morning was evidently sharp, and the cold had got into the house in good earnest. running down-stairs, she found the breakfast-room warm and bright with a crackling, leaping fire on the hearth. mrs. grahame was already down, and her long, silent embrace was the first and best christmas greeting. then it was "merry christmas!" and again "merry christmas!" as auntie came into the room, bringing the fragrant coffee, and the tray piled high with good things. "oh, and the mail has come!" cried hildegarde, fairly dancing round the table to her place. "see, my love! letters from everybody, heaps upon heaps! oh, what joy!" there were greetings from all the distant friends, it seemed; from all the good people at bywood, from rose and doctor flower, from the dear old couple at hartley's glen. "oh, how good every one is!" cried hildegarde. "and here is a parcel--mammina, what can this be? it looks like aunt emily's hand." "it seems a desperate measure to propose," said mrs. grahame, "but i _have_ heard of parcels being opened in such a case. i should not wish to influence you--" "oh, my dear!" cried the girl, who had been acting on the suggestion, and undoing the box tied carefully with floss silk. "my respected parent, will you look at this?" it was the prettiest watch, surely, that ever was seen, set with blue enamel and pearls; and with it came a stately little note, assuring "my grandniece" that this was a slight return indeed for the pleasure that she had given to her affectionate e. d. "poor dear aunt emily!" cried hildegarde. "she has so little pleasure, i suppose every little attention counts for a good deal. oh, aren't you glad we sent her the mechlin tabs? she and hobson will have good times over them, i am sure. well, auntie, what now?" auntie brought in a huge box. "dis ain't for you, miss hildy, chile, dis for you' ma. you can' 'spec' to have everyt'ing, young lady!" "flowers, mammina! oh, the lovely things! do let me see--from mr. raymond ferrers! the dear thing! why, we shall be a perfect bower, for i know the colonel is going to send you a box. dear me! what a delightful time we are having, aren't we, love?" "if you don't eat your breakfast, hilda, i shall have all these things taken away, and kept till dinner." "oh, i will eat, i will indeed! see me! observe me sacrificing myself to rolls and orange marmalade! but do you see that it is snowing, my own? and do you know what that means? tobogganing this afternoon, if there is any faith in merryweathers." hildegarde was so excited it was really difficult for her to eat anything like enough to satisfy the demands of auntie. "you ain't goin' to no chu'ch on no empty stomick!" that potentate announced; and she actually stood over hildegarde till a fair portion of her good things was disposed of. then, when church-time came, she must see personally that both her "missies" were properly wrapped, and properly toasted before going out. "you ain't no right to go out at all, mis' grahame, and you knows it well as i do; but dere ain't no holdin' you some times, and dis is one of 'em, i know. nothin' for old woman to do, 'cept just see dat you's fixed up right. you' bonnet ain't straight, mum; i should go crazy if you started out like ob dat." the chore-man had already been at work with shovel and broom, so that there was a path cleared through the snow to the road; the snow was already quite deep, and hildegarde and her mother were glad of their high snow-boots, as they picked their way along. hildegarde stopped every other moment to take a handful of snow from some hanging branch, sometimes to eat it, oftener to toss it in the air for pure joy. it was beautiful snow, soft and dry, the crystals showing with exquisite distinctness. "i feel about ten years old, darling!" the girl announced, as she frisked hither and thither. "so i perceive!" said mrs. grahame, who was walking soberly along, even deigning to protect her bonnet with a prosaic umbrella. "i feel rather doubtful about taking you, hildegarde. suppose you should turn round and smile at the little boy behind you, as you did the first time i took you to church!" but by the time they reached the old stone church, hildegarde was grave enough. this was the best of all, she said to herself, as she took her place in the choir, and heard bell's firm touch on the keys of the organ behind her. the pastoral symphony! hildegarde gave a long sigh of pure happiness, and leaned back in her seat. she might have known bell would play it! she knew that her friend was to take the organist's place during the christmas vacation; but she did not know that somehow, in all the hurry and happy bustle of yesterday, two young musicians had contrived, by hook or by crook, to get an hour's practice together in the church, as a christmas surprise for her very own self, and when, above the deep, throbbing tones of the organ, rose the exquisite voice of the violin, hildegarde felt her cup very full indeed, and hardly tried to check the thankful tears that sprang to her eyes. the church was full of the warm fragrance of balsam fir; the long garlands of green clothed the old gray walls with a lovely grace; she saw her mother's face in the pew near by; the music soared heavenward and her soul mounted with it. "glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will to men!" when it came her turn to sing, she felt heaven near, indeed, and the peace of blessedness descending on her. by noon it had stopped snowing; by three o'clock the sky was clear and the world lay white and glittering, a new thing under a sky of crystal. "just like the biggest plummy cake that ever was baked!" cried willy merryweather as he capered about before his toboggan. the clan was gathering for the first tobogganing of the season. here was mr. merryweather, tall and stalwart, in a fur cap big enough for the czar of all the russias; here were all the children, big and little, in "muffs and furs and fluffs," all rosy and happy and beaming; here was hildegarde, in moccasins, and the prettiest scarlet blanket-suit; finally, here was jack ferrers, striding across the fields at a tremendous rate when he saw that the others were waiting for him. "oh, jack! couldn't hugh come?" cried hildegarde, as her cousin came up. "he looked pretty pale this morning, i thought, dear little fellow! is he feeling badly to-day?" hugh had not been like himself since the fall on the ice. he had a good deal of headache, and seemed heavy and drowsy, not at all his own bright self. hildegarde spoke anxiously, and jack answered her look as well as her question. "not much the matter, i hope, but uncle tom thought he'd better keep quiet this afternoon, so as to be all fit for the tree this evening. his head does ache, hilda, but he says it isn't bad, and he sent you all kinds of messages, and said you were to have twice as good a time, for his sake, as you would have had if he had been on hand. poor little chap! i promised him i would give you a famous time; so come on, hilda, and don't let me see those grave looks any more." "you are darkening the sky, hilda," cried gerald, "and we can't have our christmas sunshine spoiled! look at the pater! isn't he immense? like a russian boyar, or a wallachian hospodar, or something of that kind." "we might all find some good, snowy title!" said bell. "you shall be a starosta, jerry, and phil a voevoda, and mr. ferrers a magyar." "oh, there are plenty more titles!" said jack. "we must have a sotnik, and a hetman, and a--" "who is coming tobogganing?" cried mr. merryweather. "is this a _conversazione_, or an expedition?" they all started off, talking and laughing, for the nearest hill. they chose the well-known slope that swept round the foot of braeside, beyond the stone wall that separated it from roseholme. climbing the slope, hildegarde remembered the first time she had climbed it, and how she climbed a tree, too, and was caught by colonel ferrers in the act, and taken for a marauding boy. how long ago it all seemed; and how strange to think of their ever having been strangers to their dear colonel, or to any of the good friends who had grown so near and so dear. at the top, they paused to draw breath, for the ascent was steep; then mr. merryweather, as commander-in-chief, marshalled his forces, and arranged them in line of march. "let me see! hilda, will you come with me? and gertrude? so! now, phil, you shall take bell and kitty; and you and mr. ferrers, gerald, take the little one. there! how will that do?" all declared themselves satisfied, and proceeded to take their places on the toboggans. the girls tucked up their skirts carefully, the boys pressed their caps down firmly over their ears. "all ready?" asked the chief. "now then! one, two, three--off!" down swept the toboggans; down, down, down! hildegarde was clutching mr. merryweather's leather belt, and she felt as if it were the only thing that kept her from flying off entirely. the swift motion took her breath away; the light snow, puffing in her face, rising up in clouds on every side, half blinded her. on and on, gliding now over the long meadow at the foot of the hill, still with the flight of an arrow; till at last, with a skilful turn, they were brought up alongside the stone wall that bounded the field, and landed in a good soft drift. up they all jumped, rosy and snow-powdered, shouting with glee. "oh! wasn't it glorious!" cried hildegarde. "we kept the lead, didn't we, mr. merryweather? and i kept the top of my head on, which is more than could have been expected. i really never felt anything so delightful in my life. where are jack and gerald?" "there they come! they went round the other way, down the steep side." "the steep side! oh, me! is there a steeper side? why, they must have turned somersaults all the way down. oh! oh, my poor dears!" the boys came round the curve in fine style, shooting straight as a dart, both leaning back, and evidently enjoying themselves to the full. suddenly, as if propelled by some invisible engine, they shot into the air, the toboggan followed, and for a moment there was an extraordinary vision of legs and arms, caps and splinters, all whirling together. then they plunged into an enormous drift, and disappeared. the girls cried out in terror, but mr. merryweather and phil shouted with laughter, and ran to the spot. "gone to ground!" they cried. "dig 'em out, phil!" cried the chief. "here's a foot; give a good pull, now!" phil gave a vigorous pull, and was rewarded by a kick which sent him sprawling on his back in the snow. then, laughing and spluttering, the boys emerged from the drift, rubbing the snow from their eyes, and shaking it from their clothing. "i say!" cried jack. "what do you keep in this field, sir? was it a torpedo, or an electric eel?" "it's your uncle's field, young man!" replied mr. merryweather. "i suspect it was nothing more than a rock, however. i thought the hill was all smooth grass." "you might try it, sir!" said gerald. "if there is a sound bone in my body, write me down hollander. how are you, ferrers? anything broken?" "no, indeed! lost a button, and--where is my other mitten? oh! thank you, hilda! did we make a pretty picture, flying through the air?" "lovely!" said hilda. "if i had only had my camera! but i was really frightened. i am hardly sure now that you are not killed, you did go so very hard!" "the toboggan _is_ killed!" said gerald, ruefully. "kindling-wood, poor old thing! just look at it!" he dragged to light some forlorn remnants, which certainly did not look as if they could be of service again save in some humble capacity. "too bad!" said his father. "fortune of war, my boy! but there is plenty of room for you and ferrers on the two others. we must see about this stone, and get it out of the way." search revealed a big, jagged stone, so fitted into the slope of the hill that the snow had lain smoothly over it; but it had caught the toboggan in mid-flight. it was soon torn from its bed, rolled down the hill, and deposited on the other side of the wall. then they all climbed the hill again, trying as they went to sing the tobogganing song; failing for lack of breath, panting, singing again, and all the while struggling upward, laughing and chattering and pelting each other with the soft snow. "when the field lies clear in the moon, boy, and the wood hangs dark on the hill, when the long white way shows never a sleigh, and the sound of the bells is still, "then hurry, hurry, hurry! and bring the toboggans along! a last 'never fear!' to mother-my-dear, then off with a shout and a song. "a-tilt on the billowy slope, boy, like a boat that bends to the sea, with the heart a-tilt in your breast, boy, and your chin well down on your knee, "then over, over, over, as the boat skims over the main, a plunge and a swoop, a gasp and a whoop, and away o'er the glittering plain! "the boat, and the bird, and the breeze, boy, which the poet is apt to sing, are old and slow and clumsy, i know, by us that have never a wing. "still onward, onward, onward, till the brook joins the meadow below, and then with a shout, see us tumbling out, to plunge in the feathery snow. "back now by the side of the hedge, boy, where the roses in summer grow, where the snow lies deep o'er their winter sleep, up, up the big hill we go. "and stumbling, tumbling, stumbling, hurrah! 'tis the top we gain! draw breath for a minute before you begin it-- now over, and over again!" "how are you, noble hetman?" said hildegarde, finding herself near gerald, as they gained the top of the hill. "aren't you all full of snow, my poors, and very cold and wet?" "'oh, days of me boyhood, i'm dreamin' of ye now!'" quoted gerald. "i never thought that my mother's words would come true in my person: "'woffsky-poffsky, woffsky-poffsky, once he was a cossack hetman; but he fell into the dnieper, and became a cossack wetman.' "and to speak sooth, sweet chuck, there may be a matter of half a bushel of snow--if you measure it by bushels,--it's a matter of fancy--down my manly back at this moment." "oh, gerald! but do go home, my dear, and change your things! you will get your death of cold, if you go about in this state." "i'll move into the adjoining territory at once!" said gerald. "but calm yourself, angelic being! consider that in this manner i avoid all danger of sunstroke! every man his own refrigerator; patent applied for; no irish need apply." "what is the use of talking to people like this!" cried hildegarde. "jack, are you as wet as that? because if you are,--" "as wet as what?" said jack. "i am not, anyhow, if you are going to look at me in that way. just wet enough to cool me off delightfully; very sultry to-day, don't you think so?" "mr. merryweather," cried hildegarde. "will you use your authority, please, and try to get some sense out of these boys? they are both wet through to the skin, and they will not--" "wet, are they?" said the chief, cheerily. "best thing in the world for 'em, my dear! quicken the circulation, and keep the pores open. now then, boys and girls, we must pack closer this time. sit close, kitty! hilda, hold tight, my dear! all ready? now, one, two, three, and off we go!" and off they went. chapter xiv. bellerophon. "all ready, boys?" asked the colonel. "all ready!" responded the boys, namely, raymond ferrers, aged sixty, jack ferrers, aged twenty, and hugh allen, aged nine. barring more or less difference in height, and a trifle of gray hair in one case, they all appeared of much the same age; nor had the colonel, evidently, a day the advantage of them. on the contrary, he was the youngest of the four, as he walked round and round the christmas tree, poking among the branches, readjusting a string of pop-corn here, or a glittering ornament there. it was their own tree, every twig, every needle of it their own. not hildegarde herself, nor her mother, nor any merryweather, had had a word to say, or knew a single detail about it. they were invited,--they were coming; that was their part; all the rest had belonged to the four boys. had they not gone in town together, and gone to schwartz's, and bought out the greater part of the shop? and had they not spent the greater part of the day (save dinner-time, and church-time, and the hour that jack had taken for tobogganing) in decorating their plaything, and tying on the presents? surely, such a tree had never been seen! it glittered from top to toe with icicles; it shone with globes of gold and silver; it was powdered with diamond snow, and hung with golden nuts; silver cobwebs draped it, hanging in long festoons from every bough, while round and round, in graceful festoons, went the long garlands of snowy pop-corn. now nothing was left to do, save to light the candles; and still the colonel walked and looked, puffing with pleasure, and still brother raymond followed at his heels, and jack followed raymond, and hugh kept close behind jack. and elizabeth beadle, surveying this scene from the depth of the hall, was so moved by it that she retired to the kitchen and wept for a quarter of an hour, for pure joy. "sure you have the pail of water handy, jack?" "yes, sir, quite sure! stepped into it just now." "then you had it footy, not handy!" murmured hugh. his guardian turned, and looked anxiously at the boy. "hum, ha!" he said. "talk a little nonsense, eh, young sir? that's right! feel quite well this evening, hey?" hugh certainly did not look well. his rosy color was gone, and there were dark circles under his blue eyes; but he answered so brightly, and was so full of joy and delightful anticipation, that colonel ferrers smiled even as he sighed, and turned to his brother. "pretty sight, raymond?" he said, for perhaps the twentieth time. "pretty custom, eh? give you my word, sir, i haven't enjoyed anything so much for years." "if you go on at this rate, tom," rejoined his brother, "you will be in short jackets again in a year or two. after all, what is there in the world so good as youth, my dear fellow? let us hold it fast, say i, as long as we can!" "yes!" growled the colonel. "but you wouldn't have said that before you came here, raymond ferrers; and i shouldn't have said it before hildegarde grahame came here,--" "and her mother!" put in raymond. "and her mother, of course!" cried the colonel, testily. "she never thought of coming here without her mother, did she? don't be a quibbler, my good fellow! if there is one thing i find it difficult to have christian patience with, it is a quibbler. i tell you, sir, that before those people came here my life was a stagnant fish-pond, sir; with no fish in it, either, and--and it shows what a young woman can do, sir, when she is willing just to _be_ a young woman, and to minister cheerfulness and joy and--and affection to the people around her. three years ago i had not a friend in the world,--or thought i had not, which amounts to the same thing,--except a round-shouldered fiddle-maker in another state, whom i never expected to see again. i was morose, sir! i was unfit for human companionship! and now--" the colonel stopped to wipe his eye-glasses, and blew his nose portentously--"now i have a son in my own house,--two sons just now, for if you pretend that jack is more your son than mine, i scoff at you, sir, and i deride you!--and a daughter close by, who will come to me if my little finger aches. and to that daughter, sir,--under providence," and the colonel bowed his head and dropped his voice,--"to hildegarde grahame, i owe all this, and more. so i say,--" "here they come!" cried hugh, who had been watching from the window. "here they all come, guardian! my beloved and her mother, and after them all the others. oh! but captain roger is not with them!" the four hosts hurried out into the hall to meet their guests, and many and warm were the greetings. hildegarde in white, bell in pink, and gertrude in blue, looked like a posy of fresh flowers, and kitty like the little rosebud she was. mrs. merryweather and mrs. grahame were already taking off their wraps, and miles merryweather and phil brought up the rear, with willy. "where's the professor?" cried the hospitable colonel, rubbing his hands. "where is professor roger? i was definitely promised that he would be here." where was roger? hildegarde's heart echoed the question; and though she greeted the colonel with her own bright smile, it was rather an effort to be as gay as usual; for the disappointment had been severe. roger had telegraphed that he would be with them that afternoon without fail; and now all the trains had come and gone, and no roger had come. all the merryweathers were crying out, and saying that some tiresome man of science must have captured him, and carried him off. hildegarde was only a little more silent than usual; she slipped quietly into the drawing-room, and took her seat by mr. raymond ferrers, whose smile always seemed like a kind of sublimated music,--music that soothed while it cheered. but when she saw her little hugh, with his pale face, and the suffering look in his dear blue eyes, she reproached herself for a selfish, unloving girl, and went and sat with her arm round the child, looking affectionately and anxiously at him, and listening to his story of the joy of the blessed day. "and gerald?" now cried the colonel. "am i to be robbed of half my guests, i ask you? mrs. merryweather, my dear madam, this is positively unfriendly, i must inform you. a christmas tree without gerald merryweather,--the idea is incongruous! i can say nothing more." "oh, colonel ferrers, that is my fault!" cried hildegarde. "gerald will be here in a moment; he ought to be here now, indeed. i very carelessly forgot something,--a little parcel that i wanted to bring,--and gerald was so kind as to go back for it." "quite right, my child!" said the colonel. "of course you sent him! preposterous if you had done anything else." he bustled off, and hildegarde turned to look out of the window; for truth to tell, the parcel that she had left behind contained a little gift for the colonel himself (it was a copy of "underwoods." hildegarde would have given copies of "underwoods" to all her friends, if she could have afforded it), and she wanted to catch the first glimpse of gerald. how long he was in coming! they were lighting the candles, hugh whispered her; jack and mr. raymond ferrers and mr. merryweather were to light them as soon as the party was assembled. gerald was wanted to take the second tenor in the carol. why had she been so careless? ah! there he was at last! hildegarde ran out to the porch, to receive the precious parcel. "oh," she cried, "how long you have been, child! i thought you would never come!" "so did i," said a voice that certainly did not belong to gerald, "but that is no reason why you should be out here with nothing on your head, and the thermometer at zero." hildegarde felt her two hands grasped, and herself drawn firmly back into the house. "they do not take proper care of you!" said roger. "and are you glad to see me, hilda?" everything seemed misty to hildegarde after that. she heard the welcomes and rejoicings; heard gerald's voice of panting apology,--"couldn't keep up with the codger, you know! couldn't, 'pon my word, he was in such a hurry!"--and received the colonel's book in time to tie it on the tree. she took her part in the carol, too, and wondered that her voice should be so strong, and not tremble, as the rest of her seemed to be trembling. yes, and she saw the glorious tree, in all its splendour, and helped untie the presents, and sat with her lap full of pretty things, sharing the wild delight of will and kitty, and the quieter raptures of hugh. yes, the lion was truly splendid; she had never heard such a roar, or seen such a mane. she should really be afraid to come to pumpkin house, if she would be in danger of meeting him on the stairs. and hugh's fleet was a joy, and,--yes, certainly they would go sailing together; and they'd go to the dee, and the jellybolee, over the land and over the sea-- and all the time, the girl felt that she was in a dream, in which the only real thing was the tall, broad-shouldered figure that moved so lightly and cheerfully among the rest; was the deep, sweet voice that was talking, explaining, parrying, the attack of the colonel and all his own family? "well, but it is true, my dear miranda. i could not have helped it; really i could not. no, i dined with no other friends. i dined on a cold sausage, at a railway restaurant. i have travelled day and night to get here, and i do not mean to be abused for my efforts. there was a railway accident,--" "an accident! oh, roger! are you hurt? where are you hurt? how did it happen? tell us all about it? whose fault was it? was any one killed?" thus the merryweathers in chorus, with colonel ferrers thundering a bass. roger merryweather looked from one to the other; his eyes twinkled, but he was silent. "well, sir?" cried his brother miles, in a fine baritone solo. "well, sir!" retorted roger. "i thought you were all doing it so beautifully, it was a pity to interrupt. no,--no one was hurt. a freight train broke down, and blocked all the trains on the road. the delay was apparently endless; there seemed no particular reason why we should ever go on. finally, i ran ahead, and found the engineer of the night express, the first train in the block, fighting mad, and vowing that he would plough his way through the freight train, if they didn't get it out of the road in five minutes. a lot of us took hold in good earnest, and in ten minutes the track was free. then the express driver found that his fireman was hurt,--i forgot him! he was really the only one,--and he was madder than ever, and said he could not go on without a fireman. so i said i was his fireman, and his long-lost uncle besides; and i jumped on, and off we went. it was an exhilarating ride. we were an hour late, and we made up half of it; but that did not let me make my connections. finally, here am i; the question is, are you glad to see me, or shall i go back?" well, there seemed little doubt that they were glad to see him. it seemed to hildegarde, still sitting in her corner, with hugh's hand in hers, as if the other children would fairly devour him; and the elders were not much better. miles must hear all about the mines, and piled question upon question till his brother cried for mercy. will and kitty hung about his neck, bell and gertrude could hardly take their eyes off him. only gerald, after the first moment, came and sat by hildegarde, and asked if he should not take hugh, and if she did not want to go and join the others. "no!" cried hildegarde. "go yourself, jerry, and hear all about it. i--i shall hear it all another time." "i met him, you see!" said gerald, guiltily. "i heard it all as--as we came from the other house. we came along together, and then he--he got ahead of me somehow, and came in first." hildegarde heard him, but only half understood what he said. now, however, there came a change in the boy's voice, and he rose hastily. "i--i think i will go, hilda, if you really don't mind,--if you will excuse me. i think phil wants me for something--" he vanished, and hildegarde turned to find roger at her elbow. "i have a little gift for you," he was saying. "i--i won't give it to you to-night, i think, but bring it to-morrow, if i may. it is something i made myself, and i am rather proud of it. may i come to-morrow morning? oh, it is good to be at home again! good to see what one has been dreaming about for all these--" "supper! supper!" cried the colonel, rubbing his hands. "come, young folks! the tree is stripped, and now for an honest, old-fashioned supper. none of your kickshaws and folderols! no flummery, that leaves a man tired and hungry when he leaves the table. food, my dear madam, is one of the blessings--what was it this boy said about food the other day, raymond? hugh, you understand, mrs. grahame; more and more astonishing that child grows, as he grows older. he was disappointed the other day,--hildegarde could not come as he expected, or something happened,--hum, ha! and he was distressed; a good deal distressed. then he ate his supper,--ate it like a man, and i told him so, sir, and congratulated him on keeping his appetite. he looks up at me, and says he, 'food stops sorrow!' his very expression, give you my word! food stops sorrow! ha, ha! so it does, my dear madam, so it does! this way, if you please! hildegarde, my child, you will bring the boy? he is--hum, ha!--not quite up to concert pitch to-night. nothing much the matter,--growing boys, eh, mrs. grahame? come on, all hands!" well, the supper was great, and the games were glorious. hildegarde did her very best to appear just as usual, and, indeed, no one who had seen her flying down the long drawing-room in the virginia reel (the colonel had engaged her for it a month before) would have thought her anything but the gayest of the gay; but, happy though she was, the world still seemed misty, the rooms confused, the talk mere babble; and she was glad, for once, when the frolic was over, and the greetings said, and she was at home once more, in her own quiet room. there was a cosy little fire burning on the hearth, and late though it was, hildegarde was in no mood for going to bed. she sat down by the window and looked out. the snow lay clear and white in the moonlight; here and there the dark evergreens rose like steadfast guardians; all was peaceful and lovely. lovely! how brown and handsome he looked! and had he really been glad to see her? she thought so; yes, surely he was glad, only somebody interrupted him every time he came near her. of course, selfish creature that she was! they were his own dear people, he was theirs; he belonged to them. they had not seen him for months, and how preposterous of her to expect to have any of his time the very first evening. besides, he said particularly that he was coming in the morning. would the day be fair? but men did not mind weather, certainly not the merryweather men. and--and her mother would be so glad to have a good talk with him. were they all asleep now, the good, merry neighbours? they made a good deal of noise sometimes, but they all meant so well, and were so hearty and genuine. gerald was the most like roger, after all; she had never noticed before how much alike they were. dear jerry! he had always been her favourite, though phil was as nice as he could be, and, of course, she was very, very fond of bell, and all of them. how perfectly clear and still it was! silver and pearl and diamond,--oh, what beauty! "deep on the convent roof the snows are sparkling to the moon." she wondered if her white dress was really the one she should have worn, or whether--whether any one would have thought the pink one prettier. no; he always liked white; she remembered his saying so. there was a light in the corner room of pumpkin house; ah, yes! it was roger's room. such a funny room, all full of minerals and dried specimens, and with lengths of copper wire hanging all about the walls. jerry said that roger had put them there against the time he should be crossed in love, so that he could hang himself whenever he felt like it. what was it he had brought for her? a specimen, probably. no! for he had made it himself. what was he doing now, she wondered. oh, it was so good, so good, to know that he was near, and that she should see him in the morning! "but now," said hildegarde, shaking her shoulders, and pulling herself together, "you are going to bed, miss! let me have no more of this ridiculous moon-gazing, do you hear? have you any sense? take one look at the white glory of it, and then off with you!" wrapping a shawl round her (for she was still in her white evening dress, though it was an hour and more since she came back from roseholme), she opened the window for an instant,--softly, for fear of rousing her mother, and leaned out, to take one deep draught of the magical beauty of the night. as she gazed, held as with a charm,--what was that, that seemed to move by the corner of the hedge? what was it, white against the snow, that was stealing along by the garden wall, silent as a dream? was she, indeed, dreaming? hildegarde's heart stood still for a moment. a little figure came forward now across the lawn,--it stood out clear against the dark firs. good heavens! it was little hugh! barefoot, in his white nightgown, his head held high, his eyes gazing straight forward, the child came on, with swift, certain steps. one more glance told hildegarde the truth; he was walking in his sleep. [illustration: "a little figure ... stood out clear against the dark firs."] in a flash she had stolen down the stairs, only stopping to snatch a warm cloak from the hall as she went. the bar and chain delayed her, for she dared not strike a match,--her mother's light sleep was too precious,--still, it seemed only an instant before she was on the lawn, gazing wildly about her. the child was gone! an instant she stood undecided; was it possible that the whole had been a vision, a hallucination, brought on by excitement and fatigue? no! for here were the little footprints in the snow. oh, the little, tender feet, stung by the bitter cold! how was it possible that the touch of the snow had not waked him? but here was her clue; in another moment, surely, she should have him in her arms. breathless and panting, hildegarde ran round the corner of the house, following those little white tracks--and stopped. the footsteps broke off short. looking up, bewildered, she uttered a low cry of terror. hugh was climbing up the wall. this part of the house was low, a kind of shed or outhouse, seldom used. it was easy climbing enough, a window-sill here, a cornice there, and a spout that ran the whole way up to the shingled roof. hildegarde had climbed it herself, in pursuit of a runaway kitten; if the child would only stop at the shed roof she could easily follow him. but above rose the steep-pitched upper roof! what should she do if he went on? what should she do? she dared not call, for now the little figure, steadily climbing upward, stood on the shed roof; hesitated a moment, turned half towards her,--then turned back, and set his foot on the short ladder that led to the upper roof. instantly hildegarde's knee was on the first low window-sill. she was reaching up, on the point of raising herself to her feet, when she started violently, and nearly lost her balance. a hand was laid on her shoulder; a steady, restraining hand. "what upon earth does this mean?" asked roger merryweather. his voice was stern, or hildegarde fancied it so; she answered like a child: "i am going after hugh!" "going after--" began roger, stupefied. then following her upward gesture, he broke off short. "go into the house, my child!" he said, quickly, in his own kind tone. "go at once; you must not stay out another moment in this thin dress. i will bring him to you in the house. it will be only a minute now, and he will be quite safe." with that he was up like a cat, clinging here, springing there, never pausing, never seeming to take his eyes from the little white figure, which had now reached the summit of the steep-pitched roof. hildegarde gave one glance at the child, and saw him standing with outstretched arms on the ridge-pole itself. his voice came down, clear and calm. "i am ready, dear bellerophon! we will fly together now, down, down,--" the girl covered her face, and prayed. it was a breath of time, it was eternity, before roger's voice came down to her, strong and cheerful. "we will go down together, hughie. i was up here, too, and i will take you down, because you will be more comfortable that way. put your arms round my neck, so! hold on tight--that's right! now, down we go!" hildegarde stood still in the snow, her hands still clutching the window-sill. she seemed incapable of speech or motion; could only listen to the quiet, steady voice, as it soothed the now awake and frightened child. "why, i suppose you went up to get a ball, or something that had been thrown up there. eh? no? something about bellerophon? where is he? well, he may be in the house, laddie. we'll go in and see, anyhow. your beloved is there, you know, and she will be--_hildegarde_!" "yes, roger!" said hildegarde, faintly. "i told you to go into the house!" "yes, roger; i am going!" and then hildegarde sank down in a little white heap at roger's feet, and knew nothing more. chapter xv. at last. hildegarde was sitting by hugh's bedside. he had been laid in her bed that night; how long ago was it? she hardly knew,--and was still too ill to be moved. a concussion of the brain, the doctor said, the result of his fall on the ice. there was danger of brain fever, but it might be averted. absolute quiet for a few days, and the trouble might pass off without any serious developments. meantime, a shaded room, plenty of ice, no noise, and as little change of faces around him as might be,--they would hope for the best. hildegarde had hardly left his side, save when auntie came in to watch through the night, or her mother took her place for the short time that her strength allowed. mrs. grahame was far from strong, and was not allowed to take charge of the nursing, as she would so gladly have done. colonel ferrers hung about the house all day, like a man distracted; and it took all mrs. grahame's tact, and all his brother's and jack's watchful devotion, to keep him out of the sick child's room. he seemed to have aged ten years in these few short days. his ruddy colour was gone; his eyes had lost their fiery spark; his military stride had given place to an anxious shuffle. "we shall have you ill, sir!" elizabeth beadle remonstrated, with many tears. "you ain't like mr. raymond, sir; you cannot go without your food. it's hard enough as i can't go to my baby, my own dear niece's child, to nurse him myself, as go i would if i was let, though miss hilda may be a better nurse, as you say; but blood is thicker than water, colonel ferrers, and if i have to have you sick, too, it will be more than i can bear, sir; yes, it will!" thus mrs. beadle, with her apron at her eyes. the colonel, roused for a moment from his anxious musing, turned upon her with something like his natural fury. "_you_ go to the child, elizabeth beadle? you, who cannot keep from crying for ten minutes together? if you would stop poisoning my food with salt water, ma'am, you might have less complaint to make of my not eating. you have no more sense, ma'am,--no more sense than--than some other people have. don't look at me in that manner, i desire you! god bless you, my dear old soul; go along, will you, or i shall be crying, too." rumours of these things, and others like them, came to hildegarde, as she sat hour after hour by the sick child's side, shifting his pillow now and then when it grew hot, laying the cool wet cloths on his forehead, giving him food, drink, medicine, at the appointed times. the whole world seemed narrowed down to this one room; everything outside was unreal, all save the scene in white and black that she saw whenever she closed her eyes,--the moonlight on the snow, the black firs, the child in his white dress, fronting death with his sleeping smile, and by her side the friend who was to save him. how long ago was it? had she been sitting here three days, or three weeks? little hugh lay still, with his eyes shut. he seemed unconscious for the most part. only now and then came a motion of the head, a low moan that was hardly more than a whisper; then the blue-veined lids would lift heavily for an instant, and the sweet eyes look out, but with no light in them; and after a moment the lids would fall again wearily, and the heavy sleep close round him again like a curtain. how long would it last? more snow had fallen. she heard the sound of bells, and the soft swish of sleigh-runners passing swiftly by. the voices of her neighbours came to her, now and then, but never calling loud and joyous, as they were wont to do. every sound was subdued; every one moved softly and spoke low, with the sick child constantly in their thoughts. guests came to pumpkin house; long-invited guests, who could not well be put off. hildegarde knew this, and knew that her friends loved her and the child no less because they were now forced to play the hosts, and to make pleasure for the holiday visitors. was this the evening of the flower party? her dress was hanging ready in the closet. such a pretty dress! she was to be a wild rose, and the graceful pink petals curved over the skirt, and curled upward to form the bodice. what a pity that some one could not wear it! she might send it over, in case some one of the guests had no costume ready. bell was to be an apple-blossom; gertrude, a lily. the twins would be splendid as larkspur and scarlet runner. and would roger--would he go in fancy dress? she could not imagine him doing anything of the kind, somehow. she thought of him in boating dress, or in his camp jersey and knickerbockers--or, as she saw him last, in evening dress, climbing over the snowy roofs--she shuddered, and laid her hand on hugh's arm, to make sure that he was there. the child was safe, at any rate. he was not going to die. hildegarde kept this thought resolutely away from her, and was only conscious of it as a dim horror, lurking in a corner of her brain. he would be better soon, perhaps in a day or two. it might even be that she would see roger before he went back to the west,--for he would be going soon, no doubt. he would be sorry, she thought, to go without seeing her. but she had his gift; he had sent it to her the day after christmas. she put her hand to her throat, to make sure it was there--the brooch that he had made himself for her, digging the gold, refining, hammering, fashioning it, all with his own hands. she would never wear any other brooch! dear old jack, too. he was missing her from his vacation, she knew. her mother said that he and bell were practising together every day, and that all the merryweathers were delighted with him. he and the twins were becoming fast friends. but they all missed her. they all said that there was no luck about any of the houses, with hildegarde awa'. the tears came to the girl's eyes. everybody was so good to her, so kind, so loving! hugh moved uneasily, and she bent over him; his lips moved. "play!" said the child. "dear!" said hildegarde, softly. "my laddie! do you want something?" hugh did not open his eyes, but a smile, or the shadow of a smile, hovered about his lips for an instant. "play--jack--play!" he whispered. "yes, dear! he shall come. we will send for him; rest now, my boy, quietly!" but now, seeing her mother at the door, hildegarde stole softly to her, and told of the whispered words. "will you ask the doctor? he might--it might--do him good, if he is thinking about it? you will see what is best, dear!" mrs. grahame nodded, and went away. an hour passed, as all the others passed. then hildegarde heard steps on the veranda; the door opened and closed quietly; the next moment the voice of the violin came stealing through the house. ah! what was it? were angels singing the child to sleep? schubert's cradle song; there is no sweeter melody on earth, and many times had jack played little hugh to sleep with it, in the days before he went abroad. hildegarde watched the child intently. at the first note of the music he stirred, and opened and closed his hands, which lay listless on the counterpane. then, as the song flowed on, so low, so tender, it seemed the voice of a spirit, or of some wandering wind, caught and trained to melody; the brows which had been knitted, as if in an effort to think, relaxed, a smile came to the sweet lips and settled there happily. "schlafe, schlafe, süsser, holder knabe! leise wiegt dich deiner mutter hand." "sing!" whispered hugh; and hildegarde sang, her heart beating high with joy and hope; for this was the first time she had been sure of his knowing her. she bent over him, hoping for a glance of recognition; but he did not open his eyes. his face seemed to clear and lighten every moment; it was as if a cloud were passing, and the day shining out fair and lovely; but he turned his head drowsily, and whispered, "sleepy!" now jack was playing the chopin _berceuse_, and all the world seemed lulling to sleep; the sound floated in waves through the darkened room, whispering in corners, rippling round the drowsy child, bearing him on, away, through the gates of pearl, till now he was asleep, in no heavy lethargy this time, but lying easily, breathing deeply, his whole little form at rest, at peace. and seeing this, the weary girl beside him laid her head on the child's pillow, and borne on those waves of dreamy sound, she, too, passed through the white gates, and slept. they slept so all through that night. mrs. grahame and auntie, coming to relieve hildegarde, could not bear to wake her. the doctor put his head in at the door, gazed for a moment, and then nodded, and tiptoed off down-stairs and home to bed, wiping his eyes as he went. the colonel and jack, making their last call for the night, heard the joyful report, and departed treading on air. and still they slept. the black woman nodded in her chair in the corner; she had put mrs. grahame to bed, and returned to watch the night with her charge, all the more precious now that her "own chile" was sleeping beside him. now and then a coal fell, and tinkled in the fireplace; the night-light burned steadily, but the fire flared, and drooped, and leaped up again, filling the quiet room with flitting lights and shadows. were they spirits, bending over those two fair heads on the pillow, side by side? the angels might be glad to come a good way to see such a sight as that, auntie said to herself. and she nodded, and dreamed of the golden city, and woke again to see always the same quiet room, to hear always the same sweet breathing of peace and rest and returning health. it was morning when hildegarde awoke; dim, early morning, with the stars still shining, but with a faint, pearly radiance growing momently stronger in the east. she wondered at first what was the matter, and why she was sitting up in bed, rather stiff, with soft things wrapped round her. before she moved her eyes fell on the little face beside her, and she remembered all, and gave thanks to god for his mercy before she stirred. raising herself softly, she saw auntie sitting in her great chair, bolt upright, but sound asleep. "poor dear!" thought the girl. "she need not have come at all. we did not need anything, hugh and i. we have had a good, good rest." beyond changing her position, and stretching her limbs, cramped by staying so long in one posture, she did not move, but sat with folded hands, full of such happy thoughts that the morning seemed to come on wings of gold. the sun was up before auntie woke, and her frightened exclamation, "fo' gracious goodness! ef i ain't be'n 'sleep myself!" though hardly spoken above a whisper, echoed sharply through the silent room. hugh opened his eyes, and his glance fell directly on hildegarde. he smiled, and stretched out his arms. "beloved," he said, "i am very glad to see you; but what are you doing in my room?" hildegarde made no answer. she bent over and took the child in her arms; raised him a little, with his head resting on her shoulder, so that he could see beyond her. his eyes travelled round the room, growing rounder and larger every moment, as in the broadening light one object after another shone out, familiar, and yet strange. "beloved," he said, "i beg your pardon! but what am _i_ doing in _your_ room? will you make me understand, please?" "you have been asleep, darling!" said hildegarde. "you were not very well, and--and you happened to be here at the time, and so--we put you to bed here, you see." "i don't see very well!" said hugh, in quite his own manner. "but probably i shall in a little while. how long have i been asleep?" "oh, quite a long time. but aren't you hungry now, little boy? see, here is auntie, and she is going to bring you up some breakfast, the very best breakfast you can think of. what do you say to chicken broth?" hugh nodded and smiled at auntie, who stood devouring him with her eyes. "thank you!" he said. "i think i shall be hungry,--when my think comes back a little more. my think--my mind--has been asleep, i am pretty sure!" he added, looking up at hildegarde with his quiet, penetrating gaze. "if i had only just gone to sleep with my eyes, beloved, i should remember about it; and i don't--remember--much of anything." "oh, never mind about it now, hughie! when you feel stronger we will talk it all over. see! i want to bathe your face and smooth your hair before breakfast comes. now you shall be my baby, and i will curl your golden locks for you. shall i put something good in the water? there! isn't that nice and fresh? and now you shall put on my dressing-jacket; my beautiful new dressing-jacket, that bell made for me. here it is, all fluttering with pink ribbons. wasn't it dear of bell to make it?" "bell!" said hugh, meditatively; he seemed to be searching for something in his mind. "bell--bellerophon!" "never mind about bellerophon now, dear," said hildegarde, trying to hide her anxiety, and to speak lightly. "we will have bellerophon by and by; we don't want him here." but hugh was not to be turned aside; his brain was now fully awake, and at work, but his look was so calm and clear, his voice so natural and peaceful, that hildegarde felt relieved in spite of herself. "i have to consider a little, beloved," he said, cheerfully, "just to straighten out my think, which appears to be somewhat mixed. what--was--i--doing--on a roof?" hildegarde held her peace. the child must take his own way, she felt; she did not dare to cross him. "i went up--on a roof!" hugh went on. "i _think_ it was a roof, beloved?" hildegarde nodded. "and there--i was pegasus, you remember; i have been pegasus a great deal lately, but i shall not be him for a good while now, because i have had enough,--i was pegasus, and i wanted bellerophon. the christmas tree frightened him away, so i came--somewhere--perhaps here? and i thought it was a mountain. i thought it was helicon, and if i climbed up to the top, bellerophon would come to me, and we would fly down and kill the chimæra, don't you see?" "i see, dear, of course! and then--?" "then i called out to bellerophon that i was ready, and we would fly. but--but just as we were going to fly, some strong person took hold of me, and i looked, and i was on a roof, with captain roger holding me. where is captain roger, beloved? and where was the roof?" "the roof was here, dear child! you were walking in your sleep, hugh. you climbed up to the upper roof, and--and captain roger saw you, and went after you, and brought you down. that is how you came to be in my room, hugh. now you understand it all, darling, and you will not worry any more about it." hugh looked relieved. "now i shall not worry any more about it!" he repeated, with satisfaction. "it _was_ puzzling me dreadfully, beloved, and i could not get straight till i saw how it was, but now i see. my head has been queer ever since i fell down on the ice; i think bellerophon got bumped into it, don't you? but now he is bumped out again, and he may go and kill the chimæra himself, for i sha'n't stir a step." his laughter rang out fresh and joyous; and at the sound mrs. grahame came running in, at first in great anxiety, fearing delirium; but when she saw the two happy faces, beaming with smiles, and heard hugh addressing her in his own quaint fashion, and hoping that she had slept very well indeed, she could not keep back the tears of joy. seeing these tears, hildegarde must needs weep a little, too; but they were such tears as did no one any harm, and hugh said at once, "this is a sun-shower! and now we shall have a rainbow, and after that some breakfast." when the breakfast came, you may be sure it was served on the very best tray the house afforded,--the gold-lacquered one, with the bronze dragon curling about it; and the broth was in the blue sèvres bowl, with golden pheasants strutting round it. "dem's de nearest to chick'ns i could find!" said auntie, and hildegarde forbore to point out to her that she, hildegarde, had never been allowed to so much as dust this precious piece of china, much less to eat out of it. and the toast was like thin strips of edible gold, so that both hugh and hildegarde declared king midas could not have had such a bad time of it after all, if he had a cook anything like auntie. it was hard to tell who most enjoyed the broth and toast, hugh who ate it, auntie who made it, or hildegarde who held the spoon, and broke off the crisp bits. it was a happy little feast, and the doctor was a joyful man when he looked in on it an hour or so later. he said that all would go well now. "slowly! slowly! no hurry! keep him here a while yet, and don't let him see too many people; no excitable folks, who will weep over him,"--hilda and her mother exchanged a guilty glance,--"keep him in bed for a day or two, till he gets his balance entirely. good-bye! god bless you!" the good man trotted off briskly, and they heard him greeting some one on the veranda below. "doing finely! finely! all right now; a little quiet, a little care,--going in? yes! oh, yes! see you all right! told them to keep noisy folks away. good-morning!" mrs. grahame went out, and spoke in a low voice with some one now in the hall. some one was speaking in return, very low; yet not so low but that hildegarde's heart began to throb, and the colour to mount high over cheek and brow; not so low but that hugh, who had the fine ear of some woodland creature, sat up in bed, and clapped his hands. "it is captain roger, beloved! it is himself; do you hear his voice? and he must come up, please, this moment of time, to see me, and to let me tell him what is in my heart for him." hildegarde hesitated; there was a tumult within her that made her feel uncertain what was best to do or say; but in this moment mrs. grahame had brought roger up-stairs, and now he was here, on the threshold. he was in the room; he was holding her hand, and looking at her with his bright, kind gaze. neither of them spoke; it was hugh who broke the silence. roger had sat down by him, after that first silent greeting, and kissed his forehead, and took both the child's hands in his. "i heard you, captain roger; i heard the first tone of your voice, and you sounded like an angel." "did i, hugh? i don't think i look like an angel, do you? did you ever see a picture of one with a moustache?" "perhaps not; but it says that they don't always look like themselves, you know. many times they looked just like common men in the bible. and you were an angel when you came to me on the roof the other night." roger glanced quickly at hildegarde; the girl nodded. "he knows," she said. "i could not keep it from him, the moment he was himself again. he pieced it all out, with hardly any help from me." roger looked grave, but his anxious look rested on hildegarde, not on hugh. "did you take cold?" he asked. "i? no, certainly not! why should i take cold?" "in your thin evening dress!" said roger, reproachfully. "with slippers on your feet,--there you stood in the snow, and would not go in when i told you. i have thought of nothing but pneumonia and consumption ever since. but--you look pretty well, i think!" hildegarde laughed in spite of herself. "i--i thought you believed in being wet!" she said. "for myself--of course! we are all polar bears, more or less; but it is different with you." "very different!" said hildegarde. "i had snow-boots on, captain roger, all the time! your anxiety has been thrown away, you see." "so!" said roger, with a look of intense relief. "i never thought of that! i--i didn't think--" "you didn't think i had sense enough!" cried hildegarde. "no more i had! they just happened to be on my feet, because i hadn't taken them off. i had been sitting and looking out of the window, ever since the christmas tree." "so had i!" said roger. "that was how we both happened to see. the moral is--" he did not say what the moral was, but sat pulling his moustache, and looking at hildegarde. hildegarde felt herself blushing again; she tried to speak of some trivial thing, but the words died on her lips; the silence deepened every moment, and it seemed as if she and roger were drowning in it, going deeper and deeper down, down,-- hugh looked cheerfully from one to the other; he saw that they were embarrassed for some reason, and came to the rescue with his usual calm philanthropy. "have you forgotten what you wanted to say? when i am going to say anything, and then forget what i wanted to say, i say, 'i love you!'" roger broke into a short laugh. "thank you, hugh!" he said. "there is not much need of my saying it, but--shall i, hilda?" hildegarde could not speak. she looked up, and meeting her eyes, roger held out his hand across the little bed,--the strong, faithful hand that had helped her now so many times,--and she laid hers in it, and felt its earnest clasp, and knew that there was no more any parting between roger and her. the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "good-by" changed to "good-bye" (good-bye, dearest and) page , "gentlemen" changed to "gentleman" (a gentleman, and that) a double story by george macdonald. new york: a double story i. there was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. for instance, you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. it was impossible to say whether the next baby would be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross. in strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of uncertainties, it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower of rain that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it fell, turned all its drops into molten topazes, and every drop was good for a grain of golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a buttercup, or a dandelion at least;--while this splendid rain was falling, i say, with a musical patter upon the great leaves of the horse-chestnuts, which hung like vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy, red-spotted blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they had blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some stood up and boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while others cowered down, laughing, under the soft patting blows of the heavy warm drops;--while this lovely rain was washing all the air clean from the motes, and the bad odors, and the poison-seeds that had escaped from their prisons during the long drought;--while it fell, splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush, and a soft clashing--but stop! i am stealing, i find, and not that only, but with clumsy hands spoiling what i steal:-- "o rain! with your dull twofold sound, the clash hard by, and the murmur all round:" --there! take it, mr. coleridge;--while, as i was saying, the lovely little rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own channels through the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their banks as they hurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up on a sudden, with a musical plash, in the very heart of an odorous flower, that first gasps and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on the bald head of a stone that never says, thank you;--while the very sheep felt it blessing them, though it could never reach their skins through the depth of their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog--i mean the one with the longest spikes--came and spiked himself out to impale as many of the drops as he could;--while the rain was thus falling, and the leaves, and the flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and the hedgehog, were all busily receiving the golden rain, something happened. it was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a coronation, but something more important than all those put together. a baby-girl was born; and her father was a king; and her mother was a queen; and her uncles and aunts were princes and princesses; and her first-cousins were dukes and duchesses; and not one of her second-cousins was less than a marquis or marchioness, or of their third-cousins less than an earl or countess: and below a countess they did not care to count. so the little girl was somebody; and yet for all that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry. i told you it was a strange country. as she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that she was somebody; and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it that she quite forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it for a fundamental, innate, primary, first-born, self-evident, necessary, and incontrovertible idea and principle that she was somebody. and far be it from me to deny it. i will even go so far as to assert that in this odd country there was a huge number of somebodies. indeed, it was one of its oddities that every boy and girl in it, was rather too ready to think he or she was somebody; and the worst of it was that the princess never thought of there being more than one somebody--and that was herself. far away to the north in the same country, on the side of a bleak hill, where a horse-chestnut or a sycamore was never seen, where were no meadows rich with buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy slopes, covered with dry prickly furze and its flowers of red gold, or moister, softer broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and great sweeps of purple heather, mixed with bilberries, and crowberries, and cranberries--no, i am all wrong: there was nothing out yet but a few furze-blossoms; the rest were all waiting behind their doors till they were called; and no full, slow-gliding river with meadow-sweet along its oozy banks, only a little brook here and there, that dashed past without a moment to say, "how do you do?"--there (would you believe it?) while the same cloud that was dropping down golden rain all about the queen's new baby was dashing huge fierce handfuls of hail upon the hills, with such force that they flew spinning off the rocks and stones, went burrowing in the sheep's wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the shepherd with their sharp spiteful little blows, and made his dog wink and whine as they bounded off his hard wise head, and long sagacious nose; only, when they dropped plump down the chimney, and fell hissing in the little fire, they caught it then, for the clever little fire soon sent them up the chimney again, a good deal swollen, and harmless enough for a while, there (what do you think?) among the hailstones, and the heather, and the cold mountain air, another little girl was born, whom the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess her mother, and a good many of her kindred too, thought somebody. she had not an uncle or an aunt that was less than a shepherd or dairymaid, not a cousin, that was less than a farm-laborer, not a second-cousin that was less than a grocer, and they did not count farther. and yet (would you believe it?) she too cried the very first thing. it was an odd country! and, what is still more surprising, the shepherd and shepherdess and the dairymaids and the laborers were not a bit wiser than the king and the queen and the dukes and the marquises and the earls; for they too, one and all, so constantly taught the little woman that she was somebody, that she also forgot that there were a great many more somebodies besides herself in the world. it was, indeed, a peculiar country, very different from ours--so different, that my reader must not be too much surprised when i add the amazing fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying the things they had, were always wanting the things they had not, often even the things it was least likely they ever could have. the grown men and women being like this, there is no reason to be further astonished that the princess rosamond--the name her parents gave her because it means rose of the world--should grow up like them, wanting every thing she could and every thing she couldn't have. the things she could have were a great many too many, for her foolish parents always gave her what they could; but still there remained a few things they couldn't give her, for they were only a common king and queen. they could and did give her a lighted candle when she cried for it, and managed by much care that she should not burn her fingers or set her frock on fire; but when she cried for the moon, that they could not give her. they did the worst thing possible, instead, however; for they pretended to do what they could not. they got her a thin disc of brilliantly polished silver, as near the size of the moon as they could agree upon; and, for a time she was delighted. but, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon was a little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark. her nurse happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with it; and instantly came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished. presently, through the opening of the curtains, she caught sight of the real moon, far away in the sky, and shining quite calmly, as if she had been there all the time; and her rage increased to such a degree that if it had not passed off in a fit, i do not know what might have come of it. as she grew up it was still the same, with this difference, that not only must she have every thing, but she got tired of every thing almost as soon as she had it. there was an accumulation of things in her nursery and schoolroom and bedroom that was perfectly appalling. her mother's wardrobes were almost useless to her, so packed were they with things of which she never took any notice. when she was five years old, they gave her a splendid gold repeater, so close set with diamonds and rubies, that the back was just one crust of gems. in one of her little tempers, as they called her hideously ugly rages, she dashed it against the back of the chimney, after which it never gave a single tick; and some of the diamonds went to the ash-pit. as she grew older still, she became fond of animals, not in a way that brought them much pleasure, or herself much satisfaction. when angry, she would beat them, and try to pull them to pieces, and as soon as she became a little used to them, would neglect them altogether. then, if they could, they would run away, and she was furious. some white mice, which she had ceased feeding altogether, did so; and soon the palace was swarming with white mice. their red eyes might be seen glowing, and their white skins gleaming, in every dark corner; but when it came to the king's finding a nest of them in his second-best crown, he was angry and ordered them to be drowned. the princess heard of it, however, and raised such a clamor, that there they were left until they should run away of themselves; and the poor king had to wear his best crown every day till then. nothing that was the princess's property, whether she cared for it or not, was to be meddled with. of course, as she grew, she grew worse; for she never tried to grow better. she became more and more peevish and fretful every day--dissatisfied not only with what she had, but with all that was around her, and constantly wishing things in general to be different. she found fault with every thing and everybody, and all that happened, and grew more and more disagreeable to every one who had to do with her. at last, when she had nearly killed her nurse, and had all but succeeded in hanging herself, and was miserable from morning to night, her parents thought it time to do something. a long way from the palace, in the heart of a deep wood of pine-trees, lived a wise woman. in some countries she would have been called a witch; but that would have been a mistake, for she never did any thing wicked, and had more power than any witch could have. as her fame was spread through all the country, the king heard of her; and, thinking she might perhaps be able to suggest something, sent for her. in the dead of the night, lest the princess should know it, the king's messenger brought into the palace a tall woman, muffled from head to foot in a cloak of black cloth. in the presence of both their majesties, the king, to do her honor, requested her to sit; but she declined, and stood waiting to hear what they had to say. nor had she to wait long, for almost instantly they began to tell her the dreadful trouble they were in with their only child; first the king talking, then the queen interposing with some yet more dreadful fact, and at times both letting out a torrent of words together, so anxious were they to show the wise woman that their perplexity was real, and their daughter a very terrible one. for a long while there appeared no sign of approaching pause. but the wise woman stood patiently folded in her black cloak, and listened without word or motion. at length silence fell; for they had talked themselves tired, and could not think of any thing more to add to the list of their child's enormities. after a minute, the wise woman unfolded her arms; and her cloak dropping open in front, disclosed a garment made of a strange stuff, which an old poet who knew her well has thus described:-- "all lilly white, withoutten spot or pride, that seemd like silke and silver woven neare; but neither silke nor silver therein did appeare." "how very badly you have treated her!" said the wise woman. "poor child!" "treated her badly?" gasped the king. "she is a very wicked child," said the queen; and both glared with indignation. "yes, indeed!" returned the wise woman. "she is very naughty indeed, and that she must be made to feel; but it is half your fault too." "what!" stammered the king. "haven't we given her every mortal thing she wanted?" "surely," said the wise woman: "what else could have all but killed her? you should have given her a few things of the other sort. but you are far too dull to understand me." "you are very polite," remarked the king, with royal sarcasm on his thin, straight lips. the wise woman made no answer beyond a deep sigh; and the king and queen sat silent also in their anger, glaring at the wise woman. the silence lasted again for a minute, and then the wise woman folded her cloak around her, and her shining garment vanished like the moon when a great cloud comes over her. yet another minute passed and the silence endured, for the smouldering wrath of the king and queen choked the channels of their speech. then the wise woman turned her back on them, and so stood. at this, the rage of the king broke forth; and he cried to the queen, stammering in his fierceness,-- "how should such an old hag as that teach rosamond good manners? she knows nothing of them herself! look how she stands!--actually with her back to us." at the word the wise woman walked from the room. the great folding doors fell to behind her; and the same moment the king and queen were quarrelling like apes as to which of them was to blame for her departure. before their altercation was over, for it lasted till the early morning, in rushed rosamond, clutching in her hand a poor little white rabbit, of which she was very fond, and from which, only because it would not come to her when she called it, she was pulling handfuls of fur in the attempt to tear the squealing, pink-eared, red-eyed thing to pieces. "rosa, rosamond!" cried the queen; whereupon rosamond threw the rabbit in her mother's face. the king started up in a fury, and ran to seize her. she darted shrieking from the room. the king rushed after her; but, to his amazement, she was nowhere to be seen: the huge hall was empty.--no: just outside the door, close to the threshold, with her back to it, sat the figure of the wise woman, muffled in her dark cloak, with her head bowed over her knees. as the king stood looking at her, she rose slowly, crossed the hall, and walked away down the marble staircase. the king called to her; but she never turned her head, or gave the least sign that she heard him. so quietly did she pass down the wide marble stair, that the king was all but persuaded he had seen only a shadow gliding across the white steps. for the princess, she was nowhere to be found. the queen went into hysterics; and the rabbit ran away. the king sent out messengers in every direction, but in vain. in a short time the palace was quiet--as quiet as it used to be before the princess was born. the king and queen cried a little now and then, for the hearts of parents were in that country strangely fashioned; and yet i am afraid the first movement of those very hearts would have been a jump of terror if the ears above them had heard the voice of rosamond in one of the corridors. as for the rest of the household, they could not have made up a single tear amongst them. they thought, whatever it might be for the princess, it was, for every one else, the best thing that could have happened; and as to what had become of her, if their heads were puzzled, their hearts took no interest in the question. the lord-chancellor alone had an idea about it, but he was far too wise to utter it. ii. the fact, as is plain, was, that the princess had disappeared in the folds of the wise woman's cloak. when she rushed from the room, the wise woman caught her to her bosom and flung the black garment around her. the princess struggled wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and screamed as loud as choking fright would permit her; but her father, standing in the door, and looking down upon the wise woman, saw never a movement of the cloak, so tight was she held by her captor. he was indeed aware of a most angry crying, which reminded him of his daughter; but it sounded to him so far away, that he took it for the passion of some child in the street, outside the palace-gates. hence, unchallenged, the wise woman carried the princess down the marble stairs, out at the palace-door, down a great flight of steps outside, across a paved court, through the brazen gates, along half-roused streets where people were opening their shops, through the huge gates of the city, and out into the wide road, vanishing northwards; the princess struggling and screaming all the time, and the wise woman holding her tight. when at length she was too tired to struggle or scream any more, the wise woman unfolded her cloak, and set her down; and the princess saw the light and opened her swollen eyelids. there was nothing in sight that she had ever seen before. city and palace had disappeared. they were upon a wide road going straight on, with a ditch on each side of it, that behind them widened into the great moat surrounding the city. she cast up a terrified look into the wise woman's face, that gazed down upon her gravely and kindly. now the princess did not in the least understand kindness. she always took it for a sign either of partiality or fear. so when the wise woman looked kindly upon her, she rushed at her, butting with her head like a ram: but the folds of the cloak had closed around the wise woman; and, when the princess ran against it, she found it hard as the cloak of a bronze statue, and fell back upon the road with a great bruise on her head. the wise woman lifted her again, and put her once more under the cloak, where she fell asleep, and where she awoke again only to find that she was still being carried on and on. when at length the wise woman again stopped and set her down, she saw around her a bright moonlit night, on a wide heath, solitary and houseless. here she felt more frightened than before; nor was her terror assuaged when, looking up, she saw a stern, immovable countenance, with cold eyes fixedly regarding her. all she knew of the world being derived from nursery-tales, she concluded that the wise woman was an ogress, carrying her home to eat her. i have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life, such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over her than kindness. she understood terror better far than tenderness. when the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held up her hands to her, crying,-- "oh, don't eat me! don't eat me!" now this being the best she could do, it was a sign she was a low creature. think of it--to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror. but the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before. the only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable somebody. without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one of rosamond's, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the moonlight. every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot. and so they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak against the princess, she found them soft as her mother's camel-hair shawl. after a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the trailing of the wise woman's cloak, were the only sounds beside. and this is the song she sang:-- out in the cold, with a thin-worn fold of withered gold around her rolled, hangs in the air the weary moon. she is old, old, old; and her bones all cold, and her tales all told, and her things all sold, and she has no breath to croon. like a castaway clout, she is quite shut out! she might call and shout, but no one about would ever call back, "who's there?" there is never a hut, not a door to shut, not a footpath or rut, long road or short cut, leading to anywhere! she is all alone like a dog-picked bone, the poor old crone! she fain would groan, but she cannot find the breath. she once had a fire; but she built it no higher, and only sat nigher till she saw it expire; and now she is cold as death. she never will smile all the lonesome while. oh the mile after mile, and never a stile! and never a tree or a stone! she has not a tear: afar and anear it is all so drear, but she does not care, her heart is as dry as a bone. none to come near her! no one to cheer her! no one to jeer her! no one to hear her! not a thing to lift and hold! she is always awake, but her heart will not break: she can only quake, shiver, and shake: the old woman is very cold. as strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise woman sung. at the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did. for when people will be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to like it. the princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried,-- "you are the ugly old woman. i hate you!" therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also, perhaps coax her to go on: if she did, she was determined not to move a step. but the wise woman never even looked about: she kept walking on steadily, the same pace as before. little obstinate thought for certain she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious to be left behind. but on and on the wise woman went, until she had vanished away in the dim moonlight. then all at once the princess perceived that she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her from the height of her loneliness. she was horribly frightened, and began to run after the wise woman, calling aloud. but the song she had just heard came back to the sound of her own running feet,-- all all alone, like a dog-picked bone! and again,-- she might call and shout, and no one about would ever call back, "who's there?" and she screamed as she ran. how she wished she knew the old woman's name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight! but the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running feet, and stopped and turned, waiting. what with running and crying, however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until she fell right into her arms--and the same moment into a fresh rage; for as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to begin another. the wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on; while the princess ran scolding and storming after her. she had to run till, from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased. her heart gave way; she burst into tears, and ran on silently weeping. a minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms, folded her cloak around her. instantly she fell asleep, and slept as soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed. she slept till the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more: and all that time the wise woman went walking on and on very fast. and now they had reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the moonlight. at the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between the folds of the wise woman's cloak--a very ugly little owlet she looked--saw that they were entering the wood. now there is something awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a fir-wood is more awful than other woods. for one thing, it lets a little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below them--not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the darkness even, look sheltering. so the princess is not to be blamed that she was very much frightened. she is hardly to be blamed either that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those of my readers who are of the same sort as herself will consider the right and natural thing to do. the wrong in her was this--that she had led such a bad life, that she did not know a good woman when she saw her; took her for one like herself, even after she had slept in her arms. immediately the wise woman set her down, and, walking on, within a few paces vanished among the trees. then the cries of the princess rent the air, but the fir-trees never heeded her; not one of their hard little needles gave a single shiver for all the noise she made. but there were creatures in the forest who were soon quite as much interested in her cries as the fir-trees were indifferent to them. they began to hearken and howl and snuff about, and run hither and thither, and grin with their white teeth, and light up the green lamps in their eyes. in a minute or two a whole army of wolves and hyenas were rushing from all quarters through the pillar like stems of the fir-trees, to the place where she stood calling them, without knowing it. the noise she made herself, however, prevented her from hearing either their howls or the soft pattering of their many trampling feet as they bounded over the fallen fir needles and cones. one huge old wolf had outsped the rest--not that he could run faster, but that from experience he could more exactly judge whence the cries came, and as he shot through the wood, she caught sight at last of his lamping eyes coming swiftly nearer and nearer. terror silenced her. she stood with her mouth open, as if she were going to eat the wolf, but she had no breath to scream with, and her tongue curled up in her mouth like a withered and frozen leaf. she could do nothing but stare at the coming monster. and now he was taking a few shorter bounds, measuring the distance for the one final leap that should bring him upon her, when out stepped the wise woman from behind the very tree by which she had set the princess down, caught the wolf by the throat half-way in his last spring, shook him once, and threw him from her dead. then she turned towards the princess, who flung herself into her arms, and was instantly lapped in the folds of her cloak. but now the huge army of wolves and hyenas had rushed like a sea around them, whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and hollow yell up against the wise woman. but she, like a strong stately vessel, moved unhurt through the midst of them. ever as they leaped against her cloak, they dropped and slunk away back through the crowd. others ever succeeded, and ever in their turn fell, and drew back confounded. for some time she walked on attended and assailed on all sides by the howling pack. suddenly they turned and swept away, vanishing in the depths of the forest. she neither slackened nor hastened her step, but went walking on as before. in a little while she unfolded her cloak, and let the princess look out. the firs had ceased; and they were on a lofty height of moorland, stony and bare and dry, with tufts of heather and a few small plants here and there. about the heath, on every side, lay the forest, looking in the moonlight like a cloud; and above the forest, like the shaven crown of a monk, rose the bare moor over which they were walking. presently, a little way in front of them, the princess espied a whitewashed cottage, gleaming in the moon. as they came nearer, she saw that the roof was covered with thatch, over which the moss had grown green. it was a very simple, humble place, not in the least terrible to look at, and yet, as soon as she saw it, her fear again awoke, and always, as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the princess fell into a dead sleep. foolish and useless as she might by this time have known it, she once more began kicking and screaming, whereupon, yet once more, the wise woman set her down on the heath, a few yards from the back of the cottage, and saying only, "no one ever gets into my house who does not knock at the door, and ask to come in," disappeared round the corner of the cottage, leaving the princess alone with the moon--two white faces in the cone of the night. iii. the moon stared at the princess, and the princess stared at the moon; but the moon had the best of it, and the princess began to cry. and now the question was between the moon and the cottage. the princess thought she knew the worst of the moon, and she knew nothing at all about the cottage, therefore she would stay with the moon. strange, was it not, that she should have been so long with the wise woman, and yet know nothing about that cottage? as for the moon, she did not by any means know the worst of her, or even, that, if she were to fall asleep where she could find her, the old witch would certainly do her best to twist her face. but she had scarcely sat a moment longer before she was assailed by all sorts of fresh fears. first of all, the soft wind blowing gently through the dry stalks of the heather and its thousands of little bells raised a sweet rustling, which the princess took for the hissing of serpents, for you know she had been naughty for so long that she could not in a great many things tell the good from the bad. then nobody could deny that there, all round about the heath, like a ring of darkness, lay the gloomy fir-wood, and the princess knew what it was full of, and every now and then she thought she heard the howling of its wolves and hyenas. and who could tell but some of them might break from their covert and sweep like a shadow across the heath? indeed, it was not once nor twice that for a moment she was fully persuaded she saw a great beast coming leaping and bounding through the moonlight to have her all to himself. she did not know that not a single evil creature dared set foot on that heath, or that, if one should do so, it would that instant wither up and cease. if an army of them had rushed to invade it, it would have melted away on the edge of it, and ceased like a dying wave.--she even imagined that the moon was slowly coming nearer and nearer down the sky to take her and freeze her to death in her arms. the wise woman, too, she felt sure, although her cottage looked asleep, was watching her at some little window. in this, however, she would have been quite right, if she had only imagined enough--namely, that the wise woman was watching over her from the little window. but after all, somehow, the thought of the wise woman was less frightful than that of any of her other terrors, and at length she began to wonder whether it might not turn out that she was no ogress, but only a rude, ill-bred, tyrannical, yet on the whole not altogether ill-meaning person. hardly had the possibility arisen in her mind, before she was on her feet: if the woman was any thing short of an ogress, her cottage must be better than that horrible loneliness, with nothing in all the world but a stare; and even an ogress had at least the shape and look of a human being. she darted round the end of the cottage to find the front. but, to her surprise, she came only to another back, for no door was to be seen. she tried the farther end, but still no door. she must have passed it as she ran--but no--neither in gable nor in side was any to be found. a cottage without a door!--she rushed at it in a rage and kicked at the wall with her feet. but the wall was hard as iron, and hurt her sadly through her gay silken slippers. she threw herself on the heath, which came up to the walls of the cottage on every side, and roared and screamed with rage. suddenly, however, she remembered how her screaming had brought the horde of wolves and hyenas about her in the forest, and, ceasing at once, lay still, gazing yet again at the moon. and then came the thought of her parents in the palace at home. in her mind's eye she saw her mother sitting at her embroidery with the tears dropping upon it, and her father staring into the fire as if he were looking for her in its glowing caverns. it is true that if they had both been in tears by her side because of her naughtiness, she would not have cared a straw; but now her own forlorn condition somehow helped her to understand their grief at having lost her, and not only a great longing to be back in her comfortable home, but a feeble flutter of genuine love for her parents awoke in her heart as well, and she burst into real tears--soft, mournful tears--very different from those of rage and disappointment to which she was so much used. and another very remarkable thing was that the moment she began to love her father and mother, she began to wish to see the wise woman again. the idea of her being an ogress vanished utterly, and she thought of her only as one to take her in from the moon, and the loneliness, and the terrors of the forest-haunted heath, and hide her in a cottage with not even a door for the horrid wolves to howl against. but the old woman--as the princess called her, not knowing that her real name was the wise woman--had told her that she must knock at the door: how was she to do that when there was no door? but again she bethought herself--that, if she could not do all she was told, she could, at least, do a part of it: if she could not knock at the door, she could at least knock--say on the wall, for there was nothing else to knock upon--and perhaps the old woman would hear her, and lift her in by some window. thereupon, she rose at once to her feet, and picking up a stone, began to knock on the wall with it. a loud noise was the result, and she found she was knocking on the very door itself. for a moment she feared the old woman would be offended, but the next, there came a voice, saying, "who is there?" the princess answered, "please, old woman, i did not mean to knock so loud." to this there came no reply. then the princess knocked again, this time with her knuckles, and the voice came again, saying, "who is there?" and the princess answered, "rosamond." then a second time there was silence. but the princess soon ventured to knock a third time. "what do you want?" said the voice. "oh, please, let me in!" said the princess. "the moon will keep staring at me; and i hear the wolves in the wood." then the door opened, and the princess entered. she looked all around, but saw nothing of the wise woman. it was a single bare little room, with a white deal table, and a few old wooden chairs, a fire of fir-wood on the hearth, the smoke of which smelt sweet, and a patch of thick-growing heath in one corner. poor as it was, compared to the grand place rosamond had left, she felt no little satisfaction as she shut the door, and looked around her. and what with the sufferings and terrors she had left outside, the new kind of tears she had shed, the love she had begun to feel for her parents, and the trust she had begun to place in the wise woman, it seemed to her as if her soul had grown larger of a sudden, and she had left the days of her childishness and naughtiness far behind her. people are so ready to think themselves changed when it is only their mood that is changed! those who are good-tempered because it is a fine day, will be ill-tempered when it rains: their selves are just the same both days; only in the one case, the fine weather has got into them, in the other the rainy. rosamond, as she sat warming herself by the glow of the peat-fire, turning over in her mind all that had passed, and feeling how pleasant the change in her feelings was, began by degrees to think how very good she had grown, and how very good she was to have grown good, and how extremely good she must always have been that she was able to grow so very good as she now felt she had grown; and she became so absorbed in her self-admiration as never to notice either that the fire was dying, or that a heap of fir-cones lay in a corner near it. suddenly, a great wind came roaring down the chimney, and scattered the ashes about the floor; a tremendous rain followed, and fell hissing on the embers; the moon was swallowed up, and there was darkness all about her. then a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, so terrified the princess, that she cried aloud for the old woman, but there came no answer to her cry. then in her terror the princess grew angry, and saying to herself, "she must be somewhere in the place, else who was there to open the door to me?" began to shout and yell, and call the wise woman all the bad names she had been in the habit of throwing at her nurses. but there came not a single sound in reply. strange to say, the princess never thought of telling herself now how naughty she was, though that would surely have been reasonable. on the contrary, she thought she had a perfect right to be angry, for was she not most desperately ill used--and a princess too? but the wind howled on, and the rain kept pouring down the chimney, and every now and then the lightning burst out, and the thunder rushed after it, as if the great lumbering sound could ever think to catch up with the swift light! at length the princess had again grown so angry, frightened, and miserable, all together, that she jumped up and hurried about the cottage with outstretched arms, trying to find the wise woman. but being in a bad temper always makes people stupid, and presently she struck her forehead such a blow against something--she thought herself it felt like the old woman's cloak--that she fell back--not on the floor, though, but on the patch of heather, which felt as soft and pleasant as any bed in the palace. there, worn out with weeping and rage, she soon fell fast asleep. she dreamed that she was the old cold woman up in the sky, with no home and no friends, and no nothing at all, not even a pocket; wandering, wandering forever, over a desert of blue sand, never to get to anywhere, and never to lie down or die. it was no use stopping to look about her, for what had she to do but forever look about her as she went on and on and on--never seeing any thing, and never expecting to see any thing! the only shadow of a hope she had was, that she might by slow degrees grow thinner and thinner, until at last she wore away to nothing at all; only alas! she could not detect the least sign that she had yet begun to grow thinner. the hopelessness grew at length so unendurable that she woke with a start. seeing the face of the wise woman bending over her, she threw her arms around her neck and held up her mouth to be kissed. and the kiss of the wise woman was like the rose-gardens of damascus. iv. the wise woman lifted her tenderly, and washed and dressed her far more carefully than even her nurse. then she set her down by the fire, and prepared her breakfast. the princess was very hungry, and the bread and milk as good as it could be, so that she thought she had never in her life eaten any thing nicer. nevertheless, as soon as she began to have enough, she said to herself,-- "ha! i see how it is! the old woman wants to fatten me! that is why she gives me such nice creamy milk. she doesn't kill me now because she's going to kill me then! she is an ogress, after all!" thereupon she laid down her spoon, and would not eat another mouthful--only followed the basin with longing looks, as the wise woman carried it away. when she stopped eating, her hostess knew exactly what she was thinking; but it was one thing to understand the princess, and quite another to make the princess understand her: that would require time. for the present she took no notice, but went about the affairs of the house, sweeping the floor, brushing down the cobwebs, cleaning the hearth, dusting the table and chairs, and watering the bed to keep it fresh and alive--for she never had more than one guest at a time, and never would allow that guest to go to sleep upon any thing that had no life in it. all the time she was thus busied, she spoke not a word to the princess, which, with the princess, went to confirm her notion of her purposes. but whatever she might have said would have been only perverted by the princess into yet stronger proof of her evil designs, for a fancy in her own head would outweigh any multitude of facts in another's. she kept staring at the fire, and never looked round to see what the wise woman might be doing. by and by she came close up to the back of her chair, and said, "rosamond!" but the princess had fallen into one of her sulky moods, and shut herself up with her own ugly somebody; so she never looked round or even answered the wise woman. "rosamond," she repeated, "i am going out. if you are a good girl, that is, if you do as i tell you, i will carry you back to your father and mother the moment i return." the princess did not take the least notice. "look at me, rosamond," said the wise woman. but rosamond never moved--never even shrugged her shoulders--perhaps because they were already up to her ears, and could go no farther. "i want to help you to do what i tell you," said the wise woman. "look at me." still rosamond was motionless and silent, saying only to herself, "i know what she's after! she wants to show me her horrid teeth. but i won't look. i'm not going to be frightened out of my senses to please her." "you had better look, rosamond. have you forgotten how you kissed me this morning?" but rosamond now regarded that little throb of affection as a momentary weakness into which the deceitful ogress had betrayed her, and almost despised herself for it. she was one of those who the more they are coaxed are the more disagreeable. for such, the wise woman had an awful punishment, but she remembered that the princess had been very ill brought up, and therefore wished to try her with all gentleness first. she stood silent for a moment, to see what effect her words might have. but rosamond only said to herself,-- "she wants to fatten and eat me." and it was such a little while since she had looked into the wise woman's loving eyes, thrown her arms round her neck, and kissed her! "well," said the wise woman gently, after pausing as long as it seemed possible she might bethink herself, "i must tell you then without; only whoever listens with her back turned, listens but half, and gets but half the help." "she wants to fatten me," said the princess. "you must keep the cottage tidy while i am out. when i come back, i must see the fire bright, the hearth swept, and the kettle boiling; no dust on the table or chairs, the windows clear, the floor clean, and the heather in blossom--which last comes of sprinkling it with water three times a day. when you are hungry, put your hand into that hole in the wall, and you will find a meal." "she wants to fatten me," said the princess. "but on no account leave the house till i come back," continued the wise woman, "or you will grievously repent it. remember what you have already gone through to reach it. dangers lie all around this cottage of mine; but inside, it is the safest place--in fact the only quite safe place in all the country." "she means to eat me," said the princess, "and therefore wants to frighten me from running away." she heard the voice no more. then, suddenly startled at the thought of being alone, she looked hastily over her shoulder. the cottage was indeed empty of all visible life. it was soundless, too: there was not even a ticking clock or a flapping flame. the fire burned still and smouldering-wise; but it was all the company she had, and she turned again to stare into it. soon she began to grow weary of having nothing to do. then she remembered that the old woman, as she called her, had told her to keep the house tidy. "the miserable little pig-sty!" she said. "where's the use of keeping such a hovel clean!" but in truth she would have been glad of the employment, only just because she had been told to do it, she was unwilling; for there are people--however unlikely it may seem--who object to doing a thing for no other reason than that it is required of them. "i am a princess," she said, "and it is very improper to ask me to do such a thing." she might have judged it quite as suitable for a princess to sweep away the dust as to sit the centre of a world of dirt. but just because she ought, she wouldn't. perhaps she feared that if she gave in to doing her duty once, she might have to do it always--which was true enough--for that was the very thing for which she had been specially born. unable, however, to feel quite comfortable in the resolve to neglect it, she said to herself, "i'm sure there's time enough for such a nasty job as that!" and sat on, watching the fire as it burned away, the glowing red casting off white flakes, and sinking lower and lower on the hearth. by and by, merely for want of something to do, she would see what the old woman had left for her in the hole of the wall. but when she put in her hand she found nothing there, except the dust which she ought by this time to have wiped away. never reflecting that the wise woman had told her she would find food there when she was hungry, she flew into one of her furies, calling her a cheat, and a thief, and a liar, and an ugly old witch, and an ogress, and i do not know how many wicked names besides. she raged until she was quite exhausted, and then fell fast asleep on her chair. when she awoke the fire was out. by this time she was hungry; but without looking in the hole, she began again to storm at the wise woman, in which labor she would no doubt have once more exhausted herself, had not something white caught her eye: it was the corner of a napkin hanging from the hole in the wall. she bounded to it, and there was a dinner for her of something strangely good--one of her favorite dishes, only better than she had ever tasted it before. this might surely have at least changed her mood towards the wise woman; but she only grumbled to herself that it was as it ought to be, ate up the food, and lay down on the bed, never thinking of fire, or dust, or water for the heather. the wind began to moan about the cottage, and grew louder and louder, till a great gust came down the chimney, and again scattered the white ashes all over the place. but the princess was by this time fast asleep, and never woke till the wind had sunk to silence. one of the consequences, however, of sleeping when one ought to be awake is waking when one ought to be asleep; and the princess awoke in the black midnight, and found enough to keep her awake. for although the wind had fallen, there was a far more terrible howling than that of the wildest wind all about the cottage. nor was the howling all; the air was full of strange cries; and everywhere she heard the noise of claws scratching against the house, which seemed all doors and windows, so crowded were the sounds, and from so many directions. all the night long she lay half swooning, yet listening to the hideous noises. but with the first glimmer of morning they ceased. then she said to herself, "how fortunate it was that i woke! they would have eaten me up if i had been asleep." the miserable little wretch actually talked as if she had kept them out! if she had done her work in the day, she would have slept through the terrors of the darkness, and awaked fearless; whereas now, she had in the storehouse of her heart a whole harvest of agonies, reaped from the dun fields of the night! they were neither wolves nor hyenas which had caused her such dismay, but creatures of the air, more frightful still, which, as soon as the smoke of the burning fir-wood ceased to spread itself abroad, and the sun was a sufficient distance down the sky, and the lone cold woman was out, came flying and howling about the cottage, trying to get in at every door and window. down the chimney they would have got, but that at the heart of the fire there always lay a certain fir-cone, which looked like solid gold red-hot, and which, although it might easily get covered up with ashes, so as to be quite invisible, was continually in a glow fit to kindle all the fir-cones in the world; this it was which had kept the horrible birds--some say they have a claw at the tip of every wing-feather--from tearing the poor naughty princess to pieces, and gobbling her up. when she rose and looked about her, she was dismayed to see what a state the cottage was in. the fire was out, and the windows were all dim with the wings and claws of the dirty birds, while the bed from which she had just risen was brown and withered, and half its purple bells had fallen. but she consoled herself that she could set all to rights in a few minutes--only she must breakfast first. and, sure enough, there was a basin of the delicious bread and milk ready for her in the hole of the wall! after she had eaten it, she felt comfortable, and sat for a long time building castles in the air--till she was actually hungry again, without having done an atom of work. she ate again, and was idle again, and ate again. then it grew dark, and she went trembling to bed, for now she remembered the horrors of the last night. this time she never slept at all, but spent the long hours in grievous terror, for the noises were worse than before. she vowed she would not pass another night in such a hateful haunted old shed for all the ugly women, witches, and ogresses in the wide world. in the morning, however, she fell asleep, and slept late. breakfast was of course her first thought, after which she could not avoid that of work. it made her very miserable, but she feared the consequences of being found with it undone. a few minutes before noon, she actually got up, took her pinafore for a duster, and proceeded to dust the table. but the wood-ashes flew about so, that it seemed useless to attempt getting rid of them, and she sat down again to think what was to be done. but there is very little indeed to be done when we will not do that which we have to do. her first thought now was to run away at once while the sun was high, and get through the forest before night came on. she fancied she could easily go back the way she had come, and get home to her father's palace. but not the most experienced traveller in the world can ever go back the way the wise woman has brought him. she got up and went to the door. it was locked! what could the old woman have meant by telling her not to leave the cottage? she was indignant. the wise woman had meant to make it difficult, but not impossible. before the princess, however, could find the way out, she heard a hand at the door, and darted in terror behind it. the wise woman opened it, and, leaving it open, walked straight to the hearth. rosamond immediately slid out, ran a little way, and then laid herself down in the long heather. v. the wise woman walked straight up to the hearth, looked at the fire, looked at the bed, glanced round the room, and went up to the table. when she saw the one streak in the thick dust which the princess had left there, a smile, half sad, half pleased, like the sun peeping through a cloud on a rainy day in spring, gleamed over her face. she went at once to the door, and called in a loud voice, "rosamond, come to me." all the wolves and hyenas, fast asleep in the wood, heard her voice, and shivered in their dreams. no wonder then that the princess trembled, and found herself compelled, she could not understand how, to obey the summons. she rose, like the guilty thing she felt, forsook of herself the hiding-place she had chosen, and walked slowly back to the cottage she had left full of the signs of her shame. when she entered, she saw the wise woman on her knees, building up the fire with fir-cones. already the flame was climbing through the heap in all directions, crackling gently, and sending a sweet aromatic odor through the dusty cottage. "that is my part of the work," she said, rising. "now you do yours. but first let me remind you that if you had not put it off, you would have found it not only far easier, but by and by quite pleasant work, much more pleasant than you can imagine now; nor would you have found the time go wearily: you would neither have slept in the day and let the fire out, nor waked at night and heard the howling of the beast-birds. more than all, you would have been glad to see me when i came back; and would have leaped into my arms instead of standing there, looking so ugly and foolish." as she spoke, suddenly she held up before the princess a tiny mirror, so clear that nobody looking into it could tell what it was made of, or even see it at all--only the thing reflected in it. rosamond saw a child with dirty fat cheeks, greedy mouth, cowardly eyes--which, not daring to look forward, seemed trying to hide behind an impertinent nose--stooping shoulders, tangled hair, tattered clothes, and smears and stains everywhere. that was what she had made herself. and to tell the truth, she was shocked at the sight, and immediately began, in her dirty heart, to lay the blame on the wise woman, because she had taken her away from her nurses and her fine clothes; while all the time she knew well enough that, close by the heather-bed, was the loveliest little well, just big enough to wash in, the water of which was always springing fresh from the ground, and running away through the wall. beside it lay the whitest of linen towels, with a comb made of mother-of-pearl, and a brush of fir-needles, any one of which she had been far too lazy to use. she dashed the glass out of the wise woman's hand, and there it lay, broken into a thousand pieces! without a word, the wise woman stooped, and gathered the fragments--did not leave searching until she had gathered the last atom, and she laid them all carefully, one by one, in the fire, now blazing high on the hearth. then she stood up and looked at the princess, who had been watching her sulkily. "rosamond," she said, with a countenance awful in its sternness, "until you have cleansed this room--" "she calls it a room!" sneered the princess to herself. "you shall have no morsel to eat. you may drink of the well, but nothing else you shall have. when the work i set you is done, you will find food in the same place as before. i am going from home again; and again i warn you not to leave the house." "she calls it a house!--it's a good thing she's going out of it anyhow!" said the princess, turning her back for mere rudeness, for she was one who, even if she liked a thing before, would dislike it the moment any person in authority over her desired her to do it. when she looked again, the wise woman had vanished. thereupon the princess ran at once to the door, and tried to open it; but open it would not. she searched on all sides, but could discover no way of getting out. the windows would not open--at least she could not open them; and the only outlet seemed the chimney, which she was afraid to try because of the fire, which looked angry, she thought, and shot out green flames when she went near it. so she sat down to consider. one may well wonder what room for consideration there was--with all her work lying undone behind her. she sat thus, however, considering, as she called it, until hunger began to sting her, when she jumped up and put her hand as usual in the hole of the wall: there was nothing there. she fell straight into one of her stupid rages; but neither her hunger nor the hole in the wall heeded her rage. then, in a burst of self-pity, she fell a-weeping, but neither the hunger nor the hole cared for her tears. the darkness began to come on, and her hunger grew and grew, and the terror of the wild noises of the last night invaded her. then she began to feel cold, and saw that the fire was dying. she darted to the heap of cones, and fed it. it blazed up cheerily, and she was comforted a little. then she thought with herself it would surely be better to give in so far, and do a little work, than die of hunger. so catching up a duster, she began upon the table. the dust flew about and nearly choked her. she ran to the well to drink, and was refreshed and encouraged. perceiving now that it was a tedious plan to wipe the dust from the table on to the floor, whence it would have all to be swept up again, she got a wooden platter, wiped the dust into that, carried it to the fire, and threw it in. but all the time she was getting more and more hungry and, although she tried the hole again and again, it was only to become more and more certain that work she must if she would eat. at length all the furniture was dusted, and she began to sweep the floor, which happily, she thought of sprinkling with water, as from the window she had seen them do to the marble court of the palace. that swept, she rushed again to the hole--but still no food! she was on the verge of another rage, when the thought came that she might have forgotten something. to her dismay she found that table and chairs and every thing was again covered with dust--not so badly as before, however. again she set to work, driven by hunger, and drawn by the hope of eating, and yet again, after a second careful wiping, sought the hole. but no! nothing was there for her! what could it mean? her asking this question was a sign of progress: it showed that she expected the wise woman to keep her word. then she bethought her that she had forgotten the household utensils, and the dishes and plates, some of which wanted to be washed as well as dusted. faint with hunger, she set to work yet again. one thing made her think of another, until at length she had cleaned every thing she could think of. now surely she must find some food in the hole! when this time also there was nothing, she began once more to abuse the wise woman as false and treacherous;--but ah! there was the bed unwatered! that was soon amended.--still no supper! ah! there was the hearth unswept, and the fire wanted making up!--still no supper! what else could there be? she was at her wits' end, and in very weariness, not laziness this time, sat down and gazed into the fire. there, as she gazed, she spied something brilliant,--shining even, in the midst of the fire: it was the little mirror all whole again; but little she knew that the dust which she had thrown into the fire had helped to heal it. she drew it out carefully, and, looking into it, saw, not indeed the ugly creature she had seen there before, but still a very dirty little animal; whereupon she hurried to the well, took off her clothes, plunged into it, and washed herself clean. then she brushed and combed her hair, made her clothes as tidy as might be, and ran to the hole in the wall: there was a huge basin of bread and milk! never had she eaten any thing with half the relish! alas! however, when she had finished, she did not wash the basin, but left it as it was, revealing how entirely all the rest had been done only from hunger. then she threw herself on the heather, and was fast asleep in a moment. never an evil bird came near her all that night, nor had she so much as one troubled dream. in the morning as she lay awake before getting up, she spied what seemed a door behind the tall eight-day clock that stood silent in the corner. "ah!" she thought, "that must be the way out!" and got up instantly. the first thing she did, however, was to go to the hole in the wall. nothing was there. "well, i am hardly used!" she cried aloud. "all that cleaning for the cross old woman yesterday, and this for my trouble,--nothing for breakfast! not even a crust of bread! does mistress ogress fancy a princess will bear that?" the poor foolish creature seemed to think that the work of one day ought to serve for the next day too! but that is nowhere the way in the whole universe. how could there be a universe in that case? and even she never dreamed of applying the same rule to her breakfast. "how good i was all yesterday!" she said, "and how hungry and ill used i am to-day!" but she would not be a slave, and do over again to-day what she had done only last night! she didn't care about her breakfast! she might have it no doubt if she dusted all the wretched place again, but she was not going to do that--at least, without seeing first what lay behind the clock! off she darted, and putting her hand behind the clock found the latch of a door. it lifted, and the door opened a little way. by squeezing hard, she managed to get behind the clock, and so through the door. but how she stared, when instead of the open heath, she found herself on the marble floor of a large and stately room, lighted only from above. its walls were strengthened by pilasters, and in every space between was a large picture, from cornice to floor. she did not know what to make of it. surely she had run all round the cottage, and certainly had seen nothing of this size near it! she forgot that she had also run round what she took for a hay-mow, a peat-stack, and several other things which looked of no consequence in the moonlight. "so, then," she cried, "the old woman is a cheat! i believe she's an ogress, after all, and lives in a palace--though she pretends it's only a cottage, to keep people from suspecting that she eats good little children like me!" had the princess been tolerably tractable, she would, by this time, have known a good deal about the wise woman's beautiful house, whereas she had never till now got farther than the porch. neither was she at all in its innermost places now. but, king's daughter as she was, she was not a little daunted when, stepping forward from the recess of the door, she saw what a great lordly hall it was. she dared hardly look to the other end, it seemed so far off: so she began to gaze at the things near her, and the pictures first of all, for she had a great liking for pictures. one in particular attracted her attention. she came back to it several times, and at length stood absorbed in it. a blue summer sky, with white fleecy clouds floating beneath it, hung over a hill green to the very top, and alive with streams darting down its sides toward the valley below. on the face of the hill strayed a flock of sheep feeding, attended by a shepherd and two dogs. a little way apart, a girl stood with bare feet in a brook, building across it a bridge of rough stones. the wind was blowing her hair back from her rosy face. a lamb was feeding close beside her; and a sheepdog was trying to reach her hand to lick it. "oh, how i wish i were that little girl!" said the princess aloud. "i wonder how it is that some people are made to be so much happier than others! if i were that little girl, no one would ever call me naughty." she gazed and gazed at the picture. at length she said to herself, "i do not believe it is a picture. it is the real country, with a real hill, and a real little girl upon it. i shall soon see whether this isn't another of the old witch's cheats!" she went close up to the picture, lifted her foot, and stepped over the frame. "i am free, i am free!" she exclaimed; and she felt the wind upon her cheek. the sound of a closing door struck on her ear. she turned--and there was a blank wall, without door or window, behind her. the hill with the sheep was before her, and she set out at once to reach it. now, if i am asked how this could be, i can only answer, that it was a result of the interaction of things outside and things inside, of the wise woman's skill, and the silly child's folly. if this does not satisfy my questioner, i can only add, that the wise woman was able to do far more wonderful things than this. vi. meantime the wise woman was busy as she always was; and her business now was with the child of the shepherd and shepherdess, away in the north. her name was agnes. her father and mother were poor, and could not give her many things. rosamond would have utterly despised the rude, simple playthings she had. yet in one respect they were of more value far than hers: the king bought rosamond's with his money; agnes's father made hers with his hands. and while agnes had but few things--not seeing many things about her, and not even knowing that there were many things anywhere, she did not wish for many things, and was therefore neither covetous nor avaricious. she played with the toys her father made her, and thought them the most wonderful things in the world--windmills, and little crooks, and water-wheels, and sometimes lambs made all of wool, and dolls made out of the leg-bones of sheep, which her mother dressed for her; and of such playthings she was never tired. sometimes, however, she preferred playing with stones, which were plentiful, and flowers, which were few, or the brooks that ran down the hill, of which, although they were many, she could only play with one at a time, and that, indeed, troubled her a little--or live lambs that were not all wool, or the sheep-dogs, which were very friendly with her, and the best of playfellows, as she thought, for she had no human ones to compare them with. neither was she greedy after nice things, but content, as well she might be, with the homely food provided for her. nor was she by nature particularly self-willed or disobedient; she generally did what her father and mother wished, and believed what they told her. but by degrees they had spoiled her; and this was the way: they were so proud of her that they always repeated every thing she said, and told every thing she did, even when she was present; and so full of admiration of their child were they, that they wondered and laughed at and praised things in her which in another child would never have struck them as the least remarkable, and some things even which would in another have disgusted them altogether. impertinent and rude things done by their child they thought so clever! laughing at them as something quite marvellous; her commonplace speeches were said over again as if they had been the finest poetry; and the pretty ways which every moderately good child has were extolled as if the result of her excellent taste, and the choice of her judgment and will. they would even say sometimes that she ought not to hear her own praises for fear it should make her vain, and then whisper them behind their hands, but so loud that she could not fail to hear every word. the consequence was that she soon came to believe--so soon, that she could not recall the time when she did not believe, as the most absolute fact in the universe, that she was somebody; that is, she became most immoderately conceited. now as the least atom of conceit is a thing to be ashamed of, you may fancy what she was like with such a quantity of it inside her! at first it did not show itself outside in any very active form; but the wise woman had been to the cottage, and had seen her sitting alone, with such a smile of self-satisfaction upon her face as would have been quite startling to her, if she had ever been startled at any thing; for through that smile she could see lying at the root of it the worm that made it. for some smiles are like the ruddiness of certain apples, which is owing to a centipede, or other creeping thing, coiled up at the heart of them. only her worm had a face and shape the very image of her own; and she looked so simpering, and mawkish, and self-conscious, and silly, that she made the wise woman feel rather sick. not that the child was a fool. had she been, the wise woman would have only pitied and loved her, instead of feeling sick when she looked at her. she had very fair abilities, and were she once but made humble, would be capable not only of doing a good deal in time, but of beginning at once to grow to no end. but, if she were not made humble, her growing would be to a mass of distorted shapes all huddled together; so that, although the body she now showed might grow up straight and well-shaped and comely to behold, the new body that was growing inside of it, and would come out of it when she died, would be ugly, and crooked this way and that, like an aged hawthorn that has lived hundreds of years exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds. as time went on, this disease of self-conceit went on too, gradually devouring the good that was in her. for there is no fault that does not bring its brothers and sisters and cousins to live with it. by degrees, from thinking herself so clever, she came to fancy that whatever seemed to her, must of course be the correct judgment, and whatever she wished, the right thing; and grew so obstinate, that at length her parents feared to thwart her in any thing, knowing well that she would never give in. but there are victories far worse than defeats; and to overcome an angel too gentle to put out all his strength, and ride away in triumph on the back of a devil, is one of the poorest. so long as she was left to take her own way and do as she would, she gave her parents little trouble. she would play about by herself in the little garden with its few hardy flowers, or amongst the heather where the bees were busy; or she would wander away amongst the hills, and be nobody knew where, sometimes from morning to night; nor did her parents venture to find fault with her. she never went into rages like the princess, and would have thought rosamond--oh, so ugly and vile! if she had seen her in one of her passions. but she was no better, for all that, and was quite as ugly in the eyes of the wise woman, who could not only see but read her face. what is there to choose between a face distorted to hideousness by anger, and one distorted to silliness by self-complacency? true, there is more hope of helping the angry child out of her form of selfishness than the conceited child out of hers; but on the other hand, the conceited child was not so terrible or dangerous as the wrathful one. the conceited one, however, was sometimes very angry, and then her anger was more spiteful than the other's; and, again, the wrathful one was often very conceited too. so that, on the whole, of two very unpleasant creatures, i would say that the king's daughter would have been the worse, had not the shepherd's been quite as bad. but, as i have said, the wise woman had her eye upon her: she saw that something special must be done, else she would be one of those who kneel to their own shadows till feet grow on their knees; then go down on their hands till their hands grow into feet; then lay their faces on the ground till they grow into snouts; when at last they are a hideous sort of lizards, each of which believes himself the best, wisest, and loveliest being in the world, yea, the very centre of the universe. and so they run about forever looking for their own shadows, that they may worship them, and miserable because they cannot find them, being themselves too near the ground to have any shadows; and what becomes of them at last there is but one who knows. the wise woman, therefore, one day walked up to the door of the shepherd's cottage, dressed like a poor woman, and asked for a drink of water. the shepherd's wife looked at her, liked her, and brought her a cup of milk. the wise woman took it, for she made it a rule to accept every kindness that was offered her. agnes was not by nature a greedy girl, as i have said; but self-conceit will go far to generate every other vice under the sun. vanity, which is a form of self-conceit, has repeatedly shown itself as the deepest feeling in the heart of a horrible murderess. that morning, at breakfast, her mother had stinted her in milk--just a little--that she might have enough to make some milk-porridge for their dinner. agnes did not mind it at the time, but when she saw the milk now given to a beggar, as she called the wise woman--though, surely, one might ask a draught of water, and accept a draught of milk, without being a beggar in any such sense as agnes's contemptuous use of the word implied--a cloud came upon her forehead, and a double vertical wrinkle settled over her nose. the wise woman saw it, for all her business was with agnes though she little knew it, and, rising, went and offered the cup to the child, where she sat with her knitting in a corner. agnes looked at it, did not want it, was inclined to refuse it from a beggar, but thinking it would show her consequence to assert her rights, took it and drank it up. for whoever is possessed by a devil, judges with the mind of that devil; and hence agnes was guilty of such a meanness as many who are themselves capable of something just as bad will consider incredible. the wise woman waited till she had finished it--then, looking into the empty cup, said: "you might have given me back as much as you had no claim upon!" agnes turned away and made no answer--far less from shame than indignation. the wise woman looked at the mother. "you should not have offered it to her if you did not mean her to have it," said the mother, siding with the devil in her child against the wise woman and her child too. some foolish people think they take another's part when they take the part he takes. the wise woman said nothing, but fixed her eyes upon her, and soon the mother hid her face in her apron weeping. then she turned again to agnes, who had never looked round but sat with her back to both, and suddenly lapped her in the folds of her cloak. when the mother again lifted her eyes, she had vanished. never supposing she had carried away her child, but uncomfortable because of what she had said to the poor woman, the mother went to the door, and called after her as she toiled slowly up the hill. but she never turned her head; and the mother went back into her cottage. the wise woman walked close past the shepherd and his dogs, and through the midst of his flock of sheep. the shepherd wondered where she could be going--right up the hill. there was something strange about her too, he thought; and he followed her with his eyes as she went up and up. it was near sunset, and as the sun went down, a gray cloud settled on the top of the mountain, which his last rays turned into a rosy gold. straight into this cloud the shepherd saw the woman hold her pace, and in it she vanished. he little imagined that his child was under her cloak. he went home as usual in the evening, but agnes had not come in. they were accustomed to such an absence now and then, and were not at first frightened; but when it grew dark and she did not appear, the husband set out with his dogs in one direction, and the wife in another, to seek their child. morning came and they had not found her. then the whole country-side arose to search for the missing agnes; but day after day and night after night passed, and nothing was discovered of or concerning her, until at length all gave up the search in despair except the mother, although she was nearly convinced now that the poor woman had carried her off. one day she had wandered some distance from her cottage, thinking she might come upon the remains of her daughter at the foot of some cliff, when she came suddenly, instead, upon a disconsolate-looking creature sitting on a stone by the side of a stream. her hair hung in tangles from her head; her clothes were tattered, and through the rents her skin showed in many places; her cheeks were white, and worn thin with hunger; the hollows were dark under her eyes, and they stood out scared and wild. when she caught sight of the shepherdess, she jumped to her feet, and would have run away, but fell down in a faint. at first sight the mother had taken her for her own child, but now she saw, with a pang of disappointment, that she had mistaken. full of compassion, nevertheless, she said to herself: "if she is not my agnes, she is as much in need of help as if she were. if i cannot be good to my own, i will be as good as i can to some other woman's; and though i should scorn to be consoled for the loss of one by the presence of another, i yet may find some gladness in rescuing one child from the death which has taken the other." perhaps her words were not just like these, but her thoughts were. she took up the child, and carried her home. and this is how rosamond came to occupy the place of the little girl whom she had envied in the picture. vii. notwithstanding the differences between the two girls, which were, indeed, so many that most people would have said they were not in the least alike, they were the same in this, that each cared more for her own fancies and desires than for any thing else in the world. but i will tell you another difference: the princess was like several children in one--such was the variety of her moods; and in one mood she had no recollection or care about any thing whatever belonging to a previous mood--not even if it had left her but a moment before, and had been so violent as to make her ready to put her hand in the fire to get what she wanted. plainly she was the mere puppet of her moods, and more than that, any cunning nurse who knew her well enough could call or send away those moods almost as she pleased, like a showman pulling strings behind a show. agnes, on the contrary, seldom changed her mood, but kept that of calm assured self-satisfaction. father nor mother had ever by wise punishment helped her to gain a victory over herself, and do what she did not like or choose; and their folly in reasoning with one unreasonable had fixed her in her conceit. she would actually nod her head to herself in complacent pride that she had stood out against them. this, however, was not so difficult as to justify even the pride of having conquered, seeing she loved them so little, and paid so little attention to the arguments and persuasions they used. neither, when she found herself wrapped in the dark folds of the wise woman's cloak, did she behave in the least like the princess, for she was not afraid. "she'll soon set me down," she said, too self-important to suppose that any one would dare do her an injury. whether it be a good thing or a bad not to be afraid depends on what the fearlessness is founded upon. some have no fear, because they have no knowledge of the danger: there is nothing fine in that. some are too stupid to be afraid: there is nothing fine in that. some who are not easily frightened would yet turn their backs and run, the moment they were frightened: such never had more courage than fear. but the man who will do his work in spite of his fear is a man of true courage. the fearlessness of agnes was only ignorance: she did not know what it was to be hurt; she had never read a single story of giant, or ogress or wolf; and her mother had never carried out one of her threats of punishment. if the wise woman had but pinched her, she would have shown herself an abject little coward, trembling with fear at every change of motion so long as she carried her. nothing such, however, was in the wise woman's plan for the curing of her. on and on she carried her without a word. she knew that if she set her down she would never run after her like the princess, at least not before the evil thing was already upon her. on and on she went, never halting, never letting the light look in, or agnes look out. she walked very fast, and got home to her cottage very soon after the princess had gone from it. but she did not set agnes down either in the cottage or in the great hall. she had other places, none of them alike. the place she had chosen for agnes was a strange one--such a one as is to be found nowhere else in the wide world. it was a great hollow sphere, made of a substance similar to that of the mirror which rosamond had broken, but differently compounded. that substance no one could see by itself. it had neither door, nor window, nor any opening to break its perfect roundness. the wise woman carried agnes into a dark room, there undressed her, took from her hand her knitting-needles, and put her, naked as she was born, into the hollow sphere. what sort of a place it was she could not tell. she could see nothing but a faint cold bluish light all about her. she could not feel that any thing supported her, and yet she did not sink. she stood for a while, perfectly calm, then sat down. nothing bad could happen to her--she was so important! and, indeed, it was but this: she had cared only for somebody, and now she was going to have only somebody. her own choice was going to be carried a good deal farther for her than she would have knowingly carried it for herself. after sitting a while, she wished she had something to do, but nothing came. a little longer, and it grew wearisome. she would see whether she could not walk out of the strange luminous dusk that surrounded her. walk she found she could, well enough, but walk out she could not. on and on she went, keeping as much in a straight line as she might, but after walking until she was thoroughly tired, she found herself no nearer out of her prison than before. she had not, indeed, advanced a single step; for, in whatever direction she tried to go, the sphere turned round and round, answering her feet accordingly. like a squirrel in his cage she but kept placing another spot of the cunningly suspended sphere under her feet, and she would have been still only at its lowest point after walking for ages. at length she cried aloud; but there was no answer. it grew dreary and drearier--in her, that is: outside there was no change. nothing was overhead, nothing under foot, nothing on either hand, but the same pale, faint, bluish glimmer. she wept at last, then grew very angry, and then sullen; but nobody heeded whether she cried or laughed. it was all the same to the cold unmoving twilight that rounded her. on and on went the dreary hours--or did they go at all?--"no change, no pause, no hope;"--on and on till she felt she was forgotten, and then she grew strangely still and fell asleep. the moment she was asleep, the wise woman came, lifted her out, and laid her in her bosom; fed her with a wonderful milk, which she received without knowing it; nursed her all the night long, and, just ere she woke, laid her back in the blue sphere again. when first she came to herself, she thought the horrors of the preceding day had been all a dream of the night. but they soon asserted themselves as facts, for here they were!--nothing to see but a cold blue light, and nothing to do but see it. oh, how slowly the hours went by! she lost all notion of time. if she had been told that she had been there twenty years, she would have believed it--or twenty minutes--it would have been all the same: except for weariness, time was for her no more. another night came, and another still, during both of which the wise woman nursed and fed her. but she knew nothing of that, and the same one dreary day seemed ever brooding over her. all at once, on the third day, she was aware that a naked child was seated beside her. but there was something about the child that made her shudder. she never looked at agnes, but sat with her chin sunk on her chest, and her eyes staring at her own toes. she was the color of pale earth, with a pinched nose, and a mere slit in her face for a mouth. "how ugly she is!" thought agnes. "what business has she beside me!" but it was so lonely that she would have been glad to play with a serpent, and put out her hand to touch her. she touched nothing. the child, also, put out her hand--but in the direction away from agnes. and that was well, for if she had touched agnes it would have killed her. then agnes said, "who are you?" and the little girl said, "who are you?" "i am agnes," said agnes; and the little girl said, "i am agnes." then agnes thought she was mocking her, and said, "you are ugly;" and the little girl said, "you are ugly." then agnes lost her temper, and put out her hands to seize the little girl; but lo! the little girl was gone, and she found herself tugging at her own hair. she let go; and there was the little girl again! agnes was furious now, and flew at her to bite her. but she found her teeth in her own arm, and the little girl was gone--only to return again; and each time she came back she was tenfold uglier than before. and now agnes hated her with her whole heart. the moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgust that the child was not another, but her self, her somebody, and that she was now shut up with her for ever and ever--no more for one moment ever to be alone. in her agony of despair, sleep descended, and she slept. when she woke, there was the little girl, heedless, ugly, miserable, staring at her own toes. all at once, the creature began to smile, but with such an odious, self-satisfied expression, that agnes felt ashamed of seeing her. then she began to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her own body, and examine her finger-ends, nodding her head with satisfaction. agnes felt that there could not be such another hateful, ape-like creature, and at the same time was perfectly aware she was only doing outside of her what she herself had been doing, as long as she could remember, inside of her. she turned sick at herself, and would gladly have been put out of existence, but for three days the odious companionship went on. by the third day, agnes was not merely sick but ashamed of the life she had hitherto led, was despicable in her own eyes, and astonished that she had never seen the truth concerning herself before. the next morning she woke in the arms of the wise woman; the horror had vanished from her sight, and two heavenly eyes were gazing upon her. she wept and clung to her, and the more she clung, the more tenderly did the great strong arms close around her. when she had lain thus for a while, the wise woman carried her into her cottage, and washed her in the little well; then dressed her in clean garments, and gave her bread and milk. when she had eaten it, she called her to her, and said very solemnly,-- "agnes, you must not imagine you are cured. that you are ashamed of yourself now is no sign that the cause for such shame has ceased. in new circumstances, especially after you have done well for a while, you will be in danger of thinking just as much of yourself as before. so beware of yourself. i am going from home, and leave you in charge of the house. do just as i tell you till my return." she then gave her the same directions she had formerly given rosamond--with this difference, that she told her to go into the picture-hall when she pleased, showing her the entrance, against which the clock no longer stood--and went away, closing the door behind her. viii. as soon as she was left alone, agnes set to work tidying and dusting the cottage, made up the fire, watered the bed, and cleaned the inside of the windows: the wise woman herself always kept the outside of them clean. when she had done, she found her dinner--of the same sort she was used to at home, but better--in the hole of the wall. when she had eaten it, she went to look at the pictures. by this time her old disposition had begun to rouse again. she had been doing her duty, and had in consequence begun again to think herself somebody. however strange it may well seem, to do one's duty will make any one conceited who only does it sometimes. those who do it always would as soon think of being conceited of eating their dinner as of doing their duty. what honest boy would pride himself on not picking pockets? a thief who was trying to reform would. to be conceited of doing one's duty is then a sign of how little one does it, and how little one sees what a contemptible thing it is not to do it. could any but a low creature be conceited of not being contemptible? until our duty becomes to us common as breathing, we are poor creatures. so agnes began to stroke herself once more, forgetting her late self-stroking companion, and never reflecting that she was now doing what she had then abhorred. and in this mood she went into the picture-gallery. the first picture she saw represented a square in a great city, one side of which was occupied by a splendid marble palace, with great flights of broad steps leading up to the door. between it and the square was a marble-paved court, with gates of brass, at which stood sentries in gorgeous uniforms, and to which was affixed the following proclamation in letters of gold, large enough for agnes to read:-- "by the will of the king, from this time until further notice, every stray child found in the realm shall be brought without a moment's delay to the palace. whoever shall be found having done otherwise shall straightway lose his head by the hand of the public executioner." agnes's heart beat loud, and her face flushed. "can there be such a city in the world?" she said to herself. "if i only knew where it was, i should set out for it at once. there would be the place for a clever girl like me!" her eyes fell on the picture which had so enticed rosamond. it was the very country where her father fed his flocks. just round the shoulder of the hill was the cottage where her parents lived, where she was born and whence she had been carried by the beggar-woman. "ah!" she said, "they didn't know me there. they little thought what i could be, if i had the chance. if i were but in this good, kind, loving, generous king's palace, i should soon be such a great lady as they never saw! then they would understand what a good little girl i had always been! and i shouldn't forget my poor parents like some i have read of. _i_ would be generous. _i_ should never be selfish and proud like girls in story-books!" as she said this, she turned her back with disdain upon the picture of her home, and setting herself before the picture of the palace, stared at it with wide ambitious eyes, and a heart whose every beat was a throb of arrogant self-esteem. the shepherd-child was now worse than ever the poor princess had been. for the wise woman had given her a terrible lesson one of which the princess was not capable, and she had known what it meant; yet here she was as bad as ever, therefore worse than before. the ugly creature whose presence had made her so miserable had indeed crept out of sight and mind too--but where was she? nestling in her very heart, where most of all she had her company, and least of all could see her. the wise woman had called her out, that agnes might see what sort of creature she was herself; but now she was snug in her soul's bed again, and she did not even suspect she was there. after gazing a while at the palace picture, during which her ambitious pride rose and rose, she turned yet again in condescending mood, and honored the home picture with one stare more. "what a poor, miserable spot it is compared with this lordly palace!" she said. but presently she spied something in it she had not seen before, and drew nearer. it was the form of a little girl, building a bridge of stones over one of the hill-brooks. "ah, there i am myself!" she said. "that is just how i used to do.--no," she resumed, "it is not me. that snub-nosed little fright could never be meant for me! it was the frock that made me think so. but it is a picture of the place. i declare, i can see the smoke of the cottage rising from behind the hill! what a dull, dirty, insignificant spot it is! and what a life to lead there!" she turned once more to the city picture. and now a strange thing took place. in proportion as the other, to the eyes of her mind, receded into the background, this, to her present bodily eyes, appeared to come forward and assume reality. at last, after it had been in this way growing upon her for some time, she gave a cry of conviction, and said aloud,-- "i do believe it is real! that frame is only a trick of the woman to make me fancy it a picture lest i should go and make my fortune. she is a witch, the ugly old creature! it would serve her right to tell the king and have her punished for not taking me to the palace--one of his poor lost children he is so fond of! i should like to see her ugly old head cut off. anyhow i will try my luck without asking her leave. how she has ill used me!" but at that moment, she heard the voice of the wise woman calling, "agnes!" and, smoothing her face, she tried to look as good as she could, and walked back into the cottage. there stood the wise woman, looking all round the place, and examining her work. she fixed her eyes upon agnes in a way that confused her, and made her cast hers down, for she felt as if she were reading her thoughts. the wise woman, however, asked no questions, but began to talk about her work, approving of some of it, which filled her with arrogance, and showing how some of it might have been done better, which filled her with resentment. but the wise woman seemed to take no care of what she might be thinking, and went straight on with her lesson. by the time it was over, the power of reading thoughts would not have been necessary to a knowledge of what was in the mind of agnes, for it had all come to the surface--that is up into her face, which is the surface of the mind. ere it had time to sink down again, the wise woman caught up the little mirror, and held it before her: agnes saw her somebody--the very embodiment of miserable conceit and ugly ill-temper. she gave such a scream of horror that the wise woman pitied her, and laying aside the mirror, took her upon her knees, and talked to her most kindly and solemnly; in particular about the necessity of destroying the ugly things that come out of the heart--so ugly that they make the very face over them ugly also. and what was agnes doing all the time the wise woman was talking to her? would you believe it?--instead of thinking how to kill the ugly things in her heart, she was with all her might resolving to be more careful of her face, that is, to keep down the things in her heart so that they should not show in her face, she was resolving to be a hypocrite as well as a self-worshipper. her heart was wormy, and the worms were eating very fast at it now. then the wise woman laid her gently down upon the heather-bed, and she fell fast asleep, and had an awful dream about her somebody. when she woke in the morning, instead of getting up to do the work of the house, she lay thinking--to evil purpose. in place of taking her dream as a warning, and thinking over what the wise woman had said the night before, she communed with herself in this fashion:-- "if i stay here longer, i shall be miserable, it is nothing better than slavery. the old witch shows me horrible things in the day to set me dreaming horrible things in the night. if i don't run away, that frightful blue prison and the disgusting girl will come back, and i shall go out of my mind. how i do wish i could find the way to the good king's palace! i shall go and look at the picture again--if it be a picture--as soon as i've got my clothes on. the work can wait. it's not my work. it's the old witch's; and she ought to do it herself." she jumped out of bed, and hurried on her clothes. there was no wise woman to be seen; and she hastened into the hall. there was the picture, with the marble palace, and the proclamation shining in letters of gold upon its gates of brass. she stood before it, and gazed and gazed; and all the time it kept growing upon her in some strange way, until at last she was fully persuaded that it was no picture, but a real city, square, and marble palace, seen through a framed opening in the wall. she ran up to the frame, stepped over it, felt the wind blow upon her cheek, heard the sound of a closing door behind her, and was free. free was she, with that creature inside her? the same moment a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, wind and rain, came on. the uproar was appalling. agnes threw herself upon the ground, hid her face in her hands, and there lay until it was over. as soon as she felt the sun shining on her, she rose. there was the city far away on the horizon. without once turning to take a farewell look of the place she was leaving, she set off, as fast as her feet would carry her, in the direction of the city. so eager was she, that again and again she fell, but only to get up, and run on faster than before. ix. the shepherdess carried rosamond home, gave her a warm bath in the tub in which she washed her linen, made her some bread-and-milk, and after she had eaten it, put her to bed in agnes's crib, where she slept all the rest of that day and all the following night. when at last she opened her eyes, it was to see around her a far poorer cottage than the one she had left--very bare and uncomfortable indeed, she might well have thought; but she had come through such troubles of late, in the way of hunger and weariness and cold and fear, that she was not altogether in her ordinary mood of fault-finding, and so was able to lie enjoying the thought that at length she was safe, and going to be fed and kept warm. the idea of doing any thing in return for shelter and food and clothes, did not, however, even cross her mind. but the shepherdess was one of that plentiful number who can be wiser concerning other women's children than concerning their own. such will often give you very tolerable hints as to how you ought to manage your children, and will find fault neatly enough with the system you are trying to carry out; but all their wisdom goes off in talking, and there is none left for doing what they have themselves said. there is one road talk never finds, and that is the way into the talker's own hands and feet. and such never seem to know themselves--not even when they are reading about themselves in print. still, not being specially blinded in any direction but their own, they can sometimes even act with a little sense towards children who are not theirs. they are affected with a sort of blindness like that which renders some people incapable of seeing, except sideways. she came up to the bed, looked at the princess, and saw that she was better. but she did not like her much. there was no mark of a princess about her, and never had been since she began to run alone. true, hunger had brought down her fat cheeks, but it had not turned down her impudent nose, or driven the sullenness and greed from her mouth. nothing but the wise woman could do that--and not even she, without the aid of the princess herself. so the shepherdess thought what a poor substitute she had got for her own lovely agnes--who was in fact equally repulsive, only in a way to which she had got used; for the selfishness in her love had blinded her to the thin pinched nose and the mean self-satisfied mouth. it was well for the princess, though, sad as it is to say, that the shepherdess did not take to her, for then she would most likely have only done her harm instead of good. "now, my girl," she said, "you must get up, and do something. we can't keep idle folk here." "i'm not a folk," said rosamond; "i'm a princess." "a pretty princess--with a nose like that! and all in rags too! if you tell such stories, i shall soon let you know what i think of you." rosamond then understood that the mere calling herself a princess, without having any thing to show for it, was of no use. she obeyed and rose, for she was hungry; but she had to sweep the floor ere she had any thing to eat. the shepherd came in to breakfast, and was kinder than his wife. he took her up in his arms and would have kissed her; but she took it as an insult from a man whose hands smelt of tar, and kicked and screamed with rage. the poor man, finding he had made a mistake, set her down at once. but to look at the two, one might well have judged it condescension rather than rudeness in such a man to kiss such a child. he was tall, and almost stately, with a thoughtful forehead, bright eyes, eagle nose, and gentle mouth; while the princess was such as i have described her. not content with being set down and let alone, she continued to storm and scold at the shepherd, crying she was a princess, and would like to know what right he had to touch her! but he only looked down upon her from the height of his tall person with a benignant smile, regarding her as a spoiled little ape whose mother had flattered her by calling her a princess. "turn her out of doors, the ungrateful hussy!" cried his wife. "with your bread and your milk inside her ugly body, this is what she gives you for it! troth, i'm paid for carrying home such an ill-bred tramp in my arms! my own poor angel agnes! as if that ill-tempered toad were one hair like her!" these words drove the princess beside herself; for those who are most given to abuse can least endure it. with fists and feet and teeth, as was her wont, she rushed at the shepherdess, whose hand was already raised to deal her a sound box on the ear, when a better appointed minister of vengeance suddenly showed himself. bounding in at the cottage-door came one of the sheep-dogs, who was called prince, and whom i shall not refer to with a which, because he was a very superior animal indeed, even for a sheep-dog, which is the most intelligent of dogs: he flew at the princess, knocked her down, and commenced shaking her so violently as to tear her miserable clothes to pieces. used, however, to mouthing little lambs, he took care not to hurt her much, though for her good he left her a blue nip or two by way of letting her imagine what biting might be. his master, knowing he would not injure her, thought it better not to call him off, and in half a minute he left her of his own accord, and, casting a glance of indignant rebuke behind him as he went, walked slowly to the hearth, where he laid himself down with his tail toward her. she rose, terrified almost to death, and would have crept again into agnes's crib for refuge; but the shepherdess cried-- "come, come, princess! i'll have no skulking to bed in the good daylight. go and clean your master's sunday boots there." "i will not!" screamed the princess, and ran from the house. "prince!" cried the shepherdess, and up jumped the dog, and looked in her face, wagging his bushy tail. "fetch her back," she said, pointing to the door. with two or three bounds prince caught the princess, again threw her down, and taking her by her clothes dragged her back into the cottage, and dropped her at his mistress' feet, where she lay like a bundle of rags. "get up," said the shepherdess. rosamond got up as pale as death. "go and clean the boots." "i don't know how." "go and try. there are the brushes, and yonder is the blacking-pot." instructing her how to black boots, it came into the thought of the shepherdess what a fine thing it would be if she could teach this miserable little wretch, so forsaken and ill-bred, to be a good, well-behaved, respectable child. she was hardly the woman to do it, but every thing well meant is a help, and she had the wisdom to beg her husband to place prince under her orders for a while, and not take him to the hill as usual, that he might help her in getting the princess into order. when the husband was gone, and his boots, with the aid of her own finishing touches, at last quite respectably brushed, the shepherdess told the princess that she might go and play for a while, only she must not go out of sight of the cottage-door. the princess went right gladly, with the firm intention, however, of getting out of sight by slow degrees, and then at once taking to her heels. but no sooner was she over the threshold than the shepherdess said to the dog, "watch her;" and out shot prince. the moment she saw him, rosamond threw herself on her face, trembling from head to foot. but the dog had no quarrel with her, and of the violence against which he always felt bound to protest in dog fashion, there was no sign in the prostrate shape before him; so he poked his nose under her, turned her over, and began licking her face and hands. when she saw that he meant to be friendly, her love for animals, which had had no indulgence for a long time now, came wide awake, and in a little while they were romping and rushing about, the best friends in the world. having thus seen one enemy, as she thought, changed to a friend, she began to resume her former plan, and crept cunningly farther and farther. at length she came to a little hollow, and instantly rolled down into it. finding then that she was out of sight of the cottage, she ran off at full speed. but she had not gone more than a dozen paces, when she heard a growling rush behind her, and the next instant was on the ground, with the dog standing over her, showing his teeth, and flaming at her with his eyes. she threw her arms round his neck, and immediately he licked her face, and let her get up. but the moment she would have moved a step farther from the cottage, there he was it front of her, growling, and showing his teeth. she saw it was of no use, and went back with him. thus was the princess provided with a dog for a private tutor--just the right sort for her. presently the shepherdess appeared at the door and called her. she would have disregarded the summons, but prince did his best to let her know that, until she could obey herself, she must obey him. so she went into the cottage, and there the shepherdess ordered her to peel the potatoes for dinner. she sulked and refused. here prince could do nothing to help his mistress, but she had not to go far to find another ally. "very well, miss princess!" she said; "we shall soon see how you like to go without when dinner-time comes." now the princess had very little foresight, and the idea of future hunger would have moved her little; but happily, from her game of romps with prince, she had begun to be hungry already, and so the threat had force. she took the knife and began to peel the potatoes. by slow degrees the princess improved a little. a few more outbreaks of passion, and a few more savage attacks from prince, and she had learned to try to restrain herself when she felt the passion coming on; while a few dinnerless afternoons entirely opened her eyes to the necessity of working in order to eat. prince was her first, and hunger her second dog-counsellor. but a still better thing was that she soon grew very fond of prince. towards the gaining of her affections, he had three advantages: first, his nature was inferior to hers; next, he was a beast; and last, she was afraid of him; for so spoiled was she that she could more easily love what was below than what was above her, and a beast, than one of her own kind, and indeed could hardly have ever come to love any thing much that she had not first learned to fear, and the white teeth and flaming eyes of the angry prince were more terrible to her than any thing had yet been, except those of the wolf, which she had now forgotten. then again, he was such a delightful playfellow, that so long as she neither lost her temper, nor went against orders, she might do almost any thing she pleased with him. in fact, such was his influence upon her, that she who had scoffed at the wisest woman in the whole world, and derided the wishes of her own father and mother, came at length to regard this dog as a superior being, and to look up to him as well as love him. and this was best of all. the improvement upon her, in the course of a month, was plain. she had quite ceased to go into passions, and had actually begun to take a little interest in her work and try to do it well. still, the change was mostly an outside one. i do not mean that she was pretending. indeed she had never been given to pretence of any sort. but the change was not in her, only in her mood. a second change of circumstances would have soon brought a second change of behavior; and, so long as that was possible, she continued the same sort of person she had always been. but if she had not gained much, a trifle had been gained for her: a little quietness and order of mind, and hence a somewhat greater possibility of the first idea of right arising in it, whereupon she would begin to see what a wretched creature she was, and must continue until she herself was right. meantime the wise woman had been watching her when she least fancied it, and taking note of the change that was passing upon her. out of the large eyes of a gentle sheep she had been watching her--a sheep that puzzled the shepherd; for every now and then she would appear in his flock, and he would catch sight of her two or three times in a day, sometimes for days together, yet he never saw her when he looked for her, and never when he counted the flock into the fold at night. he knew she was not one of his; but where could she come from, and where could she go to? for there was no other flock within many miles, and he never could get near enough to her to see whether or not she was marked. nor was prince of the least use to him for the unravelling of the mystery; for although, as often as he told him to fetch the strange sheep, he went bounding to her at once, it was only to lie down at her feet. at length, however, the wise woman had made up her mind, and after that the strange sheep no longer troubled the shepherd. as rosamond improved, the shepherdess grew kinder. she gave her all agnes's clothes, and began to treat her much more like a daughter. hence she had a great deal of liberty after the little work required of her was over, and would often spend hours at a time with the shepherd, watching the sheep and the dogs, and learning a little from seeing how prince, and the others as well, managed their charge--how they never touched the sheep that did as they were told and turned when they were bid, but jumped on a disobedient flock, and ran along their backs, biting, and barking, and half choking themselves with mouthfuls of their wool. then also she would play with the brooks, and learn their songs, and build bridges over them. and sometimes she would be seized with such delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again. a noticeable change had by this time passed also on her countenance. her coarse shapeless mouth had begun to show a glimmer of lines and curves about it, and the fat had not returned with the roses to her cheeks, so that her eyes looked larger than before; while, more noteworthy still, the bridge of her nose had grown higher, so that it was less of the impudent, insignificant thing inherited from a certain great-great-great-grandmother, who had little else to leave her. for a long time, it had fitted her very well, for it was just like her; but now there was ground for alteration, and already the granny who gave it her would not have recognized it. it was growing a little liker prince's; and prince's was a long, perceptive, sagacious nose,--one that was seldom mistaken. one day about noon, while the sheep were mostly lying down, and the shepherd, having left them to the care of the dogs, was himself stretched under the shade of a rock a little way apart, and the princess sat knitting, with prince at her feet, lying in wait for a snap at a great fly, for even he had his follies--rosamond saw a poor woman come toiling up the hill, but took little notice of her until she was passing, a few yards off, when she heard her utter the dog's name in a low voice. immediately on the summons, prince started up and followed her--with hanging head, but gently-wagging tail. at first the princess thought he was merely taking observations, and consulting with his nose whether she was respectable or not, but she soon saw that he was following her in meek submission. then she sprung to her feet and cried, "prince, prince!" but prince only turned his head and gave her an odd look, as if he were trying to smile, and could not. then the princess grew angry, and ran after him, shouting, "prince, come here directly." again prince turned his head, but this time to growl and show his teeth. the princess flew into one of her forgotten rages, and picking up a stone, flung it at the woman. prince turned and darted at her, with fury in his eyes, and his white teeth gleaming. at the awful sight the princess turned also, and would have fled, but he was upon her in a moment, and threw her to the ground, and there she lay. it was evening when she came to herself. a cool twilight wind, that somehow seemed to come all the way from the stars, was blowing upon her. the poor woman and prince, the shepherd and his sheep, were all gone, and she was left alone with the wind upon the heather. she felt sad, weak, and, perhaps, for the first time in her life, a little ashamed. the violence of which she had been guilty had vanished from her spirit, and now lay in her memory with the calm morning behind it, while in front the quiet dusky night was now closing in the loud shame betwixt a double peace. between the two her passion looked ugly. it pained her to remember. she felt it was hateful, and hers. but, alas, prince was gone! that horrid woman had taken him away! the fury rose again in her heart, and raged--until it came to her mind how her dear prince would have flown at her throat if he had seen her in such a passion. the memory calmed her, and she rose and went home. there, perhaps, she would find prince, for surely he could never have been such a silly dog as go away altogether with a strange woman! she opened the door and went in. dogs were asleep all about the cottage, it seemed to her, but nowhere was prince. she crept away to her little bed, and cried herself asleep. in the morning the shepherd and shepherdess were indeed glad to find she had come home, for they thought she had run away. "where is prince?" she cried, the moment she waked. "his mistress has taken him," answered the shepherd. "was that woman his mistress?" "i fancy so. he followed her as if he had known her all his life. i am very sorry to lose him, though." the poor woman had gone close past the rock where the shepherd lay. he saw her coming, and thought of the strange sheep which had been feeding beside him when he lay down. "who can she be?" he said to himself; but when he noted how prince followed her, without even looking up at him as he passed, he remembered how prince had come to him. and this was how: as he lay in bed one fierce winter morning, just about to rise, he heard the voice of a woman call to him through the storm, "shepherd, i have brought you a dog. be good to him. i will come again and fetch him away." he dressed as quickly as he could, and went to the door. it was half snowed up, but on the top of the white mound before it stood prince. and now he had gone as mysteriously as he had come, and he felt sad. rosamond was very sorry too, and hence when she saw the looks of the shepherd and shepherdess, she was able to understand them. and she tried for a while to behave better to them because of their sorrow. so the loss of the dog brought them all nearer to each other. x. after the thunder-storm, agnes did not meet with a single obstruction or misadventure. everybody was strangely polite, gave her whatever she desired, and answered her questions, but asked none in return, and looked all the time as if her departure would be a relief. they were afraid, in fact, from her appearance, lest she should tell them that she was lost, when they would be bound, on pain of public execution, to take her to the palace. but no sooner had she entered the city than she saw it would hardly do to present herself as a lost child at the palace-gates; for how were they to know that she was not an impostor, especially since she really was one, having run away from the wise woman? so she wandered about looking at every thing until she was tired, and bewildered by the noise and confusion all around her. the wearier she got, the more was she pushed in every direction. having been used to a whole hill to wander upon, she was very awkward in the crowded streets, and often on the point of being run over by the horses, which seemed to her to be going every way like a frightened flock. she spoke to several persons, but no one stopped to answer her; and at length, her courage giving way, she felt lost indeed, and began to cry. a soldier saw her, and asked what was the matter. "i've nowhere to go to," she sobbed. "where's your mother?" asked the soldier. "i don't know," answered agnes. "i was carried off by an old woman, who then went away and left me. i don't know where she is, or where i am myself." "come," said the soldier, "this is a case for his majesty." so saying, he took her by the hand, led her to the palace, and begged an audience of the king and queen. the porter glanced at agnes, immediately admitted them, and showed them into a great splendid room, where the king and queen sat every day to review lost children, in the hope of one day thus finding their rosamond. but they were by this time beginning to get tired of it. the moment they cast their eyes upon agnes, the queen threw back her head, threw up her hands, and cried, "what a miserable, conceited, white-faced little ape!" and the king turned upon the soldier in wrath, and cried, forgetting his own decree, "what do you mean by bringing such a dirty, vulgar-looking, pert creature into my palace? the dullest soldier in my army could never for a moment imagine a child like that, one hair's-breadth like the lovely angel we lost!" "i humbly beg your majesty's pardon," said the soldier, "but what was i to do? there stands your majesty's proclamation in gold letters on the brazen gates of the palace." "i shall have it taken down," said the king. "remove the child." "please your majesty, what am i to do with her?" "take her home with you." "i have six already, sire, and do not want her." "then drop her where you picked her up." "if i do, sire, some one else will find her and bring her back to your majesties." "that will never do," said the king. "i cannot bear to look at her." "for all her ugliness," said the queen, "she is plainly lost, and so is our rosamond." "it may be only a pretence, to get into the palace," said the king. "take her to the head scullion, soldier," said the queen, "and tell her to make her useful. if she should find out she has been pretending to be lost, she must let me know." the soldier was so anxious to get rid of her, that he caught her up in his arms, hurried her from the room, found his way to the scullery, and gave her, trembling with fear, in charge to the head maid, with the queen's message. as it was evident that the queen had no favor for her, the servants did as they pleased with her, and often treated her harshly. not one amongst them liked her, nor was it any wonder, seeing that, with every step she took from the wise woman's house, she had grown more contemptible, for she had grown more conceited. every civil answer given her, she attributed to the impression she made, not to the desire to get rid of her; and every kindness, to approbation of her looks and speech, instead of friendliness to a lonely child. hence by this time she was twice as odious as before; for whoever has had such severe treatment as the wise woman gave her, and is not the better for it, always grows worse than before. they drove her about, boxed her ears on the smallest provocation, laid every thing to her charge, called her all manner of contemptuous names, jeered and scoffed at her awkwardnesses, and made her life so miserable that she was in a fair way to forget every thing she had learned, and know nothing but how to clean saucepans and kettles. they would not have been so hard upon her, however, but for her irritating behavior. she dared not refuse to do as she was told, but she obeyed now with a pursed-up mouth, and now with a contemptuous smile. the only thing that sustained her was her constant contriving how to get out of the painful position in which she found herself. there is but one true way, however, of getting out of any position we may be in, and that is, to do the work of it so well that we grow fit for a better: i need not say this was not the plan upon which agnes was cunning enough to fix. she had soon learned from the talk around her the reason of the proclamation which had brought her hither. "was the lost princess so very beautiful?" she said one day to the youngest of her fellow-servants. "beautiful!" screamed the maid; "she was just the ugliest little toad you ever set eyes upon." "what was she like?" asked agnes. "she was about your size, and quite as ugly, only not in the same way; for she had red cheeks, and a cocked little nose, and the biggest, ugliest mouth you ever saw." agnes fell a-thinking. "is there a picture of her anywhere in the palace?" she asked. "how should i know? you can ask a housemaid." agnes soon learned that there was one, and contrived to get a peep of it. then she was certain of what she had suspected from the description given of her, namely, that she was the same she had seen in the picture at the wise woman's house. the conclusion followed, that the lost princess must be staying with her father and mother, for assuredly in the picture she wore one of her frocks. she went to the head scullion, and with humble manner, but proud heart, begged her to procure for her the favor of a word with the queen. "a likely thing indeed!" was the answer, accompanied by a resounding box on the ear. she tried the head cook next, but with no better success, and so was driven to her meditations again, the result of which was that she began to drop hints that she knew something about the princess. this came at length to the queen's ears, and she sent for her. absorbed in her own selfish ambitions, agnes never thought of the risk to which she was about to expose her parents, but told the queen that in her wanderings she had caught sight of just such a lovely creature as she described the princess, only dressed like a peasant--saying, that, if the king would permit her to go and look for her, she had little doubt of bringing her back safe and sound within a few weeks. but although she spoke the truth, she had such a look of cunning on her pinched face, that the queen could not possibly trust her, but believed that she made the proposal merely to get away, and have money given her for her journey. still there was a chance, and she would not say any thing until she had consulted the king. then they had agnes up before the lord chancellor, who, after much questioning of her, arrived at last, he thought, at some notion of the part of the country described by her--that was, if she spoke the truth, which, from her looks and behavior, he also considered entirely doubtful. thereupon she was ordered back to the kitchen, and a band of soldiers, under a clever lawyer, sent out to search every foot of the supposed region. they were commanded not to return until they brought with them, bound hand and foot, such a shepherd pair as that of which they received a full description. and now agnes was worse off than before. for to her other miseries was added the fear of what would befall her when it was discovered that the persons of whom they were in quest, and whom she was certain they must find, were her own father and mother. by this time the king and queen were so tired of seeing lost children, genuine or pretended--for they cared for no child any longer than there seemed a chance of its turning out their child--that with this new hope, which, however poor and vague at first, soon began to grow upon such imaginations as they had, they commanded the proclamation to be taken down from the palace gates, and directed the various sentries to admit no child whatever, lost or found, be the reason or pretence what it might, until further orders. "i'm sick of children!" said the king to his secretary, as he finished dictating the direction. xi. after prince was gone, the princess, by degrees, fell back into some of her bad old ways, from which only the presence of the dog, not her own betterment, had kept her. she never grew nearly so selfish again, but she began to let her angry old self lift up its head once more, until by and by she grew so bad that the shepherdess declared she should not stop in the house a day longer, for she was quite unendurable. "it is all very well for you, husband," she said, "for you haven't her all day about you, and only see the best of her. but if you had her in work instead of play hours, you would like her no better than i do. and then it's not her ugly passions only, but when she's in one of her tantrums, it's impossible to get any work out of her. at such times she's just as obstinate as--as--as"-- she was going to say "as agnes," but the feelings of a mother overcame her, and she could not utter the words. "in fact," she said instead, "she makes my life miserable." the shepherd felt he had no right to tell his wife she must submit to have her life made miserable, and therefore, although he was really much attached to rosamond, he would not interfere; and the shepherdess told her she must look out for another place. the princess was, however, this much better than before, even in respect of her passions, that they were not quite so bad, and after one was over, she was really ashamed of it. but not once, ever since the departure of prince had she tried to check the rush of the evil temper when it came upon her. she hated it when she was out of it, and that was something; but while she was in it, she went full swing with it wherever the prince of the power of it pleased to carry her. nor was this all: although she might by this time have known well enough that as soon as she was out of it she was certain to be ashamed of it, she would yet justify it to herself with twenty different arguments that looked very good at the time, but would have looked very poor indeed afterwards, if then she had ever remembered them. she was not sorry to leave the shepherd's cottage, for she felt certain of soon finding her way back to her father and mother; and she would, indeed, have set out long before, but that her foot had somehow got hurt when prince gave her his last admonition, and she had never since been able for long walks, which she sometimes blamed as the cause of her temper growing worse. but if people are good-tempered only when they are comfortable, what thanks have they?--her foot was now much better; and as soon as the shepherdess had thus spoken, she resolved to set out at once, and work or beg her way home. at the moment she was quite unmindful of what she owed the good people, and, indeed, was as yet incapable of understanding a tenth part of her obligation to them. so she bade them good by without a tear, and limped her way down the hill, leaving the shepherdess weeping, and the shepherd looking very grave. when she reached the valley she followed the course of the stream, knowing only that it would lead her away from the hill where the sheep fed, into richer lands where were farms and cattle. rounding one of the roots of the hill she saw before her a poor woman walking slowly along the road with a burden of heather upon her back, and presently passed her, but had gone only a few paces farther when she heard her calling after her in a kind old voice-- "your shoe-tie is loose, my child." but rosamond was growing tired, for her foot had become painful, and so she was cross, and neither returned answer, nor paid heed to the warning. for when we are cross, all our other faults grow busy, and poke up their ugly heads like maggots, and the princess's old dislike to doing any thing that came to her with the least air of advice about it returned in full force. "my child," said the woman again, "if you don't fasten your shoe-tie, it will make you fall." "mind your own business," said rosamond, without even turning her head, and had not gone more than three steps when she fell flat on her face on the path. she tried to get up, but the effort forced from her a scream, for she had sprained the ankle of the foot that was already lame. the old woman was by her side instantly. "where are you hurt, child?" she asked, throwing down her burden and kneeling beside her. "go away," screamed rosamond. "you made me fall, you bad woman!" the woman made no reply, but began to feel her joints, and soon discovered the sprain. then, in spite of rosamond's abuse, and the violent pushes and even kicks she gave her, she took the hurt ankle in her hands, and stroked and pressed it, gently kneading it, as it were, with her thumbs, as if coaxing every particle of the muscles into its right place. nor had she done so long before rosamond lay still. at length she ceased, and said:-- "now, my child, you may get up." "i can't get up, and i'm not your child," cried rosamond. "go away." without another word the woman left her, took up her burden, and continued her journey. in a little while rosamond tried to get up, and not only succeeded, but found she could walk, and, indeed, presently discovered that her ankle and foot also were now perfectly well. "i wasn't much hurt after all," she said to herself, nor sent a single grateful thought after the poor woman, whom she speedily passed once more upon the road without even a greeting. late in the afternoon she came to a spot where the path divided into two, and was taking the one she liked the look of better, when she started at the sound of the poor woman's voice, whom she thought she had left far behind, again calling her. she looked round, and there she was, toiling under her load of heather as before. "you are taking the wrong turn, child." she cried. "how can you tell that?" said rosamond. "you know nothing about where i want to go." "i know that road will take you where you won't want to go," said the woman. "i shall know when i get there, then," returned rosamond, "and no thanks to you." she set off running. the woman took the other path, and was soon out of sight. by and by, rosamond found herself in the midst of a peat-moss--a flat, lonely, dismal, black country. she thought, however, that the road would soon lead her across to the other side of it among the farms, and went on without anxiety. but the stream, which had hitherto been her guide, had now vanished; and when it began to grow dark, rosamond found that she could no longer distinguish the track. she turned, therefore, but only to find that the same darkness covered it behind as well as before. still she made the attempt to go back by keeping as direct a line as she could, for the path was straight as an arrow. but she could not see enough even to start her in a line, and she had not gone far before she found herself hemmed in, apparently on every side, by ditches and pools of black, dismal, slimy water. and now it was so dark that she could see nothing more than the gleam of a bit of clear sky now and then in the water. again and again she stepped knee-deep in black mud, and once tumbled down in the shallow edge of a terrible pool; after which she gave up the attempt to escape the meshes of the watery net, stood still, and began to cry bitterly, despairingly. she saw now that her unreasonable anger had made her foolish as well as rude, and felt that she was justly punished for her wickedness to the poor woman who had been so friendly to her. what would prince think of her, if he knew? she cast herself on the ground, hungry, and cold, and weary. presently, she thought she saw long creatures come heaving out of the black pools. a toad jumped upon her, and she shrieked, and sprang to her feet, and would have run away headlong, when she spied in the distance a faint glimmer. she thought it was a will-o'-the-wisp. what could he be after? was he looking for her? she dared not run, lest he should see and pounce upon her. the light came nearer, and grew brighter and larger. plainly, the little fiend was looking for her--he would torment her. after many twistings and turnings among the pools, it came straight towards her, and she would have shrieked, but that terror made her dumb. it came nearer and nearer, and lo! it was borne by a dark figure, with a burden on its back: it was the poor woman, and no demon, that was looking for her! she gave a scream of joy, fell down weeping at her feet, and clasped her knees. then the poor woman threw away her burden, laid down her lantern, took the princess up in her arms, folded her cloak around her, and having taken up her lantern again, carried her slowly and carefully through the midst of the black pools, winding hither and thither. all night long she carried her thus, slowly and wearily, until at length the darkness grew a little thinner, an uncertain hint of light came from the east, and the poor woman, stopping on the brow of a little hill, opened her cloak, and set the princess down. "i can carry you no farther," she said. "sit there on the grass till the light comes. i will stand here by you." rosamond had been asleep. now she rubbed her eyes and looked, but it was too dark to see any thing more than that there was a sky over her head. slowly the light grew, until she could see the form of the poor woman standing in front of her; and as it went on growing, she began to think she had seen her somewhere before, till all at once she thought of the wise woman, and saw it must be she. then she was so ashamed that she bent down her head, and could look at her no longer. but the poor woman spoke, and the voice was that of the wise woman, and every word went deep into the heart of the princess. "rosamond," she said, "all this time, ever since i carried you from your father's palace, i have been doing what i could to make you a lovely creature: ask yourself how far i have succeeded." all her past story, since she found herself first under the wise woman's cloak, arose, and glided past the inner eyes of the princess, and she saw, and in a measure understood, it all. but she sat with her eyes on the ground, and made no sign. then said the wise woman:-- "below there is the forest which surrounds my house. i am going home. if you pledge to come there to me, i will help you, in a way i could not do now, to be good and lovely. i will wait you there all day, but if you start at once, you may be there long before noon. i shall have your breakfast waiting for you. one thing more: the beasts have not yet all gone home to their holes; but i give you my word, not one will touch you so long as you keep coming nearer to my house." she ceased. rosamond sat waiting to hear something more; but nothing came. she looked up; she was alone. alone once more! always being left alone, because she would not yield to what was right! oh, how safe she had felt under the wise woman's cloak! she had indeed been good to her, and she had in return behaved like one of the hyenas of the awful wood! what a wonderful house it was she lived in! and again all her own story came up into her brain from her repentant heart. "why didn't she take me with her?" she said. "i would have gone gladly." and she wept. but her own conscience told her that, in the very middle of her shame and desire to be good, she had returned no answer to the words of the wise woman; she had sat like a tree-stump, and done nothing. she tried to say there was nothing to be done; but she knew at once that she could have told the wise woman she had been very wicked, and asked her to take her with her. now there was nothing to be done. "nothing to be done!" said her conscience. "cannot you rise, and walk down the hill, and through the wood?" "but the wild beasts!" "there it is! you don't believe the wise woman yet! did she not tell you the beasts would not touch you?" "but they are so horrid!" "yes, they are; but it would be far better to be eaten up alive by them than live on--such a worthless creature as you are. why, you're not fit to be thought about by any but bad ugly creatures." this was how herself talked to her. xii. all at once she jumped to her feet, and ran at full speed down the hill and into the wood. she heard howlings and yellings on all sides of her, but she ran straight on, as near as she could judge. her spirits rose as she ran. suddenly she saw before her, in the dusk of the thick wood, a group of some dozen wolves and hyenas, standing all together right in her way, with their green eyes fixed upon her staring. she faltered one step, then bethought her of what the wise woman had promised, and keeping straight on, dashed right into the middle of them. they fled howling, as if she had struck them with fire. she was no more afraid after that, and ere the sun was up she was out of the wood and upon the heath, which no bad thing could step upon and live. with the first peep of the sun above the horizon, she saw the little cottage before her, and ran as fast as she could run towards it, when she came near it, she saw that the door was open, and ran straight into the outstretched arms of the wise woman. the wise woman kissed her and stroked her hair, set her down by the fire, and gave her a bowl of bread and milk. when she had eaten it she drew her before her where she sat, and spoke to her thus:-- "rosamond, if you would be a blessed creature instead of a mere wretch, you must submit to be tried." "is that something terrible?" asked the princess, turning white. "no, my child; but it is something very difficult to come well out of. nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever has come well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come out of it, always looks back with horror, not on what she has come through, but on the very idea of the possibility of having failed, and being still the same miserable creature as before." "you will tell me what it is before it begins?" said the princess. "i will not tell you exactly. but i will tell you some things to help you. one great danger is that perhaps you will think you are in it before it has really begun, and say to yourself, 'oh! this is really nothing to me. it may be a trial to some, but for me i am sure it is not worth mentioning.' and then, before you know, it will be upon you, and you will fail utterly and shamefully." "i will be very, very careful," said the princess. "only don't let me be frightened." "you shall not be frightened, except it be your own doing. you are already a brave girl, and there is no occasion to try you more that way. i saw how you rushed into the middle of the ugly creatures; and as they ran from you, so will all kinds of evil things, as long as you keep them outside of you, and do not open the cottage of your heart to let them in. i will tell you something more about what you will have to go through. "nobody can be a real princess--do not imagine you have yet been any thing more than a mock one--until she is a princess over herself, that is, until, when she finds herself unwilling to do the thing that is right, she makes herself do it. so long as any mood she is in makes her do the thing she will be sorry for when that mood is over, she is a slave, and no princess. a princess is able to do what is right even should she unhappily be in a mood that would make another unable to do it. for instance, if you should be cross and angry, you are not a whit the less bound to be just, yes, kind even--a thing most difficult in such a mood--though ease itself in a good mood, loving and sweet. whoever does what she is bound to do, be she the dirtiest little girl in the street, is a princess, worshipful, honorable. nay, more; her might goes farther than she could send it, for if she act so, the evil mood will wither and die, and leave her loving and clean.--do you understand me, dear rosamond?" as she spoke, the wise woman laid her hand on her head and looked--oh, so lovingly!--into her eyes. "i am not sure," said the princess, humbly. "perhaps you will understand me better if i say it just comes to this, that you must not do what is wrong, however much you are inclined to do it, and you must do what is right, however much you are disinclined to do it." "i understand that," said the princess. "i am going, then, to put you in one of the mood-chambers of which i have many in the house. its mood will come upon you, and you will have to deal with it." she rose and took her by the hand. the princess trembled a little, but never thought of resisting. the wise woman led her into the great hall with the pictures, and through a door at the farther end, opening upon another large hall, which was circular, and had doors close to each other all round it. of these she opened one, pushed the princess gently in, and closed it behind her. the princess found herself in her old nursery. her little white rabbit came to meet her in a lumping canter as if his back were going to tumble over his head. her nurse, in her rocking-chair by the chimney corner, sat just as she had used. the fire burned brightly, and on the table were many of her wonderful toys, on which, however, she now looked with some contempt. her nurse did not seem at all surprised to see her, any more than if the princess had but just gone from the room and returned again. "oh! how different i am from what i used to be!" thought the princess to herself, looking from her toys to her nurse. "the wise woman has done me so much good already! i will go and see mamma at once, and tell her i am very glad to be at home again, and very sorry i was so naughty." she went towards the door. "your queen-mamma, princess, cannot see you now," said her nurse. "i have yet to learn that it is my part to take orders from a servant," said the princess with temper and dignity. "i beg your pardon, princess," returned her nurse, politely; "but it is my duty to tell you that your queen-mamma is at this moment engaged. she is alone with her most intimate friend, the princess of the frozen regions." "i shall see for myself," returned the princess, bridling, and walked to the door. now little bunny, leap-frogging near the door, happened that moment to get about her feet, just as she was going to open it, so that she tripped and fell against it, striking her forehead a good blow. she caught up the rabbit in a rage, and, crying, "it is all your fault, you ugly old wretch!" threw it with violence in her nurse's face. her nurse caught the rabbit, and held it to her face, as if seeking to sooth its fright. but the rabbit looked very limp and odd, and, to her amazement, rosamond presently saw that the thing was no rabbit, but a pocket-handkerchief. the next moment she removed it from her face, and rosamond beheld--not her nurse, but the wise woman--standing on her own hearth, while she herself stood by the door leading from the cottage into the hall. "first trial a failure," said the wise woman quietly. overcome with shame, rosamond ran to her, fell down on her knees, and hid her face in her dress. "need i say any thing?" said the wise woman, stroking her hair. "no, no," cried the princess. "i am horrid." "you know now the kind of thing you have to meet: are you ready to try again?" "may i try again?" cried the princess, jumping up. "i'm ready. i do not think i shall fail this time." "the trial will be harder." rosamond drew in her breath, and set her teeth. the wise woman looked at her pitifully, but took her by the hand, led her to the round hall, opened the same door, and closed it after her. the princess expected to find herself again in the nursery, but in the wise woman's house no one ever has the same trial twice. she was in a beautiful garden, full of blossoming trees and the loveliest roses and lilies. a lake was in the middle of it, with a tiny boat. so delightful was it that rosamond forgot all about how or why she had come there, and lost herself in the joy of the flowers and the trees and the water. presently came the shout of a child, merry and glad, and from a clump of tulip trees rushed a lovely little boy, with his arms stretched out to her. she was charmed at the sight, ran to meet him, caught him up in her arms, kissed him, and could hardly let him go again. but the moment she set him down he ran from her towards the lake, looking back as he ran, and crying "come, come." she followed. he made straight for the boat, clambered into it, and held out his hand to help her in. then he caught up the little boat-hook, and pushed away from the shore: there was a great white flower floating a few yards off, and that was the little fellow's goal. but, alas! no sooner had rosamond caught sight of it, huge and glowing as a harvest moon, than she felt a great desire to have it herself. the boy, however, was in the bows of the boat, and caught it first. it had a long stem, reaching down to the bottom of the water, and for a moment he tugged at it in vain, but at last it gave way so suddenly, that he tumbled back with the flower into the bottom of the boat. then rosamond, almost wild at the danger it was in as he struggled to rise, hurried to save it, but somehow between them it came in pieces, and all its petals of fretted silver were scattered about the boat. when the boy got up, and saw the ruin his companion had occasioned, he burst into tears, and having the long stalk of the flower still in his hand, struck her with it across the face. it did not hurt her much, for he was a very little fellow, but it was wet and slimy. she tumbled rather than rushed at him, seized him in her arms, tore him from his frightened grasp, and flung him into the water. his head struck on the boat as he fell, and he sank at once to the bottom, where he lay looking up at her with white face and open eyes. the moment she saw the consequences of her deed she was filled with horrible dismay. she tried hard to reach down to him through the water, but it was far deeper than it looked, and she could not. neither could she get her eyes to leave the white face: its eyes fascinated and fixed hers; and there she lay leaning over the boat and staring at the death she had made. but a voice crying, "ally! ally!" shot to her heart, and springing to her feet she saw a lovely lady come running down the grass to the brink of the water with her hair flying about her head. "where is my ally?" she shrieked. but rosamond could not answer, and only stared at the lady, as she had before stared at her drowned boy. then the lady caught sight of the dead thing at the bottom of the water, and rushed in, and, plunging down, struggled and groped until she reached it. then she rose and stood up with the dead body of her little son in her arms, his head hanging back, and the water streaming from him. "see what you have made of him, rosamond!" she said, holding the body out to her; "and this is your second trial, and also a failure." the dead child melted away from her arms, and there she stood, the wise woman, on her own hearth, while rosamond found herself beside the little well on the floor of the cottage, with one arm wet up to the shoulder. she threw herself on the heather-bed and wept from relief and vexation both. the wise woman walked out of the cottage, shut the door, and left her alone. rosamond was sobbing, so that she did not hear her go. when at length she looked up, and saw that the wise woman was gone, her misery returned afresh and tenfold, and she wept and wailed. the hours passed, the shadows of evening began to fall, and the wise woman entered. xiii. she went straight to the bed, and taking rosamond in her arms, sat down with her by the fire. "my poor child!" she said. "two terrible failures! and the more the harder! they get stronger and stronger. what is to be done?" "couldn't you help me?" said rosamond piteously. "perhaps i could, now you ask me," answered the wise woman. "when you are ready to try again, we shall see." "i am very tired of myself," said the princess. "but i can't rest till i try again." "that is the only way to get rid of your weary, shadowy self, and find your strong, true self. come, my child; i will help you all i can, for now i can help you." yet again she led her to the same door, and seemed to the princess to send her yet again alone into the room. she was in a forest, a place half wild, half tended. the trees were grand, and full of the loveliest birds, of all glowing gleaming and radiant colors, which, unlike the brilliant birds we know in our world, sang deliciously, every one according to his color. the trees were not at all crowded, but their leaves were so thick, and their boughs spread so far, that it was only here and there a sunbeam could get straight through. all the gentle creatures of a forest were there, but no creatures that killed, not even a weasel to kill the rabbits, or a beetle to eat the snails out of their striped shells. as to the butterflies, words would but wrong them if they tried to tell how gorgeous they were. the princess's delight was so great that she neither laughed nor ran, but walked about with a solemn countenance and stately step. "but where are the flowers?" she said to herself at length. they were nowhere. neither on the high trees, nor on the few shrubs that grew here and there amongst them, were there any blossoms; and in the grass that grew everywhere there was not a single flower to be seen. "ah, well!" said rosamond again to herself, "where all the birds and butterflies are living flowers, we can do without the other sort." still she could not help feeling that flowers were wanted to make the beauty of the forest complete. suddenly she came out on a little open glade; and there, on the root of a great oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her lap full of flowers of all colors, but of such kinds as rosamond had never before seen. she was playing with them--burying her hands in them, tumbling them about, and every now and then picking one from the rest, and throwing it away. all the time she never smiled, except with her eyes, which were as full as they could hold of the laughter of the spirit--a laughter which in this world is never heard, only sets the eyes alight with a liquid shining. rosamond drew nearer, for the wonderful creature would have drawn a tiger to her side, and tamed him on the way. a few yards from her, she came upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own longing. but to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home. she left it, and went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing comfortably in the warm grass. what could it mean? one after another she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with every flower the little girl threw from her lap. she watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to the spot. but the flower had been quicker than she: there it grew, fast fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly. something evil moved in her, and she plucked it. "don't! don't!" cried the child. "my flowers cannot live in your hands." rosamond looked at the flower. it was withered already. she threw it from her, offended. the child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, kissed it, sang to it--oh! such a sweet, childish little song!--the princess never could recall a word of it--and threw it away. up rose its little head, and there it was, busy growing again! rosamond's bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew near, and said: "won't you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?" "there they are; they are all for you," answered the child, pointing with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round. "but you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them." "yes, indeed, i did." "they can't be mine, if i'm not to touch them." "if, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, and never, never can be yours. they are nobody's when they are dead." "but you don't kill them." "i don't pull them; i throw them away. i live them." "how is it that you make them grow?" "i say, 'you darling!' and throw it away and there it is." "where do you get them?" "in my lap." "i wish you would let me throw one away." "have you got any in your lap? let me see." "no; i have none." "then you can't throw one away, if you haven't got one." "you are mocking me!" cried the princess. "i am not mocking you," said the child, looking her full in the face, with reproach in her large blue eyes. "oh, that's where the flowers come from!" said the princess to herself, the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant. then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger. when they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting cry, called, two or three times, "peggy! peggy! peggy!" a low, glad cry, like the whinny of a horse, answered, and, presently, out of the wood on the opposite side of the glade, came gently trotting the loveliest little snow-white pony, with great shining blue wings, half-lifted from his shoulders. straight towards the little girl, neither hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with light elastic tread. rosamond's love for animals broke into a perfect passion of delight at the vision. she rushed to meet the pony with such haste, that, although clearly the best trained animal under the sun, he started back, plunged, reared, and struck out with his fore-feet ere he had time to observe what sort of a creature it was that had so startled him. when he perceived it was a little girl, he dropped instantly upon all fours, and content with avoiding her, resumed his quiet trot in the direction of his mistress. rosamond stood gazing after him in miserable disappointment. when he reached the child, he laid his head on her shoulder, and she put her arm up round his neck; and after she had talked to him a little, he turned and came trotting back to the princess. almost beside herself with joy, she began caressing him in the rough way which, not-withstanding her love for them, she was in the habit of using with animals; and she was not gentle enough, in herself even, to see that he did not like it, and was only putting up with it for the sake of his mistress. but when, that she might jump upon his back, she laid hold of one of his wings, and ruffled some of the blue feathers, he wheeled suddenly about, gave his long tail a sharp whisk which threw her flat on the grass, and, trotting back to his mistress, bent down his head before her as if asking excuse for ridding himself of the unbearable. the princess was furious. she had forgotten all her past life up to the time when she first saw the child: her beauty had made her forget, and yet she was now on the very borders of hating her. what she might have done, or rather tried to do, had not peggy's tail struck her down with such force that for a moment she could not rise, i cannot tell. but while she lay half-stunned, her eyes fell on a little flower just under them. it stared up in her face like the living thing it was, and she could not take her eyes off its face. it was like a primrose trying to express doubt instead of confidence. it seemed to put her half in mind of something, and she felt as if shame were coming. she put out her hand to pluck it; but the moment her fingers touched it, the flower withered up, and hung as dead on its stalks as if a flame of fire had passed over it. then a shudder thrilled through the heart of the princess, and she thought with herself, saying--"what sort of a creature am i that the flowers wither when i touch them, and the ponies despise me with their tails? what a wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature i must be! there is that lovely child giving life instead of death to the flowers, and a moment ago i was hating her! i am made horrid, and i shall be horrid, and i hate myself, and yet i can't help being myself!" she heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for where she lay. "i don't care," she said. "they may trample me under their feet if they like. i am tired and sick of myself--a creature at whose touch the flowers wither!" on came the winged pony. but while yet some distance off, he gave a great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet on the other side of her. the child slipped down and came and kneeled over her. "did my pony hurt you?" she said. "i am so sorry!" "yes, he hurt me," answered the princess, "but not more than i deserved, for i took liberties with him, and he did not like it." "oh, you dear!" said the little girl. "i love you for talking so of my peggy. he is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes. would you like a ride upon him?" "you darling beauty!" cried rosamond, sobbing. "i do love you so, you are so good. how did you become so sweet?" "would you like to ride my pony?" repeated the child, with a heavenly smile in her eyes. "no, no; he is fit only for you. my clumsy body would hurt him," said rosamond. "you don't mind me having such a pony?" said the child. "what! mind it?" cried rosamond, almost indignantly. then remembering certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her mind, she looked on the ground and was silent. "you don't mind it, then?" repeated the child. "i am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a you has got such a pony," said rosamond, still looking on the ground. "but i do wish the flowers would not die when i touch them. i was cross to see you make them grow, but now i should be content if only i did not make them wither." as she spoke, she stroked the little girl's bare feet, which were by her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek on them and kissed them. "dear princess!" said the little girl, "the flowers will not always wither at your touch. try now--only do not pluck it. flowers ought never to be plucked except to give away. touch it gently." a silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her reach. timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. the flower trembled, but neither shrank nor withered. "touch it again," said the child. it changed color a little, and rosamond fancied it grew larger. "touch it again," said the child. it opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold. rosamond gazed motionless. when the transfiguration of the flower was perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child. "did you never see me before, rosamond?" she asked. "no, never," answered the princess. "i never saw any thing half so lovely." "look at me," said the child. and as rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow larger. quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; for hers was the old age of everlasting youth. rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or movement until she could endure no more delight. then her mind collapsed to the thought--had the pony grown too? she glanced round. there was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest--but the cottage of the wise woman--and before her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, the only thing unchanged. she gasped with astonishment. "you must set out for your father's palace immediately," said the lady. "but where is the wise woman?" asked rosamond, looking all about. "here," said the lady. and rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her long dark cloak. "and it was you all the time?" she cried in delight, and kneeled before her, burying her face in her garments. "it always is me, all the time," said the wise woman, smiling. "but which is the real you?" asked rosamond; "this or that?" "or a thousand others?" returned the wise woman. "but the one you have just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just yet--but--. and that me you could not have seen a little while ago.--but, my darling child," she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her bosom, "you must not think, because you have seen me once, that therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times. no; there are many things in you yet that must be changed before that can be. now, however, you will seek me. every time you feel you want me, that is a sign i am wanting you. there are yet many rooms in my house you may have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest." the princess gave a sigh. "do not think," the wise woman went on, "that the things you have seen in my house are mere empty shows. you do not know, you cannot yet think, how living and true they are.--now you must go." she led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the picture of her father's capital, and his palace with the brazen gates. "there is your home," she said. "go to it." the princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead. she turned to the wise woman and said: "will you forgive all my naughtiness, and all the trouble i have given you?" "if i had not forgiven you, i would never have taken the trouble to punish you. if i had not loved you, do you think i would have carried you away in my cloak?" "how could you love such an ugly, ill-tempered, rude, hateful little wretch?" "i saw, through it all, what you were going to be," said the wise woman, kissing her. "but remember you have yet only begun to be what i saw." "i will try to remember," said the princess, holding her cloak, and looking up in her face. "go, then," said the wise woman. rosamond turned away on the instant, ran to the picture, stepped over the frame of it, heard a door close gently, gave one glance back, saw behind her the loveliest palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the pale-yellow light of an early summer-morning, looked again to the eastward, saw the faint outline of her father's city against the sky, and ran off to reach it. it looked much further off now than when it seemed a picture, but the sun was not yet up, and she had the whole of a summer day before her. xiv. the soldiers sent out by the king, had no great difficulty in finding agnes's father and mother, of whom they demanded if they knew any thing of such a young princess as they described. the honest pair told them the truth in every point--that, having lost their own child and found another, they had taken her home, and treated her as their own; that she had indeed called herself a princess, but they had not believed her, because she did not look like one; that, even if they had, they did not know how they could have done differently, seeing they were poor people, who could not afford to keep any idle person about the place; that they had done their best to teach her good ways, and had not parted with her until her bad temper rendered it impossible to put up with her any longer; that, as to the king's proclamation, they heard little of the world's news on their lonely hill, and it had never reached them; that if it had, they did not know how either of them could have gone such a distance from home, and left their sheep or their cottage, one or the other, uncared for. "you must learn, then, how both of you can go, and your sheep must take care of your cottage," said the lawyer, and commanded the soldiers to bind them hand and foot. heedless of their entreaties to be spared such an indignity, the soldiers obeyed, bore them to a cart, and set out for the king's palace, leaving the cottage door open, the fire burning, the pot of potatoes boiling upon it, the sheep scattered over the hill, and the dogs not knowing what to do. hardly were they gone, however, before the wise woman walked up, with prince behind her, peeped into the cottage, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and then walked away up the hill. in a few minutes there arose a great battle between prince and the dog which filled his former place--a well-meaning but dull fellow, who could fight better than feed. prince was not long in showing him that he was meant for his master, and then, by his efforts, and directions to the other dogs, the sheep were soon gathered again, and out of danger from foxes and bad dogs. as soon as this was done, the wise woman left them in charge of prince, while she went to the next farm to arrange for the folding of the sheep and the feeding of the dogs. when the soldiers reached the palace, they were ordered to carry their prisoners at once into the presence of the king and queen, in the throne room. their two thrones stood upon a high dais at one end, and on the floor at the foot of the dais, the soldiers laid their helpless prisoners. the queen commanded that they should be unbound, and ordered them to stand up. they obeyed with the dignity of insulted innocence, and their bearing offended their foolish majesties. meantime the princess, after a long day's journey, arrived at the palace, and walked up to the sentry at the gate. "stand back," said the sentry. "i wish to go in, if you please," said the princess gently. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sentry, for he was one of those dull people who form their judgment from a person's clothes, without even looking in his eyes; and as the princess happened to be in rags, her request was amusing, and the booby thought himself quite clever for laughing at her so thoroughly. "i am the princess," rosamond said quietly. "what princess?" bellowed the man. "the princess rosamond. is there another?" she answered and asked. but the man was so tickled at the wondrous idea of a princess in rags, that he scarcely heard what she said for laughing. as soon as he recovered a little, he proceeded to chuck the princess under the chin, saying-- "you're a pretty girl, my dear, though you ain't no princess." rosamond drew back with dignity. "you have spoken three untruths at once," she said. "i am not pretty, and i am a princess, and if i were dear to you, as i ought to be, you would not laugh at me because i am badly dressed, but stand aside, and let me go to my father and mother." the tone of her speech, and the rebuke she gave him, made the man look at her; and looking at her, he began to tremble inside his foolish body, and wonder whether he might not have made a mistake. he raised his hand in salute, and said-- "i beg your pardon, miss, but i have express orders to admit no child whatever within the palace gates. they tell me his majesty the king says he is sick of children." "he may well be sick of me!" thought the princess; "but it can't mean that he does not want me home again.--i don't think you can very well call me a child," she said, looking the sentry full in the face. "you ain't very big, miss," answered the soldier, "but so be you say you ain't a child, i'll take the risk. the king can only kill me, and a man must die once." he opened the gate, stepped aside, and allowed her to pass. had she lost her temper, as every one but the wise woman would have expected of her, he certainly would not have done so. she ran into the palace, the door of which had been left open by the porter when he followed the soldiers and prisoners to the throne-room, and bounded up the stairs to look for her father and mother. as she passed the door of the throne-room she heard an unusual noise in it, and running to the king's private entrance, over which hung a heavy curtain, she peeped past the edge of it, and saw, to her amazement, the shepherd and shepherdess standing like culprits before the king and queen, and the same moment heard the king say-- "peasants, where is the princess rosamond?" "truly, sire, we do not know," answered the shepherd. "you ought to know," said the king. "sire, we could keep her no longer." "you confess, then," said the king, suppressing the outbreak of the wrath that boiled up in him, "that you turned her out of your house." for the king had been informed by a swift messenger of all that had passed long before the arrival of the prisoners. "we did, sire; but not only could we keep her no longer, but we knew not that she was the princess." "you ought to have known, the moment you cast your eyes upon her," said the king. "any one who does not know a princess the moment he sees her, ought to have his eyes put out." "indeed he ought," said the queen. to this they returned no answer, for they had none ready. "why did you not bring her at once to the palace," pursued the king, "whether you knew her to be a princess or not? my proclamation left nothing to your judgment. it said every child." "we heard nothing of the proclamation, sire." "you ought to have heard," said the king. "it is enough that i make proclamations; it is for you to read them. are they not written in letters of gold upon the brazen gates of this palace?" "a poor shepherd, your majesty--how often must he leave his flock, and go hundreds of miles to look whether there may not be something in letters of gold upon the brazen gates? we did not know that your majesty had made a proclamation, or even that the princess was lost." "you ought to have known," said the king. the shepherd held his peace. "but," said the queen, taking up the word, "all that is as nothing, when i think how you misused the darling." the only ground the queen had for saying thus, was what agnes had told her as to how the princess was dressed; and her condition seemed to the queen so miserable, that she had imagined all sorts of oppression and cruelty. but this was more than the shepherdess, who had not yet spoken, could bear. "she would have been dead, and not buried, long ago, madam, if i had not carried her home in my two arms." "why does she say her two arms?" said the king to himself. "has she more than two? is there treason in that?" "you dressed her in cast-off clothes," said the queen. "i dressed her in my own sweet child's sunday clothes. and this is what i get for it!" cried the shepherdess, bursting into tears. "and what did you do with the clothes you took off her? sell them?" "put them in the fire, madam. they were not fit for the poorest child in the mountains. they were so ragged that you could see her skin through them in twenty different places." "you cruel woman, to torture a mother's feelings so!" cried the queen, and in her turn burst into tears. "and i'm sure," sobbed the shepherdess, "i took every pains to teach her what it was right for her to know. i taught her to tidy the house and"-- "tidy the house!" moaned the queen. "my poor wretched offspring!" "and peel the potatoes, and"-- "peel the potatoes!" cried the queen. "oh, horror!" "and black her master's boots," said the shepherdess. "black her master's boots!" shrieked the queen. "oh, my white-handed princess! oh, my ruined baby!" "what i want to know," said the king, paying no heed to this maternal duel, but patting the top of his sceptre as if it had been the hilt of a sword which he was about to draw, "is, where the princess is now." the shepherd made no answer, for he had nothing to say more than he had said already. "you have murdered her!" shouted the king. "you shall be tortured till you confess the truth; and then you shall be tortured to death, for you are the most abominable wretches in the whole wide world." "who accuses me of crime?" cried the shepherd, indignant. "i accuse you," said the king; "but you shall see, face to face, the chief witness to your villany. officer, bring the girl." silence filled the hall while they waited. the king's face was swollen with anger. the queen hid hers behind her handkerchief. the shepherd and shepherdess bent their eyes on the ground, wondering. it was with difficulty rosamond could keep her place, but so wise had she already become that she saw it would be far better to let every thing come out before she interfered. at length the door opened, and in came the officer, followed by agnes, looking white as death and mean as sin. the shepherdess gave a shriek, and darted towards her with arms spread wide; the shepherd followed, but not so eagerly. "my child! my lost darling! my agnes!" cried the shepherdess. "hold them asunder," shouted the king. "here is more villany! what! have i a scullery-maid in my house born of such parents? the parents of such a child must be capable of any thing. take all three of them to the rack. stretch them till their joints are torn asunder, and give them no water. away with them!" the soldiers approached to lay hands on them. but, behold! a girl all in rags, with such a radiant countenance that it was right lovely to see, darted between, and careless of the royal presence, flung herself upon the shepherdess, crying,-- "do not touch her. she is my good, kind mistress." but the shepherdess could hear or see no one but her agnes, and pushed her away. then the princess turned, with the tears in her eyes, to the shepherd, and threw her arms about his neck and pulled down his head and kissed him. and the tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and kept her there, but his eyes were fixed on his agnes. "what is the meaning of this?" cried the king, starting up from his throne. "how did that ragged girl get in here? take her away with the rest. she is one of them, too." but the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before any one could interfere she had run up the steps of the dais and then the steps of the king's throne like a squirrel, flung herself upon the king, and begun to smother him with kisses. all stood astonished, except the three peasants, who did not even see what took place. the shepherdess kept calling to her agnes, but she was so ashamed that she did not dare even lift her eyes to meet her mother's, and the shepherd kept gazing on her in silence. as for the king, he was so breathless and aghast with astonishment, that he was too feeble to fling the ragged child from him, as he tried to do. but she left him, and running down the steps of the one throne and up those of the other, began kissing the queen next. but the queen cried out,-- "get away, you great rude child!--will nobody take her to the rack?" then the princess, hardly knowing what she did for joy that she had come in time, ran down the steps of the throne and the dais, and placing herself between the shepherd and shepherdess, took a hand of each, and stood looking at the king and queen. their faces began to change. at last they began to know her. but she was so altered--so lovelily altered, that it was no wonder they should not have known her at the first glance; but it was the fault of the pride and anger and injustice with which their hearts were filled, that they did not know her at the second. the king gazed and the queen gazed, both half risen from their thrones, and looking as if about to tumble down upon her, if only they could be right sure that the ragged girl was their own child. a mistake would be such a dreadful thing! "my darling!" at last shrieked the mother, a little doubtfully. "my pet of pets?" cried the father, with an interrogative twist of tone. another moment, and they were half way down the steps of the dais. "stop!" said a voice of command from somewhere in the hall, and, king and queen as they were, they stopped at once half way, then drew themselves up, stared, and began to grow angry again, but durst not go farther. the wise woman was coming slowly up through the crowd that filled the hall. every one made way for her. she came straight on until she stood in front of the king and queen. "miserable man and woman!" she said, in words they alone could hear, "i took your daughter away when she was worthy of such parents; i bring her back, and they are unworthy of her. that you did not know her when she came to you is a small wonder, for you have been blind in soul all your lives: now be blind in body until your better eyes are unsealed." she threw her cloak open. it fell to the ground, and the radiance that flashed from her robe of snowy whiteness, from her face of awful beauty, and from her eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, smote them blind. rosamond saw them give a great start, shudder, waver to and fro, then sit down on the steps of the dais; and she knew they were punished, but knew not how. she rushed up to them, and catching a hand of each said-- "father, dear father! mother dear! i will ask the wise woman to forgive you." "oh, i am blind! i am blind!" they cried together. "dark as night! stone blind!" rosamond left them, sprang down the steps, and kneeling at her feet, cried, "oh, my lovely wise woman! do let them see. do open their eyes, dear, good, wise woman." the wise woman bent down to her, and said, so that none else could hear, "i will one day. meanwhile you must be their servant, as i have been yours. bring them to me, and i will make them welcome." rosamond rose, went up the steps again to her father and mother, where they sat like statues with closed eyes, half-way from the top of the dais where stood their empty thrones, seated herself between them, took a hand of each, and was still. all this time very few in the room saw the wise woman. the moment she threw off her cloak she vanished from the sight of almost all who were present. the woman who swept and dusted the hall and brushed the thrones, saw her, and the shepherd had a glimmering vision of her; but no one else that i know of caught a glimpse of her. the shepherdess did not see her. nor did agnes, but she felt her presence upon her like the beat of a furnace seven times heated. as soon as rosamond had taken her place between her father and mother, the wise woman lifted her cloak from the floor, and threw it again around her. then everybody saw her, and agnes felt as if a soft dewy cloud had come between her and the torrid rays of a vertical sun. the wise woman turned to the shepherd and shepherdess. "for you," she said, "you are sufficiently punished by the work of your own hands. instead of making your daughter obey you, you left her to be a slave to herself; you coaxed when you ought to have compelled; you praised when you ought to have been silent; you fondled when you ought to have punished; you threatened when you ought to have inflicted--and there she stands, the full-grown result of your foolishness! she is your crime and your punishment. take her home with you, and live hour after hour with the pale-hearted disgrace you call your daughter. what she is, the worm at her heart has begun to teach her. when life is no longer endurable, come to me. "madam," said the shepherd, "may i not go with you now?" "you shall," said the wise woman. "husband! husband!" cried the shepherdess, "how are we two to get home without you?" "i will see to that," said the wise woman. "but little of home you will find it until you have come to me. the king carried you hither, and he shall carry you back. but your husband shall not go with you. he cannot now if he would." the shepherdess looked and saw that the shepherd stood in a deep sleep. she went to him and sought to rouse him, but neither tongue nor hands were of the slightest avail. the wise woman turned to rosamond. "my child," she said, "i shall never be far from you. come to me when you will. bring them to me." rosamond smiled and kissed her hand, but kept her place by her parents. they also were now in a deep sleep like the shepherd. the wise woman took the shepherd by the hand, and led him away. and that is all my double story. how double it is, if you care to know, you must find out. if you think it is not finished--i never knew a story that was. i could tell you a great deal more concerning them all, but i have already told more than is good for those who read but with their foreheads, and enough for those whom it has made look a little solemn, and sigh as they close the book. featherland, or how the birds lived at greenlawn, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ as he explains in the last paragraph the book was written for the amusement of two little girls who were fond of leaning up against his knee, and asking him to tell them a story. fenn was a very good naturalist, and i feel sure that he enjoyed looking out at the birds on the lawn, and seeing their reactions to one another. from this he has gone on to add occasional snatches of english speech, to illustrate to the girls the way the birds, and a few other animals (the dog, the cat, the bees, a hedgehog, the flies, the wasps), were behaving in each other's presence. on the whole the language is easy, and suitable for young children, but just occasionally a word slips in such as "gourmandising", which would need explaining to a child. i am not much in favour of books that make animals talk as though they were little human beings, but in this book such language is used only to the very minimum, just enough to make the animals' activities meaningful. for the rest the birds mostly make their appointed noises. but i did enjoy the skylark's song. and once fenn had put in one song it was inevitable that he would put in another, for which the bluebottle was the "singer". nh ________________________________________________________________________ featherland; or, how the birds lived at greenlawn, by george manville fenn. chapter one. how spring was coming. "hallo, old yellowbill! what's brought you out so early?" said a fine fat thrush, one bright spring morning, stopping for a moment to look at his companion, and leaving the great broken-shelled snail he had rooted out of the ivy bush curling about upon the gravel path. "hallo, old yellowbill! what's brought you out so early?" "what's that to you, old snail-crusher?" said the blackbird, for he was in rather an ill temper that morning, through having had a fright in the night, and being woke up by old shoutnight the owl, who had been out mousing and lost his wife, and sat at last in the ivy-tod halloaing and hoo-hooing, till the gardener's wife threw her husband's old boot out of the window at him, when he went flop into the laurel bush, and banged and bounced about, hissing and snapping with his great bill, while his goggle eyes glowed so angrily that the blackbird's good lady popped off her nest in a hurry and broke one of her eggs, and, what was worse, was afraid to go back again till the eggs were nearly cold; and then she was so cross about it, that although the broken egg was only a bad one, she turned round upon flutethroat, her husband, who had been almost frightened to death, and told him in a pet it was all his fault for not picking out a better place for the nest. so it was no wonder that flutethroat, the blackbird, turned grumpy when neighbour spottleover, the thrush, called him "yellowbill;" for of course he did not like it any better than a man with a red nose would like to be called hot-poker. but it was such a fine morning, and there were so many dew-worms lying out in the cool grass that the neighbours could not stop to be crabby. so spottleover flew off with his snail, and flutethroat soon had hold of a thumping, great worm, and set to work, tug-tug, to draw it from its hole, and then pulled and poked it about till it was easily to be packed in a knot, when he took it in his bill and flew off to the laurel bush, where mrs flutethroat was busy sitting upon four green speckly eggs, and waiting very impatiently for her breakfast. just then the sun cocked one side of his great round face over the hill, and looked down upon greenlawn garden, where all this took place, and tried to make the dew-drops glitter and shine upon the grass and leaves; but he could not, for dampall, the mist, was out, and had spread himself all over the place like a great wet smoke; and for ever so long he would not move, for he did not like the sun at all, because he, as a mist, was good friends with the moon, and used to let her beams dance all over him. but it was a fine spring morning, and the sun had got up in a good humour, and had no end of business to get through that day. there was all the water on the lowlands to drink up; all the little green buds just coming out on the trees to warm; the bees to waken up and send honey-seeking amongst the crocuses, primroses, and violets, that were all peeping out from amongst last autumn's dead leaves; flies to hunt out of crevices where they had been asleep all the winter; and old bluejacket, the watchman beetle, to wake up from his long doze; as well as nibblenut the squirrel, spikey the hedgehog, and ever so many more old friends and neighbours; and so, of course, he was not going to be put down by a cold, raw mist. and, "pooh!" he said, looking sideways at it, and, as he got his face a little higher, right through it, "pooh! that won't do; you've been up all night, so be off to bed, and don't think that i am going to put up with any of your nonsense. you had it all your own way whilst i was busy down south; but i've come back now to set things right; so off you go." whereupon the mist looked as raw and cross as he could, but it was of no use; so he rolled himself off the lawn, down the hollow, and into the vale, where he hung about over the river ever so long, evidently meaning to come back again; but the sun was after him in a twinkling, and so there was nothing else for it, and the poor mist crept into a cave by the river's bank, and went to sleep all day. "hooray!" said the birds when the mist was gone; and all the little pearly dew-drops were sparkling and twinkling on the grass. the daisy opened his eye and sat watching the grass grow; while the bees--as their grand friends, the great flowers, had not yet come to town--came buzzing about, and carried the news from daisy to daisy that queen spring was coming, and that there were to be grander doings than ever in the garden. "hooray!" said the birds, for they knew it too, and they all set to work, singing in the gladness of their hearts to think that old niptoes the winter had gone at last, and that there would be plenty to eat, and no more going about with feathers sticking up, and no leaves to shelter anybody by night. a fine place was greenlawn, for there the birds had it all their own way; not a nest was touched; not a gun was ever seen; and as to powder, the rooks up in the lime-trees never smelt it in their lives; but built their great awkward nests, and punched the lawn about till the grubs used to hold consultations together, and at last determined to emigrate, but as no one would come out of the ground to make a start, any more than a mouse could be found bold enough to put the bell on the cat's neck as told in the old fable, the grubs stopped there year after year, and had a very, very hard time of it. it was a regular feast-land for the birds; there were no such buds anywhere else to peck at, for so the tomtits and bullfinches thought; no such strawberries for the blackbirds and thrushes; and as to the elder-berries down by the pond, the starlings used to come in flocks to strip them off, and then carelessly leave ever so many wasting upon the ground. "hooray!" said the birds that morning; and they sang and sang so loudly and sweetly that the master of the garden opened his window and sat down to listen to them. but they had something else to do besides sing; there was courting, and wedding, and building, and housekeeping, going on all over the garden. mr and mrs redbreast were just married, and shocking as it may seem, were quarrelling about the place where they should live. mr robin wanted the snug quarters in the ivy, down by the melon pits; while mrs redbreast said it was draughty, and made up her mind to live in the rockery amongst the fern. mr and mrs specklems, the starlings, were very undecided about the hole in the chimney-stack, so much so, that when they had half-furnished it, they altered their minds and went to the great crack half way up the old cedar, and settled there; "like a pair of giddy unsettled things," as the jackdaw said, who meant to have been their neighbour; but was not above taking possession of the soft bed they had left behind. as to spottleover, he, too, was out of temper all the rest of the day, and when flutethroat met him in the afternoon he found his neighbour all smeared with clay, and looking for all the world like a clay-dabbing plasterer as he was. "there, just look at those wretched little cocktail things," said flutethroat, pointing to the wrens, hard at work at their nest, just when the cock bird flew up on to the wall, perked about for a moment, sang his song in a tremendous hurry, and seemed to leave off in the middle, as he popped down again to his work. "good job, too," said the thrush; "i wish mine was a cocktail, and then i shouldn't have had these nobs of clay sticking to it;" saying which he showed his neighbour three or four little clay-pellets attached to his tail-feathers, evidently caught up when fetching his mortar from the pond side. "ah! it's a stupid plan that plastering," said a conceited-looking chaffinch, joining in the conversation. "i wonder your children don't die of rheumatic gout." "take that for your impudence, you self-satisfied little moss-weaver;" saying which the thrush gave the new-comer such a dig in the back with his hard bill, that the finch flew off in a hurry, vowing that he would pass no more opinions upon other people's building. chapter two. the stolen eggs. plenty of fine mornings came and went, and busier than ever were all the birds. nests had been built; eggs had been laid; little callow birds had been hatched; and the little mouths wanted so much feeding that there was not even time to sing. but there was a good deal of discomfort and unpleasantry abroad, for a young relative of spottleover the thrush had lost three or four eggs from his nest at the bottom of the garden. of course they had been stolen, but who was the culprit? a chattering old sparrow said it was one of the rooks; and when the report got up in the rookery there was a fine commotion about it that evening, for the rooks held quite a parliament to vindicate the innocence of their order; and at last passed a vote of censure upon the sparrow for his false accusation; agreed to send him to coventry; and, as one old rook said, it would have been much more to his credit to have had his shirt-front washed, for it was dreadfully dirty, than to have gone making the rooks out blacker than they really were. then someone said it was the magpie; but he was dreadfully indignant about it, and his long tail trembled with passion; but he quite cleared his character before he flew back to his nest in the great elm down the field, for as he very truly said, if the case had been respecting a young bird or two, and times had been very hard, he might have fallen into temptation, and taken a callow nestling; "but as to eggs," he said, laying a black paw upon his white waistcoat, "upon his honour, no, not even if they were new laid." and so the eggs kept going, and nobody knew where; for they all felt when the magpie said "tar-tar," and flew away, that he had spoken openly and honourably, and was not the thief. at last one evening, when all the birds were as busy as their old friends the bees, all of a sudden there was a complete full stop throughout the garden, for from one of the low branches of the great cedar someone suddenly shouted out in a full, loud, and distinct voice--"cuckoo!" and again two or three times over--"cuckoo!" "halloa!" said flutethroat, ceasing his worm hunt, "who is that?" "cuckoo," said spottleover, dropping a snail; "what does that mean?" and all through the garden there ran a thrill of excitement, for the thrush's cousin flew up to the birds who had collected together, and told them he had seen the thief in the act of taking an egg, and he had flown into the cedar-tree. he was a long ugly bird in a striped waistcoat, and-- but the narrative was interrupted by the long mellow call of-- "cuckoo!" "what's it mean?" chorused the birds. "oh, that's his impudence," said the old owl, winking and blinking, for he had been roused out of his sleep by the new call. "come now, that won't do; we don't want you meddling now, old mousetrap," said the birds; "none of your night-birds here." saying which, they pecked and buffeted old shoutnight to such a degree that he was glad to shuffle off to his hole behind the ivied chimney-stack. all this while the cry kept coming out of the cedar, "cuckoo! cuckoo!" "it's dutch," said a greenfinch, looking very knowing. "no, it isn't; he comes from spain, i know," said the goldfinch. "chiswick, chiswick," shouted the sparrow. "tchah," said the jackdaw. "twit, twit," said the nuthatch. "little bit o' bread and no cheese," said the yellowhammer. "ah, we'll `twit' him with his theft," said the sage old starling; "and it's neither bread nor cheese he'll get here. he's a thief; a cheat; a--" "quack, quack," cried a duck from the pond. "ah! and a quack," continued the starling, and then he grew so excited that the rest of his speech was lost in sputtering, chattering, and fizzing; and all the birds burst out laughing at him, for all his little sharp shining feathers were standing up all over his head, and he looked so comical that they could not contain themselves, but kept on tittering, till all of a sudden-- "cuckoo!" said the stranger, and came right into view. "he's a foreigner," shouted the birds; "give it him;" and away they went, mobbing the strange bird; flying at him, over him, under him, round and round him, darting in and out in all directions, and pecking him so sharply that he was obliged to make signs for mercy; when he was immediately taken into custody by the starlings, and made to go into a hole in the cedar, where a jackdaw kept watch while they made preparations for trying the thief. chapter three. preparations for the trial. and a fine job those preparations were. it was all in vain that a meeting was held, and the perch taken; everybody wanted to talk at once, and, what was worse still, everybody did talk at once, and made such a clatter, that tom, the gardener's boy, threw his birch-broom up in the cedar-tree, and then had his ears boxed because it did not come down again, but lay across two boughs ever so high up and out of reach, to the great annoyance of mrs turtledove, a nervous lady of very mournful habit. the birch-broom scattered the birds for a while, but they soon came back, for they were not going to be frightened away by a bundle of twigs, when they did not even care for a scarecrow, but used to go and sit upon its head; while the tomtit declared it was a capital spider trap, and used to pick out no end of savoury little spinners for his dinner. when the birds had all settled again, they went to business in a quieter way, for they did not wish to be again driven off in such a sweeping manner; so at last they decided that the owl should be judge, because he looked big and imposing. "oh!" said specklems the starling, "but he's so sleepy and chuckleheaded." "all the better, my dear sir," said the magpie, who had come back on hearing the news of the capture; "all the better, my dear sir, for you know you will be for the prosecution, and then, with a highly respectable jury, we shall get on capitally; in fact, hardly want any judge at all, only to keep up appearances." "whew, whoo, whistlerustle," away they went, and settled in a cloud on the top of the old ivied house, and round about the owl's nest--birds of all colours, sorts, and sizes; long tails and short tails; long bills and short bills; worm-workers, grub-grinders, bud-biters, snail-crushers, seed-snappers, berry-bringers, fruit-finders, all kinds of birds--to fetch judge owl to sit at the court, to try the foreign thief, who had made such a commotion, trouble, bother, worry, and disturbance; and kicked up such a dust, such a shindy, such a hobble, as had never before been known in featherland. "hallo! here, shoutnight; hallo! wake up; anybody at home?" said the magpie, holding his head very much on one side, and peeping with one eye at a time into the snug place where the fuzzy old gentleman used to bring his mice home. "hallo! here," he continued, throwing in a small lump of mortar, which woke up the owl with a start. "who-hoo-hoo-hoo?" shouted the master of the house. "who-who tu-who-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo?" shouted the mistress. "ciss-s-s--phistle--phut-snap," chorused the juveniles, who had been disturbed by their mamma, treading upon one, scratching another on the side of the head, and giving number three such a crack with her wing that the little fellow was knocked out of the nest into an old sooty part of the chimney, and came back such a little guy that his mother hardly knew him. "who-who-oo-oo-oo?" said the owl again. "`who? who? who?' why, whom do you suppose, but all your cousins of featherland, come to give you a call?" said the magpie. whereupon the old gentleman came forth in a very dignified way, with his wife's spectacles on his nose, and then, because he could not see a bit, stood winking and blinking and nodding his great head, and bowing, and sticking up his feathers, like a stupid old turkey-cock, till he looked so majestic and imposing, that it was decided at once that he must come into the cedar and try the foreigner, who would not have a chance to get off with such a judge before him. off went the owl with a heavy flap-flap, and across the garden to where the great cedar stood; and away went the birds with such a flutter, rustle, and bustle, that the whole air whistled again as they swept away. "now, then, bolster-brains," said the starling to the jackdaw, "why, you've been asleep!" and there, sure enough, had sat the daw with his head in his pocket, and one leg put away for the present until he wanted it again. "asleep! nonsense!" said the daw. "pooh--tchah! who ever heard of such a thing? only thinking, my dear sir--only thinking; and i think so much better with my eyes shut and the light shaded from them." "why, you depraved descendant of a corvine ancestor; you grey-headed old miscreant," exclaimed the blackbird, who had been to look at the prisoner, "what have you done with the foreigner?" "done," said the daw, "done with the foreigner! no, of course i have not done with the foreigner, any more than the rest of the company have." "but where is he?" chorused several birds; "where is he?" "ah!" said judge shoutnight, "who-oo-oo--ere's the prisoner?" over the hills and far away, with voice cleared by sucking the little birds' eggs, and crying "cuckoo," till the far-off woods rang back the echo from their golden green sides; and still on and on flew the sweet-voiced bird, crying that summer had come again with its hedge-side flowers and sweet-scented gales, bonny meadows, golden with the glossy buttercups, while nodding cowslips peeped from their verdant beds. "cuckoo!" cried the bird, and away he flew again over the rich green pasture, where the lowing cows lazily browsed amongst the rich cream-giving grass, or crouched in their fresh, sweet banqueting-hall, and idly ruminated with half-shut eyes, flapping their great widespread ears to get rid of some early fly. and, still rejoicing in his liberty, the bird cried "cuckoo! cuckoo!" over vale and lea. chapter four. "peedle-weedle-wee." "there, only hark at that," said mrs flutethroat; "who can possibly go to sleep with that noise going on--ding, ding, dinging in one's ears?" saying which the good dame took her head from beneath her wing, and smoothed down her feathers as she spoke. "there never was such a nuisance as those bottle-tits anywhere." the noise that mrs flutethroat complained of proceeded from the low branches of a large fir-tree; and as the good dame listened the sounds came again louder than ever, "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," in a small, thready, pipy tone, as though the birds who uttered the cry had had their voices split up into two or three pieces. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," cried a row of little long-tailed birds, so small that they looked like little balls of feathers, with tiny black eyes and a black beak--so small that it was hardly worth calling a beak at all--stuck at one point, and a thin tail at the other extreme. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," they kept crying, which meant,--"let me come inside where it's warm;" and as they kept on whining the same cry, the outside birds kept flitting over the backs of those next to them, and trying to get a middle place. then the next two did the same, and the next, and the next, until they all had done the same thing, when they began again; and all the while that wretched, querulous piping "peedle-weedle-wee" kept on, till mrs flutethroat grew so angry, and annoyed and irritable, that she felt as though she could have thrown one of her eggs at the tiresome little intruders on the peace of the garden. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," said the bottle-tits as busy as ever, trying to get the warmest spot. "there they go again," said mrs flutethroat; "why don't you go somewhere else, and not make that noise there?" "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," said the bottle-tits. "ah!" said mrs flutethroat, "i wish i was behind you, i'd make you say `peedle-wee-weedle--weedle-wee-peedle,' as you call it. i'd soon he after you, only it is so dark, and all my egg's would grow cold. tchink-tchink-tchink," she cried, trying to fright them; but still they kept on "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee" worse than ever; and, as it grew dark, it actually appeared as though they were coming nearer to the nest. "there," she exclaimed at last, "i can't stand this any longer! here, flutethroat, wake up, do," she cried to her partner, who was sitting upon a neighbouring bough with his feathers erect all over him, and his head turned right under and quite out of sight. "wake up, wake up, do," she cried again, trying to shake the boughs. but flutethroat could not wake up just then, for he was enjoying a most delightful dream: he was living in a country where there were no cats, nor any other living things but slugs, snails, and grubs; while all kinds of fruit grew in profusion, so that there was no difficulty in obtaining any amount of food; but one great drawback to his happiness was an ugly, misshapen little bird, which would keep running after him, and crying, "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," or else shouting at him to "wake up." "wake up, wake up," cried the voice. "get along with you, do," said flutethroat. "peedle-weedle-wee, peedle-weedle-wee," cried the voice again. "oh! bother," said flutethroat, slowly drawing his head out from beneath his wing, and finding that the voices were real, and plainly to be heard on both sides of the puzzled bird; for mrs flutethroat was crying out "wake up, wake up," and the bottle-tits were squabbling more than ever for the warmest place. "there, at last," said mrs flutethroat, "if you sleep after that fashion, that old green-eyed cat must have you some day, and i shall be made a disconsolate widow." "well, what's the matter?" said flutethroat, opening his yellow bill quite an inch, and gaping dreadfully without putting a wing before his mouth. "what's the matter?" said his mate crabbily. "why, look at those nasty little feather-balls peedle-weedling; who can put up with it? they've no business there at all. they've been making that noise for half-an-hour." "well, go to sleep, and don't take any notice." "but i can't; i've been trying ever so long, and they won't let me. every now and then i think they have gone to sleep, but they only burst out worse than ever. there, hark at them; isn't it dreadful?" "heigho--he--ha--ha--hum--mum; yes, very," said flutethroat. "oh! dear; how sleepy i am!" "sleepy," said mrs flutethroat crossly; "so am i; then why don't you go and stop that dreadful noise?" "how can i stop it? they have as good a right to be there as we have to be here; so we must not interfere with them." "but you must stop it," said his wife, getting so cross that flutethroat was obliged to say "very well," and go slowly towards the fir-tree, where the tiny birds were sitting in a row, and when he got up to them there they were tired out and fast asleep; the last one awake having dropped off just as he was half through saying "weedle," and as he was going to hop over his neighbours' backs to get in the middle. flutethroat stopped to look at the little downy grey mites, and could not help thinking how pretty they looked; when he went back to the laurel bush, and found his mate fast asleep too; and so there was nothing else for it but to turn himself into a ball of feathers, which he quickly did; and then there was nought to be heard but the night breezes of early spring rustling through the half bare trees, and hurrying off to fetch water from the sea to drop upon the ground, so that flowers and grass might spring up, and earth look bright and gay once more. "kink-kink-kink," cried flutethroat, darting through the shrubbery next morning, and rousing up his cousins, who were soon busy at work finishing their nest and getting everything in apple-pie order. how hard they all worked; fetching materials from all sorts of distant places, and picking only those of the most sober hues, such as would not attract the notice of those people who might be passing by; and then how carefully was every straw, or hair, or thread woven in and out and secured, so that the walls of the nests grew up neat, tight, and compact as possible, and all the while so tightly fastened that nothing short of great violence could move them from their place. as for the nests of flutethroat and his cousins, they were so warmly plastered inside, that it might have been thought that they meant their little nests to be substantial houses to last them for years to come. "caw-aw--caw-aw--caw-aw," cried a rook up in the high limes. "caw-caw-caw-caw," cried all the rest of the rooks up in the high limes. and then such a chorus broke forth that the whole of greenlawn was in a state of alarm, and called a meeting in the cedar to know what was the matter. "there's somebody shot," said mr specklems, the starling. "nonsense," said the thrush; "there was no pop. it must be something much worse than that." "send some one to ask," said the jackdaw. "ah! to be sure," said everybody in chorus; and so it was decided that the jackdaw should go and see, and then come back and deliver his report. off he went; and all the time he was gone the birds in the cedar made a noise of their own, almost equal to that in the rookery, till the jackdaw came back looking so cunning and knowing, that every one could plainly see that nothing very serious was the matter. as soon as he got up to his place in the cedar all the birds crowded round him to make inquiries; but the daw began to teaze them, and wouldn't tell anything for a few minutes, and then in a half whisper he said something to the starling. "tchitch!" said specklems, "is that all? why i'd have two dozen hatchings without making one half of that disturbance. dear friends," he continued, turning round to the assembled birds, "dear friends, it's a great to-do about nothing at all; for all that hullabaloo is because there are some young rooks hatched." "boo! oh! er! ah!" cried all the birds in all sorts of tones of disgust and annoyance. "what a shame.--stupid things," and many other expressions of indignation at being startled about such a piece of rubbish, burst from the birds; and directly after there was a whirl, and a rush, for all the birds darted off in the greatest haste to get to their business again, to make up for lost time; and would not leave it afterwards although a jay flew over screaming harshly; and a stray hen got in the garden scratching the flower beds, and had to be hunted out; nor yet even when mrs puss came slinking down the garden, and round all the flower beds; for this was a terribly busy time, and every moment was of value, though certainly food began to be much more plentiful now the warm and genial sun began to shine longer every day, and made bud after bud burst into beautiful emerald green leaves, that made the trees cast a deeper shade, and began to conceal the nests--even those of the rooks up in the tall limes. chapter five. pretty pussy. a nice job had mr and mrs spottleover with their young ones; they were not amiable and dutiful children, but spent all their time in grumbling and shouting for more food, till they nearly drove the old folks mad, and mrs spottleover said she would never have been married if she had known; "no; that she wouldn't." tiresome children hers were, for they were no sooner hatched, and lay at the bottom of the nest all eyes and mouth, with just a patch of grey woolly fluff stuck on their backs, than they began to open their great beaks, and gorge everything the old ones brought; till you would almost have thought they must have killed themselves; but they did not; they only grew; and that, too, at such a rate, that before they were fledged they used to push, crowd, and fight because, they said, the nest was too tight; and it was almost a wonder nobody fell overboard. beautiful beaks they had, too, as they grew older, and sweet voices, that subsided into a querulous grumbling when the old birds had gone; but directly father or mother returned, tired and panting, to settle on the bush, up popped every bird, and strained every neck, and wide open sprang every beak, ready for the coming "slug, grub, or wire-worm." "my turn--my turn--my turn--my turn," chorused the voices; ready to snap up the coming morsel like insatiable young monsters as they were; and this time it was a fine fat worm that mrs spottleover found on the grass plot far away from his hole, and had killed and then brought him in triumph to her little ones for breakfast. "now, one at a time, children; one at a time; don't be greedy," said dame spottleover; and then she popped the beautiful, juicy, macaroni-like morsel into the beak of number one, who began to gobble it down for fear anyone else should get a taste; but number four saw a chance, and snapped hold of the other end of the worm and swallowed ever so much, till at last he and his brother had their heads close together; when they began to pull and quarrel--quarrel and pull--till mrs spottleover turned her own beak into a pair of scissors, snipped the disputed morsel in two, boxed both the offenders' ears, said she would take the worm away--but did not, as it was all gone--and then flew off for a fresh supply. in came father with three green caterpillars fresh from off the cauliflowers, popped them in as many beaks, and he, too, flew off on his day's work to hunt out savoury morsels for his little tyrant-like children. "i can fly," said number three; "i know i can. i mean to try soon, and get my own bits. i know i can." "you can't," said one brother; "you can't. you would come down wop! and couldn't get up again. you ain't strong enough to fly yet." "i am. i could fly ever so high; and i'd show you, if i liked, but i don't like." "ah! you're afraid." "no; i'm not." "yes; you are." "no; i'm not. there's a wing now," said the fledgeling, spreading out his half-penned pinion. "couldn't i fly with that?" "oh!" roared the other disputant, "that's right in my eye. oh, dear; oh, dear; won't i tell when mother comes back." "tchut, tchut, children," said the dame, flying to the nest; "quiet, quiet, there's the green-eyed tiger that killed your grandfather coming; so thank your stars that you are safe in the nest your father and i made for you; for yon wretch would, if it could, make mouthfuls of you all." but mrs pussy with her striped sides, and long, lithe sweeping tail, did not know of the thrushes' nest, and so went quietly and softly down the path towards the hollow cedar-tree. here and there lay a wet leaf or two; and when quiet mrs puss put her velvet paw on one it would stick to it, and set her twitching and shaking her leg till the leaf was got rid of, when she licked the place a little and went on again. ah! so soft and smooth and velvety was mrs puss, looking as innocent as the youngest of kittens, and without a thought of harm to anybody. walking along so softly, and not noticing anything with one eye, but keeping the other slyly fixed upon friend specklems, who was high up on a dead branch, making believe to sing to his good lady, who was two feet deep in a hole of the cedar, sitting upon four beautiful blue eggs. and beautifully specklems, no doubt, thought he sang, only to a listener it sounded to be all sputter and wheezle--chatter and whistle; but he kept on. all the while puss crept gently up to the trunk of the tree, only just to rub herself up against it, backwards and forwards; nothing more. but, somehow, mrs puss was soon up the trunk, and close to the nest-hole before the starling saw her; but he did at last, with her paw right down in the hole. "now, thief," he shouted, perking himself up and looking very fierce; but all the while trembling lest puss should draw out his wife tangled up in the nesting stuff. "now, come, out of that." mrs puss gave a slight start, and peering up saw specklems looking as fierce about the head as an onion stuck full of needles; but she did not draw forth her paw until she had, by carefully stretching it out as far as possible, found that she could not reach the nest. "dear me, how you startled me, mr specklems," she said; "who ever would have thought of seeing you there?" and then she began sneaking and sidling up towards the bird, of course with the most innocent of intentions; and though not in the slightest degree trusting mrs puss, specklems sat watching to see what she would do next. "it's a nice morning, isn't it?" she continued mildly, but at the same time drawing her wicked-looking red tongue over her thin lips as though she thought specklems would be nicer than the morning. "it's a nice morning, isn't it? and how do you do, my dear sir? you see i am taking a ramble for my health. i find that i want fresh air; the heat of the kitchen fire quite upsets me sometimes, and then i come out for a stroll, and get up the trees just to hear the sweet warbling of the songsters." "humph!" said specklems to himself, "that's meant for a compliment to my singing; but i know she's after no good." "the kitchen was very, very hot this morning," continued puss, "and so i came out." and this was quite true, for the kitchen _was_ hot that morning--too hot to hold mrs puss, for cook had run after her with the fire-shovel for licking all the impression off one of the pats of butter, just ready for the breakfast parlour, and leaving the marks of her rough tongue all over the yellow dab, and hairs out of her whiskers in the plate; and then when cook called her a thief, she stood licking her lips at the other end of the kitchen, and looking so innocent, that cook grew quite cross, caught up the shovel, and chased puss round the kitchen, till at last the cat jumped up on cook's shoulder, scratched off her cap, and leaped up to the open skylight and got away; while poor cook was so frightened that she fell down upon the sandy floor in a fainting fit, but knocked the milk-jug over upon the table as she went down, which served to revive her, for the milk ran in a little rivulet right into one of the poor woman's ears, filled it at once like a little lake, and then flowed down her neck, underneath her gown, and completely soaked her clean white muslin handkerchief. and so mrs puss found the kitchen very hot that morning, and took a walk in the garden. "let me hear you sing again, sir," said puss, creeping nearer and nearer. "that piece of yours, where you whistle first, and then make that sweet repetition, which sounds like somebody saying `stutter' a great many times over very quickly. now, do, now; you folks that can sing always want so much pressing." poor specklems! he hardly knew what to do at first; but he had wit enough to be upon his guard while he sang two or three staves of his song. by this time puss had managed to creep within springing distance of poor specklems; and just in the midst of one of her smooth oily speeches she made a jump, open-mouthed and clawed, but missed her mark, for the starling gave one flip with his wing and was out of reach in an instant, and then, with a short skim, he alighted on the thin branch of a neighbouring tree, where he sat watching his treacherous enemy, who had fared very differently. crash went mrs puss right through the prickly branches of the cedar, and came down with her back across the handle of the birch-broom, which still stuck in the tree, and made her give such an awful yowl, that the birds all came flocking up in time to see mrs puss go spattering down the rest of the distance, and then, as a matter of course, she fell upon her feet, and walked painfully away, followed by the jeers of all the birds, who heard the cause of her fall, while she went off spitting and swearing in a most dreadful manner, and looking as though her tail had been turned into a bottle-brush, just at the time her coat was so rough that it would be useful to smooth it. poor mrs puss, she nearly broke her back, and she went off to the top of the tool-shed, where the sun shone warmly, and there she set to and licked herself all over, till her glossy coat was smooth again, when she curled herself up in a ball and went fast asleep, very much to the discomfort of a pair of redstarts, who were busy building their nest under the very tile mrs puss had chosen for her throne. "a nasty, deceitful, old, furry, green-eyed, no-winged, ground-crawling monster," said mrs specklems. "there i sat, with its nasty fish-hook foot within two or three inches of my nose, and there it was opening and shutting, and clawing about in such a way, that i turned all cold and shivery all over, and i'm sure i've given quite a chill to the eggs; and dear, dear, what a time they are hatching! don't you think that if we were both to sit upon them they would be done in half the time? here have i been sit-sit-sit for nearly twenty days down in that dark hole; and if we are to have any more such frights as that just now, why, i do declare that i will forsake the nest. the nasty spiteful thing, it ought to be pecked to death." but mrs puss was not to go unpunished for her wrongful dealings; about half an hour after she had been asleep, who should come snuffing about in the garden but boxer, the gardener's ugly, old rough terrier. he had no business at all in the garden, but had managed to get his chain out of the staple, and there he was running about, and dragging it all over the flower beds, and doing no end of mischief; then he made a charge at mrs spottleover, who was on the lawn, where she had just punched out a fine grub, but she was so frightened at boxer's rough head and hair-smothered eyes, that she dropped her grub and went off in a hurry. over and over went boxer in the grass, having such a roll, and panting and lolling out his great red tongue with excitement, and then working away with both paws at his collar till he got it over his little cock-up ears, and then he gave his freed head such a shake that the ears rattled again. then away he went, sniffing here, snuffing there, jumping and snapping at the birds far above, and coming down upon the ground with all four legs at once, and racing about and playing such strange antics, capers, and pranks, that the birds all laughed at the stupid, good-natured-looking dog, and did not feel a bit afraid of him. all at once boxer gave a sharp sniff under the cedar-tree, just where mrs puss had tumbled down, and then sticking his ears forward, his nose down, and his tail straight up, he trotted off along the track mrs puss had made, until he came close to the tool-shed, where, looking up, he could just see a part of pussy's shining fur coat leaning over the tiles. now, boxer was a very sly old gentleman, and when he saw the birds flocking after him to see what he would do, he made them a sign to be quiet, and put his paw up to the side of his wet black nose, as much as to say, "i know;" and then he trotted off to the melon frames, walked up the smooth sloping glass till he could jump on to the ivy-covered wall, where he nearly put his foot in the hedge-sparrow's nest, and so on along the top till he came to the tool-shed, where his enemy, mrs puss, lay curled up, fast asleep. they were dreadful enemies were mrs puss and boxer, for the cat used to go into the yard where the dog was chained up, and, after spitting and swearing at him, on more than one occasion took advantage of his being at the end of his chain, and keeping just out of his reach scratched the side of his nose, and tore the skin so that poor boxer ran into his kennel howling with pain, rage, and vexation; while mrs puss, setting her fur all up, marched out of the yard a grander body than ever. and then, too, she used to get all the titbits out of the kitchen that would have fallen to boxer's share; and he, poor fellow, used often to say to the robin-redbreast who came for a crumb or two, that the pieces he sometimes had smelt catty, from puss turning them over and then refusing them, when they came to the share of the poor dog. so boxer never forgave the scratch on his nose, nor yet mrs puss's boast that he was afraid of her; so he walked softly along the wall, and on to the tool-shed, and with one bouncing leap came down plop upon the treacherous old grimalkin. "worry-worry-worry-ur-r-r-ry," said boxer, as he got hold of pussy's thick skin at the nape of her neck, and shook away at it as hard as he could. "wow-wow-wiau-au-au-aw," yelled puss, wakened out of her sleep, and in vain trying to escape. "hooray!" said the birds, flying round and round in a state of the greatest excitement. "give it her, boxer," shouted mr specklems, remembering the morning's treachery. and then off they rolled on to the ground, and over and over, righting, howling, and yelling, till mrs puss made a desperate rush through a gooseberry bush, and a thorn went so sharply into boxer's nose that he left go, and away went puss across the garden till she came to the wall, and was scrambling up it, when boxer had her by the tail and dragged her down again. but puss made another rush towards the gate, dragging boxer after her, till she came to the trellis-work opening, through which she dragged herself, and a moment after boxer stood looking very foolish, with a handful of fur off puss's tail in his mouth; while she, with her ragged ornament, was glad enough to sneak in-doors frightened to death, and get to the bottom of the cellar, where she scared cook almost into fits, by sitting upon a great lump of coal, with her eyes glaring like a couple of green stars in the dark. "wow-wow-wow--bow-wow-wuff," said boxer at last, when he found that his enemy had gone. "wuff-wuff," he said again, trying to get rid of the fur sticking about his mouth. "wuff-wuff," he said, "that's better." "bravo!" chorused the birds, in a state of high delight; "well done, boxer!" "ha-ha-ha; phut-phut-phut--wizzle-wizzle," said the starling off the top of the wall. "wizzle-wizzle, indeed," said boxer grumpily; "why don't you come down, old sharp-bill, and pull this thorn out of my nose?" "'tisn't safe," said the starling. "get out," said boxer; "why, what do you mean?" "you'd get hold of my tail, perhaps," said specklems. "ha-ha-ha," laughed all the birds; "that's capital, so he would." "no, no; honour bright," said boxer. "you never knew me cheat; ask robin, there." whereupon the robin came forward in a new red waistcoat, blew his nose very loudly, and then said:-- "gentlemen all, i could, would, should, and always have trusted my person freely with my friend--if he will allow me to call him so,"--here the robin grew quite pathetic, and said that often and often he had been indebted to his friend for a sumptuous repast, or for a draught of water when all around was ice; he assured them they might put the greatest trust in boxer's honour. whereupon boxer laid himself in the path, and the birds dropped down one at a time, some on the beds, some on the gooseberry or currant bushes, and formed quite a cluster round the great, rough, hairy fellow, for they felt perfectly safe after what the robin had said. first of all, the starling examined the wound with great care, and said, "the thorn is sticking in it." "well, i knew that," said boxer; "pull it out." he spoke so sharply that every one jumped, and appeared as if about to fly off; but as the dog lay quite still, specklems laid hold of the thorn, and gave a tug at it that made boxer whine; but he did not get it out, so tried again. "some one come and lend a hand here," said the starling; and then two or three birds, one after another, joined wings and pulled away with a hearty "yo, ho," until all at once out came the thorn, and down fell the haulers all in a heap upon the ground, where they fluttered and scrambled about, for their legs and wings had got so mixed up together that there was no telling which was which; and the only wonder was that the thrush did not come out of the scramble with the starling's wings, and the blackbird with somebody else's tail. however, at last they were all right again, and boxer declared he was so deeply indebted to the birds that he must ask them all to his kennel in the yard to help him to eat his dinner next day. then the birds whistled and chattered, piped and sang; boxer gave two or three barks and jumps off the ground to show his satisfaction, although his nose was bleeding; while all the time mrs puss sat alone in the coal-cellar, making use of most dreadful cat-language, and determining to serve the birds out for it some day. when a proper amount of respect had been shown upon both sides, the birds flew off to their green homes, to attend to the wants of their young ones, and to finish nesting; while boxer went back to his green kennel and made himself a nest amongst his clean straw. chapter six. the tomtits. it was all very well for mrs puss to get up the great cedar-tree and put her paw down the great hole, but if it had been the thorn-tree, that was just coming out all over beautiful white scented blossoms, hanging in long silvery wreaths, mrs puss would have found out her mistake. there was a hole there, and there was a nest in it, but pussy's paw could no more have gone down it than a cannon-ball would run through a tobacco-pipe. such a tiny round hole; such a depth; and such a tiny little round pair of birds, with blue and white heads, green backs, and yellow breasts, with a black stripe down the centre; such tiny black beaks; in short, such a tiny pair of tits were tom and tomasina, who had made their nest right down at the bottom of this little hole. bustling, busy little bodies they were, too, popping in and out with little bits of soft wool, down, or small feathers; and then, tiniest of all were first about a dozen morsels of eggs, and then the nest full of little callow birds, with all that dozen of little beaks up and open for food. in and out, in and out, till any one would have thought the little tomtit wings would have been tired out; but, no; in and out still, and backwards and forwards, bringing tiny grubs and caterpillars, and all manner of little insects in those little open beaks, to satisfy the craving little family at home. tom-tit told his wife that he could not understand it, but thought that when they were mated all they would have to do would be to fly about the garden, hopping from twig to twig, and picking all the little buds through the long sunshiny days, and sleeping at night upon some high, safe bough, rolled up like little balls of feathers. "oh! but," said mrs tit, "only to think of it; such a tiny body as i am to have twelve children, and all the while that great gawky, mrs stockdove, only to have one, for the other she had rolled out of the nest and was killed." "nest," said tom, "i never saw such a nest; nothing but a few sticks laid across one another. no wonder the poor little thing rolled out; there was nothing to save it. but it is not every one who has so tidy and neat a little body for a wife as i have. so come, wifey, bustle about, for the children are all crying as though they had not eaten for a week; and i declare that i'm as hungry as any of them." and away flew the little tits, ridding the garden of thousands of insect plagues, and clearing off nuisances that would have destroyed half the fruit and vegetables in the garden. as for the little crawling flies and other insects, it was wonderful how fast they were snapped up; and though people would say that tom-tit and his wife did a great deal of mischief by pecking the buds, it was quite a mistake; for though they pecked the buds, it was almost always when some sly little insect had made itself a hole in the bud, where it would have laid eggs, and its young would have totally destroyed the tree. todkins, the old gardener, used to be in a fine way about it, and laid all sorts of charges against not only tom-tit but all the rest of the birds, and used to want to set traps, and spread poisoned wheat, and get guns to shoot them with; but the master of greenlawn would not let him; so the old man used to grumble and say there would be no fruit and no vegetables, for the birds would eat everything up, seed, fruit, and all. but the master of greenlawn knew best, for he thought that if the birds were killed or frightened away, the insects, and grubs, and caterpillars, and slugs, and snails, and all sorts of other uncomfortable things, would come and eat the fruit and vegetables, and eat them all up, while the birds would be sure to leave some. and, sure enough, he was quite right, for somebody else, who used to kill and frighten away all the birds, had all his crops destroyed; while at greenlawn, where there were hundreds and hundreds of birds, there was always plenty of fruit and vegetables; for the birds very seldom touched the fruit if they could get plenty of other food. certainly sometimes mr sparrow used to pick out the finest and ripest cherries, or have a good peck at a juicy pear. the starlings, too, would gobble down the elder-berries, and sometimes the greenfinches used to go to see how the radish seeds were getting on, and taking tight hold of the thread-like shoots, pull them out of the ground, and leave them upon the top of the bed, fast asleep, for they never grew any more. still, take it altogether, there was always twice as much fruit where there were plenty of birds, as where they were all driven away. chapter seven. an odd stranger. there was one bird used to run about greenlawn on a fine morning, hunting for tiny spiders and flies; he was a little, slim, dapper fellow, with a long tail, and whenever he jumped about a little way, or settled upon the ground, he used to make his long tail go wipple-wapple, up and down, as if he had shaken it loose; but it was only a funny habit of his, like that of mrs hedgesparrow, who was always shaking and shuffling her wings about. a fast runner was mr wagtail, and fine fun it was to see him skimming along the top of the ground in chase of a fly to take home to his wife, who used to live in a nest in the bank close by the hole over the pond, where old ogrebones--blue-backed billy the kingfisher, had his house, and used to spread the bones of his fishy little victims about the grass. one day walter wagtail was running along the ground after a fly, and was going to snap him up, when--"bob"--he was gone in an instant; and wagtail found himself standing before--oh! such an ugly thing, with two bright, staring eyes; a bloated, rough, dirty-looking body; four crooked legs, no neck, no wings, no tail, and such a heavy stomach, that he was obliged to crawl about with it resting upon the ground. "heugh! you horrid, ugly-looking thing," said wagtail; "you swallowed my fly. where do you come from? what's your name? who's your father and mother, and what made you so ugly?" "ugly, indeed," said the pudgy thing; "what do you mean by ugly? just you go to the bottom of the pond and lie under the mud, old fluffy-jacket, and stop there for a week, and see how you would look with your fine gingerbread black and white feathers sticking to your sides all muddy and wet. who would look ugly then? not you! oh no." "but i shouldn't be such a round, rough, clay-tod as you are, old no-neck," said the wagtail, ruffling his feathers up at the very idea of getting them damp. "no, you wouldn't, you miserable whipper-snapper," croaked the other, settling himself down on the flowerbed, so that he could hardly be told from the ground for colour. "no, you wouldn't, but you would be-- ho-ho-ho--you would be--ha-ha-ha--such a--he-he-he--such a--haw-haw-haw. there, i can't help laughing," said the round fellow, with his fat sides wagging about through his merriment. "you must excuse me, but i do think you would look so comical with all your feathers gummed down to your skinny sides, that wisp of a tail like a streak of horsehair, and those stilty legs sticking into your scraggy body--ho-ho-ho-ho--my fat sides! how i wish i had ribs, for then i could stop laughing easier; but you are such a droll little chap." "get out," said the bird, wagging his tail with fury, for he was very proud of his genteel appearance; "get out, you old dusky dab, or i shall kick you. i feel quite disgusted with your appearance. what are you doing here?" "doing?" said the other, rubbing the tears out of his eyes; "doing? why, getting my living the same way as you do--fly-catching." "fly-catching," said the other with a sneer; "how can you catch flies? why, you can't run a bit. i suppose you wait till they tumble into your mouth, don't you? who are you? what's your name?" "my name?" said the other; "well, you are not very civil, but i don't mind telling you. my name's toad--brown toad--and i'd a great deal rather be such an ugly fellow, as you call me, than a weazen, skinny, windbeater like you. how do i catch flies? why, so, my boy; that's how i catch them," and just then the toad crept to within two or three inches of a great fly that had settled upon a leaf, darted out his long tongue, which stuck to the fly, and it was drawn into the toad's great mouth in an instant. "that's the way i catch flies, my boy, and a capital way too, isn't it?" "hum," said the wagtail, rather astonished at the ease with which the fly was caught; "it wasn't so bad, certainly; but you know you are precious ugly. why, you have no waist." "waste!" said the toad, "no, there's no waste about me; it's all useful what there is of me." "ugh! you stupid," said the other; "i mean _waist_ over your hips, where you ought to wear your belt or sash." "oh! ah! i see," said the toad. "no, i've no waist, and don't want any, but i know a little chap that has; he's a little black and yellow fellow, who goes buzzing about, making a fine noise, and likes sweet things; he'd suit you, only he has _such_ a tickler in his tail. his name's wops, or wasp, or something of that kind." "oh! i know the conceited little plum-stealer; he's poisonous, like you are." "pooh!" said the toad, "poisonous! i'm not poisonous. i'm not even ill-tempered, so as to poison people's minds, much more poison their bodies. that's an old woman's tale; they say i spit poison, because they've seen me catch flies; and are stupid enough, like you, to think me ugly, just as if that made any difference. i creep about here and catch my flies, and enjoy myself well enough." "but you can't fly," said the wagtail vainly; "i can." "pooh! i know," said the toad; "and you can't swim. i can." "but you can't run and catch flies," said the other, getting cross. "no, but i can sit down and catch them," said the toad, "and that's easier." "boo! old bark-back; where's your tail?" said the wagtail, now quite cross to find that the ugly old toad was quite as clever as he, and a deal better-tempered. "tail," said the other contemptuously; "what's the use of a tail only to wag? do you want me to pull it?" and then he made believe that he was going to get hold of the wagtail's long feathers, but the bird flew off in a fright, thoroughly vexed and disappointed, because the nasty, black-looking, rough toad could beat him in everything he said. chapter eight. ogrebones. away went the wagtail--flit-flit-flit--down to the pond where the water-lilies grew, and began running about over them to catch the gnats that were dancing over the glassy water; and there again he had a fright, for he saw close to his feet, by the edge of a large leaf, a green nose, just the shape of the toad's. however, he had presence of mind to say, "who are you?" "croak," said the green nose, and dived under the water; and then the wagtail saw that it was a light-green thing, with longer legs than the toad, and that it swam to the bottom and stopped. just then old ogrebones, the kingfisher, came skimming along like a blue flash over the pond, and he settled on a twig near his hole in the bank. "morning, neighbour," said he to the wagtail. "how are flies this morning?" "scarce, very scarce," said the wagtail. "there was a poacher out on my place catching the poor things with a machine, which he shot at them. one of the lowest-looking, rough customers you ever saw. he said his name was brown toad, and quite insulted me about my figure,--an ugly, pumpkin--shaped, pod-nosed thing." "oh! i know him," said the kingfisher; "i often meet his first cousin down here in the pond when i'm diving. they're a low lot; a cold-blooded set; but what can you expect from a thing whose eggs are soft, and left to hatch themselves? why, they are only tadpoles at first." "you don't say so?" said the wagtail, who had not the least idea what a tadpole was, unless it was the pole the gardener used to pull the weeds out of the pond with. "you don't say so?" "o yes!" said ogrebones; "it's a fact; i tried to eat one once, but couldn't get on with it at all. you see, i'm an english bird, and not french, so that i cannot manage frog." "of course not; i see," said the wagtail. but the kingfisher did not stop to hear him out, for all of a sudden he sprang up, poised himself a moment in the sunny air, and then darted into the water, from whence he presently emerged, bearing a little struggling fish in his great beak, and with the sparkling drops of water running off his back, and leaving his bright glossy blue feathers all dry, shining, and bright, as though he had only been for a flight through the air. "there," said ogrebones, "i've got him this time, and not without trying. i've missed this little chap twice over, but when once mrs k inside there takes him in hand, he will have no chance; for it will be eggs and crumb, and frying-pan with him in no time." so then old ogrebones disappeared within his hole; wagtail betook himself to his nest to relate his morning's experiences to the patient mrs wagtail, who, like many other friends and relatives, was busy keeping her eggs warm; and so the pond was for the moment vacated by the birds; but it was not alone for all that, for a pretty place was that pond, just at the bottom of greenlawn--a pond rich in life of all kinds; this was where the blue-eyed forget-me-not was always peeping up at the passers-by; there grew the yellow water-lily floating amongst its great dark green leaves, like a golden cup offered by the water fairies for drinking the clear crystal liquid. the white water-buttercups, too, glistened over the shallow parts, with such crisp brown water-cresses in between, as would have made a relish to the bread and butter of a princess. all round the edges was a waving green fringe of reeds and rushes--bulrushes with their brown pokery seed-vessels--plaiting rushes with their tasselled blossoms--and reeds with graceful drooping feathery plumes waving in the soft summer air. down in the depths of the pond glided by the silvery little fish, glistening and bright; while on the surface skimmed no end of insects: shiny beetles forming patterns on the water as they dodged in and out, and round and round in their play; long-legged insects that ran over the water as though it were a hard road; while darting about in all their metallic brightness and on gauzy wings flitted the dragon-flies, blue, green, and blue and green--now settling upon the end of some reed, now careering in mid air, now poised motionless with wings invisible in their rapid beat, now disturbed by the buzz of some great humble-bee, and then round and round and up and down in pursuit of one of their own tribe, till the gauzy wings beat together and rustled as they came in contact. butterflies, white, yellow, blue, orange-spotted, tortoise-shell, peacock-eyed, and laced, came there to flit over the glassy water, and look within it at their beauty; and here, too, came the mayflies to dance up and down all the day, and die when even came. there never was such a pond anywhere else; for here came the martins and swallows, with their glossy black backs, to skim and dip and drink the water in their rapid flight; here they feasted on flies and gnats; and now and then came the squealing, sooty swift, with his long knife-blade wings, and tiny hand-like feet, to whisk away some heedless fly. the swallows above all liked the pond, and used to sit upon the dead branch of the weeping-willow to twitter and sing after their fashion for half-an-hour together. old ogrebones was the great man of the place; but, in the cool of the evening, out would come sailing from the midst of the little reed island, and flicking their round stumpy tails, the moor hens swimming away, to the great disgust of the white ducks, who said they were only impostors, and had no business to swim, because they had no webs to their feet, but only long straggling toes. and what ducks those were! white as snow, with red legs; and often and often they would put their beaks in the soft warm white feathers on their backs and sit upon the water for hours together. all the birds loved the pond, and would fly down of a morning to have a regular splash and wash; flicking the water about with their wings, and sending it flashing and sparkling ever so high in the air, and making the little black tadpoles or pod-noddles go scuffling off into the deeper water. this was the place that old boxer loved, and when he could get a chance he would go and wet his feet, and rustle about in amongst the reeds, and pretend to go in the water to swim after the ducks, but always turning back when he got in up to his body. chapter nine. a tall gentleman. "hum!" said mrs spottleover one morning to mrs flutethroat, after they had been having a wash in the bright pure water. "hum!" she said, looking at the duck's brood of little downies swimming about after her, and one of them with a bit of shell sticking to its back. "hum! yes, pretty well, but why yellow?" "ah! my dear, they will come white; they're not bleached yet. but they are strong, aren't they? look at the little ones, now, only four hours old, and feeding themselves! don't you wish yours would? only think of the trouble they give before they can feed alone!" "well!" said mrs spottleover, "that's all very well, but, after all, those little downy balls take as much looking after as our little ones; and then only think of one's child growing up to say nothing better than `quack-quack,' besides being flat-nosed and frog-footed. depend upon it, my dear, things are best as they are!" "well, i suppose you are right," said mrs flutethroat; "but i must not stay here gossiping, for i have no end of work to do this morning." saying which the hen blackbird shook out her long dusky wings, cried "pink-pink-pink," and flew off to the laurel bush to attend to her little ones; while the thrush hopped up into a tree to see how the haws were getting on, and whether there would be a good crop for the winter. just then there was a great shadow passed over the pond, and the ducklings splashed through the water, because they were so frightened, and then flop-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop, there came old shadowbody, the heron, to the pond, and pitched down by the haunt of the kingfisher, where he stood with his long stilty legs half in the water, his great floppy wings doubled up close to his sides, and his long neck squeezed between his shoulders all of a bundle; and there he stood looking as though he were going to sleep; but not a bit of it, old shadowbody, or bluescrags, as some of the saucy young birds called him, did not stand by the side of a pond to go to sleep, but to look after his dinner. by-and-by the ducklings, seeing that the heron did not move, came nearer to him; and at last a little white fly went sailing along under his beak, and two ducklings set off on a race over the surface of the pond to see which would get the little white fly; and so busy were they that they forgot all about the great heron, and went up close to him, splashing him all over with the bright sparkling water. "take that, you ugly little downy dab," said the heron in a pet. "do you think i came here to be made a water-mop of? get out with you! see how you've wetted my waistcoat. take that!" and the poor little duckling did take _that_, and scampered off to its mother, crying out in such a pitiful voice, "wheedle-wheedle-wheedle," that the heron forgot his ill-humour and burst out laughing, and felt quite sorry that he had given poor little yellow-down such a cruel poke in its back with his long sharp beak. "serve it right, though," said the heron; "coming splashing, and dashing, and sending the water all over a sedate, quiet gentleman, quietly fishing by the side of a pond! and a nice pond it seems too, with plenty of fish in it. it strikes me i shall often come here." just then bluescrags made a poke at a fish, and caught it in his long bill, and gobbled it up in no time. but he was not to enjoy himself long, for the duck was telling all her neighbours about the ill-usage her little one had received; and the mischief-making little wagtail thought as he had seen the lanky bird eating what he called the kingfisher's fishes, he would go and tell, and then sit on the bank and see the quarrel there would be; for he considered that the heron had no more business to take the fish out of the pond than the toad had to catch flies. so he ran to the blue bird's hole, and sticking in his little thin body, he ran up it to the nest, shouting, "neighbour, neighbour; thieves, thieves!" "where, where?" said ogrebones the kingfisher. "here; running away with your fish by the dozen," said the wagtail. "well, get out of the way," said the kingfisher, bustling out of the nest and going towards the mouth of the hole. "there, do make haste." but the wagtail couldn't make haste, for his tail was so long he could not turn round in the hole, and so had to walk backwards the best way he could, with the points of his tail-feathers catching against the wall and sending him forwards upon his beak, and making the old kingfisher so crabby, that at last he gave the poor wagtail a dig with his heavy beak that made him cry out, "peek-peek-peek." "then why don't you get out of the way, when all one's fish are being taken and stolen?" now the wagtail thought this very strange behaviour, when he had taken the trouble to let old ogrebones know, and so he very wisely made up his mind never to interfere with other people's business again; for, said he, as he got out of the hole at last, "i don't know but what the heron has as good a right to the fish as old surly has; at all events, i'll never fetch him out any more." out bounced the kingfisher--"here! hi! i say! you, there! what are you after, impudence? do you know that you are poaching?" "eh?" said the heron, looking at the showy little bird that was flitting round him with his feathers sticking up, and looking as though he were in a terrible passion; "eh?" said the heron, "what's poaching?" "what's poaching, ignoramus? why, taking other people's fish. don't you know who i am?" said the kingfisher, sitting upon a spray and looking very self-satisfied and important. "no," said the heron; "i don't know you. but you are not a bad-looking little fellow; only you are small--very small. why, where are your legs?" "come, now," said ogrebones, "none of your impudence, old longshanks. i'm the king--the kingfisher; and i order you off; so go at once." "ho-ho-ho," laughed the tall bird. "and pray who made you a king? i'm not going to be driven off by such a scrubby little thing as you, even if you have got such grand feathers on your back. why, if i were to shut my bill upon your neck, that head of yours would drop off regularly scissored, and then you'd be just such a king as charles the first." "oh, dear!" said the kingfisher, "only hark at him! i never heard such a character before in my life." "he nearly killed one of my little ones," quacked the duck, coming up. "stuck his beak in my back," said a frog, putting his nose out of the water; and then seeing that the heron was going to make a dart at him, "ouf," said he, popping down again in a hurry, and never stopping until had crept close down to the bottom of the pond where he crept under the weeds, and lay there all day, lost frightened to death. "keep your little flat bills at home, ma'am," said the heron. "but really," he said politely, "i did not know they were yours, or i should not have done so; but who would have thought that those little yellow dabs were children of such a beautifully white and graceful creature as you are?" whereupon the duck blushed, and spread one of her webbed feet before her face, and looked quite pleased at the compliment. "don't listen to him," croaked the kingfisher, backing into his hole; "he's a cheat, and a bad character, and thief, and a--" but the heron here made a poke at his royal highness with his great scissors bill, and the kingfisher scuffled out of sight in a fright, having learnt the lesson that a small tyrant, however grandly he may dress, is not always believed in; for with all his bright colours and gaudy plumes he was no match for the great sober-hued, flap-winged heron, who only laughed at him, and all his grand swaggering; and, as soon as he was gone, settled himself down to his work, and caught fish enough for a good meal, for he felt quite certain that he had as good a right to the fish as the little king, who had had it his own way so long that he thought everybody would give way to him. poke went the heron's bill, and out came a finny struggler; but it was no use to kick, for bluescrags never left go when once he had hold of a fish, and he was just gobbling it down when-- "hillo-ho-ho-o-o," cried a voice, and looking towards the place from whence the sound proceeded, the heron, as he rose from the ground, saw a man holding upon his hand a large sharp-winged bird, with a cruel-looking mouth, like that belonging to hookbeak, the hawk, who sometimes passed over the garden, and such bright yellow and black piercing eyes, that as soon as bluescrags felt their glance meet his, he turned all of a shiver, and his feathers began to ruffle up as though he were wet. but there was no time to shiver or shake, for the great bird was coming after him at a terrible rate, every beat of his pointed wings sending him dashing through the air, and in another moment the strange, fierce bird would have had the sharp claws he stretched out in the poor heron, but for the sudden and frantic effort he made to escape. all this while mrs flutethroat was crying, "pink-pink-pink" in the shrubbery, in a state of the greatest alarm, for a man had passed by the place where she was teaching her young ones to fly, carrying a bird on his gloved hand; while the bird had a curious cap upon its head, so contrived that it could not see anything; but the blackbird could see its yellow legs and cruel hooked claws that were stuck tightly into the thick glove the man wore. "well," said mrs flutethroat, "i'm very glad he's a prisoner, for the nasty, great, cruel-looking thing must be ten times worse than hookbeak, the hawk, and if it were let loose here we should all be killed. pink-tchink-chink," she cried in alarm; for just then the man, who was a falconer, took his bird's hood off, and shouted at the heron by the pond. the great flap-winged bird immediately took flight, and then, with a dash of its wings, away went the falcon, leaving mrs flutethroat shivering with fear. flip-flap, flap-flip-flop went the heron's wings over the water; flip and skim went the falcon's, and then away and away over the woods and fields went the two birds, circling round and round, and higher and higher; the falcon trying to get above the heron, so as to dart down upon him and break his wings; and the heron, knowing that as long as he kept up the falcon could not touch him, trying his best to keep the higher. at last the swift-winged bird darted upwards, and hovering for a moment over the poor heron, who cried out with fear, darted down with a rush, and went so close that he rustled through the quill feathers of the heron; and so swift was the dart he made, that he went down--down far enough before he could stop himself, and then when he looked up again, he saw that the heron had risen so high that there was no chance of catching him again; so off he flew, and perched in the cedar-tree at greenlawn, where he sat cleaning and pruning his feathers, and sharpening his ugly hooked beak till it had such a point that it would have been a sad day for the poor bird who came in his clutches; while his master, who had lost sight of him, was wandering away far enough off, whistling to him to come back to his perch. chapter ten. flayem, the falcon. however, he was not left there long in peace, for the birds of greenlawn did not like such visitors; and the first notice they had of the stranger was from specklems, the starling, who flew up into the tree, and then out again as though a wasp had stuck in his ear. "chur-chair-chark," he shouted, flying round and round, spitting and sputtering, and making his head look like a hedgehog. "chur-chair-r-r-r," he cried, and very soon the whole of the birds in the neighbourhood were out to see what it all meant. "now then, what's the matter?" said the magpie, coming up all in a hurry. "whose eggs are broken now? anybody's little one tumbled out of the nest into mrs puss's mouth, for me to get the blame?" "look--look in the cedar," shouted the birds; and up in the cedar went the magpie with his long tail quivering with excitement, and down he came again with his tail trembling with fright. "why didn't you say who it was in the tree?" said the magpie. "oh! my stars and garters, how out of breath i am. going about in such a hurry always puts me in a tremble. oh no! i'm not afraid, not the least bit in the world, it's being out of breath." "well, go up and drive the old hook-nosed thing away," said the blackbird; "he's no business here, and we _are_ all afraid; ain't we birds?" "yes! yes! scared to death," chorused all the birds. "come, up you go," said the blackbird; "there's a good fellow." but the magpie stood on one leg and put a long black claw by the side of his beak in a very knowing manner, and then he said, with his head all on one side, "how do i know that he won't bite?" "why, we thought you said that you were not afraid," said the birds. "not the least in the world, gentlemen," said mag; "but my wife's calling me, and i must go, or really i should only be too happy to oblige you. another time you may depend upon me. good-bye, gentlemen, _good-bye_." and before the birds had time to speak again, the cowardly magpie gave three or four hops across the lawn, and then spread out his wings, and went off in a hurry--telling a story into the bargain, for his wife might have called for a week, and he could not have heard so far-off. but maggy was dreadfully afraid, and, like many people in the world, he was ashamed to show it, and so made a very lame-legged excuse, and ran away. "ha-ha-ha," said the birds, "why, that's worse than being afraid and showing it. why, he's ever so much bigger than we are, and has claws sharp enough for anything. why, he pinched one of old mother muddle-dab's ducklings to death with his great black nails." "well, what's to be done now?" said specklems, "i'm not going to have him in my tree, and i won't either. i've a good mind to run at him with my sharp bill and stick it into him; and i would, too, if i was sure he wouldn't hurt me. wouf!" said the starling, fiercely, and making a poke at nothing; "wouf! couldn't i give it him!" and then he stuck his little pointed feathers up again, and stood on the tips of his toes with a look as fierce as a half-picked chicken. "of course, gentlemen, it isn't for such a quiet mournful body as me to say anything," said the dove, "but i can't help thinking that the tree is as much mine as mr specklems'; but we won't quarrel about that, for just now it belongs to somebody else, and i feel very uncomfortable about my young ones. suppose mr specklems goes and gives the great staring, goggle-eyed thing a poke; i'm sure i wish he would." "i should just like to pickaxe him with my mortar-chipper," said an old cock-sparrow. "i'd teach him to come into other people's trees without being asked." "let's ask him civilly to go," said the wren. "let's shout at him, and frighten him," said the owl. "say `ta-ta' to him, and then he'll go," said the jackdaw. "why, we're not afraid, after all," said all the birds together; "let's all have a fly at him at once and beat him off." "who'll go first?" said the jackdaw. "why, i will," said the tomtit. and then all the birds burst out laughing so heartily at the tiny little fellow's offer, that he grew quite cross, and told the birds to come on; and then he flew into the cedar, and before the great falcon knew what he was going to do, tom-tit dashed at him, and gave him such a peck with his little sharp beak, that the falcon jumped off his perch and stared about him; and then, before he could find out what was the matter, the jackdaw flew up above him, and came down head over heels on his back; the owl shouted "who-o-who-o" in his ear; the blackbird and thrush stuck their beaks in his stomach; the sparrows poked him in the back; and the martins and swallows darted round and round him, and under and over, and all the other birds whistled and chattered and fluttered about him at such a rate, that at last the falcon didn't know whom to attack, and was regularly mobbed out of the garden, and flew off with a whole stream of birds after him, and he, in spite of his sharp claws and beak, glad to get out of the way as fast as he could. at last the birds all flew back again, and settled down amongst the bushes on greenlawn, and chirruped and laughed to think how they had driven away the great hook-beaked enemy, when who should come down into their midst but the magpie, all in a hurry and bustle, and looking as important as if all the place belonged to him. "now, then, here i am again," said he. "she only wanted my opinion about our last eggs, and i've hurried back as fast as i could to drive away this great hook-beaked bird that frightened you all so. i suppose i had better go up at once, hadn't i? but where shall i send him to?" and there the great artful bird stood pretending that he had not seen the falcon driven off, and that he had come back on purpose to scare it away. but it would not do this time, for although there were some of the little birds who believed in the magpie, and thought him a very fine fellow, yet the greater part of those present burst out laughing at him, and at last made him so cross that he called them a pack of idiots, and flew off in a pet, feeling very uncomfortable and transparent, and cross with himself as well, for having been such a stupid, deceitful thing. while the wiser birds made up their minds never to be deceived by the sly bird again; for before this he had had it all his own way, because he was so big, and everybody thought that he was brave as well; but now that he had been put to the test, he had proved himself to be an arrant coward, and only brave enough to fight against things smaller than himself. chapter eleven. the little warbler. "sky-high, sky-high, twitter-twitter, sky-high-higher-higher," sang the lark, and he fluttered and circled round and round, making the air about him echo again and again with the merry song he was singing--a song so sweet, so bright and sparkling, that the birds of greenlawn stopped to listen to the little brown fellow with the long spurs and top-knot, whistling away "sweet and clear, sweet and clear," till he rose so high that the sounds came faintly, and nothing could be seen of him but a little black speck high up against the edge of the white flecky cloud; and still the sweet song came trilling down so soft and clear, that the birds clapped their wings and cried "bravo!" while the jackdaw said he would take lessons from the lark in that style of singing, for he thought it would suit his voice, and then he was quite offended when the thrush laughed, but begged pardon for being so rude. and then, while the birds were watching the lark, he began to descend; slowly, and by jerks, every time sending forth spurts from the fountain of song that gushed from his little warbling throat; and then down, lower and lower still, singing till he was near the ground, when, with one long, clear, prolonged note, he darted down, falling like a stone till close to the grass, when he skimmed along for some distance, and then alighted in a little tussock of grass that stood by itself in the field, which came close up to greenlawn, and ran right down to the farther edge of the pond. and what was there in the tussock of grass but a tiny cup-like nest in the ground, lined with dry grass, and covered snugly over by the lark's little brown wife, who was keeping the little ones warm, while her husband had been up almost out of sight in the bright sunny air singing her one of his sweetest songs,--a song so sweet that the birds had all stayed from their work to listen. and this is what he sang--the song that made his little mate's black beady eyes twinkle and shine as she sat in the tussock; for she felt so proud to think how her mate could warble:-- "low down, low down, sitting in the tussock brown, little mate, the sky is beaming; little mate, earth wears no frown. higher, higher; higher, higher; toward the cloudflecks nigher, nigher, round and round i circle, singing; higher, higher ever winging; over meadow, over streamlet, over glistening dew, and beamlet flashing from the pearl-hung grasses, where the sun in flashes passes; over where sweet matey's sitting; ever warbling, fluttering, flitting; praising, singing--singing, praising; higher still my song i'm raising. sky-high, sky-high; higher--higher--higher--higher, little matey, watch your flier; sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet--sweet; here the merry breezes meet, where i twitter, circling higher, watch me flying higher, higher. low down, low down, nestling in the tussock brown, little mate, i'm coming down." "well, that beats the owl hollow," said mr specklems to his wife. "i think i could sing as well myself though, if it was not for this constant feeling of having a cold. there must have been a draught where i was hatched, and i've never recovered it. i can't think how he manages to sing and fly too at the same time: i can't. why, i should be out of breath in no time." "there, don't be a booby," said his wife; "you are not a song-bird at all. i heard the crow say we were distant relations of his, and no one would for a moment think that he was a singer." "hark at her now!" said specklems, "not a singer; why, what does she call that?" and then the vain little bird whistled and sputtered and cizzled away till he was quite out of breath, when his wife laughed at him so merrily, but told him that she liked his whistle better than the finest trill the skylark ever made; and so then specklems said that after all he thought the crow might be right, but, at all events, the specklems could do something better than cry "caw-waw" when they opened their beaks. just then who should come buzzing along but a wasp, a regular gorgeous fellow, all black and gold, and with such a thin waist that he looked almost cut in two. "now then, old spiketail," said the starling, "keep your distance; none of your stinging tricks here, or i'll cut that waist of yours in two with one snip." "who wants to sting, old peck-path?" said the wasp. "it's very hard one can't go about one's work without being always sneered and jeered and fleered at by every body." "work," said the starling, "ho-ho-ho, work; why, you don't work; you're always buzzing about, and idling; it's only bees that work and make honey." "there now," said the wasp, "that's the way you people go on: you hear somebody say that the bees are industrious and we are idle, and then you believe it, and tell everybody else so, but you never take the trouble to see if it's true; and so we poor wasps have to go through the world with a bad name, and people say we sting. well, so we do if we are touched; and so do bees too, just as bad as we do, only the little gluttons make a lot of sweet honey and wax, and so they get all the praise." and then away went the little black-and-yellow fellow with his beautiful gauzy wings shining in the sun, and he flew over the garden wall, and was soon scooping away at a ripe golden-yellow plum that was hanging from the wall just ready to pick; and then off he flew again to his nest, where dozens more wasps were going in and out of the hole in a fallen willow-tree, all soft like touchwood, and in it the wasps had scooped out such a hole, where they had been working away quite as hard and industriously as the bees their cousins; and here they had made comb, and cells, and stored up food, and instead of their cells being made of wax, they were composed of beautiful paper that these busy little insects had made. there were grubs, too, and eggs that would turn to grubs, and afterwards to wasps; and here the wasps worked away, in and out all day, as busy as could be. but they had a very hard life of it, for everyone was trying to kill the poor things, and set traps for them to tumble into and be smothered in sweet stuff. but though people did not think so, the wasps did a great deal of good, and among other things they killed a great many tiresome little flies that were always buzzing and humming about; and the wasps went after them and caught them by the back, and then snipped off their wings and head, and flew off and ate the best parts of them up. chapter twelve. busy bees. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine round-topped straw hives there were at greenlawn--hives full of such rich, thick honey, and such beautiful combs, and all about these round heavy hives the bees would hum and buzz of a hot day, flying in and out loaded with honey and pollen; and outside some of the hives the bees would hang down like great pockets made of insects, all hanging to one another; and there they hung, getting ready to swarm and fly off to a new home; but they did not know how to choose one for themselves, for they would only fly off to a tree and hang there all of a lump, when the master of greenlawn would take a nice, clean, sweet hive and sweep them all into it, and set them on a board by the side of the other hives. it was such a nice, sweet place, all amongst flowers, and the scent of the honey would come from the hives so strongly that very often the birds would come and think they would like a taste, while the wasps would even go so far as to creep in and steal some of the luscious food. as to flies, they would come without end, and if they had not been afraid of the bees they would soon have run off with all the sweet honey. but one day there was a very serious bluebottle who had sat upon the end of a sweet pea watching the bees so busy, while he had been doing nothing all day but make a noise, and he felt at last so ashamed of himself, that when he saw a bee come to the flower he was on, and put his long trunk into it to find whether there was any honey, he began to buzz very loudly; and the bee, looking up to know what he meant, heard him say-- "little bee, buzzing about in the air, for once be not busy, a moment pray spare, and tell me, pray tell me, how honey you make from the flowerets of garden, soft meadow, and brake. you rise with the sun, and your gossamer wing bears you swiftly away where the heather-bells spring; whence you come heavy laden with nectary spoil, for the sweet winter stores of your summer of toil. "oh! i would be busy; and lay up in store for the days of the winter when cold showers pour, and the wild wintry breezes sweep flowers away, while the sun sets in gloom o'er the dim-shadowed day; but i'm a poor bluebottle, spoken of ill; whilst you are protected, all bear me ill-will; and if i escape from each murderous blow, the first cutting frost lays the bluebottle low. "so little bee buzzing, a lesson pray give; remember the motto to `live and let live;' for one moment teach me sweet honey to make, that again in the spring-time with you i may wake." "buzz," said the bee, "that's all very fine, but you were never meant to make honey. go and do your duty, and lay eggs in the bad meat to make maggots to eat it up, so that we may not have the nasty stuff lying about. i daresay you think we have a very fine time of it amongst the honey; but, don't you know, sometimes somebody comes with the brimstone and smothers us all, and takes the honey away? how should you like that, old blue-boy?" "worse and worse--wuz-z-z-ooz-wooz," said the bluebottle, and off he flew, and never sang any more songs to the bees; while the old bee burst out laughing so heartily at the way in which the bluebottle was frightened, that he let all the bee-bread tumble out of his baskets, and before he could pick it up, a bee from another hive flew off with it. "there," said the first bee, "that comes of laughing at other people, and now i've got all my work to do over again; but, oh dear! how he did bustle off when i told him about the brimstone." chapter thirteen. cold weather. at last the merry summer-time was gone, and the flowers began to hang their heads in the gardens, looking wet and soiled; for every now and then the cold wind would come with a rush and a roar and knock the poor things about dreadfully; sometimes they would be struck right down on the ground, where they would lie, never to get up any more. sometimes, however, the sun would come out to cheer them up again, but he was not at all warm; and then the nights began to grow so long and cold that the flowers had nearly made up their minds to go to sleep for the winter, when jack frost sent word one night that he was coming, and his messenger left such a cold chill everywhere that he had been, that the flowers all went to sleep at once, and the leaves on the trees, turning yellow with fright, began to shake and shiver, and tumble off as hard as ever they could tumble, till they lay in great rustling heaps all over the gravel walks, where they were swept up and carried off into the back-yard. and then all the birds were as busy as ever they could be: the young ones were now strong on the wing, and there were such meetings and congregations in wood and field--on lawn and in tree--in hedgerow and down even in the ditches. the martins and swallows all said "good-bye," and were off in a hurry; and all the other summer visitors who were lagging behind, when they saw the swallows go, went off as hard as ever they could, not even stopping to take any cold flies with them, they were in such a hurry. sparrows and finches, they all made excursion parties, and went feasting in the stubble-fields; starlings, jackdaws, and rooks, they went worm-picking in the wet marshlands; and all the thrush family went off to the fields and hedgerows, seeking berries and fruits that had now grown tender and sweet; and so at last greenlawn began to look very deserted all day, but it was not so of a night, for there would be a fine noise in the ivy, where all the sparrows came home to roost, for they were in such high spirits that they could not keep quiet, but kept on chatter, chatter, till it grew so dark they could not see to open their beaks. as to the starlings, they came home by scores to the warm, thick cedar, and there they whistled and chattered until the moon began to shine, when they, too, went off to sleep; and so, wherever there was a snug, warm spot at greenlawn, the birds came back in the cold wintry nights to sleep--flying far-off in the day-time, but always returning at night. they were hard times for the poor birds when jack frost had it all his own way; for in his sharp, spiteful, nip-toes fashion he would freeze and freeze everything until it was all as hard as steel; and then, so as to make sure that by hard work and bill-chipping no worms were dug out, he would powder the ground all over with white snow, so that all the footmarks were stamped upon it as the birds walked along. shiver-shiver-shiver; ah! it was cold! and food was so scarce that no one could get anything to eat but the robin-redbreast; and he would go up to the house, and, sitting upon the snow-covered sills, peep in at the windows with his great round staring eyes, until the master's little girls would come and open the sash, and shake all the crumbs out of their pinafores; so that the poor cold bird would often get a good hearty meal. sometimes the sun would come out and shine upon the snow-wreaths, and they would glitter and sparkle, and turn of the most beautiful colours; while the trees were covered with frost-work that looked more brilliant than the finest silver that was ever worked. but, ah! the poor birds! it was a sad time for them; and they would huddle up together in flocks; and very often got to be so cold and hungry that the country people picked them up half dead, with their feathers all ruffled up and their beautiful little bright, beady eyes half-shut. ah! those were sad times at greenlawn; and the master would gladly have helped the poor things if he could; but generally they used to fly right off, miles away, so that very often not a bird was to be seen but bob robin, who kept hopping about the doors and windows. but jack frost did not care a bit, for he loved freezing; and when the winter nights were come, with the moon shining, and the stars twinkling and blinking ever so high up, jack would put on his skates and go skimming over the country, breathing on people's window-panes, and making them all over ferny frost-work; hanging icicles round the eaves of the houses; making the roads so hard that they would sound hollow and rattle as the wheels passed over; and turning the ponds, lakes, and rivers into hard ringing ice. then the frost would hang upon the labourers' hair, and little knobs of ice upon the bristles about the horses' muzzles; while some of the branches of the trees would become so loaded with the white clinging snow that they would snap off and fall to the ground. away would troop the birds in the day-time then to feast upon the scarlet berries of the holly, the pearly dew-like drops of the mistletoe, or the black coaly berries that grew upon the ivy-tod; and away and away they would fly again with wild and plaintive cries as jack frost would send a cutting blast in amongst them to scare them away. how the poor birds would look at the man cutting logs of wood to take to the master's house; and how they would watch the blue smoke and sparks come curling out of the wide chimneys. in the night the wild geese would fly over to the moor, crying "clang-clang-clang," and frightening many a shivering sleeper with their wild shriek; and then the long-necked birds would dart down from their high swoop to some lonely lake in the wild moor, there to sit upon the cold ice, pluming themselves ere they started again for some spot where the frost king had not all his own way. old ogrebones, the kingfisher, lay snug at the bottom of his hole in the bank; while all the tender birds were far-off in milder climes, where flies were to be caught, and where the sun shone bright and warm. as to the poor ducks, they could do nothing but paddle and straddle about over the surface of the glassy pond, for almost as soon as the hard ice was broken for them to get water, it all froze together again; and in spite of their thick coats of warm down and feathers, they said it was almost too cold to be borne. the rooks had gone down to the sea-side and the mouths of the rivers to pick up a living when the tide went down; while all the other birds that were not in the fields made friends with the sparrows, and went in flocks to the farmyards, where they could find stray grains of corn, and run off with them, chased by the old cocks and hens. and still jack frost had it all his own way, and stuck his cold, sharp teeth into everything and everybody--even into the foreign thrushes and grey crows that came over from norway, sweden, and denmark, and nipped them so that they all said they had better have stayed at home. now, all this could not have been borne, only that jack frost would go to sleep sometimes, and then down would come a soft, warm rain that would wash away the snow and melt the ice, and soften the ground so that food became plentiful again; and the birds would set to and make up for lost time by having such a feast as would make them better able to bear jack frost's next fast, and strong enough to set his sharp teeth at defiance. they were fine times for feasting when the thaw had set in, for then, as the earth grew soft, the worms would come crawling out to have a stretch, after being asleep beneath the iron-bound earth. as for the rooks, they ate until they could hardly move, and gormandised in a way that could only be excused in things that could not get their meals at regular times. "snip-snap" went the bills all over the marshlands, and gobble-gobble went the poor worms; and so for about a week the birds had such a feast that their skins all got quite tight with the thick jacket of fat that was spread beneath them to keep the cold out, and all their feathers began to stick up so that they had plenty of work to smooth them down. but such weather did not last long, for soon jack frost would wake up again, quite cross to think how long he had slept, and then on he would put his sharp steel skates again, and away over the country he would skim with all the land turning to iron wherever he went, and looking as if the keen old fellow had been sprinkling diamonds and emeralds and pearls all over the ground. as to the sheep, they would quite rattle with the knobs of ice upon their wool, while the turnips they were nibbling out in the fields were like snowballs. and away skimmed jack frost by the light of the bright moon, while all the stars kept laughing and winking at his freaks, and soon again all the country was powdered over with snow, and the water all turned to ice. then at night, when the cold cutting wind would hum outside the doors and sing through all the chinks, trying to get in, people would draw the red curtains close, and heap up the dry logs of wood upon the fire till the bright blue flames would dance and flicker, and flicker and dance, and roar up the chimney; but all the time sending such warmth and comfort through the rooms that the wind would give up trying, and, knowing that it could not battle with such a warm fire, would rush off again over the bare woods and fields to help jack frost, and bear away the words of the song he was singing, so that everybody could hear it. for the icy fellow as he skimmed along would laugh and shout to see how everybody was afraid of him, and lighted fires to keep him away; and then he would sing,-- "i kiss cheeks and make them rosy; i make people wrap up cosy; i bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping; i send people quickly tripping. see my breath all silver lacing; feel my touch how cold and bracing; come and race o'er ground so snowy; come and trip 'mid breezes blowy. i'll make little eyes look brightly; i'll make little hearts beat lightly; and when cheeks grow red as cherry, then will echo voices merry. for i'm jack frost who makes cheeks rosy; i make people wrap up cosy; i bring chilblains, chaps, and nipping; but send the little people tripping." but in spite of all jack frost could do, the birds at greenlawn would manage to get through the harsh time of winter, looking out for the spring to come again; and happy and contented, though always very busy, and trying hard to do their duty as well when the cold wintry rains fell, or the biting sleet, or soft falling snow, or even when the ground was all hard and they were nearly starved, as when plenty reigned around; for still they hoped on, and waited for spring, that seemed so long in coming, but yet would surely come at last, however long it might appear, and tire their patience. chapter fourteen. false alarm. one morning, when a soft breeze from the south had melted away all the snow, and the bright sun had thawed all the ice in the ditches, brooks, and ponds, everything looked so bright and fine, that the snowdrops and crocuses popped their heads out of the ground, and kept calling to one another across the gravel walk, "all a-growin' and a-blowin'," as the men who bring round the flowers. two or three violets opened their little blue eyes, too, and poking at the dead leaves that were lying on them, kept trying to get a peep at the bright sun; for he had had a bad cold all through the winter, and had kept his head wrapped up in thick mists and clouds, only showing himself now and then; and when he did, his face looked all red, swelled, and inflamed, as though he had got a dreadful fit of neuralgic-tic-doloreuginal-toothache. and now the blue-eyed violets wanted to have a peep at the sun, and to nod at their old friend; but the leaves lay so wet and heavy upon them that they could hardly get out, and when they did, poor things, their heads were all bent down, and they looked as drooping as though their necks were cricked with sleeping in a damp bed. and truly it was a very damp bed-- the violets'--all moss and wet grass in a shady bank; but the cheerful little flowers did not mind it a bit, but sent forth such a sweet scent all through the hedgerows, that as soon as the birds smelt it they began to sing, and to think it was time to build nests again. "spring's come! spring's come!" shouted a little chiff-chaff, just come over from a foreign country all in a hurry; for while he was getting ready, and thinking it was time to pay a visit to england, there came a great storm of wind, and caught up the little, tiny greeny bird and blew him right over the seas; and then, because it was a bright day when he got here, he began running up and down the country crying out "spring's come! spring's come!" when spring was only just putting one or two of her toes in the shape of crocuses and snowdrops out of her wintry bed, to see how cold it was, and whether she might get up yet. spring had not come, for it was too soon, and the stupid little chiff-chaff thought himself such an important little body that because he had come spring must have come too. and no end of mischief he did, for as is always the case when one person does a foolish thing, plenty more begin to follow the bad example; and so one bird after another took up the cry, till it rang all over greenlawn that spring had come; and the birds set to work in such a hurry to repair last year's damaged nests or to make new ones. as to the rooks, they came all in a bustle to the old limes and held a parliament, which every now and then turned into a squabble about some favourite spot, and there they all stopped talking, and flying round and round, but soon began again, to keep on till it grew quite dark, and then they were silent till some obstinate bird or another would say something crooked, and then out they all burst again--"caw-caw-caw," till the awkward rook was talked down; then somebody else would have the last word, when they broke out again two or three times over, till at last it grew so dark that the rooks were afraid to speak any more, lest somebody should come and upset them upon their perches, and they not see the enemy coming. the next morning everybody began to call the chiff-chaff names, and to say it was a little cheat; for a sharp sleety rain had been falling for hours and freezing as it fell, so that all the rooks' claws were stuck fast to the tall, top branches of the limes. as to the crocuses, they had squeezed themselves up as small as grass, and half crept back into the earth, while the snowdrops had shut up their houses and pulled down the green blinds to keep the cold out, and as to the violets, why, they crept under the dead leaves again to wait for the sun's next appearance. no; it was not spring yet, and no one knew it better than the little chiff-chaff, who had crept into the ivy-tod, where the great dark leaves flopped down, and kept everything dry underneath; and there the poor little thing kept dancing the dicky-bird's dance, and going bibbity-bob, bibbity-bobberty, up and down, to keep himself warm, and wishing that the great, rough, rude wind had blown somebody else out of the warm country to cry "spring's come; spring's come," because it happened to be a fine bright sunshiny day. but the little bird did not mean to do wrong, and so he stopped in the ivy-tod and lived upon cold spider for a whole week, drinking the melted sleet off the ivy leaves, and wishing all the time that spring had come, for he expected no end of friends and relations over as soon as the weather was fine enough; and, besides, he was anxious to feel the warm weather; for he was rather a delicate little fellow, who was obliged to go to a warm place in the winter time for the benefit of his health, and only came to spend the fine part of the year at greenlawn. chapter fifteen. spring at last. "build away, birds; there's no chiff-chaff trickery this time. spring is here," said the thrush, "and here's all the company coming. all the swallow family are over, and here's the wryneck been playing a tune upon its comb all the morning; as for those sit-up-o'-night birds, they've been sing-sing, till i'm almost tired of it, and wish they would set to work and find something better to do. but what's the matter down there?" it was plain that something was the matter, for all the birds were leaving their work on purpose to go and see what was wrong; for there was the yard-dog, boxer, loose in the garden again, barking, and snapping, and snarling at something rolled up amongst the dead leaves. the thrush flew up, and settling on a low branch, stopped to watch what was the matter; and he soon saw, for there, causing all the noise, was a tightly-rolled up hedgehog, with his sharp spines sticking up all over, and looking for all the world like a sharp round hair-brush. as for boxer, he was sniffing and snuffing and pricking his nose in his efforts to get blacknose open; but the little spikey thing would not open the least bit in the world, but kept himself rolled up snug and fast, with nothing but spines and thorns sticking out all over him. the more boxer sniffed and poked at the round ball, the more he got pricked, and then he held up his head and whined in so comical a way, that all those who were looking on could not keep from laughing, which made the dog so cross that he barked at the birds, and made believe to bite; only they were all out of reach; and this made him all the more cross and snappish. at last boxer got the prickly thing close to the bank, and over it rolled right down into an old rabbit's hole, where the dog could not reach it; so then he turned round and ran at the first thing he saw, which happened to be the magpie, who stayed so long upon the ground before flying up, that the dog got hold of one of his tail-feathers. "pull, magpie!" shouted the birds. and magpie did pull, as hard as ever he could pull, and fluttered and flew, but he could not get his tail-feather away, so had to leave it behind with boxer, who quietly sat down on the grass and began to gnaw and tear the beautiful glossy green plume, until he had completely spoiled it, when he threw it away, and began to look out for some more fun; whilst poor mag's tail was so sore, that he went home grumbling and half-crying at his misfortune. busier and busier the birds grew every day; there was no one idle in greenlawn in spring-time, but all hard at work, build-build-build from morning, when the first rosy peep of day appeared, and the blackbird cried out, "wake-wake-wake," until the night closed in, and the pale new moon peeped down from amid the light clouds, watching over the nesting birds, with their beaks tucked snugly under their wings, and gently swaying about upon the light branch that rocked them to sleep with the easy motion of the soft spring breeze. sweetly then used to sing the nightingales, perched on the low boughs of the fresh-leaved bushes, and whistling for their wives, not yet come over the sea; whistling and answering one another from wood to wood, and from grove to grove, until the night rang with the sweet sounds, and bird after bird would draw out its head to listen to the sweet, strong-voiced warblers. but generally the birds used to grumble at the nightingale, and say it was not fair of him to make such a noise of a night. they wanted peace and quietness; and one old greenfinch, who could not sing a bit, and had no ear for music, used to say that the nightingale was as great a nuisance as old shoutnight, the owl, and that his noises ought to be stopped. but one night there was such a shouting and hoo-hooing that all the birds woke up in a fright. one asked the other what it meant, but no one knew, and every now and then, ringing through the still night, came the wild strange cry. even the master of greenlawn opened his window and looked out and wondered, and at last crabby old todkins, the gardener, opened _his_ window, and even called the birch-broom boy up to listen; but they could not make out what the noise was. nobody knew, and at last they began to be like the birds, rather frightened; for it was such a wild, dreadful cry as they had never heard before. "it's a wild goose," said mrs spottleover to her mate. "you're a goose," said spottleover, all of a shiver. "you never heard a goose cry out like that. it's like a peacock, only ten times more horrible; and--there it goes again; isn't it dreadful?" the old owl said it was a rude boy trying to hoot; while the saucy jackdaw said it was nothing to be afraid of, for it was only old shoutnight with a bad cold. but, last of all, out came the old gardener with a lantern in one hand, a stick in the other, and his red nightcap on, to look round the garden and see what was the matter. no sooner was he out on the lawn than all the stupid birds began to look about his light to see what it was made of, and how it was that what they took for a glow-worm should be going about the lawn; and still all this while the dreadful cry kept coming, now higher, now lower, and the gardener could not find out what it was; but at last he stood stock-still and scratched his head, until the tassel of his red nightcap went jiffle-iffle, and danced up and down like a loose leaf on a twig. "there, i don't care," said the gardener; "i'm going home to bed again; so ye may shout all night, whatever ye are, unless ye like to speak. but, hallo, boxer, boy! what is it?" he said, as the dog laid hold of his leg and then ran on before him, turning round every now and then to see if his master would follow; and at last he did follow the dog till it stopped, barking and smelling, at the edge of the dip well, where the water-grotto was, and the cresses grew under the trickling spring--a little well-like place it was; and just as the old man came up the cry seemed to rise out of the water so wildly and shrilly, that he gave a jump and dropped his lantern. fortunately, however, the lantern did not go out, and so he quickly picked it up again and held it down, and there, swimming round and round, and unable to get out, was poor blacknose, the hedgehog, getting fainter and fainter, and nearly drowned, and crying out for somebody to pull him out. "well, only to think of that little thornball making all that noise," said the gardener, helping the poor thing out and setting it on the grass; when it was so grateful that it would have thanked him if it could, but it could not, and so stopped there quite still while boxer put his cold black nose up to it, and stood wagging his thick stumpy tail; for he was too generous a dog to meddle with anyone in trouble, even a hedgehog; and piggy, feeling that he was in distress, and an object of sympathy, did not even attempt to curl up, but lay quite still, waiting for his visitors to go. "well," said the old man, "i suppose i am not going to hurt ye, for the master won't have anything hurt; so come along, boxer; and dinna ye be fetchin' a chiel oot o' bed at sic a time o' nicht again, or ye may e'en stop i' the water." and then the old gardener went off to his cottage; and boxer, after a run back and a scamper round the rescued hedgehog, went to his kennel. and so things went on at greenlawn, year after year, and season after season. it may perhaps seem a very wonderful place; but there are a great many little greenlawns all over england, where little eyes may see the birds do many of the things that have been told in this little story--a story thought of to please two little girls who were very fond of leaning up against somebody's knee in the evenings before the candles were lighted, and asking somebody to tell them a story. the end. the blissylvania post-office. by marion ames taggart. [illustration] new york, cincinnati, chicago: benziger brothers, publishers of benziger's magazine copyright, , by benziger brothers. contents. chapter page i. how it began, ii. the honorary member, iii. a narrow escape, iv. the mysterious tenant, v. the invasion of the amazons, vi. further acquaintance, vii. a new member, viii. margery's plan, ix. one honorary member to the other honorary member, x. a picnic, xi. a wedding, xii. the end of the year and of the post-office, the blissylvania post-office. chapter i. how it began. it was wonderful that any one could have a bright idea on such a dark day. it had rained in torrents all of the night before and throughout the forenoon, and now that the rain had ceased, the sodden earth sent up clouds of steaming dampness to mingle with the thick fog descending, and they blended together like two gray ghosts of pleasant weather. the lilacs drooped in discouragement, and a draggle-tailed robin sat with hanging wings on the fence, uttering an occasional chirp of protest in such vehement disgust that every time he made the remark it tilted him forward, and agitated him to the tip of his tail. a slender boy lay on the hearth-rug in the light of the fire kindled to dry the dampness, the warmth of which was grateful, although it was almost june. he was recklessly pulling a stitch that was broken in the knee of his stocking all the way down to the ankle, and the gloomy expression of his face indicated a melancholy pleasure in the knowledge that he had no business to do this. tommy traddles, the striped cat, sat before a plump little girl on the floor, whose sunny face no amount of bad weather could cloud, watching the hearth-brush in her hand, which she occasionally whisked to and fro for his amusement, and making uncatlike cooings in his throat if she forgot him for too long. jack hildreth, the boy on the rug, said he was a cat with a canary-bird attachment. on the edge of a chair opposite the cheery little girl on the floor sat a long-limbed, dark-eyed girl, holding her gypsy face in her hands, her elbows on her knees, listlessly watching amy tracy and the cat. they were spending the afternoon with margaret gresham, jack's cousin, who was kept in the house by a cold, and whose tiny figure was curled up in a big leather chair near the fire, and her pale face and big, eager gray eyes looked out from its brown depths in sharp contrast. "i'm going to ask st. anthony to find the sun," announced the gypsy-like girl suddenly. she spoke through her closed teeth, not taking the trouble to remove her hands from her face. "not a bad idea, trix," said jack, laughing. but their hostess looked shocked. "why, beatrice lane, you shouldn't say that, it isn't right," she protested. "well, i'm sure it seems lost enough," retorted trix. "nothing's lost when you know where it is," said jack. "i don't know where the sun is, except that it's somewhere in the sky," said trix. "it's just about there," said jack, sitting up to point out of the window, and becoming more cheerful in the chance to show off to the girls. "it's sliding right down to the zenith." "horizon, jack," interrupted margery, laughing. "well, horizon, then; it doesn't matter," jack said, annoyed. "it's getting ready to slip down to china, and it's more than ninety-five millions of miles away." "good boy!" said trix mockingly. "how much he knows! i don't care about the sun anyway, it's too late for it to shine to-day; but if i don't find something to do i'll eat that cat up, amy." amy cried out in pretended fear, and gathered tommy traddles to her heart, but he remonstrated vigorously, and struggling free sat down in precisely the same spot, wrapping his tail around him, and looking as if he had never been disturbed. "i was thinking," began margery slowly, "of something nice." "charlotte russe?" asked jack, knowing margery's weakness. "cats?" suggested amy, alluding to another. "sister aloysia?" inquired beatrice, for margery was devoted to her teacher, and, in school phrase, "had a favorite nun." "it's something nice for us to do," replied margery, with much dignity, "and it would not be for a day, but for always, and if you make fun of me i'll not tell you." "all right, margery, we won't, and do tell quick," said trix. "i wasn't really making fun of you, and i'm dying to hear," said amy. "tell ahead, margery; hurry up," added jack. thus urged, margery sat up, putting down her feet, upon which she had been sitting, and smoothing her skirt to do honor to what she had to reveal. "i was thinking," she began, "that we might form a club, we four." "like the a. g. l.?" asked amy. they had banded themselves into an anti-gum league, and wore its badge, designed and made by jack, which consisted of a piece of gum stuck on a bent pin on the centre of a wooden disk, and preceded by the word "no," in large red letters, which of course made the badge read: "no gum." the only trouble was that the gum frequently fell off, and had to be renewed, and it required chewing in order to mould it soft enough for the pin to enter. the duty of preparing the gum for the badges was unanimously appointed to jack, and honor forbade his chewing longer than the flavor lasted, which was an agreeable circumstance, and one that made him entertain secret doubts as to his being a worthy member of the league. "no, not like the a. g. l.," said margery, replying to amy's question. "the a. g. l. has a noble end, for chewing gum is a bad habit; but this would be more of a club, and only be for fun, though i think it would improve us." "oh, what is it anyway?" cried trix impatiently. "there's a big tree down in the orchard," said margery, "and it's hollow. i thought we might each take a character, and use that name for our letters, and jack could fix up a box with partitions in it, and we could put it in the hollow tree, and we'd have----" "a post-office!" cried trix, jumping up in great excitement, her dark eyes snapping. "margery, it's a great idea." "hurrah for margery!" cried jack. "it's splendid. oh, margery, you are so clever!" cried amy, scrambling up rapidly, to tommy traddles' great disgust. "when you do think, margery, you think," said trix, pulling margery out of her chair. "come on," and holding margery's slender little hands in her strong brown ones, she pranced around the room in a triumphal dance, followed by both the others, while tommy traddles retreated under the sofa, whence he peered out at the performance with dilated eyes. he withdrew his head quickly as the four children fell breathless and laughing on the sofa to discuss and mature margery's brilliant plan. "what did you mean about names?" asked jack. "you may write poetry, margery, but you sometimes get mixed in talking prose." "i mean this," began margery. "let's each take some character or name, and let's write to each other by these names instead of our own; it would be more fun. i'd like to be mary queen of scots." "oh, i'll be sir brian de bois guilbert!" cried jack, who in his twelfth year was beginning to taste the joy sir walter has to give an imaginative child, and revelled in constantly repeated reading of "ivanhoe." "i'll be anthony wayne, because i'd love to ride down the steps," said trix enthusiastically; "or lafayette, or light horse harry, or napoleon." "o trix, you can't be a man," expostulated margery. "yes, i can. i'd like to know why you can't make believe the whole thing just as well as part of it. i'm as much like a man as you're like mary queen of scots, or jack is like sir whatever-his-name." "oh, but----" began margery, with the anxious line appearing between her eyes that always came there when she was worried. "now i think that it would be a bother to take any of these characters," said amy, the peacemaker. "you know, all the letters would have to fit the parts, or they'd be silly, and i never could keep up writing _thee_ and _thou_, and _wot ye_, instead of do you know, and all that kind of words. you'd have to write the way shakespeare did, and i can't." "can't you? that's queer," remarked margery, and the rest shouted. "no, i can't," amy continued, quite unconscious of a joke. "i'd like to be the good lady godiva myself, who saved her people from starving, but i couldn't keep it up." "couldn't you?" asked the others, and laughed again. "no, i couldn't," reiterated amy, who was the practical little woman of the party. "i say we just take names, and not characters." "well," assented margery reluctantly, "i'll be the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake." "my goodness, margery; no wonder you write poetry!" exclaimed beatrice. "i'll be----" but she got no farther. "now, trix, please, _please_ don't be a boy," cried margery. "well, i think it's mean; i've wanted to be a boy all my life, and you won't even let me play one," grumbled trix. "but i'll be a daring, splendid girl, then. couldn't we take a name out of a book?" "yes; don't you think so, amy?" "i don't see why not," said amy. "then i'll be catharine seyton, who barred the door with her arm when the mean lady of lochleven tried to break through into the queen's chamber. i heard my brothers reading about it," cried trix. "it's in 'the abbot,' by scott," said jack, glad to show his acquaintance with literature, which trix evidently considered grown up. "i'll take sir harry hotspur," he added. "isn't that history?" asked margery doubtfully. "no, not exactly," replied jack. "it's shakespeare, too; i'll take only his part." which, though not very clear, was satisfactory. "i'm going to be mrs. peace plenty, a philanthropist," announced amy, convulsing the rest. "p. p. p.," gasped margery, emerging from a sofa pillow with her usually pale face crimson. "o amy, you _are_ so funny, and you never just seem to mean to be." "well, it's not so funny as that," said amy, laughing good-naturedly. "what is a philanthropist, jack?" asked trix. "how did you know, amy?" "it's a charitable person," said jack. "it's a person who loves human beings," said amy at the same time. "i know, because papa said if i didn't mind my p's and q's i'd grow up to be one, and get on committees; so i asked him what it was, and when he told me i didn't think it would be so bad to be one." "well, now we have settled the names. do you think you could make the box, jack?" asked margery. "of course i can," said jack, looking with loving condescension at the anxiously puckered brow of his little cousin, who, though a year younger than he, was cleverer, yet made such mistakes as this question implied; probably because she was only a girl. "i'll make four divisions in it, and maybe i'll paint it." "and make a drop-box, and nail it outside the tree for us to drop letters in with a slit in the top," said trix. "just as you like, trix," remarked jack solemnly. "i for one don't mean to write letters with slits in the top. i'll make a slit in the top of the box, though, if you like." "don't be a goose, jack," replied trix, with dignity. "you know i meant that." "we ought to have a name for our club," said amy. "yes; i've been thinking of that underneath all the time we were talking," said margery. jack stooped down and peeped under the sofa. "i don't see how you could have thought _underneath_, margery," he said; "i see only tommy traddles there." "now, jack, don't be funny," said margery, "and look out for smartness. you know aunty says you are troubled with smartness sometimes. i meant that underneath all we were saying i kept thinking of our name." "would post-office club do?" asked amy. "i know; call it the happy thought club," cried trix, "because it was a lovely thing for margery to think of, and when we were half dead for something to do, too. and we can have it a secret from all the other girls and boys, and if we had the letters p. o. on our badge they'd know right off what they stood for. we'll have a badge, won't we?" she added. "let's vote on the name," said margery. "all in favor of calling it the happy thought club please signify it by saying aye." four voices instantly chorused "aye." "contrary, no," said margery, and paused. deep silence reigned, and the clock on the mantelpiece struck once. "i propose we have for a badge a blue ribbon, and get mamma to paint an envelope on it, with the initials of the club over it. would that be nice?" asked margery. "lovely; and now i must go, because that was half-past five that struck," said trix, jumping up. "so must i," echoed amy. they hastily bundled themselves into their waterproofs, and amy was stamping her foot into her right rubber, when she paused with the other rubber suspended in the air, on the way to her left foot. "why, there's miss isabel; we never thought of her!" she cried. "sure enough." "that's so." "oh, our dear miss isabel," cried trix and jack and margery together. "you'll have to make five divisions in the box, jack," said margery decidedly, "for she's got to be an honorary member." chapter ii. the honorary member. the miss isabel for whom a fifth box in the post-office would be necessary lived in a charming old house, which had been built when washington was a little boy. it had a large, old-time garden, deliciously fragrant of box, syringas, and spicy border pinks, which the children thought the utmost perfection of all that a garden should be, and wherein it was their delight to wander. miss isabel was the youngest and only surviving member of a merry band of brothers and sisters, and she seemed too small to live alone in the great house, with its big, empty rooms filled with the saddest and only real ghosts--the memory of those who had occupied them, the echo of feet which had ceased to walk the earth, and voices silenced by the green grass pressing on the lips that death had sealed; and had she been other than miss isabel she would have been melancholy; but being miss isabel she was as sunny as the day was long. her gentle life was too full of care for others' sorrows to find time to think of her own, and she was too loving a little soul to ever lack love. the children worshipped her; she was their playmate, counsellor, and ideal. they had the vaguest ideas as to her age, supposing that she must be pretty old, in spite of the fact of her playing with them almost like one of themselves, for they could not remember her other than she was then; but one does not have to live long in order to be always grown up in the memory of little persons of eleven years and less, and in truth miss isabel was still young. the children understood that at some time in her life miss isabel had not expected to live alone in the big homestead, but had looked forward to a newer home of her own, and that at the last moment something had happened to prevent her marriage. their elders said miss isabel had had "a disappointment," and the children, especially margery, looked at her with pitying wonder, speculating on how it felt to have such a disappointment that it was spoken of as if written with a big d, and feeling, judging from their own sensations when something failed to which they were looking forward, that it must be very dreadful. it cleared off warm and beautiful after the rain, and in the afternoon the flowers and grass looked a week farther advanced than before the storm, and the discouraged robin darted at the worms in the soft earth with jubilant chirps, and retired to the elm to sing and swing in ecstasy. as soon as school was over the children started for miss isabel's. she met them on the broad door-stone, looking, in her soft pink muslin, like an apple-blossom that had drifted there. "oh, how pretty you are!" cried trix, giving her an enthusiastic and damaging hug, to margery's mute amazement. it was a perpetual wonder to her how the others could fondle miss isabel so recklessly. if margery threw her arms around her or kissed her, it was when she had her all to herself, and though she laid deep schemes to walk near her, and sit where she could see her, and often stroked her gown softly on the sly, she never flew to her as trix and amy did. she was sometimes afraid that miss isabel would think that the others loved her more than she, but she need not have feared; miss isabel understood margery. "we've come to tell you the nicest thing." "we've made you an honorary member." "margery's thought of something fine." "we're going to have a club," began all four at once. "dear me!" cried miss isabel, laughing; "i shall never be able to listen to four at one time. even a quadruped couldn't do that, you know, because he has four legs, but not four ears." "jack, you tell," said trix generously, feeling it proper to resign the glory to the man of the party. "well, you know, miss isabel," jack said willingly, "it's margery's scheme, and we thought it so good we're going to call it the happy thought club. we're going to have a post-office in uncle gresham's orchard." "with five boxes, one for you," put in amy, who had been hopping about wildly, first on one foot and then on the other, longing to speak. "yes, and we're each going to take a name and write letters to one another, and have a badge, and--and--oh, everything," concluded jack, waving his hands, as if to include the universe. "and you're to be in it, you're to be in it!" cried trix and amy, hugging miss isabel at the same time. "of course she's in it; it wouldn't be much if she weren't," said jack. "what do you think of it; you haven't said a word?" asked margery anxiously. "but that was owing to circumstances over which i have no control," laughed miss isabel. "here are you chattering like four of the blackbirds baked in the pie, with the other twenty flown away, and how could i say anything? i think it is a splendumphant plan, and that is a portmanteau word, such as humpty dumpty taught alice in looking-glass land, and it means splendid and triumphant. i am deeply sensible of the honor you do me, ladies and gentleman, in inviting me to join the club, and i accept with joy and gratitude." and miss isabel took her pink skirts in each hand, and dropped them a real dancing-school courtesy. "might one ask what names you have chosen?" she said. "we were going to be people in history," said margery. "i was going to be mary queen of scots, and trix wanted to be anthony wayne, or lafayette, or napoleon, or something else." "light horse harry," said trix. "yes; but amy thought it would be a bother to keep up historical ways of talking--i mean old-fashioned ways--so we decided to take a name, and not a character; so now jack is sir harry hotspur, and trix is catharine seyton, and i am the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake, and amy is mrs. peace plenty, a philanthropist." "well done, amy!" cried miss isabel, laughing heartily. "all but yours are just the names that i might have guessed they would have taken, and yet yours is, perhaps, the most suitable of all." "what will you take, miss isabel?" asked jack. "why, i can't answer such an important question without thought," said miss isabel. "can you suggest a name?" "i never could think of a name nice enough for you," said amy lovingly. "i think it ought to be something like good fairy," said trix, "only that sounds silly." the color had been mounting to margery's dark hair, and jack said: "margery's thought of something. let's have it, peggy." "i was thinking of miss isabel's name after i went to bed last night," the little girl said slowly. "i knew what it ought to mean, but you couldn't make it sound like a name in english, so i asked papa this morning if you could have any words for it in any other language that would sound like a name, and he told me some. and i think," she said, very low, "if miss isabel will, it would be nice for her to be lady alma cara." miss isabel gave margery such a look that her eyes filled with happy tears. "i would never have dared take such a lovely name," miss isabel said, "but if my dear little margery will give me it, i shall be proud to have it." "what does it mean?" asked trix. "i think dearest darling is about what it would be in english," said miss isabel. "that's you." "that's just the name." "indeed, you are our dearest darling," said jack and trix and amy. but margery said nothing, feeling all warm and cosey inside, for she had named miss isabel, and her loving look had thanked her better than words. "now, how about a postmark?" asked miss isabel. "we never thought of that," said the children. "well, it seems to me that since we have all taken names, it would be nice to play that our post-office was in some town with a pretty title, and not postmark our letters with the real name of the town like ordinary letters," said miss isabel. "but how can we postmark at all?" asked jack. "if you don't mind, i will have a stamp made," said miss isabel, "and the postmaster or postmistress can have an ink pad, and stamp each envelope, like the real office." "oh, isn't that fine," "oh, you blessed, little miss isabel!" "didn't i say she ought to be called the good fairy?" "you always think of _such_ things," chorused her visitors. "then that's settled," continued miss isabel. "now, what shall we call our town? if this is the happy thought club, wouldn't it be a good idea to call the place also something that meant happiness?" "joyberg," remarked margery thoughtfully. "that wouldn't do; sounds like june bug," said jack decidedly. "happiness centre," suggested amy. "that is good, but a trifle long, amy," said miss isabel. "how would bliss-sylvania do?" asked jack. "it's like pennsylvania, you know, and would mean _bliss_ and _woods_, and that would be saying that we had fun in the tree in the orchard." "i don't know," began miss isabel doubtfully, but was overwhelmed by a chorus of applause from the three little girls, whom the name struck favorably. "but how could we get on with so many s's in the middle?" asked amy; "there are three right together." "we could easily drop one, if that is the only drawback," said miss isabel, "and write it b-l-i-s-s-y-l-v-a-n-i-a. that is often done in spelling, and is called elision of a letter." "it is lovely," cried all the little girls. "jack, how did you come to think of it?" jack tried to look modest. "oh, i don't know," he said. "it just popped into my head." "like all great thoughts," added miss isabel. "we will make you mayor of blissylvania, jack. how about postage-stamps, girls and boy?" "oh, must we have stamps?" they asked. "why, certainly not, if you would rather not; but i thought it would be more fun," said miss isabel. "i could paint some--say, a dozen for each of us, and then they need not be cancelled, except with a pencil-mark that would easily rub off, so they would last a long time." "it would be much nicer, but you ought not to bother, miss isabel," said amy. "it is no trouble; i'll do them in the evening, and if jack makes the box, and you all do lots of things, i ought to do something. an honorary member must be an honorable member," said miss isabel, smiling. "may i ask you to go into the arbor in the garden while i ask mary to make some lemonade and bring it to us with cake, that we may eat and drink to the health of the happy thought club of blissylvania?" the children passed through the great hall, and out the door opposite the front one, which admitted them to the beloved garden. on the way they decided for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, at least, that their miss isabel was the _dearest thing_, and that there was no one on earth quite like her. this decision had hardly been arrived at when she rejoined them. "when shall we begin?" she asked, bending her head under the wistaria vine drooping above the entrance to the arbor. "i'm going to make the box to-night, and we thought we'd get the thing up and everything ready to-morrow," answered jack. "yes, and begin monday," added margery. "you see this is friday, and we shall have all day saturday to get ready, and sunday is a nice day to write letters, for we all go to children's mass at nine, you know, and can write all day." "stopping to eat, i hope," laughed miss isabel. "we are going to give you box number one, because--oh, because you are _you_, and an honorary member," said jack. "and margery's to have two, because she thought of the plan----" "and you'll have to have three, because you named the town, jack," interrupted margery. "and trix and amy will have four and five," resumed jack. but miss isabel, foreseeing possible danger, interposed. "i wouldn't have any rewards of that kind," she said. "i'd have blissylvania a real republic, with every one equal, and draw lots for numbers." "so would i," echoed margery heartily. "i don't want to be first because i thought of the plan." "i'd like to do something to celebrate the club," cried trix, balancing on one foot on the seat of the arbor. "i'd like to do something queer." as she spoke the board, which was loose at one end, flew up and sent trix flying first upward, and then into a collapsed heap under the seat. "you've done it!" shouted jack, in ecstasy--"you've done the queer thing!" "o trix, are you hurt?" cried the other two girls anxiously. trix's eyes were on a level with her knees, for she had fallen through, doubled up like a jack-knife. "i fell down," she remarked, vainly trying to extricate herself. "i thought i heard something drop!" cried jack, rolling over in spasms of laughter, while miss isabel, laughing, too, at beatrice's funny appearance and remark, helped get her up. "i think we'd better go home," said amy. "when trix gets crazy there's no telling what will happen." "it has happened," remarked jack, looking down whence trix had emerged. "o jolly me!"--jack's favorite and appropriate exclamation--"o jolly me, trix, you killed a mud worm. i knew you didn't like them, but you needn't have sat on him so hard." "o jack, i didn't! o jack, where?" cried trix, running to look. "oh, yes, i did! oh, please look and see if there's any of him on me!" she cried, spinning round and round wildly, in a vain effort to see the back of her own dress. "oh, the dreadful thing!" "see here, trix," said jack, "i thought you wanted to be a boy. no boy would make a row about such a little thing as sitting on a mud worm." trix disdained to answer. "we ought to go, it's getting late," she said instead. "good-night, miss isabel." "good-night, dears; good-night all of you," said miss isabel, kissing each happy face twice over, except jack's, who stood for the dignity of his sex, and was not kissed, even by miss isabel--that is, unless no one were looking. "you shall have the post-mark and ink-pad to-morrow afternoon, and i am very grateful to you for letting me join you." "grateful! pooh!" cried jack, voicing the sentiments of them all. "we couldn't get on without you." chapter iii. a narrow escape. saturday morning jack appeared whistling energetically as he triumphantly balanced a box on his left hand, and swung another in his right. he was early, but the three girls were earlier, and had swept the dead leaves from under the apple-tree destined for the office, and had cleared out the hollow which was to hold the box, to the noisy indignation of a woodpecker and his dame who had chosen the tree for a summer residence. jack was hailed with a cry of rapture. "here's the office!" he shouted, breaking into a run as he saw the little girls; "and this is the drop-box." so saying he stubbed his toe on one of the many rough places in the orchard, and boy and boxes went headlong in three directions. "i see it is a drop-box," remarked trix dryly, getting square on the account of the previous night. "o jack, have you broken them?" cried amy, while margery stood still in mute anguish. "guess not; no, they're all right," replied jack, gathering up his burdens. "aren't they just james dandies?" the girls, who had renounced slang with gum, pronounced them "lovely" and "beautiful." one was a starch-box, divided through the middle into an upper and lower section, the upper partitioned into three pigeon-holes, each numbered, and the lower half made into two divisions, likewise numbered. the box was painted a wood brown, with the words "post-office" in white over the top, and the numbers were also white. jack had wanted to paint the box red, but amy had convinced him that it would be in greater danger of discovery in such a bright color, and he had yielded to prudence. the second box was red, however, for jack had literally stood to his colors in this case, maintaining that all uncle sam's drop-boxes were red, and blissylvania's must be no exception to the rule. this had a slit cut in the top large enough for letters to pass through, and was not less admired than the post-office. "but how shall we get parcels in?" asked margery, and jack explained that for this it was only necessary to lift the lid, which would not be fastened. every one found this arrangement perfectly satisfactory, and the office was nailed into the tree by jack at the cost of only one bruised finger, while the girls executed a sort of war-dance around him in irrepressible satisfaction. the drop-box was fastened on a stump ten or twelve feet from the office, which made it still more like a real post-office, for, as margery explained, the postmistress could play she was a postman collecting and bringing in the mail when she took the things out of the drop-box, and needn't pretend she was postmaster till she began sorting them at the apple-tree. nothing could have been more encouraging than the morning operations, but in the afternoon the h. t. c. and the town of blissylvania narrowly escaped a catastrophe that would have been like an earthquake, sweeping the fair city from the earth. it all came from the honorary member's generosity. true to her promise, miss isabel hastened down to town in the morning early, and ordered the stamp made for the postmark. it was to be of leaden type, that allowed the changing of date each day, and as the type was already in stock the shopkeeper promised to deliver it that afternoon. margery's mamma had painted the badges according to the design selected at the first meeting, only substituting a white carrier-pigeon as the device instead of an envelope, because, as margery explained to the others, "it was more poetical than an envelope and prettier." the badge was of beautiful blue ribbon, the pigeon painted in white, surmounted by the initials of the club--h. t. c. and it may be stated here that unsatisfied curiosity as to the secret moved the other school-children to derision, and jack, margaret, beatrice, and amy were called the "highty tighty cooing pigeons," shortened for convenience to "the doves." the four were wrapped in admiration over their beautiful badges, when the postmark arrived. each one tried it in turn, and at every impression the magic circle enclosing the words, "blissylvania, june th, "--for the date was set ready for the first use on monday--seemed more entrancing. they all repaired to the orchard to see if it worked equally well on the big stone which they had selected for its table, and here the little cloud appeared that rolled up into a storm. it was such unutterable bliss to press the stamp on the ink-pad, and then make the impression on the white paper, that the office of postmaster suddenly seemed to each one the honor most to be coveted in all the world. "i wonder how we shall decide who is to be postmaster," remarked trix casually, as she reluctantly gave amy the stamp to try. each face reddened slightly; evidently they had all been thinking of the same thing. "i don't see how a girl can be postmaster," said jack. "pshaw! we can be postmistress, and it's all the same," said amy, speaking sharply for her. "i should think it was more a man's place," continued jack. "it's a place for a girl that is strong and quick, and like a boy," said trix hastily. "i live right here, where i could look after it," said margery, bringing the discussion from abstract views on suitability to the personal application they were all secretly making. "that's the very reason why you shouldn't be postmistress!" cried peace-loving amy, ruffling her feathers. "you shouldn't have everything." "oh, you're no good for it, peggy!" said jack, with easy scorn. "it needs a boy, and i'm the only boy; so of course i've got to be postmaster." "well, i like that," cried trix, with eyes flashing like a whole woman's-rights convention in one small body. "every one knows girls are heaps quicker and smarter than boys. i'd be a better postmaster than any of you, if i do say so." "you! you're too harum-scarum; you'd lose half the mail!" cried amy. "i'd be a much better one, and you know it." "well, i'd not lose the mail!" said trix, trembling and stammering in indignation. "you think i'm harum-scarum because you're such a poke." "well, there's no good you girls fighting about it, because i'm the boy, and i'm going to be postmaster!" remarked jack, with such maddening certainty that the girls turned on him in a body. "you'll be nothing of the sort!" screamed trix, stamping her foot. "you won't touch my letters!" cried amy. "if you were a gentleman you'd not want to take a lady's place!" said margery, with withering scorn. "no gentleman ever sits down when a lady hasn't a seat." "i'd like to know who wants to sit down?" demanded jack. "if you felt as you ought, you'd want your cousin to be postmaster," said margery. "well, i don't; so there!" said jack. "who does?" asked trix, deserting her ally and turning on margery. "you've got the office in your orchard, and that's enough." "if i'd known that you'd all have been so selfish i'd never have said have a post-office," said margery, turning away to hide the tears which always would come when she was angry, spoiling the effect of her most telling remarks. "you're selfish yourself, because you want it as much as we do, and that is why you think we're selfish," said amy, with so much truth that margery could not retort. "you're the meanest three in the world!" cried trix. "that counts me out, for you girls are the three, and trix is the worst!" shouted jack. "if i was half as mean as the rest of you i'd go to some old-clothes man, and try to sell myself," said amy, the mild. "you wouldn't get much," said trix, not realizing her retort was rather against herself. "i think i don't care about a post-office," remarked margery, with quivering lips. "i think i'll not be in it, and if you want one you can have it some other place than my orchard." "i don't want one," said trix. "it's a stupid thing anyhow," said amy. "no one with any sense would ever have proposed it," said jack. "then we'll give it all up," said margery, in a low voice. a quarrel was not a little thing to her, as it was to the others, but an awful tragedy. and at this terrible moment miss isabel came down the orchard, looking as fresh and calm as if there were no such thing as anger in all the world. it did not require her keen eyes to see the flushed faces and trembling lips, and feel the electricity in the air, but she discreetly pretended to observe nothing. "good-morrow, brave sir hotspur, noble lady catharine seyton, kind mrs. plenty, fair lady griselda," she said. "good-afternoon, miss isabel," responded four melancholy voices, from which joy seemed forever fled. "i see the postmark came. i was uneasy lest it fail to arrive, and came over to ask about it," continued miss isabel cheerfully. "is it good? oh, yes; those are very clear impressions you made. do you know, i like the name blissylvania much better than i thought i should?" no answer; the children were beginning to feel dreadfully ashamed, for though they were perfectly at ease with miss isabel, they cared too much for her good opinion to be anything but their best before her. "i brought the stamps," continued miss isabel, with persistent, cheerful blindness. "here they are." jack had been digging a hole with his heel ever since miss isabel had arrived, and it required his entire attention. giving an extra deep backward thrust, he said without looking up: "it's a pity you took that trouble, miss isabel, for we're not going to have a post-office after all." a sob from margery followed this remark. "why, what is the matter?" asked miss isabel, looking from one gloomy face to another, and drawing margery's, which was hidden from her, on her knee. "well," said trix desperately, "we're all mad. we got into a fuss about who would be postmaster, and we decided to give the thing up." "what do you mean; you couldn't decide who should be postmaster first?" asked miss isabel. "of course you intend to take turns in office?" jack, trix, and amy glanced at each other, and margery stopped sobbing to listen. simple as this solution of the difficulty was, no one had thought of it. "we didn't mean that; we thought some one would be postmaster all the time," said jack. "oh, dear me, i should think you would get into a fuss if you tried to decide who was to have the fun all alone," laughed miss isabel. "and so you were going to give up the whole thing, and cheat me of all the pleasure you promised me because you did not hit on such a simple plan! and last night we decided that blissylvania was to be a real republic, with every one equal! look up, little marguerite; you are a daisy too wet with rain just now. don't make mountains of molehills, children; it is much wiser to make molehills of the mountains we have to climb in life. now, i think each would better be postmaster a week at a time, and draw lots for the order of serving. or, perhaps, it would be better still to have the term of office last but three days, for then the terms will come around quicker." she did not add that this would give each a second chance to serve in case they tired quickly of the new play, but she thought it. "shall we draw lots for turns now?" she asked, reaching for the white paper on which they had been making impressions before the storm broke. "yes, miss isabel," said jack and amy and trix meekly, while margery sat up pale and trembling, and began to dry her eyes. the others glanced at her wonderingly; they never could understand why margery seemed half sick if she had been angry or had cried. miss isabel wrote the numbers, and they drew, amy number one, trix two, margery three, and jack four. "now please show me the boxes. why, they are very nicely made, jack; did you do it alone?" "yes, miss isabel," said jack, beaming, all trace of anger melted in the sunshine of her presence. "and look, miss isabel, here's the drop-box," cried amy. "you put letters through the slit in the top, and when you have a parcel you lift the cover and put it inside." miss isabel laughed. "that is a wee bit like the story of the man who made a large hole for his cat to go in and out, and a small one alongside for the kitten. but it is certainly the nicest kind of a post-office, and i think, perhaps, that i shall get more pleasure out of it than any of you." which was a much truer prophecy than miss isabel herself dreamed. "we are to write letters to-morrow, and begin monday, are we not?" "yes; oh, what fun!" cried trix, catching amy around the waist, and waltzing her about the old apple-tree and back again. no one but margery seemed to remember "the late unpleasantness;" she stood a little apart, very pale, but trying to smile. "do you know, i think it is unusually warm for the sixth of june?" remarked miss isabel. "i wonder if i could get any one to walk down to bent's to eat ice-cream with me?" jack turned a somersault at once. "don't try if you don't want to succeed, miss isabel," he said. "come, then, every one of you," she cried merrily, "for i do want to succeed. and i propose that we wear our beautiful new badges, for we are to go in a body as a club." "let me pin them on, please," said margery. she had been longing for a chance to beg pardon, and saw it here. "i'm dreadfully sorry i was so cross, jack," she whispered, pinning the badge, and at the same time rubbing her cheek on his gray jacket. "oh, that's all right, megsy. you're never much cross," he whispered back, and would have liked to have kissed her little white face, for he dearly loved his cousin. "please forgive me, trix, for being so mean," she whispered, as she reached her, and trix stared at her for a moment in amazement. "why, i forgot all about it," she said. "i was meaner than you anyhow." and she kissed her. amy put her arms around margery before she could speak. "it's all right, margery; forgive me, too," she whispered. and so, at peace with all the world and each other, the happy thought club, that had so narrowly escaped destruction, sallied forth to eat ice-cream. chapter iv. the mysterious tenant. the opening of the post-office was a great success. amy, who was the first to go into office as postmistress, had a busy time for the three days of her term. every member of the h. t. c. wrote the other four one letter a day with praiseworthy regularity, so there were twenty letters daily for the postmistress of blissylvania to handle, not to mention packages and papers, and the invisible city of blissylvania did more mail business than many of uncle sam's offices in far-off country places. there was a slight falling off in mail on the second day of trix's term, which followed amy's, for jack found so much and such regular correspondence exhausting to mind and body, and was first to complain that he had nothing to say. it was even found, when the ladies compared notes on the fifth day after the office opened, that he had basely written one letter, and copied it three times--miss isabel requiring a different style of composition--but they had agreed to feign ignorance of this action, charitably excusing it on the ground of boys' well-known deficiencies. there was difficulty about margery's address. she insisted that the whole title and address must be used, but jack declared it was expecting too much of any one to write on the small space of the back of their letters, which for economy's sake were so folded as to serve instead of envelopes: "lady griselda, at the castle of the lonely lake, blissylvania, new york," which was what margery desired. they compromised, following miss isabel's suggestion, on "lady griselda of the castle, blissylvania, new york," because, as miss isabel pointed out, there could be no mistake, there being but one lady griselda and one castle. taken altogether, the post-office could hardly have succeeded better, and if there were any danger of its losing charm, it was saved by a new interest arising, which gave a novel topic for conversation and supplied jack with the needed subject for correspondence. it was a little after eight o'clock on the sixth morning after the post-office opened, and margery was practising. she was as faithful in this as in everything else, and to the inexpressible wonder of her playmates no strategy or coaxing could get her to leave the piano before her time was up. this seemed to trix, who seized any excuse to shorten the hated task, little short of insanity, and a new proof of the queerness that they all recognized in dreamy, sensitive margery. they did not understand that margery was an unconscious philosopher, and since the thought of an unfulfilled duty would spoil her pleasure, preferred to secure a thorough good time by clearing away any possible hindrances to one. trix came into the room, and finding margery at the piano, sighed. "i suppose there's no use talking to you until you're done," she said, throwing herself in a big chair. "and i've the most interesting thing to tell you." margery shook her head. "how long must you practise; till half after?" margery nodded, the nod coming in well on an accented note. up and down went the nimble fingers, playing an exercise, with the metronome ticking on the piano. trix fidgeted and wriggled down in the chair, and pulled herself up, watching the clock the while. "margery, it's _such_ an interesting thing," she said plaintively at last. "in ten minutes," sang margery to the accompaniment of the scale. "play with tommy traddles while you wait." "oh, margery, _won't_ you stop?" cried trix, after three minutes had passed. no answer but _arpeggios_. "margaret gresham, you're chewing gum," cried trix, resorting to strategy. "i am not," said margery, coming down in flat contradiction and a false chord at one and the same time. "i'm chewing the side of my tongue." "why don't you have a cud?" asked trix, delighted at having trapped margery into speech. but she was not to be caught again. shaking her head she began playing her new piece, which, true to her principles, she had left till the last. finally the tiresome clock struck once. trix sprang up. "you shall not finish that page," she cried, catching margery around the waist and pulling her off the stool. "you said half-past, and it is half-past; so stop." "but i _must_ finish that page, trix," she protested. "unfinished tunes i can't stand." "well, you'll have to," declared trix. "listen to me. the dismals is rented!" "the dismals" was the children's name for a very large, untenanted place called the evergreens. "why, the dismals is never rented!" cried margery. "it hasn't had any one in it since we were born." "yes; but it has now," replied trix. "there is a man there, and he lives all alone. our waitress, katie, told me about it last night. i thought i'd never go to sleep for thinking about him. katie knows a girl that saw him go through the hedge and disappear under the dismals' pine-trees. there is something queer about him; katie says so. they don't know whether he's crazy or whether he's wicked, or perhaps he's both. katie says we may all be murdered in our beds. she says she thinks he's a robber who has come from somewhere, and is to make the dismals his den. but katie says some think he's a murderer hiding there, and again some think he's got the evil eye." "what's that?" asked margery, shuddering; "another eye, or what?" "no, you goose," cried trix; "it's an eye that looks just like others, only it's kind of set and stony, and when people look at it they're never lucky any more." but this had not the effect trix anticipated. "i don't believe that," said margery; "that sounds like a ghost story, or something of that kind. besides, if there were an evil eye it couldn't hurt us, for we wear our medals, and if we met him we'd just hold on to them and say hail marys till he went by." trix was staggered. "katie didn't say so, and katie's a catholic," she remarked. "yes; but katie doesn't understand," said margery. "you ought to teach her not to be superstitious, trix." this was taking the conversation into the realms of morals, and trix wished it to be only thrilling. "well, what if he's crazy or wicked?" she demanded. "that's different," replied margery promptly. "we'll be late for school; wait till i get my hat and catechism, and we'll talk about it going along." she came back in a moment, and the two little girls went out into the june sunshine on their way to the convent, where they were to have a catechism instruction, though it was saturday. "i think myself it's much more likely he's crazy, or a robber, or something awful," trix resumed. "you see, no one who was all right could live alone in such a dreadful place as the dismals." "you don't suppose he's some exiled prince come over from europe and hiding there?" suggested margery. "they don't have exiled princes now," declared trix. "oh, yes they do; the last of the rightful princes of france died not very long ago; papa said so." "well, if he's dead he can't be at the dismals," said trix. "i tell you, margery, this man is some dangerous character, and i shall be afraid of my life to go to bed." "i'm not afraid now talking about it, because i think maybe he's unfortunate, and not wicked, but when night comes i shall be afraid to go to bed, too," margery agreed. the evergreens, or "the dismals," lay out of their way to school, but attracted to it by their very fear, the children turned aside in order to pass it, and then raced by it as fast as their feet could carry them, casting fearful glances over their shoulders as they ran. that afternoon among the mail in the blissylvania post-office was the following circular, in duplicate copies, addressed to lady alma cara, and mrs. peace plenty, and sir harry hotspur. it ran: "dear madam (or sir): having heard that a dangerous or mysterious character has come to live alone in the evergreens, which we call the dismals, we feel it our duty to warn you that you may fear to be robbed or murdered by this strange person, and that you should be on your guard. yours respectfully (signed), lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake. lady catharine seyton, postmistress of blissylvania." the circular had the desired effect. mrs. peace plenty was panic-stricken; sir harry hotspur vowed to wear his sword henceforth when he went abroad, and warned all wicked men that they'd better look out, for he would use it, and lady alma cara promised to take hero with her whenever she could if she went out. hero was her big st. bernard, and objected to much exercise in summer. lady alma cara did not seem disturbed by the awful rumors as to the strange tenant, but she was far too wise to tell the children that she thought there was no danger, knowing well that this was an opportunity for them to make much of, and that there was a certain pleasure in their fear. by sunday the reports of the mysterious tenant had multiplied, not lessening in horror. margery held her medals tight as she passed along the streets, though her terror was moderated when winnie, the cook, reported that he had been in the back of the church at the first mass, but had slipped out before any one could get a good look at him. jack and trix pointed out to margery with much pains, that this showed that he was even worse than they supposed, because he came to church only to pretend to be decent, but could not stay to face honest people. sunday night the sensation reached a tremendous pitch. the children had taken tea with trix, and had been entertained by katie with the latest news of the stranger. he did not live alone, after all; it seemed that he had an old woman for housekeeper, and though it was not certain who had seen her to report her appearance, it was quite certain that she had a hump, and never went out in the grounds of the dismals without a broomstick, which proved, so katie thought, that she was a witch. as to the man himself, he walked with his head down, and katie had heard that he cast no shadow, and the children wondered what kind of folks it was cast no shadow. the children did not know, but they did not like to ask, feeling sure they must be the most awful people possible, especially since they had never seen such, and shuddered at the thought. katie, a fresh-faced, pleasant little girl with no notion of doing them harm, but with an amiable desire to be agreeable, responded to their cries for more, with tales of banshees and witches till their blood froze in their veins, and they left for home in an agony of fear and went to bed in dumb suffering. had they spoken their fears their misery would have been short, but none of them mentioned the matter, and so no relief could come. each made a characteristic preparation for the dangers of the night. jack took his toy pistol and sword to bed, hoping in case of alarm the invader would mistake them for real ones. trix laid the ice-pick and fire-tongs on her pillow, and hung a bucket of water, to which she had tied a string, over her bedroom-door. amy put her rosary, crucifix, and prayer-book under her pillow, and made sure that she had on her medals and scapular, and then got an extra pillow and blanket to muffle her ears, which, as the night was warm, had its drawbacks. poor, nervous little margery sprinkled all her bed with holy water, collected every pious object which she possessed, and took tommy traddles to bed with her, that in case of danger she might protect him. to all the others sleep came soon in spite of fear, but margery lay cold and wakeful until the twitter and stirring of the birds outside her window, and the first rays of dawn brought the hope and comfort of another day. chapter v. the invasion of the amazons. margery arose from her night of terror armed with the courage of desperation. there were two letters in the post that morning addressed in her stiff little handwriting to lady catharine seyton and mrs. peace plenty. they were precisely alike, except in the address, and ran thus: "the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake requests you to meet her at the elm at the corner of the convent grounds after school to do something for the public safety." margery herself carried them to school and gave them to their owners, for it was her first day as postmistress. "they were marked 'immediate,' so i delivered them," she said to trix and amy, in the character of postmistress, with fine assumption of ignorance as to their contents. amy found her waiting with trix when she appeared at the trysting-place a trifle late. "now she's come; what is it, margery?" demanded trix, who never could endure waiting, and had been fuming because margery would not speak until amy had arrived. "it means that i can't stand this another moment," margery burst out, glad to express her feelings. "i wouldn't be so scared every night as i was last night for anything. i want you to go with me to the dismals, and see if that man's as bad as katie says." "i wouldn't go for the world," declared amy, blanching at the thought. "nor i," echoed daring trix. "you're such a scared cat, margery, i don't see what you want to go for." "it's because i am a scared cat," said margery. "i'm afraid not to go. i should think you'd dare what i dare, trix lane, when you're always talking about being a boy." "i suppose jack would think we were brave," remarked trix slowly. she and jack were engaged in a sort of perpetual "stump" as to which should outdo the other. margery saw an advantage here. "of course he would," she said. "he'd never dare say again that girls were cowards." "but i am," said amy candidly, "and i couldn't say i wasn't. still, if you go, margery, i'll go with you." "you dear thing," cried margery, giving her an enthusiastic hug. "i'll go; i'd like to," said trix hastily, trying to retrieve her reputation. "then we'll start right now," margery declared. "don't you see that i'm afraid to go, but i'm more afraid to stay away, because we _must_ know what's there? if i had to lie awake nights thinking about the hump-backed witch and the evil eye without seeing them i'd be a raving lumanic." margery meant lunatic or maniac, it is not clear which. the desperate band of amazons started valiantly down the street. as they neared the evergreens their pace slackened, but they did not halt. margery, the coward, went steadily on, and the others were ashamed not to follow. they entered "the dismals" by a less frequented way than the gate--in fact, they crawled through an opening in the fence, and concealed themselves not far from the back door, in the long grass that had not been cut for many summers. "my heart beats so i know he'll think some one's knocking," whispered poor amy, and to margery's additional alarm trix giggled hysterically. "oh, keep quiet, and just pray," she whispered. presently an old woman appeared, and the agonized trio noted that she carried a broom. but she certainly was not hunchbacked, but a slender, tiny old woman, with a smiling face, and she began using the broom in a most un-witchlike manner to clear off the back stoop. in spite of themselves the children felt a little reassured, but their fear returned when they saw a man come around the corner. he walked slowly, and they soon saw that this was because he read as he walked. a spaniel ran ahead of him, and came back, barking wildly. "why, sheila, i'm ashamed of you," said the man, closing his book, with one finger inside, and shaking the little volume at the excited dog. "how often must i tell you that i will never help you to catch birds, and much less in june, when they have families to look after?" his voice sounded kindly, and even sweet; his eyes were brown, and looked affectionately at the little dog. as amy said afterward, "neither looked like an evil eye." comfort began to come to the three palpitating little hearts in the grass, and though they dared not whisper it to each other, the conviction struck them that there must have been a mistake. just then sheila, the spaniel, ran towards them, barking in quite a different tone, and so sharply that her master turned to follow her. "that does not sound like birds, sheila," he said. "what have you found?" in an agony no words could represent the three valiant amazons lay quaking till they saw that the little dog had really scented them, and was leading her master straight to them. breaking cover like three startled quails they precipitately took to their heels, to the surprise of both dog and man. "stop!" shouted the stranger. "don't run, children; sheila won't hurt you." "but you might," thought the children, and fled faster, all their fear returning in their flight. margery and amy cleared the hole in the fence in rapid succession, but trix, not liking to wait her turn to go through, tried to climb over, and stuck fast on a paling. "if you leave me i'll die!" she shrieked to the other two, who were making off at a great rate. they turned and saw her face purple with fright, while the old woman, the man, and the little dog on the other side saw her long legs kicking so wildly that they looked several pairs instead of one. with heroism, genuine, if unnecessary, margery and amy stopped and turned back to their imprisoned comrade. they reached her head just as a hand touched her back. with a scream that made them sure that she had at least been stabbed, trix made one last, desperate effort to get away, and was still. "let me help you," said the man gently. "pray, don't be so frightened. indeed, my little dog would never hurt you, and as soon as i can get you off she shall apologize for frightening you so badly." so saying he extricated trix's dress, and set her on her feet. his touch was so careful that trix plucked up heart to look at him. he was not old, he was not ugly. trix felt sure that if she had met him elsewhere and otherwise she should have liked him. "weren't there more little girls?" he asked, laughing. "it seemed to me a dozen started up from the grass when sheila barked." "two, sir," trix murmured faintly. "they are on the other side." he came closer, and looked over. "please come back a moment, and let sheila apologize," he said, and margery and amy dared not refuse. they crawled back, and the man turned to the dog. "sit up, sheila; say you're very sorry," he commanded. sheila sat up at once and whined. "now go shake hands all round," said her master. sheila rose on her hind feet and walked to each in turn, offering her little brown right paw, which they accepted, almost forgetting their fears. "now won't you come back and rest?" asked the man. "oh! no, thank you," the three little girls said in chorus, as if they had been rehearsing it, turning at once towards the opening in the fence. "then good-by," said the man. "sheila and i are a bit lonely here, and we should be very glad to have you come again--when you can stay longer," he added, with such a merry twinkle of the eye that trix could not help responding with a laugh, and all replied, "thank you," in much better spirits, and went away quite enchanted with the mysterious tenant. the more they thought over their adventure, the more they found their new acquaintance delightful, and the faster they hurried to look up jack to vaunt their courage to him, and tell him the facts about their bugaboo. great was jack's amazement as he listened, and his admiration for their pluck was satisfactory even to trix. but the next day jack had a piece of news for them that restored the balance of importance among them, and re-established jack's self-esteem, which had been a little lowered by the brave deed of the girls. "well, what do you suppose i know?" he asked, coming down the orchard where the girls were putting the post-office to rights, the day after the invasion of "the dismals." "that wouldn't take long to tell," replied trix saucily. "you may have seen the man at the dismals, but i know who he is," jack continued, ignoring trix. "who?" cried each of the girls. "guess," said jack. "an escaped bandit," exclaimed trix. "an officer of the society that takes care of animals," said amy, who had been much impressed by the stranger's goodness to sheila. "an exiled prince," cried margery, returning to her first idea. "all wrong!" shouted jack triumphantly. "not even warm. i'll tell you what happened last night. i was reading in the library, and papa and mamma were there, and pretty soon i went to sleep. and after a while i woke up enough to hear them talking, and papa said: 'well, it must be that he has some motive for coming back here, for no one would choose to live in such a dreary place as the evergreens without reason.' that woke me up, and i pricked up my ears to listen. 'you know it was his grandfather's place,' mamma said; and papa said: 'but, my dear, people rarely live alone in a tumble-down house for their grandfather's sake.' mamma said: 'no, i think as you do, it must be something to do with isabel that brought him back here. then papa said: 'it would be queer if they were to marry, and be happy after all this time, like story-book people.' and mamma said she loved miss isabel so much, and she was so good and sweet, that she should be more glad of happiness for her than for almost anything else in the world. and she said she thought mr. robert dean was a good man. and then my old book tumbled down, and mamma said low: 'don't let jack hear anything of this;' and she said to me: 'jack, dear, don't you think you'd better go to bed?' and i didn't think so, but i had to go. and now, do you know who that man is?" "no," said amy, bewildered. "why, is he mr. robert dean?" asked trix, immediately adding: "i don't know who mr. dean is, though." but margery looked greatly excited. "is he the one miss isabel was going to marry, ever so long ago, when she was going to live in that house near yours, jack?" she asked. "right you are, peggy," said jack. "he's come back to take miss isabel away, i'll bet you, and so he is a robber, and we were right in the first place." trix assented cordially. "he'd better not try to take miss isabel off!" she said fiercely. amy and margery took another view. "may be she likes him, and would be glad to see him again," said amy. "maybe she'd rather have him come back." and margery said firmly: "i don't want any one to take miss isabel away, but if she would be happier, we must not say one word." "much he'd care what we said," muttered jack wrathfully. "yes," said margery, "but we mustn't say it anyway. we'll go to see him, for he asked us to, and we'll see if he is nice, and then we won't care if he does marry miss isabel. we'll be glad because she's glad, and we won't let her know once how we feel about it." margery's voice had been growing more and more quavering, and as she ceased speaking she sat down on the grass and cried as though her heart would break. the others looked at her in silence. they could not make up their minds to give up miss isabel, even for her happiness; but, on the other hand, they could not cry so tempestuously at the thought of losing her. "never mind, margery; you'll have us," said amy, sitting down by her and putting her arm around her. "yes; but you're none of you miss isabel. but i'll be glad, very glad," said margery, with a fresh burst of tears. chapter vi. further acquaintance. when mr. robert dean opened his front door in response to a faint ring at the bell, and saw three little girls and one very rosy-faced boy standing on the step, he had no idea that it was a self-appointed committee of investigation, and that his character was to be tried by a very exacting standard. yet such was the case. following margery's suggestion, beatrice, amy, and jack had gone with her to call on the new tenant, to see if by any possibility he could be good enough to be miss isabel's husband, in case that were his object in coming to the evergreens. the visit was a difficult one, and was made still more so by the committee not finding mr. dean in the grounds as they had hoped to do, and thus being obliged to walk deliberately up the steps and ring the bell. mr. dean looked down on them with some surprise, and margery said faintly: "we've come to call on you, sir, as you asked us." "oh, yes; we've met before," said mr. dean, recognizing trix's black eyes, and laughing as he remembered the plight from which he had rescued her. "i am very glad to see you and so i am sure will sheila be. will you kindly walk into my parlor, like four pleasant flies, though i think i am not a spider." the children thanked him, and followed him into the old house. the parlor was darkened, and their host went to the window and threw open the blind. the light revealed a room furnished in the taste of more than fifty years ago. haircloth chairs were ranged at intervals around the walls, a carpet strewn with immense roses covered the floor, and the wall-paper in panels representing a tiger hunt so fascinated jack's wondering gaze that he became quite lost in its contemplation. margery had perched herself on the haircloth sofa, which was so slippery that she had to hold herself on by the bolster-like ends, for her feet did not nearly reach the floor. she rejoiced when she was rescued from her precarious situation by their host turning from the window with the words: "my name is robert dean. will you please tell me yours, that we may begin properly?" all the others looked toward margery, feeling that as it was her expedition, it was for her to do the honors. margery gladly slipped down on her feet. "this is beatrice lane; we call her trix," she began. mr. dean made a profound bow. "and the name suits her, if one may judge by appearances," he said. "and this is amy tracy, and my cousin, jack hildreth." "and you?" suggested mr. dean. "i should like to call you something too." "i am margaret gresham," said margery, blushing. "i think you would be much more comfortable if you would take this low chair that my grandmother embroidered, rather than perch on that abominable sofa again," said her host, handing margery a small ebony chair with a carved back and a seat of faded satin embroidered with flowers dim with time. "thank you," said margery, with profound inward gratitude. "it seems a pity to sit on it if your grandmother embroidered it." "it has been used a great many times, and was made for another margaret, who for many years has been out of the world where things grow old and fade," replied mr. dean. "my father had a sister who died when she was just sixteen. this chair, i have been told, grandmother embroidered for her on her fifteenth birthday." "how lovely to have it still!" said margery, rising to look at the flowers again. "i am not eleven yet--not till october." "that is a great age," said mr. dean, smiling. "and now you really do not know how glad i am that you came to-day. i was feeling a trifle blue, and wondering if i should be lonely all my life, and just then the bell rang, and four good fairies appeared. by the way," he added, starting up boyishly, "suppose we go into the garden? sheila can come there; i dare not let her in here for fear of my housekeeper. she is a little woman, and i am a big man, but i am afraid of her. you see she was my old nurse, and i got into the habit of minding her when i was small. i think that she makes pretty good cake, though i am not the judge of cake that i was when i was younger. if you will go into the garden i'll ask her to give us some, and get your opinion." he led the way through the side door, and the children found themselves at once in such a dear old garden that four "ah's!" of satisfaction arose. "what a beautiful, lovely old garden!" cried trix. "it is as nice as miss isabel's." mr. dean turned quickly. "do you know miss isabel?" he asked. "know her!" cried jack. "she's our best friend." "and she's lovelier than any one else in all the world," added trix, with defiance in her voice, remembering who he was and for what he might be there. but margery kept her big gray eyes fastened on his face, and saw the color come there and his eyes grow moist. "so she is, beatrice," he said. "you are fortunate to have her friendship." something in his voice melted all margery's distrust; she slipped her hand confidingly into his. "we love her more than all the world," she said softly. "we have a club, and her name in the club is alma cara." some sure instinct always led little margery to divine the right and kindest thing to do. mr. dean looked down on her pale face and earnest eyes. "and i believe you are the one who named her," he said. and from that moment, though he grew to be very fond of the three other children, margery was his especial pet and friend. mr. dean left them after this, and returned, bringing the cake and sheila. the little dog was introduced to jack in proper form, shook hands with each of her guests, walking over to them on her hind legs to do so, and graciously accepted cake from the children, first sniffing each piece cautiously, like the dainty, well-fed creature that she was. mr. dean touched amy's badge inquiringly. "might one ask what that means?" he said. "it's a secret," began amy, looking hesitatingly at the others. "oh, i beg your pardon," said mr. dean. "but i think we could tell mr. dean, couldn't we?" suggested margery. "yes," replied all the other members of the club promptly. there was no question but that the investigating committee had made up its mind, individually and collectively, to a favorable report on the stranger. "it is the happy thought club," explained amy, indicating the initials on her badge; "and we have a post-office." and each adding a bit of information, the story of the post-office was told him. mr. dean laughed heartily over the names. "what fun you must have!" he exclaimed. "if i come to return your call, will you show me the post-office?" "oh, yes," cried margery. "i am post-mistress this week. and, you know, we have one honorary member, and she's miss isabel, and her name is the lady alma cara. no matter what we do, we always have miss isabel, because we can't get on without her." "it is not easy, my little maid, to get on without miss isabel," said mr. dean gently. "what would you do if you could not see her, or speak to her, or write to her for ten year?" "we wouldn't stand it: we will always keep her," cried trix, firing up, and regarding this as a direct threat from him whom she was still ready to regard as an enemy. but margery understood. "i'd hardly be able to breathe," she said pityingly, laying her hand on her new friend's coat-sleeve; "but i'd know it would be better by and by." "you dear little atom," said mr. dean, putting his hand on her dark hair, "it is no wonder that you at least have a white dove on your badge." in a moment mr. dean spoke again, quite cheerfully: "now i have been thinking of something while we have been sitting here. i cannot tell how long i shall be at the evergreens; it may be all summer, it may not be a month. it depends on whether i succeed in what i came to do. i should like to see as much of you as i can while i am here; do you suppose that if i asked you to tea some day before long you would all come?" "oh, yes, sir; we'd like to, if we may," said all four children heartily. "i think that your mothers will allow it," said mr. dean. "you see you do not know me, nor i you, because you were all babies when i went away from here, but i knew your mothers and fathers. now are you not surprised?" jack blushed painfully, but trix said, with great presence of mind: "i don't think that i ever heard them speak of you." "very likely not----" mr. dean was beginning, when amy interrupted him. "we were afraid of you," she said, in spite of the warning kicks and frowns of the others. amy had a tendency to frankness that was at times wholly uncontrollable. "we had heard from trix's waitress, katie, that you had the evil eye and your house-keeper was a witch, so the day before yesterday, when sheila found us, we were hiding in the grass to see if you were so bad." the others watched mr. dean anxiously to see what effect this dreadful revelation of amy's might have, and were relieved when he threw back his head and laughed merrily. "well done!" he cried. "i had no idea that i was alarming the neighborhood. i am glad that you decided in my favor, as i suppose you did, since you came to see me." "oh, yes; don't mind that nonsense," said trix, and margery, rising to go, held out her hand, saying, "i think we shall be real friends." "thank you," replied mr. dean, bowing over her little fingers as if, as trix afterwards remarked, "she had really been the lady griselda of the castle." "good-by," said the children; "we've had a beautiful time. come and see us, and we'll show you our post-office." "good-by, my dears; thank you for coming, and come often," said mr. dean, as he held the garden gate open for them, and watched them go away, while sheila "shook a day-day with her tail," as amy said. "well, what do you think?" asked trix, as they walked towards miss isabel's, whom they had not seen for four whole days, because she had been away. "he's all right," said jack comprehensively. "i think he's nice," said amy emphatically. "he's the nicest man, except my father, i ever saw," announced trix. margery sighed gently. "i like him," she said, "and i'm sorry for him, because i think he's lonely and feels sad. he's most as nice for a man as miss isabel is for a lady." and praise could go no further. miss isabel welcomed her fellow-members of the club heartily. "we've something very interesting to tell you," said amy, the moment the salutations were over. "i am all attention," said miss isabel, coming to sit down before them. "we've been making a call at the dismals, on mr. dean," said trix. miss isabel sprang up again and went to the window. "and he's very nice, miss isabel," added margery conscientiously. "we were afraid of him because we heard that he was a robber, or had the evil eye. so we went to see, and it isn't any of it true, and to-day we went to call on him, and we're going to take tea with him soon. he's kind, and he has the loveliest little dog, and he seems not very happy, and we're sorry, because he's nice." miss isabel turned and came back to them. "and what about the post-office?" she asked, ignoring the new acquaintance. trix and jack stared, margery looked hurt, and amy murmured in helpless bewilderment: "it's very well, thank you." suddenly jack brightened. "were you thinking what i was?" he asked. "you know i could easily move those partitions over in the lower row of the post-office, to make it hold another box like the upper row." "i am afraid i don't understand, jack," said miss isabel. "why, then we could ask mr. dean to be an honorary member, too," explained jack. "oh, yes!" cried the three girls. "i'm sure he'd be delighted; he seemed so interested in the office," said amy. "should you mind?" asked trix. "may we?" while margery said nothing, but looked eager. "my dear children, you may do anything you like, and will you do one favor for me?" said miss isabel. "if it is not too much trouble, will one of you bring my mail to me every day? it is getting so warm, i shall not feel like going down." "why, we'd love to," they all cried. "let me do it all the time," begged jack. "you will all come; i want you all," said miss isabel, rising. "you won't mind if i say good-by? i--i feel tired. good-night, dears; come back as soon as you can." she kissed each one lovingly, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was impatient to be left alone. the children went down the street in wondering silence, which amy was the first to break. "miss isabel's sick," she said. "she didn't care one bit about our visit to the dismals," said trix. "and she always cared for everything we cared for," complained jack. "she's not one bit like our miss isabel; i guess she thinks mr. dean's bad." "no," said margery decidedly; "miss isabel's good to bad people. never mind; she loves us just as much. i think miss isabel's not happy to-day. i wonder why nice people are not always happy? now, i'm sure mr. dean's nice, but he seems sad, and to-night our dear miss isabel's troubled. we'll ask mr. dean to join the post-office--that was a good idea, jack--and then he won't be so lonely, and we'll love all miss isabel's troubles away. oh, dear," sighed margery wistfully, "i'd like to make the whole world happy." chapter vii. a new member. mr. dean returned the children's visit without loss of time. he found them assembled in mr. gresham's orchard, and was given the seat of honor on an old stump, while he was shown the beauties of the post-office. his admiration for this institution satisfied even the children's enthusiasm, and when it had been exhibited from every possible point of view, margery turned to amy and said: "tell him." "no, you tell him," said amy. "jack ought to tell him," said trix, "because he thought of it." "yes, tell, jack," echoed margery and amy. "now what is this mystery?" asked mr. dean. "it's nothing much," jack replied, blushing furiously. "you see i thought--we thought that you might like--oh, i mean maybe you'd be another honorary member." "of the post-office, the h. t. c.?" asked mr. dean. jack nodded. "if you don't think we're too little for you," he added. "i should be delighted," replied mr. dean, rising to bow. "it is rather if you don't think i am too big for you. but i'll tell you a secret. i grew up outside, but inside i stayed a boy--do you see?" "yes, i see," cried amy. "what a lovely way to grow up! i mean to be a woman that way, too." "that's like miss isabel," remarked trix, but jack, with an eye solely on the business in hand, said: "we'd like lots to have you join if you will." "i feel honored, and i accept with much gratitude," said mr. dean, and even trix's sharp eyes, which were always on the watch lest she were laughed at, could see nothing but pleasure in his face. "now you'll have to choose a name," cried amy, jumping around in high glee. mr. dean considered a moment. "i think, on the whole, oliver twist would be an appropriate name for me this summer," he said, with humorous melancholy. "oliver twist? what is that? sir oliver twist, or plain mr. oliver twist?" asked trix. "are none of you plain mr. or miss; are you all a knight or lady?" mr. dean inquired. "no; amy is mrs. peace plenty, but the rest of us are lady, and jack is sir harry hotspur," answered margery gravely. "and your miss isabel?" suggested mr. dean. "oh, she is lady alma cara; it would never do for her to be plain _mrs._," said trix. "i suppose not," assented mr. dean, with a queer little quirk of the lip. "i like 'plain mrs.' rather well myself sometimes, however. but i shall have to be just mr. oliver twist; it would never do to turn poor hungry oliver into a knight. amy and i will be the every-day people, while you others do the nobility for us. and i should like to know when you are all coming to take tea with me? will the day after to-morrow suit you?" "yes, thank you," replied the children. "then that's settled. and, jack, do you know a boy who would go fishing with me to-morrow after school?" "i think i do," said jack, looking up with a beaming face. "then will that boy come along with me now, and get his mother's permission to go?" inquired mr. dean, rising. "and, by the way, at what time do we come for our mail?" "we came at first before school," said trix, "but it made us so late that now we come after school, when miss isabel used to come." "does miss isabel usually come at this hour?" asked mr. dean, brushing his hat carefully. "she's not coming at all now," said amy. "it's getting so warm, she says, that she would like us to bring her mail to her." something like a shadow crept over mr. dean's face; margery thought that he looked hurt. "we are to take her mail to her in turn; we agreed to that," she said, coming close to him. "we'll all take turns going." he smiled at her sadly. "all of you whom she wishes to see," he said. "good-by till the day after to-morrow, then, and thank you for this honor more than i can say. come along, jack." trix watched them enviously as they disappeared. "that's why i hate to be a girl," she said. "no one thinks you ever want to go fishing, and i love it just as much as jack does." "isn't he splendid!" cried the other two, disregarding her woes, and she cheered up in agreeing with them. the tea was a delightful occasion, and the new member proved an acquisition beyond words, for now there frequently appeared in the boxes a card signifying that there was a parcel too big to go into the box, which might be had on inquiry of the postmaster. the new member devised this plan, and he was generally the sender of the parcels. these varied in contents from delicious candy, plants, books, toys, and all sorts of treasures, to six downy ducklings sent to margery because she had expressed a desire to have some. this funny parcel was considered by the others as a good joke, but margery took it seriously, and her gratitude was unbounded. "dear mr. twist," she wrote in acknowledgment. "i cannot tell you how much pleased i am. if there is anything i can do to show you how much i like my lovely little ducks, and how i thank you, tell me what it is, and i will do it." the reply came the next morning, and margery found herself taken rather painfully at her word. "most noble lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake," it ran. "there is a favor which i could receive at the hands of your ladyship which would give me the keenest pleasure, and your generous offer makes me bold to ask it. i have heard that you write poems. will you be so very kind as to send me some of your work through the post-office? i should be most grateful for the favor, and treasure the poems as a precious memento of your ladyship's goodness." this letter threw margery into an agony of excitement. "who told him?" she demanded sternly, looking with dilated eyes over the edge of the missive. "i may have just mentioned that you wrote poetry that day that we went fishing," said jack sheepishly. "what's the harm, peggy?" "yes, what's the harm?" echoed amy, who was much impressed by the request. "you do write poetry, and it's lovely." "oh, don't be a goose, margery; there's no harm in mr. dean knowing about it," said trix. "anyway, he does know, and you've got to send him some, so what shall it be?" "i have to do it, but i don't like to," sighed margery, tasting the trials of geniuses with indiscreet friends. "what shall i send him?" "'the knight,'" said jack promptly. "'rome,'" said trix. "'rome' is unfinished," objected margery. "'millie maloe,'" said amy. "i'll send 'the knight' and 'millie maloe,'" margery decided, and the next morning's mail contained a thick letter for mr. oliver twist. "dear mr. twist," this letter ran, "the lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake sends two poems to you, as you asked her to. she hopes you will excuse mistakes in 'millie maloe,' because she was only eight years old when she wrote it, and 'the knight' one she wrote last spring; and i am sorry jack told you, because i don't like to be silly, but she is glad to do anything to please you because you are so good to us." millie maloe. all alone she is wandering, all alone in the snow; lost in the pathless forest, poor little millie maloe. the tall tress shake able her, and the winds whistle and sigh, and poor little millie is shiv'ring, and she thinks she's going to die; and she falls asleep on the dry leaves covered o'er with snow, but is waked by darling rover-- ah, happy millie maloe! the dog is bending o'er her, and a sleigh is drawing near, and soon she's with her father, who clasps his baby dear. the knight. in a nameless grave does the good knight rest. he has fought for the cross, and so he is blest. far away, in a castle grim, his wife watcheth and prayeth for him. her baby son around her plays and tosses the beads while she prays. a message comes from the holy war breathing of love for the son he ne'er saw. days after another one comes-- he's dead! "god pity the sorrowing ones." the lady griselda received a polite note of thanks for the favor thus shown mr. oliver twist, and the matter was forgotten. school closed, and the fresh warmth of june gave place to the fierce heat of july. gentle miss isabel was ailing, and the children divided their time between her and their new friend. even jack, who was less observant than the girls, discovered that though no subject was as welcome to mr. dean as whatever they might have to say of miss isabel, she did not care to hear them talk of mr. dean, and it puzzled them sorely to account for such hardness of heart in her who never before failed to throw herself wholly into their interests. it was an unusually burning day, the sun beating down with terrible heat, and not a breath stirring the drooping leaves, when trix, who was postmistress that week, handed a magazine to margery with her other mail. it was from mr. oliver twist, and she tore off the wrapper hastily, for everything from him was sure to be interesting. it was a child's magazine, and as she turned its pages she stopped suddenly, and grew so pale that amy dropped her doll, to the great danger of its precious nose, and flew with trix to her side. "what is it?" they cried. "look!" gasped margery. they followed her finger pointing, and there in the glory of type was "millie maloe" and "the knight," signed with her own name--margaret gresham. the girls nearly fell over in their wonder and awe, and margery looked so white and excited that they really feared she would faint. "jack, come here!" cried trix and amy, waving their hands wildly to jack, who appeared that moment in the gate. "hurry! oh, hurry!" jack ran over to them. "what's up?" he asked. "mr. dean's sent margery's poetry to the magazine. look at it!" cried trix, snatching the magazine from the hands of the dazed authoress. "oh, jolly me!" cried jack, much impressed. "why, you're a writer now, like--like--oh, those people what write poetry for the papers." "i'm going to find mamma," said margery, rising in solemn ecstasy; "and then i'm going to thank him." having rejoiced her family with a glimpse of her greatness, margery went forth, attended by her admiring cousin and friends. first they went to the evergreens--they had determined never to call the place "the dismals" again, since it had become so pleasant to them, and, they wakened mr. dean from the nap into which he had fallen over his book, overcome by the great heat. "you are very good to me; i came to thank you," said margery simply, kissing him as she spoke. "did you like it, little white dove?" he asked, taking the poetess on his knee. "you are such a grave dove, and so still when you feel glad or sorry that it is hard telling when you are pleased." "i like it _very_ much," said margery earnestly--"i like it more than i can say, and when i grow up i mean to write all the time." and there was told the secret that margery had never uttered, for she did not tell her dreams as the others did. "we are going now to show the magazine to miss isabel," said margery, slipping down. "to miss isabel?" repeated mr. dean. "let me tell you something. i am going away." "oh!" cried four pained voices. "yes," continued mr. dean, "i mean to go next week. you are sorry, my dear little club, and i am sorry to leave you. you tried to make me live in blissylvania, but it has been no use. i am going away." "oh! not forever," cried trix, while amy's lips quivered, and jack stooped to lace his boot. mr. dean did not answer. "you'll all write me, and we shall be friends wherever i am," he said instead. but margery, unstrung by her previous joy and this keen sorrow, threw her magazine from her in a passion of tears. "you shan't go, you can't go!" she screamed. "what's the use of being famous, or writing poetry, or doing anything, if you can't have the people you love?" mr. dean gathered her up, hushing her like a baby. "i don't know, my little margery," he said. "i have been trying to answer that question, but i can't." they were four tear-stained and swollen faces that appeared before miss isabel a little later. the joy of seeing margery's verses in print was forgotten in their sorrow over their threatened loss. miss isabel rejoiced at margery's glory, but her words awoke no enthusiasm in return. "you'll be glad," said amy, almost bitterly, "so i suppose i'd better tell you why we don't care any more about the verses. mr. dean's going away." miss isabel flushed and grew pale. "why should i be glad if you feel badly?" she asked gently. "i am sorry for you, for i think that you were having good times with him." "it's not that, miss isabel," said margery, with indignant vigor. "we love him." and miss isabel kissed her. "it's very strange," remarked trix on the way home, "how if you have one thing you can't have another. we got the post-office and mr. dean, but miss isabel's been so queer all summer, it's been almost like not having her. and now margery's poems are published mr. dean is going away. i think everything is crooked, and i don't know whether we're having a good time this summer or not, in spite of the post-office and all our fun." margery walked on in a brown study, so lost to her surroundings that she ran into butcher davis's big newfoundland dog, which always sat in the middle of the sidewalk, and would not have moved if the president and the queen had come along arm in arm, and she begged his pardon, to the amusement of the other three. "i thought he was some one else," she said, arousing herself, while jack shouted with laughter. "what's the matter, megsy; writing another poem?" he asked. "i won't tell you," she said. "i've had an idea." "tell us; how queer you look!" cried trix, giving her a little shake of impatience. "i won't tell any one on earth; so there!" said margery, with entire decision. "i want you all to make a novena for me, and begin right off to-night. i want you to pray for my plan, but i won't tell you what it is." "have you a plan, margery?" asked amy, who regarded margery as a superior being, whose thoughts were beyond the ken of ordinary mortals. "yes, i've a plan," replied margery. chapter viii. margery's plan. the next morning margery ate her breakfast of rolls and a bowl of blueberries and milk without in the least realizing what she put into her mouth. her family was used to her abstractions, which usually ended in the announcement of some wonderful discovery or new verses, and paid no attention to her far-away look on this particular morning. she did her practising as faithfully as ever, but with such evident forgetfulness of what she was about that her mother came all the way down-stairs to ask her to defer it to another time, when her thoughts should be untangled. accordingly she arose and went up-stairs, brushed her hair, and braided it with great care, donned her clean blue chambray with her favorite white ruffles, and went forth in solemn excitement towards the evergreens, to unfold her plan to mr. dean. she found him in the library putting his books and magazines in a case, in view of his coming departure. margery's face clouded at the sight, but brightened again when she remembered that she had come to stay him. "why, what brings you so early, little dove?" asked mr. dean, brushing the dust from his knees as he rose to welcome her. "and all alone? how is it that you have flown away with none of your flock?" "i did not want the rest," replied margery. "i came to see you about something important." "and i am very glad to have you all to myself," said her friend. "come here, and sit by me on the sofa. you will not slip off of this one as you do from that slippery hair-cloth thing in the parlor. now, what is the great matter that you have to tell me? anything wrong with the post-office?" margery arranged herself beside him on the sofa, crossed her ankles, smoothed her dress, clasped her hands in her lap, and immediately unclasped them to remove her hat, folded them again, and was ready to begin. "you see," said margery, "i was thinking about your going away, and about miss isabel." mr. dean looked rather startled. "that is a queer subject for your thoughts, margery," he said. "i think that you are sorry that you are not friends with miss isabel," margery continued. "i am very sorry that i am not friends with miss isabel," mr. dean repeated gravely. "now i think miss isabel doesn't know," said margery. "doesn't know what, little dove?" mr. dean asked. "i don't know, but she doesn't know something," margery replied. "miss isabel's this way: if anybody does anything she doesn't like, she always forgives them right away, before they ask her to, and if anybody's bad she says maybe they aren't what they seem. now you're nice, and yet you're the only one she acts so queer about. i've puzzled and puzzled over it, and i can't see why it is, but i know she doesn't understand. i think you're friends all the time, only it's all horrid." "well," said mr. dean, smiling a little, "i think it's rather horrid myself." "yes," assented margery. "now why don't you send her a letter through our postoffice, and tell her how badly it makes us all feel?" mr. dean sat up straight, and looked at her. "i never once thought of the little post-office!" he cried. "you're both members," margery went on, "and you're the only ones who haven't written to each other. now don't you think miss isabel would be pleased if you wrote her through our little post-office? maybe she feels slighted." "margery, it's an inspiration," cried mr. dean. "and i could address it to miss alma cara." "oh, yes, you'd have to, because that's her post-office name, only it's not _miss_, it's _lady_ alma cara. and you know it would be all part of our play, and yet it wouldn't, because it's dreadful not to be friends with people; but she wouldn't mind so much if you wrote her that way." mr. dean was walking up and down the room by this time, and he came over and stood before margery. "did you ever hear that solomon was a little girl before he grew up?" he asked. "i never heard about solomon when he was little, but i guess he was a little boy," replied margery. "well, i am sure that he was a little girl with a pale face and blue dress, and that some good fairy made him into a king when he was big enough, and the same good fairy brought him here to me to-day, once more in the form of a little girl," said mr. dean. margery laughed. "do you think it is a good plan?" she asked delightedly. "good plan, margery?" cried mr. dean. "solomon himself could have thought of no wiser. i'll try it, and you will carry miss isabel the letter." he took her face in his hands and kissed her hair. "you dear little soul," he said, "i think that you will grow up a second miss isabel." and margery felt that in all her life she could never again have such praise as this. "will you write it soon?" she asked, putting on her hat, and pulling its elastic from the ribbon on the end of her braid. "you'll find the letter in to-morrow morning's mail," replied mr. dean. "i shall be in more of a hurry about it than you are." "and if you and miss isabel were friends you wouldn't go away, would you?" asked margery wistfully, turning back in the doorway. "in that case i promise to stay--oh, no one knows how long," said mr. dean; and margery ran down the walk with hope and joy speeding her steps. she found tommy traddles watching for her return, for he was devoted to his little mistress, and sat at the door on the lookout, and crying for her when she was out, which was proof that she made life pleasant for him when she was at home, for if any animal appreciates being treated with attention it is the cat. he arose, welcoming her with loud mews, alternating with the softest murmurs, and jumping up on a table, where he could rub his head against her cheek, and give her hands sundry pats with his white paws. then he ran away and hid behind the door, solely for the pleasure of jumping out at her, and then waited for her to hide, which she did behind the sofa, and when she cried "coop!" tommy traddles came creeping softly to look for her, and when he found her, sprang up on the sofa, and gave her a pat, instantly running away to hide himself, as if he said, "now you're _it_; come find me." when hide-and-seek grew tiresome, tommy traddles went to get the stick which was his favorite plaything, and brought it to margery in his teeth, laying it at her feet, and rubbing his head against her, and making the most coaxing murmurs to induce her to whisk it about for him to run after. margery never could resist his pleadings, and cat and child had a delightful frolic until both curled up on the big sofa, and fell into a long summer noonday sleep. the afternoon seemed interminable to margery, so full of impatience was she for the hour when her plan should be carried out. jack, trix, and amy came over for three-cornered puss-in-the-corner and old-man-among-your-castle after tea, which helped her through the few hours that lay between then and bed-time. when her friends had gone margery slipped down into the orchard, through the wet grass, regardless of low shoes and damp ankles. she opened the drop-box--it was her turn to be postmistress--and thrust her hand down to the bottom. one letter was there, a big, thick one. she took it out; yes, she was right. even by the starlight she recognized mr. dean's fine, clear hand. while they were playing he had come in the orchard gate and posted it. she ran with it to the house, but she knew before she held it under the gaslight that she should find it addressed to lady alma cara, blissylvania, new york. "now if only miss isabel will forgive him, and he can stay here, and we can all be friends," thought the little conspirator. she took the letter to her own room and put it under her pillow. the moon peeped in a little later and saw a small figure in its white night dress kneeling by the bed, and praying very hard for the success of the plan that might give happiness to the two friends whom margery loved best. it was long before she went to sleep, and when she did it was to dream that tommy traddles had joined the club, and that instead of wearing the dove badge, he had two white wings growing from his striped back, and was flying over the orchard to take mr. dean a message from the president, saying that he had been appointed postmaster of blissylvania, at miss isabel's request. and all night long she wakened at intervals to slip her hand under the pillow to make sure that the plump letter was still safe. chapter ix. one honorary member to the other honorary member. tommy traddles was aroused from his morning nap by the shock of seeing his little mistress appear at half-past five all dressed and ready for the day. he welcomed her with his usual salutation of soft murmurs, rubbing his head against her, which she interpreted to mean on this occasion, "why are you dressed so early?" "i couldn't sleep, tommy," margery answered; "i have so much on my mind." by six the entire household was awake, for margery began to practise energetically, that there should be no hindrance to her starting to take the letter to miss isabel as soon as breakfast was over. mary, miss isabel's old servant, told margery that miss isabel was in the garden, and the little girl ran quickly through the big hall and down the box-bordered paths to find her. miss isabel was watering and tending her lilies. she looked pale and ill as she bent over the tall stalks, in her white morning gown, dusting the glossy leaves, and showering them from her little watering-pot. margery thought that she had never seen her beloved miss isabel look so weary and sad, and fear for her health for a moment drove all thought of the letter from her mind. "dear miss isabel, are you ill?" she cried, running to throw her arms around her. miss isabel brightened as she turned to meet her. "why, my margaret!" she cried; "you startled me! what a very early bird you are! no, i am not ill, only a trifle tired, and perhaps a little sad." this recalled margery to her errand. "i brought you a letter, lady alma cara," she said. miss isabel set down the watering-pot, and put out her hand. "was it a special delivery that you came so early?" she asked. "i think it was," said margery, "though it was not marked." suddenly miss isabel dropped her shears and sponge, and sat down on the old gray stone bench, beside which the lilies grew white and stately; they were not as white as miss isabel's face as she looked at margery. "what is this, margery?" she asked. "mr. dean wrote it," began margery, very much frightened. "he is going away, and we can't bear it, and he wants you to be friends, and so do we, for then he would stay, and he has told you all about it, so that you'll be nice to him, as you are to everybody else, even--even _worms_," said margery, inspired to this comparison by looking down at the lilies' roots. "please, _please_ don't be angry with him any more, miss isabel. you're the nicest of anybody in the whole world, except mamma, and he's the next nicest." miss isabel was sobbing. "go back, dear margery," she whispered. "you must go away now." margery was dreadfully frightened. she knelt at miss isabel's feet, and pulled her hands from before her face, peering under a lily to look at her. "are you angry?" she implored. "only tell me that; are you angry?" "yes," said miss isabel, suddenly laughing in a queer sobbing way; "why didn't you bring this letter before?" and margery went away, pondering over this incomprehensible answer. as she walked slowly down the street she saw trix and amy coming to meet her. trix's face was tragic; her cheeks were crimson, her lips set, her brow dark, and her eyes full of dumb misery. amy's comfortable, rosy little countenance was stamped with sympathetic sorrow. margery saw that something dreadful must have happened. "what's the matter?" she called out, as soon as they could hear, running to receive the answer. "i have been sent with a note to your house, and i'm to stay with you all day till three, and if i go out i'm not to go near home," replied trix in an awful tone. "going to spend the day? i'm glad. what's the matter, trix, that you look so solemn," asked margery. "don't you know what that means?" demanded trix, in such a horror-stricken manner that margery trembled and shook her head. "i'll tell you, then," said trix. "you know mamma fell down-stairs three weeks ago and sprained her ankle?" "yes, i know that," said margery. "well, the doctors are coming to-day to cut her leg off," declared trix, and margery gasped, as did amy, though she had been told this before. "how do you know?" demanded margery, recovering from the shock. "i'm sure of it," trix replied. "i've heard how they do those things. they send the children out of the way always, and mamma thought i would never guess, and it would be easier for me to come home and find her leg gone than to be there and smell the ether and hear her groan, and i _know_ that's it, and i shall die, i shall die!" margery and amy looked at each other, feeling helpless in the face of such a calamity as this. "did you say anything to my mother?" margery asked at last. "no, i gave her mamma's note, and that will tell her," said trix. "i didn't want her to know i knew, because they were trying to keep it a secret from me." "it's awful!" shuddered margery. "you'd better come home with me, trix, and we'll try to do something to forget it." "forget it!" cried trix, turning on her indignantly, as they began to walk onward. "do you think you could forget it if you knew those horrid doctors were cutting off your mother's leg, and she had to go on crutches forever? perhaps they're coming with their knives this minute." margery looked faint, amy began to sob, and trix quivered from head to foot. "we shall all go crazy if we think of it," said margery, bracing herself. "it may not be that at all." "i tell you i know it is," asserted trix, so confidently that margery yielded the point. "well, come home, and don't let us talk of it," she said. "i know some people walk very nicely with crutches, and it doesn't hurt to have a leg taken off, because they use ether." but there was no consoling trix, and the task of entertaining her proved a heavy one. jack came, and heard the story with so much excitement that the others were wrought to a higher pitch than ever. "i'm going to be a doctor myself when i grow up," he announced. jack would have had more lives than a cat to follow half the callings that at different times he thought that he should like to follow. "i'd like to cut off legs. now, don't you fret, trix; your mother'll be all right in a few days, and crutches would only be fun. think how fast i can go on stilts, and that must be about a million times harder, for you don't have even one foot on the ground. i've thought of a good play. we'll pretend this house is a castle besieged by the enemy, and i'll be a scout. i'll go around by trix's house every half hour, and come back to let you know how it looks." this idea was hailed with rapture, and was about to be carried out, but just as jack had reached the front gate mrs. gresham's voice was heard from the window. "jack! jack!" she called. "yes, aunt margaret," replied jack, pausing. "if you are going out, don't go near mrs. lane's house," said his aunt. so that plan was never fulfilled. luncheon made one of the hours pass a little better, but after luncheon trix's restlessness became uncontrollable. she wandered in and out of the house; she accepted amy's proposition to make a visit to the church and pray for her mother, but, as amy remarked, "did not seem to feel any better after it." she quarrelled with jack, and almost fell out with margery, for she teased tommy traddles till that confiding cat fled in terror, and altogether led her friends such a life that no prisoners could long for freedom more eagerly than they longed for three o'clock to come. it never occurred to one of the four to lay their trouble before mrs. gresham, and she being busy did not discover its symptoms. children are such queer little beings that they will sometimes suffer all sorts of misery without a word, and in this case the feeling that there was a secret to be kept from them made them unwilling to betray their knowledge of it. at last it was ten minutes to three, and trix could go. amy, margery, and jack accompanied her. "i don't smell ether," remarked amy as they went in the door. katie, smiling with all her might, showed them into the parlor. mrs. lane, looking very bright and happy, stood by the window; she turned at once, and came swiftly forward to meet the children. "look, trix!" she said, and pointed to a piano standing in all the glory of new polish over at the end of the room. "for me!" gasped trix. "yes, for you. you see now why i sent you off," said her mother. "i didn't want you to see it until it was all in place." trix had longed for a new piano, but she did not know whether to be glad or sorry; the revulsion of feeling was too strong. "and you didn't have your leg cut off, after all?" asked jack. "i don't understand," said mrs. lane in bewilderment. "trix thought you were having your leg cut off, and that was why you sent her away," explained margery. "we've had an awful day." "you poor, poor child!" cried her mother, taking trix in her lap, in spite of her great length. "why didn't you tell mrs. gresham?" and for the first time in that hard day trix burst out crying, though she explained that it was because she was so glad. "to think that we've had such a dreadful day for nothing," said jack, in profound disgust, as they left the house. "why, jack hildreth, i'm ashamed of you; one might think you were sorry that mrs. lane wasn't a cripple," cried his cousin. the children parted at their respective homes, and margery went around by the orchard to look at the post-office, for throughout the troublous day she had not forgotten her anxiety as to miss isabel and the letter. she met miss isabel coming out of the gate as she went in. she was all in white, with a bunch of sweet peas at her belt; her face was glowing with color, her eyes shining. margery did not stop to consider how strange it was to find her there now when she had ceased coming to the post-office; she only stood still in wondering amazement at the change in miss isabel since morning. miss isabel put her arms around her, and nearly kissed her breath away. "you little dove of good tidings, my dear little margery, how can i love you enough?" she cried. "have you answered?" asked margery eagerly. "i posted a note just now, and it was addressed to mr. oliver twist," said miss isabel, and fairly ran away. margery went at once to take it out of the box. it was alarmingly thin, and her heart sank. still, you could not always judge letters by the outside, and she ran with it all the way to the evergreens. she found mr. dean marching up and down the walk, "just as if he were expecting some one," thought margery. "a letter, margery?" he cried, as soon as he saw her. "yes, but it's very thin, and yours was so thick," said margery, not wishing him to be disappointed. he snatched it from her and tore it open while she stood by trembling with eagerness to know whether he was to stay or go, and whether miss isabel had been so cruel as not to forgive him, and to make the children lose their kind new friend. it was a tiny note, but it took mr. dean ten minutes to read it, with bowed head, and only his shoulders visible to anxious margery. then he straightened himself, and turned towards her such a happy face that her heart leaped with joy. "i shall not go away, my little dove," he said simply. "then miss isabel isn't angry any more?" asked margery. "no, and it is your blessed little plan that saved us," said mr. dean. "you dear little dove of peace and good tidings, you brought the olive branch." "and now i can keep you and miss isabel?" asked margery. "you can keep me; i'm not so sure about miss isabel," said mr. dean. "i'm not afraid of losing her," laughed margery happily. "oh, i'm so glad, i'm so glad you can stay!" "what shall we do to show how glad we are?" asked mr. dean. margery considered the question seriously. "let's kneel right down and thank god," pious little margery suggested at last, and as there was no one there to see, the big man and the little maiden knelt down on the grass under the pines with their gothic arches, and said a most sincere prayer of thanksgiving. "but are you sure it is all right; it was such a little note, and yours was so thick?" said margery as they arose. "all right; it was little, but it was enough," said mr. dean, taking out the note and refolding it carefully to restore it to his pocket. and margery went home pondering the mysterious ways of grown people. she was quite sure that she should never have been satisfied with such a tiny note in reply to a long letter. margery went to bed early that night, needing rest after a long and wearing day. she lay in her little white bed looking out at the soft summer twilight in which her two friends, whom she had been the means of reuniting, were that moment walking and talking after a separation of ten years. the stars shone down on her peacefully, and the one bright one that she called "her star" looked right into her eyes. "it's glad, too, that everything is happy, and mr. dean is going to stay. it's smiling good-night." and smiling back to it, margery passed into happy dreams. chapter x. a picnic. trix and amy were twins--that is, as they explained to everybody, one was eleven and the other ten, and they weren't the least bit of relation to one another, but both their birthdays was the same day, the eighth of august. on the afternoon of the seventh four small notes appeared in the post-office addressed to lady catharine seyton, mrs. peace plenty, lady griselda of the castle of the lonely lake, and sir harry hotspur, stating that the favor of their company was requested for a day in the woods on the following day by lady alma cara and mr. oliver twist, in celebration of the birthday of lady catharine seyton and mrs. peace plenty. the recipients of this invitation showed their joy with less dignity of manner than one might have expected from their lofty titles. sir harry hotspur immediately climbed a tree, and sat whooping on a limb for a few moments before descending in a somersault from a lower one. lady catharine seyton, regardless of her eleven years, danced a sort of impromptu skirt dance, in which lady griselda joined, and mrs. peace plenty hopped on and off the apple-tree stump, which served as a seat, fully twenty times without stopping, which was undignified in a well-known philanthropist. the eighth dawned fair and lovely, though rather warm. the four children met at miss isabel's gate, where she and mr. dean were awaiting them. amy brought her doll rose viola along, for, as she justly remarked, she did not see why growing up need make one forget old friends, and for her part she meant to play with rose viola till she was twenty. a three-seated wagon stood waiting them as they came up to the meeting-place, and hampers of the most exciting appearance stuck out all round under the seats. "trix and amy are the guests of honor to-day, because it is their birthday," announced mr. dean. "up with you first, lassies, and many happy returns of the day." the drive to the woods was a delight in itself, so fragrant was the air, and so beautiful the roadside with the bright flowers of august, and the blackberries showing red through the vines, with some black as jet, and here and there the leaves beginning to bronze. the last of the drive was through the woods, and the shrill voices hushed as the great trees darkened the road, and the wheels rolled almost noiselessly over the fragrant carpet of brown pine needles. they left the horse and his driver at the last point where driving was possible, and lading themselves with the contents of the wagon went on afoot. "there is a spring not far from here," said mr. dean. "i came prospecting the other day, and i thought that would be the best place for us to pitch our tents, for i expect to be both hungry and thirsty." the spot that mr. dean had selected for their use was the prettiest in all the woods. though the fierce heat of the sun, penetrating even the thick hemlocks, had dried much of the delicate leafage, the spring had here kept the moss bright and green, and the brakes and ferns grew tall and lovely in all the hollows. the children drew long breaths of satisfaction as they paused here, and stooped to lay their burning cheeks on the cool pillows of moss. miss isabel sank down with a happy sigh, caressing a fern at her side with her delicate fingers, as if it were a little baby's hair. but her guests were not disposed to be quiet long. "now what shall we do?" said jack, starting up after fully three minutes and a half of silent enjoyment of the peace and refreshment of the spot. "what would you like to do first?" asked mr. dean, with a twinkle in his eye. "eat," said jack promptly. "i knew it," cried mr. dean, laughing, "and to be quite honest, i am hungry myself." "open the small hamper," said miss isabel. "i provided a little lunch and a big lunch, and we may have the little one first." the "little lunch" proved to be hard-boiled eggs, thin bread and butter, and bottles of milk, with ginger cookies for dessert. the last crumb vanished speedily, for although the girls had laughed at jack for being hungry the very first thing, they were quite ready to take their share of the luncheon. "and now i've thought of a splendid play," announced trix, removing the crumbs from her lips in the most simple, if not the most elegant manner, by the tip of her slender red tongue. "miss isabel and mr. dean must be a queen and king, and we will be their subjects, and they must send us to explore the countries around their kingdom, and do all kinds of brave deeds, and we must come back to report them, and then they must send us again. some of us can discover countries, and some report on the plants, and fruits, and things in the neighboring kingdoms, and some must kill dragons and all those things." "isn't that a great play, trix!" cried jack in ecstasy. "i'll kill dragons." "i'd like to discover," said margery. "i'll report the flowers and things," said amy. "and i want to be a knight sent out to have adventures," declared trix. "will you play that, miss isabel? will you, mr. dean?" "by all means," replied mr. dean. "i'd like it very much," said miss isabel. "then you sit here," said trix, in great delight. "wait till i make your throne with these shawls. and now we'll kneel before you, and you must send us on these expeditions. and remember, we're all knights, because girls can't do such things." four faces were raised to the sovereigns seated on the empty lunch-basket and a rock, while four knightly figures, three in bright ginghams and one in knickerbockers, knelt to receive their commands. "sir harry hotspur," began the king, "there is a monstrous dragon devastating our kingdom on the west. take thy trusty sword and slay this monster, bringing me its head, and fail not, as ye be a good knight and true." "yes, your majesty," replied sir harry, rising and backing from the royal presence, and then starting westward at a pace that plainly showed how his horse was plunging beneath him, as he waved his pine sword in his right hand and blew an imaginary trumpet in his left. "and you, sir percival," the queen said, "go abroad to the kingdoms adjoining our domain, and bring me tidings of the kinds of fruits and plants that flourish in those foreign parts, and if possible bring me also specimens of these." "yes, your majesty," replied rosy-cheeked sir percival, trying to rise gracefully as the first knight had done, and getting entangled in her pink gingham skirts. "and, sir philip," the king said, "don light armor and select your trustiest steed, for it is my will that you go to discover new countries, if such there be, for the honor of our name and the increase of our kingdom." "sire, i will go right gladly," replied sir philip loyally. "and you, brave and bold sir guy," the queen said, "ride hither and yon seeking adventure for the glory of knighthood and the succor of the unfortunate." "your majesty, i obey," replied sir guy, making a profound bow, and doffing a helmet that looked uncommonly like a shade hat with yellow daisies. the band of knights began returning in what seemed like two or three minutes, but which was a period of from three to five years. sir harry bore the dragon's head, which he presented kneeling to the king. "it was a dreadful fight, your majesty," said the panting knight. "all around the dragon's cave lay men's bones." "think ye they were the bones of the victims which he had devoured?" the king asked. "i am sure of it, your majesty, for i barely escaped," said sir harry; "but at last i gave one terrible stroke, and his head rolled at my feet. here it is." jack had had a hard time digging up the root which represented the dragon's head. "you have our royal thanks," said the king, "and you shall learn that one monarch at least is not ungrateful." sir philip was the next to arrive. he--or she--knelt at the feet of the king. "well, sir philip," he asked, "were you successful?" "more than i expected to be, my liege," replied sir philip. "i found a large continent north of this kingdom, and an island to the east. they are inhabited by a singular race, but the chief with whom i talked is willing to embrace christianity, so i doubt not they will be loyal subjects of your throne." "well done, valiant sir philip," said the queen; "permit me to decorate you with the isabellan medal," and she pinned in the gathers of the blue gingham shirt-waist which covered the breast of this knight a large round leaf, bearing the word "honor" pricked in it with a pin. "and here comes sir guy," cried the king. sir guy came running, his hair was unbraided, and his cheeks flushed, and his dark eyes bright. "i found a lovely maiden chained to a rock, and four ruffians about to stab her. i made them all fly, and here is the maiden," and sir guy produced a little white kitten mewing feebly. "oh, trix, give her to me!" cried margery. "no; i'm going to keep her myself," said trix, dropping the rôle of sir guy. "i found her, and you've got tommy traddles, and i haven't any kitten. she's most starved: mayn't i give her milk, miss isabel?" "of course you may. you really did have an adventure," cried miss isabel. "perhaps it is a fairy birthday present, trix, and she is an enchanted princess. but at last here comes sir percival. good sir percival, we began to fear you had perished." "here are all the flowers and fruits i could find," said sir percival, presenting an enormous bunch of all sorts of blossoms. "but here is something else i found, and it looks like shells--see;" and sir percival, who was not as good as the rest in keeping up what margery had called "historical ways of talking," held out something to the queen. "a fossil!" cried her majesty. "sir percival, i congratulate you; you have really made a discovery. where did you find it?" "oh, need i be sir percival any more? it's so hard to talk that way. i can't tell you unless i can be myself," implored amy. "oh, pshaw! you can't pretend worth a cent," said jack in disgust; but miss isabel said, "why, of course; we don't want to do anything for fun when it is no longer fun. tell on, amy." "you know that little hill over there beyond the spring," began amy, much relieved. "they've been taking out some rock on the side, and i was looking there when i found this lump of something that looked like mud, and when i took it up i found it was hard, and it had all these shells in it. they look like scallop shells, but they can't be, because they are in the woods. what are they, miss isabel?" "the shells can tell us," said miss isabel, putting the lump of clay to her ear and pretending to listen. "i'll tell you what they say. it is this shell that is speaking; it says: many ages ago, before adam was made, there was a great lake where these woods now are, and this shell lived in the water, and was the house of a little mollusk, like shells nowadays. and once there came a great commotion in the waters and something like an earthquake in the land, and when it was over the lake was gone, and in its place was a valley, and the hill was thrown up, and beautiful great plants of such kinds as grow now only in the tropics began to flourish, for it was very warm. and the shell says it found itself thrown up into clay-like mud, and pretty soon the mollusk died, for it could not live out of the water. and then it grew very cold, and great glaciers went crashing and cracking, and sliding to the sea over this very spot where we now sit. and then the land in the northern latitudes sank, and made the climate warmer again, and the glaciers began to melt, and as they melted they dropped great quantities of stone and gravel and soil made of the stones their awful strength had ground up, and the hollow where the lake had been was filled up, and the little shell says it was imbedded in the soil made by the passing and breaking up of the glacier, and a great bowlder fell on top of it, dropped by the glacier, and which was taken out of the hill only the other day, and once more this little shell saw the sun. and it says it wonders to see such creatures as we are, for though more ages ago than we can imagine it saw great animals much larger than the elephant wandering here, it never before saw anything that could understand its wonderful history, for when it last saw light god had not made man." "oh, miss isabel, is it a fairy story?" "oh, miss isabel, is it true?" cried trix and amy together. margery almost sobbed in excitement; she stretched out her hand for the fossil. "i can't think so far back," she whispered. "before god made man!" but jack said, "i know; that's geology, and it's splendid. i mean to study it when i get big." "it is all true, dears," said miss isabel, "and no one can 'think so far back,' nor take in the wonders of the story. and it is geology, as jack says; but no fairy story, amy, is half so lovely and interesting as the story that nature tells." "do you know that nature is telling me a story about little jack horner, and i think i should like to put my hand in that hamper and pull out a plum--in other words, i'm hungry, isabel," said mr. dean. so they all attacked the "big luncheon," and when they had eaten all the chicken, and rolls, and cake, and fruit that they possibly could, and had given the white kitten the bones, they were disposed to rest, and all but amy lounged on the moss in every attitude of perfect ease. suddenly miss isabel asked, "where is amy?" and that moment a faint scream came as answer to her question. everybody ran towards the direction whence the sound came. there stood poor little mrs. peace plenty up to her knees in black mud, and if she tried to extricate one foot the other only sank the deeper. "i came to get some water," she sobbed, "and when i came around here behind the spring to see what it looked like i got stuck." "never mind, amy, we'll pull you out," said mr. dean cheerily. "jack, help me drag this dead tree over." they swung the fallen trunk around, and with that to stand on soon pulled amy out, and set the poor child on firm land again, though with both her low shoes gone, and her skirts in a sorry plight. "it's lucky that it is time to go home," remarked miss isabel, as she took off amy's stockings to rub her feet. "you must carry her to the wagon." mr. dean obediently shouldered the little girl, and they started in procession out of the woods. "i am glad the hampers are empty," remarked mr. dean. "mrs. peace plenty is a solid little body." the drive home in the long, warm rays of the afternoon sun warmed amy thoroughly and restored her shaken nerves. "i never had such a lovely birthday in all my life, and i thank you ever and ever so much," said trix, as they set her down at her own gate. "and you have had a whole long eleven, too," laughed mr. dean. "i have had such a good time i can't tell you," said amy, in her turn, as she was deposited at home. she was a funny figure standing there barefooted, the black mud of the woods dried on her skirts and hands, clutching her stiff stockings, her precious fossil, and rose viola to her breast. "many happy returns, many happy returns," mr. dean, miss isabel, jack, and margery called back to her as they drove away. "i'm afraid there won't be many returns of her shoes," remarked jack. "but in spite of that it's been a perfect picnic." chapter xi. a wedding. mr. dean was to marry miss isabel, after all! the tidings came to the children as a blow at first, and they, especially margery, felt that it was almost taking advantage of their confidence, since that was not at all the end they had in view in seeking to have mr. dean stay at the evergreens. but in time they grew reconciled to the arrangement, and even came to see that it was the best one possible, for now they could visit both miss isabel and mr. dean at once, instead of dividing their time between them. it helped them to see that this wedding was a desirable plan, that the day appointed for it was margery's eleventh birthday, october fourteenth, and that all the little girls were to be bridesmaids, and jack best man, in spite of his being but twelve years old, for miss isabel declared that this must be a club wedding, since without the h. t. c. it might never have come about. four pairs of little bare feet sprang to the floor early in the morning of october fourteenth, moved by the thought that margery was eleven years old and it was miss isabel's wedding-day, and they sped to the window to see what sort of weather it was. nor was one likely to sleep late when a dress of softest pink mull, with a big picture hat to match, lay like a kind of rosy dawn on a chair ready for the bridesmaid to put on. and jack had gone to bed with his first long trousers laid where his eyes could rest on them the moment they opened, and with his patent-leather shoes in shining glory on the hearth, and he arose in a flurry that was still dignified, feeling that much of the success of the wedding lay on his shoulders. the weather was all that it should be; a soft haze rested over all the earth, the leaves were blazing in the glory of their october colors, and there was that wonderful hush upon nature that comes when the harvest is over, the work done, and summer pauses lingeringly, as if dreading to say good-by. there was only happiness in each little heart that lovely morning; all doubt had been removed from the children's minds, and they had learned to see what a delightful thing it was that their miss isabel would no longer be lonely in the old house. "for," as amy sagely remarked, "when we were there we couldn't tell how lonely she was, because we _were_ there, and she wasn't lonely, but when we were gone she must have been sad, and now we shall know that when we aren't there mr. dean will talk to her till we come back." at half-past ten three pink skirts fluttered out of a carriage at miss isabel's door. the mass was to be at eleven. it would have been dreadful to have been late, and they had all insisted on their privilege of seeing miss isabel first in her bridal dress. very sweet and lovely she looked with the white veil crowning her bright hair, and such a peaceful look on her face that amy cried out as she kissed her, "you look so good, miss isabel, as well as pretty." miss isabel had three little boxes all ready containing her gifts to her bridesmaids, and when they opened them, behold there lay before their delighted eyes a dear little dove in pearls, so that the only regret that they felt in wearing their pretty pink dresses, that the blue badge with the dove was forbidden them, was more than taken away. miss isabel fastened the pins in the soft ruffles around each little yoke, and whispered to her bridesmaids that these were badges of her love, as well as reminders of the club and the happiness that had come from it. and she satisfied trix's solicitude for jack by assuring her that he had a pin precisely like theirs for a scarf-pin. then she kissed each face under its big mull hat, gathered up her gloves, and they all went down to get into the carriages to drive to the church, whence miss isabel should return miss isabel no longer. the little church was filled, for miss isabel had many friends, and everybody was deeply interested in this wedding because they knew it was the happy ending of an old story. and everybody knew, too, that it had come about through the children's club, and the old women in the side aisles nudged each other as the lohengrin wedding march pealed through the church, and whispered, "there they are; there are the children," as the three little maids in pink came slowly down the aisle, preceding miss isabel on the arm of her uncle, who had come all the way from chicago that on this great day she might have the arm of one of her kindred on which to lean. and mr. dean met her at the sanctuary gate, looking very proud and happy, with jack beside him suffering torture from his stiff collar, but enjoying himself immensely none the less. then miss isabel and mr. dean entered the sanctuary, and mass began. it did not seem long to the excited children before the organ once more pealed forth, this time in the jubilant strains of mendelssohn's wedding march, and they were proceeding down the aisle in twos, trix and amy, margery and jack, and behind them mr. and mrs. dean, while audible exclamations of "god bless her!" came from the humbler friends to whom miss isabel had given help and happiness, and tearful smiles and loving looks followed her from those to whom she had given happiness also, though they had not needed alms. the old house looked beautiful on their return. all the rooms were filled with palms and white and golden chrysanthemums, and the sun lit up the place into splendor. "i believe they built these old houses just for weddings and balls; i never knew it could look so fine," said jack to margery, pausing on the threshold, and feeling without understanding why that the dignified old rooms were made for grandeur. at the wedding breakfast margery, as first bridesmaid, sat at mrs. dean's right hand, and jack at mr. dean's left, trix next to him, and amy next margery. they found that for once in their life they had enough ice-cream and dainties, and jack leaned over and whispered to trix, "i've taken my watch out, and i can't get it back," which remark caused trix to choke in the most embarrassing manner over her last spoonful of ice. jack had hardly succeeded in the difficult task of restoring his watch to the tight vest, and was sitting back at peace with all mankind, when he heard mr. dean saying something so dreadful that he could not credit his own ears. he looked up; mr. dean's eyes had a twinkle in them that jack had learned meant mischief, and he certainly was saying: "mr. john hildreth, my best man, will make a few remarks on this happy occasion." jack sank back farther, looking painfully red and frightened, but trix poked him energetically. "get up, jack; he wants you to make a speech," she whispered. "you've got to do it. pooh! what do you care; you know most of the people here." jack arose; his very ears were crimson, and his voice trembled. "ladies and gentlemen," poor jack began. "hear! hear!" cried one of the guests, in what was meant for encouragement, but had the opposite effect. "ladies and gentlemen," jack said again, "i didn't know best men had to make speeches. i never made a speech." here the poor child stuck fast, and mrs. dean whispered to her husband to be merciful and tease him no more, while trix in a stage whisper said, "go on, say something about the weather, the breakfast, and miss isabel, or mr. dean, or anything." "i think we have very nice weather for a wedding," jack went on, acting on this hint; "and once i heard a saying, 'happy the bride that the sun shines on.' and we've had a fine breakfast, and enjoyed ourselves very much, and i couldn't eat another bit. and we all love miss isabel so much, that at first we didn't want mr. dean to marry her, but after we got acquainted with him we didn't mind, because he's most as nice as she is. so we were willing--i mean margery, and trix, and amy, and me--and i--to have her marry him, and we're all perfectly satisfied, and we think they've had a nice wedding, and we hope they'll have a great many more." a great deal of laughter and cheering greeted this happy ending, under cover of which trix whispered: "o jack! you goose; why did you go and spoil it? the rest was splendid. they can't have a great many more weddings; people don't keep getting married." "some people do," retorted jack. "isn't there a tombstone in the cemetery that says, 'here lies amos barnes, and amelia, and frances, and rosa, and harriet, wife of the above'?" however, jack got upon his feet again, quite emboldened by his success. "i didn't mean we hoped they'd have a great many more; i meant we wish them many happy returns of the same." and not even trix could see why the guests laughed again, but they applauded heartily, and mr. and mrs. dean told jack that his speech was very nice, and they thanked him very much. so jack felt rather puffed up, and tried hard not to look as if the eyes of the world were on him; and under cover of the applause for jack, mr. and mrs. dean arose and slipped away up-stairs, and presently they reappeared, mr. dean carrying an umbrella and a travelling shawl, and mrs. dean dressed all in soft dove-gray with chinchilla collar, and the children saw that she had pinned on her breast the blue badge of the h. t. c. and that one little act explained why they had so loved miss isabel, for even in that exciting moment she remembered to give them pleasure. from the foot of the stairs, all down the long hall, and out the door, even while mrs. dean paused to kiss her small bridesmaids, swarming eagerly around her, she was pelted with a shower of rice, and it rattled on the top of the carriage as the door shut, and jack hit the back with an old slipper provided for that purpose, and then the wheels rattled down the gravel of the driveway, and miss isabel was gone. a feeling of desolation crept over the children; the girls' eyes were full of tears, and jack felt a lump in his throat, for though they knew that miss isabel would be back in two weeks, it seemed horribly like giving her up. but the situation was saved from becoming melancholy by amy's small brother, who, standing quietly in his white dress and blue kid shoes, had been watching the departure from under his waving mop of golden hair. he now trotted off to the parlor, and returned with the hearth-broom. "well, if nobody else is goin' to get married, i dess i'd better thweep up dis rice," he remarked, and everybody laughed, and the solemnity of the moment was broken up. fifteen minutes passed, and most of the guests had gone, when children began arriving, and more and more, till amy, trix, margery, and jack were completely puzzled to see all their schoolmates enter. but mrs. gresham explained the mystery by telling them that it was a plan of miss isabel's to surprise margery, as it was her birthday, as well as miss isabel's wedding-day. so she had asked mrs. gresham to help her, and the orchestra was to remain, and the children were to have a party for the rest of the afternoon. this exciting information drove all thoughts of loneliness out of the children's heads, and soon the big rooms were filled with gay little figures, dancing to the liveliest music under the stately palms and bright golden chrysanthemums. and so while the cars were whirling their dear miss isabel away to begin her new life, her loving thought gave margery a happy ending of her birthday, and made the children feel that she was still too near them to be lonely, and that the time would be all too short for them to plan the welcome home that they meant to give her. chapter xii. the end of the year and of the post-office. christmas had come and gone, and it was the last day of the year. the christmas tree still stood in the bay-window, and tommy traddles had not ceased to find delight in setting in motion with his paw the decorative balls within his reach on the lower limbs, and eying wistfully those that hung higher. the fire burned brightly on the hearth, and the snow fell swiftly and silently outside, drifting like a white veil across the window, and heaping itself on the sills. margery sat watching it listlessly, swinging the curtain cord, and wondering what made the others so long. the post-office had languished of late, having been crowded out of mind by the holiday preparations and the colder weather. no one would confess to being tired of it, but sometimes there were two or three days between the delivery of mails, which were steadily growing lighter; indeed, no one but lady alma cara and mr. oliver twist were still faithful correspondents. at last trix and amy came running in the gate, and margery sprang to meet them. they stamped the snow off in the vestibule, and took off their things in the hall, where trix had a struggle with her rubber boots, which, as she needlessly observed, were growing too small for her. "now what shall we do?" demanded trix, as they came into the sitting-room, bringing with them such an atmosphere of out-of-doors that tommy traddles retired to the hearth-rug. "why, i'm looking for jack," answered margery. "he has some secret which he wouldn't tell me, but he said he'd come over this afternoon surely and tell me. he said it was half good and half bad, and i can't think what it can be." "i don't believe it's much," said trix sceptically. "jack has such lots of notions." but margery shook her head. "this is something," she began, when amy interrupted her. "i hear him now, coming through the back way," she said, and had scarcely spoken when jack appeared, half a dozen cookies in each hand and busy with another. "winnie's baking," he explained, not very clear in speech, "and i helped myself. they're prime; have one," and he offered each girl a cookie with princely generosity. "now, jack, what's your secret?" demanded margery. "are you going to tell me to-day? mind those crumbs; this room's been swept this morning." jack nodded energetically, signifying in pantomime that he would tell them as soon as the cookies had disappeared; so there was nothing to do but wait for this to happen with what patience they could summon. at last the final morsel vanished, and after a provokingly elaborate brushing of his knees, and careful sweeping up of crumbs with the hearth-brush, jack seated himself on the edge of a chair, and looked from one to the other. "oh, tell me, jack; hurry up!" cried margery, while trix threw a down pillow at him, which he caught, saying: "thank you," putting it at his back. "do you want me to tell you, megsy?" he asked. "well, i'm going away to school." a thunderbolt in the midst of the snow could not have produced greater consternation. "jack!" cried all three in tones of horror. "you're not." "yes, i am; papa has decided. i am going next monday." "to boarding-school?" asked trix, regret at his going and envy struggling in her face. "yes; you see, papa thinks i can prepare for my first communion better in the school than here, and you know i want to make it with you next june." "oh!" cried margery, who had been sitting in speechless grief, a little ray of light breaking into the gloom of her face. "then you're not going far?" "oh, no; only in town. i can come home at easter, and june will soon be here," replied jack. "and we can write to him," said amy, trying as usual to see a bright side. "but it will be so lonesome without jack," said margery, her voice quivering, for she had never had a brother, and this cousin had been all to her that a brother could be. "it's a pity he must go," said trix, tilting one foot up and down on the toe of her slipper, which she thus slipped on and off at the heel in a pensive manner; "but as amy says, we can write to him, and the post-office will be more fun again," thus admitting by implication what no one had been willing to confess, that the post-office was less delightful than at first. silence followed this remark. amy and margery looked at one another. "we should have to take the post-office in the house," trix went on, continuing her line of thought. "no one could go down into the orchard for mail all winter." "and what house could we put it in?" asked margery. "none of us wants to be postmaster all the time now, though we did at first, and it would be a nuisance for any of us to have to go into some one else's house to take care of the mails." neither liked to be the one to propose discontinuing it, but jack did not mind, because since he was going away he could not bear his part in it that winter in any case. "why not give up the post-office?" he asked. "we'd be the h. t. c. just the same, and you're all sick of it anyway." "you are too," said trix, indirectly admitting that she was. "well, even if i weren't, i couldn't play post-office this winter," jack replied. "i say, let's get the post-office in here, and burn it for a farewell ceremony, and then if we want to have another i'll make one next summer. anyhow, this one's warped." trix cheered up. "let's," she said briefly. "burn our post-office!" amy gasped. margery looked happier. "and i could write an ode, and we'd read it while it burned. but you'd have to ask alma cara and mr. oliver twist first, jack, because they're members. you go there, and while you're gone i'll write the ode." "first let's vote on whether we burn it or not," said jack. "all in favor of burning the post-office please signify it by saying aye." "aye," said trix and margery unanimously. "how do you vote when you want to and don't want to?" asked amy. "you decide which you want more," said margery. "o amy, you goose, we'll have another next summer, if we want one, and what's the use of a post-office without jack," said trix impatiently. "sure enough," said amy. "well, i vote aye, then." "now once more," cried jack. "all in favor say aye." "aye," cried the four voices. "now, jack, run up to mr. dean's while i write an ode," said margery, and jack went. "they say give it up till next summer, and then decide whether to begin again," announced jack, returning out of breath. "they say better not drag on if it's burdensome. i'm going down to the orchard to get the post-office." "how shall we burn it?" asked amy, when jack came back. "i've been thinking of the ceremonies on the way," jack replied, depositing the post-office on the floor. "i say we all march around it three times in silence, and then each of us lay our hand on it once for farewell. and then i'll make a speech, and then we'll each take a corner and carry it to the fire and lay it on the coals, and we'll stand around and watch it burn while margery reads the ode." "it's awfully solemn," said amy, shuddering. "it's fine," said trix. "ode done, margery?" "yes, it will do," said margery, giving a last wild flourish with her pencil. "come on then," said jack. "move the table." they pushed the table out of the way, and three times the members of the h. t. c. encircled the doomed post-office in solemn silence, after which each laid a hand on its top as a farewell greeting. then with a gesture commanding silence jack began to speak. "this office, ladies, has served us long and faithfully, and many are the pleasures it has given us. we owe to it that our dear friend, mr. oliver twist, is still with us, and it has made the lady alma cara happy and done a noble work in the six months of its life. but the year is ending to-night, and the office is to end with it, because each has lasted as long as it can. we say farewell to this happy year, and we are glad that it was so happy. and we say farewell to our good post-office, and we are glad it was so good. i for one shall keep its memory dear even in the new scenes to which i am about to depart. and if the h. t. c. has a new post-office next summer we shall still love and cherish the recollection of this one, to which we now say good-by. girls, take a corner each." amy sniffed outright as she lifted her end, and margery looked excited, while trix whispered to her, "i think jack will be a priest, he preaches so splendidly." they bore the little post-office to the grate, and laid it on the coals. it was wet with snow, and sputtered, and steamed awhile before it kindled. at last a little tongue of flame ran along the roof, and came out at one of the boxes. "now, margery, begin your ode," whispered jack. "read slowly." margery read: "sweet post-office, though you are dear, the hour has come to say good-by; you end now with the ending year, and we stand here to see you die. you served us well in summer's heat; you changed two foes to man and wife; we ran to you with hurried feet, because you were our joy in life. though you are warped, we do not spurn; we love you still, though you are bent, and standing here to see you burn we read to you our hearts' lament. the new year comes to-morrow morn, when one brave dove far schoolward flocks; in june, if a new office's born, we'll think your spirit's in the box, and thus you will be with us yet; old office, we will hold you dear; our first friend we can ne'er forget, so good-by, old office, and old year." this ode, in spite of its halting in some of its feet, was hailed with rapturous approval by margery's audience. "there goes the last end of the office," cried jack excitedly. "and our post-office is over," said amy sadly. "and jack's going away," added margery. "only till june, and then we'll have a new office and jack back again," said trix. "and the happy thought club's going to last forever," cried jack. "let's give three cheers for the h. t. c. as a close of the exercises. hurry up before the box is quite gone." the cheers were given, and then four figures curled up on the hearth-rug to watch the last embers of the post-office fade away, and build castles in the air for the future achievements of the h. t. c. in the new year so close upon them. * * * * * printed by benziger brothers, new york. none note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). the oe-ligature is represented by [oe]. [illustration: "he stood up in the boat, and gave all his attention to the fish." _page ._] camping on the st. lawrence or on the trail of the early discoverers by everett t. tomlinson author of "the boys with old hickory," "tecumseh's young braves," "guarding the border," "the boys of old monmouth," "washington's young aids," "ward hill at weston," etc., etc. illustrated by a. b. shute boston lee and shepard publishers copyright, , by lee and shepard. all rights reserved. camping on the st. lawrence. norwood press j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith norwood mass. u.s.a. preface. in this story i have endeavored to take my young readers to one of our noblest rivers, and not only to make them share in the stirring experiences which are to be had on its waters, but also to make them feel something of the power of the wonderful history of those who first looked upon its scenes of beauty. the events recorded have largely been taken from actual occurrences, the characters, i trust, will not be found untrue to life, and the historical references not inaccurate or uninteresting. young people are able to feel the inspiration of nature's power when they are not able to define or express it, and perhaps the best form of teaching is that which enables them to look out with the inner vision rather than to observe these things from the outside. inspiring as is the majestic river, no less inspiring is the story of the men who first sailed over its waters. their heroism, persistence, and consecration are qualities which are needed by all men, and in all places and times. we never outgrow these things, though the best parts of our lives may grow out of them. a better understanding of our own land--its natural beauty, its history and heroes--is certainly not one of the least of the demands of the present time; and the author of this story has had the modest hope that its readers may gain a desire in its perusal to see and know more of those possessions which with pardonable pride they are able to claim as their own. everett t. tomlinson. elizabeth, new jersey. contents. chapter page i. preparations ii. the journey iii. the sail down the river iv. in camp v. ben tries the canoe vi. the first day's sport vii. in goose bay viii. jock has his turn ix. ancient history x. tom surprises the camp xi. a night of anxiety xii. the missing camper xiii. a mishap xiv. ethan tells of the "jumpers" xv. in a foreign land xvi. an alarm in the camp xvii. on guard xviii. an unexpected race xix. a moonlight sail xx. the start for the rapids xxi. shooting the longue seaut xxii. the rivals xxiii. a prize xxiv. what became of the prize xxv. early discoverers xxvi. the squall xxvii. the search xxviii. hamlick xxix. after the tragedy xxx. ben's discovery xxxi. the races xxxii. conclusion list of illustrations. "he stood up in the boat and gave all his attention to the fish" _frontispiece_ page "suddenly the canoe went over" "the fire roared and the flames leaped higher" "'she looked at me a minute as if she didn't know what to make of it'" "bob took a long stick and poked the motionless form" "on and on moved the swift-flying skiff" "'did you ever catch a bigger one?'" "without a protest the young mother rose" camping on the st. lawrence. chapter i. preparations. "have you heard from bob? will he come?" "can't tell yet. i had a letter this morning, and he writes that it's doubtful. he hasn't given up all hope, though, and says he may get on the rear platform just as the train pulls out." "that would be just like him. he never started for chapel till all the fellows were there, or went into class-room until the recitation was just ready to begin. he never wasted a minute of his time hanging round." "he never was late, though, in his life." "that's all right. i know that as well as you do. i sometimes used to wish he would be late, for it made me half provoked to see him. nothing ever seemed to put him out, and yet he'd always come in just at the last minute, as if he hadn't hurried or he somehow knew they wouldn't begin until he got there. it was just the same with his studies. there i'd be burning my midnight oil and putting in my best work, and he'd sit down for a few minutes at the table and do in half an hour what it had taken me three straight hours to work out. i never saw such a fellow." "yes, bob was a great fellow." "you don't have to remind me of that. haven't we roomed together all through senior year? i used to think before he took up his bed and came over to room with me, that if i could only have him with me, somehow i'd catch the way he did his work, but it wasn't contagious." "he's got, without asking for it, what my father says is the one thing he sent me to the academy for, and what he's going to send me to college to get, though i'm afraid he'll be disappointed." "what's that?" "oh, it's what my father calls the power of concentrating your mind." "well, bob had it for a fact. it didn't seem to make much difference to him whether there was a room full of fellows about him, or not. when he got ready to work, he just sat down to it, and you might yell in his ears or pull his chair out from under him, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. he'd sit there on thin air and dig away until his work was all done and then look up as if he was as surprised as you please to see any one in the room. do you know, i just envied bob. i did for a fact. i'd give all my father's money to stand in his shoes." "perhaps your father would have something to say about that. but bob was a great fellow; no mistake about that. do you think he'll have to give up going to college with us?" "i don't know; i hope not. his mother's a widow, you know, and since his father died, i think they've had a hard time of it. if it was any other fellow i'd say right off he couldn't go. but bob's different, you see. he didn't have any money and couldn't do lots of the things the others did, but he was the most popular fellow in all the school, for all that. so i somehow don't give up hope that he'll go with us in the fall, after all. everything seems to turn his way." "don't you believe it. it's the other way around, i'm telling you. he just turns everything his way." "well, i don't care how you put it if he'll only join us in the camp. i say, jock, how did you happen to hit on this plan? it's great, that's what it is." "oh, i didn't hit on it at all, it was my father. you see, he spent the first vacation he's had in ten years last summer down at the thousand islands. we all had such a good time that we wanted to go again this summer; but he couldn't get away, and my mother wouldn't go without him, so they finally compromised on me. at first they thought they'd send me down to alexandria bay and round island to one of the hotels, and for fear that i'd get lonesome they were going to select some fine man who was well up in latin and greek to go along with me, just for company, you see." "yes, i see," laughed his companion. "they were going to get a tutor for you, were they?" "yes, that's what some people call it, i believe. but when i astonished the family by passing my entrance exams., they didn't know what to do, so at my own suggestion my father hired a camp on pine tree island, and the result is that you and the other fellows are to benefit by my brilliant labors. you ought to be grateful; but this is a cold, cold world, and i'm not building my hopes too high. the trouble is, i _know_ you." "oh, we'll do the dutiful act and put in all the flourishes," said his friend, with a laugh. "but say, jock, is it really true about the fishing and canoeing and all that sort of thing that they tell about there?" "true? well, i should say it was! you won't need but one look at the river to make you think you've found the best spot on earth. fishing, fishing? why, let me tell you." "no, no! please don't. i can't bear too much, you must remember." "fishing?" resumed jock, unmindful of his friend's banter, "why, one morning last summer i got up before breakfast--" "impossible!" interrupted his friend. "i can stand your fish stories; but that--that is too much for me." "one morning i got up early, as i was telling you," resumed jock. "i believe you did make some remarks upon that subject." "keep still! well, i got up before light--" "what, what?" "and went out with my boatman. we caught thirty of the biggest bass you ever saw--" "ever saw or ever expect to see," broke in his friend. "and we were just going ashore to cook our dinner--" "but when and where did you have breakfast? you've got ahead of your story. tell me about the breakfast. i haven't recovered from the shock of thinking of you as being up before that was ready." "and just before we landed, i was beginning to reel in my line. i had out about a hundred and fifty feet, when all at once--" "what, what? oh, don't keep me in this suspense, i can't bear it," again interrupted his irreverent friend, striking an attitude of eager attention as he spoke. "i had a strike that almost yanked my rod out of my hand." "ah, yes, i see, your hook had caught on the bottom." jock flung a book at the head of his friend and then laughingly said: "well, you just wait till we get into camp, that's all i can say. if you don't tell bigger stories then than i can now, it will be because language has failed you." "i usually fail in language; my marks are apt to be below par. but i must be going now, jock. you say the train leaves the grand central at nine to-night?" "yes. you'd better get your ticket and check your trunk early. there's likely to be a crowd at this time of the year." "i'll be there. got your ticket, jock?" "me? yes. i've got a pass for bob and myself, or rather my father got one for us." "that's the way in this world," said his friend, with mock solemnity. "here you are the son of a railroad magnate and just rolling in lucre, and you don't have to buy a ticket like common mortals. no, you have a pass and all the conductors and porters stand off and look at you as if you were the king of cr[oe]sus or some other thing, and we poor little sons of lawyers have to march up to the ticket-office and plank down good, hard-earned straight cash for our little pieces of pasteboards." "you are to be pitied," replied jock. "i heard my father say the other day the reason the railroads couldn't make any money was because the lawyers got in first, and the roads had to take what little they left." "did he say that?" "yes, for a fact." "this moment i return to my ancestral domicile and demand of my stern parent the portion which falleth to me. he has kept his possession of such vast wealth concealed from his family. i go to make him disgorge." "don't forget the train leaves at nine," warned jock. "i've got the sleeping-car tickets, or at least i've got a section and a berth. that'll be enough if bob shouldn't come, and if he does, why, two of us will have to double up, that's all." jock watched his friend as he ran down the stairway, and then turned back into his own room and continued his preparations for the proposed journey. fishing tackle was rearranged, a gun was placed carefully in its case, and many details looked after which only a light-hearted lad, eager for a new experience, knew how to provide. and certainly josiah cope apparently had everything to add to his happiness. his home was one of wealth, and all that father or mother could do had been done for him. he was an eager-hearted lad, as full of good impulses as one could well be, and as he moved busily about in his room it was not difficult to understand why he was such a universal favorite among his mates. his face had that expression of frankness and good-will which somehow draws to itself all who behold it, whether they will or no; and the devotion with which his mother watched over him was, in a measure, shared by his schoolboy friends, for there was something about him which appealed to their desire to protect and shield him from ruder blasts which others might endure more readily. not that jock (for so his friends had shortened the somewhat homely name which the lad was the fifth in direct descent to bear) was in the least effeminate, but his slight figure, his dark eyes and somewhat delicate features, left one with the impression that he was not over-rugged. whatever others might think, his mother was most decidedly of that opinion, and perhaps not without reason; for she had seen his brothers and sisters enter the home only to remain for a few brief years and then go out forever, and jock, she frequently declared, was her all. if she meant all she had left, she was correct, and certainly the love he received in his home might easily have been shared with many, and then no one would have complained of receiving too small a portion. but jock had somehow survived the perilous treatment and apparently was as popular among his mates as he was in his home. and unknown to him it was the loving fears of his mother that had led to the experiment of a summer camp among the thousand islands in the hope that the breath of the great river and the outdoor life would bring a little more color into the cheeks that were too pale for a well-grown lad of seventeen to have. the decision once made, the next move was to select his companions. this was not a difficult problem, and soon the choicest three of his friends in the academy from which jock had just graduated, and with whom he hoped to go up to college in the coming autumn, were invited to join him,--an invitation quickly and eagerly accepted by all save robert darnell, the "bob" of the preceding conversation, and the reasons which led him to hesitate have already been referred to. still all hoped that the sturdy bob, the quiet self-contained lad, the leader of his class in scholarship, and easily the best bat in school, could come from his home in the country and join them. albert, or "bert," bliss, who had been having the conversation we have already reported, was a short sturdy lad, always ready for a good time, his curly hair and laughing blue eyes causing one to laugh whenever he saw him, so irresistible was the contagion of his overflowing spirits. the fourth member of the proposed party, benjamin, or "ben," dallett, was in many ways the opposite of albert, and in school parlance they had sometimes been known as the "siamese twins," or "the long and the short of it." certainly they were much together, and just as certainly was ben as much too tall as his friend was too short. all of the boys save bob had their abode in new york and had come from homes of wealth, but in their presence bob almost never thought of his own deprivations, or only when it was impossible for him to engage in some of the enterprises of his friends, and certain it is that the envy to which ben had given expression, if there was such a feeling manifest among the four friends, was much more of the sterling worth and quiet powers of bob than of the possessions of the others. at all events, they had become fast friends, and, bound together by such ties as can only be found in school and college, would be certain to have a good time if once they should be together in the camp on the selected island in the st. lawrence river. the evening had come, and the three boys had eagerly been watching in the great station for the arrival of their friend. as yet he had not appeared, and when the gong sounded its warning, reluctantly they grasped their various belongings and, holding their tickets in their teeth, passed through the gate and boarded their train. "it isn't time yet," said bert. "he won't come till the train begins to move." "i'm afraid he isn't coming at all," replied jock, as he arranged his various parcels in the section, all the time keeping a careful lookout for the appearance of the missing bob in the doorway of the car. chapter ii. the journey. the train was now increasing its speed and swept swiftly past the city blocks, and then with a groan darted into the long tunnel. the rumble became a roar, and as the boys were convinced that the missing bob had been left behind, they glanced about the car at their travelling companions. apparently every berth had been taken, and it was evident from the fishing rods that could be seen that many besides themselves had started for the great river. there were young people and old, and little children who already were rubbing their sleepy eyes, unable to remain awake longer, in spite of the noise of the fast-flying cars and the roar of the train in the tunnel. soon the sounds changed, and all knew that they had passed through the underground way, and the scattered lights of the streets could be seen again. as the boys turned once more to glance behind them, jock emitted a shout; for there, standing quietly in the aisle, was the missing member of the band, bob darnell himself. "where did you come from, bob?" shouted jock, delightedly, as he grasped his friend's hand. "we thought we'd lost you." "it's mighty easy to get lost in this town of yours. who would want to live in such a place?" replied bob, quietly. "but where were you? how did you get aboard? we waited and waited for you, but you didn't come. tell us about it," exclaimed the eager boys, as they made room for their friend to take the vacant seat. "you might have known i'd be here. you needn't have wasted your precious thoughts on me." "i know it, bob, but i don't see how you got here," said jock. "you city chaps don't understand, and you never will," replied bob. "you always rush around as if you hadn't a minute to spare. what's the good of it, i'd like to know?" "not much good, if we could only be as sure of being on time as you are, bob," said bert. "why don't you tell us how you did it?" "there isn't anything to tell. my train got in about an hour ago, and i went up on madison avenue to jock's house. they told me he'd gone to the station with you fellows, and they all seemed to be very much excited about it, too. all they could say to me was: 'hurry up. make haste, or you'll be left.' queer folks, these new yorkers." "well, you did almost get left, didn't you?" "left? not a bit of it. it's true they had closed the door, and the gateman didn't want to let me pass, especially when i didn't have any ticket. but after a little argument he relented, and i went down to the platform. there i had a tussle with the porter, for he was just getting aboard the train, and had taken in his steps. he, too, wanted to see my ticket, but i didn't have time to stop and talk much with him, so i just climbed in after him. i found i was on the last car, so i had to travel all through the train to find you. you ought not to have made me do that, fellows; it's too much of an exertion," he added regretfully. the boys all laughed, and their evident unconsciousness of the presence of the others in the car, and their light-hearted and merry voices, soon drew the attention of their travelling companions. old men glanced at them with a softened expression on their countenances, as if the sight of young life and care-free lads reminded them of days in their own lives now far away and dim in the years that were gone. old ladies watched them and smiled, without understanding what it was that made their eyes light up as they listened to the contagious laughter of the happy-hearted boys. little children came tottering and staggering down the swaying aisle, and stopped before them, peering wonderingly at the band as if they knew they must be having a good time, and would like to join in it themselves. jock passed pieces of candy to the little ones, and the enjoyment of the boys became keener as they watched the children thrust the sweetmeats into their mouths, and then go staggering back to their mothers, and, climbing into their laps, point gleefully to the group which had treated them so well. indeed, the very presence of the boys seemed to create a different atmosphere in the car, and in whatever direction they looked, they were sure to be met with smiling glances. certainly, thoughts of possible evil days to come did not disturb them; the burdens of life were all for others, and as far as our four friends were concerned, life itself was colored with a halo of the brightness which not only was theirs by right, but was increased by the anticipation of days that were soon to come in the camp on pine tree island. "i haven't bothered my head much about the details of this thing," said bob, "but i'd like to know how much work we've got to do to-morrow." "no work at all, bob," said jock, laughing. "i wouldn't dare lay such a contract as that on your delicate shoulders." "that's kind of you," replied bob, shrugging those same shoulders, which certainly to the ordinary observer gave no symptoms of delicacy. "but i was thinking about the camp, you know. some tent or some thing or other has to be set up, i suppose. who's to do that, i'd like to know?" "that's all been done," said jock, laughingly. "my father wrote ethan barnes last week--he's to be our guide, you know, or rather one of them, for his son is to be there too. everything has been sent on ahead and probably by this time ethan's got everything all ready for us. you see, my father used to live in that part of the world when he was a boy, and he and ethan were old school friends. they used to sit together on the same bench, i believe. father says the old red schoolhouse is still standing, and he'd like to have me go over there some day. he says i'd find his initials cut in the seat with the first jack-knife he ever owned. there's one thing you'll have to do though, bob." "what's that?" "you'll have to reel in your own fish when you get a strike." "strike? what's a strike? do i have to do the striking?" "no, no. when a bass swallows your hook they call it a 'strike.'" "who calls it a strike, the bass?" "no, everybody calls it that." "well, all i can say, i don't blame a bass for striking then. i'd strike, too, if i was in his place." "you? not much, you'd never strike. you'd just wait till somebody came along and took the hook out of your mouth," was ben's merry comment. "how do you do the fishing?" inquired bob, apparently unmoved. "why, we go out in boats, you know. skiffs. those st. lawrence skiffs are beauties too, let me tell you," said jock. "but how do the skiffs go?" persisted bob. "by steam?" "no, no. we'll have boatmen. ethan will pull one and his son the other, and two of us will go in each. it's great sport." "it must be. you don't know what a load you've lifted from me. i almost gave up when i thought i'd have to work. it doesn't agree with me. never did. my mother has noticed it ever since i was born. but she's the only one who understands me. hello, here's the mogul!" the boys looked up as he spoke, and saw the conductor and the porter near them. as their tickets were taken and the berths assigned, bob said:-- "jock, you say you'll take the berth in the next section. there won't be any room left for you, i'm thinking. that's all spoken for now." for the first time jock noticed who was seated in the adjoining section. a woman was there, but never in all his life had he seen one so stout. it almost seemed as if she completely filled the seat, and it was evident from her manner that she was far from feeling at her ease. she glanced nervously about the car, and not for a moment relaxed her grasp on the seat. her eyes, too, betrayed her alarm, and it was plain that the experience she was then undergoing was a new and not altogether pleasurable one. as the boys glanced at her, her fear seemed to increase. she rose from the seat, but a sudden lurch of the car sent her back again with an exclamation of anger which could be heard by all. "here, you!" she called. "i say, mister, come here!" it was the colored porter to whom she was speaking, and as he turned back respectfully to listen to what she had to say, his face beamed with good nature and amusement. "what is it, madam?" he said kindly. "i thought they told me this was a sleepin' car." "so it is." "it is, is it? well, where do folks sleep, i'd like to know?" "why, in the beds." "i don't see no beds," she replied angrily, as she looked about the car. "why, madam, these seats are the beds." "the seats are the beds? humph, pretty beds they are! do you expect _me_ to lie down on 'em?" "they are changed and made up. i'm the porter and i'll make up your berth whenever you want it." "you're the porter, be ye? well, i thought you was one o' the vanderbilts, with all yer gold buttons and fine clothes. well, ye jest make up mine now." "i'll be back in a minute and fix you up all right, madam. you're going to philadelphia, aren't you?" "yes, i am. i'm goin' to philadelphy, an' the sooner i get there the better." as the porter turned away to complete his collection of tickets, jock turned to his companions and said: "that woman has made a mistake. she says she's going to philadelphia, and she's got on the wrong train, as sure's you live. i'm going to tell her." leaving his seat, jock approached the troubled passenger and said, "did i understand you to say you were going to philadelphia?" "hey? yes, i'm goin' to philadelphy, but i don't see how that concerns you, bub," and as she spoke she hurriedly felt in her pocket as if she expected the stranger who had dared to address her was one of the light-fingered gentry who she had been informed infested the city and were wont to take advantage of innocent and unsuspecting strangers. jock's face flushed as he heard himself addressed as "bub," and his confusion was increased as he saw an expression of amusement creep over the faces of his companions; but he was too polite to heed now, and was determined to assist the old lady in what was her evident confusion and mistake. "all i wanted to say, madam," he continued, again speaking to the troubled woman, "was that i fear you have made a mistake. if you wanted to go to philadelphia you ought to have gone on the pennsylvania road, not on the new york central; this train doesn't go to philadelphia." "hey? what's that ye say?" exclaimed the startled woman. "got the wrong keers, have i? here you, mr. porter," she shouted, standing with difficulty and shaking a huge cotton umbrella at that officer. "come here, come here!" she called in increasing excitement. as the porter hastened toward her, the eyes of all in the car were turned upon her. some of the passengers were evidently amused, and some were sympathizing with her in her trouble. "what is it, madam, what is it?" inquired the colored man, politely. "this boy says this isn't the train for philadelphy," she exclaimed wrathfully. "what d'ye put me on this keer for, i'd like to know?" she was grasping her pocket with one hand and waving her cotton umbrella frantically in her excitement with the other. "ye jest meant to rob me!" she continued. "i know ye. ye knew i had six dollars and seventeen cents in my pocket. ye shan't get it, that's what ye shan't!" "but, madam, this train does go to philadelphia." "hey? it does, does it? what d'ye mean, then?" she demanded, turning again upon jock. "then it was you that wanted to rob me! i'll turn you over to the police, i vum i will!" it was some time before it was explained that there was a little junction not far from the st. lawrence which rejoiced in the same name as its larger sister in the adjacent state; but at last all was made plain, and covered with confusion jock took his seat once more, hardly daring to look around upon his fellow-travellers, who evidently had been hugely enjoying the scene. but the troubles were not yet ended. as the porter volunteered to make ready the old lady's berth at once, the boys vacated their seats for their neighbor, who watched with evident consternation the preparations for the night. the berths were speedily prepared, and then the porter said, "i'll take your tickets, madam, and you can retire when you please." as he took the slip the porter glanced once more at her in amusement as he said: "yours is the upper berth, madam. wait a moment and i'll get the steps for you." "what!" exclaimed the excited woman. "up there in that garret? me? well, i guess not. jerushy jenkins don't climb up into any sech hole as that! not much; i'll ride on yer old cow-catcher afore i'll do that." "you may have the lower berth, madam," said jock, quickly. "i'll be glad to give it up to you." "ye will, will ye?" said jerusha, suspiciously. "well, i don't know whether ye will or not. do ye think it's safe, perfectly safe?" she inquired of the porter. "yes, madam." at last the trembling traveller was mollified, and soon afterward all in the car were asleep. with the coming of the dawn our boys hastily dressed and soon were gazing out of the windows at the silver-like strips which here and there could be seen in the distance, and in a moment knew that they were drawing near to the waters of the majestic river, which already were reflecting the light of the coming day. chapter iii. the sail down the river. the first impression of the boys was that they were passing through a country hoary with age. the scattered homes of the farmers, which occasionally could be seen, were evidently all of recent date, though many of them were weather-beaten and had never known the touch of a paint-brush. but the country itself in the gray of the dawn seemed to be wrinkled and old. it was a level land and without any marked features, save that of its venerable appearance; but all this was instantly forgotten when suddenly the full sweep of the mighty st. lawrence burst into view. far as the eye could see the great mass of water stretched away, and of what a beautiful color it was! its strong, swift current could be discerned even from the cars, and in the distance were the islands. beautiful cottages and well-kept lawns were before them, and from the flag-poles fluttered the stars and stripes, winding in and out as the morning breeze shook out the folds of the bunting. far to the east could be seen the shores of the larger islands, many of them covered with trees, and already changing color in the light of the rapidly approaching dawn. all together, the sight was one of imposing beauty and grandeur; but all other things were speedily forgotten, for the great river, as it went surging in its way, seemed to fascinate the eyes of the eager boys. too much impressed by the sight to give voice to their sentiments, for a few minutes the lads gazed at the changing scene before them; but they were speedily recalled to their immediate surroundings by the movements of the people in the car, who were all astir by this time. "here we are!" called jock, gleefully, as the rumbling train came to a standstill, and the passengers all prepared to leave the car. in a moment the boys joined the procession, and as they stepped upon the dock they saw that steamers, large and small, were there, and innumerable smaller boats of all kinds and descriptions. what impressed our boys more than the steamers and yachts, however, was the sight of the beautiful st. lawrence skiffs, numbers of which were near the dock. graceful and light as a birch-bark canoe, and with cushioned seats and even equipped with chairs, it seemed to them that never before had they beheld such beautiful little crafts. what speed could be made in them, and once in the current of the great river, how they would go! the dock was filled, in spite of the early hour, with a multitude of people, some of whom were selecting their baggage and giving orders for its transfer to the waiting steamers. others were calling to the porters, and still others were themselves rushing back and forth between the train and the boats, looking after their own belongings and seeing that they were properly placed. it was a stirring sight, and the fact that almost every man, to say nothing of the boys, was equipped with the case which plainly enclosed a fishing rod, showed that others besides themselves had hopes of sport on the great river. jock, who was the leader of the party, was looking eagerly about in the crowd for some one who should correspond to the description his father had given him of ethan, the man who was to be their guide and cook; but for a time he was unable to find any one whom he dared to address as the one he was seeking. soon, however, a man clad in the country garb, with a flannel shirt open at the neck, and a huge straw hat on his head, came near and peered inquiringly at the boys. satisfied with his inspection, he approached and said in a deliberate manner,-- "mebbe you're jock cope's boy?" "yes, yes," responded jock, quickly. "he's my father, and you are ethan, if i'm not mistaken." "that's what folks call me. these the boys goin' into camp with ye?" he inquired with a drawl, turning to the other boys as he spoke. "yes, these are my friends," and jock proceeded to introduce each to ethan. "glad to see ye," responded ethan, apparently not very much impressed by the sight of the band. "got yer trunks checked?" "yes, they were checked through to alexandria bay. we don't have to do anything here, do we?" "naw, unless ye want to go down to the bay on the steamer. i've got my boat here, an' if ye want to ye can sail down with me. ye'll have speak up, sonny, though, for if ye want to take the steamer ye'll have to say so mighty quick." "we haven't had breakfast," said jock, "and if the other fellows feel as i do, we'll want something to eat." "ye can get breakfast aboard the boat if ye want to an' can afford to pay for it, or ye can go up to one o' the hotels an' get it, an' i'll wait here for ye. 'tisn't for me to say." "oh, let's wait and get our breakfast at one of the hotels, and sail down the river in ethan's boat," said bert, eagerly; and as it was apparent that all the boys shared in his desire, it was quickly decided to leave their rods and the personal effects they had brought with them in his care. ethan received the rods with a grunt, which was not expressive of high admiration for their outfit, and the boys at once started up the street to secure their breakfast. they were too much excited to give much attention to the straggling little village of clayton, for their appetites were imperative and must be satisfied, and soon they entered one of the hotels and secured places in the dining room. "i tell you what," exclaimed bert, "this is great! i never saw such a sight as this river. we'll have a great time here. even bob is excited." "hungry, you mean," replied that individual. "you fellows have been all stirred up by the scenery, but i'm thinking of the inner man." "i'm not," said ben. "do you know, jock, i'm afraid of that ethan of yours." "afraid of him? what do you mean?" "why, he acts as if he was a king or some other potentate. you don't really suppose he actually owns one of these islands, do you?" "i don't know," replied jock. "i'll ask him, if you want me to." "well, the way that same ethan looks at us, and sniffs at our rods, and treats us as if we were boys, just scares me; it does, for a fact. i don't know the difference between a reel and a rod, and somehow i know i shan't even dare to put a worm on my hook if he's looking at me." "put a worm on your hook!" exclaimed jock, laughingly. "you are green. you don't use worms here." "don't use worms? what do you have for bait, then, i'd like to know?" "minnows, little fish." "i should think it would hurt 'em if you put 'em on the hook," drawled bob; "i'm too tender-hearted for that." "you won't have to hurt your tender feelings, bob," laughed jock. "ethan does all that for you. that's the advantage of having a boatman, you see." "ah, yes, i see," replied bob, with a sigh of relief. but the breakfast was now brought in, and in a moment all other things were forgotten as the boys fell to with a will, and ate as only hungry boys in the early morning air of the st. lawrence can eat. when this task was at last completed, they started eagerly toward the dock, and as they approached they discovered ethan watching for them. he had already hoisted his sail and all things were ready for the departure. as the boys leaped on board, they noticed the beautiful little craft of which ethan was the proud owner; but as he was evidently eager to set sail at once, no remarks were made until after the boat was free from the dock. then the strong breeze and the swift current combined to send them swiftly on their way down the river, and in the exhilaration of the scene the boys for a moment gave free play to their feelings. "you don't often have a day like this, do you, ethan?" said jock. "hey? oh, we have 'em 'most as often as they come." "i know that, but they don't often come, do they?" ethan looked at his questioner for a moment before he said, "you don't know much, i see. lived in the city all yer life, haven't ye?" "yes," replied jock, feeling for the moment as if he were guilty of something, though of what he could not just determine; but the boatman's contempt was so evident that the lad resolved to ask no more questions. "then you're jock cope's boy, be ye?" said ethan, after a pause. "yes. i've often heard him speak of you, and tell how you two used to sit together in the same seat over in the little red schoolhouse. father says it's still standing, and he wants me to go over and see it some day while we're here." "wants ye to see it? what fur?" "oh, just to see it, that's all. he wants me to see the place where he went to school when he was a boy." "humph! it isn't much to see. jest a little shanty, that's all. say, they tell me your pa is worth a lot o' money. is that so?" "i don't know," said jock. "he's got some, i suppose. enough to pay for our expenses here this summer, i think." "but heow much has he got?" persisted ethan. "i don't know just how much. he never told me." "got five thousand dollars?" "perhaps so." "i don't b'lieve it," grunted ethan, contemptuously. "i know jock cope, an' i know he ain't worth no sech money's that. he's done a pile o' harm to this country, though, i'll say that for him," he added glumly. "done harm? my father done harm? i don't believe it!" exclaimed jock, warmly. "well, he has, whether ye believe it or not." "what's he done?" "oh, he wasn't satisfied to stay here an' do what his father did afore him. no, he had to go off down to new york, an' they say he's worth five thousand dollars now. i don't believe it, but all the boys reound here do, an' so they're goin' off to teown to make their fortunes too. now my boy tom, he's goin' to help reound your camp, ye know, he's got the fever too. somebody's told him if he'll come down there they'll get him a job on the street cars an' pay him a dollar an' a half every day." and ethan's eyes became large as his voice dropped lower in his efforts to be more impressive. "he's nothin' but a young fool, that's what he is, and he's all took up with the notion. i want you boys to tell him 'tisn't so, that is, if you know anything abeout it, which i don't much believe for my part. it doesn't stand to reason that there'd be anybody so tarnel foolish as jest to give him a dollar and a half every day for standin' up on a street car. no, sir. i don't believe no such thing." the boys looked at one another, and not even the sight of the beautiful river could keep back the look of amusement which crept over their faces. "ethan, have you ever been in new york?" inquired bob. "who, me? well, i rather guess not. they don't get me to go to no sech place as that. pickpockets an' thieves an' gamblers. no, sir. i've never been outside o' jefferson an' st. lawrence counties in all my born days. this 'ere river is good enough for me, an' i'm goin' to stay where i'm well off. since these city people have got to comin' up here summers, i'm makin' money." from ethan's manner it was evident that he wished the boys to question him, and bob was the first to improve the opportunity. "ethan, are you a rich man?" he inquired solemnly. "rich? well, i don' know as ye'd call it that exactly. i'm doin' pretty well, though. d'ye know heow much money i took in last summer rowin'?" he added, as if he were about to disclose some great secret. "no; i can't imagine. how much was it?" said bob. "one hundred an' ten dollars an' sixty-nine cents!" "you don't mean it! it can't be possible!" "well, it is trew, whether it's possible or not. i saved thirty-one dollars an' sixteen cents an' have got it in the bank up to wat'town now." "what did you do with the rest of it?" "oh, i had to live, didn't i? well, i used that in livin'. my neighbors thought i was livin' pretty high, but i didn't put on no airs. i ain't proud." "whose island is that?" inquired ben, pointing to a small island on which there was a beautiful cottage. he felt that diversion was necessary to break the spell ethan's astounding statements had produced, and accordingly asked the first question that occurred to him. "that? oh, that b'longs to another fool deown new york way. they tell me he's just bought it an' give a thousand dollars for it. 'tain't worth it. 'tisn't worth fifty cents. ye jest can't raise nuthin' on it. why, i could 'a' had that island for a gift if i'd been willin' to pay the tax on it twenty-five year ago, an' that wasn't more'n fifty cents. there's yer camp ahead o' ye, boys." instantly the statements of the incredulous ethan were forgotten, and all peered eagerly at the place he had indicated. even the exhilaration of the sail which had occupied two hours and a half was also forgotten now. as they had swept on in their course the boys had been more and more elated. on past beautiful islands, and summer camps, and parks which seemed like large villages, they had come. sometimes they had passed close to the shore in places where the channel was almost like a mill-race in its swiftness, and then again they were out in the river where only an eddy here and there indicated the tremendous power of the great water, on whose surface they were sailing. wooded islands had been seen, and then islands which appeared to be only great rocks and boulders loomed up before them. camping parties like their own had been passed, and salutes had been fired to acknowledge their approach. men and women, boys and girls, had all seemed to catch something of the life of the great river, and on every side there appeared to be the joy which came from the freedom from care and the life-giving breezes of the majestic st. lawrence. only jock, of the party, had ever been there before, and in the novelty and delight of the experience, his companions had, perhaps, failed to be duly impressed by the sceptical sentiments of their boatman. at all events, when ethan declared that the camp was in sight, even his own presence became vague and unreal as the boys peered eagerly before them at the place where they were to stay for the coming six weeks, and where doubtless many and thrilling experiences were to be theirs. chapter iv. in camp. as the swift little boat swept forward the tents were soon visible, standing as they did near the shore and yet close to the woods which stretched away in the distance. there were two of these tents, and the white canvas outlined against the green foliage presented a wonderfully attractive appearance, at least to the eager boys, who were all unmindful now of their boatman's financial problems and intent only upon the vision of their abode for the coming few weeks. ethan explained to his companions that one of the tents was designed to be their sleeping quarters and the other was to provide a kitchen which could be used on stormy days. on other days the cooking was to be done in the open air, and the fireplace and the pile of logs which was to furnish fuel soon could be seen clearly as the party came nearer to the island. there was a rude little dock near the camping place, and to this ethan guided his boat and soon landed his passengers. as the boys leaped out, bert called to his companions: "this is great, fellows! let's give the school cheer!" instantly their united voices rang out, and ethan looked up in astonishment. "what d'ye do that for?" he inquired blankly. "that's our school yell, ethan," replied jock. "give it again, boys!" as the sharp, clear cry rang out again they saw a young fellow of about their own age approaching from the tents, and his evident surprise was as marked as that of the boatman. only a brief glance, however, was required to convince the boys that it was ethan's son before them. there was the same general outline of features as in the older man, and the same peculiar hitch as he walked. "that's yer school yell, is it?" said ethan. "do they make ye do it often?" "oh, whenever we feel like it," laughed jock. "well, your pa an' i used to have a school yell when we went to the little red schoolhouse, an' i want to tell ye that not one of ye can come up to him either. many's the time i've seen him toe a crack, an' when the teacher brought his hickory ferule down ker-whack, yer pa could make a louder noise than any o' you boys. he was a powerful one to yell, jock cope was!" even ethan's recollections were not of sufficient interest now to prevent the boys from running up the bank to their tents, and soon they were eagerly examining all the details of their camp. there were four cots in one of the tents and in the other were places where their trunks and guns and rods and their various belongings might be stored. ethan's son, who had been introduced as tom, remained with his father and assisted in bringing from the boat the articles which were to be stored in the tents, and soon had everything arranged and in order. the camp was on the wooded shore of one of the larger islands. before them was a view of the broad river, dotted here and there with islands, on some of which were cottages and on others camping parties not unlike their own. it was noon time now, and the sun was almost directly above their heads. the air was almost motionless, but the restless river was hastening on as if wind or wave, or heat or cold, were all alike to it. the sublimity of the scene, the novelty of the camp, the rushing waters, and tall silent trees all combined to produce a feeling of intense delight in the hearts of the boys, and they stood together on the shore looking out over the beautiful sight and filled with expectations such as only light-hearted lads at such a time can know. "i say, boys, mebbe ye'd like something to eat." in a moment the beautiful vision had lost its power, and turning eagerly to the camp, jock said: "you are right, ethan. how did you know we were hungry?" "didn't have to know. folks have to eat, don' they? it's dinner time, that's what it is. most o' folks like to look at the river when they first come, but they find scenery isn't specially fillin' as a diet. they mostly wants somethin' to eat afore long." "we're like the others, then," said ben. "did you say you had dinner now in the middle of the day?" "yes, that's what i said. when did ye expect to have it?" "oh, i didn't know. we usually have it at night when we're at home." "at night? dinner at night?" exclaimed ethan. "ye must be funny folks. noon's the hour for dinner. everybody knows that." "go ahead, ethan. have it now. we may want it every hour in the day, if the feeling i have is anything that lasts very long." thus bidden, ethan and tom at once prepared dinner. while the younger man made a fire, ethan prepared the potatoes, whittling the skins as if he had been carving an oar. he also split three black bass which tom had caught in the morning, and made them ready for broiling. in addition to these he had fresh vegetables, a coffee pot, a can of milk, and various other necessities, and to the surprise of the boys it at once became evident that both ethan and his son were adepts in the art of preparing a dinner in a st. lawrence camp. soon a savory odor rose from the fireplace, and the curiosity of the boys gave place to a feeling of eagerness for the time to come when they would be summoned to the repast. the few dishes were at last brought forth, the dinner was declared to be ready, and the boys fell to with a will. what appetites they had! how good everything tasted! for a time even conversation was neglected, but at last, when the cravings of the inner man began to be appeased, then the joy and inspiration of the hour once more returned. "i s'pose ye've got a pretty fair house down to new york?" queried ethan of jock. "oh, yes. it's one you might call comfortable, i suppose," said jock, with a laugh. "got good beds in it?" "yes." "your ma keeps a girl, i s'pose?" "keeps a girl? i don't know that i understand what you mean," said jock. "i mean what i say. she's got a hired girl, hasn't she?" "do you mean the maids? the servants?" "no, i don' mean no _servants_. i mean hired girls." "well, yes, i suppose she has." "they have four servants--hired girls, i mean," drawled bob. "four, four? what's yer ma do herself?" "oh, she's busy all the time, too busy, my father thinks," laughed jock. "four hired girls! i swan, if that don' beat all creation! what did ye want to come down here for then, i'd like to know? eatin' outdoors and sleepin' on a cot when ye don' have to; that beats me! ye city folks must be a queer lot." "that's just what we're here for, ethan. we came on purpose to get a taste of outdoor life." "well, ye're likely to have a good deal more'n a taste, i'm thinkin'. now, then," he said to tom when the dinner had been eaten, "i'll leave ye here to look after the boys while i go over to the bay an' get the trunks an' things that were checked through. i'll be back by the middle o' the afternoon. ye can get along without me, can't ye?" "yes, yes," said jock. "we want to get out our rods and fix things up a little. we can try the fishing to-morrow, can't we, ethan?" "yes, ye can _try_ it," replied ethan, dryly. "you don't think we'll do much? is that it, or isn't the fishing good this summer?" "oh, the fishin' is all right. lots o' fish here. no trouble about that." but ethan at once went down to the dock and set sail for alexandria bay, and the boys began to look to their rods and guns. tom, who was supposed to be clearing away the dishes, frequently paused in his occupation to examine the belongings of the campers; but, although he was feeling more at ease now with them, not one word of surprise or commendation did he bestow. indeed, his companions began to fear that their tackle must all be wrong or out of date, for the only response tom would make to any of their anxious inquiries, was that 'he supposed 'twas all good enough; he could tell better to-morrow.' when everything had been done which could be done before the trunks came, the four boys together left the camp and walked up the shore. the novelty was still strong, and they were eager to examine their immediate surroundings. and there was much to interest them. swift steam yachts frequently passed up the river, and the groups of happy people on the decks could be plainly seen from the shore. occasionally a puff of smoke could be seen, and the boom of a small cannon on some of the neighboring islands could be heard, and then the shrill scream of the whistle of a passing yacht or steamer would respond in acknowledgment of the salute. skiffs were also seen, and the rod held in the hands of the person seated in the stern would indicate the occupation upon which he was bent. above them was the clear blue sky, behind them the whispering trees of the forest, and before them the great, onward-rushing river, its blue waters knowing no rest, and yet in spite of their evident haste imparting a feeling of restfulness to all the beholders, so vast was the power, so slight the effort required to maintain the steady, constant course. to jock the great river almost seemed to be alive. at times it was restless and almost angry, and then again it seemed to be hastening past him as if it were unmindful of its surroundings, or scornful of the puny people who sailed over its surface or stood wondering upon its banks. but the feeling of exhilaration, the delight in the presence of one of nature's most wonderful works, was apparent in all the boys. as they turned at last to retrace their way to the camp, bob, who had been silent most of the time, said: "this is a great place, jock. 'twas good of you to have us all here." "yes, it was pure philanthropy," said jock. "you see, i had been down here before and wanted all the more to come again; but my father didn't want me to come alone; so i just had to make up a party, or stay at home. i'm generous, am i not?" "yes; what was that?" bob suddenly said, stopping short and peering excitedly out into the river at a place where a whirl or eddy in the stream appeared. "that? oh, that was probably some fish." "jock cope, do you mean to tell me they have fish like that in this river?" "why, yes; what did you think was here?" "oh, i didn't know. but i'm wondering what i would do if a fish as large as that one was should get hold of one end of a line and i should be at the other." "you'd wake up and go to work, for once in your life." "i think i should, for a fact. i almost wish we could try it to-night." "we'll try it, all right, in the morning. ethan will have to get our minnows for us. hark! what's that?" the boys were now near the camp, and suddenly stopped as the sound of some one calling was heard. and yet the voice was more like that of one in distress, and fearful that something was wrong they began to run. as they came to a place from which they could see into the interior of their camping place, they stopped and gazed curiously at the sight before them. tom, evidently thinking that he was unobserved, had taken a position in front of one of the tents and was looking up into the sky. his arms were occasionally flung out, moving with the grace with which a pump handle performs its duties. he was standing with his feet far apart, and his entire bearing betokened the evident excitement under which he was laboring. the startled boys were about to rush forward to his assistance, when they were still further astonished by the words which tom thundered forth. "tew be--or not tew be," shouted the young fisherman. the listening lads gazed blankly at one another, but before they could speak tom's voice was heard again. "_tew_ be--," then came a long pause before he shouted, "or not _tew_ be." his arms were again flung out wildly and his face was still turned toward the sky. apparently the question received no answer, and varying the emphasis and inflection, the sadly troubled tom again broke forth,-- "tew _be-e-e_, or not tew _be-e-e-e_." again our boys gazed blankly, first at the excited young fellow before them, and then into one another's faces. "he's sick! he's crazy!" said ben, excitedly. "he's going to commit suicide!" responded jock, with equal excitement. moved as by a common impulse all four of the boys instantly darted into the camp; but the startled tom, bestowing upon them one glance of terror and confusion, turned and ran swiftly into the woods. chapter v. ben tries the canoe. before any of the boys could start in pursuit of the fleeing tom, one of them suddenly called out, "isn't that ethan coming?" they all turned at the words and perceived the fisherman already near the dock, and with one accord they ran swiftly to meet him. his boat was apparently filled with their trunks and belongings, and the two canoes which jock had ordered to be sent were also on board. as ethan ran his craft alongside the dock, jock, too excited to note carefully whether all his possessions had been obtained or not, called out, "oh, ethan, something's the matter with tom!" "hey? somethin' the matter with him? how long since?" to the surprise of the boys ethan did not seem to share in their alarm. he was giving all his thought to the landing he was making, and as soon as his boat was made fast he climbed up on the dock and stood calmly regarding the excited lads before him. "what's he been doin' now?" he said. "oh, i don't know," exclaimed jock. "we had all gone up the shore and when we came back to camp we heard tom calling. we could see him, too, and he was waving his arms and calling out as if he was in pain, and when we ran in, he just looked at us a minute and then started off into the woods as fast as he could go. he must be sick, ethan. come on, we'll help you look for him." "was he a-sayin' anything?" inquired the fisherman, still for some unaccountable reason not much aroused by the startling announcement. "saying anything?" exclaimed bert. "i should say he was. he was calling and groaning. why, we could hear him way up the shore. he must be in trouble. come, ethan; come on! we'll all help you." "was he a-sayin' anything? i mean any words like?" "yes, i believe he was," said bob. "we could make out a few words." "what was they?" "oh, he said something about 'to be' or something like that. we didn't stop to listen much. the poor fellow was in such distress. what are you waiting for, ethan? why don't you come on?" "that's jest what i thought. tom was sayin' his hamlick." "saying what?" "his hamlick. don' ye know what that is? hamlick's a dialogue or a play. i don' know who writ it, but tom does. the young folks over to the corners is goin' to give a exhibition, and hamlick's the one they decided on. tom is to be hamlick, and he was jest a-practisin' his piece." for a moment the boys gazed blankly at one another, and then all but bob rushed from the dock as if they too had been stricken by the same evil disease which they feared had seized upon tom. bob, however, remained with ethan, and with his face as expressionless as he could make it at times, inquired soberly,-- "when is this play going to be given, ethan?" "oh, i don' know. some time this summer, i suppose. they 'most always give somethin' while the summer boarders is here, and this year the walks needed fixin' up in the corners some, so they--i mean the young folks, o' course--decided to give hamlick; and tom he's to be the hamlick in chief. ever hear that dialogue down to your place?" "yes, i believe i have. i've heard of it, anyway." "i thought likely. pretty good thing, isn't it?" "i believe it is thought to be a very good one. we shall want to know when it is to be given so that we can all come over and see it." "i'll let ye know when it comes off." ethan suddenly placed a finger in his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle. "i guess that'll call up tom," he explained. a repetition of the signal brought the reluctant tom from the woods, and as he approached the dock he gazed in a shame-faced way at bob, as if he expected him to say something about what had happened; but bob's face was still expressionless, to the evident comfort of the young fisherman. "step lively here, tom," called his father. "we must get these trunks and things up to the camp afore night. you 'most scared these boys to death with your hamlick," he added. "your father has been telling us about the play you are to give at the corners, tom," said bob, quietly. "we shall want to come over and see it. you mustn't fail to let us know when it is to be given." somewhat reassured by the kind manner of bob, tom was more at his ease and at once began to assist his father in transferring the cargo of the little boat to the camp. the other boys now returned, but a warning look from bob caused them all to be silent about the recent occurrence. in a brief time the trunks had been placed in the tent where they belonged, the canoes were left on the shore, and then ethan and tom began to prepare supper. the appetites of the boys apparently were as keen as they had been at noon time, and the rapidity with which the table was cleared was a delight to ethan's heart. neither hamlick nor the ghost could interfere now, for the demands of their hunger were supreme. soon after supper ethan and tom departed for the night, promising to return at daybreak in time to prepare breakfast and be ready for the fishing which was to be done on the following day. the boys stood on the shore and watched the boat as it sped away over the river, and then when it had disappeared from sight they all turned and demanded of bob the explanation of hamlick. but bob was in no mood to banter, and so he soberly related what ethan had told him about the efforts of the "young folks" at the corners to do something which should aid in improving the little hamlet in which they dwelt. somehow it all appeared in a different light now, and the merriment was soon gone. "i'm going to have a paddle in one of the canoes before i go to bed," exclaimed jock, as he leaped up from the bank on which they were all seated. as the other boys had had no experience in that sport, they all stood on the dock, eagerly watching their comrade as he took his seat in the light little canoe and wielding his paddle swept swiftly over the water. "did you ever see anything like that!" exclaimed ben, delightedly. "'it's like a feather on the water or a leaf upon the stream,' or something like that we had in our english last spring at school. isn't it fine!" "yes, and how easily jock does it too," added bob, with a wink at bert as he spoke. "travelling like that is just fun." "i wonder if i can't do it," said ben, looking longingly at the other canoe, which was still on the bank. "you can try it, can't you?" drawled bob. "nothing like trying, you know. it's a knack, that's all, and you have to be careful. shall i help you bring the other canoe down to the dock?" ben glanced once more at jock, who could be seen far out on the river, and the sight served to increase his eagerness. "yes; come on, fellows. if you'll help me, i'll try it, anyhow." in a moment the canoe was lifted and carried down to the dock. then bob held one end of it securely and bert the other, while ben cautiously took his seat in the middle. a shout from jock caused them all to look up, and they could see that he was paddling toward them with all the speed he could summon. "perhaps he's calling for you to come out and meet him," said bob, soberly. "i'll do it," said ben, eagerly, "and then race him for the dock. push her out, boys!" he added gleefully, as he grasped his paddle. the canoe shot out from the dock, and the boys stood eagerly watching ben as he drove his paddle deep into the water. "look out there, ben!" shouted bob. "remember, you'll have to keep your balance." "be careful, ben! look to your paddling!" called bert. "don't tip her so much to one side!" "ease up, there! don't lean so far over!" "sit up! lean back! lie down! tip over!" called bob, soothingly. "go up the river! go down the stream! come ashore! turn around! go ahead!" shouted bert, encouragingly. but poor ben was too much occupied with his own efforts to heed the confusing calls of his companions. twice the little canoe had almost capsized, but somehow ben had managed to keep it afloat, though he had abandoned all efforts to paddle and was only striving to keep his craft above the water. "i say, you fellows!" he called in despair. "i can't manage this--hi!" he added, as the canoe gave a lurch and almost went over. "throw me' a rope! come out and help me!" "i can't, my dear, though much i wish, for, oh, you've tied my hands," sang bob, mockingly. "oh, come ashore, ben, if you can't go ahead," called bert, soothingly. "you won't tip over. i'll risk it! i'll risk it!" "you risk noth--" began ben, desperately; but his exclamation was not completed, for as the canoe gave a sudden lurch to one side the unfortunate lad leaned to the other to assist it in righting itself. he leaned too far, however, and then strove to reverse the weight. his actions were frantic now, and it seemed as if there could be but one result, and that must come soon. "it's going!" shouted ben, in despair. "so i see," called bob, encouragingly. "keep it up, ben! what you need is practice. practice makes perfect, you know. keep it up! keep it up!" "i'm going! i'm going! i'm go--" shouted ben. it was evident that he had spoken truly. for a time or two he succeeded in righting his craft, but each effort seemed to make his condition worse. suddenly the canoe went over; the paddle in ben's hands flew out over the water, and then the lad's long legs and feet appeared to be lifted into the air, and waved frantically for a moment before, with a circular movement, they followed their owner and quickly disappeared in the river. "going, going, gone!" called bob, solemnly, as he gazed out over the water at the place where his friend had disappeared. ben was an expert swimmer, much the best of the four, so that they had no fears for his safety; and the ludicrous sight of those long legs, with what bob called "their despairing appeal to come over and help us," disappearing in the st. lawrence, was more than either could endure. they burst into shrieks of laughter. they hugged each other in their delight, and even bob laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. [illustration: "suddenly the canoe went over."--_page ._] but ben speedily appeared, and as he started out for the dock, bert called to him, "your canoe's going down the river, ben; so's your paddle." "the proper way, my friend, to paddle a canoe is from the upper, not the under, side," said bob, soothingly. "take my advice, ben." ben was for taking the canoe, however, which already was drifting away from him; but as he started to swim toward it, jock swept past him, and, calling to him to go ashore, said that he would get both canoe and paddle. when ben climbed in his dripping clothes up on the dock, the laughter of the boys was renewed. "you'd have done all right, ben, if you'd left those feet and legs of yours ashore. they were in the way. there are some things even the st. lawrence won't stand." "you wait," said ben, doggedly. "i'll show you yet." and "show" them he did. as soon as the canoe was restored he insisted upon repeating his experience. it was true that he was capsized again, but he sturdily stuck to his task, and in an hour had, in a measure, mastered the problem, and was able to paddle swiftly up and down the river. it was dark now, and the boys were soon ready for bed. a pile of logs had been placed before their tent, and as soon as the other boys were in their cots, jock started the fire. the light of the flames could be seen far out over the river, and it was long before sleep came to the campers. the sighing of the wind in the tree-tops, the rush of the mighty waters, the constant lapping of the little waves upon the shore, the twinkling stars, which could be seen beyond the waving branches, were all novel and strange. then, too, when some of the boys would be ready for sleep, others would not feel so inclined. they would leave their tent and fire their guns at imaginary enemies or wild beasts. the school cheer, and even the school songs, had to be given again and again, but at last even these experiences became monotonous, and the tired boys slept. it was not long after dawn on the following morning when jock and ben sat up in their beds and looked about them. both of their companions were gone, but the sounds that came from the river left no doubt as to their whereabouts. hastily dressing, both boys ran down to the shore and there beheld their friends, clad in their bathing-suits, and practising the art of paddling a canoe without departing from the craft when it was in motion. apparently both boys had already succeeded, but even their efforts were ignored when ethan and tom were discovered approaching in their sailboat, and all knew that not only would the breakfast for which they were eager soon be ready now, but that their first efforts in fishing in the st. lawrence would soon be put to the test. chapter vi. the first day's sport. ethan and his son soon had breakfast ready for the campers, and as they had brought with them from home some dainty viands such as only the housewives of the region knew how to prepare, these, with the food the fishermen cooked, made a repast over which even a king might have rejoiced, especially if he could have boasted of such an appetite as the lads on pine tree island had. none of them was thinking, however, of kings or of kingly appetites that morning; and when at last the boys ceased, chiefly because even the well-spread table had been cleared, jock turned to ethan and said, "where are you going to take us to-day?" "fishin'." "yes, i know; but where are we going to fish?" "oh, i haven't jest made up my mind yet. mebbe in one place, and then again mebbe in another. will try our luck till we strike what we want." perceiving that ethan was averse to committing himself on such delicate matters, jock called to his companions and they at once began to collect their rods and the various necessities of the day, and by the time they had all things ready, ethan and tom had stored away the cooking utensils, and soon after came to the dock. "is it safe to leave everything here in the camp without any one to watch it?" said bob. "hey?" replied ethan. "safe? 'tisn't goin' to rain to-day." "oh, i wasn't afraid of the weather. i didn't know but some one might come along and, finding no one in the camp, help himself; that's all." "folks is honest here," said ethan, gruffly. "i s'pose you have to keep your doors locked down to new york, don't ye?" "why, yes, we usually do," said bert. "well, i'm glad i don't live there, that's all i can say then. i haven't got a lock on my house over at the corners, and i haven't had since i built, nigh on twenty-two years ago." "what!" exclaimed ben. "you don't mean to say you don't lock up nights, do you?" "that's just what i mean to say. i never had nothin' stole since i've lived here. folks is honest here, i tell ye. if anything is taken, it'll be because some o' the city folks what come down here summers has taken it. the city must be a dreadful place to live in. they say even flowers won't grow there; an' if the posies don't like it, i don't know what it must be when it comes to huming bein's and boys. heow ye goin' to divide up yer party?" it was speedily arranged that jock and bob should go with ethan, and the other boys with tom. the skiffs were at once prepared, and when the fishing tackle had been placed on board, the boys took their seats as the men directed. what a delightful experience it was, they all thought. the skiffs were models of beauty and grace, and the seats the boys occupied were cane chairs from which the legs had been cut, and were also provided with cushions. bob was seated in the stern and jock in the bow, with ethan between them, and in the other boat a similar arrangement had been made. as soon as he perceived that they were ready, ethan grasped the oars, and with steady strokes began to row out into the river. the water over which they passed was clear and beautiful. scarcely a breeze ruffled the surface, and as the light skiff darted ahead, it almost seemed as if it required no effort to send it forward. "i don't know but ye might as well bait up," said ethan, when they had gone a few hundred yards from the camp. "i don't s'pose ye'll catch anything here, but there's no harm in tryin'. it's about time for the muscalonge to begin to run, an' who knows but ye might strike one?" ethan rested on his oars, and taking first one of the lines and then the other, attached a live minnow to each of the hooks, and threw them overboard. "neow, let out about a hundred an' twenty-five or fifty feet," he said, "an' we'll troll till we get where we're goin' first." far behind on one side of the skiff stretched jock's line, and on the other was bob's, and as they paid out the slender cord they could see that their friends in the other boat, which was distant about two hundred yards, had followed their example. "this is what i call great sport," said jock, contentedly. "it is pretty good," replied bob. "at least it isn't what you call actual labor, except for ethan. i think it's rather my way of fishing. i've heard them tell about catching trout with an eight-ounce rod, and how a fellow has to crawl through the bushes and tumble over the logs, and then he makes his cast. he mustn't move, they say, not even if a million million mosquitoes and black flies light on his hand; and then if he succeeds, at last he yanks up a little speckled trout that weighs about four ounces, and he thinks he's had a great catch. no, i think this is the situation which is better adapted to my precious and delicate frame," and as he spoke bob stretched himself out lazily in his chair and permitted his rod to rest on the boat, while he gazed about him with an air of deep satisfaction and content. and truly there was much to produce that feeling. the early sunlight now flashed across the water and covered all things with its halo. in the distance were the dark green forests, and here and there among the islands, or on the main shore, the rising curls of smoke indicated the location of the cottages or summer camps. the very air was a tonic; or, as jock declared, 'it seemed to him it was so laden with life that he could almost bite it off.' and all the time the two boats were moving slowly and steadily over the water, ethan pulling lightly at the oars and from time to time glancing keenly at the lines, which seemed to fade away in the river. the calls of the far-away crows or the sight of a great hawk circling high in the heavens above them only increased the wildness of the scene, and for a time the roar of the great city and the sight of its crowded streets seemed only like the memory of a dream. even the occupation in which the boys were supposed to be engaged seemed unreal, and bob closed his eyes dreamily and permitted the rays of the sun to strike him full in the face. "i say, ethan," said bob, opening his eyes lazily, "don't you think it hurts the fish you put on those hooks?" "hurt 'em? naw! fish hasn't any feelin's." "how do you know that, ethan?" "they never make no complaint, do they?" "yes, they kick." "no, they don't kick. they can't kick without legs, can they? they jest wiggle." "it's all the same. it seems pretty hard to put 'em on those hooks." "hard? not a bit. it's give an' take with a fish. the big fish eat the little ones, and the little ones eat the smaller fellows. now it's only gettin' what they tried to give, that's all; and they can't complain." bob made no reply, and settled back into his former lazy attitude. ethan still rowed slowly on, casting occasional glances at the lines, which the boys had apparently forgotten. but the fisherman knew what was unknown by the others in the boat, and that was that they were approaching a shoal, and it was not unlikely that something might happen here of interest to all on board. suddenly bob sat erect in his seat and made a frantic grasp at his rod, which had almost been torn from his hands. "hold on, ethan," he said quickly. "my hook's caught on the bottom." the fisherman smiled, but made no reply as he backed water and swung the little boat around in the current. "caught on the bottom, did ye?" he inquired sharply. "well, that doesn't look much like bottom!" as he spoke, about a hundred feet in the rear of the boat a good-sized fish leaped from the surface in the sight of them all, and almost seemed to shake himself as a dog does when he has been in the water. "bass," said ethan, laconically. "now look out heow ye play him. don't give him any slack. be careful. keep yer hand on the reel." it is doubtful whether bob heard any of the boatman's directions, for he was all excitement now. he stood up in the boat and gave all his attention to the fish, which was struggling to free himself. again and again the tip of the rod was drawn under the water, and the "zip" of the line as it sped from the reel was distinctly heard. the bass was well hooked, and for a time the struggle became most exciting. again and again bob brought the fish near to the boat, and then, with a dart and a rush, away the victim would go, making the reel sing as the line was drawn out. "be careful," muttered ethan. "you'll tucker him out pretty quick, an' then we'll have him. give him the line, but don't let him have any slack. that's right. let him go," he added, as once more the fish darted toward the deeper water. bob steadily held to his task, and when he felt that the run of the bass was ended, began once more to reel him in toward the boat. the fish was evidently tired now, and his resistance was much less strong. nearer and nearer the eager boy brought him, and soon, peering over the side of the boat, could see in the clear water the movements of the struggling fish. ethan had grasped his landing-net, and was ready for the last effort. "bring him up near the boat now," he said, "and we've got him. look sharp, and don't give him any slack!" he added, as the fish, perhaps having caught sight of the boat, began once more to struggle desperately. darting first in one direction and then in another he made the line cut deeply into the water, while more than once he dragged the rod far below the surface. "look out, now! don't give him any slack! bring him up alongside!" called ethan, as with his landing-net in the water he endeavored to thrust it under the struggling fish. but, alas! in his excitement bob either neglected the directions given him or was unable to comply, for somehow his grasp on the reel was removed, the line sped out, and when the excited lad began to reel in again, the tension was suddenly relaxed, and with a quick movement of the boat he was thrown back into the chair. "he's gone! he's got away!" exclaimed bob, ruefully. "so i see," remarked ethan, as he calmly picked up his oars and resumed his labors. "but he was a big fellow!" protested bob, "and i had him right up to the boat." "he was a pretty good one," said ethan, "but it's a game of 'now you see him and now you don't.' it's a good deal of a trick to know how to land a three-pound bass. still, you didn't do so very bad for a greenhorn." bob made no reply as he slowly reeled in his line at the boatman's direction. greenhorn! well, there were some things he did not know, although he had spent much time in the city. to his mind ethan, with all his good qualities, had been the greenhorn; but now the boatman was the one to accuse him of the possession of that very quality. his respect for ethan went up instantly, and he looked up at him in a new light. "you'll soon get the hang o' it," said ethan kindly, as he proceeded to bait bob's hook again. "you did first-rate for a beginner. the main thing is to look out for yer slack. a bass is a fighter, and he'll take advantage o' ye every time you give him a chance. i think we'll try it again around this shoal. one strike may bring another." "why do the bass come to the shoals, ethan?" inquired jock. "that's where the minnies [ethan meant minnows] are, and they're the ones the bass feed on. now we'll try it again." once more ethan began to row, and the long lines dragged on behind the boat. both boys were all eagerness now, and bob's laziness had departed. they watched and waited for the longed-for "strike," and soon to bob's great delight he felt the tug upon his line which indicated that his hook had again been seized. "now be careful, son," said ethan, "and mind you don't give him any slack." mindful of the caution, bob worked carefully, and after a time succeeded in bringing the fish up to the boat, when ethan deftly thrust the landing-net underneath it and threw it into the boat, and with a blow of a stout hickory club speedily put an end to the struggle. "i 'most always does that," he explained. "i don't s'pose a fish knows anything about it, but i don't like to see 'em go ker-flop, ker-flop! so i puts 'em out o' their misery. besides, they're better eatin' when ye treat 'em that way." "this one is a little fellow," said bob, regretfully, as he gazed at the fish, which now had been thrown into the fish-box. "the other must have been ten times as large as this one. that was a monster!" "the big ones 'most always gets away," replied ethan, smilingly. "an' they grow mighty fast, too, sometimes. the farther away they git the bigger they be." "what do you mean?" "oh, nothin'; but that i've knowed a man when he was out with me to lose a half-pound bass, an' by the time he got back to the camp or the hotel, that 'ere bass weighed a plump five pound. it's marvellous like, the way they grow sometimes." "where's the other boat?" said jock. "i dunno. we'll let 'em look after themselves a bit. we'll try it here again afore we leave. it's your turn next to get one." eager to continue the sport, the boys once more let out their lines, as ethan began to row slowly over the shoal again. chapter vii. in goose bay. the success which attended their efforts was not great, and after a few more bass had been taken, jock, to his chagrin, not having even one strike, ethan decided to leave that ground for another. "i think i'll take ye over to goose bay," he said. "that's where i told tom to go, and probably they're there by this time." "that's historic ground, isn't it, ethan?" inquired bob. "yes. the british and yankees had a bit of a go round there in the war of . i'll show ye jest where it was when we get there." "how did you know there was a fight there, bob?" said jock, quickly. "'most everybody knows about that, i s'pose," said ethan, before bob could reply. "everybody round these parts has heard of it." bob looked up at jock and winked slowly. "do you remember what oliver wendell holmes said about every little place he went to thinking it was the central spot of all the world, and that the axis of the earth came straight up through it? he went down to a little place named hull, once, and when he came away he said the people there were all quoting pope, though they didn't know it, and saying, 'all are but parts of one stupendous hull'! remember that, jock?" "ye needn't be makin' fun o' me," said ethan, sharply. "i guess folks round here is as smart as they be anywhere. you city people talk about how green country folks are when they come to teown, but i don't believe they're any greener than city folks be when they go into the country." "i didn't mean that," said bob, quickly. "i was only wondering a little why it was that you thought everybody ought to know about goose bay, and the time the british and our men had here in the war of ." "why shouldn't they know about it, i'd like to know?" replied ethan, somewhat mollified. "it's hist'ry; an' ye study hist'ry, don't ye?" "we pretend to; but jock here doesn't know much about it, you see," said bob. "he'll larn. but i was speakin' about the greenness o' city folks in the country. well, they be green. my wife had a time of it with the fresh airers only last summer." "the 'fresh airers'? what are they?" "don't ye know what they be? well, i swan, ye're greener 'n i thought. they're the boys an' girls the folks pick up off the streets in the city and send up into the country every summer. we had some last year." "oh, yes, i know. you mean the children sent out by the fresh-air fund." "i s'pose i do. we call 'em 'fresh airers' up here." "what did they do?" inquired jock. "lots o' things. two of 'em--we had five to our house--was walkin' along the road with me the next day after they come, an' one little fellow ran up the bank an' began to pick some buttercups what was growin' there. the other little chap was scared like, an' he called out, pretty sharp, 'hi, there, henry! keep off the grass or the cop'll get ye!' an' he meant it too." "poor little wretches," said jock, sympathizingly. "'twasn't whether they was wretches or not; 'twas their greenness i was thinkin' on. we had a lot o' bee-hives out near the back door, an' after dinner that same day my wife looked out the window an' she see that same little chap there with a stick in his hand. he'd jest poked one o' the hives over, and the bees was fightin' mad. she was scared 'most out o' her seven senses, my wife was, an' she jest grabbed her sunbunnit an' hurried out o' the house an' screamed to that young 'un to come on. he didn't want to come, an' was layin' about him with his stick; but my wife ran out an' grabbed him by the hand an' they started up the hill 'lickety-whew, yer journey pursue,' an' the bees after 'em. they finally made eout to get free from 'em, an' then the little shaver was for goin' back an' havin' it out with 'em. 'them bugs bit me,' he says, says he, 'an' i'm goin' to go back and fight 'em.'" both the boys laughed heartily at ethan's narrative, and now that his good humor was restored, he said, "wasn't that greenness for ye? that same little chap was a great one, he was. he was tickled to pieces to gather the hens' eggs. he'd be out in the barn an' kep' so close after the hens they didn't have a chance to hop onto a nest, so that my wife had to tell him that he mustn't go out there for the eggs except when she told him he could. he teased like a good fellow, an' finally 'bout noon the next day she told him he could go out an' get the eggs. he was gone a long time, an' she kind o' mistrusted some-thin' was wrong, so she started out to 'view the landscape o'er,' as the tune says; but pretty quick she sees him a-comin' out o' the barn holdin' his hat in his hand, an' lookin' as disconsolate like as if he'd lost every friend he ever had or ever expected to have on this earth. 'what's the matter, sonny?' says she, 'can't ye find any eggs?' 'yes,' says he, 'i found two, but they ain't no good.' 'what's the trouble?' says she. 'they ain't no good,' says he, again. 'the old hen was on the nest, an' when i scart her off, the eggs was spoiled,' says he. 'i guess she's cooked 'em, for they're both warm!' i'd like to know if any country boy could be greener in the city than that city boy was in the country?" "i don't believe he could," laughed jock. "that's my opinion, too," said ethan, soberly. "why, that there boy was the greenest thing alive! d'ye know, he 'lowed he'd never seen a live pig in all his born days. what d'ye think o' that? yes, sir! never had seen a live pig, an' he was a boy ten year old, goin' on 'leven." ethan's reminiscences were cut short, however, for they were now entering goose bay. its wooded shores and high bluffs, its still waters and little islands, in the light of the morning sun, presented a scene of marvellous beauty, and both boys were much impressed by the sight. in the distance they perceived their companions, and as soon as they had been seen, ethan exclaimed,-- "they're still-fishin'." "still fishing? of course they are. why shouldn't they be?" inquired bob. "ye're as green as that city boy i was tellin' ye of. still-fishin' is jest fishin' still, ye know. not trollin' the way i'm goin' to, but they're anchored, and are havin' a try with worms for bait." "what do they catch?" said bob. "i don't know what they're catchin', but there's perch there, an' i presume that's what they're fishin' for. we'll try the bass, though, a spell longer." ethan rowed slowly in near the shore, and had gone but a short distance before bob felt the welcome tug upon his line, and, after a contest of a few minutes, succeeded in bringing the struggling fish close to the boat, where it was successfully landed by the boatman. bob was doing better now and profiting by his mistakes, but jock had not caught a fish since they had started from the camp. "what's the trouble, ethan? why don't i get any?" he said. "more'n i can tell ye. bees won't sting some folks and dogs won't bite 'em, either. mebbe it's the same way with fishes." jock's ill-luck still continued, however, and although ethan rowed over the rocky shoal for an hour and a half, not a fish did the eager lad secure. bob was rapidly becoming an expert, and already had landed a half-dozen large bass, and had lost only three. "i'll row ye in-shore a bit," said ethan, dropping his oars and taking a tin cup, with which he dipped up some of the water in the bay and quenched his thirst. "what's wrong with this work?" inquired bob. "i'm not finding any fault." "probably not," replied ethan, dryly. "we'll change our tune a spell, and see if we can't do some thin' for this other boy." bob uttered no further protest, and ethan at once sent the little skiff swiftly toward the shore. as it grounded upon the beach he said, "now you two boys get out an' wait for me here. i'll be back pretty quick, an' we'll see what can be done." the boys obediently leaped ashore and then stood for a moment together as they watched their boatman. ethan moved out near a low point and, dropping overboard his anchor, took a light little rod they had noticed in the boat, and began to fish. they could see him as he drew several into the boat, and then in a few minutes he came for the waiting lads. "wait a minute," he said, as he drew the boat up on the beach. "i'm goin' to do somethin' else. i'm goin' to have young jock get a fish if such a thing is possible." ethan walked up the shore, and the boys could see him as he darted in among the rushes, leaping about like a schoolboy. they could not perceive what his object was, but as they had implicit confidence in his ability, they remained contentedly where they were, and ethan soon returned. "there!" he exclaimed. "neow if them fish don't bite, it won't be because we haven't given 'em what they want for dinner. get aboard, boys." the boys quickly resumed the places they had occupied, and their boatman once more began to row. "don't let out yer lines yet," he said. "wait till i'm ready for ye." wondering what plan ethan had in mind, the boys obeyed, and ethan soon started toward another part of the bay. he glanced keenly about him and then peered over into the water. apparently satisfied with his inspection, he let the anchor fall, and as the skiff swung around before the light wind and settled into position, he said, "let's have your lines, boys." "we're going to still-fish, are we, ethan?" said jock. "i'm thinkin' some on it." "what do we catch here?" inquired bob. "that depends. some folks catches one thing and some another, an' sometimes they doesn't catch anything at all." "why do you put such a fish as that on my hook?" exclaimed jock, aghast. ethan had taken a fish, a "chub," he termed it, which must have weighed a full half pound at least, and baited jock's hook with it. "to catch fish with," remarked ethan, laconically, as, after inspecting the struggling bait, he threw it overboard. "now let him take your line and go where he wants to. not too fast. go easy, like," he added, as he turned to equip bob in a similar manner. "ethan thinks we're after alligators or whales," said bob, as his own line began to run out. "oh, well, we'll have the fun of sitting out here on the water if we don't get a strike," he added, settling back in his comfortable chair. indeed it did seem as if no fish in the st. lawrence would be attracted by such a bait as that which the boatman had provided. neither of the boys really expected any result, but they were not inclined to protest. the scene about them was the reflection of that within. a perfect summer day, with woods in the distance, and a silence interrupted only by the harsh cawing of the crows. the beautiful water glistening in the sunlight, and the gentle motion of the skiff as it slowly turned with the slightly changing breeze, increased the sense of absolute peacefulness. the roar of the city seemed like something unreal and something which they never had actually heard. neither of the boys spoke for a time, and bob closed his eyes as he leaned back in his seat. ethan also was silent, but his keen eyes were seldom taken from the lines. "your bait seems to be goin' up-stream," he said in a low voice to jock. instantly the lad sat erect and looked eagerly at his line. it did seem to be moving through the water, but as yet he had felt no tug, and could hardly believe it was anything more than the motion of the "chub." "is it a fish, ethan?" he exclaimed excitedly. "looks like it." "shall i reel him in?" he inquired, as he started to rise from his chair. "no, no!" replied ethan, quickly. "let him get the bait. if he swallows it for good and all, you'll have him." all in the boat were now following the movements of jock's line. the lad had reeled out more, and still it was steadily moving away. for two full minutes the excitement continued, and then ethan said:-- "reel in now, a bit. do it gently, and don't skeer him. want me to take the rod?" "no!" exclaimed jock, decidedly. "i'll win or lose him myself." slowly he turned the reel, gazing eagerly all the time at his line in the water, but as yet he had felt no response. suddenly there was a yank which almost took the rod from his hand, and which made the reel sing as the line was drawn from it. "let him go! let him go! ye'll have to tucker him eout!" exclaimed ethan. "i'm thinkin he felt somethin' prick his heart." "shall i stand up?" said jock, in increasing excitement. "no, ye'll be overboard if ye do. now, keerful! reel him in when ye can, and when he wants to take the bit in his teeth let him go. there! that's the way! that's the way to do it!" jock was enjoying the contest hugely. he would reel in a few yards, and then with a savage plunge the fish would dart away again, only to have the measure repeated. five minutes, ten minutes, passed, and still the contest was not ended, nor had jock had one glimpse of the fish he had hooked. from its struggles and the manner in which it pulled, the excited lad thought he must have caught a monster of some kind. he was reeling in steadily now, and peering at the same time over into the water. suddenly he caught sight of a huge body near the boat and knew that it must be his victim; but the glance was only for a moment, for with another desperate plunge the fish darted away again and the reel repeated its song. "he's gettin' tuckered out," said ethan. "now don't give him any slack, and look out for your rod, or he'll snap it in a minit. keep a steady hand this time, an' i'll see what i can do with the gaff." jock had no idea of what a "gaff" was, but he gave it little thought, whatever it might be. the fish was coming steadily this time, and once more the eager boy could see him in the water. "now be keerful! bring him up alongside the boat. there! that's right!" said ethan, in a low voice. "what a beauty!" exclaimed the delighted jock. "keep still, or ye'll scare him," warned ethan. but the fish was within reach now, and the boatman leaned forward, and with a quick thrust of his gaff drove it into the body. there was a splash of water, the light skiff rocked until the boys were almost thrown from their seats, and then they instantly recovered themselves and turned to see the result of ethan's effort. chapter viii. jock has his turn. there was a commotion on board which seemed to threaten the safety of all. the huge fish was throwing himself from side to side, but ethan was equal to the emergency, and with his merciful hickory club soon put an end to the struggle. "whe-e-w!" exclaimed jock, in delight. "isn't he a beauty!" "that depends," said ethan, laconically. "i don't believe that chub thought he was specially pretty, when he saw this fellow get after him." "he seems to have a remarkably open countenance," drawled bob, as he pried open the great mouth with the end of his rod. "'tis something of a mouth the pickerel has, for a fact," said ethan. "d'ye see how the teeth are all set the wrong way?" the two boys eagerly examined their prize. the mottled sides still glistened and the beautiful markings were all clear; but the mouth, as the boatman had said, was enough to strike terror to all fishes of lesser degree. "not much chance for a chub if that trap once shuts to on him," said ethan. "if he tries to back out, he only drives the teeth in farther." "how much will he weigh, ethan?" inquired jock. "oh, seven or eight pounds. it's a pretty fair pickerel." jock was disappointed. to him it had seemed as if the pickerel must have weighed much more than that. his disappointment was still further increased when ethan added, "they ain't much good for eatin'. oh, ye can eat 'em if ye want to, an' some folks like 'em first-rate, but give me a bass every time." "that's the reason i caught bass," drawled bob. "it's a shame to pull out a pickerel when you don't want him." "pity about you," laughed jock. "i don't care about fooling with little bass that aren't big enough to leave their mothers. when i catch a fish i want to get one large enough to know what he's doing. hello," he suddenly added, "there comes the other boat. i wonder what luck they've had." the other skiff was now swiftly approaching, as jock had said, and in a few minutes it came alongside. long before it was near enough for his voice to be heard, jock exultingly held up to view the immense fish he had captured, and when his friends came closer, great was their astonishment and many their words of praise. "we'll go ashore for dinner now," said ethan, after the prize had been examined. "ye're ready to stop a bit, aren't ye?" "we are," shouted the boys together; and side by side the two skiffs moved toward the shore. before the boys landed they discovered that near the place to which evidently ethan was going were the ruins of some building which plainly had been a large one. the boatman explained that a hotel had stood there at one time, but it had been burned, and never had been rebuilt. as the boys leaped ashore they all eagerly examined the catch which tom's boat had made. there were several bass and a fish which strongly resembled the pickerel which jock had caught, though it was much smaller. "they've got a pickerel, too," said jock, as he discovered the fish. "that isn't any pickerel," remarked tom. "what is it, then? it looks just like one," said jock. "it's a muscalonge. it's a little fellow, and the first one i've seen this year." "ye ought not to have saved him, tom," remonstrated ethan. "if you'd let him go, he might 'a' growed big enough to amount to somethin'." "i thought of it, but i didn't know what luck you were having, and i knew we'd want some fish for dinner, so i let him stay." "if they're beginnin' to run, mebbe we'll strike one some day that's o' decent size. jock, if ye ever get a muscalonge what weighs forty pound on the end o' yer line, ye'll find out that catchin' pickerel's boys' play alongside o' it." "do you really think we'll get one?" said jock, eagerly. "can't tell. like enough ye will, an' jest as likely ye won't. out with ye now, the whole kit and posse o' ye," he added, and the boys turned toward the grove of maples which grew near the shore. "this is what i call great fun!" exclaimed ben, as he threw his long body on the grass. "i think i could almost make up poetry if i was to stay here long enough." "your face looks as if it was burning with poetic fire," drawled bob. "it can't look worse than yours," replied ben, as he placed his hands on his cheeks. indeed, all four of the boys presented a similar appearance, for the effect of the rays of the sun reflected from the water had made all their faces of a decidedly brilliant hue. jock tried to comfort them by explaining that that was what was to be expected, and that more marked results than these were likely to be attained before their stay in camp was over. but for the present the boys were content as they lay beneath the grateful shade of the spreading maples. in the distance was the glorious st. lawrence, and an occasional whistle indicated that yachts were speeding over its course, or that the river boats were passing. other skiffs had now entered goose bay, and as they moved slowly over the shoals or anchored near the "weeds," it became evident that its waters were well known before the coming of our boys. it was now noon time, and the leaves upon the trees were hardly moved by a breeze; out on the bay the sun was beating, and the quivering motions of the air under the influence of the summer heat could be distinctly seen. in the distance the calls of the crows could be heard, but otherwise the quiet of the day was unbroken. on every side was the solitude, and as one of the boys expressed it, 'they could almost hear the silence.' yet the impression produced by it all was as strong as it was novel. the struggle for existence, the life of the city, the rumble and indefinable roar of the town, were all forgotten for the time. here, at least, was peace, and the reluctance of ethan to leave his home by the great river, or depart from the comradeship of the st. lawrence, could be readily understood. all four of the boys felt the influence of the scene, and after a few minutes the laughter and conversation ceased, and the young fishermen were as silent as the silent trees above them. their revery was soon interrupted by the call of ethan for them to come to dinner, and with a shout the boys leaped to their feet and ran to the place where the dinner had been prepared. the sight which met their eyes was one which might have done even an epicure good. both the fishermen had been busy, and the results of their labors were now manifest. a fire had been kindled near the shore, and over it had been placed a contrivance with which nearly every fisherman on the st. lawrence was provided. a frying-pan and pot had been used, in the former of which small pieces of salt pork and some of the recently caught fish had been cooked, and in the latter were green corn and potatoes. coffee, also, had been made, and when the boys seated themselves upon the bank they perceived that ethan had brought other dainties from his home. huge "doughnuts," and cookies of ample size, as well as pickles and various other dainties, were there. a large can filled with milk was also placed upon the improvised table, and altogether the "spread," as bert termed it, was most inviting. "where did you get all these things?" exclaimed the delighted bob. "brought 'em with me in the skiff." "is that what you do, every day you go fishing?" "'most always, when i take out city folks. i think they like the dinner we cook about as well as they do the fishin' itself. 'long about noon time we usually land and cook the dinner. every boat has a lay-out somethin' like ours, though i don't say every one is as good as this," he continued, with pardonable pride. "i should say not," replied ben, as the boys all fell to with a will. for a time scarcely a word was spoken, so busy were they all in the occupation upon which they were engaged. ethan still remained by the fire, and from time to time brought pieces of the sputtering pork, which somehow seemed to disappear almost as rapidly as they came. "what kind of meat did you say this is?" inquired bob, as distinctly as one could pronounce the words when his mouth was filled with the article in question, and at the same time leaning forward to make sure that the last piece on the plate should not be wasted. "salt pork." "i never tasted of it before." "go 'long," said ethan, incredulously. "ye don't really mean it, do ye?" "yes, i do mean it," replied bob. "it's my first experience; and my only hope is that it won't be my last." "if you don't stop before long it'll be your last, i'm sure," interrupted ben, himself as deeply engrossed in the occupation as was bob. "well," said ethan, "i wouldn't 'a' believed that ye never eat any fried salt pork afore. why, everybody eats it." "i don't wonder," murmured bob, as he dexterously flung a corn-cob, which had now served its full duty, at a tree in the distance. "i'm afraid ethan doesn't think we know much," said jock. "he's been telling us this morning about the greenness of city people when they're in the country. i'm inclined to think he's right, too." "well, they be green," protested ethan, sturdily. "i had a young fellow from bosting up here last year, what i rowed for, an' if ye believe me, he didn't actually know how many teeth a cow had on her upper jaw. no, sir, he didn't for a fact; an' he was in college, too. mebbe ye don't believe me, but it's true as yer life, what i'm tellin' ye." there was a twinkle in ethan's eyes as he spoke, which was not lost upon our boys, who were looking somewhat foolishly at one another. perhaps they were fearful that the question would be brought home to them. their anxiety was relieved when jock spoke up quickly, and said, "tell us, ethan. how many teeth does a cow have on her upper jaw? i don't know; i don't, for a fact." "thank you! you have expressed my feelings exactly," said bert, partly rising from his seat, and bowing in mock honor at jock. "she has all she needs, i'm thinkin'," said ethan. "if ye don't know, i shan't tell ye. i understand all four o' you boys are goin' to college, an' when ye get there i'm thinkin' some o' those latin or greek books'll tell ye all about it." at last the dinner apparently was finished, and with a sigh bob rose from his seat. "this has been a great treat, ethan," he said. "if delmonico or the waldorf-astoria can do better, i've yet to learn it." "there's one thing they can't furnish," said ethan. "what's that?" "the appetite. it takes this river and the air to furnish that." "that's so; though i hadn't thought of it." "hold on," said ethan, quickly. "we aren't done yet. tom, you go down to my skiff an' bring up those pies an' things in the box under the back seat. be quick, lad, or the appetite'll get away from these boys." "poison things? what do you mean, ethan?" laughed bob. "aren't you satisfied with feeding us in this way? don't you want the trouble of rowing us back to camp?" "i didn't say nothin' about 'poison things,'" replied ethan, gruffly. "i was talkin' about pies. ye know what pie is, don't ye?" "i do that," replied bob. "it's something i have never had enough of yet." "i should think ye ought to get enough, if ye have it three times a day." "three times a day! i never have it but once, and then in small doses." "sho! i know better. all folks always have it reg'lar three times a day. why, i shouldn't feel as if i'd had my breakfast if i hadn't had a piece o' pie and a doughnut along with it." "ethan," said bob, soberly, "do you take summer boarders at your house?" "no, i don't. we did take some one time, but we'll never do it again." "why not?" "why, do you know," said ethan, in a low voice, as if he was imparting a secret, "some o' those folks bothered us dreadful. yes, sir; they did, for a fact. there was one o' the men we couldn't get eout o' bed before six o'clock in the mornin'. what d'ye think o' that? yes, sir, he'd actually lie in bed till six o'clock in the mornin'! but we must get out o' this if we're to do any more fishin' to-day. come, tom, help me clear away these dishes." that task was speedily accomplished, and then the sport was resumed. a fair degree of success attended their efforts, and as the sun began to sink low in the western sky, goose bay was abandoned for the time being, and the two skiffs were headed for the camp on pine tree island. chapter ix. ancient history. it was supper time when the boys arrived in camp, and ethan and his son at once prepared the evening meal. strange as it may seem to be, the appetites of the campers were almost as keen as they had been for the dinner at goose bay, and a full hour had elapsed before they rose from the table. as soon as the remains of the feast had been cleared away, that is, if dishes can be called "remains," for little else was left by the hungry lads, ethan and tom prepared to depart for home, promising to be back in camp in time for breakfast. "you won't forget what i told you, ethan," called jock, as the men were about to set sail. "no. i'll go over to the bay [alexandria bay, ethan meant] and stop on my way home. i'll fix you out to-morrow mornin' sure." "what conspiracy are you up to now, jock?" inquired bert. "that's a secret," replied jock, laughingly. "if it's a good day to-morrow you'll know all about it. you'll like it, too. i'm sure you will; and it'll leave even the fishing we've had to-day away behind." "what is it?" persisted bert. "more fishing?" "no. you've had enough of that for one day, i should judge by the looks of your face. it'll peel in a day or two." "i can stand it to have a layer or two drop off. but what is it you and ethan are going to do to-morrow?" "sufficient unto the day is the question thereof," answered jock. "i shan't tell you, bert. it's to be a surprise." "come up here, you fellows," called bob from the bank. "we want your valuable assistance. my little body is aweary." "since when?" called jock, as he and his companions started back to camp. "since i've been trying to roll these logs into position. lend a hand, you two. i'm not equal to the task." the boys all began to labor now, and soon had a great pile of logs in the fireplace in front of the camp, under these some kindlings were placed, and as soon as all things were in readiness, bob took a match and started a fire. the flames were soon leaping into the air and cast their beams far out over the river. the boys then threw themselves upon the ground in front of the blazing logs, and for a time no one spoke. [illustration: "the fire roared, and the flames leaped higher."--_page ._] the fire roared, and the flames leaped higher into the air. all about them it was as light as day, and the scene was indescribably weird. the great river swept onward in its course, and its waters reflected the light of the blazing camp-fire. the branches of the tall trees in the rear of the camp swayed before the night wind, and increased the wildness of the scene. bats could be seen circling about in the air, as if they were startled and confused by the strange light. across the water came the faint and indistinct sounds of a party of young people out for an evening sail. altogether the experience was so novel that the boys were all impressed by it, but it was impossible for them long to remain silent, and bob was the first to speak. "i've been thinking about the history of goose bay. it is an historical spot, you know, boys, just as ethan said it was." "suppose you tell us about it, then," said ben, whose long form had hardly stirred since the fire had been kindled. "that's just what i was intending to do," replied bob. "it'll be a good lullaby," drawled ben. "if you hear any sound that leads you to suspect that i have fallen asleep, please don't blame me. i always go to sleep when i try to read history." "as long as there are live coals here, you'd better not go to sleep," warned bob. "i'll serve you worse than the tithing-men used to serve the old farmers who went to sleep during the sermon." "oh, no, you won't. it won't be my fault if you put me to sleep. did you ever hear what henry ward beecher said about the tithing-man and his pole?" "no. what did he say?" "he said if he saw anybody going to sleep when he was speaking, he didn't want any tithing-man to come around with his stick and stir the man up, but he wanted him to take his stick and stir him up, for it was his fault if he let a man go to sleep. see?" "yes," replied bob. "i'll do my best. listen, then, my children, and you shall hear the wonderful tale of goose bay." "i knew a goose had a tail, but i didn't know goose bay had a tail." "well, it has," replied bob, as he pretended to kick a live coal toward the mocker. "this is the tale of goose bay. many years ago, away back in , the british and americans were at war. i know just how much you know about that, so i'll not go into particulars." "don't," drawled ben. "i'm beginning to feel sleepy already." "well," resumed bob, "it was about the middle of july in that year. our forces were over at sackett's harbor, but they weren't having much excitement, so it was decided to fit out an expedition and come around the lake to cape vincent and then go on a cruise down the st. lawrence, seeking whom they might devour." "i thought it was a lion, a ro-a-a-ring lion that did that," interrupted bert. "so it is sometimes." "but wasn't it the british lion you were telling about? now i could understand how a lion, a real genuine british lion, might go roaring around, but when the eagle, the genuine american eagle, starts out on an expedition, i never thought of him as 'roaring.' what is a roaring eagle, bob? any relation to a soaring lion?" "oh, hold on, bert, give bob a chance to tell his story," said jock. "story? story? what more of a 'story' do you want than that? the american eagle going down the st. lawrence roaring and seeking whom he might devour. is that where 'goose' bay got its name, bob?" "as i was saying, when i was interrupted by this infant crying in the night," resumed bob, disdainfully, "the expedition was partly national and partly individual, that is to say, it was a privateering trip with government backing. the man who fitted it out was named gilbert, i believe." "a kind of patriot for revenue only?" inquired ben, blandly. "precisely. well, they had two gunboats, the _neptune_ and _fox_, and about forty-five or fifty men. they stopped at cape vincent and clayton, or french creek as they used to call the place then, and then kept on their way rejoicing, until they came to goose bay. there they landed and had a parade." "what did they parade for?" inquired jock. "no one knows, or at least i don't. what do they ever parade for?" "for to show brass buttons and for to delight the ladies and small boys. i used to think a drum-major was a bigger man than the president," replied ben, quickly. "after they had landed and paraded, they--" "went fishing?" inquired ben. "they sent a few men down toward ogdensburg to spy out the land." "weren't they roaring and seeking whom they might devour this time?" "keep still, ben, i want to hear about this," said jock. "the next afternoon two men, their names were baldwin and campbell--" "good names!" interrupted ben, again. "--came back and reported that a gunboat and fifteen loaded bateaux were coming up the river. the gunboat was the _spitfire_--" "that's a good name, too," remarked ben. "at once there was great excitement among the american men. they arranged a force to cut off all retreat, and then started for the enemy. before they fairly knew it they were all taken." "who?" "the british," replied bob. "were they dead? did they like it?" "then the americans landed at goose bay. oh, i forgot to say that not a shot was fired in the attack on the bateaux and the _spitfire_." "that's the way to fight," drawled ben. "that would suit me exactly. if i could parade and then go out and call names, and then march back in triumph with the haughty foe in chains, i'd like to be a soldier. i wonder why i wasn't born into this world in my proper age." "of course our troops were highly elated," resumed bob, "for the _spitfire_ was armed with a twelve-pound carronade and fourteen men, and in the bateaux were two hundred and seventy barrels of pork and as many bags of pilot bread." "was that where ethan got the pork we had for dinner to-day?" inquired bert, innocently. not deigning to reply or to notice the laugh which arose at bert's words, bob resumed. "the americans sent sixty-nine prisoners across the country to sackett's harbor, and then with the others they waited for the enemy to come." "why did they wait? what did they want them to come for? i should think they'd all have gone 'cross lots to sackett's harbor," said jock. "they wanted to save the gunboat and supplies. the next morning about sunrise the bold and brave foe, to the number of two hundred and fifty, hove in sight. they had four gunboats and two transports and were evidently ready for the fray. our men had been stationed in detachments along the shore, and soon the action was begun. 'they fit all day and they fit all night,' as the poet says, though i don't know whether that's history or not; but two of the gunboats had soon been so injured by our fire that they had to stuff the holes the shot made with weeds to keep them from sinking." "oh! oh! oh!" groaned ben, sitting quickly erect, "i have lived long in this weary world of woe, but that's the worst i ever heard yet. a british gunboat stuffing the holes in its sides with weeds! there's an insane asylum down at ogdensburg, and either you or i must go there." "it is a pretty big story, but that's what the book says," protested bob. "go on! go on!" said ben, eagerly. "after the british had stuffed the gaping wounds with seaweed, and our brave and determined lads, with a fresh supply of spitballs and slingshots--go on! go on!" "the next morning the redcoats wanted to call it quits, or rather they sent a flag and a demand for our men to surrender 'to save the effusion of blood.' the proud foe was sternly repulsed, and the firing was resumed. it seems all they had expected was to gain time. trees had been felled across the creek,--cranberry creek they called it, i believe,--but the foe managed to get away. they were said to have lost a good many men." "did our side lose any?" inquired bob. "three. but reinforcements soon came, and after the boats had been patched up they started up the river again, bound for sackett's harbor. off tibbet's point they fell in with the _earl of moira_, which chased them, and finally to get away they had to sink the gunboat they had taken and the most of the bateaux, so that the expedition came out about even." "bob," demanded bert, once more sitting erect, "the next time hadn't you just as soon tell us a true story?" "that's true. i read it in the old histories." "do you know any more as 'true' as that?" "yes. i've been reading up on the st. lawrence. i wanted to know something about the region before i came down here. i don't believe you know anything about cartier, or frontenac, or any of the early discoverers." "carter? who's carter?" demanded ben. "i didn't say carter. i said cartier. he's the discoverer of the st. lawrence." "he was, was he? well, he's the man for me. just think of it, fellows, we'd never be camping here if this place hadn't been discovered. i move you," he added, "that the professor be invited to resume his falsehoods to-morrow evening, and that whenever we are seated before the embers of our glowing camp-fire, or can't get asleep nights, that he soothe us with his fairy tales." the boys laughingly agreed to the proposal, and as they rose, ben said, "i feel a craving in the inner man. any of you got a 'crave' too?" all four declared they were in suffering need of food, and at once began to prepare another supper. when their labors were ended, however, the results were far from satisfactory. somehow the fish did not tempt them, and when jock opened the coffee-pot he exclaimed: "i thought coffee was a liquid, fellows. look at this, will you?" with his fork he lifted from the interior of the pot long, stringy substances, which certainly were not inviting to the sight. "what do you suppose is the trouble?" said ben. "there must be something wrong with the coffee. do you suppose it's poison?" "i don't know. i'll leave it and ask ethan in the morning," said bob. "he'll know all about it." however, the boys discovered the pies and other viands the boatmen had left in camp, "pies'n things" bert termed them, mimicking ethan's dialect, and their immediate wants had, to all appearances, been satisfied when they sought their cots. so tired were they that even the question of what jock and ethan had prepared for the morrow was soon forgotten, and the smouldering camp-fire burned low and lower, while the boys slept the sleep which can only be gained within the sound of the music of the mighty river. chapter x. tom surprises the camp. the sun was just appearing above the tree-tops on the following morning, when the camp was shaken by a report which caused the boys to leap from their beds and rush out into the open space. so startled were they that the absence of jock was not perceived; but when they discovered him on the bank, and a cloud of smoke could also be seen floating over the river, they knew at once the cause of the alarm. the presence of a small brass cannon on the ground near where jock was standing would have revealed the cause of the excitement if nothing else had; and, as jock laughingly turned to greet them, he said:-- "that's the signal to get up, boys. ethan will be here soon, and we don't want to delay breakfast." "where did you get it, jock?" said bert, eagerly examining the cannon as he spoke. "it's a beauty!" "oh, i brought it with me, but i hadn't had a chance to mount it before. we wanted something to salute the sun with, to say nothing of the yachts and steamers that pass us every hour or two." "you don't know how you frightened me," said bob, slowly. "i almost thought the british had come back for us." "look out at that smoke, will you, fellows?" said ben, pointing to the little cloud which could still be seen. "what do you think it looks like?" "what does it look like, ben?" inquired jock. "it reminds me of the tail of a goose. something like the tale of goose bay, with which our imaginative friend here regaled us last night." "it makes me think of the story virgil tells about �neas, where the 'pious son' tried to grasp the shade of his faithful wife creusa. she just vanished into thin air, you remember." "it's like bob's history,--too thin," laughed bert. "isn't that ethan's boat?" he added, pointing as he spoke to a sail which could be seen approaching the island. "yes; that's ethan. hurry up, fellows, or you'll be late for breakfast. you know what his opinion is of people who aren't up early in the morning." his companions hastily returned to the tent, and by the time ethan landed they were ready for the breakfast which he speedily prepared. "goin' to have another good day," remarked ethan, as he and tom cleared away the breakfast dishes. "that's what we want," said jock. "ethan, did you bring over the things we were talking about last night?" "yes, they're in the boat. we've got just the kind of a day we want, too." "what is it, jock, you and ethan are plotting?" inquired ben. "you'll find out pretty soon." the boys were all eagerness as they followed ethan down to the dock. the boatman soon brought forth a small mast and sail, and as he spread the latter out on the ground, its peculiar shape at once impressed the interested beholders. "what do you call that thing, ethan?" inquired bert. "a sail." "yes, i see; but what kind of a sail is it? i never saw one like it before." "likely not. they don't grow in cities. it's a 'bat wing.'" the name was so appropriate that no one had any difficulty in understanding the cause of the term, but the boatman did not deign to make any further explanation and at once proceeded to fit the mast in one of the canoes. "i only had one," he explained, when the task was completed. "i can get another at the bay, probably, and as i didn't have time to stop there this mornin' and see whether there was any letters for any o' ye, if ye don't object, i'll take jock along with me and sail over there now. i can show him a little how the thing's managed on our way over, and then when i come back i'll have a couple o' the bat wings, an' can let the rest o' ye have a try, if ye want it." jock protested that some other one of the boys should be permitted to have the first sail; but they all declared that he was the one to go, and so the lad took his place in the little canoe, and in a moment the light craft was speeding swiftly over the water in the direction of alexandria bay. "isn't she a beauty!" exclaimed bert, delightedly. "they wont be gone long, will they?" he added, turning to tom. "no," replied tom. "you'll get all the sailing you want, to-day." the boys watched the canoe as it sped on before the wind. they could see jock, who was seated on the edge of the canoe in the bow, while ethan was in the stern and was managing the sail. at times the canoe dipped until it seemed to the watching boys that it must be swamped, but it always righted itself and then leaped forward with ever increasing speed. at last it disappeared from sight behind one of the neighboring islands, and then the boys turned with a sigh to the camp, all of them eager now for the return of their companions, and for the opportunity to try the merits of a canoe fitted out with a bat-wing sail. "what'll we do to pass the time, fellows?" said ben. "i think it would be a capital idea for tom here to speak his piece before us," drawled bob. "he wants to practise, and perhaps we can be of some help to him. ben here is a prize speaker, you know." tom's face flushed, and for a moment he evidently thought bob was poking fun at him. "it isn't much of a piece," he said in confusion. "the young folks are going to have a dialogue and try to raise some money to fix up the walks over at the corners." "so your father told us," said bob. "i'm in dead earnest, though, tom. it's more than likely that ben can give you points. he took the school prize in speaking this summer. go ahead, anyway." "and you boys won't make fun of me?" inquired tom. "not a bit of it," said bob, cordially. "we're coming over to see the show when it comes off, anyway, so you might as well give it to us now, or, at least, your part. you had pretty good courage to tackle one of shakespeare's plays, though. how did you happen to do it?" "oh, that was mr. wilkinson's idea; he's the teacher at the corners, you know. he said we might as well learn something worth hearing while we were about it, so we finally chose 'hamlet.'" "quite right, too," remarked bob, encouragingly, as if he was familiar with all such little matters as the great dramas of shakespeare, and was willing to share his courage with all the world. tom at last reluctantly consented, and striking an attitude, gazed up into the sky as if nothing less than the ghost was beckoning to him. his eyes assumed a far-away expression, and he waited a moment before he began. then apparently every muscle in his body became rigid, and in a loud and unnatural tone of voice he commenced. "tew be-e-e- or not to be-e-e-e-e-" as he spoke his right arm shot suddenly out in front of him, much after the action of a piston rod in a great locomotive, and his eyes began to roll. bert suddenly rolled over upon the ground and hid his face in the grass, and ben as quickly turned and gazed out upon the river as if something he had discovered there demanded his attention. only bob was unmoved, and without a smile upon his face, he said solemnly, "why do you talk it off like that, tom?" "isn't that the way to do it?" "i should hardly think so. don't you think hamlet was puzzled and was somehow half talking to himself? it seems to me as if he was musing and didn't think of any one to whom he was speaking. he was talking to himself, so to speak. don't you think so, ben?" "yes," replied ben, desperately striving to control his voice, and not turning his face away from the spot he had discovered on the river. "well, i don't know about it," protested tom. "it always seemed to me that hamlet was a good deal of a crank, and instead of acting naturally he was more likely to do the most unnatural thing in the world." "that may be so. perhaps you are right about that," said bob, "but still i think he was communing with himself. they call it his soliloquy, don't they?" "yes; but he was crazy, wasn't he? i think that's what the critics say." "i don't know. i believe so," replied bob, though somehow his air of confidence seemed to be departing. "tom," he added, "have you read much of shakespeare?" "i've read all he wrote," said tom. "we can't do much except read in the winter down here on the river." ben by this time had either examined the distant object on the river to his entire satisfaction, or else was startled by tom's words. at all events he quickly withdrew his gaze and looked at the young boatman in surprise, and even bert had ceased to bury his face in the grass. somehow the comical aspect of tom's speech had suddenly changed. "what have you read this winter, tom?" inquired bob, slowly. "oh, i've read all of shakespeare, as i told you, and then i've read all of parkman's histories, and all of bancroft. you know parkman has a good deal to say about the men who first came up the st. lawrence, and i wanted to learn all i could about the part of the country i live in. but i wanted to know something about other countries too, so i've read motley's 'rise of the dutch republic,' and prescott's 'conquest of peru and of mexico.' then i've read wordsworth's poems. it seems to me i enjoy him better than i do any other poet, for the country around his home must have been something like this st. lawrence country. don't you think so?" before bob could reply, ben and bert suddenly rose from the ground, and ran speedily into the tent where the trunks were. "what's the matter with those boys?" inquired tom, innocently, looking up in surprise at the sudden departure of his companions. "i don't think they feel very well," replied bob, demurely; "or it may have been that they've gone to see if their fishing tackle is all right after the experience of yesterday. tom," he added, "do you read any fiction, any novels?" "not many. pa doesn't like to have me. he says they're all lies anyway, and there's enough that's true to read. i've read a little. i've read most of scott's novels and charles kingsley and some of the other writers. the last book i read was defoe's account of the london plague. i don't like that very well, do you?" "i've got to see what those boys are up to," said bob, suddenly, leaping to his feet as he spoke and moving with unusual quickness away from the place where he had been lying. "i say, bob," said bert, when their friend joined them, "the next time you catch a weasel asleep, you let me know, will you?" "i wouldn't have believed it," spoke up ben, quickly. "here we were thinking we'd get some fun out of this greenhorn, and then he turns round and puts us all in a hole. i wonder if he really has read all those books he says he has?" "you might examine him and see," replied bob, dryly. "not much. you don't catch me that way. here i was thinking we'd do some missionary work for the poor benighted heathen of the region, and lo and behold, they turn upon us and beat us at our own game. who would have believed it? i know i shouldn't, for one." "serves us right. i'll keep clear of tom till his 'pa' comes back." bob's sentiments were echoed by his companions, and not one of them ventured to remind the young boatman of the desire to hear him recite hamlet's soliloquy. indeed, they did not venture near the camp until it was almost noon time, and then ethan and jock returned with the new "bat-wing sail." as they had also brought with them letters for each of the boys, the time until dinner was ready was all consumed in reading them, and perhaps no one of them regretted the fact. after dinner, both ethan and his son gave their entire attention to the task of teaching the young campers the art of sailing a canoe equipped with a bat-wing sail. only one of the party was taken out each time by a boatman, and then, after a trial trip, he was allowed to hold the sheet while the boatman occupied the place in the bow which the pupil formerly had held. in this manner the entire afternoon was consumed, and when they all returned to camp for supper, ethan declared that he thought it would be safe for the boys to use the canoes, though he advised that no one should venture far from the island, and promised on the following day to repeat the lessons. when he and tom had gone, ben declared he was going out alone for a sail. he would not listen to the remonstrances of his comrades, and soon started from the dock. the boys watched him until the canoe disappeared behind the nearest island. they had no thought of peril, but when the darkness deepened, and at last the hour of retiring had arrived, the uneasiness in the camp had become a fear which no one dared to express. chapter xi. a night of anxiety. to add to the consternation of the boys, the face of the sky was now obscured by clouds, and the rising wind gave tokens of a coming storm. the tall trees groaned and swayed, and the quiet waters of the river were rising, and already were beginning to lash the low beach. "i'm afraid ben's in trouble," said jock, unable to endure the silence longer. "if he's all right, he never could find his way in such darkness as this." "he started out as if he was going up the stream," said bert, no less troubled than his friend. "he ought to have been able to get back." "he ought not to have gone out at all, as far as the 'ought' is concerned," replied jock, gloomily. "here we were thinking ethan was a greenhorn; but he's forgotten more than we ever knew. it was a fool trick for ben to start out as he did." "well, he went, and that's all there is to say about it. we'll pile the logs up higher and wait. it's all we can do now," said bob. bob's suggestion was at once acted upon; and soon the light of the camp-fire was leaping up in long tongues of flame. the wind served to increase the blaze, and the roar of the blazing logs was added to that of the rising storm. for a time the boys sat in silence before the fireplace, gazing out over the river, and eagerly looking for the sight of the little canoe. they knew that even a skilled sailor would not dare to venture out in such a night, but as ben was already on the river, he must find some place to land; and so, hoping against hope, the lads waited. "there comes the rain," said bob, at last, as a few drops fell upon his upturned face. "what a night to be out on the river in!" "jock," said bert, "haven't i read that these canoes are upset very easily on the river here?" "i think it's likely. they are capsized, whether you've read it or not." "ben can swim, anyway," said bert, "and that's one comfort." "i'm afraid he couldn't swim very far to-night," replied jock, gloomily. "he couldn't see ten yards before him, and he wouldn't know where to start for. whew! just hear that!" the rain was now coming faster, and beat upon the faces of the boys and fell sputtering into the fire. the wind, however, was so strong that the fire roared and snapped, and a cloud of smoke was borne away down the river. inky blackness surrounded them, and the sounds of the storm-swept river became steadily louder. "there's no use in all of us staying out here in the rain. the rest of you go into the tent, and i'll stay here and attend to the fire," said jock. "don't you think we'd better try to go over to the mainland and rouse out ethan? ben may be in trouble somewhere, and ethan'll find him if any one can," said bert. "i've thought of that," said jock, "but it won't be safe to try it. we've nothing but the canoe here, and it couldn't live in such a storm as this. just hear that, will you!" he added. there was a great roaring in the trees now, and the sound became steadily louder. the rain, too, increased, and sometimes seemed to dash upon them in sheets. out on the river the tossing waters could be seen where the light of the camp-fire fell, and, capped with white, they presented a wild sight. and ben was somewhere on those angry waters! for a moment it seemed to the troubled jock that he could see the picture of a little white-winged canoe driven on by the furious storm, and in the stern of the boat was a terrified face which strongly resembled that of the missing ben. just then there came a still more furious blast. the tall trees bent and groaned, and the tossing waters leaped before it, as a highly strung horse darts forward at the touch of a whip. again it seemed to jock as if he could see the little canoe driven before the roaring wind. the gust seemed to lift the light craft in its grasp, the pale face of the lad on board leaned forward, then there was a sudden lurching of the boat, the sail dipped until it touched the water, and then boat and boatman disappeared from sight and nothing could be seen but the tossing waters and nothing be heard but the roar of the storm. thick darkness settled over all, and even penetrated the heavy heart of the anxious watcher. none of the boys was willing to leave jock alone to watch the camp-fire, and after the mackintoshes had been put on they all returned and waited. occasionally a fresh log was thrown upon the blazing pile and the sparks flew upward, serving only to render more intense the thick blackness that surrounded them. there was slight hope of ben returning now, but the anxious boys were determined to keep the fire burning, for it would serve as a landmark if, by any chance, the absent lad might be near. their eyes were seldom taken from the river, and hour after hour passed as the vigil continued. about midnight the storm abated, and soon the twinkling stars appeared in the sky. in the renewed hope that ben might have been able to gain the shelter of some secluded island and remain until the storm had passed, they piled the logs still higher and waited and watched for the canoe to appear. there were few words spoken now. the river gradually became more silent and resumed its former peacefulness, and the tall trees ceased to bend and sway. perhaps the end had already come and even the waves were satisfied with the ruin they had wrought. "i shan't give up hope yet," said jock, at last. "ben wouldn't be likely to try to get back before morning, and he'll wait for daylight wherever he is." "wherever he is," murmured bert, as if he was speaking to himself. "you don't really think he's been--that anything has happened to him, do you?" said jock, anxiously. "i hope not." "i don't know what i'd say to his father and mother," began jock, again. "and just think of it! when we were counting on such a good time, too, and to have this happen almost at the very beginning! don't you think we'd better go over to ethan's now and rouse him out? he'd know what to do." "i think we'd better wait till it's light, anyway," said bob. "i suppose you're thinking of sending ethan with his sailboat to look him up?" "yes, that was what was in my mind. you see, ben may have met with an accident. he may have lost his paddle, or his mast may have been broken. there's a hundred things i can think of, and if he should be cast away on some island, he wouldn't be able to get off without help." "you don't know whether to go up the river or down," said bert, disconsolately. "ben started up the river when he went off," replied jock; "but it's just as likely that he's been carried down the stream, with the current and the wind both to push him on. ethan will know what to do, though." "he'll probably go in one direction and tom in the other," suggested bob. the three boys lapsed into silence, and while no one spoke openly of the great fear in his heart, it was nevertheless evident that a common anxiety had them all in its grasp. occasionally one would rise and go down to the dock and peer eagerly out over the river, but his failure to discover anything of interest would be betrayed by his silence and gloom when he rejoined his fellows. the slow hours dragged on and still the heavy-hearted lads waited. the leaves of the trees dripped steadily, and the monotonous sounds served only to deepen the feeling of depression. try as they would the boys could not shake off their fears, and when at last the first faint streaks of the dawn appeared in the eastern sky, they were so worn by their watching, and the anxiety of the long night, that the coming day brought no relief. "two of us had better stay here in the camp," suggested bob, when the light became more pronounced. "if you know where ethan lives, jock, you'd better take the canoe and go over to his place." "i'll go," replied jock, quickly. the opportunity to bestir himself afforded a slight relief, and going at once to the bank he lifted the overturned canoe from its place and bore it in his arms down to the water. quickly taking his place on board he grasped the paddle and with vigorous strokes sent the light craft swiftly over the water in the direction of the mainland. his two friends watched him as long as he could be seen and then returned to the camp. the fire had burned low by this time, but as daylight was at hand there was little use in keeping it up, and the boys occasionally stirred the embers as if in the ashes they were looking for something they had lost. as the glow of the dawn became more pronounced, and at last the great sun itself appeared above the horizon, the waiting lads had no thought of breakfast. even the wonderful appetite of which they had boasted on the preceding day, was not able to move them now. the keen air had lost its power, and all hunger was gone. from time to time a boat was discovered on the river, and the lads watched each in silence until it was hidden from sight among the islands; the missing ben did not appear. more than two hours had elapsed since jock's departure from the camp, when bob suddenly exclaimed:-- "isn't that a canoe out there on the river?" "where? where?" inquired his companion, eagerly. "out there in the direction of the point! hold on a minute, and i'll get the glasses and we'll see what we can make of it." bob hastily ran into the tent and returned with the glasses. lifting them to his eyes he gazed long and earnestly at the little spot on the surface of the river, and then without a word handed them to his friend. bert eagerly took them, and after he had peered intently at the distant object, he lowered the glasses and said in a low voice, "it's a canoe, bob, and it's headed this way." "that's what i made out of it," replied bob. "if it was ben he'd have a sail." "i don't know whether he would or not. he might have lost it, you know, in the storm. that isn't the direction from which jock would come." "no. he went straight across from here. do you think it's ben?" bob made no reply, but he ran swiftly down to the dock, and his companion as speedily followed him. there they waited for the approaching canoe, confirming themselves by repeated uses of the glasses that it was headed for the camp. the little boat became more distinct, and soon they could see the movements of the occupant as he deftly wielded his paddle. at last, when it was within two hundred yards of the dock, after another long look through the glasses, bob said, "it's jock." neither of them spoke until jock ran the canoe in-shore, and then by the expression upon his face they knew that he had no good report to make. "i found ethan," said jock, as he lifted the canoe out of the water and placed it on the bank, "and he and tom have gone out. one has gone up the river and the other down." "what did he say?" inquired bert, eagerly. "nothing." "does he think ben's--" bert did not complete the question, and then said, "we weren't looking for you to come from that direction. we thought perhaps it might be ben." "ethan sent me over to a man he knew a little farther up the river. i've started him out to look, too. that's the reason why i came from that direction. ethan suggested that i should bring some breakfast over for you, but i didn't think you'd want any. i knew i didn't, anyway." "nor do we," said bob. "what are we to do now, jock? isn't there something we can do?" "ethan told us to stay here in camp till he came. he says he'll be here by noon, and then if he doesn't learn anything, we'll decide whether we'd better telegraph home or not." jock's voice broke as he spoke, and his evident anxiety was shared by the other boys. the end would soon be at hand, but before ethan's return there was nothing for them to do but to strive to possess their souls in patience and wait. working would have been much more easy for them all, but there was nothing they could do. they dared not venture forth from the island for fear of losing their way in the tangled maze, but they paced back and forth along the shore, peering eagerly out over the river for the boat which still did not come. about noontime ethan returned to camp, but he had found no trace of the missing ben; and when an hour later tom returned, he also had the same disheartening report to make, for neither had he seen any one who knew of the lost boy. chapter xii. the missing camper. ethan beckoned to tom, and together they at once began to prepare dinner. the boys noticed their proceedings, but in spite of the fact that they had had no breakfast, none of them took any interest in the boatman's task. they did not leave their position on the bank, and still stood looking out over the river, vainly watching for the coming of a canoe which as yet had not appeared. dinner was soon ready, and ethan at once summoned the young campers. his own distress was evident, and did not tend to allay the anxiety of the boys; but in response to their protest that they were not hungry, he said:-- "that doesn't make a bit o' difference. ye've got to eat whether ye want to or not. it may be we'll have a lot o' work yet to do, and if ye don't eat ye can't work." "ethan," said jock, "don't you think we'd better telegraph to my father or to ben's?" the boys had obeyed the summons, and were now seated at the table, but the eyes of all were upon the boatman. "telegraph?" replied ethan. "it'll cost ye four shillin' to do that." "i don't care what it costs," said jock, recklessly; for even ethan's fear of a telegram and its probable expense did not interest him now. "wall, mebbe, mebbe," said ethan, slowly. "ye'd better eat yer dinner first, and then we'll see what can be done." no one spoke during the early part of the dinner, and although the boys managed to eat some of the food which had been provided for them, it was evident that they were not hungry, and their thoughts were all upon their missing comrade. the hopes which they had had at the coming of the day had disappeared now, and with the passing of the hours the conviction deepened that ben was lost. how could they ever send word to his home? when jock thought of the enthusiasm with which they had come, and then realized that he was the one who had proposed the camp, he was ready to blame himself as the cause of all the sorrow and trouble. already in his mind he could see ben's father and mother, when the word should be received in their home. how could he bear it? but ben was gone; there could be no question about that, and it was quite probable that they never would learn how or where he had disappeared. the hungry current of the river bore swiftly onward in its course all that it seized, and traces of missing boat or boy would be difficult, if not impossible, to find. his eyes filled with tears, and he started abruptly from the table. no one spoke to recall him, for they all understood his feelings, and indeed their own sympathies were now increasing; but as jock ran toward the shore, he perceived that tom was standing on the bank and gazing earnestly out upon the river. jock looked up to see what had interested tom, and perceived a small steam-yacht coming close in-shore. even while he was watching it, the beautiful little craft stopped, and a moment later he saw a canoe lowered from the stern and some one step into it. the whistle of the yacht sounded shrilly, and in a moment all the campers were running swiftly toward the dock. no one spoke, but the canoe was now being paddled toward them, and in a brief time such a shout rang out from the watchers as was seldom heard on the great river. "it's ben, it's ben!" cried jock; and instantly his companions joined in the word. there could be no doubt about it now, for even ben's face could be seen as he occasionally turned and glanced at them. the yacht whistled again, as if the people on board shared in the manifest excitement of the camp, and then turned and steamed up the river, leaving a long trail of dark smoke behind it. none of the boys marked her departure, however, interested as they would ordinarily have been in the approach of such a beautiful visitor, for they were all intent upon the canoe and its occupant now. nearer and nearer came the canoe, and soon it was close to the shore. in their eagerness, the boys ran into the water, and to save himself ben was compelled to relinquish his paddle, and suffer himself to be drawn up on the beach. as soon as he was safely landed, there was a scene enacted which none of them ever forgot. jock was laughing and crying at the same time, and even the phlegmatic bob was not unmoved. "you rascal!" he said at last, when a momentary lull came, "what do you mean? give an account of yourself, sir!" "here i am," replied ben, evidently not unmoved by his reception. "proceed, my lord, and do as it seemeth good in thy sight." "where have you been, ben?" said jock, eagerly. "tell us about it." "mebbe he wants some dinner, first," suggested ethan, who was not the least unmoved of the party. "he can tell us while he's eatin'." "we're all hungry, now," said bert; "we've been fasting while you've been gone, ben. don't we look so?" "fasting, fasting?" exclaimed ben; "then you must have suffered keenly. i'm as hungry as a bear, myself. come on, and i'll tell you all about it, while i'm sampling ethan's wares." the boys were soon all seated at the table again, and now that their lost comrade was found it seemed as if the lost appetites had also been restored. they fell upon the food before them in a manner which highly delighted ethan, and compelled him and tom to busy themselves in preparing more. the dual occupation seemed in no way to interfere with ben's ability or disposition to talk, and he at once began his story. "well, fellows, it was like this. when i started out last night i intended to go only a little way. i was going up just around the first island and then come straight back to camp; but when i rounded the island, i found the passage so narrow and dangerous i thought i'd go on around the next one. when i got to the end of that i found i was a good way out of my course; for the island was a pretty long one, you see, and when i cleared it, and i came out into the open river again, i must have made a mistake in my bearings. i didn't realize i'd lost my way till about a half an hour later, but then i knew it. there were islands all around me, and the wind had died away, or at least had died down a good deal. "i kept on, thinking i'd strike a familiar spot, but the current is much stronger over there than it is here, and i found i was going down the stream all the time. i ran the canoe in-shore and took in my sail and thought i'd paddle, for the wind was mostly gone, as i said. i got along all right till i was out in the open water again, and had gone a good distance, but i couldn't find the island i was looking for. "i began to look about me then, for the sun was almost out of sight by that time, and the first thing i knew it was dark, and the rain was on me. i'd been so busy i hadn't fairly realized there was a storm coming, but i knew it pretty quick then, i can tell you. i kept on and did my best, but that wasn't much, as you can imagine, and all the time it kept getting darker and darker. i was wet to the skin in no time, and the way the waves began to toss my frail bark about was a caution. paddling wasn't of much use, and i began to look about me for some place to run into. everything was pretty dark, and getting darker all the time, and i couldn't make out any island anywhere near me. but i wasn't staying in one place all the time, let me tell you, for the river was busy if i wasn't, and i went down the stream very swiftly, for the wind was at my back. "i don't just know how long the thing kept up, or how far i'd gone, but i pretty soon saw a light ahead of me which i decided in very short metre must be a cottage or a house on some island. the paddle was still in my hands, for i'd been lucky enough to hold on to that, and then i did my best to steer for the light i'd seen. "it kept coming nearer to me all the time, or so it seemed to me, though i suppose i was the one that was doing the travelling, and after a while i found i was correct, and that it must be 'a light in the window for thee, poor sailor, a light in the window for me.' i pulled for the shore, or rather ran for it, and i thought i was just going to run into shelter, when plump! my canoe struck a rock, and i was in the water before you could say jack robinson. the water didn't come much above my knees, and then, when i discovered that i wasn't dead, i swallowed my despair, also a few gallons, more or less, of this noble river, made a grab for my canoe, and somehow managed to get to the bank. "the storm was getting in its fine work then, but it didn't make much difference to me, for i was wet and couldn't be any wetter. i'd reached the superlative degree, you see, by that time. i looked up, and there on the bluff was the light which i'd seen when i was out on the river; so, when i'd carried the canoe up on the bank, i decided to try my luck in the house, for i knew i couldn't get back to camp that night, so i marched up to the door and rapped as bold as you please. [illustration: "she looked at me a minute, as if she didn't know what to make of it." _page ._] "i almost fell over backward when the door was opened by one of the prettiest girls you ever saw. she looked at me a minute as if she didn't know what to make of it, and to tell the truth, fellows, i couldn't think of anything to say. but her father came to the door just then, and in a few minutes they knew all about my story, though i don't remember a word i said. "at any rate, if i was a stranger they took me in, and the goodman of the house dressed me out in some of his clothes. he was 'a trifle too short, and a shaving too lean' for me, so that when i was finally dressed i didn't hardly dare to go downstairs again, for i could hear their voices through the floor, you see, and i knew there was more than one girl there then. "finally, i plucked up courage and went down, but do you know what those girls did when i came into the room? well, they tried to be polite and all that, but they were mightily tickled about something, and pretty quick one of them got up and made a rush for the window and made out that she was looking out into the storm; but i could see her put her handkerchief to her face as if she was crying, and then the other three girls went to join her and see the dark, and then one of them said, 'tee-hee,' and before you could say jack robinson they were laughing with 'inextinguishable laughter,' as our homer has it. "at last one of them turned to me, and i was glad to see her blush, for she ought to have been ashamed of herself, and i think she was, and she said, 'you must excuse us, mr. dallett. we are ashamed of ourselves, but really we couldn't help it. if you will come over here with me you'll see for yourself what it is that troubles us.' well, i went over and she stood me up in front of a mirror and what do you suppose i saw, fellows? there was a chap looking at me from that mirror, and he was a little pee-culiar i must admit. the coat he had on was about three sizes too small for him. his trousers were about four inches above the tops of his shoes, and he looked as if he was mostly hands and feet. "well, i laughed. i couldn't help it, and we had a good time, after all. you see, miss bessie had three of her classmates with her spending the vacation, and they're a lively lot, i can tell you. i had a good time, and this morning, clothed in my right mind and also in my proper garb, they brought me back to camp in their steam-yacht." it was the middle of the afternoon before ben's story was ended, and after they had given vent to their delight over the safe return of their friend, ethan said, "ye don't want me to stay any longer to-day, do ye?" "no, ethan. you can go home. come over early to-morrow morning." "to-morrow's sunday," said ethan, soberly. "you don't mean it?" exclaimed jock. "i'm ashamed to say i'd actually forgotten even the days of the week." "i'll come over and take ye all to church," suggested ethan. "we'll go to church, but you needn't come for us," said ben, quickly. "ye can't go then, for i thought i'd take yer canoes back with me. i don't want to leave ye in any more danger." "no, no. you're not going to take the canoes," protested ben. "we're going to master them, now. i'll never give up in the world." ethan hesitated, and then under protest finally yielded. he explained that they could attend service at the corners, at alexandria bay, or the "park," as they preferred. "we'll go to the bay," said ben, quickly, so quickly that the boys all laughed, thinking that they understood his motive. "'twill be better for ye to go there," said ethan, soberly; but he had no idea of the trouble which his suggestion brought on the young campers on the following day. chapter xiii. a mishap. sunday morning dawned clear and beautiful. when ethan came over to the camp to prepare breakfast, the river lay like a sheet of glass before the vision of the boys. the twittering of the birds was the only sound to break in upon the stillness. the summer sunshine covered all things in its softened light, and as far as the eye could see the hush of a solemn silence seemed to have driven away all other effects. even ethan's manner was more subdued than on other days, and when our boys obeyed his call to breakfast, they also were in a measure under the spell of the perfect summer day. sentiment did not interfere with appetite, however, and ample justice was done to the boatman's labors; and though he referred to his desire, when he was ready to depart for home, to carry the boys himself to the bay to attend service, his offer was once more refused. about an hour before the time when the service was to be held, the boys placed the two canoes in the water again, and with jock and bob in one, and their two friends in the other, they began to paddle. the light little crafts sped swiftly over the water, and keeping well together, not long afterward began to approach alexandria bay. to them all it seemed like a novel way of attending church, but they soon discovered that they were not the only ones to come in that manner. sailboats and skiffs, canoes and steam-yachts, could be seen in various directions, and though these were not numerous, it was evident that they were all bent on an errand similar to their own. the boys were paddling more slowly now, as they came near the dock, and the two canoes were within a few yards of each other. not an accident had occurred, and the confidence of the young campers had been largely increased by their success. they halted a moment to determine where was the best place to land, when ben glanced up at an approaching yacht, and discovered his friends who had welcomed him to their cottage when he had escaped from the storm. his own presence was discovered by them at the same moment, and the girls crowded together near the rail, waving their handkerchiefs and calling to him, as they perceived that he had seen them. eager to return the salutation, ben took his paddle in one hand, and with the other tried politely to lift his cap. but alas for human efforts! his movement suddenly destroyed the equilibrium of the treacherous canoe, and as it tipped dangerously to one side, bert, who was taken unaware by the movement, strove to restore the balance; but unfortunately he leaned to the same side to which ben turned, and in a moment the canoe was capsized, and the occupants sent speedily into the water. a cry of alarm and dismay escaped the lips of the girls on the yacht, and the few men standing at the time upon the dock echoed it. startled by the shout, jock glanced up, and to his consternation discovered his friends struggling in the water. in his efforts to turn about his own canoe, he too destroyed its balance, and instantly both he and bob were also thrown into the river. the second accident increased the confusion and alarm, both on the yacht and on the dock; but in a moment two skiffs were manned, the struggling lads were drawn from the water, and the canoes as speedily seized and restored. when it was seen that the boys were all safely landed, the yacht came in alongside the dock, and as the girls sprang lightly from the boat and beheld the dripping, woe-begone lads before them, they burst into a hearty laugh, in which the boys themselves, in spite of their confusion, were compelled to join. "good morning, mr. dallett," said miss bessie, to ben. "what made you go into the water? did you think we wouldn't recognize you unless you came before us in wet clothes?" ben laughed, and presented his friends to the young ladies and then to miss bessie's father and mother, mr. and mrs. clarke. the last named expressed her sympathy for the boys in their accident, and suggested that the yacht should be used to carry them back to their camp. "i don't believe they want to go back, unless mr. dallett wants to get that suit of papa's he wore the other night," said miss bessie, mischievously. "that would make a good go-to-meeting suit for him." ben laughingly declared that he preferred his present garments, but the offer of mrs. clarke to the free use of the yacht was declined, and, waiting only until the party had disappeared up the street on their way to the church, the boys speedily reëmbarked, and began to paddle swiftly back toward the camp on pine tree island. "i say, fellows," said ben, eagerly, as they landed, "let's dress up and go back again. we'll get there in time for the benediction." "it's more than that you need," said bert, glumly. "tipping two canoes over in one morning ought to be enough to satisfy you." "ben's right," said jock, quickly. "it'll be all the better to go back now. we don't want to give up, do we? we started out to go to church, and i say let's go. we'll have to be quick about it, though, to get in even for the benediction." the proposal was agreed to, and hastily changing their clothing they resumed their places in the canoes, and soon afterward landed at the dock at alexandria bay. then they walked swiftly up the street to the little church, but were chagrined to find that they were too late even for the final part of the service. the congregation had already been dismissed, and as the boys approached the building they discovered the people just beginning to depart. their friends soon perceived them and expressed their surprise at their return, which ben hastened to explain had been brought about by their desire to accomplish that which they had set out to do in the beginning. "they were not going to be floored," he declared, "by any such little thing as the upsetting of a canoe." as they walked down to the dock, mr. clarke said to jock, "i received a letter from your father, yesterday." "did you?" replied jock, eagerly. "i didn't know that you knew him." "oh, yes, we've had business relations for years. he's a good man." "you're not the only one to hold that opinion," said the boy, with a laugh. "no, i am aware of that. he wrote and requested me to keep an eye on you. from what i saw this morning, i'm afraid i ought to keep two eyes in the direction of your camp, instead of one." jock laughed, and his cheeks flushed slightly as he heard the laugh echoed by the girls, but he protested that such an accident as that which had occurred was not to be considered in a serious light. "not that, perhaps," replied mr. clarke, "but the one your friend had the other night was serious enough. it was a narrow escape he had." "yes, we were all badly frightened." "i'm not going to scold you, for i doubt not you'll learn by your mistakes. still i should advise you not to take many chances with canoes on this river. what with the swift current and the squalls which come, no man knows when or how, it's hardly safe for one who is not an expert." "i know that, and we shall be careful." "that's right. now mrs. clarke would be pleased, i know, to have you go back home with us and dine there to-day; or if it is not convenient to-day, then some other day will do as well," he added, as he saw that jock hesitated. "i thank you, mr. clarke, and i am sure all the boys will be glad to come, but ethan will come over to get our dinner for us to-day, and there's no way of getting word to him." "very well; then come some other day. you'll let us carry you back to your camp in our yacht, won't you? it's directly in our way." the invitation was accepted, and the canoes taken in tow. upon the invitation of the boys the party all landed at the dock and went up to the camp together. there everything was of interest, particularly to the girls, who wanted to understand just the uses of all the various camp belongings. doubtless very clear explanations were given, for at last when they returned to the yacht they all expressed themselves as delighted with what they had seen, and the boys were glad to renew the promise jock had given that the invitation to dine at "the rocks," the name by which mr. clarke called his cottage, would be accepted soon. not long afterward, ethan appeared, and as he began his preparations for dinner, he said,-- "i hear ye had trouble over to the bay to-day." "who told you?" said ben, quickly. "i don' know as i just remember. everybody was talkin' of it, though. i warned ye. yer pa can't say i was responsible." "you aren't responsible, ethan," said jock, quickly; "'twas ben." "how?" inquired ethan, stopping short in his occupation, with the frying-pan in his hand. "he got light-headed and destroyed our balance. the centre of gravity fell outside the base, and as a natural consequence what took place naturally occurred." "was that it?" said ethan, slowly. "i heard ye capsized." after dinner the boys stretched themselves upon the bank, and in the cool shade began to talk over the experiences of the morning. at last even that topic ceased to interest them, and for a time they were silent. "this is a great river," remarked ben, at last, breaking in upon the stillness, and looking out over the water, which was sparkling under the rays of the sun. "so it is," replied bob, lazily. "that was an original remark, my friend. i'd like to know just how many times it's been said since the first white man saw the river." "bob's going to tell us about carter," said bert, solemnly. "i know of no carter. cartier discovered the river, if he's the one you have in what you are pleased to call your mind." "i stand corrected," replied bert. "go on with your carter or cartier." "i don't know that there's much to tell. jacques cartier was a frenchman who lived about four hundred years ago. just think of it, fellows; four hundred years, almost, since the first white man saw the river st. lawrence." "did you say he lives here now?" inquired ben, solemnly. bob gave him a look of scorn and then went on with his story. "francis i. fitted him out with two ships of sixty tons each, and with a crew of a hundred and twenty men he set sail from st. malo, april , . they say it was only twenty days later when he reached the east coast of newfoundland." "they say?" interrupted ben. "who are 'they'?" "the historians, and other fellows. he sailed north, and finally planted a cross on the coast of labrador near rock bay." "what did he plant it for?" "then he went south," continued bob, without giving any heed to the interruption, "and came down the west coast of newfoundland until finally he was driven by the unfavorable winds toward the magdalen islands. he soon started out again, and, still sailing west, landed at last at the mouth of the miramichi, and with some of his men began to explore the bay of chaleur; but pretty soon afterward he set sail with his ships--" "did he take his men with him?" interrupted ben. "and sailed north and landed in the bay of gaspé. he thought the bay was the mouth of a large river, so he landed and remained there a little while before he started on again." "he was a wise man," said ben. "now if he'd remained there after he'd started on, that would have been another matter. but to remain there before he left the place,--ah, that's the man for me, every time." even bob laughed good-naturedly at the interruption, and then resumed his story. "he had some dealings with the indians there at the bay of gaspé, and one of the chiefs was so taken with cartier that he gave him permission to take his two sons back to france with him on the condition that he would bring them back in the following year." "whose two sons? cartier's?" inquired bert. "no, the indian chief's. of course the frenchman promised; but before he left he planted another wooden cross there, and put on it a shield with the arms of the french king, and the words, _vive le roi de france_." "how the king must have felt to have his arms left there," murmured bert. "cartier soon after set sail, and after doubling the point of anticosti found himself in a channel and sailed a little way up what was really a branch of the st. lawrence, though he didn't know then, of course, that there was any such river." "he'd found the st. lawrence and didn't know it?" inquired jock. "yes." "he was like some men i know," said bert. "he knew more than he thought he did." "some men think they know more than they do," replied bob, soberly. "well, cartier knew the winter was coming on, so he decided to go home. he sailed out through the straits of belle isle, and finally arrived at st. malo, september , . the king was mightily pleased with the trip, and promised to send him again in the next year." "then, as i understand it," said jock, "cartier didn't really sail up the river in . he only found a little piece of it, and didn't know what it was he had discovered." "that's it. he'd discovered it, but didn't know it." "poor fellow!" murmured ben. "and, bob, did he die?" "you'll find out," said bob, "when i tell you the rest of it." "what! is there more to follow?" "yes, it's 'to be continued in our next.'" "i don't know what i've done to deserve all this," said ben, "but i suppose i'll have to put up with it. when's the next instalment due?" "not till after we've finished the other thing we're to do to-morrow." "what other thing?" "oh, that's a secret between jock and me," was bob's reply, as he rose from the bank and started toward the camp, an example which all of his companions at once followed. chapter xiv. ethan tells of the "jumpers." with the coming of the morning the little brass cannon in the camp on pine tree island woke the echoes, and likewise the boys, who had not left their tent when jock had gone forth to greet the sunrise. there was no sleep to be had, however, after the summons, and soon all, except bob, were dressed and waiting for the coming of ethan. that worthy was soon discovered, though he and tom came in the sailboat instead of the skiff which they used on ordinary occasions, and the sight recalled to ben the "secret" which had been referred to on the preceding evening. "what's to be done to-day, jock?" inquired bert, as he stopped to watch the approaching craft which was speeding swiftly toward them under the strong breeze. "you'll have to wait till ethan comes and tells us," answered jock. "it's never safe to reckon without your host, you know." ethan and tom soon landed, and questions of the future were soon ignored in the immediate prospect of breakfast. bob also had to be aroused, and as that was a task which required the combined efforts of his friends, by the time it was successfully accomplished breakfast was waiting, and all speedily seated themselves before the rude little table. "i'm thinkin'," said ethan, "that it would be a good day for a trip down the river. the wind's good this mornin', and if you boys want to try it, i don't know as we'll find a better day." "that's the thing," said ben, enthusiastically. "how far down do you go, ethan?" "oh, that'll depend," replied the boatman, who was usually as averse to giving a decided expression of his opinion as any lawyer might have been. "we can go as far as we want to, if not farther, and then if we haven't gone far enough we can go farther, i take it." "precisely," laughed bert. "thank you, ethan." "ye haven't anything to thank me for," replied the boatman, soberly. "i was jest givin' you my opinion, that's all." "that's what i was grateful for," said bert. "ethan, do the people down here ever laugh?" "laugh? i s'pose so. i don't jest know what ye mean." "oh, nothing much; but i've noticed how sober everybody was. we've seen a good many, but i don't believe i ever heard one of them give a real good hearty laugh. i didn't know but they'd forgotten how." "i guess they don't spend no time grinnin', if that's what ye mean," replied ethan, evidently stirred by the apparent reflection upon the people of the region. "i don't know as they have the regulation snicker some o' the city folks puts on. i've sometimes suspicioned that they put on that grin o' theirs first thing in the mornin', along with their clothes. they say, 'how de do,' 'how de do,' an' smile an' smile jest as if they'd got to do it, same's as they'd take a dose o' pickery. i don't see no sense in it, for my part." "there's comes a big steamer!" exclaimed ben, suddenly pointing up the river as he spoke. "good-by, fellows! i'm off!" "it's a liner," said ethan, soberly, pausing to look at the boat, which was larger than any other on the st. lawrence, and which was leaving a long trail of thick black smoke behind it as it approached. "what's a liner?" inquired bert. "don't ye know what a liner is? it's a line boat." "but what is a line boat, ethan?" persisted bert. "it's a boat that goes regularly to montreal," said tom. "that's what pa means. it gets along here purty early in the morning." "what's that young un up to now?" exclaimed ethan, abruptly. the boys all turned at his words, and saw that ben had run down to the bank and launched one of the canoes. he leaped on board and, steadying himself carefully, was already paddling out upon the river as if he had gone to meet the huge steamer. "he's goin' to take the breakers, the pesky little reptile," said ethan, evidently annoyed by the recklessness of ben. "i should think he'd had enough o' canoein' in rough water for one day." ben, however, was too far out by this time to be recalled; and as the boatman probably thought all attempts to summon him would be useless, he wisely held his peace and stood upon the bank with the boys watching the movements of the reckless lad. the great steamer came steadily and swiftly forward, and ben almost as swiftly advanced to meet it. he was plying his paddle rapidly, and the canoe almost seemed to leap over the water. a long line of rolling waves were upturned by the steamer in its course, and stretched away like a furrow left by a ploughman. ben rested a moment as the great vessel came abreast of him and then, quickly dipping his paddle deep into the water, sent the light canoe straight for the tossing waves. no one on the bank spoke as they breathlessly watched their companion, and it was evident that they all expected to see him overturned in the boisterous water. soon ben could be seen as he entered the wake of the steamer, the canoe was lifted high for a moment and then disappeared from sight. again it rose and seemed almost to stand upright, but it rode the wave successfully and again went down into the trough of the sea. so up and down, tossed like a leaf on the stream, the little canoe held to its course, and it soon became apparent that ben was master of the situation. "he done it," remarked ethan, forcefully if not grammatically, and a sigh of relief escaped from his companions as they perceived that ben was safe. jock quickly turned, and the brass cannon belched forth its salute to the passing vessel. the delight of the boys was great when they saw a little cloud of steam shoot upward from the steamer and the heavy whistle acknowledged the salutation. some of the passengers on the deck waved their handkerchiefs, and not to be outdone bert seized the tablecloth from the table, from which the dishes already had been cleared, and waved it in response to the salutes from the deck. there was another cloud of fluttering handkerchiefs waved at them from the deck, and then the great steamer passed on its way to the largest of canadian cities. ben by this time had returned to the camp, and as he landed and lifted the canoe to its place on the bank, ethan said sharply to him:-- "that was a foolish risk to take, boy. what did ye do it for?" "oh, i wanted to see how it seemed to take those breakers," was the reply. "besides, i thought it was a good time to put my ability to the test." "ye haven't got no ability," replied ethan, gruffly. "it was a foolish trick; and if ye'd been spilled and got drowned, i'd had the blame of it." "i knew you were close by, ethan," protested ben. "i couldn't drown when you were in camp. i just had to do it, you see, for i wasn't going to let that canoe get the better of me. i'm going to learn how to manage one while i'm here if i get tipped over a dozen times." "ye ought to be careful, though," said ethan, evidently mollified by ben's words of praise. "i didn't believe a city fellow would have so much grit." "you don't know us yet," replied ben, with a laugh. ethan said nothing more, and at once gave his attention to fitting out the sailboat. this task was soon completed, and the eager boys at once took their places on board. "have you got everything we shall want?" inquired jock, before they set sail. "i don't know whether i've got everything ye want, but i've got everything ye need," said ethan. "got those 'p'is'n things'?" inquired ben, soberly. "yes, i've got the pies an' things," replied ethan, shortly. "now, if ye've got no further speeches to make, we'll cast off." the boat was soon free from the dock, and, as the sail filled, it began to move swiftly over the river. there was a strong breeze, and aided by the swift current the boat drew rapidly away from the island. ethan held the tiller, and when, after he had satisfied himself that nothing had been neglected, he at last took his seat, and gazed about him with a smile of contentment upon his sunburned face. "this is something like it, boys!" exclaimed ben, as he looked about him over the great river. the wooded islands, the glistening waters of the river, the strong breeze, and, above all, the swift motion of the boat, lent an additional delight to those who were on board. camps, not unlike their own, were passed; cottages, on the piazzas of which groups of people could be seen; the beautiful st. lawrence skiffs, in which were men starting forth on an errand like that which had taken our boys a few days before to goose bay, were noted, and all were enthusiastically greeted. occasionally some beautiful steam-yacht would meet them on its way up the river, and in response to their hail would toot forth its salute. altogether, the scene and experience were so novel and inspiring that the boys all felt the exhilaration, and their delight was unbounded. "do ye see that island over there?" inquired ethan, pointing as he spoke to one which lay between them and the shore. the boys all glanced in the direction, and then the boatman said, "they had a fracas there in the civil war with the bounty jumpers." "bounty jumpers? what are they?" said ben, innocently. ethan gave him a look which was almost one of contempt, and then said, "i thought you was goin' to college." "i am," said ben; "but i don't go because i know it all, but because i don't. if i knew as much as you do, ethan, perhaps i shouldn't go." "ye don't know much for a fact," replied ethan, soberly. "i s'pose ye'll be studyin' latin and greek and lots o' such 'tarnal nonsense when ye git there. if there was a six-year-old boy 'round here that didn't know what a bounty jumper was, i'd send him to the 'sylum, i would, for a fact. have ye found out how many teeth a cow has on her upper jaw yet?" "not yet," laughed ben, good-naturedly. "what's that got to do with bounty jumpers?" "a bounty jumper," began ethan, ignoring the question, "was a man what jumped his bounty." "how far did he jump? what made him jump, anyway, ethan?" said bob. "he jumped straight into canada, and then he jumped back again." "was he any relation to the wise man who jumped into the bramble bush? ever hear that story, ethan? it's a good one. jock knows it, and he'll tell it to you if you want him to," said bob. "tell us about the bounty jumpers," interrupted jock, quickly. "well," began ethan, slowly, "you know, they was a-offerin' a bounty of a thousand dollars to every man who'd enlist." "when?" interrupted bob. "was it during the war of ?" "no. 'twas in the secesh war, that's when it was." "you weren't here when the war of broke out, were you, ethan?" inquired bob, soberly. ignoring the laugh which followed, ethan went on: "they wanted men putty bad in the civil war, and so they offered a thousand dollars to every one who'd enlist. well, lots enlisted; and then, after they'd got their money, they'd leave the army and put straight for this river, and git over into canada. then they'd cross over the border somewhere, and enlist somewhere else, take another thousand dollars and light out for canada again. 'twas a payin' job in those days; paid better'n drivin' a horse-car down to the city. there were regular 'bounty brokers,' as they were called, to help these rascals, and finally the government sent some provost marshals up here to look out for these fellows, and one of the liveliest tilts happened right by that island. "there was a camp o' the jumpers on that island, and they had come to be as bold as ye please. there was so many on 'em that they felt pretty secure like, and besides, the wife o' one o' the men lived in a little house right on the shore. she used to go to school with me an' your pa," he added, turning to jock as he spoke, "and he'd know her name in a minute if i should tell ye what it was. well, she used to come out and wave a white cloth at the camp, and then her husband, or some other fellow, would come ashore an' get what she cooked up for 'em. "one of the marshals found out the trick an' he made up his mind he'd get some o' these fellows; so one day he came down to the house, and as he wasn't dressed up like a soldier, jest wore ordinary clothes like yours or mine," he explained as he glanced at the boys, not one of whom changed the expression upon his face as he was addressed, "and so, though the woman was pretty suspicious, she didn't think he was on the lookout. pretty quick she went out o' the house and waved the cloth, for she probably thought the men were gettin' hungry, and then a boat left the camp, and when it came pretty close to the shore the marshal, who was a-peekin' out o' the window, saw the very man he wanted most of all--this woman's husband. "he waited till the boat was close in, and then he rushed out and yelled to the man to give himself up, and to strengthen his argument pulled out a pistol. the man was scared like at first, but the woman wasn't a mite, an' she jest yelled out, 'don't ye do it, bill; don't ye do it.' at that the marshal began to make his pistol pop, an' he fired all six o' the cartridges, an' never once touched the man or the boat, either." "is every man hereabouts as good a shot as that?" drawled bob. "i'm thinkin' they shoot as well as they do anywhere," replied ethan. "well, some o' the marshal's friends came up, an' they went into the house to make themselves to home. they waited all night, an' a neighbor came in an' told them the jumpers was fixin' to come ashore and shoot every one of 'em. jest then they heard a drum an' fife over in the camp, and they fixed up the house to stand a siege. they barricaded the doors and windows, and waited for deserters, an' likewise for the mornin'. "the mornin' came, but the jumpers didn't; an' as the camp was too strong to be attacked, the marshal an' his friends cleared out afore noon and left the region. but that scrape happened right over there by that island. i could tell ye a whole lot more o' stories o' the jumpers, but i've got to look out for this boat now, or ye'll all be goin' down to the bottom instead of down the river." as ethan spoke, he quickly rose and began to give some sharp directions to tom. apparently they were needed, for the boat was moving with wonderful speed now. as the boys looked over into the river they could see that the swiftness of the current had greatly increased. the waters ran like those in a mill-race, and it almost seemed as if the boat had been lifted by some unseen and mighty hand, and thrown forward with incredible swiftness. no one, save ethan, spoke, and the white faces of the boys indicated that the alarm which they thought their boatman had displayed was shared by them all. chapter xv. in a foreign land. on either side the boys could see great eddies in the stream, in which the water whirled as if it were twisted about on some unseen axis. the boat itself was moving swiftly, and as it was swept onward by the current, they of course could not fully perceive the motion of the river. the experience was a novel one, and the alarm of the boys was but natural. their confidence was in a measure restored when they saw that ethan apparently was not frightened, and as he noticed them watching intently a whirling eddy off to their right, he laughed and said,-- "that's a pretty good twister, isn't it, boys?" "yes," replied bert. "what would happen to us if we should be caught in it?" "nothin'. nothin' at all." as the boys looked up in surprise, he continued, "there's a mighty sight o' difference between the eddy and the current, let me tell you. some folks mistake one for the other in more ways than one, i'm thinkin'. in my paper, which comes reg'lar every friday, i sometimes read the most alarmin' articles. i suppose the men that write them think they're all true enough, an' they really are afraid the country is goin' to the dogs. when i read 'em i confess i'm a bit skeered at times; for what with the strikes an' riots an' all sorts o' things that happen, it does look like as if it was goin' to be a bit of a blow; but i look out o' the window o' my house, an' i see the great river a-hurryin' on as if it was all the while afraid it would be late, or wouldn't get there on time. but i see more'n the current, for i see some big eddies, too. they whirl an' boil as if there was a big fire down below, an' when i see 'em i always think that some folks can't tell the difference between a eddy and the stream. then i make up my mind that that's what's the trouble with those newspaper fellows. they've seen a eddy and mistook it for the current: an' all the time the great stream is a-goin' on jist as smooth and swift as ye please. this river is a great teacher, in my opinion." ethan's quaint words served to quiet the fears of the boys, though doubtless they failed to appreciate the deeper philosophy which lay beneath them. at all events, they soon perceived that the river was calmer now, and that the boat was not moving at the speed it had had a few minutes before. "that must have been one of the rapids, wasn't it, ethan?" inquired jock. "rapids? i rather guess not. that spot's no more like the rapids than a milk pail's like a mill-pond. no, sir! when ye strike the rapids, ye'll know it. it's most like slidin' down hill on water." "but how do the boats come up the river, then?" queried ben. "they do come up, for i see them every day. i shouldn't think they could get through the rapids, if they're like what you say they are." "no more they don't." as the boys looked blankly at him, ethan laughed and said, "they come up the canal. course they can't get through the rapids." "i didn't know there was a canal," said ben. "humph," grunted the boatman; but it was evident that his opinion of their knowledge was but slight, in spite of the fact that they had endeavored to impress him with the entrance into college they had all gained. "are we going down to the rapids to-day?" inquired bert. "to-day? well, i guess not," said ethan, decidedly. "how far down the river d'ye think them rapids be?" "i didn't know," protested bert, hastily. "i only asked for information." "we'll go down there some time, but we'll have to make a two or three day trip of it. even this boat o' mine, and she's no laggard, i'd have ye understand, couldn't make it in a day. but we're goin' down there. there's fishin' below the longue seaut that leaves goose bay and eel bay and all the spots among the islands in the shade." "what do they catch?" inquired bob. "fish." "oh!" and bob lapsed into silence once more. indeed, it was becoming more and more difficult to deal with ethan; and his estimate of their knowledge, or rather their lack of it, was so apparent that they began to feel as if they were the embodiment of the city greenhorns he had so contemptuously referred to when they had first entered camp. for a time there was silence on board, and the boys all gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour. in the distance were the shores, and in various places the farmers could be seen at their work. the farmhouses, low and quaint, appeared here and there, and the cottages, though less numerous than among the thousand islands, were still much in evidence. perched on some high bluff along the shore, or built in groups in some grove, they continually presented a spectacle of life far different from that which was to be seen in the towns or cities. to ethan their coming was the most natural thing in the world, for where could another such region be found as that along the borders of the majestic st. lawrence? the only thing against which he rebelled was the price paid for the spot on which some cottage had been erected, and as they passed the summer homes he frequently referred to the amount of money which had been paid for the lots. "that's where tod church lives," he explained, pointing as he spoke to a low farmhouse on the shore, near which stood several modest cottages. "is that so?" replied bob seriously, as if the abode of tod was a matter of intense interest to him. "was he in the war of too?" "no; he wasn't. tod's a young man. he's only fifty-nine, jest three months younger'n i be. but tod's got rich!" "you don't mean it!" exclaimed the serious bob. "how did the aforesaid tod acquire his wealth?" "he didn't do nuthin', an' yet he's well off, tod is. some folks is born lucky. that's all the difference there is between folks, in my opinion. some has luck for 'em and some has it agin 'em." "and tod had it with him, did he?" inquired bob. "he did that. his father left him well fixed, for tod had the house and fifty acres o' land all clear. and now he's gone an' sold some lots up there on that bluff where he couldn't raise nothin', and he's got two thousan' dollars in clean money for 'em. neow if that isn't luck, then i don't know what luck is," said ethan, impressively. "he jest works when he feels like it, and when he doesn't, he doesn't. jest takes his ease and comes an' goes when an' where he pleases, an' doesn't ask no odds of nobody." "fortunate youth!" murmured bob; and again silence came upon the party. for an hour more they sped on before the breeze, which still continued strong. the sun was high in the heavens, and across the bright blue of the sky occasional masses of silver-colored clouds passed. it was a perfect summer day, and the deep peace which rested over all things seemed to include the boys in its embrace. the boat was handled perfectly by ethan and tom, and it must have required men made of different material from that in our boys not to feel the keen delight of living amidst such surroundings. the rush and roar of the city were things impossible to be imagined, and even the grind of the closing days in school, and the prospect of the hard work in college, were all vague and meaningless. "what's that place ahead, ethan?" suddenly exclaimed jock, sitting erect as he spoke, and pointing to a place of considerable size to their left. "brockville." "why don't we stop there and get dinner?" "i've got something for ye to eat aboard the boat." "i know that; but we'll want it all on our way back." "it'll cost ye four shillin' apiece for your dinner if ye go to the hotel, though i know another place where ye can get it for three shillin'; but i'm not sure the place is bein' run now." "never mind the cost, ethan," said jock, recklessly. "we're out for a time of it, and even such extravagance can be put up with once in a lifetime." "jest as you say," replied ethan, though it was evident that he felt in a measure responsible for the expenditures of the lads under his care. the dock was soon gained, and as ethan made his boat fast, the light-hearted boys leaped ashore. "come on, ethan! come on, tom," said jock. "we'll go up to the hotel and get our dinner." "who? me!" exclaimed the boatman in surprise. "yes, you. you and tom too. come on, both of you." "no," said ethan, shaking his head decidedly. "i ain't a-goin' to pay no four shillin' for a dinner when i've got enough to eat aboard my boat." "well, let tom come, anyway," urged jock, perceiving that ethan was not willing to accept the invitation. "we should be glad to have both of you come, and we'll stand treat for the dinners." ethan was about to refuse permission for tom to accompany the boys, but perceiving the look of intense desire upon his son's face, and as jock increased his solicitations, he relented, and together the boys started up the street. it was nearly two hours later when they returned, and as ethan perceived them, he said, "i hope ye got yer money's worth, boys." "it wasn't our fault if we didn't," laughed jock. "now, ethan, we want to look about the place a little. will you come with us?" "i s'pose i'd better, or ye'll git lost," replied the boatman; and soon afterward the little party was walking about the town, which, in its architecture and life, presented many contrasts to that with which they were more familiar. when they approached the public buildings, ethan related the story of the rescue which a party of american soldiers had made there in the war of . it seemed that a considerable body of prisoners had been secured by the british, and confined in the jail at brockville, or elizabethtown, as the place was known in the earlier days. their friends on the other side of the river had assembled for their rescue, and crossed the ice one dark night and fell upon the guard, and at last secured the release of their fellows. ethan told the story with many quaint additions of his own, and we may be sure his young friends were deeply interested. "this _is_ a great country," said ben, when ethan ceased. "it's historic ground from one end of the river to the other." "i s'pose so," remarked ethan, quietly, "though i don't take much interest in such things. folks is queer. they call it hist'ry when a lot o' men git up with guns and shoot at one another; but when they are peaceable like, and just 'tend to their farms an' mind their own business, then it isn't any hist'ry at all. i've seen a crowd gather in a minit up at the bay or clayton around a man what's drunk, but when a man is sober and decent they don't pay no 'tention to him at all. it seems to me this 'hist'ry' you're talkin' about is a good deal like that." "perhaps it is," admitted ben. "i hadn't thought of it before." on their way back to the boat ethan stopped to make a few purchases, and carefully stowed the packages on board when they set sail. "we'll go a bit farther down the river," he said, as he headed the boat down the stream. "we've time enough." "ethan, what have you got in those bundles?" inquired ben. "some things my wife wanted me to git. can buy 'em cheaper over here." "but they'll cost you as much after you've paid the duty, won't they?" "duty? duty? who's a-goin' to pay any duty, i'd like to know?" replied ethan, sharply. "why, i thought everybody had to pay that when they bought things in canada." "well, i'm not goin' to. i'd like to know why i can't buy things in brockville if i take a notion, 'specially when they're cheaper." "but i thought everybody up here believed in a high tariff, and voted for it." "so they do. we ain't a-goin' to have them come over into our country and compete with us! not much!" "how can you buy over there and not pay duty, then?" "hey? what's that ye say? ye act as if ye thought i'd been stealin'. most everybody does it, an' i guess it's all fair enough. did you pay duty for that dinner ye et up to the hotel? ye brought some things away inside o' ye, an' i brought some outside o' me. tell me the difference, will ye?" "ben ought to have paid," laughed bob. "when a man buys food by the wholesale, he ought to pay duty, i'm sure." ethan said no more, and as the boys were not disposed to dispute the strange ethics in which he evidently believed, the party once more became silent. an hour later ethan sighted a steam-yacht coming up the river, and in response to his hail it stopped and took the boat in tow. this made the returning voyage easy, and added to the novelty as well; and just before dusk the line was cast off, and the boat was headed for the camp, where soon after the boys arrived safely. "i'll get ye some supper now," said ethan, as he and tom at once began their preparations for the evening meal. "good for you, ethan!" said ben. "all the 'p'is'n things' you had on board have been long since exhausted." "so i noticed. i wonder sometimes if there's anything that will fill ye up." "your supper will, i'm sure." "i'll try it, though i'm doubtful," replied the boatman, grimly. a little later he left the tent and approached the boys, holding something in his hands. "somebody's been here while we've been gone," he said. "they've left a letter and their tickets." jock received the note and the "tickets," as ethan called the visiting cards, and tearing open the missive he read it and then said: "mr. and mrs. clarke have been here, fellows. they have left an invitation for us. keep still and i'll read it." he read the letter aloud, and in a moment his friends were as interested in the contents as he himself had been. chapter xvi. an alarm in the camp. the note extended a cordial invitation to the boys to dine at "the rocks" on the following day, and mr. clarke offered to send his yacht to convey them to his island. the dinner was to be in the middle of the day, in accordance with the custom of the region, and as that fact left the afternoon practically free, all the party were eager to accept. perhaps it was not merely the expected pleasure of meeting mr. and mrs. clarke, or of enjoying a trip in his yacht, which was acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful and fleet on the entire river, which moved them; but if other inducements, not referred to in the note of invitation, did appear, no one mentioned them. after supper, when ethan prepared to depart from the camp, tom said, "i think i'll wait a little while, pa. i'll come home in a couple of hours." "all right, son," responded ethan. "i think ye'd better take one o' the canoes when ye start, and leave the skiff with the boys. it'll be safer like, ye see, if they take it into their heads to go out on the river." ben made a wry face at the implied slight on their ability to use the canoes, but no one spoke, and the boatman soon departed. "i wanted you to hear me speak my piece again, if you would," said tom, when his father had gone. "i know i don't do it very well, and as you have had so much better advantages than i have, i'd like to have you help me, if you will." before any one could reply, bert made a sudden dart from the camp-fire and was speedily followed by jock. "what's the matter with those boys?" inquired tom, innocently, as he glanced up at the departing lads. "i don't think they feel very well," replied bob, soberly. "they don't? do you want me to go over to the bay and get a doctor? it won't take an hour." "no physician can reach the seat of their trouble," said ben, solemnly. "it's deeper than any human skill can go." "you don't mean it! perhaps i'd better wait and not ask you to hear me speak my piece to-night." "oh, that won't make any difference. ben, here, is perfectly willing to hear you. in fact, he enjoys it; and while you are speaking, i'll go and look up the other fellows, and see what i can do to help them." bob's evident desire to escape was all unnoticed by the unsuspecting tom, and as soon as he was left alone with ben, he began to speak. for a half-hour or more the camp resounded with, "tew be or not tew be-e-e," but no one returned to disturb the orator until the practice had been ended. then, as the three lads came back, tom said, "i'm sorry, boys, that you don't feel well. i told bob i'd go over to the bay for a doctor, but he said you didn't want any." "no physician in alexandria bay could prescribe for those boys when they get an attack of self-abasement. it's a serious matter." "there's one thing about it," said jock, "and that is, that bob, here, isn't likely to catch it." tom, evidently, did not appreciate the point, but he nevertheless accepted jock's invitation to remain, and stretched himself on the grass before the roaring camp-fire with the others. "i was about to remark the other evening, when my irreverent friend interrupted me," began bob, "that cartier came back here." "bob, are you going on with that yarn?" demanded ben. "no yarn about it. i'm going to help you fellows to see the point for once in your lives." "you mean you're going to try to make a point some one can see," retorted ben. "well, wake me up when you come to the point. life's too short to spend it in trying to understand bob's stuff. if he ever comes to a point, let me know;" and ben rolled over upon the grass, and covering his face with his hat, pretended to be sleeping. "go on with your cartier," said bert. "i don't know what we've done to deserve all this, but if we've got to have it, then the sooner it's done the better." "cartier," began bob, giving the name a peculiar emphasis to expose bert's ignorance, "made a great stir when he got back to st. malo,--that was in september, , as i said,--and the king was tickled most of all. he immediately promised to fit out a new expedition, and a lot of the young nobles and swells wanted to join. cartier was the rage, you see, and even the children cried for him; and as for the ladies, why, even brass buttons didn't count along with jakie's commission as 'captain and pilot of the king.' "about the middle of the next may everything was ready, and cartier and his men went up to the cathedral together, and special services were held for them, and the bishop gave them his blessing. having looked after that part of it, cartier then took his men aboard his squadron and set sail. he had three vessels this time, though i don't just recall the names of them." "_la grande hermione_, _la petite hermione_, and _l'emérillon_," suggested tom, who had been listening attentively. "thank you," replied bob, somewhat confused, to the evident delight of his companions. "those were the names. well, they hadn't been out on the ocean sailing very long before they were separated by the storms, but after a rough passage they finally came together in the straits of belle isle." "at the inlet of blanc sablon," suggested tom. a laugh greeted his words; but though tom's face flushed, he soon perceived that he was not the cause of the merriment, and though he could not understand bob's momentary confusion, he, too, joined in the good-natured laughter. "on the last day of july they sailed to the westward and started up the st. lawrence. it was the first day of september when cartier found the mouth of the saguenay, and the fourteenth when he came to a little river about thirty miles from quebec, which he named the sainte croix. the next day an indian came to see him--" "hold on, bob, isn't that enough?" inquired bert, in apparent despair. "the indian was an algonquin chief with a funny name--" "donnacona," suggested tom, mildly. again a loud laugh greeted his word, and the abashed tom subsided. "that's right; that's what it was," said bob, quickly. "thank you, tom. well, cartier had the two indians with him whom he had taken to france, and so he could hold a powwow with this algonquin, but i haven't time to tell you what they talked about." "oh, yes. please tell us," pleaded bert, in mock eagerness. "no, i can't stop--" "you're right. you can't tell, and you can't stop, either, till you're run down." "as a result of the interview, cartier left two of his vessels there, and, taking the _l'emérillon_, he sailed up the river as far as lake st. peter, but he found a bar there--" "what?" exclaimed bert, sitting suddenly erect. "a bar. that's what i said." "was he looking for a bar all this time? didn't they have any farther down the river? i'm ashamed of carter. i didn't believe he was that kind of a man." "this was a sand bar," laughed bob, "and blocked his way, so he left the ship's crew there--" "the ship's screw?" interrupted bert. "now i know you're giving us a fairy tale. ships didn't have any screws then. they hadn't been invented. even side-wheelers weren't known then." "i didn't say ship's screw. i said ship's crew. can't you understand plain english?" "that's what i said, too, the ship's screw. didn't i, fellows?" appealed bert, turning to his companions. "there's a big difference between a ship's screw and a ship's crew." "perhaps you can see it, but i can't. a ship's screw is a ship's screw, and that's all there is to it," protested bert, solemnly. "all right; have it your own way," said bob. "cartier left his behind him, anyway, and with three of his men took a little boat and came on up the river, and on october d arrived at montreal, which he called mount royal." "what did he call it that for? why didn't he call it what the people there called it? i believe in calling things by their right names, i do." "it had an indian name which i don't at this moment recall--" "ask tom," suggested bert. "hochelaga," said tom, in response to the appeal. "what did you say, tom?" inquired bert, soberly. "hochelaga," laughed tom. "oh! then that was the place where the bar you spoke of was, was it, bob? pardon me. pray resume your fascinating disquisition, as improbable as it is flighty. you were about to describe your carter when he and his followers stopped on the bar, a course of action of which i highly disapprove. that's one thing i like about this river, it's all wool and a yard wide. a safe place for children and no temptations to speak of--unless a canoe is one for ben." "a yard wide?" interrupted tom. "the st. lawrence a yard wide! why, it's three-quarters of a mile wide up here at cape vincent, where it leaves the lake, and on the other side of quebec it's ten and twenty and even thirty miles wide, and at cape gaspé it's all of a hundred miles wide." again the boys broke into a hearty laugh, in which tom was compelled to join, although he did not understand just what it was he was laughing at; but the good nature of them all was so apparent that he did not suspect that he was the cause of their enjoyment. "cartier stayed only three days at montreal--" resumed bob. "didn't he like the hochelaga?" interrupted the irrepressible bert. "keep still, bert," pleaded jock, laughingly. "i want to hear about this." "i would i were as this one is!" drawled bert, pointing to ben as he spoke, who was now soundly sleeping and apparently doing his utmost to emphasize the adverb as much as he did the verb. "cartier left after three days," began bob once more, "and went back to the mouth of the sainte croix, and there he passed the winter. and a terrible winter it was, too. the men weren't used to such awful cold, and they suffered from the scurvy so much that when the spring came twenty-five of them were dead, and only a very few of the hundred and ten who were alive were free from disease. his men had been so reduced in numbers that cartier decided to take only two of his vessels back to france with him and so left the _petite hermione_ there." "that's a likely story," said bert. "left the ship behind him?" "yes, that's what he did." "it may be so, my friend, but i don't believe it." "it is true," said tom. "they found the old boat in the mud there in ,--the very ship that cartier left more than three hundred years before." "oh, of course, if _you_ say so i'll believe it," replied bert. "he first took possession of the land," said bob, "by setting up a cross bearing the arms of france and a latin inscription, _franciscus primus, dei gratia francorum rex, regnat_." "i've read about that inscription, but i don't know how to read latin," said tom, eagerly. "what does it mean?" "ask bert," suggested bob. "jock'll tell you," said bert, quickly. "bob knows it, and he'll tell you," protested jock, hastily. "cartier stole donnacona and nine other indian chiefs and sailed away for france, where he arrived about the middle of july, . and that's the end of chapter two," bob added, as he rose from his seat. tom now departed for home, and as the boys began to prepare for the night, bob stopped for a moment before the prostrate figure of ben, who was still sleeping soundly on the ground before the camp-fire. "i was never treated thusly in all my experience as a lecturer," said bob. "i'll fix that fellow. i'll show him he mustn't spoil my speeches with his hilarious snorings." running into the tent bob speedily returned with several short pieces of rope, in each of which he made a slip noose. then he carefully adjusted one to the sleeping lad's right hand, and without disturbing him, made the rope fast to the nearest tree. in a similar manner he treated the other hand and then the two feet, and last of all the head of the still unconscious ben. "now, i'd like to wake him up," said bob, regarding his work with much satisfaction. "he won't go to sleep again when i'm lecturing, i fancy. if he moves his right hand he'll make himself all the more secure, and if he tries to stir his other hand or his feet he'll be still worse off. next time he'll see the point, i'm thinking." the boys were soon ready for bed and still ben slept on. the camp-fire flickered and burned low, the long shadows ceased, and even the waiting boys at last closed their eyes and slept. how long they had been sleeping they did not know, but they were suddenly awakened by a yell that startled them all. quickly sitting up, the boys at first could not determine what it was that had so alarmed them. in a moment, however, the yell was repeated, louder and longer than before. "it's ben," said bob, quickly. "i'll go out and ascertain whether he can see the point." as he turned to rush into the open air, he was startled by the sounds which came from the roof of the tent in which they had been sleeping. something was moving about on it, and to the alarm of the boys it sounded very much like the snarl of a wild beast. evidently it was something large, too, and in a moment all three darted forth from the tent into the darkness, just as there came another yell from the prostrate ben, even more piercing than those which had preceded it. chapter xvii. on guard. bob's first impulse was to run to his prostrate friend, and with a knife he quickly severed the cords by which ben was bound. angry as ben was, he did not speak, but instantly leaped to his feet and stood with his companions peering eagerly at the body which could be seen upon the roof of the tent. the fire had burned low, but still threw out its long shafts of light, and in the shadows the animal seemed to assume fantastic shapes. the boys were all alarmed, and to their distorted vision the visitor was apparently of large size, and every moment they expected to see him spring from the tent. he had not moved since they had rushed out from the tent, and though he uttered no sound he seemed to be crouching as for a spring. "it's a bear," whispered bert. "no, it isn't a bear; it's a panther," replied jock, in a whisper as tremulous as that of his friend had been. the suggestion was in no wise reassuring, and for a few moments the boys stood and watched their strange visitor, ready to dart into the woods at the first sign of new danger. the animal, however, had not stirred, and was still crouching upon the roof. "if i only had my revolver, i'd fix him," said ben. "where is it, ben?" whispered bob, eagerly. "in the tent there. i say, fellows," he continued, "if you will keep his attention off to one side i'll crawl in and get the pistol. can't you throw some sticks or stones at him, or poke him with a long pole? while you're doing that, i'll creep round to the other side and get into the tent. he won't see me if you keep him busy." the suggestion of a pole met with no favor, but sticks and stones were more practical, and selecting a short club as a weapon of defence in case of an attack, the three boys drew off together a little farther into the woods and then began to throw the missiles at the crouching animal. as their aim was poor they added shouts to their other "weapons," and soon the camp was ringing with their calls, though the animal did not move and seemed to be alike fearless of their missiles and wild cries. ben, meanwhile, had crept stealthily around to the farther side of the tent, and when the uproar of his companions rose to its highest point, darted quickly into the tent, secured his revolver and then ran out again with a celerity which his friends might well have envied. possessed of his weapon he called to the boys, and as soon as they had joined him he stepped nearer the spot and cocked his pistol. he could still see their visitor in the same attitude and place where he had been when first discovered. the camp-fire flickered and the trees moaned under the night wind. the wash of the waves upon the pebbly beach was the only other sound to be heard, unless the rapid beatings of the hearts of the boys were audible to others besides their owners. "don't move, fellows," whispered ben, as he slowly raised his revolver and took aim. his warning apparently was not needed, for not one of the boys moved from his place. each was intently watching that crouching form upon the roof, and waiting for the report of the revolver, which should either put an end to their suspense by killing the animal, or bring upon themselves the rush of an angry and perhaps wounded beast. the suspense was not ended when the first report of ben's pistol broke sharply in upon the stillness of the night. from all appearances they thought the animal had not been hit, but as he showed no disposition either to advance or retreat, ben quickly raised his revolver again and two shots rang out in quick succession. "look out, ben, you'll hit the tent," whispered bob, made somewhat bolder by the continued failure of the animal to move. ben then fired the remaining cartridges, and to the delight of his companions, they saw their enemy roll from his place on the tent and fall with a thud upon the ground. there was the sound of a struggle for a moment, and then all became still again. the boys waited anxiously, and at last ben said, "i hit him! i hit him! he's dead, fellows. go on and see what he was." [illustration: "bob took a long stick and poked the motionless form." _page ._] as no one seemed to be quite willing to respond to the appeal, ben himself thrust a long torch or broken limb of a tree into the fire, and then, holding in his hand the blazing branch, at the head of the column advanced to view the fallen foe. they approached carefully and cautiously, ben explaining that "panthers sometimes lived a long time after they were dead," and soon they could see the motionless body before them. holding the torch in one hand and his reloaded revolver in the other, ben stood ready to shoot at the first returning sign of danger, while bob took a long stick and cautiously poked the motionless form. his actions produced no response, and then, concluding that their enemy was indeed dead, they came nearer and soon stood looking down upon their victim. a closer inspection revealed the fact that it was a much smaller animal than they had thought it to be, but none of them had ever seen one like it before. as jock leaned down to touch it with his hand, he suddenly drew back with a cry of pain, and instantly his companions darted from the spot. as they were not pursued, their courage revived, and once more they returned to inspect the body of the strange animal. he was dead now, that was evident; and satisfied as to that fact, bob declared that he was going back to bed. "we ought to keep a guard to-night, though," suggested bert. "perhaps these animals hunt in pairs. i've heard of panthers that do." "that's all right; we'll have a guard," replied bob. "ben's the one to do it." "me? well, i guess not! say, who fixed me that way?" he suddenly inquired, his anger evidently returning at the thought of the wrongs he had suffered. "well, i did," drawled bob, "if you really want to know." "what did you do it for?" "to make you see the point. when i'm lecturing on the early discoverers of the st. lawrence, i don't want you to go to sleep. i'm not doing it for the fun of the thing. it's duty, pure duty; i want to teach my benighted countrymen something about the heroes of this region." "nobody asked you to," replied ben, half laughing, though he was still angry over his wrongs. "if i'd invited you to speak or paid for the privilege that would have been another matter. where did you get the stuff, bob? out of an almanac or the cyclopædia?" "out of my head. by the way, ben, what made you yell so when you woke us up?" "yell? well, perhaps you'd keep quiet when you opened your eyes in the night and saw a wild beast crawling over the roof of the tent and ready to spring upon you and devour you. then when i tried to move i found some one had tied me hand and foot." "your voice was free. your lungs seemed to work all right," suggested bob. "they might not, though, if it hadn't been just as it was. when i tried to raise my head the string choked me, and i couldn't use my hands to help me, either. that was a dangerous thing to do, bob. i don't believe in practical jokes. why, do you know, i thought at first i was having the nightmare; but when i saw that great beast there, i knew i was only too much awake. no, bob, you'll have to be the one to stand guard to-night." "makes no difference to me," drawled bob. "i'm entirely willing." it was evident that the other boys were as willing as he, and after ben had given him his revolver, and all three had bestowed upon him many cautions and much advice, he was left to himself. bob waited until the sounds that came from the tent indicated that all within were asleep, and then he coolly entered, and selecting his own blanket and pillow, returned with them to the fire. before spreading them upon the ground, he stopped for a moment and seemed to be thinking intently upon some matter. the result of his deliberations became apparent, when he placed both blanket and pillow carefully behind one of the trees in a spot where they would not be seen by any one in the camp. then he returned, and, cocking the revolver, advanced to the front of the tent. lifting his arm, as if he was aiming at the distant sky, he suddenly opened his mouth and emitted some screeches that might have made an indian chief envious, and at the same time began to dance about and discharge the revolver. "hi! yi! yi! hi! yi! yi!" he shouted. the din caused by his unearthly cries, punctuated by the rapid discharge of the revolver, brought the startled inmates instantly to the door. "hi! yi! yi! hi! yi! yi!" repeated bob, dancing about with increased vigor, and at the same time discharging the last remaining chamber of the revolver as he beheld his frightened comrades. "what is it? what is it, bob?" exclaimed ben, breathlessly. "did you see anything?" added jock, equally excited. "see anything? no, i didn't see anything," replied bob, slowly. "what! you didn't see anything?" demanded bert. "what did you make all that racket for, then?" "did i make any racket?" inquired bob, in his most innocent manner. "didn't you really see anything?" said jock. "no-o-o. i didn't see anything. but i'll tell you, fellows, i was afraid i might. i thought it might be just as well to scare away any prowling beast that might be near. did i disturb any of you?" he innocently added. "oh, no, you didn't disturb us," said ben, sarcastically. "we just came out to see if you were all safe yet." "it's fearfully lonesome out here, fellows," drawled bob. "don't one of you want to sit up with me awhile?" "not much we don't," replied ben, as he darted into the tent again, followed by the other two boys. "we'll leave you alone in your glory." "well, wait then till i load up again," said bob, as he, too, entered the tent. "where's the cartridge box, ben?" "over there on the table," replied ben, lazily. "help yourself," he added, as he turned over upon his side. bob evidently did "help himself," for he not only filled the empty chambers with cartridges, but he slipped the box also into his pocket. when he returned to the fire, he spread the blanket upon the ground once more and carefully adjusted the pillow. "if i've got to stay on guard i might as well do it in style," he murmured, as he stretched himself upon the blanket, and was soon sleeping as soundly as his friends in the tent. he did not sleep so long, however, for about once in every half hour he rose, and taking his stand in front of the tent he repeated his war dance, punctuating it with the sharp reports of his revolver and his ear-splitting shrieks. in vain the boys begged of him to permit one of them to relieve him of the task, but bob remained obdurate. "no, sir," he declared. "i'm doing my duty! i'm not going to let one of those st. lawrence panthers into this camp to-night if i know myself. i'm going to protect you, no matter at what cost to me." and so there was not much sleep in the camp that night, though it was likely that bob enjoyed as much as any one, for between his efforts to frighten away the "prowling panthers," he slept on his blanket before the fire. perhaps the excitement of the night caused the boys to sleep somewhat later than usual on the following morning, for bob, who was the first to awake, was roused by the voice of ethan. "what ye sleepin' out here for?" demanded the boatman in surprise. "that you, ethan?" drawled bob, as he opened his eyes. "oh, that reminds me," he added, as he hastily leaped to his feet, and grasping the revolver, rushed up to the front of the tent, where he repeated his frequent performance of the night. "what ye doin' that for?" demanded ethan, in astonishment. "keeping the wild beasts away. ethan," he added solemnly, "we've been attacked. a fearful beast leaped on our tent in the night, and tried desperately to tear it into pieces and get at us to devour us." "hey?" demanded ethan, sharply. "yes. that's just what he did," repeated bob, as the boys came out of the tent and joined him. "but we managed to shoot him." "ye did, did ye? well, where is he now? show me yer beast." bob silently led the way to the spot where they had left their victim. ethan looked sharply for a moment at the body, and then with a snort of contempt, said, "pish! nuthin' but a hedgehog!" and tom, for the first time our boys had heard him since their arrival at the camp, laughed aloud. chapter xviii. an unexpected race. the other boys by this time had joined the group, and so crestfallen were they all when they discovered how insignificant was their nocturnal visitor, that ethan quickly said,-- "a hedgehog will make a big scratching sometimes. i've known 'em when i've been logging to git up on the shanty in the night, and from the noise they made, i'd been willing to declare a bear was after us. it was perfectly natural, boys, for ye to be skeered." breakfast provided a speedy diversion, and after securing some of the quills of their victim they cast the body into the river, and turned to their repast. it was decided, in view of the visit they were to make that day at "the rocks," that they would not venture far from camp; but about an hour later jock called the attention of his companions to a spectacle on the river. about a half-mile in front of the camp they beheld a tug moving down the stream, dragging behind it several huge loads, which, although they were not boats, still somehow resembled them. they rested low upon the water, and men could be seen moving about over them. "what's that, ethan?" demanded bert, as he beheld the strange procession. "that?" replied the boatman, pausing in his task and looking in the direction indicated by the lad. "them's logs." "logs? i don't understand. what do you mean?" "i mean what i say. they're rafts made out o' logs. they come from up ottawa way. ye see, the lumbermen cut the logs in the winter and float 'em down the stream, and a good many on 'em is sawed up over there, but not all. they make rafts out of a part, and haul 'em down the river to montreal, or some other town." "but what are those houses or huts i can see on the rafts?" persisted bert. "and there are people there too. yes, i can see women and children," he added, as he lowered the glasses he had been using. "that's what they are," replied ethan. "they're cabins. they have to have a place for their women folks and children, don't they?" "do you mean to tell me they _live_ on board those rafts?" "course they do. why not?" "bert!" exclaimed ben, quickly, "i'm going to take a canoe and go out to visit them. want to go along?" "yes!" exclaimed bert, eagerly, as he ran with ben to the beach, where the canoes were kept. the other boys followed them, and warned bert against intrusting himself to a canoe in which ben was to be pilot and helmsman; but both were too eager now to heed the advice of their friends, and in a few minutes they had launched the canoe, adjusted the mast and, spreading the bat-wing sail, went skimming over the water in the direction of the approaching rafts. whatever bert's fears may have been, and doubtless they were many, ben managed to keep the canoe upright, and in a little while drew near the slow-moving crafts. the sail was then lowered, though the canoe was almost capsized in the attempt, and using their paddles, the boys soon drew alongside one of the rafts and successfully clambered on board, dragging their boat after them. it was a strange spectacle which greeted their eyes. two families evidently were living on board, and the children stood and shyly watched the arrival of their unexpected visitors. two little huts had been erected near the stern of the raft, and the women were then hanging their weekly washing on the lines which had been stretched from side to side. one of the men now approached the boys and respectfully saluted them, and ben explained their purpose in coming. in response to their request they were conducted to one of the huts, and hospitably invited to share in the meal which was soon to be prepared. ben declined the invitation, but curiously observed the places in which the people were dwelling for a time. rude berths or bunks had been built along the sides of the cabin, and a few rough chairs and the various utensils which were necessary for cooking were also seen. on the open raft a fireplace had been made, over which an iron pot could be placed. altogether the scene was as novel as it was interesting, and after remaining to talk with the men and to bestow some small coins upon the bashful children, as the camp on pine tree island had long since disappeared from sight, they soon departed, thanking the people for their kindness in explaining all the details to them. the boys succeeded in embarking safely and then set sail for the island, where they arrived about three-quarters of an hour afterward. ethan and tom had already departed for the day, and the campers were now waiting for the arrival of mr. clarke's steam-yacht, which was to convey them to his cottage. "i'm going down there in a canoe," exclaimed ben. "any of you fellows want to come along with me?" "nay, verily," said jock. "you have a fancy for appearing before the girls in your wet clothes. for my part, i don't enjoy that." "i'll not tip you over," replied ben. "i'm learning about all there is to learn in handling canoes. it's as easy as--as latin, when you once get the notion of it." none of the boys could be persuaded, however, and soon ben departed alone. he placed two paddles in the smaller of the canoes, and then spreading his sail, departed from the camp amidst the cheers of his friends, not one of whom expected to see him in a presentable condition when they should arrive at "the rocks." ben, however, was unmindful of their scepticism and sailed away as if no shadow of possible ill clouded his vision. in spite of his many mishaps he was determined to master the canoe, and no matter how many upsettings he had, they all only strengthened him in his purpose. it was a perfect day for his venture. a gentle breeze slightly ruffled the surface of the river and bore the light little canoe steadily on in its course. the water was so transparent that in places, as ben occasionally glanced over the side of his boat into the river, he could see the rocks upon the bottom, and several times beheld the hungry bass as they darted swiftly away at his approach. the sound of a belated mowing-machine came faintly from the shore where he could see men toiling in the fields. the reflections of the islands were so clear and distinct that he could hardly have determined which part was above and which below the surface as he glided past them. the bold rocks, the deep green of the bordering trees, and the many-colored cottages provided variety in the scene about him, and as ben moved onward before the gentle breeze, at times it almost seemed to him that he was in fairy-land. his first interruption came when a steamer approached, and not yet ready to test his prowess too severely, he turned out of the course far enough as he thought to place him beyond all danger; but he soon discovered that the wash of the steamer reached far that morning, and in a moment his frail craft was being tossed about as if it had been a leaf in the current of the mighty stream. however, he managed to hold his boat, and soon the troubled waters subsided, though he could see that the motion of the waves had extended even to the shores of a far-distant island. at last he came within sight of "the rocks," and beheld the girls on the dock watching one of their number whom he could see in a canoe not far away. the yacht could not anywhere be seen, and concluding that it had gone to the camp for his friends, he gave all his attention to the immediate task of landing in the presence of the girls without capsizing. as he approached he discovered that the beach on one side of the dock was low, and not quite daring to run in alongside the regular landing-place, he sent the canoe straight ashore and succeeded in his attempt with no worse mishap than wetting his feet. he was eagerly greeted by the girls, and as he took his stand on the dock beside them, one of them said:-- "have you given up appearing here as you did the first night you came?" "i hope so," answered ben. "i'm going to keep at it till i have got the better of the thing. i practise every day." "are you practising for the races, mr. dallett?" inquired one of them. "what races?" "why the regular canoe races next month. don't you know about them?" "tell me about them." "they meet down here not very far away, and have a regatta every summer. they have races with double bat-wings and single bat-wings, and one paddle and two paddles, and i don't know what all, only it's perfectly lovely. and the girls wear the colors; and yes, there is a race for the ladies, too. we're urging bessie here to go into that. have you ever seen her in a canoe?" "no, i never have." "well, you ought to. and are you really going to enter the canoe race, mr. dallett? and will you paddle or sail?" "yes," said ben, forming a sudden resolution, "i'm going into the race." "and will you paddle or sail?" "paddle." "how perfectly lovely. i say, girls, wouldn't it be fine sport for bessie and mr. dallett to have a race now? mr. clarke won't be back for a little while yet with the yacht and the boys, and i think it would be fine to have a race right here." "not very fine for me, i fear," replied ben. "miss bessie would beat me." "i'd do my best, you may be sure of that," exclaimed the young lady referred to. "do you want to race with me, mr. dallett?" "i'm afraid--" "oh, never mind, if you are _afraid_," said bessie, quickly, her eyes sparkling as she spoke. "possibly you might tip over." "i'll try it," said ben, doggedly. he knew he would never hear the last of it from his companions if he should refuse, and even the girls would not be averse to referring to the matter. "get your canoe, then," said bessie, quickly. "what's the course to be?" inquired ben. he wished now that he had not consented so readily. if by any chance he should win the race, he could see that his rival would not take her defeat quietly; and, on the other hand, if he should be beaten by a girl, his life in camp would not be lacking in spice. and miss bessie was so confident and eager. yes, he wished that he had not consented, but there was no withdrawal now. "the course will be around the island," explained bessie. "it's about half a mile and clear water. if you lose the race and are beaten by a girl," she exclaimed, "i'll despise you." "and if i win," laughed ben, "you'll never forgive me." "_if_ you _win_? win if you can!" and she quickly took her place in her canoe and began to wield her paddle in a manner that increased ben's misgivings still more. he, too, was soon ready, and as the canoes came alongside in front of the dock, one of the girls counted "one! two! three!" the signal agreed upon for starting, and in an instant the race was begun. whatever ben thought about racing with a girl, he speedily discovered that it was no holiday task before him even to keep up with her canoe, to say nothing of passing it. quick to take advantage of the start, she was fully three yards in advance of him when his paddle struck the water. his long arms gave him a decided advantage, but what his contestant lacked in reach she seemed to supply in quickness, and her dexterity was simply marvellous. in his eagerness not to be outdone, ben drove his paddle so far down into the water, that his canoe was almost upset, and when he tried to right it bessie had increased her lead and called mockingly to him that 'she could tow him around the island.' but he soon had gained his balance, and his long sweeping strokes began to tell. nearer and nearer he came to the canoe in front of him, and, do what she could, she could not increase the distance between them, and when they turned the point and were hidden from the sight of the girls on the dock, she was only a length in advance. almost together they then swept on, and when at last they turned the other point and came in on the home stretch, they were side by side. suddenly their ears were saluted by calls and shouts and the shrill whistle of the yacht which was now approaching with the boys on board. ben did not mean to win now, but he did want to come in even, and was doing his utmost to hold his own. he was paddling in a course parallel to that which miss bessie had taken and about three rods distant, when suddenly he found himself in the wash of the little steamer, and before he was aware of what had befallen him, was struggling in the water. ben's disappearance was greeted with shrieks of laughter, but when several minutes had passed and he did not come to the surface, the laughter suddenly ceased and the onlookers were gazing into one another's faces with consternation and fear. in a moment jock and bert leaped into a skiff and with swift strokes rowed out to the place where ben had capsized. chapter xix. a moonlight sail. the alarm of the boys was in nowise decreased when they were unable to discover a trace of the missing ben. the clear water enabled them to look far down into the depths, but only the rocks upon the bottom of the river could be seen. their alarm had become consternation now, and they glanced into each other's faces with an expression of fear, which was increased by the shouts of the girls on the dock and the calls of those who were still on the yacht. as the boys changed the course of the skiff, bert suddenly exclaimed, "look at that, will you? see that canoe!" the canoe in which ben had capsized had been left to itself and was steadily drifting toward the shore of the island. suddenly it was lifted from the water, and the long form of ben appeared as he carried the little craft upon his shoulders, his head still remaining concealed beneath the boat. not heeding the shout which greeted his welcome appearance, ben waded ashore, and after depositing his burden upon the bank, turned and quietly faced his companions. his solemn manner, his dripping clothing, and above all the relief which all felt at his escape caused the shouts to be renewed; but ben slowly approached the group of girls and said, "miss bessie, i'm ready to try it again. shall we take the same course?" "no, sir!" exclaimed that young lady. "you've frightened us almost to death, and i'll not be responsible for your safety any more." "but i was safe, perfectly safe," replied ben, soberly. "i'm at home in the water, every time." "it's a pity you're not more at home on it, then," replied bessie, with a nervous little laugh. "how did you escape? where were you?" "who, me? why, i swam up under the canoe, it sheltered my delicate face from the sun, you see, and i just pushed it ashore." the others had landed by this time, and although the boys joined in the laughter, ben could see that mr. clarke was annoyed by the trick he had played. "go up to the house," said mr. clarke, quietly, "and i'll get you a change of clothing. but you ought never to play such a prank as that again. it's altogether too serious a matter. this water is so cold that it is very easy for a man to be taken with a cramp in it, and sink before any aid could come to him. don't do it again." ben, somewhat chagrined, made no reply, and followed mr. clarke to the house. when he reappeared he found his friends seated on the broad piazza, and they hailed his coming with shrieks of laughter, for ben once more had been compelled to don the garments of their host, and as they were much too small for him, the sight he presented was ludicrous in the extreme. "i think, mr. dallett," said one of the girls, "that you ought to buy that suit of mr. clarke. you don't know how becoming it is to you." "no, i don't believe i do know," replied ben, ruefully, glancing down at his wrists, which protruded several inches below his sleeves. "i'm not just sure whether i wouldn't have felt better to have stayed out there in the river." "a trifle too short and a shaving too lean, but a _nice_ young man as ever was seen," murmured bob. even ben, and mr. clarke, who had now joined the group, were compelled to join in the laugh which followed, and soon the good nature of all was apparently restored, ben himself adding to the fun by the nonchalance with which he paraded in his "uniform" before the admiring gaze of the assembly. after dinner had been served, the group returned to the piazza and seated themselves in the chairs, evidently at peace among themselves and with all the world. the cottage, as has been said, was situated on a high bluff, and from it a view could be obtained of the majestic river for miles in either direction. the bracing air, the sparkling water, the sight of passing yachts and of swiftly moving canoes, all lent an additional charm to the occasion, and for two hours they remained there, enjoying themselves as only light-hearted young people can. at last mr. clarke proposed that they should take a trip with him in the yacht, and as they eagerly hailed the invitation, all, including mr. and mrs. clarke, were soon seated on board. there they sang songs and told stories and commented upon the constantly changing scene of beauty into which they moved. darting in and out among the islands the fleet little yacht, skilfully handled by the pilot and engineer, daintily seemed to pick its way, as if it too shared in the delight of the company. beautiful cottages, palaces they seemed to the boys, were passed, and quaint little spots, dotted by tents or rude huts, whither some humble family had come for an outing, were frequently seen. fishing parties were discovered among the bays, and parties of campers, living much as did our boys in their camp on pine tree island, were passed; and when at last the yacht turned homeward, all were ready to declare that never before had they had so enjoyable an afternoon. to the proposition of the boys that they should return to their camp, a strong objection was offered by mrs. clarke, who declared that they must remain for supper; and we may be sure no great amount of urging was required to make them yield. "i'll take you back to camp this evening," said mr. clarke, when they all resumed their seats on the piazza. "i thought i'd go back in my canoe," suggested ben, who was clad in his proper garments now. "i want the practice, you see." "no, sir!" said mr. clarke, sharply. "you are to go back with us. i'll not be responsible for your safety in that shell of yours." ben made no reply, and soon was sharing in the enjoyment of the party. the sun was now low in the western sky, and as its departing beams fell across the waters it made them glow like a veritable lake of fire. the wind had all died away, and the surface of the river was almost like glass. a scene of greater beauty or of more indescribable peace and calm they never before had seen. but the laughter which came from the piazza of mr. clarke's cottage, and the enjoyment of the assembly there, were not to be checked even by the solemn stillness of the river. "one would never think," said mr. clarke, when a break of a moment came, "that this peaceful river was ever the scene of bloodshed." "bob, here, knows all about that," said bert. "he puts us to sleep every night with his stories of the early discoverers. we almost feel as if we were on their trail." "so you are, for it's all historic ground," replied mr. clarke; "but i wasn't thinking of the discoveries just then, but rather of the struggle along the border here in the war of , and of the pirates." "pirates?" exclaimed miss bessie, quickly. "why, you never told us there were any pirates here. i shall be afraid to go out in my canoe again--unless i have mr. dallett along to protect me," she added. ignoring the laugh which followed, her father said, "well, there were pirates here, for you can't call them by any other name. there are none here now, of course, but in what was poetically called 'the patriot war,' it wasn't the same peaceful st. lawrence that we see." as all appeared to be interested in his words, mr. clarke continued. "this patriot war, so called, occurred along about - . it really was an attempt to revolutionize canada by a lot of desperadoes, or pirates, as i call them, who were filled with hatred as bitter as it was unreasonable against our sister country, and the worst leader of them all was a william johnston, or bill johnston, as he was more familiarly known by his neighbors along the st. lawrence river. he lived near here, you see. "in december, , a band of disguised men from canada set fire to the steamer caroline out near niagara falls, and aroused great excitement all along the border. the next month congress appropriated $ , for the protection of the northern frontier, and called for volunteers. on the very same day a circular was issued over here at watertown, signed by six prominent men, asking for money and help for the so-called refugees from canada. the signers professed to be law-abiding citizens and all that, and _perhaps_ they were, though there were serious doubts about the matter then and since. "in most of the villages secret organizations had been formed, known as hunter lodges, and they were making plans for raising money and men to invade canada. indeed, they had their preparations all made for crossing on the ice as soon as the river here was frozen over, and falling upon kingston. "one night in february the arsenal at watertown was broken into and four hundred stands of arms were stolen by men who were thought to be engaged in the proposed movement. some of the things were afterward recovered, and a reward was offered for the capture of the men. "matters were made worse by the fact that the arsenals at elizabethtown and batavia were also broken into at about the same time. the very next day after the affair at watertown, men began to arrive at clayton, which used to be called french creek, and it is said that there were four thousand stands of arms there, five hundred long pikes, and twenty barrels of cartridges; but what they lacked was men, for, though nominally there were a good many there, there were few if any real _men_ among them, as you can readily imagine. "there was no discipline, and less order, and when, at last, less than two hundred of the rascals crossed over to wolf island, they were more like a mob than an army. the kingston people were badly frightened, though they had slight cause to be alarmed, and they sent over a force of sixteen hundred soldiers to meet the 'invading army'; but when they arrived at the island, the 'army' had pretty much melted away. still the country was pretty thoroughly stirred up, and forces were stationed at cape vincent, clayton, and other places to maintain order. congress also took further action, and most of the people thought the troubles were ended. "but in the last of may, , the steamer _sir robert peel_ was plundered and burned over here at wells island. she was a large boat, i understand, and some hundred and sixty feet long. she started from brockville, and there were threats made before she set sail that she would have trouble, but no attention was paid to them. the passengers were all asleep when she arrived at wells island, and the crew were taking on wood, when a band of men, disguised as indians, and rejoicing in such fictitious names as tecumseh, judge lynch, bolivar, captain crocket, and i don't know what all, rushed out of the woods, and, yelling, 'remember the _caroline_,' drove away the crew and passengers, and taking the steamer out into the channel, set it on fire. "first they had seized the money on board and such valuables as they could find, you may be sure. "of course there was a great stir then in the country. this bill johnston i mentioned a little while ago was one of the leaders, and both the canadian governments and our own offered big rewards for him and the other men. i believe governor marcy placed the reward for the arrest of johnston at $ and $ was offered for some of the others, while some were thought to be worth only $ each. the earl of durham did better still, for he promised to give £ for the conviction of any of the parties engaged in the outrage. some of them were arrested and tried over at watertown, but it was almost impossible to convict them, and the jury brought in a verdict of 'not guilty.'" "was johnston captured then?" inquired jock. "he was captured, but not then. he was taken later, but not until some other stirring events had occurred, and even then it didn't do much good. but i'll have to reserve the other parts of the story of the st. lawrence pirates until your next visit, for if i'm going to take you back to camp, we must be starting." when the boys went down to the dock they found that the girls also were to accompany them. ben's canoe was taken on board, and then the party started on one of the most enjoyable experiences on the great river--a moonlight sail among the islands. the time passed rapidly, and when they came out into the channel near their camp they discovered one of the great river steamers before them. to the eager request of miss bessie "to take the breakers," mr. clarke reluctantly consented, and the little yacht was headed for the waves which could be seen in the wake of the steamer. the conversation ceased as the yacht approached. ben had taken his seat in the bow, and the girls were huddled together amidships, half dreading and yet eager for the exciting experience. nearer and nearer came the little craft, and soon it was lifted high on the crest of the waves. down it went into the trough of the sea and rose again as the swell lifted it. on the third attempt, however, it failed to respond as promptly as it had done before, and instead of rising on the crest of the billow it struck it fairly in the midst, and in a moment a great flood of water fell upon the yacht and swept over its entire length. chapter xx. the start for the rapids. there was a moment of intense excitement on the yacht and then came a shrill scream as the brave little craft righted itself and came out into the still waters once more. as soon as it was perceived that no one was injured, the reaction came, and shouts of laughter succeeded the cries of alarm. it was speedily found that no one had entirely escaped the sweep of the great wave, but ben had fared worst of all. seated high in the bow as he had been, he had received the full force of the water and was drenched from head to foot. some of the others had not fared so badly, but now that all danger was past, they were disposed to make light of the mishap and to look at it in the light of a joke. "the next time we'd better leave ben at the camp," suggested bob. "he's a regular jonah. if he can't fall into the river, he manages to have the river fall on us. the only safe plan will be to leave him out." "i don't think you need complain," replied ben, as he ruefully surveyed his dripping garments. "i was a regular breakwater for you all. i got the most of the water myself." "we shan't complain," said mr. clarke, quickly. "it was a foolish venture at best. the waves were coming too swiftly for the boat to adjust herself. she took the first two of the breakers all right, but before she could rise for the third it was upon us and there was no escape." the engineer and pilot had not spoken during the conversation, but the broad smiles upon their faces were indicative of their quiet enjoyment of the mishap, and soon they brought the little yacht alongside the dock in front of the camp. the good nights were then spoken, the boys leaped ashore, and as their visitors departed, they discharged the little brass cannon as a parting salute. the shrill whistle of the yacht responded, and soon the fleet boat had disappeared in the darkness, and all was quiet in the camp on pine tree island. the days which followed were filled with their own experiences, interesting, if not novel. every morning ben rose before his friends, and when they came forth from the tent for breakfast they would usually see him returning from the river in his canoe. his mishaps had only served to increase his determination to succeed, and though he was careful not to boast of his success in the presence of his friends, nevertheless his own progress was satisfactory, to himself at least. nor was he the only one to use the canoes. sometimes with the bat-wing sails, and at other times with only a paddle, the boys set forth from the camp, and perhaps their lack of skill in no wise detracted from the zest of their enjoyment. there were trips among the islands on the excursion steamers, visits made to kingston, gananoque, and various other points on the canadian shore, and occasionally the boys donned their evening dress and repaired to the parlors of the hotels at alexandria bay. on sunday mr. clarke had stopped for them with his yacht and they had gone up to thousand island park to attend service there in the huge tabernacle. indeed, the days were all filled with their own interesting experiences, and not one of the boys had found a moment of the time dragging or uneventful. the nearest approach to that experience had occurred when one rainy day had come and compelled them to remain most of the time within their tents. bob had improved the opportunity by perusing a book which he refused to let his companions examine, and thereby greatly increased their curiosity as to its contents; but he had declared they would know what he was doing in due time, and must rest content until he should be willing to explain it all. a decided break in the camp life came one day when ethan said: "i've been makin' arrangements for you boys to go down the longue seaut. i shan't go with ye; but you won't need me, for i've got word from two o' the boatmen down there, and they can do more for ye than i could, 'cause they know every foot o' the ground." "down the longue seaut?" exclaimed jock. "i'd like to go, but i don't know what my father would say to it. i promised him when we came away we wouldn't take any chances." "i wrote him," replied ethan, quietly, "an' he says it's all right." "right it is, then," exclaimed jock, delightedly. "i've been through the rapids there on a steamer when i went to montreal, and it's a great experience, i can tell you, fellows. the water is tossing and boiling all around you, and the boat just shuts off all steam and lets her go it. you feel the boat go bump! bump! and all the time it seems as if the water was just dropping out from under you all. do we really go through the rapids in skiffs, ethan?" "yes, that's jest what ye do, only ye take what they call the little seaut instead o' the big seaut. all the difference the' is, is that one is on one side o' the island an' the other the other. an' the little seaut isn't quite so big as the big seaut, though there isn't a sight o' difference between them." "you think it will be safe for us, do you?" inquired bob, quietly. "safe? yes, or i wouldn't let ye go. 'twouldn't be safe for ye to try it alone, but in the hands o' the men i'm goin' to trust ye to, ye'll be all right enough. an' ye'll find some fishin' there what is fishin', i'm tellin' ye." "i'm sorry you and tom are not to go," said jock. "so be i; but i've got some work to do on my place, an' tom here is goin' to practise his hamlick. they're to have the show next week, ain't they, tom?" "yes," replied tom. "i'd like to go with you, boys, but i can't this trip. perhaps you'll get a muscallonge or a sturgeon, and that will pay you well." "yes," said ethan, "it's 'bout time for muscallonge to begin to run. if ye git one o' them fellows, you'll never forget it all yer born days. they're fish what is fish! an', besides, everything isn't fished out down there. up here the lines is so thick that it's like runnin' through the meshes of a seine for a sizable fish to get up the river." the interest of the boys was keen enough now to satisfy even the old boatman, and in response to jock's request he explained the plans he had made for them. "now yer best way will be to take the steamboat down to ogdensburgh to-morrow mornin', and there ye change to a little boat that'll take ye down to masseny, or rather it'll take you to the landin'. then ye can drive over to the springs [massena springs, ethan meant] an' there's some big taverns there. city folks come up to drink the water, though for my part i'd about as soon drink dish-water or pisin' tea." "do they have 'pi's 'n things' there too?" inquired bert, soberly. "you'll find eout all 'bout that," responded ethan. "then the next mornin', afore it's fairly light, ye'll have to be drove back to the river,--it isn't more'n three or four mile,--an' yer boatman will be there by the landin', all ready and waitin' for ye. then they'll take ye in their boats down through the rapids, and send the team along the shore, so't ye can ride back; an' they'll have a rig to bring back the boats too." "why don't they sail or row back?" inquired ben. "why don't they row back? well, i guess ye won't be askin' no sech question as that after ye git there. ye'll know more'n ye do now. oh, there's another thing," he added; "ye don't want to take yer fish-poles along." "why not?" inquired jock, quickly. "i thought you said there was fine fishing there. i should think we'd want to take our rods with us." "no, ye don't want yer _rods_," said ethan, sharply. "ye might jist as well have pipestems as them poles o' yours. they'll have all the rods ye want. i've got that all fixed for ye." ethan soon afterward departed from the camp, and left the boys to themselves. for a time they talked over the exciting prospect, and at last bob said: "it grieves me, fellows, to see you wasting your time like this. now i feel it my duty to enlighten you as to the third expedition which cartier made--" but bob got no further. with a shout his companions rose from the ground, and ran swiftly to the tent, where they at once prepared to retire. bob soon followed, first piling the logs high upon the camp-fire, and then he too forgot all about cartier's third voyage of exploration. the camp was astir early on the following morning, and as the boys were to go to alexandria bay to take a steamer at an hour which was early even for the early-rising ethan, they hastily ate the breakfast of "pi's 'n things" which the boatman had prepared before his departure on the preceding night. as soon as this had been eaten they closed the tents, which ethan and tom had promised to visit daily in the absence of the boys, and ran down to the dock, where the skiff was in readiness. "that's too big a load," said ben, as he stopped before the boat in which his companions were already seated. "i'll not go in that craft." "oh, come on, ben!" shouted bert. "you won't have to do any of the rowing." "i'm not afraid of that." "well, what are you afraid of, then? come along." "i'm afraid of you. i'll go over to the bay in my 'light canoe.'" as he still refused to listen to the boys, jock said: "let him come in the canoe, fellows. he'd only tip us over if we took him in the skiff." "i'm learning to paddle my own canoe," called ben, as his friends started. "i'm like the little busy bee, which improves each shining hour--" "come on, ben," called bob. "you'll be late, and we'll lose the steamer." ben smiled as he took his place in the canoe, and, grasping his paddle, sent his craft swiftly over the water. soon he had overtaken his companions, and despite the efforts of jock, who was rowing, to keep up with him, speedily passed the skiff, and arrived at the bay long before they did. the boys discovered him seated on the edge of the dock, swinging his long legs over the water, and gazing with an air of abstraction about him. "why, hello, fellows! where'd you come from?" he exclaimed, as the skiff approached. "that's what you've been doing mornings, when you were up so long before us, was it?" said jock, as the boys landed. "i must say you have improved, ben, in your 'canoemanship.' what are you thinking of?" whatever the thoughts in ben's mind may have been he did not give them utterance, and after the boys had left the boat in charge of a man at the bay, they all returned and joined him on the dock. it was not long afterward when the steamer arrived, and they were received on board. taking their seats together on the deck beneath the canopy, they gazed with interest about them as the boat passed down the river. the camps and cottages were stirring now, and again our boys felt the exhilaration of a ride in the early morning on the great river. when they approached "the rocks" they could see the people on the piazza, and waved their handkerchiefs as a morning salute. a returning salute was given, but whether they had been recognized or not they could not determine. the ride to ogdensburgh was enjoyed all the way, and when they arrived there they had their dinner, and soon after embarked on the little steamer which was to carry them to massena. the increasing novelty of the scene kept them interested in spite of the time which had been consumed since they had departed from their camp. the current was much swifter, they perceived, as they went down the river. in places it seemed to rush with a speed that made the efforts of the little boat almost useless. there were great whirling eddies, too; and as the boys gazed at them they were wondering what the longue seaut rapids must be if the place where they were was thought to be comparatively smooth and safe. late in the afternoon they arrived at the "landing," and although they discovered there that they might have made plans different from those which ethan had made for them, they were not inclined to complain when they were seated in the wagon which was to convey them to massena springs. the road led through a prosperous farming country, and though evidently it was somewhat new, as far as the abode of the people who dwelt there was concerned, it still left upon the boys the impression of great age. occasionally, in the distance behind them, they could obtain glimpses of the mighty st. lawrence rushing onward as if already it had heard the call of the rapids. dairy farms, orchards, cheese factories, and various other interesting sights were passed, all of interest to the eager lads. there was almost no time for them to tire, for a ride of a few miles brought them into the little village of massena. then up the long street they rode to massena springs, distant about a mile from the main village, and there their driver stopped before a modest brick hotel. this, then, must be the "tavern" of which ethan had spoken; and glad to have arrived at the end of their journey, the boys leaped out, and at once entered the building. chapter xxi. shooting the longue seaut. that evening the boys visited the "springs" proper, and drank of the waters which were supposed to be of a quality to restore all wasted faculties of mind and body. the taste, however, was anything but agreeable to the lads, which was explained to them by the fact that none of their vital forces had been wasted, and, therefore, there was no craving for that which would supply their deficiencies. they were interested in the stories which were told them of the good old times before the introduction of railroads and similar modern contrivances, when people from far and near used to journey to the springs in pursuit of restored youth and strength, stories which "reminded" bob of the efforts of the early discoverers to find the fountain of youth in the far-off land of florida. he was compelled to postpone his lecture, however, for the boys decided to retire at once, and soon all four were sleeping soundly in the "tavern" which ethan had recommended. only the gray of the dawn had appeared when they were summoned in the morning, and hastily dressing, they made their way to the dining room, where an early breakfast was served them. their carriage was in waiting for them even at that early hour, and soon they were riding back to the landing, where boats and boatmen were to be ready for them, if ethan's plans were fulfilled. the driver explained to them on their way that the day was not to be a very good one for fishing, for it gave promise of being bright and intensely warm. the latter prophecy was the more difficult to believe, for the boys felt the chill of the early morning, although each had brought an overcoat for protection. the impression of the great age of the region seemed to be stronger in the early hours even than it had been in the preceding evening. the stillness was almost oppressive. anything like the bustle and stir of the great city was almost like the memory of a dream. here, at least, were peace and quiet, and even the problems of life itself were all remote and vague. as they drew nearer the river, from some of the farmhouses the occupants came forth and stopped for a moment to gaze at the passing carriage, and then turned to the barnyards where the cattle were waiting to be milked. men and women, boys and girls, all came forth to engage in this occupation, and all alike seemed to have been there for years, and to belong to the very antiquity of the region. keenly as the boys were enjoying the ride, they all seemed to be disinclined to talk, and the first break in the silence came when the flash of the great river was perceived beyond the distant trees. soon they came to a spot from which the swiftly moving waters could be more clearly seen, and then their driver turned into the road which ran along the bank, and the river was all the time within sight. it was a marvellously impressive scene. the glory of the coming day was almost upon them. the fertile farm-lands, the thriving farmers, the cattle huddled together near the barns, or already trailing off for the distant pastures, driven, perhaps, by some barefooted boy; the evidences of life and civilization on all sides, were supplemented by the swiftly moving waters of the mighty river from which they were seldom able to remove their gaze. it was not long afterward when they arrived at the landing, and all other thoughts were forgotten in the eagerness with which they looked before them to discover some trace of their boatmen. these were speedily found, and as they declared that all things were in readiness for the expedition of the day, our boys were soon on board the skiffs, which were as beautiful and shapely as those they had seen and used among the thousand islands. jock and bob were assigned to one skiff, in which their boatman, george, was waiting. he was a young man of quiet manners, and his companions at once had a feeling of implicit confidence in him as he quietly greeted them. ben and bert were in the other skiff, and with their boatman, a much older man than george, were the first to leave the dock, and soon had disappeared from the sight of their friends as they moved swiftly down the river. jock and bob soon followed, and as george rowed out with the current, he said, quietly, "you might as well put out your lines, boys. you never can tell what'll happen." he rested a moment upon his oars, and after baiting the hooks with frogs, cast the lines into the water and, taking up his oars, again held the boat closer to the shore, and prevented it from moving too fast in the swift current. the rods, as ethan had foretold, were very different from those which the boys had previously used. they were short, stout hickory poles, and the reels were several times as large as the ones to which they had been accustomed. indeed, they seemed like small wheels, four or five inches in diameter; but as jock settled back into his chair in the stern and began to pay out his line, he could see that bob, whose chair was on the other side of the boatman, was as content as he, and no questions were asked. for a time the boys gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the morning, after george had declared that they had enough line out. the sun was now to be seen above the eastern horizon, and was flooding the earth with its glory. birds were singing in the bushes on the shore, the sparkling waters were rushing on with unabated speed, and the beautiful skiff seemed to be a part of the scene itself, and almost to belong to the river. george was watching the lines of the boys, though they themselves were unmindful of them, as the boat was carried forward by the stream. suddenly jock felt a gentle tug at his line and turned sharply about. the pull was not repeated, but as he glanced at george questioningly, the boatman nodded his head and jock began to reel in his line. he soon discovered that something was pulling sturdily back, but he reeled steadily, and as he glanced down into the water, he could see a fish fast to his hook. "pike," said george, quietly. "reel him in. be careful! don't give him any slack. there! that's the way," he added, as with a quick movement of his gaff he drew the struggling fish on board. "he's a beauty!" exclaimed jock, delightedly. "what'll he weigh, george?" "oh, four or five pounds, perhaps. you'll see some bigger ones than that if we have any luck to-day. 'tisn't a very good day for fishing, though." he resumed his labors with the oars, but both boys were alert now, and were waiting for the welcome tug which would indicate that the longed for strike had been made. bob was the next to reel in his line, and to his delight he discovered that he too had a pike, though not so large as that of his friend. several fish were caught by each of the boys as they went down the stream, and for the time the thoughts of the rapids were forgotten in the excitement of the present occupation. "this fishing doesn't amount to much," said george, quietly, as he removed jock's latest catch. "when we get below the rapids yonder we'll be more likely to find 'em." at his words the boys glanced up, and the sight before them almost drove the color from their faces. far in advance they could see the tossing waters of the longue seaut rapids. a whirling mass of water seemed to stretch away in the distance as far as they could see. the waves tossed and rose and fell, and the air was filled with clouds of spray. the rocks along the shore were at times almost hidden from sight as the mad river dashed against them. a roaring sound seemed to fill the air, and already the boat appeared to feel the quickened movement of the river, for all about them the st. lawrence was moving forward, swift and silent, as if it, too, had drawn in its breath for that fearful plunge into the tossing, heaving, boiling, boisterous mass before it. not far in advance they could see a great island, which seemed to present a point to the advancing river. at all events the waters divided there, and along each side went rushing on to the calmer regions below. "whew!" said jock, drawing a long breath. "then that's the longue seaut, is it?" "yes," replied george, quietly, as if the awe-inspiring sight produced no impression upon him. "you don't mean to say we're going through that in this skiff?" inquired bob. "yes." "is it safe? can you make it?" "yes." "we go to the right of the island, don't we?" said jock, in a low voice. "yes." "this side is what they call the little seaut, isn't it?" he inquired. "yes." the boys glanced nervously again at the seething waters in the distance. the fact that they were to go through the "little" seaut, instead of the big, did not seem to afford any great amount of comfort; but neither spoke, and their boatman, they had already discovered, was very different from ethan, and not inclined to conversation of any kind. "you'd better reel in your lines, boys," said george, quietly. "i thought you said this was where the fish were," said jock, nevertheless beginning to reel in as the boatman directed. "no. down below the rapids. the fish work up into the bays and lie there for what they want to come down the stream, and then they dart out and get it. i'm going to land here for a moment." he sent the boat ashore, and the boys eagerly watched him as he took a light pole and went out to one of the projecting rocks. there he fished for a few minutes, and after he had secured a half-dozen good-sized "chubs," he returned to the place on the shore where the boys were waiting for him and said,-- [illustration: "on and on moved the swift-flying skiff."--_page ._] "get aboard, now. we'll shoot the rapids, though i haven't as many of the chubs as i wish i had. it's too bright and warm a day." both boys could testify to the latter fact, as they resumed their seats on board, their faces were streaming with perspiration, though as a matter of fact the warm rays of the sun had little to do with that. they could not remove their gaze from that terror-inspiring scene, and as george drew back his sleeves and grasped his oars, they, too, unconsciously grasped the sides of the boat as if they were seeking for some protection. no one spoke now, and soon the little skiff was caught in the current and began to dart forward with ever-increasing speed. george's face was set and hard, and he, too, occasionally glanced behind him as if he was striving to get his bearings. on and on moved the swift-flying skiff, and then, almost before the boys were aware of it, they were caught in the foaming rapids and swept forward with incredible speed. the boatman was not rowing now, only striving, with an occasional use of one oar, to keep the bow of the skiff pointed straight down the river. a moment later and they were in the midst of the roar, and the swiftly moving skiff increased its speed. jock was aware of bob's white countenance, and somehow felt rather than saw that the trees and rocks along the shore were rushing rapidly past them. he had no thought of time. he was too excited even to feel afraid. the boat was darting madly forward, and almost before he was aware of it they had gained the foot of the island, and there he discovered that the two parts of the rapids came together and the loud roaring became deeper and stronger. out into the united channel the frail skiff was swept, and then the current bore them with the speed of a race-horse straight across the river, till it seemed as if nothing could save them from being dashed upon the rocks that lined the opposite shore. george had not spoken since they had entered the rapids, and, indeed, the roar of the rushing waters would probably have drowned the sound of his voice had he tried to speak aloud to his companions. he was, however, constantly alert, and with an occasional quick strong pull upon one of his oars, kept the boat headed aright. just before the skiff came to the shore, and it seemed as if nothing could save them, there was a sharp turn in the current. instantly george drove one oar deep into the water, and putting forth all his strength, brought the skiff aright, and then it dashed forward down the stream. there was a grating sound as the boat touched a rock that came close up to the surface, but as the boys, with still paler faces, glanced over the sides to look at the bottom, they were swept onward, and in a moment the peril was passed. soon the waters were calmer, and though running swiftly, were not so boisterous, and the tossing waves were all behind them. as jock glanced back it seemed to him that they had come down a hill of water; but before him the river apparently had resumed its peaceful aspect, and the danger had been passed. "that was a close call," said jock, with a sigh of relief. "when we struck that rock i thought we were done for. weren't you frightened, george?" "no." "but what would have happened if it had made a hole in the boat?" "we'd have sunk." "we could have swum with the current, i think," said bob. "no, you couldn't," said george. "you'd have been sucked under in a minute." "whew!" whistled bob. "i'm glad we've been through the longue seaut, but i don't believe i care to do it again." "where are the other boys?" inquired jock, quickly. "they were ahead of us. you don't suppose they've had any accident, do you, george?" "no; they're down in that bay you can see ahead of us." "is that where we're going?" "no, we'll stop here," replied george. "if we don't have any luck, then we'll go on down where they are. that's the best place along the river." george turned the skiff, and with a few short, powerful strokes, sent the boat into the quiet waters. almost as if a line had been drawn, across which no waters could pass, the quiet place in the river was separated from the rushing current. it seemed strange and almost unnatural, but the dividing line was plainly to be discerned, and, besides, the skiff was as motionless as if it had been resting on a sheltered pond. to make them still more secure, however, george dropped the anchor overboard, and then baiting the hooks with the large chubs, threw them into the water close to the dividing line, and resuming his seat, waited to test the "luck" which was to be had in still-fishing in this sheltered spot. chapter xxii. the rivals. for a time the boys were busy in the occupation which followed. evidently they had arrived at the right time, and when a half hour had passed, a number of bass and pickerel had been added to the collection already stored in the fish box. after that there was a lull in the sport, and they were more occupied in watching the hurrying waters only a few yards away, than in their own immediate task. george, meanwhile, had taken one of the dead chubs and, placing it on a hook, dropped the line into the water, and though he had no rod, he "played" his bait so well that in a few minutes he felt a savage tug, and quickly yanked his line on board, though he failed to land his trophy. "they're savage this morning," he remarked, as he looked at his hook, on which the head of the chub was still fast, having been cut from the body as if by a knife. "did a fish do that?" inquired jock, eagerly, as he gazed curiously at george's hook. "that's what he did. i've known 'em to do worse things than that. hello," he suddenly added, "the other boy's got something." bob, who was too much engaged to heed his new appellation of "the other boy," certainly did "have" something. his rod was drawn beneath the surface, and when he strove to lift it, it seemed to be fast to the bottom. he was speedily undeceived, however, for his line began to cut swiftly through the water, and he rose from his seat in his eagerness. the others were as deeply interested as he, and it was evident that bob's strike was of no ordinary character. george grasped one oar and brought the boat about, carefully avoiding the current and at the same time favoring the movements of the excited young fisherman. "he must have a monster!" said jock, eagerly. "it's a big one, and no mistake," replied george. "now, be careful with your slack. there, that's right," he added, as bob once more permitted the struggling fish to run with the line. but bob was wary now, and had had sufficient experience to enable him to play his victim well. the struggle continued for several minutes, and at last, with a quick, deft swing of his rod, he brought the wearied fish alongside the boat, and george speedily had it on board with a thrust of his ever-ready gaff-hook. both boys were excited as they viewed the prize, and jock exclaimed,-- "it's a pike, isn't it, george?" "yes." "how much will it weigh?" "oh, twelve or thirteen pound. look there, will you!" he added, as he drew from the mouth of the pike, which had been despatched with a blow from the hickory club, a part of the body of a large chub. "he's the fellow who cut my bait in two." "what savage fellows they are!" said jock, as he examined the bait which george had thrown upon the bottom of the boat. "they are that," replied george. "all these fish are regular tigers, and the bass are about the worst of all. still, they'll take good care of their own young ones. i've seen the bass form a regular patrol in front of some little bay or creek where the little fellows are, and woe be to the fish that dares to come anywhere near them! we'll try it some more," he added, as he placed a fresh bait upon bob's hook and threw it into the water. but with the capture of the huge pike success seemed to have departed, and at last george drew up his anchor, and after bidding the boys to let out their lines, grasped his oars, and sent the boat out into the swiftly running current once more. again they were borne down the stream with almost incredible swiftness, and soon approached the bay where george had declared they would find their friends. and there they discovered them, trolling back and forth in the sheltered spot. their approach was greeted with a hail, and they could see ben seated in the stern of the boat, even then reeling in a fish. as his friends came nearer he held aloft the prize he had taken, and shouted,-- "what luck, fellows?" "great!" responded jock. "what have you had? how many have you got?" "we've sixty or seventy pounds," replied ben, as he resumed his seat. "what does he mean by that?" inquired jock, turning to george as he spoke. "oh, everybody down here measures a catch by its weight. they don't count their fish; they weigh 'em, or guess at the weight." "how much have we got?" "we haven't over fifty pound. hold up that pike, and ask 'em whether they've got anything to match that." jock held aloft bob's prize, and called proudly, "have you anything to match that? isn't that a beauty?" "that's pretty good," replied ben, "but we've one that can go you one better;" and as he spoke he, too, held up a pike which certainly was no smaller than the one in jock's hands, and might be even larger. "dum it!" muttered george, as he began to row again. "what's the trouble, george?" inquired bob. "i don't want to go back and have it said that hank mcbride had a bigger catch than i did. i wish we could get a muscallonge." "isn't it early for them to run?" said jock. "i thought they came later." "'tis a bit early, but then we might strike one. i'd like to have you get the first of the season, for i haven't heard of one being caught yet. there always has to be a first, though, and if we could get it, it would make hank green with envy. he thinks he's the boss boatman on the river." "you don't wish so any more than we do," replied jock, eagerly. "i'd be willing to give a silver dollar for one." "hush!" said george, quickly. "what's wrong?" inquired jock, innocently. "don't let them hear anything about money. if we should happen to get a muscallonge and they should hear you say anything about money, hank would declare we'd bought it. it's the way he always does." the conversation suddenly ceased, for jock had felt the welcome tug at his line, and all his attention was required to land his fish. when it was thrown into the boat it proved to be a pike of fair size; but george was keenly disappointed, as it was evident now that he longed for larger game, both to satisfy his own desires and to show the envious hank that he owned no monopoly of the fish of the st. lawrence. the rivalry between the boatmen was a new and novel feature of the sport, and jock and bob soon found themselves sympathizing with their own boatman. they were almost as eager as he to add to their catch, and every strike was hailed with a fresh delight. the sun was now high in the heavens, and, sheltered as the boats were from every breeze, the boys were soon sweltering in the heat. to add to their discomfort the fish almost ceased to bite, and when another hour had passed and not a further prize had been secured by either party, george rowed his skiff in toward the other boat and hailed his rival. "hank, isn't it about quitting-time?" "yes," responded hank, as tersely as george had spoken. "where shall we have our dinner? isn't barnhart's about as good a place as any?" "barnhart's all right," responded the other boatman. "you go over and start a fire, and we'll join you in a few minutes." "keep your lines out, boys," said george to his companions. "you probably won't get anything, but you might as well be ready if a muscallonge does come along and takes a fancy to your bait." with lusty strokes he turned the skiff about, and once more rowed out into the swift current. then down the stream they darted, but the novelty was mostly gone now, and besides, both boys were ready for the dinner to which george had referred. after the skiff had gone with the current for a half mile or more, its course was changed and, passing through the stiller waters, was sent ashore at a beautiful place on barnhart's island. as the boys leaped out they perceived that the spot selected by their boatman was in the midst of a grove of maple trees, a "sugar bush," george called it, and the cool shade was so inviting that both threw themselves upon the grass, glad of the opportunity to stretch themselves once more. "if you boys want to help you might be getting some wood together," suggested george. "if you're hungry it will hurry up things a bit." both boys quickly responded to the invitation, and soon had a considerable pile of broken branches and driftwood collected in the spot indicated by their boatman. "it's just like hank mcbride to leave me to do all the work and then come in when everything's ready," growled george, as he placed a small iron pot over the wood and started a fire. "what do you do it for, then?" inquired bob, lazily. "hey? oh, i have to. hank's been here longer'n i have, and what he says most generally has to be done." neither of the boys continued the discussion, however, for just then they discovered hank approaching with their friends. in a moment his boat was grounded, and before any one could leap ashore, jock and bob ran hastily toward them. "what did you get? where's your catch?" inquired jock, eagerly. when the fish box was opened before them they could instantly see that the catch was greater than their own; but they made no comments, and returned with their friends to view their own fish. "they aren't all there," declared george, who now joined them for a moment. "i'm cleaning some for dinner, and, besides, we didn't save the little fellows. they'd add to the weight, of course; but it didn't seem fair to keep 'em just for that. my plan is to throw 'em back and let 'em grow up." hank smiled, and, looking for a moment at the catch, said, "pooty fair! pooty good! ye did real well, george, for a beginner." george smiled disdainfully, but the threatened rupture was averted by the necessity of both boatmen joining in the preparations for dinner. it was soon discovered that the intense heat had curdled the milk, which had been brought in glass jars, and that no coffee could be made, but all seemed to consider that a light matter when at last they were summoned by the boatmen. the dinner was not unlike that which ethan had prepared at goose bay, and the appetites of the boys were so keen that they declared it was a repast fit for a king; and indeed it was. the successful sport of the morning provided an added zest, if such an addition was necessary, and as they ate their dinner, seated as they were in the grateful shade of the majestic maples, it seemed to them all that never had they enjoyed anything more. before them was the great river, its waters still rushing forward from the force of the fall at the longue seaut rapids. in the distance on the island they could see barns and farmhouses, and over all was the peace of the perfect summer day. "i suppose this is historic ground, too," suggested jock, as he helped himself to a fourth ear of corn. "i s'pose so," replied hank. "'long in they had considerable many fracases here. leastwise that's what my grandfather used to say to me." "where was the biggest fight?" said jock, quickly, suspecting that bob was about to make inquiries of his own, and desiring to forestall him. "'twas back by chrysler's farm; that's on the canadian side of the river, across from ogdensburgh. general wilkinson had command o' our forces, but he wasn't much good. indeed, from what my grandfather used to tell me i should think the american officers spent more time fightin' among themselves than they did in fightin' the redcoats. neither side could lay claim to vict'ry in the battle o' chrysler's farm, but our men acted so that they left everything open to the british hereabouts, an' you never saw a englishman yet who was slow to use any chance that opened. an' they didn't hereabouts, i'm tellin' you. they were all riled up over our trip to toronto, and paid off old scores. i believe the expedition, which was bound for montreal, was given up by wilkinson after the fight back here. he wasn't much good, though they whitewashed him in their investigations afterward. but if we're goin' to do any more fishin' we'll have to be startin'. i say, george," he added generously, "i don't s'pose you know the grounds as well as i do. if ye want to, you can come along with us." "no, i'm going somewhere else," responded george, quietly, as he rose to assist hank in clearing the table. when at last our boys resumed their places in the skiff, george whispered to them, "i'm after a muscallonge this time. we'll show hank yet." his confidence increased the enthusiasm of jock and bob, and when, after going with the current for a mile or more, george rowed into a broad bay, they were more than ready for the attempt to secure the great fish of the st. lawrence. chapter xxiii. a prize. no great measure of success attended the efforts of the young fishermen in the place first selected by their boatman, and after an hour had passed and only two small pike had been secured, george rowed out into the current and went still farther down the river. whether it was the brightness of the rays of the sun, or the intense heat of the day that worked against them they could not determine, but the fish were wary, and only a few were added to the numbers already taken. george, however, was determined to continue the sport, if the occupation might still be called by that name, and frequently expressed his determination to secure a muscallonge, and thereby gain an advantage over his rival. the enthusiasm of his companions visibly cooled, and by the middle of the afternoon all hopes of securing one of the mammoth prizes was gone. they enjoyed the day none the less, and the frequent swift descents in the current whenever george rowed out into it, the variety of the scenery by which they passed, and the goodly sized catch they had already secured, were all sufficient to make them reasonably content. "george," inquired jock, when the boat passed another island on which a farmhouse could be seen, "what do the people here do in winter?" "about the same as other folks, i suppose." "no; but they must be cut off from shore when the river freezes." "that's just the time when they're not cut off. they can get over to the mainland then just as easy's not." "is the ice strong enough to bear them?" george smiled as he replied, "they most always drive there. the ice will hold anything you can pile on it." as the boys gazed at the rushing waters, the words of the boatman seemed almost incredible. that those angry currents should ever freeze to such an extent that horses and loads could pass over them was almost among the impossible events, but before they could speak, george went on to say,-- "of course there are times when the folks are shut off from the shore. when there are thaws or freshets, or when the ice is forming, they have to stay on the islands. but that isn't for a very long time, and it isn't so hard as you might think. everybody around here loves this river, and it's no hardship to have to stay near by. there was a man from new york up here last summer, and i used to take him fishing almost every day. he was a fine man, too, and when he got ready to go back home he made me a good offer to go back with him, and said he'd give me a good place. but bless you! i couldn't think of leaving the st. lawrence. if i didn't see the heaving waters first thing in the morning i'd be as lonesome as a hen with one chicken. i've lived hereabouts all the twenty-six years of my life, and i'm too old now to learn new tricks." "what's that place ahead, george?" inquired bob, pointing to a town on the canadian side of the river some two or three miles in advance of them. "cornwall. it's quite a sizable town, too." "don't you think we'd better go ashore?" said jock. "we must have a good ten-mile ride, and it'll be night before long." "not just yet," pleaded the boatman. "we haven't got that muscallonge." "and aren't likely to get it, i'm afraid," replied jock. "where are the teams to meet us, george?" "right down here. we've time enough yet," persisted george, as he turned the skiff into another bay. "try it here, boys. we may get a muscallonge before you know it, and then hank mcbride will have to keep still." the boys made no protest, though the sun was already low in the western sky. in a few minutes their desire to return was forgotten, for the fish were striking again, and several pike and pickerel were safely landed. "i think, george, we'd better go back now," said jock, as the boatman turned to resume his course up the bay. "it's getting late." "just one turn more," persisted george. "if you knew how hank will talk after we get back, you'd be willing to keep on a little longer." "all right," agreed jock, good-naturedly. "we'll take one more turn, but then we'll have to go ashore. i don't want to be out here any longer." george made no reply, and began to row with increased deliberation. slowly the skiff was sent up the bay, but not a strike rewarded his efforts. still more slowly he took a wider sweep as he reversed the course, never once speaking or taking his eyes from the long lines which trailed far behind in the water. neither of the boys was expecting anything now, and when two-thirds of the remaining distance had been covered, jock began to reel his line in, satisfied that the day's sport was ended. "one more?" suggested george, pleadingly. jock shook his head and continued his occupation. "you might as well take yours in, too," said george, sadly, to bob. "i wish you weren't in such a hurry. i believe we might get a muscallonge yet." "we haven't been in a hurry," said bob. "you've given us a great day, george; we'll never forget it, or you. hold on a minute. back water a bit; my hook has caught in some of the grass, i guess." george obeyed, but as he rested on his oars, suddenly bob's line began to run out with a rush that almost yanked the rod from his hands. "grass, is it?" exclaimed george, excitedly. "hi! look at that, will you?" he exclaimed a moment later. about a hundred and fifty feet behind them a monstrous fish leaped from the water, and in a graceful curve plunged into the bay again, but all could see that bob's line was fast to him. then began such a contest as neither of the boys had ever witnessed before. with furious rushes the great fish darted first in one direction and then in another, and the reel on bob's rod "sang" as the line was drawn from it. bob was standing erect now, and, grasping the rod tightly in one hand, with the other attended to the reel. at times the strong rod would be drawn beneath the water, and bob was compelled to exert all his strength merely to hold on, while the light boat was drawn swiftly over the bay, and george was doing his best to assist the eager boy with his oars. "look out! look out!" the boatman called, quickly. "he's coming straight for us! reel in! reel in! don't give him an inch of slack or you'll lose him! hadn't you better let me take the rod?" "no," replied bob, decidedly. "i'll get or lose him myself." the line was now loose in the water, and as bob turned the reel in desperate haste, there was a great fear in his heart that the fish had torn himself away; but when at last he had secured all the slack, there was another savage pull and the line went darting through the water once more. five minutes, ten minutes passed, and still the exciting contest continued. bob would draw the powerful fish farther in toward the boat, but every time the muscallonge would dart away again, and sometimes every yard of the line would be drawn from the whirling reel before he would pause in his flight. "tucker him out! tucker him out! it's the only way to get him," said george. "don't you think you'd better let me take the pole now?" but bob was still determined, and the fierce contest was not relaxed. hither and thither, now up and now down the bay, the fish darted in his efforts to free himself, but bob was still master. jock was an interested spectator, but was unable, seated as he was in the stern, to render any assistance to his friend, even if bob had desired any. when a quarter of an hour had passed, it became evident that the fish was becoming tired. the lunges still continued, but not so much of the line was paid out now, and every time bob reeled in he drew his victim nearer the boat. at last there came a time when he could reel steadily, and, to his intense delight, he could feel the heavy fish following the line. nearer and nearer came the muscallonge, and jock, who was leaning over the edge and peering down into the depths of the clear water, suddenly exclaimed,-- "oh, bob! he's as big as the boat! you'll never get him in here in the world!" perhaps the great fish heard his words, or caught sight of his captors at that moment. at all events, he suddenly turned and dashed away again with another burst of speed that made the reel sing merrily. he did not go far, however, and as the line slackened, george said in a loud whisper, "that's his last turn. now look out, and if you don't give him any slack, you can bring him where i can reach him with my gaff. careful, now; careful!" apparently bob needed no advice, for slowly and steadily, although his hands were trembling in his excitement, and his eyes almost seemed to stand out from his head as he peered eagerly down into the water to obtain his first glimpse of his prize, he drew the fish toward the boat. either discouraged or worn out by his struggles, the muscallonge followed the lead now, and with every turn of the reel offered no resistance. both bob and jock were hardly breathing in their excitement, and they could feel, rather than see, that george had taken his gaff and was leaning over the edge ready for the last great effort. suddenly george thrust the cruel hook into the water, the boat dipped dangerously, the boys were almost thrown from their seats, as with one lusty pull the monstrous fish was lifted into the air and then fell upon the bottom of the skiff. for a moment even the excitement of the boys was forgotten in the struggle which followed. with great strokes of his powerful tail the fish struck the sides of the boat until it seemed as if they must be broken into pieces. from side to side he threw himself, and to the eager lads it appeared as if he was everywhere at once. but george was ready for the emergency, for, watching his opportunity, he threw himself upon the struggling muscallonge, and with a few hard blows of his hickory club, put an end to the contest, and then stretched their victim upon the bottom of the boat, as he was much too large to be placed in the fish box. the contest was ended, and bob had been victorious. and what a contest it had been! the great, savage head, the beautifully mottled sides, the immense size of their prize, could be seen now to advantage, and for a moment no one spoke. the feelings of the boys were too keen, however, for them long to remain silent, and in a moment they broke into a cheer which must have awakened the echoes along the shore. "well, i guess you aren't very sorry you followed my advice now," said george, who was the first to speak. "well, i rather guess we're not!" responded bob, eagerly. "it's quitting time now, though," said george, glancing again at the sun, which was just above the western horizon. "the teams will be up there at that farmhouse you can see yonder. we'll get some milk to drink there, too, and that'll help to stay your stomachs till you can get back to the hotel." the boat was speedily sent ashore, and the delighted boys leaped quickly out upon the bank. "you can take the muscallonge, and i'll bring the fish box," said george. securing a stout limb of a tree he thrust it through the gills of the monstrous fish, and then, with one end resting on the shoulder of each boy, and the muscallonge dragging almost to the ground between them, they started for the house, where george soon after arrived with the fish box, which of itself was no mean load. he dropped the box on the grass near which the boys had placed the muscallonge, and said, "i'll get some steelyards in the house, boys, and we'll see how much the fellow weighs." in a moment he returned, but before he proceeded to weigh the fish, he opened its huge jaws and began to thrust into them some of the smaller pickerel and pike they had caught. not satisfied with his efforts, he was about to add some good-sized stones, when jock, who had been watching the actions of the boatman as if he did not understand what he was doing, suddenly exclaimed,-- "here, george, what are you doing?" "getting this fish ready to be weighed," replied george, without pausing in his occupation. "well, then, weigh the muscallonge. we don't want to weigh all of st. lawrence county. the muscallonge will do." george stopped abruptly, and gazed for a moment at the boys as if he had not correctly heard them. their determined manner was not to be changed, however, and as he rose from the ground, he said,-- "well, i must say you beat all the men i ever saw. why, that's the way everybody does down here when they weigh a fish." "it isn't the way we do. we want to know exactly what this fish weighs," said bob. evidently chagrined and disgusted, george nevertheless weighed the great fish, and glancing at the steelyards, said, "humph! he only weighs thirty-eight pounds!" "thirty-eight pounds!" exclaimed jock, in his delight. but even the present elation was forgotten when hank mcbride and the other two boys were seen approaching with their catch, and in a moment jock turned to greet them with a shout of triumph. chapter xxiv. what became of the prize. "you act as if you had caught something you want us to see," said ben, as he ran before his companions. "let's see your fish." the muscallonge had not been placed with the other fish, and as ben glanced down at the row which had been spread in order on the grass, he therefore did not see the prize of which his friends were so justly proud. "you did well, but we've beaten you!" he exclaimed, as bert and hank mcbride now came up to view the victims. "that's pooty good," remarked the elder boatman. "you've done very well for beginners. george is improving every day, and it won't be long afore he'll do 'most as well as men of experience," he added complacently. george made no response except to wink soberly at bob, and then turned with the boys to examine the catch which hank's party had made. they certainly had been very successful, and as the fish were taken from the box and placed in a row upon the grass, both jock and bob were loud in their words of praise. several large pike served to increase the effect, and when at last all the fish had been seen, it was perceived that in numbers and weight hank's party had exceeded that of the other. "come into the house, boys, and get some milk," called george. "you must be hungry by this time." before entering, the boys all went to the barrel, which stood beneath a corner of the eaves, and dipping from the rain-water stored there, washed their faces in the tin basin. refreshed by the act, they then all followed the boatman, and seated themselves before the table, on which the housewife had placed a large pitcher of milk and several earthen cups. the milk speedily disappeared, and the pitcher was again filled before the boys rose from their seats. "how much shall we pay you for the milk?" inquired jock, as he turned to go out into the yard again. "i don' know," replied the woman, hesitatingly. "i don' know jest what it is worth." "it's been worth a good deal to us," said jock, feeling in his pocket for a coin as he spoke. "we want to pay you whatever you say." "i don' know jest what it is worth," repeated the woman. "do ye think five cents would be too much?" "hardly," laughed jock, as he handed the hostess a quarter. "i don't think i've got any change," said the woman, reluctantly. "change? there isn't any change." "do ye mean to say ye're goin' to give me all this money for that milk?" "why, yes. it was good milk, and we haven't been modest in using it." "it's too much to charge!" she said decidedly. "i can't take so much." perceiving that she was in earnest, jock did not press the matter, and finally compromised by inducing her to accept fifteen cents. then as he hastened to rejoin his companions, who now were waiting for him in the yard, and perceiving that the muscallonge had not yet been shown them, he said, eagerly,-- "come over here, fellows; i want to show you something. you come, too, hank," he added; and in a moment he led the way to the place where the monstrous fish had been covered with grass. as he removed the covering and the great head of the muscallonge was seen, ben exclaimed in astonishment, "what! what's that?" "that," replied jock, gently, "is our prize fish, or rather it's bob's, for he caught it out here in this bay." "is it a muscallonge?" inquired bert. "that's what george calls it, i believe. i'm not very familiar with the names of the fish hereabouts, but that'll do as well as any other, i fancy." for a moment the boys all crowded about the place, eagerly examining the prize, and making many comments in their enthusiasm. hank, however, had not spoken, and after his first glimpse of the great fish, turned away his head and pretended to be gazing out over the near-by st. lawrence. george, too, affected an air of indifference, which he was far from feeling, and which an occasional keen glance at his rival boatman betrayed. [illustration: "did you ever catch a bigger one?"--_page ._] "i say, hank," called bob, "did you ever see a bigger fish than that caught here?" "lots o' times," responded the boatman, coldly. "did you ever catch a bigger one?" persisted bob, evidently enjoying the jealous rage of the elder boatman. "ho! lots of times. and when i catch 'em, i catch 'em, too!" he added meaningly. "that's what we do, too," said bob. "when we catch 'em, we catch 'em." "ye never caught that ere fish," retorted hank, disdainfully. "we didn't! how did he get here, then?" demanded jock, quickly. "oh, fish is cheap over in cornwall," replied hank, with a peculiar smile. "when i see ye headed that way, i knew ye weren't goin' for nothin'." "do you mean to say we _bought_ that fish?" demanded jock, aghast. "i'm not makin' no insinuations," said hank. "but i knows what i know." the boatman's suggestion seemed to afford intense delight to ben and bert, and though they joined at once in the banter, it was evident they did not share in the suspicions of hank mcbride. "did you ever hear about the fox who wouldn't be hired to eat the sour grapes?" said george, turning to the boys, and striving to ignore the presence of his rival. "i believe i have heard that story somewhere," replied jock. "did you ever hear it, hank?" he added, turning to the envious boatman. "i knows what i know," retorted hank, adopting a line of argument which is not confined to the region of the st. lawrence. "you'd better be starting, boys," interrupted george. "you've got a long drive before you, and you'll be too late to get any supper at the hotel if you stay around here any longer, wasting your time and words too." the suggestion was at once acted upon. the fish were stored in the carriage which was to convey the boys back to the hotel, and after they had assisted the boatmen in lifting their skiffs from the water and placing them upon the frame wagons which had been sent down to carry the boats to the place from which they had started in the early morning, they all clambered into their seats and were ready to depart. "hold on a minute," called george, as he ran quickly toward them. "who's going to drive you back to the landing to-morrow morning?" "i don't know. we'll find some one," replied jock. "if ye don't mind i'd like to do it myself. i've got a good team and a pretty fair wagon, and i won't charge you any more than you'd pay any one else. i'll come over for you about eight o'clock, if you say so." "all right, george," said jock. "we'll be glad to have you. we'll call it settled, then, and you are to come for us to-morrow morning at eight." "that's the way to do it," said ben. "don't you let these fellows have any chance to explain how they got the muscallonge when you aren't near to put in a word." george made no reply, and the boys at once started. "there'll be a pitched battle between those men before they get home," said bert. "oh, no, the' won't," said the driver; "it's just the way with them. they're as jealous of one another as all possessed, but they're good friends, too. but i guess hank mcbride won't put on quite so many airs as he's been doin' of late. he's a notion he's the only fellow that can take out a party hereabouts." about an hour and a half later the boys drove up in front of their hotel, and, leaving their driver to look after their fish, ran up to their rooms, and speedily prepared for the dinner which was ready for them. when they at last came out of the dining room and appeared on the piazza, they beheld a small crowd assembled about a spot on the lawn. when they joined the group, they discovered that their fish were the objects which had drawn the spectators. many were the exclamations of astonishment at the number and size of the victims, and when at last the people departed, the boys were left to themselves. what to do with their catch then became the question. they had talked of packing the muscallonge in ice and forwarding it to their parents in new york, but the intense heat and the thought of possible delays had seemed to make that impracticable. they had finally decided to give them all to the proprietor of the hotel, and had just turned to enter the office to inform the clerk of their decision, when a man approached and accosted jock. to the lad's surprise he recognized him as a friend of his father's, and, after introducing him to his friends, the man expressed a desire that the huge muscallonge should be given to him if the boys had no other plan of disposing of it; and, wondering at his urgency, and aware that the remainder of their catch would be ample for all the immediate wants of the hotel, they readily consented. it was some three weeks afterward when they learned that the man to whom they had presented their prize had first had a photograph of himself and his two boys taken with fishing-rods in their hands, and the monstrous fish in the foreground, and had then shipped the fish to the editor of the local paper of the village in which his home was. a marked copy of this paper had been sent the boys, in which they read a long account of the struggle this man and his boys had in catching the muscallonge, and how, at last, success had crowned their efforts, and in their generosity they had sent their prize, "which weighed some sixty pounds," to the editor himself. great are the ways of fishermen, and marvellous the increase in weight which some fish attain after they have been drawn from their native waters! all that, however, is an outside matter, and as our boys did not learn of the various uses to which their prize was assigned until weeks had passed, it has no legitimate part in the records of this story. promptly at the appointed hour on the following morning george appeared before the hotel, and the boys took their seats in his wagon to be carried back to the landing. it was evident that george was in no wise downcast over the envious charges of his rival boatman on the preceding day, and as they rode on he explained to them many of the points of interest in the region. as there was an abundance of time before the departure of their boat for ogdensburgh, they were all eager to examine the places he described, and as he had dwelt particularly upon the attractions of a neighboring cemetery,--"graveyard," george called it,--they consented to stop and visit it. it was a quaint little spot, and its humble headstones indicated that the great cloud which hangs low over all mankind was not wanting even in the healthful region of the great river. but what had been of peculiar interest to george was the inscription on some of the headstones, and as he pointed out one after another, his companions were soon as interested as he. "hold on, fellows," said bob, taking out a note-book and pencil as he spoke; "i must have this one." the boys waited while bob made an exact copy of the epitaph, and this is what he found:-- "jimmie dooley is my name, ireland is my nation, brasher is my dwelling place and heaven my expectation. when i am dead and in my grave and all my bones is rotten, this stone will tell my name when i am quite forgotten." "got it all, bob?" inquired ben, soberly. "yes." "verbatim?" "yes." "literatim?" "yes." "punctuatim?" "yes." "spellatim?" "i think so" laughed bob. "why? what makes you so particular?" "i can't stand it any longer. it's too pathetic for me." "i suppose the folks here feel just the same as they do in the city," said george, curtly. "i didn't bring you here to have you poke fun." "i'm not poking fun," said ben, soberly; "but the exquisite pathos of that poem is too much for my tender feelings. poor jimmie! i don't wonder he's dead. do you know the poet, the author of those touching, plaintive lines?" as the boys broke into a laugh, george turned abruptly away and took his seat in the carriage, an example his companions speedily followed. when they arrived at the landing they discovered that there were yet two hours before the little steamer would depart, and in response to george's suggestion, for his good nature seemed to be restored now, they accepted his invitation and went with him to view some "sturgeon pounds." these pounds were pens in the water, near the shore, in which the boys discovered some fish which even put their great muscallonge to shame. these fish were caught, they learned, from a slender pier or framework built out into the rapids. there, men, equipped with long poles, each of which had a hook on the end much like the gaff george had used on the preceding day, took their stand, and as the mighty sturgeon slowly forced their way up the stream and against the current, they were seen by the waiting fishermen, and "hooked." they were then thrown alive into the pens and kept, with others, until a sufficient number had been obtained, when they were all shipped to montreal. interested as the boys were in the sight, they did not long remain there, and soon after their return to the landing went on board the steamer, and were ready to depart. bidding george good-by, and thanking him once more for all the assistance and pleasure he had given them, they were eager, when the boat left the dock, to return to the camp on pine tree island, for which they had now come to cherish almost a feeling of home. chapter xxv. early discoverers. the progress of the little steamer was necessarily much slower now than when the boys had come down the river, moving as she was against the strong current. there was, however, too much of inspiration in the experience to make the young campers feel impatient, and as there were but few passengers besides themselves on board, they took their chairs to a sheltered spot on the upper deck, and the sounds of their merry laughter and shouts soon resounded over the river. they cheered the passing boats, and gave their school cry whenever they approached a camp. after a time even these measures became tame and failed to satisfy the boys, and bob, quick to seize his opportunity, said, "i'll now resume my lectures, with your kind permission." "i don't think our permission will have much to do with it," said ben. "you'll go on just the same." bob scowled, but as he knew the boys really were interested, and wanted to learn something more about the early discoverers, he began:-- "when cartier returned to france after his second voyage, the hardships and losses he had to report were not, of course, very encouraging to the frenchmen, who wanted him to find a country where the streets of the cities were all paved with gold. but francis de la roque, the lord of roberval in picardy, had himself appointed viceroy and lieutenant-general of the new territory, cartier still being called captain-general and chief pilot of the king's ships. "five vessels were then fitted out, and in may, , cartier started with two of them and was soon afterward joined by the others. then all five started across the ocean blue, and three months later landed at sainte croix. he began to cruise about, and finally sent two of his ships back to france, though he kept the other three at the mouth of the red river. "cartier then went up to hochelaga, hoping to be able to come farther up the river, but the winter was a terrible one, and his men were so discouraged that in the spring, his provisions being exhausted, and the indians beginning to cut up, he sailed away for france. on the way over he met roberval, who ordered him to go back again; but cartier did not see it in that light, so he kept on, and finally got back to france, where he lived and died in peace." "oh, more! more!" said ben, mockingly. bob laughed as he replied, "there was no more, so far as cartier was concerned. it was three times and out with him." "then he never came as far up the st. lawrence as we are now?" asked bert. "no. cartier never did. of course others came, and i'll tell you about them." "it's a wonderful river," murmured jock. "and just think of it, fellows. we're sailing over the very same river those old chaps did. just the same, after three hundred years have gone." "no, it isn't the same," replied ben. "why not, i'd like to know?" demanded jock. "oh, the water keeps running away all the time. they call it the same river, but it's never the same for any two minutes. the banks are the same, but the river itself is constantly changing." "you're getting it down too fine for me," said jock. "and that's canada, over there," he added, pointing to the distant shore as he spoke. "i wonder where they got that name. do you know, bob?" "there are two theories," replied bob, quickly. "one is based on the story that stefano gomez, a spaniard, was the first white man to enter the gulf of st. lawrence, and that he came in . he died over here somewhere, i believe, so the story can't be denied. there is an old spanish tradition that he came into the gulf and landed, and when he didn't find any gold, or mines, or any of the things for which he was looking, he exclaimed, 'aca-nada,' which means, i'm told, 'here is nothing.' and canada is said to be derived from that." "what's the other theory? you said there were two, bob," said jock. "oh, the other is that canada is another form of the indian word, ka-na-ta, which means a village. i've given you both, and you can take your choice." "but how did the gulf and the river get their names, professor?" asked ben. "cartier gave it to them in honor of the saint who was supposed to be the patron of the day when he made his discovery--the th of august, you know. i think the saint deserved to have his name given, too, for it is said he was broiled on a gridiron in ." "good time," remarked ben, dryly. "two forty is better, though." "bob," demanded bert, "how do you know all this stuff. i don't see how one small head can contain all you know." "that isn't original, my friend," remarked bob. "you have the idea but not the language of our last text-book in english lit. how do i know so much? oh, it comes natural to some people. i know a heap more than i have told you, though. if you want me to, i'll give you some of it now. we haven't got to ogdensburgh yet." "oh, do! do! lend the charm of your voice to these interesting details you have picked out of some almanac," said ben. "i'll lend you my voice if you'll lend me your ears!" rejoined bob. "never!" shouted ben, clasping those members as he spoke. "well, turn the whole length of them toward me and it'll do just as well. they're more becoming to you than they would be to me." "oh, go on with your yarn," interrupted bert. "we'll listen to you till we get to ogdensburgh. after that, if you dare refer to one of the early discoverers, overboard you go! doesn't he, fellows?" "hear! hear!" shouted ben, sitting quickly erect. "i shan't forget," said bob, laughing. "you fellows seem to think i'm giving you these facts for the fun of the thing." "you are," said ben. "it may be rare sport," said bob, "but i don't see it in just that light. i'm trying to teach you something, so that when you go back to the city you'll be able to make a half-decent appearance." "nonsense!" protested ben. "you've been cramming up, and are just spreading your knowledge before us, the way ethan says his peacock gets into the house and spreads his tail in front of the looking-glass and struts around like all possessed. you can't fool us, bob." "i don't have to," said bob, good-naturedly. "quit your fooling and go on with your story, bob," said jock. "we'll be at ogdensburgh pretty soon, and then you're under bonds not to refer to another discoverer there. and i want to know about these things." "all right," said bob. "well, the french kept sending somebody over here almost every year after cartier stopped coming, but nothing of any consequence was done before . then a calvinist named demonts obtained freedom for himself and his religious sympathizers in the new world, only the catholic religion was to be established among the natives, and finally champlain and pontgrave were sent over here in that year to begin a settlement and look after the trade in furs. they were both sterling men and had had plenty of experience, and no better ones could have been found. "champlain reached tadousac on the d of june, and after a month was at quebec, where cartier had spent the winter almost three-quarters of a century before. he saw what a fine site there was there for a city, and at once selected the spot as the place for a settlement. "the next spring, in april, samuel champlain, along with two of the frenchmen, started up the great river. they got along fairly well, and at last turned to the south and went down and discovered the lake which now bears his name, and then went on into the other lake, which, as you know, is lake george." "yes, i've heard of that lake," murmured ben. "five years afterward," continued bob, ignoring the interruption, "champlain succeeded in having four recollets appointed to begin a mission work among the indians. to get the favor of the red men, champlain himself, and a priest named joseph le cavon, went with them to help whip the iroquois; but the iroquois weren't in a mood to be whipped that time, and drove off their enemies and wounded champlain, just as if he hadn't come on his merciful errand." "hold on, bob," said jock. "you didn't tell us whether champlain found lake george all named when he got there." "it was named," replied bob, "though it wasn't named george. the indians called it horicon, and the frenchmen named it lake st. sacrament. sir william johnson, afterward, for good and sufficient reasons, changed it to lake george. but to resume. when champlain was wounded he had to spend the winter with the indians; but he made good use of his time and learned a lot about them--their language, customs, and all that sort of thing. "it was in when henri de levi, duke de ventadour--he had purchased the vice-royalty of new france, you see, before this time, for they didn't mind such little things as selling a kingdom or two, with a world and a few stars thrown in--sent over here father lallemant and four other jesuit priests and laymen. father lallemant was a good man and very earnest, and the recollets, of course, received him and his companions very kindly. "in the following year three other jesuit priests were also sent over here, along with some settlers and mechanics, and they soon made the little settlement begin to look something like a town. in the english happened to come along, and quietly took the place as their own; but there was a treaty made, and they had to stand by it, so the french owned the town again in ; and the very next year champlain was appointed once more as governor of new france. he'd been governor before, you see, and this was only putting him back into his own place. but he didn't live very long, for, if i recollect aright, he died in december, ." "what for?" inquired ben, soberly. "were the gubernatorial honors too heavy for his shoulders? perhaps he didn't like the political methods of the indians. i wish you'd explain it, bob." "from that time, for a good while, the jesuit missionaries kept coming over here, and the work they did was something marvellous. they went up the river and kept on out along the lakes, and even down other rivers. they dressed as the indians did, and ate and lived with them, just to learn their ways and convince the red men that they were their friends. they were tortured sometimes, horribly, but they never flinched. they just kept right on, and you can well believe it wasn't very long before their priests had a grip on the indians which wasn't very small. every tribe of the iroquois of new york had its own special missionary, and almost every nation out along the lakes and down the mississippi had one too; and they made themselves of so much use, going with the men even into battle, that they're not forgotten yet. "well, of course, where the missionaries went, there business went too; and it wasn't long before fur-trading posts were established wherever the jesuits were. then, to protect the fur traders, and to keep the english from getting any of the business, soldiers had to be sent along; and so, as quebec was the head centre of the whole affair, it wasn't long before there was a regular business all along the st. lawrence, long before any real settlements were made on its borders, or at least along the lakes." "i say, bob," interrupted ben, "did you ever read any of oliver wendell holmes's books?" "yes, i've read the 'autocrat.'" "do you remember about that chap who could talk a lot on some subjects, and didn't know anything about others?" "you mean the one who'd read a volume or two in the cyclopædia, and not much besides?" "pre-e-cisely! now i've found you out. _you've_ been reading a volume of the cyclopædia, and are giving us its contents." "which volume?" asked bob. "the one that has the c's in it. cartier, champlain, canada, cavon, catholic, cortereal--don't you see, fellows?" he added, turning triumphantly to his friends. "we've found him out! he's crammed up on his c's. now, to prove it, let's ask him some questions on other subjects. what was the first settlement above quebec? what soldiers came in here? who was--who was--a--a--" "hello! that's ogdensburgh ahead there!" exclaimed bob, suddenly; and as he spoke he ran quickly to the bow of the steamer, ostensibly to obtain a better view of the town which they were approaching. chapter xxvi. the squall. the little steamer soon afterward arrived at its dock, and the transfer to the large boat was speedily made. then, in the eagerness to be first in the dining room and to satisfy the cravings of their appetites, which were already keen, bob's lectures and the early discoverers were all forgotten. nor did bob seem to grieve at the apparent disregard, though whether it was his hunger, or his unwillingness to hear the suggestion ben had made as to the source of his information, which was the cause of it, he did not feel called upon to explain. at all events, when the boys returned to the deck they were at peace among themselves and with all the world; and as bob was careful not even to hint at the men who had sailed up the river centuries before this time, no occasion arose in which the explanation of ben could be taken up again. apparently, in spite of the fact that the large steamer was moving against the current, there was no less speed displayed than on the voyage down the stream, for greater efforts were put forth. bert solemnly called the attention of his companions to the fact, and with no less solemnity urged them to profit by the lesson that greater obstacles only called forth the greater powers of boats and men. doubtless his moral lesson was not duly appreciated, for the lads were in no mood for sermons. the constantly changing scene about them, the sweep of the great waters, and the saluting of passing vessels, occupied the most of their time and held their undivided attention. it was late in the afternoon when at last they perceived alexandria bay in the distance, and knew that they had almost arrived at the end of their voyage. "it looks as if we might have a storm, fellows," said jock, pointing as he spoke to some heavy black clouds that could be seen in the distance. "if it'll hold off till we get back to camp we shan't care," replied bert, lightly. they were all so eager to land now that they had no disposition to stop and consider even the threatenings of the storm-clouds. "hello! there's ethan!" exclaimed jock, as he obtained a glimpse of their boatman on the dock. "perhaps he has his cat-boat with him. i'm sure i hope he has, for i don't want to row back to camp, especially if it's going to rain." as soon as they landed, ethan greeted them, and without waiting to listen to the story of their experiences in the longue seaut, he said quickly, "git aboard my boat, every one o' ye. it's goin' to rain, an' i want to land ye afore it begins. git yer skiff an' i'll take it in tow, an' we'll start right off." jock ran quickly to the place where his skiff had been left, and as he rowed around the corner of the dock to the cat-boat, bert said, "where's ben? he'll have to get his canoe too." but ben at first could not be found, and the anger of ethan waxed strong. "that pesky boy is always the one to bother us. where do ye s'pose he is?" "there! there he is!" exclaimed bob, pointing as he spoke toward a canoe which could be seen out on the river. the occupant could not be plainly seen, but after watching his movements for a moment they were all satisfied that it was indeed ben, who, probably in his desire to paddle his own canoe, had slipped away unobserved, and was already well on his way back to camp. ethan uttered another exclamation of anger, but as he quickly bade the boys take their places on board his boat, there was no time lost in further investigations, and soon, with the skiff in tow, they were headed down the river. there was, however, but little air stirring, and soon the cat-boat was almost becalmed. the heavy clouds climbed higher and higher in the sky, but the waters of the river were almost as motionless as glass. the sail flapped idly against the mast, and the boat slowly drifted with the current. ethan did not speak now, but his evident air of alarm speedily communicated itself to his companions. they glanced nervously at one another, and then at the great black mass which was almost directly over their heads. "don't you think we'd better take the oars, ethan?" suggested jock. ethan shook his head, but made no other reply. a streak of light gray in the dense blackness of the clouds could now be seen, and as the boatman discovered it, he said, "take in the sail, boys. it'll be--" but ethan did not complete the sentence, for suddenly the deluge was upon them. in a moment the wind began to blow, and like a startled horse the boat suddenly seemed to leap forward. a roaring sound filled the air, and the trees along the distant shore bent and swayed and tossed their branches wildly, as if they, too, shared in the alarm. the river was quickly covered with white-caps, and the rail of the cat-boat was almost beneath the water. "here! here!" shouted ethan suddenly, endeavoring to make his voice heard above the noise of the storm. "two of ye hold the tiller while i take in the sail." bob and jock sprang to do his bidding, but their combined strength was hardly sufficient to hold the boat to its course. ethan worked his way slowly toward the mast, and after a hard struggle succeeded in lowering the sail, a part of which dragged in the water before he could draw it on board. at last, succeeding in a measure in his efforts, he returned to his place in the stern and resumed his labors with the tiller. the fury of the storm had now increased. all on board were soon drenched; but they did not mind the wetting, for a great fear was in their hearts. the roar of the wind was like that of a railway train under full speed. even the outlines of the shores could not now be seen. under bare poles the boat sped swiftly forward. once or twice they caught a glimpse of other luckless men caught as they were in the squall, but they were speedily lost to sight, and the cat-boat darted ahead with ever-increasing speed. suddenly jock discovered that it was no longer rain which was falling upon them, but hail; and even while he looked up in astonishment, the hailstones seemed to increase in size. as they struck the boys in the face or upon the head they produced a sharp pain, and every one speedily covered his face with his cap and drew his coat up more tightly about his neck. "go into the cabin, every one o' ye!" shouted ethan; but his voice was drowned by the storm, and no one heard or heeded his cry of warning. on and on plunged the boat, higher and higher rose the tossing waves, stronger and stronger became the force of the pelting hailstones. in spite of their fear the boys all looked up as they heard a sudden sound of breaking branches and snapping trees. just before them through the blinding storm they could see a shore and tossing waters as they fell in waves upon the rocks. a great tree had just fallen, and the sound of the crash it made as it fell upon the smaller trees about it increased the terror in the boat. they were not more than twenty yards distant now, and it seemed as if no power on earth could save them from being dashed upon the projecting rocks. a great mass of earth had been torn up by the roots of the tree which had fallen, and they could see the wall it presented. nearer and nearer to the shore sped the swift-flying cat-boat. the boys relaxed their hold upon their caps and coats, and grasped the sides of the boat as they waited for the crash which threatened. ethan was struggling desperately with the tiller, and doing his utmost to keep his boat away from the rocks, but his efforts were like those of a little child. no one spoke, but the terror each felt was known by all. then came a moment of breathless suspense; a low cry escaped the lips of jock. the boatman rose and threw himself bodily against the tiller, striving by one last desperate effort to keep his boat off the rocks. there was a grating sound from the keel, and then in a moment they swept past the dangerous point and were out in the river again. they had been so close to the rocky shore that they almost could have leaped upon it, but if any one had had it in mind to make the foolhardy attempt, the opportunity was gone before he could use it. the sense of relief which came at the escape in nowise prevented the boys from knowing that the fury of the squall had not yet spent itself. they could see piles of hailstones on board the boat, and some of them seemed to be almost as large as small eggs. they were pelted upon the head and about the body, and there was no escape or relief. the wind still roared, the seething waters tossed and rose about them, the boat lurched and pitched, and yet all the time was driven swiftly forward under the terrific force of the gale. other perils might lie before them, and with the thought the boys all peered eagerly ahead, though they could see but a short distance through the blinding storm. suddenly a lull came, and as the boys glanced up they could see a broad streak of light in the western sky. the black clouds were scurrying overhead, and the sound of the thunder seemed to be a little farther away. swiftly as the storm had approached, with almost as great swiftness it departed. the flashes of the vivid lightning could still be seen, but they were farther down the river. the outlines of the distant shores became more and more distinct, and almost before the boys were aware of what was occurring, the blaze of the sun broke through, and the wind and the storm subsided. "we're all right now," said ethan; and with a sigh of relief the boys turned to look at him. "them squalls," explained the boatman, "are mighty sudden. ye never know when to expect 'em, or jest what to do when they come. now, ye see why i told ye not to go far from camp with yer canoes." the mention of the canoes instantly recalled their thoughts to the missing ben. he had recklessly ventured forth in his, and doubtless had been caught in the same storm which had so suddenly swept down upon them. for a moment no one spoke, and then jock said tremblingly, "you don't suppose anything has happened to ben, do you, ethan?" "no knowin'. mebbe he ran in to some island when the squall broke." it was evident, however, that the boatman was no less troubled than they by the thoughts of the absent ben; but he at once placed the tiller in the hands of the boys and went forward to hoist his sail once more. the wind had subsided now, and the boisterous waves were rapidly resuming their former state of calm. it was the first experience the boys had had in the sudden squalls which are wont to swoop down upon the st. lawrence, and ofttimes bring sorrow and destruction in their wake. ordinarily they subside as rapidly as they rise, and the present instance proved to be no exception to the rule. the river was soon calm, the low sun was shining clear and strong, and only a gentle breeze ruffled the waters that only a brief time before were tossing like the waves of an angry sea. steadily the cat-boat kept on its way, and as it had not been driven very far out of its course, not a long time had elapsed before the party was landed at the dock in front of their camp. but what a sight met their eyes there! neither of the tents could be seen, and directly across the path which led down to the shore, a huge tree had fallen. broken branches strewed the ground, and the signs of the fierceness of the gale were apparent on every side. slight heed was given to any of these things, however, so alarmed were the boys over the safety of their missing companion. poor ben! was ever a more luckless mortal born into this world? he was ever the one to meet with mishaps, if mishaps befell; but his peril in the present instance far exceeded all he had experienced before. "now, boys," said ethan, "you'd better take the skiff and row back up the river. you may find ben somewhere, and he may need ye, too. while you're gone i'll see where the tents have been blown to and try to set things to rights again." without waiting to reply, the three boys quickly freed the skiff which the cat-boat had been towing, and jock and bob, each taking a pair of oars, began to row swiftly over the river. they had no definite idea as to just where it was best to go, but they kept on their way back toward alexandria bay, hoping that somewhere they would discover ben paddling to meet them in his canoe. their strongest hope was that he had landed somewhere before the storm broke, and now that it was gone, would be on his way back to the camp. they had been gone about a quarter of an hour, when bert, who was seated in the stern, exclaimed, "there's a canoe up ahead, fellows, but there's no one in it." his companions stopped rowing for a moment and glanced eagerly behind them. then with redoubled speed they began to move toward the drifting canoe. soon they had overhauled it, and a low cry escaped jock's lips when he recognized it at once as the one which had belonged to the missing ben. chapter xxvii. the search. the feeling of gloom in the hearts of the boys was reflected in the dusk which now had settled over all. the sun had disappeared, and the blaze in the western sky seemed weird and unnatural. the silence that rested over the river was so intense that it almost seemed as if they could hear it, if such a thing were possible. for a moment the boys looked blankly at one another, but no one seemed willing to give utterance to the fear which evidently possessed them all. jock was the first to speak, and as he reached over and grasped the canoe to make it fast to the skiff, he said in a low voice, "this is the worst yet, fellows. i'm almost afraid to go on." "we'll have to go, whether we're afraid or not," said bob. his decided tone could not conceal his anxiety, but his suggestion was so manifestly practical that the oars were at once taken up, and, with the little canoe in tow, they resumed their way up the river. the waters were calm now, so calm that scarcely a ripple could be seen. lights began to appear in the distant cottages, and the darkness steadily deepened. still the boys rowed swiftly on, unmindful of the long and wearisome day which had gone, and thinking only of their missing friend. bert was keeping a careful lookout, though just what he or his companions expected to see was not evident. "i think, fellows," said bert, at last, "you'd better row farther in toward the shore of the islands. the storm came from the west, and if ben landed anywhere, it would be likely to be on one of the islands. we can go up a mile or two, and then if we don't see or hear anything we can cut across to the bay. he may have been picked up by some boat and carried back there, you know." the direction of the skiff was quickly changed, for the advice seemed good, though no one replied to bert's words, and soon they were skirting the islands. again and again they stopped and shouted together, but only the echoes along the shore or the calls of the night birds responded. the slight hope they had cherished was almost gone now. the empty canoe was a constant reminder of their loss, and the longing in their hearts was fast becoming changed to despair. not even the paddle had been found, and the fear that the canoe had been capsized in the squall, and its occupant thrown into the water, was becoming almost a certainty. "there's one thing, fellows," said bob, at last, striving somehow to keep up their courage, "and that is, that ben, though he is the most unlucky fellow in some ways that ever lived, in others is the most lucky. just think of the scrapes he's been in since we came down here, and yet he got out of every one. if it had been any one of us, we'd have gone straight to the bottom of the st. lawrence, but ben, somehow, manages to come right side up with care, and i'll not give up yet." bob endeavored to speak confidently, but his words failed to cheer his companions. the lights of alexandria bay could now be seen in the distance, and the end of their attempt to discover the missing ben had almost come. failure was to be stamped on them all, they thought; and though they still continued to row, the dejection of all three was becoming more and more apparent. "we might as well strike across for the bay, now," said jock, at last, pausing as he spoke, and looking sadly above him in the twilight. "yes, i think we'd better go over there," replied bob. "of course ben may have gone back to camp long before this, but as we are so near, i suppose we might as well go on and do what we can." they were only about twenty yards from the shore of one of the little islands now, and as they grasped their oars again to carry out jock's suggestion, they were startled by a shout that came from a projecting point in advance of them. they could perceive some one standing there and waving a handkerchief aloft on a stick. the faint sound of his call was sufficient to interest the boys at once, and without uttering a word they began to row swiftly in that direction. bert was peering eagerly at the figure of the man standing on the rock, and as soon as the sound of the hallo became a little more distinct, he said in a low, intense voice, "i believe it's ben, boys. give him the school cheer, and let's see." the boys stopped, and the school cheer rang out, and then they waited a moment in breathless suspense for the response. faintly across the water came the answering cheer, and then, half laughing and half crying, jock said, "did you ever see such a fellow in your lives? it's just as bob here says. ben can get into more scrapes, and get out of them too, than any chap that ever lived." "never mind that part of it now," said bob, quickly. "give way, jock, and let's go for him. of all his scrapes this is the worst." there was no mistaking the reaction now as the boys swept over the river, making every stroke tell. as they approached the point, they perceived ben seated on one of the rocks, and leaning upon his paddle as if he was the most unconcerned spectator of their movements. quickly the skiff was sent ashore, and as bert leaped out, ben, who had not stirred from his seat on the rocks, said,-- "i must say, fellows, you have taken your time. i didn't know but you were going to leave me here all night. i've travelled clear around this island three times since i landed, and i haven't seen a boat or a man. i thought i was robinson crusoe for certain, and done into modern english." "oh, ben," said jock, in a trembling voice, "don't talk that way. you don't know how frightened we were. we started out to search for you just the minute we got back to camp, and when we found that canoe of yours empty and floating down the river, we didn't know what had happened--" "did you find my canoe?" interrupted ben, eagerly. "yes, yes," said jock, laughing in spite of himself. "where is it?" "right here. we took it in tow." "that's good. the thing got away from me, and i didn't expect ever to see it again. you see, the wind drove me straight ashore here, and i was mighty glad to get ashore, too. when i grabbed my paddle and jumped out, and then turned around to pick up my canoe, why, it was like the irishman's flea--when i put my hand on it, it wasn't there." "what did you do, ben?" inquired bert. "do? i didn't do anything. the wind blew so i thought it was going to tear up the very island itself. i hid myself behind the rocks, and waited. when the storm had passed i began to look about to see how i was to get away from my desert island. i travelled around it three times, as i told you, but i couldn't find any way of getting off, and i'd about made up my mind i'd have to spend the night here, when i discovered three men in a boat, and hailed them." "did you know who we were?" "no; and i didn't care. all i wanted was to be taken off." "we'll take you now," said jock. "come along; it's getting dark." "i'll take my canoe, _if_ you please," said ben, glibly. "ben, you're not going to paddle back to camp in that cockle-shell to-night?" exclaimed jock, aghast at the proposal. "i should think you'd had enough of it for one night. come along and be civilized, and take your place at the oars in the skiff, like a little man." "here i take my stand. i can do no other," responded ben, striking an attitude as he spoke. "if i go back to camp, it'll be in my light canoe." "let him go on a raft if he wants to," said bob, glumly. "we've done our part, and it's his own risk now." "ben, you'll keep close to us, won't you?" pleaded jock. "yes, if you'll keep close to me," replied ben. "you'll have to do your best to keep up, though, i can tell that." lighthearted now, the boys resumed their places in the skiff, bert taking jock's place at the oars, and with ben in his canoe, which had not suffered any from the storm, started down the river. ben was as good as his words, and though the two pairs of oars enabled his friends to make excellent time, they were compelled to exert themselves to the utmost to keep the skiff within sight. as a consequence, when they arrived at the camp, as they did soon afterward, they were thoroughly tired, and ready for the supper which ethan and tom had provided. ben's appearance was as welcome to the boatmen as it had been to the boys, and while they were seated at the table he was compelled to relate the story of his adventure again. as jock perceived that the tents had been restored, he turned to ethan and said,-- "did you have any trouble in setting the tents up again?" "just a little," responded ethan. "one o' 'em i found up in the top o' that pine tree over yonder, and t'other one was down on the shore, but we managed to git 'em all right enough. neow then, i'm a-goin' to take that canoe back with me to-night. i jest won't leave it where that ben can get hold of it. the next time he'll not be so lucky." even ben uttered no protest; but when ethan started for the place where the canoe was kept on the bank, it could nowhere be found. ben pretended to search with the others; and when all their efforts proved unavailing, ethan declared testily,-- "the pesky thing's got afloat again. well, there's one comfort, and that is that this boy can't bother with it. i shouldn't sleep a wink to-night thinkin' o' him, if 'twas left here." after the departure of the boatmen ben demurely entered the woods, and soon returned with the treasured canoe in his arms. "that's too bad, ben," said jock. "you know what ethan said." "i'm not going to scare ethan to-night," replied ben, "for i've had enough to satisfy me for one day. but you don't think for a moment that i'm going to give up my work in this thing, do you? well, i'm not. it's just got to come to my turn, and that's all there is to it!" none of the boys were surprised when they came forth from the tent on the following morning to discover ben paddling about the river in his canoe. it was true he did not venture very far from shore, the lesson of the previous day evidently not having been entirely lost, and as the rest of the night had restored the spirits of his companions, they were all inclined to look upon his persistence in a spirit of good nature. ethan, too, displayed no anger when he arrived and discovered ben in his customary morning occupation, and, while the boys were seated at the breakfast table, made many inquiries as to their experiences and success in shooting the longue seaut rapids. his enthusiasm was great when he learned of the capture of the muscallonge, and again and again he referred to his own prophecy concerning the fishing in that part of the st. lawrence river. for several days the life in the camp on pine tree island was uneventful, though every day was filled with its own interesting experiences. ethan contrived to spend more of his time with the boys than he had previously done, and though he did not refer to the perilous experience in the storm, they all understood that that was the motive which controlled him, and, if the truth were known, not one of the boys objected. though the vividness of that fearful ride in the gale had in a measure departed from their minds, still the memory of it was strong, and even the determined bob seemed to have profited by the lesson. one day, in the week which followed, the clarkes came with their yacht and took the boys with them for a picnic on chimney island. the remains of the old french fort were still standing, and as the view of the st. lawrence from the ruins was one which extended for miles up and down the river, they all could readily understand why that spot had been selected by the soldiers of that far-away time. bob offered to explain the early history to his friends, but as ben said quickly, when bob began,-- "there it is again! it's just as i said. bob has been reading up one volume of the cyclopædia. it's the one with the c's in it. cartier, champlain, canada, catholic, cavon, cortereal, and now it's chimney island. for one, i've had enough." the laugh which followed when the meaning of ben's words was explained to the party caused even bob to desist, and changing the subject, he inquired,-- "have any of you young ladies ever seen hamlick?" "seen what?" said miss bessie. "what's hamlick? is it another fish you caught in those wonderful longue seaut rapids?" "no," replied bob. "it's ethan's word for shakespeare's play. the 'young folks' are going to give it to-morrow evening over at the corners for the benefit of the public walks. we're going, all four of us; and i didn't know but you would like to go, too." the proposition was hailed with delight; and when the party broke up in the late afternoon it was agreed that mr. clarke was to stop for the boys on the following evening, and that together they were all to go to the corners and witness the much talked about play of "hamlick." chapter xxviii. hamlick. early in the following evening the yacht stopped at pine tree island, and after our boys had been received on board, proceeded on its way to the corners, where the entire party landed, and at once started up the village street toward the town hall, where "hamlick" was to make his long-expected appearance. it was soon discovered that many others were evidently going to the same place, and along the dusty country roads teams could be seen approaching from almost every direction. "smart" appearing turnouts, along with others which must have done duty for several generations for the busy folk of the region, were seen, and bob demurely pointed out what he declared to be the original of the "wonderful one hoss shay." when our party climbed the rambling stairway which led to the room in the third floor of the town hall where hamlick was to appear, it was an unusual sight upon which they looked. old people and young were entering the room; mothers with little babes in their arms; the ever-present small boy, whose disposition does not vary materially whether he dwells in country or city; bashful young fellows, who apparently were wondering what they should do with those hands of theirs which, somehow, would protrude too far below the short sleeves of their coats; all these and many more were there. in the front of the room the platform was hidden from sight by some blue denim curtains hung on wires, which were to be manipulated by some one behind the scenes. some kerosene lamps were giving a faint light from brackets on the walls, and a huge wood stove stood in one corner of the room where it had done duty for years at the gatherings in the bitter winter days. there was no usher to show our party the way, but as they perceived that no places had been reserved, and that all were free to go where they chose, they at once turned toward the few remaining seats which were well up in the front of the room and quietly seated themselves. these seats were benches, across the backs of which narrow strips of board had been nailed, and forced the occupant to maintain an attitude which was anything but comfortable. the whole scene was so strange and unlike anything which any of them had ever seen before, that the novelty banished even the sense of discomfort, and all gazed about them with an air of interest as keen as doubtless that of the good people of the corners would have been had they been privileged to enter some spacious hall in the great city from which the summer visitors had come. to add to the interest, ethan was discovered seated in the end of one of the pews or benches which our friends appropriated, but his appearance was so markedly different from that to which the boys had been accustomed that they had some difficulty in really persuading themselves that it was their boatman before them. ethan was dressed in a suit of rusty black broadcloth, which evidently had seen other days if it had not seen better, and his bearing was so solemn that at first the boys fancied that he was conducting himself as he would have done in church. "aren't they almost ready to begin, ethan?" inquired jock, after he had presented the sturdy boatman to his friends. "i s'pose so. they were to begin at seven-thirty sharp," replied ethan, solemnly. "tom must be excited," suggested jock, for want of something else to say. "i s'pose so." it was plain that ethan considered the occasion too solemn for such trifling questions, and accordingly jock turned to his other friends, who were not troubled by any such scruples, and was soon talking and laughing with them. the interest in the scene did not decrease as the moments of waiting passed. boys entered and lurched heavily into their seats and began to snap the peanuts, with which their pockets had been well supplied, or industriously began to busy themselves with pieces of spruce gum which the present owners had wrested from the trees by their own efforts. solemn-faced elderly people entered, and frequently a young mother came, bringing with her a baby which was sleeping in her arms or nodding its head sagely, as with wide-open eyes it looked out upon the assembly. the interest in the audience was speedily transferred to the stage, from which the curtains now began to be drawn back. apparently something was wrong in the apparatus, for they "hitched" when about half of the platform appeared in sight, and after a whispered conversation had taken place, in tones so shrill that they could be heard by the entire assembly, a well-grown lad stepped from behind the scenes and adjusted the strings by which the screens were worked. his appearance was greeted with a shout of delight from the small boys in the audience, as they called him familiarly by his name, and bestowed other signs of their approval upon him. the greeting, however, was not received in the spirit in which it had been given, and the "manager," after vainly striving for a moment to adjust the workings, speedily retired in confusion. a yank upon the curtains quickly followed, and though a sound as of tearing cloth was heard, the view of the platform was soon unobstructed, and the audience became silent, waiting for the performance to begin. after a brief interval bernardo appeared, gazing carefully about him for francisco, who, too tender-hearted to disappoint his commanding officer, speedily strode forth upon the platform, prepared to do or die. "who's there?" began bernardo, in a loud stage whisper. "nay, answer me; stand, and unfold yourself!" thundered francisco in reply. "long live the king!" responded the officer, as if he were trying to make the people in alexandria bay aware of his patriotic feeling. "bernardo?" exclaimed francisco, in apparent surprise, though he had been standing within a few feet of the man all the time. the conversation continued until horatio and marcellus joined them, and at once began to speak. horatio was evidently master of the situation, but poor marcellus had an attack of stage fright. when it came his turn to speak he began impulsively,-- "and liegemen to--to--to--to--" but he could go no further. again he began, in lower and more impressive tones: "a--a--and liegemen to--to--" but the desired word would not come. "to the dane," whispered some one behind the scenes in a penetrating voice which reached to the utmost corners of the room. "and liegemen to the dane," responded marcellus, boldly. apparently he had recovered now, and all went well until the time came when the ghost was to enter. whether it was the terrifying dread of the nocturnal visitor, or the evident alarm of the four who were conversing so eagerly upon the stage that produced the trouble which followed, is not known; but no sooner had he glided in with his unearthly tread, and no less unearthly glances, which he cast about the room, than marcellus, in his most awe-inspiring whisper, began, "peace! break thee off; look where it comes again;" and then one of the babies in the room began to scream. bernardo boldly continued, "in the same figure, like the king that's dead." "thou art a scholar," responded marcellus. "speak to it, horatio." but the wailing infant in the front seat was not to be suppressed, and his screams of terror or rage were becoming more and more shrill, and were dividing the attention and sympathy of the audience and even diverting their gaze from the stage. apparently human nature could not endure the strain, and suddenly resuming an upright attitude and speaking in tones marvellously like those of an angry man, the ghost turned to the audience, and said sharply, "excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but we'll have to stop the performance till the mother removes that yelling young 'un from this hall." without a protest the young mother rose, and, despite the increased lamentations of her offspring and his vigorous bodily contortions, departed; and at last, when "the infant with no language but a cry," as bob afterward described the scene, could no longer be heard, the play was resumed. no one had appeared to be surprised at the interruption, and ethan had never once glanced at the boys. dignified and unmoved he sat watching the stage as if such slight deviations from the words of the "immortal shakespeare" were not able to divert his attention, and he had slight sympathy for those who would even look about them to discover whose baby it was that was now creating the disturbance. [illustration: "without a protest the young mother rose."--_page ._] babies were expected to be present on such occasions, and if present they were in duty bound to make themselves heard--that was a matter of course; and which particular baby it was exercising its lungs at the present moment was, in his opinion, too insignificant a matter to interest any one. the interruption seemed, however, to have wrought havoc once more with marcellus, for when the play was resumed he began to falter and hesitate, and like all people who hesitate, was speedily lost. after he had boldly bidden horatio to question the terror-inspiring visitor, and had declared "it was offended," he seemed to lose heart. "'tis gone, and will not--not--will not--not-- 'tis gone and will--will. 'tis will and not gone. no," he added abruptly, apparently as much to the surprise of the ghost himself, who could be seen peering from behind the curtain, as to that of his audience, "no, 'tisn't ''tis will,' it's ''tis gone.' 'tis gone and--and--and--" poor marcellus gazed about him in despair, as if he was looking for help; but no help came, except from the side of the platform, where the prompter tried in a loud whisper to aid the desperate player. horatio, to help his comrade, went back to the last line he had spoken, and repeated, "stay! speak, speak! i charge thee, speak!" "that's what i'm trying to do, but can't," replied marcellus, casting shakespeare and discretion aside at the same time. the words were too much for our boys, who, up to this time, had been striving desperately to remain quiet. jock had stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, but the explosive force of the last despairing speech of marcellus had proved too much for him to bear, and a prolonged squeal came from his lips which forced even the handkerchief from its place. "he-e-e-e-e-e!" he cried, and in a moment his companions were all clinging to the back of the seat in front of them and shaking with laughter. but few others in the audience seemed to be similarly affected, and ethan turned and gave them a look which greatly aided in restoring their composure. marcellus was thoroughly angry now, however, and glared down upon the offending jock as if he were minded to add other words which shakespeare might perhaps have used, but which he certainly had not incorporated in the tragedy. in a moment he rushed from the stage, seized the book from the hands of the prompter, and, returning to his place, read his part as the play was resumed. then for a time all went well, and the eager boys found themselves looking forward to the time when "hamlick" himself should appear. true to his part, in the second scene the hero appeared, and our boys were soon all listening attentively. tom's first words were uttered in a voice that trembled, but he soon was master of himself and was giving his mother that sage counsel which has done so much to make both her and him remembered. the king stalked about the stage with a crown that fairly glittered with jewels upon his head, and as for the queen, her gorgeous train was sadly in the way of polonius and laertes, and even "hamlick" himself once trod upon it and received a look from her which well might have caused him to pause in his undutiful language. marcellus, too, returned; but this time he was equipped with a book, as well as with a sword, and though he followed the lines with his finger as he read, and seldom glanced at his companions, and once his words, "my good lord," were evidently misunderstood by his audience, still no further interruptions came until the ghost once more joined the group. then a fresh trouble arose. just at the most impressive part, a long-drawn-out sigh seemed to come from ethan, who had remained quietly in his seat at the end of the bench. marcellus had just been strongly warning hamlet not to go with the untimely visitor, and horatio had added, "no, by no means," when the sigh from ethan's corner rose again, louder, longer, and more intense. all in the audience could hear it, and as it came once more our four boys glanced quickly at the boatman. his head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes were closed, and his mouth was wide open. it was evident that ethan was sleeping. "it will not speak; then i will follow it," hamlet was just remarking on the stage. "o-o-o-h-h-h!" responded ethan, in something more pronounced now than a sigh. his voice trembled and quavered, and seemed to gather force as on it went. "wake him up, jock," whispered ben. "stick a pin in him. he'll spoil the play," whispered bert. jock turned to shake the boatman lightly and strive to restore him by gentle means, but his efforts were not required; for one of the small boys seated directly behind ethan acted promptly, and at once produced results as startling as they were unexpected. chapter xxix. after the tragedy. the mischievous lad had been one of those who had been regaling themselves during the performance with peanuts, and the mark which ethan presented was more than his youthful spirit could resist. leaning forward, he quickly dropped into the wide-open mouth of the slumbering boatman one of his choicest bits, and before jock could touch the man, the explosion came. ethan was instantly awake, and coughing, almost strangling, stared wildly about him. for a moment even the somewhat pessimistic views to which hamlick was giving utterance on the stage were ignored by the audience, and the noisy boatman was the observed of all observers. his efforts were so violent that either strangulation or relief was bound to result, and as the latter came, ethan turned sharply and looked behind him. the demure face of the lad who had been the means of his somewhat sudden awakening did not even glance at him, and after a brief pause ethan solemnly resumed his seat, and hamlick proceeded with his misty surmisings. perhaps the play by this time had gained full headway, and nothing could interfere with its progress. at all events, no further interruptions occurred, save those of a minor character, and after a time the end came. the audience then solemnly filed out from the room, and soon few were left besides our party and those who had taken part in the play. in spite of the ludicrous events which had interfered somewhat with the solemnity of the occasion, the boys were impressed with the amount of study which tom and some of his companions had bestowed upon the parts assigned them. as hamlick himself came forth from behind the scenes he was warmly greeted by jock, and complimented upon the success he had attained. "and do you really think we did it all right?" inquired tom, eagerly. "we have had a most enjoyable evening," replied bob, soberly. "i can't understand yet why it was that you selected such a play for a popular audience." "that was the schoolmaster's doings," said tom. "i thought myself it was almost too difficult a piece; but he told us to get something good while we were at it, and something it would pay us to remember, so we chose 'hamlet.' we give something almost every year, you see. last year we gave the trial scene from 'pickwick papers,' but the folks here didn't seem to see the fun in it. they took it all in sober earnest, and never laughed from the beginning to the end. so this year we thought we'd try something in the tragedy line." "where do you get all the books you read, tom?" inquired bob. "some of them are in our school library and some the minister lends to us. we don't have very much besides history. i'm grateful to you," he added, turning to bert as he spoke, "for hearing me speak my part up in the camp. it did me a sight of good." "don't mention it," said bert, hurriedly. tom's reading had become a serious matter with our boys. his attainments had been so unlooked for, and, as far as the solid work was concerned, he had done so much more than they, that no one was inclined to belittle him now, no matter how much the young boatman's lack of familiarity with the manners and customs of "city folks" had impressed them upon their arrival at the camp. "heow was it? pooty fair, i judge," said ethan, who now approached the group, asking and answering his own question at the same time. "the young people are to be congratulated upon the serious study they have given shakespeare's masterpiece," said mr. clarke, before any of the boys could reply. "glad to hear ye say it," responded ethan, who, in spite of his apparent contempt for tom's studies, was nevertheless interested far more deeply than he cared to show. "i don' know much abeout sech things myself," he continued. "i never read one o' dickens's plays, nor shakespeare's neither, for that matter. i had to work fur a livin' in my young days; but tom here, he has lots o' time, and he jist keeps his nose in a book pretty much all winter. what d'ye think o' it? will it do him any harm?" he inquired of mr. clarke, somewhat anxiously. "not a bit, not a bit," replied mr. clarke, cordially. "in fact, i think i know of some young people who might profit by his example." "i never did think there was sech a sight o' difference between city folks and country folks. neow ye've seen this same performance in the place where you live, i take it?" "yes," replied mr. clarke. "an' ye really think the young folks here hev done it abeout as well as the folks down to new york, do ye?" "there were differences, of course. you must expect that." "of course; of course," said ethan, delightedly. "mebbe ye'd like to go over to mis' brown's. the young folks have gone there. they're to have some ice cream, i b'lieve. 'twon't cost ye much, fur it's only eight cents a dish, two fur fifteen." as it was not late, the invitation was eagerly accepted, an added zest being given when it was learned that the profits from the sale of the cream were to be added to those of the play, and that all were to be expended for the improvement of the walks in the little hamlet. the party accordingly made their way down the rough stairway and along the street, tom having previously left them, and soon arrived at "mis' brown's," or the "widow brown's," as she was familiarly called by her neighbors. her establishment was found to be a unique one. a small "store" was in the front of the building, and on the few shelves were seen jars containing some toothsome, though apparently venerable, sticks of candy. slate pencils, a few forlorn articles of "fancy work," spools of thread and such like necessities were the other parts of her stock in trade, but the sounds of revelry which came from an inner room left no doubt in the minds of the visitors as to the place where the ice cream was to be had, or as to the occupation which was then going on at the time. ethan boldly led the way, and as the door was opened, two long tables were seen, upon which were dishes of the famous article for which our party had come, and upon which the "young folks" already there were feasting. the unexpected entrance brought a solemn hush upon the room, and one young fellow who was standing near the head of one of the tables suddenly sank into his seat again. "that's tim wynn," whispered ethan. "he's been cuttin' up for the young folks, i s'pose. he's awfully funny, an' they all like to have him 'round." "there doesn't seem to be any place for us," suggested mr. clarke. "perhaps we'd better not stop to-night." "i'll fix ye out in a minit," said ethan, hastily. "here's the widow, now. mis' brown, can't ye find a place for these folks? they want some o' yer ice cream, an' every one counts neow. mebbe they'll buy enough to get another plank or two for the walks." the hint was not to be lost, and speedily another table was prepared by placing two planks across some "horses," and as soon as chairs had been brought, the party all seated themselves and were speedily served, ethan himself taking one of the chairs upon mr. clarke's invitation. miss bessie whispered to ben, who was seated beside her, that "it wasn't ice cream at all, it was only frozen corn starch;" but whatever the name may have been, the dishes were speedily cleared, ethan's disappearing the most rapidly of all, as with heaping spoonfuls he swallowed the treat, apparently unmindful of its chilling temperature. "i guess ye don't get nothin' better'n that deown to new york," he remarked with satisfaction, as he glanced up at mr. clarke. "we never have anything just like this," replied mr. clarke, kindly. "have some more, ethan?" "thank ye, sir. i don' mind if i do, if it's all the same to you. here!" he suddenly added, as if he had been struck with a sudden thought, "there's some lemingade, too. it's only three cents a cup, and i'll stand treat for the crowd." "permit me," said mr. clarke, quickly; and "lemingade" was at once added to the replenished dishes. "your young people are to be congratulated, ethan," said mr. clarke, when all at last arose from the table. "you have quite a good-sized fund for your village improvements. have you any idea how much they have made?" "i don't s'pose they can tell jest yet. prob'ly fifteen or twenty dollars." "you can add this to the sum, with my compliments, then," said mr. clarke, as he slipped a ten dollar bill into the astonished boatman's hand. almost too surprised by the gift to express his thanks, ethan responded to their "good night," and the party at once departed for their yacht. it was a glorious summer evening they discovered when the boat moved out from the dock and began to speed over the silent river. in the moonlight the rushing waters glimmered like silver, and the low-lying shores cast shadows which were reflected almost as in the light of day. the silent stars twinkled in the clear heavens, and the air of eternal peace seemed to rest over all. the young people were enjoying themselves too keenly to be silent long even amidst such surroundings, and as the experiences of the evening were recounted, in every way so novel and different from anything they had ever seen before, their laughter rang out over the great river, and seemed to be caught up and sent flying by the very rocks and shores which they passed. at last miss bessie started a song: "and every little wave has his night-cap on," and for a time all other things were forgotten; while mr. and mrs. clarke joined in the spirit of the frolic as if they, too, were as young as their young companions. altogether the evening had been such an enjoyable one that it was almost with a feeling of disappointment that the boys at last perceived in the distance the white tents on pine tree island. the songs had ceased now, and bob said:-- "mr. clarke, i meant to have asked you to tell us the rest of that story about the pirate of the st. lawrence." "who? bill johnston?" asked mr. clarke. "yes, i believe that was his name." "oh, well, that story will keep until next time." "yes, but the summer is almost gone now, and there won't be many 'next times.' we'll be going home soon." "not for some weeks yet, i trust. september is the most glorious of all the months on the river. when the leaves begin to turn, and the nights are so cool that you need a fire on the hearth in your cottage, and the air is so bracing that it is a delight just to breathe it, and the ducks begin to come, and you can vary your fishing with gunning, why, that's the best time of all the year. my nearest neighbors have even stayed here all winter, once or twice." "it must be a wild sight here then," suggested jock. "when the ice is so thick you can drive over it with a horse and sleigh, and the wind sweeps down the river at the rate of sixty miles an hour, it must be great fun to be here, and feel that you've got a good warm snug place, and can still see it all." "better to see it than feel it, i fancy," laughed mr. clarke. "i enjoy the river as much as any one, but i know where to draw the line. still, if i could bottle up some of the september air and take it back to town with me, to use when occasion demanded, i should not object." miss bessie and ben had been taking no part in the general conversation, apparently being much more interested in one of their own. "i want to ask you a question," she had said to ben, who was seated next to her. "say on," responded ben. "i'm all ears." "not quite all," replied the girl, glancing at ben's long form as she spoke. "but what i want to know is whether you are really going to enter the canoe races next week?" "why?" "because." "oh, well, i'll have to tell you, you have such good reasons for asking. no one in the world, or at least in the camp, knows it; but i am going in." "aren't you afraid?" "afraid of what?" "oh, of falling into the water, or being beaten, or i don't know what." "that remains to be seen," said ben, sitting suddenly erect. "now one good turn is said to deserve another, so as you've had a turn at me, i'll take mine now." "what do you mean?" "are _you_ going into the races?" "yes," replied miss bessie, after a brief hesitation. "that is, if my father is willing; but i don't want you to tell any one about it, either." "madam, i shall be silent. do you recall the words of the immortal 'hamlick' to-night on that subject?" "no. what were they?" "'let us go in together; and still your fingers on your lips, i pray.'" "agreed," responded miss bessie. "i'll not tell about you, and you're not to tell about me." "oh you'll not tell," retorted ben. "i never saw a girl yet who would do that." the conversation was suddenly interrupted, for the yacht was now approaching the dock. to the surprise of the boys, they discovered that some one was in the camp, and hastily bidding their friends good night, they all turned and ran swiftly toward the tents. chapter xxx. ben's discovery. it is doubtful whether pine tree island, since the days when the red men had dwelt upon its shores, had heard such a shout as went up from our boys when they discovered that the visitor was jock's father. when the lad learned that his mother was at alexandria bay, and that she and his father had come from new york that very day, nothing would satisfy him but to return to the hotel. before they departed, jock's father explained that he had come over to the camp in the early evening with a boatman, but when he discovered that no one was there, he had decided to remain until they returned. as it was now after ten o'clock, he had begun to feel somewhat uneasy; but the fact that all were gone, and that everything about the camp seemed to be in good order, had led him to believe that they could be in no danger, at all events, and so he had waited until the time when his patience had been amply rewarded. after the messages from the other homes had been delivered, and mr. cope had satisfied himself that all were well, he said, "i think we'd better go back to the hotel now, my boy. your mother will be uneasy about me, to say nothing of you." "do you think it will be safe for jock to go?" inquired bob, soberly. "safe? why, yes. why shouldn't it be safe?" "oh, i don't know. we've been living here in primitive style, you know, and whether jock will remember how to behave is a question." "it's time he reviewed his lessons, then," was the reply. "good night, boys," he added, as he started toward the dock. the campers followed jock and his father to the dock, and as they were about to put off, bob called out, "i say, jock, don't forget to use your fork when you go into the dining room to-morrow." "i'll try not to," promised jock. "and if i'm not mistaken they have napkins there, too." "good night, fellows. i'll see you in the morning," called jock; and the skiff soon disappeared in the darkness. few words were spoken by the remaining campers that night as they prepared for bed. perhaps the presence of jock's father, and the eagerness of their friend to see his mother, may have produced similar longings in their own hearts; but if it was so, no one referred to them, and soon the great pile of logs was sending its ruddy glow over the shadows of the silent river, and the sounds which came from the tent indicated that any possible feeling of homesickness had at least been forgotten for the time. when bert awoke early in the following morning, he speedily discovered that he was alone in the tent. as he dressed himself hastily, and ran forth toward the bank of the river, he discovered the long form of ben paddling in his canoe not far away, but bob was nowhere to be seen. it was such an unusual occurrence for bob to be awake so early in the morning that the sturdy bert was at a loss to account for his absence. as a rule, bob was the last to appear for breakfast, and not infrequently a dash of cold water had been required to make him fully aware of the hour; and now to find him gone was, to say the least, surprising. ethan and tom arrived, but still bob did not appear. ben came in from his daily task, but he, too, had not seen the missing bob, and declared that he had left him sleeping in the tent when he himself had departed. the absence certainly was strange, and the boys were just beginning to feel uneasy as to the missing boy's whereabouts, when the lad in question was seen approaching the camp. but he was coming from among the trees, and his eager friends hailed him with the question,-- "where have you been, bob?" "out taking a peep at the rising sun." "you've been taking more than that," exclaimed ben, quickly, as he perceived that bob's garments were all dripping wet. "you've been in the water." "the early dew is heavy here," replied bob, evasively, as he turned to the tent to change his clothing. it was evident that bob did not intend to disclose the purpose of his early rising, and ben's suspicions were at once aroused. he concluded that his friend was practising for the race in which he himself was to enter. he did not refer to his surmise, however, and in a few minutes bob came forth and took his seat at the table with his friends. soon after breakfast, jock, accompanied by his father and mother, returned to the camp, and the greeting which mr. cope gave his old schoolfellow, ethan, was one which warmed the heart of that worthy boatman. "i thought mebbe ye'd forgotten yer old friends since ye've got so rich," said ethan, soberly. "forgotten them? why, man, they're the best part of my life. i've a painting of the old red schoolhouse hanging in my dining room, and i never see it without thinking of the boys and girls who were there years ago, and the good times we used to have." "got a pictur of it? ye don't say so!" exclaimed ethan, in surprise. "well, i never thought nobody'd want a pictur o' that place. it's most gone to rack an' ruin now. i'm afeard we'll have to fix it up purty quick or it'll fall down o' itself." "that's too bad; i should think the district would keep it in repair." "the deestrict hain't got no money. the only folks hereabouts what has any money are mostly those who've gone off deown to new york. seems as if 'most any fool could make money deown there. the' say as how homer perkins's boy has gone deown there, an' is a-gettin' a dollar an' a half a day the whole year through, an' all he has to do is to drive a hoss car." mr. cope laughed as he replied, "i'm telling you the truth, ethan, when i say i never worked so hard in my life as i do now. i used to pick up stones on the old farm, and haul and chop wood, and get up at four o'clock in the morning and milk eight or ten cows before breakfast, and then carry the milk to the factory, and that was before the day's work was supposed to have begun; but all that's as nothing compared with the way i have to work now." ethan was evidently incredulous, and said, "what time do ye get up in the mornin' now?" "about eight o'clock." "and i s'pose ye don't get down to yer store till abeout nine?" "i usually go down to the office about that time." "an' when do ye shut up?" "anywhere from half-past four to six." "an' ye call _that_ workin' harder 'n ye did on the old stone hill farm, do ye?" "yes, a good deal harder. it's true i used to get tired and go to bed some nights feeling as if every bone in my body ached, but i would go to sleep right away and forget it all, and next morning i'd be all ready for another day. now i have to carry my load day and night, and there is no escape. i have hundreds, yes, thousands, of men dependent on me. when hard times come, and it sometimes seems to me that they come pretty often, i carry a good many of these men through just for the sake of their families, and when good times come they seem to forget all about it, and some of them are always ready to make trouble. there are times, ethan, when it seems to me my load is heavier than i can bear. i almost never have a day off, and sometimes i long to return to the old farm, and am hungry for its peace and quiet." "i guess there ain't nuthin' to hinder ye from comin' back if ye want to," grunted ethan. "the old place is for sale, an 'twon't cost over twenty-five or thirty dollars an acre. ye can stand that much, can't ye? yer boy here says he guesses ye're worth more 'n five thousand dollars." mr. cope's cheeks flushed slightly, and he glanced reprovingly at jock; but evidently wishing to change the subject, he said, "i fancy, ethan, that most of the boys and girls who used to go to school with us are gone now." "pretty much." "what's ever become of hiram munsell? hi munsell we called him." "oh, he went out to the state o' milwaukee. he's got rich too, they say." "went where?" "the state o' milwaukee. he's a policeman an' gets a thousan' dollars a year, or leastwise that's what the report is. you know as much as i do about whether it's true or not. i hev my doubts, myself. hi always was one to stretch it pooty good, as you may recommember yerself." mr. cope glanced again reprovingly at the boys, who for some strange reason appeared to be highly delighted at the reference to the "state" to which the wealthy hi had gone, and said quickly,-- "well, ethan, i want to talk over old times with you some more, and i want to go over to the old schoolhouse, too; but i'm to have only a day or two here, and i fancy the boys are more interested in my putting that to good use than they are in our reminiscences, so if you're agreed, we'll try the sport for a time. can you take us fishing now?" ethan responded that he could, and when the two skiffs were made ready it was discovered that bob was not to go with them. ben said nothing, though his suspicions were at once aroused, and at first he, too, was inclined to remain in camp; but jock's evident disappointment was so marked that he hastily recalled his words, and said that he would go, making one proviso, that he should be permitted to take his canoe with him. mrs. cope was to remain in the camp, declaring that she wished to look after some of the belongings of the boys, which she said were in a "sad state," though just what she meant by the expression she did not explain, and that she was not in the least afraid of being lonesome. the party soon set forth in the skiffs, from one of which ben's ever present canoe was towed, and ethan directed the way to a spot where none of them had as yet been. mr. cope apparently was most enthusiastic of all. whatever may have been his inability to cast aside his pressing problems when he was at home, here certainly they were not to be found, and he entered into the sport with all the zest of the boys themselves. their former successes in no way seemed to interfere with the eagerness of the campers in the present experience, and when at last ethan and tom rowed ashore to prepare dinner, they had all had a degree of success which corresponded with their most ardent desires. after dinner the sport was resumed, but about the middle of the afternoon ethan rowed his skiff close in to the other, and mr. cope called out: "boys, we've decided to land over here and go up to the old schoolhouse, which isn't more than a mile and a half from the shore. jock wants to go; and if you would like to go too, we should be glad to have you. what do you say?" ben looked at bert a moment, and then said, "thank you, mr. cope, bert would like to go and so should i, but i ought to go back to the camp." "why? what's wrong?" inquired mr. cope, quickly. "there isn't anything wrong, only i've something i ought to do. i was just thinking that i would take my canoe and go back, and leave you all here anyway. i didn't want to break up your sport." "he wants to write a letter, i guess," said jock. "well, bert, you come along, and let ben go back if he wants to." the proposal was agreed to, and tom was to wait on the shore and guard the skiff while his companions were gone to visit the scene of mr. cope's and ethan's earlier days. ben did not wait, but hoisting his little sail began to speed over the river in the direction of pine tree island. what the urgent duty was which had induced him to depart from his companions became apparent when he approached within a half mile of the camp. he then lowered his sail and carefully scanned the river before him. apparently satisfied with the inspection, he took his paddle and began to send the light canoe swiftly over the water, but instead of making his way to the dock he paddled around to the opposite side of the island. there he landed, and lifting his canoe, bore it up the shore and carefully concealed it among the bushes. satisfied that he had not been seen, he cautiously made his way toward the shore of a sheltered bay not far away. as soon as he had arrived at a place from which the waters of the bay could be seen, he halted for a moment and peered cautiously about him. evidently not satisfied with what he saw, he began to advance again, stepping carefully from tree to tree, and at last arrived at a sheltered spot from which he could see both the shore and bay. instantly he was deeply interested in something he there discovered, for he peered farther out from behind the tree, and watched bob, who now could be seen near the shore. "the rascal! he thought he'd fool us all," muttered ben, as he watched his friend, who plainly was unaware that his actions were observed. "what's that he's doing?" he suddenly added. "if that doesn't beat anything i ever saw before!" so interested was ben that he remained in the secluded spot for more than an hour, watching the movements of bob, who was in sight all the time. occasionally the watching ben almost laughed aloud, and frequently uttered exclamations expressive of his astonishment or pleasure,--any one who might have heard him could hardly have told which,--but at last he retraced his way through the woods to the spot where he had left his canoe. speedily embarking, he paddled back around the island, and soon afterward approached the dock; and the first person he discerned there was bob himself, seated on the edge and lazily swinging his feet out over the water. chapter xxxi. the races. ben did not refer to his discovery, and after he had explained the reasons why he had returned alone to the camp he joined mrs. cope, who was seated in a camp-chair on the high bluff, and delightedly watching the constantly shifting scene which the great river presented. the pleasure jock's mother felt in the marked improvement in her son's appearance was certainly shared by his two friends, and bob demurely remarked that he even had hopes that ben and bert would also "improve," a wish which ben laughingly declared was destined to be blighted. as the shadows of evening began to appear, the return of the absent members of the party at once drew the attention of all to them, and while ethan and tom prepared supper, mr. cope described his visit to the old schoolhouse, and the enjoyment he had experienced in revisiting the scenes of his boyhood. his wife declared that she believed he had regained some of his boyish spirits too, for it had been long since she had seen him so animated and enthusiastic. just as ethan announced that supper was ready, a skiff was seen approaching the dock, and a messenger-boy advanced with several telegrams, which mr. cope had left word at the hotel should be forwarded to the camp. as mr. cope tore open the yellow envelopes, ethan curiously observed his old-time friend, and when the telegrams had been read, said,-- "i hope ye haven't had any bad news, jock?" mr. cope laughed as he replied, "rather bad for me, i fear. i shall have to return to new york to-night. you see, ethan, i can't have more than a day off. i almost envy you your freedom." "did they send ye word in the telegrams?" inquired the boatman. "yes. they are about important business engagements." "bus'ness!" exclaimed ethan. "i didn't s'pose any one ever telegraphed jist about bus'ness. i thought nobody ever telegraphed unless somebody was dead. hi perkins once telegraphed to his ma when he thought he was goin' to die with the pewmony; but it costs four shillin' for ten words, i'm told. must be mighty important business what would make anybody send ye five or six on 'em." "it is important; so important that i shall have to go back to the bay and start for home to-night. i'm sorry, too. but then, if a business man doesn't have very much outside pleasure in life, his wife and children can have it, and he must take his in knowing that." soon after supper mr. cope bade good-by to the boatman and boys, and with mrs. cope and jock departed for alexandria bay. jock was to remain at the hotel for the night, but was to return to the camp in the morning, though his mother was to stay at the hotel until the boys should be ready to break camp and go home with her. apparently jock's mother enjoyed the experience of the days which followed as much as did the boys themselves. every day she was rowed over to pine tree island, and sometimes the boys were persuaded to return with her for a dinner at the hotel, or to be present of an evening when something of special interest was occurring in the parlors. her friends, the clarkes, also did much to add to the pleasure, for with their yacht they made various trips among the islands, or planned for picnics which were a never failing source of delight to all. at last came the great day of the canoe races, and as it had been arranged that all the friends should go on mr. clarke's yacht to the place selected, and take a position on the river from which the races could be seen from beginning to end, the occasion had been looked forward to with great anticipations. when the happy party stopped at the dock for mrs. cope and the boys, the greetings were unusually enthusiastic, for a more perfect day had not been seen since the campers had come to pine tree island. a few masses of silver clouds could be seen in the sky, but the sun was shining clear and strong. a gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the river, and the air was delightfully cool and bracing. life was indeed worth living now, and as the light-hearted members of the party assembled on board the yacht, their laughter and joyous expressions seemed all a part of the day. when ben quietly picked up his canoe and placed that too on board, a shout greeted him; but as all already knew that he was determined to enter the contest, for he previously had entered his name, no one was surprised; but when, a moment later, bob came, bringing with him a dress-suit case, evidently heavily laden, a fresh shout of surprise was given him. "oh, i knew ben would fall into the water," he declared, "so i have brought a change of clothing for him. i'm very tender-hearted. it's my nature, though, and i can't help it, so you needn't bestow any praise on me." "i shouldn't be surprised if you needed a change yourself," rejoined ben, "before you've finished your race." "whom are you talking about?" demanded bob, in surprise. "i haven't had any time to practise. i've been too busy." "i know all about your busy-ness," retorted ben, sharply. bob glanced up quickly, but ben was looking out over the river now, and it was impossible to catch his eye. the yacht was free from the dock by this time, and was speeding swiftly down the river. for a time, apparently, all other things were forgotten in the joy of the morning. other parties could be seen on the river, and it was evident that they too had started for the same destination, and as the voyage continued, the number of the boats steadily increased. canoes, skiffs, steam-yachts, launches, sailboats, all were there, some draped with bright colors, all displaying flags, and every one carrying eager-hearted spectators who were acting as if life never had known a care or sorrow. at last our party arrived at the place where the races were to be held, and bright-colored buoys, indicative of the course, could be seen on the water. patrol boats kept the course free, and mr. clarke soon selected a favorable place and his yacht was anchored. ben now prepared to take his canoe and start for the head of the course, where all those who were to participate were to assemble. as he lowered the canoe into the water, bob approached him, and said soberly,-- "i think i'll go with you, ben. i've got your clothes here, and you'll need some one to look after you. i'm the kind-hearted friend to do that very thing." "i was expecting you to say that," replied ben. "i was wondering why you didn't speak up before. where's your craft, bob?" "my craft! why, i haven't any here, and you know it;" but a peculiar twinkle in ben's eye caused him to approach, and a whispered conversation at once followed. no one of the others could hear what was said, but the result was apparent when ben consented to his friend's going with him, and in a brief time both boys were in the canoe, and ben was ready to push off. "you'll not forget that we have some luncheon on board, boys," called miss bessie. "you'll surely be back in time to have some of that." "don't be alarmed," laughed ben. "i never knew bob to be late for anything of that kind. i trust you have enough; for he'll be hungry, i can promise you." a cheer followed the boys as ben dipped his paddle in the water, and the canoe darted forward under his powerful strokes. his long form was not particularly graceful, but the speed of his canoe promised well, and jock turned to the others and said,-- "i shouldn't be surprised if ben did get a place in the finals to-day. he's improved wonderfully. the way he has kept at it is a lesson for us all. i wish he might win. i wonder what bob really went with him for? do you know i half suspect he's got a scheme of some kind of his own." no one replied, for the sound of a pistol was now heard, and the first of the races was begun. it was a contest between cat-boats, and as the beautiful little crafts swept into sight and dipped low before the strong and favoring breeze, the shrill whistles of the steam-yachts, the waving of handkerchiefs, and the shouts of the people welcomed them. as no one in our party was acquainted with any of the participants in this race, their interest naturally was not as keen as it was to be in some of the contests which were to follow, but they nevertheless were enthusiastic observers of the man[oe]uvres of the skilfully handled boats. on they came, keeping well in line, their white sails and whiter sides glistening in the sunlight, and presenting a wondrously beautiful spectacle as they swept down the river. as mr. clarke now discovered that most of the yachts were not anchored, but were free to follow the contestants outside the buoys, he, too, took his anchor on board and steamed down the river so that they could watch the boats all the way. the shores of the islands were lined with interested spectators, and the waving of bunting, and the cheers of the people, as the fleet boats approached, redoubled. at last the stake was turned, and the boats started on the home stretch. they were not bunched as they had been, but three had gained over their rivals, and, well together, were tacking and striving each to gain an advantage over the others. it could be seen now that one was more skilfully handled than the other two, and soon it was distinctly gaining upon both. on and on they came, and finally the _thistle_, bending gracefully before the breeze, swept first across the line, the men on board swinging their caps and shouting in their delight, while the screams of the whistles and the cheers of the spectators sounded shrilly in response. it certainly was a very inspiring sight, and the party on board mr. clarke's yacht, though they were strangers to the winners, were cheering as lustily in their delight as if it had been one of their own company who had secured the first prize. a race between canoes equipped with double bat-winged sails followed, and the stirring scene was again enacted. the whistles blew and banners were waved, and the winning boat was as lustily cheered as the successful one in the first contest had been. then followed a contest between canoes with a single bat-wing sail, and once more the interest of the spectators voiced itself in the same expressive manner which had been used before. the excitement on the yacht very markedly increased when it was learned that the next race was to be between canoes with one paddler in each. in the row of beautiful little canoes which took their places in line, ben's long form could be easily distinguished. as the party hailed his appearance with a cheer, ben turned and discovered them, and while striving to wave his cap in response, almost destroyed his balance, and was very nearly thrown into the river. there was no disposition among his friends to laugh now, and the girls uttered a little cry of dismay at the threatened mishap; but as ben speedily regained his balance, they all became silent as they watched him intently. his long arms were bare, and his bright red sweater was to be easily distinguished in the line. in a moment the pistol sounded, and the racers were off. there were seven contestants, and their paddles struck the water together. for a few minutes the line was almost unbroken; then it could be seen that three or four were pulling ahead of their rivals, and among the number was ben. faster and faster swept the frail little barks, and the interest of the spectators was evidently much keener than it had been in the other contests. the forms of the paddlers seemed to move like clock-work. the paddles were dipped rapidly and steadily, and the race between the leaders was very close. slowly ben gained upon his nearest rival and passed him, and then, with longer, swifter strokes, strove to gain upon the two who were still in advance of him. inch by inch, foot by foot, the distance decreased. soon only about twenty yards remained between him and the end. once more the determined boy bent to his task. his body swayed back and forth, the paddle was driven deeper into the water, and the light canoe seemed to gain increased speed. people were cheering wildly all about him, and a cloud of banners seemed to be waving on every side. again ben responded, and was striving to use all his remaining power. he was not directly behind his competitors, being several yards to their left, and now he was not more than two feet in their rear. if only the course were a little longer, he thought, he would surely win; but shutting his teeth firmly together, he doggedly resolved to do his best. his eyes were almost closed, and his breath was coming in gasps. suddenly there was a moment of intense silence, as the shouting abruptly ceased, but ben was oblivious of it all. in a moment, however, the shouting redoubled, there was a shrill screech of the whistles, and ben knew that he was across the line and alone. as he turned about he discovered that his competitors had met with a mishap, and that one, in his zeal, had paddled directly into the other, and both canoes had been capsized in the collision. their misfortune had left ben the winner. the yacht speedily approached, and as the girls waved their handkerchiefs and his friends called out their approval, mr. clarke assisted him to come on board. "i can congratulate you on winning the race," said mr. clarke, cordially. "oh, i haven't won it," replied ben, his flushed face beaming with pleasure. "that's only the preliminary. the finals are to come off this afternoon." somewhat disappointed, the party was headed up the river again, and soon approached the starting-place. they all laughed when they learned that a tub race was now to take place, and the astonishment of all except ben was great when they discovered that one of the contestants was none other than their missing friend, bob. chapter xxxii. conclusion. a tub race was a decided novelty to all the members of our party except the young ladies, who had seen one in the preceding summer, but there were special reasons now why they were as interested as their friends in the contest which was to take place. there were tubs large and small, some new and some evidently having seen hard service, and the paddles were of various sizes and ages. there were at least fifteen of the contestants, and bob's sturdy form could be easily distinguished, for he was the fourth from the end nearest our friends. the report of the pistol rang out sharply, and in a moment the race was begun. the scene which followed was one that beggared description. the observant crowd of spectators shouted and cheered and laughed, and it almost seemed as if pandemonium itself reigned supreme. meanwhile the contestants entered into the struggle with apparently all the zeal that had been manifested by their predecessors. the paddles were driven deep into the water and some of the men were making desperate efforts to outstrip their fellows. but the control of the awkward crafts was no simple matter. at times, for some unaccountable reason, the tubs would begin to turn and whirl, and, despite the efforts of the paddlers, would go in a direction apparently opposite to that which was desired. one poor fellow had already been thrown into the water, and as he was speedily drawn forth by his waiting friends, shouts of laughter seemed to be his only reward. bob was moving steadily with the current, and although several tubs were in advance of him, he did not appear to be troubled. he was not exerting himself as were most of the others, his foremost desire being to keep his tub from whirling and within the current. suddenly one of the tubs was seen to be headed directly toward bob. the occupant struggled desperately to prevent a collision, but his efforts only served to increase his helplessness. "look out!" called bob, sharply. "keep off, or you'll hit me!" the man endeavored to change his course, but his increased exertions only deprived him of what little control he still had, and in a moment the twisting, awkward craft came straight toward the alarmed bob. the lad was watchful, however, and as the tub came within reach he gave it a sudden push with his paddle and the peril was averted. the effect almost destroyed bob's own balance, and for a moment it seemed as if he must be capsized, but as he righted himself he glanced at his rival, who was now in a sad state. he had raised his own paddle to return the thrust the anxious bob had given him, but his zeal had not been wisely directed. the tub leaned dangerously to one side and as the boatman strove to right it, he threw himself too far to the other side, and after "wabbling" for an instant, it suddenly capsized and threw its occupant into the water. as he came to the surface he hastily swam to the upturned tub, and was soon rescued by the men who were skirting the racers for that very purpose. bob, however, had no time to waste upon his unfortunate competitor, and was carefully guiding his own treacherous craft. he could see that some of the desperate men about him were going sidewise or backward, and were striking out wildly with their paddles, striving to change the method as well as the direction of the procedure. others were whirling and spinning about in a manner to make even an observer dizzy, to say nothing of the struggling paddler himself. bob was not striving for speed, and was trusting much to the swiftness of the current to bear him on toward the coveted goal, and as he drew near the end, the wisdom of his course became apparent. those who had been in advance of him were losing the advantage they had gained by some unfortunate stroke of their paddles, which sent their unwieldy tubs to whirling madly, and speed and control were soon both lost. on and on moved the few tubs which still were in the race, bobbing up and down, and frequently stopping and whirling madly about as if some sudden and irresistible impulse had seized them. the confusion increased as the goal could be seen, and the first prize lay between bob and two rivals. slowly and carefully bob increased his stroke, and now only ten feet yet remained to be crossed. the three tubs were close together, and bunched for the final effort. suddenly bob drove his paddle far down into the water, and exerting all his strength, sent his tub forward with his final effort; but directly in front of him one of his rivals had drifted, and in a moment they struck together. the other contestant, to save himself, had instantly grasped bob's tub and "wabbling," careening, threatening every moment to capsize, the two crossed the line together, and their mutual rival was a full yard behind them. instantly the whistles and shouts announced the end of the race, and bob's rival turned good-naturedly to him and said,-- "i've got the first prize and you the second, though you wouldn't have had it if i hadn't towed you over the line." "that's for the judges to decide," laughed bob. "i think you fouled me and held me back with your hands, or i'd been first." the boats now swarmed in, and, amidst the laughter of the people, it was decided that the first prize should be divided, for the two tubs had crossed the line after the manner in which the siamese twins had moved through life, together. "it's another case of 'united we stand, divided we fall,'" remarked bob, as the decision was announced. but there was no opportunity for further conversation, for mr. clarke's yacht now steamed close in, and bob and his tub were received on board. "a wise man of gotham who went to sea in a bowl," said miss bessie, as bob quietly took his seat. "i congratulate you." "thank you," replied bob. "did you say you had had your luncheon?" "no, we've been waiting for the victor. we'll have it now." as she departed to look after the various baskets, jock said, "bob, you're the greatest fellow i ever saw. you never seem to be working much, but yet you always come out all right. it's the same way with your studies. you don't work as hard as i do, but you always beat me. i don't understand it." "don't you believe that bob doesn't work," interrupted bert. "i know him better than you do. it's the thing he doesn't do that helps bob, as much as what he does do. now i watched him out there in the race. most of the other fellows were striking out with their paddles in every direction, but bob here just watched the current and let that do most of the work. it's the same way with his studies. most of the fellows spend half their time in fussing around and getting ready, and then breaking in on their work after they've once begun. but you never saw bob do that. he never makes a false move, or an unnecessary one, and when he starts, he just keeps at the necessary things and lets the others go. bob does so well because he makes everything count." "that's the secret of success, young man," said mr. clarke. "the reason why so many men fail in life is because they waste their time and strength in unnecessary things, and don't learn what not to do." "i think our luncheon is ready now," said miss bessie, as she rejoined the group. "i had a basket of fruit i was going to give you," she added, speaking to bob, "but i'm afraid it's spoiled." "never mind. to the victors belong the spoils," said ben. "give it to him just the same." a groan followed ben's pun, but the sight of the welcome baskets speedily banished all other thoughts, and for a time the scene on board the yacht was one in which all who were there certainly rejoiced. the perfect summer day, the sight of the many boats moving about over the river, the bright colors to be seen on every side, the animation and happiness of those on board the yacht, were sufficient to inspire all, and certainly the party in which we are particularly interested was not one that required much beyond the youth and health which were theirs to make them have an enjoyable time. their delight was increased when in the "finals" for the canoe races ben was able to secure third prize. he himself was more than content with the award, for he had been compelled to enter the lists against some who had had the practice and experience of many summers, and he had had but one. his long arms, and, above all, his persistence in the face of all obstacles, had availed; and when our boys returned to camp they were highly delighted with the achievements of the day, as we may be well assured were the other members of the party. on the way home mr. clarke had related the further story of the exploits of the "pirate," bill johnston, but it is doubtful whether any of the party retained a very clear recollection of the dark doings of the aforesaid bill, and even bob himself had only a dim impression that after various brilliant-hued deeds, in the so-called patriot war, he had been captured and taken to albany, but had soon procured a release and returned to the thousand islands, where among his various occupations he had been keeper of one of the lighthouses to the day of his death. miss bessie had not entered the canoe races, as her father had objected, but she had expressed her willingness to race with ben whenever he felt disposed to enter into a contest with her. whether it was her challenge or not, i cannot say, but in the days which followed there were many hours spent by our boys at "the rocks," or in coursing over the river in mr. clarke's fleet yacht. and what days they were! every morning brought its own fresh experiences, and it was the regular thing for the boys to declare at night when they returned to the camp and prepared for bed, that _this_ was the best day yet. but all things are said to have an end, and certainly the camp on pine tree island proved to be no exception to the rule. the september days had come, and though the crowds about the river became decidedly thinned, our boys still remained, and jock's mother was still at the hotel at alexandria bay. only one week remained before the beginning of the fall term in college, and it was at last decided that on the morrow the camp should be broken. it was with special pleasure the last evening in camp that jock broached a subject to ethan and tom in which he had been deeply interested, and concerning which he had had much correspondence with his father, and that was the promise of a position for tom in mr. cope's office in new york. ethan at first was inclined to demur, but at last gave his consent, inasmuch as the position promised to be one which eventually might yield even more than the marvellous "dollar and a half a day," to which he had made such frequent references during the summer. the last visit to the clarkes had been made, the last sail taken in ethan's catboat, the last spin enjoyed in the canoes, and now the boys were seated together for the last time before the roaring camp-fire, which in honor of the occasion had been made even larger than usual. far out over the river the flickering lights cast their shadows. the moaning in the tree tops was more pronounced, as was only fitting in a september evening and before the departure of the boys. the sound of the laughter in the camp was more subdued, and all seemed to feel the sadness of parting, even from such inanimate objects as the rushing river and the green-covered islands. for a time the boys were silent, then ben, who could not long refrain from talking, said, "it's been a great summer, jock. i don't know how we'll ever repay you." "you have done that already," replied jock. "i'm glad you fellows have had a good time. i know i've enjoyed it." "there's been only one drawback," suggested ben. "what's that?" "that volume of c's in the cyclopædia. cartier, champlain, cavon, cortereal, chimney island--" "oh, that's all right, too," replied jock, laughing. "we've been on _the trail of the early discoverers_, haven't we? well, we ought to know something about them. we haven't had enough to spoil us." "i trow not," interrupted bob, solemnly. "i say, fellows," said jock, as a sudden thought seemed to strike him, "wouldn't it be a great thing to keep on with this! we've been on this trail this summer; now, why shouldn't we keep on and follow them into other places next summer?" "a colossal idea," said bert, "if it can be worked out." "i'm going to fix that," said jock, decidedly. "come on now, fellows, it's time we were in bed. let's fire off the cannon for the last time." in a moment the roar of the cannon awoke the echoes, and then silence rested over the camp and the river. * * * * * books by everett t. tomlinson. the war of series [illustration] six volumes cloth illustrated by a. b. shute price per volume reduced to $ . no american writer for boys has ever occupied a higher position than dr. tomlinson, and the "war of series" covers a field attempted by no other juvenile literature in a manner that has secured continued popularity. the search for andrew field the boy soldiers of the boy officers of tecumseh's young braves guarding the border the boys with old hickory st. lawrence series cruising in the st. lawrence being the third volume of the "st. lawrence series" cloth illustrated price $ . our old friends, "bob," "ben," "jock," and "bert," having completed their sophomore year at college, plan to spend the summer vacation cruising on the noble st. lawrence. here they not only visit places of historic interest, but also the indian tribes encamped on the banks of the river, and learn from them their customs, habits, and quaint legends. _previous volumes_ camping on the st. lawrence or, on the trail of the early discoverers cloth illustrated $ . the house-boat on the st. lawrence or, following frontenac cloth illustrated $ . _by the same author_ stories of the american revolution first and second series cloth illustrated $ . each lee & shepard, publishers-boston phillips exeter series by a. t. dudley _illustrated by charles copeland. cloth. price per vol., $ . _ _first volume_ following the ball [illustration] here is an up-to-date story presenting american boarding-school life and modern athletics. the scene will readily be recognized as at exeter. of course football is an important feature, and in tracing the development of the hero from a green player to an expert it might serve as a guide. other branches of athletics are also finely dealt with. but it is far more than a football book. it is a story of character formation told in a most wholesome and manly way. in this development athletics play an important part, to be sure, but are only one feature in carrying the hero, "dick melvin," on to a worthy manhood. "a seasonable school and football story, by a writer who knows the game and knows boys as well. it is of the 'tom brown' type, an uplifting as well as a lively story."--_advance_, chicago, ill. _second volume_ making the nine [illustration] the cordial reception of the great football story, "following the ball," which had the distinction of so fine a spirit in its development of the hero's school life that not only the boys but their elders were enthusiastic over it, has led to this second book, in which baseball is sufficiently prominent to suggest the title. it is a pleasure for a publisher to present such a book as this, in every way worthy to continue the success of the previous volume. the special points of excellence are that the story is lively and worth telling, and the life presented is that of a real school, interesting, diversified, and full of striking incidents, while the characters are true and consistent types of american boyhood and youth. the athletics are technically correct, abounding in helpful suggestions, soundly and wisely given, and the moral tone is high and set by action rather than preaching. lee & shepard, publishers, boston tom winstone, "wide awake" by martha james author of "my friend jim" and "jack tenfield's star" large mo. cloth. illustrated by w. herbert dunton. price $ . [illustration] "another book equally worthy of a place in our sunday-school libraries is tom winstone, 'wide awake,' by martha james. it is a thorough-going boy's book of the right sort,--full of life, bubbling over with high spirits and noble ambition; a most intelligent interpretation of boy life and character. the young hero of this narrative, equally efficient in athletics at school and in the harder school of manly sacrifice, is a character well worth knowing."--_pilgrim teacher, boston._ "the young hero of the story, equally efficient in athletic sports and in noble deeds, is well worth the acquaintance of every healthy boy reader."--_boston transcript._ "any healthy boy will delight in this book."--_living church, milwaukee, wis._ "another excellent story for boys is tom winstone, 'wide awake,' by martha james. here is a recital of adventure, with much account of boyish sport, in a pure tone and with christian teaching."--_fall river news._ "this is a real 'boy's story,' full of incidents and interesting characters drawn to the life, while the tone is wholesome and genuine."--_portland press._ "the author has done a good work for the lads of the generation, and her effort will doubtless meet with the popularity it deserves."--_indianapolis sentinel._ _for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers._ lee & shepard, publishers, boston young heroes of wire and rail by alvah milton kerr illustrated by h. c. edwards, j. c. leyendecker, and others _ mo cloth price $ . _ [illustration] this is a book of wonderfully vivid stories of railroad life, portraying the heroism of trainmen, telegraph operators, and despatchers, each story a complete drama in itself, with thrilling climax, and yet too truthful to be classed as sensational. it is by alvah milton kerr, formerly a train-despatcher of long experience, and now a justly noted writer of railroad stories, who has brought together from many sources the most striking acts of heroism performed during the last quarter of a century of railroad activity, and has cast them in stories of singularly intense interest. most of these stories first appeared in "mcclure's magazine," "the youth's companion," "philadelphia saturday evening post" and "success;" which fact is a very strong guarantee of merit. no one who begins reading these stories in this finely printed, illustrated, and bound book will be likely to allow anything to interfere with their completion. "an ideal book for a young boy is 'young heroes of wire and rail,' and, indeed, the older folks who begin to read will continue to the end."--_episcopal recorder, philadelphia._ "the tone of the work is healthful and inspiring."--_boston herald._ "they teach more bravery, unselfishness and forethought in a page than can be imparted in an hour of 'ethical' instruction in school."--_new york times._ "the tone of the stories is fine, showing unexpected bravery and courage in many of the characters."--_delineator, new york._ "a book that not only yields entertainment and healthy excitement, but reveals some of the possibilities always confronting railroad workers and train despatchers."--_christian register, boston._ "they are calculated to inspire boys to become manly, and incidentally they contain considerable valuable information."--_newark news._ _for sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers._ lee & shepard, publishers, boston [illustration: _frontispiece--dear little couple abroad_ "polly drew her stockings and shoes on." _see p. _] how "a dear little couple" went abroad by mary d. brine author of "the doings of a dear little couple" with seventeen illustrations philadelphia henry altemus company dedication. to my little friends who have known and loved our "dear little couple" (polly and teddy) i herewith dedicate this story, which tells of _more_ of the doings of the little couple, and am lovingly the friend of all my little readers, mary d. brine. copyright, . by henry altemus. how "a dear little couple" went abroad. chapter i. polly thinks over her "surprise." [illustration] polly opened her blue eyes one lovely morning in may, and found the "sun fairies"--as she called them--dancing all about her wee bed-chamber, and telling her in their own bright way that it was high time little girls were up and dressing for breakfast. at first she was sure she had been having a beautiful dream, for what else could make her feel so happy and "sort of all-overish," as if something very nice and unusual had come upon her? she was sure she had dreamed that a splendid surprise had happened, and it was something about going away, too! polly lay still in her little white nest of a bed, and thought over her dream, and lo! on a sudden, as she grew more and more awake, the real cause of her new and glad sensations came into her curly head, and she bounced, like a little rubber ball, right out of bed, and danced a wee lively jig on the floor. why, of course it wasn't a dream! no, indeed! it was as real--oh! as real as polly darling herself, and no wonder she had felt so "all-overish" and so "glad all inside of her"! she sat down on the soft carpet and drew her stockings and shoes on, but it was slow work, because polly was thinking, and she had a great deal to think about, you see. [illustration] first--oh! how it all came back to her now!--first she remembered that last night after supper papa had taken her on his knee and whispered in her ear: "pollybus, how would you like to go with mamma and papa across the sea for a little trip?" and while she was squeezing him almost to pieces by way of answer, mamma had come along, and had shaken her finger at papa, as she said: "oh, naughty papa! the idea of telling polly that _just when she's going to bed_! she won't sleep a wink for thinking of it." and polly remembered jumping down from papa's knee, and going to mamma's side, saying very earnestly: "oh, yes, i will! i truly will, mamma! i'll shut my eyes and think 'bout little lambs jumping over a fence, 'cause cook says that's the best way to get sleepy, and it's worked be-yewtifully on _her_ lots of times! oh, true and true, black and blue, i'll go right to sleep! and oh, i'm so happy!" and pretty soon after that the bed-time for little girls had come, and polly had been kissed and petted a little, as was usual after she had snuggled down in bed, and had a little while alone with her dear mamma, and then she had tried very hard to keep her promise, and "go right to sleep." but oh, dear, it had been such hard work to keep those blue eyes shut! no matter how much she thought of the lambs jumping, one after the other, over the imaginary fence, it did not make her the least bit sleepy, and the lambs all seemed to scamper off to europe as soon as they had jumped the fence, and of course polly's thoughts had to go flying after them. so, you see, it had really been a long while before the little tired lids had closed over those dear soft blue eyes, and sleep had really come. but when it did come you may be sure it was a very sound, sweet sleep, and so when polly awakened in the morning it could hardly be wondered at that she thought she had been having a beautiful dream. she knew now that it was no dream, but a most delightful reality, and oh, how happy she was! [illustration] she came to the end of her long "think" at last, and turned her attention to her dressing, and just then mamma came in to put the finishing touches to the process, and polly's tongue wagged so fast all the while that it really seemed as though it were hung in the middle, like a little sweet-toned bell, and able to swing both ways. however, mamma patiently answered all the rapid questions, and explained that papa, having to go abroad on business, had decided that it would do mamma and polly good to go also, and be the best thing to keep _him_ from being lonely, of course. and she told polly something else that had not been told the night before, but kept for an added "surprise" this morning, and that was that teddy's mamma and papa had given permission for _teddy_ to go with polly to europe, as a great and wonderful treat for both little folks. but teddy didn't know it yet, because both mammas thought polly would enjoy telling him herself and giving him a delightful surprise. "so you may run over right after breakfast," added mamma, "and tell him the good news." this additional beautiful "surprise" was more than polly could bear in an ordinary way, so she just simply _cried_ for joy (you've heard of people doing that?), and in the midst of her tears she began to laugh, and then she cried a little more, and it seemed a long time before the little happy polly settled down and was able to eat her breakfast. chapter ii. teddy's surprise. perhaps before i go any farther i ought to explain to those of my little friends who have not chanced to read the first book about "the doings of a dear little couple" that polly and teddy were next-door neighbors in the pretty village which was their home, and that they had been, during all their acquaintance with each other, most loving and devoted little chums. they were each seven years old at the time of my last writing, but at the time of this story had become eight-year-olders, and teddy insisted that because their birthdays came together they were "real truly twinses." now i will return to my story. when polly finished her breakfast and was excused from the table, she scampered off as fast as she could down the garden till she came to the little gap in the fence of which my first book told you, you remember, and called: "teddy! ted-dee! oh! teddy terry!" as loud as she could all the while she was running. now, it happened that teddy terry was eating _his_ breakfast at that time, and he was just putting a piece of potato into his rosy mouth when he heard polly's eager voice. he swallowed that piece of potato so fast that it nearly choked him, and when he had finally gotten it out of the way, he said: "please 'scuse me, mamma, papa!" and, slipping from his chair, was off in a jiffy to meet his little chum, polly. "oh, teddy, come up in our tree!" cried polly, as teddy's curly brown head pushed through the low gap in the dividing hedge fence. "come quick, quick, quick! i've got the goodest news in the world to tell you 'bout!" she danced about on her little toes while speaking, and, teddy's plump body having speedily followed his head, he left the fence, and with his little companion ran for the old apple-tree which--as you remember i told you in the first book--was the "consultation office" of our dear little couple whenever they had any especially private conversation with each other. so up into the stout branches of the old tree they clambered, and settled comfortably down in a safe fork of limbs amid a thicket of green leaves, and then, after teddy had followed his usual loving habit of kissing polly on her soft little cheek, and receiving the same sweet greeting from her, she proceeded to tell her secret. "i'd ask you to _guess_ it first," she said, "but oh, teddy terry, you never could in the world! it's this: you 'n' i are going to europe with my papa 'n' mamma! there! what do you think of _that_, teddy terry? oh, isn't it the very bestest news we could have? aren't you s'prised most to pieces?" teddy's brown eyes opened so wide that it is a wonder they did not stretch out of shape. surprised? well, indeed he was, and when polly had told him more about the matter he gave the loudest _whoop-la_! he could, and then a funny thing happened--he slid off that tree and disappeared in the wood-shed near by, and--i don't know surely--but i think it likely he went in there to hide the tears that came to his eyes, the tears of joy which polly had had, you know, only teddy didn't want her to see him turn "cry-baby," and so he had run quickly away. but polly soon found him there, and together they went to see his mother, and then he learned more fully all about the pleasure in store for him, and that mamma and papa had consented to let him go because _they_ had been called unexpectedly away a long distance to see a sick relative, and it made them glad to know that their little son would be safe and happy with polly and her mother and father during that time. afterwards, when teddy and polly were again together, they talked the coming trip over as children do, and were greatly excited and delighted. "i promised mamma solermy, oh, jus' as solermy as could be, that i'd be the goodest behaving boy your mamma ever saw!" said teddy, when he and polly, tired of jumping about and shouting "whoop!" at last sat down on the grass to talk it over, "and--and--she said she wasn't 'fraid to trus' me at all." "course not," responded polly; "you're the best that ever could be to keep promises, and if you forget 'bout 'em, it's jus' 'cause you couldn't truly help it." the more they talked over the wonderful new surprise, the more excited the dear little couple were growing, and the number of times teddy put soft kisses on his polly's cheek (one of his sweet little ways of expressing his joy, at any time, over pleasures they were to share together) i cannot tell, but you may be sure he did not limit his kisses in the least, dear loving little chum as he was! [illustration] chapter iii. "starting day." as the days went by, the children grew very restless, wishing the "starting day" would come. ted's mamma had packed his little trunk, and marked it "t. t.," and finally, when only one more day remained of the "between days," as the children called them, mr. and mrs. terry had bidden their little son good-bye and started off on their own journey. so teddy was all the more glad when the "great day" came at last. "hurrah, hurrah, polly! this is our starting day! polly, why don't you halloo?" "i'm _going_ to halloo," replied polly: "listen!" and her voice rang out in a clear shout which reached even down to the gate. "once more," cried teddy, and this time his voice joined hers, and mamma, coming to the hall door, looked out to see what was going on. [illustration: "teddy's mamma had packed his little trunk."] "it's 'cause we're so glad, mamma dearie," replied polly to the question asked, "and it's our starting day, you know." she was perched upon the piazza rail nearest the piazza of teddy's house, and teddy was to have breakfast with her presently. just now he was having his jacket well brushed by bridget, as he stood on his own piazza, and he was so impatient to get over to polly that he could hardly stand still long enough for the brushing. "goin' inter the dirty wudshed just to see 'bout that tricircle," said bridget, grumbling as she brushed, "an' s'ilin' this bran' new suit yer ma bought for yer trav'lin'! i told yer i'd put it safe away!" "well, i wanted to see if you hadn't only _thought_ you'd put it safe," explained teddy, who had considered it a very manly thing to investigate his affairs himself, and had consequently gotten his new clothes into disgrace. "there now, yer clane and swate as a rose, an' it's ould bridgie who'll be missin' the trouble of yersel', an' for sure'll be wantin' some more of that same!" said the good woman, giving him a parting hug and pat before he was off to join polly. at half-past nine the carriage was to come for them and their trunks, and they would catch the ten a. m. train for new york, and say good-bye to their pretty village home for a long time. it was truly a very exciting morning, and polly's mood for rhyming was so strong that she finally accomplished this wonderful couplet, which teddy admired as much as she did herself. it ran this way:-- "oh, teddy terry! we're going away! for this--this--this is our _starting_ day!" so ted caught the rhyme, and joined in the singing of it, and if it was sung once, it certainly was sung twenty times, till at last papa put his head out of the window and asked "if they would mind giving him and the neighbors something _new_?" breakfast over, the little couple sat down on the sofa in the hall and watched the clock, and at last the little hammer inside lifted itself and struck against the bell waiting beside it, and lo and behold! there came the carriage, driving up the road, and through the big gate, and up to the door. then the trunks were put on the rack behind (while teddy watched closely to see that the man did not forget to go and get the "t. t." little trunk). [illustration] bridget and ann were on hand to say the last good-byes, mamma gave a few last directions, and entered the carriage, papa poked the small couple in, topsy-turvy style, got in himself, called out good-bye to the servants, who were wiping their eyes with the corners of their aprons, and--the long-anticipated "start" had taken place. polly was radiant. she hugged papa, squeezed mamma, threw her arms around teddy, and kissed him over and over (getting as many kisses from him as she gave, you may be sure), and finally settled down with a long sigh of deep, pure content, and said "she was so happy she felt crowded inside of her, right up to her throat!" and teddy, not willing to feel different from polly, said: "so do i!" i won't be able to tell you very much of the short journey to the city of new york, for i've neither time nor space for it. but you know polly and teddy were just like you, my dear little girls and boys, and they enjoyed the few hours of train ride past fields and villages, hills and meadows, and all the various kinds of landscape views, they watched from the windows of their car, just as much as you have enjoyed such little trips; and, moreover, they were just as restless and fidgety--when feeling that they wanted to have a good run about, and couldn't "because they were shut up in a railroad car so long!"--as all little folks (who are real _live_ little folks) are apt to get under such circumstances. but the cars sped on and on, and after a while they rushed pell-mell into a long dark tunnel, which polly at once recognized as the "beginning of the end" of their journey to new york city. "now, jus' as soon as we get into the light again, and under a big high roof, and the cars stop, that will be new york! oh, teddy terry, aren't you glad we're almost there?" in his excitement teddy forgot where he was, and, jumping to his feet, he shouted: "whoop!" as loudly as if he had been standing in his own garden at home. then, with an immediate sense of his mistake, the little boy dropped again into his seat, and covered his mouth with both hands, while his little crimson face was a pitiful sight to see. "oh, i forgot!" said he. "i truly did forget; but i did feel so full of halloo, i--i--it came right out 'fore i guessed it would!" he looked very penitent, but whispered to polly: "don't you wish you could halloo, polly darling? i should think you would!" "teddy terry, i'm just _bursting_ to halloo as loud as i can, but i s'pose we'll have to keep on wanting to and never doing it while we're european travelers. it'll be hard holding in, teddy; but we've truly got to, else mamma and papa'll be 'shamed of our queerness again, don't you see?" teddy saw, and made up his mind to crowd his "hallooing feelings" as deeply down inside of him as possible in future; and just then the train gave a jerk, and began to move again very slowly, and at last new york was reached. chapter iv. on the voyage. it was a very fine morning when our party of four went on board the steamship (which we will call the _funda_, though that isn't the real name) bound for the sunny italian town of naples. the water sparkled in the sunshine, and the harbor was gay with the many kinds of ships and vessels in port. the dock was crowded with people going away and the friends who had come down to see them off, as is always the case. teddy and polly clung to mamma's hands, while papa attended to the baggage, and at last they were safely on the steamer's deck, watching the crowd below and the handkerchiefs constantly waved from dock to deck and from deck to dock. of course there was a great crowd of people on the ship also who were not going away, but were taking a look at the steamer's handsome saloons and state-rooms, and chatting with their departing friends or relatives until the warning cry: "all ashore!" would be heard. as teddy and polly presently went with mamma down the grand staircase from the deck to the dining-saloon, and along the corridor to the two state-rooms reserved for their use, they noticed with great delight the quantities of beautiful flowers arranged on the dining-tables awaiting the passengers to whom they had been sent by friends as a "_bon voyage_" and "send-off." (you know, perhaps, without my telling, that "_bon voyage_" means "good voyage"--"pleasant journey" in other words.) there were a quantity of letters also waiting to be claimed, and presently mamma found several for herself, and oh! joy for teddy! one little letter addressed to him. how surprised he was! and how polly rejoiced with him! "why, how did mamma get it here all right on this ship, auntie?" he asked, as mrs. darling opened it to read it to him. "oh, she knew just when the ship was to sail from here, and sent it along in the good old mail-bag, and so here it is, all full of surprise for her boy, and full of love and kisses." then she read it to him, sitting--they three--in a quiet corner of the saloon, and teddy's brown eyes filled with loving tears, and just a little bit of homesick longing for a sight of his dearly loved mother's face. but the letter made him very happy, and after "auntie" had finished reading he laid his soft little lips and then his cheek against it for a minute and handed it to her again for safe keeping. then they went to the state-rooms--polly was to share with mamma, and teddy and mr. darling were to have the room connecting--and mamma put everything in order for the voyage, and then they went back to the deck to watch the preparations for casting off from the dock. the trunks were rapidly being lowered into the hold, and teddy screamed with pleasure and excitement when he chanced to see his little trunk borne along on the shoulders of a big sailor who handled it as though it were only a feather. the letters "t. t." stood out proudly enough on the end of the trunk, as though they felt the great importance of belonging to a boy who was being a "european traveler" for the first time in his life. "and see, teddy, see!" cried polly, pointing eagerly to a man following next. "there's mamma's trunk! i see the big red 'd' on the top. but papa's isn't there! oh, teddy terry, do you s'pose they're forgetting 'bout papa's trunk? don't you think i ought to find papa and tell him 'bout it?" "hi! man!" began teddy, in his zeal for the trunk's safety, but mamma caught his little arm as he was waving it about frantically to attract the sailor's attention, and stopped further proceedings on the spot, explaining that nothing would be forgotten, and that they surely would find the trunk all safe and sound on arrival at naples. just then papa came along, and they moved to the rail of the deck to watch the people obey the warning shout of "all on shore!" while the hoarse whistle of the steamer's "blow-pipe" and the hurried orders given by the ship's officers made a sort of confusion which was intensely interesting to our dear and wonder-struck little couple. impulsive teddy, after his usual fashion when overcome with delight or deep feeling of any kind, threw his arm about polly's neck and repeatedly kissed her fair little cheek, nor cared how many strangers were looking on. indeed, i don't believe he even gave them a thought, as he was entirely absorbed in his joy, and his _polly_; and as for polly herself, she was so used to being kissed and loved by her little comrade that the presence of strangers did not trouble her at all, and she calmly kissed teddy back again, greatly to the amusement of her father and mother, as also of some people standing near, who asked mrs. darling if the children were twins. mamma laughingly explained about them, and told of their devotion to each other, and how teddy happened to be with them on the trip. [illustration] "well," said one of the group, "_i_ certainly think they are the dearest little couple i ever met." and mamma smiled when she heard the usual title again given to her young charges. so you will readily believe me when i tell you that it wasn't long before teddy and polly were prime favorites on board with all with whom they came in contact. [illustration] but we must return to our little ones, who, you know, were watching the dock and the preparations for the start. they didn't know anybody on the dock, but wished all the same to do as much handkerchief-waving as anybody else, so they went at it heart and soul; and, though the breezes didn't play tricks on any of the "grown-ups," yet they certainly did with polly and teddy, for presently there were two small handkerchiefs floating in the air, and far beyond the reach of the surprised little owners, whose eyes were following their property hopelessly enough. but the little couple didn't care. "let's play they're little white birds," laughed polly, secretly wishing they had some more to float off. you see, they were too happy to mind any sort of mishap not serious. the little handkerchiefs floated farther on, and finally landed around the corner of the dock. while the children were pulling mamma's gown to call her attention to it, and tell her about the mishap, there came a last shout of "good-bye! good-bye!" from those on deck and on shore, and the gang planks were hauled in, and with a slow, very gentle movement, as the mooring-ropes were cast off and pulled on board, the big steamship moved away from the pier, and the distance gradually widened between her stern and the watchers on the dock, who were still waving hats, handkerchiefs, and canes with handkerchiefs fastened to their heads, so that the farewell signals might reach as high and as far as possible. chapter v. on the voyage. the morning slipped away rapidly, and by the time the bugle blew its summons for luncheon the little couple had explored the steamer, under papa's guidance, pretty thoroughly. you know children like to explore, and go scampering about to see all that can be seen, in a new place and amid strange surroundings, and polly and teddy made no exception to the rule, you may be sure. they had looked wonderingly down from the first-cabin deck upon the steerage deck, and had taken note of the funny and the too often sad scenes to be found in the steerage of a ship. it was all very interesting and very wonderful to see the emigrants of different nationalities all gathered on the deck: some stretched out in the sun, some eating out of dishes which polly and teddy thought looked "very dirty and horrid"; some resting their tired heads on their hands, supporting their elbows on their knees; crowds of little bits of children, babies, and untidy-looking men and women, mingling with others who were far more respectable in appearance, but too poor to be able to pay more than the low steerage fare. our children took everything in with their bright, attentive eyes, and felt very sorry for those poor passengers below their own clean, comfortable deck. they had made friends with several of the sailors, and the "_little_ sailor" (the captain's boy), and had been stopped by so many of the passengers who wanted to have a chat with the dear little couple that they felt quite well acquainted with everybody. they had--after the easy fashion of all little people--scraped acquaintance with the few other children on board, and had finally gotten tired of racing about, and were really quite as hungry as little bears when luncheon was ready. the luncheon in the beautiful flower-decked dining-saloon was, i will add, another most interesting event for them; and though they felt a little shy at first, and afraid of the attentive stewards, and of so many strangers at a time all about them, yet i can assure you they behaved like a little prince and princess, and nobody even guessed how shy they were (though everybody near them did notice, i will say just here, what cultivated little _table manners_ "that dear little couple" possessed). well, it was some time since luncheon was done with, and while papa and mamma were lolling back in their steamer chairs reading, teddy and polly were standing close by, looking over the rail. the wind had arisen greatly during the afternoon, and big rolling waves were chasing each other over the water, making "soap-suds" white and foamy as bridget and ann at home used to make on washing-days. teddy wore a little velvet traveling-cap, black, of course, to match his velvet knickerbockers and the little jacket he wore over his white frilled shirt with its broad white collar. just now the wind had blown his cap almost off his head (fortunately it couldn't blow it out to sea, for wise mamma had secured it with a cord to a buttonhole in his jacket), and it was tilted a little on one side of his brown, soft curls, and was giving his pretty face a very roguish expression. polly was wearing a dainty grey dress and little jacket, and a grey "tam o' shanter" cap upon her sunny head. the wind had a fine time blowing her long wavy hair about her shoulders, but her cap was as safely secured as ted's, so they didn't mind the pranks of the wind, which seemed to blow harder every minute. although teddy's face looked, as i have said, quite roguish, and although polly was chattering away, seemingly as merrily as possible, yet neither of them _felt_ very roguish or merry, and pretty soon teddy said, in a sort of subdued tone: "i--i don't really think decks are nice as gardens, do you, polly?" [illustration: "polly and teddy made friends with the captain's little boy."] "why, teddy terry!" was the surprised reply, "you said your own self, jus' a teenty time ago, that you liked decks lots better'n our gardens!" "well, gar--gardens don't make you feel so--so sort of queer right here!" said ted, laying his chubby hand on his chest. "don't you feel something funny inside?" "well, i don't feel _real_ good, teddy, but--let's--oh, let's--i must go and ask mamma what makes me feel so queer." and suddenly turning from the rail, the little girl, who had never before had such strange sensations, staggered over to her mother's side, and with pale face begged to go and lie down. teddy followed her, equally white and fearful, and mamma and papa at once led them down the stairs to the state-rooms. "poor little tots!" said papa; "you're only having your first experience of sea-sickness! it won't last long." teddy and polly didn't care how long or how short things might last, if only they could _just that minute_ feel better. but the "funny feeling" relieved itself in the usual way very soon, and our little couple were put into their berths and comforted and petted until they fell asleep, and as they slept poor papa and mamma had their little turn at the same kind of discomfort, and, when they were relieved, followed the children's example and took a long nap. they didn't care for dinner that night, either of the party, and in fact very few of the passengers went to the dining-saloon, for the steamer was having such a wild frolic and dance on the waves that things were hardly comfortable on deck or in the saloons, and the stewardesses and stewards were very busy all night, and for all the next day, because the gale lasted so long and made so much seasickness on board that nobody felt very happy, you see. [illustration] chapter vi. naples is close at hand. the discomforts of the voyage, however, were very few; and after the strong winds died away, and the sky got rid of the wind clouds, and brought forth its merry sunshine again, the passengers crowded the decks, and took their ease in their comfortable steamer chairs, reading, writing, or just being lazy awhile, and the children played the game of "shuffle-board," and "tag," and "hide-and-seek," and such games as little people when they get together whether on land or shipboard, enjoy with all their might and main. polly and teddy laughed as loud and as often as the rest of the children, and bumped with the "grown-ups" during "tag" quite as frequently, but they always said: "excuse me!" when they did so, and if it was a lady they ran against teddy's cap was off in an instant while he made his little polite apology. i regret to say the other little ones were apt to forget that small act of politeness; they were so fearful of being "tagged," perhaps they hadn't time for apologies for unintentional rudeness. but after awhile, in some way, they caught the trick from polly and teddy, and surely that was a good thing, wasn't it? (i only mention this to show you that even little people--no matter how little they are--can influence each other for good or bad, and it is so much better to choose the "good," you know). and now i come to the day--or rather the early morning of the day--when the good ship steamed into the beautiful bay of naples with her colors flying, her band playing, and a crowd of excited and early risers amongst the passengers at the deck railings. amongst them, of course, were our little couple and mamma and papa, and the children were wild with delight over the novelty of the scenes before them: the swarms of small native boats, which hung around under the steamship's sides, at her bow, and under her stern; the natives themselves, calling out in their whining tones for "_monie, monie!_" (money); the little italian lads who were constantly diving for the pennies some of the laughing passengers were tossing into the water. you would not believe they could possibly have found those pennies (they were not "_pennies_" as _we_ call our coppers, but small coin of not even the value of one of our pennies, and which were called "_centesimi_") in the water; but then you must know the water in the bay of naples is very blue--oh! a beautiful blue--and very transparent, and those small imps of divers would dart head-first down below the surface, and catch the coin in their teeth, and come up laughing, ready for more. our children had, during the voyage, seen porpoises jumping out of the water, and had seen the signalling of the few passing ships, and had thought those sights great fun. think, then, how "all-overish with gladness" they felt here in naples harbor, watching these foreign scenes, and so happy with the novelty of their position that they fairly longed to open their rosy mouths and _whoop_ after their usual fashion at home. they looked ahead of them and saw the pretty city of naples gleaming in the shine of the early rising sun, with its terraced gardens rising one above the other in masses of green foliage, through which the gaily-colored roofs of houses and other buildings could be seen. it made a charming and picturesque sight for everybody; and even those who had seen it all many times before, perhaps, felt the same thrill of delight as our dear little couple were feeling as they beheld it all for the very first time. "it makes me feel so full in here!" said polly, to her mother, while her blue eyes shone like stars. [illustration] "me, too!" echoed master teddy, placing his hand as polly did, on his heart, and drawing a long breath. but we must hurry on with our story. (don't blame _me_, children, for hurrying, and leaving out much you would like to know, but blame the _publishers_, for it is all their fault, i'll tell you privately.) when, at last, our party found themselves on the dock, and were waiting for papa to finish attending to the baggage, polly saw something which made her cry out: "oh! look!" it was a little bower all decorated with large yellow lemons, larger than any lemons the children had ever seen before. the bower was coming straight towards them, and they couldn't see what made it move. from the top of the little arch (the _inside_ of the arch, which was just like a tiny summer-house) more big lemons were hanging, and also some little glasses, which were hanging by handles. as the queer thing came nearer, the children discovered that the small bower was built upon a little hand-cart, and that a brown-faced italian lad, no older than teddy, was drawing it between shafts, as though he had been a little pony. he was so nearly hidden by vines and lemon boughs that it was no wonder he had not at first been seen by teddy and polly, whose bright eyes were seeing so much. nestling amongst vines on the bottom of the cart was a bright tin pail, and that was full of lemonade, which looked very clean and nice because it had just been freshly made. the little lemonade vendor came close to our party, and began a low, bird-like beautiful whistle. it sounded like a flute at first, then like a bird, then like a sweet eolian harp, and even mamma was delighted to hear it. after he had finished, his black eyes twinkled, and he said in broken english which italian children readily pick up: "buy limonade! ze signorina buy limonade? vera chip" (cheap), "on'y fiva centa glass!" he filled a glass and handed it to polly--"_ze little mees!_" "we're very fond of lemonade, auntie darling," said teddy, casting wistful eyes upon the cool drink. "well, you shall have some then," laughed mamma, and teddy and polly took their first refreshment on italian shores. the little beppo grinned at them, pulled a ragged cap from a mass of black, close curling hair, and, dropping his _centesimi_ (with which mrs. darling had provided herself before leaving the steamer, at the purser's office) into his pocket, he began a merry whistle again and moved off in search of more custom. chapter vii. the drive to the hotel. as the hotel to which the darlings wished to go was located on one of the city heights, commanding a fine view of the bay and famous old mount vesuvius (about which our little couple had been told by papa), the drive there from the dock was of course long enough to let them see a great many funny sights on the way, and you may be sure they were greatly impressed by them all. they saw men and women in queer costumes of gay colors--the women without hats or bonnets--going about the streets, and sunning themselves in the doorways, combing their children's heads or their own untidy locks; they saw them hanging out their washing on the backs of chairs right out in the street; they saw a _woman and a cow_ together pulling a big wagon; they saw a wee bit of a _donkey_ harnessed with an _ox_, and both tugging at a cart as placidly as though they weren't a funny pair; they saw a cow, a horse, and a donkey, all three harnessed before a vegetable-cart, on which sat a driver "not even as old as teddy," the children were sure, though he may have been older than he looked, as so many of the poorer class of children in naples are stunted in growth; they saw a wee little bony donkey pulling a wagon which carried six big men and women in it, and they didn't think it was a bit cruel to put so heavy a burden on such a little beast. but our dear little tender-hearted couple thought it so cruel that they could not even look at it after the first glance. they saw lots of little children in the street going about with great beautiful bunches of flowers--red, red roses and italian violets in their dirty little hands, running after carriages, and holding their fragrant wares up to the ladies and gentlemen who were driving about to see the city. polly wondered why the people didn't want to keep the flowers, but kept shaking their heads _no_ all the time. she knew _she_ would keep them and say: "thank you," very politely if any little girl or boy offered her any. and presently a small boy ran up to the carriage and held up his roses. now, it chanced that mamma and papa were very busy at that moment searching for certain information in their guide-books, and so they did not notice the little flower-boy, nor hear miss polly's delighted thanks as she took the flowers in her eager hands. the carriage was going very slowly, and the expectant little italian trotted alongside waiting for the coin which in her dear innocent heart polly had no idea was wanted, for she was whispering to teddy: "i think these napelers are very kind and polite to us, don't you?" and she gravely proceed to divide her gift with her "chum." "_una lira! una lira!_" whined the impatient lad outside, and at that mamma looked up and discovered polly's funny mistake. how she laughed, and papa too! how red polly's cheeks grew! redder than her roses, which she thought had been a polite gift to her. "what does he mean?" teddy asked, "saying all the time '_ooner-leerer_'?" "he means that he wants _one lira_ (which means twenty cents of our money) for his roses," replied mamma, "and i will let you give him the money, dear," passing it to teddy, who felt very much like a grown-up man as he leaned over and dropped the price of polly's beautiful roses in the outstretched and very dirty little hand of the italian. "i don't think napelers are so polite and kind as i did," said polly somewhat crossly, for, you see, she felt so astonished and so ashamed of her mistake that it did make her a little cross with herself and the circumstances. [illustration: "a small boy ran up to the carriage, and held up his roses."] however, when teddy sweetly and with great gallantry pinned one of his share of the roses to polly's jacket, she smiled her crossness out of sight, and everything was cheerful again. as they drove along the children saw many other curious things, and stored them away in their memories to talk over together and tell to their little friends at home. finally they arrived at the hotel, and were shown to their rooms, which overlooked the bay. old vesuvius, which had been through a state of fierce eruption (you all know about volcanos, of course, and must have heard about mount vesuvius, so that you will know what a volcanic eruption means, and i need not explain it here) some time before this, was now settling down into quite a calm state again, but that night after the sky had grown dark our little couple noticed the dull red glow on the crater's head, and saw little thin streaks of fire down upon the side of the mountain nearest the bay; and papa told them all about the famous old mountain and its bad habits, and promised to take them to the ruins of the once beautiful and ancient city of pompeii (i shouldn't wonder if my little readers had studied about it in their geographies), and tell them of the way old vesuvius went to work, long, _long, long_ ago to destroy the city and its inhabitants by throwing lava and hot ashes down upon it, on a day when everybody was happy, and careless, and little dreaming what was coming to them all. after looking out upon the shining waters of the bay, and seeing the pretty reflection of the stars in them by-and-by, and listening to the twinkling music of mandolins and the tuneful voices of the italian street-singers awhile, our little teddy and polly went sleepily to bed, and never even had a dream, their slumber was so sound. chapter viii. an excursion. many a nice walk about the streets of naples did our dear happy little couple take with mamma and papa, and into many a shop did they go, completely fascinated with the pretty goods displayed there. they longed to buy up everything they saw, and, if they had been allowed a larger portion of coin than papa good-naturedly gave them each day, i don't know how many wonderful things they would have purchased. they enjoyed the street scenes, too, as they walked along. the long-eared donkeys, which carried on either side of their short round backs such enormous and heavily loaded paniers that sometimes all you could see of the little animals were their slender legs, their long wagging ears, and their tails. but they didn't seem to mind their burdens at all, and plodded along thinking their own donkey thoughts, and no doubt wondering what teddy and polly were laughing at them for! and then there were the little shops where fruits were sold, and over the doorways of which were hanging great branches full of oranges and lemons, just as the boughs were broken from the trees (as we in our country, you know, like to break a bough hanging full of cherries from our cherry-trees). it was wonderful to polly and teddy to see such a sight, and to see, as they had seen at their meals in the hotel, those large oval lemons and the golden round oranges served to the hotel guests on the stems, with the clustering leaves adorning them. (you don't see such things as those in new york, do you?) well, and then there were the beautiful gardens, rising one above the other in a bewildering mass of foliage of orange, lemon, and olive trees rich in fruit. those gardens belonged to the wealthy class of neapolitans, and their pretty dwelling-houses stood amongst the gardens on their terraces, overlooking the city like sentinels on the hills. there were queer streets--_side_ streets they were--which consisted only of a series of stone steps running straight up hill, like steps dug out of a steep cliff-side; and along the sides of those "step-streets," as teddy called them, were little bits of houses and shops scooped out of the walls of the terraces and made comfortable, after a fashion, for those who lived in them, and who kept their tiny stores. polly and teddy looked up at them as they passed, and noticed that the stone steps--from top to bottom--were swarming with children, men, and women, and nearly all of them, even the wee little people, carried baskets and various burdens as easily on their _heads_ as in their hands; and the strange part was that some of those bundles, which were poised so safely on the heads, would have made a fair load for a horse, so large were they. another funny thing the little couple were greatly interested in was the sight of those peculiar decorations each horse, donkey, and cow, and even the oxen were wearing when in harness. it consisted of a long feather, as though from a rooster's tail, which was stuck securely over the animal's forehead, and waved and waggled to and fro as the animal walked along. when there was no feather to be seen, there was always a _tuft of hair_ or a _tuft of fur_ fastened in place either between the animal's ears or on the harness, and it was considered a very wrong thing if either of those peculiar decorations was forgotten when harnessing. why? well, because, unfortunately, the lower classes of italians have many foolish superstitions, and that is one of them, for they fancy that "_ill luck_" is kept off and the "_evil eye_" of misfortune turned aside by the use of the feathers, the hair, or the fur in the manner i have described. polly and teddy agreed that it was a very silly idea, and i'm afraid they didn't have much respect for the drivers of the animals they saw decorated in that absurd style. one day papa and mamma took the children to the island of capri. they had seen the island from their windows rising out of the bay in the distance, and the guide-book told them that it would be a fine excursion on a fair day. so they started off one lovely morning in the little excursion boat that takes passengers to and fro between naples and the island of capri and other points of interest in the bay. [illustration] i cannot take time to give all the particulars of the _boat_ trip and its delights, but must tell you about the famous "_blue grotto_," which they reached before arriving at capri. the "blue grotto" is a cave in the rocks of one of the cliffs, and when the water is smooth a row-boat can be paddled through the low opening which makes the mouth of the cave; but in rough weather no boat can make the passage, as the opening is so very small. the rock on one side of the cave does not go to the bottom, but is only sunken a little way below the water. so the sunlight strikes down under the rock, as well as under the entrance hole, and is reflected upwards again through the water in the cave, which causes a wonderful silvery light, and a beautiful pale blue tint to the water and the roof of the cave. visitors to capri always stop at the "blue grotto" on the way, and when the big boat--the excursion boat--stops at that part of the cliff there are a crowd of men in little row-boats, waiting to take passengers who wish to go into the cave and show them the wonders of it, for a small coin each passenger. so of course our little couple must see it, and so must mamma. papa, who had seen it all once before (when he and mamma had taken a trip alone, before _polly_ could remember), did not go, for the boatman would only carry three passengers on the trip. you may imagine how they enjoyed it, and when they saw a boatman from another boat jump over into the water and splash about to show his passengers how like a silver blue water-sprite he could look the children gave one of their delighted whoops right there, and then nearly fell out of their own boat with fright at the loud strange echo the cave gave back at their shout. well, after the passengers returned from the cave, the steamboat went on its way, and in due time the landing at capri was made, and the passengers were told that they would have two hours of time in which to see everything of interest on the beautiful island, before the boat should start on to _sorrento_ (which is another charming resort not far from capri). such a crowd of donkey boys and donkey girls as were on the dock when the steamboat stopped! they were all yelling at one time, trying to coax passengers to use their donkeys or their cabs, and pay them so much per hour. [illustration: "the blue grotto of capri."] now, you see, capri is a funny sort of island, for it is "taller than it is broad," as people say. it rises right out of the bay in a lot of terraced cliffs, and as far up as you can see it is just a mass of green gardens and woods. at the base of the island are the village streets, and odd little houses, and shops and hotels, and at one of the hotels our party of four ate a good dinner, before taking a carriage up the mountain road to anacapri, a funny little bit of a village right at the very top of the island. when the dinner was finished mamma and papa took the back seat in the open little "victoria" (as the carriage was called, though it was very small and crampy in its proportions), and the little couple, gay as larks, and wide-eyed with wonder, sat close together on the small footstool of a seat in front of the "grown-ups," and with a crack of the whip (which the horse didn't even jump at, because he is so used to it, and best of all, because the "crack" is only in the air and not against his bony sides) they all started off for "anacapri." i could tell you of a great many things they saw on the way, and of the natives they passed, who bobbed and curtsied to the travelers, and showed their white teeth, and held up their little brown babies, hoping for the gift of a coin or two. and i would like to describe the magnificent sight of the olive-gardens, and of the trees hanging full of lemons and oranges, and of the beautiful flowering vines which grew by the roadside, and the shade trees, and particularly of the _grand_ sight which greeted their eyes with every turn of the winding road which brought the bay of naples (stretching itself far and wide and dotted all over with odd little ships and boats) into view. but i must skip all those things, and get you at last with the dear little couple to the mite of a village mentioned as "anacapri." from there our friends looked right down upon the bay and over at naples, and if they had been little birds they would have spread their wings and taken a good fly into the blue sunny space before them--at least, that is what teddy whispered in polly's ear he would _like_ to do. chapter ix. what they saw at anacapri, and how they went on to sorrento and pompeii. [illustration] when the carriage stopped in the midst of the small houses at anacapri, instantly a swarm of little boys and girls surrounded it. while the horse was resting, the small natives stared at our friends, and gazed especially hard and long upon polly and teddy, who felt quite shy and uncomfortable over the matter. they finally decided to give a few stares back again, and little bashful polly ventured to smile, though she didn't have anything in particular to smile about. teddy, seeing polly smile, thought _he_ ought to, and in a few moments every little italian face was on the broad grin also. mamma and papa had been talking with the driver, who could speak a little broken english, but they were ready to notice the pretty brown faces of the children who stood beside the carriage, and now decided that anacapri could boast of the good looks of its "small fry" with good reason. there was only one ugly-featured little boy in the crowd, and he was very ugly indeed, and not only that, but his hair was red, and his eyes _very blue_, and he was so fair of skin that his face was covered with freckles. he spoke italian, however, like a native, and papa wondered what sort of little red-haired native he might be. so he spoke to him in english, to see if the boy would comprehend. to his surprise he answered with a merry smile, and then, another surprise, a little fellow beside him spoke up also in english, and explained that, though _he_ was dark in complexion, and italian all over, yet he was _brother_ to the red-haired boy, who was _scotch_; and that jim's father was a scotchman, and when he died his mother married an italian whom she met in england, and when _he_ died she was left poor, and through some friends in anacapri had come there to live only seven months before. he told all this in good, though of course childish and broken english, for he was only nine years old. then jim, the little scotchman, put in his word, and when asked how they happened--in only a few months--to speak italian like natives, when they had lived in other countries all their lives before, he replied, tossing his head proudly: "oh, _that_ ain't anythin'. _we got it off the boys_ here!" of course all this was deeply interesting to polly and teddy, and they took a great fancy to the little brothers. but presently a boy who had not spoken before, not knowing english, put his hand inside his shirt and pulled out a little brown bird. holding it by both wee feet, he held it up, while its poor little heart was beating and its tiny wings fluttering with fear. "_monie!_" he said, and it was the only english word he cared to know--"monie!" and he pointed to the bird and then to the sky. the little couple looked wonderingly at him, and the scotch boy explained that if polly gave the boy a coin he would let the poor birdie fly away in safety. if he didn't get the coin, then he would take it home and his family would cook it for supper. that made our little couple indignant, and vexed also the mamma and kind-hearted papa. so he paid over a coin, and up, up, up into the sunny space above flew little birdie, and the children--_our_ children--shouted with pleasure to see the poor captive free. but--what do you think came next? why, that cruel boy put his hand inside his shirt again, and out came another bird, and with it the same request for "monie." of course, he was frowned upon, and not another coin was given him, for papa found he had a "bunch of birds" hidden there to earn their freedom by coin-giving, at every chance offered, and as those same birds, after being freed, would be caught again in time, the outlook was discouraging, wasn't it? and now, the horse being rested, the party turned about to go back to the steamboat landing below, and to the small scotchie and his italian brother only did mr. darling give a farewell gift of coin, as they drove away and finally left the little village behind them. when they reached sorrento a little while after, it was late in the afternoon, and papa said they must spend the night there and go on by carriage to see the ruins of pompeii the next day. it was a delightful experience to our little european travelers when they saw that the steamboat did not go close up beside the landing dock, as at capri, but that the passengers were to be taken off in small boats and rowed ashore. they could hardly wait their turn for it, but finally the blissful moment arrived, and the children were seated in the stern of the little boat, gliding over the blue waters. oh! you have no idea how very blue and clear the water there really is. it is like beautiful azure blue ribbon, satin ribbon, and you feel as if you'd like to carry home bottles of it. but as it is the sunshine and the condition of the depths of water and bottom of the bay all combined which produce that _color_ there--you would not be able to bottle it, would you? well, when the landing was reached, the children had to lift their eyes to a height on top of a steep cliff wall before they could see the hotel in which the night was to be spent. "i never in the world, teddy terry, can climb up there!" said puzzled little polly. but ted thought it would be real fun to climb it, and was quite disappointed when papa pointed to a narrow railroad which ran up, up, up the cliff through a tunnel beginning not far from where they had left the boat. "it is called a '_funicular_,' or, as the italians call it, a '_funicolare_,'" explained papa, "and the little car we are to enter presently is drawn up to the top of the cliff by a cable, a strong wire rope, very thick and quite able to do its work safely, so you needn't look so frightened, little goosey," to polly, for her eyes were full of anxious wonderment, and she took tight hold of her father's hand. "i'm not a bit frightened," declared teddy, but i really think he was a tiny bit afraid, for he grasped the tail of papa's coat pretty closely as they followed mamma into the little car, which seemed to be standing almost on end, and looked as though at any moment it might roll backwards down the incline. however, they arrived in good condition at the top before long, and were able to rest themselves and by-and-by eat a good dinner in the fine hotel, which was located in the midst of a wonderful garden right there on top of the cliff. next morning they visited the little shops where beautiful olive-wood articles were sold, and papa bought a fine ruler for ted, and a dainty little clothes-brush (both of carved olive-wood) for polly. then it was time to drive to pompeii, and after a long, rather dusty drive down the mountain road, they found themselves amongst the ruins of that ancient city at last. of course such little folks as polly and teddy couldn't take quite as much interest in the old city as grown-up visitors were taking, but they were quick to observe everything especially interesting: the ruts in the paved streets worn deeply by the wheels of the chariots used in those days (something like the chariots you have seen, no doubt, when barnum's big circus comes along, and all little folks go to see it, of course); the big flat stepping-stones in the streets, which were placed there so that people could have a clean, dry, and raised crossing from one side to the other (very nice for rainy, muddy weather, wasn't it?); the bake ovens where loaves of bread were baking at the very moment the flood of hot cinders and lava came thickly down upon the city and destroyed it so suddenly and so soon; the old drinking-fountains still bearing the worn impressions and dents made by the hands which used to rest upon the fountain basins so long ago. papa explained that according to history the city was seven hundred years old when destroyed, and it lay over a thousand years under twenty feet of ashes. you see, the ashes cooled, and the lava hardened, and there was no sign of any city there till all those many years had passed, and then by accident, history tells us, it was discovered that there was a city away down under all that earth (grass had grown over it in all that long time, and it looked like meadows). then people set to work digging, and lo and behold! uncovered so much of it that everybody flocked to see it. so that is how polly and teddy at last got there, and people are still digging away, clearing more and more of the big city from the earth over it. papa made it all very interesting to our little couple (and when they got home what did teddy do but bury away down deep in his garden, in the deepest hole he could dig with his little spade, a whole toy village of polly's, and cover it up, and pound the earth and grass over it again, and by-and-by play he was "discovering pompeii" and set to work to excavate the little city again). chapter x. back to naples, and "homeward bound." well, after they had seen pompeii, and looked at the curiosities in the little museum of the office and station building near by, our little couple felt very tired, and begged papa to take them home. polly's little golden head ached, and teddy's stocking had gotten into a wrinkle on his heel, and it hurt him to walk, and they both agreed that they didn't care one bit if "_vesulivus_" did cover old "pompawy" all over with ashes and dirt. they wanted to go home and rest polly's head and teddy's lame heel, and so papa and mamma confessed to being pretty tired also, and soon they were in the train, speeding rapidly towards naples, having had two days of "round trip excursion," and a "jolly good time," as the children expressed it. i would like to tell you about all the little couple did and all they saw while there for four happy weeks, but i must leave it all to your lively imagination, dear little readers, and whatever beautiful times you imagine for the children you may be sure they had. [illustration: "i have almost kept my promise to my mamma and tried to be a good boy."] papa was obliged to return to his business at home after a month of good times abroad, and so the day came when the trunks were packed again, and the clock was being watched, and the hotel "bus" being listened for, etc., and our little couple again in haste to go on board the steamship, for, much as they had enjoyed themselves, they confided secretly to each other the grand truth that--"after all, they liked their own gardens and playtimes at home lots better'n european things, and that bridgie and ann made things taste nicer to eat than the queer cooks in naples; and 'sides all that, they hadn't seen any tree at all that was half so nice as their own apple-tree where they could sit in amongst the leaves together, and--and--they guessed 'merican things were nicer for little boys and girls, _any_ way!" teddy had put into a snug corner of his small trunk a few little gifts for "dear own mamma and papa," and a nice present for his bridget and polly's ann. and polly had carefully stowed away in mamma's trunk also some pretty gifts for "auntie terry and uncle terry," and a present each for her ann and teddy's bridgie; and the things they planned to do and the good times they planned to have when once more at their own pretty cottage homes, where the _old apple-tree_ and the much-loved _gap in the fence_ near it were waiting for them i can't begin to tell you. we see them now--as they stand together with teddy's loving arm about polly, and her soft cheek pressed close to his--at the railing in the stern of the ocean liner, taking a farewell look at sunny naples and italian shores, and waving handkerchiefs to the men, women, and children in the small row-boats which were skipping about in the bay in the wake of the steamship, while shrill italian voices were shouting: "_addio! addio!_" "we've had the beautifullest time that ever could be, and we've liked being european travelers ever so much, haven't we, teddy terry?" remarked polly at last, as the children followed mr. darling to their steamer chairs; "and i must say," she added quite proudly, "that i think we've been such good children that some day maybe papa'll take us to some other places. won't that be fun?" teddy thought it would, but he could not be so conscientiously sure of having been as "good" as polly fancied, for he had a distinct remembrance of certain occasions (of which i haven't had the heart to tell my little readers) when mamma darling had had to scold pretty severely, and he had been more humiliated about it than polly, on account of his promise to his own mamma. thinking it all over now, as he sat in his chair beside mrs. darling on deck, he suddenly drew her head down to him and earnestly whispered: "say, auntie, i have almost kept my promise to my mamma and tried to be a good boy, haven't i? you see, i wouldn't like her to say i broke my word after she'd been and trusted me, you know, auntie!" mrs. darling put a tender kiss on the soft little tanned forehead, and whispered back: "i'm going to tell mamma terry that her boy was the best-behaved little traveler i ever saw, so cheer up, teddy boy!" it was a very happy little laddie who settled back in that big steamer chair and slipped his hand into polly's after "auntie" had made her whispered speech. and now we must say good-bye to them, as the steamship speeds on towards america's shores, and i hope this story of _more_ of the doings of our dear little couple will have given as much pleasure as your first account of them. the world is full of "dear little couples," isn't it? * * * * * transcriber's notes: page , "city" changed to "city" (york city) page , repeated line of text was deleted. original read: blew its summons for luncheon the little couple had explored the steamer, under papa's guidance, pretty thoroughly. you know the steamer, under papa's guidance, pretty thoroughly. you know children like to explore, and go scampering about to see all that can lovey mary by alice hegan rice author of "mrs. wiggs of the cabbage patch" to cale young rice who taught me the secret of plucking roses from a cabbage patch contents chapter i a cactus-plant ii a runaway couple iii the hazy household iv an accident and an incident v the dawn of a romance vi the losing of mr. stubbins vii neighborly advice viii a denominational garden ix labor day x a timely visit xi the christmas play xii reaction xiii an honorable retreat xiv the cactus blooms list of illustrations "they met at the pump." ..... frontispiece "'now the lord meant you to be plain.'" "'come here, tom, and kiss your mother.'" "''t ain't no street...; this here is the cabbage patch.'" "she puffed her hair at the top and sides." "'she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'.'" "she sat on the door-step, white and miserable." "mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy." "mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand." "'stick out yer tongue.'" "asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts." "master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms." "'have you ever acted any?' he asked." "europena stepped forward." "sang in a high, sweet voice, 'i need thee every hour.'" "'haven't you got any place you could go to?'" susie smithers at the keyhole "lovey mary waved until she rounded a curve." lovey mary chapter i a cactus-plant for life, with all it yields of joy and woe, and hope and fear,... is just our chance o' the prize of learning love,-- how love might be, hath been indeed, and is. browning's "a death in the desert." everything about lovey mary was a contradiction, from her hands and feet, which seemed to have been meant for a big girl, to her high ideals and aspirations, that ought to have belonged to an amiable one. the only ingredient which might have reconciled all the conflicting elements in her chaotic little bosom was one which no one had ever taken the trouble to supply. when miss bell, the matron of the home, came to receive lovey mary's confession of repentance, she found her at an up-stairs window making hideous faces and kicking the furniture. the depth of her repentance could always be gaged by the violence of her conduct. miss bell looked at her as she would have looked at one of the hieroglyphs on the obelisk. she had been trying to decipher her for thirteen years. miss bell was stout and prim, a combination which was surely never intended by nature. her gray dress and tight linen collar and cuffs gave the uncomfortable impression of being sewed on, while her rigid black water-waves seemed irrevocably painted upon her high forehead. she was a routinist; she believed in system, she believed in order, and she believed that godliness was akin to cleanliness. when she found an exception to a rule she regarded the exception in the light of an error. as she stood, brush in hand, before lovey mary, she thought for the hundredth time that the child was an exception. "stand up," she said firmly but not unkindly. "i thought you had too much sense to do your hair that way. come back to the bath-room, and i will arrange it properly." lovey mary gave a farewell kick at the wall before she followed miss bell. one side of her head was covered with tight black ringlets, and the other bristled with curl-papers. "when i was a little girl," said miss bell, running the wet comb ruthlessly through the treasured curls, "the smoother my hair was the better i liked it. i used to brush it down with soap and water to make it stay." lovey mary looked at the water-waves and sighed. "if you're ugly you never can get married with anybody, can you, miss bell?" she asked in a spirit of earnest inquiry. miss bell's back became stiffer, if possible, than before. "marriage isn't the only thing in the world. the homelier you are the better chance you have of being good. now the lord meant you to be plain"--assisting providence by drawing the braids so tight that the girl's eyebrows were elevated with the strain. "if he had meant you to have curls he would have given them to you." [illustration: "'now the lord meant you to be plain'"] "well, didn't he want me to have a mother and father?" burst forth lovey mary, indignantly, "or clothes, or money, or nothing? can't i ever get nothing at all 'cause i wasn't started out with nothing?" miss bell was too shocked to reply. she gave a final brush to the sleek, wet head and turned sorrowfully away. lovey mary ran after her and caught her hand. "i'm sorry," she cried impulsively. "i want to be good. please-- please--" miss bell drew her hand away coldly. "you needn't go to sabbath-school this morning," she said in an injured tone; "you can stay here and think over what you have said. i am not angry with you. i never allow myself to get angry. i don't understand, that's all. you are such a good girl about some things and so unreasonable about others. with a good home, good clothes, and kind treatment, what else could a girl want?" receiving no answer to this inquiry, miss bell adjusted her cuffs and departed with the conviction that she had done all that was possible to throw light upon a dark subject. lovey mary, left alone, shed bitter tears on her clean gingham dress. thirteen years ought to reconcile a person even to gingham dresses with white china buttons down the back, and round straw hats bought at wholesale. but lovey mary's rebellion of spirit was something that time only served to increase. it had started with kate rider, who used to pinch her, and laugh at her, and tell the other girls to "get on to her curves." curves had signified something dreadful to lovey mary; she would have experienced real relief could she have known that she did not possess any. it was not kate rider, however, who was causing the present tears; she had left the home two years before, and her name was not allowed to be mentioned even in whispers. neither was it rebellion against the work that had cast lovey mary into such depths of gloom; fourteen beds had been made, fourteen heads had been combed, and fourteen wriggling little bodies had been cheerfully buttoned into starchy blue ginghams exactly like her own. something deeper and more mysterious was fermenting in her soul-- something that made her long passionately for the beautiful things of life, for love and sympathy and happiness; something that made her want to be good, yet tempted her constantly to rebel against her environs. it was just the world-old spirit that makes the veriest little weed struggle through a chink in the rock and reach upward toward the sun. "what's the matter with your hair, lovey mary? it looks so funny," asked a small girl, coming up the steps. "if anybody asts you, tell 'em you don't know," snapped lovey mary. "well, miss bell says for you to come down to the office," said the other, unabashed. "there's a lady down there--a lady and a baby. me and susie peeked in. miss bell made the lady cry; she made her wipe the powders off her compleshun." "and she sent for me?" asked lovey mary, incredulously. such a ripple in the still waters of the home was sufficient to interest the most disconsolate. "yes; and me and susie's going to peek some more." lovey mary dried her tears and hurried down to the office. as she stood at the door she heard a girl's excited voice protesting and begging, and miss bell's placid tones attempting to calm her. they paused as she entered. "mary," said miss bell, "you remember kate rider. she has brought her child for us to take care of for a while. have you room for him in your division?" as lovey mary looked at the gaily dressed girl on the sofa, her animosity rekindled. it was not kate's bold black eyes that stirred her wrath, nor the hard red lips that recalled the taunts of other days: it was the sight of the auburn curls gathered in tantalizing profusion under the brim of the showy hat. "mary, answer my question!" said miss bell, sharply. with an involuntary shudder of repugnance lovey mary drew her gaze from kate and murmured, "yes, 'm." "then you can take the baby with you," continued miss bell, motioning to the sleeping child. "but wait a moment. i think i will put jennie at the head of your division and let you have entire charge of this little boy. he is only a year old, kate tells me, so will need constant attention." lovey mary was about to protest, when kate broke in: "oh, say, miss bell, please get some other girl! tommy never would like lovey. he's just like me: if people ain't pretty, he don't have no use for 'em." "that will do, kate," said miss bell, coldly. "it is only pity for the child that makes me take him at all. you have forfeited all claim upon our sympathy or patience. mary, take the baby up-stairs and care for him until i come." lovey mary, hot with rebellion, picked him up and went out of the room. at the door she stumbled against two little girls who were listening at the keyhole. up-stairs in the long dormitory it was very quiet. the children had been marched away to sunday-school, and only lovey mary and the sleeping baby were on the second floor. the girl sat beside the little white bed and hated the world as far as she knew it: she hated kate for adding this last insult to the old score; she hated miss bell for putting this new burden on her unwilling shoulders; she hated the burden itself, lying there before her so serene and unconcerned; and most of all she hated herself. "i wisht i was dead!" she cried passionately. "the harder i try to be good the meaner i get. ever'body blames me, and ever'body makes fun of me. ugly old face, and ugly old hands, and straight old rat-tail hair! it ain't no wonder that nobody loves me. i just wisht i was dead!" the sunshine came through the window and made a big white patch on the bare floor, but lovey mary sat in the shadow and disturbed the sunday quiet by her heavy sobbing. at noon, when the children returned, the noise of their arrival woke tommy. he opened his round eyes on a strange world, and began to cry lustily. one child after another tried to pacify him, but each friendly advance increased his terror. "leave him be!" cried lovey mary. "them hats is enough to skeer him into fits." she picked him up, and with the knack born of experience soothed and comforted him. the baby hid his face on her shoulder and held her tight. she could feel the sobs that still shook the small body, and his tears were on her cheek. "never mind," she said. "i ain't a-going to let 'em hurt you. i'm going to take care of you. don't cry any more. look!" she stretched forth her long, unshapely hand and made grotesque snatches at the sunshine that poured in through the window. tommy hesitated and was lost; a smile struggled to the surface, then broke through the tears. "look! he's laughing!" cried lovey mary, gleefully. "he's laughing 'cause i ketched a sunbeam for him!" then she bent impulsively and kissed the little red lips so close to her own. chapter ii a runaway couple "courage mounteth with occasion." for two years lovey mary cared for tommy: she bathed him and dressed him, taught him to walk, and kissed his bumps to make them well; she sewed for him and nursed him by day, and slept with him in her tired arms at night. and tommy, with the inscrutable philosophy of childhood, accepted his little foster-mother and gave her his all. one bright june afternoon the two were romping in the home yard under the beech-trees. lovey mary lay in the grass, while tommy threw handfuls of leaves in her face, laughing with delight at her grimaces. presently the gate clicked, and some one came toward them. "good land! is that my kid?" said a woman's voice. "come here, tom, and kiss your mother." lovey mary, sitting up, found kate rider, in frills and ribbons, looking with surprise at the sturdy child before her. tommy objected violently to this sudden overture and declined positively to acknowledge the relationship. in fact, when kate attempted to pull him to her, he fled for protection to lovey mary and cast belligerent glances at the intruder. kate laughed. "oh, you needn't be so scary; you might as well get used to me, for i am going to take you home with me. i bet he's a corker, ain't he, lovey? he used to bawl all night. sometimes i'd have to spank him two or three times." lovey mary clasped the child closer and looked up in dumb terror. was tommy to be taken from her? tommy to go away with kate? "great scott!" exclaimed kate, exasperated at the girl's manner. "you are just as ugly and foolish as you used to be. i'm going in to see miss bell." lovey mary waited until she was in the house, then she stole noiselessly around to the office window. the curtain blew out across her cheek, and the swaying lilacs seemed to be trying to count the china buttons on her back; but she stood there with staring eyes and parted lips, and held her breath to listen. [illustration with caption: "'come here, tom, and kiss your mother.'"] "of course," miss bell was saying, measuring her words with due precision, "if you feel that you can now support your child and that it is your duty to take him, we cannot object. there are many other children waiting to come into the home. and yet--" miss bell's voice sounded human and unnatural--"yet i wish he could stay. have you thought, kate, of your responsibility toward him, of--" "oh! ough!" shrieked tommy from the playground, in tones of distress. lovey mary left her point of vantage and rushed to the rescue. she found him emitting frenzied yells, while a tiny stream of blood trickled down his chin. "it was my little duck," he gasped as soon as he was able to speak. "i was tissin' him, an' he bited me." at thought of the base ingratitude on the part of the duck, tommy wailed anew. lovey mary led him to the hydrant and bathed the injured lip, while she soothed his feelings. suddenly a wave of tenderness swept over her. she held his chubby face up to hers and said fervently: "tommy, do you love me?" "yes," said tommy, with a reproachful eye on the duck. "yes; i yuv to yuv. i don't yuv to tiss, though!" "but me, tommy, me. do you love me?" "yes," he answered gravely, "dollar an' a half." "whose little boy are you?" "yuvey's 'e boy." satisfied with this catechism, she put tommy in care of another girl and went back to her post at the window. miss bell was talking again. "i will have him ready to-morrow afternoon when you come. his clothes are all in good condition. i only hope, kate, that you will care for him as tenderly as mary has. i am afraid he will miss her sadly." "if he's like me, he'll forget about her in two or three days," answered the other voice. "it always was 'out of sight, out of mind' with me." miss bell's answer was indistinct, and in a few minutes lovey mary heard the hall door close behind them. she shook her fists until the lilacs trembled. "she sha'n't have him!" she whispered fiercely. "she sha'n't let him grow up wicked like she is. i won't let him go. i'll hide him, i'll--" suddenly she grew very still, and for a long time crouched motionless behind the bushes. the problem that faced her had but one solution, and lovey mary had found it. the next morning when the sun climbed over the tree-tops and peered into the dormitory windows he found that somebody else had made an early rise. lovey mary was sitting by a wardrobe making her last will and testament. from the neatly folded pile of linen she selected a few garments and tied them into a bundle. then she took out a cigar-box and gravely contemplated the contents. there were two narrow hair- ribbons which had evidently been one wide ribbon, a bit of rock crystal, four paper dolls, a soiled picture-book with some other little girl's name scratched out on the cover, and two shining silver dollars. these composed lovey mary's worldly possessions. she tied the money in her handkerchief and put it in her pocket, then got up softly and slipped about among the little white beds, distributing her treasures. "i'm mad at susie," she whispered, pausing before a tousled head; "i hate to give her the nicest thing i've got. but she's just crazy 'bout picture-books." the curious sun climbed yet a little higher and saw lovey mary go back to her own bed, and, rolling tommy's clothes around her own bundle, gather the sleeping child in her arms and steal quietly out of the room. then the sun got too high up in the heavens to watch little runaway orphan girls. nobody saw her steal through the deserted playroom, down the clean bare steps, which she had helped to wear away, and out through the yard to the coal-shed. here she got the reluctant tommy into his clothes, and tied on his little round straw hat, so absurdly like her own. "is we playin' hie-spy, yuvey?" asked the mystified youngster. "yes, tommy," she whispered, "and we are going a long way to hide. you are my little boy now, and you must love me better than anything in the world. say it, tommy; say, 'i love you better 'n anybody in the whole world.'" "will i det on de rollin' honor?" asked tommy, thinking he was learning his golden text. but lovey mary had forgotten her question. she was taking a farewell look at the home, every nook and corner of which had suddenly grown dear. already she seemed a thing apart, one having no right to its shelter and protection. she turned to where tommy was playing with some sticks in the corner, and bidding him not to stir or speak until her return, she slipped back up the walk and into the kitchen. swiftly and quietly she made a fire in the stove and filled the kettle with water. then she looked about for something more she might do. on the table lay the grocery book with a pencil attached. she thought a moment, then wrote laboriously under the last order: "miss bell i will take kere tommy pleas don't be mad." then she softly closed the door behind her. a few minutes later she lifted tommy out of the low shed window, and hurried him down the alley and out into the early morning streets. at the corner they took a car, and tommy knelt by the window and absorbed the sights with rapt attention; to him the adventure was beginning brilliantly. even lovey mary experienced a sense of exhilaration when she paid their fare out of one of the silver dollars. she knew the conductor was impressed, because he said, "you better watch buddy's hat, ma'am." that "ma'am" pleased her profoundly; it caused her unconsciously to assume miss bell's tone and manner as she conversed with the back of tommy's head. "we'll go out on the avenue," she said. "we'll go from house to house till i get work. 'most anybody would be glad to get a handy girl that can cook and wash and sew, only--i ain't very big, and then there's you." "ain't that a big house?" shouted tommy, half way out of the window. "yes; don't talk so loud. that's the court-house." "where they make court-plaster at?" inquired tommy shrilly. lovey mary glanced around uneasily. she hoped the old man in the corner had not heard this benighted remark. all went well until the car reached the terminal station. here tommy refused to get off. in vain lovey mary coaxed and threatened. "it'll take us right back to the home," she pleaded. "be a good boy and come with lovey. i'll buy you something nice." tommy remained obdurate. he believed in letting well enough alone. the joys of a street-car ride were present and tangible; "something nice" was vague, unsatisfying. "don't yer little brother want to git off?" asked the conductor, sympathetically. "no, sir," said lovey mary, trying to maintain her dignity while she struggled with her charge. "if you please, sir, would you mind holding his feet while i loosen his hands?" tommy, shrieking indignant protests, was borne from the car and deposited on the sidewalk. "don't you dare get limber!" threatened lovey mary. "if you do i'll spank you right here on the street. stand up! straighten out your legs! tommy! do you hear me?" tommy might have remained limp indefinitely had not a hurdy-gurdy opportunely arrived on the scene. it is true that he would go only in the direction of the music, but lovey mary was delighted to have him go at all. when at last they were headed for the avenue, tommy caused another delay. "i want my ducky," he announced. the words brought consternation to lovey mary. she had fearfully anticipated them from the moment of leaving the home. "i'll buy you a 'tend-like duck," she said. "no; i want a sure-'nough ducky; i want mine." lovey mary was exasperated. "well, you can't have yours. i can't get it for you, and you might as well hush." his lips trembled, and two large tears rolled down his round cheeks. when he was injured he was irresistible. lovey mary promptly surrendered. "don't cry, baby boy! lovey'll get you one someway." for some time the quest of the duck was fruitless. the stores they entered were wholesale houses for the most part, where men were rolling barrels about or stacking skins and hides on the sidewalk. "do you know what sort of a store they sell ducks at?" asked lovey mary of a colored man who was sweeping out an office. "ducks!" repeated the negro, grinning at the queerly dressed children in their round straw hats. "name o' de lawd! what do you all want wif ducks?" lovey mary explained. "wouldn't a kitten do jes as well?" he asked kindly. "i want my ducky," whined tommy, showing signs of returning storm. "i don' see no way 'cept'n' gwine to de mahket. efen you tek de cah you kin ride plumb down dere." recent experience had taught lovey mary to be wary of street-cars, so they walked. at the market they found some ducks. the desired objects were hanging in a bunch with their limp heads tied together. further inquiry, however, discovered some live ones in a coop. "they're all mama ducks," objected tommy. "i want a baby ducky. i want my little ducky!" when he found he could do no better, he decided to take one of the large ones. then he said he was hungry, so he and mary took turn about holding it while the other ate "po' man's pickle" and wienerwurst. it was two o'clock by the time they reached the avenue, and by four they were foot-sore and weary, but they trudged bravely along from house to house asking for work. as dusk came on, the houses, which a few squares back had been tall and imposing, seemed to be getting smaller and more insignificant. lovey mary felt secure as long as she was on the avenue. she did not know that the avenue extended for many miles and that she had reached the frayed and ragged end of it. she and tommy passed under a bridge, and after that the houses all seemed to behave queerly. some faced one way, some another, and crisscross between them, in front of them, and behind them ran a network of railroad tracks. "what's the name of this street?" asked lovey mary of a small, bare- footed girl. "'t ain't no street," answered the little girl, gazing with undisguised amazement at the strange-looking couple; "this here is the cabbage patch." [illustration: "'t ain't no street...; this here is the cabbage patch.'"] chapter iii the hazy household "here sovereign dirt erects her sable throne, the house, the host, the hostess all her own." miss hazy was the submerged tenth of the cabbage patch. the submersion was mainly one of dirt and disorder, but miss hazy was such a meek, inefficient little body that the cabbage patch withheld its blame and patiently tried to furnish a prop for the clinging vine. miss hazy, it is true, had chris; but chris was unstable, not only because he had lost one leg, but also because he was the wildest, noisiest, most thoughtless youngster that ever shied a rock at a lamp-post. miss hazy had "raised" chris, and the neighbors had raised miss hazy. when lovey mary stumbled over the hazy threshold with the sleeping tommy and the duck in her arms, miss hazy fluttered about in dismay. she pushed the flour-sifter farther over on the bed and made a place for tommy, then she got a chair for the exhausted girl and hovered about her with little chirps of consternation. "dear sakes! you're done tuckered out, ain't you? you an' the baby got losted? ain't that too bad! must i make you some tea? only there ain't no fire in the stove. dear me! what ever will i do? jes wait a minute; i'll have to go ast mis' wiggs." in a few minutes miss hazy returned. with her was a bright-faced little woman whose smile seemed to thaw out the frozen places in lovey mary's heart and make her burst into tears on the motherly bosom. "there now, there," said mrs. wiggs, hugging the girl up close and patting her on the back; "there ain't no hole so deep can't somebody pull you out. an' here's me an' miss hazy jes waitin' to give you a h'ist." there was something so heartsome in her manner that lovey mary dried her eyes and attempted to explain. "i'm tryin' to get a place," she began, "but nobody wants to take tommy too. i can't carry him any further, and i don't know where to go, and it's 'most night--" again the sobs choked her. "lawsee!" said mrs. wiggs, "don't you let that worry you! i can't take you home, 'cause asia an' australia an' europeny are sleepin' in one bed as it is; but you kin git right in here with miss hazy, can't she, miss hazy?" the hostess, to whom mrs. wiggs was an oracle, acquiesced heartily. "all right: that's fixed. now i'll go home an' send you all over some nice, hot supper by billy, an' to-morrow mornin' will be time enough to think things out." lovey mary, too exhausted to mind the dirt, ate her supper off a broken plate, then climbed over behind tommy and the flour-sifter, and was soon fast asleep. the business meeting next morning "to think things out" resulted satisfactorily. at first mrs. wiggs was inclined to ask questions and find out where the children came from, but when she saw lovey mary's evident distress and embarrassment, she accepted the statement that they were orphans and that the girl was seeking work in order to take care of herself and the boy. it had come to be an unwritten law in the cabbage patch that as few questions as possible should be asked of strangers. people had come there before who could not give clear accounts of themselves. "now i'll tell you what i think'll be best," said mrs. wiggs, who enjoyed untangling snarls. "asia kin take mary up to the fact'ry with her to-morrow, an' see if she kin git her a job. i 'spect she kin, 'cause she stands right in with the lady boss. miss hazy, me an' you kin keep a' eye on the baby between us. if mary gits a place she kin pay you so much a week, an' that'll help us all out, 'cause then we won't have to send in so many outside victuals. if she could make three dollars an' chris three, you all could git along right peart." lovey mary stayed in the house most of the day. she was almost afraid to look out of the little window, for fear she should see miss bell or kate rider coming. she sat in the only chair that had a bottom and diligently worked buttonholes for miss hazy. "looks like there ain't never no time to clean up," said miss hazy, apologetically, as she shoved chris's sunday clothes and a can of coal-oil behind the door. lovey mary looked about her and sighed deeply. the room was brimful and spilling over: trash, tin cans, and bottles overflowed the window- sills; a crippled rocking-chair, with a faded quilt over it, stood before the stove, in the open oven of which chris's shoe was drying; an old sewing-machine stood in the middle of the floor, with miss hazy's sewing on one end of it and the uncleared dinner-dishes on the other. mary could not see under the bed, but she knew from the day's experience that it was used as a combination store-room and wardrobe. she thought of the home with its bare, clean rooms and its spotless floors. she rose abruptly and went out to the rear of the house, where tommy was playing with europena wiggs. they were absorbed in trying to hitch the duck to a spool-box, and paid little attention to her. "tommy," she said, clutching his arm, "don't you want to go back?" but tommy had tasted freedom; he had had one blissful day unwashed, uncombed, and uncorrected. "no," he declared stoutly; "i'm doin' to stay to this house and play wiv you're-a-peanut." "then," said mary, with deep resignation, "the only thing for me to do is to try to clean things up." when she went back into the house she untied her bundle and took out the remaining dollar. "i'll be back soon," she said to miss hazy as she stepped over a basket of potatoes. "i'm just going over to mrs. wiggs's a minute." she found her neighbor alone, getting supper. "please, ma'am,"--she plunged into her subject at once,--"have any of your girls a dress for sale? i've got a dollar to buy it." mrs. wiggs turned the girl around and surveyed her critically. "well, i don't know as i blame you fer wantin' to git shut of that one. there ain't more 'n room enough fer one leg in that skirt, let alone two. an' what was the sense in them big shiny buttons?" "i don't know as it makes much difference," said lovey mary, disconsolately; "i'm so ugly, nothing could make me look nice." mrs. wiggs shook her by the shoulders good-naturedly. "now, here," she said, "don't you go an' git sorry fer yerself! that's one thing i can't stand in nobody. there's always lots of other folks you kin be sorry fer 'stid of yerself. ain't you proud you ain't got a harelip? why, that one thought is enough to keep me from ever gittin' sorry fer myself." mary laughed, and mrs. wiggs clapped her hands. "that's what yer face needs--smiles! i never see anything make such a difference. but now about the dress. yes, indeed, asia has got dresses to give 'way. she gits 'em from mrs. reddin'; her husband is mr. bob, billy's boss. he's a newspaper editress an' rich as cream. mrs. reddin' is a fallen angel, if there ever was one on this earth. she sends all sorts of clothes to asia, an' i warm 'em over an' boil 'em down till they're her size. "asia minor!" she called to a girl who was coming in the door, "this here is mary--lovey mary she calls herself, miss hazy's boarder. have you got a dress you could give her?" "i'm going to buy it," said mary, immediately on the defensive. she did not want them to think for a moment that she was begging. she would show them that she had money, that she was just as good as they were. "well, maw," the other girl was saying in a drawling voice as she looked earnestly at lovey mary, "seems to me she'd look purtiest in my red dress. her hair's so nice an' black an' her teeth so white, i 'low the red would look best." mrs. wiggs gazed at her daughter with adoring eyes. "ain't that the artis' stickin' out through her? couldn't you tell she handles paints? up at the fact'ry she's got a fine job, paints flowers an' wreaths on to bath-tubs. yes, indeed, this here red one is what you must have. keep your dollar, child; the dress never cost us a cent. here's a nubia, too, you kin have; it'll look better than that little hat you had on last night. that little hat worried me; it looked like the stopper was too little fer the bottle. there now, take the things right home with you, an' tomorrow you an' asia kin start off in style." lovey mary, flushed with the intoxication of her first compliment, went back and tried on the dress. miss hazy got so interested that she forgot to get supper. "you look so nice i never would 'a' knowed you in the world!" she declared. "you don't look picked, like you did in that other dress." "that wiggs girl said i looked nice in red," said lovey mary tentatively. "you do, too," said miss hazy; "it keeps you from lookin' so corpsey. i wisht you'd do somethin' with yer hair, though; it puts me in mind of snakes in them long black plaits." all lovey mary needed was encouragement. she puffed her hair at the top and sides and tucked it up in the latest fashion. tommy, coming in at the door, did not recognize her. she laughed delightedly. "do i look so different?" "i should say you do," said miss hazy, admiringly, as she spread a newspaper for a table-cloth. "i never seen no one answer to primpin' like you do." [illustration: "she puffed her hair at the top and sides."] when it was quite dark lovey mary rolled something in a bundle and crept out of the house. after glancing cautiously up and down the tracks she made her way to the pond on the commons and dropped her bundle into the shallow water. next day, when mrs. schultz's goat died of convulsions, nobody knew it was due to the china buttons on lovey mary's gingham dress. chapter iv an accident and an incident "our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are." through the assistance of asia wiggs, lovey mary secured pleasant and profitable work at the factory; but her mind was not at peace. of course it was a joy to wear the red dress and arrange her hair a different way each morning, but there was a queer, restless little feeling in her heart that spoiled even the satisfaction of looking like other girls and earning three dollars a week. the very fact that nobody took her to task, that nobody scolded or blamed her, caused her to ask herself disturbing questions. secret perplexity had the same effect upon her that it has upon many who are older and wiser: it made her cross. two days after she started to work, asia, coming down from the decorating-room for lunch, found her in fiery dispute with a red- haired girl. there had been an accident in front of the factory, and the details were under discussion. "well, i know all about it," declared the red-haired girl, excitedly, "'cause my sister was the first one that got to her." "is your sister a nigger named jim brown?" asked lovey mary, derisively. "ever'body says he was the first one got there." "was there blood on her head?" asked asia, trying to stem the tide of argument. "yes, indeed," said the first speaker; "on her head an' on her hands, too. i hanged on the steps when they was puttin' her in the ambalance- wagon, an' she never knowed a bloomin' thing!" "why didn't you go on with them to the hospital!" asked lovey mary. "i don't see how the doctors could get along without you." "oh, you're just mad 'cause you didn't see her. she was awful pretty! had on a black hat with a white feather in it, but it got in the mud. they say she had a letter in her pocket with her name on it." "i thought maybe she come to long enough to tell you her name," teased her tormentor. "well, i do know it, smarty," retorted the other, sharply: "it's miss kate rider." meanwhile in the cabbage patch miss hazy and mrs. wiggs were holding a consultation over the fence. "she come over to my house first," mrs. wiggs was saying, dramatically illustrating her remarks with two tin cans. "this is me here, an' i looks up an' seen the old lady standin' over there. she put me in mind of a graven image. she had on a sorter gray mournin', didn't she, miss hazy?" "yes, 'm; that was the way it struck me. bein' gray, i 'lowed it was fer some one she didn't keer fer pertickler." "an' gent's cuffs," continued mrs. wiggs; "i noticed them right off. ''scuse me,' says she, snappin' her mouth open an' shut like a trap-- ''scuse me, but have you seen anything of two strange children in this neighborhood?' i th'owed my apron over lovey mary's hat, that i was trimmin'. i wasn't goin' to tell till i found out what that widder woman was after. but before i was called upon to answer, tommy come tearin' round the house chasin' cusmoodle." "who?" "cusmoodle, the duck. i named it this mornin'. well, when the lady seen tommy she started up, then she set down ag'in, holdin' her skirts up all the time to keep 'em from techin' the floor. 'how'd they git here?' she ast, so relieved-like that i thought she must be kin to 'em. so i up an' told her all i knew. i told her if she wanted to find out anything about us she could ast mrs. reddin' over at terrace park. 'mrs. robert reddin'?' says she, lookin' dumfounded. 'yes,' says i, 'the finest lady, rich or poor, in kentucky, unless it's her husband.' then she went on an' ast me goin' on a hunderd questions 'bout all of us an' all of you all, an' 'bout the factory. she even ast me where we got our water at, an' if you kept yer house healthy. i told her lovey mary had made chris carry out more 'n a wheelbarrow full of dirt ever' night since she had been here, an' i guess it would be healthy by the time she got through." [illustration: "'she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'.'"] miss hazy moved uneasily. "i told her i couldn't clean up much 'count of the rheumatism, an' phthisic, an' these here dizzy spells--" "i bet she didn't git a chance to talk much if you got started on your symptims," interrupted mrs. wiggs. "didn't you think she was a' awful haughty talker?" 'no, indeed. she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'. when she riz to go, she says, real kind fer such a stern-faced woman, 'do the childern seem well an' happy?' 'yes, 'm; they're well, all right,' says i. 'tommy he's like a colt what's been stabled up all winter an' is let out fer the first time. as fer mary,' i says, 'she seems kinder low in her mind, looks awful pestered most of the time.' 'it won't hurt her,' says the lady. 'keep a' eye on 'em,' says she, puttin' some money in my hand,' an' if you need any more, i'll leave it with mrs. reddin'.' then she cautioned me pertickler not to say nothin' 'bout her havin' been here." "she told me not to tell, too," said miss hazy; "but i don't know what we're goin' to say to mrs. schultz. she 'most sprained her back tryin' to see who it was, an' mrs. eichorn come over twicet pertendin'-like she wanted to borrow a corkscrew driver." "tell 'em she was a newfangled agent," said mrs. wiggs, with unblushing mendacity--"a' agent fer shoestrings." chapter v the dawn of a romance "there is in the worst of fortunes the best of chances for a happy change." "good land! you all're so clean in here i'm feared of ketchin' the pneumony." mrs. wiggs stood in miss hazy's kitchen and smiled approval at the marvelous transformation. "well, now, i don't think it's right healthy," complained miss hazy, who was sitting at the machine, with her feet on a soap-box; "so much water sloppin' round is mighty apt to give a person a cold. but lovey mary says she can't stand it no other way. she's mighty set, mis' wiggs." "yes, an' that's jes what you need, miss hazy. you never was set 'bout nothin' in yer life. lovey mary's jes took you an' the house an' ever'thing in hand, an' in four weeks got you all to livin' like white folks. i ain't claimin' she ain't sharp-tongued; i 'low she's sassed 'bout ever'body in the patch but me by now. but she's good, an' she's smart, an' some of her sharp corners'll git pecked off afore her hair grows much longer." "oh, mercy me! here she comes now to git her lunch," said miss hazy, with chagrin. "i ain't got a thing fixed." "you go on an' sew; i'll mess up a little somethin' fer her. she'll stop, anyway, to talk to tommy. did you ever see anything to equal the way she takes on 'bout that child? she jes natchally analyzes him." lovey mary, however, did not stop as usual to play with tommy. she came straight to the kitchen and sat down on the door-step, looking worried and preoccupied. "how comes it you ain't singin'?" asked mrs. wiggs. "if i had a voice like yourn, folks would have to stop up their years with cotton. i jes find myself watchin' fer you to come home, so's i can hear you singin' them pretty duets round the house." lovey mary smiled faintly; for a month past she had been unconsciously striving to live up to mrs. wiggs's opinion of her, and the constant praise and commendation of that "courageous captain of compliment" had moved her to herculean effort. but a sudden catastrophe threatened her. she sat on the door-step, white and miserable. held tight in the hand that was thrust in her pocket was a letter; it was a blue letter addressed to miss hazy in large, dashing characters. lovey mary had got it from the postman as she went out in the morning; for five hours she had been racked with doubt concerning it. she felt that it could refer but to one subject, and that was herself. perhaps miss bell had discovered her hiding- place, or, worse still, perhaps kate rider had seen her at the factory and was writing for tommy. lovey mary crushed the letter in her hand; she would not give it to miss hazy. she would outwit kate again. "all right, honey," called mrs. wiggs; "here you are. 't ain't much of a lunch, but it'll fill up the gaps. me an' miss hazy jes been talkin' 'bout you." lovey mary glanced up furtively. could they have suspected anything? [illustration: "she sat on the door-step, white and miserable."] "didn't yer years sorter burn! we was speakin' of the way you'd slicked things up round here. i was a-sayin' even if you was a sorter repeatin'-rifle when it come to answerin' back, you was a good, nice girl." lovey mary smoothed out the crumpled letter in her pocket. "i'm 'fraid i ain't as good as you make me out," she said despondently. "oh, yes, she is," said miss hazy, with unusual animation; "she's a rale good girl, when she ain't sassy." this unexpected praise was too much for lovey mary. she snatched the letter from her pocket and threw it on the table, not daring to trust her good impulse to last beyond the minute. "'miss marietta hazy, south avenue and railroad crossing,'" read mrs. wiggs, in amazement. "oh, surely it ain't got me on the back of it!" cried miss hazy, rising hurriedly from the machine and peering over her glasses. "you open it, mis' wiggs; i ain't got the nerve to." with chattering teeth and trembling hands lovey mary sat before her untasted food. she could hear tommy's laughter through the open window, and the sound brought tears to her eyes. but mrs. wiggs's voice recalled her, and she nerved herself for the worst. _"miss hazy._ "dear miss [mrs. wiggs read from the large type-written sheet before her]: why not study the planets and the heavens therein? in casting your future, i find that thou wilt have an active and succesful year for business, but beware of the law. you are prudent and amiable and have a lively emagination. you will have many ennemies; but fear not, for in love you will be faitful and sincer, and are fitted well fer married life." "they surely ain't meanin' me?" asked miss hazy, in great perturbation. "_yes, ma'am_," said mrs. wiggs, emphatically; "it's you, plain as day. let's go on: "your star fortells you a great many lucky events. you are destined to a brilliant success, but you will have to earn it by good conduct. let wise men lead you. your mildness against the wretched will bring you the friendship of everbody. enclosed you will find a spirit picture of your future pardner. if you will send twenty-five cents with the enclosed card, which you will fill out, we will put you in direct correspondance with the gentleman, and the degree ordained by the planets will thus be fulfilled. please show this circuler to your friends, and oblige _"astrologer."_ as the reading proceeded, lovey mary's fears gradually diminished, and with a sigh of relief she applied herself to her lunch. but if the letter had proved of no consequence to her, such was not the case with the two women standing at the window. miss hazy was re-reading the letter, vainly trying to master the contents. "mary," she said, "git up an' see if you can find my other pair of lookin'-glasses. seems like i can't git the sense of it." mrs. wiggs meanwhile was excitedly commenting on the charms of the "spirit picture": "my, but he's siylish! looks fer all the world like a' insurance agent. looks like he might be a little tall to his size, but i like statute men better 'n dumpy ones. i bet he's got a lot of nice manners. ain't his smile pleasant!" miss hazy seized the small picture with trembling fingers. "i don't seem to git on to what it's all about, mis' wiggs. ain't they made a mistake or somethin'?" "no, indeed; there's no mistake at all," declared mrs. wiggs. "yer name's on the back, an' it's meant fer you. someway yer name's got out as bein' single an' needin' takin' keer of, an' i reckon this here 'strologer, or conjurer, or whatever he is, seen yer good fortune in the stars an' jes wanted to let you know 'bout it." "does he want to get married with her?" asked lovey mary, beginning to realize the grave importance of the subject under discussion. "well, it may lead to that," answered mrs. wiggs, hopefully. surely only a beneficent providence could have offered such an unexpected solution to the problem of miss hazy's future. miss hazy herself uttered faint protests and expostulations, but in spite of herself she was becoming influenced by mrs. wiggs's enthusiasm. "oh, shoo!" she repeated again and again. "i ain't never had no thought of marryin'." "course you ain't," said mrs. wiggs. "good enough reason: you ain't had a show before. seems to me you'd be flyin' straight in the face of providence to refuse a stylish, sweet-smilin' man like that." "he is fine-lookin'," acknowledged miss hazy, trying not to appear too pleased; "only i wisht his years didn't stick out so much." mrs. wiggs was exasperated. "lawsee! miss hazy, what do you think he'll think of yer figger? have you got so much to brag on, that you kin go to pickin' him to pieces? do you suppose i'd 'a' dared to judge mr. wiggs that away? why, mr. wiggs's nose was as long as a clothespin; but i would no more 'a' thought of his nose without him than i would 'a' thought of him without the nose." "well, what do you think i'd orter do 'bout it?" asked miss hazy. "i ain't quite made up my mind," said her mentor. "i'll talk it over with the neighbors. but i 'spect, if we kin skeer up a quarter, that you'll answer by the mornin's mail." that night lovey mary sat in her little attic room and held tommy close to her hungry heart. all day she worked with the thought of coming back to him at night; but with night came the dustman, and in spite of her games and stories tommy's blue eyes would get full of the sleep-dust. tonight, however, he was awake and talkative. "ain't i dot no muvver?" he asked. "no," said lovey mary, after a pause. "didn't i never had no muvver?" lovey mary sat him up in her lap and looked into his round, inquiring eyes. her very love for him hardened her heart against the one who had wronged him. "yes, darling, you had a mother once, but she was a bad mother, a mean, bad, wicked mother. i hate her--hate her!" lovey mary's voice broke in a sob. "ma--ry; aw, ma--ry!" called miss hazy up the stairs. "you'll have to come down here to chris. he's went to sleep with all his clothes on 'crost my bed, an' i can't git him up." lovey mary tucked tommy under the cover and went to miss hazy's assistance. "one night i had to set up all night 'cause he wouldn't git up," complained miss hazy, in hopelessly injured tones. lovey mary wasted no time in idle coaxing. she seized a broom and rapped the sleeper sharply on the legs. his peg-stick was insensible to this insult, but one leg kicked a feeble protest. in vain lovey mary tried violent measures; chris simply shifted his position and slumbered on. finally she resorted to strategy: "listen, miss hazy! ain't that the fire-engine?" in a moment chris was hanging half out of the window, demanding, "where at?" "you great big lazy boy!" scolded lovey mary, as she put miss hazy's bed in order. "i'll get you to behaving mighty different if i stay here long enough. what's this?" she added, pulling something from under miss hazy's pillow. "oh, it ain't nothin'," cried miss hazy, reaching for it eagerly. but lovey mary had recognized the "spirit picture." chapter vi the losing of mr. stubbins "love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove." if the cabbage patch had pinned its faith upon the efficiency of the matrimonial agency in regard to the disposal of miss hazy, it was doomed to disappointment. the events that led up to the final catastrophe were unique in that they cast no shadows before. [illustration: "mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy."] miss hazy's letters, dictated by mrs. wiggs and penned by lovey mary, were promptly and satisfactorily answered. the original of the spirit picture proved to be one mr. stubbins, "a prominent citizen of bagdad junction who desired to marry some one in the city. the lady must be of good character and without incumbrances." "that's all right," mrs. wiggs had declared; "you needn't have no incumbrances. if he'll take keer of you, we'll all look after chris." the wooing had been ideally simple. mr. stubbins, with the impetuosity of a new lover, demanded an early meeting. it was a critical time, and the cabbage patch realized the necessity of making the first impression a favorable one. mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy. old mrs. schultz, who was confined to her bed, sent over her black silk dress for miss hazy to wear. mrs. eichorn, with deep insight into the nature of man, gave a pound-cake and a pumpkin-pie. lovey mary scrubbed, and dusted, and cleaned, and superintended the toilet of the bride elect. the important day had arrived, and with it mr. stubbins. to the many eyes that surveyed him from behind shutters and half-open doors he was something of a disappointment. mrs. wiggs's rosy anticipations had invested him with the charms of an apollo, while mr. stubbins, in reality, was far from godlike. "my land! he's lanker 'n a bean-pole," exclaimed mrs. eichorn, in disgust. but then mrs. eichorn weighed two hundred, and her judgment was warped. taking everything into consideration, the prospects had been most flattering. mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand, and with miss hazy opposite arrayed in mrs. schultz's black silk, had declared himself ready to marry at once. and mrs. wiggs, believing that a groom in the hand is worth two in the bush, promptly precipitated the courtship into a wedding. [illustration: "mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand"] the affair proved the sensation of the hour, and "miss hazy's husband" was the cynosure of all eyes. for one brief week the honeymoon shed its beguiling light on the neighborhood, then it suffered a sudden and ignominious eclipse. the groom got drunk. mary was clearing away the supper-dishes when she was startled by a cry from miss hazy: "my sakes! lovey mary! look at mr. stubbins a-comin' up the street! do you s'pose he's had a stroke?" lovey mary ran to the window and beheld the "prominent citizen of bagdad junction" in a state of unmistakable intoxication. he was bareheaded and hilarious, and used the fence as a life-preserver. miss hazy wrung her hands and wept. "oh, what'll i do?" she wailed. "i do b'lieve he's had somethin' to drink. i ain't goin' to stay an' meet him, mary; i'm goin' to hide. i always was skeered of drunken men." "i'm not," said mary, stoutly. "you go on up in my room and lock the door; i'm going to stay here and keep him from messing up this kitchen. i want to tell him what i think of him, anyhow. i just hate that man! i believe you do, too, miss hazy." miss hazy wept afresh. "well, he ain't my kind, mary. i know i'd hadn't orter marry him, but it 'pears like ever' woman sorter wants to try gittin' married oncet anyways. i never would 'a' done it, though, if mrs. wiggs hadn't 'a' sicked me on." by this time mr. stubbins had reached the yard, and miss hazy fled. lovey mary barricaded tommy in a corner with his playthings and met the delinquent at the door. her eyes blazed and her cheeks were aflame. this modern david had no stones and sling to slay her goliath; she had only a vocabulary full of stinging words which she hurled forth with indignation and scorn. mr. stubbins had evidently been abused before, for he paid no attention to the girl's wrath. he passed jauntily to the stove and tried to pour a cup of coffee; the hot liquid missed the cup and streamed over his wrist and hand. howling with pain and swearing vociferously, he flung the coffee-pot out of the window, kicked a chair across the room, then turned upon tommy, who was adding shrieks of terror to the general uproar. "stop that infernal yelling!" he cried savagely, as he struck the child full in the face with his heavy hand. lovey mary sprang forward and seized the poker. all the passion of her wild little nature was roused. she stole up behind him as he knelt before tommy, and lifted the poker to strike. a pair of terrified blue eyes arrested her. tommy forgot to cry, in sheer amazement at what she was about to do. ashamed of herself, she threw the poker aside, and taking advantage of mr. stubbins's crouching position, she thrust him suddenly backward into the closet. the manoeuver was a brilliant one, for while mr. stubbins was unsteadily separating himself from the debris into which he had been cast, lovey mary slammed the door and locked it. then she picked up tommy and fled out of the house and across the yard. mrs. wiggs was sitting on her back porch pretending to knit, but in truth absorbed in a wild game of tag which the children were having on the commons. "that's right," she was calling excitedly--"that's right, chris hazy! you kin ketch as good as any of 'em, even if you have got a peg-stick." but when she caught sight of mary's white, distressed face and tommy's streaming eyes, she dropped her work and held out her arms. when mary had finished her story mrs. wiggs burst forth: "an' to think i run her up ag'in' this! ain't men deceivin'? now i'd 'a' risked mr. stubbins myself fer the askin'. it's true he was a widower, an' ma uster allays say, 'don't fool with widowers, grass nor sod.' but mr. stubbins was so slick-tongued! he told me yesterday he had to take liquor sometime fer his war enjury." "but, mrs. wiggs, what must we do?" asked lovey mary, too absorbed in the present to be interested in the past. "do? why, we got to git miss hazy out of this here hole. it ain't no use consultin' her; i allays have said talkin' to miss hazy was like pullin' out bastin'-threads: you jes take out what you put in. me an' you has got to think out a plan right here an' now, then go to work an' carry it out." "couldn't we get the agency to take him back?" suggested mary. "no, indeed; they couldn't afford to do that. lemme see, lemme see--" for five minutes mrs. wiggs rocked meditatively, soothing tommy to sleep as she rocked. when she again spoke it was with inspiration: "i've got it! it looks sometime, lovey mary, 's if i'd sorter caught some of mr. wiggs's brains in thinkin' things out. they ain't but one thing to do with miss hazy's husband, an' we'll do it this very night." "what, mrs. wiggs? what is it?" asked lovey mary, eagerly. "why, to lose him, of course! we'll wait till mr. stubbins is dead asleep; you know men allays have to sleep off a jag like this. i've seen mr. wiggs--i mean i've heared 'em say so many a time. well, when mr. stubbins is sound asleep, you an' me an' billy will drag him out to the railroad." mrs. wiggs's voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper, and her eyes looked fierce in the twilight. lovey mary shuddered. "you ain't going to let the train run over him, are you?" she asked. "lor', child, i ain't a 'sassinator! no; we'll wait till the midnight freight comes along, an' when it stops fer water, we'll h'ist mr. stubbins into one of them empty cars. the train goes 'way out west somewheres, an' by the time mr. stubbins wakes up, he'll be so far away from home he won't have no money to git back." "what'll miss hazy say?" asked mary, giggling in nervous excitement. "miss hazy ain't got a thing to do with it," replied mrs. wiggs conclusively. at midnight, by the dark of the moon, the unconscious groom was borne out of the hazy cottage. mrs. wiggs carried his head, while billy wiggs and mary and asia and chris officiated at his arms and legs. the bride surveyed the scene from the chinks of the upstairs shutters. silently the little group waited until the lumbering freight train slowed up to take water, then with a concerted effort they lifted the heavy burden into an empty car. as they shrank back into the shadow, billy whispered to lovey mary: "say, what was that you put 'longside of him?" mary looked shamefaced. "it was just a little lunch-dinner," she said apologetically; "it seemed sorter mean to send him off without anything to eat." "gee!" said billy. "you're a cur'us girl!" the engine whistled, and the train moved thunderously away, bearing an unconscious passenger, who, as far as the cabbage patch was concerned, was henceforth submerged in the darkness of oblivion. chapter vii neighborly advice "it's a poor business looking at the sun with a cloudy face." the long, hot summer days that followed were full of trials for lovey mary. day after day the great unwinking sun glared savagely down upon the cabbage patch, upon the stagnant pond, upon the gleaming rails, upon the puffing trains that pounded by hour after hour. each morning found lovey mary trudging away to the factory, where she stood all day counting and sorting and packing tiles. at night she climbed wearily to her little room under the roof, and tried to sleep with a wet cloth over her face to keep her from smelling the stifling car smoke. but it was not the heat and discomfort alone that made her cheeks thin and her eyes sad and listless: it was the burden on her conscience, which seemed to be growing heavier all the time. one morning mrs. wiggs took her to task for her gloomy countenance. they met at the pump, and, while the former's bucket was being filled, lovey mary leaned against a lamp-post and waited in a dejected attitude. "what's the matter with you?" asked mrs. wiggs. "what you lookin' so wilted about?" lovey mary dug her shoe into the ground and said nothing. many a time had she been tempted to pour forth her story to this friendly mentor, but the fear of discovery and her hatred of kate deterred her. mrs. wiggs eyed her keenly. "pesterin' about somethin'?" she asked. "yes, 'm," said lovey mary, in a low tone. "somethin' that's already did?" "yes, 'm"--still lower. "did you think you was actin' fer the best?" the girl lifted a pair of honest gray eyes. "yes, ma'am, i did." "i bet you did!" said mrs. wiggs, heartily. "you ain't got a deceivin' bone in yer body. now what you want to do is to brace up yer sperrits. the decidin'-time was the time fer worryin'. you've did what you thought was best; now you want to stop thinkin' 'bout it. you don't want to go round turnin' folks' thoughts sour jes to look at you. most girls that had white teeth like you would be smilin' to show 'em, if fer nothin' else." "i wisht i was like you," said lovey mary. "don't take it out in wishin'. if you want to be cheerful, jes set yer mind on it an' do it. can't none of us help what traits we start out in life with, but we kin help what we end up with. when things first got to goin' wrong with me, i says: 'o lord, whatever comes, keep me from gittin' sour!' it wasn't fer my own sake i ast it,--some people 'pears to enjoy bein' low-sperrited,--it was fer the childern an' mr. wiggs. since then i've made it a practice to put all my worries down in the bottom of my heart, then set on the lid an' smile." "but you think ever'body's nice and good," complained lovey mary. "you never see all the meanness i do." "don't i? i been watchin' old man rothchild fer goin' on eleven year', tryin' to see some good in him, an' i never found it till the other day when i seen him puttin' a splint on cusmoodle's broken leg. he's the savagest man i know, yit he keered fer that duck as tender as a woman. but it ain't jes seein' the good in folks an' sayin' nice things when you're feelin' good. the way to git cheerful is to smile when you feel bad, to think about somebody else's headache when yer own is 'most bustin', to keep on believin' the sun is a-shinin' when the clouds is thick enough to cut. nothin' helps you to it like thinkin' more 'bout other folks than about yerself." "i think 'bout tommy first," said lovey mary. "yes, you certainly do yer part by him. if my childern wore stockin's an' got as many holes in 'em as he does, i'd work buttonholes in 'em at the start fer the toes to come through. but even tommy wants somethin' besides darns. why don't you let him go barefoot on sundays, too, an' take the time you been mendin' fer him to play with him? i want to see them pretty smiles come back in yer face ag'in." in a subsequent conversation with miss hazy, mrs. wiggs took a more serious view of lovey mary's depression. "she jes makes me wanter cry, she's so subdued-like. i never see anybody change so in my life. it 'u'd jes be a relief to hear her sass some of us like she uster. she told me she never had nobody make over her like we all did, an' it sorter made her 'shamed. lawsee! if kindness is goin' to kill her, i think we'd better fuss at her some." "'pears to me like she's got nervous sensations," said miss hazy; "she jumps up in her sleep, an' talks 'bout folks an' things i never heared tell of." "that's exactly what ails her," agreed mrs. wiggs: "it's nerves, miss hazy. to my way of thinkin', nerves is worser than tumors an' cancers. look at old mrs. schultz. she's got the dropsy so bad you can't tell whether she's settin' down or standin' up, yet she ain't got a nerve in her body, an' has 'most as good a time as other folks. we can't let lovey mary go on with these here nerves; no tellin' where they'll land her at. if it was jes springtime, i'd give her sulphur an' molasses an' jes a leetle cream of tartar; that, used along with egg-shell tea, is the outbeatenest tonic i ever seen. but i never would run ag'in' the seasons. seems to me i've heared yallerroot spoke of fer killin' nerves." "i don't 'spect we could git no yallerroot round here." "what's the matter with miss viny? i bet it grows in her garden thick as hairs on a dog's back. let's send lovey mary out there to git some, an' we'll jes repeat the dose on her till it takes some hold." "i ain't puttin' much stock in miss viny," demurred miss hazy. "i've heared she was a novelist reader, an' she ain't even a church-member." "an' do you set up to jedge her?" asked mrs. wiggs, in fine scorn. "miss viny's got more sense in her little finger than me an' you has got in our whole heads. she can doctor better with them yarbs of hers than any physicianner i know. as to her not bein' a member, she lives right an' helps other folks, an' that's more than lots of members does. besides," she added conclusively, "mr. wiggs himself wasn't no church-member." chapter viii a denominational gardbn "oh, mickle is the powerful grace that lies in herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities; for naught so vile that on the earth doth live but to the earth some special good doth give." the following sunday being decidedly cooler, lovey mary was started off to miss viny's in quest of yellowroot. she had protested that she was not sick, but miss hazy, backed by mrs. wiggs, had insisted. "if you git down sick, it would be a' orful drain on me," was miss hazy's final argument, and the point was effective. as lovey mary trudged along the railroad-tracks, she was unconscious of the pleasant changes of scenery. the cottages became less frequent, and the bare, dusty commons gave place to green fields. here and there a tree spread its branches to the breezes, and now and then a snatch of bird song broke the stillness. but lovey mary kept gloomily on her way, her eyes fixed on the cross-ties. the thoughts surging through her brain were dark enough to obscure even the sunshine. for three nights she had cried herself to sleep, and the "nervous sensations" were getting worse instead of better. "just two months since kate was hurt," she said to herself. "soon as she gets out the hospital she'll be trying to find us again. i believe she was coming to the factory looking for me when she got run over. she'd just like to take tommy away and send me to jail. oh, i hate her worse all the time! i wish she was--" the wish died on her lips, for she suddenly realized that it might already have been fulfilled. some one coughed near by, and she started guiltily. "you seem to be in a right deep steddy," said a voice on the other side of the fence. lovey mary glanced up and saw a queer-looking old woman smiling at her quizzically. a pair of keen eyes twinkled under bushy brows, and a fierce little beard bristled from her chin. when she smiled it made lovey mary think of a pebble dropped in a pool, for the wrinkles went rippling off from her mouth in ever-widening circles until they were lost in the gray hair under her broad-brimmed hat. "are you miss viny?" asked lovey mary, glancing at the old-fashioned flower-garden beyond. "well, i been that fer sixty year'; i ain't heared of no change," answered the old lady. "miss hazy sent me after some yellowroot," said lovey mary, listlessly. "who fer?" "me." miss viny took a pair of large spectacles from her pocket, put them on the tip of her nose, and looked over them critically at lovey mary. "stick out yer tongue." lovey mary obeyed. "uh-huh. it's a good thing i looked. you don't no more need yallerroot than a bumblebee. you come in here on the porch an' tell me what's ailin' you, an' i'll do my own prescriptin'." lovey mary followed her up the narrow path, that ran between a mass of flowers. snowy oleanders, yellow asters, and purple phlox crowded together in a space no larger than miss hazy's front yard. lovey mary forgot her troubles in sheer delight in seeing so many flowers together. "do you love 'em, too?" asked miss viny, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "i guess i would if i had a chance. i never saw them growing out of doors like this. i always had to look at them through the store windows." "oh, law, don't talk to me 'bout caged-up flowers! i don't b'lieve in shuttin' a flower up in a greenhouse any more 'n i b'lieve in shuttin' myself up in one church." lovey mary remembered what miss hazy had told her of miss viny's pernicious religious views, and she tried to change the subject. but miss viny was started upon a favorite theme and was not to be diverted. "this here is a denominational garden, an' i got every congregation i ever heared of planted in it. i ain't got no faverite bed. i keer fer 'em all jes alike. when you come to think of it, the same rule holds good in startin' a garden as does in startin' a church. you first got to steddy what sort of soil you goin' to work with, then you have to sum up all the things you have to fight ag'inst. next you choose what flowers are goin' to hold the best places. that's a mighty important question in churches, too, ain't it? then you go to plantin', the thicker the better, fer in both you got to allow fer a mighty fallin' off. after that you must take good keer of what you got, an' be sure to plant something new each year. once in a while some of the old growths has to be thinned out, and the new upstarts an' suckers has to be pulled up. now, if you'll come out here i'll show you round." she started down the path, and lovey mary, somewhat overwhelmed by this oration, followed obediently. "these here are the baptists," said miss viny, waving her hand toward a bed of heliotrope and flags. "they want lots of water; like to be wet clean through. they sorter set off to theyselves an' tend to their own business; don't keer much 'bout minglin' with the other flowers." lovey mary did not understand very clearly what miss viny was talking about, but she was glad to follow her in the winding paths, where new beauties were waiting at every turn. "these is geraniums, ain't they? one of the girls had one, once, in a flower-pot when she was sick." "yes," said miss viny; "they're methodist. they fall from grace an' has to be revived; they like lots of encouragement in the way of sun an' water. these phlox are methodist, too; no set color, easy to grow, hardy an' vigorous. pinchin' an' cuttin' back the shoots makes it flower all the better; needs new soil every few years; now ain't that methodist down to the ground?" "are there any presbyterians?" asked lovey mary, beginning to grasp miss viny's meaning. "yes, indeed; they are a good, old, reliable bed. look at all these roses an' tiger-lilies an' dahlias; they all knew what they was goin' to be afore they started to grow. they was elected to it, an' they'll keep on bein' what they started out to be clean to the very end." "i know about predestination," cried lovey mary, eagerly. "miss bell used to tell us all those things." "who did?" lovey mary flushed crimson. "a lady i used to know," she said evasively. miss viny crossed the garden, and stopped before a bed of stately lilies and azaleas. "these are 'piscopals," she explained. "ain't they tony? jes look like they thought their bed was the only one in the garden. somebody said that a lily didn't have no pore kin among the flowers. it ain't no wonder they 'most die of dignity. they're like the 'piscopals in more ways 'n one; both hates to be disturbed, both likes some shade, an'"--confidentially--"both air pretty pernickity. but to tell you the truth, ain't nothin' kin touch 'em when it comes to beauty! i think all the other beds is proud of 'em, if you'd come to look into it. why, look at weddin's an' funerals! don't all the churches call in the 'piscopals an' the lilies on both them occasions?" lovey mary nodded vaguely. "an' here," continued miss viny, "are the unitarians. you may be s'prised at me fer havin' 'em in here, 'long with the orthodox churches; but if the sun an' the rain don't make no distinction, i don't see what right i got to put 'em on the other side of the fence. these first is sweet-william, as rich in bloom as the unitarian is in good works, a-sowin' theyselves constant, an' every little plant a- puttin' out a flower." "ain't there any catholics?" asked lovey mary. "don't you see them hollyhawks an' snowballs an' laylacs? all of them are catholics, takin' up lots of room an' needin' the prunin'-knife pretty often, but bringin' cheer and brightness to the whole garden when it needs it most. yes, i guess you'd have trouble thinkin' of any sect i ain't got planted. them ferns over in the corner is quakers. i ain't never seen no quakers, but they tell me that they don't b'lieve in flowerin' out; that they like coolness an' shade an' quiet, an' are jes the same the year round. these colea plants are the apes; they are all things to all men, take on any color that's round 'em, kin be the worst kind of baptists or presbyterians, but if left to theyselves they run back to good-fer-nothin's. this here everlastin' is one of these here christians that's so busy thinkin' 'bout dyin' that he fergits to live." miss viny chuckled as she crumbled the dry flower in her fingers. "see how different this is," she said, plucking a sprig of lemon- verbena. "this an' the mint an' the sage an' the lavender is all true christians; jes by bein' touched they give out a' influence that makes the whole world a sweeter place to live in. but, after all, they can't all be alike! there's all sorts of christians: some stands fer sunshine, some fer shade; some fer beauty, some fer use; some up high, some down low. there's jes one thing all the flowers has to unite in fightin' ag'inst--that's the canker-worm, hate. if it once gits in a plant, no matter how good an' strong that plant may be, it eats right down to its heart." "how do you get it out, miss viny?" asked lovey mary, earnestly. "prayer an' perseverance. if the christian'll do his part, god'll do his'n. you see, i'm tryin' to be to these flowers what god is to his churches. the sun, which answers to the sperrit, has to shine on 'em all, an' the rain, which answers to god's mercy, has to fall on 'em all. i jes watch 'em, an' plan fer 'em, an' shelter 'em, an' love 'em, an' if they do their part they're bound to grow. now i'm goin' to cut you a nice bo'quet to carry back to the cabbage patch." so engrossed were the two in selecting and arranging the flowers that neither thought of the yellowroot or its substitute. nevertheless, as lovey mary tramped briskly back over the railroad-ties with her burden of blossoms, she bore a new thought in her heart which was destined to bring about a surer cure than any of miss viny's most efficient herbs. chapter ix labor day "and cloudy the day, or stormy the night, the sky of her heart was always bright." "it wouldn't s'prise me none if we had cyclones an' tornadoes by evenin', it looks so thundery outdoors." it was inconsiderate of miss hazy to make the above observation in the very face of the most elaborate preparations for a picnic, but miss hazy's evil predictions were too frequent to be effective. "i'll scurry round an' git another loaf of bread," said mrs. wiggs, briskly, as she put a tin pail into the corner of the basket. "lovey mary, you put in the eggs an' git them cookies outen the stove. i promised them boys a picnic on labor day, an' we are goin' if it snows." "awful dangerous in the woods when it storms," continued miss hazy. "i heared of a man oncet that would go to a picnic in the rain, and he got struck so bad it burned his shoes plump off." "must have been the same man that got drownded, when he was little, fer goin' in swimmin' on sunday," answered mrs. wiggs, wiping her hands on her apron. "mebbe 't was," said miss hazy. lovey mary vibrated between the door and the window, alternating between hope and despair. she had set her heart on the picnic with the same intensity of desire that had characterized her yearning for goodness and affection and curly hair. "i believe there is a tiny speck more blue," she said, scanning the heavens for the hundredth time. "course there is!" cried mrs. wiggs, "an' even if there ain't, we'll have the picnic anyway. i b'lieve in havin' a good time when you start out to have it. if you git knocked out of one plan, you want to git yerself another right quick, before yer sperrits has a chance to fall. here comes jake an' chris with their baskets. suppose you rench off yer hands an' go gether up the rest of the childern. i 'spect billy's done hitched up by this time." at the last moment miss hazy was still trying to make up her mind whether or not she would go. "them wheels don't look none too stiddy fer sich a big load," she said cautiously. "them wheels is a heap sight stiddier than your legs," declared mrs. wiggs. "an' there ain't a meeker hoss in kentucky than cuby. he looks like he might 'a' belonged to a preacher 'stid of bein' a broken-down engine- hoss." an unforeseen delay was occasioned by a heated controversy between lovey mary and tommy concerning the advisability of taking cusmoodle. "there ain't more than room enough to squeeze you in, tommy," she said, "let alone that fat old duck." "'t ain't a fat old duck." "'t is, too! he sha'n't go. you'll have to stay at home yourself if you can't be good." "i feel like i was doin' to det limber," threatened tommy. mrs. wiggs recognized a real danger. she also knew that discretion was the better part of valor. "here's a nice little place up here by me, jes big enough fer you an' cusmoodle. you kin set on the basket; it won't mash nothin'. if we're packed in good an' tight, can't none of us fall out." when the last basket was stored away, the party started off in glee, leaving miss hazy still irresolute in the doorway, declaring that "she almost wisht she had 'a' went." the destination had not been decided upon, so it was discussed as the wagon jolted along over the cobblestones. "let's go out past miss viny's," suggested jake; "there's a bully woods out there." "aw, no! let's go to tick creek an' go in wadin'." mrs. wiggs, seated high above the party and slapping the reins on cuba's back, allowed the lively debate to continue until trouble threatened, then she interfered: "i think it would be nice to go over to the cemetery. we'd have to cross the city, but when you git out there there's plenty of grass an' trees, an' it runs right 'longside the river." the proximity of the river decided the matter. "i won't hardly take a swim!" said jake, going through the motions, to the discomfort of the two little girls who were hanging their feet from the back of the wagon. "i'm afraid it's going to rain so hard that you can take your swim before you get there," said lovey mary, as the big drops began to fall. the picnic party huddled on the floor of the wagon in a state of great merriment, while mrs. wiggs spread an old quilt over as many of them as it would cover. "'t ain't nothin' but a summer shower," she said, holding her head on one side to keep the rain from driving in her face. "i 'spect the sun is shinin' at the cemetery right now." as the rickety wagon, with its drenched and shivering load, rattled across main street, an ominous sound fell upon the air: _one--two--three! one--two!_ mrs. wiggs wrapped the lines about her wrists and braced herself for the struggle. but cuba had heard the summons, his heart had responded to the old call, and with one joyous bound he started for the fire. "hold on tight!" yelled mrs. wiggs. "don't none of you fall out. whoa, cuby! whoa! i'll stop him in a minute. hold tight!" cuba kicked the stiffness out of his legs, and laying his ears back, raced valiantly for five squares neck and neck with the engine-horses. but the odds were against him; mrs. wiggs and chris sawing on one line, and billy and jake pulling on the other, proved too heavy a handicap. within sight of the fire he came to a sudden halt. "it's the lumber-yards!" called chris, climbing over the wheels. "looks like the whole town's on fire." "let's unhitch cuby an' tie him, an' stand in the wagon an' watch it," cried mrs. wiggs, in great excitement. the boys were not content to be stationary, so they rushed away, leaving mrs. wiggs and the girls, with tommy and the duck, to view the conflagration at a safe distance. for two hours the fire raged, leaping from one stack of lumber to another, and threatening the adjacent buildings. every fire-engine in the department was called out, the commons were black with people, and the excitement was intense. "ain't you glad we come!" cried lovey mary, dancing up and down in the wagon. "we never come. we was brought," said asia. long before the fire was under control the sun had come through the clouds and was shining brightly. picnics, however, were not to be considered when an attraction like this was to be had. when the boys finally came straggling back the fire was nearly out, the crowd had dispersed, and only the picnic party was left on the commons. "it's too late to start to the cemetery," said mrs. wiggs, thoughtfully. "what do you all think of havin' the picnic right here an' now?" the suggestion was regarded as nothing short of an inspiration. "the only trouble," continued mrs. wiggs, "is 'bout the water. where we goin' to git any to drink? i know one of the firemen, pete jenkins; if i could see him i'd ast him to pour us some outen the hose." "gimme the pail; i'll go after him," cried jake. "naw, you don't; i'm a-goin'. it's my maw that knows him," said billy. "that ain't nothin'. my uncle knows the chief of police! can't i go, mrs. wiggs?" meanwhile chris had seized the hint and the bucket, and was off in search of mr. peter jenkins, whose name would prove an open sesame to that small boy's paradise--the engine side of the rope. the old quilt, still damp, was spread on the ground, and around it sat the picnic party, partaking ravenously of dry sandwiches and cheese and cheer. such laughing and crowding and romping as there was! jake gave correct imitations of everybody in the cabbage patch, chris did some marvelous stunts with his wooden leg, and lovey mary sang every funny song that she knew. mrs. wiggs stood in the wagon above them, and dispensed hospitality as long as it lasted. cuba, hitched to a fence near by, needed no material nourishment. he was contentedly sniffing the smoke-filled air, and living over again the days of his youth. when the party reached home, tired and grimy, they were still enthusiastic over the fine time they had had. "it's jes the way i said," proclaimed mrs. wiggs, as she drove up with a flourish; "you never kin tell which way pleasure is a-comin'. who ever would 'a' thought, when we aimed at the cemetery, that we'd land up at a first-class fire?" chapter x a timely visit "the love of praise, howe'er concealed by art, reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart." weeks and months slipped by, and the cabbage patch ate breakfast and supper by lamplight. those who could afford it were laying in their winter coal, and those who could not were providently pasting brown paper over broken window-panes, and preparing to keep jack frost at bay as long as possible. one saturday, as lovey mary came home from the factory, she saw a well-dressed figure disappearing in the distance. "who is that lady?" she demanded suspiciously of europena wiggs, who was swinging violently on the gate. "'t ain't no lady," said europena. "it's my sunday-school teacher." "mrs. redding?" "uh-huh. she wants asia to come over to her house this evenin'." "wisht i could go," said lovey mary. "why can't you?" asked mrs. wiggs, coming to the open door. "asia would jes love to show mrs. reddin' how stylish you look in that red dress. i'll curl yer hair on the poker if you want me to." any diversion from the routine of work was acceptable, so late that afternoon the two girls, arrayed in their best garments, started forth to call on the reddings. "i wisht i had some gloves," said lovey mary, rubbing her blue fingers. "if i'd 'a' thought about it i'd 'a' made you some before we started. it don't take no time." asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts. "i make 'em outen billy's old socks after the feet's wore off." "i don't see how you know how to do so many things!" said lovey mary, admiringly. [illustration: "asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts."] "'t ain't nothin'," disclaimed asia, modestly. "it's jes the way maw brought us up. whenever we started out to do a thing she made us finish it someway or 'nother. oncet when we was all little we lived in the country. she sent billy out on the hoss to git two watermelon, an' told him fer him not to come home without 'em. when billy got out to the field he found all the watermelon so big he couldn't carry one, let alone two. what do you think he done?" "come home without 'em?" "no, sir, he never! he jes set on the fence an' thought awhile, then he took off en his jeans pants an' put a watermelon in each leg an' hanged 'em 'crost old rollie's back an' come ridin' home barelegged." "i think he's the nicest boy in the cabbage patch," said lovey mary, laughing over the incident. "he never does tease tommy." "that's 'cause he likes you. he says you've got grit. he likes the way you cleaned up miss hazy an' stood up to mr. stubbins." a deeper color than even the fresh air warranted came into lovey mary's cheeks, and she walked on for a few minutes in pleased silence. "don't you want to wear my gloves awhile?" asked asia. "no; my hands ain't cold any more," said lovey mary. as they turned into terrace park, with its beautiful grounds, its fountains and statuary, asia stopped to explain. "jes rich folks live over here. that there is the reddin's' house, the big white one where them curbstone ladies are in the yard. i wisht you could git a peek in the parlor; they've got chairs made outer real gold, an' strandaliers that look like icicles all hitched together." "do they set on the gold chairs?" "no, indeed; the legs is too wabbly fer that. i reckon they're jes to show how rich they are. this here is where the carriage drives in. their hired man wears a high-style hat, an' a fur cape jes like mrs. reddin's." "i 'spect they have turkey every day, don't they, asia?" before asia's veracity was tested to the limit, the girls were startled by the sudden appearance of an excited housemaid at the side door. "simmons! simmons!" she screamed. "oh, where is that man? i'll have to go for somebody myself." and without noticing the girls, she ran hastily down the driveway. asia, whose calmness was seldom ruffled, led the way into the entry. "that's the butter's pantry," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "don't they keep nothing in it but butter?" gasped lovey mary. "reckon not. they've got a great big box jes fer ice; not another thing goes in it." another maid ran down the steps, calling simmons. asia, a frequent visitor at the house, made her way unconcernedly up to the nursery. on the second floor there was great confusion; the telephone was ringing, servants were hurrying to and fro. "he'll choke to death before the doctor gets here!" they heard the nurse say as she ran through the hall. from the open nursery door they could hear the painful gasps and coughs of a child in great distress. asia paused on the landing, but lovey mary darted forward. the mother instinct, ever strong within her, had responded instantly to the need of the child. in the long, dainty room full of beautiful things, she only saw the terrified baby on his mother's lap, his face purple, his eyes distended, as he fought for his breath. [illustration: "master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms."] without a word she sprang forward, and grasping the child by his feet, held him at arm's-length and shook him violently. mrs. redding screamed, and the nurse, who was rushing in with hot milk, dropped the cup in horror. but a tiny piece of hard candy lay on the floor, and master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms. after the excitement had subsided, and two doctors and mr. redding had arrived breathless upon the scene, mrs. redding, for the dozenth time, lavished her gratitude upon lovey mary: "and to think you saved my precious baby! the doctor said it was the only thing that could have saved him, yet we four helpless women had no idea what to do. how did you know, dear? where did you ever see it done!" lovey mary, greatly abashed, faced the radiant parents, the two portly doctors, and the servants in the background. "i learned on tommy," she said in a low voice. "he swallered a penny once that we was going to buy candy with. i didn't have another, so i had to shake it out." during the laugh that followed, she and asia escaped, but not before mr. redding had slipped a bill into her hand, and the beautiful mrs. redding had actually given her a kiss! chapter xi the christmas play "not failure, but low aim, is crime." as the holiday season approached, a rumor began to be circulated that the cabbage patch sunday-school would have an entertainment as well as a christmas tree. the instigator of this new movement was jake schultz, whose histrionic ambition had been fired during his apprenticeship as "super" at the opera-house. "i know a man what rents costumes, an' the promp'-books to go with 'em," he said to several of the boys one sunday afternoon. "if we all chip in we kin raise the price, an' git it back easy by chargin' admittance." "aw, shucks!" said chris. "we don't know nothin' 'bout play-actin'." "we kin learn all right," said billy wiggs. "i bid to be the feller that acts on the trapeze." the other boys approving of the plan, it was agreed that jake should call on the costumer at his earliest convenience. one night a week later lovey mary was getting supper when she heard an imperative rap on the door. it was jake schultz. he mysteriously beckoned her out on the steps, and closed the door behind them. "have you ever acted any?" he asked. "i used to say pieces at the home," said lovey mary, forgetting herself. "well, do you think you could take leadin' lady in the entertainment?" [illustration: "'have you ever acted any?' he asked."] lovey mary had no idea what the lady was expected to lead, but she knew that she was being honored, and she was thrilled at the prospect. "i know some arm-exercises, and i could sing for them," she offered. "oh, no," explained jake; "it's a play, a reg'lar theayter play. i got the book and the costumes down on market street. the man didn't have but this one set of costumes on hand, so i didn't have no choice. it's a bully play, all right, though! i seen it oncet, an' i know how it all ought to go. it's named 'forst,' er somethin' like that. i'm goin' to be the devil, an' wear a red suit, an' have my face all streaked up. billy he's goin' to be the other feller what's stuck on the girl. he tole me to ast you to be her. your dress is white with cords an' tassels on it, an' the sleeves ain't sewed up. reckon you could learn the part? we ain't goin' to give it all." "i can learn anything!" cried lovey mary, recklessly. "already know the alphabet and the lord's prayer backward. is the dress short- sleeve? and does it drag in the back when you walk?" "yep," said jake, "an' the man said you was to plait your hair in two parts an' let 'em hang over your shoulders. i don't see why it wouldn't be pretty for you to sing somethin', too. ever'body is so stuck on yer singin'." "all right," said lovey mary, enthusiastically; "you bring the book over and show me where my part's at. and, jake," she called as he started off, "you tell billy i'll be glad to." for the next ten days lovey mary dwelt in elysium. the prompt-book, the rehearsals, the consultations, filled the spare moments and threw a glamour over the busy ones. jake, with his vast experience and unlimited knowledge of stage-craft, appealed to her in everything. he sat on a barrel and told how they did things "up to the opery-house," and lovey mary, seizing his suggestions with burning zeal, refitted the costumes, constructed scenery, hammered her own nails as well as the iron ones, and finally succeeded in putting into practice his rather vague theories. for the first time in her life she was a person of importance. besides her numerous other duties she prepared an elaborate costume for tommy. this had caused her some trouble, for miss hazy, who was sent to buy the goods for the trousers, exercised unwise economy in buying two remnants which did not match in color or pattern. "why didn't you put your mind on it, miss hazy?" asked lovey mary, making a heroic effort to keep her temper. "you might have known i couldn't take tommy to the show with one blue leg and one brown one. what must i do?" miss hazy sat dejectedly in the corner, wiping her eyes on her apron. "you might go ast mis' wiggs," she suggested as a forlorn hope. when mrs. wiggs was told the trouble she smiled reassuringly. emergencies were to her the spice of life; they furnished opportunities for the expression of her genius. "hush cryin', miss hazy; there ain't a speck of harm did. mary kin make the front outen one piece an' the back outen the other. nobody won't never know the difference, 'cause tommy can't be goin' an' comin' at the same time." the result was highly satisfactory, that is, to everybody but tommy. he complained that there "wasn't no room to set down." on christmas night the aristocracy of the cabbage patch assembled in the school-house to enjoy the double attraction of a christmas tree and an entertainment. mr. rothchild, who had arranged the tree for the last ten years, refused to have it moved from its accustomed place, which was almost in the center of the platform. he had been earnestly remonstrated with, but he and the tree remained firm. mrs. rothchild and all the little rothchildren had climbed in by the window before the doors were open in order to secure the front seats. immediately behind them sat the hazys and the wiggses. "that there is the seminary student gittin' up now," whispered mrs. wiggs. "he's goin' to call out the pieces. my land! ain't he washed out? looks like he'd go into a trance fer fifty cents. hush, australia! don't you see he is goin' to pray?" after the opening prayer, the young preacher suggested that, as long as the speakers were not quite ready, the audience should "raise a hymn." "he's got a fine voice," whispered miss hazy; "i heared 'em say he was the gentleman soprano at a down-town church." when the religious exercises were completed, the audience settled into a state of pleasurable anticipation. "the first feature of the entertainment," announced the preacher, "will be a song by miss europena wiggs." [illustration: "europena stepped forward."] europena stepped forward and, with hands close to her sides and anguished eyes on the ceiling, gasped forth the agonized query: "can she make a cheery-pie, billy boy, billy boy? can she make a cheery-pie, charming billy?" notwithstanding the fact that there were eight verses, an encore was demanded. mrs. wiggs rose in her seat and beckoned vehemently to europena. "come on back!" she motioned violently with her lips. "they want you to come back." europena, in a state of utter bewilderment, returned to the stage. "say another speech!" whispered mrs. wiggs, leaning over so far that she knocked mrs. rothchild's bonnet awry. still europena stood there, an evident victim of lockjaw. "'i have a little finger,'" prompted her mother frantically from the second row front. a single ray of intelligence flickered for a moment over the child's face, and with a supreme effort she said: "i have a little finger, an' i have a little beau; when i get a little bigger i'll have a little toe." "well, she got it all in," said mrs. wiggs, in a relieved tone, as europena was lifted down. after this, other little girls came forward and made some unintelligible remarks concerning santa claus. it was with some difficulty that they went through their parts, for mr. rothchild kept getting in the way as he calmly and uncompromisingly continued to hang cornucopias on the tree. songs and recitations followed, but even the youngest spectator realized that these were only preliminary skirmishes. at last a bell rang. two bedspreads. which served as curtains were majestically withdrawn. a sigh of admiration swept the room. "ain't he cute!" whispered a girl in the rear, as billy rose resplendent in pink tights and crimson doublet, and folding his arms high on his breast, recited in a deep voice: "i have, alas! philosophy, medicine, jurisprudence too, and, to my cost, theology with ardent labor studied through." "i don't see no sense in what he's sayin' at all," whispered miss hazy. "it's jes what was in the book," answered mrs. wiggs, "'cause i heared him repeat it off before supper." the entrance of jake awakened the flagging interest. nobody understood what he said either, but he made horrible faces, and waved his red arms, and caused a pleasant diversion. "maw, what's john bagby a-handin' round in that little saucer?" asked australia. "fer the mercy sake! i don't know," answered her mother, craning her neck to see. john, with creaking footsteps, tiptoed to the front of the stage, and stooping down, began to mix a concoction in a plate. many stood up to see what he was doing, and conjecture was rife. _mephisto_ and _faust_ were forgotten until jake struck a heroic pose, and grasping billy's arm, said hoarsely: "gaze, faustis, gaze into pairdition!" john put a match to the powder, a bright red light filled the room, and the audience, following the index-finger of the impassioned _mephisto_, gazed into the placid, stupid faces of four meek little boys on the mourners' bench. [illustration: "sang in a high, sweet voice, 'i need thee every hour'"] before the violent coughing caused by the calcium fumes had ceased, a vision in white squeezed past mr. rothchild and came slowly down to the edge of the platform. it was lovey mary as _marguerite_. her long dress swept about her feet, her heavy hair hung in thick braids over both shoulders, and a burning red spot glowed on each cheek. for a moment she stood as jake had directed, with head thrown back and eyes cast heavenward, then she began to recite. the words poured from her lips with a volubility that would have shamed an auctioneer. it was a long part, full of hard words, but she knew it perfectly and was determined to show how fast she could say it without making a mistake. it was only when she finished that she paused for breath. then she turned slowly, and stretching forth appealing arms to _faust_, sang in a high, sweet voice, "i need thee every hour." the effect was electrical. at last the cabbage patch understood what was going on. the roof rang with applause. even mr. rothchild held aside his strings of pop-corn to let _marguerite_ pass out. "s' more! s' more!" was the cry. "sing it ag'in!" jake stepped before the curtain. "if our friends is willin'," he said, "we'll repeat over the last ak." again lovey mary scored a triumph. john bagby burned the rest of the calcium powder during the last verse, and the entertainment concluded in a prolonged cheer. chapter xii reaction "our remedies oft in ourselves do lie." when the paint and powder had been washed off, and tommy had with difficulty been extracted from his new trousers and put to bed, lovey mary sat before the little stove and thought it all over. it had been the very happiest time of her whole life. how nice it was to be praised and made much of! mrs. wiggs had started it by calling everybody's attention to her good points; then mrs. redding had sought her out and shown her continued attention; to-night was the great climax. her name had been on every tongue, her praises sung on every side, and billy wiggs had given her everything he got off the christmas tree. "i wisht i deserved it all," she said, as she got up to pull the blanket closer about tommy. "i've tried to be good. i guess i am better in some ways, but not in all--not in all." she knelt by the bed and held tommy's hand to her cheek. "sometimes he looks like kate when he's asleep like this. i wonder if she's got well? i wonder if she ever misses him?" for a long time she knelt there, holding the warm little hand in hers. the play, the success, the applause, were all forgotten, and in their place was a shame, a humiliation, that brought the hot tears to her eyes. "i ain't what they think i am," she whispered brokenly. "i'm a mean, bad girl after all. the canker-worm's there. miss viny said there never would be a sure-'nough beautiful flower till the canker-worm was killed. but i want to be good; i want to be what they think i am!" again and again the old thoughts of kate rose to taunt and madden her. but a new power was at work; it brought new thoughts of kate, of kate sick and helpless, of kate without friends and lonely, calling for her baby. through the night the battle raged within her. when the first gray streaks showed through the shutters, lovey mary cleaned her room and put on her sunday dress. "i'll be a little late to the factory," she explained to miss hazy at breakfast, "for i've got to go on a' errand." it was an early hour for visitors at the city hospital, but when lovey mary stated her business she was shown to kate's ward. at the far end of the long room, with her bandaged head turned to the wall, lay kate. when the nurse spoke to her she turned her head painfully, and looked at them listlessly with great black eyes that stared forth from a face wasted and wan from suffering. "kate!" said lovey mary, leaning across the bed and touching her hand. "kate, don't you know me?" the pale lips tightened over the prominent white teeth. "well, i swan, lovey mary, where'd you come from?" not waiting for an answer, she continued querulously: "say, can't you get me out of this hole someway? but even if i had the strength to crawl, i wouldn't have no place to go. can't you take me away? anywhere would do." lovey mary's spirits fell; she had nerved herself for a great sacrifice, had decided to do her duty at any cost; but thinking of it beforehand in her little garret room, with tommy's hand in hers, and kate rider a mere abstraction, was very different from facing the real issue, with the old, selfish, heartless kate in flesh and blood before her. she let go of kate's hand. "don't you want to know about tommy?" she asked. "i've come to say i was sorry i run off with him." "it was mighty nervy in you. i knew you'd take good care of him, though. but say! you can get me away from this, can't you? i ain't got a friend in the world nor a cent of money. but i ain't going to stay here, where there ain't nothing to do, and i get so lonesome i 'most die. i'd rather set on a street corner and run a hand-organ. where are you and tommy at?" "we are in the cabbage patch," said lovey mary, with the old repulsion strong upon her. "where?" "the cabbage patch. it ain't your sort of a place, kate. the folks are good and honest, but they are poor and plain. you'd laugh at 'em." kate turned her eyes to the window and was silent a moment before she said slowly: "i ain't got much right to laugh at nobody. i'd be sorter glad to get with good people again. the other sort's all right when you're out for fun, but when you're down on your luck they ain't there." lovey mary, perplexed and troubled, looked at her gravely. "haven't you got any place you could go to?" [illustration: "'haven't you got any place you could go to?'"] kate shook her head. "nobody would be willing to look after me and nurse me. lovey,"--she stretched her thin hand across to her entreatingly,--"take me home with you! i heard the doctor tell the nurse he couldn't do nothing more for me. i can't die here shut up with all these sick people. take me wherever you are at. i'll try not to be no trouble, and--i want to keep straight." tears were in her eyes, and her lips trembled. there was a queer little spasm at lovey mary's heart. the canker-worm was dead. when a carriage drove up to miss hazy's door and the driver carried in a pale girl with a bandaged head, it caused untold commotion. "do you s'pose mary's a-bringin' home a smallpox patient?" asked miss hazy, who was ever prone to look upon the tragic side. "naw!" said chris, who was peeping under the window-curtain; "it looks more like she's busted her crust." in less than an hour every neighbor had been in to find out what was going on. mrs. wiggs constituted herself mistress of ceremonies. she had heard the whole story from the overburdened mary, and was now prepared to direct public opinion in the way it should go. "jes another boarder for miss hazy," she explained airily to mrs. eichorn. "lovey mary was so well pleased with her boardin'-house, she drummed it up among her friends. this here lady has been at the hospittal. she got knocked over by a wagon out there near the factory, an' it run into celebrated concussion. the nurse told lovey mary this mornin' it was somethin' like information of the brain. what we're all goin' to do is to try to get her well. i'm a-goin' home now to git her a nice dinner, an' i jes bet some of you'll see to it that she gits a good supper. you kin jes bank on us knowin' how to give a stranger a welcome!" it was easy to establish a precedent in the cabbage patch. when a certain course of action was once understood to be the proper thing, every resident promptly fell in line. the victim of "celebrated concussion" was overwhelmed with attention. she lay in a pink wrapper in miss hazy's kitchen, and received the homage of the neighborhood. meanwhile lovey mary worked extra hours at the factory and did sewing at night to pay for kate's board. in spite, however, of the kind treatment and the regular administration of miss viny's herbs and mrs. wiggs's yellowroot, kate grew weaker day by day. one stormy night when lovey mary came home from the factory she found her burning with fever and talking excitedly. miss hazy had gotten her up-stairs, and now stood helplessly wringing her hands in the doorway. "lor', lovey mary! she's cuttin' up scandalous," complained the old lady. "i done ever'thing i knowed how; i ironed the sheets to make 'em warm, an' i tried my best to git her to swallow a mustard cocktail. i wanted her to lemme put a fly-blister on to her head, too, but she won't do nothin'." "all right, miss hazy," said lovey mary, hanging her dripping coat on a nail. "i'll stay with her now. don't talk, kate! try to be still." "but i can't, lovey. i'm going to die, and i ain't fit to die. i've been so bad and wicked, i'm 'fraid to go, lovey. what'll i do? what'll i do?" in vain the girl tried to soothe her. her hysteria increased; she cried and raved and threw herself from side to side. "kate! kate!" pleaded lovey mary, trying to hold her arms, "don't cry so. god'll forgive you. he will, if you are sorry." "but i'm afraid," shuddered kate. "i've been so bad. heaven knows i'm sorry, but it's too late! too late!" another paroxysm seized her, and her cries burst forth afresh. mary, in desperation, rushed from the room. "tommy!" she called softly down the steps. the small boy was sitting on the stairs, in round-eyed wonder at what was going on. "tommy," said lovey mary, picking him up, "the sick lady feels so bad! go in and give her a love, darling. pet her cheeks and hug her like you do me. tell her she's a pretty mama. tell her you love her." tommy trotted obediently into the low room and climbed on the bed. he put his plump cheek against the thin one, and whispered words of baby- love. kate's muscles relaxed as her arms folded about him. gradually her sobs ceased and her pulse grew faint and fainter. outside, the rain and sleet beat on the cracked window-pane, but a peace had entered the dingy little room. kate received the great summons with a smile, for in one fleeting moment she had felt for the first and last time the blessed sanctity of motherhood. chapter xiii an honorable retreat "for i will ease my heart although, it be with hazard of my head." miss bell sat in her neat little office, with the evening paper in her hand. the hour before tea was the one time of the day she reserved for herself. susie smithers declared that she sat before the fire at such times and took naps, but susie's knowledge was not always trustworthy --it depended entirely on the position of the keyhole. at any rate, miss bell was not sleeping to-night; she moved about restlessly, brushing imaginary ashes from the spotless hearth, staring absently into the fire, then recurring again and again to an item in the paper which she held: died. kate rider, in her twenty-fourth year, from injuries received in an accident. miss bell seemed to cringe before the words. her face looked old and drawn. "and to think i kept her from having her child!" she said to herself as she paced up and down the narrow room. "no matter what else kate was, she was his mother and had the first right to him. but i acted for the best; i could see no other way. if i had only known!" [illustration: "susie smithers at the keyhole."] there were steps on the pavement without; she went to the window, and shading her eyes with her hands, gazed into the gathering dusk. some one was coming up the walk, some one very short and fat. no; it was a girl carrying a child. miss bell reached the door just in time to catch tommy in her arms as lovey mary staggered into the hall. they were covered with sleet and almost numb from the cold. "kate's dead!" cried lovey mary, as miss bell hurried them into the office. "i didn't know she was going to die. oh, i've been so wicked to you and to kate and to god! i want to be arrested! i don't care what they do to me." she threw herself on the floor, and beat her fists on the carpet. tommy stood near and wept in sympathy; he wore his remnant trousers, and his little straw hat, round which mrs. wiggs had sewn a broad band of black. miss bell hovered over lovey mary and patted her nervously on the back. "don't, my dear, don't cry so. it's very sad--dear me, yes, very sad. you aren't alone to blame, though; i have been at fault, too. i-- i--feel dreadfully about it." miss bell's face was undergoing such painful contortions that lovey mary stopped crying in alarm, and tommy got behind a chair. "of course," continued miss bell, gaining control of herself, "it was very wrong of you to run away, mary. when i discovered that you had gone i never stopped until i found you." "till you found me?" gasped lovey mary. "yes, child; i knew where you were all the time." again miss bell's features were convulsed, and mary and tommy looked on in awed silence. "you see," she went on presently, "i am just as much at fault as you. i was worried and distressed over having to let tommy go with kate, yet there seemed no way out of it. when i found you had hidden him away in a safe place, that you were both well and happy, i determined to keep your secret. but oh, mary, we hadn't the right to keep him from her! perhaps the child would have been her salvation; perhaps she would have died a good girl." "but she did, miss bell," said lovey mary, earnestly. "she said she was sorry again and again, and when she went to sleep tommy's arms was round her neck." "mary!" cried miss bell, seizing the girl's hand eagerly, "did you find her and take him to her?" "no, ma'am. i brought her to him. she didn't have no place to go, and i wanted to make up to her for hating her so. i did ever'thing i could to make her well. we all did. i never thought she was going to die." then, at miss bell's request, lovey mary told her story, with many sobs and tears, but some smiles in between, over the good times in the cabbage patch; and when she had finished, miss bell led her over to the sofa and put her arms about her. they had lived under the same roof for fifteen years, and she had never before given her a caress. "mary," she said, "you did for kate what nobody else could have done. i thank god that it all happened as it did." "but you'd orter scold me and punish me," said lovey mary. "i'd feel better if you did." tommy, realizing in some vague way that a love-feast was in progress, and always ready to echo lovey mary's sentiments, laid his chubby hand on miss bell's knee. "when my little sled drows up i'm doin' to take you ridin'," he said confidingly. miss bell laughed a hearty laugh, for the first time in many months. the knotty problem which had caused her many sleepless nights had at last found its own solution. chapter xiv the cactus blooms "i tell thee love is nature's second sun, causing a spring of virtues where he shines." it was june again, and once more lovey mary stood at an up-stairs window at the home. on the ledge grew a row of bright flowers, brought from miss viny's garden, but they were no brighter than the face that smiled across them at the small boy in the playground below. lovey mary's sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and a dust-cloth was tied about her head. as she returned to her sweeping she sang joyfully, contentedly: "can she sweep a kitchen floor, billy boy, billy boy? can she sweep a kitchen floor, charming billy?" "miss bell says for you to come down to the office," announced a little girl, coming up the steps. "there's a lady there and a baby." lovey mary paused in her work, and a shadow passed over her face. just three years ago the same summons had come, and with it such heartaches and anxiety. she pulled down her sleeves and went thoughtfully down the steps. at the office door she found mrs. redding talking to miss bell. "we leave saturday afternoon," she was saying. "it's rather sooner than we expected, but we want to get the baby to canada before the hot weather overtakes us. last summer i asked two children from the toronto home to spend two weeks with me at our summer place, but this year i have set my heart on taking lovey mary and tommy. they will see niagara falls and buffalo, where we stop over a day, besides the little outing at the lake. will you come, mary? you know robert might get choked again!" lovey mary leaned against the door for support. a half-hour visit to mrs. redding was excitement for a week, and only to think of going away with her, and riding on a steam-car, and seeing a lake, and taking tommy, and being ever so small a part of that gorgeous redding household! she could not speak; she just looked up and smiled, but the smile seemed to mean more than words, for it brought the sudden tears to mrs. redding's eyes. she gave mary's hand a quick, understanding little squeeze, then hurried out to her carriage. that very afternoon lovey mary went to the cabbage patch. as she hurried along over the familiar ground, she felt as if she must sing aloud the happy song that was humming in her heart. she wanted to stop at each cottage and tell the good news; but her time was limited, so she kept on her way to miss hazy's, merely calling out a greeting as she passed. when she reached the door she heard mrs. wiggs's voice in animated conversation. "well, i wish you'd look! there she is, this very minute! i never was so glad to see anybody in my life! my goodness, child, you don't know how we miss you down here! we talk 'bout you all the time, jes like a person puts their tongue in the empty place after a tooth's done pulled out." "i'm awful glad to be back," said lovey mary, too happy to be cast down by the reversion to the original state of the hazy household. "me an' chris ain't had a comfortable day sence you left," complained miss hazy. "i'd 'a' almost rather you wouldn't 'a' came than to have went away ag'in." "but listen!" cried lovey mary, unable to keep her news another minute. "i'm a-going on a railroad trip with mrs. redding, and she's going to take tommy, too, and we are going to see niag'ra and a lake and a buffalo!" "ain't that the grandest thing fer her to go and do!" exclaimed mrs. wiggs. "i told you she was a' angel!" "i'm right skeered of these here long trips," said miss hazy, "so many accidents these days." "my sakes!" answered mrs. wiggs, "i'd think you'd be 'fraid to step over a crack in the floor fer fear you'd fall through. why, lovey mary, it's the nicest thing i ever heared tell of! an' niag'ry fall, too. i went on a trip once when i was little. maw took me through the mountains. i never had seen mountains before, an' i cried at first an' begged her to make 'em sit down. a trip is something you never will fergit in all yer life. it was jes like mrs. reddin' to think about it; but i don't wonder she feels good to you. asia says she never expects to see anything like the way you shook that candy outen little robert. but see here, if you go 'way off there you mustn't fergit us." "i never could forget you all, wherever i went," said lovey mary. "i was awful mean when i come to the cabbage patch; somehow you all just bluffed me into being better. i wasn't used to being bragged on, and it made me want to be good more than anything in the world." "that's so," said mrs. wiggs. "you can coax a' elephant with a little sugar. the worser mr. wiggs used to act, the harder i'd pat him on the back. when he'd git bilin' mad, i'd say: 'now, mr. wiggs, why don't you go right out in the woodshed an' swear off that cuss? i hate to think of it rampantin' round inside of a good-lookin' man like you.' he'd often take my advice, an' it always done him good an' never hurt the woodshed. as fer the childern, i always did use compelments on them 'stid of switches." lovey mary untied the bundle which she carried, and spread the contents on the kitchen table. "i've been saving up to get you all some presents," she said. "i wanted to get something for every one that had been good to me, but that took in the whole patch! these are some new kind of seed for miss viny; she learned me a lot out of her garden. this is goods for a waist for you, miss hazy." "it's rale pretty," said miss hazy, measuring its length. "if you'd 'a' brought me enough fer a skirt, too, i'd never 'a' got through prayin' fer you." mrs. wiggs was indignant. "i declare, miss hazy! you ain't got a manner in the world, sometimes. it's beautiful goods, lovey mary. i'm goin' to make it up fer her by a fancy new pattern asia bought; it's got a sailor collar." "this here is for chris," continued lovey mary, slightly depressed by miss hazy's lack of appreciation, "and this is for mrs. schultz. i bought you a book, mrs. wiggs. i don't know what it's about, but it's an awful pretty cover. i knew you'd like to have it on the parlor table." it was the "iliad"! mrs. wiggs held it at arm's-length and, squinting her eyes, read: "home of an island." "that ain't what the man called it," said lovey mary. "oh, it don't matter 'bout the name. it's a beautiful book, jes matches my new tidy. you couldn't 'a' pleased me better." "i didn't have money enough to go round," explained lovey mary, apologetically, "but i bought a dozen lead-pencils and thought i'd give them round among the children." "ever'thing'll be terrible wrote over," said miss hazy. the last bundle was done up in tissue-paper and tied with a silver string. lovey mary gave it to mrs. wiggs when miss hazy was not looking. "it's a red necktie," she whispered, "for billy." when the train for the north pulled out of the station one saturday afternoon it bore an excited passenger. lovey mary, in a new dress and hat, sat on the edge of a seat, with little robert on one side and tommy on the other. when her nervousness grew unbearable she leaned forward and touched mrs. redding on the shoulder: "will you please, ma'am, tell me when we get there?" mrs. redding laughed. "get there, dear? why, we have just started!" "i mean to the cabbage patch. they're all going to be watching for me as we go through." "is that it?" said mr. redding. "well, i will take the boys, and you can go out and stand on the platform and watch for your friends." lovey mary hesitated. "please, sir, can't i take tommy, too? if it hadn't 'a' been for him i never would have been here." so mr. redding took them to the rear car, and attaching lovey mary firmly to the railing, and tommy firmly to mary, returned to his family. "there's miss viny's!" cried lovey mary, excitedly, as the train whizzed past. "we're getting there. hold on to your hat, tommy, and get your pocket-handkerchief ready to wave." the bell began to ring, and the train slowed up at the great water- tank. "there they are! all of 'em. hello, miss hazy! and there's asia and chris and ever'body!" mrs. wiggs pushed through the little group and held an empty bottle toward lovey mary. "i want you to fill it fer me," she cried breathlessly. "fill it full of niag'ry water. i want to see how them falls look." [illustration: "lovey mary waved until she rounded a curve."] the train began to move. miss hazy threw her apron over her head and wept. mrs. wiggs and mrs. eichorn waved their arms and smiled. the cabbage patch, with its crowd of friendly faces, became a blur to the girl on the platform. suddenly a figure on a telegraph pole attracted her attention; it wore a red necktie and it was throwing kisses. lovey mary waved until the train rounded a curve, then she gave tommy an impulsive hug. "it ain't hard to be good when folks love you," she said, with a little catch in her voice. "i'll make 'em all proud of me yet!" [illustration: cover art] how a farthing made a fortune [illustration: "dick had to be busy." _p_. .] how a farthing made a fortune or "honesty is the best policy." by mrs. c. e. bowen _authoress of "jack the conqueror," "how paul's penny became a pound," "how peter's pound became a penny," "the brook's story," etc., etc._ _third edition._ london s. w. partridge & co. paternoster row. hazell, watson, and viney, ltd. printers, london and aylesbury. contents. chapter i. dick and the apples chapter ii. dick's mistake chapter iii. a new home chapter iv. life at denham court chapter v. the visitor at the lodge chapter vi. sir john's proposal chapter vii. returning good for evil illustrations "dick had to be busy." _p_. "i want to speak a word to you, my man." "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough." susan and dick in the railway-carriage. the meeting of mr walters and dick. "he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves." how a farthing made a fortune; or, "honesty is the best policy." chapter i. dick and the apples. few children, if any, who read this tale will probably be able to form any idea of such a wretched home as that in which lived little dick nason, the ragman's son. there are houses and rooms in some of the back streets in london where men, women, and children herd almost like wild beasts--haunts of iniquity and misery, and where the name of god is never heard except in the utterance of terrible oaths or execrations. such was roan's court, a place which gave the police continual trouble, and many a hard blow in the execution of their duty. the houses were let out in rooms, of which the upper ones were the most healthy, as possessing a little more light and air than the others; but the cellar floors were almost destitute of both these common luxuries of life, being sunk considerably below the level of the court, and the windows, consisting of four small panes of glass, begrimed with dirt, or if broken, as was generally the case, stuffed up with dirty rags or paper. it was in one of these cellar rooms that dick nason had been born, and in which he lived till he was twelve years old. _how_ he had lived, _how_ he had been fed, and _how_ clothed, it would be difficult to imagine. his mother had been a tidy sort of woman in her younger days, gaining her living as a servant in the family of a small tradesman. but she married a man who was not of sober habits, and who in consequence lost all steady employment, and sank lower and lower till he was reduced to the position of a ragman, going about to collect clothes, bones, rabbit-skins, and such odds and ends as he could scrape together from the servants. the trade was not an unlucrative one on the whole, but nason spent so much in drink, and his wife having fallen into the same bad habit, kept so little of what she could contrive to get from her husband for household purposes, that they seldom sat down to a regular meal, but scrambled on in a wretched way, becoming every year more degraded and more confirmed in their habits of intemperance. such was the home in which little dick was reared. fortunately he was the only child. his father took little notice of him. his mother was not without affection for him, but it was constantly deadened by the almost stupefied state in which she lived. the child seldom knew real hunger, for there was generally something to be found in the three-cornered cupboard to which he had free access, nor did he often get the hard words and blows that are so apt to fall to the lot of the unfortunate children of drinking parents. neither nason nor his wife were ranked amongst the more brawling and disorderly inhabitants of roan's court; though drink stupefied and rendered them helpless and good-for-nothing often for days together, especially after nason had had a good haul into his big clothes-bag, and had turned its contents into money. but as for the dirt, untidiness, and general discomfort of their abode, they might have won the prize in this respect had one been offered for the most wretched room. dick was a queer little figure to look at, though he had the brightest face possible. he used to be clothed entirely out of his father's rag-bag. nason had three of these bags, which hung up on three nails in their cellar room. one was blue, made of strong material, for the reception of old garments; the second, of stout canvas, was for rabbit-skins; and the third for bones. out of the blue bag used to come forth jackets, which were by no means worn out, as well as jackets well patched and darned. the latter always fell to dick's share, as the better ones were more valuable to turn into cash. as to the fit, that was considered to be utterly unimportant. if only they were large enough for dick to squeeze into them, or small enough for him to be able to walk about in them, that was deemed sufficient; so the little fellow would at one time be seen to be almost bursting through his things from their tightness, and at another he looked like a walking clothes-peg with his garments hanging loosely upon him. but it was all the same to dick, whether they were tight or loose, and his bright eyes and curly head were what people looked at most after all. dick's life for the first few years was a very free and easy one. he made dirt pies beautifully as soon as he was able to walk, being instructed in that art by some children a little older than himself who lived next door. then came the ball-playing age--for even the poorest youngsters contrive to get balls somehow or other--and dick had his to roll about long before he knew how to play with it. a little later on his amusement was to stroll about the streets, peep in at the shop windows, look longingly at the tempting piles of oranges and lollipops on the stalls at the corner of the street, and occasionally, but very rarely, produce a halfpenny from his pocket with which to purchase a scrap of the said lollipops, or one of the smallest and most sour of the oranges. but the greatest delight of dick's life was to go to covent garden market to look at the flowers, his love for which seemed born with him in a remarkable degree. he was in a perfect ecstasy of delight the first time he went there in company with some other children, who like himself had nothing to do but to stroll about the streets. what they looked at with indifference, dick gazed upon with rapture, and from that day he constantly found his way to the same spot, which was at no great distance from roan's court. he was there so often that his appearance became familiar to the stall-holders, and they sometimes employed him in running errands or doing little jobs for them, rewarding him with an apple or orange, or, if it were towards the evening, perhaps a bunch of flowers that had begun to fade. nothing ever pleased him so much as to have them to take home; and then he tenderly put them in a cracked mug on the window seat, where he could see them as soon as he awoke in the morning. in after years he used to say that his first idea of god was taken from those flowers; that their beauty carried off his mind in wonder as to the greatness of the power that made them. the strange contrast between them in all their loveliness and the dingy dirty room he lived in, had doubtless much to do with the effect they produced on his mind. dick knew little about religion. once or twice he had peeped into a church when service was going on, but had not cared to stay long; not at all understanding what he heard, and feeling rather alarmed at the man in the black gown whom he saw sitting near the door to keep order. but though dick was a stranger to both church and sunday-school, an instructor was raised up for him in a quarter no one would have expected. not far from covent garden, in a single room, lived an old man named john walters, who had a small pension from a gentleman whose servant he had once been, and who increased his means by doing a variety of jobs about the market, where he was quite an institution. this old man loved his god and loved his bible. he lived quite alone. his wife had been dead some years, and the only child he ever had, a boy, died of measles when he was about twelve years of age. perhaps it was the remembrance of this boy made him notice little dick as he lingered day after day about the market; but he might never have spoken to him had it not been for an incident which we will relate. one day as a woman from the country was beginning to put up her fruit and vegetables, she tripped and upset her basket of apples, which rolled away in every direction. dick was standing near and helped to pick them up. the woman was anxious to collect them all, for they were a valuable sort of apple which sold for a good price for dessert, and every one was precious. several rolled away to a distance and lodged under a heap of empty hampers. dick ran amongst the hampers and picked them up; as he did so he slipped three of them into the capacious pockets of the very loose clothes he had on, which had lately been produced from the blue bag and would have fitted a boy nearly twice his size. there was an eye above that saw him commit this theft, that almighty eye which never sleeps; but there was also a human one upon the little boy at the moment, and it was that of old john walters. he was standing very near, but was concealed by some tall shrubs. he saw dick turn round to look if any one could see him before he put the apples in his pocket, and this made him watch what he was about; and he also saw him go up to the woman with several apples in his hands, which he gave her. she warmly thanked him, and returned him one as a present for the trouble he had taken. it was getting late in the afternoon, and walters was soon going home. he felt unhappy about dick, who reminded him of his own boy. he thought he looked like a neglected lad who had no one to teach him how wrong it is to steal. he did not like to bring him into disgrace and trouble in the market by accusing him of taking the apples, neither did he feel it would be right in him to see a child steal and take no notice. "for," thought he, "if he goes on from one thing to another he may come to be a housebreaker in course of time; but if stopped now, a boy with such a face as that may become an honest, good man." then after a few minutes' thought he said to himself, "'tis one of christ's little ones, and so for the master's sake i'll have a try at him." meanwhile dick was devouring the apple the woman had given him, with the not unpleasant recollection that the pleasure to his palate would be repeated three times over, since he had three more in his pocket. i am afraid the said pleasure was in no way diminished by the consciousness that they were stolen. i do not mean to say that he was a thief habitually, for he was not. some boys make thieving a trade and exult in it. dick had sometimes purloined what was not his own, in the same manner that he had done the apples. he did not look out for opportunities, but if one such as this came in his way he did not try to resist the temptation. he was rather startled when he felt some one lay a hand firmly on his shoulder. it was the hand of john walters, who said to him-- "i want to speak a word to you, my man. come home with me and i'll give you a cup of tea. i'm going to have mine directly." dick looked up into his face. it was a very kindly one, though rough and furrowed with years; he did not feel afraid of it; so he went off with walters, for the cup of tea sounded tempting. it was not often such a chance fell in his way. he walked by the old man's side and answered all his questions as to his name, and where he lived, and what his father did, etc., and by the time walters knew all about him, they had arrived at the room which he rented in a small back street of some people who kept a little shop. it was but a humble abode, but it seemed a palace to dick compared with his own. in the first place, it was quite clean, for the woman of whom walters rented it was careful to keep it well swept, and he himself did all the tidying and dusting part. then the furniture was better than what dick was accustomed to see in any of the rooms in roan's court. there was a little round table in the middle of the room, and another at the side with two or three large books on it. [illustration: "i want to speak a word to you, my man."] and there was a cupboard in one corner and a narrow bedstead in another, and over the bedstead was laid a large tiger-skin which walters' master had given him many years before, and which served as an ornament by day and a warm covering for cold nights. also there was a shelf over the side table with a few books on it. walters was a good scholar, and had always been fond of reading, but of late years he had cared for few books except his bible and prayer-book, which gave evidence of being often used. walters told dick to sit down, and he gave him a book with some pictures of animals in it to look at whilst he made tea; but the boy could not help watching walters and his doings, which had greater attractions than his book, on the whole. first he put a match to the fire, which was laid ready for lighting. then he went out with his kettle and fetched some water. next he unlocked the cupboard, and brought out a tea-pot and two blue and white cups and saucers, and a half-loaf of bread and some butter. he set them on the table very tidily, and then going out again, he went into the little shop on the other side of the passage and bought two or three slices of bacon of his landlady, who sold provisions. these he fried in a little pan that was hung up by the fireside, and when the water was poured into the tea-pot, and the frizzling, delicious-smelling bacon was lifted off the fire and put on a dish on the table, dick's mouth watered so that he could scarcely wait to be told to begin and eat. "now then, dick, come along," said walters, and dick needed no second bidding. he pulled his chair in an instant close to the table, and taking his seat, looked ready for action. but old walters had something else to do before he would begin. he told dick he was going to say grace, and bade him stand, which he did, and looked rather wonderingly at the old man as he took his little black cap off his head, and raising his hands, asked god to bless the food his goodness had given them. the boy had never seen this done before, and it puzzled him; but the next moment he forgot all about it in the pleasure of satisfying his hunger with the bacon and bread, of which walters cut him a large slice. his kind-hearted host ate very little himself; but he enjoyed watching dick's satisfaction, and perhaps wished he had not to do so disagreeable a thing as to tell his young guest that he had seen him stealing. when tea was over, the methodical old gentleman washed up the cups and saucers and plates, and put everything away in the cupboard. then he said-- "now, dick, i have something to say to you--something you won't like half as much as eating the bacon. you have some apples in your pockets, which you stole from the woman when she dropped them and they rolled under the hamper. dick, it is a very shocking thing to be a thief, and yet you _are_ one!" poor dick's blue eyes grew enormous, and his cheeks became scarlet. he knew too well that when thieves were detected their fate was to be carried off to prison. he began to suspect he had been entrapped, and that walters was a policeman in disguise; yet it seemed strange if he were going to be punished that he should begin by giving him such a good tea. he had no time to collect his ideas, for walters was waiting for him to speak; he could only fly to the resource of trying to help himself by telling a falsehood, so he said that the woman had given them to him. "no, dick, that is untrue; she gave you one only, which you ate." more and more alarmed at finding how thoroughly acquainted walters was with the late transaction, dick began to cry and begged him to let him off. the kind-hearted old man drew the boy to his side, and told him he was not going to punish him or tell anybody about his theft; and when his tears were completely dried, he said-- "but there is one who does know it, my boy, and who will one day punish you for stealing and telling stories if you go on thus, and if you do not feel sorry for this and other naughty deeds you have done." and then he talked of things very new to little dick. he spoke of sin and of hell, and of jesus christ, and of repentance and heaven, in such simple words as came naturally to the old man, who was simple as a child himself, and yet was wiser and more learned in these precious truths than many a great scholar. he talked till the blue eyes brimmed over with tears again, but this time not with terror lest he was going to be sent to prison, but with sorrow for having done so wrongly. for dick had a very tender heart, and one that was quite ready to receive all that was said to him. he brought the three apples out of his pockets and asked walters to take them away from him. "but they are not mine; i can't take them," he said. "then i will throw them away," said dick. "that will not be right," said walters, "for they are not yours to throw away; they are the woman's." dick looked bewildered; he did not know what to do with them. "i think you ought to give them back to their owner," said walters. "i know her, and she is very kind and will forgive you directly, i am sure. if you are really sorry, you will be glad to take them back to her. suppose you leave them here till to-morrow, and then come, and i will go with you to her stall." dick promised, and then old walters kneeled down with the little boy by his side, and he prayed-- "o dear lord, forgive this young child for what he has done wrong, and help him not to steal and tell stories any more, for thy dear son jesus christ's sake. amen." then dick ran home, thinking all the way of what walters had been talking about. the next morning when he woke he saw his little mug of flowers standing on the window-sill, and the old thought came into his mind about god making such beautiful things, and he felt very sorry that he had offended god the day before, and ventured to say a little prayer to him himself, the very first that had passed his lips-- "o god, who made the flowers, please make me a good boy. i don't mean to steal apples any more, or tell stories." a little later on, dick learnt to ask for god's _help_ to keep him from stealing and lying and doing wrong things. and old walters had his prayer that morning about dick-- "o god, i am old and not able to do much for thee, but help me to teach the little boy thy ways. amen." he was very glad when dick came running in, for he was half afraid he might shirk the business of taking the apples back to the woman. it showed that he was really sorry, and willing to punish himself by doing a disagreeable thing; for it was of course very disagreeable to go and own that he had stolen the apples. let all children who read this little tale remember, that when we do any wrong thing, it is right that we should suffer for it. it is not enough merely to tell god we are sorry and to ask his forgiveness; we must prove to god and to ourselves that we really _are_ grieved for our sin by humbling ourselves to ask pardon of those to whom we have done wrong, and by trying to repair the wrong. if we shrink from this when it is in our power to do it, we may be pretty sure that our penitence is not of the kind to lead us to hope that our fault will be forgiven by god; and if he does not forgive our fault, then it will rise up before us in that day when all, both small and great, must appear before the judgment-seat of god. the woman, mrs. needham by name, was greatly surprised when walters came to her stall as she was laying it out, and told her that dick wished to return her three apples he had been tempted to put into his pockets the day before. poor dick scarcely said a word himself, he felt so frightened lest mrs. needham should be very angry; but she only spoke kindly to him, and said she hoped he would never do such a thing again. indeed, she was just going to give him back one of the apples; but walters was wiser, and shook his head at her and led dick away. he knew it would be bad for the boy to be rewarded for taking back the stolen fruit. that afternoon when mrs. needham and walters happened to be together for a few minutes, she talked to him about dick, and he told her how he had tried to show the boy the sin of stealing. "after all, though," said the soft-hearted woman, who was more kind than wise, "it was no such great thing he did. an apple or two he just slipped into his pocket when he had the chance, that was all." but walters turned to her, and laying his hand on her arm, said almost solemnly-- "and what turned adam and eve out of paradise and brought sin upon millions and millions of us, mrs. needham? why, the taking of an apple, and '_that was all!_'" "well, walters, you've your own way of talking about these things, and you understand them better than i do, because you're so bible-read." mrs. needham was prevented saying more, because a customer just then came up to purchase some of the very apples in question. chapter ii. dick's mistake. from that day dick had a friend in old walters--a very humble one, but of priceless worth to the neglected child. he encouraged him to come often to his room to see him, and finding he could not read, he commenced to try to teach him. he bought a spelling-book, and began what was in truth a most difficult and arduous task to one of his age. but dick was quick, and walters persevering, and in course of time the letters were mastered, and then came words of one syllable. after that progress was rapid. a copy-book next appeared on the scene, and the constant inky state of dick's fingers bore grimy testimony to the industry of both master and pupil. it was a proud day for them both when the boy could write his name quite legibly and neatly in the little prayer-book which walters had promised should be his whenever he could do so. but it was not only the art of reading and writing that dick was acquiring from his newly-found friend. lessons of far higher value were being constantly given to him by walters, whose heart was full of love for his saviour, and who longed to bring this little lamb into his fold, and secure him against all the temptations that, with such parents and in such a neighbourhood as roan's court, he would be subjected to as he grew older. fortunately for dick, his father's and mother's carelessness about him turned to good account by enabling him to be a great deal with walters. on sundays he went often with him to church, instead of as formerly playing all day in the court or back streets with other idle, uncared-for children. this was a real pleasure to him, for the music possessed as great a fascination for him as flowers. for some time things went on thus. dick was getting older and taller, and walters thought it was time for him to have some regular employment. he was so interested in the lad that he took a walk to roan's court one day to speak to his parents about him; but it was unfortunately an evening when they were neither of them quite in a state to be talked to on the subject. he left them in disgust, and with feelings of deep pity for their child. he did not know how to help him, for he lived his own lonely life, knowing scarcely any one; certainly no one who could be of use to dick. he consulted his landlady, but she could give no advice, and only remarked that "boys were troublesome creatures, and of no use whilst young." the poor woman had two of her own, for whom she had difficulty in providing, so she spoke feelingly. but though walters was unable to serve the lad in this respect, he had been unconsciously paving the way for a bright future for him by teaching him honesty and the fear of god. one morning as dick was going down the strand with another boy, they stopped to look in at a shop window just as a gentleman drew up his horse at the door, and looked round for some one to come and hold it whilst he entered the shop. dick ran forward and offered himself. the gentleman gave one look at his pleasant face and put the bridle into his hand, saying, "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough." he was some time in the shop, which was a bookseller's, and he was looking over books. once or twice he came to the door to see that all was right with his horse, and finding that dick was holding him carefully, he gave him a nod and returned into the shop. dick thought his face was a very kind one. when he had finished his business and came out to remount his horse, he put his hand into his pocket and took out some coppers wrapped in paper, and giving them to dick, said-- "there, my lad, take these. i don't know how many pence you will find inside the paper, but the more there are the better for you." he was just going to ride off, when the shopman came to the door and asked him some question, to which he replied in a loud voice-- "let them be sent to no.-- grosvenor square." dick eagerly opened the paper; there were four pennies inside--and he stared with amazement, there was also a small, very bright yellow coin! he had only once or twice seen a sovereign in his life, and never had had one in his hand. his companion, a boy named larkins who lived near roan's court, uttered an exclamation. "why, dick, he's given you a bit of yellow money; you lucky fellow!" dick gave quite a shout of joy. [illustration: "there, my lad, hold it firmly; the horse is quiet enough."] he felt almost giddy, and as if a large fortune had fallen into his hands. "i tell you what, dick," said larkins, who secretly hoped he might come in for a share of the money, "don't you be looking at it like that here in the street, or people will think you've no business with it. yellow money doesn't often come to the like of us; and, i say, don't you go telling your father or mother of your luck, or they'll take it from you and go and spend it in drink." dick did not reply; he was wrapping up the coppers and the yellow bit as carefully in the paper as when they were given him, and he put the little parcel in his jacket pocket. "i say, dick," continued larkins, "what are you going to do with it? how shall you spend it? won't you go and have a good feed at the cook-shop to begin with?" dick heard, and a savoury thought about hot meat and potatoes crossed his mind; but he put it away again, for more important ideas were floating there. his countenance was grave and thoughtful. "i don't think," said he, "that the gentleman _meant_ to give me yellow money. he said there were pence inside the paper. i'm quite sure he did not know there was any gold there." "why, then, all the better for you that he made a mistake," said larkins. "what a lucky thing that he did not look to see what there was inside the paper before he gave it you!" time was, before he knew old walters, that dick would have thought so too, but now he could not feel any pleasure in taking possession of what it was not intended he should have. "i should like to give it back to the gentleman," he said. "it would be like stealing, i think, if i kept it." "well, you _would_ be a silly chap to do that," exclaimed larkins--"but one good thing is, you can't give it back; you don't know where he lives." "yes, i think i do," said dick. "he said that something was to be sent to no.-- grosvenor square; so he lives there, i daresay, and i can find him, perhaps." larkins' indignation was very great at his stupid folly, as he called it. his visions of being treated to a hot dinner at the cook-shop were melting away. then he tried ridicule: called him "a young saint," "pious dick," "parson dick," "preaching dick," but all to no purpose. at length dick escaped from his teasing by taking the turning which led to walters' lodging, whose advice he wished to ask. he was out. then he went and looked for him in the market, but he was not to be found. "i know he would tell me i ought to try and find the gentleman," he said to himself, "so i'll go at once." he knew his way about london pretty well, though it was not often he had been to the west end, and he had to ask his road once or twice before he could find grosvenor square. when he got there it was some time before he could discover the number he wanted, and when he did at last pause before no.--, he felt quite frightened at seeing what a grand house it was. the doors looked so tall, and the knockers so high up, it was impossible to reach them. then he remembered it would not be right for a poor boy to go to the front door, so he turned and went to the area gate and looked down the flight of steps that led to the kitchen. it took a great deal of courage to descend them and knock at the door below--more than he could all at once summon to his aid--and he stood irresolute, with the handle of the gate in his hand. he went down at length and knocked timidly at the kitchen door. no one came, so after some time he knocked again and louder. it was opened by a girl, who asked him what he wanted. "please, i want to see the gentleman who said he lived here," said dick. the girl stared, and made him repeat his words. this time he spoke rather plainer, and said he wanted to see a gentleman who had given him some money an hour or two ago, in the strand, for holding his horse. a servant in livery crossed the passage at this moment, and heard what he said. he came to the door and exclaimed harshly-- "and so, because he gave you some money, you have come here hoping to get more, you young vagabond. that's always the way with you beggars." "i'm not come to beg," replied dick, indignantly. "i'm come to give the gentleman money, not to ask him for it." "did the gentleman bid you come?" asked the man. "no," said dick. "did any one send you?" "no," was again the reply. "and yet you say you've come to give the gentleman money, and not to beg," said the servant. "now, youngster, take my advice--get off from here as fast as you can go, for it strikes me you are lurking about for no good. there's a bobby not far off who will come if i call him." he shut the door in dick's face, and the servant girl went back into the kitchen, and amused her companions by telling them that a boy had just come under the pretence of wanting to give some money to the master. "that's just what those young rascals do," remarked the cook. "they are taught by the thieves who employ them to go to gentlemen's houses with some pretence that shall get them admitted inside--and then, whilst waiting, they take notice of doors and windows and bolts and keys, and go and tell their masters, who know how to set to work at night with their instruments when they come to break in. i daresay that that boy has been taking stock of the lower part of the house, for now i think of it, i saw a boy some time ago standing on the top of the area steps and looking down at the door and windows. this lad is the same, no doubt. he'll be as likely as not to come to-night with a practised house-breaker or two and try to get in." "oh, dear!" exclaimed susan, the before-named girl, who slept in a room on the area floor with another kitchen domestic. "dear me, cook! do you really think so? i'm sure i shan't dare to go to bed to-night." "take the poker to bed with you, and never fear," said the cook. "i should take a real pleasure in bringing it down on the back of a man if he had got in. i wish i'd the chance." "then do please, cook, change rooms with me to-night," exclaimed poor susan, who was pale with fright, and too inexperienced in the study of human character to know that bragging was not courage. "i'm sure i should only scream if they came. i'm not brave like you." but cook shirked exchanging rooms, saying the reason was that she could not sleep comfortably in any bed but her own, or else she'd do it with the greatest of pleasure. while this conversation was going on in the kitchen, the innocent subject of it had ascended the steps, and was walking away from the house, when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs behind him, and, looking round, he saw the very gentleman he was in search of coming through the square at a rapid pace. dick recognised him in a moment, and was rejoiced to see him stop in front of no.--. he jumped off his horse, and, as he was about to enter the house, he caught sight of dick, who was bowing and trying to attract his attention. "ah, my little man," he said; "why, are not you the same small chap that held my horse in the strand this morning?" "yes, sir; and, please, i have come to tell you that you gave me yellow money by mistake amongst the pence--a whole sovereign! so i have brought it for you." and he took the little packet out of his pocket and held it to him. "what do you mean, my boy?" said sir john tralaway, for such was the name of the gentleman. "there surely was no gold amongst the coppers i gave you?" and he undid the paper. a smile passed over his lips as he examined the contents. then he looked attentively at dick. "and so," said he, "you have brought the money back to me because you thought i had given you more than i intended. how did you find out where i lived?" "i heard you tell the shopman to send some things to no.-- grosvenor square," said dick, "and so i thought i had better come here." "you are an honest, good boy," said sir john; "and though you have made a mistake, and taken a bright new farthing fresh from the mint for a sovereign, yet it is all the same thing in the sight of god, and in my eyes too, as if it had been indeed a piece of gold. did you ever see a sovereign?" he asked. "never but once or twice," replied dick, "and they looked exactly like that;" and he pointed to the bright yellow farthing in sir john's fingers. "your mistake is a very natural one, my boy. eyes more accustomed than yours to look at gold might easily have been deceived. now come in with me and tell me all about yourself, and where you learned to be so honest." sir john took him into a little room by the side of the hall door, and asked him many questions. he was a man of well-known benevolence, who was ever doing some deed of public or private charity. the circumstance of dick bringing him what he supposed to be a sovereign given by mistake touched him greatly. he listened with interest to what he told him about walters, who was evidently a character rarely to be met with in his class of life, and told dick to ask him to call and see him the next day at a given hour. when he dismissed him, he gave him half-a-crown, and said he should not lose sight of him. dick did not quite understand what he meant by that, but was sure it was something kind, and he ran off, one of the happiest little boys in all london. he had so much to tell walters, he scarcely knew where to begin. the old man was indeed pleased to hear that dick's principles had stood fire under a strong temptation, and he hoped he might find a friend in sir john at the very time he most needed one. the next morning, walters gave an extra brushing to his coat, an extra polish to his boots, and an extra smoothing to his sunday hat before setting forth to grosvenor square. he seldom now went near the mansions of the rich, though in former days his duties had lain amongst them almost entirely. sir john received him with great kindness, nay, even with respect, for what dick had said had filled him with admiration for him. walters told him about dick's miserable home, and of the sad example set him by his parents and the other inmates of roan's court. he mentioned his is love for flowers, which had first made him hover so constantly about covent garden market, and so had brought him under his notice. "then it is to you," said sir john, "that this little fellow is indebted for the high principle which brought him here yesterday with the supposed sovereign?" "it's little i have been able to do for him," replied the old man, "but god has blessed that little, and he has given the child a tender, teachable mind, and a grateful, loving heart. but i wish he could be taken out of that wicked roan's court, where they are a drunken, dishonest lot, and his parents are as good as no parents to him." "he _shall_ be taken away, my good man," replied sir john. "i will think the matter over, and see you again. i suppose his parents will not object to any plan for the boy's good?" "not they, sir john. they never look after him; they leave him to play about and shift for himself. i believe they would be glad enough to have him taken off their hands." "do you think he would like to be brought up as a gardener?" asked sir john. "as he is so fond of flowers, i should think his tastes would lie that way." "it would be just what would suit him," said walters. "the lad is wild after flowers. the first thing he did yesterday after you gave him half a-crown, was to go and spend a shilling of it in buying a rose-tree in a pot for my window. the little chap wanted to give me something, so he bought what he cared most about himself." "well, walters, you have been a true friend to this boy, and god will bless you for it; he shall be my care now, and i will try and follow up the good work you have begun. i have a plan in my head which, if it can be carried out, will, i think, be all you could wish for your little friend. will you come here again next monday and bring dick with you? and by that time i hope i shall have arranged matters." sir john was as good as his word. when walters and dick went to grosvenor square at the time appointed, he asked the boy whether he would like to live in the country, and learn gardening and the management of flowers. dick's face was worth looking at, so full was it of intense happiness at the idea. there was no occasion for him to express his assent in words. "i have a very clever head gardener at my country house," said sir john; "and i have written to him about you. i shall board you in his house; and if you continue to be a good boy, and try to please him by your attention and industry, i am sure you will be very happy with him and his wife; and in the gardens you will find yourself in the midst of abundance of your friends the flowers." sir john then gave walters money with which to buy dick two suits of clothes and such other things as he would require, and asked him to settle the matter with his parents. the london season being nearly over, the family were going out of town in a fortnight, and dick was to go down to denham court, sir john's country place, with some of the servants, a short time before the rest of the party. it was not in dick's power to say much by way of thanks; his heart was too full. but walters, who was scarcely less pleased, spoke for him. when they had left the house and were walking down the square, walters said-- "dick, you are proving the truth of those words in your copy-book which you wrote yesterday, that 'honesty is the best policy.'" chapter iii. a new home. we have now to request our readers to follow dick to a very different scene to that of roan's court. his parents were glad he had found such grand friends, and were quite willing to part with him. they were not improving in their habits, but rather the reverse. walters did as sir john had requested, and bought the boy suitable clothes and other necessaries for his new position in life. he looked so different when dressed in a cloth suit, with a white collar and black necktie, that he could scarcely be recognised for the same boy who had worn the old garments out of the blue clothes bag. the children in roan's court gathered round him when he first appeared in his new attire on the day he was to leave altogether, and stared at their old playmate with astonishment. a few of the elder ones, amongst whom was larkins (who had never got over the hot dinner disappointment), derided him, called after him "gentleman dick," and other nicknames. he was not sorry when he was fairly out of hearing, and on his way to walters, who had promised to go with him to grosvenor square, and say good-bye there. an omnibus was standing at the door when they arrived, which was to take the servants to the station. it was being loaded under the eye of a manservant. when he saw walters and dick, he directed them to go down into the kitchen, where all was bustle and confusion from the hurry of departure. amongst the servants going away was susan, who had been so terrified lest dick should prove an accomplice of burglars. she looked at him with very complacent feelings now, for sir john had told the story of the bright farthing, and explained that he had spoken truth when he said he wanted to give the gentleman some money and not to beg of him. with his usual kind thoughtfulness, the baronet had been anxious that the servants should feel an interest in their young fellow-traveller, who would naturally be strange and shy amongst them all. at length all was ready, and dick was told to take his place in the omnibus with the others. he was very sorry to say farewell to his dear old friend, who, in his turn, felt as if his home would be lonely without the bright, merry face he was so accustomed to see popping in constantly. "god bless you, my lad," he said. "never forget your prayers. remember, those are my parting words to you." then came the rumbling of the omnibus, and the arrival at the station; and after that the puffing of the steam-engine, and for the first time dick saw houses and churches rushing away from them, as it seemed to him. soon, great, busy london was left behind, and houses and churches only came at intervals, but green fields and trees took their place, and they were in the country, which was far more beautiful than dick's wildest dreams had ever pictured it. he was quite surprised that all the servants talked away to each other, and scarcely ever turned their heads to look out of the window. susan was the only one who seemed to understand his admiration. she was very kind, and gave him her place in the corner that he might see better; and she pointed out things to him, and told him the names of the places they passed through, for she had been so often backwards and forwards that the road was quite familiar to her and her fellow-servants. towards evening they arrived at a station, where they stopped. here an open carriage was waiting, large enough to hold them all, and the luggage followed in a cart. dick had a delightful place on the box between the driver and the footman, from which he could see the hedges and trees, etc., to perfection as they drove rapidly past them. after a drive of about a mile, they came in sight of a large mansion standing on a rising ground in the midst of beautiful gardens, which glowed with flowers of every colour. the carriage stopped at a lodge, and now dick was told he was to get down, as here he was to live with the gardener and his wife. a pleasant, motherly-looking woman appeared at the door, who was addressed as mrs naylor. she gave the servants a kindly greeting, and as the carriage drove on, took hold of dick's hand, and said she was sure he must be tired and hungry, and had better have some tea directly. she took him into a nice pleasant kitchen, where a table was spread with a substantial tea. her little lads came running in to look at the new boy, and to do justice to the viands. they were followed by mr naylor, the gardener--a tall, fine-looking man, with a rather grave face. [illustration: susan and dick in the railway-carriage.] he spoke kindly to dick, and said he had heard all about him from sir john, and he hoped he would be a good boy, and then he should be glad to have him to lodge in his house. dick thought he had never been so hungry or tasted such good food. after tea, mrs naylor showed him a room in which he was to sleep. it was very small, little more than a large closet, but there was in it everything he could want, and it had a window looking into a garden full of flowers. he was so thoroughly tired with his journey and with the day's excitement, that mrs naylor proposed he should go to bed, and he was thankful to do so. probably no little boy in england slept a sounder sleep or had a happier heart than our young hero that night. chapter iv. life at denham court. it will be easier for the reader to imagine than for me to describe the delight of a young london boy, removed from such a home as that of dick's in roan's court, to this in which he awoke the morning after his arrival. mrs naylor was disposed to be pleased with her young charge. her husband at first thought him too young and ignorant to have been worth transplanting from london to denham court. it was "one of sir john's whims," he said to his wife. however, the liberal board that they were to receive for him was not to be despised, and being so young was a fault which he would gradually grow out of. then as for his ignorance, he soon found it was not so great as he supposed. thanks to walters, he could read and write very fairly; and what astonished naylor greatly, was finding he knew the names of almost all the flowers in the gardens, and of some in the greenhouses. he had supposed he would not know a bit of groundsel from a fern, he said. but the mystery was explained when he found that he had been so constantly in covent garden market, where he had contrived to learn the different names of shrubs and flowers as few other boys would have done. there were a good many men employed about the grounds, and several boys, who came from the village every morning and returned home to their meals and to sleep at night. dick was looked at with curiosity at first, because sir john had sent him down from london and was boarding him at his head gardener's. it was all very new and strange to him, and he could not help feeling rather lonely at times. sir john and his family were gone to the sea for a little while, and were not expected till the shooting season began. dick rather longed to see sir john's kind face again, and he felt so grateful to him for his kindness that he thought he never could do enough to show his gratitude. the work that was given him in the gardens was easy enough. clearing the gravel walks of weeds, carrying in vegetables and fruit to the house, or sometimes--and this he liked best--helping one of the under gardeners to pot geraniums or other plants. one of his greatest treats was to be allowed to go through the hothouses and greenhouses with mr naylor, who began to grow fond of the intelligent lad, and to think that after all sir john knew what he was about when he sent him down to learn gardening. "he's an uncommon little chap," he said to his wife one day--"nothing seems to escape his observation; and if i tell him the name of a plant or flower he remembers it. most boys would forget it as soon as told. such a memory as he's got will do him good service some day." "he's a nice, good little fellow," remarked mrs naylor, "and so obliging. he's always ready to run errands for me of an evening, or to play with the little boys. i thought i shouldn't like having him when sir john first wrote about his coming, but i declare i'd sooner have him here than not. and as for ned and tommy, they follow him like their shadow whenever he's in the house." ned and tommy were mrs naylor's own two children. they were merry little fellows, several years younger than dick. to them he was a great acquisition. when the day's work was over, they were sure to be watching for him at the lodge gate, to claim his services in mending their paper kites, and to help to fly them when mended, as well as many other similar offices, such as good-natured older boys can execute for little ones. no wonder that mrs naylor's motherly feelings made her think she would sooner have dick as an inmate than not. when the days were beginning to shorten, and the first delicate tinge of autumn brown was stealing gently over the green foliage, it was announced that sir john and the family were coming home. they had been detained at the sea longer than was at first intended, owing to the illness of one of the young ladies. but now the day was fixed, and preparations were being made for them both within and without the house. even dick had to be busy. not a weed must be seen on the walks, not a dead leaf on the geranium beds. pot plants were to be placed in rows on either side of the broad terrace in front of the house, and others had to be carried into the drawing-room to fill the jardinière and baskets. also the conservatory adjoining the morning-room was to be adorned with choice flowers from the greenhouses. dick carried and fetched, carried and fetched, till his arms ached; but they might almost have dropped off before he would have given in, so pleased was he to have such a chance for seeing the tasteful and artistic way in which mr naylor arranged the different plants according to their colouring. when all was complete, mr naylor stepped to a little distance to see that the effect was quite to his mind, and he caught sight of dick standing in such enrapt admiration that he fixed his gaze on him for a moment rather than on the flowers. "well, dick," said he, "what do you think of it?" "oh, sir, it is beautiful! i could look at it for ever." "the boy is born to be a gardener," said mr naylor to himself. "he ought to begin and learn latin. i shall tell sir john so." all honour was due to worthy, honest-hearted mr naylor, that not a shade of jealousy crossed his mind about dick, although he hoped to bring up his two boys to his own profession. full of taste and intelligence himself, he quickly saw that the boy was naturally gifted with these qualities in no common degree, and felt they ought to be thoroughly cultivated. the next day the family arrived. dick was standing at the lodge, well pleased to be allowed to throw open the gates for the carriage to enter, and to receive a smile and nod from sir john as he sat inside it with his wife and daughters. the report that mr naylor was able to give of his charge was very satisfactory to the benevolent baronet, and he quite agreed with him that it would be well to let the boy have some education. there was an excellent village school in denham, and a superior schoolmaster. so it was arranged for dick to attend school every morning, and be in the garden in the afternoon. the schoolmaster also agreed to teach him latin three evenings in the week. "sir john never does things by halves," remarked mrs naylor to her husband. "he'll be the making of that boy, you'll see." "he'll help him to be the making of himself," replied naylor. "dick is a boy, if i mistake not, who will make good use of whatever advantages are held out to him." time went on. dick learnt quickly, and pleased his master. he was a favourite with most people from his good humour and readiness to oblige. sir john took great interest in his improvement; and his wife and daughter often stopped and spoke to the boy who had come to denham court under such peculiar circumstances. but go where we will, happen to us what will in this world, trouble of some sort is sure to crop up, and dick was not without his, even in his happy life at denham court. it seems strange that he could have an enemy, but so it was. there was a boy named george bentham, who was employed in the gardens, and who from the first had looked upon the london lad with jealousy and dislike. he saw that he was a favourite with sir john and with mr naylor, and being of a mean and selfish disposition, he took an aversion to him for this reason. to use his own expression, he liked to _spite_ him. that is to say, he never lost an occasion of saying or doing anything that he thought would be disagreeable to him; and it is wonderful how much petty tyranny may be exercised by one boy over another when opportunities are sought. for instance, he would sometimes hide his garden tools to cause him to waste time in searching for them, and so bring on him mr naylor's displeasure. one day in autumn, when dick had been industriously sweeping up the fallen leaves in one of the walks, and had gone to fetch a wheelbarrow to carry them away, he found that some one had, during his short absence, scattered the heaps which he had so carefully piled up at regular distances, so that his work had almost all to be done over again. he had been told to finish it by eleven o'clock, at which hour lady tralaway generally came to walk there, as being a sunny, sheltered spot. he did his very best to try and set it all right in time, but the leaves at the end of the walk were in a sadly untidy state when her ladyship appeared with one of her daughters. she remarked on the unswept state of the path, and asked dick to have it cleared earlier another day; and she repeated her request to mr naylor a little later, when she met him in the greenhouse. this caused mr naylor to reprove dick for idleness, and he seemed inclined to think that what he said about the leaves having been scattered was all an excuse, especially as dick could not say who had done it, though in his secret heart he felt quite sure he knew. another ill-natured trick that was played on dick by an unseen, though to him not an unknown hand, was when he one day left his slate for a few minutes on a seat just inside the lodge gate, on which was a difficult sum over which he had spent a long time the evening before, and had at last mastered, though with great difficulty. he had just started to go to school, slate and books in hand, when he remembered he had forgotten one of them, and ran back into the lodge to fetch it. he could not immediately find it, though he was not away from his slate for more than five or six minutes, and it stood precisely where he had left it when he returned. he snatched it up and ran off, but it was not till he had got near the school-house that he discovered the lower figures of the sum were all rubbed out carefully as with a sponge. he was sorely distressed, but could only tell the master of what had happened, and begged to be allowed to do it over again that evening. the master, accustomed to boys often making excuses at the expense of truth, reproved him for leaving his slate so carelessly about, and said he could not understand who would care to take the trouble to do such a thing as efface the figures just to get him into a scrape. dick saw he was not believed, and it distressed him a good deal. yet he could not tell his suspicions about george, for he had no proof that he had done it. he only knew that about that time he generally passed through the gate on his way back from breakfast, and he also knew that he would be quite ready to do him such a bit of mischief as this. old walters did not forget his little friend, nor did dick lose his warm, affectionate love for him. they exchanged letters from time to time, and the correspondence was very useful in keeping up in dick's mind the remembrance of all walters had taught him. sir john kindly sent for the old man when he was in town to give a favourable report of the boy, and tell him that mr naylor was well satisfied with him, and believed he would one day make a first-rate gardener, for that his good taste was something quite unusual, and his general intelligence of no ordinary stamp. "i should like him to be a great gardener some day," said walters; "and still more, i should like him to be a good man, with the fear of god ever before him." "i trust he will be both, my friend," said sir john. "how are his parents going on?" "worse than ever," said walters. "the mother is in such a wretched state of health from drinking that she is not likely to be long alive, and the father is seldom sober. i went lately to tell them i had heard from their boy, but they seemed very indifferent to what he was doing, and scarcely asked any questions about him. they will probably soon both be in the union." "then it is clear it is no use bringing up their son to london to see them," said sir john, "as i would have done had they been respectable. he is better to be quite separated from them under the circumstances." "far better, sir john. roan's court is no place for him now. the sooner he forgets the very existence of what goes on there the better. i should like to see my lad again some day, please god, but it's not likely, for i'm getting nigh to seventy, and though i'm hale and hearty as ever now, yet at my age i mustn't expect many more years. god bless you, sir john, for being such a friend to him; he's got strangely about my heart, and i shall pray for him whilst i live." chapter v. the visitor at the lodge. that spring, like other springs, passed away. the london season was longer than usual, for parliament had weighty and important matters to discuss, and families longing to be in the country were obliged to remain in hot, dusty london till august. amongst the number of these was that of sir john tralaway, who was an active member of the house of commons. but at length the house broke up, and without loss of time the great world fled from the heated atmosphere to go and enjoy either the mountain breezes of switzerland or the refreshing shades of english country houses. sir john's domestics went off as usual a day or two before the rest of the family, to make all ready for their arrival. no one was better pleased than dick that the season was over. he liked to see the ladies walking or riding about the grounds, and to have their kind smile and almost daily greeting. also he loved to have the encouraging word which was sure to be given by sir john when he had questioned naylor and the schoolmaster about him, and heard a good report. on the day when the servants were to arrive, mrs naylor told dick that she had a friend coming to visit them, and she should be glad if he would give up his room for the time. she proposed making him up a bed in her boys' room, at which arrangement the two youngsters expressed their warm approbation, for dick was as great a favourite with them as ever. when evening came he took care to be in the way to open the gate, and so be the first to give a welcome. the carriage came and turned in, but instead of driving on, it stopped at the lodge. the door behind was opened, and the footman assisted out an old gentleman, who wore a great-coat, notwithstanding its being a warm evening, and a well-brushed beaver hat. mrs naylor hastened out to receive him, but before she could speak dick had flown into walters' arms. it had been kind sir john's contrivance to give him a surprise. he had asked the naylors to receive him as their guest, and when he found their willingness to do so, he proposed to him to go down into the country with his servants, and spend several weeks under the same roof as dick. [illustration: the meeting of mr walters and dick.] he knew the pleasure it would give to both to be together again. he had desired that dick should not be told who was mrs naylor's expected guest. dick was more altered than walters. he had grown taller and stouter, and his cheeks were rounder and more rosy than they had been when he lived in roan's court. "now come in, mr walters," said mrs naylor, when the first surprise and greeting was over. "come in, we'll do our best to make you comfortable, and i'm sure i hope you'll spend a pleasant time here. it shan't be our fault if you don't. as for dick, i expect he won't sleep a wink to-night for joy." it was a pleasant reception, and when the old man went to bed in dick's little chamber, he kneeled and thanked god for this new and unexpected mercy that had been vouchsafed him. as for dick, far from fulfilling mrs naylor's prognostication that he would not sleep a wink, he was in so profound a slumber, at the hour when the other two lads awoke in the morning, that they had a delightful excuse for jumping on his bed and playing off a variety of tricks in order, as they said, to "arouse him thoroughly." very pleased and proud was dick to take his old friend over the gardens and numerous glass-houses, containing such fruits and flowers as he had never seen even in former days, when he had visited with his master at gentlemen's houses. dick had an entire holiday given him the day after walters' arrival, both from school and from gardening, and mr naylor told him to take his friend where he liked. such a permission made him feel of almost as much importance as if he were master of the estate himself. he found it difficult to limit his own pace to that of walters', so eager was he to go from one place to another, always assuring him the next thing he had to show was far better than any he had yet seen. walters' admiration quite satisfied him, for it was unbounded. chapter vi. sir john's proposal. a month passed, and still old walters was a visitor at the lodge. still he might be seen sitting on fine days under a wide-spreading oak-tree in the park, sometimes leaning forward with his chin resting on his stick, at others reading his large bible as it lay upon his knees. not unfrequently sir john might be observed sitting by his side, for he delighted in his remarks, so full of simple piety and humility, and consequently of instruction to himself. the high-born baronet was not above being edified by the conversation of the aged pilgrim, whose mind seemed ripening fast for the world which could not be far distant from him. but walters began to speak in earnest of returning to london. his feelings were sensitive and delicate, and though urged to remain longer, he would not take advantage of the kindness that proposed it. he said he had been permitted to spend a month of happiness amidst god's beautiful country works with his dear boy dick, but now the time was come for him to return to his room and his old ways in london. "and perhaps you feel more at home there than in any other place," said sir john one morning, when he had been talking to him on his favourite bench under the oak-tree. "you have lived there so many years that this country life may seem irksome to you after the long habit of the other." "nay," replied he, "london will seem very lonely after such a month as i have spent here in my boy's company, with everybody showing me such kindness. and i shall miss the trees and the flowers, and the songs of the birds. no, sir john, i could find it in my heart to wish i could end my days in the country, but god has willed it otherwise, and given me a home i do not deserve, although it is amongst the crowd and bustle and noise. besides, why did i say i should be lonely? shall i not have _him_"--and he uncovered his head, as was his wont, at the great name--"who died for me, and loves me, and will never leave me nor forsake me?" sir john was silent for a few moments; then he spoke to him on a subject he had been turning over in his mind for some days. "you are right, my worthy friend," he said; "no place can be lonely to you, and god will assuredly watch over you to the end. but suppose he were to point out that his way of doing so, as far as this world is concerned, would be to give you a home in the country, where you would be cared for in health and in sickness, and where the remainder of your years would pass in quietness and repose, would you not be willing to follow his leading?" "assuredly, assuredly," replied walters, not in the least seeing the drift of his remark. "but as such has not been his will, i thank him gratefully for my little room in town." "now listen to me, my friend," said the baronet. "it seems to me that just as it was put into my heart to take dick from the scenes of sin and temptation he was exposed to in roan's court, so now it is given me to have the privilege of making your last years far more comfortable than they would be in your lodging in town. the proposal i wish to make to you is this: i have a cottage in the village which i have given for her life to an attached faithful old servant, who lives there with her niece. it is larger than she requires, and she says she could quite well spare the little parlour and the bedroom over it, and that she would be very glad to have you as a lodger, and she and her niece would do their best to make you comfortable. i will take all the arrangements for you on myself, so you will only have to return to london to pack up your things and bid your present landlady good-bye, and then come back again to your new country home, where you may see dick every day." walters was silent. he could not speak. he took in all sir john's plan for him, and the lonely old man's heart leaped at the thought of living near the child of his love. at length he rose, and with a voice quivering with emotion, said-- "i thank you, i do indeed thank you, sir john. it seems too much, too much happiness for such an one as i am. but my whole life has been filled with mercies, and this may be going to be the crowning one. may i think over it? i am too old to be able all at once to decide. when i have been alone awhile i can better answer you." "take as long as you like to think it over," replied sir john--"there is no hurry whatever." then kindly shaking hands with him, he went away, for he saw that walters was a good deal overcome. yet he knew that though he left him, he would not be alone, but that he would seek the counsel and direction of him whom he had for so long made his dearest friend. chapter vii. returning good for evil. walters soon made up his mind, and with much thankfulness accepted sir john's offer of a home in denham. that gentleman took him to see the cottage in which he proposed he should occupy two rooms, and introduced him to good mrs benson, who, with her niece, promised to do all they could for his comfort. he could only exclaim every now and then, "too good, too good for me! who would have thought of such a home as this coming to me in my old age?" he went back to london, packed up his few goods and chattels, and bid good-bye to his friends in covent garden. he was well known there, and all were sorry to part with him, but glad to hear of his good fortune. his landlady regretted losing her quiet lodger, whose regular payments and steady habits she knew how to value. it was with quite a heavy heart she saw him into the cab that was to take him to the station. she did the last good office she could for him by putting into his hand a paper parcel containing some sandwiches, that he might not be hungry on the journey. dick's delight when he found his dear old friend was going to move to denham may be easily imagined. he only regretted that he had to go back to london at all. mrs benson was quite ready for him when he arrived one evening in the middle of october. dick went to meet him at the station in the conveyance sent by sir john to take him to the cottage, and was glad to be the one to lead him into the comfortable little sitting-room, where a bright fire was burning and tea laid out on the round table. mrs benson followed, looking and saying kind things, and her niece bustled about to make the tea and toast the bread. it rather distressed him to be waited on thus; he had always been accustomed to do these things for himself; but he comforted his mind by saying that they must not think he should give them such trouble in future. in a very short time he was quite settled, and seeing that he would really prefer it, mrs benson allowed him to wait a good deal on himself, and to do in every respect as he had been accustomed. the neighbours soon learned to like the gentle, kind old man who was ever ready to perform any little service for them in his power, such as going on an errand, sitting with a sick child, or reading to an invalid of riper years. george bentham's character did not improve as he got older. he was so unsatisfactory in many ways that mr naylor would have dismissed him altogether, had it not been for sir john's kind desire to keep him on, for he knew the wages he gave were higher than he would obtain elsewhere. neither he nor naylor were aware of the dislike he had from the first taken to dick, who never named the annoyances he had to bear from him to any one except walters. "i have never done anything to him," he said one day; "yet he is always trying to spite me in every way he can. i really will begin and give it him back again. i know twenty ways in which i can do him a bad turn." "stop, stop, my boy," said walters, "i don't like to hear you speak so. that would be spite for spite. the dear master did not act so when they tried all they could to vex him. yet _he_ never did wrong in any way. you, on the contrary, are constantly standing in need of forgiveness from god. so you must learn to forgive even as you would be forgiven." "i will try," said dick, feeling rather ashamed of his speech. "do, my lad; but you won't be able to do it in your own strength, for it goes contrary to human nature. you must pray--nothing like prayer--and so you will find. and then, dick, there's another thing to remember. look here"--and walters turned over the leaves of the bible that was never far from his hand--"see this verse which the master spoke for the good of boys as much as for older people, 'do _good_ to them that hate you.' you see you must not be content with only forgiving." "but what can i do for george?" asked dick. "i never go near him if i can help--there isn't any good i can do him in any way." "yes, lad, you can say a prayer for him now and then; and if ever you see he needs a bit of help at any time, be you the one to offer it, and you'll get a blessing, take my word for it." they were sitting by the fireside in walters' little parlour. dick had been to take his latin lesson. as mrs benson's cottage lay on his way home, he had turned in to see walters. he was about to bid good-bye to him after these last words, but the old man stopped him and said-- "wait a bit, and i'll tell you something that will show you how bad a thing is spite or revenge. maybe it will prevent you ever feeling the desire to vex a person back because they vex you. it's a sad story, but you shall hear it, though the very telling of it gives me a pain all these long years after. "when i was a young man i was very fond of horses, and liked to be about them. my father wanted me to become a schoolmaster in a village, because i'd had a better education than most boys of my sort; but nothing would serve me but to go about the stables. so my father spoke to our squire about it, and he said i should go under his coachman, and so i did; and i got to understand horses, and could ride and drive them--according to my own thinking--as well as the coachman himself, when suddenly my master died and the establishment was all broken up. i returned home to wait till i could find another situation. just at this time a young man about my own age, named james bennett, came home out of place likewise. he had been, like myself, in a gentleman's stables, and had only left his place because the family had gone abroad. he and i had lived near each other as boys, and had had many a game together, but we had not met for three or four years, as he had been away in quite another part of england. we used to see one another pretty often, as we had neither of us much to do then but to idle about. "it so happened that just at this time a mr anderson, living about two miles off, wanted a groom quite unexpectedly, and a friend of mine called and advised me to lose no time in applying for the situation, as a new servant must be had instantly. james bennett happened to be in our cottage when i was told this, but he left it almost instantly. i lost no time, but went upstairs and put on my best clothes; and then i set out, to walk to newton hall, where mr anderson lived. i was anxious for the place, for i knew it was a good one; and as it had only become vacant a few hours, i felt i had a real good chance of getting it. when i arrived there i was shown in to mr anderson, who said i was a likely enough fellow, but that he had just seen another young man whom he had promised to take if his character satisfied him. 'you know him probably,' he said, 'for he comes from your village; his name is james bennett.' "i started with surprise and indignation. in an instant i saw just how it was. james had heard what my friend had said about mr anderson's situation being vacant, and advising me to lose no time in applying. he had quietly sneaked of and got before me; for, as i afterwards found, he had had a lift in a gig, whilst i walked all the way, so he had considerably the start of me. "i left the house full of angry feelings, and despising james from the bottom of my heart for his meanness; and i took care to tell him so. he could not defend himself, though he tried to make out it was all fair play, and a case of first go, first served. "he got the place and went to it directly, on good wages. i, on the other hand, could not hear of one anywhere. i used to see james ride by, exercising his new master's horse, and my thoughts were very bitter. "mr anderson had a daughter who was very delicate, and was ordered horse exercise. her father had bought her a beautiful creature which had arab blood in its veins--that means that it was high bred and full of spirit. now miss anderson had not yet been allowed to mount him because he had such a bad trick of shying when he came to any water. there was a certain pool which lay by the roadside between our village and mr anderson's house, which he would never pass without a great fuss. the former groom and mr anderson had tried in vain to cure him of the trick. james said he thought he should be able to do it, and he was proud to try. "so he took him in hand. every day he practised the animal. he tamed him at last so that he scarcely moved an ear when he saw the pond. i heard that after one day's more practice he meant to pronounce him quite cured. now all this time i was feeling angry, and longing to spite him for the trick he had played me. i grudged him the fame of having cured the horse of shying, for i knew i could have done it as well, and i was always thinking about the way he had stolen the place from me. "well, dick, satan saw now that was a fine time for him, and he made the most of it. he put into my heart to do a mean trick by which i thought to pay james back something of what i owed him. "i bought some crackers and put them in my pocket, and i walked to the place where the pond lay, a little before the time when i knew james would come with the horse. my idea was to conceal myself behind the thick hedge, and pull a cracker just at the moment the horse was passing the pond. i thought so to startle him that it would make him worse than ever about shying in future, and then all james's trouble would be thrown away, and he would not have the credit of curing him of the bad habit. "i crept behind the hedge and was completely hidden. after a time i heard horse's hoofs, and saw james come up. he walked by the pond, slowly at first, then he went quicker, and next he trotted. the pretty creature was quite quiet. then he went to a little distance, and put him into a canter. now was my time; i pulled my cracker just as he got to the pond. the horse sprang up into the air, bolted forward, and the next instant was running away fast and fleet as the very wind. i heard the hoofs going at a mad pace, and i knew his rider had lost all control over him. not for one moment had i intended to drive the horse wild like that. the most i had thought of was to cause him to prance and kick, and begin his old trick of not passing the pond. i felt no anxiety lest any real harm would come of it. i knew james was a good rider, and supposed he would give the horse his head for awhile and then pull him in. so i walked home, thinking i had paid master james off in some degree at all events. "we were just finishing dinner when a neighbour looked in, and asked if we had heard what had happened. he said that james bennett had been riding mr anderson's horse, and that it had run away with him and thrown him violently against a milestone; that he was taken up quite senseless, and it was feared there was concussion of the brain! he had been carried to a farmhouse close by, which there was little chance of his leaving alive. it was dreadful hearing for me. i felt as if i should have committed murder, if he died! not that i had wished really to harm him bodily in any way. i could comfort myself a little with that thought, but i had intended to do him a mischief of another kind; and now the ugliness of the sin of revenge rose up before me in its true colours, and i hated myself. "i kept my own secret. i argued that it could make matters neither better nor worse to tell what had made the horse run off. but i was very wretched. i walked to the farm towards evening to inquire after him. they said he was still insensible, and the doctor could give little hope. his parents were there, and mr anderson drove up as i was going away, having brought a second doctor with him. it was a comfort to know that he would be well cared for. the next day he had come to himself when i went to inquire, but there was no more hope than before. he lay in a very precarious state for a week, and then there was a change for the better. a few days more and the doctor said he would live, but that it would be many months probably before he would be well enough to go into service again. mr anderson was very kind, and promised to continue his wages to enable him to live at home till he was quite well. but he could not keep his place open for him, so he offered it to me. "i positively declined to accept it, much to mr anderson's surprise. i felt that i could not endure to reap any benefit from my wrong-doing. my conscience had been tormenting me ever since the accident, and i made up my mind that i would never take a situation as groom again, for the very sight of a horse made me uncomfortable. in a short time, thanks to my late mistress's recommendation, i obtained a place as personal servant to a gentleman who was going on the continent for a couple of years. now it seems natural that new countries and new ways should put what had just passed out of my head; but they didn't, though i certainly did enjoy travelling about very much. we went to france and germany, stopping for a time at all the principal cities, and then we went to italy and spent some time in rome. but notwithstanding the novelty of all around me i was not altogether happy. i believe i was beginning to feel what a sinful heart i had then, and i often longed to open my mind to some one, but there was nobody i knew to whom i liked to speak. however, god had his own designs for me, as you will hear. "my master visited venice on our return home, and from there he took an excursion through some mountains called 'the dolomites.' one day, as we were crossing a narrow plank thrown across a steep gorge, my foot slipped and i fell down a very considerable distance on to a hard rock, and it is wonderful that i was not killed on the spot. i was taken up senseless by some peasants who were fortunately near, and carried into a hut, where my master joined me, and he and they did all in their power to restore consciousness. i recovered my senses after awhile, but i had to lie in that hut for upwards of ten days, and during that time i looked back on my past life and saw how sinful i had been, and i trembled when i thought how death and i had been face to face when i fell into the gorge. my revengeful conduct towards james bennett stared me in the face in such black colours as it had never done before. 'what would have become of me had i been killed?' was my constant thought. "when i returned to england i went to live with a clergyman, who was a good and holy man, to whom, after awhile, i ventured to open my mind. he taught me what my saviour had done for me by his death, and how i might look for pardon through his merits, and grace and help for the future. i have told you all this, dick, that you may beware of ever wishing to give what is called 'tit for tat.' now go home, and whenever you say your prayers ask god to keep you from all malice and bitterness." this advice of walters came at a very opportune time, for not long after dick had occasion to bring it to mind. it was george bentham's duty to shut up the greenhouse windows at a certain hour in the afternoon, and mr naylor was extremely particular on this point. he had neglected it once or twice, and had been severely reprimanded but when a third time mr naylor found the windows open late, he took the duty away from him entirely, and gave it to dick in his presence, remarking that he felt sure he might trust him. george said nothing at the time, but his jealousy increased. he went away revolving in his mind how he could lower dick in mr naylor's opinion, and a way soon suggested itself. dick was surprised one evening after he had carefully closed the windows in the afternoon at the proper time, by mr naylor reproving him sharply when he came in to tea for having left one of them open. "indeed, sir, i shut them all," said dick. "you mean you _meant_ to do so, but were careless and forgot the end one," said mr naylor. "now don't get into the way of making excuses; better own your fault at once, and say you will be more careful in future; then i shall have hope that it will not happen again." dick said no more. he was puzzled, for he felt almost sure he _had_ shut that end window. yet how could it have got open again? no one ever went near the greenhouses in the afternoon after they were shut. he always turned the key on the outside when he went out, though he left it in the door by order, because mr naylor went his rounds towards evening, and then took the keys home with him. at length he was obliged to come to the conclusion that he must have overlooked that window without being aware of it. about a week afterwards a frost set in, and though it was sunny and fine for some hours, the air grew cold directly the sun began to decline, and dick received orders to close the windows earlier than customary, and he did so. the head gardener went the rounds as usual that afternoon before going home to tea. the cold was severe, and his vigilance for his plants was consequently greater than ever. as he came to the door of the greenhouse he thought he heard a slight noise within, and looked carefully about on opening the door, but could see nothing to have caused it, so thought it must have been fancy. when he examined the windows he found one of them wide open. "again!" he said to himself. "so that boy is as bad as the other, and must be trusted no more." he shut it, and a second time fancied he heard a noise, and listened, but all was still. when he went home he spoke more angrily to dick than he had ever done before, and desired him not to enter the greenhouses again, since he found he could not be trusted. "had i not gone in there," he said, "and seen that the window was left wide open, some of the choicest of the plants must have been frostbitten." "but indeed, indeed, i shut them every one, sir," exclaimed dick. "some one must have gone in after me, and opened that window. oh! it was too bad; it must have been done from spite." "i can scarcely believe that," said the gardener. "excuses of that sort won't help you." "it is not an excuse, sir. _do_ believe me, for indeed i shut all the windows carefully." "maybe the lad is right," said mrs naylor, who was fond of dick, and had always found him truthful. "perhaps some one has a grudge against him, and took that way of doing him a mischief." "have you any reason to suppose you have an enemy?" inquired mr naylor. "yes, i have, sir," replied dick. "who is it?" dick did not reply; he was not sure whether he ought to name him. but johnnie naylor, who with his brother was present, exclaimed-- "george bentham is his enemy, i think, for he said the other day he hated dick, because he was put over him about the windows just because he was a favourite." a new idea appeared to strike mr naylor. he seemed in deep thought for a moment. he was thinking of the noise he fancied he had heard. then taking down a lantern and lighting the lamp within, he strode off without a word, and took his way to the greenhouse. unlocking the door, he entered, and closed it after him. again there was a slight noise. this time he was sure that something alive was there besides himself, and he began to search. [illustration: "he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves."] the house was a good-sized one, and he examined every corner, but in vain. then he raised his lantern and looked behind a tier of shelves which stood out a little way from the wall. a dark figure was there crouching down. it was george bentham, who, with a face white as ashes, came forth at mr naylor's command. "what are you doing here, sir?" he asked, in a voice of thunder. "i got locked in, sir." "and what brought you here at all?" the ready lie that he would fain have had rise to his lips, failed him from actual terror, and he was silent. "i will tell you why you are here," said the gardener. "you came to open that window in order to get an innocent companion into trouble, and to have it supposed that he was careless and had neglected his duty, and it is the second time you have done the base deed. you are a coward of the worst kind, and you shall come with me instantly to sir john himself, and hear his opinion of your conduct." then george found his voice, and implored mr naylor to punish him in any way rather than take him before sir john, but in vain. he marched him off without another word, and made him walk before him to the house, where he requested to see the baronet. very shocked and indignant was sir john at what he heard about the wretched boy before him, who did not attempt to deny that he had hoped to bring dick into disgrace, and so had slipped into the greenhouse to open the window, but had not time to escape before mr naylor came and locked him in. he had no way of getting out without breaking the windows, owing to their peculiar method of opening. he acknowledged that dick had never done him any harm, and could only say in reply to the questions put to him, that "he had never liked him." sir john dismissed him from his service on the spot, and told him his opinion of his conduct in terms which remained in his memory for many a day. dick was very glad when mr naylor told him the mystery about the open window had been cleared up; but to his credit be it spoken, he was really grieved to hear that george was to work no more in the gardens. he longed to plead for him, but knew it would be useless, as sir john and mr naylor were so seriously displeased. but when a little time had passed by, and george was still without regular employment, hanging about the village, often reminded by jeers and taunts of his mean conduct, dick felt more and more sorry for him, and at length he ventured to ask mr naylor if he would say a good word for him to sir john. "and so _you_ want him to be taken on again, do you?" was the reply. "that's queer, now." but queer as he thought it, naylor could appreciate dick's forgiving spirit, and admired it sufficiently to induce him to ask sir john if the boy might have another trial, and he obtained his consent. he took care to tell george who it was had pleaded for his return. the boy had avoided dick since his disgrace, but this generous conduct quite overcame him. though foreign to his own nature to act thus, he was touched and grateful, and actually thanked dick, and told him he was sorry he had behaved so shabbily to him. from that day the two lads were good friends. george never again annoyed dick. we must pass over the next few years of dick's history more rapidly. he did not disappoint the expectations of those who had done so much for him. he improved rapidly, and developed so strong a taste for landscape gardening that sir john and mr naylor advised him to lay himself out chiefly for that branch of the profession, and every aid was given him to do so. sir john thought that his steady character, united to considerable natural talent, well deserved encouragement. the result was, that when he grew to manhood he introduced him to the notice of several families of distinction, and he soon began to get a name and to acquire a considerable income. walters lived to see him married and prosperous, and ever true to the principles he had instilled into him as a child. at a good old age dear old john walters passed away to his rest. his death was calm and happy as his life had been. his remains lie in the little churchyard at denham, a plain white stone marking the spot. many still remember and speak of him with affection. amongst the number is sir john, now himself grown old. sometimes he has been heard to exclaim, as he pauses an instant before the grave-- "let my last end be like his!" catalogue of new and popular works published by s. w. partridge & co. new books. s. the grand chaco: a boy's adventures in an unknown land by g. manville fenn, author of "the crystal hunters," "nolens volens," "dick o' the fens," etc., etc. crown vo. fully illustrated. cloth extra, gilt edges. s. d. each. ailsa's reaping; 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(uniform with "the red mountain of alaska.") olive chauncey's trust. by mrs. e. r. pitman, author of "vestina's martyrdom," "lady missionaries in foreign lands," etc. the lion city of africa: a story of adventures. by willis boyd allen, author of "the red mountain of alaska," "pine cones," etc., etc. twenty-four illustrations. by sea-shore, wood, and moorland: peeps at nature. by edward step, author of "plant life," "dick's holidays," etc. upwards of two hundred illustrations by harrison weir, w. rainey, r. kretschmer, f. giacomelli, theo. carreras, etc. grace ashleigh; or, his ways are best. by mary d. r. boyd. with eight full-page engravings by robert barnes. hamilton of king's. by alice price, author of "hilary st. john," "who is sylvia?" etc. with ten illustrations by a. pearse. eaglehurst towers. by emma marshall, author of "fine gold," etc. edwin, the boy outlaw; or, the dawn of freedom in england. a story of the days of robin hood. by j. frederick hodgetts, author of "older england," etc. "not wanted"; or, the wreck of the "providence." by eliza f. pollard, author of "robert aske," etc. leaders into unknown lands: being chapters of recent travel. by a. montefiore, f.g.s., f.r.g.s., author of "h. m. stanley, the african explorer," etc. maps and illustrations. s. each. the home library. crown vo. pages. handsome cloth cover. illustrations. by pansy: three people. four girls at chautauqua. an endless chain. the chautauqua girls at home. wise and otherwise. the king's daughter. ruth erskine's crosses. ester ried. ester ried yet speaking. julia ried. the man of the house. by annie s. swan: mark desborough's vow. the better part. the strait gate. a way in the wilderness. by maggie swan. by jane m. kippen: edith oswald; or, living for others. 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( pages.) "one and all." an autobiography of richard tangye, of the cornwall works, birmingham. with twenty-one original illustrations by frank hewett. ( pages.) david livingstone: his labours and his legacy. by arthur montefiore, f.g.s., f.r.g.s., author of "h. m. stanley, the african explorer." henry m. stanley, the african explorer. by arthur montefiore, f.g.s., f.r.g.s. ninth edition, enlarged. _new series of missionary biographies. crown_ _vo._ _pages._ _cloth extra. fully illustrated._ madagascar: its missionaries and martyrs. by william j. townsend, author of "robert morrison, the pioneer of chinese missions," etc., etc. david brainerd, the apostle to the north american indians. by jesse page. james calvert; or, from dark to dawn in fiji. by r. vernon. fully illustrated. henry martyn: his life and labours--cambridge, india, persia. by jesse page, author of "samuel crowther," etc., etc. john williams, the martyr missionary of polynesia, by rev. james j. ellis. lady missionaries in foreign lands. by mrs. e. r. pitman, author of "vestina's martyrdom," etc., etc. samuel crowther, the slave boy who became bishop of the niger. by jesse page, author of "bishop patteson, the martyr of melanesia." thomas j. comber, missionary pioneer to the congo. by rev. j. b. myers, association secretary, baptist missionary society, author of "william carey, the shoemaker who became the father and founder of modern missions." william carey, the shoemaker who became the father and founder of modern missions. by rev. j. b. myers, association secretary, baptist missionary society. robert moffat, the missionary hero of kuruman. by david j. deane, author of "martin luther the reformer," "john wicliffe," etc. james chalmers, missionary and explorer of rarotonga and new guinea. by william robson, of the london missionary society. robert morrison, the pioneer of chinese missions. by william john townsend, general secretary of the methodist new connexion missionary society, author of "the great schoolmen of the middle ages." bishop patteson, the martyr of melanesia. by jesse page. griffith john, founder of the hankow mission, central china. by william robson, of the london missionary society. _one hundred and ninety-five thousand of these popular volumes have already been sold_. _one shilling and sixpenny reward books_. _crown_ _vo. cloth extra. fully illustrated_. amaranth's garden. by m. s. haycraft, author of "a quarrel most unnatural," etc., etc. illustrated by w. rainey. a sailor's lass. by emma leslie, author of "the gipsy queen," "dearer than life," etc. the canal boy who became president. by frederic t. gammon. eleventh edition. thirty-first thousand. changing places; 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[transcriber's notes: this book contains a number of misprints. the following misprints have been corrected: [hazell, watson, and viney, ld. printers, london] --> [hazell, watson, and viney, ltd. printers, london] ["perseverence and success,"] --> ["perseverance and success,"] [with forty-five beautiful full-page illustration.] -> [with forty-five beautiful full-page illustrations.] in the catalog at the end of the book, near "our lifeboats:" the size of the book is described with two numbers, the first of which is unreadable. this has been replaced with {unreadable} an illustrations-list has been added after the contents-list ] the bishop's shadow by i.t. thurston _author of "boys of the central," "a genuine lady" etc._ with illustrations by m. eckerson "this learned i from the shadow of a tree that to and fro did sway upon a wall, our shadow selves--our influence--may fall where we can never be." contents i. lost--a pocketbook ii. nan's new home iii. an accident iv. tode meets the bishop v. in the bishop's house vi. tode's new start vii. after tode's departure viii. theo's shadow work ix. theo in trouble x. a bitter disappointment xi. theo's new business xii. nan finds friends xiii. nan's departure xiv. theodore gives carrots a chance xv. a strike xvi. called to go up higher xvii. final glimpses list of illustrations theodore bryan, sign-polisher "he's awakin' up, i guess" adrift again "oh, how pretty,--how pretty it is!" "stop the car!" thanksgiving reunion the bishop's shadow [illustration: theodore bryan, sign-polisher] i. lost--a pocketbook it was about ten o'clock in the morning and a northeast storm was raging in boston. the narrow crooked business streets were slippery with mud and thronged with drays and wagons of every description, which, with the continual passing of the street cars, made it a difficult and often a dangerous matter to attempt a crossing. the rain came in sudden driving sheets, blotting out all but the nearest cars or vehicles, while the wind seemed to lie in wait at every corner ready to spring forth and wrest umbrellas out of the hands of pedestrians at the most critical points in the crossings. two ladies coming along causeway street by the union depot, waited some minutes on the sidewalk watching for an opening in the endless stream of passing teams. "there! we shan't have a better chance than this. come on now," one of them exclaimed, stepping quickly forward as there came a little break in the moving line. she stepped in front of two cars that had stopped on parallel tracks and her companion hastily followed her. just then there came a fierce gust that threatened to turn their umbrellas inside out. the lady in front clutched hers nervously and hurried forward. as she ran past the second car she found herself almost under the feet of a pair of horses attached to a heavy wagon. the driver yelled angrily at her as he hastily pulled up his team; a policeman shouted warningly and sprang toward her, and her friend stopped short with a low cry of terror. but though the pole of the wagon grazed her cheek and the shock threw her almost to the ground, the lady recovered herself and hurried across to the sidewalk. it was then that a little ragged fellow of perhaps thirteen, slipped swiftly under the very feet of the horses, and, unheeding the savage shouts of the driver, wormed his way rapidly through the crowd and vanished. as he did so, the lady who had so narrowly escaped injury, turned to her friend and cried, "oh my pocketbook! i must have dropped it on the crossing." "on the crossing, did you say?" questioned the policeman, and as she assented, he turned hastily back to the street, but the cars and teams had passed on and others were surging forward and no trace of the pocketbook was visible. the policeman came back and questioned the lady about it, promising to do what he could to recover it. "but it's not probable you'll ever see a penny of the money again," he said. "some rascally thief most likely saw ye drop it an' snatched it up." the policeman was not mistaken. if he had turned through tremont and boylston streets he might have seen a ragged, barefooted boy sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then to look into a shop window, yet ever keeping a keenly watchful eye on every policeman he met. the boy looked as if he had not a penny in those ragged pockets of his, but one of his grimy hands clutched tightly the lost pocketbook, which his sharp eyes had seen as it fell beneath the feet of the horses, and which he had deftly appropriated as he wriggled through the mud. heedless of wind and rain the boy lounged along the street. it was not often that he found himself in this section of the city, and it was much less familiar to him than some other localities. he seemed to be wandering aimlessly along, but his restless eyes were on the watch for some retired spot where he might safely examine his prize and see how much money he had secured. for a long time he saw no place that seemed to him a safe one for his purpose, so he went on and on until suddenly he realised that he was tired. he was passing a large brownstone church at the moment, and he sat down on the steps to rest. "my! but this is a gay ol' church!" he thought, as he looked curiously at the beautiful building. "wonder where them steps go to." springing up he ran across the pillared porch to the foot of the stone stairs that led to the upper entrance to the chapel. following a sudden impulse he started hastily up these stairs, his bare feet making no sound. at the top of the stairs he found himself shut in on two sides by a high stone balustrade, the chapel door forming the third side. this door was closed. he tried it softly and found it locked. then he dropped down in the darkest corner of the landing, and, with eyes and ears still keenly alert, pulled from his pocket the mud-stained purse and examined it carefully. he found in it thirty-six dollars in bills and about a dollar more in silver. the boy gave a gleeful, silent laugh. "struck it rich this time," he said to himself. he hunted up a crooked pin from somewhere about his dilapidated garments, and fastened the roll of bills as securely as he could inside the lining of his jacket, keeping the silver in his pocket. then he again examined the book to be sure that he had overlooked nothing. on the inside of the leather was the name, "r. a. russell," and there was also a card bearing the same name and an address. the card he tore into tiny bits and chewed into a pellet which he tossed over the stone balustrade. then, with the pocketbook in his hand, he looked about him. there was a pastor's box fastened beside the door. he crowded the telltale book through the opening in the top of this box, and then with a satisfied air ran blithely down the stone steps. but he stopped short as he came face to face with the sexton who was just crossing the porch. "here, you! where've you been? what you been up to?" cried the man, clutching at him angrily, but the boy was too quick. he ducked suddenly, slipped under the sexton's hands and darted across the porch and down the steps. then he stopped to call back, "be'n makin' 'rangements ter preach fer ye here next sunday--yah! yah!" and with a mocking laugh he disappeared leaving the sexton shaking his fist in impotent wrath. the boy ran swiftly on until he had gotten quite a distance from the church; then he slackened his pace and began to plan what he should do next. the sight of a confectioner's window reminded him that he was hungry, and he went into the store and bought two tarts which he ate as he walked on. after that he bought a quart of peanuts, two bananas and a piece of mince-pie, and having disposed of all these he felt hungry no longer. having in his possession what seemed to him a small fortune, he saw no necessity for working, so that night he did not go as usual to the newspaper office for the evening papers, but spent his time loafing around the busiest corners and watching all that went on about the streets. this unusual conduct attracted the attention of his cronies, and a number of newsboys gathered about him trying to find out the reason of his strange idleness. "i say, tode," called one, "why ain't ye gettin' yer papers?" "aw, he's come into a fortune, he has," put in another. "his rich uncle's come home an' 'dopted him." "naw, he's married vanderbilt's daughter," sneered a third. "say, now, tode, tell us w'at's up," whispered one, sidling up to him. "hev ye swiped somethin'?" tode tried to put on an expression of injured innocence, but his face flushed as he answered, shortly, "come, hush yer noise, will ye! can't a chap lay off fer one day 'thout all the town pitchin' inter him? i made a dollar extry this mornin'--that's all the' is about it," and stuffing his hands into his pockets he marched off to avoid further comment. for the next week tode "lived high" as he expressed it. he had from three to six meals a day and an unlimited amount of pie and peanuts besides, but after all he was not particularly happy. time hung heavy on his hands sometimes--the more so as the boys, resenting his living in luxurious idleness, held aloof, and would have nothing to do with him. he had been quite a leader among them, and it galled him to be so left out and ignored. he began to think that he should not be sorry when his ill-gotten money was gone. he was thinking after this fashion one day as he strolled aimlessly down a side street. it was a quiet street where at that hour there was little passing, and tode lounged along with his hands in his pockets until he came to a place where the sidewalk was littered with building material and where a large house was in course of construction. perhaps the workmen were on a strike that day. at any rate none of them were about, and the boy sprang up onto a barrel that was standing near the curbstone, and sat there drumming on the head with two pieces of lath and whistling a lively air. after a little his whistle ceased and he looked up and down the street with a yawn, saying to himself, "gay ol' street, this is! looks like everybody's dead or asleep." but even as he spoke a girl came hastily around the nearest corner and hurried toward him. she looked about fourteen. her clothes were worn and shabby but they were clean, and in her arms she carried a baby wrapped in a shawl. she stopped beside tode and looked at him with imploring eyes. "oh can't you help me to hide somewhere? do! do!" she cried, with a world of entreaty in her voice. the boy glanced at her coolly. "what ye want ter hide for? been swipin' somethin'?" he questioned, carelessly. the girl flashed at him an indignant glance, then cast a quick, frightened one behind her. "no, no!" she exclaimed, earnestly. "i'm no thief. i'm running away from old mary leary. she's most killed my little brother giving him whiskey so's to make him look sick when she takes him out begging. look here!" she lifted the shawl that was wrapped about the child. tode leaned over and looked at the little face. it was a pitiful little face--so white and thin, with sunken eyes and blue lips--so pitiful that it touched even tode's heart, that was not easily touched. "the ol' woman after ye?" he asked, springing down from the barrel. "yes, yes! oh, do help me," pleaded the girl, the tears running down her cheeks as she gazed at the baby face. "i'm afraid he's going to die." the boy cast a quick glance about him. "here!" he exclaimed, "squat down an' i'll turn this over ye." he seized a big empty barrel that stood near. without a word the girl slipped to the ground and he turned the barrel over her, kicking under the edge a bit of wood to give air. the next moment he stooped down to the opening and whispered, "hi! the ol' lady's a comin'. don't ye peep. i'll fix her!" then he reseated himself again on the barrelhead and began to drum and whistle as before, apparently paying no heed to the woman who came along scolding and swearing, with half a dozen street children following at her heels. she came nearer and nearer but tode drummed on and whistled unconcernedly until she stopped before him and exclaimed harshly, "you boy--have you seen a girl go by here, with a baby?" "nope," replied tode, briefly. "how long you be'n settin' here?" "'bout two weeks," answered the boy, gravely. the woman stormed and blustered, but finding that this made no impression she changed her tactics and began in a wheedling tone, "now, dearie, you'll help an ol' woman find her baby, won't ye? it's heartbroke i am for my pretty darlin' an' that girl has carried him off. tell me, dearie, did they go this way?" "i d' know nothin' 'bout yer gal," exclaimed tode. "why don't ye scoot 'round an' find her 'f she's cleared out?" "an' ain't i huntin' her this blessed minute?" shrieked the woman, angrily. "i b'lieve ye _have_ seen her. like's not ye've hid her away somewheres." tode turned away from her and resumed his drumming while the woman cast a suspicious glance at the unfinished building. "she may be there," she muttered and began searching through the piles of building material on the ground floor. "hope she'll break her ol' neck!" thought tode, vengefully, as he whistled with fresh vigor. the woman reappeared presently, and casting a threatening glance and a torrent of bad language at the boy, went lumbering heavily down the street with the crowd of noisy, curious children straggling along behind her. when they had all disappeared around the corner of the street, tode sprang down and putting his mouth to the opening at the bottom of the barrel whispered hastily, "keep still 'til i see if she's gone sure," and he raced up to the corner where he watched until the woman was out of sight. then he ran back and lifted the barrel off, saying, "it's all right--she's gone, sure 'nough." the girl cast an anxious glance up and down the street as she sprang up. "oh dear!" she exclaimed. "i don't know where to go!" and tode saw that her eyes were full of tears. he looked at her curiously. "might go down t' the wharf. ol' woman wouldn't be likely ter go there, would she?" he suggested. "i don't think so. i've never been there," replied the girl. "which way is it?" "come on--i'll show ye;" and tode set off at a rapid pace. the girl followed as fast as she could, but the child was a limp weight in her arms and she soon began to lag behind and breathe heavily. "what's the matter? why don't ye hurry up?" exclaimed the boy with an impatient backward glance. "i--can't. he's so--heavy," panted the girl breathlessly. tode did not offer to take the child. he only put his hands in his pockets and waited for her, and then went on more slowly. when they reached the wharf, he led the way to a quiet corner where the girl dropped down with a sigh of relief and weariness, while he leaned against a post and looked down at her. presently he remarked, "what's yer name?" "nan hastings," replied the girl. "how'd she get hold o' ye?" pursued the boy, with a backward jerk of his thumb that nan rightly concluded was meant to indicate the leary woman. she answered slowly, "it was when mother died. we had a nice home. we were not poor folks. my father was an engineer, and he was killed in an accident before little brother was born, and that almost broke mother's heart. after the baby came she was sick all the time and she couldn't work much, and so we used up all the money we had, and mother got sicker and at last she told me she was going to die." the girl's voice trembled and she was silent for a moment; then she went on, "she made me kneel down by the bed and promise her that i would always take care of little brother and bring him up to be a _good_ man as father was. i promised, and i am going to do it." the girl spoke earnestly with the light of a solemn purpose in her dark eyes. tode began to be interested. "and she died?" he prompted. "yes, she died. she wrote to some of her relatives before she died asking them to help little brother and me, but there was no answer to the letter, and after she died all our furniture was sold to pay the doctor and the funeral bills. the doctor wanted to send us to an orphan asylum, but mary leary had worked for us, and she told me that if we went to an asylum they would take little brother away from me and i'd never see him any more, and she said if i'd go home with her she'd find me a place to work and i could keep the baby. so i went home with her. it was a horrid place"--nan shuddered--"and i found out pretty soon that she drank whiskey, but i hadn't any other place to go, so i had to stay there, but lately she's been taking the baby out every day and he's been growing so pale and sick-looking, and yesterday i caught her giving him whiskey, and then i knew she did it to make him look sick so that she would get more money when she went out begging with him." "an' so you cut an' run?" put in tode, as the girl paused. [illustration: "he's awakin' up, i guess."] "yes--and i'll _never_ go back to her, but--i don't know what i _can_ do. do you know any place where i can stay and work for little brother?" the dark eyes looked up into the boy's face with a wistful, pleading glance, as the girl spoke. "i'd know no place," replied tode, shrugging his shoulders carelessly. he did not feel called upon to help this girl. tode considered girls entirely unnecessary evils. nan looked disappointed, but she said no more. "he's wakin' up, i guess," remarked tode, glancing at the baby. the little thing stirred uneasily, and then the heavy, blue-veined lids were lifted slowly, and a pair of big innocent blue eyes looked straight into tode's. a long, steadfast, unchildlike look it was, a look that somehow held the boy's eyes in spite of himself, and then a faint, tremulous smile quivered over the pale lips, and the baby hands were lifted to the boy. that look and smile had a strange, a wonderful effect on tode. something seemed to spring into life in his heart in that instant. up to this hour he had never known what love was, for he had never loved any human being, but as he gazed into the pure depths of those blue eyes and saw the baby fingers flutter feebly toward him, his heart went out in love to the child, and he held out his arms to take him. nan hesitated, with a quick glance at tode's dirty hands and garments, but he cried imperiously, "give him here. he wants to come to me," and she allowed him to take the child from her arms. as he felt himself lifted in that strong grasp, little brother smiled again, and nestled with a long breath of content against tode's dirty jacket. "see--he likes me!" cried the boy, his face all aglow with the strange, sweet delight that possessed him. he sat still holding the child, afraid to move lest he disturb his charge, but in a few minutes the baby began to fret. "what's he want?" questioned tode, anxiously. nan looked distressed. "i'm afraid he's hungry," she replied. "oh dear, what _shall_ i do!" she seemed ready to cry herself, but tode sprang up. "you come along," he exclaimed, briefly, and he started off with the child still in his arms, and nan followed wonderingly. she shrank back as he pushed open the door of a restaurant, but tode went in and after a moment's hesitation, she followed. "what'll he take--some beef?" inquired the boy. "oh no!" cried nan, hastily, "some bread and milk will be best for him." "all right. here you--bring us a quart o' milk an' a loaf o' bread," called tode, sharply, to a waiter. when these were brought he added, "now fetch on a steak an' a oyster stew." then he turned with a puzzled look to nan. "how does he take it? d'ye pour it down his throat?" he asked. "no, no!" cried nan, hastily, as he seized the bowl of milk. "you must feed it to him with a spoon." "all right!" and utterly regardless of the grinning waiters tode began to feed the baby, depositing quite as much in his neck as in his mouth, while nan looked on, longing to take the matter into her own hands, but afraid to interfere. suddenly tode glanced at her. "why don't ye eat?" he said, with a gesture toward the food on the table. the girl coloured and drew back. "oh i can't," she exclaimed, hastily, "i ain't--i don't want anything." "ain't ye hungry?" demanded tode in a masterful tone. "n--not much," stammered nan, but the boy saw a hungry gleam in her eyes as she glanced at the food. "y'are, too! now you jest put that out o' sight in a hurry!" but nan shook her head. "i'm no beggar," she said, proudly, "and some time i'm going to pay you for that," and she pointed to the bowl of bread and milk. "shucks!" exclaimed the boy. "see here! i've ordered that stuff an' i'll have it to pay for anyhow, so you might's well eat it. _i_ don't want it," and he devoted himself again to the child. nan turned her head resolutely away, but she was so hungry and the food did smell so good that she could not resist it. she tasted the oysters and in three minutes the bowl was empty, and a good bit of the steak had disappeared before she pushed aside her plate. "thank you," she said, gratefully. "it did taste _so_ good!" "huh!" grunted tode. this was the first time in his life that anybody had said "thank you" to him. he handed the baby over to nan and, though he had said he was not hungry, finished the steak and a big piece of pie in addition and then the three left the restaurant. ii. nan's new home as they went out, nan looked anxiously from side to side, fearing to see or be seen by the leary woman. tode noticed her troubled look and remarked, "ye needn't ter fret. _i_ wouldn't let her touch ye. we might's well go back to the wharf," he added. so they returned to the corner they had left, and in a little while the baby dropped into a refreshing sleep in his sister's lap, while tode sometimes roamed about the wharf, and sometimes lounged against a post and talked with nan. "what is _your_ name?" she asked him, suddenly. "tode bryan." "tode? that's a queer name." "'spect that ain't all of it. there's some more, but i've forgot what 'tis," the boy replied, carelessly. "and where's your home, tode?" "home? ain't got none. never had none--no folks neither." "but where do you live?" "oh, anywheres. when i'm flush, i sleeps at the newsboys' home, an' when i ain't, i takes the softest corner i can find in a alley or on a doorstep," was the indifferent reply. nan looked troubled. "but i can't do that," she said. "i can't sleep in the street with little brother." "why not?" questioned tode, wonderingly. "oh because--girls can't do like that." "lots o' girls do." "but--not nice girls, tode," said nan, wistfully. "well no, i don't 'spect they're nice girls. i don't know any girls 't amount to much," replied tode, disdainfully. nan flushed at his tone, as she answered, "but what _can_ i do? where can i go? seems as if there ought to be some place where girls like me could stay." "that's so, for a fact," assented tode, then he added, thoughtfully, "the's one feller--mebbe you could stay where he lives. he's got a mother, i know." "oh if i only could, tode! i'd work _ever_ so hard," said nan, earnestly. "you stay here an' i'll see 'f i can find him," said the boy. then he turned back to add suspiciously, "now don't ye clear out while i'm gone." nan looked at him wonderingly. "where would i go?" she questioned, and tode answered with a laugh, "that a fact--ye ain't got no place to go, have ye?" then he disappeared and nan waited anxiously for his return. he came back within an hour bringing with him a freckle-faced boy a year or so older than himself. "this's the gal!" he remarked, briefly. the newcomer looked doubtfully at nan. "see the little feller," cried tode, eagerly. "ain't he a daisy? see him laugh," and he chucked the baby clumsily under the chin. the child's heavy eyes brightened and he smiled back into the friendly, dirty face of the boy. the other boy looked at tode wonderingly. "didn't know 't you liked _kids,_" he said, scornfully. "so i don't--but this one's diff'runt," replied tode, promptly. "you ain't no common kid, be ye, little brother?" "what's his name?" questioned the boy. "his name is david, but mother always called him little brother, and so i do," answered the girl, in a low tone. "have you a mother?" she added, with an earnest look at the boy. "got the best mother in this town," was the prompt reply. "oh, won't you take me to her, then? maybe she can tell me what to do," nan pleaded. "well, come along, then," responded the boy, rather grudgingly. "you come too, tode," said nan. "'cause you know we might meet mary leary." "all right. i'll settle her. don't you worry," and tode, with a very warlike air marched along at nan's right hand. "what's your mother's name?" questioned nan, shyly, of the newcomer as the three walked on together. "hunt. i'm dick hunt," was the brief reply. then dick turned away from the girl and talked to tode. it was not very far to dick's home. it was in one of the better class of tenement houses. the hunts had three rooms and they were clean and comfortably furnished. tode looked around admiringly as dick threw open the door and led the way in. tode had never been in rooms like these before. nan--after one quick glance about the place--looked earnestly and longingly into mrs. hunt's kind motherly face. dick wasted no words. "mother," he said, "this girl wants to stay here." mrs. hunt was making paper bags. her busy fingers did not stop for a moment, but she cast a quick, keen glance at nan and tode. "what do you mean, dick?" she said. "oh, mrs. hunt, if you only would let us stay here till i can find a place to work, i'd be so thankful. we'll have to stay in the street tonight--little brother and i--if you don't," urged nan, eagerly. mrs. hunt's kind heart was touched by the girl's pleading tone. she had girls of her own and she thought, "what if my nellie had to spend the night in the street," but she said only: "sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it." the kind tone and those two words "my dear," were almost too much for poor anxious nan. her eyes filled with tears and her voice was not quite steady as she told again her sorrowful little story, and when it was ended the mother's eyes too were dim. "give me that baby," she exclaimed, forgetting her work for the moment, and she took the little fellow tenderly in her arms. "you poor child," she added, to nan, "of course you can stay here to-night. it's a poor enough place an' we're as pinched as we can be, but we'll manage somehow to squeeze out a bite and a corner for you for a day or two anyway." tode's face expressed his satisfaction as he turned to depart. dick too looked pleased. "didn't i tell ye i'd got the best mother in this town?" he said, proudly, as he followed tode down the stairs. "yes you did, an' 'twarn't no lie neither," assented tode, emphatically; "but, see here, you can tell your mother that _i'm_ agoin' to pay for that little feller's bread an' milk." dick looked at him curiously. "you goin' to work again?" he questioned. "'course i am." "somebody's got your beat." "who?" tode stopped short in angry surprise as he asked the question. "that big red-headed feller that they call carrots." "well--carrots'll find himself knocked out o' business," declared tode, fiercely. when the newsboys assembled at the newspaper office a little later, dick speedily reported tode's remark, and soon all eyes were on the alert to see what would happen. tode was greeted rather coldly and indifferently, but that did not trouble him. he bought his papers and set off for his usual beat. scenting a fight a good many of the boys followed. as dick had said, tode found the big fellow on the ground, lustily crying his papers. tode marched straight up to him. "see here, carrots, this's my beat. you clear out--d'ye hear?" he shouted. the big fellow leered at him scornfully, and without a word in response, went on calling his papers. down on the ground went tode's stock in trade, and he fell upon carrots like a small cyclone fighting with teeth, nails, fists and heels, striking in recklessly with never a thought of fear. forgetful of possible customers, the boys quickly formed a ring, and yelled and hooted at the antagonists, cheering first one and then the other. but the contest was an unequal one. the red-headed boy was the bigger and stronger of the two and plucky as tode was, he would have been severely treated had not the affair been ended by the appearance of a policeman who speedily separated the combatants. "what's all this row about?" he demanded, sharply, as he looked from tode's bleeding face to the big fellow's bruised eye. "he took my beat. i've sold papers here for three years," cried tode, angrily. "what _you_ got to say?" the policeman turned to the other. "he give it up. he ain't sold a paper here for a week past," growled carrots. "whose beat is it?" the man turned to the other boys as he asked the question. "reckon it's tode's." "he's o'ny been layin' off fer a spell." "it's tode's sure 'nough." so they answered, and the officer turned again to carrots. "you're a bigger feller 'n he is. you let him alone an' go find a new beat for yourself, an' see 't i don't catch either of ye fightin' in the streets again, or i'll put ye where ye'll get another kind of a beat if ye don't walk straight. now scatter--all of ye!" the "fun" was over and the boys needed no second bidding. they scattered in all directions and the next moment, tode's shrill voice rang out triumphantly, while his rival stalked gloomily off, meditating dire vengeance in the near future. meantime, after tode and dick had departed, nan had spoken a few grateful words to mrs. hunt, and then laying the baby on the lounge, she said, earnestly, "please show me just how you make those bags. i'm sure i can do it." it was simple work and it did not take her many minutes to master the details. her quick eyes and deft fingers soon enabled her to do the work fully as well and as rapidly as mrs. hunt could do it. "well, i never! you certainly are a quick one," exclaimed the good woman as she gave up her seat to the girl. "now if you can finish that job for me, i can get a little sewing done before dark." "oh yes, i can finish this easily," exclaimed nan, delighted that there was something that she could do in return for the kindness shown her. by and by, jimmy, nellie, and the younger children came in from school, staring in amazement at the two strangers who seemed so much at home there. nan made friends with them at once, but she dreaded the arrival of the father. "what if he shouldn't want us to stay?" she thought, anxiously, as she heard a heavy step on the stairs, and nellie called out, "here comes father!" there was a general rush of the children as he opened the door and he came into the room with boys and girls swarming over him. nan's fears departed at the first sight of his honest, kindly face, and his cheery greeting to her. "wal' now, this is nice," he said, heartily, after hearing his wife's brief explanation. "never can have too many little gals 'round to suit me, an' as fer this young man," he lifted little brother gently as he spoke, "he fits into this fam'ly jest like a book. ted here's gettin' most too much of a man to be our baby any longer." ted's round face had lengthened as his father took up the baby, but it brightened at these words, and he straightened himself and slipped his hands into the pockets of the very short trousers he was wearing. "i'll be a big man pretty soon," he remarked, and his father patted his head tenderly as he answered, "so you will, sonny, so you will, an' the more you help other folks the faster you'll grow." that was a happy evening for nan. as she sat at the supper-table at "father's" right hand the only shadow on her satisfaction was the fear that she might not be allowed to remain in this friendly household. but somehow, even that thought could not cast a very dark shadow on her heart when she looked up into the sunshine of father hunt's plain face, or met the motherly smile of his good wife. she lent a helping hand whenever she saw an opportunity to do so, and the table was cleared, and the dishes washed so quickly that mr. hunt remarked to his wife, "look here, now, mother, why can't you an' me go somewheres this evening? you ain't been out with me for more'n a year, an' i feel's if i'd like a bit of an outin' to-night." mrs. hunt looked up doubtfully, but nan spoke up quickly, "do go, mrs. hunt. i'll take care of the children and be glad to." "that's right! that's right!" exclaimed mr. hunt. "'course ye will, an' i 'spect you'll make 'em have such a fine time that they'll be sorry when we get back." ted put his finger in his mouth and gloom gathered on his round face at this suggestion, but it vanished as nan said, "teddy, i can cut fine soldiers out of paper, and animals too. after your father and mother go i'll cut some for you." teddy's face brightened at this promise, and he saw the door close behind his mother without shedding a single tear. nan put little brother to bed and then all the children gathered about the table and nan drew men and animals on brown paper and cut them out, to the great delight of the children. teddy especially was so interested that once nellie remarked, "you needn't get quite into nan's mouth, ted." nan laughed. "if he only won't get his fingers cut instead of the paper," she said. "there! i've got a whole fun'ral of horses," remarked ted, in a tone of great satisfaction, as he ranged a long string of the figures two and two on the table. "look out, ted, you'll knock over the lamp!" cried jimmy, hastily. the warning came too late. even as the words were uttered, the chair on which ted was standing slipped from under him, and as he struck out wildly to save himself from falling he hit the lamp and knocked it over on the table. the chimney rolled to the floor with a crash, and the burning oil spread over the table licking up ted's horses and the scattered bits of paper as it went. then a piece of the burning paper blew against nellie's apron and the next instant that was blazing, and nellie screaming with fright, while the other children ran crying into the inner room--all but ted. he--petrified with terror--stood still with mouth and eyes wide open, gazing at the fiery stream rolling over the table. it all happened in two or three seconds, but nan did not lose her head. she jerked off nellie's apron without regard to fastenings, and crammed it into the coalhod, then snatching up her old shawl which was lying on the lounge, she threw it over the burning lamp and gathered it closely over lamp, paper and all, so smothering the flames. in two minutes the danger was over, nan had lighted another lamp that nellie brought her, and the frightened children came creeping slowly back to the table. teddy did not care for paper men or animals any more that night. he was ready to go to bed, and nellie undressed him and put him there, but the others sat up until the father and mother came home, all eager to tell the story of their danger and of nan's bravery. the mother's eyes filled with tears as she put her arms about as many of the children as she could gather into them and looked at nan in silent gratitude, while the father laid his hand kindly on the girl's brown hair as he said, gravely, "child, you've earned your place in this home. as long as i'm able to work you're just as welcome here as the rest--you and the baby too." nan's eyes were shining happily. "'twas nothing much to do," she answered, "and i'll find some way to pay for little brother and me if only we can stay here." dick had come in soon after his parents, and had listened in gloomy silence to the story of the children. "humph!" he said to himself. "twasn't so awful much to put out that fire. i'd a done it in no time if i'd a been here." it seemed to dick that his father and mother were making altogether too much of this strange girl, and the evil spirit of jealousy reared its ugly head in his heart. he wished he had not brought those two home with him, anyhow. when, the next day, tode met him on the street and inquired about nan and little brother, dick replied, gruffly, "oh, they're all right 'nough." "but are they goin' ter stay't your place?" questioned tode. "'spect so." dick's voice was gruffer than before. "i'm agoin' 'round there to see 'em to-day," remarked tode. dick made no reply. tode repeated, "don't ye hear? i say i'm agoin' ter see 'em to-day." "i heard what ye said. s'pose i'm deaf?" and dick turned his back and marched off. tode looked after him angrily. "like ter punch his head fer him," he said, under his breath. "would, too, if his folks hadn't let little brother stay on there." nothing daunted by dick's unfriendly manner, tode presented himself that afternoon at mrs. hunt's door. he found that good woman and nan both busy over the paper bags. all the children except dick were at school, and little brother was lying on the old shawl at his sister's feet. tode gave an awkward nod by way of greeting and dropped down on the floor beside the child. "hello, little chap!" he said. there certainly was a mutual attraction between the two, for the baby again responded to his greeting with a smile, and held out his scrawny little hands. tode was delighted. he lifted the child in his arms and sat down with him in an old rocking-chair. nan cast a quick, disturbed glance at the two. she had dressed the baby in some clothes that mrs. hunt had found for her--a few that had survived ted's rough usage. they were old but clean, and it was trying to nan to see little brother's pure, sweet face and fresh garments held by tode's dirty hands against his dirtier jacket. but the baby did not mind. he looked as contented as tode did, and when the boy's grimy fingers touched his thin cheek, little brother laughed a soft, happy, gurgling laugh that was music in tode's ears. but suddenly the boy's glance took in the contrast between his soiled hand and the little face against which it rested. for a moment he hesitated, then he arose hastily, placed the child gently on the old shawl again and said to mrs. hunt, "ye ain't got a bit o' soap you could lend me, have ye?" mrs. hunt looked at him inquiringly, then she answered a little unwillingly, for even soap costs money, "you can take that bit on the shelf there." tode seized it and vanished. few things escaped his quick eyes, and he had noticed a sink and a faucet in the hall outside the door. there he rubbed and scrubbed his hands for full five minutes vastly to their improvement, though even then he looked at them doubtfully. "can't do no better," he muttered, as he wiped them--well, he had only one place to wipe them, and he did the best he could. when he went back he glanced somewhat sheepishly at mrs. hunt as he put the remains of the soap back on the shelf, and again took up the baby. nan smiled at him but she made no remark, and tried not to look at his jacket. after he had gone mrs. hunt asked, thoughtfully, "how long have you known that boy, nan?" "i never saw him until yesterday," answered the girl. "he was good to me then." "yes, i know, an' of course you don't want to forget that, but, nan, i'm afraid he's a bad boy. dick says he is. he says he lies and steals and swears. i guess you don't want to have much to do with him." nan looked troubled. she answered, slowly, "i guess he hasn't had much of a chance, mrs. hunt. he can't remember anything about his father and mother, and he says he's never had any home except the street. do you s'pose 'twill hurt for him to come here sometimes to see little brother? 'seems as if it might help him to be a better boy. he likes little brother." for a moment mrs. hunt was silent. she was thinking how hard she tried to bring up her children to be good boys and girls, and yet they were not always good. she wondered what kind of a boy her dick would have been if he, like tode, had had no home and no one to keep him from evil ways. "if that's so, there's some excuse for him," she said, in response to nan's plea for tode. "p'raps 'twill help him somehow if he gets to carin' for that innocent baby, an' i don't mind his comin' here sometimes, only be careful that you don't learn any evil from him, my dear," and she leaned over and kissed the girl's cheek. "oh, mrs. hunt, i _must_ be good always, you know, for little brother's sake. i can't ever forget or break my promise to mother," nan answered, earnestly. and mrs. hunt, as she saw the solemn look in the dark eyes uplifted to her own, felt that she need not worry about nan and tode. iii. an accident tode bryan was sauntering down the street, his hands in his pockets, as usual, when he was not selling papers. he was whistling a lively tune, but he was on the lookout for anything interesting that might happen. as he passed a fruit stand kept by an old woman, he slyly snatched a handful of peanuts which he ate as he went on. he had sold out his papers more quickly than usual, for it was still early in the evening, and the streets were full of business-men on their way to their homes. suddenly the boy stopped short and listened, and the next moment there was a general rush into doorways and side streets as a fire-engine came dashing around the corner, while the police rushed from side to side clearing the way through the narrow street. as the engine passed, tode, like every other boy within sight or hearing, raced madly after it, shouting and yelling "fire" with all the power of his healthy lungs. hearing somebody say where the fire was, he slipped through a narrow cross street and an alley, so coming out ahead of the engine which the next moment swung around the nearest corner. an old man was just crossing the street, and as he heard the clang of the gong and the clatter of the engine, he looked about in a dazed, frightened way, and, instead of hurrying across, hesitated a moment and then turned uncertainly back. the driver did his best to avoid him but when the engine had passed the old man lay motionless upon the ground. instantly a crowd gathered about him and tode pressed forward to the front rank. one policeman was raising the old man's head and another was asking if anybody knew who the injured man was. it was tode, who, peering curiously at the pale face, remarked, "i know him. he buys papers o' me." "what's his name? where does he live?" questioned the officer. "do' know. he keeps a bookstand down on school street." "well, we'll have to send him to the hospital. ring up the ambulance, dick," said the officer to his companion. tode was just dashing off after the engine when one of the policemen collared him. "here you!" he exclaimed. "none o' your cuttin' off! if you know this man you've got to go to the hospital an' 'dentify him." tode looked uncomfortable and tried to squirm out of the man's grasp--a fruitless effort, for his strength availed nothing against that iron grip. the boy had no idea what "'dentify" might mean but he had his reasons for preferring to keep at a distance from the guardians of the law. there was no help for it, however, so with many inward misgivings, he submitted and waited for the ambulance. when it appeared the still insensible old man was lifted in and tode was ordered to the front seat where he rode securely between the driver and the policeman. the boy had never before been in a hospital and he felt very ill at ease when he found himself inside the building with its big rooms and long bare halls. he was left alone with the policeman for a while, and then both of them were called into another room and questioned in regard to the accident. finally tode was dismissed with strict orders to return the next day. "he'll be here. i know him, an' if he don't show up, you jest send me word an' i'll find him for ye," the officer said to the doctor, with a threatening glance at the boy. tode said nothing, but in his heart he was determined not to return the next day. the officer, however, kept his eye on him, and the next afternoon pounced upon him and put him on a street car with strict orders to the conductor not to let him off until he reached the hospital. so finding himself thus under watch and ward, tode concluded that he might as well obey orders, and he rang the bell at the hospital door. he was met by the doctor whom he had seen the night before, and taken at once to the ward where the injured man was lying. as tode gazed around the long room with its rows of white beds, a feeling of awe stole over him. he wanted to get away, for he did not know what to do or say. the old man was lying as if asleep, but when the doctor spoke to him he looked up and his dim eyes brightened at sight of the familiar face of the boy. "oh, bishop, it's you is it? got a paper for me?" he said with a feeble smile. tode wriggled uneasily as he answered gruffly, "guess ye don't want none to-day, do ye?" "no, i don't believe i do. you can bring me one to-morrow, bishop," and as he spoke the old man closed his eyes again, and turned his face away with a weary sigh. "come away now," said the doctor, and once outside the door he added, "he hasn't said as much as that before. seeing some one he knew aroused him as i hoped it would. why does he call you bishop?" "i do' know," replied tode, indifferently. "well, you must come again to-morrow. here's a car ticket and a quarter. i'll give you the same when you come to-morrow. be here about this time, will you?" "all right--i'll come," answered the boy to whom the quarter was an inducement. the old man remained at the hospital for several weeks and tode continued to visit him there at first for the sake of the money and because he dared not disobey the doctor's orders, but after a while he became rather proud of the old man's evident liking for him, and he would often sit and talk with him for half an hour at a time. one day tode inquired curiously, "what d' ye call me bishop for? 'tain't my name." and the old man answered dreamily, "you remind me of a boy i knew when i was about your age. he used to say that he was going to be a bishop when he grew up and so we boys always called him 'bishop.'" "an' did he?" questioned tode. "become a bishop? no, he entered the army and died in his first battle." "w'at's a bishop, anyhow?" asked tode, after a moment's silence. "you know what a minister is, tode?" "a preacher, ye mean?" "yes, a minister is a preacher. a bishop is a sort of head preacher--ranking higher, you know." tode nodded. "i'd rather be a soldier like that feller you knew," he remarked. a day came when the old man was pronounced well enough to leave the hospital and the doctor ordered tode to be on hand to take him home. the boy did not object. he was rather curious to see the little place in the rear of the bookstand where the old man lived alone. since the accident the stand had been closed and tode helped to open and air the room and then made a fire in the stove. when this was done the old man gave him money to buy materials for supper which of course the boy shared. after this he came daily to the place to run errands or do anything that was wanted, and by degrees the old man came to depend more and more upon him until the business of the little stand fell almost wholly into the boy's hands, for the owner's head still troubled him and he could not think clearly. it was a great relief to him to have some one to look after everything for him. tode liked it and the business prospered in his hands. if he lacked experience, he was quicker and sharper than the old man. the two took their meals together, and at night tode slept on a blanket on the floor, and was more comfortable and prosperous than he had ever been in his life before. he had money to spend too, for old mr. carey never asked for any account of the sums that passed through the boy's hands. so he himself was undisturbed by troublesome questions and figures, the old man was content now, and each day found him a little weaker and feebler. tode noticed this but he gave no thought to the matter. why borrow trouble when things were so much to his mind? tode lived in the present. he still sold the evening papers, considering it wise to keep possession of his route against future need, and never a week passed that he did not see little brother at least twice. he would have liked to see the child every day, but he knew instinctively that he was not a favorite with the hunts, and that knowledge made him ill at ease with them. but it could not keep him away altogether. he found too much satisfaction in little brother's love for him. more than once mrs. hunt had remarked to nan that she didn't "see what in the world made the baby so fond of that rough, dirty boy." nan herself wondered at it though she kept always a grateful remembrance of tode's kindness when she first met him. tode often brought little gifts to the child, and would have given him much more, but nan would not allow it. the two had a long argument over the matter one day. it was a bright, sunny morning and mrs. hunt had said that the baby ought to be out in the fresh air, so nan had taken him to the common, and sat there keeping ever a watchful eye for their enemy, mary leary. tode going down beacon street espied the two and forgetting all about the errand on which he was bound, promptly joined them. "he's gettin' fat--he is," the boy remarked, poking his finger at the dimple in the baby's cheek, then drawing it quickly away again with an uncomfortable expression. tode never cared how dirty his hands were except when he saw them in contrast with little brother's pure face. "yes, he's getting well and strong," assented nan, with a happy smile. "i say, nan, w'at's the reason you won't let me pay for his milk?" asked tode, after a little. then it was nan's turn to look uncomfortable, and the color rose in her cheeks as she answered, "i can pay now for all he needs. you know mrs. hunt gets a double quantity of bags and i work on them every day." but this answer did not satisfy tode. "that don't make no diff'runce," he growled. "don't see why you won't let me do nothin' for him," and he cast a gloomy glance at the baby, but little brother laughed up at him and the gloom speedily melted away. after a moment's silence he added, slowly, "it's comin' cold weather. he'll want a jacket or somethin', won't he?" "he'll have to have some warm clothes," replied nan, thoughtfully, "but i can get them--i guess." tode turned upon her fiercely. "i s'pose you'd let him freeze to death 'fore you'd let me buy him any clothes," he burst out, angrily. "i sh'd like ter know w'at's the matter with ye, anyhow. has that measly dick hunt ben stuffin' ye 'bout me?" nan coloured again and dropped her eyes. "say--has he? i'll give it ter him next time i catch him out!" and tode ground his heel suggestively into the gravel walk. "oh, tode, don't! please don't fight dick," pleaded nan. "how can you when his mother's so good to little brother?" "don't care 'f she is. _he_ ain't," was tode's surly reply. "he don't want you'n him to stay there." nan's eyes were full of uneasiness. "did he say so?" she questioned, for she had noticed dick's coldness and been vaguely disturbed by it. the boy nodded. "yes," he said, "he tol' me so. said there's 'nough fer his father ter feed 'thout you'n him," and he pointed to the baby. "but i work," pleaded nan. "i pay for all we eat." "but ye don't pay fer the rent an' the fire, an'--an' everything," tode replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, "so now, ye better let me pay fer little brother an' then you c'n pay the rest." nan hesitated and her face was troubled. finally she lifted her dark eyes to his and said bravely, "tode, i guess i ought to tell you just why i couldn't anyway let you do for little brother as you want to. it's because--because you don't get your money the right way." "who says i don't? did that dick hunt say so? i'll"--began tode, fiercely, but nan laid her hand on his arm and looked steadily into his face. "tode," she said, earnestly, "if you will look straight into little brother's eyes and tell me that you never steal--i'll believe you." "i never"--began the boy, boldly; then he met a grave, sweet glance from the baby's big blue eyes, and he hesitated. the lying words died on his tongue, and turning his eyes away from the little face that he loved, he said gloomily, "what's that got to do with it anyhow? s'posin' i do hook a han'ful of peanuts sometimes. that ain't nothin'." "tode, do you want little brother to hook a handful of peanuts sometimes when he gets big?" asked nan, quietly. the boy turned his eyes again to the baby face and the hot blood burned in his own as he answered, quickly, "'course i don't. he won't be that sort." "no, he won't, if i can help it," replied nan, gravely. tode dug his toe into the dirt in silence. nan added, "tode, by and by, when he gets bigger, would you want him to know that you were a thief?" when tode looked up there was a strange gravity in his eyes, and his lips were set in an expression of stern resolve. "i've got ter quit it," he said, solemnly, "an' i will. say, nan," he added, wistfully, "if i quit now, ye wont ever let him know i used ter be--what you said, will ye?" "no, tode, never," answered nan, quickly and earnestly. "and tode, if you'll stick to it, and not steal or lie or swear, i shan't mind your helping me get things for little brother." the boy's face brightened, and he drew himself up proudly. "it's a bargain, then," he said. nan looked at him thoughtfully. "i don't believe you know how hard it will be, tode. i find it's awful hard to break myself of bad habits, and i don't s'pose you've ever tried to before, have you?" tode considered the question. "guess not," he said, slowly, after a pause. "then i'm afraid you'll find you can't stop doing those bad things all at once. but you'll keep on trying, tode. you won't give up 'cause it's hard work," nan pleaded, anxiously. "nope," answered the boy, briefly, with a glance at the soft little fingers that were clasped about one of his. when nan went home he went with her to the door, loth to lose sight of the only creature in the world for whom he cared. as the door closed behind the two, he walked on thinking over what nan had said. much of it seemed to him "girls' stuff an' nonsense." "as if a fella couldn't stop swipin' things if he wanted to!" he said to himself. as he went on he passed a fruit stand where a man was buying some bananas. in putting his change into his pocket he dropped a nickel, which rolled toward tode who promptly set his foot on it, and then pretending to pull a rag off his torn trousers, he picked up the coin and went on chuckling over his "luck." but suddenly he stopped short and the hot color rose in his cheeks as he exclaimed with an oath, "done it again!" he looked around for the man, but he had disappeared, and with an angry grunt tode flung the nickel into the gutter and went on, beginning so soon to realise that evil habits are not overcome by simply resolving to conquer them. tode never had made any such attempt before, and the discovery had rather a depressing effect on him. it made him cross, too, but to his credit be it said, the thought of giving up the struggle never once occurred to him. he found old mr. carey asleep in his chair, and he awoke him roughly. "see here!" he exclaimed, sharply. "is this the way you 'tend to business when i'm gone? some cove might a stole every book an' paper on the stand, and cleaned out the cash, too." he pulled open the drawer as he spoke. "no thanks to you that 'tain't empty," he grumbled. he had never spoken so sharply before, and the old man was vaguely disturbed by it. he got up and walked feebly across the room, rubbing his trembling fingers through his grey hair in a troubled fashion, as he answered slowly, "yes, yes, bishop--you're right. it was very careless of me to go to sleep so. i don't see how i came to do it. i'm afraid i'm breaking down, my boy--breaking down," he added, sadly. as tode looked at the old man's dim eyes and shaking hands a feeling of sympathy and compassion stole into his heart, and his voice softened as he said, "oh, well, it's all right this time. reckon i'll have to run the business altogether till you get better." "i'm afraid you will, bishop. i'm not much good anyhow, nowadays," and the old man dropped again into his chair with a heavy sigh. the weeks that followed were the most miserable weeks of tode byran's short life. he found out some things about himself that he had never before suspected. it was wholesome knowledge, but it was not pleasant to find that in spite of his strongest resolutions, those nimble fingers of his _would_ pick up nuts and apples from street stands and his quick tongue would rattle off lies and evil words before he could remember to stop it. the other boys found him a most unpleasant companion in these days, for his continual failures made him cross and moody. he would speedily have given up the struggle but for little brother. several times he did give it up for a week or two, but then he staid away from the hunts' rooms until he grew so hungry for a sight of the baby face that he could stay away no longer. nan came to understand what these absences meant, and always when he reappeared she would speak a word of encouragement and faith in his final victory. tode had not cared at all for nan at first, but in these days of struggle and failure he began to value her steadfast faith in him, and again and again he renewed his vow to make himself "fit to help bring up little brother," as he expressed it. it was one day toward the close of winter that tode noticed that mr. carey seemed more than usually dull and listless, dropping into a doze even while the boy was speaking to him, and he went to bed directly after supper. when the boy awoke the next morning the old man lay just as he had fallen asleep. he did not answer when tode spoke to him, and his hands were cold as ice to the boy's touch. tode did not know what to do, but he finally hunted up the policeman, who knew him, and the two went back together and found the old man dead. as no relatives appeared, the city authorities took charge of the funeral, the books and the few pieces of furniture were sold to pay the expenses, and tode found himself once more a homeless waif. he had not minded it before, but his brief experience of even this poor home had unfitted him for living and sleeping in the streets. he found it unpleasant too, to have no money except the little he could earn selling papers. he set himself to face his future in earnest, and came to the conclusion that it was time for him to get into some better paying business. after thinking over the matter for several days he went to nan. "you know them doughnuts you made th' other day?" he began. "yes," replied nan, wonderingly. mrs. hunt had taught her to make various simple dishes, and as tode had happened in the day she made her first doughnuts, she had given him a couple, which he had pronounced "prime!" now he went on, "i don't want to sleep 'round the streets any more. i'm sick of it, but i can't make money 'nough off papers to do anything else. i'm thinkin' of settin' up a stand." "a bookstand, tode?" questioned nan, interestedly. "no--a eatin' stand--fer the fellers ye know--newsboys an' such. 'f you'll make doughnuts an' gingerbread an' san'wiches fer me, i bet all the fellers'll come fer 'em." "now that ain't a bad idea, tode," said mrs. hunt, looking up from her work. "of course the boys would buy good homemade food instead of the trash they get from the cheap eatin' houses, an' nan, i shouldn't wonder if you could earn more that way than by workin' at these bags." nan considered the matter thoughtfully, and finally agreed to give it a trial, and tode went off highly pleased. it took him two weeks to save enough to start his stand even in the simplest fashion, but when he did open it, he at first did a flourishing business. in the beginning the boys patronised him partly from curiosity and partly from good fellowship, but nan's cookery found favour with them at once, and "tode's corner" soon became the favorite lunch counter for the city newsboys, and tode's pockets were better filled than they had been since mr. carey's death. for several weeks all went well, and the boy began to consider himself on the high road to fortune, but then came a setback. one day his stand was surrounded by a crowd of boys all clamoring to be served at once, when the big fellow who had taken possession of tode's newspaper route, months before, came along. he had never forgotten or forgiven the boy for getting the better of him on that occasion, and now he thought he saw a chance for revenge. creeping up behind the group of hungry boys, he suddenly hit one of them a stinging blow on the face, and as this one turned and struck back angrily at him, the big fellow flung him back with all his strength against tode's stand. the stand was an old one and rickety--tode had bought it secondhand--and it went down with a crash, carrying cookies, doughnuts, gingerbread, coffee, sandwiches, cups, plates and boys in one promiscuous mixture. before the boys could struggle to their feet, carrots, with his hands full of gingerbread, had disappeared around the nearest corner. there was a wild rush and a scramble, and when two minutes later, tode stood gazing mournfully at the wreck, not an eatable bit remained. the boys had considered the wreckage as their lawful spoils, and every one of them had snatched as much as he could. later, however, their sense of justice led some of them to express, after their rough fashion, sympathy for tode, and disapproval of his enemy's revengeful act. besides, a few of them had enough conscience to acknowledge to themselves that they had not been entirely blameless. the result was that half a dozen of them went to tode the next day and offered to "chip in" and set him up again. tode appreciated the spirit that prompted the offer, but he was also shrewd enough to foresee that should he accept it, these boys would expect favours in the way of prices and quantities when they dealt with him in the future, and so he declined. "reckin i can stan' on my own feet, boys," he answered. "i've been a-tinkerin' up the ol' stand, an' i'm a-goin' to start in again to-morrow. you fellers come here an' get yer breakfast, an' that's all the help i'll ask, 'cept that ev'ry last one o' ye'll give that carrots a kick fer me." "we will that!" shouted the boys. "we'll make him sorry fer himself!" and the next day their sympathy took the practical form that tode had suggested, for every one of them that had any money to spend, spent it at "tode's corner," so that his stand was cleared again, but in a very satisfactory fashion--a fashion that filled his pockets with dimes and nickels. iv. tode meets the bishop sundays were tode's dreariest days. he found that it did not pay to keep his stand open later than ten o'clock, and then after he had spent an hour with little brother and nan, the time hung heavy on his hands. sometimes he pored over a newspaper for a while, sometimes over something even more objectionable than the sunday newspaper, and for the rest, he loafed around street corners and wharves with other homeless boys like himself. one sunday morning he was listlessly reading over some play-bills pasted on a fence, when the word "bishop" caught his eye, and he spelled out the announcement that a well-known bishop was to speak in st. mark's church, that afternoon. "cracky! i'd like to see a live bishop. b'lieve i'll go," he said to himself. then looking down at his ragged trousers and dirty jacket, he added with a grin, "'spect some o' them nobs'll most have a fit to see me there." nevertheless he determined to go. old mr. carey had never called him anything but "bishop," and now the boy had a queer feeling as he read that word on the bill--a feeling that this bishop whom he had never seen had yet in some way something to do with him--though in what way he could not imagine. he thought over the matter through the hours that followed, sometimes deciding that he would go, and again that he wouldn't, but he found out where st. mark's church was, and at three o'clock he was there. he gave a little start and a shadow fell upon his face as he saw the pillared porch and the stone stairway. he seemed to see himself running up those stairs and stuffing that stolen pocketbook into the pastor's box that he remembered so clearly. these thoughts were not pleasant ones to him now, and tode stopped hesitatingly, undecided whether to go on or to go in. it was early yet and no one was entering though the doors stood invitingly open. while he hesitated, the sexton came out to the steps. tode remembered him too, and looked at him with a grin that exasperated the man. "get out o' this!" he exclaimed, roughly. "we don't want any o' your sort 'round here." of course that settled the matter for tode. he was determined to go in now anyhow, but he knew better than to attempt it just then. "who wants to go int' yer ol' church," he muttered as he turned away. the man growled a surly response but tode did not look back. on the corner he stopped, wondering how he could best elude the unfriendly sexton and slip into the building, without his knowledge. he dropped down on the curbstone and sat there thinking for some time. at last a voice above him said quietly, "well, my boy, aren't you coming to church?" tode looked up, up a long way it seemed to him, into such a face as he had never before looked into. instinctively he arose and stepped back that he might see more plainly those clear blue eyes and that strong, tender mouth. the boy gazed and gazed, forgetting utterly to answer. "you are coming into church with me, aren't you?" so the question was repeated, and tode, still lookingly earnestly up into the man's face, nodded silently. "that's right, my son--come," and a large, kindly hand was laid gently upon the boy's shoulder. without a word he walked on beside the stranger. the sexton was standing in the vestibule as the two approached. a look of blank amazement swept across his face at sight of the boy in such company. he said no word, however, only stepped aside with a bow, but his eyes followed the two as they passed into the church together, and he muttered a few angry words under his breath. as for tode, some strange influence seemed to have taken possession of him, for he forgot to exult over the surly sexton. he passed him without a thought indeed, feeling nothing but a strange, happy wonder at the companionship in which he found himself. the stranger led him up the aisle to one of the best pews, and motioned him in. silently the boy obeyed. then the man looking down with his rare, beautiful smile into the uplifted face, gently raised tode's ragged cap from his rough hair, and laid it on the cushioned seat beside him. then he went away, and tode felt as if the sunlight had been suddenly darkened. his eyes followed the tall, strong figure longingly until it disappeared--then he looked about him, at the beautiful interior of the church. the boy had never been in such a place before, and he gazed wonderingly at the frescoes, the rich colours in the windows, the dark carved woodwork and the wide chancel and pulpit. "wat's it all for, i wonder," he said, half aloud, and then started and flushed as his own voice broke the beautiful, solemn silence. people were beginning to come in and filling the seats about him, and many curious and astonished glances fell upon the boy, but he did not notice them. presently a soft, low strain of music stole out upon the stillness. surely a master hand touched the keys that day, for the street boy sat like a statue listening eagerly to the sweet sounds, and suddenly he found his cheeks wet. he dashed his hand impatiently across them wondering what was the matter with him, for tears were strangers to tode's eyes, but in spite of himself they filled again, till he almost wished the music would cease--almost but not quite, for that strange happiness thrilled his heart as he listened. then far-off voices began to sing, coming nerrer and nearer, until a long line of white-robed men and boys appeared, singing as they walked, and last of all came the kingly stranger who had brought tode into the church, and he went to the lectern and began to read. "the--bishop!" tode breathed the words softly, in a mixture of wonder and delight, as he suddenly realised who this man must be. he sat through the remainder of the service in a dreamy state of strange enjoyment. he did not understand why the people around him stood or knelt at intervals. he did not care. when the bishop prayed, tode looked around, wondering whom he was calling "lord." he concluded that it must be the one who made the music. he listened eagerly, breathlessly, to the sermon, understanding almost nothing of what was said, but simply drinking in the words spoken by that rich, sweet voice, that touched something within him, something that only little brother had ever touched before. yet this was different from the feeling that the baby had awakened in the boy's heart. he loved the baby dearly, but to this great, grand man, who stood there above him wearing the strange dress that he had never before seen a man wear--to him the boy's whole heart seemed to go out in reverent admiration and desire. he knew that he would do anything that this man might ask of him. he could refuse him nothing. "ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price." these words, repeated again and again, fixed themselves in tode's memory with no effort of his own. buying and selling were matters quite in his line now, but he did not understand this. he puzzled over it awhile, then put it aside to be thought out at another time. when the service was over, tode watched the long line of choir boys pass slowly out, and his eyes followed the tall figure of the bishop till it disappeared from his wistful gaze. then he looked about upon the kneeling congregation, wondering if the people were going to stay there all day. the bishop was gone, the music had ceased, and tode did not want to stay any longer. he slipped silently out of the pew and left the church. that evening he wandered off by himself, avoiding the sunday gathering-places of the boys, and thinking over the new experiences of the afternoon. the words the bishop had repeated so often sung themselves over and over in his ears. "ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price." "don't mean me, anyhow," he thought, "'cause i b'long ter myself, sure 'nough. nobody ever bought me 't ever i heard of. wonder who that jesus is, he talked about so much. i wish--i wish he'd talk ter me--that bishop." all the strange happiness that had filled his heart during the service in the church, was gone now. he did not feel happy at all. on the contrary, he felt wretched and utterly miserable. he had begun to have a distinct pride and satisfaction in himself lately, since he had stopped lying and stealing, and had set up in business for himself, and especially since mrs. hunt had begun to look upon him with more favour, as he knew she had--but somehow now all this seemed worthless. although he had not understood the bishop's sermon, it seemed to have unsettled tode's mind, and awakened a vague miserable dissatisfaction with himself. he was not used to such feelings. he didn't like them, and he grew cross and ugly when he found himself unable to shake them off. he had wandered to the quiet corner of the wharf, where he and nan and little brother had spent the first hours of their acquaintance, and he stood leaning against that same post, looking gloomily down into the water, when a lean, rough dog crept slowly toward him, wagging his stumpy tail and looking into the boy's face with eyes that pleaded for a friendly word. generally tode would have responded to the mute appeal, but now he felt so miserable himself, that he longed to make somebody or something else miserable too, so instead of a pat, he gave the dog a kick that sent it limping off with a yelp of pain and remonstrance. he had made another creature as miserable as himself, but somehow it didn't seem to lessen his own wretchedness. indeed, he couldn't help feeling that he had done a mean, cowardly thing, and tode never liked to feel himself a coward. he looked after the dog. it had crawled into a corner and was licking the injured paw. tode walked toward the poor creature that looked at him suspiciously, yet with a faint little wag of its tail, as showing its readiness to forgive and forget, while at the same time ready to run if more abuse threatened. tode stooped and called, "come here, sir!" and, after a moment's hesitation, the dog crept slowly toward him with a low whine, still keeping his bright eyes fastened on the boy's. "poor old fellow," tode said, gently, patting the dog's rough head. "is it hurt? let me see." he felt of the leg, the dog standing quietly beside him. "'tain't broken. it'll be all right pretty soon. what's your name?" tode said, and the dog rubbed his head against the boy's knee and tried to say with his eloquent eyes what his dumb lips could not utter. "got none--ye mean? you're a street dog--like me," the boy added. "well, guess i'll go home an' get some supper," and he walked slowly away and presently forgot all about the dog. he had lately hired a tiny garret room where he slept, and kept his supplies when his stand was closed. he went there now and ate his lonely supper. it had never before seemed lonely to him, but somehow to-night it did. he hurried down the food and started to go out again. as he opened his door, he heard a faint sound, and something moved on the dark landing. "who's there?" he called, sharply. a low whine answered him, and from out the gloom two eyes gleamed and glittered. tode peered into the shadow, then he laughed. "so it's you, is it? you must have tagged me home. come in here then if you want to," and he flung his door wide open and stepped back into the room. then out of the shadows of the dark landing the dog came slowly and warily, ready to turn and slink off if he met no welcome, but tode was in the mood when even a strange dog was better than his own company. he fed the half-starved creature with some stale sandwiches, and then talked to him and tried to teach him some tricks until to his own surprise he heard the city clocks striking nine, and the long, lonely evening he had dreaded was gone. "well now, you're a heap o' company," he said to the dog. "i've a good mind ter keep ye. say, d'ye wan' ter stay, ol' feller?" the dog wagged his abbreviated tail, licked tode's fingers, and rubbed his head against the ragged trousers of his new friend. "ye do, hey! well, i'll keep ye ter-night, anyhow. le' see, what'll i call ye? you've got ter have a name. s'posin' i call ye tag. that do--hey, tag?" the dog gave a quick, short bark and limped gaily about the boy's feet. "all right--we'll call ye tag then. now then, there's yer bed," and he threw into a corner an old piece of carpet that he had picked up on a vacant lot. the dog understood and settled himself with a long, contented sigh, as if he would have said: "at last i've found a master and a home." in a day or two tag's lameness disappeared, and his devotion to his new master was unbounded. tode found him useful, too, for he kept vigilant watch when the boy was busy at his stand, and suffered no thievish fingers to snatch anything when tode's eyes and fingers were too busy for him to be on the lookout. the dog was such a loving, intelligent little creature, that he quickly won his way into nan's heart, and he evidently considered himself the guardian of little brother from the first day that he saw tode and the child together. some dogs have a way of reading hearts, and tag knew within two minutes that tode loved every lock on little brother's sunny head. a few days after that sabbath that the boy was never to forget, he went to see nan and the baby, and in the course of his visit, remarked, "nan, i seen the bishop last sunday." "what bishop?" inquired nan. "the one that talked at the big, stone church--st. mark's, they call it." "i wonder 't they let you in, if you wore them ragged duds," remarked mrs. hunt. "the bishop asked me to go in an' he took me in himself," retorted tode, defiantly. "for the land's sake," exclaimed mrs. hunt. "he must be a queer kind of a bishop!" "a splendid kind of a bishop, i should think," put in nan, and the boy responded quickly, "he is so! i never see a man like him." "never see a man like him? what d'ye mean, tode?" questioned mrs. hunt. tode looked at her as he answered slowly, "he's a great big man--looks like a king--an' his eyes look right through a feller, but they don't hurt. they ain't sharp. they're soft, an'--an'--i guess they look like a mother's eyes would. i d'know much 'bout mothers, 'cause i never had one, but i should think they'd look like his do. i tell ye," tode faced mrs. hunt and spoke earnestly, "a feller'd do 'most anything that that bishop asked him to--couldn't help it." mrs. hunt stared in amazement at the boy. his eyes were glowing and in his voice there was a ring of deep feeling that she had never before heard in it. it made her vaguely uncomfortable. her dick had never spoken so about any bishop, nor indeed, about anybody else, and here was this rough street boy whom she considered quite unfit to associate with dick--and the bishop himself had taken him into church. mrs. hunt spoke somewhat sharply. "well, i must say you were a queer-lookin' one to set in a pew in a church like st. mark's." nan looked distressed, and tode glanced uneasily at his garments. they certainly were about as bad as they could be. even pins and twine could not hold them together much longer. "tode," mrs. hunt went on, "i think it's high time you got yourself some better clothes. dear knows, you need 'em if ever a boy did, an' certainly you must have money 'nough now." "'spect i have. i never thought about it," replied tode. "well, you'd better think about it, an' 'tend to it right away. 'f you're goin' to church with bishops you'd ought to look respectable, anyhow." something in the tone and emphasis with which mrs. hunt spoke brought the colour into tode's brown cheeks, while nan looked at the good woman in surprise and dismay. she did not know how troubled was the mother's heart over her own boy lately, as she saw him growing rough and careless, and that it seemed to her hard that this waif of the streets should be going up while her dick went down. tode thought over what had been said, and the result was that the next time he appeared he was so changed that the good woman looked twice before she recognised him. his clothes had been purchased at a secondhand store, and they might have fitted better than they did, but they were a vast improvement on what he had worn before. he had scrubbed his face as well as his hands this time, and had combed his rough hair as well as he could with the broken bit of comb which was all he possessed in the way of toilet appliances. it is no easy matter for a boy to keep himself well washed and brushed with no face cloth or towel or brush, and no wash basin save the public sink. tode had done his best however, and nan looked at him in pleased surprise. "you do look nice, tode," she said, and the boy's face brightened with satisfaction. all through that week tode told himself that he would not go to the church again, yet day by day the longing grew to see the bishop's face once more and to hear his voice. "w'at's the use! o'ny makes a feller feel meaner 'n dirt," he said to himself again and again, yet the next sabbath afternoon found him hanging about st. mark's hoping that the bishop would ask him in again. but the minutes passed and the bishop did not appear. "maybe he's gone in aready," the boy thought, peering cautiously through the pillars of the entrance. there was no one in sight, and tode crept quietly across the porch through the wide vestibule to the church door. only the sexton was there, and his back was toward the boy as he stood looking out of the opposite door. "now's my time," thought tode, and he ran swiftly and silently up the aisle to the pew where the bishop had placed him. there he hesitated. he was not sure which of several pews was the one, but with a quick glance at the sexton's back, he slipped into the nearest, and hearing the man's footsteps approaching, dropped to the floor and crawled under the seat. the sexton came slowly down the aisle, stopping here and there to arrange books or brush off a dusty spot. he even entered the pew where tode was, and moved the books in the rack in front, but the boy lay motionless in the shadow, and the man passed on without discovering him. then the people began to come in, and tode was just about to get up and sit on the seat, when a lady and a little girl entered the pew. the boy groaned inwardly. "they'll screech if i get up now," he thought. "nothin' for it but to lay here till it's over. wal', i c'n hear _him_ anyhow." "him," in tode's thought was the bishop, and he waited patiently through the early part of the service, longing to hear again that rich, strong, thrilling voice. but alas for tode! it was not the bishop who preached that day. it was a stranger, whose low monotonous voice reached the boy so indistinctly, that he soon gave up all attempts to listen, and before the sermon was half over he was sound asleep. fortunately he was used to hard resting-places, and he slept so quietly that the occupants of the pew did not discover his presence at all. the music of the choir and of the organ mingled with the boy's dreams, but did not arouse him, and when the people departed and the sexton closed the church and went home, tode still slept on in darkness and solitude. usually there was an evening service, but on this occasion it was omitted, the rector being ill, so when tode at last opened his eyes, it was to find all dark and silent about him. as he started up his head struck the bottom of the seat with a force that made him cry out and drop back again. then as he lay there he put out his hands, and feeling the cushioned seat over his head, he knew where he was and guessed what had happened. "wal! i was a chump to go to sleep here!" he muttered, slowly, rising with hands outstretched. "'spect i'll have ter get out of the window." the street lights shining through the stained glass made a faint twilight in the church, but there was something weird and strange about being there alone at that hour that set the boy's heart to beating faster than usual. he went to one of the windows and felt about for the fastenings, but he could not reach them. they were too high. he tried them all, but none were within his reach. then he sat down in one of the pews and wondered what he should do next. he was wide awake now. it seemed to him that he could not close his eyes again that night, and indeed it was long after midnight before he did. he felt strangely lonely as he sat there through those endless hours, dimly hearing the voices and footsteps in the street without grow fewer and fainter, till all was silent save the clocks that rang out the creeping hours to his weary ears. at last his tired eyes closed and he slipped down on the cushioned seat and slept for a few hours, but he awoke again before daylight. it was broad daylight outside before it was light enough in the church for the boy to see clearly, and then he looked hopelessly at the high window fastenings. he had tried every door but all were securely locked. "nothin' t' do but wait till that ol' cove comes back," he said to himself. then a thought flashed across his mind--a thought that made his heart stand still with dread. "s'posin' he don't come till next sunday?" tode knew nothing about midweek or daily services. but he put this terrible thought away from him. "i'll get out somehow if i have ter smash some o' them pictures," he said aloud, as he looked up at the beautiful windows. the minutes seemed endless while the boy walked restlessly up and down the aisles thinking of his stand, and of the customers who would seek breakfast there in vain that morning. at last he heard approaching footsteps, then a key rattled in the lock, and tode instinctively rolled under the nearest pew and lay still, listening to the heavy footsteps of the sexton as he passed slowly about opening doors and windows. the boy waited with what patience he could until the man passed on to the further side of the church, then he slid and crawled along the carpeted aisle until he reached the door, when springing to his feet he made a dash for the street. he heard the sexton shouting angrily after him, but he paid no heed. on and on he ran until he reached his room where tag gave him a wildly delighted welcome, and in a very short time thereafter the stand at "tode's corner" was doing a brisk business. v. in the bishop's house tode's patrons were mostly newsboys of his acquaintance, who came pretty regularly to his stand for breakfast, and generally for a midday meal, lunch or dinner as it might be. where they took their supper he did not know, but he usually closed his place of business after one o'clock, and spent a couple of hours roaming about the streets doing any odd job that came in his way, if he happened to feel like it, or to be in need of money. after his meeting with the bishop he often wandered up into the neighbourhood of st. mark's with a vague hope that he might see again the man who seemed to his boyish imagination a very king among men. it had long been tode's secret ambition to grow into a big, strong man himself--bigger and stronger than the common run of men. now, whenever he thought about it, he said to himself, "just like the bishop." but he never met the bishop, and having found out that he did not preach regularly at st. mark's, tode never went there after the second time. one afternoon in late september, the boy was lounging along with tag at his heels in the neighbourhood of the church, when he heard a great rattling of wheels and clattering of hoofs, and around the corner came a pair of horses dragging a carriage that swung wildly from side to side, as the horses came tearing down the street. there was no one in the carriage, but the driver was puffing along a little way behind, yelling frantically, "stop 'em! stop 'em! why don't ye stop the brutes!" there were not many people on the street, and the few men within sight seemed not at all anxious to risk life or limb in an attempt to stop horses going at such a reckless pace. now tode was only a little fellow not yet fourteen, but he was strong and lithe as a young indian, and as to fear--he did not know what it was. as he saw the horses dashing toward him he leaped into the middle of the street and stood there, eyes alert and limbs ready, directly in their pathway. they swerved aside as they approached him, but with a quick upward spring he grabbed the bit of the one nearest him, and hung there with all his weight. this frightened and maddened the horse, and he plunged and reared and flung his head from side to side, until he succeeded in throwing the boy off. the delay however, slight as it was, had given the driver time to come up, and he speedily regained control of his team while a crowd quickly gathered. tode had been flung off sidewise, his head striking the curbstone, and there he lay motionless, while faithful tag crouched beside him, now and then licking the boy's fingers, and whining pitifully as he looked from face to face, as if he would have said, "_won't_ some of you help him? i can't." the crowd pressed about the unconscious boy with a sort of morbid curiosity, one proposing one thing and one another until a policeman came along and promptly sent a summons for an ambulance; but before it appeared, a tall grey-haired man came up the street and stopped to see what was the matter. he was so tall that he could look over the heads of most of the men, and as he saw the white face of the boy lying there in the street, he hastily pushed aside the onlookers as if they had been men of straw, and stooping, lifted the boy in his strong arms. "stand back," he cried, his voice ringing out like a trumpet, "would you let the child die in the street?" they fell back before him, a whisper passing from lip to lip. "it's the bishop!" they said, and some ran before him to open the gate and some to ring the bell of the great house before which the accident had occurred. mechanically the bishop thanked them, but he looked at none of them. his eyes were fixed upon the face that lay against his shoulder, the blood dripping slowly from a cut on one side of the head. the servant who opened the door stared for an instant wonderingly, at his master with the child in his arms, and at the throng pressing curiously after them, but the next moment he recovered from his amazement and, admitting the bishop, politely but firmly shut out the eager throng that would have entered with him. a lank, rough-haired dog attempted to slink in at the bishop's heels, but the servant gave him a kick that made him draw back with a yelp of pain, and he took refuge under the steps where he remained all night, restless and miserable, his quick ears yet ever on the alert for a voice or a step that he knew. as the door closed behind the bishop, he exclaimed, "call mrs. martin, brown, and then send for the doctor. this boy was hurt at our very door." brown promptly obeyed both orders, and mrs. martin, the housekeeper, hastily prepared a room for the unexpected guest. the doctor soon responded to the summons, but all his efforts failed to restore the boy to consciousness that day. the bishop watched the child as anxiously as if it had been one of his own flesh and blood. he had neither wife nor child, but perhaps all the more for that, his great heart held love enough and to spare for every child that came in his way. it was near the close of the following day when tode's eyes slowly opened and he came back to consciousness, but his eyes wandered about the strange room and he still lay silent and motionless. the doctor and the bishop were both beside him at the moment and he glanced from one face to the other in a vague, doubtful fashion. he asked no question, however, and soon his eyes again closed wearily, but this time in sleep, healthful and refreshing, instead of the stupor that had preceded it, and the doctor turned away with an expression of satisfaction. "he'll pull through now," he said in a low tone. "he's young and full of vitality--he'll soon be all right." the bishop rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "that's well! that's well!" he exclaimed, heartily. the doctor looked at him curiously. "did you ever see the lad before you picked him up yesterday?" he asked. "no, never," answered the bishop, who naturally had not recognised in tode the boy whom he had taken into church that sunday, weeks before. the doctor shook his head as he drove off and muttered to himself, "whoever saw such a man! who but our bishop would ever think of taking a little street urchin like that right into his home and treating him as if he were his own flesh and blood! well, well, he himself gets taken in often no doubt in another fashion, but all the same the world would be the better if there were more like him!" and if the doctor's pronouns were a little mixed he himself understood what he meant, and nobody else had anything to do with the matter. the next morning tode awoke again and this time to a full and lively consciousness of his surroundings. it was still early and the nurse was dozing in an easy-chair beside the bed. the boy looked at her curiously, then he raised himself on his elbow and gazed about him, but as he did so he became conscious of a dull throbbing pain in one side of his head and a sick faintness swept over him. it was his first experience of weakness, and it startled him into a faint groan as his head fell back on the pillow. the sound awoke the nurse, who held a spoonful of medicine to his lips, saying, "lie still. the doctor says you must not talk at all until he comes." "so," thought the boy. "i've got a doctor. wonder where i am an' what ails me, anyhow." but that strange weakness made it easy to obey orders and lie still while the nurse bathed his face and hands and freshened up the bed and the room. then she brought him a bowl of chicken broth with which she fed him. it tasted delicious, and he swallowed it hungrily and wished there had been more. then as he lay back on the pillows he remembered all that had happened--the horses running down the street, his attempt to stop them, and the awful blow on his head as it struck the curbstone. "wonder where i am? tain't a hospital, anyhow," he thought. "my! but i feel nice an' clean an' so--so light, somehow! if only my head wasn't so sore!" no wonder he felt "nice and clean and light somehow," when, for the first time in his life his body and garments as well as his bed, were as sweet and fresh as hands could make them. tode never had minded dirt. why should he, when he had been born in it and had grown up knowing nothing better? yet, none the less, was this new experience most delightful to him--so delightful that he didn't care to talk. it was happiness enough for him, just then, to lie still and enjoy these new conditions, and so presently he floated off again into sleep--a sleep full of beautiful dreams from which the low murmur of voices aroused him, and he opened his eyes to see the nurse and the doctor looking down at him. "well, my boy," said the doctor, with his fingers on the wrist near him, "you look better. feel better too, don't you?" tode gazed at him, wondering who he was and paying no attention to his question. "doctor," exclaimed the nurse, suddenly, "he hasn't spoken a single word. do you suppose he can be deaf and dumb?" the bishop entered the room just in time to catch the last words. "deaf and dumb!" he repeated, in a tone of dismay. "dear me! if the poor child is deaf and dumb, i shall certainly keep him here until i can find a better home for him." as his eyes rested on the bishop tode started and uttered a little inarticulate cry of joy; then, as he understood what the bishop was saying, a singular expression passed over his face. the doctor, watching him closely could make nothing of it. "he looks as if he knew you, bishop," the doctor said. the bishop had taken the boy's rough little hand in his own large, kindly grasp. "no, doctor," he answered, "i don't think i've ever seen him before yesterday, but we're friends all the same, aren't we, my lad?" and he smiled down into the grey eyes looking up to him so earnestly and happily. tode opened his lips to speak, then suddenly remembering, slightly shook his head while the colour mounted in his pale cheeks. "he acts like a deaf mute, certainly," muttered the doctor, and stepping to the head of the bed he pulled out his watch and held it first to one and then the other of tode's ears, but out of his sight. tode's ears were as sharp as a ferret's and his brain was as quick as his ears. he knew well enough what the doctor was doing but he made no sign. were not the bishop's words ringing in his ears? "if the poor child is deaf and dumb i shall certainly keep him here until i can find a better home for him." there were few things at which the boy would have hesitated to ensure his staying there. he understood now that he was in the house of the bishop--"my bishop" he called him in his thought. so, naturally enough, it was taken for granted that the boy was deaf and dumb, for no one imagined the possibility of his pretending to be so. tode thought it would be easy to keep up the deception, but at first he found it very hard. as his strength returned there were so many questions that he wanted to ask, but he fully believed that if it were known that he could hear and speak he would be sent away, and more and more as the days went by he longed to remain where he was. as he grew stronger and able to sit up, books and games and pictures were provided for his amusement, yet still the hours sometimes dragged somewhat heavily, but it was better when he was well enough to walk about the house. mrs. martin, the housekeeper, had first admired the boy's bravery, then pitied him for his suffering, and had ended by loving him, because she, too, had a big, kindly heart that was ready to love anybody who needed her love and service. so, it was with great satisfaction that she obeyed the bishop's orders, and bought for the boy a good, serviceable outfit as soon as he was able to walk about his room. she combed out and trimmed his rough, thick hair, and then helped him dress himself in one of his new suits. as she tied his necktie for him she looked at him with the greatest satisfaction, saying to herself, "whoever would believe that it was the same boy? if only he could hear and speak now like other boys, i'd have nothing more to ask for him." then she stooped and kissed him. tode wriggled uneasily under the unwonted caress, not quite certain whether or not he liked it--from a woman. the housekeeper took his hand and led him down the stairs to the bishop's study. it was a long room containing many books and easy-chairs and two large desks. at one of these the bishop sat writing, and over the other bent a short, dark-faced man who wore glasses. "come in, mrs. martin, come in," called the bishop, as he saw her standing at the open door. "and who is this?" he added, holding out his hand to the boy. "you don't recognize him?" mrs. martin asked smiling down on tode's smooth head. the bishop looked keenly at the boy, then he smiled contentedly and drew the little fellow to his side. "well, well!" he said, "the clothes we wear do make a great difference, don't they, mrs. martin? he's a fine looking lad. gibson, this is the boy i was telling you about." the little dark man turned and looked at tode as the bishop spoke. it was not a friendly look, and tode felt it. "ah," replied mr. gibson, slowly. "so this is the boy, is it? he was fortunate to fall into your hands;" and with a sharp, sidelong glance over his shoulder, mr. gibson turned again to his work. the bishop drew a great armchair close to his table and gently pushed tode into it. then he brought a big book full of pictures and put it into the boy's hands. "let him stay here for a while, mrs. martin," he said. "i always work better when there is a child near me--if it's the right sort of a child," he added, with a smile. mrs. martin went out, and tode, with a long, happy breath, leaned back in the big chair and looked about him at the many books, at the dark head bent over the desk in the alcove, finally at the noble face of the bishop intent on his writing. this was the beginning of many happy hours for tode. perhaps it was the weakness and languor resulting from his accident that made him willing to sit quietly a whole morning or afternoon in the study beside the bishop's table, when, before this, to sit still for half an hour would have been an almost unendurable penance to him; but there was another and a far stronger reason in the deep reverential love for the bishop, that day by day was growing and strengthening into a passion in his young heart. the boy's heart was like a garden-spot in which the rich, strong soil lay ready to receive any seed that might fall upon it. better seed could not be than that which all unconsciously this man of god--the bishop--was sowing therein, as day after day he gave his master's message to the sick and sinful and sorrowful souls that came to him for help and comfort. it goes without saying that the bishop had small leisure, for many and heavy were the demands upon his time and thought, but nevertheless he kept two hours a day sacredly free from all other claims, that he might give them to any of god's poor or troubled ones who desired to see him, and believing that tode could hear nothing that was said, he often kept the boy with him during these hours. strange and wonderful lessons were those that the little street boy learned from the consecrated lips of the good bishop--lessons of god's love to man, and of the loving service that man owes not only to his god, but to his brother man. strange, sad lessons too, of sin and sorrow, and their far-reaching influence on human lives. tode had not lived in the streets for nearly fourteen years without learning a great deal about the sin that is in the world, but never until now, had he understood and realised the evil of it and the cure for it. many a time he longed to ask the bishop some of the questions that filled his mind, but that he dared not do. among these visitors there came one morning to the study a plainly dressed lady with a face that tode liked at the first glance. as she talked with the bishop, the boy kept his eyes on the book open in his lap, but he heard all that was said--heard it at first with a startled surprise that changed into a sick feeling of shame and misery--for the story to which he listened was this: the lady was a mrs. russell. the bishop had formerly been her pastor and she still came to him for help and counsel. she had been much interested in a boy of sixteen who had been in her class in the mission school, a boy who was entirely alone in the world. he had picked up a living in the streets, much as tode himself had done, and finally had fallen into bad company and into trouble. mrs. russell had interested herself in his behalf, and upon her promise to be responsible for him, he had been delivered over to her instead of being sent to a reform school. she went to a number of the smaller dry goods stores and secured promises of employment for the boy as parcel deliverer. to do this work he must have a tricycle, and the energetic little lady having found a secondhand one that could be had for thirty dollars, set herself to secure this sum from several of her friends. this she had done, and was on her way to buy the tricycle when she lost her pocketbook. the owner of the tricycle, being anxious to sell, and having another offer, would not hold it for her, but sold it to the other customer. the boy, bitterly disappointed, lost hope and heart, and that night left the place where mrs. russell had put him. since then she had sought in vain for him, and now, unwilling to give him up, she had come to ask the bishop's help in the search. to all this tode listened with flushed cheeks and fast-beating heart, while before his mind flashed a picture of himself, wet, dirty and ragged, gliding under the feet of the horses on the muddy street, the missing pocketbook clutched tightly in his hand. then a second picture rose before him, and he saw himself crowding the emptied book into that box on the chapel door of st. mark's. the bishop pulled open a drawer in his desk and took from it a pocketbook, broken and stained with mud. he handed it to mrs. russell, who looked at him in silent wonder as she saw her own name on the inside. "_how_ did it get into your hands?" she questioned, at last. "you would never guess how," the bishop answered. "it was found in the pastor's box at st. mark's, and the rector came to me to inquire if i knew any one of that name. i had not your present address, but have been intending to look you up as soon as i could find time." "i cannot understand it," said mrs. russell, carefully examining each compartment of the book. "why in the world should the thief have put the empty pocketbook there, of all places?" "of course he would want to get rid of it," the bishop replied, thoughtfully, "but that certainly was a strange place in which to put it." "if the thief could know how the loss of that money drove that poor foolish boy back into sin and misery, he surely would wish he had never touched it--if he has any conscience left," said mrs. russell. "there is good stuff in that poor boy of mine, and i can't bear to give him up and leave him to go to ruin." the bishop looked at her with a grave smile as he answered: "mrs. russell, i never yet knew you willing to give up one of your straying lambs. like the master himself, your big heart always yearns over the wanderers from the fold. i wonder," he added, "if we couldn't get one or two newsboys to help in this search. many of them are very keen, sharp little fellows, and they'd be as likely as anybody to know jack, and to know his whereabouts if he is still in the city. let me see--his name is jack finney, and he is about fifteen or sixteen now, isn't he?" "yes, nearly sixteen." "suppose you give me a description of him, mrs. russell. i ought to remember how he looks, but i see so many, you know," the bishop added, apologetically. "of course you cannot remember all the boys who were in our mission school," replied mrs. russell. "jack is tall and large, for fifteen. his hair is sandy, his eyes blue, and, well--his mouth _is_ rather large. jack isn't a beauty, and he is rough and rude, and i'm afraid he often does things that he ought not to do, but only think what a hard time he has had in the world thus far." "yes," replied the bishop with a sigh, "he _has_ had a hard time, and it is not to be wondered at that he has gone wrong. many a boy does that who has every help toward right living. well now, mrs. russell, i'll see what i can do to help you in this matter. your faith in the boy ought to go far toward keeping him straight if we can find him." the bishop walked to the hall with his visitor. when he came back tode sat with his eyes fastened on the open book in his lap, though he saw it not. he did not look up with his usual bright smile when the bishop sat down beside him. that night he could not eat, and when he went to bed he could not sleep. "thief! thief! you're a thief! you're a thief!" over and over and over again these words sounded in tode's ears. he had known of course that he was a thief, but he had never _realised_ it until this day. as he had sat there and listened to mrs. russell's story, he seemed to see clearly how his soul had been soiled with sin as surely as his body had been with dirt, and even as now the thought of going back to his former surroundings sickened him, so the remembrance of the evil that he had known and done, now seemed horrible to him. it was as if he looked at himself and his past life through the pure eyes of the bishop--and he hated it all. dimly he began to see that there was something that he must do, but what that something was, he could not as yet determine. he was not willing in fact to do what his newly awakened conscience told him that he ought to do. in the morning he showed so plainly the effects of his wakeful night, and of his first moral battle, that the bishop was much concerned. he had begun to teach the boy to write that he might communicate with him in that fashion, but as yet tode had not progressed far enough to make communication with him easy, though he was beginning to read quite readily the bold, clear handwriting of the bishop. this morning, the bishop, noting the boy's pale cheeks and heavy eyes, proposed a walk instead of the writing lesson. tode was delighted to go, and the two set off together. now the boy had an opportunity to see yet farther into the heart and life of this good, great man. they went on and on, away from the wide streets and handsome houses, into the tenement house district, and finally into an old building, where many families found shelter--such as it was. up one flight after another of rickety stairs the bishop led the boy. at last he stopped and knocked at a door on a dark landing. the door was opened by a woman whose eyes looked as if she had forgotten how to smile, but a light flashed into them at sight of her visitor. she hurriedly dusted a chair with her apron, and as the bishop took it he lifted to his knee one of the little ones clinging to the mother's skirts. there were four little children, but one lay, pale and motionless on a bed in one corner of the room. "she is sick?" inquired the bishop, his voice full of sympathy, as he looked at the small, wan face. the woman's eyes filled with tears. "yes," she answered, "i doubt i'm goin' to lose her, an' i feel i ought to be glad for her sake--but i can't." she bent over the little form and kissed the heavy eyelids. "tell me all about it, my daughter," the bishop said, and the woman poured out her story--the old story of a husband who provided for his family after a fashion, when he was sober, but left them to starve when the drink demon possessed him. he had been away now for three weeks, and there was no money for medicine for the sick child, or food for the others. before the story was told the bishop's hand was in his pocket and he held out some money to the woman, saying, "go out and buy what you need. it will be better for you to get it, than for me to. the breath of air will do you good, and i will see to the children until you come back." she hesitated for a moment, then with a word of thanks, threw a shawl over her head and was gone. the bishop gathered the three older children about him, one on each knee and the third held close to his side, and told them stories that held them spellbound until the sick baby began to stir and moan feebly. then the bishop arose, and taking the little creature tenderly in his strong arms, walked back and forth in the small room until the moaning cry ceased and the child slept. he had just laid it again on the bed when the mother came back with her arms full of packages. the look of dull despair was gone from her worn face, and there was a gleam of hope in her eyes as she hastily prepared the medicine for the baby, while the bishop eagerly tore open one of the packages, and put bread into the hands of the other children. "god bless you, sir,--an' he will!" the woman said, earnestly, as the bishop was departing with a promise to come soon again. tode, from his seat in a corner had looked on and listened to all, and now followed the bishop down to the street, and on until they came to a big building. the boy did not know then what place it was. afterward he learned that it was the poorhouse. among the human driftwood gathered here there was one old man who had been a cobbler, working at his trade as long as he had strength to do so. the bishop had known him for a long time before he gave up his work, and now it was the one delight of the old man's life to have a visit from the bishop, and knowing this, the latter never failed to come several times each year. the old cobbler lived on the memory of these visits through the lonely weeks that followed them, looking forward to them as the only bright spots in his sorrowful life. "you'll pray with me before ye go?" he pleaded on this day when his visitor arose to leave. "surely," was the quick reply, and the bishop, falling on his knees, drew tode down beside him, and the old cobbler, the child and the man of god, bowed their heads together. a great wonder fell upon tode first, as he listened to that prayer, and then his heart seemed to melt within him. when he rose from his knees, he had learned who and what god is, and what it is to pray, and though he could not understand how it was, or why--he knew that henceforth his own life must be wholly different. something in him was changed and he was full of a strange happiness as he walked homeward beside his friend. but all in a moment his new joy departed, banished by the remembrance of that pocketbook. "i found it. i picked it up," he argued to himself, but then arose before him the memory of other things that he had stolen--of many an evil thing that he had done, and gloried in the doing. now the remembrance of these things made him wretched. the bishop was to deliver an address that evening, and tode was alone, for he did not feel like going to the housekeeper's room. he was free to go where he chose about the house, so he wandered from room to room, and finally to the study. it was dark there, but he felt his way to his seat beside the bishop's desk, and sitting there in the dark the boy faced his past and his future; faced, too, a duty that lay before him--a duty so hard that it seemed to him he never could perform it, yet he knew he must. it was to tell the bishop how he had been deceiving him all these weeks. tears were strangers to tode's eyes, but they flowed down his cheeks as he sat there in the dark and thought of the happy days he had spent there, and that now he must go away from it all--away from the bishop--back to the wretched and miserable life which was all he had known before. "oh, how _can_ i tell him! how can i tell him!" he sobbed aloud, with his head on the desk. the next moment a strong, wiry hand seized his right ear with a grip that made him wince, while a voice with a thrill of evil satisfaction in it, exclaimed in a low, guarded tone, "so! i've caught you, you young cheat. i've suspected for some time that you were pulling the wool over the bishop's eyes, but you were so plaguy cunning that i couldn't nab you before. you're a fine specimen, aren't you? what do you think the bishop will say to all this?" tode had recognised the voice of mr. gibson, the secretary. he knew that the secretary had a way of going about as soft-footed as a cat. he tried to jerk his ear free, but at that mr. gibson gave it such a tweak that tode could hardly keep from crying out with the pain. he did keep from it, however, and the next moment the secretary let him go, and, striking a match, lit the gas, and then softly closed the door. "now," he said, coming back to the desk, "what have you to say for yourself?" "nothing--to you," replied tode, looking full into the dark face and cruel eyes of the man. "i'll tell the bishop myself what there is to tell." "oh, you will, will you?" answered the man, with a sneer. "i reckon before you get through with your telling you'll wish you'd never been born. the bishop's the gentlest of men--until he finds that some one has been trying to deceive him. and you--you whom he picked up out of the street, you whom he has treated as if you were his own son--i tell you, boy, you'll think you've been struck by lightning when the bishop orders you out of his sight. he never forgives deceit like yours." tode's face paled and his lips trembled as he listened, but he would not give way before his tormentor. his silence angered the secretary yet more. "why don't you speak?" he exclaimed, sharply. "i'll speak to the bishop--not to you," replied the boy, steadily. his defiant tone and undaunted look made the secretary furious. he sprang toward the boy, but tode was on the watch now, and slipped out of his chair and round to the other side of the desk, where he stopped and again faced his enemy, for he knew now that this man was his enemy, though he could not guess the reason of his enmity. the secretary took a step forward, but at that tode sped across the room out of the door, and up to his own room, the door of which he locked. then he sat down and thought over what had happened, and the more he thought of it the more certain he felt that what the secretary had said was true. a long, long time the boy sat there, thinking sad and bitter thoughts. at last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted his head and looked about the bright, pretty room, as if he would fix it all in his mind so that he never could forget it, and as he looked at the soft, rich carpet, the little white bed with its fresh, clean linen, the wide, roomy washstand and bureau, he seemed at the same time to see the bare, dirty, cheerless little closet-like room to which he must return, and his heart ached again. at last he started up, searched in his pockets for a piece of paper and a pencil, and began to write. his paper was a much-crumpled piece that he had found that morning in the wastebasket, and as yet his writing and spelling were poor enough, but he knew what he wanted to express, and this is what he wrote: dear bishop: i hav ben mene and bad i am not def and dum but i acted like i was caus i thot you wood not kepe me if yu knu i am sory now so i am going away but i am going to kepe strate and not bee bad any more ever. i thank you and i lov you deer. tode bryan. it took the boy a long time to write this and there were many smudges and erasures where he had rubbed out and rewritten words. he looked at it with dissatisfied eyes when it was done, mentally contrasting it with the neat, beautifully written letters he had so often seen on the bishop's desk. "can't help it. i can't do no better," he said to himself, with a sigh. then he stood for several minutes holding the paper thoughtfully in his hand. "i know," he exclaimed at last, and ran softly down to the study. it was dark again there and he knew that mr. gibson had gone. going to the desk, he found the bible which the bishop always kept there. as tode lifted it the leaves fell apart at one of the bishop's best-loved chapters, and there the boy laid his letter and closed the book. he hesitated a moment, and then kneeling down beside the desk, he laid his face on the cover of the bible and whispered solemnly, "i _will_ keep straight--i will." it was nearly nine o'clock when tode returned to what had been his room; what would be so no longer. he undressed slowly, and as he took off each garment he looked at it and touched it lingeringly before he laid it aside. "i b'lieve he'd want me to keep these clothes," he thought, "but i don't know. maybe he wouldn't when he finds out how i've been cheatin' him. mrs. martin's burnt up my old ones, an' i've got to have some to wear, but i'll only take what i must have." so, with a sigh, he laid aside his white shirt with its glossy collar and cuffs, his pretty necktie and handkerchief. he hesitated over the shoes and stockings, but finally with a shake of the head, those, too, were laid aside, leaving nothing but one under garment and his jacket, trousers and cap. then he put out the gas and crept into bed. a little later he heard mrs. martin go up to her room, stopping for a moment to glance into his and see that he was in bed. later still, he heard the bishop come in and go to his room, and soon after the lights were out and all the house was still. tode lay with wide open eyes until the big hall clock struck twelve. then he arose, slipped on his few garments and turned to leave the room, but suddenly went back and took up a little testament. "he told me to keep it always an' read a bit in it ev'ry day," the boy thought, as with the little book in his hand he crept silently down the stairs. they creaked under the light tread of his bare feet as they never had creaked in the daytime. he crossed the wide hall, unfastened the door, and passed out into the night. vi. tode's new start a chill seemed to strike to tode's heart as he stood on the stone steps and looked up to the windows of the room where the bishop was sleeping, and his eyes were wet as he passed slowly and sorrowfully out of the gate and turned down the street. suddenly there was a swift rush, a quick, joyful bark, and there was tag, dancing about him, jumping up to lick his fingers, and altogether almost out of his wits with joy. tode sat down on the curbstone and hugged his rough, faithful friend, and if he whispered into the dog's ear some of the grief that made the hour such a bitter one--tag was true and trusty: he never told it. neither did he tell how, night after night, he had watched beside the big house into which he had seen his master carried, nor how many times he had been driven away in the morning by the servants. but tag's troubles were over now. he had found his master. [illustration: adrift again.] "well, ol' fellow, we can't stay here all night. we must go on," tode said at last, and the two walked on together to the house where the boy had slept before his accident. the outer door was ajar as usual, and tode and the dog went up the stairs together. tode tried the door of his room. it was locked on the inside. "they've let somebody else have it," he said to himself. "well, tag, we'll have to find some other place. come on!" once the boy would not have minded sleeping on a grating, or a doorstep, but now it seemed hard and dreary enough to him. he shivered with the cold and shrank from going to any of his old haunts where he would be likely to find some of his acquaintances, homeless street arabs, like himself. finally he found an empty packing box in an alley, and into this he crept, glad to put his bare feet against tag's warm body. but it was a dreary night to him, and weary as he was, he slept but little. as he lay there looking up at the stars, he thought much of the new life that he was to live henceforth. he knew very well that it would be no easy thing for him to live such a life, but obstacles in his way never deterred tode from doing, or at least attempting to do, what he had made up his mind to. he thought much, too, of the bishop, and these thoughts gave him such a heartache that he would almost have banished them had he been able to do so--almost, but not quite, for even with the heartache it was a joy to him to recall every look of that noble face--every tone of that voice that seemed to thrill his heart even in the remembrance. then came thoughts of nan and little brother, and these brought comfort to tode's sorrowful heart. he had not forgotten little brother during the past weeks. there had never been a day when he had not thought of the child with a longing desire to see him, though even for his sake he could hardly have brought himself to lose a day with the bishop. now, however, that he had shut himself out forever from what seemed to him the paradise of the bishop's home, his thoughts turned again lovingly toward the little one, and he could hardly wait for morning, so eager was he to go to him. fortunately for his impatience, he knew that the hunts and nan would be early astir, and at the first possible moment he went in search of them. he ran up the stairs with tag at his heels, and almost trembling with eagerness, knocked at the hunts' door. mrs. hunt herself opened it, and stared at the boy for a moment before she realised who it was. "for the land's sake, if it isn't tode! where in the world have you been all this time?" she cried, holding the door open for him to enter, while the children gazed wonderingly at him. "i've been sick--got hurt," replied tode, his eyes searching eagerly about the room. "i don't see nan or little brother," he added, uneasily. "they don't live here no more," piped up little ned. tode turned a startled glance upon mrs. hunt. "don't live here!" he stammered. "where do they live?" "not far off; just cross the entry," replied mrs. hunt, quickly. "nan's taken a room herself." "oh!" cried tode, in a tone of relief, "i'll go'n see her;" and waiting for no further words, he went. "well," exclaimed mrs. hunt, "he might 'a' told us how he got hurt an' all, 'fore he rushed off, i should think." "jus' like that tode bryan. he don't know nothin'!" remarked dick, scornfully. his mother gave him a searching glance. "there's worse boys than tode bryan, i'm afraid," she said. "there ye go agin, always a flingin' at me," retorted dick, rudely. "how's a feller to git on in the world when his own mother's always down on him?" "you know i'm not down on you, dick," replied his mother, tearfully. "you're always a hintin' nowdays, anyhow," muttered dick, as he reached over and helped himself to the biggest sausage in the dish. mrs. hunt sighed but made no answer, and the breakfast was eaten mostly in silence. meantime, tode running across the entry, had knocked on the door with fingers fairly trembling with eagerness and excitement. nan opening it, gave a glad cry at sight of him, but the boy, with a nod, pushed by her, and snatched up little brother who was lying on the bed. the baby stared at him for an instant and then as tode hugged him more roughly than he realised, the little lips trembled and the baby began to sob. that almost broke tode's heart. he put the child down, crying out bitterly, "oh little brother, _you_ ain't goin' to turn against me, sure?" as he spoke he held out his hands wistfully, and the baby, now getting a good look at him, recognised his favorite, and with his old smile held out his arms to the boy, who caught him up again but more gently this time, and sat down with him on his knee. it was some minutes before tode paid any attention to nan's questions, so absorbed was he with the child, but at length he turned to her and told her where he had been and what had happened to him. she listened to his story with an eager interest that pleased him. "wasn't it strange," she said, when he paused, "wasn't it strange, and lovely too, that you should have been taken into the bishop's house--and kept there all this time? did you like him just as much in his home as in the church, tode?" "he's--he's"--began tode with shining eyes, then as the bishop's face rose before him, he choked and was silent for a moment. "i don't b'lieve there's any other man like him in _this_ world," he said, finally. nan looked at him thoughtfully, at his face that seemed to have been changed and refined by his sickness and his new associations, at the neat clothes he wore, then at his bare feet. "i shouldn't think, if he's so good, that he would have let you come away--so," she said, slowly. tode flushed as he tried to hide his feet under his chair. "'twasn't his fault," he answered, quickly. he too was silent for a moment, then suddenly he sat upright with a look of stern resolve in his grey eyes, as he added, "nan, i'll tell you all there is about it, 'cause things are goin' to be diff'runt after this. i'm goin' to live straight every way, i am; i've--promised." then he told her frankly the whole story; how he had deceived the bishop, pretending to be deaf and dumb; how mr. gibson had come upon him in the study, and what he had said, and how, finally, he himself had come away in the night. nan listened to it all with the keenest interest. "and you had to sleep out of doors," she said; "i'm so sorry, but, if the bishop is so good, why didn't you stay and tell him all about it, tode? don't you think that that would have been better than coming away so without thanking him for all he had done--or anything?" tode shook his head emphatically. "you don't know him, nan," he replied. "he's good, oh better than anybody else in the world, i b'lieve, but don't you see, just 'cause _he's_ so good, he hates cheatin' an' lyin', just _hates_ 'em; an', oh i _couldn't_ tell him i'd been cheatin' him all this time, an' he so good to me." "i know, 'twould have been awful hard to tell him, tode, but seems to me 'twould have been best," the girl insisted. "i _couldn't_, nan," tode repeated, sadly, then impatiently thrusting aside his sorrow and remorse, he added, "come now, i want to know what you've been doin' while i've been gone. i used to think an' think 'bout you'n him," glancing at the baby, "an' wonder what you'd be doin'." "oh, we've got on all right," answered nan, "i was worried enough when you didn't come, 'specially when one of the hunt boys went down and found that your stand had not been opened. i was sure something had happened to you, 'cause i knew you never would stay away from us so, unless something was the matter." "right you are!" put in tode, emphatically. nan went on, "i was sure there was something wrong, too, when tag came here the next day. poor fellow, i was so sorry for him. one of his legs was all swollen and he limped dreadfully, and hungry--why, tode, he acted as if he were starving. but just as soon as i had fed him he went off again, and didn't come back till the next morning, and he's done that way ever since." tag had kept his bright eyes fastened on nan's face while she talked, and he gave a little contented whine as tode stooped and patted his head. "but tell me what you've ben doin', nan. how'd you get money enough to hire this room an' fix it up so dandy?" tode inquired, looking about admiringly. while nan talked she had been passing busily from table to stove, and now she said, "breakfast is ready, tode. bring your chair up here and give me little brother." tode reluctantly gave up the baby, and took his seat opposite nan at the little table. "you've got things fine," he remarked, glancing at the clean towel that served for a tablecloth, and the neat white dishes and well-cooked food. he was hungry enough to do full justice to nan's cooking, and the girl watched him with much satisfaction, eating little herself, but feeding the baby, as she went on with her story. "when you didn't come back, i knew i must find some way to sell my cookies and gingerbread and so i made some fresh and went to every family in this house and asked 'em if they would buy their bread and all of me instead of at the bakeshops. i told 'em i'd sell at the same price as the shops and give them better things. some wouldn't, but most of them had sense enough to see that it would be a good thing for them, and after they'd tried it once or twice they were ready enough to keep on. now i supply this house and the next one. it keeps me cooking all day, but i don't mind that. i'm only too glad that i can earn our living--little brother's and mine. of course, i couldn't be cooking all day on mrs. hunt's stove, and besides they have no room to spare and we crowded 'em, and so, as soon as i got money enough, i hired this room. i'm paying for the furniture as fast as i can. it was all secondhand, of course." tode looked admiringly at the girl, as she ceased speaking. "you've got a head," he remarked. "but now about cooking for my stand. will you have time to do that too?" "yes indeed," replied nan, promptly. "i'll find time somehow." tode hesitated, moved uneasily in his chair and finally said, "'spect you'll have to trust me for the first lot, nan. i ain't got no money, ye know." "why, tode, have you forgotten that ten dollars you asked me to keep for you?" "no--'course i ain't forgot it, but i thought maybe you'd had to use it. twould 'a' been all right if you had, you know." "oh no, i didn't have to use that. here it is," and nan brought it out from some hidden pocket about her dress. "then i'm all right," exclaimed the boy, in a tone of satisfaction. "i've got to get some clothes first an' then i'll be ready for business." "what's the matter with those clothes?" questioned nan. "oh, i've got to send these back to the bishop." tode's face was grave as he spoke. "but--i don't see why. he won't want em," nan remonstrated. "it's this way, nan." tode spoke very earnestly. "if i'd been what he thought i was, i know i could have kept all he gave me, but, you see, if he'd known i was cheatin' an' lyin' to him all the time he wouldn't 'a' given me a single thing, so don't ye see, i ain't no business to keep 'em, an' i ain't goin' to keep 'em a minute longer'n i have to." nan shook her head, for tode's reasoning had not convinced her, but seeing how strong was his feeling in the matter she said no more, and in a few minutes the boy went out, his face radiant with satisfaction, because little brother cried after him. he invested half his ten dollars in some second-hand clothes, including shoes and stockings. they were not very satisfactory after the garments he had been wearing of late, but he said to himself, "they'll have to do till i can get better ones an' sometime i'm agoin' to have some shirts an' have 'em washed every week, too." tode's trade, that day, was not very heavy, for it was not yet known among his regular customers that he had reopened his stand, but he took care to advertise the fact through those whom he met and he did not fear but that his business would soon be prospering again. that afternoon he succeeded in securing a tiny room in the house with nan. it was a dismal little closet, lighted only from the hall, but it was the best he could do, and tode considered himself fortunate to have his dark corner to himself, even though a broken chair and a canvas cot without bedding of any sort were all the furniture he could put into it then. nan shook her head doubtfully when he showed her the room. "dark and dirty," she said, with a sniff of disgust, as the boy threw open the door. "you must get somebody to scrub it for you, tode, and then whitewash the walls. that will make it sweeter and lighter." "so it will," responded the boy, promptly, "but i'll have to do the scrubbin' an' white-washin' both, myself." nan looked at him doubtfully. "i wonder if you'd get it clean," she said. "scrubbing's hard work." "you'll see. what'll i scrub it with--a broom?" "you ought to have a scrub-brush, but i haven't any. you'll have to do it with an old broom and a cloth. i can let you have the broom and i guess we can get a cloth of mrs. hunt. you going to do it now?" she added, as tode began to pull off his coat. "right now," he answered. "you see, nan, i've got loads of things to do, an' i can't be wastin' time." "what things?" questioned nan, curiously. "oh--i'll tell you about them after awhile," replied the boy. "the broom in your room?" "yes, i'll bring it to you," and nan hurried off. she came back with an old pail full of hot water, a piece of soap, a broom and a cloth, and then she proceeded to show tode how to clean the woodwork and floor, thoroughly, with special attention to the dark corners which looked, indeed, as if they had never been visited by a broom. nan was a thorough little housewife, and she longed to do the whole work herself, but tode would not allow that, so she could only stand and look on, wondering inwardly how a boy could handle a broom so awkwardly. but if he was slow and awkward about it, tode was in earnest, and he looked with much satisfaction at the result of his labor when it was completed. "you'll have to wash the floor again after you've whitewashed the walls," nan said, "but it needed two scrubbings, anyhow." tode looked at it ruefully. "oh, did it?" he said. "i think one such scrubbing as that ought to last it a year." nan laughed. "if you'll carry out my bread and things to-morrow, i'll do your whitewashing for you," she said. but tode shook his head. "i'll carry out your stuff all right," he answered, "but i ain't a-goin' to have a girl doin' my work for me." he bought the lime and paid also for the use of a pail and brush, and the next day he put a white coat on his walls, and when this was done, he was much better satisfied with his quarters. nan offered to lend him her shawl in place of a blanket, but he guessed that she needed it herself and refused her offer. vii. after tode's departure in the bishop's household, mrs. martin was always one of the earliest to rise in the morning, and just as tode sat down to breakfast with nan and little brother, the housekeeper was going downstairs. tode's door stood open and she saw that he was not in the room. her quick eyes noted also the pile of neatly folded garments on a chair beside the bed. she stepped into the room and looked around. then she hurried to the study, knowing that the boy loved to stay there, but the study was unoccupied. by the time breakfast was ready she knew that the boy had left the house, but the bishop refused to believe it, nor would he be convinced until the house had been searched from attic to cellar. when mr. gibson made his appearance, a gleam of satisfaction shone in his narrow eyes as he learned of tode's disappearance. "i was afraid something like this would happen," he remarked, gravely. "it's a hopeless kind of business, trying to make anything out of such material. i've had my suspicions of that boy for some time." "don't be too quick to condemn him, mr. gibson," exclaimed the bishop, hastily. "he may have had some good reason for going away so. i've no doubt he thought he had, but i had grown to love the lad and i shall miss him sadly." "did you never suspect that he was not deaf and dumb, as he pretended to be?" the secretary asked. the bishop looked up quickly. "why, no, indeed, i never had such an idea," he answered. an unpleasant smile flickered over the secretary's thin lips as he went on, "i heard the boy talking to himself, here in this room, last evening. he can hear and speak as well as you or i." "oh, i am sorry! i am sorry!" said the bishop, sadly, and then he turned to his desk, and sitting down, hid his face in his hands, and was silent. the secretary cast more than one swift, sidewise glance at him, but dared say no more then. after a while the bishop drew his bible toward him. it opened at the fourteenth chapter of john, and there lay tode's poor little soiled and blotted note. the bishop read it with tear-dimmed eyes, read it again and again, and finally slipped it into an envelope, and replaced it between the leaves of his bible. he said nothing about it to his secretary, and presently he went to his own room, where for a long time he walked back and forth, thinking about the boy, and how he might find him again. then brown came to him with a telegram summoning him to the sickbed of his only sister, and within an hour he left the city, and was absent two weeks. meantime tode, the morning after his scrubbing and whitewashing operations, had carefully folded the clothes he had worn when he left the bishop's house and tied them up in an old newspaper. into one of the pockets of the jacket he had put a note which ran thus: dear mrs. martin: pleas giv thes cloes to the bishop and tell him i wud not have took them away if i had had any others. i did not take shoes or stockins. i keep the littel testament and i read in it evry day. tell him i am trying to be good and when i get good enuf i shall go and see him. you was good to me but he was so good that he made me hate myself and evrything bad. i can never be bad again while i remember him. tode bryan. he hired a boy whom he knew, to carry the bundle to the bishop's house, and from behind a tree-box further down the street, he watched and saw it taken in by brown. the boy's heart was beating hard and fast, as he stood there longing, yet dreading, to see the bishop himself come out of the house. but the bishop was far away, and tode walked sadly homeward, casting many a wistful, lingering glance backward, as he went. brown carried the package gingerly to mrs. martin, for the boy who had delivered it was not over clean, and mrs. martin opened it with some suspicion, but when she saw the clothes she recognised them instantly, and finding the note in the pocket read it with wet eyes. "i knew that wasn't a bad boy," she said to herself, "and this proves it. he's as honest as the day, or he wouldn't have sent back these clothes--the poor little fellow. well, well! i hope the bishop can find him when he gets back, and as to the boy's pretending to be deaf and dumb, i'm sure there was something underneath that if we only knew it. anyhow, i do hope i'll see the little fellow again sometime." when the bishop returned the accumulated work of his weeks of absence so pressed upon him that for a while he had no time for anything else, and when at last he was free to search for tode, he could find no trace of him. as for tode, he had never once thought of the possibility of the bishop's searching for him. he looked forward to seeing his friend again sometime, but that time he put far away when he himself should be "more fit," as he said to himself. one evening soon after his return, nan had a long talk with him, a talk that left her wondering greatly at the change in his thoughts and purposes, and which made her regard him with quite a new feeling of respect. "nan," he began, "i told you i'd got loads of things to do now." "yes?" the girl looked at him inquiringly. tode was silent for a little. it was harder for him to speak than he had thought it would be. "you see," he went on, slowly, "i've been mean as dirt all my life. you don't know what mean things i've done, an' i ain't goin' to tell ye, only that i know now i've got to turn straight around an' not do 'em any more. i've got to make a man of myself," he drew himself up as he spoke, "a real man--the kind that helps other folks up. i can't say just what i mean, but i feel it myself," he added, with a half-appealing glance at nan. she had listened attentively with her eyes fastened on his earnest face. now she said softly, "you mean--you want to be the kind of man the bishop is, don't you?" "oh, i couldn't ever be _really_ like him," protested the boy, quickly, "but, well, i'm goin' to try to be a sort of shadow of him. i mean i'm goin' to try to amount to something myself, an' do what i can to help other poor fellers up instead of down. i'm goin' to lend a hand 'mongst the folks 'round here, just a little you know, as he does 'mongst the poor people he goes to see. but i've got some other things to do too. i've got some money to pay back, an' i've got to find a feller that i helped to pull down." and thereupon, tode told the story of mrs. russell's pocketbook and her search for jack finney. he told it all quite frankly, not trying in the least to excuse or lessen his own guilt in the matter. "it will take you a long time to save up so much money, tode," nan said when he paused. "yes, unless i can find some way to earn more, but i can't help that. i'll do the best i can, an' i've got some notions in my head." he talked over with her some of his plans and projects, and as she listened, she thought to herself, "he's getting 'way ahead of me, but i'm afraid he'll get into trouble at first." and she was not mistaken. tode was now so thoroughly in earnest himself that he forgot to take into consideration the fact that those whom he meant to help up might prefer to be left to go down in their own fashion. his old associates speedily discovered that a great change had come over tode bryan, and the change did not meet with their approval. they called it "mighty cheeky" of him to be "pokin' his nose" into their affairs, and they would show him that he'd better stop it. so tode soon found himself exceedingly unpopular, and, what was worse, in a way, under a boycott that threatened to ruin his business. he fell into the way of carrying his trials and perplexities to nan, and talking them over with her. she had plenty of that common sense, which is not very common after all, and she often made him see the reason of his failures, while at the same time he was sure of her sympathy. one evening tode appeared in her room with his little testament in his hand. there was a perplexed expression in his eyes as he said, "nan, 'bout readin' this, you know--i've been peggin' away at the first part, an' i can't make nothin' of it. it's just a string of funny words, names, i s'pose. _i_ don't see no sense to it." nan glanced at the page to which he had opened. it was the first chapter of matthew. "oh, that's all it is, just a lot of names. you can skip all that, tode," she answered, easily. "no i can't, neither," replied the boy, decidedly. "if i begin to skip, no knowin' where i'll stop. if it's readin' this book that makes folks good, i've got to know all 'bout it. say, can't you read this with me an' tell me how to call all these jawbreakers?" nan looked rather shocked at the boy's free and easy reference to the book, but seeing from his grave face and serious manner that he was very much in earnest, she sat down with him, and the two young heads bent over the page together. "i remember reading this chapter with mother," nan said, gently, "and she told me how to pronounce these names, but i can't remember all of them now. i'll do the best i can, though," and she read slowly the first seventeen verses, tode repeating each name after her. "whew!" he exclaimed, in a tone of intense relief, when the task was ended, "that's 'bout the toughest job ever i tackled." "well, you see, you needn't read all that again. the rest of the chapter is different. it's all about jesus," nan said. tode read the remaining verses slowly by himself, but he shook his head in a dissatisfied way as he closed the book. "that's easier than the names to read, but i don't seem to get much out of it. guess i'm too thick-headed," he said, in a discouraged tone. "tode," exclaimed nan, suddenly, "you ought to go to some sunday-school. then you'd learn all about the bible and the things you want to know." "might be a good scheme, that's a fact," he answered, thoughtfully. "reckon i'll try it on anyhow, an' see how it works." "yes, do. i always used to go before mother was sick. if you have a good teacher you'll like it, i'm sure." "there's a mission school down near my stand. i'll have a try at it next sunday an' see what it's like," tode said. so the very next day he went to the mission chapel, and, from the notice on the door, found out the hours of service, and the following sunday he was on hand in due season. as he went somewhat doubtfully up the steps, he saw in the vestibule a young man, who stepped forward and held out his hand, saying cordially, "glad to see you here. are you a stranger?" tode wasn't quite sure what a stranger might be, but he muttered, "i ain't never been here before." "then i'm glad i happened to meet you. will you come into my class?" tode nodded and followed the young man into the chapel, which was already nearly full of boys and girls. "my name is scott. what is yours?" inquired the stranger, as he led the way to his own corner of the room. tode gave his name, and mr. scott introduced him to half a dozen boys who had already taken their places in his class. one of these boys was dick hunt. he gave tode a careless nod by way of greeting, as the latter dropped into the seat next him. to tode's great satisfaction the lesson chanced to be on the birth of the lord jesus, and mr. scott told the boys the whole story so clearly and vividly, that tode at least was intensely interested. it was all new and fresh to him, and he was listening eagerly to every word, when suddenly dick hunt ran a long pin deep into his leg. the pain made him start and almost cry out, but he suppressed the cry as he turned and gave dick a savage pinch that made him writhe, as he exclaimed in a threatening tone, "you stop that!" mr. scott turned grave, inquiring eyes on the two, as he asked: "what's the matter, dick?" "he's a pinchin' me--tode bryan is. he give me an awful tweak when you wasn't a lookin'." "is that so?" mr. scott asked, and tode, with a scornfully defiant glance at dick, answered promptly, "yes." "i am sorry, tode," said mr. scott; "you can sit here on the other side." tode's face flushed a little as he changed his seat, but now another of the boys, having a grudge against dick, cried out, "hunt stuck a pin in him first; i seen him do it." "you hush up!" muttered dick, with a scowl. just then the superintendent's bell sounded and the lesson time was over. when the school was dismissed, mr. scott detained tode. "why didn't you tell me that dick had stuck a pin into you first," the teacher asked, rapidly turning the leaves of his bible as he spoke. "i ain't a sneak like he is," answered tode, briefly. mr. scott found the place that he wanted, and keeping his finger between the leaves, looked thoughtfully at the boy before him. "you told me that your name is tode. that is what the boys call you. it isn't your real name, is it?" he asked, with a friendly look. tode puckered his forehead into a puzzled frown at the question. "n-no," he answered, slowly. "there's some more to it, but i can't think what 'tis. wish't i could." "you've no father or mother?" "no--never had none since i's big enough to know anything," was the careless reply. mr. scott laid his hand kindly on the lad's shoulder. "my boy," he said, slowly and earnestly, "i believe yours is a very beautiful name. it must be theodore." "that's it! that's it!" exclaimed tode, excitedly. "i 'member somebody told it to me once, an' i know that's it. how'd you know it so quick?" he looked up wonderingly into his teacher's face as he asked the question. "i once knew another theodore who was nicknamed tode; but, my boy, do you know what your name means?" tode shook his head. "didn't know names meant anything," he answered. "but they do. theodore means the gift of god. a boy with such a name as that ought to count for something in the world." "i mean to." the boy uttered the words slowly and emphatically. mr. scott's face brightened. "do you mean that you love and serve the lord jesus, theodore?" he asked, softly. the boy shook his head half sadly, half perplexedly. "i don't know nothin' much 'bout him," he answered, with a gentleness most strange and unusual in him, "but i've promised to do the right thing every time now--an' i'm a-goin' to do it." "you have promised--whom, theodore?" "promised myself--but i don't know nothin' much 'bout what is the right thing," he added, in a discouraged tone. "you'll soon learn if you're in earnest, my boy. this book will tell you all you need to know. can you read?" "some." "then read this verse for me, will you?" mr. scott held out his bible and pointed to the verse. slowly and stumblingly the boy read, "dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves," and again, "recompense to no man evil for evil." seeing that tode did not understand the meaning of what he had read, mr. scott explained the passages to him. the boy listened attentively, then he exclaimed in a tone of dismay, "but does it mean that a feller can't never strike back?" "that's what it says." tode pondered this unpalatable statement with a clouded face. "but what ye goin' to do when some other feller cuts up rough with ye?" "find some other way to get even with him." "but i don't see--what other way is there 'cept hittin' him a harder one'n he gives you?" mr. scott opened his bible again and pointed to the last two verses of the twelfth chapter of romans. tode went home that day with his mind in a tumult. these new ideas did not suit him at all. a "word and a blow," and the blow first had been his method of settling such questions heretofore, and it seemed to him far the better way. he took a roundabout route home, for he did not want to see nan until he had thought out this matter to his own satisfaction. to help people poorer or weaker than himself, or to "keep straight" himself, and help others to do likewise--this was one thing. to meekly submit to ill treatment and "take a blow" from a fellow whom he "could whip with his little finger"--this was quite another and, to one of tode's temperament, a far more distasteful thing. the boy had reached no conclusion when he finally went home to supper. he was silent and thoughtful all the evening, but it was not until the following day that he spoke of the matter to nan. nan listened in perplexed silence to what he had to say. she had been well taught while her mother lived, but she had never given these subjects any real, deep thought, as tode was doing now. she began to feel that this rough, untaught street boy was likely to get far ahead of her if he should keep on pondering over questions like this. even now she could give him but little help. seeing this, tode took up his testament again, and read on and on until he had finished the book of matthew, and gained a pretty clear idea of the life and death of jesus the christ. there was much, of course, that he did not understand at all. many of the words and expressions conveyed no meaning to him, but yet he gathered enough to understand, in a measure, what that life was, and he began dimly to realise why the bishop gave so much of his time and thought to god's poor. the boy pondered these things in his heart, and a new world seemed to open before him. "nan," he said at last, "i've found out what my real name is. it's theodore." "theodore," repeated the girl. "well, i'm glad to know it, for i never did like to call you tode. how did you find out?" "mr. scott said it to me, and i knew as soon as i heard it that that was it." "then i won't ever call you tode again. i shall call you theo. i like that." the boy liked it too. it gave him a strange thrill of pleasure every time he thought of what mr. scott had said about the meaning of his name. viii. theo's shadow work the days that followed were very busy ones for both nan and theo. the girl spent most of her time over the stove or the moulding board, and the boy, delivering the supplies to many of the families in the two big tenement houses, attending to his stand, and selling evening papers, found the days hardly long enough for all that he wanted to do. as he went from room to room with nan's bread and soup and gingerbread, he soon learned much about the different families and found plenty of opportunities to serve as the "bishop's shadow," in these poor homes. money he had not to give, for every penny that he could possibly spare was laid aside for a special purpose now, but he found countless ways to carry help and sunshine to sad and sore hearts, without money. one morning he left nan's room with a basket piled with bread--brown and white--in one hand, and a big tin pail full of boiled hominy in the other. he went first to the top floor, stopping at one door after another, where dirty, frowzy women and children opened at the sound of his cheery whistle. he handed in the loaves, or the measures of hominy with a gay word or a joke that more than once banished a frown from a woman's worn face, or checked the tears of a tired, hungry child. children were getting to be fond of the boy now, and he liked it. in one room there were two families and half a dozen children. in one corner, on a rickety couch was a crippled boy, who had lain there day after day, through long, weary months. he was listening intently for that whistle outside the door, and when he heard it, his dull eyes brightened, and he called out eagerly, "oh, tell him to come in a minute--_just_ a minute!" the woman who opened the door, said indifferently, "tommy wants you to come in a minute." theo stepped over to the tumbled couch, and smiled down into the wistful eyes of the sick boy. "hello, old man!" he said, cheerily. "i've brought you something," and out of his pocket he pulled a golden chrysanthemum that he had picked up in the street the day before, and had kept all night in water. it was not very fresh now, but tommy snatched it hungrily, and gazed at it with a happy smile. "oh, how pretty--how pretty it is!" he cried, softly smoothing the golden petals with his little bony forefinger. "can i keep it, truly?" [illustration: "oh, how pretty,--how pretty it is!"] "'course. i brought it for you," theo answered, his round, freckled face reflecting the boy's delight. "but i must scoot. folks'll be rowin' me if their bread's late." he ran off leaving the sick boy with the flower held lovingly against his thin white cheek, while his eyes followed wistfully theo's strong, active figure as he hurried away. on the next floor, an old woman, bent and stiffened by rheumatism, sat alone all day, while her children were away at work. she could not get out of her chair, or help herself in any way. her breakfast would be a penny's worth of nan's hominy, but on this morning her children had gone off without even setting out a dish, or a cup of water for her. tode brought her a saucer and spoon, filled a cup with fresh water from the faucet, and pulled up the curtain so that the sunlight would shine in upon her. "there, old lady," he said, brightly, when this was done, "now you're all right, an' i'll be in again an' fix your dinner for ye." the old woman's dim eyes looked after him, and she muttered a word of thanks as she turned slowly to her breakfast. the boy wasted no minutes, for he had none to spare, but even when he did not step inside a door at all, he always had a smile or a bright word ready for each customer, and in lives where sin or grinding poverty has destroyed all hope, and life has become simply dull, dogged endurance of suffering, a cheerful word or smile has a wonderful power. these wretched women and forlorn little children had already begun to look forward to the coming of the "bread boy," as the little ones called him, as a bright spot in their days. in almost every room he managed to leave a hint of cheer behind him, or at least to lighten a little the cloudy atmosphere. his pail and basket empty, he ran back to nan's room for his own supplies, and having opened his stand he served his customers, taking his own breakfast between whiles, as he had opportunity. he sold the morning papers, too, at his stand, and between twelve and one o'clock he was as busy as a boy could well be. after that hour few customers appeared, and then, having made his midday meal from whatever he had left, he closed his stand and went home. then was his time for a little more of what nan called his "shadow work," when he refilled with fresh water the cup of the rheumatic old woman, or carried her a cup of tea that nan had made for her, adding to it, perhaps, a cooky or a sandwich that remained from his stock. or he glanced into a room where two or three children were locked in all day while the mothers were away at work--and attended to the fire for them. often he found time for a five minutes' chat with crippled tommy, and now and then he walked awhile with a sick baby in his arms as he had seen the bishop do that day long before. they were all little things that the boy did, but as he kept on doing them day after day, he found in this service for others such happiness as he never had known before. tommy's delight in the half-withered chrysanthemum set theo to thinking, and the result of his thinking was that he began to frequent the flower stalls and pick up the broken blossoms that were occasionally thrown aside there. one day a woman who was selling flowers, said to him, "say, boy, what do you do with the flowers you pick up? i've seen you 'round here after 'em lots o' times lately." "give 'em to sick folks an' poor ones that can't get out anywheres," replied the boy, promptly. the woman searched his face to see if he were deceiving her, but there was nothing sly or underhanded in the clear eyes that returned her gaze so frankly. "hm-m," she murmured, thoughtfully. "what do you do saturday nights, boy?" "nothin' much, after i've sold out my papers." "well, saturday night's our busy time here; one of our busy times, that is, an' if you want to come 'round an' help for an hour or two, i'll pay you in the flowers that are left over." theo's eyes brightened, but he was shrewd, and was not going to bind himself to an agreement that might not be satisfactory. "i'll come next sat'day an' try it," he said. "all right," and the woman turned to a customer. theo was on hand promptly the next saturday evening. he found that the flower woman wanted him to carry home pots of growing plants for lady purchasers. he was kept busy until nine o'clock, and received in payment a good-sized basket full of violets, roses, heliotrope and carnations. some had short stems, and some were a little wilted, but the boy was well content with his pay. "most of them will freshen up and look bright as ever if you put them to-night in a pail of water where they'll have plenty of room," the woman said; "and here--this is for good luck," and she handed him a little pot of geranium with a cluster of pink blossoms. that brought a smile of genuine delight to the boy's face. "oh!" he cried, "that's dandy! i'll give it to nan." "and who's nan--your sister?" questioned the woman. "n--no, not quite. guess she's as good's my sister, though. shall i come next sat'day, ma'am?" replied the boy. "yes, come next saturday, an' right along, if you keep on doing as well's you've done to-night." theo almost ran home, so eager was he to show nan his treasures. he had never cared very much for flowers himself, but he was beginning now to realise their value to others, and he was sure that nan would be delighted with the geranium. he was not disappointed. the girl's eyes sparkled at sight of the delicate pink blossoms and she thanked him so heartily that he could only mutter, "oh, shucks! 'tain't nothin' much." then he showed her his basket of cut flowers, and she exclaimed delightedly over them as she lifted them out as tenderly as if they had been alive, and placed them carefully in a pail of fresh water in which she had sprinkled a little salt. "mother used to put salt in the water to keep flowers fresh," she said, "and oh, won't it be _lovely_ to carry these around to the shut-ins, tomorrow, theo! i think mrs. hunt would like some," she added. "all right. pick out what you like an' take 'em in to her now." nan selected some of the freshest blossoms and went across with them to her neighbour, leaving theo with the baby, who was asleep. she was gone some time, and when she returned her face was grave. "what's the matter? didn't she like 'em?" asked the boy. "yes, indeed, she was ever so pleased with them, and told me to thank you for sending them to her--but, theo, she's worrying so over dick. she thinks he's going all wrong." "so he is," answered theo, soberly. "and can't you do anything about it?" "don't see's i can. he's in with a mean lot o' fellers, 'n he's no good anyhow, nowadays." "but there must be some good in him. his father and mother are so good," pleaded nan. "mrs. hunt was crying when i went in. she says dick often stays out till midnight or after now, and she's afraid he'll be locked up." "serve him right if he was," muttered theo, under his breath. "he's lost the place his father got for him," added nan. "'course. nobody'd keep such a feller long." nan shook her head sorrowfully, thinking of dick's mother. theo said no more, and soon left the room. nan thought he had gone to bed, but instead, he went out and walked slowly and somewhat doubtfully toward a saloon which he had seen dick enter more than once of late. theo, himself, used to go there, but he had not been near the place for many a week. he did not want to go in now, and he waited about outside, wishing that dick would come out, and yet uncertain what to do if he did come. finally he pushed open the door and went up the stairs. a dozen or so boys were there, many of whom he knew, and among them was dick. the proprietor of the place gave the boy a warm welcome, and some of the boys greeted him gaily, but dick scowled as theo sat down beside him. he waited until the loud talk began again, then he said in a low tone, "dick, i came after you. will you go home with me now? your mother's frettin'." dick's face darkened angrily. "who made you boss over me?" he shouted, springing from his seat with a threatening gesture. "you mind your own business, will you?" theo's cheeks flushed as every face in the room was turned toward him. "what's the row?" "what's he doin'?" "what does he want?" "put him out! put him out!" these shouts and others mingled with oaths as all crowded about the two boys. "there's no row, an' nothin' to get mad about," said theo, trying to speak quietly. "dick's mother's frettin', an' i asked him to go home with me. that's all there is about it." "an' enough it is too," exclaimed one of the boys. "dick's big enough to know when to go home, ain't he?" "what's he got to do with me or my mother?" growled dick, "i'll go home when i get good an' ready, an' not before." "an' it's time for _you_ to go home now!" exclaimed the proprietor of the place, elbowing his way to the front of the group, and addressing theo. "we don't want none o' your sort around here. now clear out--d'ye hear?" seeing that it was useless to stay longer, theo departed, followed by taunting cries and yells, from all in the room. he went gloomily homeward, telling himself that he had been a fool to try to do anything for dick hunt. dick was "no good anyhow." but, as he passed her door, mrs. hunt opened it and peered anxiously out. her eyes were red and swollen, and she turned back with a disappointed air as she saw theo. the next moment however, she stepped out into the hall, pushing the door to behind her. "tode," she whispered, "do you know where my dick is?" the boy answered reluctantly, "he's down at todd's." mrs. hunt put her apron to her eyes and sobbed softly. "oh, dear," she moaned, "his father's gone to look for him, an' if he finds him there he'll most kill him--he's that mad with the boy for the way he's been goin' on lately." theo stood silent, not knowing what to say, and then mrs. hunt turned back into the room while he went up another flight to his. he had just reached his own door when he heard loud, angry voices accompanied by scuffling sounds on the stairs below, and he knew that mr. hunt had found dick, and was bringing him home. after theodore had gone out, nan had put all the flowers into two big dishes with plenty of water, and the next morning she was up early and separated them, putting together two or three pinks or a rose with its buds and a bit of foliage, or a cluster of geranium blossoms and green leaves. when theo came for them she laid the small clusters carefully in a basket, and sprinkled them with fresh water, then as she stooped and buried her face among the fragrant, beautiful things she exclaimed, "oh theo, i wish i had time to go with you, and see how happy you make them all with these beautiful, lovely flowers." "i'll begin with you," laughed the boy. "pick out the ones you like best." but nan put her hands resolutely behind her and shook her head. "no, i'm not sick and i've had the pleasure of seeing them all, and fixing them, beside my pot of geranium. that's plenty for me." theodore looked critically at her, then at the blossoms; then he picked out three delicate pink carnations. "no, no! please don't, theo," began the girl, but with a laughing glance at her, theodore laid the blossoms in little brother's small white fingers, and hurried away. he went first to tommy o'brien's room. the sick boy's weary face brightened at sight of him, but it fairly beamed when theodore held up the basket saying, "choose any one of 'em tommy--the very prettiest of all." "o-oh!" cried tommy. "i never saw so many. oh, theo, where did you get 'em all?" theo told him while the woman and the children crowded about the basket to see and exclaim over the contents. tommy chose a spray of lily of the valley and theo added a pink rose and bud. then he gave a blossom to each of the children and to their mothers as well, and went away leaving softened faces and smiles in place of frowns and sullen words. the old woman whose breakfast was so often forgotten was not alone to-day. her daughters were at home, but they were not paying much attention to her. at first she peered stupidly with her half-blind eyes into theo's basket, then suddenly she cried out, "oh, i smell 'em! i smell vi'lets. where be they? where be they?" there was one little bunch of violets in the basket. theo snatched it up and laid it in the wrinkled, trembling hands. the old woman held the blossoms against her withered cheek, then she pressed them to her lips, and two big tears rolled slowly down her face. "la! ma's cryin' over them vi'lets. here tode, gi' me some o' them bright ones. gi' me a rose!" cried one of the young women, and theo handed each of them a rose and went away in silence. he glanced back as he left the room. the old woman was still holding the violets to her cheek and it was plain, even to the boy, that her thoughts were far away. so, from room to room he went and nowhere did he fail of a glad welcome, because of the gifts he offered. in the dirtiest rooms, the most hardened of the women, the roughest and rudest of the children, seemed to become momentarily gentle and tender when the flowers were laid in their hands. when all had been given away except one rose, theodore paused and considered. there were several rooms that he had not visited. to which of these should he carry this last rose? not to old man schneider surely. he was standing at the moment outside old man schneider's door. the old man was the terror of all the children in the house, so ugly and profane was he, and so hideous to look at. fearless as theodore was--the sight of old man schneider always made him shudder, and the boy had never yet spoken to him. while he stood there trying to decide who should have the rose, he heard a deep, hollow groan, and surely it came from the room of old man schneider. theodore stood still and listened. there came another groan and another, and then he knocked on the door. there was no response and he opened it and went in. he had been in many dirty, dismal rooms, but never in one so dirty and so dismal as this. it looked as if it never had been clean. the only furniture was a tumble-down bed in one corner, a chair and a broken stove. on the bed, the old man was lying, covered with rags. he fixed his sunken eyes on the boy and roughly demanded what he wanted, but even as he spoke he groaned again. "you are sick--can't i do something for you?" asked the boy. the old man gazed at him for a moment, then he broke into a torrent of angry words, ending with, "get out o' my sight. i hate boys. i hate everybody an' everything." theodore stood still. the rose in his hand looked strangely out of place in that squalid room--but--beautifully out of place, for it seemed to shed light and color as well as perfume through the close, unhealthy atmosphere. "clear out, i say. why don't ye go?" the old man tried to shake a threatening fist, but his arm dropped weakly, and in spite of himself he moaned with pain. "can't i bring a doctor or somebody to help you?" the boy asked gently. "ain't nobody ter help me. don't i tell ye i hate everybody?" was the fierce reply. theodore gazed about him. there seemed nothing that he could do. he hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and laid the beautiful rose against the dark, knotted fingers on the ragged bed-covering, and then he went away, closing the door behind him. stopping only to put his basket into his room and lock the door, he hurried off to the dispensary and asked that a doctor be sent to old man schneider as soon as possible. he waited until the doctor was at liberty and then returned with him. there was no response to their knock, and again theodore opened the door and went in, the doctor following. the old man did not move or look up even when the doctor spoke to him. he lay as theo had last seen him only that his fingers were closed tightly over the stem of the rose, and one crimson petal lay on the pillow close to the sunken cheek. the old man was dead--but who could tell what thoughts of other days--of sinless days long past, perhaps--may have been awakened in his heart by that fragrant, beautiful bit of god's handiwork? as theodore went quietly up the stairs, he was glad that he had not passed by old man schneider's door. ix. theo in trouble theo went regularly now to the mission school on sunday afternoons, and mr. scott had become much interested in him. one day mr. scott pleased theo immensely by going to the boy's stand and getting his lunch there, and not long after he went one evening to the boy's room. he found the place dark and the door locked, but as he was turning away, theo came running up the stairs. "oh!" he cried out, in a tone of pleased surprise, as he saw his teacher. "wait a minute an' i'll get a light." having lighted his lamp, the boy sat down on the cot, giving the broken stool to his visitor. mr. scott's heart was full of sympathy as he glanced around the forlorn little room and remembered that it was all the home that the boy had. "theodore," he said, after talking a while, "what do you do evenings?" "oh, sometimes i stay in nan's room, an' sometimes i drop in an' talk to tommy o'brien or some of the other sick ones in the house, an' sometimes i go somewheres outside. saturday nights i help at a flower stand." "why don't you go to an evening school? i think that would be the best place for you to spend your evenings," said mr. scott. this was a new idea to the boy. he thought it over in silence. mr. scott went on, "it's not your fault, theodore, that you have had no schooling, thus far, but now, you can go to an evening school and it will be your fault if you grow up ignorant. you will be able to do far more and better work in the world, with an education, than without one. the more you know yourself the better you can help others, you see." "yes," sighed the boy. "i guess that's so, but i 'spect i'll find it tough work learning." "i'm not so sure of that. it will be rather hard at first, because you're not used to studying; but i think you are bright enough to go ahead pretty fast when you once get a good start. now who is this girl, that i've heard you mention several times--nan is her name?" "oh, yes, nan. come on, i want you to see her an' our baby," replied the boy, eagerly. somewhat uncertain as to what kind of a girl this might be, yet anxious to know as much as possible about theo's associates and surroundings, mr. scott followed the boy down the stairs. "nan, here's my teacher, mr. scott, come to see the baby," theodore exclaimed, as he unceremoniously pushed open the door and ushered in the visitor. mr. scott was more taken aback than was nan, at this abrupt introduction. the girl coloured a little, but quietly arose and shook hands with the gentleman, while theo exclaimed: "good! little brother ain't asleep yet. this is our baby, mr. scott. ain't he a daisy? take him." now, mr. scott was a young man and totally unused to "taking" babies, but the boy had lifted the little one from the bed and was holding him out to his teacher with such a happy face that the young man felt that it would never do to disappoint him. so he received the baby gingerly in both hands and set him on his knee, but he did not know what to say or do to amuse the child, and it was an immense relief to him when little brother held out his hands to theo, and the boy took him again saying, "ye don't know him yet, do ye, little brother? you will though, by 'n' by," wherein theo was more of a prophet than he imagined. relieved of the child, mr. scott turned to nan and the colour rose in his face as he saw a gleam of amusement in the girl's dark eyes, but theo's ready tongue filled up the momentary pause, and soon all three were chatting like old friends, and when mr. scott took his departure, it was with the conviction that his new scholar was fortunate in having nan for a friend. at the same time he realised that this great tenement with its mixed community was a most unsuitable place for a girl like nan, and determined that she should be gotten into better surroundings as soon as it could be accomplished. his interest in theodore was deepened by this visit to his room and friends. he felt that there was something unusual in the boy, and determined to keep watch of him and give him any needed help. it was november now and the night was chilly. as mr. scott left the tenement house he buttoned his thick overcoat about him, and shivered as he thought of theodore's bare cot, with not a pillow or a blanket even. "not a single bit of bedding," he said, to himself, "and no fire! that will never do, in weather like this." the next day he mentioned the case to the aunt with whom he lived, with the result that a couple of pillows and a warm comforter were sent before night to nan's room, addressed to theodore bryan, and for the remainder of the winter the boy at least did not suffer from cold at night. theodore grew to like his teacher much as the weeks passed, and often after sunday-school the two walked home together. some of the boys that had been longer in the class rather resented this friendship, the more so as theo was by no means popular among them just at this time. "he's gettin' too good, tode bryan is," one of them said, one sunday. "he walked home with teacher last week, an' now he's a doin' it again." he glanced gloomily after the two, as he spoke. "i'd like ter punch his head; that's what i'd like to do," put in another. "he pitched inter me for swearin' t'other day." "he's a fine one to talk 'bout swearin'," added a third. "i've heard him goin' it hot an' heavy many a time." "oh yes, but he's settin' up fer a saint now, ye know," said dick hunt, scornfully. "i owe him a lickin,' an' he'll get it too 'fore he's many days older." "what for, dicky?" questioned another. "what for? for blabbin' to my daddy an' sendin' him to todd's after me, the night he come sneakin' in there himself," cried dick. "i've been layin' for him ever since, an' i'll give it to him good, first chance i get." "he goes to night school now," remarked one. "oh, yes, he's puttin' on airs all 'round," returned dick. "i'll night school him!" he added, vengefully. it was not long before dick found an opportunity to execute his threats of vengeance. he was loafing on a street corner, with carrots and two other boys, one night, when theodore passed them on his way home from school. he nodded to them as he went by, but did not stop. dick's eyes followed him with a threatening glance until he saw him turn through a narrow street. then dick held a brief conference with carrots and the other two, and all four set off hastily in the direction that theodore had taken. he, meantime, went on whistling cheerily and thinking pleasant thoughts, for he was beginning to get on at the school, and better yet, he had in his pocket at that moment, a five-dollar bill that meant a great deal to him. ever since his return from the bishop's house, he had been working as he never had worked before, neglecting no opportunity to earn even a nickel, and every penny that he could possibly spare he had given to nan to keep for him. he had been perfectly frank with her, and she knew that as soon as he had saved up thirty-seven dollars he meant to carry it to the bishop for mrs. russell, and tell him the whole story. first, to stop all his wrongdoing and then as far as possible, to make up to those he had wronged--these were theodore's firm purposes now, but he felt that he could never bear to face the bishop again until he could take with him the proof of his genuine repentance. many and many a time in these past weeks, had the boy planned with nan how he would go to the house and what he would say to the bishop, and what he hoped the bishop would say to him, and nan had rejoiced almost as much as the boy himself as, week by week, the sum in her hands grew toward the desired amount. even nan did not know all the hard work and stern self-denial that had made it possible for theodore to put by that money out of his small earnings. the five in his pocket on this evening would complete the entire sum and the very next day he meant to carry it to the bishop. the mere thought of seeing again the face that was to him like no other face in all the world--filled the boy's heart with a deep, sweet delight. he was thinking of it as he hurried along through a short, dark alley, where were only two or three stables and one empty house. quick, stealthy footsteps followed him, but he paid no heed to them until a heavy blow on the back of his head made him suddenly turn and face four dark figures that were close at his heels. "who are you? what ye hittin' me for?" he demanded, angrily. there was no response, but dick struck at him again. this time, however, theodore was on his guard, and he caught dick's arm and gave it a twist that made its owner cry out. "oh ho, it's you, dick hunt. i might a' known nobody else would sneak up on a feller this way. well, now, what are ye after?" "i'm after givin' you the worst lickin' ever you had," muttered dick, trying in vain to free his arm from theo's strong grip. "what for?" demanded theodore. "for sneakin' into todd's and then runnin' to tell my father where i was. that's one thing, but there's plenty more't i'm goin' to settle with you for, to-night," shouted dick, as he pounded with his left hand, and kicked viciously at the other's shins. "i never spoke to your father that night," theo declared, but dick responded, scornfully, "tell that to a greenhorn! pitch into him, boys. he won't let go o' me." seeing the others start toward him, theo flung dick's arm aside, and bracing himself against a vacant house just behind him, faced them all in dogged silence. they hesitated for a moment, but dick cried out again, "come on, boys!" and the four flung themselves upon theo, striking, pounding and kicking all together. he defended himself as best he could, but the odds were too great. it was only when the boy slipped to the ground in a limp, motionless heap, that his assailants drew off, and looked uneasily at one another in the darkness. "what'll we do now?" whispered carrots. "cut it--somebody's comin'!" cried dick, in a low tone, and thereupon they took to their heels, leaving theo as he had fallen on the ground. the boys stopped running as soon as they reached a lighted street where the passers-by might notice them; but they walked on rapidly and discussed the affair in low, guarded tones. "you don't think he's done for, do ye, dick?" questioned carrots, uneasily. dick tried to laugh carelessly, but the effort was a failure. he was beginning to be anxious as to the result, though he was not ready to admit it. "done for? not much!" he answered, promptly. "more like he was shammin', an' wasn't hurt half so much as he'd ought ter be." "but if 'tain't so-if he's hurt bad, he may have us up for 'sault an' batt'ry," remarked another. "dick's the only one he could go for, 'cause 'twas so dark, he couldn't spot the rest of us," put in carrots, hastily. "ye needn't try to sneak out o' it that way," cried dick, sharply. "if i get took up, you'll be, too." "d'ye mean't you'd give us away after gettin' us into it, jest ter help you out?" demanded the other, in a threatening tone. "if he does, we'll make it hot fer _him_" put in another, as dick answered, doubtfully, "wal if he should make a fuss 'bout it, i can't take all the blame, can i? i didn't do all the whackin'." "well, i say, boys, he's a nice one, dick hunt is! after gettin' us to help him lick a feller 'cause he darsent do it alone, he talks of gettin' us took up for it," exclaimed the last speaker; "but see here, you," he added to dick, "bryan knew you an' he didn't know any the rest of us, an' i tell ye what--if you get inter trouble 'bout this job, you lug us into it 'f ye dare! i'll swear 't carrots an' jo here were down t' my place with me, 'n' they'll swear to it too; hey, boys?" "we will so!" "we'll do that ev'ry time!" they answered in one voice; and then with a few cutting words the three turned off together, leaving dick to pursue his way alone. and miserable enough dick was as he walked on alone. he was not in the least sorry for what had been done to theodore, but he was afraid of the consequences. he turned sick with dread as he remembered how the boy's body had slipped in a limp heap to the ground and lain there motionless. suppose they had killed him? it would be murder. somebody would have to answer for it and that somebody would be he--dick hunt. the cold perspiration started on his forehead and his heart throbbed heavily at the thought, and he felt a wild desire to run on and on till he had left that dark heap in the dark alley, miles and miles behind him. then came a flash of hope. perhaps after all tode was not so badly hurt. perhaps he had been shamming just to scare them. at this thought, dick's quick pace slackened and he had half a mind to go back and see if the body still lay there, but he could not bring himself to do that. he shivered and hurried on aimlessly, through the brightly lighted streets. he was afraid to go home, lest he be met there by the news that he dreaded. he was afraid to stay in the streets, for every moment he expected to feel the heavy hand of a policeman on his shoulder. he said to himself that carrots and the others might inform against him just to save themselves. so, as wretched as a boy well could be, he wandered about for an hour or two, stopping sometimes in dark corners and then hastening on again, stealing suspicious glances over his shoulders, and listening for pursuing footsteps. at last, he turned homeward, longing, yet dreading, to see his mother. it was nearly midnight when he crept softly up the stairs, but his mother had been unable to sleep, and as his hand touched the door in the darkness, she threw it open with a sigh of relief that her weary waiting was over for that night. she did not find fault with him. it seemed to her utterly useless now to complain or entreat. dick longed to ask if she knew anything about tode, but his tongue refused to utter the words and he tumbled into bed in gloomy silence. there had been no shamming when theo fell under the brutal blows of the four boys who had set upon him. they were all strong, well-grown lads, and striking blindly and viciously in the dark, had perhaps hit harder than they realised. at any rate theo had felt his strength failing even before a last blow on his head made him unconscious of what followed. the "somebody," whom the boys had heard, came slouching along through the dark alley and stumbled over the prostrate body. "hello! what's this?" he exclaimed, his nimble fingers running rapidly over the boy's face and figure. "somebody's been up to something here. let's see if--no! well, that's queer!" these disconnected remarks were the accompaniment to a rapid and skillful search through the boy's pockets, and the last emphatic expression was drawn forth by the discovery that there had been no robbery; whereupon the newcomer promptly proceeded to complete the job by emptying the said pockets in a manner that proved him no novice at such business. then he stole noiselessly away, leaving the boy again alone in the darkness, and now there was no good bishop at hand to take him in. meantime, at home, nan was wondering why theo did not come in as usual to tell her what he had been doing at the night school, and to get tag, who always staid with her when theo was at the school. tag was troubled and uneasy too. when it was time for the boy to come tag sat watching the door, his ears alert for a footstep outside. now and then he whined, and finally he showed so plainly his desire to go out that nan opened the door, saying, "go find him, tag." she stood in her doorway listening, and heard the dog scamper up to theo's door. there he listened and nosed about for a moment, then down he came again, and with a short, anxious bark, dashed down the stairs to the street. nan waited a long time but the dog did not return, and at last she put out her light and went to bed with a troubled heart. but tag could not sleep. he seemed to know that there was something wrong and something for him to attend to. he raced first to his master's stand, then to the mission school and to the night school, and finding all these places now dark and silent, he pattered through the streets, his nose close to the ground, his anxious, loving eyes watching everything that moved. so at last he came to that dark heap in the dark alley, and first he was wild with joy, but when his frantic delight failed to awaken his master and make him come away home, tag was sure that something was very wrong indeed and he began to run backward and forward between the motionless body and the corner, until he attracted the attention of a policeman who followed him around into the dark alley, and in a few minutes theodore was on his way to the emergency hospital with tag following after the ambulance at the top of his speed. but once again tag found himself rudely repulsed when he tried to slip in after his master. this time he felt that he really could not bear it, and so he stood on the hospital steps and lifting up his voice howled his protest until somebody came and drove him away. but he couldn't stay away, so he crawled into a dark corner up against the wall, and curling himself into the smallest possible space, lay there watchful and wretched until morning, when, after eyeing wistfully those who came out and went in past him, he trotted slowly home to nan, and did his poor best to tell her what had happened and where theo was. nan had passed an anxious night, for she was sure that there was something wrong, and since theo's return from the bishop's, he had been so changed, that she had grown very fond of him. being a year or two his senior, she felt a kind of elder sisterly responsibility in regard to him, knowing as she did, that he was even more alone in the world than she, for she had little brother, and theo had nobody at all. so she was at mrs. hunt's door, talking the matter over with her, when tag, with drooping head and tail, came slowly up the stairs. he wagged his tail faintly at sight of nan, and rubbed his head affectionately against her, and then stood looking up at her, as if waiting to be questioned. "he's been gone all night," nan was saying to mrs. hunt, and referring to the dog, "but i don't believe he found theo. he doesn't act as if he had. oh, mrs. hunt, where _do_ you suppose he is?" mrs. hunt shook her head. "the dear knows," she said, "but something must 'a' happened to him, sure. he's been steady as clockwork since ever he took that room upstairs, i'll say that for him." she sighed as she spoke, thinking of her dick. "but what can i do, mrs. hunt?" cried nan, her eyes full of tears. "it seems dreadful to keep right on, just as if he were here, as usual. isn't there any way to find out where he is?" "look here, nan," exclaimed mrs. hunt. "do you know where his teacher--that mr. scott--lives?" "yes." "well, why don't you send word to him? he seems to think a lot of tode an' dick. i guess he does of all his scholars. he would know what to do, an' where to look for the boy--don't you think so?" nan's face had brightened as her friend spoke. "i'm sure that's a good idea," she replied. "he's always been so nice and kind to theo. i most know he'll help find him." "that's right now, child, stop fretting, for i'll warrant he'll set things straight in no time. i'll let dick or jimmy go around to mr. scott's as soon as they've had their breakfast." relieved by this promise, and trying hard to be hopeful and not to worry, nan ran back to her room, while mrs. hunt called the boys. dick pretended to be very sound asleep, and it required more than one call and shake to arouse him, but in reality, he too had passed a most miserable night, and he had listened, with heart beating fast and hard, to his mother's colloquy with nan; and as he listened, ever before his mind's eye was that dark, motionless heap on the ground. in imagination, he saw theo's dead body on a slab in the morgue, and himself in a prison cell, condemned for murder. dick's worst enemy could not have wished him to be any more wretched than he was in that hour, as he cowered in his bed, and strained his ears to catch every word that was uttered. but when his mother shook him, he rubbed his eyes, and pretended to be still half asleep, and flatly refused to go to mr. scott's. "let jim go, 'f anybody's got to," he growled, as he began to pull on his clothes. "here you, jim, turn out lively now!" he added, yanking the bedclothes off his brother to emphasise his words. "he's always a-puttin' off on me--dick is," snarled jim, as he joined his mother in the other room a few minutes later, but when he learned why he was to go to mr. scott's he made no further objections, but swallowed his breakfast hastily, and went off on the run. jim did not share his brother's enmity toward the missing boy. jim liked theo. he liked nan too, and was always ready to do an errand for her, if she wanted him. mr. scott was just sitting down to breakfast when jim appeared, and he left his coffee to cool while he listened with keen interest to what the boy had to tell him. his face was very grave as he said, "tell miss nan that i will be around there within an hour. see here, though, jim,--have you had your breakfast?" "ye--yes, sir," jim answered, with a quick glance at the hot cakes and chops that had such an appetising odour. jim didn't have chops and hot cakes for breakfast. "aunt mary, can you put another plate here for jim?" mr. scott asked, and his aunt, with a smile, set another chair at the table, and piled a plate with eatables, of which the boy disposed as easily and speedily as if that had been his first meal that day. mr. scott likewise made a hasty breakfast, and then he sent jim back to nan, while he himself went to his place of business to arrange for his absence that morning. within the hour, as he had said, he knocked at nan's door. she welcomed him with a feeling of glad relief, assured that at least he would be able to find out where theo was. he waited only to get what little information she could give him, and then set forth, but before he had reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs, nan ran after him. "mr. scott," she called. "wouldn't it be a good plan to take tag--theo's dog--with you?" mr. scott thought it would, but now an unexpected obstacle was encountered. tag refused to go with him. he crept under nan's dress, and crouched there, looking quietly out at the gentleman, but making no movement toward him, though he called and whistled as persuasively as he could. "oh, tag, do go," pleaded nan, almost ready to cry at the dog's unexpected obstinacy. tag twisted his head and looked up at her, and it almost seemed as if he were moved by her pleading tone, for, after a moment's hesitation, he crept slowly out from his refuge, and followed mr. scott down the stairs. once outside the house he stopped and gazed with keen, questioning eyes at the gentleman, standing, meanwhile, ready to dart off, should any attempt be made to capture him, but mr. scott stopped too, and said quietly, "go find him, tag. find theo." that was enough for the intelligent little creature. with a quick, sharp yelp of satisfaction, tag set off at such a pace that mr. scott had hard work to keep him in sight. in fact, as soon as they turned into a thronged business street, he lost sight of his four-footed guide entirely, but the direction tag had taken was a sufficient clue. the young man was so certain that the emergency hospital was the place to which the dog was leading him, that he boarded a car and went directly there, and sure enough on the steps sat tag, his short ears erect, and his eager eyes watching impatiently for a chance to slip inside the doors. he seemed to know that his chance had come when he saw mr. scott running up the steps, for he frisked about and showed his delight in every conceivable fashion. dogs were not allowed in the hospital, but when mr. scott picked tag up in his arms and promised to keep him there, the attendant finally consented that he should do so. and so they went first to the waiting-room and then up the stairs and through the long corridors. x. a bitter disappointment theodore was still unconscious when he was lifted into the ambulance the night before, but on the way to the hospital he opened his eyes, wondering much to find himself flat on his back and being driven rapidly through the streets. in a few minutes he remembered what had happened, and guessed that he must have been stunned by a blow or a fall. as he reached this conclusion, the vehicle stopped, and he was lifted out and carried into the hospital in spite of his protests. he had a dread of entering a hospital as a patient, and he wanted to go home. but the doctors would not allow him to go home. they told him that if he would be quiet and do as they said, he would probably be able to go home the next morning, and with this promise he was obliged to be content, and allow himself to be undressed and put to bed. he was badly bruised and his right shoulder was very lame, but there was no serious injury, and it seemed to the boy very trying to be compelled to spend the night where he was. he did not sleep much, partly because of his strange surroundings, and partly because of his aching head and shoulder, and as he lay there in the dimly-lighted ward, his thoughts were busy. a hot anger burned in his heart as he recalled the cowardly attack in the dark alley. he saw that it had been deliberately planned by dick hunt, and that the four boys must have followed him from the corner where he saw them. "i'll pay that dick hunt for this," he muttered under his breath, "an' carrots, too. i know the chap that hit so hard was carrots. i'll make 'em suffer for it!" he lay there, his eyes flashing and his cheeks burning, as he thought over various schemes of vengeance. then suddenly he thought of mr. scott, and that brought something else to his remembrance. he seemed to see his teacher holding out his little bible and making him--theodore--read aloud those two verses: "dearly beloved avenge not yourselves." and "recompense to no man evil for evil." as he repeated these words to himself, the fire died slowly out of the boy's eyes and the angry colour faded from his cheeks. he turned restlessly in his bed and tried to banish these thoughts and bring back his schemes of vengeance, but he could not do it. he knew what was the right--what he ought to do--but he was not willing to do it. hour after hour he argued the matter with himself, finding all sorts of reasons why, in this case, he might take vengeance into his own hands and "learn that dick hunt a lesson," yet feeling and knowing in the depths of his heart that whatever the old tode bryan might have done, theodore bryan, who was trying to be the bishop's shadow, certainly had no right to do evil to somebody else simply because that somebody had done evil to him. it was nearly morning before the long battle with himself was over, but it ended at last, and it was theodore, and not tode who was victorious, and it was the memory of the bishop's face, and of the bishop's prayer that day in the poorhouse, that finally settled the matter. "he'd fight for somebody else, the bishop would, but he wouldn't ever fight for himself, an' i mustn't neither," the boy murmured, softly, and then with a long breath he turned his face to the wall and fell asleep, and he had but just awakened from that sleep when mr. scott, with tag under his arm, came through the long corridor to the ward where theodore was lying in the very last cot, next the wall. mr. scott had promised not to let the dog out of his arms, but if he had been better acquainted with tag he would never have made such a rash promise. as the gentleman followed the nurse into the ward, the dog's eyes flashed a swift glance over the long line of cots, and the next instant something dark went flying down the room and up on to that last cot in the row, and there was tag licking his master's face and hands, and wagging his tail, and barking like mad. "dear me!" exclaimed the nurse, running toward the corner. "this will never do. he'll drive the patients into fits! why didn't you keep hold of him?" she threw the question back in a reproachful tone to mr. scott. he laughed a little as he answered, "if you will try to pick him up now and hold him, you will understand why." even as he spoke, the nurse was making an attempt to capture and silence the noisy little fellow. she might as well have tried to pick up a ball of quicksilver. tag slipped through her fingers like an eel, scurrying from one end of the cot to the other, and barking excitedly all the time. "can't you stop him, theodore?" exclaimed mr. scott, as he reached the corner where the boy lay. "here, tag, lie down and be still," cried the boy, and with one last defiant yap at the nurse, tag nosed aside the bedclothes and snuggled down beside his master with a sigh of glad content. "well, if ever i let a dog into _my_ ward again!" exclaimed the nurse, in a tone of stern determination. "i'm sorry he made such a noise, ma'am. it was only because he was so glad to find me," said theodore, quickly. the nurse turned away in offended silence, and mr. scott sat down by the bed and began to talk with the boy. he listened with a grave face to theo's story. when it was ended, he asked, "did you recognise either of the boys?" "yes, sir; one, certainly, and i think i know one of the others." "well?" said the teacher, inquiringly. theodore hesitated a moment, then answered in a low tone, "you 'member them verses you showed me that first sunday, mr. scott?" the gentleman smiled down into the sober, boyish face. "i remember," he replied, "but, theo, this is a grave matter. to beat a boy until he is unconscious, and then leave him to live or die, is a crime. such boys ought not to be shielded." "mr. scott, i had an awful time over that last night," answered the boy, earnestly. "i wanted to pay them fellers for this job--you better b'lieve i did, but," he shook his head slowly, "i can't do it. you see, sir, i ain't tode no more--i'm theodore, now." there was a look on the homely, boyish face that forbade further discussion of the matter, and, after a moment's silence, mr. scott said in a different tone, "well, my boy, when are you going home? nan and the baby want to see you." theo glanced impatiently about the long room. "she said i'd got to stay in bed till the doctor had seen me," he replied, "'n the doctor'll be here 'bout nine o'clock." "she" was the nurse. "it's nearly nine now. i'll wait until the doctor comes, then," mr. scott said. the doctor pronounced the boy quite fit to leave the hospital, and his clothes being brought to him, the curtains were drawn around his cot and he dressed himself hastily. but as he pushed aside the curtains, mr. scott saw a troubled look on his face, and asked: "what's the matter, theodore?" without answering the boy crossed the room to the nurse. "where's the money that was in my pocket?" he asked, anxiously. the nurse looked at him sharply. "if there was any money in your pockets when you were brought here it would be in them now," she answered, shortly. "you can go to the office and ask any questions you like." theodore turned toward his teacher a very sorrowful face. "i've been robbed, too," he said. "oh, i'm sorry, theodore. how much have you lost?" "five dollars. she says to ask at the office, but 'twon't do no good, i s'pose." "no, nothing would have been taken from your pockets here, but we will stop at the office and see if we can learn anything," mr. scott said. tag had kept close to his master's heels, and now at his teacher's suggestion theodore picked up the dog, who went forth quietly enough in that fashion. inquiries at the office convinced the boy that he had been robbed before he was brought there, and naturally enough he came to the conclusion that his money had gone into the pockets of dick hunt and his companions. at the door of the tenement house mr. scott left theo, who hurried eagerly up the stairs. on the landing he met jimmy hunt, who called out: "hi--o, tode, where ye been all night? say, what was the matter? did mr. scott find ye?" "yes," was theo's only response, as he pushed open nan's door, to be greeted with such a warm welcome that he hardly knew what to say and had to hide his embarrassment by poking the baby's ribs to make him laugh. jimmy hunt had followed him into the room and listened with open mouth as well as ears to the brief story that the boy told in reply to nan's questions. "oh, 'twasn't much. i got knocked down an' carried to the hospital, an' they wouldn't let me come away till morning--that's all." "an' wasn't ye hurt?" cried jimmy, in a disappointed tone. it seemed to him altogether too tame an affair if nobody was hurt. "my shoulder's sprained, an' my head was hurt a little," theo answered. "say, jim, where's dick?" "i d'know. out somewheres," replied dick's brother, indifferently. "why ain't you in school, jimmy?" was theo's next question. "well, i like that!" exclaimed jimmy, in a tone of deep disgust. "ain't i been a-racin' all over town for you this mornin', a-gettin' mr. scott to hunt ye up, an' goin' ter see 'f your stand's open, an' carryin' things 'round fer nan, too? how could i do all that an' be in school, i'd like to know?" "'deed, you couldn't, jimmy," replied nan, soothingly. "i don't know what i should have done this morning without him, theo. he was my right hand man." jimmy coloured with satisfaction at this high praise, and his delight was complete when theodore added, "that so? well now, jimmy boy, i ain't goin' to forget this." "huh! twarn't nothin'. i liked to do it," replied jimmy, and then overcome by a sudden and unaccountable fit of bashfulness he ran hastily out of the room. then theodore told nan the details of his adventure, but not even to her would he tell the name of his enemy, and nan did not guess, for she would never have imagined that mrs. hunt's dick could have served theo so. dick had gone out as usual after breakfast and did not come home even to get his supper, but of late his habits had been so irregular that nothing was said at home about his absence. after supper jimmy was sent out on an errand and dick met him and questioned him in regard to theo's return, and what he had to say. jimmy waxed indignant over the story which he filled in from his own imagination with many vivid details. "some fellers pitched into him an' knocked him down an' beat him an' left him for dead an' they took him t' the hospital an' kep' him there all night. guess them fellers'll suffer for it! they robbed him, too. took five dollars out o' his pockets." "they didn't neither!" exclaimed dick, hastily, thrown off his guard by this unexpected statement. "come now, dick hunt, mebbe you know more'n i do about it," retorted jimmy, with withering sarcasm, little suspecting how much more his brother _did_ know. "mebbe you heard what nan said to ma 'bout it." "no, no! 'course i d'know nothin' 'bout it. how would i know?" replied dick, quickly and uneasily. "say, jimmy, is he--is tode goin' to have them fellers took up?" "'spect he is--i would," answered jimmy; then remembering his errand, he ran off, leaving dick looking after him with a haggard, miserable face. "robbed," dick said to himself, as he walked moodily and aimlessly on. "we didn't do that anyhow. somebody must 'a' gone through his pockets after we cleared out. nice box i'm in now!" dick did not go home at all that night. he was afraid that he might be arrested if he did. "he knows 'twas me did it, an' he's keepin' dark 'bout it till they can nab me," he thought. he hunted up the three boys who had been so ready to help him the night before, but he found them now firmly banded together against him. moreover, they had spread such reports of him among their companions, that dick found himself shunned by them all. he dared not go home, so he wandered about the streets, eating in out-of-the-way places, and sleeping where he could. one day carrots told him that tode bryan was huntin' everywhere for him. then dick, in desperation, made up his mind to go to sea--he could stand the strain no longer. he dared not go home, even to bid his mother goodbye. dick was selfish and cruel, but he had even yet a little lingering tenderness for his mother. it was not enough to make him behave himself and do what he knew would please her, but it did make him wish that he could see her just for a moment before going away. it was enough to make him creep cautiously to the house after dark, and stand in the shadow, looking up at her window, while he pictured to himself the neat, pleasant room, where at that hour, she would be preparing supper. while he stood there, theo came out of the house, with tag, as usual, at his heels. tag ran over to the dark corner and investigated dick, but cautiously, for there was no friendship between him and this member of the hunt family. dick stood silent and motionless afraid that the dog might bark and draw theo over there, but he stood ready for flight until theo whistled and tag ran back to him, and presently followed him off in another direction. then, with a breath of relief, dick stole off into the darkness, and the next day he left the city on a vessel bound for south america, rejoicing that at last he was beyond reach of tode bryan. dick was not mistaken in thinking that theo had been searching for him, but he was greatly mistaken as to the boy's purpose in it. theodore was entirely ready now to obey that command that mr. scott had shown him and to do his best to "overcome evil with good." he took it for granted that dick and the others had robbed as well as beaten him, but all the same, he felt that he was bound to forget all that and find some way to show them a kindness. but though theo was always on the lookout for him, dick managed to keep out of his sight while he remained in the city. after dick had sailed, some boy told jimmy where his brother had gone, and so at last the news reached theodore. since his return from the bishop's, theo had had few idle moments, but after losing the five dollars he worked early and late to make up the loss. he grew more silent and thoughtful, and when alone his thoughts dwelt almost continually on that happy day when he should look once more into the bishop's kind face. "i'll tell him all about it," he would say to himself, "how i saw that mrs. russell drop the pocketbook, an' how i slipped under the wagon an' snatched it up out o' the mud, an' used the money. i'll tell it all, an' ev'rything else bad that i can 'member, so he'll know jest what a bad lot i've been, an' then i'll tell him how sorry i am, an' how i'm a-huntin' ev'rywhere for that jack finney, an' how i'll keep a-huntin' till i find him." all this and much more theodore planned to tell the bishop, and, as he thought about it, it seemed as if he could not wait another hour, so intense was his longing to look once more into that face that was like no other earthly face to him, to listen again to the voice that thrilled his heart, and hear it say, "my boy, i forgive you." many a time he dreamt of this and started up from sleep with those words ringing in his ears, "my boy, i forgive you," and then finding himself alone in his dark, dismal little room, he would bury his wet cheeks in the pillow and try to stifle the longing in his lonely, boyish heart. even nan, who knew him better than did any one else, never guessed how his heart hungered to hear those words from the lips of the bishop. but little by little--in nickels and dimes and quarters--theodore laid by another five dollars. he knew to a penny how much there was, but when he brought the last dime, he and nan counted it all to make sure. there was no mistake. it amounted to thirty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents, and the boy drew a long, glad breath as he looked up at nan with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, saying, "to-morrow, nan, i can see--_him!_" "don't look so--so awfully glad, theo. i'm afraid something will happen," said nan, with a troubled expression in her eyes as she looked at him. "don't you worry. i ain't a-goin' to be robbed again--you better believe i ain't!" cried the boy. then he glanced at his worn suit and tried to pull down his jacket sleeves, as he added, wistfully, "d'you think i look well enough to go there, nan? i wanted to buy a collar an' necktie, but, i just _couldn't_ wait any longer." nan's private opinion was, that if the bishop could only see theo's face at that moment, the garments he wore would be a matter of small importance. she answered, quickly, "you look plenty well enough, theo. don't worry about that." she gathered up the money and put it back into the box in which it had been kept, and the boy went across the room to the bed where the baby lay asleep. "seems to me he looks kind o' peaked--don't he, nan?" he remarked, uneasily. nan cast an anxious glance at the little, thin face, and shook her head. "he doesn't get strong as i hoped he would," she answered, sadly. "oh well, he will, when it comes warmer, so he can get out doors oftener," the boy said, as he went away to his room. he hurried through his work the next day, closing his stand at the earliest possible moment, and rushing home to get ready for his visit. he always, now, kept his face and hands scrupulously clean. his hair might have been in better condition if he had had money to buy a comb or a brush, but those were among the luxuries that he felt he must deny himself until he had made all the restitution in his power. to-day, however, when he went to nan's room for his money, she offered him the use of her comb, and helped him reduce his rough, thick hair to some kind of order. even then he looked at himself somewhat doubtfully. his suit was so shabby in spite of nan's careful mending, and his shoes were worse than his suit, but they were polished to the last degree. he had exchanged a sandwich and two doughnuts for that "shine." "you look well enough, theo," nan said, "plenty well enough. now go on, and oh, i do _hope_ it will be all right." "i know 'twill," cried the boy, joyously, as he tucked the money carefully into an inside pocket. "oh, nan!" he looked at her with such a happy face that her own beamed a bright response. then he ran off and nan stood in the doorway watching him as he went down the stairs, closely followed by his inseparable companion, tag. "the dear boy! he is fairly pale," said nan, to herself, as she turned back into her room. "it is strange how he loves that bishop--and what a different boy he is, too, since he came home. i don't see how the bishop can help loving him. oh, i do hope nothing will happen to spoil his visit. he has looked forward to it so long." the boy felt as if he were walking on air as he went rapidly through the crowded streets, seeing nothing about him, so completely were his thoughts occupied with the happiness before him. as he got farther up town the crowd lessened, and when he turned into the street on which the bishop lived, the passers-by were few. at last he could see the house. in a few minutes he would reach it. then his joyous anticipations suddenly vanished and he began to be troubled. what if brown wouldn't let him in, he thought, or--what if the bishop should refuse to see him or to listen to his story? as these thoughts came to him his eager pace slackened and for a moment he was tempted to turn back. only for a moment, however. he _knew_ that the bishop would not refuse to see him, and as for brown, if brown refused to admit him, he would go to the servants' door and ask for mrs. martin. so thinking, he pushed open the iron gate and went slowly up the walk. "stay here, tag. lie down, sir!" he ordered, and the dog obediently dropped down on the steps, keeping his bright eyes fastened on his master, as the boy rang the bell. theo could almost hear his heart beat as he waited. suddenly the door swung open and there was brown gazing severely at him. "well--what do _you_ want?" questioned the man, brusquely. "i want--don't you know me, brown? i want to see--mrs. martin." the boy's voice was thick and husky, and somehow he could not utter the bishop's name to brown standing there with that cold frown on his face. "oh--you want to see mrs. martin, do you? well, i think you've got cheek to come here at all after leaving the way you did," brown growled. he held the door so that the boy could not enter, and seemed more than half inclined to shut it in his face. "oh, please, brown, _do_ let me in," pleaded the boy, with such a heart-broken tone in his voice, that brown relented--he wasn't half so gruff as he pretended to be--and answered, grudgingly, "well, come in, if you must, an' i'll find out if mrs. martin will see you." with a sudden gleam of joy in his eyes, theodore slipped in. "come along!" brown called over his shoulder, and the boy followed to the housekeeper's sitting-room. the door of the room stood open, and mrs. martin sat by the window with a newspaper in her hand. she glanced up over her spectacles as brown's tall figure appeared at the door. "mrs. martin, this boy says he wants to see you," he announced, and then sauntered indifferently away to his own quarters. mrs. martin took off her glasses as she called, "come in, boy, and tell me what you want." theo walked slowly toward her hoping that she would recognise him, but she did not. indeed it was a wonder that brown had recognised him, so different was his appearance in his rough worn clothes, from that of the handsomely dressed lad, whose sudden departure had so grieved the kindhearted housekeeper. "don't you know me, mrs. martin?" the boy faltered, sorrowfully, as he paused beside her chair. "no, i'm sure i--why! you don't mean to say that you are our deaf and dumb boy!" exclaimed the good woman, as she peered earnestly into the grey eyes looking down so wistfully into hers. "yes, i'm the bad boy you were so good to, but i've been keepin' straight ever since i was here, mrs. martin," he answered, earnestly. "i have, truly." "bless your dear heart, child," cried the good woman, springing up hastily and seizing the boy's hands. "i'm sure you have. i guess _i_ know a bad face when i see one, and it don't look like yours. sit down, dear, and tell me all about it." in the fewest possible words theo told his story, making no attempt to excuse anything. the housekeeper listened with keen interest, asking a question now and then, and reading in his face the confirmation of all he said. he did not say very much about the bishop, but the few words that he did say and the look in his eyes as he said them, showed her what a hold upon the boy's heart her master had so unconsciously gained, and her own interest in the friendless lad grew deeper. when his story was told, she wiped her eyes as she said, slowly, "and to think that you've been working all these weeks to save up that money! well, well, how glad the dear bishop will be! he's said all the time that you were a good boy." "oh, has he?" cried theo, his face all alight with sudden joy. "i was afraid he'd think i was all bad when he found out how i'd cheated him." "no, no!" exclaimed mrs. martin. "he was grieved over your going off so, and he has tried his best to find you, but you see he didn't know where to look for you." "did he try to find me, mrs. martin? oh, i'm so glad! and can i see him now, please?" the boy's voice trembled with eagerness as he spoke. the housekeeper's kind face was full of pity and sympathy as she exclaimed, "why, my boy, didn't you know? the bishop is in california. he went a week ago to stay three months." all the glad brightness faded from the boy's face as he heard this. he did not speak, but he turned aside, and brushed his sleeve hastily across his eyes. mrs. martin laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "i'm so sorry," she said, "and he will be too, when he knows of your coming. i will write him all about it." still the boy stood silent. it seemed to him that he could not bear it. it had not once occurred to him that the bishop might be away, and now there was no possibility of seeing him for three long months. it seemed an eternity to the boy. and to think that he was there--at home--a week ago! "if they hadn't stole that five dollars from me, i might 'a' seen him last week," the boy said to himself, bitter thoughts of dick hunt rising in his heart. at last he turned again to the housekeeper and at the change in his face her eyes filled with quick tears. he took from his pocket the little roll of money and held it out, saying in a low unsteady voice, "you send it to him--an' tell him--won't you?" "i'll write him all about it," the housekeeper repeated, "and don't you be discouraged, dear. he'll want to see you just as soon as he gets home, i know he will. tell me where you live, so i can send you word when he comes." in a dull, listless voice the boy gave the street and number, and she wrote the address on a slip of paper. "remember, theodore, i shall write the bishop all you have told me, and how you are trying to find the finney boy and to help others just as he does," said the good woman, knowing instinctively that this would comfort the boy in his bitter disappointment. he brightened a little at her words but he only said, briefly, "yes--tell him that," and then he went sorrowfully away. mrs. martin stood at the window and looked after him as he went slowly down the street, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, while tag, well aware that something was wrong, trotted beside him with drooping ears and tail. "tell me that that's a bad boy!" the good woman said to herself. "i know better! i don't care what that mr. gibson said. i never took much stock in mr. gibson myself, anyhow. he always had something to say against anybody that the bishop took an interest in. there--i wish i'd told theodore that he was here only as a substitute, and had to leave when the regular secretary was well enough to come back. i declare my heart aches when i think of that poor little fellow's face when i told him that the bishop was gone. ah well, this is a world of disappointment!" and with a sigh she turned away from the window. nan sat in a rocking-chair with little brother in her arms, when theodore opened her door. "oh theo--what is it? what is the matter?" she cried, as she saw his face. he dropped wearily into a seat and told her in a few words the result of his visit. "oh, i am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "and it seems so hard to think that you would have seen the bishop if you hadn't lost that five dollars!" the boy sighed, but made no reply. he could not talk about it then, and presently he got up and went out. xi. theo's new business theodore went slowly down the stairs, but stopped on the outside steps and stood there with his hands in his pockets looking listlessly up and down the street. there was another big tenement house opposite, and on its steps sat a girl of ten or eleven with a baby in her lap. the baby kept up a low wailing cry, but the girl paid no attention to it. she sat with her head leaning against the house, and seemed to notice nothing about her. theodore glanced at her indifferently. his thoughts were still dwelling on his great disappointment--the sorrowful ending of the hopes and longings of so many weeks. it seemed to him that he had now nothing to which to look forward; nothing that was worth working for. then suddenly there flashed into his mind the words he had heard the bishop speak to a man who came to him one day in great sorrow. "my life is spoiled," the man had said. "all my hopes and plans are destroyed. what shall i do?" and the bishop had answered, "my son, you must forget yourself, and your broken hopes and plans, and think of others. do something for somebody else--and keep on doing." "that's what he would say to me, i s'pose," thought the boy. "i wonder what i can do. there's tommy o'brien, i 'spect he'd be glad 'nough to see most anybody." he turned and went slowly and reluctantly back up the stairs. he didn't want to see tommy o'brien. he didn't want to see anybody just then, but still he went on to tommy's door. as he approached it, he heard loud, angry voices mingled with the crying of a baby. he knocked, but the noise within continued, and after a moment's pause he pushed open the door and went in. the three women who lived in the room were all standing with red, angry faces, each trying to outscold the others. three or four little children, with frightened eyes, were huddled together in one corner, while a baby cried unheeded on the floor, its mother being too much occupied with the quarrel to pay any attention to her child. the women glanced indifferently at theodore as he entered, and kept on with their loud talk. theo crossed over to tommy's cot. the sick boy had pulled his pillow over his head and was pressing it close to his ears to shut out the racket. "le'me 'lone!" he exclaimed, as theodore tried to lift the pillow. his face was drawn with pain and there were dark hollows beneath his heavy eyes. such a weary, suffering face it was that a great flood of pity surged over theodore's heart at sight of it. then tommy opened his eyes and as he saw who had pulled aside his pillow a faint smile crept around his pale lips. "oh!" he cried. "it's you. i thought 'twas some o' them a-pullin' off my piller. can't you make 'em stop, tode? they've been a-fightin' off an' on all day." he glanced at the noisy women as he spoke. "what's the row about?" asked theo. "'cause mis' carey said mis' green's baby was cross-eyed. mis' green got so mad at that that she's been scoldin' 'bout it ever since an' leavin' the baby to yell there by itself on the floor--poor little beggar! seem's if my head'll split open with all the noise," sighed tommy, wearily, then he brightened up as he inquired, "what d' you come for, tode?" "just to talk to you a little," replied theo. "s'pose you get awful tired layin' here all the time, don't ye, tommy?" the unexpected sympathy in the voice and look touched the lonely heart of the little cripple. his eyes filled with tears, and he reached up one skinny little hand and laid it on the rough, strong one of his visitor as he answered, "oh, you don't know--you don't know anything about it, tode. i don't b'lieve dyin' can be half so bad's livin' this way. she wishes i'd die. she's said so lots o' times," he nodded toward his aunt, who was one of the women in the room, "an' i wish so too, 'f i've got to be this way always." "ain't ye never had no doctor, tommy?" asked theo, with a quick catch in his breath as he realised dimly what it would be to have such a life to look forward to. "no--she says she ain't got no money for doctors," replied the boy, soberly. "i'll"--began theodore, then wisely concluding to raise no hopes that might not be realised, he changed his sentence to, "i'll find out if there's a doctor that will come for nothin'. i believe there is one. can ye read, tommy?" the sick boy shook his head. "how could i?" he answered. "ain't nobody ter show me nothin'." "wonder 'f i couldn't," said theo, thoughtfully. "i c'n tell ye the letters anyhow, an' that'll be better'n nothin'." a bit of torn newspaper lay on the floor beside the bed. he picked it up and pointed out a, o and s, to tommy. by the time the little cripple had thoroughly mastered those three letters so that he could pick them out every time, the women had given up their quarrel. mrs. green had taken up her baby and was feeding it, and the other women, with sullen faces, had resumed their neglected duties. "oh dear! must you go?" tommy exclaimed as theo got off the cot on which he had been sitting. "but you was real good to come, anyhow. when'll ye come again an' tell me some more letters?" "i'll show ye one ev'ry day if i can get time. then in three weeks you'll know all the big ones an' some o' the little ones that are just like the big ones. now don't ye forget them three." "you bet i won't. i shall say 'em a hundred times 'fore to-morrow," rejoined the little fellow, and his eyes followed his new friend eagerly until the door closed behind him. as for theodore himself, half the weight seemed to have been lifted from his own heart as he went down the stairs again. "i'll run outside a minute 'fore i go to supper," he said to himself. "the air was awful thick in that room. reckon that's one thing makes tommy feel so bad." he walked briskly around two or three squares, and as he came back to the house he noticed that the girl and the baby still sat where he had seen them an hour before. the baby's cry had ceased, but it began again as theo was passing the two. he stopped and looked at them. the girl's eyes rested on his face with a dull, indifferent glance. "what makes it cry? is it sick?" the boy asked, nodding toward the baby. the girl shook her head. "what ails it then?" "starvin'." the girl uttered the word in a lifeless tone as if it were a matter of no interest to her. "where's yer mother?" pursued the boy. "dead." "an' yer father?" "drunk." "ain't there nobody to look out for ye?" again the girl shook her head. "ain't ye had anything to eat to-day?" "no." "what d'ye have yesterday?" "some crusts i found in the street. do go off an' le'me 'lone. we're most dead, an' i'm glad of it," moaned the girl, drearily. "you gi' me that baby an' come along. i'll get ye somethin' to eat," cried theo, and as the girl looked up at him half doubtfully and half joyfully, he seized the bundle of shawl and baby and hurried with it up to nan's room, the girl dragging herself slowly along behind him. nan cast a doubtful and half dismayed glance at the two strangers as theodore ushered them in, but the boy exclaimed, "they're half starved, nan. we _must_ give 'em somethin' to eat," and when she saw the baby's little pinched face she hesitated no longer, but quickly warmed some milk and fed it to the little one while the girl devoured the bread and milk and meat set before her with a ravenous haste that confirmed what she had said. then, refreshed by the food, she told her pitiful story, the old story of a father who spent his earnings in the saloon, leaving his motherless children to live or die as might be. nan's heart ached as she listened, and theodore's face was very grave. when the girl had gone away with the baby in her arms, theo said, earnestly, "nan, i've got to earn more money." "how can you?" nan asked. "you work so hard now, theo." "i must work harder, nan. i can't stand it to see folks starvin' an' not help 'em. i'll pay you for what these two had you know." nan looked at him reproachfully. "don't you think i want to help too?" she returned. "do you think i've forgotten that meal you gave little brother an' me?" "that was nothin'. anyhow you've done lots more for me than ever i did for you," the boy answered, earnestly, "but, nan, how _can_ rich folks keep their money for themselves when there are people--babies, nan--starvin' right here in this city?" "i suppose the rich folks don't know about them," replied the girl, thoughtfully, as she set the table for supper. "i've got to talk it over with mr. scott," theo said, as he drew his chair up to the table. "you talk everything over with mr. scott now, don't you, theo?" "'most everything. he's fine as silk, mr. scott is. he rings true every time, but he ain't"-- he left his sentence unfinished, but nan knew of whom he was thinking. the next afternoon theodore walked slowly through the business streets, with eyes and ears alert, for some opening of which he might take advantage to increase his income. past block after block he wandered till he was tired and discouraged. finally he sat down on some high stone steps to rest a bit, and while he sat there a coloured boy came out of the building. he had a tin box and some rags in his hands, and he began in an idle fashion to clean the brass railing to the steps. theodore fell into conversation with him, carelessly and indifferently at first, but after a little with a sudden, keen interest as the boy began to grumble about his work. "i ain't a-goin' ter clean these yer ol' railin's many more times," he said. "it's too much work. i c'n git a place easy where the' ain't no brasses to clean, an' i'm a-goin' ter, too. all the office boys hates ter clean brasses." "what do ye clean 'em with?" theodore inquired. the boy held out the tin box. "this stuff an' soft rags. say--you want ter try it?" he grinned as he spoke, but to his surprise his offer was accepted. "gi' me your rags," cried theo, and he proceeded to rub and polish energetically, until one side of the railings glittered like gold. "yer a gay ol' cleaner!" exclaimed the black boy, as he lolled in blissful idleness on the top step. "now go ahead with the other rail." but theodore threw down the rags. "not much," he answered. "i've done half your work an' you can do the other half." "oh, come now, finish up the job," remonstrated the other. "'tain't fair not to, for you've made that one shine so. i'll have ter put an extry polish on the other to match it." but theodore only laughed and walked off saying to himself, "rather think this'll work first-rate." he went straight to a store, and asked for "the stuff for shining up brass," and bought a box of it. then he wondered where he could get some clean rags. "per'aps mrs. hunt'll have some," he thought, "an' anyhow i want to see jim." so home he hastened as fast as his feet would carry him. good mrs. hunt was still a little cool to theodore, though she could see for herself how steady and industrious he was now, and how much he had improved in every way; but she had never gotten over her first impression of him, founded not only on his appearance and manners when she first knew him, but also on dick's evil reports in regard to him. now that dick himself had gone so far wrong, his mother went about with a heartache all the time, and found it hard sometimes to rejoice as she knew she ought to do in the vast change for the better in this other boy. "is jim here?" theodore asked when mrs. hunt opened the door in response to his knock. "yes--what's wanted, tode?" jimmy answered for himself before his mother could reply. "can you stay out o' school to-morrow?" theo questioned. "no, he can't, an' you needn't be temptin' him," broke in the mother, quickly. "oh, come now, ma, wait till ye hear what he wants," remonstrated jimmy, in whose eyes theo was just about right. "i wanted him to run my stand to-morrow," said theodore. "i've got somethin' else to 'tend to. there's plenty o' fellers that would like to run it for me, but ye see i can't trust 'em an' i _can_ trust jim every time." jimmy drew himself up proudly. "oh, ma, do let me stay out an' do it," he cried, eagerly. "it's friday, an' we don't have much to do fridays anyhow, in our school." "we-ell, i s'pose then you might stay out just this once," mrs. hunt said, slowly, being fully alive to the advantages to jimmy of such a friendly feeling on theo's part. she recognized theodore's business ability, and would have been only too glad to see her own boy develop something of the same kind. she was haunted with a dread that he might become idle and vicious as dick had done. "all right, then," theodore responded, promptly. "you be ready to go down with me at seven o'clock, jim, an' i'll see you started all right before i leave you. oh, mrs. hunt, there's one more thing i want. have you any clean old rags?" "for what?" "any kind o' soft white cotton stuff or old flannel will do," replied the boy, purposely leaving her question unanswered. "i'll pay you for 'em, of course, if you let me have 'em." "well, i guess i ain't so stingy as all that comes to," exclaimed mrs. hunt, sharply. "d'ye want 'em now?" "i'll come for 'em after supper," answered the boy, thinking that it was best to make sure of them, lest he be delayed for want of them in the morning. when later that evening, he knocked at her door, mrs. hunt had the pieces ready for him, and the next morning, jimmy was waiting in the hall when theo came from nan's room with his big basket, and the two boys went down the street carrying the basket between them. as soon as its contents had been arranged as attractively as possible on the clean white marbled oilcloth with which the stand was covered, and the coffee made and ready to serve, theo handed jimmy two dollars in dimes, nickels and pennies, to make change, and set off with the box of paste in his pocket, and the roll of rags under his arm. jimmy watched him out of sight, and then with a proud sense of responsibility awaited the appearance of his customers. theodore walked rapidly on till he reached the business streets where most of the handsome stores and offices were. then he slackened his pace and went on slowly, glancing keenly at each building until he came to one that had half a dozen brass signs on the front. "here's a good place to make a try," he said to himself, and going into the first office on the ground floor he asked as politely as he knew how, "can i shine up your brass signs for you?" there were several young men in the outer office. one of them answered carelessly, "yes indeed, shine 'em up, boy, and see 't you make a good job of it." "i will that, sir," responded theodore, blithely, and set to work with a will. there had been much wet weather and the signs were badly discoloured. it took hard, steady rubbing for nearly an hour to get them into good shining order, but theodore worked away vigourously until they gleamed and glittered in the morning sunlight. then he went again into the office. "i've finished 'em, sir," he said to the young man to whom he had spoken before, "an' i think i've made a good job of it. will you step out an' see what you think?" "not at all necessary. if you're satisfied, i am," replied the man, bending over his desk and writing rapidly. theodore waited in silence. the young man wrote on. finally he glanced up and remarked in a tone of surprise, "oh, you here yet? thought you'd finished your job." "i have done my part. i'm waitin' for you to do yours," replied the boy. "mine? what's my part, i'd like to know?" demanded the young man, sharply. "to pay me for my work." replied theo, promptly, but with a shadow falling on his face. "pay you? well, if this isn't cheeky! i didn't agree to pay you anything." "but you knew that i expected to be paid for my work," persisted the boy, the angry colour rising in his cheeks. "you expected--pshaw! young man, you've had a lesson that is well worth the time and labour you've expended," remarked the clerk in a tone of great dignity. "hereafter you will know better than to take anything for granted in business transactions. good-morning," and he turned his back on the boy and began to write again. theodore glanced around the room to see if there was any one on his side, but two of the other clerks were grinning at his discomfiture, and the others pretended not to know anything about the affair. he saw now that he had been foolish to undertake the work as he had done, but he realised that it would not help his case to make a fuss about it. all the same he was unwilling to submit without a protest. "next time i'll take care to make my bargain with a gentleman," he said, quietly. he saw a singular change in the expression of the clerk's face at these words, and as he turned sharply about to leave the office he almost ran into a tall, grey-haired man who had just entered. "stop a bit, my boy. i don't understand that remark of yours. what bargain are you going to make with a gentleman?" the tone of authority, together with the disturbed face of one clerk and the quite evident amusement of the others, suddenly enlightened theodore. he knew instinctively that this man was master here and in a few quick sentences he told what had happened. the gentleman listened in silence, but his keen, dark eyes took note of the flushed face of one clerk and the amused smiles of his companions. "is this boy's story true, mr. hammond?" he asked, sternly. mr. hammond could not deny it "it was only a joke, sir," he said, uneasily. "a joke, was it?" responded his employer. "i am not fond of such jokes." then he turned again to the boy and inquired, "how much is due you for cleaning the signs?" "i don't know. i'm just starting in in this business, an' i'm not sure what i ought to charge. can you tell me, sir?" the gentleman smiled down into the young face lifted so frankly to his. "why, no," he answered, gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes. "i believe our janitor usually attends to the signs." "guess he don't attend to 'em very well, for they were awful dirty," remarked the boy. "took 'me 'most an hour to shine 'em up. did you notice 'em, sir, as you came in?" "no, i did not. i'll look at them now," and theodore followed the gentleman out to the steps. "well, you have made a good job of it, certainly," the gentleman said. "the signs haven't shone like that since they were first put there. quite a contrast to the others on the building. come back into the office a moment." he went back to mr. hammond's desk and again theodore followed. "mr. hammond," said the gentleman, quietly, "you are willing of course to pay for your joke. the boy has done his work extremely well. i think he ought to have half a dollar for it." with anything but a happy expression, mr. hammond drew from his pocket a half dollar and handed it to theodore, who said, not to the clerk, but to the gentleman, "thank you, sir," and left the office. but he did not leave the building. he went to the owner of every brass sign in or on the building and asked to be allowed to make every other sign look as well as those of t.s. harris, which he had just polished. now, t.s. harris was the owner of the building and the occupants of the other offices considered that it would be wise to follow his example in this matter, so the result was that theodore spent all the morning over the signs on that one building, and mr. harris having set the price, he received twenty-five cents for each sign. he was just putting a finishing rub on the last one when the janitor discovered what had been going on. he came at the boy in a great rage for he wanted no one to have anything to do with the care of the building except those whom he chose to hire. "you take your traps an' clear out o' this now, an' don't you ever dare to show your face here again," he shouted, angrily. "if i catch ye here again i'll kick ye down the stairs!" "p'raps mr. harris will have a word to say about that," replied theodore, coolly, for in one and another of the offices he had picked up enough to convince him that the word of mr. harris was law in that building. then he added, in a much more friendly tone, "now, look here, mister. you're too busy a man to be cleaning signs--'course you are. you've got to hire somebody t' do it an' the' won't anybody do it better or fer less money 'n i will. i'm a-goin' to make a reg'lar business of cleanin' brasses all 'round this neighbourhood, an' if you'll stan' by me an' help me fix it all right with the other bosses 'bout here--i'll see 't you don't lose anythin' by it." the janitor's fierce frown had slowly faded as the boy spoke. nothing pleased him so much as to be considered a person of influence, and had theodore been ever so shrewd he could have adopted no other line of argument that would so quickly and effectually have changed an enemy into a friend as did this that he hit upon merely by chance. the man stepped down to the sidewalk and looked up at the signs with a critical air. "wai'," he answered, slowly, "i ain't a-goin' to deny that you've done your work well--yes a sight better'n any of the lazy rascals i've been hiring, an' if you could be depended on now, i d'know but what i might's well give the work to you as to anybody else. of course, as you say, 'tain't my place to do servant's work like brass cleanin'." "of course not," assented theo, promptly. "but then," the man went on, "if i should speak for ye t' the janitors of the other buildings 'long here, 'n' get ye a big line o' custom, 'course i sh'ld have a right t' expect a--er--a sort o' commission on the profits, so to speak?" "oh!" replied theodore, rather blankly. "what _is_ a commission, anyhow?" the man explained. "and how much of a commission would you expect?" questioned the boy. the janitor made a mental calculation. here on this one building, the boy had cleaned seven signs. that made a dollar and seventy-five cents that he had earned in one morning. of course he would not often get so much out of one building, but the man saw that there were good possibilities in this line of work. "s'pose we say ten per cent.--ten cents out of every dollar?" he ventured, with a keen glance at the boy. "you mean ten per cent, on all the work that i get through you?" theo replied. "oh no--on _all_ the work of this sort that you do. that's no more'n fair since you'll owe your start to me." "not much! i owe my start to myself, an' i'll make no such bargain as that," answered theo, decidedly. "i'm willin' to give you ten per cent. on all that i get through you, but not a cent more. you see i'm bound to put this thing through whether you help me or not," he added, quietly. the janitor saw that he had been too grasping and hastened to modify his demands lest he lose his commissions altogether. "well, well," he said, soothingly, "we won't quarrel over a little difference like that. let it be as you say, ten per cent. on all the jobs i get for ye, an' there's the janitor of the laramie building on the steps this minute. come along with me an' i'll give ye a start over there--or, first--ain't there a little matter to attend to," he added, with an insinuating smile. "you'll settle your bills fast as they come due, of course, an' you've got a snug little sum out of my building here." "yes, but no thanks to you for that," replied theo, but as the man's face darkened again, he added, "but never mind, i'll give you the commission on this work since it's in your building," and he handed eighteen cents to the janitor, who slipped it into his pocket with an abstracted air as if unconscious of what he was doing. the result of the man's recommendation to his brother janitor was that theodore secured the promise of all the brass cleaning in the laramie building also, and that with one or two small jobs kept him busy until dark when he went home with a light heart and with the sum of three dollars and fourteen cents in his pocket. to be sure he had worked hard all day to earn it, but theodore never had been lazy and he was willing enough to work hard now. he carried home some oranges as a special treat that night, for now he took his supper regularly with nan who was glad to make a return in this fashion for the help he was continually giving her in carrying out her food supplies, as well as many other ways. as they arose from the supper-table, theodore said, "i'll go across an' see how jimmy got on to-day, at the stand," but even as he spoke there came a low knock at the door and there stood jimmy--no longer proud and happy as he had been in the morning, but with red eyes and a face full of trouble. "why, jimmy, what's the matter?" cried nan and theo, in one voice. "come in," added nan, kindly pulling him in and gently pushing him toward a chair. jimmy dropped into it with an appealing glance at theo. "i'm--i'm awful sorry, tode," he began. "but i--i couldn't help it, truly i couldn't." he rubbed his sleeve hastily across his eyes as he spoke. "but what is it, jimmy? i'm sure you did the best you could whatever is wrong, but do tell us what it is," exclaimed theodore, half laughing and half impatient at the uncertainty. "'twas that mean ol' carrots," began jimmy, indignantly. "i was sellin' things off in fine style, tode, an' carrots, he came along an' he said he wanted three san'wiches in a paper. i put 'em up fer him, an' then he asked fer six doughnuts an' some gingerbread, an' a cup o' coffee--an' he wanted 'em all in a paper." "not the coffee, jimmy," said nan, laughingly, as the boy stopped to take breath. "no, 'course not the coffee. he swallered that an' put in a extry spoonful o' sugar too, but he wanted all the rest o' the things in a paper bag, an' i did 'em up good for him, an' then he asked me to tie a string 'round 'em, an' i got down under the stand for a piece of string, an' when i found it, an' looked up--don't you think tode--that rascal was streakin' it down the street as fast's he could go, an' i couldn't leave the stand to run after him, an' 'course the' wasn't any p'lice 'round, an' so i had to let him go. i'm awful sorry, theo, but i couldn't help it." "'course you couldn't, jimmy. and is that all the trouble?" "yes, that's 'nough, ain't it?" answered jimmy, mournfully. "he got off with more'n forty cents worth o' stuff--the old pig! i'll fix him yet!" "well, don't worry any more over it, jimmy. losin' th' forty cents won't break me, i guess," said theo, kindly. jimmy brightened up a little, but the shadow again darkened his face as he said, anxiously, "i s'pose you won't never trust me to run the stand again?" "trust you, jimmy? well, i guess i will. no danger of _your_ trusting carrots again, i'm sure." "not if i know myself," responded jimmy, promptly, and theo went on, "i s'pose your mother wouldn't want you to stay out of school mornin's for a week or two?" jimmy looked at him with sparkling eyes. "do you mean"--he began, breathlessly, and then paused. "i mean that i may want you to run the stand for me all next week, as well as to-morrow," theo answered. "oh--ee! that's most too good to b'lieve," cried the little fellow. "say! i think you're--you're prime, tode. i must go an' tell ma," and he dashed out of the door, his face fairly beaming with delight. "it's worth while to make anybody so happy, isn't it, theo?" nan said, then she added, thoughtfully, "do you think the brass-cleaning will take all your time, so you can't be at the stand any more?" "just at first it will. maybe i shall fix it differently after a while," he answered. on his way to the business district the next morning, he stopped and bought a blank book and a pencil, and wherever he cleaned a sign or a railing that day, he tried to make a regular engagement to keep the brasses in good condition. if he secured a promise of the work by the month he made a reduction on his price, and every business man--or janitor who regularly engaged him, was asked to write his own name in the new blank book. not on the first page of the book, however. that the boy kept blank until about the time when mr. harris had come to his office the day before. at that hour, theodore was waiting near the office door, and there mr. harris found him as he came up the steps. "good-morning, sir," said theo, pulling off his cap with a smile lighting up his plain face. "good-morning," returned the gentleman. "have you found something else to polish up here to-day?" "no, sir, but i wanted to ask you if you would sign your name here in my book," the boy replied. mr. harris looked amused. "come into my office," he said, "and tell me what it is that you want." theodore followed him across the outer office to the private room beyond. the clerks cast curious glances after the two, and hammond scowled as he bent over his desk. "now let me see your book," said mr. harris, as the door of the office swung silently behind them. theo laid his rags and paste box on the carpet, and then put the blank book on the desk as he said, earnestly, "you see, sir, i'm trying to work up a reg'lar business, an' so i want the business men i work for to engage me by the month to take care of their brass work--an' i guess i did learn a lesson here yesterday, for to-day i've asked every gentleman who has engaged me to sign his name in this book--see?" he turned over the leaves and showed three names on the second page. "and you want my name there, too? but i haven't engaged you. i only gave you a job yesterday." "but your janitor has engaged me," answered theodore, quickly. "well, then, isn't it the janitor's name that you want?" "oh, no, sir," cried the boy, earnestly. "nobody knows the janitor, but i guess lots o' folks know you, an' your name would make others sign--don't you see?" mr. harris laughed. "i see that you seem to have a shrewd business head. you'll make a man one of these days if you keep on. and you want my name on this first page?" he added, dipping his pen into the inkstand. "yes, because you was my first friend in this business," replied theodore. mr. harris glanced at him with that amused twinkle in his eye, but he signed his name on the first page. then he said, "i wish you success in your undertaking, and here's a trifle for a send-off." he held out a silver dollar as he spoke, but theodore did not take it. "thank ye, sir," he said, gratefully; "you've been real good to me, but i can't take any money now, 'cept what i earn. i c'n earn all i need." "so?" replied mr. harris, "you're independent. well, i like that, but i'll keep this dollar for you, and if you ever get in a tight place you can come to me for it." "thank you, mr. harris," said the boy again. "i won't forget, but i hope i won't need it," and then he picked up his belongings and left the office. as he passed mr. hammond's desk, he said, "good-morning, sir," but the clerk pretended not to hear. all through the next week and for weeks after, theodore spent his time from nine to five o'clock, cleaning brasses and making contracts for the regular care of them, until he had secured as much work as he could attend to himself. meantime, jimmy hunt had taken entire charge of the stand and was doing well with it. theo gave him four-fifths of the profits and he was perfectly satisfied, and so was his mother, who found his earnings a welcome addition to the slim family income, and it was so near the end of the school term that she concluded it did not matter if jimmy did stay out the few remaining weeks. but busy as theodore was, he still found time to carry out what nan cooked for the people in the two houses, as well as to drop in on one and another of his many neighbours every evening--for by this time the night school had closed for the season. his saturday evenings were still spent at the flower stand, and now that blossoms were more plentiful, he received more and better ones in payment for his work, and his sunday morning visits to the different rooms were looked forward to all the week by many of those to whom he went, and hardly less so by himself, for the boy was learning by glad experience the wonderful joy that comes from giving happiness to others. when he saw how the flowers he carried to stuffy, dirty, crowded rooms, were kept and cherished and cared for even until they were withered and dead--he was sure that his little flower mission was a real blessing. before the hot weather came, tommy o'brien was carried away out of the noisy, crowded room to the hospital for incurables. theo had brought one of the dispensary doctors to see the boy, and through the doctor's efforts and those of mr. scott, tommy had been received into the hospital. he had never been so comfortable in his brief life as he was there, but at first he was lonely, and so theodore went once or twice a week to see him, and he never failed to save out some flowers to carry to tommy on sunday. but, however full theodore's time might be, and however busy his hands, he never forgot the search for jack finney. his eyes were always watching for a blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy of sixteen, and he made inquiries for him everywhere. three times he heard of a boy named finney, and sought him out only to be disappointed, for the first jack finney he found was a little chap of ten or eleven, and the next was a boy of sixteen, but with hair and eyes as black as a jew's--and besides, it turned out that his name wasn't finney at all, but findlay; and the third time, the boy he found was living at home with his parents, so theo knew that no one of the three was the boy of whom he was in search and although he did not in the least give up the matter, he came to the conclusion at last that his jack finney must have left the city. mr. scott interested himself in the search because of his great interest in theodore, and he went to the reform school and the prison, but the name he sought was on neither record. although theodore said nothing to any one about it, he was also on the lookout for another boy, and that boy was carrots. ever since carrots had stolen the food from the stand, theo had wanted to find him. more than once he had caught a glimpse in the streets of the lank figure and the frowzy red head, but carrots had no desire to meet theo and he took good care to keep out of his way. xii. nan finds friends so the spring days slipped away until march and april were gone and the middle of may had come. theodore was counting the days now, for it was in may that the bishop was to return--so mrs. martin had told him--and the boy began to watch eagerly for the word that the housekeeper had promised to send him. so full of this were his thoughts and so busy was he with his work for himself and for others, that he spent much less time than usual with nan and little brother. about this time there was a week of extremely hot weather. one day toward the close of this week as theodore was passing mrs. hunt's door, she called him in. "you'd better come here for your supper to-night," she said. theodore looked at her with a quick, startled glance. "why--where's nan?" he inquired. "nan's in her room, but she can't get you any supper to-night. she's sick. i've seen for weeks past that nan was overworkin' with all that cooking she's been doin', and to-day she just gave out--an' she's flat on her back now." theodore was silent in blank dismay. until that moment he had not realised how much he had come to depend upon nan. "has she had a doctor, or anything?" he asked, in such a troubled voice that mrs. hunt could not but be sorry for him. "no, i offered to send jimmy for a doctor, but she said she only wanted to rest, but i tell you what, theo, she ain't goin' to get much rest in that room, hot's an oven with the constant cooking, an' what's more that baby can't stand it neither." "i'll go an' see her," replied the boy, slowly, "an'--i guess i don't want any supper to-night, mrs. hunt." "yes, you do want supper, too, theodore. you come back here in half an hour an' get it, an' look here--don't worry nan, talkin' 'bout her being sick," mrs. hunt called after him in a low voice, as he turned toward the girl's door. it seemed strange enough to theodore to see bright, energetic nan lying with pale face and idle hands on the bed. she smiled up at the boy as he stood silent beside the bed finding no words to say. "i'm only tired, theo," she said, gently. "it has been so hot to-day, and little brother fretted so that i couldn't get through my work so well as usual." "he's sick too," answered theodore, gravely. nan turned her head to look at the little white face on the pillow beside her. "yes, he's sick. oh theo"--and then the girl covered her face with her hands, and theodore saw the tears trickling through her fingers. "don't nan, don't!" he cried, in a choked voice, and then he turned and ran out of the room and out of the house. straight to his teacher he went, sure of finding there sympathy, and if possible, help. he was not disappointed. mr. scott listened to what he had to say, and wrote a note to a friend of his own who was a physician, asking him to see nan and the baby at his earliest convenience. then having comforted theodore, and compelled him to take some supper, mr. scott sent him away greatly refreshed, and proceeded to talk the matter over with his aunt, mrs. rawson. "those two children ought to be sent away into the country, aunt mary," he began. "nan and theodore, do you mean?" "no, no! theodore's all right. he's well and strong. i mean nan and her little brother. aunt mary, it would make your heart ache to see such a girl as that working as she has worked, and living among such people. i wish you would go and see the child." "i'll try to go to-morrow, allan. i've been intending to ever since you told me about her, but the days do slip away so fast!" answered the lady. but she found time to go the next day, and the first sight of nan's sweet face was enough to make her as deeply interested in the two as her nephew had long been. "but what an uncomfortable place for a sick girl!" mrs. rawson thought, as she glanced at the shutterless windows through which the sun was pouring, making the small room almost unbearably hot, although there was no fire in the stove. she noticed that the place was daintily clean and neat, though bare as it well could be, but noisy children were racing up and down the stairways and shouting through the halls, making quiet rest impossible. mrs. rawson's kind heart ached as she looked from the room to the pure face of the girl lying there with the little child beside her. "she must be a very unusual girl to look like that after living for months in this place," she thought to herself. while she was there the doctor came, and when he went away, mrs. rawson went with him that she might tell him what she knew about the girl's life and learn what he thought of the case. "it is a plain case of overwork," he said. "from what you tell me the girl has been doing twice as much as she was able to do, and living in that little oven of a room with nothing like the fresh air and exercise she should have had, and very likely not half enough to eat. the baby seems extremely delicate. probably it won't live through the summer, and a good thing too if there's no one but the girl to provide for them. what they need is--to go straight away into the country and stay there all summer, or better yet, for a year or two, but i suppose that is out of the question." "i must see what can be done, doctor. such a girl as that surely ought not to be left to struggle along unfriended." "no, but there are so many such cases. well, i hope something can be done for her. i'll call and see her again to-morrow, but medicine is of little use in a case like this," the doctor replied. mrs. rawson was not one to "let the grass grow under her feet," when she had anything to do, and she felt that she had something to do in this case. she thought it over as she went home, and before night she had written to a relative in the country--a woman who had a big farm and a big heart--to ask if she would board nan and her little brother for the summer. she described the two, and told how bravely the girl had battled with poverty and misfortune until her strength had failed. the letter went straight from the warm heart of the writer to that of her friend and the response was prompt. "send those two children right to me, and if rest and pure air and plenty of wholesome food are what they need, please god, they shall soon be strong and well. they are surely his little ones, and you know i am always ready and glad to do his work." such was the message that mrs. rawson read to her nephew two days after her visit to nan, and his face was full of satisfaction as he listened to it. "nothing could be better," he said. "it will be a splendid place for those children, and it will be a good thing too for mrs. hyde to have them there." "yes, i think so," replied mrs. rawson, "but now the question is--will nan consent to go? from what little i have seen of her i judge that she will not be at all willing to accept help from strangers." "she will shrink from it, perhaps, for herself, but for the sake of that little brother i think she will consent to go. theo tells me that she has been exceedingly anxious about the child for weeks past," answered mr. scott. "well, i'll go to-morrow and see if i can prevail upon her to accept this offer, but allan, one thing you must do, if nan does consent to go--and that is, you must break it to theodore. it's going to be a blow to him, to have those two go away from the city. he'll be left entirely alone." "so he will. i hadn't thought of that. i must think it over and see what can be done for him. he certainly must not stay there, with no place but that dark little closet in which he sleeps," replied the gentleman. mrs. rawson's kindly sympathy and gentle manners had quickly won nan's confidence and the girl welcomed her warmly when she appeared in the little room the next morning. she found nan sitting by the open window, with her pale little brother in her arms. "oh, i'm ever so much better," she said, in reply to mrs. rawson's inquiries. "the doctor's medicine helped me right away, but i don't feel very strong yet--not quite well enough to begin my cooking again. i'm going to begin it to-morrow," she added. "indeed, you'll not do any cooking to-morrow, nan," said the lady, decidedly. "you're not fit to stand over the stove or the mixing board, and besides, it would make the room too hot for the baby." nan glanced anxiously at the little face on her arm. "i can carry him in to mrs. hunt's. he's no trouble, and she's always willing to keep him," she answered. "now, my child, i want you to listen to me," mrs. rawson began, and went on to tell the girl about the plans she had made for her and her little brother. nan listened, with the colour coming and going in her face. "it is so good--so kind of you to think of this," she exclaimed, earnestly, "and i'd _love_ to go. mrs. rawson, you don't know how i hate living in a place like this," she shuddered, as she spoke, "and it would be like heaven to get away into the sweet clean country, with good people--but i can't go unless there is something i can do there. i _couldn't_ go and live on charity, you know." "it wouldn't be charity, nan; it would be love," answered mrs. rawson, gently. "mrs. hyde keeps one room in her house always ready for any guest whom the lord may send her and i think he is sending you there now. remember, my child, you have this dear sick baby to think of, as well as yourself. nan, the doctor thinks little brother will not live through the summer unless he is taken away from the city." nan gave a quick, gasping breath, as she drew the baby closer and bent her face over his. when she looked up again her eyes were wet, and she said, in a low tone, "if that is so, i can't refuse this kind offer, and i will try to find some way to make it right." "there's nothing to make right, dear; you've only to go and be just as happy and contented as you can be. i know you will be happy there. you can't help loving mrs. hyde. and now, my child, there's another matter." she paused and added, in a low tone, "i had a little girl once, but god took her away from my home. she would have been about your age now if she had staid with me. for her sake, nan, i want you to let me get a few things that you and the baby will need. will you, dear?" nan was proud. she had never gotten accustomed to poverty and its painful consequences, and she would have preferred to do without, any time, rather than accept a gift from those on whom she had no claim; but she realised that she could not go among strangers with only the few poor garments that she now had, so, after a moment's silence, she answered, in a voice that was not quite steady, "you are very, very good to me, mrs. rawson. i'll try to be good too, only, please don't get a single thing that i can do without." "nan, if you had plenty of money and you found a girl who had been left all alone in the world, with no one to do anything for her--would you think it was any wonderful kindness in you to spend a few dollars for her?" "n--no, of course not. i'd just _love_ to do it," replied nan, "but"-- "that's enough, then, and now there's only one more thing i have to speak about. i know some girls, who have formed themselves into a band called a 'king's daughter circle,' and they meet once a week to sew for somebody who is not able to do her own sewing. i've told these girls a little about you and they want very much to do some sewing for little brother and you. now, would you be willing to let them come here to-morrow afternoon? would it trouble you?" the colour rose in nan's cheeks and her lips trembled, and for a moment she seemed to shrink into herself as she thought what a contrast her poor surroundings would be to these other girls, who lived such different lives from hers, but she saw that mrs. rawson was really desirous that they should come, and she was not willing to disappoint one who was doing so much for her; so after a moment's silence she answered, "of course they can come, if you think they won't mind too much." she glanced about the room as she spoke. mrs. rawson leaned over and kissed her. "child," she said, "they know nothing about the trials that come into other lives--like yours. i want them to know you. don't worry one bit over their coming. they are dear girls and i'm sure you will like them--as sure as i am that they will all love you--and nan, one thing more, leave mr. scott to tell theodore about your going." then she went away, leaving nan with many things to think about. she could not help worrying somewhat over the coming of those girls. as she recalled her own old home, she realised how terribly bare and poor her one room would look to these strangers and she shrank nervously from the thought of meeting them. more than once, she was tempted to ask theo to go to mrs. rawson and tell her that the girls could not come there. mrs. rawson went straight from nan's room to the shopping district, where she purchased simple but complete outfits for nan and the baby. the under garments and the baby's dresses she bought ready-made and also a neat wool suit for the girl and hats and wraps for both, but she bought enough pretty lawn and gingham to make as many wash dresses as nan would require, and these she carried home and cut out the next morning. that evening too she sent notes to the members of the circle telling them to meet at her house before one o'clock the next day, which was saturday. they came promptly, eleven girls between fifteen and seventeen, each with her sewing implements. bright, happy girls they were, as nan might have been, had her life been peaceful and sheltered like theirs, mrs. rawson thought, as she welcomed them. "sit down, girls," she said, "i want to tell you more about my poor little nan before you see her." she told the story in such fashion that the warm, girlish hearts were filled with a sweet and tender sympathy for this other girl, and they were eager to do all that they could for her. not one of them had ever before been in a tenement house like the one to which mrs. rawson led them, and they shrank from the rude children and coarse women whom they encountered in the halls and on the stairs, and pressed closer together, grasping each other's hands. nan's face whitened and her thin hands were clasped tightly together as she heard them coming along the hall. she knew it was they, so different were their quiet footsteps from most that passed her door. nan opened the door in response to mrs. rawson's knock and the girls flocked in, looking so dainty and pretty in their fresh shirt-waists and dimities, and their gay ribbons. as nan looked at them she was painfully conscious of her own faded calico and worn shoes, and her cheeks flushed, but the girls gave her no time to think of these things. they crowded about her, introducing each other with merry laughter and gay little jokes, seeming to take nan right in among them as one of themselves, and taking prompt possession of the baby, who wasn't a bit shy, and appeared to like to be passed from one to another, and kissed, and called sweet names. nan had borrowed all mrs. hunt's chairs, but still there were not enough, and three or four girls gleefully settled themselves on the bed. every one of them had come with her hands full of flowers, and seeing these, mrs. rawson had brought along a big glass rose bowl, which the girls speedily filled and set in the middle of the table. a tap at the door announced the arrival of a boy with a box and a bag for mrs. rawson, and out of the box she lifted a baby sewing machine, which she fastened to the table. then from the bag she took the lawn and gingham as she said, "now, girls, your tongues can run just as fast as your fingers sew, but remember this tiny machine works very rapidly and you've got to keep it supplied. i'll hem this skirt first." in an instant every girl had on her thimble, and they all set to work with right good will. "can't i do some, too?" said nan. "i don't want to be the only idle one." "you can gather some ruffles in a few minutes--as soon as i have hemmed them," answered mrs. rawson, smiling to herself, as she saw how bright and interested nan looked already. all that long, bright afternoon tongues and needles were about equally busy. fortunately it was cooler, else the girls would have been uncomfortable in the small room, but as it was, not even nan gave more than a passing thought to the bare room and its lack of comfort. indeed, after the first few moments, nan forgot all about herself and just gave herself up to the delight of being once more a girl among girls. she thought them lovely, every one, and indeed they were lovely to her in every way, for her sweet face and gentle manners had won them all at first sight. how they did chatter! never before had that room--or indeed any room in that dreary building, held such a company as gathered there that day. at half-past five there came another rap on the door, and mrs. rawson exclaimed, "put up your sewing, girls. we've business of another sort to attend to now." the girls looked at her inquiringly as nan opened the door again. "bring them in," called mrs. rawson, and a man edged his way gingerly among the girls and set two big baskets and an ice cream freezer beside the table. "a house picnic! mrs. rawson, you're a darling!" called one and another of the girls. mrs. rawson nodded a laughing acknowledgment of the compliment, as she said, "open the baskets, girls. the dishes are in the round one. i thought nan might not be prepared for quite such a family party." with quick, deft fingers the girls swept aside the sewing, unscrewed the little machine, spread a fine damask cloth over the pine table, and on it arranged the pretty green and gold dishes and glasses, putting the big bowl of roses in the centre. then from the other basket they took tiny buttered biscuits, three-cornered sandwiches, tied with narrow green ribbons, a dish of chicken salad, and a big loaf of nut cake. all these quite covered the table so that the cream had to be left in the freezer until it was wanted. how nan did enjoy that feast! how her eyes shone with quiet happiness as she watched the bright faces and listened to the merry talk; not all merry either, for more than once it touched upon the deep things of life, showing that the girls had thought much, even if their lives had been happy, sheltered ones. when the feast was ended, the dishes repacked in the basket, and the unfinished work put away, the girls gathered about nan to say "good-bye," and she wondered how she could have dreaded their coming,--for now it seemed as if she could not let them go. she felt as if all the joyous brightness would vanish with them. the quick young eyes read something of this feeling in her face, and more than one girl left a kiss with her cordial farewell. the room seemed very still and lonely to nan when the last flutter of light dresses was gone and the last faint echo of girlish voices and footsteps had died on her eagerly listening ears. she dropped into the rocking-chair and looked about the room, trying to repeople it with those fair, young, friendly faces. she could almost have imagined it all a dream but for the cake and sandwiches and ice cream on the table. the sight of the fast melting cream suggested another thought to her. hastily filling a plate with portions of everything on the table, she set it away for theodore and then went across to mrs. hunt's rooms to tell her to come with the children and take all that was left. the eyes of the children gleamed with delight at sight of the unexpected treat, and they speedily emptied the dishes which their mother then carried home to wash, while the children took back the borrowed chairs. by this time nan began to feel very weary, and she threw herself down on the bed with the baby, but she kept in her hand some little scrips of the pretty lawns and ginghams that she had found on the floor. it seemed hardly possible to her that she could be going to have such dresses. why--one of the scrips was exactly like a waist that one of those girls had worn. nan gazed at it with a smile on her lips, a smile that lingered there until it was chased away by the remembrance of theo's loneliness when she and little brother should be far away. xiii. nan's departure theo was feeling that he needed sympathy about that time, for it seemed to him as if every one that he cared for was to be taken away from him. mr. scott had invited the boy to go with him for a row on the river and then to go home with him to supper. the river was beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, and theodore enjoyed the row and the friendly talk with his teacher, but he felt a little shy with mrs. rawson and was not sorry to find her absent from the supper-table. when the meal was over mr. scott took the boy up to his own room to see some of his curiosities. theo's quick eyes took silent note of everything, and he mentally decided that some day he would have just such a room as that. he was thinking thus, when mr. scott said, "theo, you haven't asked me what dr. reed thinks about nan and her little brother." "she's better to-day--nan is," exclaimed the boy, quickly. "yes, i suppose the medicine has toned her up a little, but the doctor says that she must have a long rest. she has been working too hard." "well, she can. i'm earnin' enough now to take care of 'em," interposed the boy. "nan would never be content to let you do that, i think, but, theo, that isn't all." theo said nothing, but his anxious eyes asked the question that his lips refused to utter. mr. scott went on, "the doctor says that the baby must go away into the country or--he will die." theodore walked quickly to the window, and stood there looking out in silence. after a moment, his teacher crossed the room and laid his arm affectionately over the boy's shoulders. "sit down, theodore," he said, gently, "i want to tell you what we have planned for nan and the little one." then in few words he told of mrs. rawson's letter and the reply, describing the beautiful country home to which nan and the baby were to go. "you will be glad to think of them in such a place during the hot summer days," he went on, "even though their going leaves you very lonely, as i know it will, theodore." "i ought to be glad, mr. scott," replied the boy, slowly, as his teacher paused, "an' i am, but ye see you don't know how hard 'tis for a feller to keep straight when he ain't got no home an' nobody to talk to after his work's done at night. nan--well _you_ know she ain't like the rest o' the folks down our way. she never scolds nor nags at me, but somehow i can't ever look her straight in the eye if i've been doin' anything mean." "nan has been a good friend to you, i'm sure, and i think you have been a good friend to her and the baby, theodore. i know that she will miss you sadly at first, and if she thinks you are to be very lonely without them, i'm afraid she will worry about it and not get as much good from the change as she might otherwise," mr. scott added. the boy drew a long breath. "i won't let her know 't i care much 'bout their goin'," he said, bravely. "nan will guess quite enough," answered the gentleman, "but, theodore, how would you like to come here? mrs. rawson has a little room over the l that she seldom uses, and she says that you can sleep there if you like, and pay for it the same that you pay for the dark room that you now have." the boy's eyes were full of surprise and pleasure as he answered, gratefully, "i'd like that fine!" "come on, then, and we'll take a look at the place. it has been used as a storeroom and will, of course, need some fixing up." as mr. scott threw open the door of the l room theodore stepped in and looked about him with shining eyes. it was a long, low room with windows on three sides. the floor was covered with matting and the walls with a light, cheerful paper. "this for me!" exclaimed the boy. "why, mr. scott, it's--it's too fine for a chap like me." "not a bit, my boy, but i think you can be very comfortable here, and you will know that you have friends close at hand. and now, theodore, i suppose you will want to get home, for we hope to get nan away next week." "so soon!" cried the boy, a shadow falling on the face, a moment before so bright. "yes, the sooner the better for the little one's sake," replied mr. scott, gravely. "you've been mighty good to me--an' to nan," said the boy, simply, and then he went away. he walked rapidly through the streets, taking no note of what was passing around him, his thoughts were so full of this new trouble, for a great and sore trouble it seemed to him to lose nan and little brother out of his life even for a few weeks. his way led him across the common, but he hurried along with unseeing eyes until suddenly something bright attracted his attention, and he became aware that it was a shock of rough red hair under a ragged old cap. it was surely carrots sitting on one of the benches, his eyes gazing moodily across the greensward to the street beyond. he did not notice theo's approach, but started up quickly, as the latter stopped in front of him. "hold on, carrots--don't clear out. i want to tell you something," cried theo, hastily, laying a detaining hand on one ragged sleeve. carrots looked at him suspiciously. "d'know what yer got ter say ter me," he growled. "sit down here, an' i'll tell ye." theodore sat down on the bench as he spoke, and after a moment's hesitation the other boy dropped down beside him, but he kept a wary glance on his companion, and was plainly ready to "cut and run" at a moment's notice. "you look's if you were down on your luck," began theo, with a glance at the ragged garments, and dilapidated shoes of the other. "'course--i'm always down on my luck," responded carrots, in a tone that implied, "what business is that of yours?" "sellin' papers now?" "yes, but a feller can't make a livin' out o' that. there's too many kids in the business, an' folks'll buy o' the kids ev'ry time, 'n' give us big fellers the go-by," carrots said, in a gloomy tone. "that's so. the little chaps always sell most," assented theodore. "why don't you get into some other business, carrots?" "can't--'cause my money's all tied up in railroad stock," retorted carrots, with bitter sarcasm. "carrots, what made ye play such a mean trick on jim hunt the other day?" asked theodore, suddenly. carrots grinned. "hunt's a fool," he answered, "else he wouldn't 'a' give me a chance ter work him so slick." "well, i don't think you'll play it on him again. i think you were the fool, carrots, for you know well enough you can't get such good stuff anywhere else for your money, an' now ye can't go to my stand." "got it 'thout money that time," chuckled carrots, impudently, but still keeping a sharp eye on his companion. theo flushed, and his fingers itched to pitch into the boy and give him a good drubbing, but he controlled himself, and said, quietly, "what's the trouble with you, carrots? are you too lazy to work, or what?" the boy's eyes flashed angrily, as he replied, "see here, tode bryan--what ye pokin' yer nose int' my business for, anyhow?" "'cause i can put you in the way of earnin' honest money if you're willin' to do honest work." "what sort o' work?" carrots inquired, suspiciously. "i'll tell ye 'bout it when i'm sure you're ready to take hold of it, an' not before. see here, carrots, i've seen you lately loafin' 'round with some o' the meanest fellers in this town, an' if you don't keep away from them you'll find yourself where some of 'em have been a'ready--behind the bars. i mean well by ye, an' if you make up your mind to be a man instead of a tramp an' a loafer, you can come to me, an' i'll give ye a start. jim hunt'll tell ye where to find me." the night shadows were falling now and the street lamps were already lighted, and seeing this, theodore started up, adding, "it's later'n i thought. i must be off," and he hurried away, leaving carrots looking after him in a much bewildered state of mind. theodore found nan sitting by the window in the dark. she had rocked the baby to sleep, and was thinking over the happy afternoon that seemed now so like a beautiful dream. she lighted her lamp when theodore came in, and brought out the food that she had put aside for him, and while he ate she told him of all that had happened. he did not eat much and he was very silent, so silent that at last she paused and said, anxiously, "you aren't sick, are you, theo?" "no," he replied, gravely, "an' nan, i'm real glad you're goin' to such a nice place." but though he spoke earnestly, there was in his voice a ring of pain that nan detected instantly, and guessed its cause. "i'm going to miss you dreadfully, theo," she said, quickly, "and i don't know what little brother will do without you. that's the one thing about it that i don't like--to think of you all alone here with no place to stay evenings." "mr. scott says i can have a room where he lives--at mrs. rawson's," answered theodore. "it's a fine room--bigger'n this, an' it's got checked straw carpet an' three windows." "oh, theo, how glad i am!" cried the girl, delightedly. "that's just splendid. don't you like it?" she added, as the boy still sat with serious eyes fixed on the floor. "like it? the room you mean? oh yes, it's a grand room, but i don't think i'll go there," he answered, slowly. the gladness died out of nan's face. "oh, theo, why not?" she exclaimed, in a disappointed tone. he answered again, slowly, "i think i shall stay here an' take this room o' yours 'stead o' my little one." "this is ever so much better than yours, of course, an' if you do that you can keep my furniture, and i s'pose you'd be comfortable, but 'twould be lonesome all the same, and i shouldn't think you'd like it half so well as being with mr. scott." "'course i wouldn't like it half nor quarter so well, nan, but this is what i've been thinkin'. you know there's a good many boys in these two houses that don't have no place to stay evenin's, 'cept the streets, an' i was thinkin' as i came home to-night, how fine 'twould be if there was a room where they could come an' read an' play games an' talk, kind of a boys' club room, don't ye know, like the one mr. scott was tellin' 'bout they're havin' in some places. i think he'll help me get some books an' papers an' games, an' maybe he'll come an' give us a talk sometimes. it would be grand for fellers like jimmy hunt that ain't bad yet, but will be if they stay in the streets every evenin'." "theo, i think it's a splendid idea, only there ought to be just such a room for the girls. they need it even more than the boys do." nan hesitated a moment, then added, earnestly, "theo, i'm proud of you." theodore's face was the picture of utter amazement as he gazed at her. "proud--of me?" he gasped. "i'd like to know what for." "well, never mind what for, but i want to say, theo, what i've thought ever so many times lately. when i first knew you, you were good to little brother and me, so good that i can never forget it, but you weren't"-- "i was meaner'n dirt," interposed the boy, sorrowfully. "no, but you'd never had any chance with nobody to teach you or help you, and i used to hate to have you touch little brother, because i thought you were not good." "i wasn't," put in theodore, sadly. "but since you came back from the bishop's you've been so different, and it seems to me you're always trying to help somebody now. theo--if little brother lives, i hope he'll be like you." theodore stared at her in incredulous silence. "like me. little brother like me," he whispered, softly, to himself, the colour mounting in his cheeks. then he arose and walked over to the bed where the child lay, with one small hand thrown out across the bedclothes. the soft, golden hair lay in pretty rings on the moist forehead, but the little face looked waxen white. theodore stood for a moment looking down at the baby, then suddenly he stooped and kissed the outstretched hand, and then without another word he went away. nan's eyes were full of tears as she looked after him. "how he does love little brother," she thought. "he's going to miss him awfully." monday was a busy day for mrs. rawson. she had engaged a seamstress to finish off nan's dresses, and having seen the woman settled to her work, she set off herself for the tenement house, a boy going with her to carry a small valise. she found nan busy baking bread. the place was very warm and the girl looked flushed and tired. mrs. hunt had carried the baby off to her cooler rooms. "nan, child, you've not taken up the cooking again?" exclaimed mrs. rawson. "i had to do some--not very much," replied the girl, gently. "but, my dear, i thought you understood that we didn't want you to do this any more." nan only smiled as she set the last loaf in the oven. the lady went on, "nan--we want you to go away to-morrow." nan looked up with startled eyes. "so soon!" she exclaimed as theodore had done. "why should there be any delay about it? every day that you stay here is so much actual loss to you and to the baby, too," added mrs. rawson. with a bewildered air nan dropped into a chair, saying, hesitatingly, "but how can i get ready to go to-morrow?" "easily enough, if you let the cooking go. i was wondering as i came along what you would do with your furniture." to mrs. rawson's eyes the few poor bits of furniture looked worthless enough, but she realised that it would seem quite otherwise to the girl who had bought them with her own hard earnings. but now nan looked up with shining eyes and in eager words told of theodore's plan and the lady's face brightened as she listened. "it's a fine plan," she replied, heartily, "and it means a deal for such a boy as theodore to have thought of it." "and when he might have gone to your house, too," added nan, softly. "mrs. rawson, he'll be very lonely when little brother is gone." "yes, he'll miss you both sadly, but nan, you mustn't worry about theodore. mr. scott loves the boy and will look out for him, you may be sure of that. but now we must talk about your journey. i've brought the things that i thought you would need on the way, and i'd like you to try on this dress." she lifted the pretty wool suit from the valise as she spoke, and nan began to take off her faded calico. the colour rose in her face as she did so, for she hated to have mrs. rawson see her poor under garments, but the lady seemed not to notice, as she chatted away about the dress. "fits you beautifully. i was sure it would, for i had all the measurements. i don't believe you will need to carry many of the things you have, for there are plenty of the new ones," she said. "i put into this little valise everything that will be needed for the journey, and the other things can go with mine." nan looked up quickly, crying out joyfully, "oh, mrs. rawson, are you going with us?" "to be sure. did you suppose i meant for you to travel alone with a sick baby? i'm going to stay a week." "that's lovely!" exclaimed the girl, with a sigh of relief. "i did dread to go among entire strangers alone." "mrs. hyde won't be a stranger two minutes after you meet her. you couldn't help loving her if you should try. now then, let me see. you are to be ready at half past nine to-morrow. the train goes at : . i'll stop here for you. now, child, don't work any more to-day. just rest so that you can enjoy the journey. oh, there's one thing i came near forgetting--shoes. those will have to be fitted. can you come with me now and get them?" "yes, if mrs. hunt can see to my baking," nan replied. mrs. hunt was very ready to do so, and nan and her new friend were soon in a car on their way to the shoe store. when she returned to her room alone, the girl took out the pretty serviceable garments from the valise and examined them all with mingled pain and pleasure. it was a delight to her to have once more such clothing as other girls wore, but to receive them from strangers, even such kind strangers as mrs. rawson and the girls, hurt nan more than a little. but she did not feel quite the same about the dainty garments for her little brother. over those her eyes shone with satisfaction. she could not resist the desire to see how he would look in them, and when he was dressed she carried him in for mrs. hunt to admire, and the two praised and petted the little fellow to their hearts' content. theodore had looked forward to a quiet evening with nan and the baby--that last evening that they were to spend together for so long--but it proved to be anything but a quiet one. it had leaked out that nan was going away, and all through the evening the women and girls in the house were coming to say "good-bye." nan had not expected this, for she had never had much to do with any of them, and it touched her deeply when in their rough fashion they wished her a pleasant summer and hoped that the baby would come back well and strong. theodore sat silent in a corner through all these leave-takings, and some of the women, as they went back to their own rooms, spoke of the loneliness the boy would feel without the baby that they all knew he loved so dearly. when the last caller had departed, theodore stood up and held out a little purse to nan. "ain't much in it, but i want ye to use it for anything _he_ wants," the boy said, with a gesture toward the child. nan hesitated. she would not have taken it for herself, but she knew that it would hurt theo sadly, if she refused his gift, so she took it, saying, "you've been so good to him always, theo. i shan't let him forget you ever." "no--don't," muttered the boy, and unable to trust himself to say more, he turned away in silence, and went to his own room. the little purse he had given nan contained five dollars. "the dear boy! how good he is to us," nan murmured, as she put the bill back into it, "but i hope i shall not need to use this." theodore ran in the next morning for a hasty good-bye before he went out to his work. he had waited purposely until the last moment, so that his leave-taking might be a brief one, and he said so little, and said that little so coldly that a stranger might have thought him careless and indifferent, but nan knew better. now that the time of departure was so close at hand, she shrank nervously from it and almost wished she had refused to go, but still she dressed little brother and herself in good season, and was all ready when at nine thirty, promptly, mrs. rawson appeared. the lady gave a satisfied glance at the two, and then insisted upon carrying the baby downstairs herself, while one of the hunt children followed with nan's valise. a cab was waiting at the door, and cabs being rarities in that locality, a crowd of curious children stood gaping at it, and waiting to see nan and the baby depart in it. "it is going to be a warm day. i shall be glad when we are fairly off," mrs. rawson said, with an anxious glance at the baby's face, as the cab rattled over the rough stones. as the little party entered the station, there was a flutter of light raiment and bright ribbons, and nan found herself fairly surrounded by the eleven king's daughters. they took possession of the baby, who brightened up wonderfully at the sight of them, and they seized the valise and mrs. rawson's handbag, and they trooped altogether through the great station to the waiting train, and instead of saying, "can't go through yet, ladies--not till the train's made up," the gatekeeper smiled in genial fashion into their bright faces and promptly unlocked the gate for them. that was because one of them was the daughter of a railroad official, but nan didn't know that. the train was not all ready, but two of the parlor cars were there, and into one of these the girls climbed, and then they found the seats belonging to mrs. rawson and nan, and put the extra wraps up in the rack for them and pushed up the window, and did everything else that they could think of for the comfort of the travellers. then one of them pinned a great bunch of deliciously fragrant violets to nan's dress, and another fastened a tiny silver cross above the violets, as she whispered, "we've made you a member of our circle, nan, dear, and this is our badge." and then nan noticed that every one of the girls wore the tiny, silver cross somewhere about her dress. she wondered what it meant and determined to ask mrs. rawson later, but she could not talk much just then--she was too happy with all those dear girls about her, chattering to her and counting her in with themselves. at last there was a rumble and a jar, and people began to fill up the seats in the car and one of the girls looked at her watch and exclaimed, "we must say 'good-bye' girls, or we shall be carried off." "wouldn't it be fun if we could all go too, and stay for the week with mrs. rawson?" cried another. "yes, indeed. if it weren't for school we might have done it." "now remember, nan, we're all going to write to you because you belong to our circle," whispered another, and then, some with a kiss, and some with a warm handshake, they said, "good-bye," and hastened out of the car and stood on the platform outside the car windows, calling out more farewells and last words, and waving hands and handkerchiefs, until the train drew out of the station. then nan settled back in her comfortable seat with a happy light in her dark eyes. "i didn't suppose there were any such girls in all the world, mrs. rawson," she said; "girls who would be so dearly kind to a stranger like me." "they certainly are dear girls. i think myself that there are not many like them," mrs. rawson answered. "some of them have been in my sunday-school class ever since they were nine years old." "perhaps that accounts for it," nan answered, shyly, with one of her quick, bright smiles. then she turned to look out of the window and her face changed, for there on a fence, close beside the track, stood theodore, eagerly scanning the windows as the train went by. nan snatched up little brother and held him to the window, and a smile broke over the boy's face as he waved his hat in response. then the train gathered speed and flew on, and the boy went slowly back to his work. it was nearly sunset when the station where the travellers were to stop, was reached. nan's heart began to beat fast and she glanced around somewhat anxiously as she stepped on to the platform, but the next moment she found herself looking into mrs. hyde's face, and from that instant all her fears and anxieties vanished. mrs. hyde had no children of her own, but the very spirit of motherliness seemed to look out of her eyes, and she took the two strangers into her heart at sight. the baby, wearied with the long journey had been fretting for the last hour, but no sooner did he find himself in mrs. hyde's arms, than he settled down comfortably and went to sleep and slept soundly through the three mile drive from the station. mrs. hyde did not say much to nan during the drive, only by an occasional word or smile, showing her that she was not forgotten, while the two ladies talked together, but at last she laid her firm, strong hand lightly on the girl's fingers, saying, "look, dear--you are almost home." and nan looked with happy eyes at a big, rambling, white house, shaded by tall elms, and with wide piazzas on three sides. an old-fashioned flower garden, with high box-bordered beds was at the back, and broad, rolling acres, spread out on every side but one, where there was a grove of grand old trees. the late afternoon sunlight was throwing long, level beams across the green lawn, touching everything with a golden light as they drove up to the side door, and nan said to herself, "i don't see how anybody could help being well and happy here." xiv. theodore gives carrots a chance theodore dreaded to go home that night. after his work was done he went to a restaurant for supper and then strolled on to the common. it was cool and pleasant there under the wide-spreading trees, and he sat down on one of the benches and wondered what nan was doing then and how little brother had borne the long hours of travel. when it was quite dark he went slowly homeward. mrs. hunt's door stood open and he stopped to get the key which nan was to leave there for him. jimmy sprang up and brought it to him, and mrs. hunt gave him a kind word or two and asked him to come in and sit awhile, but he said he was tired, and taking the key, he crossed the hall and unlocked nan's door. as he closed it behind him he gave a little start, for he saw something move over by the window. the next instant he realised that it was only nan's chair which had rocked a little from the jar of the closing door. the room was unlighted except for the faint glimmer near the open windows. as theo sat down in the rocking-chair, a wave of loneliness and homesickness swept over him. nan and little brother had made all the home feeling he had ever known, and never before had he felt so absolutely alone and friendless as he did to-night. tag seemed to share the feeling too. he went sniffing about the room, evidently searching for the two who were gone, and finally, with a long breath like a sigh, he dropped down beside the rocking-chair and rubbed his head against his master's hand with a low, troubled whine. theodore patted the rough head as he said, "pretty lonesome, ain't it, old fellow?" and tag rapped the floor with his tail and whined again. for a long time the boy sat there gravely thinking. at last, with a sigh, he said to himself, "might's well go to bed. don't feel like doin' anything to-night." he was used to undressing in the dark and he did not light the lamp, but as he was about to get into bed his hand touched something smooth and stiff that was lying on the pillow. "it's a letter," he exclaimed, wonderingly, and he hastened to light the lamp. "oh!" he cried, breathlessly, as he saw the bold, firm handwriting. "it's from the bishop." his cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining and his fingers fairly shaking with excitement as he held the letter carefully in his hands, reading and rereading the address. "theodore bryan, care of mrs. martin." he thought how many times he had sat beside the bishop's desk and watched the pen travelling so rapidly across the paper. theodore would have known _that_ writing anywhere. for a long time he did not open the letter. it was happiness enough to know that it was there in his hands, the first letter he had ever received. and to think that the bishop should have written it--to him, theodore bryan! it was a pity that the bishop could not have seen the boy's face as he stood looking with glowing eyes at the envelope. at last he opened it and began to read the letter. it was a long one, and as the boy read on and on, his breath came quicker and his eyes grew dim, and when he had finished it his cheeks were wet, but he did not know it. he was not thinking of himself. there were many who would have given much for a letter from the bishop, but surely none could have appreciated one more than did the lonely boy who stood there that night in the dimly-lighted room poring over those closely written pages. again and again he read the whole letter, and many times he read over one passage until the words were written in letters of light on his heart. when at last he went to bed it was to lie awake for hours with the letter held tightly in his hand, while he repeated to himself those words that he was to remember as long as he lived. "mrs. martin writes me that you are anxious to be assured of my forgiveness. my dear boy, if you have ever wronged me i forgive you as freely and fully as i hope for forgiveness myself; but, theodore, had you wronged me ever so deeply, it would all be blotted out by the joy it gives me to know that you are a soldier of the cross. i know that you will be a faithful soldier--loyal even unto death--and may the great captain whom we both serve, have you ever in his holy keeping." over and over the boy repeated these words as he lay sleepless, but full of deep happiness and peace. "whom we both serve." the wise and holy bishop and he, a poor ignorant street boy, were soldiers now under the one great captain. faithful and loyal even unto death? ah yes, theodore pledged himself anew to such service in the watches of that night. nevertheless, the letter had brought to the boy a fresh disappointment, for it informed him that the bishop had been ill ever since he left the city, and that it had been decided that he should remain away until october. "five months longer before i can see him," theodore thought sorrowfully, yet he could not grieve as he had done before. it almost seemed as if he could feel the bishop's hand actually resting upon his head, and see the kind eyes looking down into his. the boy had not been so happy since he left the bishop's house as he was on this night when he had expected to be so lonely and miserable. "oh if nan only knew, how glad she would be," he thought more than once. he slept at last with the letter clutched tightly in his hand, and his fingers had not loosed their hold when he awoke the next morning, nor had the joy died out of his heart. his thoughts were very busy as he dressed, and suddenly he stopped short, with one shoe on and the other in his hand. "that's it!" he cried aloud. "that's what the bishop meant that sunday! 'ye are not your own. ye are bought with a price.' the great captain's bought me for one of his soldiers, an' i've got to do what he says. i never knew before just what that meant, but i do now." then he added, softly, "but i want to do what he says, anyhow." going forth in this spirit to his work, theodore could hardly fail to find something to do for his captain. mrs. hunt had decided to take up the work that nan had been doing, and to furnish supplies for the stand. she had the big basket all ready when theodore came from his room, and he and jimmy set off with it for the stand where both the boys now took their breakfasts. theodore was unusually quiet and thoughtful, and there was something in his face that silenced jimmy's lively tongue that morning. the two boys had just gotten their stand ready for business, when theodore exclaimed, eagerly, "there he is now!" and darted off. jimmy looked after him in wonder that turned to indignation, as he saw theo lay a detaining hand on the ragged jacket of carrots, who was slouching aimlessly along the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, and, after a little talk with him, bring him back to the stand. "well now, i like that!" muttered jimmy under his breath. he glowered darkly at carrots as theo drew him up to the stand, but theodore looked into jimmy's face with a strange light in his eyes, as he filled a plate for carrots and poured him out a cup of coffee. "sh'ld think you'd better wait till he'd paid for what he jagged here that last time," jimmy muttered, with a scowling glance at the culprit. carrots, overhearing the remark, grinned, and then winked impudently at jimmy, while he disposed with all speed of the contents of the plate that theodore had set before him. once or twice he cast a puzzled glance at the latter as if trying to discover some hidden motive. "had 'nough?" theo questioned, when plate and cup were empty. "'spect i might get outside of one or two o' them doughnuts," carrots answered, with another wink at jimmy's clouded face. when the doughnuts also had disappeared, theo said, "come along a bit with me, carrots," and the two walked off together, leaving jimmy for the first time savagely angry with his friend theodore. carrots slouched along at theo's side, with his narrow eyes roving suspiciously from side to side in search of a possible policeman, into whose hands he suspected that his companion might be scheming to deliver him. he could not conceive the possibility of anybody's failing to avenge a wrong if he had the chance. "carrots," began theodore, "where do you sleep?" "can't catch me that way," thought carrots to himself, as he answered carelessly, "oh anywheres 't i happen ter find myself when i'm sleepy." "no reg'lar place--no home?" questioned theo. "nope." "well, i've paid rent up to the end of the month for the room i've been sleepin' in, an' i shan't use it any more. you can sleep there for nothin' for the next week if you like." carrots stopped short and gazed at his companion with his tongue in his cheek. "think i'm a fool?" he asked, shortly. "i do' know whether ye are or not. 'seems to me you will be 'f ye say 'no' to my offer," and theo looked straight into the shifty eyes of his companion. that straightforward look puzzled carrots. it was more convincing than any words. he studied theo's face for a moment, then he burst out, "what's your game, anyhow, tode bryan?" "carrots," exclaimed theo, earnestly, "there's no game at all about it. i've got the room, an' i don't need it, 'cause i've taken another one. you're welcome to use this till the month's up. now, what d'ye say? will ye take it or leave it?" "i'll--take--it," rejoined carrots, slowly. "all right." theo gave him the number, adding, "come to my room anytime 'fore ten for the key." then he hurried on, leaving carrots in a maze of wonder, doubt and indecision, for he could not yet believe that theo meant honestly by him. as for theo, he whistled cheerily as he hastened on, for he felt that he had been doing a bit of his captain's business. he was not in the least deceived. he knew that carrots was a "bad lot," as he expressed it, but he said to himself, "i was a bad lot, too, not so very long ago, an' i'll see if i can't do something for carrots while i'm a-huntin' for that jack finney." jimmy hunt was on the lookout for theodore that evening, and pounced upon him the moment he appeared. jimmy's face was still clouded, and he made no response to his friend's cheery greeting. "i say, theo," he began, "i'd like to know what you meant by it, anyhow." "what's the trouble, jimmy? what do you mean?" "what _d'you_ mean by luggin' that thievin', sarcy carrots over t' the stand this mornin' an' stuffin' him with grub, an' never askin' him for a red cent?" jimmy spoke in a deeply aggrieved tone. "you won't lose anything by it, jim. that comes out o' my share of the profits," theo answered, quickly. "'tain't that," responded jimmy, hastily. "i wouldn't 'a' minded if it had been any other feller but him. say, theo, what did make ye do it anyhow? think ye might tell me that." theodore looked down into the face lifted to his, half curiously, half impatiently. "jimmy," he said, gravely, "wouldn't you be glad if somebody would lend a hand to dick and help him make a man of himself?" jimmy flushed. he was ashamed of his brother and mortified by dick's evil reputation. "'course," he answered, shortly, dropping his eyes. "well, jimmy, i'd help dick if i could, an' there's another feller i've been huntin' for ever so long. 'seem's if i can't find him anywheres, an' so till i _do_ find him, i'm a-goin' to try to pull carrots up 'stead of him." "pull carrots up!" echoed jimmy, scornfully. "tode, you must be soft if you expect to make anything out o' such a bad lot as carrots." "there's a good spot in most chaps, i b'lieve, jimmy, an' i guess there's one in carrots, if i can only find it. anyhow, i'm a-goin' to try for a while." "huh!" growled jimmy. he said no more, but after this he watched theo and carrots closely, and did a deal of earnest thinking on the subject. carrots slept in theodore's room for the next week--slipping softly up and down the stairs, with furtive, suspicious glances into every dark corner in the halls at night, and departing in the same fashion before theo was up in the morning. he uttered no word of gratitude, but theo knew better than to expect anything of that sort. one night when he came in, theodore sat with his door wide open, and called out pleasantly, "come in a minute, carrots." the boy paused on the threshold until he had satisfied himself that there was no one else in the room, then he sidled in and dropped heavily on a chair. "wal', what's wanted?" he inquired, gruffly. "like to earn a little extra money to-morrow?" theodore began. "that depends." "depends on what?" "on the kind o' work." "well, i should think you'd be ready for any kind of work," theodore remarked, with a quick glance at the ragged garments of the other. carrots grinned, carelessly. "oh i ain't a swell like you," he replied, casting, what he meant for a scornful look at the other boy's clean outing shirt and decent suit. theodore had reached the point now where he had at least one clean shirt a week. he ignored the remark and went on, "there's plenty of fellers that would be glad of this job, but i want to give you the first chance at it. jimmy hunt's goin' on an excursion to-morrow, an' can't run the stand. you can run it if you want to." carrots gazed at him with mouth and eyes wide open. "me?" he exclaimed, incredulously. "you mean't you'll let me run it--alone--'thout you bossin' the job?" theo nodded. carrots' mouth slowly stretched into a grin of mingled satisfaction and derision, as he exclaimed, "all right. i'm your man!" "then be ready to go with me at half past six," replied theo. then he added, "look here--what's your real name? tain't carrots i know. if you'll tell me what 'tis i'll call you by it." "do' want none o' yer callin'! carrots's good 'nough for me, an' if i'm suited, other folks needn't ter interfere," growled the boy, with renewed suspicion. "no need to get huffy 'bout it," rejoined theodore. "it put me up a peg when folks begun to call me theodore 'stead of tode or toady, an' so i thought you'd feel the same way. 'course, if you like to be carrots, nobody cares." "humph!" grunted carrots, and departed without further discussion of the matter. he was waiting in the hall when theodore opened his door the next morning and assisted handily enough about carrying the big basket and arranging the stand. he did not, however, believe that theo meant to leave him actually in charge, until he found himself established behind the neat counter with fifty cents in nickels and pennies in his pocket, to make change. "wal', i'm blest!" he exclaimed, and then he grinned and chuckled and slapped his sides with glee, while theodore went off, thinking to himself, "it's a risk, but i had to give him his chance." many times during that morning he thought of carrots and wondered how he was getting on. it was a hot day and an unusually tiresome one for theodore, and it was later than usual when he returned to his room. before he had closed the door jimmy hunt ran across the hall calling out, "say, theo, where's the baskets an' things?" theodore's heart sank, but he answered quietly, "haven't they been brought back?" "no. who'd you get to run the stand, theo?" "carrots." "theodore bryan--you _didn't_!" exclaimed jimmy, in such a tragic tone, that theo almost laughed outright. his amusement was the last straw to jimmy. he burst into a storm of scornful blame in the midst of which theo quietly stepped into his room and shut the door, leaving jimmy to fume and storm as much as he chose. that brought the boy to himself. he began to cool down and to remember, that after all, the stand belonged to theodore, and he had a right to do as he pleased with it. so after standing in the hall, kicking at the banisters for a while, to relieve his feelings, jimmy knocked at the closed door and in response to theo's "come in," he went in, in a somewhat calmer state of mind. "what you goin' to do in the mornin', theo?" he began, in a subdued tone. "have you been to the stand, jim?" "yes, an' that scamp after he'd sold all the stuff went to work an' auctioned off the dishes an' coffee-urn an' everything. just skinned the place out slick," jimmy burst out, indignantly. "i went 'round to see where the baskets was, an' some fellers told me all about it. they said 'twas a red-headed chap done it, but i _couldn't_ b'lieve you'd be green 'nough to trust that carrots. say, theo, did you re'ely think he'd do the square thing, by you?" "not much. i hoped he would an' i had to give him a chance, jimmy?" "why'd you have to?" asked jimmy, curiously. "where would i be now if somebody hadn't given me a chance, jimmy?" "oh, you--you ain't carrots. you're another sort." "yes, i'm another sort now, but i was bad as carrots before i met nan an' little brother," answered theo, earnestly. then he added, "don't you worry 'bout the stand. i'll go out presently an' buy what's wanted." "an' ain't ye going to do nothin' ter that carrots for this, neither?" inquired jimmy, anxiously. "no, nothing. but, jimmy, don't fret yourself about him. if he keeps on as he's been doin', he'll soon find himself locked up." "'n' he'd oughter be too," muttered jimmy, as he went away, leaving theodore to think over the failure of his attempt. he was not much surprised, though he had not expected quite such a clean sweep on carrots' part, and the loss was not heavy enough to embarrass him at all. at mr. scott's suggestion, theo had begun to deposit his extra earnings in a savings bank and he had enough on hand to easily replace the dishes and utensils lost, but he was disappointed and disheartened. it seemed so useless to try to help one who would not try to help himself. and yet he could not be quite discouraged since he always remembered what he himself had once been. he went out and bought what was needed and when he came back he found mr. scott just turning away from his door. he hastened to unlock it and the gentleman turned back, saying, "i'm glad you came before i had got away, theodore, for i want to talk over that boys' club plan with you." "i thought you'd forgot all about it," replied the boy, his face brightening. he had spoken to his teacher about this plan, and mr. scott had answered, "yes, something of the sort may be done, but if i were in your place i wouldn't be in a hurry about it," and so the matter had been left. now mr. scott looked thoughtfully about the room, saying, "you must find this far more comfortable than the room you had before. don't you sleep better here, theo?" "oh, yes, i don't feel so tired in the morning." "no, because you have the windows here and can have better air; but, theo, do you realise how it would be if you should use this for a club-room? some of the boys would be here every evening, and you'd have to have lights burning, and by the time you were ready to go to bed, the room would be very hot and stuffy--full of bad air. besides you would have to be here all the time. you couldn't trust such boys in your room alone." theodore thought of carrots, and his face was grave and disturbed as he answered, slowly, "'spect you're right, mr. scott, but i do hate to give up the plan." "perhaps we won't give it up, only change it a little. have you ever been in the large front room, upstairs?" theodore shook his head, with a look of surprise, that his teacher should know anything about the rooms upstairs. mr. scott added, "well then, suppose you come up with me now, and take a look at it. i have the key." wondering much, the boy followed his teacher up the stairs to a large room with two windows on each side. "how would this do for your clubroom, theodore?" mr. scott inquired. "this? oh, this would be fine--but mr. scott, it would cost a pile for this." "rather more than for yours, of course, but now this is the way of it, theodore. i liked your plan about the club, but i didn't like the idea of your giving up your own room to it, so i spoke to several gentlemen of my acquaintance about the matter, and they all wanted to have a hand in it. so they each gave me a sum of money, and then i interviewed your landlord and rented this room. he is going to have it whitewashed, and then we shall have the floor thoroughly scrubbed and outside blinds put on these sunny windows. then we shall put in some tables and chairs and some plain pine shelves for the books and papers that we are going to collect from our friends, and if you like, some of us will give the boys a talk on current events once a week or so." "what's current events?" interposed theo, quickly. "you'll soon find out. now then, theo, we must have somebody to take charge of this room. can you do it?" "yes, indeed." "you know that means that you must be here every evening in the week, from half past seven to ten o'clock. you'll want to be away sometimes, theodore." "yes, i s'pose i will, but i'm ready to stay here all the same until night school begins again." "very well, then we'll let it be so, and we'll try to have the room ready for our opening in a week or two--as soon as we have enough books and papers to begin with." mr. scott locked the door as he spoke, and the two went downstairs. theodore's face was full of satisfaction over the promised reading-room, but it clouded a little as his teacher said, "you mustn't be disappointed, theodore, if very few boys spend their evenings in this room for a while. most of the boys in this neighbourhood are so used to loafing about the streets, that they like that best, especially in hot weather, and, of course, few of them care much for reading. they will have to be educated up to it." "s'pose that's so," replied the boy, thoughtfully, "but they'll like it next winter when it's cold an' stormy outside," he added. "yes," assented the gentleman, adding, as he turned to depart, "theo, mrs. rawson will be home to-morrow. don't you want to come and take supper with us, and hear what she has to say about nan, and the little one?" "oh, yes, thank you, sir," cried theodore, with a happy smile. "all right, then, we shall expect you," and with a pleasant "good-night," mr. scott went away. theodore rather dreaded the supper with mrs. rawson, but he forgot to be shy or ill at ease when she began to tell him about the delightful old farmhouse, and the happy times that nan and the baby were having there. she told him everything she could think of that would be of interest to him, and he listened to it all with an eager face, and a glad heart. if little brother must be far away from him, theodore was happy in the assurance that the child was in such a beautiful place, and that already he had begun to grow stronger and brighter. xv. a strike "no cars a-runnin'! what's up?" exclaimed jimmy, the next morning, as he and theodore passed down tremont street. "there's a strike on. didn't you hear 'bout it yesterday?" replied theo. "no. my! but there'll be a time if all the cars stop." "a pretty bad time--'specially for the folks that live outside the city," theodore answered, soberly. when, after taking his breakfast at the stand, he went back through tremont street, groups of men and boys were standing about in every corner, and everywhere the strike was the one topic of conversation. there were groups of motormen and conductors here and there, some looking grave and anxious, and some careless and indifferent. as the morning advanced the throngs in the streets increased. belated business men hurried along, and clerks and saleswomen with flushed faces and anxious eyes, tried impatiently to force their way through the crowds to get to their places of business. theodore noticed the large number of rough-looking men and boys on the streets, and that most of them seemed full of suppressed excitement. now and then as he passed some of these, he caught a low-spoken threat, or an exultant prophecy of lively times to come. it all made him vaguely uneasy, and he had to force himself to go about his work instead of lingering outside to see what would happen. in one office, while he was busy over the brasses, three gentlemen were discussing the situation, and the boy, as he rubbed and polished, listened intently to what was said. "what do the fellows want? what's their grievance, anyhow?" inquired one man, impatiently, as he flicked the ashes from his cigar. "shorter hours and better pay," replied a second. "of course. that's what strikers always want," put in a third. "they seem to think they're the only ones to be considered." "well, i must confess that i rather sympathise with the men this time," said the second speaker. "i hold that they ought to have shorter hours." "there are plenty that will be glad enough to take their places, though." "i suppose so, but all the same i maintain that these companies that are amply able to treat their men better, ought to do so. i believe in fair play. it pays best in the end to say nothing of the right and wrong of it." "think the company will give in?" questioned one. "guess not. i hear that the superintendent has telegraphed to new york and chicago for men." "there'll be trouble if they come!" exclaimed the first speaker. "i believe," said another man, joining the group, "i believe that sanders is responsible for all this trouble--or the most of it, anyhow. he's a disagreeable, overbearing fellow who--even when he grants a favor, which is seldom enough--does it in a mean, exasperating fashion that takes all the pleasure out of it. i had some dealings with him once, and i never want anything more to do with him. if he'd been half-way decent to the men there would never have been any strike, in my opinion." sanders was the superintendent of the road where the trouble was. "you're right about sanders," said another. "i always have wondered how he could keep his position. these strikes though, never seem to me to do any real good to the cause of the strikers, and a great many of the men realise that too, but these walking delegate fellows get 'round 'em and persuade 'em that a strike is going to end all their troubles--and so it goes. i saw that little sneak--tom steel--buttonholing the motormen, and cramming them with his lies, as i came along just now. there's always mischief where tom steel is." by this time theodore had finished his work, and he left the office, his head full of strikes, superintendents, and walking delegates, and wherever he went that day, the strike was the only subject discussed. he stopped work earlier than usual, finding himself infected with the prevailing unrest and excitement. he found the sidewalks of the principal business streets thronged with men, women and boys, all pressing in one direction. "come along, tode!" cried a shrill voice at his elbow, and he turned to find jimmy hunt, his round face all alight with anticipation of exciting episodes to follow. jimmy began talking rapidly. "they've been smashin' cars, tode, an' haulin' off the motormen an' conductors that want to keep on workin'. there's three cars all smashed up near the sheds, an' the strikers say they'll wreck every one that's run out to-day." "it's a shame!" declared theo, indignantly; yet boy-like, if there was to be a mob fight, he wanted to be on hand and see it all, and he took care not to let jimmy get far ahead of him. as they went on, the crowd continually increased until it became so dense that the boys had to worm their way through it inch by inch. they pressed on, however, and when further progress was impossible, they found standing room on the very front close to the car-track. it had been a noisy, blustering crowd as it surged along the street, but now that it had come to a standstill, a sudden breathless silence fell upon it, and all eyes turned in one direction, gazing eagerly, intently up the track. suddenly, a low, hoarse cry broke from a hundred throats. "it's comin'! it's comin'!" and far up the street a car appeared. the faces of the men grew more hard and determined. those of the women became pale and terrified. the two boys peered eagerly forward, their hearts beating quickly, with dread mingled with a sort of wild excitement. "look, theo--look!" whispered jimmy, pointing to some men who were hastily digging up cobble-stones from the street. "there's carrots, too," he added. "wonder who that little chap is--the one that seems to have so much to say to the car men," theo replied, thoughtfully. "that's tom steel. you've heard of him, hain't ye?" a man at theo's elbow was speaking. "he's responsible for this strike, i think, an' i hope he'll get his pay for it too," he added, grimly. theodore glanced up into the grave face of the speaker and recognised him as a motorman. evidently, he was more bitter against the strikers than against the company. the car was now close at hand, and all at once as with a single impulse, there was a surging forward, and the crowd closed in blocking the track with a solid mass of human beings. the motorman set his teeth hard, and rang the gong loudly, insistently. the conductor hastened through the car and stood beside him. the only passenger was a policeman, who stood on the rear platform calmly gazing at the sea of angry, excited faces on either side. "this car's got to stop!" shouted a big, brawny fellow, springing onto the step and giving the motorman a threatening glance. "this car ain't a-goin' to stop!" retorted the motorman, grimly, as he released the brake. "we'll see about that," and with the words the big fellow seized the man's arms and wrenched his hand off the lever. the conductor sprang to the assistance of his comrade while the policeman ran forward and pushed the man roughly off the car. in the same instant, theo saw carrots snatch a box from a bootblack near him and with a wild yell of defiance, hurl it through one of the car windows. the shrill, taunting cry of the boy, mingled with the crash of the breaking glass, and the sight of the policeman's upraised club, aroused the mob to sudden fury. at once there arose a wild hubbub of shouts, yells and cries, followed by a shower of cobble-stones, and a fierce rush upon the three men on the car, and in two minutes the car was a shattered wreck; the motorman and conductor were being hustled through the crowd with threats and warnings, while the policeman's club had been wrenched from his grasp. he drew his pistol, but with a howl of fury it was knocked from his hand, and the next moment he lay senseless upon the ground, felled by a savage blow from his own club. the taste of conflict, the sight of blood, had roused to a fierce flame the smouldering spirit of lawlessness and insurrection in the mob. a savage rage seemed to have taken possession of the men as, with frantic haste and mad delight, they tore up cobble-stones and built a huge barricade across the track. when it was completed, carrots darted up on top of it and waved a red handkerchief above his head. a hoarse roar of approval broke from the mob, but steel sternly ordered the boy down and hissed in his ear, "you fool! you might have spoiled everything by that! don't ye show that again till i give the signal--d'ye hear?" carrots nodded with an evil gleam in his narrow eyes, that made theo shiver. "come on, now. we've done enough for once," steel added, and keeping his hand on the arm of the boy the two disappeared in the throng that was slowly melting away. then, with a long breath, jimmy turned to theodore. "my!" he exclaimed, in a tone of shuddering satisfaction. "it's awful, ain't it, theo! s'pose he's dead?" he gazed with half fearful interest toward the policeman who had been clubbed and about whom a group had gathered. "looks like it. there comes some more p'lice. they'll take care of him. come on, jimmy, le's go home." "oh, no, theo, don't go home, yet. le's go an' see what's goin' on over there," and jimmy turned into a cross street through which the greater portion of the crowd was pressing. "there's something the matter over at the depot," said theodore, as he followed, half willingly and half reluctantly, in jimmy's eager footsteps. about the depot there was usually a constant stream of cars coming and going, but to-day the streets looked bare and deserted. when the boys reached the square only two cars were in sight and these two were approaching, one behind the other, on the same track. as they drew near, they were seen to contain each six or eight policemen, fully armed and with stern, resolute faces. the mob again howled and hooted at the motormen and conductors, and showered them with dirt and small stones, but made no attempt to stop the cars. no cars were run after dark that evening, and the next day they were run only at intervals of an hour and each one carried a heavily armed guard. the strikers and their lawless sympathisers continued to throng the streets and to threaten all car-men who remained on duty. now and then a car window was broken or an obstruction placed on the tracks, but there was no serious outbreak, and it was rumoured that a compromise between the company and the strikers was under consideration and that the trouble would soon be at an end. so a week slipped away. one morning theodore was on his way from one office to another when he heard the sound of drum and fife and saw a body of the strikers marching up washington street. every boy within sight or hearing at once turned in after the procession, and theodore followed with the rest. it was about ten o'clock in the morning and the streets were full of shoppers, many of them ladies who had been afraid to venture out during the past week. as if they had risen out of the ground, scores of rough-looking men and street boys began to push and jostle the shoppers on the narrow sidewalks until many of the frightened women took refuge in the stores, and the shopkeepers, fearful of what might follow, began hastily putting up their shutters and making ready to close their stores, if necessary. these signs of apprehension gave great delight to the rougher element in the streets, and they yelled and hooted uproariously at the cautious shopkeepers, but they did not stop. steadily, swiftly they followed that body of men marching with dark, determined faces to the sound of the fife and the drum. "where are they going?" theo asked of a man at his side and the reply was, "to the car-house, i reckon. they're ripe for mischief now." "what's stirred 'em up again--anything new?" the boy questioned. "many of the strikers have been discharged and new men brought on--five hundred of them--from new york and chicago. i'm afraid we haven't seen the worst of the troubles yet." "look! look!" cried a boy, close beside theodore, and the latter looking ahead, saw a squad of mounted officers coming through a cross street. without stopping to parley they charged into the marching strikers and dispersed them, silencing the fife and drum, and when the furious mob of followers and sympathisers yelled threats and defiance at the officers, the latter charged into the mob riding up to the pavement and forcing the people back into the stores and dwellings behind them. this was as fuel to the fire of anger and insurrection. deep and dire threats passed from lip to lip, and evil purpose hardened into grim determination as the mob slowly surged in the direction of the car-house, after the officers had passed on. the throng was far more quiet now, and far more dangerous. again and again, theodore caught glimpses of tom steel's insignificant face, and like a long, dark shadow, carrots followed ever at his heels. no cars were running now, but the boy heard low-spoken references to new men and "scabs," and "the will of the people," as, almost without effort of his own, he was borne onward with the throng. at a little distance from the car-house the strikers again drew together and stood mostly in gloomy silence, their eyes ever turning toward the closed doors of the great building before them. the vast crowd waited, too, in a silence that seemed to throb and pulse with intense and bitter feeling. the strikers had stopped in the middle of the street, and around them on every side, except toward the car-house, the crowd pressed and surged like a vast human sea. there were not many women in the number gathered there, and the few who were there were of the lowest sort, but men and boys--largely tramps, roughs and street boys--were there in countless numbers, mingled with not a few of the better class. slowly the minutes passed, until an hour had gone by, and it began to be whispered about that the company dared not run any cars. still the men waited, and the crowd waited too. but at last some grew weary of inaction, and when steel proposed that they spend the time barricading the tracks, his suggestion met with a quick response. from a neighbouring street the men brought belgian blocks and piled them on the track. they pulled down tree boxes and broke off branches of trees, and when an ice wagon came along they took possession of the huge blocks of ice and capped their barricade with these. suddenly the doors of the car-house were thrown open, and a car rolled slowly out. there was an instant of breathless silence, followed by a roar like that of a thousand savage beasts, as the strikers saw that new men were running the car, and that it carried half a score of policemen, armed to the teeth. as it approached the barricade some of the officers sprang off and began to throw down the obstructions, the others standing ready to fire upon the mob if necessary. the crowd showered bitter words and taunts upon the officers, but did not venture to molest them. the motorman stood with his hand on the lever, ready to start the car the moment the track should be clear. carrots, with a pack of street arabs at his heels, jeered at the new motorman, climbing up on the car and taunting him, until, at last, his patience was exhausted, and he suddenly lifted his foot and kicked one of the boys off the car. the boy fell heavily to the ground, and instantly the shrill voice of carrots was uplifted, crying frantically, "he's killed billy green! he's killed billy green! pitch in to him, boys! pitch into him!" billy green was already picking himself up, with no worse injury than a cut in his cheek, but the mob took up the cry, and, "pitch into him! pitch into him! kill him! kill him!" was shouted by hundreds of savage voices as the crowd pressed about the car. they tried to drag the motorman off, in spite of the guards, they smashed the car windows, they tore out the cushions, they beat the policemen, and wrenched their clubs out of their hands. finally several of the officers drew their pistols and fired into the air. at this the crowd fell back for a second, and the turmoil of shouts and cries that had been deafening a moment before, died away in sudden silence--a threatening, dangerous silence as of a wild beast about to spring. into this instant of silence broke a new cry from the outskirts of the crowd. "it's the mayor. make way for the mayor!" "no, it's the bishop. make way for the bishop! stand back! stand back!" at this cry, theodore turned like a flash and gazed in the direction in which all eyes were turning. there was no mistake. the bishop was surely one of the occupants of a carriage that was slowly forcing its way through the throng. with his heart beating with a wild joy; his eyes glowing; the colour coming and going in his cheeks, theodore stood still until the carriage stopped. then sliding through the smallest spaces, darting between feet, this way and that, the boy managed somehow to reach the side of the carriage, where he stood with his hand on one of the wheels, his eager, burning gaze fastened on the face he loved so well. instinctively he pulled off his cap, but he made no attempt to attract the attention of the bishop. he uttered no word or sound. he only stood with all his loving heart in his eyes, and looked. the bishop's expression was very grave, as he gazed over that vast sea of faces. he turned to speak to the gentleman who sat beside him, and as he did so, his eyes fell on theodore's eloquent upturned countenance. a quick, bright smile flashed across his face, and reaching down, he laid his hand for a moment gently upon the boy's bared head. before he could speak the silence was again broken by a cry from many lips--a cry of warning now, rather than a threat, though again the words were, "stop the car! stop the car! the bishop! the bishop!" the bishop's carriage had come to a standstill directly across the track, the crowd being here so dense that it was impossible for the driver to go even a yard farther. the policemen had cleared the barricade from the track, and then sprung hastily on the car again. evidently they had not noticed the dangerous position of the carriage, and now the motorman started the car forward. the man was a stranger in the city. he knew nothing about the bishop--cared nothing about him. he was there to run that car, and he meant to do it or die in the attempt, so when the crowd shouted, "the bishop! the bishop!" he yelled in reply, "get out of the way then if you don't want him hurt. this car's a-going through, bishop or no bishop!" the car was already in motion. the crowd pushed and struggled and tried to fall back and let the carriage pass over the track, but it was impossible, so closely were the people packed together there. [illustration: "stop the car!"] on the car came, while for an instant the crowd waited with tense breath for what should follow. "loyal unto death." the words rang through theodore's brain, as in that instant he sprang swiftly forward and flung himself across the track directly in front of the slowly moving car. a cry of horror broke from the throng and a score of hands were stretched forth to draw the boy from his dangerous position, but he clung to the fender and would not be removed. "stop the car!" he pleaded. "oh stop the car or the bishop will be killed!" never a thought of his own danger had the boy,--for he would have given his young life freely and joyfully for his bishop, but the sacrifice was not needed. the police, now seeing the danger, forced the furious motorman to stop the car until the crowd had had time to fall back and the carriage had safely crossed the track. then the car passed on followed by threatening glances and menacing words from the angry throng. but now the bishop arose in the carriage, and as he stood in the majesty of his great height with the light of a pure heart and a holy life illumining his face--once again a hush fell upon that vast gathering, and when the rich voice rolled out upon the still air, uttering its message of heavenly love, and strong, sweet counsels of peace and justice, the hearts of the people were melted within them. hard, brutal men and rude street boys listened, feeling a strange power that they could not understand, thrilling their souls, and compelling them, in spite of their own wills, to follow the counsels of this servant of god. no other man in that great city was honoured and loved by rich and poor alike, as was the bishop. to no other would such a crowd in such a mood have hearkened, but they stood in silence and listened breathlessly as if they feared to lose a single word. they listened as if they knew that never again would such a message come to them from those lips. stern, bitter faces softened, and hard eyes dimmed with tears as the burning, melting words fell on the listening ears. women wept, and men forgot their hatreds and their grievances. only here and there an evil face grew more evil as the bishop's words worked upon the hearts and consciences of that vast throng. tom steel dropped his mask of careless indifference, as he tried to stem the tide by whispering sneers and taunts to one and another, but they would have none of his counsels now, and after a while he slunk away with a black scowl on his face and evil words on his lips, and still beside him slouched the gaunt, ragged figure with its crown of rough red hair; and no one bade them stay; no one listened to their wicked whispers, for the bishop's words were filling every ear and every heart. at last, the bishop stretched forth his hands and pronounced a tender blessing upon them all, and then he drove slowly away, and when he was gone rough men looked into each other's faces, half wondering, half ashamed, as they moved away. they had no desire now for rioting and lawlessness--for deeds of blood and violence. the spirit of god had touched their hearts. the atmosphere in which the bishop lived and moved and had his being had for the time enveloped even these. no wonder then, that it had wrought such a transformation in the heart and life of one little street boy. that same night two hundred of the city clergymen united in an appeal to the company to submit the troubles to arbitration, and to this both the company and the strikers agreed. the result was that although all that the men asked was not granted, yet their hours were shortened, and an increase of pay promised at the beginning of the year. xvi. called to go up higher as for theodore--when the bishop's carriage had driven away he went home in a state of joyous expectation. he thought how he would go, on the morrow, to the bishop's house, and of the long talk they two would have together, when he would tell his friend all that he had so often longed to tell him. he knew well how interested the bishop would be in all that he--theodore--was trying to do for the great captain, and he longed to talk over his work and his plans with one so wise and so experienced. on his way home he stopped and bought some linen collars and cuffs and a neat necktie. "'cause i want to look as well's i can when he sees me," he said to himself. all that evening he thought of that visit which he would make the next day. he realty _could_ not wait any longer, but he found it hard to decide what would be the best hour for him to go. he knew that the bishop was very often away in the evening, or if at home he was almost sure to have guests with him. in the afternoon, too, he seldom had a leisure moment. indeed he never had any leisure moments, but theodore decided at last that the best time to see him would be between twelve and one o'clock. all night, in his dreams, he saw himself making his way to the house and once he awoke in great distress, imagining that brown had sternly refused him admittance. he could not work that next morning, but he wanted somebody else to share his happiness, and so to all the sick and shut-in ones in the two houses, he carried some little gift. it was his thank-offering, though he did not know it. small gifts they were, all--a flower to one, a newspaper to another, some oranges to a sick woman, an extra loaf to a hard-working mother--little things all, but given in the name of the great captain though his name was not once mentioned. so, many kindly thoughts followed the boy when, at noon, he went once more through the streets toward the bishop's house. theodore's face had little of beauty, but the glance of his grey eyes was honest and true. he was able now to possess two suits and he wore his best one with the clean linen and the new tie. many a mother might have been proud that day to call this boy of the streets, her son. the remembrance of his dreams sent a shiver over theodore as he rang the bell at the bishop's door, but brown did not refuse him admittance. on the contrary he smiled faintly and held open the door as he said, in a low tone, "come to mrs. martin's room," and once again theodore followed him across the wide hall. mrs. martin gave him a cordial welcome, but a great dread fell upon the boy as he noted her red eyes and subdued manner, and when she said, "he talked about you last evening, theodore, and told us what you did for him. you've come to ask how he is, haven't you?" the boy's heart sank and he dropped into the nearest chair with his eyes fixed entreatingly on the housekeeper's face. his throat felt dry and stiff, and he dared not trust himself to speak. mrs. martin too, sat down and wiped her eyes as she went on, "he ought not to have gone out to speak to those strikers yesterday. he wasn't well enough, and i told the gentlemen so when they came for him, but as soon as he heard what they wanted he said he would go. he came home all tired out, and he was taken sick in the night." theodore tried in vain to frame a question with his trembling lips. the housekeeper guessed what he would have asked and answered as if he had spoken. "it's some heart trouble and the doctors say he cannot live." at these words, theodore's head went down on the table and he sat as if stunned. his trouble seemed to him too great even for belief. eight months before it had seemed terrible to him to know that the width of the continent separated him from his friend. now, what a joy it would have been to him to know that the bishop was alive and well in california. at last he lifted his head and asked in a low voice, "how long?" mrs. martin understood. she answered, sadly, "a few days--possibly only a few hours. he lies as if he were asleep, but it is not sleep. i think," she added, with a glance at the boy's heart-broken face, "i think you can see him for a moment if you would like to." theodore nodded and the housekeeper added, "come then," and led the way to an upper room. the boy followed with such an aching heart as he had never imagined that a boy could have. the sick room was darkened and a nurse sat by the bedside. theodore stood for a moment looking down on the face so dear to him, and so changed even in the few hours since last he saw it. he longed to press his lips to the hand that lay outstretched on the white coverlet, but he did not dare, and after a moment he turned and left the room in silence. mrs. martin followed him down the stairs. at the door he stopped and looked at her, tried to speak but could not, and so went away without a word. he knew that never again should he see his friend alive, and he did not. before the next night, the bishop had been called to go up higher. when the announcement of his death appeared in the papers there was a request that no flowers be sent. theodore did not notice this item, and so on the day of the funeral he carried to the house some of the roses that he knew the bishop had loved most, and mrs. martin herself placed them in the cold hand that a few days before, had been laid upon theodore's head. all the gold of the earth, had it been offered to the boy, could not have purchased from him the sweet memory of that last look and touch. on the day of the funeral, the church where the service was held was crowded, and the streets without were filled with a throng as vast as that to which so short a time before, the bishop had spoken, but what a difference was there in look and manner between the two great gatherings! here, every face was softened, every heart tender with grief. they called him "our bishop," and they felt that they had lost one who loved them--one who was indeed their friend. but not one, whether within or without the church, not one grieved more deeply for the grand, beautiful life so suddenly cut off than did the lad who stood without and listened to the solemn tones of the great organ, and watched with eyes dim with tears as the black-draped coffin was borne out to its burial. the boy stood there until the last of the long line of carriages had passed him; then he stepped forward and, alone and on foot, he followed to the cemetery. when all was over, he went sorrowfully homeward, feeling as if there was a great blank in his life--a blank that could never be filled; that the world could never again seem bright to him; but that evening mr. scott came, and his affectionate sympathy comforted the boy's sore heart. his teacher made him feel that now, more than ever, he must be "the bishop's shadow." to theodore, his small ministries to the forlorn and suffering ones about him, seemed, indeed, as nothing when he recalled the wide-reaching labours of the bishop, but as the days went on these small ministries grew to be the joy of his life. mr. scott, watching him closely, saw how week by week he became more unselfish and thoughtful for others; more eager to help any who needed his help. it was a grief to the boy that one whom he most longed to help seemed for a time beyond his reach, and this was carrots. four of the ringleaders in the riotous proceedings of the strike had been arrested, tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. of this number were tom steel, and carrots, whose red banner had more than once caught the eye of the police. jimmy hunt openly rejoiced, feeling that carrots had got his deserts at last, but theodore was troubled and disheartened over the matter. he went to see the boy in prison, and found him as gruff and surly as ever, yet he was sure that, when he came away, the eyes of carrots followed him wistfully. he did not go again to the prison but, though he was no more fond of letter-writing than are most boys of fourteen, yet, during those two years of carrots' imprisonment, never a month passed in which he did not receive a long, cheery letter from theodore. he never replied to any of these letters, but as theodore expected no replies, that made no difference. xvii. final glimpses as the evenings lengthened, the club grew in favour among the boys of the neighbourhood, and often mr. scott wondered to see how theodore succeeded in maintaining good order and in keeping up the interest of the boys, without setting them against him. he was full of ingenious ideas for interesting them in something helpful, and, as he expressed it, "lifting 'em up a peg." he grew to be exceedingly popular in the neighbourhood that winter, but he never discovered the fact. he was too busy thinking of and for others, to think much about himself. after a while he gave up all interest in his stand to jimmy hunt and devoted himself wholly to his brass-polishing business. it outgrew his own time and strength before the new year, and then he hired boys to work for him, and he spent his time superintending their work and extending his list of employers. he paid the boys as liberally as he could, but he would tolerate no loafing or careless work, so that at first he had some trouble in getting satisfactory assistants, but once secured, they seldom left his employ. the time came when he had a long list of such employees, and when a large part of the brass work in the city was under his care--but this was later. nan and little brother did not come back to the city in the fall. mr. scott had never intended that they should if he could prevent it. long before the summer was over, nan had taken a daughter's place in mrs. hyde's childless home and little brother had become the cherished pet of the household. so warm and deep was the love given to them both that even nan's sensitive pride could not object to remaining there where she knew that she could give as much as she received in love and service, and with a glad and grateful heart she abandoned all thought of returning to the city, and knew that she had at last found a real home. but she did not forget her older friend, theodore, and she told her new friends so much about him that they desired to see and know him also. so it came about that one of her letters to him contained a cordial invitation from mrs. hyde for him to spend thanksgiving week at her home. mr. scott gladly agreed to attend to the club-room and to keep an eye on the polishing business as far as he could, so theodore accepted the invitation and began to look forward with delight to seeing little brother and nan again. he could hardly realise that it was he himself--poor theodore bryan--who, one bright november morning, sat in the swift-flying car and looked out on the autumn landscape on his way to spend thanksgiving as mrs. hyde's guest, and to see again the two whom he loved to call his "folks." [illustration: thanksgiving reunion.] as the train drew near the station at which he was to stop, theo wondered who would meet him. he hoped nan would. indeed, he felt sure that she would, for, of course, mrs. hyde would not know him any more than he would know her. so, as the cars ran along by the platform, he gazed eagerly out of the car window, and he felt a little chill of disappointment because nan was nowhere in sight. there was a comfortable carriage in waiting for somebody. he thought that it might be mrs. hyde's--but no, that could not be, either, for a big, rosy-cheeked laddie, with mischievous blue eyes, sat on the seat, flourishing a whip in true boyish fashion. that didn't look much like heavy-eyed, white-lipped little brother, and there was not a girl anywhere in sight, except a tall, handsome one in a beautiful grey suit, trimmed with fur. this girl stood near the carriage and seemed to be watching for some one. "i do wish nan had come to meet me," theo thought, as he stepped off the train, and then the tall girl in the grey suit was looking eagerly into his face, with both hands outstretched, crying, "oh, theo! how glad i am to see you!" and he was seated in the carriage with that rosy-cheeked, merry-faced little laddie, between him and nan, before he fairly realised that this was little brother, grown well and strong, as even nan had not dared hope he would do in so few months. and he had not forgotten his old friend either--little brother had not,--or, if he had, he renewed the friendship very speedily, and during theo's stay the two were as inseparable as of old. it was a happy week for nan, for she could see how theodore had been growing in the best ways during the months of their separation, and she was not a bit disappointed in him, but proud to have her new friends know him. and, as for the boy, it was a glimpse into a new life for him--that week in a lovely christian home. he made up his mind that, sometime, he would have just such a home of his own, and he went back to the city well content to leave these two in such tender hands and amid such delightful surroundings. through all the winter that followed, theodore was busy and happy. when the night-school began, he coaxed mr. hunt to take charge of the clubroom, for theodore wanted to learn and fit himself for better work by and by, and with such a purpose he made rapid progress in his studies. but, busy as he was, he still found time for his saturday evening work for the florist, that he might continue his sunday flower mission, for he knew that those few blossoms were all of brightness and beauty that ever entered into some of those shut-in, poverty-pinched lives about him. then, at christmas time, mr. scott and mrs. rawson and the king's daughters circle helped him prepare a christmas tree in the clubroom; a tree that bore a gift for every child and woman in the two houses. the children almost went wild over that, the first christmas tree that many of them had ever seen; and then the eleven girls in their pretty winter dresses served all the company with cake and cream. theodore was too happy and busy to eat his share, but that was all right, for teddy hunt had no trouble at all in disposing of two portions. when the last candle had ceased to glimmer among the green branches, and the last bit of cake and spoonful of cream had disappeared, the company slowly and lingeringly departed, already looking forward to just such another christmas three hundred and sixty-five days later. then with many a "merry christmas" to theodore, the girls and mrs. rawson took their departure, and mr. scott followed them, only stopping a moment, to say, "we left your christmas gift in your room, my boy. i hope you will like it." wondering what his gift might be, the boy put out the lights and locked the clubroom door and hurried down to his room, remembering then that his teacher had asked for his key earlier in the evening. the key was in the door now, and there was a light in the room. theodore pushed open the door and then stopped short with a cry of delighted surprise, for he never would have recognised this as the bare little room he had left. a neat rug covered the floor, fresh shades hung at the windows; a white iron bedstead with fluffy mattress and fresh white bedding stood where the old bedstead had been, and in place of the pine table and chairs were a neat oak bureau, and a washstand with toilet set and towels, three good, comfortable chairs and a desk that made theo's eyes shine with delight. but best of all was a picture that hung on the wall facing the door--a picture of the bishop with that tender look in the eyes that the boy remembered so well. on a card, slipped in the corner of the frame, was written, "from nan and little brother," and theodore, as he looked and looked, felt that there was nothing left for him to desire. he was still standing in the middle of the floor, gazing at the picture, when there was a knock at the door and as he opened it in flocked the eleven girls with mrs. rawson and mr. scott behind them. "do you like it, theodore?" "we _couldn't_ go home till we saw you here," they exclaimed, and laughed and chattered joyously when they saw that the boy was too pleased and delighted for any words, and then they went away with their own hearts full of the joy of giving, to write a circular letter to nan telling her all about it. after this the winter passed quietly to theodore. he was well and strong, and he was busy day and evening, and he was as happy a boy as could be found in all that city. and the weeks and months slipped away until two years had gone by, and it was time for carrots to be released. theodore ascertained the day and hour when he would leave the penitentiary and met him at the very gate with a warm and friendly greeting, and took him at once to his own room. he searched the pale face of the boy, wondering whether there really was in it a change for the better, or not. it seemed to him less sullen and more thoughtful than it had been two years before, but he was not sure. certainly, carrots was very quiet. it seemed almost as if he had forgotten how to talk. he looked about theo's neat, comfortable room, evidently noting the changes there, but he made no comment. theodore had set out a table with a good supper for the two, and carrots ate as if he enjoyed the food. when the meal was ended, he leaned back in his chair, and as he looked straight into theodore's eyes, said slowly, "what made ye do it, tode?" "do what--bring you here to supper?" "yes, an' write all them letters to me, an'--an' everything?" "why, carrots, it's this way. i served another fellow an' awful mean trick once, and i've been trying mighty hard to find him, and make it up to him, but i haven't found him yet, and so i've tried to do a little for you instead of him--don't you see?" carrots nodded, and theo fancied that he looked a little disappointed. "then 'twasn't really me you wanted to help?" he said, gravely. "yes, 'twas, too," answered theo, quickly. "i'd have done what i could for you, anyhow, carrots, but i do _wish_ i could find him," he added, sorrowfully. "what's his name?" inquired carrots. "jack finney." "what?" exclaimed the boy, staring at theodore as if he could not believe his ears. "jack finney," repeated theo, wonderingly. "well, i never! tode--_i'm_ jack finney." "you?" cried theodore, starting up excitedly. "you mrs. russell's jack finney?" the boy nodded again. "i guess so. i was in her class in the mission school." theo's face was all alight as he exclaimed, "oh, carrots--no, jack, i'll never call you carrots again--jack, i'm too glad for anything! and now look here, jack finney, you've _got_ to be the right kind of a chap from this on. i won't let you go wrong. i _can't_ let you go wrong, jack. it--it seems as if it'll be all my fault if you do." and jack, looking again straight into theodore's eyes, answered slowly, "i guess i've had 'bout enough o' crooked doin's. if you'll stand by me, i'll make a try on the other line, anyhow." "i'll stand by you every time, jack," cried theodore, earnestly. and he did, through months of alternate hope and discouragement, for jack did not find the upward road an easy one. there were the bad habits of years always pulling him down, and there were old companions in evil ever ready to coax him back to their company, and more than once they succeeded for a while; but theodore would not give him up, and in the end, the boy had his reward, for jack finney became his fellow-soldier under the great captain, and his faithful helper in his loving ministry among christ's little ones. courtesy of the digital library@villanova university (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) [illustration: no. . price. ten cents. published weekly. by subscription. $ . per annum. entered at the new york post office as second-class matter. february , the arm chair library each number contains a complete novel by a popular author. averil. by rosa nouchette carey. f·m·lupton· publisher and city hall place new york ] averil. by rosa nouchette carey. chapter i. a wet day in lincoln's inn. mr. harland was one of those enviable persons who invariably take a cheerful view of everything; in the favorite parlance of the day, he was an optimist. a good digestion, an easy-going temperament, and a conscious void of offense toward his fellow-creatures, all contributed to furnish him with a fine flow of spirits. in this way he was a philosopher, and would discourse for a good half hour at a time on the folly of a man who permitted himself to be disturbed by any atmospheric changes; he thought it derogatory to the dignity of a human being to be depressed by a trifle more or less of fog. no man delighted more than he did in the sunshine--a spring day moved him to exuberant animation; but, on the other hand, no pressure of london smoke, no damp, clinging fog, no scarifying east wind, no wearisome succession of wet days, ever evoked an impatient expression or brought him down to the dull level on which other people find themselves. this made him a delightful companion, and when mrs. harland (who certainly matched her husband in good humor) once averred herself a fortunate woman, none of her friends contradicted her. mr. harland had just reached his chambers in lincoln's inn one morning, and as he divested himself of his wet overcoat he hummed a little air in an undertone. the surroundings would have looked dreary enough to any other person. it was difficult to recognize that may had actually arrived; the air had a february chill in it; and the heavy, leaden sky and ceaseless downpour of steady rain made the few passers-by shiver; now and then a lawyer's clerk hurried along, uttering a sort of dumb protest in his raised shoulders and turned-up collar. in that quiet spot the drip of the water from the roofs was distinctly audible, alternating with the splash of the rain on the stone flags of the court. mr. harland glanced at the letters lying on his table, then he walked up to the fire-place, and spread his white, well-shaped hands over the cheerful blaze. "my housekeeper is a jewel!" he muttered. "she is worth her weight in gold, that woman; she seems to know by instinct when to light a fire. bless me, how it is raining! well, people tell me i am an oddly constituted person, but i believe in my heart that i thoroughly enjoy a wet day; one is sure of a quiet morning; no fussy clients, to bore one and take up one's valuable time; not that i object to clients," with a chuckle. "halloo! come in!" as a modest rap sounded at the door. "well, carruthers, what is it? no one can be possibly wanting me this morning," as a solemn-faced young man stood hesitating on the threshold. "the young lady said she was in no hurry, sir; would not disturb you for the world. it is miss willmot." "miss willmot!" and mr. harland dropped his eye-glasses, and then picked them up in a hurry. "show her in, show her in at once, carruthers; and mind, i am engaged; i am not to be interrupted on any account. to think of that delicate little creature venturing out on such a day! what do you mean by it, what do you mean by it, miss averil?" advancing with outstretched hands and a beaming face, as a little figure appeared in the doorway. "don't scold me," returned the girl, in a sweet, plaintive voice. "i am not so imprudent as you think. i took a cab, and drove all the way, so i am not wet at all; no, indeed i am not," as mr. harland inspected her carefully, touching her dress and mantle, as though to convince himself of the truth of her words; but he only shook his head, and drew an easy-chair close to the fire. "sit down and warm yourself," he said, with a good-humored peremptoriness. "you are not the sort to brave damp with impunity. you are a hot-house plant, that is what you are, averil; but you have no one to look after you, and so you just go on your willful way." "you speak as though you were not pleased to see me," with a slight pout; "but i know better, do i not, mr. harland!" laying a thin little hand on his arm. the lawyer rubbed up his gray hair with a comical gesture. "i am always pleased to see you, my dear," he said at last, in a fatherly sort of way, for he had daughters of his own, and there was a very real friendship between him and this girl, whom he had known from her cradle. "but all the same, i am vexed with you for coming. if you wanted me, why did you not wire, and i would have been with you before the day was out? you know it was an understood thing between us that you are to send for me if you are in any perplexity." "yes, i know; but if i send for you, one or other of them would be sure to find it out, and then curiosity would be excited; it is so much nicer to talk to you here. i do love these quiet rooms, and that gray old court." and averil looked dreamily out of the window as she spoke. no one who had seen averil willmot for the first time would have guessed her age; in reality she was seven-and-twenty, but her diminutive stature, which scarcely equaled that of a well-grown child of twelve, often made people think her much younger; and her face, in spite of the cast of melancholy that was always perceptible, was singularly youthful. at first sight averil was certainly not prepossessing; her stunted growth and small, sallow face had little to recommend them; without being actually deformed, she had rounded shoulders and sunken chest, the result of some spinal mischief in early years. her features were scarcely redeemed from plainness; only a sweet, sensitive mouth, and dark, thoughtful eyes prevented positive ugliness; but those who knew averil best cared little for her looks, though it was just possible that a sense of her physical defects had something to do with the vibrating melancholy that was so often heard in her voice. "you might have a quiet place of your own to-morrow if you liked," observed mr. harland, as averil uttered her little speech. "i am a tolerably cheerful person, as you know, and take most things with equanimity; but it always rubs me up the wrong way when i see people making martyrs of themselves for insufficient reasons, and spoiling their own lives. granted that you owe a certain amount of duty to your step-mother and her children--and i am the last man in the world to deny that duty, having step-children of my own--still, is there a ghost of a necessity for you all living together, like an ill-assorted clan?" "my dear old friend," laughed averil, and she had a pretty, child-like laugh, though it was not often heard, "how often are we to argue on that point? the ghost of my necessity, as you call it, is lottie, and she is substantial enough, poor child. if i were to consent to break up our mixed household, what would become of poor lottie?" "take her with you, of course. mrs. willmot would only be too glad to get rid of an incumbrance. what does she care about her husband's niece? try it, averil; the burden of all these gay young people is too heavy for your shoulders." "i have tried," she replied, sadly. "mr. harland, indeed i have not been so unmindful of your advice as you think. i have made more than one attempt to put things on a different footing, but all my efforts have been in vain. mrs. willmot refuses to part with lottie, though i have offered to provide for her; but the answer is always the same, that lottie is her husband's legacy to her, that on no consideration would she part with such a sacred charge!" a keen, sarcastic look shot from the lawyer's eyes. he muttered under his breath, "humbug!" but he prudently forbore to put his thoughts into words. "miss lottie never lived with you in your father's lifetime," he observed, presently; "at least, i never saw her there." "no; she was at school at stoke newington. the people boarded her in return for her help with the little ones. she was very young then; she is only eighteen now. i am afraid they taught her very little. i used to tell father so, but he disliked so much to interfere." "and now the sacred charge is at kensington. my dear, that step-mother of yours is a clever woman--you remember i always told you--a very clever woman; she knows where she is comfortable." "i have not come here through the rain to talk about my step-mother," returned averil, in a reproachful tone, "but to show you a letter i have just received. mr. harland, you know all my father's affairs; can you tell me anything about a cousin of his, felicia ramsay?" "is that her married name? willmot once told me, when i was dining with him, that he had been engaged to his cousin, felicia graham. it is so long ago that i can not recollect what moved him to such confidence. stop; i have it. i remember i made the remark that a man seldom marries his first love (you know, even old fogies will sentimentalize sometimes), and he replied (you know his dry way)--'i was engaged to my cousin before i married averil's mother, but the fates in the shape of a shrewish old uncle, forbade the bans.' and then he sighed, and somehow we changed the conversation." averil flushed; her dark, sensitive face showed signs of emotion. "poor father! but he loved my mother dearly, mr. harland. still, i am glad to know this; it makes me understand things better. now, will you read my letter (you will see it is addressed to my father), and tell me what you think of the writer?" the lawyer put on his _pince-nez_ and looked attentively at the somewhat cramped, girlish handwriting, then he turned to the signature, annette ramsay; after which he carefully perused it, while averil sat watching him with her hands folded in her lap. "dear sir and good cousin," it began, "will you have patience with me while i tell you my sad story? for many years my father has been dead, and now the dear mother has followed him; and in all this wide world i have no one but old clotilde to care for me. my cousin, it is terrible for a girl to be so so lonely. if i were catholic i could take refuge with the good sisters in the convent of the sacred heart; but always i do remember my mother's teaching and our good pastor. for my own part i was not aware that my english cousin existed; but one day, when my mother was unusually suffering, she called me to her bedside--'annette,' she said, quite seriously, 'thou must write to my cousin, leonard willmot, when i am gone. if only i had strength to write to him myself! ask him, in the name of felicia ramsay, to show kindness to her only child. throw thyself on his protection. leonard was always of a generous nature; his heart is large enough to shelter the unfortunate.' my cousin, those were the words of my mother, and she wept much as she uttered them. as i was writing this, our good pastor entered. i showed him the beginning of my letter. 'tell your cousin more of your life and circumstances,' he urged. 'represent to him exactly your situation.' well, i will try to obey; but figure to yourself my difficulty, in thus writing to a stranger. "while my father lived, my life was as joyous as the bees and birds. what was there that i lacked? my mother loved me; she taught me everything--to read, to sew, to speak english and french. during my father's long absences (he was a sea captain) we worked well, we sufficed to each other; when my father came home we made holiday, and fêted him. one day he did not come. by and by we heard the sad news--in a great storm he had perished. my cousin, those were bitter days! i was just fourteen; until then i had been a child, but my mother's trouble made a woman of me. alas! never did my mother recover the shock; in silence she suffered, but she suffered greatly. 'look you, my child,' she would say, 'we must not repine; it is the will of god. your father was a brave man; he was a christian. we know that he gave his life for others; it was he who saved the ship, and but for the fall of the mast he would be living now. oh! if only he had thought of himself and of his wife and child; but they must all go first, even the little cabin-boy, and so he stayed too long.' "perhaps it was natural, but she was never weary of telling that story as we sat at work. my father's death had left us poor; my mother mended lace, she taught me to do the same. we lived on still in the old french town where my father had placed us, and where i had been born. he had never been rich, and it was easier to live there than in england; his mother had settled there, and one or two of his people, but they had all dropped away; soon there were none whom we could _tutoyer_, only clotilde, who kept the house. "i have always believed that my mother worked too hard; she had too few comforts, and my father's death preyed on her spirits. she drooped more every day--her eyes grew too dim for the lace-work. by and by she had no strength to speak; only when she looked at me the tears rolled down her cheeks; then i knew she feared to leave me alone in the great world, and it was not easy to comfort her. our good pastor was with us then; it was he who closed her eyes, and read the service over her; presently he will leave us, for his new work is in england. it is he who has promised to direct this letter when he reaches london. "my cousin, what is there that i need to say more? i work hard, that i may feed and clothe myself, but clotilde is old--every one who loves me dies: perhaps she will die too, and then what will become of me? "my cousin, i recommend myself to you, "with affectionate respect, "annette ramsay. "_rue st. joseph, dinan._" "well?" as mr. harland laid down the letter--"well, my good friend?" "you want my opinion, averil? to my mind it is a good letter; there is a genuine ring in it; the girl states her case very fairly. it is a little un-english, perhaps, but what of that? if willmot had lived he would have held out a helping hand, no doubt. yes, the matter is worthy of investigation; and if you care to assist her--" but here averil placed her hand on his arm. "you have said enough. i see the letter has not displeased you; it seems to be a beautiful and touching letter. i could not help crying over it. mr. harland, i am going to ask you a very great favor--it is the greatest i have ever asked of my old friend; but there is no one i can trust but you. will you go over to dinan and see this girl? will you tell her that her mother's cousin is dead, and that i am her sole relative? tell her also," still more impressively, "that my home is hers--that i am ready to welcome her as a sister; and bring her to me, the sooner the better. mr. harland, will you do this, or shall i go myself and fetch my cousin?" mr. harland looked perplexed; he fidgeted on his seat and played with his eye-glasses. "my dear, this is very sudden; it is not wise to make up your mind so quickly. we have only this letter; how can we know what the girl is like? let me go first. i can easily make friends with her without compromising you in the least. you are too impulsive, averil! your generosity runs away with you. you are overburdened already, and yet you would take more responsibilities on yourself." averil smiled, but she was evidently bent on having her own way. "mr. harland, it is your duty to protest, and i expected this remonstrance; but, on the other hand it is my duty to befriend my cousin. what does it matter what she is like? it is enough for me that she is unhappy and desolate. do you think i do not know what it is to be lonely?" and here her voice broke a little. "perhaps i shall care for her, and she will be a comfort to me. poor thing! was it not touching of her to say there were none for her to _tutoyer_? i like her quaint way of expressing herself. now, will you be good, and help me in this?" "and you have really made up your mind to have the girl?" rather gruffly. "yes, i intend to offer my cousin a home," was averil's quiet reply; and after a little more grumbling on the lawyer's part, some definite arrangements were made, and half an hour later averil was jolting homeward through the wet, crowded streets; but, tired as she was, there was a quiet, peaceful expression on her face, as though some duty were fulfilled. "i think father would approve of what i am doing," she said to herself; "he did so like helping people: no man ever had a kinder heart." but averil sighed as she uttered this little panegyric. alas! leonard willmot's daughter knew well that it had been sheer kindness of heart, unbalanced by wisdom, that had led him to marry the gay widow, mrs. seymour. he had been touched by her seeming desolation, and the helplessness that had appealed to his chivalrous nature; and, as averil knew, this marriage had not added to his happiness. chapter ii. la rue st. joseph. one afternoon, about a fortnight after averil willmot had paid her visit to lincoln's inn, mr. harland stood on the deck of the small steamer in the gay port of dinan, looking with amused eyes on the motley group collected on the quay. it was a lovely june day, and he had thoroughly enjoyed his little pleasure trip--for such he insisted on regarding it. he had earned a holiday, he had told averil, and he had always longed to explore the rance--it was such a beautiful river. it was his habit to combine pleasure with business, and he went to see dinan, as well as interview annette ramsay. "how i wish i had brought louie with me," he thought, regretfully, as he looked at the bright scene before him; the blue river, the green-wooded heights, the yellow and brown houses that lined the quay. some pigeons were fluttering in the sunshine; a black goat with a collar round its neck was butting viciously at a yellow mongrel dog; a knot of _gendarmes_, _ouvriers_ in blue blouses, and soldiers with red shoulder-knots were drinking in front of a shabby little _auberge_; some barefooted boys were sailing an old wooden tub in the river; a small, brown-faced girl, in a borderless cap, scolded them from the bank--the boys laughed merrily. "chut! no one minds babette. where is the mast, pierre?" mr. harland heard one of them say. "business first, pleasure afterward--is not that the correct thing?" thought mr. harland, as he climbed to the roof of a rickety little omnibus. "first i will go to the rue st. joseph, afterward i will dine, and reconnoitre the place. perhaps it would be as well to secure my bed at the hotel, and deposit my portmanteau; the _cocher_ will direct me;" and mr. harland, who had a tolerable knowledge of french, was soon engaged in a lively conversation with the black-mustached individual who occupied the box. la rue st. joseph was only a few hundred yards from the hotel; it was in a narrow, winding street leading out of one of the principal thoroughfares. he had no difficulty in finding the house; it was a high, narrow house, wedged in between two picturesque-looking buildings, with overhanging gables and broad latticed windows, and looked dull and sunless; its neighbors' gables seemed to overshadow it. as mr. harland rang the bell, a little, wiry-looking old woman, with snow-white hair tucked under her coif, and a pair of black, bead-like eyes, confronted him. "what did monsieur desire?" "monsieur desired to know if mademoiselle ramsay were within." "_mais oui, certainement_; mademoiselle was always within. mademoiselle was forever at her lace-work. would monsieur intrust her with his name? doubtless he was the english cousin to whom mademoiselle had confided her troubles. monsieur must pardon the seeming indiscretion, but it was not curiosity that had prompted such a question." "madame, i grieve to tell you that mr. willmot is dead," began mr. harland; but clotilde, uttering a faint shriek, burst into voluble lamentations which effectually prevented him from finishing his sentence. "what disappointment! what chagrin! mademoiselle would be inconsolable! she had raised her hopes so high, she had built her faith on this unknown cousin. how many times had she said to her, 'clotilde, _ma bonne amie_, i have a presentiment that something pleasant is going to happen; in the morning i wake and think, now my cousin has his letter; he is considering how he can best help me. the english take long to make up their minds; they do nothing in a hurry.' and now _la petite_ will hear she has no cousin; it is _triste_ inconceivable: but doubtless good will come out of evil." "madame," interposed mr. harland, as soon as he could make himself heard, "will you permit me to put two or three questions?" "with all the pleasure in life. monsieur must follow her within. gaston's wife was at the market, buying herbs for the _pot au feu_; no one would interrupt them." and clotilde, still talking volubly, ushered him into a dark little kitchen, with a red-brick floor, and a few glittering brass utensils on the shelves. a yellow jug of blue and white flowers stood on the closed stove; there were plants in the narrow window, some strings of onions dangled from the ceiling. clotilde dusted a chair, and then folded her arms, and looked curiously at her visitor. "i want you to tell me first how long you have known mrs. ramsay and her daughter." "how long?"--and here clotilde's beady eyes traveled to the ceiling--"six, seven years; _tenez_, it must be seven years since the english madame took her rooms. oh, she remembered it well; that day she was a trifle out of humor, she must confess that. jean had put her out of all patience with his grumbling. men, even the best of them, were so inconsiderate. i was standing at the door, monsieur, just turning the heel of my stocking, and i saw madame with her long crape veil, and a thin slip of a girl with black ribbons in her hat. 'you have rooms to let, madame?' she began. _hélas_, the little black dog was on my shoulders, and my answer was not as civil as usual, for i was still thinking of jean's grumbles. 'oh, as to that, the rooms were there; no one could deny the fact; but there were better to be had at madame dubois's, lower down; folks were hard to please nowadays.' but she interrupted me very gently: 'may we see your rooms? we could not afford very grand ones.' 'madame might please herself; i had no objection.' i fear i was by no means gracious, for it had entered into my head all of a sudden that i was tired of lodgers; but in the end madame managed to conciliate me. the rooms did not please them much, for i heard madame say, in a low voice, 'they are not dear, of course; but then they are small and dark, almost oppressively so. i fear, annette, that you will find them very dull.' 'but it would be better to be dull and keep out of debt, _chère maman_,' replied the girl; 'we are too poor to consider trifles.' ah, mademoiselle was always one to make light of difficulties; so the rooms were taken, after all. that was seven years ago, and now madame was in the cemetery." "was she ill long?" "yes, some months; but mademoiselle ever affirmed that she had changed for the worse from the hour she had received news of her husband's death. grief does not always kill quickly, but all the same it was heart sorrow, and too much work, that led to her illness. ah, she suffered much; but it was the death-bed of a saint--such resignation, such sweetness, no complaints, no impatience. if she had only been catholic! but it was not for me to perplex myself with such questions; doubtless _le bon dieu_ took care of all that." "but she grieved much at leaving her daughter?" "oh, yes, monsieur; but such grief in a mother is no sin. sometimes she would say to me, poor angel, 'clotilde, my good friend, be kind to annette when i am gone. she will be all alone, my poor child; but i must try and trust her to her heavenly father.' many times she would say some such words as these. it was edifying to listen to her; if one could only assure one's self of such faith!" "and miss ramsay has been with you ever since her mother's death?" "truly; where would _la petite_ go? at least she is safe with me. it is a _triste_ life for so young a creature--always that everlasting lace-work from morning to evening; no variety--hardly a gleam of sunshine. 'oh. i am so tired!' she would say sometimes, when she comes down to the kitchen of an evening. 'is it not sad, clotilde, to be so young and yet so tired? i thought it was only the old whose limbs ache, who have such dull, weary feelings.' '_chut, mon enfant_,' i would reply; 'it is only the work and the stooping;' and i would coax her to take a turn in the promenade des petits fosses, or down by the river. 'it is for want of the sunshine,' i would say, in a scolding voice; 'the young need sunshine.' then she would laugh, and put on her hat, and when she came back there would be a tinge of color in her face; for look you, my monsieur, the rooms are dark, and that makes the _petite_ have such pale cheeks." mr. harland listened with much interest to this artless recital. he had gleaned the few facts that he needed, and now he begged clotilde to show him to mademoiselle's apartment. she complied with his request willingly. as she opened the door, and preceded him up the steep staircase, he could hear a sweet, though perfectly untrained voice singing an old huguenot hymn that he remembered. the solemn measure, the soft girlish voice, affected him oddly. the next moment clotilde's shrill voice broke on the melody. "mademoiselle, an english monsieur desires to speak with thee." "at last--thank god!" responded a clear voice. "my cousin, you are welcome!" and a slim, dark-eyed girl glided out of the shadows to meet him. the room was so dark that for a moment mr. harland could not see her features plainly, but he took her outstretched hands and pressed them kindly, half drawing her to the one small window, that the evening light might fall on her face. "oh, you find it dark?" she said, quickly. "strangers always do; but i am used to it. if i sit here," pointing to a tall wooden chair beside her, "i can see perfectly; it is when one is unaccustomed that one finds it oppressive--only when one goes out the sunshine is sometimes too dazzling." "that is why you are so pale, miss ramsay," observed mr. harland, with a pitying look at her thin, drooping form and sallow complexion. the girl was not pretty, certainly, but it was the absence of all coloring that seemed to mar her good looks. she had well-cut features, a gentle, mobile mouth, and large dark eyes. as he spoke, she looked at him reproachfully. "why did you call me miss ramsay? is that the english fashion, my cousin? you know i have never lived in england, and its ways are foreign to me. to a relative i am annette--is it not so?" "yes, of course; you are perfectly right," replied mr. harland, cheerfully; "you will soon be english enough, miss annette. the fact is, you have made a mistake: i am not your cousin, though i shall hope to be considered as a friend. your cousin, mr. leonard willmot, died two years ago." "_il est mort!_" with a sudden relapse into french. "oh, _mon dieu, mon dieu_!" clasping her hands, with a gesture of despair, "is it my fate that every one belonging to me must die? then i am desolate indeed!" mr. harland found it necessary to clear his throat; that young, despairing face was too much for him. "my dear miss ramsay," he exclaimed, "things are not as bad as you think. it is true that poor willmot has gone--a good fellow he was, too, in spite of one or two mistakes--but his daughter is ready to be your friend. she is your cousin, too, so you have one relative, and she has commissioned me, as her oldest friend, to find you out, and offer you a home." annette's eyes filled with tears. "a home! do you really mean it? monsieur, will you tell me the name of this unknown cousin? is she a girl like myself?" "how old are you, miss ramsay?" "i am nineteen." "well, your cousin averil is seven-and-twenty; so she is older, you see, though she is hardly tall enough to reach to your shoulder." "but i am not big myself--not what you call tall; my cousin must be a very little person; she is quite old, too--seven-and-twenty." and annette looked perplexed. "you are not as tall as my daughter louie, but you are a fair height. averil has never grown properly, but she is the nicest little person in the world when you come to know her. you are lucky, miss ramsay; you are, indeed, to have made such a friend; for averil is true as steel, and i ought to be a good judge, for i have known her from a baby." "she must be very good. it is kind, it is more than kind, to offer me a home. i do not seem to believe it yet. are you sure--are you quite sure, monsieur, that this is what my cousin intends?" "oh, i am not without proofs," returned mr. harland, touched by the girl's gentle wistfulness and anxiety. "i have brought you a note from averil herself; it is written in a great hurry, but i dare say you will find the invitation all right." annette's eyes brightened. she stretched out her hand eagerly for the letter. "my dear cousin annette," it began, "your letter to my father has made me feel very sad. when my good friend, mr. harland, gives you this, you will have heard of my dear father's death. had he been living, i know well how his kind heart would have longed to help you, you poor, lonely child! but, annette, you must allow me to act in his place. remember, i am your cousin, too. while i live you shall not want a home. mr. harland will explain everything, and make things easy for you. do not hesitate to trust him. he will guard you as he would his own daughter. i go to him in all my troubles, and he is so wise and helpful. his time is valuable, so if you will please us both you will make as much haste as you can in packing up your possessions, and then come to your english home. i will do all i can to make you happy, and to console you for past troubles. i do so love taking care of people. i have no time to add more. "your affectionate cousin, "averil willmot." "how kind! how good!" murmured annette, as she put down the note; "it seems to me as though i love her already, this averil." "you will love her more by and by," returned mr. harland, in his cheery manner. "i expect you two will get on first rate. now, miss ramsay, i am a practical sort of a person. how long do you think it would take you to pack up your things, eh?" "it is so few that i have," she answered, seriously. "indeed, monsieur, i have only one other gown." "so much the better--so much the better; then we can be off the day after to-morrow. well, what is it?" as the girl glanced at him rather appealingly. "it is only that there must be one or two things that i must do," she returned, timidly, "that is, if you will permit me, monsieur. there is the lace-work to carry back to madame grevey; also i must make my adieus to old manon duclos--she is my good friend, although she is only a peasant; and"--hesitating still more--"there is the cemetery, and it is the last time, and i must take fresh flowers for my mother's grave." and here annette's eyes brimmed over with tears, and one or two rolled down her cheek. "monsieur, we were everything to each other, mamma and i." "my dear child," replied mr. harland, hastily, "you shall have time to fulfill all your little duties. you are a good girl not to forget your friends. would you like me to stay another day?" "indeed, no!" in a shocked voice. "how could i be so inconsiderate after my cousin's letter? monsieur, you are too good. there is no need of so much time; by to-morrow afternoon it will be all done." "if you are sure of that, i might call for you about four, and we would have a stroll together along the banks of the river. shall you be tired? would you rather that i left you alone?" "i would rather come with you, monsieur--i ought to say sir; but since my mamma died i have spoken no english, not a word--always it is the french." "very well, we will have our walk," trying not to smile at her childish naïveté. "i will call for you at four; and after our walk we will dine together. good-bye, miss ramsay, or, better still, _au revoir_." "_au revoir_--that pleases me best," she said, gently. "take care of that step, monsieur; the staircase is so dark." "now i must go to my clotilde," she said to herself, "and tell her this wonderful thing that has happened." chapter iii. on the banks of the rance. punctually at the appointed hour mr. harland stood before the dark little house in the rue st. joseph; but he had hardly touched the bell before the door opened, and annette confronted him. "i am quite ready," she said, hurriedly: "i have been looking out for you for some time, because i did not wish to keep you waiting. is it your pleasure to come in and wait a little, monsieur, or shall we take our walk now?" "well, it is a pity to waste even a quarter of an hour in-doors this lovely evening," returned mr. harland, in his quick, cheery manner; "so, if you are ready, miss ramsay, we will begin our stroll at once." he looked at her rather keenly as he spoke, at the slim, girlish figure in the black dress. the hat shaded her face; but even at the first glance he could see she was very pale, and that her eyes were swollen, as though she had been crying. how young and pathetic she looked, standing there in the afternoon light, with the little silk kerchief knotted loosely round her shapely throat, and a tiny rosebud fastened in her dress! he was just a little silent as they turned down the street, for he feared to question her too closely; and he was much relieved when annette began to talk to him in her frank, naïve way. "i fear i am a dull companion," she said, gently; "but i am a little sad at the thought that there will be no one but clotilde to visit my mother's grave. i have been saying good-bye to it. that is why my eyes are so red. look, monsieur; this rosebud is the first that has blossomed; was it selfish of me to gather it? the dear mother loved roses more than any other flowers; they were the offerings she liked best on her fête day; this little white bud will be a souvenir when i am far away. monsieur, perhaps i am foolish; but i feel i shall miss my mother more when i can not kneel beside her grave." "oh, you will get over that feeling," replied mr. harland, hastily; "that is just how my wife feels about mysie. mysie was our youngest but one, and she died when she was six years old. my wife half broke her heart about her; and when we moved from norbiton to chislehurst, it was her one regret that we were leaving mysie behind; but i used to tell her"--and here mr. harland's voice had a suspicion of huskiness in it--"that it was just fancy, that mysie was as near as ever, and that it was better to think of her growing up in heaven among all the other children than to think of the poor perishing little body that lies in that norbiton church-yard." "you are right, monsieur; it is the truth you are telling me," returned annette, humbly, and she looked up at him very sweetly; "but i can understand so well the regret of madame, your wife. that is the worst of us. we do forget so often that it is not our beloved who lie in the grave. at one moment we smile to think they are so safe in paradise, and the next we are weeping over the grass mound that covers them. it is we who are inconsistent, faithless; too well do i know this, monsieur." "oh, it is natural; one does not learn everything at once," returned mr. harland, cheerily. sorry as he was for her, he had not a notion how he was to talk to her; if only louie or his wife were here--women always know what to do in such cases. "no one can blame you for fretting about your mother; a good mother is not to be replaced; but you are young, and after a time you will find yourself consoled. why, your cousin averil--no one but mrs. harland and myself know how that girl misses her father. he made an idol of her. i do not believe he ever crossed a wish of hers, except in his marriage, and she held her tongue about that, and he never found out the difference it made in her life. yes, and she misses him still, though she says so little about it; only my wife finds her crying sometimes; but averil is just the bravest-hearted little woman in the world; she is not one to inflict her feelings on other people." mr. harland talked on all the faster as he saw annette wipe away a furtive tear or two; he wanted to give her time to recover herself. "it is all so true," she observed, in a broken voice, as he finished. "no, it is not wrong to weep for the best of mothers; our dear lord has taught us that. still, one must not sorrow too much. monsieur, you have interested me greatly about my cousin; if i did not fear to fatigue you, i should like to hear more. oh, we have come to the quay; now let us cross that little bridge lower down, and there we can walk quite close to the river. it is so green and quiet further on; nothing but wooded banks, and the blue river flowing on so peacefully." "it is charming. look at that young fellow in his boat, miss annette; he is going to take his little sister for a row. i bet you anything he is english before he opens his mouth. yes, i thought so," as the lad shouted out, "mind what you are about, minnie. now, then, look sharp and jump!" "there are so many english," remarked annette, softly. "i think dinan is full of them. this boy--i have seen him before. there is no mother; but he is so good to that little pale sister. often i have watched them. his name is arthur; he is one of my friends; for, do you know," with a dreamy smile, "though there are only clotilde and gaston's wife, and the old manon duclos, to whom i can talk, i have many friends, people whom i meet, and about whom i make up stories, and to whom i say good-evening under my breath when i meet them; for, when one is young, one longs for friends. as for this arthur, i have spoken with him; for once, when he dropped his hat, i picked it up; and another time, when he was in some difficulty with his oar, i helped him, and so his little sister gives me a nod when we meet." mr. harland felt no inclination to smile at this childish recital; on the contrary, his genial face was rather grave as he realized how lonely this girl had been. what would averil say when he told her that? to think of bidding good-evening under her breath to strangers, and making up stories about them; he could not have laughed for worlds, in spite of the quaintness of the notion. "now i shall have my cousin," she went on. "monsieur, there is something you said which i do not at all understand--something about my cousin leonard marrying. does not my cousin averil live alone? no?" as mr. harland shook his head in an amused way. "with whom, then, does she live?" "why, with her step-mother, of course. look here, miss annette, i see i must coach you up in the family history, or you will take all sorts of notions into your little head. not that there is much to tell," with a sudden remembrance that averil had begged him to say as little as possible about her affairs; "but you may as well know people's names." "are there so many people?" asked annette, looking a little bewildered. "where is it that my cousin lives?" "at kensington. it is rather an old house, but it is a very comfortable one, and there is actually a garden. gardens do not abound in the fashionable parts of london; that is why i live at chislehurst, because my wife and the girls, louie especially, wanted a garden. it is averil's house. she has her mother's fortune, beside what her father left her; and her step-mother and her family live with her." "step-mother? ah, i see--the wife that my cousin leonard married, and they had children. yes, of course. that must be so nice for averil." "no; nonsense," returned mr. harland, still more amused. "you have got wrong notions altogether. mr. willmot never had any other child but averil, and a boy who died. his second wife had a grown-up family; her name was mrs. seymour." "and he married her? but that seems strange," observed annette, for she was not without shrewdness. "oh, men do strange things sometimes. mrs. seymour was a very handsome woman, and she could make herself fascinating." "and she was rich?" "rich? oh, no; tolerably well to do; that was all." "and the grown-up children--how many are there who live with my cousin averil?" "three, without counting lottie jones. there is maud; she is the eldest, and a fine, handsome girl she is, too; and georgina, and rodney. rodney is his mother's darling; a good-looking, idle young scamp of a fellow." "and lottie jones--and who may that be?" "well, lottie is a sort of hanger-on--a niece of mrs. seymour; and it seems she has no one belonging to her but this aunt. she is a nice little girl, and averil is very fond of her." "does she like her better than this maud and georgina?" mr. harland laughed outright. "come, come, miss annette, you are too sharp; you ask too many questions. wait until you get to redfern house, and then you will find out things for yourself." a sensitive flush crossed annette's face. "you must pardon me if i seem too inquisitive," she said, timidly. "i did not know i was asking what was wrong; it was difficult to understand my cousin's household; but i will remember to wait, and not to tease you with any more questions. indeed, you are so good, monsieur, that i do not wish to tease you at all." "my dear little girl," returned mr. harland, kindly, "you do not tease me in the least; it is only that silly child averil who has made me hold my tongue. 'do not talk about me much to my cousin; let her find things out for herself'--that is what she said to me, and that is why i checked you just now." "and you were perfectly right, monsieur. i will ask no more questions about my cousin. look, there is a kingfisher--_martin-pêcheur_ they call him here. is he not pretty? and did you see that water-rat? we have been sitting so still on this bank that they have forgotten to mind us." "that reminds me that it is growing late, and that you and i must be hungry, and that our dinner at the trois frères will be waiting." "well, she was a little hungry," annette confessed. the long walk had tired her also; she was not used to walking, much as she loved it. "for, you see, monsieur," she added seriously, "when one has to feed and clothe one's self, there is no time to be idle. one puts in another sprig into the lace-work, and then another, and then the light goes, and it is dreary to walk in the dusk; besides, there are _les convenances_--what you would call the propriety--one would not willingly offend against that." "to be sure; how thoughtless i have been!" ejaculated mr. harland; but when he offered his arm, annette shook her head with a smile. "she did not need help; she would do very well, and there was the bridge in sight, and monsieur arthur had returned from his row." "she is averil's sort," he said to himself, as he watched her graceful walk, and saw how bravely she was keeping up, in spite of her fatigue; and as soon as possible he hailed a fiacre. "but that is extravagant," she protested, with a little pout. "and it is for me, i see that well, for you are not a bit tired, monsieur." but monsieur was not listening to her. he was wondering how long this girl would have borne her life, and if she could possibly have grown paler as the time went on. "she is like a plant that has grown up in a dark cellar," he thought; and he almost shuddered as he remembered that room in the rue st. joseph; but by and by, as they sat together at the _table d'hôte_, annette forgot her fatigue in her astonishment at the magnificence of the feast. "how many more courses?" she whispered to her neighbor, who was enjoying some excellent _ragoût_. "one goes on eating, and still there is more. at the rue st. joseph the dear mother and i were satisfied with coffee and eggs, and perhaps a salad. sometimes clotilde would bring us a dish of fried potatoes, or some stewed pears; then we feasted like gourmand. is it possible, monsieur, that people dine like this every day?" mr. harland was not too much engrossed with his _déjeûner_ to enjoy the girl's naïveté; on the contrary, he took a great deal of interest in the fact that the food, and most likely the pleasant excitement, had brought a tinge of color to her face. he insisted on her partaking of some delicious-looking pastry. "all young people like sweets," he said; and when he had finished, and they had their coffee at the window, he showed her the photographs that he had bought that morning, and talked, and asked questions about the places he had seen; and they were very happy indeed. "she is a nice little thing, and i am sure averil will like her," was his parting thought that night. as for annette, she scarcely slept at all, with mingled fatigue and excitement. her thoughts traveled back to every event of the past day. now she was sitting with old manon duclos, and the feeble old creature was weeping over her. "must i lose thee, _chérie_? oh, what news! what an unhappy fate! who will read to me when thou art gone, _ma petite_? who will be good to old manon?" and then there had been that good-bye in the cemetery. how her tears had flowed over that little white rosebud! nay, it was true what monsieur had said--it was not the dear mother who lay there; she must try to remember that. and then there had been the long walk. how lovely the river had looked in the evening sunshine. how kind and benignant monsieur had been! "i hope i shall see him often," she thought. "perhaps i was wrong to question him so closely about my cousin's household. but it was all so confusing; even now i do not seem to understand. how can my cousin averil be mistress while her step-mother lives? she is only a girl like myself. i wonder if she be handsome? i think all english people are handsome. what a nice face monsieur has--so clear and honest. i think i love gray hair. but i remember he said she was little. somehow, i can not picture her. and this lottie jones. ah, it is all bewildering! how strange i shall feel among all those people." and annette sighed, for she was tired, and her poor little heart was aching for her mother; and when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream that they were sitting together in the little room down-stairs. annette slept so soundly after all her fatigues, that it was quite late when she woke, and she had only just time to dress herself, and swallow the coffee clotilde brought her, before mr. harland drove up to fetch her. perhaps it was just as well that she had only those few moments in which to take leave of her old life. she bade adieu very quietly to clotilde. "i shall never forget thee, my best friend," she said, gently. "one day, if my cousin permit, i will come and see thee and gaston and toinette." as for clotilde, she wept volubly. "_le bon dieu_ would watch over their dear mademoiselle. _hélas!_ the place would be empty without her. no; she must not forget them; she would have their prayers," and so on. a thousand blessings followed her in that shrill voice. the girl smiled rather sadly as she listened to them. "poor old house!" she said, softly, as they drove away. "in spite of hard work, one had happy hours. always it is so in life--the good and the bad mingled, and some have more of god's sunshine than others." and then she was silent, and mr. harland did not disturb her, for he knew by a certain kindly instinct that the girlish heart was stirred to its depths. chapter iv. could this be averil? it was late in the afternoon of the following day that mr. harland and his young companion drove through kensington. "you must be very tired, my dear," he observed, in quite a fatherly manner, for during the last four-and-twenty hours their friendship had made great progress. "but no--why should i be tired?" returned the girl, in her pretty french accent, which he already found so charming. "monsieur, what has there been to fatigue me? i have slept so well, oh, perfectly well, in my little box of a berth. did not the captain say himself that we had a grand passage? i was not seasick, not the least little bit in the world, and yet i have never found myself on a ship before." "well, it was a trifle rough toward three o'clock. but you must have been fast asleep, miss annette." "yes; and as the waves only rocked me, i was glad, for i did not much like the ship; the cabin was not so hot and crowded. but the train--that was more amusing. i could look out on the flying hedge-rows, and tell myself that this was england--my mother's country. even these streets please me, although i find so much noise a little confusing. are all your streets so terribly full, monsieur? there is no room for those poor horses to pass." "oh, you should see some of our city streets--cheapside, or by the mansion house. i wonder what you would say to the traffic there? england is a busy place; people pride themselves on always being in a hurry. this is quiet enough compared with some of our thoroughfares. look at those fine shops. i suppose, like other girls, you are never weary of admiring smart things?" "if one's purse were not always empty, it would be a pleasure," she said, with a sigh; "but to see things is only to long for them, and that makes one discontented. i think i like better to walk by the river, or under the trees in the promenade des petits fosses. you have been there, monsieur. it is pleasant to sit there and watch the children with their _bonnes_; in the evening it is so cool and shady. it is there i so often greet my unknown friends. there is a little french girl who is lame; i think she is a seamstress. well, i have seen her so often, that at last i made up my mind i would speak to her. to-morrow i will say, 'good-evening'--that was what i promised myself. but you see, monsieur, it has all come to nothing, for monsieur has come, and here i am driving with you through these wonderful english streets." "yes, and in another moment we shall be at our destination. do you see that large red-brick corner house? that is redfern house." "is it so? but, monsieur, my cousin must be very rich to live in so big a house; it is larger than our english consul's;" and annette looked a trifle disturbed. mr. harland saw how the poor child twitched the ends of her little silk kerchief, and shook the dust off her black serge gown, while a frightened expression came into her large, soft eyes. "i don't think averil cares much for her large house," replied mr. harland. "she is not a bit grand herself, so you need not look so alarmed, my dear." "it is foolish to be nervous," she stammered; "and of course you will be with me, monsieur, and already you seem like an old friend. ah, we have stopped, and the door has opened like magic." but in spite of her effort to speak bravely, mr. harland felt how her hand trembled as he assisted her out of the cab, and could not forbear giving it a kindly pressure. the gray-haired butler who received them glanced at the young stranger with benevolent interest. "where is miss willmot, roberts?" asked mr. harland. "she is in her private sitting-room, sir, and she begged you would go to her there. mrs. willmot and the young ladies are dining out." "oh, then we shall be alone. come along, miss annette;" and he took the girl's arm, and conducted her quickly through the large hall, and down a passage lined with bookcases, which gave it the appearance of a narrow room. as roberts opened the door a tiny figure in black appeared on the threshold, and met them with outstretched hands. "ah, you have come at last! i thought you late. but you are very welcome, cousin annette," accompanying the words with a warm kiss. "mr. harland, thank you so much for bringing my cousin. you have acted like a true friend. will you sit in this comfortable chair, annette? you must be tired out after your long journey." annette left this assertion uncontradicted--she had simply no words at her command. could this be averil? her cousin averil? the mistress of this grand house, whom she had so longed and dreaded to see? this little creature, who was no bigger than a child? why had not mr. harland prepared her? it was impossible to conceal her astonishment, and, to tell the truth, her disappointment. happily, mr. harland came to her relief by engaging averil in a conversation about their journey. he wanted to explain why they were late; it was owing to the blockheadedness, as mr. harland termed it, of an official at the custom-house; a couple of minutes would have been sufficient to have investigated miss ramsay's modest luggage; but no, the idiot must keep them waiting; and so on, detailing the grievance at full length. annette did not listen; she was regarding the slight, bent figure and small, intent face opposite to her. her cousin averil was ill, or did she always look so grave? but no; as she asked herself the question, averil broke into a sweet little laugh, and the next minute her quick, observant eyes took in her cousin's puzzled scrutiny. she flushed faintly, but the smile did not leave her lips. "you are surprised to see such a very small person, are you not, annette? i suppose if i stood up, mr. harland, you would find that my cousin is a head taller. people always begin by taking me for a child. i am quite used to it," with easy frankness. "confess you were saying to yourself, annette, 'surely, this very little person can not be my cousin averil, who wrote me that letter.'" "oh, you are a witch," returned annette, blushing, "or you would not have read my thoughts. but indeed it is i who have been rude. how could i know how you would look, my cousin? i am ashamed that i have been so indiscreet." "you have been nothing of the kind, dear. why, what nonsense!"--for annette was evidently very much ashamed of herself. "you shall think what you please about me, and i will promise to forgive you if you will only tell me you are glad to find yourself at home." and here averil gave her one of the rare winning smiles that lighted up the little dark face wonderfully. but she was almost sorry that she had made this speech when she saw the tears spring to annette's eyes. "home! is it indeed my home?" she said, wistfully, looking round the room, which was full of beautiful things, and yet had the indescribably cosy air that belongs to a well-used apartment. annette had never seen such a room; even the english consul had nothing to compare with it. she knew that well, for she had often mended lace for mrs. greville, the consul's wife, and yet they had a fine drawing-room, with red velvet chairs and lounges. annette was too bewildered, too ignorant, to take in details; she was not aware of the value of those cool, delicious little bits of landscape that hung on the walls, though they rested her eyes with their suggestion of breezy moorlands and sunny meadows. she glanced at the carved cabinets and book-cases, the soft easy-chairs, the flowers, the birds, even the black poodle that lay on the rug, with a sort of dreamy surprise. "i never thought any home could be so beautiful," she finished, softly; "it does not seem true that i am to live in it." averil laughed, and then checked a sigh. "i am so glad you like the look of it," she said, simply. "will you take off your hat, annette? the room is warm, and we are going to have tea. ah, that looks much more comfortable," as annette obeyed her, and smoothed her dark-brown hair. "my cousin looks pale, and a little thin," she continued, turning to mr. harland, who was watching the girls with benevolent anxiety. he was hoping that his little traveling-companion would soon recover herself. he had not seen her so timid and tongue-tied before. he wished averil could hear how prettily she could talk. when she spoke of anything that interested her, her eyes got quite large and bright. and then how fluent she could be! averil was evidently a patient person; she had made her little attempt to put her cousin at her ease, and now she seemed inclined to let things take their course. "she is tired and strange, poor child," she said to herself, "and she finds it difficult to unbend; presently she will talk to me of her own accord, for she looks both intelligent and gentle." as she addressed mr. harland, roberts entered the room with the tea-things, which he arranged on a low table beside averil's chair. "where is miss lottie?" she asked in an undertone; but roberts did not know--she had gone out early in the afternoon, and had not returned. "ah, to be sure; little miss jones generally has tea with you, does she not, averil?" observed mr. harland. "i have not seen her since luncheon," she replied, and a slight shade crossed her face. "i think her aunt must have given her some commission, for roberts tells me only maud and georgina were in the carriage. poor child! she will be tired. i must ask milner to give her some tea when she comes in." "i never knew any one like you, averil, for looking after people's little comforts. i wonder what miss lottie would do without you, not to mention a good many other people?" mr. harland spoke in a joking tone, but averil reddened as though she detected a compliment. she was pouring out the tea, but as she rose to carry a cup to annette the girl started up impulsively. "but it is not for you to wait on me, my cousin," she said, in quite a shocked voice. "no one has ever waited on me, or brought tea to me before." "but you are tired, and have had a long journey, annette; besides, i love to wait on people." "but you must not love what is wrong," returned annette, quaintly. "see, i will place myself beside you at that little table, and then you will not jump up every minute; will not that be better, my cousin?" "yes, dear," and averil, with quiet tact, made room for the girl beside her; she even checked mr. harland with a glance when he would have volunteered his services. "annette has everything within reach now," she said, pleasantly, and she took no notice when annette, with quick officiousness, insisted on waiting on monsieur; on the contrary, she admired her graceful movements, and the utter want of self-consciousness that was annette's chief charm. "what a pretty figure she has!" she thought, wistfully; "and perhaps, if she were not so pale, so utterly colorless, her face might be pretty too; anyhow, it interests me." mr. harland could not stop long; he had to take an early train to chislehurst. before he left he found an opportunity to give one of his good-natured hints to averil as she followed him out into the lobby. "what do you think of her, eh, averil? but i suppose it is too soon to ask your opinion. i forgot, too, what a cautious little person you are." "it is not always wise to speak. i am very much interested in my cousin; she looks gentle and lady-like, but i should prefer to answer your question a week later." "ah, to be sure--an averil-like speech. well, i only want to give you a hint. she is a little shy, and the idea of all those people frightens her. let her be as quiet as possible this first evening." "my dear mr. harland, she will see no one; i have arranged all that. mrs. willmot and the girls are dining out, and i have ordered an informal supper in my own room. annette will like that much better, will she not?" "i should think so; that is a first-rate idea of yours, averil. do you know i have quite taken to that little french girl? pshaw! i always forget she is english. louie will be quite jealous when i tell her. by the bye, you must bring her down to see my wife, averil; she and the girls will be delighted to make her acquaintance." "i grieve that monsieur has gone," were annette's first words as averil re-entered the room. "i look upon him as my first friend. do you know, i took him for my cousin? when clotilde announced an english gentlemen i thought, of course, that it was he. forgive me, my cousin, if i make you sad; people are so different; with some it is always silence--it is as though speech would desecrate their dead; but for me, i am forever speaking of my mother to clotilde, to manon, even to myself. why should the name we love most grow strange to one's lips?" "you are quite right," returned averil, softly; "if i have not talked much about my dear father, it is for other reasons." here she stammered, hesitated, and then changed the subject. "annette, when i read your letter to him i grew quite sad. 'you must bring her home to me.' that is what i told my good old friend mr. harland. 'we must make her forget her troubles: she shall be like my own sister.' shall it be so between us, dear? do you think you can care for a poor crooked little body like me?" and her dark sad eyes rested for a moment yearningly on her young cousin's face. "oh, i shall love you--you will see how well i shall love you," returned annette, throwing her arms impulsively round averil. "what does it matter how you look, my cousin? why is it you make such a speech to me? you have kind eyes--i can trust them. monsieur tells me you have a good heart--is it not proof that you have written me that letter, that you permit me to call this home? let us not make any more speeches to each other; it is all understood between us that we are friends." averil's grave face softened. "i have one faithful little friend already; how pleased i shall be to have another! as i told you, i do so like taking care of people." "oh, but it is i who must wait on you," returned annette, seriously. "there is a look on your face, my cousin, as though you were always thinking; it is not a frown," as averil looked amused, "and yet your forehead contracts itself--so," drawing her brows together; "it gives one a fatigued sense, as though you were too heavily burdened; and you are grave, and yet you have never known what it is to be poor." "no; but i have sometimes forgotten to be grateful for my riches. annette, you are a shrewd observer; no one here notices my gravity. but i must not let you go on talking like this. i want to show you your room, and then you can make any change you like in your dress; not that it matters to-night"--as annette's face fell a little--"for, unless lottie join us, you and i will be alone. will you come with me, dear?" touching her arm, as annette appeared lost in thought. the staircase at redfern house was wide and handsome, and the spacious landing was fitted up prettily with cabinets of china and stands of flowers. "i have chosen a room near mine," continued averil, quietly; "it is not very large, but i think you will find it very comfortable." "comfortable! oh, it is far, far too grand for me. you must have made a mistake my cousin;" and annette's eyes grew large and round. perhaps, if averil had seen the girl's sleeping-room in the rue st. joseph, she might have understood the situation more perfectly; but to her luxurious ideas there was nothing out of the common in the fresh cretonne hangings, the pretty, well-appointed furniture, the couch and writing-table. to be sure, there was nothing wanting to any young lady's comfort; she had herself placed all kinds of knickknacks on the toilet-table. annette stood by in puzzled ecstasy as her cousin opened the wardrobe and drawers and then pointed out to her the tasteful little work-basket and blotting-case. "you will find everything ready for your use. i hope i have not forgotten anything. it has been such a pleasure to me fitting up this room. now i will leave you for a little while to rest and refresh yourself, and then we will have some more talk;" and with a nod and a smile averil withdrew to her own room. chapter v. lottie. "oh, my mother, if thou could only see me now!" was annette's inward ejaculation when the door closed upon her cousin; and as though this tender reflection had opened the flood-gates of suppressed emotion, the tears flowed rapidly, and for a little while they could not be checked. poor, tired annette was struggling against a tide of conflicting feelings; now a pang crossed her faithful heart at the thought of that humble grave in the cemetery at dinan, so far away, and then she chid herself for the fancy. "it is not the grave, it is the life that we should remember," she said to herself; "life that is forever. who can deprive me of those prayers that my mother prayed on her death-bed? while memory lasts who can rob me of her example, her precepts, of the remembrance of her gentle patience? there is no death to love. truly, monsieur is right--my darling mother is as near me as ever;" and annette dried her eyes. after this she moved timidly about her beautiful room, looking at one treasure after another with a sort of admiring awe and reverence. annette's innate sense of the beautiful had never before been gratified. she had grown up to womanhood among the meager surroundings of poverty; her inherited instincts and a natural love of refinement had found no vent in that dark, unlovely house in the rue st. joseph, with its dim, smoke-begrimed walls and long, narrow windows, overshadowed by neighboring gables, when only a few sous expended on flowers was possible to the young lace-mender, and whose chaplet of white-roses for her mother's coffin was only procured at the expense of a meal. but annette was less gratified at the thought of becoming the possessor of all these fine things than touched at the womanly thoughtfulness that had provided them. "what a fine heart my cousin averil must have," she reflected, "to have expended her money on an unknown stranger! how sweet to think that while i was imagining myself lonely and forsaken, this room was being prepared for me! it is the heavenly kindness that warms me so," she said to herself as she examined one thing after another. it was true; averil had forgotten nothing; her generosity had anticipated all her cousin's little wants. "all her life the poor child has been poor," she thought. "i should like her to find everything ready for use. it will be a sort of sisterly welcome. lottie will help me to think of things." and so it was that silk-lined basket with its dainty work implements had found its place, and the well-stocked paper-case. there was even a case of brushes on the toilet-table, and a new bible and prayer-book on the little round table, while a few choice photographs in simple frames adorned the walls. annette was so absorbed in her researches, so loath to put down one treasure and take up another, that she hardly had time to brush her thick hair and smooth her rumpled collar before averil reappeared. she looked at the closed trunk in some surprise. "you have not unpacked! shall i help you?" she asked, kindly. "i was afraid i had left you too long. but perhaps you are not ready to come down?" "does it matter about the unpacking?" returned the girl, a little wearily. "it is not as though i had fine gowns and laces. my one poor dress will not hurt. ah," looking at averil's dress, which, in spite of its plainness, had all sorts of pretty finishes, "i fear i shall shame you, my cousin, with my poverty." "poverty never shamed any one," replied averil, quickly. "do not trouble about anything to-night, annette," looking at her a little anxiously, as she noticed the traces of recent tears. "to-morrow you shall tell me what you want, and we will get it together. i dare say you will find shopping very amusing. i know lottie loves it." "and you, my cousin?" "well, perhaps i do not care for it myself, but it is all in the day's work," replied averil, cheerfully. "i could spend half the day in a book-seller's, or looking over pictures and engravings, but for dresses and fine things, they are, of course, indifferent to me, unless i buy them for others;" and averil shrugged her shoulders with a little gesture of contempt. they were passing through the hall as they spoke when a door opened quickly, and a young lady in gray came out. she was a pretty, dark-eyed girl. averil at once accosted her. "my dear lottie, where have you been? it is nearly seven o'clock!" "yes, i know. please don't keep me, averil. maud wants me to arrange her flowers. i have been to whiteley's and the stores, but i can not match those things that georgina wants. it is no use her being vexed about it, for i have done my best;" and she was hurrying away when averil called her back. "but you have not spoken to my cousin, lottie. you will surely shake hands with her?" lottie extended her hand at once. "i did not mean to be rude, averil," she said in a flurried, apologetic manner. "how do you do, miss ramsay? i have no time to speak to you now, but when they are all gone i will come to you;" and she nodded to averil and ran up-stairs. "poor lottie! how tired she looks! you must excuse her abruptness, annette. lottie is not her own mistress. she will come down to us by and by, when mrs. willmot and the girls have gone to their dinner-party. i want you and lottie to be good friends." "i think she has a nice face, only she looked what you call harassed, just as i used to feel when there was too much work to be done and clotilde wanted me to walk. this young lady is like myself, is she not?--she has no parents. oh, yes, monsieur told me something of her history. she was a poor orphan, and her uncle adopted her, and then he died, and his wife, who is your step-mother, my cousin, had the magnificent generosity to keep her still." a faint smile flitted over averil's face, but she made no direct response to this last clause. "lottie was quite a little girl when mr. seymour adopted her. her parents died young. her life has been hard, like yours, annette. i hope you and lottie will take to each other. i have a large family, and nothing pleases me more than to see the members of my family happy together." "but--yes--why not?" returned annette, regarding her cousin with widely opened eyes. "in this house that is so large there is surely room for every one--there will be no need to quarrel." "oh, i was not speaking of redfern house," replied averil; but she offered no further explanation. she drew annette down on the couch beside her and talked to her in a low voice, so that roberts, who was putting the finishing touches to the supper-table, could not have overheard those quiet tones. when everything was ready roberts quietly withdrew, and the two girls seated themselves at the table. annette noticed that a place was laid for lottie, but they were half through their meal before she joined them. annette, whose tongue was now unloosed, was giving averil a graphic description of her dinan life when lottie came quickly into the room. she looked pale and worried. "oh, averil, i am so sorry to be late," she said, looking half inclined to cry; "but it was really not my fault. they have only just driven from the door, and there were a hundred things georgina wanted me to do. something had gone wrong with her dress, and of course she was very much put out, and--" "never mind all that, lottie, dear," observed averil, in her quick, decided way. "'brush away the worries,' as dear father used to say. here is a nice cup of coffee, and i will cut you some of the breast of that chicken. nonsense!" as lottie protested that her head ached, and that she was too tired to eat: "starving never rested any one. annette, will you give lottie some of that salad you praise so much and then, while she is a good girl and eats her supper, you shall go on with your picturesque description. lottie, you have no idea how well annette talks--she makes one see things so plainly. that is what we love--a storybook of talk, don't we, lottchen?" annette was quite willing to go on talking. averil's gentle look of sympathy and her evident interest were sufficient inducement: it was enough that she pleased her auditors. she even grew a little excited as lottie's pale listlessness faded, and the weary contraction of her brow relaxed. she seemed roused, interested, taken out of herself. "she has had a hard life too, averil," annette heard her whisper; "and then she has not had you;" and lottie's eyes grew soft and pathetic over this little speech. roberts came to clear away and to bring the lamps, and then averil bade her two young companions join her at the open window. lottie placed herself on a stool at her feet and laid her head on averil's lap. in the pauses of her talk annette could see averil's thin light hand with its single diamond ring flashing in the lamp-light as it smoothed lottie's dark hair tenderly. presently she said in a half whisper: "go on, annette; do not stop talking. lottie has fallen asleep, and the rest will do her good. perhaps, after all, she will not have one of her bad headaches." "but why does she tire herself so much?" asked the girl, in some surprise. "it is not good to make one's self sick with fatigue. oh, i know what it is when one's back aches with stooping, and the light goes, and there is still work to be done; but to walk and not to stop when one is tired, it is that that passes my comprehension." "lottie is a busy little woman in her way," replied averil, quietly. "she works beautifully, and her aunt and cousins give her plenty to do." "oh, she is not rich, and that is how she repays her aunt's kindness. doubtless she is very happy to do them service. my cousin, i have yet to learn in what way i shall be able to repay your goodness. but i shall find out some day, and answer that question for myself." averil was not a demonstrative little person or she could have found a ready response to annette's question, so touching in its graceful naïveté: "love me for myself," she would have answered. "love me and you will repay me a hundred-fold;" for hers was a nature that was never satisfied with loving that spent itself, and yet was forever giving--full measure, yet without hope of return. yes, young as she was in years, averil had already learned the sorrowful lesson that life teaches to her elder scholars--that it is useless to expect too much of human nature, and that though, thank god, love often begets love, it is better and wiser to give it freely, as god gives his blessed sunshine, pouring it alike on the thankful and ungrateful, for "with what measure ye mete," said the divine master, "it shall be measured to you again." alas! how niggardly are our human measures, how carefully we weigh out our small grains of good-will, for which we expect to be repaid so richly! averil was bent on being a listener to-night. she said little; only an intelligent question, a sympathetic monosyllable or two, drew out fresh details. "if i want to know annette thoroughly," she thought, "i must let her tell me all about herself. i think our great mistake in making acquaintance with people is that we never put ourselves sufficiently in the background, so we contrive to stamp a portion of our individuality on every fresh person. annette is very original--she is also frank and unreserved. it is a relief for her to talk, and it is always easy for me to listen." it was growing quite late, when lottie suddenly started up with a rather guilty air. "have i been asleep, miss ramsay? how rude you must have thought me! but when i am tired, and averil strokes my hair, she always sends me to sleep. why, it is nearly ten o'clock!"--jumping up in a hurry. "oh, averil, you ought to have woke me! the girls' room is in such a state, and georgina made me promise to put it tidy." "suppose i ask unwin to do it as a favor--you are half asleep, lottie. she looks like a little owl, does she not, annette?" "oh, no; we must not trouble unwin. and there is aunt's room, too. it is all my fault for going to sleep and forgetting my duties;" and lottie's pretty face wore its harassed look again. "what is there to do? at least i can help you," observed annette, eagerly. "is it to make things tidy? surely that is not difficult. my cousin, i should love to help miss jones, if she will have me." "very well; we will all go," returned averil, gratified by annette's ready good-nature; and lottie at once brightened up. annette looked a little astonished as they entered the large, handsome room; the bed, chairs, even the floor, seemed strewn with a profusion of garments, the toilet table heaped with laces, gloves, and trinkets. "what gorgeousness! what splendor!" thought annette; but she did not utter her wonder aloud; she only shook out the folds of a black lace dress that was trailing across a couple of chairs, and began folding it with quick, deft fingers. averil was called away at this moment; when she returned all traces of chaos had been removed. annette was standing by the toilet table rolling up some ribbons, and lottie was locking up the trinkets in the dressing-case. "oh, averil!" she exclaimed, "miss ramsay has been helping me so nicely. she has folded up all the dresses, and she does it as well as unwin. and now she has promised to mend that lace flounce for me to-morrow, so i shall be able to practice before herr ludwig comes. maud was so bent on my doing it, though i told her that my piece was not nearly perfect." "but to me it is a trifle," replied annette, quickly. "i can work a new sprig where the old one has been rent. miss jones will not know it has been mended at all, and to me it will be play. and now, if there is nothing else that i can do, will you permit me to retire? for, like miss jones, my eyes are heavy, and the hour is later than that to which i have always accustomed myself." "my dear child, how thoughtless i have been! tired! of course you are tired after your journey. lottie, i will take annette to her room, and then come back to you." averil was not long away, but lottie had finished her task, and was awaiting her with some impatience. "well, averil?" "well, my dear," in rather a quizzical voice, "have you altered your opinion at all since the morning? are you still as sure that the arrival of my little frenchified cousin must spoil everything? have you found her quite as disagreeable as you expected?" lottie pouted. "don't be tiresome, averil. a person must make a mistake sometimes. miss ramsay is not disagreeable at all. on the contrary, i think she is rather nice." "nice!" still in the same teasing voice. "i should have said my cousin was charming." "oh, of course; you are never for half measures, averil. i should not wonder if in time you liked her far better than you do me--no, i should not wonder at all." averil broke into her little silvery laugh as lottie finished her speech in rather an injured manner. "indeed, lottie, i am not at all sure that i shall not become excessively fond of annette. she is amiable, and yet she has plenty of character. and then she has such winning ways!" "yes; and my manners are so abrupt. you are always telling me so, averil." "for your own good, dear. why, what nonsense!" as lottie's eyes filled with tears. "do you think annette will make any difference between us? for shame, lottie! i can not believe for one moment that you could seriously entertain such an unworthy thought. what! can you who know me so well--can you begrudge me another object of interest, another friendly being on whom i may bestow a little affection? no; this sort of petty jealousy does not belong to my lottie." "no, not really, averil"--throwing her arms round her neck and giving her a penitent kiss. "i am only cross because i am so tired. no one can take my place, not even this fascinating miss ramsay. do you think i would begrudge you anything--when i want the whole world to love you as much as i do?" "hush! good-night! there, there, you foolish child!" as lottie mutely pleaded for another kiss, and averil left her smiling. but the smile faded as she entered her own room, and a look of utter weariness took its place. "oh, unwin," she said, as a gray-haired, pleasant-looking woman came from an inner room, "i did not think it possible that one could ache so!" "you are just worn out, miss averil," returned the old servant, tenderly. "you are none of the strongest, and you are young yet, though folks seem to forget that, and put too much upon you. it goes to my heart to see you so white and spent of a night, and no one to spare you anything. you are always looking after other people, and forgetting yourself." "you dear old story-teller! why, i am grumbling about my own aches and pains at this very minute." "yes, my dear, and i hope you will always grumble to me, as you call it," returned unwin, as she gently unplaited averil's hair and brushed out the dark, shining masses that nearly reached to the ground. unwin did not leave her young mistress that night until her weary little head was laid on her pillow, and more than once she entered the room softly, to assure herself that averil had fallen asleep. "her mind is too big for her body," she thought, as she crept away, and nearly stumbled over the poodle. "no one knows the strain there is on that young creature, and no one ever sees her give way but me;" and unwin sighed, for she had known and loved her young mistress from childhood, and it grieved her to see her darling young lady so weary and exhausted. chapter vi. breakfast at redfern house. annette was an early riser; she had slept soundly in her new, luxurious bed, and awoke refreshed and full of energy. when she had dressed herself carefully, and had disposed of her scanty stock of clothing in the big wardrobe that seemed to swallow it up, she was at a loss what to do. she had read her chapter in the new bible--with her mother's worn old bible lying all the time on her lap--but there were no other books, and no work that she could do. she would have liked to have used her pretty blotting-case, but no one would expect a letter. perhaps she could find her way to her cousin averil's sitting-room--there would be plenty of books there. annette had just reached the hall when the sound of a piano from a room near excited her curiosity. perhaps miss jones was practicing, and would tell her what to do. as she opened the door lottie looked up and nodded, while she finished her scale. "good-morning, miss ramsay," she said at last, as annette stood by the piano looking with some envy at her brisk little fingers. "i hardly expected to see you before the breakfast-bell rang. so you have found your way in here." "am i wrong to come here?" asked annette, looking round the bright, home-like apartment, with its well-littered work-tables and handsomely filled book-shelves. "i was about to find my cousin's room, only the sound of the piano attracted me. how beautifully you play, miss jones! your fingers seem to fly over the keys. for myself, i have never learned music"--somewhat mournfully. "oh, i was only playing my scales," returned lottie, carelessly. "yes, you were quite right to come here; no one goes to averil's room without permission. it is her private sitting-room, you see, and i dare say she is reading there now. this is the morning-room, where every one sits, and works, and writes their letters." "morning-room! is there then a room for evening?" asked annette, in such a puzzled tone that lottie could not help laughing. "well, there is the drawing-room, you know, and we certainly use that of an evening--that is, when we entertain visitors. would you like to see it?" and lottie, who was a little weary of her scales, rose with alacrity. she was beginning to think annette a very amusing person. she thoroughly enjoyed the air of wonder with which she regarded everything. "but this room is magnificent. i have never seen so grand a room," she kept repeating at intervals. "yes it looks very nice when it is lighted up," replied lottie nonchalantly. "averil has the art of making all her rooms look comfortable and home-like. there is nothing stiff even in this one. some people's drawing-rooms always have an unused look, just as though no one ever lived in them." "two fire-places, and all those big windows, and a floor so long that one could dance over it. ah! i thought that was a stranger, that girl in black, with the pale lace and i see it is myself." and annette stood before the glass panel, gravely regarding herself, while lottie watched her in some amusement. "i think you will know yourself again," she said, a little sarcastically. but the sarcasm was lost on annette, who was still contemplating her image with the utmost seriousness. "forgive me if i keep you too long," she returned; "but until this moment i do not think i have ever seen myself clearly; that is why i interview myself as i would a stranger. it is good, it is wholesome, to realize that one has no claims to admiration--a pale, long face--bah! you shall take my place, miss lottie--the big glass will be more pleased to reflect you." the little compliment pleased lottie, though she pretended to laugh it off. "you are not fair to yourself" she said, blushing. "the glass has not seen you talk. when people are animated they look better. no one can judge of themselves. averil always speaks of herself as an ugly little thing; it is a sort of craze with her to think she shocks people at first sight. but there are times, i assure you, when i almost think she is beautiful. oh! there is the breakfast-bell. i am so glad, for i am as hungry as a hunter. come along, miss ramsay; we shall find averil at her post." averil, who was almost hidden behind the big urn, looked up from her letters, and gave annette a kind welcome. "have you slept well, dear? i think you look more rested. mrs. willmot, this is my cousin, annette ramsay"--addressing a tall, fine-looking woman in widow's dress, who was reading the paper in the window. "oh, indeed!" she returned, rather coolly, holding out her plump white hand as she spoke, but without advancing a step. "i hope you are very well, miss ramsay." "i am always well, thank you," returned annette, shrinking a little from the keen scrutiny of those handsome hazel eyes. it must be confessed mrs. willmot's reception was somewhat chilling. "to that lady i am an unwelcome visitor," she thought; for the girl was tolerably shrewd and clear-sighted. "come and sit by me, annette," observed averil, quickly. "lottie, will you help annette to some of that omelet? the others are not down--we generally begin without them. i wonder how you felt when you woke up in a strange room this morning, and if you wished yourself back in the rue st. joseph?" annette was about to disclaim this notion somewhat eagerly, when mrs. willmot's clear, metallic voice struck in: "i can not think why the girls are not down. we were home last night at a ridiculously early hour. there is not the slightest excuse for being so late. lottie, do go up and hurry them. georgina is getting into lax ways. i am always telling her that early rising is the best cosmetic for the complexion. i do not know if you have noticed it, averil, but georgie is getting positively fat." "no, i can not say that i have noticed it," returned averil, rather curtly. "they are not later than usual. i hope they will not keep lottie, or her breakfast will get cold." but mrs. willmot interrupted her; this time she spoke in a decidedly injured voice. "my dear averil, it is too bad. the toast is hard again. i can not possibly eat it. really, mrs. adams is growing more careless every day." "i am so sorry. annette, would you mind ringing the bell, and i will order some fresh toast to be made." averil spoke with the utmost good-humor, but as she gave the order mrs. willmot's cloudy brow did not relax, and roberts had hardly closed the door before she burst out again: "it is really shameful, averil, to see how you are duped by your servants. look at the wages you give mrs. adams--nearly double what i used to pay ransome--and she is growing more neglectful every day. why, the lobster cutlets the other day were not fit to eat, and she had flavored the white soup wrongly. how you can put up with such an incompetent person, just because she is a respectable woman, passes my comprehension. in my opinion old servants are mistakes. of course, you shake your head. one might as well talk to the wind. it is a little hard that at my age and with all my experience, you will never consent to be guided by me in such matters." averil elevated her eyebrows slightly. "i am afraid, my dear mrs. willmot, that on these points we must agree to differ, as you well know, for we have often discussed the matter. nothing would induce me to part with mrs. adams. she is an invaluable servant; she is industrious and economical, and my father always praised her cooking. i think rodney has infected you with his club notions. he has got it into his head that it is his prerogative as an englishman to grumble, but i mean to give him a strong hint to hold his tongue before roberts. by the bye, mrs. willmot"--gliding easily from the vexed topic--"i have two more refusals this morning--from the farnboroughs and lathams." "what are you saying about the lathams, averil?" interposed a fresh voice, and a tall, striking-looking girl, the youthful image of her mother, entered the room, followed closely by lottie. "good-morning, mother! what are you frowning at?" bestowing a light, butterfly kiss rather carelessly as she passed. "oh!" with a sudden change of tone, and with rather a cool stare at annette. "this is miss ramsay, i suppose. how do you do? very well, i hope--pleasant journey, and all that sort of thing?" and the young lady swept to her chair with an impertinent insouciance of manner that some people thought charming. "what has become of your sister, maud?" asked her mother, in rather a freezing tone. "my sister?" with an amused air. "is it not absurd, averil, when mother uses that dignified tone? i would not be georgie for the world at this moment. it is all doctor rathbone's fault. he took mother in to dinner last night, and regaled her with all kinds of entertaining speeches. he told her georgie was getting fat, and that she ought to ride before breakfast. oh, no, i would not be in georgie's shoes for the next month." and maud drew down the corners of her mouth in a ridiculous manner, that nearly convulsed lottie with suppressed merriment. "i have often told georgina that she ought to walk more," returned averil, rather seriously. "she is too fond of an easy chair, she reads too many novels, and--" but here mrs. willmot checked her. "there now, maud, you are making averil severe on georgina, as usual. you might know by this time how hard she always is on her, and yet no girl ever deserved blame less. i told doctor rathbone that it was laughing so much that made her fat. what a disagreeable old man he is! i never saw her in better looks than she was last night. that blue dress suited her admirably. i am sure captain beverley thought so, for he was most attentive." "i can't say i noticed it," replied maud, coldly. "have the lathams really refused, averil? what a pity!" mrs. willmot looked a little alarmed at her daughter's heightened color and evident vexation. "oh, the room will be crowded as it is," she said, soothingly. "it does not matter about the lathams. mrs. mortimer was telling me last night, maudie, that she never saw you look to more advantage. 'georgina is very much improved,' she said, 'and you have reason to be proud of them both; but in my opinion georgina will never hold a candle to her sister--she has not maud's beautiful figure, you see.'" "my dear mrs. willmot, is it not a pity--" but here averil stopped, while maud bridled her long neck, and tried not to look pleased at this foolish flattery. just then an interruption occurred. the door opened rather noisily, and a fine, buxom girl, with a broad, heavy type of face, and a profusion of light, flaxen hair, made her appearance. "good-morning, good people all!" she said, airily, as she subsided into a vacant chair. "lottie, will you please cut me some of that ham? i am literally starving, for captain beverley gave me no time to eat my dinner. why are you looking so glum, averil? oh, i see. i have forgotten my manners. miss ramsay, please excuse me. i completely overlooked you;" and georgina, feeling that she had made a graceful apology, turned her shoulder on annette, and applied herself to her breakfast. "averil," exclaimed maud, at this moment, "i suppose we can have the carriage this afternoon? we want to pay some calls." "i am very sorry, maud," began averil, in a hesitating voice, "but my cousin has some shopping to do." "there are excellent shops in high street," responded the young lady, in the coolest manner. "miss ramsay will find all she wants at siemans & little, or there is barker," with a supercilious glance at annette's neat black dress. "i am afraid, all the same, that you can not have the carriage this afternoon, maud." "not have it!" and here maud looked excessively put out. "averil, i did not think you could be so inconsiderate. mamma has all these calls owing, and they positively must be paid, and to-morrow we are going to that garden-party at richmond, and the next day is sunday, and monday is lady morrison's at home, tuesday is ours, and--" annette, who, had listened to this expostulation in puzzled silence, suddenly interposed. "the carriage, my cousin," she said, in some surprise. "what is it that i want with a carriage? surely i can walk, and then this young lady will not be inconvenienced. oh, yes, that is best, and i can walk." but here lottie nudged her impressively, and averil said, a little sadly, "but i can not walk, annette--at least, very little walking knocks me up." "but is it absolutely necessary for miss ramsay's shopping to be done to-day?" asked maud, rather disdainfully. "say no, my cousin," whispered annette, with a pained flush. but averil smiled back at her and said, "hush!" "i think it is you who are inconsiderate, maud," she said, very quietly. "yes, it is absolutely necessary that annette should not be disappointed. but as your heart seems set on paying these visits, you may have the carriage, and we will manage with a hansom, please say no more about it," as maud certainly had the grace to look a little ashamed of herself. "annette will not mind, i am sure. now, will one of you two girls look after rodney when he comes down? i want lottie to finish her practicing before herr ludwig comes. come, lottie! come, annette!" and averil beckoned to them. as soon as the door closed behind them lottie burst into an indignant remonstrance. "oh, averil, how can you put up with it? it is really too bad of maud! and for aunt to encourage her in such impertinence!" "please, lottie, dear, let the subject drop," and averil's mouth had a weary curve. "time is too precious, and you and i have far too much to do to waste it on such trifles. annette, do you think you will be dull in my sitting-room? i have my letters to write, and all sorts of business." "i shall not be dull if i can see you," returned annette, simply. "since my mother's death i have worked alone. alone! ah, what a bitter word! one is slow in learning it. often i have forgotten--i have lost myself in some dream. 'is it so, mother?' i would say, and raise my head. alas! there were only the dark corners, the empty chair--no answering smile to greet me. oh, my cousin, i see i make you sad with my little retrospect. but it was only to prove to you that i shall be gay--what you call cheerful--by comparison." averil did not answer for a moment--when she next spoke it was to question annette about the torn lace flounce she was to mend for lottie. annette was eager to begin her task; she wanted to show these dear people that there was something she could do. "it is play to me," she said, with innocent egotism. "you shall see, and miss lottie too, that i can work well. 'one need not starve when one has ten fingers,' as poor clotilde says. ah! poor clotilde! she is peeling her onions now, and perhaps saying a prayer for me in her heart. hold! i am a sad chatter-box. i will not speak again for an hour"--and for a wonder, annette contrived to keep her word. but though annette's tongue was silent, her thoughts were busy enough. again and again she raised her dark eyes from her embroidery, and fixed them on the quiet figure before her, on the grave, intent face, on the small, busy hands, as averil wrote letters, added up bills, or made entries in her housekeeping book. chapter vii. rodney makes his appearance. but the morning was not to pass without interruption. the young mistress of redfern house was evidently a woman of business. first, a stout, comely looking woman demanded admittance, and had a long and evidently a most important interview. annette, in her sunny corner, could only hear a word or two--mayonnaise, apricot tart, and so on. evidently averil was making out the _menu_. then, when mrs. adams was dismissed, unwin took her place, and again snatches of conversation reached annette's ears; they seemed to be discussing some charitable case, for soup and linen were mentioned. "you will go yourself, unwin," she heard averil say. "my time is fully occupied to-day; but if you find out that they are really deserving people, i will call myself to-morrow. in any case a little soup and a few comforts will do no harm, for the woman is certainly very ill." "very well, ma'am: i will pack a basket, and--" here her voice dropped, but there was a great deal more said before unwin left averil to resume her letter-writing. again there was silence, only broken by the trills of the bullfinch. averil's pen traveled rapidly over the paper; then she stopped and appeared to listen, and a moment afterward rose with a quick exclamation of annoyance. "what can she have heard?" thought annette. but her curiosity was soon gratified. averil had forgotten to close the door behind her, and the next moment annette heard her speaking to lottie. "why have you stopped playing, lottie? it is not eleven o'clock. i thought you told me that you particularly wanted two hours." "yes, i did say so, but aunt wants some letters written, and maud says she is too busy to do them. never mind, averil; don't trouble about it. i shall only get a scolding from herr ludwig because my piece is not perfect." "go back to your playing, lottie. i will speak to mrs. willmot. now, don't argue; it is only a waste of time, and you know you have promised to be guided by me. quick--march!" here the drawing-room door closed in a summary manner. a heavy footfall in the passage outside--the talk begins again. annette pricks up her ears. yes, she is behind the scenes; she is beginning to learn the ways of the household. "mrs. willmot, i want to speak to you"--in averil's voice. "why is lottie always to be interrupted? i thought it was understood between us that she was to have time for her practicing. herr ludwig is an expensive master; it is throwing my money away unless she prepares properly for her lesson. last week he was very angry because she played her piece so imperfectly." "i am sure i do not know why you are telling me all this, averil. i am not aware that i am interrupting lottie." "maud has just asked her to write some letters." "oh, i forgot. i remember now that both the girls told me that they were too busy; and really georgina is so careless, and writes such a shocking hand, that i never care to ask her." "but maud is always writing to some one." "yes; and every one says how clever and amusing her letters are. but really she is quite cross if i beg her to answer a few notes. girls are so selfish; they never will take trouble for other people." "i think you should insist on maud making herself useful. i suppose we should all grow selfish if we yielded to the feeling. indeed, lottie must not be disturbed; another scolding from herr ludwig would dishearten her. if no one else will write your letters, i must offer my services." "you, averil! what nonsense! thank you, i prefer to manage my own business"--very stiffly. "i suppose the letters can wait." here there was a slow sweep of a dress over the floor, and the next moment averil re-entered. annette looked at her wistfully, but said nothing, and again the soothing stillness prevailed. the black poodle slumbered peacefully; annette worked on busily; her task was nearly finished. she made up her mind, when it was completed, that she would slip through the open window and explore the green, winding path that looked so pleasant. a garden was a novelty to her, and the sight of the trimly shaven lawn and gay flower-beds was wonderfully pleasant to her eyes. another tap at the door--a quick, imperative tap--followed by the entrance of a fair, boyish-looking young man, dressed in the height of fashion. "i say, averil, are you very busy? i want to speak to you"--and then he checked himself as he caught sight of annette. "i beg your pardon. i had no idea you had any one with you," honoring annette with rather a cool, supercilious stare as he spoke. "good-morning, rodney. this is my cousin, miss ramsay. you knew yesterday that she was expected. annette, this is mr. seymour, my step-mother's son." annette acknowledged the introduction with rather a haughty bend of her head--the little lace-mender had her pride. these seymours were not gracious in their reception of her. each one in turn had informed her by their manner that she was an unwelcome guest. good; she would keep herself to herself; they should not be inconvenienced by her. a naughty little sparkle came into annette's brown eyes. "if it please you, my cousin, i will take a turn in that pleasant garden," she said, rather primly. "i have finished the sprig, and miss jones will not know where it has been mended, and then i shall be in no one's way." "please do not disturb yourself on my account, miss ramsay," began rodney. but annette did not give him time to finish. she had had enough of these seymours, she told herself, as she brushed a thread or two from her black dress. she did not even wait for averil's permission, but ran down the steps, followed by the black poodle, who was enchanted at the prospect of a game. annette had never found out that she had a temper till that minute. "one must grow tall to stand on tiptoe with these english," she said, with a little toss of her head, as she walked down the shrubbery. rodney lolled against the window-frame and watched her rather lazily. "what a very energetic young person!" he muttered. then aloud, "it must be an awful bore for you, averil, having a poor relative turning up in this unexpected fashion." "i am not so sure that annette will prove a bore," replied averil, rather coolly. "i am very pleased with the little i have seen of her. in spite of poverty and hard work, she seems to have a great deal of refinement. she is clever and amusing, and i have discovered that she is an excellent companion." "indeed! the girls did not seem much impressed by her at breakfast. it is a pity she is not better-looking. she has a half-starved sort of appearance. but if you are pleased, and all that--" "rodney!" a little impatiently, "did you come to my room to discuss my cousin's merits and demerits?" "no, indeed. how sharp you are, averil! you are always down on a fellow before he can get a word in. there is no particular hurry, is there?" fingering the rosebud in his button-hole in a way that provoked averil. "no hurry for you," rather sarcastically; "but if you will excuse me for mentioning it, i am very much pressed for time myself, so please let me know what you want as quickly as possible." "well, you might be a little more gracious, ave," in a rather sulky tone. "i don't often take up your precious time, do i?" then, as she made no answer, he went on in the same drawling fashion. "the fact is, i am a bit hard up, and i dare not let the mater know it. she cut up rough last time, and if there is anything i hate it is a scene--my nerves won't stand it." averil sat down and folded her hands on her lap in a resigned way. her manner said mutely that this was exactly what she expected to hear. she looked such a little creature--so absurdly childish--beside the tall lazy figure that was propping itself against the wall; but there was nothing childish in the small, resolute face. rodney seemed to find the silence trying. he shifted from one foot to the other, and pulled his mustache as he furtively eyed her. "can't you speak a word to a fellow?" he said, when the situation became intolerable. averil flashed a look at him. "oh, dear yes; a thousand words if you like," she returned, scornfully. "the question is, whether the _fellow_ will like them." "come now, ave, don't be so confoundedly hard on me. you are such a good-natured little soul, and have so often helped me, that you are not going to turn rusty now." "does it never strike you"--in a keen, incisive voice--"that there are limits even to good nature, that i may possibly have conscientious scruples about throwing my money away on a spendthrift? now, please do not interrupt me, rodney; i must speak, even if the truth is not to your taste. i am not one to prophesy smooth things. you have come to tell me that you have exceeded your allowance, that you are in debt again, and that you dare not apply to your mother; and i will tell you in return that you ought to be ashamed of yourself." "of course i must bear anything that you choose to say, if i put myself in this position." and here rodney seemed to gulp down something. averil's voice softened unconsciously. "rodney, it is for your good i am speaking. i have no wish to be hard on you or any one, but i can not see you ruining yourself without a word of remonstrance. how long do you mean to go on like this, living upon"--she was going to say "me," but hastily substituted the word "mother?" rodney colored as though he understood her. "if only something would turn up," he muttered. "it is just like my luck, failing to pass that examination." "when people do not work, is it a surprising fact that they cannot pass an examination? ill luck--something to turn up!" still more impatiently. "how i hate those phrases! the very cant of the idler. is there anything in this world worth having that can be procured without effort--without downright labor? 'by the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread.' why should you be exempt, rodney, from the common burden of humanity?" "oh, come! don't preach, ave. who says that i don't mean to work?" "did you work at oxford? are you working now?" "perhaps not. but i am young; and even the mater says there is plenty of time. you need not grudge me a little amusement. i'll work fast enough by and by." "my dear," replied averil, with a quaint motherliness that sat oddly upon her, "'by and by' is a dangerous ally. 'now' is a stouter fellow, and a better staff for a young man. you know what mr. harland says, 'the longer you wait for work, the less you will feel inclined for it when it comes. idleness never improved any one.'" "'how doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour!'" drawled rodney, who was getting weary of this lecture. "exactly so. and you have not stored a bit of honey yet. now, rodney, in spite of your impatience, i must beg you to listen to me a moment. i will help you this once." "oh, thanks, awfully! i always knew you were a brick, averil." "this once"--holding up her finger impressively. "but, rodney, never again. i tell you my conscience will not allow me to do it. i cannot throw away good money that might help worthy people in paying the debts of an extremely idle young man, and so encourage him to contract more." "upon my word, averil!" in an affronted tone. "my dear boy, i am stating the sober truth. you are an idle young man; and you are far too fond of pleasure. all the seymours are." "you are vastly complimentary to the family"--relapsing into sulkiness. "why don't you turn us out? you are not bound to put up with us. come now, averil, answer that if you can?" "i could answer it easily," looking at him with an expression of sadness. "but silence is golden, rodney. but do not try me too much. there are times, i do not deny it, when i long to run away from you all." "well, you are awfully good to us"--in a penitent tone. "i often tell the girls what a little brick you are. i know we are a troublesome lot. it is our up-bringing, as aunt dinah calls it. the mater has spared the rod and spoiled the child, don't you know? awful nuisance that." averil smiled. in her heart rodney was her favorite--weak, self-indulgent, and easily led. he was not without good impulses, and he was not so hopelessly selfish as the others. "now tell me what you want and i will write the check," she observed, resuming her business-like manner; "or, better still, let me have your bills." "oh, of course, if you do not trust me!" and rodney looked hurt and mortified. "very well, i will. now then!" and as rodney whispered the amount in her ear she merely elevated her eyebrows, but made no remarks as she wrote the check and passed it to him. she checked his profuse thanks. "never mind about that. i never care much for words. if you want to please me, if you have the faintest wish to preserve my respect, you will look out seriously for a berth. you will ask mr. harland to help you. do, rodney; do, my dear boy; and i shall still live to be proud of you." rodney tried to laugh at her earnestness, but it was easy to see that his light facile nature was touched. "well, i will see about it. don't bother yourself ave. i never was worth the trouble. you are a good little soul, and i am awfully obliged to you. i am, indeed. oh, there is the young woman--the cousin, i mean. and i may as well take myself off." and rodney sauntered off. "are you alone? then i need not fear to interrupt you?" began annette. then she stopped, and regarded averil with close attention. "ah! you are tired, my cousin. you have grown quite pale and fatigued during my absence. i will take a book to that shady garden seat." "no, no! i will put away my letters. i have had so many interruptions. indeed, i must talk to you, annette. that is part of my business for this morning. shall we go up to your room? i want you to tell me exactly what you require for renovating your wardrobe, just as you would have told your mother. you are still in mourning, of course. it is only six months since you lost her." "only six months! to me it seems like six years. yes, i will keep to my black gown; any color would dazzle me too much. you are in black, too, my cousin!" "yes; but this is not mourning. i think i dislike any color for myself. unwin sees to my dresses. when she thinks i want a new one she tells me so. i should never remember it myself. but, strange to say, it is always a pleasure to me to see people round me well dressed." "that is because you have an artistic taste. miss jones dresses well. i was remarking on her gown this morning." "oh, yes! lottie has excellent taste. and then she knows she is pretty." averil could have said more on this subject, but she was singularly uncommunicative on the subject of her own good deeds. lottie would have waxed eloquent on the theme. she could have informed annette of a time when the little school-girl had shed hot tears of humiliation and shame over the out-grown shabby gown, with the ink-stain dropped by a malicious school-mate on one of the breadths; days when faded ribbons and mended gloves were the order of the day; when lottie's piteous petitions for a new frock, even for new boots, were refused on the score of reckless extravagance. lottie's sweet youth had been imbittered by these minor vexations, these galling restrictions enforced by unloving tyranny and despotism. in a thousand ways she had been made to suffer for being an incumbrance. the bright, lively girl, conscious of latent talents, and yearning for a higher education and self-culture, was literally starved and repressed in her intellectual faculties--reduced to a dull level of small, grinding duties. lottie had good masters in the school at stoke newington, but as she lacked time for preparation, their lessons yielded scant profit. she had to teach history and geography to the young ones, to help them with their sums, their mending, to overlook their practicing. the young pupil teacher was the drudge of the whole school. and yet even there she won golden opinions. it was averil who was her benefactor, whose sympathy and ready affection smoothed her daily life. it was averil who watched over her in a hundred ways. lottie had still much to bear from her aunt's selfish caprices, but her life was a far happier one now. the shabby gowns were things of the past. averil had taken that matter in hand. lottie's fresh, dainty toilets often caused a remonstrance from mrs. willmot, and a sneering remark from maud or georgina. her neglected musical powers were cultivated by the eminent herr ludwig. lottie was not ungrateful for all this kindness. her loving nature blossomed into fresh sweetness, and she repaid averil by the devotion of her young girlish heart--"my sweet saint averil," as she often called her. chapter viii. "will you take back those words, maud?" a very few minutes were sufficient for the inspection of annette's scanty stock of clothes. averil's eyes grew misty over the little pile of coarse, neatly mended linen; the worn shoes, the pitiful contrivances, gave more than one pang to her warm heart. "how can she contrive to look so ladylike?" she thought, as she remarked the frayed edges of her black gown; "none of them seem to have noticed that indefinable air that stamps her as a true gentlewoman. i wish maud and georgina had half such good manners; but they are thorough girls of the period." annette looked at her wistfully when the brief survey was over. "i told you the truth, my cousin, did i not, when i said i was poor? in the rue st. joseph it did not seem to matter, but here, among all these fine people, i do not love to be shabby." "oh, we will alter all that," returned averil, cheerfully. "i shall give you the same outfit i gave lottie when she first came to live here. as i am to enact the part of fairy godmother, i am sorry that the pumpkin-coach is wanting; but we shall do very well, i dare say." and then, as she went to her room, she reproached herself for not being sufficiently grateful for her riches. "how often have i complained of the burden of my wealth!" she said to herself. "how often have i longed to shift my responsibilities and to betake myself to a cottage with lottie and unwin! why am i so impatient, so cowardly? i ought to rejoice at the richness of the talent intrusted to me. 'give an account of thy stewardship.' yes, those awful words will one day sound in my ears. so much has been given me, that surely much will be required. oh, what a poor creature i am, for i would willingly, thrice willingly give it all if only i could be like other girls!" here she caught sight of herself in the glass, and a flush came into her pale, sad face. "no one--no one guesses my weakness; even unwin, dear soul, only thinks i am tired and far from strong. but one knows," raising her eyes reverently; "and he who has laid this cross upon me will surely help me to carry more bravely to the end." and then she whispered, softly: "'multiply our graces, chiefly love and fear; and, dear lord, the chiefest grace to persevere.'" that afternoon annette thought she was in fairyland. if averil had been a benevolent fairy and had waved her magic wand, she could not have worked greater wonders, and yet it was all so quietly done. averil seemed to know just what she wanted, and her orders were executed in a marvelous way. they went to a linen warehouse first, and then drove to a dressmaker. "mrs. stephens will know exactly what to get us," averil remarked in the hansom. "as you are in mourning, there will be no need to select shades. she will take your measure and show us a few stuffs. we shall not be fatigued with looking over fashion books. annette, you must not be afraid of speaking. if any material takes your fancy, please tell me so without reserve. lottie always chooses her own gowns, and she has a very pretty taste." but, in spite of this kindly permission, annette could not bring herself to speak, except at last, when averil felt a timid touch on her arm. "do not give me so much," she pleaded, in a grave tone of remonstrance. "my cousin, you are too extravagant. i shall ruin you. how many more dresses? one for morning, and one for promenade, and a dinner-dress, and yet another. why should i have that other, cousin averil?" "why? because you will have to look your best on tuesday, when all my friends are coming," returned averil, smiling. "my dear annette, you have no idea of the crowds that are invited. the grenadine is for that occasion. now you must have a hat and a jacket; and then there are boots and shoes. come, we have no time to waste in talking;" and again they jumped into the hansom. more purchases--gloves, a sunshade, even an umbrella, then two weary, jaded beings were driven back through the sweet evening air. averil leaned back in the corner of the hansom, with closed eyes, almost too tired to speak. her frail form ached with fatigue, her heart felt peaceful and at rest; she had forgotten herself in giving pleasure to another, and the reward of unselfishness was hers already. annette was silent too: her heart was too full for speech. "for what is it that i can say?" she thought; "to thank is only to give words. i must wait and prove my gratitude in other ways;" and annette's girlish bosom throbbed with sweet, warm feelings. already she loved her cousin, already her orphaned heart seemed to cleave to her. "if thou hadst known her, thou wouldst have loved her too, my mother," she thought, as her dark eyes were fixed on the blue, cloud-flecked sky. as annette sprung lightly from the hansom and ran up the steps of redfern house, she noticed how slowly and stiffly averil moved after her. "oh, you are tired, tired!" she said, remorsefully. "miss jones will tell me i have killed you." "lottie knows better than that. i am so often tired, annette. why, roberts"--interrupting herself--"that is surely not the gong? it is only just seven." roberts looked embarrassed. "the young ladies have ordered dinner half an hour earlier," he said, in a rather hesitating fashion. "i told them, ma'am, that half past seven was the hour mentioned, but miss maud said--" "do you mean that dinner is actually served?" and a slight frown crossed averil's brow. "annette"--turning to her cousin "there is no time to dress; will you please take off your hat, and come down into the dining-room?" annette obeyed, but as she took her place at the dinner table beside lottie, she looked round her somewhat bewildered. "they must be going to a party," she thought. even lottie was in white, the table was dressed with flowers; surely it must be a fête day. averil came in by and by and took her place. she looked unusually grave. mrs. willmot gave a deprecating cough, and threw back her voluminous cap-strings. "i hope my dear averil, that the little change in the programme has not inconvenienced you," she said, in a tone intended to be propitiatory; "but maud said that she was sure you had forgotten the concert at the albert hall." "it was maud's doing, then. at least i need not apologize for my walking-dress." but though she said no more, mrs. willmot glanced nervously at her daughters, and maud tossed her head in a supercilious way. only rodney seemed at his ease. lottie looked red and uncomfortable until averil began talking to her. "are you going to the concert too, lottie?" she asked, in some surprise. "not if you want me," returned lottie, anxiously. "only, as there was a vacant seat in the box, aunt said i might as well go. i only knew it about an hour ago. i had no idea at luncheon." "my dear, there is no reason why you should not enjoy the treat, and you have never heard madame patey: go, by all means. annette and i are both so tired that we should not be good company; indeed, i mean to give her a book for the rest of the evening." "then you do not mind--oh, i am so glad!" and lottie's brow grew clear in a moment. she began to chatter to annette about this wonderful concert, and about the singer. "what a fuss you make about it lottie!" observed maud, who seemed somewhat out of temper. "miss ramsay will think you have never been to a concert before." "i have not been to many, and i think concerts are the most heavenly things in existence; there is nothing on earth i love better than music." "except a few superlatives," was the sarcastic rejoinder; and somehow lottie's innocent enthusiasm seemed quenched in a moment. "what's up with you girls?" remarked rodney, lazily, as the conversation flagged at this point. "lots of people talk in superlatives, so you need not be down on lottie. you and georgie are always awfully in love with something or other. it is awfully nice of you, you know." maud gave him a withering glance, but made no answer, and he rattled on in his good-humored, boyish way. he even addressed annette once or twice, as though to make amends for his sister's influence. neither maud nor georgina seemed disposed to trouble themselves about her. in their eyes she was only an incumbrance--another applicant for averil's bounty. they had not been consulted in the matter. averil rarely consulted any one. if they had been asked for their opinion of this new inmate of redfern house, they would have termed her "a plain, uninteresting, shabby little thing;" for the miss seymours were never sparing of their adjectives. lottie they tolerated. lottie knew how to make herself useful. they would have been at a loss without her; in many ways she was invaluable. they had no maid. mrs. willmot's means could not afford such extravagance, with rodney's college debts to pay, and a hundred private expenses. lottie had excellent taste. she was clever, and knew how to use her needle. she could turn a dress and arrange a drapery; she could advise them on the choice of a trimming. it needed all averil's skillful management to prevent lottie from becoming a perfect drudge. many a task of mending was privately performed by unwin, or one of averil's protégées, to give lottie leisure for her beloved music. when it was possible to secure an hour from interruption, averil read french and history with her. the poor girl felt her imperfect education bitterly, and averil's strong will was set on raising her to her own level. "is a bright, intelligent creature like lottie to degenerate into a mere lady's maid?" she would say to herself. "we must all serve our apprenticeship. god forbid that i should hinder her from making herself useful, but there are limits to everything: only maud and georgina do not seem to recognize the fact. why are some natures so selfish? i suppose their mother has spoiled them. some people would say that i was spoiled, too, for i generally get my own way. dear father! as though he ever refused me anything." as they left the dining-room, annette lingered for a moment to admire a fine bronze figure. the hall was somewhat dark, and in the summer twilight she was unperceived by averil, who had just joined maud at the foot of the staircase. "maud, i want to speak to you for a moment. what has happened just now must never occur again." averil spoke with a decision that was not to be mistaken, and maud looked excessively offended. "i am sure i do not know why you are making all this fuss, averil. what does such a little thing signify? one would think, from your manner, that i had committed some crime in asking mrs. adams to serve dinner half an hour earlier." "it was taking a great liberty, maud; a liberty that must never be repeated in my house. no one shall contradict the mistress's orders. mrs. adams will be taught that she must only take orders from me. i am sorry to have to speak like this, but you give me no option. this sort of thing has occurred too often; i am resolved to put a stop to it." "it is mamma who ought to be mistress of the house," returned maud. "i wonder you are not ashamed to put her in such a position. you treat us all like children, and you are only a girl yourself." "i shall not reply to you, maud--recriminations are useless. you can ask yourself, and i can safely leave to your conscience to answer, whether one of you has received anything but kindness at my hands. and what do you give me in return? do you ever consult my taste, my pleasures? do you care for anything but your own wishes?" "you have everything," in the same proud, passionate tone. "how can you expect us not to envy you, averil? we are dependent on you, and i hate dependence--just because mamma was cheated out of her rights." "maud," in a voice so hard and cold that annette scarcely recognized it, "i can bear much, but there are limits to my generosity. will you take back that speech, or shall i go to your mother?" "i declare, you are too bad averil," bursting into indignant tears. "you are using your power mercilessly." "will you take back those words, maud?" "as though i meant them!"--dashing her tears away. "of course; i know the money is yours." "you are wrong; it is not mine; it is no more mine than any other gift i possess. i do not desire it--it is more a burden than a pleasure. at times it is almost an unbearable responsibility. not that i expect you to believe me," rather sadly. "well, you know you are odd enough for anything. i never knew any one like you, averil." "are you quite sure you know me, maud? have you ever tried really to know me? i am perfectly aware what you and georgina think of me. oh, yes; i am odd, eccentric--none of your friends understand me." "oh, don't let us quarrel," returned maud, impatiently. she had recovered her temper, at least outwardly, for she thought it would be more politic to keep the peace. "of course, we never shall agree in things. i love society, and you only care to associate with dowdy, frumpish people. in your place, i should keep open house--i should never be alone. but, there! one might as well argue with the wind." and maud shrugged her shoulders and ran up-stairs, leaving averil still standing there. annette heaved a heavy sigh as she moved slowly away; there was something indescribably pathetic in the small, slender figure, the drooping head, the tightly locked hands. "oh, they are cruel, these people!" exclaimed annette, half aloud. "they care not to understand--they have no kindness in their hearts." but, in spite of her sympathy and youthful indignation, she did not venture for a long time to follow her cousin; she moved about uneasily, taking up a book and laying it down again. she saw the party drive off to the concert. lottie kissed her hand to her, with a beaming smile, as she passed. "she would not look so happy if she had heard that talk," thought annette. and then she could bear the solitude of the big rooms no longer. and though her heart beat a little quickly at her own temerity, she crossed the dusky hall again, and tapped softly at the door of her cousin's room. perhaps that light tap was inaudible, for there was no answer, and annette timidly entered. the moon had risen, and a flood of silvery beams was pouring in at the open window, beside which averil sat. for a moment annette thought she was asleep; she was lying back in her chair with closed eyes, but as annette advanced noiselessly, she was shocked to see a large tear steal down her cheek, followed by another. annette's affectionate heart could not bear the sight. she startled averil by stooping over her to kiss it away. "annette!" in rather an embarrassed voice. "my dear, why have you followed me?" but this delicate hint that she would rather be alone was lost on annette. "don't be vexed with me, my cousin. i came because i overheard, and because i was sorry for you. indeed, i did not like you to be alone, and miss jones was not here to comfort you. oh, you have been shedding tears! it was cruel--cruel to speak to you like that! you did well to be angry." "oh, annette, please hush! you must not say such things. it is never well to be angry. i ought to know maud by this time. she has a bad temper when she is put out, she does not always measure her words. do you know why i am so unhappy? not because of what maud said, but because i can not forgive myself for being so hard. oh, i am proud, terribly proud, and sometimes they make me suffer; but i do not often forget myself. i think"--with a little sob--"that i was too tired; one can bear so little when the body is weak." "my poor dear!"--three little words; but the sympathetic tone was infinitely soothing to averil's sore spirit. "do not pity me too much; i deserve to suffer. i had no right to be so angry." "but, my cousin, surely miss seymour was in the wrong to contradict your orders?" "most certainly; but i could have told her so more quietly. i was right to reprove her, but i ought not to have suffered her to provoke me. annette, if only one could be sweet-tempered. one has to fight such a hard battle sometimes--and, oh! i am so tired of it all." "you are young, and have much to bear," returned annette, in her serious way. "and always goodness is difficult. how well do i remember my mother speaking to me on this subject. one day, as we sat together at our work, she surprised me by telling me that her temper was naturally a bad one. never shall i forget my astonishment. no, it could not be possible. 'seest thou, annette,' she said--for we talked often in the language of our adopted country--'i have taught myself, by god's help, to control it while i was young. when i first married i was very hasty, and would say bitter things when others displeased me; but one day i said to myself, 'felicia'--my mother's name was felicia--'thou art growing sharper every day. people will cease soon to love thee. thy tongue should be thy servant, not thy master.' my cousin, never have i heard an irritable word from my mother's lips; her patience and sweetness were wonderful. do you care to know how she cured herself? when her husband, her child, her servant, or perhaps some troublesome neighbor, provoked her, she would be silent a moment, then she would reply. and always she repeated the same words in her heart, 'deliver us from evil;' that was her charm of charms, as she called it. but it answered well." chapter ix. the mutual improvement society. "thank you, dear. you have done me good," returned averil, gratefully, when annette had finished her little story. "ah! that is well, my cousin." "no one has done me so much good before. but, annette, you must call me averil. we are strangers no longer. we must be sisters to each other. lottie, too; there is no need to call her miss jones." "i will remember. i will do anything that pleases you. every day i shall grow more english. i shall learn your ways." "i hope you and lottie will be good friends." "but why not? already i feel to love her. she is bright--she has a sweet temper; and then, how she plays!" "and you long to play, too?" "surely. and to sing; above all things, to sing. oh, my cousin--i mean, averil--what does that look mean? is it that you will altogether crush me with kindness? i am to dwell in this fine house, and i am to dress as grandly as the consul's lady used to dress. and still that is not enough?" "no, certainly. we must think of better things than clothes. annette, shall you think me hard if i give you books to read?" "books? ah! they will content me much. never have i had time to read, except on sunday." "lottie and i read history together. why should you not join us, annette? and then i have begun to teach her french. poor lottie's education has been sadly neglected. and she is so clever, and feels her deficiencies so deeply." "stay, my cousin--i have a notion," and annette's eyes were sparkling with eagerness. "already i have an idea. why should we not make the exchange? miss jones--lottie, i mean--shall teach me my notes in music, and i will read and talk french with her. ah! that pleases you," as averil smiled. "you think it a good idea?" "excellent! lottie is used to teaching. you will not need a master for at least a year. but there is only one obstacle in this charming scheme: how is lottie to find time for all this?" "i have thought of that, too," returned annette, gravely. "listen, my cousin. ah! you shake your head. i shall learn to say averil by and by. for myself, i love work. i can mend, i can darn--even my mother praised me, and she was hard to please. i will share lottie's tasks. when two work, the labor is sooner ended. we can talk french. our tongues will be at liberty, though our hands are busy. ah! this, too, contents you. i am happy that i have already found out a way to please you." "my dear child!" averil was almost too touched to say more. she felt a generous delight as this beautiful nature, at once so simple and so child-like, unfolded itself before her. it was her secret trouble that so few natures satisfied and responded to her own. all her life she had hungered and thirsted for sympathy, though she had long ago ceased to expect it. her father had loved her, but he had formed other ties, regardless of his child's best interests. averil's home life had been terribly isolated. her large nature had been compelled to create its own interests. for lottie she felt the affection that she would have bestowed on a young sister. lottie's gay, healthy nature, with its robust sweetness, was a singularly youthful one. she leaned on averil, and depended on her for all her comforts. but it may be doubted if she understood averil's strange, sensitive temperament. with all lottie's devotion, her dog-like fidelity, her loyal submission, she failed to give averil what she required. annette was young too, but she had been early schooled in adversity, and its bitter lessons had been tempered by the watchful love of an earthly parent. until lately, annette had not suffered alone. "my mother and i." in spite of privations, that dual existence had been sweet. annette's cheek had grown pale and thin, but her heart had kept young. no unkindness had frozen her young energies; no galling restrictions, no want of sympathy, had driven her back upon herself. she was like a closed-up flower; the sunshine would soon open the blossom. "she is different from lottie. she is older, graver, more intense," thought averil. "last night i thought her interesting; the french word _spirituelle_ seemed to express her perfectly. to-night i have found out that there are still depths to be sounded. i must not allow myself to expect too much. she may disappoint me, as others have done. it is not wise to demand too much of human nature. but already i feel to love her." they did not talk much after this. averil was obliged to own that she was weary, and that her head ached, and after a little she retired to bed. annette was almost too excited to sleep. she had found a way to make herself useful. "ah! they should see, these dear people, how she could work." annette was not a bit dismayed at the thought of the task she had set herself; the thin, slender fingers were longing to achieve those marvelous feats of invisible darning, those dainty hem-stitched borders and delicate embroideries. annette would not be daunted by any amount of dilapidated lace and frayed flounces. like alexander the great, she was longing for new worlds to conquer--those regions that belonged to her woman's kingdom. "ah! they shall see! they shall see!" she said to herself a dozen times before she fell asleep. when annette entered the dining-room the next morning she was surprised to find maud occupying averil's place. her anxious inquiries were answered carelessly. "averil had the headache. she was having breakfast in her own room. oh, there was no need to be so concerned," as annette plied her with questions. "averil was often ailing. she had wretched health. any one could see at a glance what a sickly little person she was. it was her own fault. if she would only rest more, and winter abroad, and not be running out in all weathers to see all sorts of people, she would do very well;" and here maud gave her favorite shrug, that was so expressive, and turned a cold shoulder on annette. no one else addressed her. mrs. willmot read her letters, and conversed with her daughters. lottie scarcely spoke. she ate her breakfast hurriedly, and left the room as soon as possible. annette followed her. "why is it that you are making such haste?" she asked. "is it that you have your music to practice?" "no, indeed," returned lottie, stretching her arms a little wearily; "but i have work to do that will occupy me for the rest of the day. ah! how i do hate work--at least, how i long sometimes to do something better. oh, that concert, miss ramsay, was glorious! i could scarcely sleep afterward. i think i am crazy about music. i want to try over something i heard on the grand piano; but georgina would be so vexed to hear me. she and maud want their dresses for to-morrow, and there is ever so much to do to them." "never mind; i will help you. i will fetch my new work-basket, and you shall show me your room, and you will see how much sooner the work will be done." "will you really?"--and lottie's face brightened, and her dimples came into full play. "how good-natured you are, miss ramsay!" "if i call you lottie, you must say annette also. averil, my cousin, thinks it is not well to be stiff. oh! is this your room? it is almost as pretty as mine. you have a writing-table also; and what a dear little round table for work! those are the dresses, i suppose?"--looking at some flimsy white garments on the bed, and she listened to lottie's instructions gravely. how the girls' tongues unloosed as their needles flew through the soft stuff! lottie had so much to say about the concert. her little pleasure-loving soul had been stirred to the depths by that wonderful music. "there is nothing like it--it is the highest of all the arts!" cried lottie, with flushing cheeks. "oh, i know poetry is glorious, and, of course, one must always love beautiful pictures; but, as averil says, music is the most unearthly of all the arts." "did my cousin say that?" "yes; you should hear her talk about music. as she says, there is so much about it in the bible, she thinks it will be one of the chief pleasures in heaven. don't you know how one reads of the harpers harping with their harps, and the new song before the throne? i remember when we were talking on this subject that averil showed me a verse about the predicted fall of babylon, where it said, 'the voice of harpers, and minstrels, and flute-players, and trumpeters shall be heard no more.' music was a great power even in those days." "then you will teach it to me?" asked annette; and thereupon she unfolded her scheme: how she was to share lottie's labors; how they were to talk french over their work; and how averil had promised to read to them when she had time. "we are to form a mutual improvement society, my cousin says; each is to help the other. you will have time for your beloved music. i shall listen to you, and now and then you will give me a lesson. ah! you do not speak, lottie, and yet i can see you are well pleased;" for lottie's work had dropped to her lap, and she was regarding annette with bright, wide-open eyes. "oh, i am so ashamed of myself," she returned. "miss ramsay--annette, you are heaping coals of fire on my head. do you know"--with an amusing air of contrition--"that i was dreadfully cross when averil told me you were coming to live here? i sulked about it nearly all day. 'what do you want with changes?' i said. 'this french cousin will spoil all.' oh, i was as disagreeable as possible. i was jealous because averil took such pains with your room. 'how do you know whether you will like her?' i said, more than once. but averil only laughed at my bad humor. 'i can know nothing until i see her,' she returned. 'but, all the same, her room shall be as pretty as possible.'" "oh, she is an angel, my cousin!" "you would say so if you knew all," was lottie's reply. "sometimes i wonder how she can go on living this life that is so uncongenial to her; but i know she does it partly for my sake. i was so miserable until i knew averil;" and here a shade crossed her bright face. "no one seemed to care whether i had proper things or not, and the school-girls at stoke newington laughed at my shabby frocks, though in a way they were kind to me, and would often give me some of their own things. i pretended not to care, and i would laugh with the rest of them; but i often had a good cry over it in private. i used to dream sometimes that i had a new dress, such a pretty one! and then, when i woke, the tears would come, because i was so disappointed to find it only a dream. perhaps it was wrong to fret about it. i wish i could be more like averil. i think she would wear sackcloth as happily as silk." "it seems to me that you and i, lottie, are more earthly minded. i do care exceedingly for nice things." "yes; and i used to envy the israelites. don't you remember, their clothes never wore out in the wilderness? how i used to sigh over those patches! and then the darns! i shall never forget my feelings of supreme content when i found myself the possessor of half a dozen brand new stockings." "is it that your aunt is so poor?" asked annette, in a puzzled tone. lottie colored. "well, you see, she has many expenses, and is not exactly what you call rich. mr. willmot left most of his money to averil. i have heard that there was some mistake. he thought aunt had plenty of money when he married her. and uncle certainly left her a good income. but it seems as though it has dwindled somehow. rodney costs her a good deal, and maud and georgina are extravagant. perhaps i ought not to tell you all this, but i do not wish you to be hard on them." for lottie was too generous to blame her relatives. in her heart she knew she owed them little gratitude; that her services fully repaid them for the scanty maintenance--that was all they had given her. it was averil whose roof sheltered her, who was in reality her benefactor. annette read the girl's generous reticence aright. she said no more on that subject; but she recurred regretfully to lottie's speech about her cousin's uncongenial life. "i do not understand you," she said, wistfully. "is it that monsieur was right and that my cousin would prefer to live alone? so many people must be trying, if one loves quiet. but it seems to me as if she could at all times seclude herself in her own room." "my dear annette, you forget that averil is mistress of the house. it would never do to shut herself up in her own apartments. maud would get the upper hand in a moment. and if averil were not firm--if she did not hold the reins--redfern house would be a very different place from what it is. the girls are always teasing her to have dinner-parties. they want to fill the house; but averil does so dislike a crowd. she is dreading tuesday, i know." "but what is to happen on tuesday?" "oh, only one of those stupid, senseless 'at homes.' a lot of people will come and eat ices and strawberries. there will be music that no one will hear, and a professional is going to sing. poor, dear averil, she will be as miserable as possible; and next day she will be ill, and have one of her nervous headaches. but they have teased her into sending out about two hundred invitations, and so she must go through with it." "but it is too bad. monsieur, who is her good friend, should protect her." "monsieur!" and lottie looked mystified. then a light broke on her. "do you mean mr. harland, annette?" "yes. but i think i must always call him monsieur," returned annette, softly. "he was so good to me. when i saw his gray hair and pleasant face i thought it was my cousin leonard. picture to yourself my delight in having a friendly hand held out to me. oh, he was so kind, so fatherly! i have called him monsieur always to myself." "i wonder what these two young workwomen are chattering so busily about?" asked a quiet voice at this moment, and averil smiled at them from the threshold. "so the mutual improvement society has begun, eh, lottie?" as the girls greeted her with delight. "annette, how fast you work! why, that dress is nearly done!" "she is ever so much cleverer than i," returned lottie, mournfully. "oh, dear! how quickly the time has passed. luncheon will be ready directly." "never mind; lay those dresses on the bed, and unwin shall add the finishing touches. you both looked as tired as possible. annette, we really must put some color into those pale cheeks." "you have none to spare yourself, my cousin," she replied, with an affectionate glance. averil looked wan and thin, and there were dark circles round her eyes. "come, that is too bad! when my headache is gone, and i expected a compliment. you are as bad as unwin, who wanted me to go to bed. now, lottie, i am going to show annette the parks this afternoon. a drive will do me good, and if you like you shall go too. i shall tell mrs. willmot that i want you to act as _cicerone_, as i am not equal to any exertion. we shall not go very early, so you will have time for an hour's practicing." but she was not allowed to finish her sentence, for lottie was kissing her in the most merciless manner. "you dear, sweet thing! i do so love a drive! and the park will be so amusing! perhaps we shall see the princess of wales. a concert yesterday; the park to-day--really, i am getting quite gay." "are you sure you feel fit to go?" remonstrated annette. "lottie, i thought you said my cousin disliked crowds." "oh, no; unless i have to entertain them. it is a pretty sight, i assure you; and i too, like lottie, find it very amusing. it always reminds me of britain row in 'vanity fair.' i am sure my lord luxurious, the lord desire of vain-glory, and sir having greedy are still to be found in the nineteenth century." and lottie laughed as though she understood averil's allusion. chapter x. averil at home. the next two or three days passed quickly and pleasantly to annette; "the dear fairy order," as lottie had called her playfully, during their first morning's work together, was already exercising her beneficent sway on her companion's behalf--tasks that would have entailed hours of labor on lottie were now finished long before the luncheon-bell rang. after annette's long, solitary days passed in that dark room in the rue st. joseph, these two or three hours spent with lottie, listening to her broken french, and interspersing laughing corrections, seemed merely playtime to annette. "do you know averil is fitting up a room for us?" remarked lottie, on the morning of the eventful tuesday when averil was to hold her reception, and about a hundred and fifty people had accepted her invitation to come and be bored. "she does not like the idea of our sitting in my bedroom. there is a room that is never used at the end of the corridor, and she is having it repapered, and has chosen such a pretty carpet for it; it is to be half workroom and half study; and the piano that is in rodney's room is to be taken up there for your use. you see, averil is so thoughtful, she never forgets anything, and she says it will never do for you to annoy people with practicing scales and beginner's exercises down in the morning-room." "oh, that is wise, i have thought much of this difficulty, lottie. you are very outspoken--ought you to have told me all this? did not my cousin mean to give me this little surprise?" lottie laughed, but she had the grace to look ashamed of herself. "my dear fairy order," she said, "i never can hold my tongue. averil thinks i must talk even in my sleep. well, it was naughty of me to betray averil's nice little scheme. you must just pretend to be surprised when she shows you the room. you must open your eyes widely, and say--" "but that would be deceitful," returned annette, gravely. "you are a funny little person, lottie; you would even recommend me to deceive. ah! it is your joke," as lottie only laughed again. "you are always so ready with your joke, you will not make me believe you. when averil shows me the room, i shall thank her with all my heart, but i will not be surprised--not one little bit." "you are very provoking," returned lottie, pouting. "if you had not darned maud's white silk stockings so beautifully, i would not forgive you so easily. but you are such a dear old fairy. ah! here comes averil with motley's 'dutch republic;' she is going to read to us for half an hour;" for after this pleasant, desultory fashion lottie's education was carried on; but it agreed with her wondrously well--she sipped knowledge as sweetly as a bee sips honey. annette felt unusually gay that morning; she found it a little difficult to concentrate her attention on the reading. down-stairs the rooms were decked with flowers, as though for a fête; her new dress had come home, and she was longing to try it on. she wondered how averil could sit there reading so quietly, as though no hundred and fifty people were coming. "it must be that she wishes to shut out the thought of them all," annette said to herself; and her shrewd surmise certainly grazed the truth. averil was nervously dreading the ordeal; with all her passionate desire for human sympathy, her very real love of human kind, these vapid interchanges of compliments, that passed under the name of receptions or at homes, were singularly distasteful to her. how could conversation be carried on in a crowd? how could one enjoy one's friends when civilities had to be exchanged with strangers? averil's world was not theirs; her ardent and earnest temperament could only expand in a higher temperature. she had not the graceful art of saying nothings; the trifling coinage of society, its passwords, its gay bandinage, were unknown to her. without being awkward--averil was never awkward--she was at once too grave and too reserved to make a popular hostess; and though her gatherings were successful, and people liked to come to redfern house, they were more at their ease with mrs. willmot and her daughters. "such a charming, well-bred woman!" was the universal verdict. "such a model stepmother!" averil could scarcely eat the luncheon that was served, for the sake of convenience, in rodney's snug little den. the other rooms, with the exception of averil's, were thrown open _en suite_--tea and ices and strawberries were to be served in the dining-room; the drawing and morning-rooms were for the reception; there were tent-like awnings from the windows; the lawn was dotted over with red-cushioned chairs and japanese umbrellas; and the grand piano was ready for the professionals. annette had put on her pretty black summer dress, and was regarding herself with a grave, satisfied air when averil entered. she had a little case in her hand, and a tiny bouquet of creamy rosebuds and maiden-hair. "i have come to put the finishing touches to my _débutante_," she said, smiling. "you must have a few flowers to light up your black dress, and i think this will also suit you;" and she clasped a little collar of sparkling jet round annette's throat. "is this for me? it is beautiful, beautiful! never have i possessed an ornament. but you are unadorned, my cousin!" looking at the little child-like figure. averil's soft black silk was unrelieved by anything except the delicate lace at the throat and wrists; she always dressed very simply, but to-day there was something almost severe in the absence of anything like ornament. "do not look at me," she said, hastily. "unwin always does her best for me, but she has a thankless task, annette. you look very nice. if you keep near me, i will introduce some people whom i think you will like. ah, there goes lottie!" as a white dress floated down the staircase. "we must go down, too." mrs. willmot and her daughters were already in the drawing-room, and rodney was strumming with one hand on the grand piano. mrs. willmot put up her eyeglass in rather a puzzled manner as averil entered with her cousin. "who is that distinguished-looking girl in black, maud?" she asked, in a whisper. her daughter broke into a scornful laugh. "distinguished! my dear mother, are you blind! it is only miss ramsay. i suppose averil has given her a decent frock for the first time in her life. but i can see no such wonderful transformation; she is very plain, poor girl! with her sallow skin and big eyes;" and maud turned her long neck and regarded herself in the glass that hung near them. her dress fitted to perfection, and was really very tasteful and becoming. true, it was not paid for, and she knew that her mother would treat her to an angry lecture on extravagance; but maud was quite used to these lectures. she hummed a little air, and moved through the room with that haughty insouciance that was considered her style. it was lottie who tripped up to annette, with her girlish, outspoken admiration. lottie was looking exceedingly pretty: her fresh bloom and bright expression were infinitely more attractive than maud's cold perfection of feature. "does not she look nice?" she whispered, in averil's ear; "there is something very graceful about her. if she were not quite so thin, i think she would look almost pretty." but averil had no time to answer, as two or three guests entered the room that moment. the rooms filled after this. annette, who had disregarded averil's request, and had withdrawn into a quiet corner, looked on, well amused. what a gay scene! what a hubbub of voices and light laughter! she could scarcely see averil's little figure near the door, with her stepmother's portly form behind her, as she received one guest after another. lottie was on the lawn in the midst of a bevy of girls; maud was standing near her, talking to a white-haired officer, and georgina was bandying jests with two young men; neither of them took any notice of her. presently a stout man with a sandy mustache pushed his way to the piano, and drew off his gloves. there was an instant's silence when he first struck the keys, but after a few minutes the hubbub began again. very few people listened; only two or three edged their way nearer to the piano, and hemmed in the performer. annette stood among them; the sweet sounds had beguiled her from her corner. she stood motionless, entranced, without noticing that averil was standing just behind her. "thank you so much, herr faber," observed averil, gently, as the last crashing chord had been played; but herr faber only bowed stiffly as he rose; his small blue eyes looked irritable, and he drew his brows together. "it is all in the day's work," annette heard him mutter to a friend. "to make music for those who do not listen. bah! it is thankless work. come, my hermann, we will at least make ourselves scarce until these goths require us again:" which was hardly civil of the professor, since more than one pair of ears had listened patiently to every note. "herr faber is put out, frank," observed averil, in a vexed voice: she was addressing a young man who stood beside her. annette had looked at him more than once. she had never seen him before, she did not know his name, but she seemed to recognize his face. "we must manage better next time. what shall we do to silence these people? herr faber certainly feels himself insulted." "shall i stand on a chair and cry 'silence!' at intervals? i think it would have an effect. do let me, averil." "you absurd boy! no; we must try other means before my favorite signora sings. she has the voice of a lark and the temper of--please find me a simile." but the young man only laughed and shook his head. he had a pleasant face, without being strictly good-looking. and again annette was tormented by some vague resemblance that seemed to elude her before she could grasp it. at this moment averil turned her head and saw her. "why, annette, you were just the person i wanted! where have you been hiding all this time? frank, i want you to give my cousin, miss ramsay, an ice or some strawberries. annette, this is mr. frank harland. you remember our kind old friend, do you not?" "do you mean monsieur?" with a quick flush. "how is it possible that i should ever forget him, my cousin? and you are his son? ah! that is the likeness, then," looking up at the young man a little shyly. "oh, i remember; you made my father's acquaintance at dinan. yes, i am his son and heir. i only wish i were half as good--eh, averil?" with a merry glance. "now, miss ramsay, i am to obey orders. will you allow me to pilot you through this crowd?--it is almost as intricate as a lawyer's brief." and as annette did not seem quite to understand him, he took her hand and placed it under his arm, and guided her skillfully through the various groups. "but what a crowd!" were her first words, as he found a seat for her, and ascertained her opinion on the respective merits of vanilla, coffee, and strawberry ice. "ah, yes, i do so love this sort of entertainment--don't you?" he returned, as he brought her the ice. "people do look so cool and comfortable, penned up like sheep, on a warm summer afternoon. just standing room, don't you know, and not a seat to be had, except for the dowagers. if i had a wife--but, you see, there is not a mrs. frank harland at present--i should insist on her seeing her friends in detachments, and not _en masse_, in this heathenish way. as it is, my mother's tea-parties are worth a hundred of these." "ah! you have a mother"--with a quick sigh, that made the young man glance first at her and then at her black dress. "yes; and i am the happy possessor of four sisters and three young torments of brothers. so you and my father are old acquaintances, miss ramsay?" "monsieur? but, yes, he was my first friend. never shall i forget his kindness, his consideration. if i had been a duchess instead of a poor little lace-mender he could not have treated me with greater courtesy. he is what you call an english gentleman." "dear old boy, so he is!" and mr. frank looked as though he had himself received a compliment. "old boy! that is surely not the name for him," she returned, in a rebuking tone, that greatly amused her hearer. "i do not like monsieur to be called thus." "that is because you are a stranger to our english ways," replied the young man, trying hard to restrain his inward mirth. "fellows of my age often use these sort of terms. they mean no disrespect. a man like my father never gets old. i believe he has the secret of perpetual youth. he is as young as any of us. it does one good to see his freshness. if i were only half as good!" finished mr. frank, in his cordial, hearty way. annette looked at him with interest. this eulogy entirely mollified her. "when you are as old as monsieur some one may call you 'dear old boy,' too," she said, sedately. there was no help for it. if frank must have died for it, he could not have helped laughing. he had never met any one so original as this grave, dark-eyed girl. her very freshness and absence of coquetry were refreshing contrasts to many girls that he knew. coquetry was not in annette's vocabulary. she had no acquaintance with men, either young or otherwise. a civil word from the english consul when he saw her in his wife's room; a little friendly conversation with her kind old chaplain--these were her only opportunities. true, there was clotilde's priest--a thin, brown-faced man, who took snuff, and gave her his blessing. but he was very different from this lively mr. frank, with his droll speeches and his merry laugh, and his "old boy." the young people grew quite friendly and confidential in their snug little corner, fenced in by the blossoming plants. annette was so well amused that she was almost sorry when her companion suggested that they should go back to the drawing-room. "we have lost the signora's song, and there is herr faber crashing among the keys again. there are lots of people i know, and to whom i must make myself agreeable. one must not be selfish, miss ramsay." but it may be doubted if annette understood the implied compliment. chapter xi. "a plain, homely little body." at their entrance into the dining-room frank harland found himself surrounded by a group of friends. as one of them addressed him, annette, with much tact, slipped away with a softly whispered excuse. she had caught sight of averil at the other end of the room. averil beckoned her to a chair beside her. "what have you done with frank?" she asked, smiling. "i thought i put you in his charge. ah! there he is with the courtlands, surrounded as usual. he is a general favorite." "one need not wonder at that," returned annette, sedately. "i have never talked to any young man before, but i found him very pleasant. he has been telling me about monsieur and his mother. he seems to have a happy home, my cousin." "yes, grey-mount is a dear old house; and all the harlands are nice. they are very dear friends of mine, annette, and one day i must take you to see them. a day at grey-mount always does me good. and there is another place--well, frank"--as that individual made his way to them rather hastily. "i have shaken off that young puppy, fred courtland. i hate fellows who scent themselves. faugh! you have been talking for the last two hours, and i dare say no one has thought of getting you a cup of tea." "no, never mind." returned averil, smiling. "the signora is going to sing again, and i must not leave the room just now. no, indeed, frank," as he seemed determined to argue the point. "let me listen to her first, and then i will go with you." "all right. but please understand that i am to have the monopoly of your conversation. no followers allowed at present." and to annette's amusement he coolly took up his position so as to fence annette completely from notice, and his monopoly of conversation consisted of an unbroken silence. averil seemed perfectly satisfied with this arrangement. she leaned back in her chair and listened to the song, and a more rested look came upon her face as the high, pure notes of the signora's voice floated through the room. some degree of attention was paid to the gifted young vocalist; but just at the last a group outside the window, beside which frank harland was standing, began talking rather too audibly. "miss seymour," observed a languid, drawling voice, "i wish you could inform me where i can find my hostess. it is awkward, to say the least of it, when one has no conception of a person." "i do not see her at present," returned maud, coldly. "it will not be easy to find her in this crowd. a very small person in black. that is the only description i can give you, captain faucit. a plain, homely little body like miss willmot is not very easy to describe." "no, indeed!" and here mrs. willmot's smooth voice chimed in. "my step-daughter is a sad invalid, captain faucit. dear averil is quite a recluse. one can not wonder at it"--dropping her voice, although every word was distinctly audible. "with her affliction, poor girl, her want of health, and her deformity, the world offers few attractions." "now for the tea, averil!" exclaimed mr. frank, briskly. he had set his teeth hard for a moment, and his hand was clinched, as though it longed to do injury to some one; but the next moment he was leaning over averil's chair with a gentle, brotherly sort of freedom. "come," he said, touching her cold little hand. "a cup of strong tea--that is my mother's panacea for all ills." averil rose and took his arm without a word. there was a dark, pained flush on her face, a strained look in her eyes, as though the cruel words had gone home. annette looked after her pitifully. she could see that kind mr. frank was still talking to her. he was very tall, and had to stoop a good deal. "a plain, homely body, indeed!" groaned annette. "and she looked so sweet just now. deformity! oh, what a wicked, wicked lie!" for once annette did not measure her words. "what does it matter, such a little thing as that? what does it matter that she is not as tall and straight as lottie, when every one loves her?" annette's pleasure in the fête was over. she could hardly keep her tears back as she sat there. where was lottie? she had not once come across her. but even as the thought passed through her mind lottie waved to her gayly. she was sitting under the awning with a merry group of girls, and seemed happy and well amused. annette felt far too miserable to join them. the room was thinning now. the professionals had gone. a little later on she saw averil glide quietly to her stepmother's side, as the guests made their adieus. the next moment mr. frank came up to her corner. "i must be going too," he said rather gravely. "i hope every one has had as pleasant an afternoon as i have;" but he spoke without his old gayety. "the afternoon is spoiled to me," returned annette, with more vehemence than caution. "mr. frank harland, why is it that people are so cruel? why do they hurt my cousin, who has the goodness of an angel? this is all they give her in return for so much generosity." frank harland's lips twitched a little under the brown mustache. "you must not ask me, miss ramsay," he said hurriedly. "i can't help it if people will be such brutes. i beg your pardon--i believe it was a lady who spoke. i only know i had to pull myself up pretty tight. that fellow faucit spoke to her just. i longed to kick him." "i do not like these seymours," returned annette, with the same frankness with which she would have talked to lottie. "they take too much, and they give nothing back. every day my cousin has much to bear--to suffer. if she were not a good christian, she would not be so patient." "ask my father what he thinks of averil," was frank's reply. "oh, i know all about it. it pretty nearly sickens me to see the airs they all give themselves. if they would only treat her decently. miss jones knows my opinion--we have often talked about it. good-bye, miss ramsay. i dare say we shall meet again soon;" and he shook hands with her heartily. "she is not a bad sort, and she is fond of averil already," he thought; for the harlands, from the eldest to the youngest, were stanch to averil, and frank especially had a brotherly affection for the gentle little creature. annette, after all, did not tell lottie. lottie was so gay, so excited, so full of the afternoon's delights, that she had not the heart to damp her; and when lottie said, "and you have enjoyed yourself, too, annette?" she only answered, rather soberly, "yes, very much." but she hardly dared look at averil that evening, the shade was still so deep in her eyes, and the grave, measured tones spoke so clearly to her ears of repressed melancholy. only when she bade her good-night averil detained her. "annette, i understand," she said, softly; "but there is no need to take it so much to heart." annette started. "what is it you mean, my cousin? i have said nothing." "no; only you have looked so sorry for me all the evening. my stepmother meant nothing--it was only her way. if only"--here she caught her breath, as though something stabbed her--"if only frank had not heard her! my dear, there are tears in your eyes. why, what nonsense! as though i am not used to it by this time. no, i am not deformed--there was no need to put it quite so strongly--but a little crooked creature such as i am has long outlived vanity." "my cousin, you shall not talk so--it hurts me. to me you are beautiful; and lottie says so, too." averil laughed a little mirthless laugh; she was so tired, so worn out with all sorts of conflicting feelings, that she felt she must laugh or cry; but annette's grieved look seemed to rebuke her. "i meant it--i meant it truly," she said. "thank you, dear. what a blessing love is so blind sometimes. well, i hope to be beautiful some day"--and here her eyes softened; "there will be no little homely bodies in heaven, annette." "there will be no cruel words either, my cousin." "hush! you are as bad as frank. they did not mean to be cruel. mrs. willmot thinks so much of good looks. all her children are handsome. she is a good-looking woman herself. she attaches too much importance to outward appearance. personally she means me no unkindness." annette was silent; if she had known these words, she would have quoted them: "evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as by want of heart." what utter want of delicacy to speak of the daughter of her dead husband in such contemptuously pitying terms to a stranger! averil seemed battling with some unusual mood, for she continued quickly, almost impatiently: "do not think that i am not grateful to you for your sympathy; but you must not spoil me; one wants to be strengthened, not weakened. there was a noted saint once--his name was francis xavier--and his prayer used to be: 'lord, remove not this cross until it has worked that in me for which thou didst send it.' it was a grand prayer, annette--it included so much." "my cousin, we are not saints; few of us could say that prayer." "no; but we must all try our poor little best; we must not feed our pride and self-love. now bid me good-night, and put all speeches, unkind or otherwise, out of your head;" and averil kissed her affectionately. there was a saying that averil greatly loved, and which is generally attributed to thomas à kempis: "i have sought rest everywhere, and have found it nowhere, save in a little corner with a little book." how often, during the last five years, she had entered her room, feeling bruised and weary from contact with hard, uncongenial natures, and had risen from her knees feeling quieted and refreshed. this night, when unwin had left her, she opened a favorite book that always lay beside her bible; its title had attracted her--"weariness"--and in its kindly, consoling pages she had found endless comfort. a passage she had marked and remarked now met her eye: "night after night, as you lie down to rest, the weary day ended, think that a day offered to god in weariness and quiet endurance may bring you fuller joy than the brightest, happiest seasons of enjoyment can do; and when morning brings a fresh beginning, it may be of weariness of body and spirit, strive to hear the voice of god saying: 'my son, it is thus i will that thou shouldst serve me. if i will that thy service be weary and lifeless, and deficient in all earthly reward, and pleasure, what is that to thee, so long as it is my will? what i do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter. follow thou me without questioning the love which inflicts this weariness and sadness, and seeming privation of all thou most delightest in.'" averil closed the book and sat motionless for awhile. outside, the summer moonlight was steeping everything in its pure white light, the night-dews were bathing the sleeping flowers. "i have not been good to-day," she said, presently. "what does it matter if he heard it? it is better so--it makes no difference. i will not let this fatal sadness conquer me. to-morrow i will go down to the dove-cote, and i will take annette;" and with this resolution averil slept. the next morning, as annette was standing by her window watching a pair of quarrelsome sparrows, who had fallen out over a moldy crust, and who were pecking at each other's soft feathered bodies with angry, defiant chirps, there was a tap at her door, and averil entered fully dressed, without a trace of last night's cloud on her serene face. "good-morning, annette. are you nearly ready? for i have ordered an early breakfast for you and lottie and myself. i am going a little way into the country to see some friends of mine, and if you like the idea you shall go with me." "oh, that is good--delightful! what friends are these, my cousin? is it monsieur and--" "my dear child!" and averil could not forbear a smile, "the harlands are not my only friends. i see you are pining for a sight of monsieur, as you persist in calling him, so i shall have to take you to grey-mount. but to-day i am going to my dove-cote. no; you shall not ask me any questions. wait until you see my friends. now, you must hurry, for the gong will sound in less than ten minutes, and the carriage will be round at half past nine. put on your new cambric--we are going to have a hot day." annette was not long in finishing her toilet; but averil and lottie were already seated at the breakfast-table. lottie made a little grimace when she saw annette. "what a charming day you are going to have! i do love the dove-cote. averil is very disagreeable not to invite me too." "but are you not going lottie?" and annette regarded her with some surprise. but averil answered for her. "no, dear; it is your turn to-day, and lottie is only pretending to be vexed. she knows she has far too much to do. there are letters to be written, and georgina wants her to go with her to kew, as maud is engaged. lottie will enjoy that, especially as she will meet some of her own friends." "oh, that is all very well," grumbled lottie who looked as fresh and bright as the morning. "but i would rather be with you and annette. i don't care about the courtlands, and unless mr. frank will be there--" "he will be there," returned averil, quickly. "he told me so yesterday. and his friend, mr. chesterton, will be there. lottie, you are getting up a grievance for nothing. the party will be as nice as possible." but lottie made no answer, and she was remarkably silent the remainder of the meal. "is life to be one fête?" thought annette, as she put on her new shady hat, and selected a pair of gloves from the smart little case on her toilet-table. no more mended finger-tips, no more frayed and faded ribbons for the young lace-mender. "tell me, my cousin--are your friends grand?" she asked, as the carriage bore them swiftly in the direction of paddington. but averil refused to answer. "you shall judge of my friends when you see them, annette, dear. they are very dear friends. i call them my family. some of the happiest hours of my life--and, thank god, i have had many happy hours--have been spent at the dove-cote." "it is, then, dearer to you than grey-mount?" averil hesitated, and was half annoyed, half amused at this curious pertinacity on her cousin's part. "comparisons are odious," she said, lightly. "one does not measure one's friendship. mr. harland is my very good friend; but still"--with a thoughtful look and a sigh that was quickly repressed--"i am happier at the dove-cote." here the carriage stopped, and in the bustle of taking tickets, and finding a less crowded compartment, the subject dropped. chapter xii. the dove-cote. the next hour passed quickly. averil had her book, and annette amused herself with looking out of the window. "how could one read," she thought, "when the sun was shining, and the foals were frolicking beside their mothers, and every green field had its picturesque group of feeding cattle and sheep? it was like turning over the pages of a picture-book. now they came to a cluster of cottages with a little norman church, half hidden in trees; then a winding road; a clear, silvery river, with gay little boats floating on it, with fine houses beside it; then another pastoral scene, and so on. is not the world beautiful?" thought annette, as the train stopped, and averil beckoned to her. she was almost sorry that the journey was over. she heard averil order a fly, and then followed her into a curious old inn. they sat for a few minutes in a close, stuffy parlor, with a print of the battle of trafalgar over the fire-place. "we have a mile and a half still to go," averil said. "if i could only walk through those delicious lanes! but old jemmy always has to take me. ah! there comes our chariot. rather a ramshackle affair, is it not, annette? but jemmy and his old mare are both worthy creatures." annette had no fault to find with the lumbering wheezy vehicle; she was looking delightedly at the rich hedge-rows with their wealth of wild-flowers, at the rustic cottages with their gay little gardens, at the green fields with browsing cattle. every moment there was something to admire. presently they came to a sort of hamlet; there was a village inn, with the duck and drake swinging on the old sign-board, a few scattered cottages with heavy thatched roofs, and a small green with snow-white geese waddling over it. here jemmy, a gray-haired, wizen-faced man drew up of his own accord. "there be the dove-cote, surely," he said, pointing down a steep lane. "i suppose there be no need to come further." "no; the goose green will do. come for me at the usual time, jemmy, and wait for me here;" and averil dismissed him with a kindly nod. annette was looking round her in some perplexity. there were the inn and the cottages, but where could the dove-cote be? she could see no house of any pretension, only in the distance, half-way down the lane, there was a low gray roof half hidden in trees. "yes, that is the dove-cote," observed averil, walking in her usual slow fashion across the little green, while the geese stretched their long necks and hissed after her. "is this not a sweet little nook, annette? how the children do love this lane! it is a perfect play-ground for them. in autumn, when the blackberries are ripe, you can see them with their little tin pails, scratching themselves with the brambles, and half smothered with travelers' joy. ah! there is daddy, sunning himself, with bob asleep beside him. well, annette," unlatching a little white gate as she spoke, "welcome to the dove-cote." annette was a good deal surprised. it was only a cottage, after all, or, more correctly speaking, two cottages, for there were two stone porches and two open doors; a long strip of flower-garden was on one side, and a still narrower strip of smoothly mown turf on the other. there was an elm-tree with a circular seat, on which an old man was sitting, and a black terrier was curled up beside him. "well, daddy, where is the corporal?" asked averil, in her clear voice, as the old man rose up rather stiffly, and, leaning on his stick, gave her a military salute. he was a very tall old man, with a long gray beard, and his joints were not so supple as they used to be, for he seemed to support himself with difficulty. as averil spoke the terrier gave a shrill bark of welcome, and came limping over the grass on three legs, and annette saw the fourth was missing. "the corporal is at work among the cabbages, and snip is helping him, ma'am. snip's a terrible hand at digging. corporal said to me as we were smoking our pipes yesterday, 'snip's a handy fellow. he will be worth his salt presently. he puts his heart into things, snip does, if it is pulling up a weed or hoeing a potato-bed. he don't shirk work like other boys of his age, don't snip.'" "i am glad to hear that," returned averil. "the corporal is not one to bestow praise where it is not due. i was very anxious about poor snip. i was rather fearful how he might turn out. it would not do to expect too much, daddy. a city arab seldom has his fair chances. if you had told me that he spent his day in turning somersaults and making catherine-wheels of himself among the corporal's cabbages, i should not have been surprised." the old soldier smiled grimly. "well, he has a refresher sometimes, and stands with his heels uppermost when his feelings is too many for him--when he has had his fill of pudding, perhaps. mother midge says it is by way of grace. she finds the boy somewhat aggravating in the house. he is better out among the pensioners; the pensioners are not so mortal particular as to manners." averil broke into a merry laugh. daddy was evidently a wag in his way. there was a twinkle in his eye as he patted bob, as though he had enunciated a clever joke. "we will go to them presently; but we must first pay our respects to mother midge. ah, methuselah"--as a crippled jackdaw hobbled across the grass, and greeted her hoarsely. "is he not a wise-looking bird, annette? he and bob are such friends. they are like daddy and the corporal." at that moment a little woman in gray, with a droll, weather-beaten face and a pair of spectacles perched on the top of an absurdly small nose, suddenly appeared on one of the porches, and clapped her hands delightedly at the sight of her visitors. "dear me! if it is not miss willmot," she exclaimed, "and you are as welcome as flowers in may. come in out of the sun, my dear, and you shall have a glass of cherry's milk. she is yielding us a grand supply just now, and, though i say it that should not, i don't believe there is sweeter milk to be found anywhere." "wait a moment, mother midge," as the little woman was bustling away; "i want you to speak to my new cousin first. annette, this lady's name is really bennet--miss lydia bennet--but she is always known among us as mother midge." "and it is a name i love, ever since dear little barty gave it to me. poor little lamb! but he is better off now." mother midge was no beauty, certainly. there was something comical, something altogether incongruous, in the lined forehead and gray hair, and the pert little nose and those bright, kittenish blue eyes. but she had the sweetest voice in the world. "but it is so strange a name," objected annette, in her serious manner. averil seemed amused, but mother midge gave a little sigh. "my dear young lady," she said, gently, "the name has never seemed droll to me, for it was the last word dear little barty ever spoke. shall i tell you about him? miss willmot found him--she finds them all. he was a mere baby, and nearly skin and bone when he came here. he and a sister a year or two older were turned on the streets to beg, and the brute who owned them--i believe she called herself their mother, only the dumb beasts have more compassion on their young--had turned them out of doors to sleep. oh! you look shocked; but one sees such cases in the paper. the little creatures were found on a doorstep one snowy evening. deb had taken off her frock to wrap round barty, who was ill and coughing. well, he did not last long--one could not wonder at that, after all that exposure and ill-usage; but we made him very happy as long as he lived. mother midge was the name he gave me. no one knew what it meant, but deb taught it to the others. well, i was sitting with him on my lap one afternoon--i knew the end was near--and i was talking to him and deb about heaven--for they were just like heathens--and, baby as he was, barty was as clever and acute as possible. just as i was talking, i felt his little bony hand creep up to my neck; 'i don't want no 'eavens,' he whispered, hoarsely; 'i'd like better to stop along of deb and mother midge.' those were his last words. but maybe he has changed his mind since then," finished the little woman, softly. "and deb! where is deb?" asked annette, eagerly. "oh, you shall see her presently. deb is my right hand. now i must go and fetch you the milk and a slice of home-made cake, for you must be starving." annette looked round the room as mother midge trotted off. it was a small room, and very simply furnished. there was a square of carpet that did not quite cover the white boards; there were one or two well-worn easy-chairs, a work-table, a comfortable-looking couch, and some well-arranged book-shelves. "this is the midge's nest," observed averil, who noticed annette's perplexity. "ah! i see you are dying to question me; but there is no time now. mother midge is a wonderful woman, though i dare say a certain person, if she knew of her existence, would certainly call her a plain, homely little body. but she has a great soul. she is one of god's heroines!" "my cousin, forgive me if i am pertinacious. who are these people? i do not understand." "lottie, when she wants to tease me, calls them my waifs and strays. but they are no such things. this is my family. i lead two lives, annette. when things go wrong with me, and i get out of harmony with my surroundings, i take refuge with mother midge and her children. nothing does me so much good. hush! not a word of this at redfern house. no one knows of the dove-cote but lottie. ah! here come our refreshments. mind you praise the cake, for if there be one thing on which mother midge prides herself it is her seed-cake." annette ate and drank in a sort of dream. what new views in life were opening before her! this, then, was averil's secret--the little refuge that the young heiress had provided for a few stricken creatures who had fallen in the battle of life. annette was to hear all about it presently; now she could only look round her and wonder, with a sort of touched reverence. "now we must go and see jack," observed averil, as she swept the crumbs from her lap. "annette, do you see there are two cottages? we have added a new wing. there was no room big enough for the children, and no place for them to sleep. this is the corporal's room, as we call it, where the old men sit and smoke their pipes. this"--as they entered a clean, spacious room, with a long table and some forms, and a few gay scripture prints hanging on the walls--"this is where the children live. they are with the corporal now, all except jack"--walking up to the window, where there was a small couch covered with a red quilt. "well, my little man, how does the world go with you?" "thank you, ma'am, i'm spry!" returned a small chirping voice, and a shock head, covered with rough, carroty hair, raised itself from the pillow. annette gave a pitying exclamation. could it be a child's face, with those hollow, sunken features, those lusterless, staring eyes? a skeleton hand and arm were thrust out from the quilt. "i'm spry, ma'am, and the dodger is spry too. come out, you varmint, when the leddy's asking after your 'ealth!"--and jack, panting, and with infinite difficulty, extracted a miserable-looking gray creature, evidently a veteran who had certainly run the tether of its nine lives, and was much battered in consequence. "oh, the dodger is spry, is he?" observed averil, with much interest, as the cat purred feebly, and began licking its lean sides. "but i hope both you and he mean to get fatter with all your good living." "jack was found in a cellar, annette," she continued, stroking the shock head tenderly--"in a den of thieves. some murder had been committed in a drunken brawl. the gang had been obliged to seek a fresh hiding-place, and jack, who was crippled with hip disease, had been left there, forgotten. the good city missionary who discovered him, and told me the story, found him lying on a heap of moldy straw under the grating, with the cat beside him. they were both nearly starved, and half dead with cold--weren't you, jack?" "we was, ma'am, just so," was jack's response. "the dodger had brought me a mouse, but i could not stomach sich food. dodger hasn't nothing to say to mice now. he feeds like an alderman, he does. spry! that ain't the word for it, ma'am--he is just bursting with enjoyment, is the dodger." averil smiled faintly; but as they left the room, she said in a low voice, "how long do you think he will last, mother midge?" mother midge only shook her head. "the dear lord only knows that, miss willmot. but they are making room for him and the dodger up there, surely." annette opened her eyes rather widely at this remark. but averil pressed her arm meaningly. "don't take any notice," she whispered, when the little woman had gone on a few steps. "this is only one of her notions. she will have it that animals are to go to heaven too. i have never heard her reason it out; but she is very angry if any one ventures to dispute her theory. 'the whole creation groaneth and travaileth together in pain,' she says, sometimes. 'but it will all be set right some day.' i never argue against people's pet theories when they are as harmless as this." mother midge had preceded them into a small kitchen, where a diminutive girl, with a sharp precocious face, was scouring some tins. a stolid looking young woman, with rather a vacant expression, was basting a joint. "that's deb," remarked averil, with a kindly nod to the little girl, "and this is molly." a gleam of pleasure, that seemed to light up the coarse, heavy features, crossed molly's face at the sight of her. "i'm fain to see you, ma'am," she muttered with a courtesy to the strange lady, and then she turned to her basting again. "molly does wonders, and she is a first-rate teacher for deb," observed mother midge, as they left the kitchen. "i am not going to tell you molly's history, miss ramsay. i see no use in burdening young minds with oversorrowful stories. it is grief for her child that has nearly blunted poor molly's wits. the little one had a sad end. but she is getting over it a little--and jack does her good. i hope for molly's sake jack will be spared, for she just slaves for him. now we will go out in the kitchen-garden and see the corporal." chapter xiii. mother midge and the corporal. a long sloping piece of ground behind the two cottages had been laid out as a kitchen-garden. the trim condition of the beds, the neatly weeded paths, all bore traces of the corporal's industry. but neither he nor his assistants were to be seen. an overturned basket, with a hoe and a rake lying beside it, and a boy's battered straw hat, alone bore evidence of the morning's work. the bees were hovering over the thyme, and a little white rabbit, that had escaped from its hutch, was feasting on one of the finest cabbages. "where can they be?" asked averil; and mother midge, whose sharp ears had caught the sound of voices, suggested they were in the field with the pensioners, a surmise which proved to be perfectly correct. the field lay on the other side of the lane. it was a large field, and boasted of a cow-house and a couple of sheds. the corporal was sitting on the gate, with a small group of boys round him, whom he seemed haranguing. he had taken his pipe out of his mouth, and was gesticulating with it. he was a small, wiry man, with gray stubby hair, and a pair of twinkling black eyes. he had a large nose and a deep voice, which were the only big things about him. "it is no good you youngsters argufying with me," the corporal was saying, with an appearance of great severity. "what i say i sticks to. that 'ere boy is a bully"--pointing to a small lad with the innocent eyes of a cherub. "please, mr. corporal, i b'ain't that," replied the child, with a terrified sniff. "don't you bandy words with me," continued the corporal, sternly. "the boy who shies stones at old billy ought to be made an example of--that is what i say." "please, sir, it was only fun," stammered the culprit. "billy knows i would not hurt him." "what is the matter, corporal?" interposed averil, briskly. "tim hasn't got into mischief again, has he?" laying her hand caressingly on the curly head. "servant, ma'am"--and the corporal saluted her stiffly. "it is all along of billy's snorting and scampering, and kicking up his hoofs, that i knew that mischief was going on. that boy"--pointing to the still sniffing cherub--"goes without his pudding to-day. look at billy, ma'am, and if ever a horse is injured in his tenderest feelings, that horse is billy. he can't stomach the sweetest patch of grass, he is that wounded--and all along of tim." "oh, fy, tim!" was all averil ventured to say--for the corporal was a severe disciplinarian, and allowed no infraction of rules. any want of kindness to the pensioners was always punished severely. "go back to your weeding, sir," continued the corporal, and tim slunk away. averil looked after him regretfully. "is he not a pretty boy?" she whispered, so that the others could not hear her. "he is the corporal's favorite, though you would not think so to hear him. tim and his hurdy-gurdy and monkey came here a year ago. he was found sitting beside a dry ditch one winter evening--his drunken father was lying at the bottom. it was impossible to say whether tim or the monkey looked most miserable. the poor things were half starved, and had been cruelly used. topsy--that is the monkey--is in one of the sheds. now, if there is a thing in the world tim loves, it is his monkey. half tim's grief at the loss of his pudding will be that topsy will forfeit his share. topsy is one of our pensioners. that is billy"--pointing to a lean old horse at the further end of the field. two donkeys and an old goat were feeding near him. a toothless old sheep-dog, and a yellow mongrel with half a tail, were lying on a mat in front of the shed, basking in the sunshine. "the pensioners are all old then, my cousin?" "billy is old, and floss, the sheep-dog, and nanny also. anyhow, my pensioners all have a history. they have been through the furnace of affliction--even that lame duck. only cherry, and the cocks and hens, have led a happy existence. the dove-cote has its rules, and one of these is, kindness toward our four-legged pensioners." "it is a good rule. your pensioners seem well content. who are these other boys?" evidently the corporal thought annette's question was addressed to him, for he struck in briskly: "this is snip, ma'am"--pointing to a sturdy-looking lad with a merry face. "this is the fellow who aggravates our feelings by making a spread-eagle of himself, and walking down the paths with his feet in the air, and bob barking alongside of him. not but what snip can do his fair share of work too. i'd back that boy for hoeing a bed or training a creeper against any gardener in the land"--this in a loud aside that was perfectly audible to the grinning snip. "then there's dick"--singling out the next, a shambling, awkward boy, with a vacant, gentle face. "dick is the fellow who minds the pensioners. who says dick isn't bright, when he can milk cherry and harness mike and floss? law bless you! if all the boys were as clever as dick we should do well. dick has nothing to say to book-learning"--dropping his voice mysteriously. "too many kicks in early life have put a stop to that. dick couldn't spell his own name--couldn't answer a question without a stutter. but he is a rare one among the animals. the worst of it is, he gets into a rage if he sees any one else misuse them. he had collared tim, and would have made an end of him in no time if billy had not snorted and kicked up his heels." dick seemed perfectly impervious to the corporal's criticism. he shambled away in an aimless manner. "there is only wee robbie left," interrupted mother midge, as the corporal laid down his empty pipe and paused for breath. "he is our baby now, since dear little barty left us. there are two other graves besides his. we call them gardens. we can not hinder some of our doves from flying away. look at him!" as the little creature rubbed his face lovingly against her gown. "that is his way of showing affection, for wee robbie is deaf and dumb." averil sat down and lifted him on to her lap, while the corporal made his salute, and hurried after his boys. "he does not grow much," she said, touching his cheek softly. "annette, we have no idea of his age. he is just wee robbie. he is almost as small as he was that day when we first saw him;" and averil gave a faint shudder at the remembrance. "did you find this little one also, my cousin?" "yes," returned averil, rocking him in her arms, while a soft, pitying look came into her eyes. "i have spoken to you once or twice of a city missionary who tells me of cases. his name is stevenson; he is a good man, and we are great friends. i was with him one day. i had just been to see daddy, who was very ill. we were passing a public-house--it was in whitechapel, but i forget the name; it is unfamiliar to me. it was a wretched street, and the public-house was one of the lowest of its kind. just as we were passing, a miserable-looking tramp, with a child in her arms, reeled out of the doorway. a man was following her. there was some quarrel; she put down the child on the pavement and flew at the man with the ferocity of a wild-cat. mr. stevenson wanted me to move on, but i had caught sight of the child's face, and it seemed to rivet me--such a white baby face, with such a dumb, agonized terror stamped on it. 'the child! we can not leave the child!' i kept saying. but mr. stevenson prevailed on me to take refuge in a shop near. a crowd was collecting; there was no policeman, and no attempt was being made to stop the drunken brawl. an hour later mr. stevenson entered with a shocked face. he had the child in his arms; it looked half dead with fright. 'it is too horrible,' he said. 'the woman is dead. no one would interfere, and the brute--they say it is her husband--gave her a push, and she fell and struck her head against the curb. they have taken the man into custody. he is too drunk to know what has happened. here is the child. they tell me he is a deaf-mute. did ever any one see such a pitiful sight in a christian country? alas! that such things should be.' i was sitting by daddy's fireside. the corporal got me some water, and we washed the poor little creature (for he was in the most filthy condition), and wrapped him up in an old shawl, and gave him some warm bread and milk. his baby breath reeked of gin. but he was famished, and took the warm food greedily. there was no mother midge then. the dove-cote was not in existence. i was obliged to leave him with the corporal until i could find some one to take care of him. oh, there is the dinner-bell! do you hear the boys scampering to the house? we must follow them, or the corporal will have said grace." it was a curious dinner-party, but averil looked happier than annette had ever seen her, as she sat between wee robbie and deb. the corporal sat at one end of the table, with mother midge opposite to him. deb and snip waited on every one. and several of the pensioners, including topsy and the lame jackdaw, were waiting for their portion of the meal. the boys were on their best behavior before averil. even snip did not venture on one somersault. tim's face grew a little sorrowful when he caught sight of the pudding. a lean, brown arm was already clutching his coat-sleeve, and the monkey's melancholy eyes were fixed on the empty plate. "topsy shall have some of mine," whispered averil. and tim's face cleared like magic. when dinner was over, the boys rushed off to play in the field, and the corporal and daddy lighted their pipes and strolled to the gate to overlook them. mother midge was busy, and averil proposed that she and annette should sit under the elm-tree. "everything goes on just as usual when i am here," she explained. "by and by the boys will come to their lessons. the corporal teaches them to read and write. i have not shown you my bedroom, annette. i often spend a night or two here. the thought of my dove-cote helps me over my worst times." "will you tell me how you came to think of it first, my cousin?" "well, it is not much of a story. there were the two old men, you see. oh, i forgot! i never told you about them. mr. stevenson had found them out. one day as we were talking, he told me of an old soldier who was very ill, and who was living in a miserable garret. 'he has a friend with him,' he said, 'an old soldier, too--an ingenious fellow, who supports them both by carving little wooden toys and selling them. they are not related to each other, only old comrades. and it is wonderful how neat and ship-shape the place is. the corporal is as handy as a woman. i wish you would go and see them, miss willmot. they seem to me fine fellows, the corporal especially.' "fine fellows indeed! would you believe it, annette, that the corporal was living on tea and bread, and working eighteen hours out of the twenty-four to keep himself and his old chum from the disgrace of the work-house? 'it is not the place for her majesty's soldiers, ma'am,' observed the corporal to me. 'i think it would break daddy's heart to take his medals into that sort of place. no, ma'am, asking your pardon. the work-house and the jail are not for the likes of us. we don't mind starving a bit if we can keep a roof over our heads. if only daddy could work! but when rheumatics gets into the bones there's no getting it out again.' well, i took a fancy to these brave, kindly old men. i thought it was a noble thing for the corporal to be starving himself for his friend. if you want heroism, you will find it among the poor. i used to go and see them constantly. i sent in a doctor for daddy, and nourishing food, and warm blankets, and some fuel for the fireless grate. but i think some good tobacco from mr. harland pleased them most. it seemed to make a different man of daddy. well, i did not see my way clear at first. i had found wee robbie, and the corporal was minding him. they were still in their miserable garret. then all at once the thought came to me, why should not mother midge take care of them all?" "then you knew her also." "oh, yes, i knew her. she was one of mr. stevenson's friends, and i had already heard her history. hers is such a sad story. there are no happy stories at the dove-cote. she was the youngest of a large family. her father was a lawyer. he was a bad, dishonest man, and very brutal to his wife and daughters. he had even turned them out-of-doors, when he was in one of his mad rages. he was taken up at last for disposing of some trust money. i think he speculated with it. but before the trial came on he died from some short inflammatory illness. mother midge was hardly grown up then. but she has a keen recollection of all that miserable time. "the mother sunk into a chronic invalid. one of her daughters was crippled; the rest worked at dress-making and millinery. once they kept a little school. but the name of bennet was against them. they had no friends; people seemed to be shy of them. years of struggle followed, during which first one, then another, succumbed. they were all delicate except mother midge. she was the youngest and sturdiest of them all. when i first knew her she was all alone. her last sister was just buried. she was working for a ladies' outfitting shop, and was very poorly paid. her eyesight, too, was failing, partly from impure air and insufficient food. i thought, why should not lydia bennet make a home for my dear old men? i spoke to mr. harland, and he humored my fancy. dear father was just dead, and he thought the plan would occupy my thoughts a little. he bought the cottages for me, and the field, and i furnished a few rooms. mother midge took possession, and then came the two old men and wee robbie. barty and deb came next. it is only a family, annette. we do not pretend to do great things. three of my children--little barty, and freddy, and nan, have left us--flown away, as mother midge says. jack will be the next to go. we have room for two more. and as the pensioners die off we shall replace them. you have no idea how wisely mother midge and the corporal rule. these neglected children learn to obey, and soon discover that their happiness consists in keeping the rules. we allow no idleness. every child feels that he earns his or her daily bread. even dick, with his limited intellect, has work that he can do. ah! there they go to their lessons," as the little knot of lads hurried past, with the corporal at their head. and then came mother midge with her knitting, and wee robbie. "no one can teach wee robbie anything," said averil; "but in his own way he is as happy as the day is long." chapter xiv. "when the cat is away." two or three hours later, as they were crossing the little goose green in the sunset, averil said softly to mother midge: "i have had such a nice time. the sweet country air and the sound of the children's voices have destroyed all the cobwebs." "i am so glad of that, dearie," was mother midge's answer; and then jemmy touched his old white hat to them, and again they drove through the still, dewy lanes. averil leaned back against the shabby cushions. annette thought she was tired, and left her undisturbed; but it was not fatigue that sealed averil's lips. a sweet spell of rest, of thankfulness, of quiet heart-satisfaction, seemed to infold her. these sort of moods were not rare with averil; she had her hours of exaltation, when life seemed very sweet to her, and the discords of existence, its chilling disappointments, its weary negations, and never-ending responsibilities, lay less heavily on her, as though invisible hands had lifted the burden, and had anointed her eyes with some holy chrism. then it was that averil grasped the meaning and beauty of a life that to those who loved her seemed overfull of care and anxiety--when the veil seemed lifted; and as she looked round on the few helpless creatures whom she fed and sheltered, she felt no personal happiness could be so sweet as this power of giving happiness to others. "what does it matter," she said softly, to herself--and a solemn look came into her eyes as she looked over the tranquil landscape--"what does it matter if one be a little lonely, a little weary sometimes, if only one can help others--if one can do a little good work before the master calls us? to go home and have no sheaves to take with us, oh, that would be terrible!" "i wonder if lottie has had a happy day, too?" observed annette, as they came in sight of redfern house. the moon was shining; through the open windows came the sound of laughter, of voices. averil roused herself with an effort. "they seem very merry," she said, tranquilly. "annette, i have ordered supper to be laid in my sitting-room. i knew they would have finished dinner by this time. when you have taken off your hat, will you join me there?" "may i speak to you a moment, ma'am?" asked roberts. "captain beverley and mr. forbes are dining here, and--" but annette did not hear any more. she was tired and hungry; she made a speedy toilet. as she ran down-stairs she was surprised to find averil still in her walking-dress. "do not wait for me," she said, hastily. "roberts, will you see my cousin has all she wants? annette, i am sorry, but i shall not be long." averil's room looked the picture of comfort. the supper-table was laid; the pretty shaded candles and flowers had a charming effect; the glass doors were open, and a flood of moonlight silvered the lawn and illuminated the garden paths. maud was singing; the clear, girlish voice seemed to blend with the scene. a masculine voice--was it rodney's?--was accompanying her. "oh, that we two were maying!"--how sweetly it sounded. it was some little time before averil reappeared. to annette's surprise, she was in evening-dress. the old grave look had come to her face again; but she said nothing--only summoned annette to the table. "you should not have waited," she said, reproachfully. "annette, when we have finished supper, i shall have to leave you. roberts tells me that some of rodney's friends are dining here, and it will not do for the mistress to absent herself." "is it for that you have changed your dress, my cousin? and you are so tired. it is a pity--it is a great pity. ah, the music has stopped! they have been singing so deliciously. i wish you could have heard them. there was a man's voice--i think he must be a great singer." "captain beverley has a fine voice. i suppose he and maud were trying a duet together. oh, here comes lottie!" as a bright face suddenly appeared in the door-way. "well, little one, come and give an account of yourself." "oh, how cozy you look!" exclaimed lottie, pouncing on them both in her lively way, and giving them a score of airy kisses. lottie was looking charming in her pretty pink frock. "well, what do you think of mother midge and the corporal? is he not an old dear, annette? no, averil, i am not going to answer a question until annette gives me her opinion of the dove-cote." annette was too happy to be interrogated; she poured forth a stream of eulogy, of delight, into lottie's listening ears. nothing had escaped her; she retailed the day's proceedings in her own vivid, picturesque way. "my cousin is the happiest person in the world," she finished, seriously. "most people have to be content with their own happiness. you and i are those people, lottie. but averil creates heart-sunshine. ah, you must not tell me to hush! have i not heard all those wonderful stories--mother midge, and the two old men, and wee robbie, even the pensioners? oh, if we could only go through the world and gather in the sick and sorrowful ones! my cousin does not need to envy any one--surely no happiness can be like hers." "thank you, dear," returned averil, in a low voice; but the grave look was still in her eyes. "lottie, it is your turn now. have you had a happy day?" "oh, yes," returned lottie, carelessly; but her dimples betrayed her. "everything was very pleasant. the courtlands were civil, and the gardens beautiful, and the ices were excellent." "and frank was there?" "oh, yes; mr. frank was there. his mother had given him a note for you;" and lottie fumbled in her pocket. "mr. chesterton was there too. by the bye," with an evident effort to appear unconcerned, "georgina wants you to ask the courtlands and mr. chesterton to dinner next week. she was talking about it all the way home." "well, i have no objection," began averil, with rather an amused look; but lottie interposed in a rather shame-faced way: "no, and, of course, georgie will speak to you herself. only she said this evening to maud, that there would be no room for me at table. i think georgina does not want me to be there; she seemed put out because--" here lottie came to a dead stop. "oh, i see," in a meaning tone, as lottie produced the letter; "well, you are wise to come to head-quarters. georgina's little humors can not be allowed to disarrange my dinner-table." "if there be no room for lottie, there can be no room for me, my cousin," struck in annette. "there will be room for both," returned averil, quietly. "i will ask frank and louie, and will make georgina understand that it is quite an informal dinner-party. don't distress your little head about it, lottie. let me read my letter in peace;" and lottie's look of radiant good-humor returned. her cheeks had grown as pink as her dress during the last few minutes, but averil took no notice, only when she had finished her letter she smiled and handed it to annette. it was annette's turn to look radiant now. "oh, how kind!" she exclaimed, breathlessly. "lottie, this is for you also. mrs. harland (that is monsieur's wife, i suppose) has made the most charming arrangement. we are to spend the day and sleep--that will be twenty-four hours of happiness. this is what she says: 'my husband will be pleased to see his little dinan friend again. he was highly complimented when frank told him how cordially monsieur was remembered. my girls are most anxious to make miss ramsay's acquaintance; and as we can put up lottie, there is no need to leave her behind. if you will come to lunch, we shall have a nice long day, and lottie can have some tennis.' my cousin, shall we go? next monday--that is a good day, is it not?" "of course we shall go," interposed lottie. "do you think averil could have the heart to refuse us such a treat? mrs. harland is a darling for thinking of me. of all places, i do love to go to grey-mount." "you need not tell me that," returned averil, rising. now, what was there in that little speech to make lottie change color again? annette's quickness could make nothing of the situation. why should not lottie love grey-mount, when monsieur lived there, and so many charming people? why did averil give that amused little laugh as lottie pushed her chair away petulantly, and said rather impatiently that it was growing late, and that she must go back to the drawing-room. lottie was really a very excitable little person; she did not even wait when averil said she was coming too; she ran down the steps and across the lawn, leaving averil to bid good-night to annette. "i shall be late--you must not wait for me," she said, quietly. "where has that madcap flown? i dare say you think lottie is in an odd mood to-night. how pretty the child grows! lottie has a sweet face--one can not wonder if she be admired. good-night, annette; pleasant dreams. to-morrow i will answer mrs. harland's kind invitation." annette went to bed happily, but she was far too excited to sleep; the recollections of the day were too vivid. jack and snip, and even woe-begone molly, with her patient, heavy face, started up one by one before her--the green field, with the pensioners, the seat under the elm-tree, daddy and bob and the lame jackdaw, wee robbie with his wistful blue eyes, passed and repassed before her inward vision. now she was walking with mother midge across the goose green, now watching deb as she fetched the water from the well; the pigeons were fluttering over the cottage roofs. she seemed sinking into a dream, when a voice spoke her name. "are you asleep, annette? i thought i heard you cough;" and lottie, still in her pink dress, shielded her candle, and glided into the room. "i was dreaming, but i do not think i was asleep," returned annette, drowsily. "is it not very late, lottie? and you are still up and dressed." "yes, and i am so tired," she returned, disconsolately, as she extinguished the light and sat down on the bed. "annette, i hope i am not disturbing you, but i felt so wretched i could not go to my own room." "wretched, my lottie!" and annette was wide awake now. "yes, but not on my account. oh, no; it is averil of whom i am thinking. how can they be so ungrateful?--how can they have the heart to treat her so? it is not rodney, it is maud who puts this affront on her, who will have that odious man to the house. what can aunt be thinking about? why does she not take averil's part? but no; they are all against her, and yet they owe everything to her." "i do not understand," returned annette, in a bewildered tone. "what has happened? lottie, i implore you to speak more plainly. have they quarreled with my cousin? and it was only yesterday--yesterday--" "yes, i know; mr. frank told me. i don't think he will ever forgive aunt that speech. they are always making those little sneering innuendoes. i think mr. frank would like to fight them all. he is just like averil's brother--her great big brother--and i am sure he is nearly as fond of her as he is of his sister louie." "but he has many sisters, has he not? monsieur told me of his sons and daughters. there were nettie, and fan, and owen--oh, i forget the rest." "yes; but louie is mr. frank's own sister. don't you see, their mother died when they were quite young, and mr. harland married again. oh, yes, mr. frank has plenty of half-brothers and sisters, but they are much younger. nettie and fan are still in the school-room, and owen and bob at rugby; and the twins are only seven years old." "i like to hear about these people very much; but, lottie, this is not the subject. what has gone wrong to-night? why is our dear averil so troubled?" "everything is wrong," returned lottie, dejectedly. "averil has taken a very great dislike to captain beverley. he is very rich, and a friend of rodney, and he is paying maud great attention. averil, for some reason, does not think well of him, and she has begged aunt to keep him at a distance. she insists that he is only a flirt, and that all his attentions mean nothing; and he is doing rodney great harm." "a flirt! what is that, my lottie?" "oh, he pretends that he admires maud--and perhaps he does, for every one knows how handsome she is; but he has no right to single her out as he does, and make people talk, unless he means to marry her. averil is afraid maud is beginning to like him, and she has spoken very seriously to aunt. but, you see, they believe in him, and they will have it that averil is prejudiced." "and they invite him here to dinner in her absence?" "yes--that is so wrong, because, of course, it is averil's house, and she has several times refused to have him. he was at the at home, but she could not help herself there. you must have seen him--a tall, fine-looking man, with a red mustache, and eyes rather close together--he is generally beside maud." "i did not regard him; but what of that? it seems to me that mr. rodney is to blame most." "of course he was to blame, but it was maud who suggested the invitation. anyhow, it was putting a very serious affront upon averil. you must know that maud and georgina too take such liberties that averil has been obliged to make it a rule that no one is to be invited to the house unless she be consulted. maud has been trying to pass it off as an impromptu thought, but she planned it herself at breakfast, and when aunt tried to dissuade her, she talked her and rodney over. mr. forbes is another of averil's _bêtes noires_. he is rich and idle, and she says it will ruin rodney to associate with such men." "does not mrs. willmot recognize the danger? she is old--she is a mother--most mothers are wise." "i am afraid aunt is not very wise," replied lottie, sorrowfully; "she never could manage maud. i think she is afraid of her. but this is not all, annette. averil is very strict in some things--she has been brought up differently from other girls. she does not like cards; and it is one of her rules that no play for money is allowed in this house. well, when we went to the drawing-room they were all playing at some game--i don't know the name--for three-penny points. captain beverley had started it." "but that was wrong--it was altogether wrong." "rodney got very red, and looked uncomfortable when he saw averil; but maud only held up her cards and burst out laughing. 'when the cat is away, my dear,' she said, in her flippant way. 'don't look so terribly shocked, averil; we shall only lose a few shillings--no one will be ruined. it is your turn to play, captain beverley.' "'will you excuse me, captain beverley,' returned averil, in the quietest voice, 'if i venture to disturb your game? it is a matter of principle with me: both my father and i have always had a great dislike to any game that is played for money. in this house it has never been done until this evening. you will do me the greatest favor if you will choose some other game.'" chapter xv. mme. delamotte's little bill. "how could she have the courage?" mused annette, when lottie had finished her recital, and she repeated her thoughts aloud. "averil is never wanting in courage, but the worst of it is, her mind is stronger than her body, and that tells on her. of course, when she spoke in that quiet, decided tone, there could be no possible appeal. maud threw down her cards and walked to the piano with the air of an offended queen. 'i believe music was forbidden in some puritan households, captain beverley,' she said, in a sarcastic voice. 'i am thankful to inform you that it is not yet placed on the list of tabooed amusements.' captain beverley made some answer in a low voice, and then they both laughed. averil tried her best to put them all at their ease. she praised maud's singing, she talked to them cheerfully; but both gentlemen took their leave as soon as possible. rodney went with them. i heard averil beg him as a favor to her to stay at home, but he was sulky, and refused to listen. he said, 'the other fellows would only think him a muff, and he was not going to stand any more preaching.' they went away to their club. i can see how uncomfortable averil is. she thinks that she has done more harm than good. i left her talking to aunt and maud. maud was in one of her tempers, and there was a regular scene. hush! i hear her voice now; they are coming up to bed. not a word more; they must not find out i am here." annette lay perfectly still, and lottie crept to the door. maud's room was just across the passage, and both the girls hoped to hear her close her door; but to their dismay, she stood outside, talking in an angry voice to her mother. "it is too bad; she gets worse every day!" they heard her say, in a tone of passionate insistence. "i can not help it," returned mrs. willmot, fretfully. "you ought to know averil by this time. you go too far, maud; i am always telling you so. you think of nothing but your own pleasure. it was foolish to put this affront on averil. you might know that with her high spirit she would resent it." "nonsense, mamma. you are afraid of her, and georgie is afraid of her too. how can you let yourself be ruled by a slip of a girl? of course, i know it is her home. does not everything belong to her? if we were not so miserably poor, we need not live in this egyptian bondage--afraid to invite a friend or to say our soul is our own. i wonder what captain beverley thinks of his evening's amusement? it will be a fine joke between him and mr. forbes. i declare, i don't envy rodney. 'my father and i have always had a great dislike to any game that is played for money.' did ever any one hear such cant in a modern drawing-room? i am glad i made her uncomfortable about rodney. the poor boy is not playing those penny points now at the club. ah, she turned quite white, i assure you." "you talk as though you had not your brother's interest at heart," returned mrs. willmot, in the same fretful voice. "i wish captain beverley would not take him to his club; he is far too young. averil is right there. maud, what was he saying to you in the garden just after dinner?" but here the voices dropped, and a moment afterward the door of maud's room closed, and with a whispered good-night lottie made her escape. but there was no rest for averil. long after annette had fallen into a refreshing sleep a weary little figure paced up and down the deserted drawing-room. she had sent roberts to bed when that faithful old domestic came to extinguish the lights. "i will wait up for mr. rodney," she had said. "i do not expect he will be very late." but for once she was wrong. rodney was very late indeed. the church clock had chimed two before she heard his bell. averil's thoughts were not pleasant; the sting of maud's words was still abiding with her. "is she right? have i driven him away to worse things?" she asked herself. "ought i to have allowed the game to go on, and then have spoken afterward? would that not have been been temporizing with wrong things? 'one can always go down the little crooked lane,' as dear father used to say. he was so fond of the 'pilgrim's progress!' i could only remember how he hated this sort of amusement, and to see it played in this house, when in his life-time they never dared propose such a thing! i know his friends thought him strait-laced--even mr. harland; but what does that matter? if one has principle, there must be no compromise. still, if she be right, and rodney--" here a look of pain crossed averil's face, and she clasped her hands involuntarily. "oh, my darling, how can i save you when your own mother and sister will not help me? maud is infatuated. that man will never ask her to marry him; he will look far higher for his wife. a miss seymour will not be good enough for oliver beverley. i have told my step-mother so again and again; but maud's influence is greater than mine. oh, how much happier will be my little lottie's fate! i know from what frank says that ned chesterton is in earnest; and what could be better--a good son and brother, and rising in his profession? perhaps he will not speak yet; but they are both young enough to wait. lottie looks very happy to-night--god bless her!" and here a low, heavy sigh rose to averil's lips. she started as the sound of the bell reached her, and hurried out to unbolt the door. rodney did not at once see her; he thought it was roberts. he came in whistling--his face was flushed and excited. "sorry to keep you up so late, old fellow," he said, in his good-humored way. "why, averil!"--and then his face clouded--"there was no need for this attention," he muttered, as he put down his hat. averil followed him. "don't be vexed, rodney. i could not go to bed until you came in. you have given me enough to bear already. why were you so unkind as to refuse to stay at home, when i asked you as a favor?" rodney's reply was very unsatisfactory. he boasted of his small gains in a tone that deeply grieved averil. seeing his face flushed with drink and with the excitement of play, she turned away. could she save him? was he not already a long way down that little crooked path upon which another brisk lad, whose name was ignorance, and who came out of the country of conceit, had already walked? there were bitter tears shed in averil's room that night as she prayed long and earnestly for one whom she called her brother. was rodney conscious of this as he lay tossing feverishly? how many such prayers are offered up night after night for many a beloved and erring one! what says the apostle? that "he which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins." unwin had reason to grieve over her mistress's worn looks the next morning, but she asked no questions and made no comments. unwin was too wise a woman to waste regrets over what could not be helped. roberts had told her enough, and she could form her own conclusions. the household were quite aware that another indignity had been on their idolized mistress, "and by them as are not fit to tie her shoes," observed the kitchen-maid, contemptuously; for maud's imperious manners and lack of courtesy made her no favorite with the servants. averil did not waste words either. she took no further notice of yesterday's occurrence. when she met her step-mother and the girls at luncheon, she accosted them pleasantly and in her usual manner; it was maud who hardly deigned to answer, who averted her head with studied coldness every time averil addressed her. some hours of brooding and a naturally haughty temper had only fanned maud's discontent to a fiercer flame. it was easy to see that she regarded herself in the light of an injured person. lottie, who had been to the stores to execute some commissions for her aunt, did not make her appearance until luncheon was nearly over, and then she and rodney came in together. rodney still looked a little sulky; he gave averil a curt nod as he took his place, and snubbed georgina when she inquired after his headache. "there is no need to publish it on the house-tops," he said, irritably. "it is only women who are fond of talking about their little ailments. i suppose there is some ice in the house, ave? this water is quite lukewarm." "i'll ring and ask roberts," observed lottie. "maud, madame delamotte is waiting to speak to you. she says there has been no answer, and when hall told her that you were at luncheon, she only said she would wait, as her business was very important." georgina darted a frightened, imploring glance at her sister, but maud only grew very red. "it is very impertinent," she muttered, angrily, "but these sort of people have no consideration. i shall tell madame delamotte that i shall withdraw my custom if she pesters me in this way. lottie, will you tell her, please--but no, perhaps i had better go myself;" and maud swept out of the room in her usual haughty fashion. rodney laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but averil seemed uneasy and preoccupied. mrs. willmot had taken no notice of this little interruption; her slow, lymphatic temperament seldom troubled itself over passing things. madame delamotte was the girls' dress-maker. she supposed maud had been extravagant enough to order a new dress for lady beverley's "small and early." "i really must lecture her about extravagance;" and here she adjusted her eyeglass, and looked at some fashion-plates with a serene absorption that was truly enviable. averil's uneasiness seemed to increase, and at last she made an excuse to leave the table. as she passed through the hall quickly, she came upon maud; she was in close conversation with a thin, careworn-looking woman dressed in the height of fashion. averil knew mme. delamotte slightly; she had been to her shop on more than one occasion. as she bade her a civil "good-morning," the french woman accosted her in a nervous, agitated manner. "miss willmot, may i implore your assistance with this young lady? i can not persuade her to hear me. the bill is large, and she says i shall have still to wait for my money; and, alas! business is 'bad.'" "averil, i must beg you not to interfere," returned maud, angrily. "madame delamotte is grossly impertinent. i have every intention of settling her bill, but just now it is not convenient, and--" here maud hesitated. "madame delamotte, will you come into my room a moment?" observed averil, quietly. "maud, you had better come, too. there is no need to take the whole household into confidence; and the hall is far too public a place for this sort of conversation." but maud refused. "i have said all i have to say," she returned, contemptuously. "if madame delamotte chooses to dun me in this fashion, i shall have no further dealings with her. if you mix yourself up in my affairs, you must take the consequences: the bill will be settled all in good time." averil made no answer; she only signed to the dressmaker to follow her, and as soon as they were alone mme. delamotte produced her account. she was visibly discomposed, and began to apologize. "miss seymour is too hard with me," she said, almost tearfully. "i have never dunned any one. the young ladies are good customers; i have great pleasure in working for them; but it is necessary to see one's money. this account has been running for a year and a half, and now miss seymour says it is exorbitant. everything is down; i have used the best of materials--nothing else would satisfy her. what would become of me if all my customers treated me in this way?" averil glanced down the bill, then she folded it up. "you are perfectly right, madame delamotte; your complaint is a just one. will you leave the account with me? i can promise you that it shall be settled before to-morrow evening. i think you know me sufficiently to rely on my word." "every one knows miss willmot," returned the french woman, politely. "you have removed a great weight from my mind trusting you with the fact that i am greatly in need of the money." "then in that case i will write you a check in advance, if you will give me a receipt;" and as mme. delamotte seemed overjoyed at this concession, averil sat down to her writing-table; but as she wrote out the check a look of disquiet crossed her face. "how can any one act so dishonorably?" she thought; but she little knew the seducing and evil effects of pampered vanity. she checked mme. delamotte's profuse thanks very gently but decidedly, and when she had dismissed her she sat on for a long time with her head on her hand, revolving the whole matter. "i have robbed my poor, just to pay for all these fine dresses," she said, bitterly, "and yet it had to be done. now i must go and speak to mrs. willmot. oh! what a sickening world all this is. i feel like sisyphus, forever rolling my stony burden uphill. oh, mother midge, if i could only leave it all and take refuge with you!" mrs. willmot was dozing in the morning-room; her book lay on her lap; but it had long ago slipped through her fingers. she regarded averil drowsily as she sat down opposite to her, and settling her cap-strings with a yawn, asked what had become of the girls. "i do not know, mrs. willmot. i am sorry to disturb you, but it is necessary for us to have a serious talk. madame delamotte has been here to beg maud to settle her bill. are you aware?" regarding her sternly, "that neither she nor georgina has attempted to pay their dress-maker for the last year and a half?" mrs. willmot's placid face lost a little of its color; she looked alarmed, and held out her hand for the account, which averil still held. "there is no occasion to look at it," she said, coldly. "i can tell you the exact amount;" and as she named the sum, mrs. willmot uttered a faint exclamation and threw herself back in her chair. "i don't believe it!" she said, vehemently, and her weak, handsome face was quite pale. "there is vile imposition. madame delamotte ought to be ashamed of herself; my girls do not owe half that sum. i will ask maud. no; maud is so hot and impetuous she never will let me speak. georgina will be better." "there is no need to send for her either. i have a good memory, and have verified most of the items. the bill is large, but then it has been running on for eighteen months. i only want to know how you propose to settle it." chapter xvi. averil's step-mother. as averil asked this question in her usual quiet manner, her step-mother's perturbation increased; she was brought face to face with an unexpected difficulty--and mrs. willmot hated any sort of complication. to eat, drink, and be merry were important items in her code. she was indolent, and liked comfort, and, as she said, "her girls were too much for her." "what shall you do?" reiterated averil, patiently, as mrs. willmot only sighed and looked unhappy. "i think i am the most miserable woman alive," she returned, stung to weak exasperation by averil's quiet persistence. "you have no pity for me, averil; and yet i was your father's wife, and a good wife, too. what is the good of asking me to settle this infamous bill--for infamous it is, as i mean to tell madame--when i have not a hundred pounds left, in the bank, and that boy is always drawing on me?" "do you mean rodney?" interposed averil, eagerly. "let us leave this bill for a moment while i speak to you of him. has he answered mr. harland's letter?" for two days previously a letter had come to rodney from the lawyer, offering him a post in canada that promised to be very remunerative in the future. mr. harland had spoken very warmly of the advantages attaching to such a situation, and averil had indorsed this opinion. the letter had arrived early on the morning of her reception; but, in spite of all her business, she had talked for more than half an hour to both rodney and her step-mother, begging them to close at once with the offer. rodney seemed rather in favor of it: to use his own phrase, he thought canadian life would be "awfully jolly," and he promised to talk his mother over; but until now averil had heard nothing. "has rodney written to mr. harland?" she asked again, as mrs. willmot hesitated, and seemed unwilling to answer. "yes, he has written," she said, at last, when averil compelled her to speak. "i declare, you make me so nervous, averil, sitting opposite me, and questioning me in that jerky fashion, that i hardly know how to answer." "and he has accepted the post?" still more eagerly. "he has done nothing of the kind," returned her step-mother, pettishly. "you have no heart, averil. you do not understand a mother's feelings. do you suppose i am going to let my boy go all that distance? as though there were no other places to be found in england. i should break my heart without him. i was awake half the night, thinking about it. i did not have a bit of peace until i got the dear fellow to write and decline it this morning." averil's little hands were pressed tightly together. "give me patience," she whispered. then aloud, "mrs. willmot, are you aware of the advantages you have thrown away? let me implore you to reconsider this; it is not too late--a telegram will nullify the letter. i am very unhappy about rodney. he seems to be mixed up with a set of most undesirable friends. they are all richer and older than he. they take him to their club; they induce him to play for money. it is no use warning you against captain beverley on maud's account but for rodney's sake--" but here mrs. willmot interrupted her. "don't say a word against captain beverley, averil. things will very soon be settled between him and maud, i can tell you that," with a meaning nod. "i know he is not a favorite of yours; but he is one of the best catches of the season. every one will tell you that. look at beverley house! and then oliver, though he is only the second son, has fifteen hundred a year, and they say he is his uncle's heir. no one thinks much of his brother's health--he seems a sickly sort of person. mark my words--maud will be lady beverley one day." averil gave vent to a despairing sigh. what impression could she make on this weak, worldly nature? she had often argued with her step-mother, and had encountered the same placid resistance to all her appeals. weak people are often obstinate. mrs. willmot was no exception; she would listen to averil, agree with her, and finally end by doing exactly as she had intended at first. on the present occasion averil did not spare her. "you are wrong," she said, vehemently. "one day you will know how wrong you have been. captain beverley is only flirting with maud--he will never propose to her. the beverley's will look far higher than our family. you are encouraging her in this miserable infatuation, and both you and she are sacrificing rodney." "what do you mean by this extraordinary statement, averil?" and mrs. willmot drew herself up with an affronted air. "captain beverley is using rodney for his own ends. do you suppose a man of his age has any interest in a boy like rodney? it pleases him to come here, and he throws a careless invitation to him now and then, which he is far too pleased to accept. rodney will be ruined, for frank tells me they are a wild, extravagant set. this canadian scheme would save him--it would break off his intimacy with those men; it would remove him from the scene of his temptation. mrs. willmot, you are sacrificing your boy to maud's fancied interest--it is she who is keeping him here." but though averil went on in this strain until she was exhausted, she could not induce her step-mother to alter her decision. she was evidently touched once or twice as averil pleaded; an uneasy look came over her face. "you are prejudiced--maud thinks very differently from that," she observed, more than once. it was maud who was evidently the mother's adviser. averil had to desist at last with a sore heart; but before she broke off the conversation she returned again to the subject of mme. delamotte. she made far more impression here. mrs. willmot burst into tears when she saw the receipted bill; she even kissed averil affectionately, and called her her dear, her dearest girl. there was no want of gratitude for the timely help that had staved off the evil day of reckoning. mrs. willmot spoke the truth when she said that she would never forget this generous act. "my girls have treated me badly," she said, with unusual bitterness--"maud especially. i know i am to blame leaving things so much to maud; but she is clever, and has a clear head, and never muddles things as i do. i thought there were only two quarters owing--i certainly understood that last year's account had been settled. i remember drawing a check--stop! was it for madame delamotte or rodney? my memory is so bad, and the children seem always pestering me for money." mrs. willmot's explanation was by no means lucid; but averil, who knew her perfectly, did not in the least accuse her of insincerity. she was aware that her stepmother was a bad woman of business; that she was indolent, and suffered herself to be ruled by her high-spirited daughter. she had always shifted her responsibilities on to other people. to do her justice, she was extremely shocked at the want of rectitude on maud's part, and promised readily that such a thing should never occur again--the quarterly bill should be settled in future. she even acquiesced very meekly when averil announced her intention of speaking to maud very plainly. "i shall tell her," she finished--and there was a stern, set look round averil's mouth as she spoke, that showed she fully meant what she said--"that if such a disgraceful occurrence ever takes place again in this house, i shall consider it my duty to make different arrangements for the future." "i am sure she deserves to be frightened," returned mrs. willmot, tearfully. she was plainly awed by averil's manner, though she did not in the least believe this threat. but averil had not spoken without due reflection. during the long sleepless night she had tried to look her duty in the face; her step-mother had claims on her, but was it right that her poor should be defrauded--that her father's money should be squandered to satisfy the rapacity of these headstrong young people? was she not encouraging them in habits of extravagance and idleness? she could bear her daily martyrdom, the homely sacrifice; but that it should be in vain, that it should be productive of evil and not good, this was intolerable to her. she went to her own room, feeling weary and disquieted. the worst part--her talk with maud--was to come. she felt she had need to brace herself afresh for the stormy discussion. as she sat down by the window she saw rodney lounging on the lawn; his brief sulkiness had vanished. in reality he was a sweet-tempered fellow, and hated to be on bad terms with any one. "halloo, ave," he said, as he caught sight of her, "what have you and the mater been talking about all this time? there seems to be a precious row about something." averil was utterly spent--she put out her hand to him with a little sob. "why do you all make my life so miserable?" she said. "it is not fair. i have done nothing to deserve it." rodney gave his usual shrug and kicked a loose pebble. he wished he had not spoken. the least approach to a scene gave him an uncomfortable sensation. averil saw his dismay, and recovered herself at once. "come and sit down," she said, hastily. "i want to talk to you. rodney, why did you write to mr. harland without speaking to me again? it troubles me inexpressibly to think that you have thrown away such a chance. do you know, frank says--" "oh, frank again!" returned rodney, crossly. "i beg your pardon, ave," as she looked somewhat offended at this; "i do hate to have a fellow flung at me like that. how could i help writing when the mater and maud made such a fuss--" "but you would have liked it yourself?" "i don't know. it is rather a bore leaving all one's friends. beverley says there are better berths to be picked up here. there is forbes's brother, alick--" "please do not tell me what captain beverley or mr. forbes think; mr. harland is a far wiser adviser. rodney, dear, i am very unhappy about you. you are not choosing your friends wisely. i dread captain beverley's influence. he is rich, a man of the world, and intensely selfish. his habits can not be yours. your mother's means are not large; you have no right to live as though you had expectations. you would be far safer and happier in canada than staying on here in idleness." "it is not my fault," returned rodney, impatiently. "i was quite willing to go, only the mater cried about it, and maud told me that i was only thinking of my own interests. don't you see, ave," in a coaxing voice, "i am in rather a difficult position--i can't turn a cold shoulder on beverley when he is making up to maud. it is quite true what she says--that i am the only son, and that it is rather shabby to leave the mater if she does not want to part with me." "rodney, if you would only give up the society of these men. i think i dislike mr. forbes even more than captain beverley. i never can trust a man who does not look you in the face. frank told me that he belongs to one of the fastest sets in town." "nonsense! forbes is a capital fellow--i don't know any one more good-natured or amusing. he has done me a good turn more than once. but"--interrupting himself--"you are only a girl--you would not understand." "i think i know more than most girls," returned averil, with a sad smile. "i am very old for my age. try me, rodney. i wish you would tell me everything;" and she looked anxiously at the fair, boyish face, with its handsome, irresolute mouth. if he would only confide in her! but even as the thought passed through her mind rodney threw off some unwelcome reflection, and shook himself with a light laugh. "you are a good little soul, ave," he said, jumping up. "don't bother your head about me. something is sure to turn up, so there is no need to banish me to canada;" and rodney went off whistling. averil sat for a little time alone, then lottie brought her some tea, and after that she went in search of maud. no one knew what passed between them. mrs. willmot, in her selfish policy, thought it wise not to inquire. averil did not appear again that evening--she had a headache, and remained in her own room. georgina noticed that maud was in an unusually bad temper; she snubbed lottie mercilessly, and was positively rude to annette. but georgina was not a very close observer; she failed to detect a certain uneasiness and restlessness, that seemed to increase as the evening wore on. maud took no one into her confidence; if any expectation she had formed had met with disappointment, she was strong enough to bear it in silence. "it has been a stupid day," said annette, as she parted from lottie that night. "something has gone wrong--my cousin is miserable." but lottie could give her no information. the evening had been a failure; maud had been cross and detestable; rodney had gone out; no one had ventured to speak. "never mind; things will be better to-morrow, and there is grey-mount on monday," she said, with the gay philosophy that was natural to her. "things will be better to-morrow"--a very lottie-like speech. lottie's sanguine temperament never predicted misfortune; if matters were unsatisfactory to-day, they were sure to mend. it was this bright joyousness, this faith in an ultimate good, that had made the little school-girl happy in spite of shabby clothes, hard task-masters, and uncongenial labors; it was this sweet, unselfish nature, so child-like, and yet so sound at the core, that was weaving the love that was to be the blessing of her life. it was not lottie's pink cheeks, her bright eyes, and pleasant ways, that were binding ned chesterton's heart to her so surely, for ned was an intelligent, shrewd fellow, and knew better than to build his life's happiness on such shifting materials. it was the girl's frankness, her honesty, her loyal devotion to those she loved, and her sweet yielding temper, that had first attracted him. he was not a rich man: the young lawyer would have to work hard at his profession before he could afford the luxury of a wife; but he had long ago said to himself that that wife should be lottie jones. chapter xvii. annette declines to play tennis. averil was rather quiet and subdued the next day or two, but as usual she battled bravely with her depression, and tried not to damp the enjoyment of her two young companions. the new work-room was finished, and looked very comfortable; and fairy order, as lottie still called her, was quite in her element. there was plenty of time now for the music lessons and practicing. lottie was learning to chatter in french, and annette found her a most intelligent pupil. the girls sat together, walked together, or drove out with averil; no one interfered with them. when lottie had letters to write, or her aunt or cousins wanted her, annette went in search of averil, or sat in the garden with her book. maud and georgina made no attempt to admit her into their companionship; they still treated her with coldness, as though they regarded her as an interloper. in the evenings when averil read to herself, she and lottie escaped into the garden, or whispered together over their work. georgina once asked them contemptuously what they could find to talk about; she sneered slightly as she spoke. when friends were not present there were often lapses of silence. rodney would complain of the dullness, and go out in search of amusement. "i wish we could go out too," georgina would say. "i think no family of old maids could be more deadly dull. mamma goes to sleep, and averil reads, and maud writes letters." "i wish you would be quiet and let me finish my notes," maud would say, pettishly--she seemed always irritable now; and then georgina would subside into moody silence. if any one came in there was an instantaneous change; for example, if captain beverley dropped in for a moment to fetch rodney, maud's eyes would brighten, her prettiest songs would be sung; mrs. willmot would be broad awake and smiling; only averil's grave little face did not relax, her greeting never became warmer. the day at grey-mount was a great success. as averil looked at the girls' bright faces as they took their places in the train the cloud seemed to lift off her own spirits; it was delightful to think that for twenty-four hours her worries would be in the background. kind greetings, approving smiles, hearty sympathy, were all awaiting her; no dissatisfied looks, no struggling wills would mar her enjoyment. averil's brow grew calm and clear as a little child's as the prospect widened, and when they reached chislehurst she was talking as merrily as her companions. "there is louie!" exclaimed lottie, as the train slackened speed, and a tall, pleasant-looking girl gave her an answering nod and smile. she had a strong resemblance to her brother frank, and, like him, had no claims to beauty; but her frank, open countenance, attracted annette. "she is a harland, so of course she is nice," she said to herself, with illogical reasoning. miss harland did not seem to require any introduction; she shook hands cordially with annette. "mamma was too busy to come, averil," she said, leading the way to the station door, where an open barouche and a pair of handsome bays were awaiting them. "what have you been doing with yourself lately, you naughty little person? lottie, she looks more shadowy and unsubstantial than ever! father will be horrified when he sees her." "don't be so absurd, louie. i am perfectly well," laughed averil, who certainly looked very small and slender beside this fine-grown, vigorous young woman. but miss harland chose to argue the point; and as lottie took her part, there was a lively discussion that lasted until they reached grey-mount. grey-mount was a substantial gray-stone house standing in its own grounds. as they drove up to the door, a bevy of young people came out to greet them. louie introduced them all in a quick, off-hand fashion to their new guest as, "nettie and fan--and the twins, fred and winnie. and this is my little mamma," she continued, in an affectionate, patronizing tone, as a quiet, lady-like little woman appeared in the background. annette thought her still very pretty; she liked her soft voice and ways. it was evident that her children doted on her, for a word from mamma seemed to have a restraining influence on the twins, a pair of noisy, high-spirited children. annette found herself at home at once; there was no stiffness, no reserve, at grey-mount. nettie and fan had pounced on lottie as their rightful prey, and had carried her off at once. mrs. harland had followed with averil, and annette felt a hand pressed through her arm. "you and i will have to entertain each other until luncheon," observed louie, in a comfortable voice. "when mamma and averil begin to talk they never leave off. oh, of course it is bob and owen--they generally begin about the boys. frank will be home presently, and then we shall have tennis. frank is my own, own brother, you know. not but what owen and fred are brothers too, but frank is my special--" "oh, yes, i understand about that. lottie has told me he is monsieur's son, and this lady you call mamma is your step-mother. i have not talked to her much, but her looks please me. she is altogether different from mrs. willmot." "my dear miss ramsay, there are step-mothers and step-mothers. frank and i think mamma perfect; she has not a selfish thought. as to mrs. willmot and the misses seymour, i had better hold my tongue on that subject. averil is a darling; we are all so fond of her; but she is just wearing herself out--" "do you think my cousin looks so ill?" returned annette, in such quick alarm that miss harland regretted her speech. she was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, and sometimes said more than was prudent. she was anxious now to explain away her words, for the sad wistfulness that had come into annette's dark eyes touched her. "she has always been delicate," she returned, hastily. "at one time her health was a great anxiety to us all; but during the last year or two she has been stronger. miss ramsay, are you fond of flowers? shall we go and see the green-houses? yes, winnie, you may come too"--as the pretty little girl ran up to them. before luncheon was quite over frank harland made his appearance. he was accompanied by a tall, good-looking man, whom they all called ned, and who was afterward introduced to annette by lottie in the shyest of voices as "mr. chesterton." if annette had not been such a recluse, and so totally unacquainted with the ways of young people--the curé and his snuff-box being her sole masculine acquaintance in the rue st. joseph--she might have read certain facts from lottie's shy eagerness and pleased, downcast looks. she might even have adduced the same conclusion from the young lawyer's evident absorption and almost exclusive monopoly of the girl. in tennis he was her partner, and afterward they walked about the garden together. every one took it as a matter of course. no one interfered with their _tête-à-tête_--not even averil, whose eyes often rested on her protégée with fond wistfulness. "lottie is very happy," annette heard her whisper once to mrs. harland. annette was very pleased to see mr. frank again; but she could not be induced to take her first lesson in tennis, though he employed all his eloquence to coax her to become his partner. "you are bent on snubbing me," he said at last, in mock despair. "you were much more amiable when i met you last, miss ramsay, and we exchanged confidences over our vanilla ices." "that is too bad," she returned, trying not to laugh. "what is it you mean by 'snub?' i do not understand all your english words. it is you who are unkind, mr. harland; for you want to make me ridiculous in the eyes of your sister and friends. ah, yes; it would amuse them to see how often i should miss the ball! they would just clap their hands with the fun. no; i will sit here in the shade and watch you, and that will be my first lesson in tennis; and if you will come to redfern house, you can teach me there, and lottie can play with us." "to be sure! that is a good idea," he said, eagerly; and then, as they called to him, he lifted his cap and ran down the grass slope to the tennis court. annette kept her promise, and watched the game with intelligent interest. every now and then frank came to her to explain things. he was pleased with the girl's naïveté and frankness, and he always left her a little reluctantly when louie waved her racket, or ned shouted to him that they were waiting. he was just making his way to her for the fifth time when he saw her suddenly rise from her seat with a quick exclamation of pleasure at the sight of a gray-haired man who was crossing the lawn in a leisurely, middle-aged fashion. "monsieur, it is you at last," she said, holding out her hand. "oh, how glad i am to see you again!" mr. harland smiled as he cordially responded to her greeting; but the next moment he held her out at arm's-length and critically surveyed her. "do you know," he said, in a pleased voice, "that if you had not spoken to me i think i should hardly have recognized my young friend of the rue st. joseph? what has she done with herself, averil?"--in quite a puzzled tone. mr. harland could not understand it at all. he remembered the girl as she stood that morning in her shabby gown, with the little lace kerchief knotted round her throat, and her small, pale face and grave eyes. the young creature that stood before him was as slim and graceful as a fawn. she was no longer pale. her eyes were clear and sparkling, her black dress was enlivened by a dainty breast-knot of dark crimson roses. could these few weeks have effected this transformation? "no, i should not have known you," he said, dropping her hand; but he looked very kindly at her. frank had been much amused at this little scene; but by and by his mood changed. he was even guilty of the unfilial wish that his father had been detained longer at lincoln's inn. frank found he could no longer secure miss ramsay's attention. she evinced a preference for monsieur's society, and could not be induced to leave his side, even to see the hot-houses under frank's guidance. frank turned rather sulky at last, to his father's amusement. mr. harland's eyes twinkled mischievously as he watched his discomfiture. "miss ramsay," he said, "you are very good to stop with an old fellow like me, but i must not monopolize you. mr. frank seems a little put out with us both." "he is only pretending," she said, in a voice that reached the young man. "i think it is his way of making fun--it is so long since i have seen you, monsieur. and i like better to sit and talk to you of dinan, and those days when you were kind to me. as for mr. frank, i shall see him often--often." mr. harland glanced at her in extreme surprise; he noticed that frank turned his head to listen. "he is coming to teach me tennis," went on annette, in a composed, matter-of-fact tone. "i would not play to-day, because i knew i should only make myself ridiculous; but i understand the game now; and lottie and i will practice; when mr. frank comes he will be surprised at my progress." "father, shall i bring you and miss ramsay some tea out there?" asked frank suddenly at this moment. now, what had become of the young man's brief moodiness? frank was humming an air as he brought out the teacups: he had a little joke for annette when she thanked him for his trouble; but he shook his head when she would have made room for him. "don't disturb yourself," he said, quickly; "i know you and monsieur"--with a little stress on the word--"are as happy as possible. i am going to talk to averil about the tennis, and see which day i may come." "very well," she returned, tranquilly; and she resumed her conversation. she was telling her friend about her life at redfern house, about the new work-room, and her cousin's kindness. as she talked on in her bright, rapid way, mr. harland told himself that she was not far from being pretty; she was not so thin, and her complexion had improved, and the _spirituelle_ expression of the dark eyes was very attractive. meanwhile, averil was listening to frank's plans with rather a puzzled look. frank had announced his intention of coming down to redfern house as often as possible to practice tennis with the girls. "you have a good lawn," he went on, in an off-hand manner, "and i daresay seymour will join us. thursday is my best day, if it will suit you, averil." "any day will suit me," she returned, with the soft friendliness that she always showed him. "but, frank, i want to speak to you. you must not misunderstand annette. perhaps you may think her frankness a little strange, but she means nothing by it; she has lived so completely out of the world that she hardly knows its ways. i believe that she has never spoken to a young man in her life; and she treats you as she would louie. you will not mind if i say this to you; but annette is so sweet and good i could not bear her to be misunderstood." "i shall not misunderstand her. how could any one mistake such child-like frankness?" returned the young man, gravely; but he flushed a little, as though averil's words touched him. "please come, then, as often as you can," she returned, cheerfully. "you know how welcome you will be." frank did not make any more attempts to speak to annette that evening; but he showed her little attentions, and watched her a good deal; it pleased him to see how friendly she was with them all. as she bid him good-bye at the station the next morning--for he and mr. chesterton had accompanied them--she said to him: "i have had such a happy time. every one is so nice and kind. monsieur, and your step-mother, and sister, and--" "i hope you are going to include me," he returned, mischievously; but annette took the question in good part. "and you too; oh, yes! i think it is very good of you, mr. harland, to teach me tennis. is it not so, my cousin?" but averil was apparently deaf, for she made no response. "annette," she said, gently, when she found herself alone with her cousin that evening, "i want to give you a little hint, because you have been such a recluse, and do not know the ways of society. young girls of your age do not generally invite young men. now, when you asked frank to play tennis--" but annette interrupted her in quick alarm. "have i done wrong? i am so sorry. it is your house, and i ought to have left it to you." "well, another time; but, of course, in this case it does not matter; the harlands are like my own brothers and sisters. frank comes as often as he likes." "but i am sorry, all the same," returned annette, gravely, and a distressed color came to her face. "it seems i have been bold. my cousin, will you explain? i do not know the rules, and i would not willingly offend. mr. harland was so kind; he proposed to teach me, and i thought there could be no harm." "my dear," replied averil, kissing her hot cheek remorsefully, "there is nothing wrong. if frank came every day he would be welcome; it is only a hint for your future use." but annette was sensitive; her innate sense of propriety had taken alarm; she had been forward, or her cousin would not have given her this reproof. "you shall not have to find fault with me again," she said, humbly. "i will remember the difference between old men and young men for the future, my cousin." chapter xviii. "i hear that we have to congratulate you." a few more weeks passed. the summer days flew merrily by for annette and lottie; and if, as time went on, averil's hidden anxieties and secret watchfulness did not relax, and a growing fear pressed more heavily upon her, she made neither of the girls her confidante. with that innate unselfishness that belonged to her nature, she refused to burden their youthful spirits with the shadow of coming trouble. but on those summer nights, when the moonlight was stealing into each sleeper's room, its pure white beams would often fall on one small, kneeling figure; for in those days averil prayed for rodney as one would pray for some unwary traveler hovering on the edge of a perilous abyss. frank harland had kept his promise loyally, and the thursdays had become an institution at redfern house. ned chesterton frequently accompanied him; and as rodney often condescended to don his flannels and join them, his sister's frigidity relaxed, and as one or two other young people would drop in, there was often a pleasant party collected on the trim green lawn. averil would sit at her window with her work and book and watch them contentedly; it amused her to see the young men's stratagems to secure their favorite partners. georgina was inclined to monopolize mr. chesterton, and he often had to have recourse to some innocent ruse to win lottie to his side. averil noticed, too, that frank's choice generally fell on annette. "outsiders see most of the game," she thought. averil was always ready to fulfill her duties as hostess, and talk to frank in the pauses of the game, to listen to ned's artful praises of lottie's play, to interest herself when any defeated combatant talked of his or her ill-luck. there were always iced drinks and tea to be had in the gay little striped tent over which roberts presided. frank once told averil that she was a first-rate hostess, and that his friend ned never enjoyed himself so much as at redfern house. "i am so glad you are pleased," was averil's answer; but she blushed a little at the young man's praise. yes, it was her part to be lady bountiful--to give pleasure rather than to receive it. one afternoon she was in her usual seat, when rodney came up to her; he had had an engagement with one of his west end friends, and averil had not seen him since breakfast. he looked tired and heated as he flung himself down on the steps by averil's chair, and with her usual quickness she detected in a moment that something was wrong. "where's maud?" he asked, after an instant's moody silence. "oh, i remember!" before averil could answer him. "she and the mater were to lunch at the egertons'. ave, it is all over the club. i would not believe it at first. i told forbes that he could not be such a cad. but it is true; i heard it from half a dozen fellows. beverley is going to marry his first love, lady clementina fox." rodney had expected an exclamation of dismay, but averil only grew a little pale. "well?" she returned, briefly. "it's true, i tell you," he repeated, staring at her as though unable to believe this calm reception of his news. "of course it's true. i do not doubt you for a moment. if you think i am surprised, rodney, you are very much mistaken. i have expected this for the last few weeks." "but it is hard lines for maud," groaned the lad, who, with all his faults, was fond of his sisters. "i am glad i called him a cad to forbes. here he has been paying her attention for the last six months. i call it a confounded shame for any man to get a girl talked about. lots of fellows have said to me, 'i suppose beverley and your sister mean to hit it off.' i declare, he deserves to be horse-whipped!" "instead of that, he has secured a beauty and a fortune," returned averil, bitterly. "what does it matter to a man of his caliber if a woman's heart is damaged more or less? don't let us talk of him, rodney. i might be tempted to say something i should repent. the question is, how is maud to be told?" "that is just what i was going to ask you," he returned, ruefully. "the mater must not do it--she would drive maud crazy. she can not help fussing. and then she cries, and that irritates maud. you will have to do it, ave. you know just how to put things, and you know when to stop talking. i'll back you against any one for common sense and that sort of thing." "i!" returned averil, recoiling with such a pale look of dismay on her face that rodney was startled. "i to inflict a wound like that on any woman. oh, no, rodney!" "but i tell you, ave, it must be you," replied the lad, impatiently. "do you think i am the sort of fellow to manage a delicate business like that? i should just blurt it out and then flee like what's-a-name--the messenger that came to jehu. i won't have a hand in it, and you will do it so beautifully, ave." "no, no," she returned, almost harshly. "maud has no love for me, and she would only grow to hate me. if neither you nor your mother will do it, rodney, she must go untold. tell her! how could i do it?" she went on, half to herself, "when i know--none better--how it will hurt. oh, that women should have to suffer so!" but rodney would not give up his point. "how can you have the heart to refuse?" he said, reproachfully. "would you leave her to the tender mercies of outsiders! do you know she will meet them to-night at the powells'? if she does not know before, she will see it for herself then." "to-night!" in a shocked voice. "yes; don't i tell you so?" still more irritably. "would you expose her to such an ordeal unprepared? ave, you must do it--you must get her to stop at home. she can have a headache--women can always have headaches--and georgina must go in her place." "very well, i will tell her," in a weary voice. "let me go now, rodney, or frank will see i am upset. don't think i am not sorry, because i do not say much; but it is all such a terrible mistake, dear. you would none of you believe me. i told you he meant nothing;" and then she sighed and left him. averil knew that her task was a hard one. she doubted how maud's proud nature would receive such a blow. would it be totally unexpected? had she already a secret fear--a terrible suspicion--that captain beverley was playing fast and loose with her? averil could not answer these questions. maud had looked worn and jaded for the last week or two, and the brightness of her beauty had dimmed a little, as though under some secret pressure; but she had not even made georgina her confidante. averil's opportunity came sooner than she expected. half an hour later she heard the carriage-wheels, and a few minutes afterward there was a tap at her door, and to her surprise maud entered. she was still in her walking-dress, and looked extremely handsome. "averil," she said, pleasantly, "mamma quite forgot to ask you if we could have the carriage to-night. stanton says the horses are not tired, and it's only a mile and a half to the powells'." "certainly. stanton is the best judge. he is careful not to overwork whitefoot;" and then, as maud was leaving, she continued, rather nervously: "do you mind staying a moment? i wanted to speak to you alone. there is something you ought to know that rodney has just told me about captain beverley--it is all over the club." "some scandal, i suppose," was the careless response. but averil was grieved to see the sudden fading of the bright color. "there are always plenty of tales going on. i think men are just as much given to gossip as women. i daresay it is some mare's-nest or other." "i am afraid not," returned averil, with marked emphasis. "mr. forbes told rodney, and you know he is a connection of captain beverley. he said--indeed, indeed, it is true, maud--that he is engaged to be married to lady clementina fox." "i do not believe it," replied maud. she had not a vestige of color on her face, but her attitude was superb in its haughtiness. "oliver beverley engaged! nonsense! you ought to know better than to bring me such tales." "my dear," returned averil, tenderly, "i bring you the news because no one else would take upon themselves such an unkind office--because i want to spare you all the pain i can. you will not go to the powells' to-night, maud?" "and why not, may i ask?" in a freezing tone, that repelled all proffered sympathy. "because he and lady clementina will be there"--in a half whisper. "that is all the more reason for me to go--that i may contradict this extraordinary statement," was maud's unflinching response; but a dark flush crossed her face as she spoke. "very well; i will tell mamma that we can use the carriage;" and she swept out of the room. evidently rodney was on the watch, for he slipped in a moment after. "have you told her, ave?" "yes; and she does not believe it--at least, she says so." "do you think she does?" "certainly she believes it." "oh, she was always a game one," he returned. "maud has plenty of pluck; she will brave it out in her own way. and she will not be pitied, mind you. anyhow, you have got her off to-night?" "i tried my best; but she says she will go. she is determined to find out the truth for herself." rodney's face fell. "shall i tell my mother? she must not be allowed to go. no girl should put herself in such a position, with all her pluck; she could not face them like that." "i believe she could and will. no; leave her alone. you do not know maud; she has pride enough for ten women. let her go and find out the truth for herself. if you take my advice you will say nothing to your mother. mrs. willmot will be able to control her feelings best before strangers." "well, perhaps you are right," he replied, reluctantly. "we must just make the best of a bad business." "just so. and if you want to help your sister, take no notice of her. maud will bear nothing in the way of sympathy. i know her, rodney: she is deeply wounded, but she will bleed inwardly. captain beverley will have to answer for his dastardly behavior, though not to us;" and averil's face grew very stern. "well, i'll come and tell you about it afterward--that is, if you are not asleep, ave." "am i likely to be sleeping?" she replied, reproachfully. "come here to this room--you will find me up;" and rodney promised he would do so. maud appeared in her usual spirits at dinner-time; she laughed and talked freely with frank and mr. chesterton; only averil noticed that the food was untouched on her plate, while rodney more than once replenished her glass with water. she looked handsomer than ever as she stood in the hall, drawing on her long gloves. once averil, moved to exceeding pity, touched her on the arm. "maud, dear, do not go. why will you not spare yourself?" a mirthless laugh answered her. "do not people generally congratulate their friends? i have armed myself with all sorts of pretty speeches. mamma shall hear me say them. how she will open her dear old eyes! mamma, i think you and i are going to enjoy this evening." "indeed i hope so, my love. and how well you are looking--isn't she, averil? i know somebody who will think so." maud winced; then she recovered herself, and gave a low, mocking courtesy. "many thanks for the compliment. good-night, dear people, all. rodney, take mamma to the carriage." how superbly she was acting! rodney could have clapped his hands and cried, "bravo!" but averil only sighed. how long would such false strength avail her? when would that proud spirit humble itself under the chastening hand? averil spent a miserable evening, in spite of all frank could do to rouse her. she sent him away at last. "go and talk to the others--lottie and annette. i am bad company to-night, frank." "you are not yourself," he said, affectionately. "something is troubling you, and you will not tell us." and though averil owned he was right, he could not induce her to say more. she was glad when the young men took their departure, and she was free to seek her own room. rodney found her there, trying to read, but looking inexpressibly weary. she took his hand and drew him to a seat beside her. "tell me about it, rodney." "there isn't much to tell. alicia powell got hold of maud directly we entered the room. i heard her say: 'every one is congratulating them. lady clementina looks charming. she is really a fine-looking woman for her age, though she is older than oliver.' you see, alicia is a sort of cousin, so she calls the fellow by his christian name. they are to be married in october, and go abroad for the winter." "how did maud take it?" "why, as a matter of course. oh, i can tell you she behaved splendidly. 'rodney has told us,' she said, as coolly as possible. 'it is an excellent match. mamma, there is a such a crowd here. shall we move into the next room?' you should have seen the mater's face--the poor thing looked ready to drop. i believe maud did not dare let her stay there, for fear of the young lady's sharp eyes." "well?" for rodney paused here. "well, i took them into the next room, and forbes joined us there. and of course he had plenty to say about beverley's good luck. the fellow--how i longed to kick him!--was standing talking to a big red-haired woman. oh, she was not bad-looking, but i was not exactly in the mood to admire his choice. well, he looked rather uncomfortable when he caught sight of us, but he put a bold face on it. you should have seen the air with which maud gave him her hand--she might have been a queen, and wasn't i proud of her! 'i hear that we have to congratulate you, captain beverley,' she said, in quite a composed way. 'i hope you will give us the pleasure of an introduction to lady clementina.' beverley seemed quite taken aback. i never saw a man look so foolish. he had to bring her. and maud made one or two pretty speeches. and then she complained that the room was hot and crowded, and stewart--you know stewart--took her away. i believe she had had just enough of it." "and your mother?" "oh, i looked after the mater pretty sharply. i got a seat for her by old mrs. sullivan--you know her. she is as deaf as a post, and so short-sighted that she never sees anything. the mater was turning all manner of colors. we had quite a scene with her on the way home. but maud never spoke a word. she bade us good-night, and went up to her own room, and locked herself in; and then i coaxed the mater to go to bed too." "poor rodney! you have had a hard time of it." "i suppose it was not particularly enjoyable. if i could only have kicked him, ave! it is a shame that one is not allowed to horsewhip a fellow like that." and rodney shrugged his shoulders and walked off with a disgusted face. chapter xix. "you will try me, ave?" averil had a painful interview with her step-mother the next morning; but she was very patient with the poor, weak woman, who bemoaned herself so bitterly. mrs. willmot never brooded silently over her wrongs; her feeble nature needed the relief of words; her outbursts of lamentation, of indignation, of maternal solicitude, were all poured into averil's ears. "to think my girl, my own beautiful maud, should be set aside by that red-haired woman! handsome! she can not hold a candle to maud. averil, you do not know how a mother's heart bleeds for her child. my only consolation is that she does not suffer as i feared she would. she is angry with him--her pride is hurt, and no wonder! he has treated her shamefully. but i am thankful to see that her affections are not deeply engaged. if she had cared for him, would she have looked at him with a smile, as she did last night?" averil let this assertion pass. mrs. willmot was not a person of much penetration; she loved her children, but they could easily hoodwink her. averil herself held a different opinion, and her conviction only deepened as time went on. maud bore herself much as usual. she still fulfilled her numerous engagements, and seemed as much engrossed by her daily occupations as ever, though she was perhaps a trifle more haughty, more exacting in her demands on georgina and lottie. but averil noticed how heavy her eyes looked when she came down in the morning, how often they were encircled with black rings. she ate little, but any remark on her loss of appetite seemed to irritate her. she was paler, too, and as time went on there were sharpened lines in her face; the lovely curves seemed to lose their roundness; a sort of haggardness replaced the youthful freshness. averil tried once or twice to break down the girl's reserve, but her gentle hints availed nothing. maud would have no sympathy, permit no condolence; and after a time averil's thoughts were diverted into another channel. it was the middle of september now; georgina had gone to visit some friends in ireland, and mrs. willmot and maud were planning to spend the greater part of october and november in devonshire. averil's expenses had been heavy that year, and she had given up, in consequence, a much-talked-of trip to switzerland. "next year, if i live, i will take annette and lottie," she said to mr. harland; "but rodney is not leaving town just yet and i do not care to leave him. perhaps i will take the girls later on to brighton for a week or two; one summer in town will not hurt me;" and though mr. harland grumbled at this resolution, she carried her point. no, she could not leave rodney; she was growing daily more anxious about him. he was often moody and irritable, had fits of gloom, followed by moods of reckless gayety. he was seldom at home, and when questioned about his engagements by his mother and sisters always answered evasively--townley had asked him to go down to cricklewood, or forbes or stewart had invited him. "who is this townley?" maud had once asked. "is he a new friend of yours, rodney?" "oh, i have known him for some time," he returned, curtly; "he is a chum of forbes--he is one of the clique;" and then he sauntered out of the room. averil looked up from her work. "maud, i do not like the idea of this mr. townley. frank knows him; he says he is the most worthless of the set--a thoroughly bad fellow. i am getting very anxious about rodney." "i think he ought to stay at home more," was maud's reply. "i must get mamma to lecture him. he has been borrowing money off her again--he spends far too much." "he would have been safer in canada," returned averil, quietly. but to this maud made no response, only a shade crossed her face; if she regretted that false step, she did not say so; it is only a generous nature that owns its mistakes. that night averil had a sad shock. she had been very busy all day, and had sat up later than usual to finish some letters. as usual, rodney was out; but a little before one she heard roberts admit him. she was just putting away her papers, and as she closed her desk and opened the door she heard the old butler's voice raised in a serious remonstrance. "mr. rodney, sir, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. you will wake your mother and the young ladies! do, i beg of you, let me help you to bed before my mistress sees you; she is writing in her room." "all right, old fellow! don't you put yourself out," returned a thick voice, curiously unlike rodney's. as they passed, averil covered her face with a low cry. she must shut out that sight--her boy, with his fair hair disheveled, and flushed, meaningless face, as he lurched past her unsteadily on the butler's arm. "oh, rodney, rodney!" at that bitter cry the young prodigal seemed for the moment half sobered. "never mind, ave," he stammered; "i am only a little poorly. roberts--he is a good fellow--will take care of me. good-night!" averil made no answer; she followed them up, with a white, stony face, and went to her room. there was no sleep for her that night. if vicarious shame could have saved rodney, that bitter expiation might have been his. "but no man can save his brother, or make an atonement for him." rodney looked miserable enough the next morning: his conscience was not yet hardened. averil took no notice of him; it was maud who lectured him in sharp accents for his irregular habits. "you will get into trouble one day if you go on like this," she said, in her hardest manner; and yet maud knew nothing of the disgraceful scene. "you stop out late every night; you spend mamma's money, and you are forming idle, useless habits from always mixing with richer men. mamma will be ruined if you go on like this." "what a pity you hindered me from going to canada!" sneered rodney; and somehow that home-thrust silenced maud, and she shortly left the room. averil was finishing her breakfast; she had risen late, after a sleepless night; but she only read her letters, and took no part in the conversation. rodney glanced at her uneasily. "i wish you would speak to me, ave," he said at last. "if you only knew how confoundedly miserable i feel. yes, i know i made a beast of myself last night--you need not tell me that. roberts has been rowing me. it was those fellows--they would keep taunting me with being a temperance man." averil looked at him in speechless indignation; but the flash of the gray eyes was not pleasant to meet--they expressed their utter contempt, such measureless disdain. "oh, of course i know you will be down on me; i have done for myself now." "yes, and for me too. you have robbed me of a brother--do you think i can own you for one now?" "do you mean that you are going to kick me out?"--in a tone of dismay. certainly, rodney had never expected this. "i will answer that question later," she said, sternly. "if you think such scenes are to be permitted in my house, you are strangely mistaken. these walls shall shelter no drunkard." "you have no right to call me such names," retorted rodney, angrily. "i am no worse than other fellows. it was saunders and townley. they laid a wager--" "stop--i will not hear you. have you no manliness? are you a child, to be led by other men? what do i want to know about saunders and townley, or any other of these worthless companions, who are ruining you? will they answer for your sin, rodney--for your miserable degradation of last night?" "you won't let a fellow speak," he said, quite cowed by this burst of indignation. "i know i made a wretched ass of myself. i am ashamed of myself, i am indeed, ave; and if you will only look over it this once, i will promise you that it shall not occur again." "how am i to have faith in such a promise?" she returned, sadly; but her anger was lessening in spite of herself. he looked so wretched, so utterly woe-begone, and he was only a boy; she must give him another chance. rodney read the softening in her voice. "only try me," he said, eagerly; "i am not all bad--i am not, indeed! i will turn over a new leaf. i will drop staunton and all those other fellows, and look out for a berth in earnest. don't say you'll give me up. you are my best friend, ave"--and there were tears in the poor lad's eyes. averil's loving heart was not proof against this. he had been a mere boy when her father had married, and from the first she had taken to him. rodney had never made any distinction between her and his own sisters. he had always been fond of her; he tried to take her hand now, and she did not draw it away. "you will try me, ave?" "if you will give up the society of those men," she returned, in her old gentle manner. "do, my dear boy--do, for my sake--break with them entirely, and with the club." "i will--i will, indeed--i promise you! i must go there to-day, because i have business with townley." "oh, not to-day--never again, rodney!" "but i must, i tell you. ave, i have business that can not be put off. after to-day i will promise you gladly. i am getting sick of the whole thing myself." "and you must go?" and averil felt a sinking of her heart as she put the question. "i give you my word, i must; but i won't be long. there shall be no staying out to-night. i suppose"--looking at her wistfully--"that you would not let me kiss you, ave?" averil drew back. she had forgiven him, but she was not quite ready for that. she had often permitted his brotherly caress, but somehow the scene of last night was still before her. "i will shake hands instead, rodney." but directly he had left the room she repented of her hardness. "i wish i had let him kiss me," she said to herself more than once that day. to distract herself, averil ordered the carriage after luncheon, and took annette and lottie for a long drive. they had tea at a little village inn, and put up the horses for a couple of hours. then they drove back leisurely in the cool of the evening. the girls had filled the carriage with festoons of honeysuckle and all kinds of wild-flowers. it was nearly nine when they returned. the little expedition had revived averil, but her careworn look came back when roberts told her that mr. rodney had not dined at home. "miss seymour was asking about him just now, ma'am. she said her mother was quite anxious, for he had promised to come early." averil turned away without answering. she was sick at heart. surely he had not forgotten his promise already? she was too weary to sit up: she was obliged to leave him to roberts, who would have undergone any amount of fatigue to shield his young mistress. she let unwin help her undress, and lay down in bed with the most miserable sense--that her trust was gone. unwin saw the tears stealing through her closed eyelids. the faithful creature was relieved when worn-out nature had its revenge, and averil fell into a heavy sleep that lasted until late in the morning. she woke to find unwin standing by the bed with a breakfast-tray, and an anxious expression on her pleasant face. "you have slept finely, ma'am," she said, as she opened the window a little wider. "it seemed a pity to disturb you, but miss seymour seemed to think it was late enough." "why, it is ten o'clock!" replied averil in dismay. "my good unwin, you ought not to have let me sleep so long." and then, dropping her voice a little--"when did mr. rodney come home?" "he has not been home, ma'am," returned unwin, in a distressed voice. "that is why miss seymour begged me to wake you. she and mrs. willmot seem very much worried; they say mr. rodney has never done such a thing in his life as to stop out all night. mrs. willmot is fretting herself about it. she will have it that something must have happened to him." averil lay quite still for a moment; then she sprung up. "i must dress quickly," she said. "put the tray on the table; i will drink the coffee presently. unwin, you were wrong not to wake me. i must write to mr. harland at once; he will know what to do. tell mrs. willmot that i will be with her soon." averil hardly knew how she dressed that morning. just before she left the room she opened her bible for a moment, and her eyes rested on the words: "cast thy burden upon the lord, and he will sustain thee," and the promise seemed to comfort her. on her way down-stairs she encountered annette and lottie. they both looked very grave, and annette slipped her hand through averil's arm. "i am so sorry, my cousin. it is not good of mr. rodney to frighten us all like this." "he ought to be ashamed of himself!" added lottie, indignantly. "aunt is making herself quite ill." "you must not keep me," returned averil, as she disengaged herself gently from annette's detaining touch. she found her step-mother in a piteous condition. the poor lady had got it into her head that something terrible had happened to her boy. "he has been run over, or there has been a railway accident," she said, hysterically. "averil, why don't you send roberts to inquire at all the hospitals? he has never done such a thing in his life as to stop out all night. he knows how frightened i should be--" "mamma," interrupted maud, in a hard, resolute voice, "there is not need to conjure up such horrors. why should there be an accident? rodney is not a child; he is able to take care of himself. how do we know what may be detaining him?" but her words failed to convince her mother. it was some time before averil could find an opportunity to speak, and then she had little comfort to give. "i think he is in some trouble, and that he is ashamed to come home," she said, in a low tone. "some money trouble, i mean. i am going to write to mr. harland; he will know best what to do, and roberts shall take my letter." and then she withdrew to her room, leaving maud to combat the weary, endless conjectures, the tearful questions that were so difficult to answer, mingled with incessant upbraiding; for mrs. willmot was selfish in her grief. "i wish we had let him go," she moaned. "it is your own fault, maud, for he had nearly persuaded me. if anything happens to your brother, how are we to forgive ourselves?"--and so on through the slow-dragging hours. no wonder maud grew paler as the day wore on; her own heart felt heavy as lead, and she could find few words of comfort for her distressed mother. chapter xx. "have you found him, frank?" averil was somewhat surprised when, two hours later, frank harland made his appearance. his father had a touch of the gout, he explained. he had come in his stead to offer his services. he listened attentively as averil put him in possession of the few facts. "i will go down to the club at once," he said starting up with a business-like air that seemed to promise efficient masculine aid. "don't trouble more than you can help, averil. i shall be sure to find out everything from some of the men. i expect the foolish fellow has got into difficulties, and is keeping himself dark." mrs. willmot cheered up a little when averil imparted the young lawyer's view of the case; her imagination ceased to dwell so exclusively on hospital wards and fractured limbs. she had horrified maud and lottie by mysterious hints of belated folks smuggled into dark entries. "how do i know he is not made away with by ruffians?" she had sobbed; and maud, who had reached the limits of her endurance, and who was suffering secretly the deadly sickness of remorse, silenced her with impatient harshness. "mother you will drive me crazy," she said at last. "why will you say such things? it is cruel to us!" and mrs. willmot, who was easily quelled by her eldest daughter, relapsed into weak tears. it was annette who came to maud's relief at last. "let her talk to me," she said, quietly. "the air will do you good; this room is so close. she can say what she likes to me, and it will not hurt--not as it hurts you. oh, i know all about it! she must talk; it is her only relief;" and, to maud's surprise, she placed herself beside the poor lady. "you will talk to me, will you not?" she said, taking her hand in her pretty, earnest way. "i will listen to you--oh, yes, i will listen! i think there is a difference in people--some are so silent in their grief. what is it you fear? surely the good god will take care of your son! you have prayed to him? no!"--as mrs. willmot shook her head--"then no wonder you are miserable! when one can not pray there is no help." a swift pang of regret crossed maud's mind as she heard these simple words. they had treated annette badly; they had ignored her existence as far as possible, and this was the kindly return she was making them. maud felt as though she hated herself as she paced restlessly up and down the garden walks, straining her ears for the sound of frank's wheels. "what have i ever done in my life?" she thought, bitterly. "have i considered any one but myself? i deserve my punishment; i deserve all this suspense and misery!" but so wretched was her mood, that though her repentance was real, and there was nothing she would not have done to ease her mother's mind, she could find no words for averil when she joined her. "dear maud, i think this is worse for you than for any one," whispered averil, affectionately, looking into the brilliant, strained eyes, that seemed as though they could not shed a tear. "i know how trying it has been; but annette is managing your mother so nicely." "don't averil; i can't talk," returned maud, hoarsely, and she turned away. no, she could not talk. averil meant kindly, but it was not for her to understand. "if anything happens to rodney it will be my fault--mine," she murmured, as she resumed her restless walk. it seemed hours before frank returned. averil met him in the hall, and took him into her own room. "well," she asked, breathlessly, as she leaned against a table, "have you found him, frank?" he shook his head. "he was not there. no one knows exactly where he is. will you sit down?" bringing her a chair, and compelling her with gentle force to rest. "there is no need to stand for i have much to tell you." "ah! then you have found out all about it?" and frank nodded. "he is in money difficulties--i was sure of that from the first. i have seen forbes, and he has told me all. that fellow townley--he seems to be a precious cad--got him to put his name to a bill some months ago. it has been renewed. well, i will spare you all that part. i need only tell you that townley behaved like a mean hound about it. he knew all the time that he was sold up, and that they would come on rodney." "was it for a large amount?" "it was for three hundred and fifty pounds--a pretty sum for a young fellow to pay who is living on his mother! he made the poor boy believe that it was just a matter of form--that he would not be implicated in the least." "frank, i will pay it. it is sad to throw my father's money away, but we must clear rodney. he has been duped by this man." "stop! there is more to tell. it is a very bad business altogether. they left the club together last evening--they had been dining with forbes--and the vexation and terror, and the wine he had taken, had got into the poor fellow's head. he was in an awful rage when he left the club--they all say that--but townley was only sneering and laughing at him. forbes says he heard rodney mutter that he would have his revenge, and, not quite liking the look of things, he lighted his cigar and followed them." "wait a moment, frank;" and averil caught at his arm a moment. she was white to her lips. then, after a minute--"now go on. i will try to bear it!" and frank obeyed her. "forbes did not like to follow them too closely, or to act as a spy, but he could see they were quarreling. they had turned into a quieter street, as though to carry on their discussion without hinderance, and after a time they stood still under a lamp-post. forbes was hesitating whether he should pass them or not, when he heard rodney say, 'you have done for me, but i will be even with you;' and then he raised his hand and gave him a terrible blow, and the next moment he saw townley fall." averil moved her lips, but no words came. "forbes rushed up to them and thrust rodney away. 'you have killed him!' he said; and for the minute he thought he was speaking the truth. townley had fallen and struck the back of his head against the curb; he was insensible, but not dead. as he knelt down and tried to support him in his arms a policeman hurried up to him. 'i saw it done, sir,' he said, excitedly, 'and i tried to nab the gentleman; but he was too quick for me. one of my mates is giving him chase. he is not dead, is he sir?' 'no; i can feel his heart beat,' returned forbes. 'you must get me a cab, and i will take him round to his rooms--they are not far from here.' and then he went on to tell me how they took him home and sent for the doctor, and how the physician feared concussion of the brain. forbes thinks he will not die. don't look so white, averil." "ah! i did not see you. miss seymour," as maud's rigid face appeared in the window. evidently she had heard all. "rodney--where is he?" she asked. but her voice was almost inaudible; and frank went on addressing averil. "no one knows what has become of him. i have inquired at scotland yard, but it appears he eluded the man who chased him. he is in hiding somewhere. don't you see, averil, he is suffering a double fear. townley had told him the jews would be down on him, and forbes' statement that he had killed townley made him feel himself a murderer. he dare not come home, for fear of being arrested; and our difficulty is--where are we to look for him?" "oh, frank, this is dreadful! what are we to do?" but maud said nothing. she leaned against averil's chair, with her despairing eyes fixed on frank's face. "we can do little at present, i fear. until townley is out of danger we dare not hazard an advertisement. it would only put them on his track. i can set a special agent to work, and, if you wish it, we can settle with isaacs about the bill." "yes, yes: i do wish it!" "then it shall be done at once. i am not without hopes, averil, that he may find means to communicate with us. i am sure, if townley recovers, that we shall hear from him soon." "and if he dies?" "then he will get out of the country. but for that he will need money. but i have a strong conviction that he will not die. now i will go and see after this business, and come back to you when i have settled it." "but; you must not go without your dinner. i told roberts that we would have a cold supper to-night. go into the dining-room, frank, and i will send some one to look after you. i must go to mrs. willmot now." frank was not unwilling to refresh his inner man. he went off obediently. he blessed averil in his heart when, a few minutes later, annette came into the room. "my cousin wishes me to attend to you," she said, in her serious, sedate way. "lottie is out, and miss seymour is engaged. what is there i can get you? there is cold lamb and salad, and a mayonnaise of salmon." "i will help myself, and you shall sit and talk to me," returned frank, who was quite equal to the occasion. there was something restful to him in the girl's tranquil unconsciousness. frank's heart beat a little faster as she took the chair beside him, and talked to him in her soft voice. "it is too horrible; there is no english word to express it. you must find him, mr. harland--you and monsieur--or my poor cousin will break her heart. you have hope, you say? that is well. in every case one must always have hope." "i will not leave a stone unturned; you may be sure of that," replied the young man, fervently. he was ready to promise anything to this gentle, dark-eyed girl who seemed to repose such faith in him. something of the old chivalrous feeling came into frank's heart as he listened to her; a longing to be her true knight--hers and averil's--and to hew his way through any obstacles. "i shall not be here again to-night," he said, as he took a cup of coffee from her hand. "it is late now, and i must consult my father. but to-morrow--will you tell averil that i will be here as early as possible? i shall see you then?" looking at her inquiringly. "but, certainly! why not?" she rejoined, with naïve surprise. "this rose--it is one of the last--will you give it to monsieur?" "monsieur--it is always monsieur," he returned, rather dolefully. "i wish you thought of me half as much." "but i think of you always," she replied, simply, "when i remember all my good friends." frank was obliged to content himself with this temperate compliment. it was this simplicity, this child-like, truthful nature, that had drawn frank to her from the first. "i have never seen any girl like her," he said to his confidante, louie, that night. "but, with all her sweetness, i doubt if she cares for me in the least." "you will have to find that out for yourself, by and by," returned louie, in her sensible, matter-of-fact way. in her heart she thought no one could be good enough for her brother. louie's ideal sister-in-law would have been an impossible combination of beauty, intellect, and amiability--a walking miracle of virtues. she honestly believed that there was no man living to equal her father and frank. annette was very nice, but she almost wished that frank had not been so hasty in his choice. mr. harland quite forgot his pint as he listened to his son. he rubbed up his grey hair with mingled annoyance and perplexity. "i always told averil the lad was as weak as water," he said, irritably. "i hope that crazy mother of his is content with her work now. they have brought things to a pretty pass between them. why, it seems to me that he has only just missed killing the man." "i am afraid that rodney thinks he has done for him. i wish we could find him, father--the poor fellow must be suffering a martyrdom." "and serve him right, too," returned mr. harland, with unusual severity; and then he and his son plunged into a long business discussion. it was a miserable evening at redfern house. averil could not leave her step-mother, who was in a pitiable condition of mind and body. maud at last suggested that dr. radnor, who knew her mother's constitution, should send her a composing draught; and as this took immediate effect, they were at last set free. lottie and annette found it impossible to settle to their ordinary occupations, and after supper they sat out in the moonlight, talking in low, subdued tones of the sad events of the day. lottie, who was very tender-hearted, and easily moved by other people's feelings, cried at intervals; she was fond of her cousin, in spite of his love of teasing, and the thought of him, lonely and unhappy, oppressed her sadly. "i was afraid we were too happy," she murmured. "i don't think i have ever been so happy in my life. it has been such a beautiful summer--it brought you, my dear fairy order, and, oh! lots of nice things." "it will not be always dark," replied annette, quietly. "look at that sky, my lottie; how the little stars are shining through the cloud. presently it will pass away. oh, there is my cousin coming in search of us." yes, averil had come to fetch them. it was late, very late, she said, and they would be safer in bed. unwin had offered to watch that night. averil could not rid herself of the thought that perhaps in the darkness of the night their poor boy might steal into his home. "he will see the light, and then he will know we are expecting him," she said to herself, as she followed the girls up-stairs. chapter xxi. jim o'reilly. averil had just reached her own room when she remembered that she had not bidden maud good-night. it was very late, and just for a moment she hesitated; then she crossed the passage and tapped softly at her door. there was no response. she knocked again, and then gently turned the handle. for the instant she thought the room was empty, until a sound of a low smothered sob from the bed arrested her. the moon had retired behind a cloud, and in the dim uncertain light averil could just discern a dark form stretched across the bed. a great pang of pity crossed her as she groped her way to it--it was maud; she had thrown herself down, fully dressed, upon the quilt, with her face buried in the pillow, and was trying to choke down the hysterical sobs that were shaking her from head to foot. the strain of the last few hours had been too great, and she had broken down the moment she found herself alone. the overmastering passion made her deaf to everything; and, as averil stood beside her, the words, "oh, oliver, oliver! cruel, cruel!" reached her ears distinctly. there were pitying tears in averil's eyes, and then with a sudden impulse she stooped over her and drew maud's head to her bosom, and soothed her as one would soothe a broken-hearted child. "do not try to check it; you must give way at last. all this time you have borne it so bravely and alone. why should you fear me, your sister averil? oh, my poor dear, i know how you have suffered. and then this last cruel blow!" then, as bitter sobs only answered her, she went on, tenderly, "you have been so good to-day; you have not thought of yourself, but only of your poor mother. do you think i do not know how terribly bad it has been for you?" "don't praise me; don't say anything kind," returned maud, hoarsely, as her strong will forced down another quivering sob. "poor mamma! how gladly would i change places with her! she is unhappy, but she has not this weight," putting her hands on her breast. "averil, if anything has happened to rodney, i shall have been my brother's murderer. mamma would have let him go, only--" she stopped, and averil's sisterly arms only pressed her closer. "you must not say such things," she returned, gently. "you have been selfish and thoughtless; you did not think of his good, but only of your own; but if you had realized all this mischief, you would have been the first to bid him go." "you say that to comfort me," she returned, in a broken voice. "but, averil, you do not know. i shut my eyes willfully; i sacrificed rodney to my own interests; i thought of nothing but oliver; and now i am punished, for he has left me. he taught me to love him; he made me believe that he cared only for me; and now he is going to marry another woman!" and the poor girl shuddered as she said this. "dear maud, he was not worthy of you." "not worthy of me?" with the old scorn in her voice. then she broke down again, and buried her face on averil's shoulder. "what does it matter if he were not worthy, when i loved him? i loved him! oh, you are good to me, but you do not know--how can you know?--all i have suffered." "i know more than you think, dear," returned averil, in a low, thrilling voice. "i may not have suffered in the same way--for to me there is no pain like the pain of finding one we love unworthy of our affection; but if it will comfort you, maud--if it will make you more sure of my sympathy with you in this bitter trial--i do not mind owning that i also have known trouble!" "you have cared for some one!" starting up in her surprise. "oh, averil, i am so sorry." "well, so am i," with quaint simplicity. "it was very foolish, was it not?--a little crooked body like me. but it was my father's fault. dear old father! how his heart was set on it! no, maud, i am not going to tell you the story; it is not old enough. in one sense i was happier than you, for he was good--oh, so good!--though he could never have cared for me. well, it is past and over, and i am wiser and happier now--no one suffered but myself." "oh, averil, how can you speak so calmly?" "my dear, there was a time when i could not have spoken so; when i thought life looked just like one long, dull blank, when i did not know how i was to go on living in such a dreary world. i remember i was in this heavy mood one day when the words came into my mind; 'in the world ye shall have tribulation;' and then i said to myself, 'what if this be my special cross--the one that my lord meant me to bear? shall i refuse it, because it is so painful, when he carried his for me?' i had been bearing it alone, much as you have done; but it came upon me then that i must kneel down and tell him all--the disappointment, and the human shame, and the misery, and all that was making me feel so faint and sick with pain. and when i rose the burden was not so heavy, and it has been growing lighter and lighter ever since. dear maud, will you try my remedy?" "i can not, averil. you will be shocked, but i have never prayed in my life. of course i have said my prayers--just a collect or two morning and evening, and at church; but to speak like that, to tell out one's troubles--" "there is no comfort like it," returned averil, in her sweet, clear voice. "when we talk to others there is so much to explain; we fear to be misunderstood; we measure our words anxiously; but there is no need with our heavenly friend, 'lord, thou knowest'--one can begin like that, and pour it all out. we are not alone any more; we fear no longer that our burden will crush us: human sympathy is sweet, but we dare not lean on it. we fear to exhaust it; there is only one sympathy that is inexhaustible." "if i were only like you!" sighed maud; and then, in broken words, it all came out--the tardy confession of an ill-spent youth. the barrier once removed, there were no limits to that long-deferred repentance. at last maud saw herself by a clearer light, and owned honestly the two-fold faults that had been the bane and hinderance of her young life--pride and selfishness. yes, she was humbled now; the scorching finger of affliction had been laid upon her, but she had refused to recognize the chastening hand. it needed another stroke, another trial, before her haughty spirit was bowed in the dust. maud never knew how dearly she loved her brother, until terror for his fate awoke her slumbering conscience. "if i could only suffer in his stead!" she moaned, more than once. averil's disciplined nature knew better than to break the bruised reed. with gentle tact and patience she listened to all maud's bitter confession of her shortcomings. in her sturdy truth she did not venture to contradict her. only when she had finished she said, tenderly: "yes, you have been very selfish; but you will be better now. if you only knew how i love you for telling me all this, maud! i have still so many faults. life is not easy. we must help each other; we must be real sisters, not half-hearted ones. and one thing more--we will not lose courage about our dear boy;" and then, after a few more words, and a tearful embrace from maud, they separated. if averil's limbs ached and her head felt weary, there was thankfulness in her heart. at last the barrier was removed between her and maud; the patient endurance of years was reaping its fruits of reward. averil's generosity had already forgiven everything. hers was the charity which "hopeth all things." maud was very quiet and subdued the next day. she looked ill, but nothing would induce her to spare herself. "my mother likes to have me with her," she said, in answer to an affectionate remonstrance from averil. "why should annette be troubled?" and averil was obliged to let her have her way. frank kept his promise, and came early, but he could give little comfort. there was no news of rodney, and mr. townley still lay in the same precarious state. he came again in the evening, and stayed to dinner. it seemed a relief to averil to have him with them, and his cheery influence had a brightening effect on the dejected household. annette told him frankly that she was glad to see him, only she blushed a little at his evident delight in learning that fact. "was i wrong to say that?" she thought; but she would not confess this doubt to lottie. "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good." frank might have felt this, if he had been been in the mood for proverbs; but he was too full of sympathy for his friends, too anxious on rodney's account, to consider any personal benefit. his father's touch of gout was certainly in his favor: still, he condoled with him dutifully on his return from redfern house. he sent a line by a messenger the next morning to tell averil that mr. townley was certainly better. "doctor robertson has hopes of him now," he wrote. "my father is still incapacitated for business, though he is in less pain, so i am up to my ears in work; but i will contrive to look in on you at dinner-time. i shall possibly spend the night in town, as i have an early appointment for to-morrow." averil carried these good tidings to maud, who was obliged to own herself ill. she had been seized with faintness while dressing, and lottie had summoned averil in alarm. averil took things into her own hands very quietly; she made maud lie down again, and put her under unwin's care. when dr. radnor came to see mrs. willmot she would just give him a hint to prescribe for maud, too. secret trouble and want of sleep were telling even on her fine constitution. she wanted care, rest, and, above all, freedom from anxiety. averil did her best for her. she prevented mrs. willmot invading her daughter's room, by representing to her that maud was trying to sleep. she and annette mounted guard over the poor, distracted woman, who could not be induced to employ herself or to do anything but wander about aimlessly, bemoaning herself to every one who had time to listen to her. maud could at least be in the cool, shaded room that unwin kept so quiet, and brood over her wretchedness in peace. now and then averil came to her side with a gentle word, or lottie, in a subdued voice, asked how she felt. for the first time in her life, maud felt it was a luxury to be ill. no one expected her to make efforts. when every one looked so grave and sad, there was no need for her to try and hide her misery. when frank came that night he was shocked at averil's wan looks. the suspense of these three days was telling on her. she shook her head at his first kind speech. "it can not be helped," she said, quietly. "i was never one of the strong ones, frank;" and she turned the subject. "maud is ill, too, and mrs. willmot is in the same miserable state, unable to settle to anything. dear annette is so good to her. we have not told georgina: we can not bear to do so. it would only make one more to suffer; and she is so far away. have you heard of mr. townley again to-night." "yes, and he is going on well. if we could only let rodney know that--" and then roberts announced dinner, and frank had no time to say more. a little later, as he was speaking to averil in the bay-window, roberts came in rather hastily. "there is a man outside asking to speak to you, ma'am," he said, addressing his mistress. "he seems a rough sort of body, like a crossing-sweeper; and he refused to send his message by me. he wasn't overcivil when i wanted him to state his business. 'i'll speak to miss willmot, the mistress of the house, and no one else;' and that's all i could get out of him, ma'am." "never mind, roberts: i'll go to him;" for the old butler looked somewhat aggrieved. "we will go together," returned frank. "i dare say it is some begging petition, as my father says. you play the part of lady bountiful far too often, and of course you are taken in." averil smiled, but she was in no mood to refute the accusation. "you may come if you like," she said, with gentle nonchalance. "but i am rather apt to form my own conclusions. where have you put him, roberts?" "well, ma'am, i just shut the door on him, for he was not over and above respectable," returned the old servant. but both he and frank were surprised to find that she recognized the man as one of her endless protégés. "why, it is jimmy!" she said, as he pulled off his frowzy cap, and displayed his grizzled gray locks. "i hope your wife is not worse, jimmy?" "bless your kind heart, miss, she is doing finely. it is only an errand the young gentleman asked me to do for him. 'you will put this into her own hands, jim o'reilly,' he says to me; and, the saints be praised!--i have done it," finished jim, as he burrowed in the pocket of his ragged jacket and produced a dirty scrap of paper that smelled strongly of tobacco. averil gave a little cry, for she had recognized the handwriting, scrawled and blotted as it was. "i must see you, averil. i can endure this suspense no longer. do not be afraid. trust yourself to jimmy. he is as honest as the day, though a bit soft. he will bring you to me." no more--not even a signature. but there was no mistaking rodney's clear, familiar writing. she held it out to frank. a gleam of pleasure crossed his face as he read it. "shall we go at once, averil?" for she was watching him anxiously. "yes, yes. i will put on my bonnet. i must just tell maud where we are going. what a comfort to have you, frank!" but jim o'reilly, who had been standing stolidly aside, struck in here. "i can't be taking the pair of you, surely. it is miss willmot the gentleman wants. better come along of me alone, miss, and then folks won't ask so many questions." "but i could not think of letting miss willmot go alone," returned frank, decidedly. "look here, my good fellow: i am an old friend of the family, and mr. seymour will be glad to see me." but evidently jimmy held doggedly to his own opinion, until averil interposed. "he is right, jimmy. you need not be afraid of trusting this gentleman. he knows about everything. do not let us waste any more time in talking. roberts, we shall want a cab." "i will fetch one round at half past nine, sharp," interrupted jimmy. "look here, missus," addressing averil, "i am to bring you along of the young gentleman, ain't i? well, begging your pardon, i must be doing it my own way. it is not dark enough for the job yet. just keep your mind easy for another hour, and i'll be round with a four-wheeler, as sure as my name is jim o'reilly. we have a goodish bit to go, and i'll look out a horse that is fresh enough to take you there and back. half past nine--not before, and not after;" and jimmy shambled toward the door. "oh, frank, don't let him go!" exclaimed averil, in a distressed voice; and frank nodded, and followed him out. he came back after a few minutes. "it is all right," he observed. "the man knows what he is about. he is going to smuggle us into some slum or other. how thankful i am to be here!" and averil indorsed this with all her heart as she ran up-stairs to share the good tidings with maud. chapter xxii. mops is added to the pensioners. averil thought that hour the longest she had ever spent in her life; she was ready nearly half an hour before the time, and was sitting watching the minute hand of the clock, or starting up at every sound. but she need not have disquieted herself--jimmy was faithful to his appointment. at the exact stroke of the half hour a cab was at the door, with jimmy on the box. frank handed averil in, and then tried to question jimmy; but the old sweeper was invulnerable. "i'll take you there right enough. don't trouble your head, sir. now, then, cabby;" and frank had to jump in hastily, for fear he should be left behind. if the waiting seemed endless, the drive seemed still more interminable. a close, sultry day had ended in a wet night; only a few passers-by were hurrying through the rain. in the better thoroughfares the shops were closed: only the flaming gas-lamps, or some illuminated gin-palace, enabled frank to see the route they were taking. happily, they had a good horse, just fresh from his stable, and a steady driver. by and by, when averil was tired of straining her eyes in the hope of recognizing each locality, frank discovered that they were turning into oxford street, and a few minutes afterward the unsavory precints of the seven dials were revealed to them. late as it was, the whole neighborhood seemed swarming out-of-doors--women with ragged shawls over their heads, and trodden-down, slip-shod heels, were passing through the swing-doors of a dingy-looking tavern; loafing men, barefooted children, babies in arms, and toddling infants blocked up the narrow pavements. averil looked out on them pitifully, until the cab suddenly pulled up, and jimmy appeared at the door. "we won't go no further, master," he said. "you just take the lady down that there street," jerking his thumb backward over his shoulder. "half-way down on the left-hand side you will see a bird-fancier's--daniel sullivan is the name. just walk in and say jim o'reilly wants to know the price of that there fancy pigeon, and you'll find you've hit the mark. cabby and i will wait here; you will find us when you want us." "come, averil," interposed frank, eagerly; but averil lingered a moment to slip some money into the hand of a white-faced, weary-looking woman, with a baby in her arms, and a crying child, hardly able to walk, clinging to her shawl. "take them in out of the rain. god help you, you poor things!" she whispered, as the woman looked at her in a dazed way, and then at the coins in her hand. that dumb, wistful look haunted averil as frank hurried her along. some quarrel was going on--a woman's shrill tones, then rough oaths and curses in a man's voice, mingled with the rude laughter of the lookers-on. "sure you are in the right of it, biddy!" exclaimed one slatternly virago. "ben ought to be ashamed of himself for calling himself a man--the sarpent he is, to trample on a poor cratur, and to get her by the hair of her head, the owld bully!" "daniel sullivan--this is the place," whispered frank, as he drew averil through the narrow door-way into a small, dimly lighted room, crowded with cages and hutches, wherein were rabbits, pigeons, and every species of bird. a dwarfish old man, with a gray beard and a fur cap, was haggling with a rough-looking costermonger over the price of a yellow puppy. the mother, a mongrel, with a black patch over her eye, was gazing at them in an agonized manner, and every moment giving the puppy a furtive lick. "get out, mops," growled her master, angrily. "you aren't going to keep this 'ere puppy, so you may as well make up your mind to it;" and mops feebly whined and shivered. the poor creature's misery appealed to averil's soft heart. she heard the costermonger say, as he took his pipe out of his mouth. "i will give you a tanner for the pup;" when, to frank's surprise she interfered: "will you let me have that dog and the puppy? i have taken rather a liking to them. i would give you five shillings." "i ain't so sure about parting with mops," returned the old man, gruffly. "she ain't much to look at, but she is a knowing one." evidently mops was knowing, for she wagged her tail, and licked her puppy again, with an imploring glance at averil that fairly melted her heart. daniel was induced to hesitate at the offer of seven shillings and sixpence, and in another moment mops and the yellow puppy were averil's property, to be added to the list of mother midge's pensioners. frank waited until the costermonger had gone out grumbling, and then he asked for jim o'reilly's fancy pigeon. the old bird fancier looked up quickly from under his overhanging eyebrows. "oh, that's the ticket, is it? come along, sir;" and he pushed open a door, and ushered them into a close little room, lighted somewhat dimly by a tallow candle, and reeking of tobacco smoke. as they entered, rodney, who was sitting by the table as though he had fallen asleep, with his head on his arms, started up; and at the sight of his white, haggard face and miserable eyes, averil's arms were round his neck in a moment. "oh, rodney, my darling, at last we have found you! why have you kept us in such suspense three whole days?--and we have been so wretched." and all the time she spoke she was fondling his hands, and pushing the hair off his forehead, and the poor lad was clinging to her as though she were his only refuge. "oh, ave!" was all he could get out, for the lump to his throat almost choked him. he did not seem to notice frank; he was half awake, and dazed, and paralyzed with misery. averil was shocked to see the change in her boy; his eyes were sunken, he looked as though he had not slept or eaten, and his hand shook like an old man's. "don't you hate me?" he murmured, hoarsely, in her ear. "ave, i'm a murderer--a murderer!" "my darling, no. you are no such thing," she returned, soothing him, for his manner terrified her. "do you know, frank and i have good news for you? mr. townley is not dead. dear rodney, god has been very merciful. he would not permit you to spoil your life; he has given you another chance. the poor man was stunned by your violence, but not killed; he is better, recovering--indeed, he will not die; will he, frank?" for it seemed to her as though rodney could not believe her--as though he dared not take in the full meaning of her words. he had pushed her away, and now he stood with his trembling hands on her shoulders, and his heavy, blood-shot eyes trying to read her face. "you are deceiving me--he is dead," he muttered. for the moment averil thought the shock had turned the poor lad's brain; but frank knew better; his common sense came to her aid. "nonsense! don't play the fool, seymour," he said, with assumed impatience. "you know as well as i do that averil is not the girl to tell you an untruth. of course, townley is not dead. i am going to see him to-morrow, and offer damages. we have taken up the bill for you, and it is all settled. you have got off far better than you deserve." frank was not mincing the matter; but his brusque, matter-of-fact speech seemed to have the effect of recalling rodney's scattered faculties. he drew a long breath, changed color, and finally burst into tears. frank gave averil a reassuring nod. "it will be all right now. i'll come back presently, after i have had a look at mops;" for frank's tact was seldom at fault, and his kindly heart, so like his father's, told him that averil would like to be alone with her boy. "after all, there is no cordial like a woman's sympathy" he thought, as he stood looking into a wooden box, where mops, relieved in her maternal mind, was sleeping with her puppy. frank had time to indulge in a great many reflections before he thought it prudent to go back. rodney looked more like himself now; he rose from his chair, and put out his hand to frank somewhat timidly. "i could not offer it before," he said, in a low voice. "i thought i should never venture to shake hands with an honest man again. i felt like cain, branded for the whole term of my miserable life. will you take it, harland?" "to be sure i will;" and frank shook it cordially. "let bygones be bygones. we are not any of us ready to throw stones. averil, don't you think jimmy will be tired of waiting? and our cabby will be making his fortune out of us. besides, they do shut up shop here, even in the seven dials. come along, seymour. i expect you have had about enough of this place." "do you mean i am to go home with you?" for, somehow, such a blessed idea had never occurred to rodney. home--he had never hoped to see it again, "but it is not safe, is it, ave?" "and why not?" returned frank, in his cheerful, off hand manner. "of course, isaacs had a writ out against you, but averil has settled that. as far as that goes, you are a free man. i hear townley's solicitor intends to claim damages. i am going to see after that to-morrow. your mother means to sell out of the funds and clear you. i can't help thinking"--and here frank eyed him critically--"that a warm bath and a shave--i strongly recommend a shave--and a good supper will make a different man of you. we will just settle with your landlord and jim o'reilly, and then we will make the best of our way home." and to this they both assented. but averil did not forget her new pensioners--oh, dear, no! mops and her puppy were both put into the cab. the way home did not seem half so long, for rodney was telling them all they wanted to know. he described to them his panic-stricken flight that night, and how he took refuge in a dark entry, where jim o'reilly found him. "he was a regular pensioner of mine," explained rodney, "and he recognized me at once. 'you come along with me,' he said, when i had implored his assistance. 'there is a pal of mine in the seven dials that will keep you dark for a bit. you will be safe along of daniel sullivan;' and then he brought me here. i believe i have been nearly out of my mind half the time. and at last i could bear it no longer, and then jim said he would take my note. i thought i must see you and get some money; that you would help me to escape out of the country. i never had a doubt that townley was dead. forbes' words, 'you have killed him!' rang in my ears day and night. oh, ave, if i can forget what you have done for me to-night!"--and the pressure of his hand spoke volumes. "seymour, there is still that post in canada. just at the last moment hunsden was unable to go. they cabled to us yesterday for another man." this was joyful tidings to averil--a mute thanksgiving for another mercy crossed her lips. but rodney only said, in a dispirited voice, that mr. harland never would give him the chance again. "how can i expect people to trust me after what has happened?" "we'll talk of that later on," was frank's answer; and then the cab stopped, and the door flew open, as though roberts had been stationed there some time. "i am glad to see you, sir," he said, as rodney sprang up the steps; for roberts was a privileged person, and knew all the family secrets. mrs. willmot was in her dressing-room, and rodney went up at once to see her and maud. when he came down he found a comfortable meal ready for him. how sweet and home-like it looked to the poor prodigal! but for the sight of mops, who was making herself quite at home in an arm-chair, blinking with one eye at the eatables, those three days might have been some hideous nightmare. rodney rubbed his eyes, and then looked again, and met averil's smile. "i must see you eat and drink before i go to bed," she said, beckoning him to a seat beside her. "frank says he is hungry, and no wonder, for it is nearly one o'clock. frank, will you put down a plate for mops--the poor thing looks half starved!" and by the way mops devoured her meal, averil was probably right. * * * * * how peacefully the household at redfern house slept that night! what a happy reunion the next morning, when rodney took his accustomed place at the breakfast table by his mother's side! it was such a pity, as annette observed, that maud should be missing. poor mrs. willmot could scarcely take her eyes off her boy; every moment she broke into the conversation to indulge in some pitying exclamation about his looks. "did not dear averil think he looked ill? he had grown thin; he was altered somehow." then it was, "poor, darling maud had not slept all night; her nerves were in a shocking state;" and so on; but no one attended to her. frank was talking to annette in rather a low voice, and rodney was listening to averil. frank tore himself away with much reluctance. true, he was coming again that evening. he was to see mr. townley's solicitor, and to offer apologies and ample damages on rodney's account; and there was the canada scheme to be discussed, for he had already hinted to averil that there was not a moment to lose. when frank had gone off, averil sent rodney to sit with his sister, who was still too weak to leave her bed; and then she went into her own room and lay down on the couch and looked out on the sunshiny garden. much to the black poodle's disgust, mops had followed her there; mops's sense of maternal dignity was evidently strongly developed--she had certainly a ridiculous fondness for the fat, rollicking, yellow thing. it amused averil to see the way mops looked at her every now and then, as much as to say, "did you ever see a finer, handsomer puppy?" it was utter peace to averil to lie there and watch the thrushes on the lawn; the soft ripeness of the september breeze seemed laden with a thousand vintages; the birds' twitterings, the bees' humming, even the idle snapping of ponto at the flies--all seemed to lull her into drowsiness. she woke from a delicious doze to find rodney beside her. he was about to move quietly away, but she stretched out her hand to stop him. "i have woke you," he said, penitently. "ave, i never saw you asleep before. you have no idea what a child you looked;" and there was a little touch of awe in the young man's voice. something in averil's aspect, in the frail form, the pure, soft outlines, the child-like innocence, seemed to appeal to his sense of reverence. rodney was not wrong, for was she not a happy child? just then resting in her father's love, content to trust herself and her future to him. "you look too shadowy and unsubstantial altogether," he went on, half seriously, half humorously; "as though you only wanted a pair of wings to fly away. but we could not spare you yet--we could not indeed." "not till the time comes," she said, stroking his face as he knelt beside her. "oh, rodney, how nice it is to have you again! do you think i should ever forget my boy, wherever i may be--'in this room or the next?'--as some one has quaintly said." "oh, one can't tell about those sort of things," he returned, vaguely. "no; you are right, and i have never troubled myself with such questions, as some people do. how can we tell if we shall be permitted to see our dear ones still militant here on earth? i am content to leave all such matters; our limited human intelligences are unfit to argue out these deep things. of one truth only i am convinced--that god knows best." "i always said you were a little saint, ave." "nonsense!" she returned, playfully. "i don't believe you know the meaning of the term. do you remember what dryden said?-- "'glossed over only by a saintlike show.' "it is far too big a word to apply to a poor little sinner like me. now, i want to talk to you about something else, rodney--something peculiarly earthly--in short, about canada; for frank will be here this evening, and we must make up our minds on the subject." chapter xxiii. "good-bye, ave!" frank had a whole budget of news that evening. he had seen mr. townley, who was recovering fast, and had made him handsome apologies on rodney's part. "they say there is good in every one," observed frank, sententiously, looking round a little patronizingly on his listeners. "there is often a touch of good in what seems most evil. evidently, townley's conscience has been giving him a twinge or two, for he won't ruin us in the way of damages; in fact, we have come to terms without his solicitor. you are to pay the doctor's bill, and that is about all, seymour. and now let us go into the canada question. my father wishes to know if you will take the berth." there was no hesitation on rodney's part this time; his grateful acceptance was annotated very tearfully by his mother. rodney's repentance was too real to haggle over terms, to desire delay; if they wanted him, he would go at once--the sooner the better. his outfit could be managed in a couple of days. and to all this averil assented. she left them still in full conclave, and went up to tell maud the news. as she did so she was struck with the melancholy wistfulness in her beautiful eyes. "oh, how i envy him!" she sighed. averil looked at her in surprise: "you envy rodney?" "yes; not because he has sinned so deeply, and has been pardoned so generously--for i might almost say the same of myself--but because he is going to a new place, to begin afresh, to make another commencement. it will be like a different world to him; no one will remember his past follies, or cast a slur on him." maud spoke with intense earnestness and passion; and as she paused, a sudden thought flashed into averil's mind--one of those quick intuitions that made frank now and then call her a woman of genius. "should you like to go, too, maud?" she asked, very slowly. "i!" with a quick start and flush. "what is the use of putting such a question?" "i mean, should you care to go and make a home for rodney?" "i should love it of all things. but mamma--you know she could not do without me. georgina is not thoughtful, and somehow she has always depended on me." "yes, i know that; but why should you not all go? it would be better for rodney, and his mother can not bear to part with him. i would help you to form a comfortable home, though, perhaps, not an extravagant one. rodney will keep himself. after all, it is not a bad idea. i have often heard you and georgie long for a canadian winter. what do you say, maud?" "oh, averil, do you really mean it?" and now maud's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak. "tell me exactly what you think of it, dear," went on averil, in an encouraging voice. "i know your mother will agree to anything you propose. she has never been selfish with regard to her children, except in that one instance--her refusal to part with rodney." "and that was more my fault than hers," returned maud, remorsefully. "do not blame poor mamma--she has her faults. we have none of us treated you well, but she has always been good to us. i know she is so fond of rodney that it will almost break her heart to be separated from him; and it does seem so lonely for him out there without any of us. rodney is so unlike other young men of his age--he never seems to want to leave us." "i think he would love to have you." "i know he would; and a home would be so comfortable--he would come to us every evening. averil"--dropping her voice--"if you only knew what it would be to me to get away, so that i should not be obliged to meet them everywhere. i am afraid," speaking with great dejection, "that you will think me very weak, but i feel as though i should never get over it if i stay here, doing just the same things, and going to just the same places, and having no heart for anything." "my poor child"--caressing her--"do you think i do not understand? do you imagine that i am sending you away from me for my own good?" "ah, that is the only sad part--that i should have to leave you, averil, and just as i was beginning to love you so. it is all my selfishness to plan this, and leave you alone." "but i shall not be alone," returned averil, brightly. "i do not mean you to take lottie, so you may as well make up your mind to that. besides, ned chesterton wants her, and i intend him to have her, by and by, when lottie is a little older and wiser. then i shall have annette, and mother midge, and a host of belongings. never was a little woman richer in friends than i am." "you deserve every one of them," replied maud; and then a shade passed over her lovely face "you will be better without us, averil. mamma, georgina, and i have only spoiled your home and made it wretched. you will be able to lead your own life, follow your own tastes as you have never done yet. do you think i do not see it all plainly now? how it has been all duty and self-sacrifice on your part, and grasping selfishness on ours? i wonder you do not hate us by this time, instead of being our good angel!" "you shall not talk so," returned averil, kissing her. "you are my dear sister, and sisters always bear with one another's faults. well, it is settled; and now i shall leave you to talk it over with your mother, while i give a hint to rodney and frank. then there is georgina; she must come home at once; and you must get well, maud; for your mother will do nothing without you." "i feel well already," replied maud; and indeed she looked like a different creature; something of her old energy and spirit had returned at the notion of the change. averil knew her suggestion had been a wise one; it was a "splendid fluke," as frank observed when he heard it. if a bomb had exploded at mrs. willmot's feet she could not have been more utterly aghast than when the idea was jointly propounded by maud and rodney. "preposterous! impossible!" she repeated over and over again. "a more impracticable scheme had never been heard. cross the sea! never! she was a wretched sailor. she would rather die than cross the atlantic. live out of england, where her two good husbands were buried! how could any one ask such a thing of a widow? averil just wanted to get rid of them; it was a deep-laid plot to set herself free." rodney was too indignant at this charge to utter another word. he took himself off in a huff, leaving his mother dissolved in tears. he had been so charmed with the idea; the canadian home had so warmed his fancy; but, if his mother chose to feel aggrieved, he would have nothing more to say to it--and as maud was too weary to carry on the discussion, the matter dropped. but a night's sleep effected wonders, for, lo and behold! the next morning mrs. willmot was in a different mood--the only impossibility now would be to bid good-bye to rodney. "sooner than be separated from that dear boy, she would cross a dozen atlantics! maud had evidently taken a fancy to the scheme, and the thing should be done." "thank you, mother," returned rodney, gratefully; and mrs. willmot heaved a deep sigh. "it was a sacrifice," she said, a little pompously; "but she had always thought more of her children than herself; and the change would be good for the dear girls. young people were very gay in canada, she heard. they had nice sledging-parties, and there were a good many dances;" and here she coughed, and looked significant. in spite of her troubles, mrs. willmot would always be true to her own nature; her pleasure-loving instincts would always crave indulgence. she was neither stronger nor better for all her trials. but as averil looked at maud she did not fear the mother's influence. maud's character was strong, for good or evil. with all her faults, there was nothing small or mean about her. if she had erred, she had also repented; and though hers might be a weary, uphill fight, averil felt there would be no weak tampering with temptation. maud would be a little hard in her judgment of herself and others--a little prone to hold the reins too tightly. she would discipline herself sternly, and exact the same scrupulous honesty from others; but averil knew she could be safely trusted to do her best for her mother's and rodney's comfort. to her strong nature, their very dependence on her would bring out her best points. her present position in the household had never suited maud. she had grudged averil her power; and though this might have been checked in the future, her life at redfern house did not afford her sufficient scope. "she will be far more her own mistress out there," observed mr. harland, as he joined the family circle the night before rodney sailed. it had been arranged that rodney should start alone, and that his mother and sisters should follow him in a month's time. their preparations were much more extensive than his, and they had to bid good-bye to their friends. besides, averil was not willing to part with them quite so soon. strange to say, she felt fonder even of her step-mother now she knew they were to be separated. there had never been anything in common between them, and yet averil discovered, or thought she had discovered, a dozen new virtues. "maud will be very much admired out there," went on mr. harland, in the same aside. but averil scarcely answered. she was not thinking of maud that night, but only of rodney. her eyes seemed to follow him everywhere. had she realized how she would miss him? how quiet the house would be without his boyish laugh, his merry whistle! from the very first he had taken the place of a young brother to her. frank had been her great big brother, but rodney was a sort of benjamin. his very faults, his moral weakness, had kept her closer to him. it is impossible to be anxious about people and not to grow to love them. he saw her looking at him at last, and came and sat beside her, with a very sober face. "i do hate good-byes; don't you, ave?" he said, in rather a melancholy tone. "why, no," she said, trying to speak cheerfully. "i think the word the most beautiful word in our language. 'good-bye--god be with you.' that is what it means, rodney." "oh, yes, of course; but i was not meaning the word itself. it is only that i do hate leaving you, ave." but she would not let him say that, either. though her own heart was aching, she would send him away brightly. "it is a grand thing you are doing," she said, in her sweetest and most serious voice. "you are going out to do a man's work in the world; to carve out your own career; to make a home for your mother and sisters." "it is you who are doing that," he returned. "you have been far too liberal; we could have managed with much less." "i do not need it," was all her answer; and then she went on with a few words of sisterly advice--not many words. averil did not believe in much speaking; but she knew that rodney loved her well enough to hear her patiently. of the two he seemed more affected when the time of parting came. there were no tears in averil's eyes as there were in his--only something of solemnity. "god bless you, my darling!" was all she whispered, as he kissed her again and again; and his "good-bye, ave," was dreadfully husky; but, as she smiled and waved to him, no one knew how her heart ached. "shall i ever see him again?" she said to herself as she turned away. but she left that, as she left everything else, to the wise and loving will of her heavenly father. the month that followed rodney's departure was rather an ordeal for averil. georgina had rushed home at the first news of the flitting, and her exuberant spirits and abundant energy seemed to turn the house upside down. if the seymour family had contemplated a move into the wilds of africa, to a spot most remote from civilization, there could not have been greater excitement. friends crowded round them; dress-makers and milliners held mysterious interviews at all hours; huge traveling-boxes filled up the passages; and lottie and annette had their work cut out for them. it was "lottie, will you do this for me?" or "lottie, you must really find time to finish this," from morning to night. lottie was quite equal to the occasion. her affectionate mind was brimming over with good-will to every one. lottie's magnanimity had long ago overlooked the past. she had forgotten the minor miseries, the petty tyrannies, the small denials, that had harassed her youth; she only remembered gratefully that her aunt and cousins had given her a home. she must do everything she could for them in return. lottie even chided herself secretly for her hardness of heart; she could not be as sorry as she wished. the thought of being alone with averil and her dear fairy order was too delicious altogether; and as she found annette held a similar opinion, the two girls indulged privately in many a delightful day-dream. averil was thankful when the ordeal was over, and the last parting words had been said. her real "good-bye" to maud had been said overnight. maud had come to her room, and they had had a long, long talk. maud had been very much overcome, and averil had found it difficult to soothe her; but just at the last she said hurriedly--and averil loved to remember her words: "don't think i shall ever forget your goodness, averil. if i ever become a better woman, it will be all owing to you; because you trusted me, and i dare not disappoint you. all these years you have set me an example, though i did not choose to take it; but i shall remember it when i am away from you. i must not promise--indeed, i dare not trust myself; but, averil, you shall see--you shall see how i will try to do better!" and maud nobly kept her word. it was the end of october when the seymours left redfern house, and averil, who was weary, and had long needed rest and change of scene, took her two girls the very next day to brighton, where they spent the greater part of november. it was a glorious time for annette and lottie; and even averil, in spite of her fatigue, enjoyed the long, sunshiny mornings, the pleasant drives, and the cozy evenings, when they worked and read aloud; and during the pauses of their conversation they could hear the water lapping on the stones in the starlight. it was a little strange settling into redfern house again. the rooms looked large and empty, and for a long time a pang crossed averil each time she passed the door of rodney's room. but she would not give way to these feelings of depression. she devoted herself more than ever to her girls' interest. she had found a music-master for annette, and a drawing-master soon followed; lectures on english literature, concerts and oratorios, social evenings with a few congenial friends, soon filled up the busy day. in the spring, louie harland came for a long visit, and remained for some weeks, joining the girls in all their studies and amusements, and setting averil free for a lengthy visit to mother midge; and when she left them it was with the full understanding that the first fortnight in june was to be spent by the trio at grey-mount house. chapter xxiv. "you are monsieur's son." one lovely june afternoon annette was sitting on the steps that led down from the veranda at grey-mount house. she was alone, and looked unusually pensive; indeed, there was a slight shade of melancholy on her expressive face. annette had just remembered that it was on this very day last year that she had first seen monsieur. "a year ago--actually it is a year," she said to herself, "since i left the rue st. joseph! oh, those days--how dark and narrow they seem beside my life now!" and annette shuddered involuntarily as she remembered the close, dark room, the long, weary hours, the frugal, solitary meals, when the tired lace mender had finished her work. but the next moment the old street, with its curiously gabled houses, vanished from her mental vision, and she took up a different thread of musing. "what could she have said last night to offend mr. frank so deeply? he had kept away from her all the evening, and this morning he had gone off with only a hurried good-bye, and without waiting for his button-hole bouquet, though it was all ready for him--the prettiest she had ever made." it was this remembrance that had been tormenting annette all day, and had spoiled the sunshine for her. she had left louie and nettie to finish their game with lottie, because she was playing so badly; and, of course, that was mr. frank's fault, too. annette did so hate to hurt people; but, though she did not like to confess it even to herself (for she was very loyal to her friends), mr. frank had been so very touchy lately. he was always pulling her words to pieces and grumbling over them, and he never seemed quite satisfied with her. "i think i disappoint him terribly," she said to herself, plaintively. "and yet what have i said?" and here annette tried painfully to recall her words. they had been talking very happily, frank had been giving her an account of a walking-tour, and somehow the conversation had veered round to dinan and monsieur. perhaps he was a little bored with her praises of monsieur, for he suddenly frowned (and she had never seen him frown before), and said: "it is no use trying; i may as well give it up. i don't believe any man has a chance with you; you think of no one but my father." "i think there is no man so good and wise as monsieur," she had replied, very innocently; and then, to her dismay, mr. frank had looked hurt, and became all at once quite silent. "i do not understand young men," she said, as she laid her head on the pillow; "they are strange--very strange. mr. frank looks as though i had committed some crime. friends ought not to quarrel for a word. to-morrow i will make him ashamed of himself. his bouquet shall be better than monsieur's." annette was quite happy as she prepared her little offering--she even smiled as she laid it aside. she was sure frank saw it, though he took no notice; he always petitioned for one so humbly. but on this unlucky day he went out of the breakfast-room without a word; he was in the dog-cart beside his father as annette crossed the hall, and his cold, uncompromising "good-morning, miss ramsay!" left her no opening. the poor flowers were left to wither on the marble slab, and annette, in rather a melancholy mood, settled to her practicing; but her scales were less perfect than usual. "what can it mean?" played the prelude to every exercise and study. annette had laid aside her mourning; she was in white this evening, and the cluster of dark roses at her throat suited her complexion admirably. her pretty little head, with its dark, smooth plaits, was drooping slightly. something in her attitude seemed to strike frank as he crossed the lawn on his way to the house; he looked, hesitated, then looked again, and finally sauntered up to the veranda with a fine air of indifference. "do you know where louie is, miss ramsay?" "she is playing tennis with lottie. oh, you are leaving me!" as frank nodded and turned away, and a distressed look crossed her face. "all day i have wanted to speak to you, and now you will not listen! mr. frank, i do not like my friends to be angry with me when i have done no wrong--no wrong at all. it is not treating me well!" and annette looked at him with grave dignity. evidently, frank had not expected this. he had been brooding over his grievance all day--nursing it, magnifying it, until he believed that he was greatly to be pitied. but this frankness on annette's part cut away the ground from beneath his feet. how could he explain to her the manner in which she had hurt him? she was so unlike other girls--so simple and child-like. frank found himself embarrassed; he stammered out something about a misunderstanding. "a misunderstanding, surely, since i have been so unhappy as to offend you," returned annette, gently. "mr. frank, will you tell me what i have done, that i may make amends? i have hurt you--well, that gives me pain. i think there is no one for whom i care so much as--" "monsieur," finished frank, gloomily, and there was quite a scowl on his pleasant face. "why don't you finish your speech, miss ramsay? we all know what you think of monsieur!"--which was very rude of frank, only the poor fellow was too sore to measure his words. he was angry with himself, with her, with every one. he could not make her understand him; all these months he had been trying to win her, and there had been no response on her part; but this frank kindliness-- annette looked at him for a moment with wide-open, perplexed eyes. she wished to comprehend his meaning. "well," she said, slowly, "and you are monsieur's son, are you not?" now what was there in this very ordinary speech--the mere statement of an obvious fact--to make frank suddenly leap to his feet and grasp her hand? "do you mean that?" he exclaimed, eagerly. "annette, do you really mean that you can care for me as well as for him? tell me, quickly, dear! i have been trying so hard all these months to make you understand me; but you never seemed to see." "what is it you wish me to understand?" she said, shyly; for, with all her simplicity, annette could hardly mistake him now. "you quarrel with me for a word, but you tell me nothing plainly. is it that i am too slow, or that you have not taken the trouble to instruct me?" "trouble! where you are concerned!" he said, tenderly. and then it all came out--the story of his love, his patient wooing, his doubts if his affection could be returned. "you were always so sweet and friendly to me," he went on; "but i could never be sure that you really cared for me--that you cared for me enough to become my wife," finished the young man in a moved voice. "you could not be sure until you asked me," returned annette naïvely. "there was no need to make yourself so miserable, or to have given me this unhappy day." "have you been unhappy, too, my dearest?" but frank looked supremely happy as he spoke. "yes; for i could not bear that anything should come between us. so you see, my friend, that, i too, have cared a good deal." but when frank wanted her to tell him how long she had cared--"was it only yesterday, or a week ago, or that day on which they had gone to the albert hall, when i gave you the flowers?" and so on, annette only blushed and said she did not know. "but surely you have some idea, my darling?" "but why?" she answered, shyly. "is it necessary to find out the beginning of affection? always you have been kind to me. you have made me glad to see you. i have never separated you from monsieur since the day we talked of him so much. 'this young man resembles his father--he has the same kind heart:' that is what i said to myself that day"--and frank was too content with this statement to wish to question his sweetheart more closely. mr. harland was sitting in the study reading his paper, and talking occasionally to averil, who was in her hammock-chair beside him, when a slim white figure glided between him and the sunshine, and annette stood before him. "well, mademoiselle," he said, playfully--for this was his pet name for her--"what has become of the promised walk?" "oh, i have forgotten!" she said, with a little laugh; "and it is your fault, mr. frank"--but she did not look at the young man as she spoke. "monsieur, you must forgive me, for i am not often so careless; and you must not scold your son, either, because we are both so happy." "eh, what!" exclaimed mr. harland, dropping his eye-glasses in his astonishment; for frank actually, the young rogue, had taken annette's hand, and was presenting her to him in the most curiously formal way. "father, do you want another daughter?" asked frank hurriedly. "i have brought you one. the dearest girl in the world, as you have long known." "i know nothing of the kind, sir," returned his father, in much anger. "to think of your saying such a thing with averil sitting by. the dearest girl in the world--humph!" "monsieur knows that is not the truth," replied annette, and her dark, soft eyes were very pathetic. "perhaps he is not willing to take the poor little lace-mender for his daughter." "is he not?" was the unexpected reply. and annette, to her delight and astonishment, found herself folded in his arms. "my dear little girl, i am more than willing! monsieur is not such a conceited old humbug. he knows what is good as well as other people; and he respects his son"--here he grasped frank's hand cordially--"for his choice; and he begs to tell him, and every one else concerned, that he is a sensible fellow." and here mr. harland marched away, using his handkerchief rather loudly, to tell his wife the news. "dear annette," exclaimed averil, "will you not come to me and let me wish you joy?" and as she warmly embraced her, annette whispered, "are you glad, my cousin? have i done well?" "very well indeed," returned averil. but for a moment her heart was so full that she could say no more. evidently frank understood her, for he glanced proudly at his young betrothed. "i am a lucky fellow, am i not, averil? ah, here comes louie. i expect my father is literally publishing it on the house-tops. come with me, annette; let us go and meet her." "so you have been and gone and done it, frank," observed louie, with great solemnity; "and i have a new sister. annette, i warned you before that frank was my own special brother; and now you will have to be fond of me as well as him, for i don't mean to be left out in the cold." and though louie laughed, and spoke in her old merry way, the tears were very near her eyes. "but i do love you already," protested annette, earnestly. "and it makes me so happy to know that i, too, shall have brothers and sisters. mr. frank will not have them all to himself any longer. they will be mine, too. is it not so?"--appealing to her lover; and of course frank indorsed this with delight. what a happy evening that was at grey-mount house! frank, who was idolized by his brothers and sisters, found himself in the position of a hero. the harlands were simple, unworldly people. it never entered their heads that the son and heir was not making a very grand match in marrying a young orphan without a penny to call her own--a little, sallow-faced girl who had once earned her living by mending lace. to them "kind hearts were more than coronets, and simple faith than norman blood;" and they were wise enough to know that annette's sweet disposition and lowly virtues would keep, as well as gain, her husband's heart. it was very pretty to watch her, averil thought, that evening. she took her happiness so simply; she seemed so unconscious of herself. her one thought was to please her fiancé, and all those dear people who had taken her into their hearts. "you are very happy, annette?" averil said to her later on that night. "but i need not ask; for your face is brightness itself." "i think i am more than happy," returned annette, with a deep sigh of utter content. "ah! if only my mother could know that i am to spend my life with so good a man. lottie has been trying to tease me. she will have it that mr. chesterton is nicer--as though he could compare with my mr. frank!" finished annette, with a gesture of superb disdain. "god has been very good to me," thought averil, reverently, when annette had left her, and she sat alone in the moonlight. "how different things were with me this time last year! then i was troubled about rodney; my home-life was miserable; annette was an unknown stranger; even lottie was a care to me. and now i trust, i hope, my boy is beginning a new life; i am happier about maud; my burdens are all lifted, and if the future looks a little lonely, it will not be for long--not for long--" she stopped and folded her hands, and a sweet, solemn look came into her eyes. what if her work were nearly done? if the weary, worn-out frame would soon be at rest? would that be a matter of regret? "when thou wilt, and as thou wilt," was the language of her heart. soon, very soon--yes, she knew that well--the tired child would go home. and as this thought came to her in all its fullness, a strange, mysterious joy--a look of unutterable peace--came on the pale face. "even so, father," she whispered--and the dim summer night seemed to herald the solemn words. "in my father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, i would have told you. i go to prepare a place for you." "and for me--for me, too!" prayed averil. the arm chair library. the choicest books by the most popular authors at ten cents each! each number contains a complete novel by a celebrated author. each number of the arm chair library contains a complete first-class novel by a well-known and popular author. they are not published in pamphlet form, but in the form of a neat and handsome book, each number consisting of a volume of large double-column pages, nicely printed and bound in attractive paper covers. some of the best books ever written are included in the arm chair library, and they may be had in this edition for only _ten cents each_, while many of the books, in any other edition published, cost not less than cents each. the following numbers are now ready: [illustration] no. . the scarlet letter. by nathaniel hawthorne. no. . the mystery of colde fell; or, not proven. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . under the red flag. by miss m. e. braddon. no. . king solomon's mines. by h. rider haggard. no. . around the world in eighty days. by jules verne. no. . the corsican brothers. by alexander dumas. no. . lady grace. by mrs. henry wood. no. . averil. by rosa nouchette carey. no. . the black dwarf. by sir walter scott. no. . a noble life. by miss mulock. no. . the belle of lynn; or, the miller's daughter. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . the black tulip. by alexander dumas. no. . the duchess. by "the duchess." no. . nurse revel's mistake. by florence warden. no. . merle's crusade. by rosa nouchette carey. no. . a study in scarlet. by a. conan doyle. no. . rock ruin; or, the daughter of the island. by mrs. ann s. stephens. no. . lord lisle's daughter. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . the armorer of tyre. by sylvanus cobb, jr. no. . mr. gilfil's love story. by george eliot. no. . a scarlet sin. by florence marryat. no. . the sea king. by captain marryat. no. . the siege of granada. by sir e. bulwer lytton. no. . mr. meeson's will. by h. rider haggard. no. . jenny harlowe. by w. clark-russell. no. . beaton's bargain. by mrs. alexander. no. . the squire's darling. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . the russian gypsy. by alexander dumas. no. . the wandering heir. by charles reade. no. . flower and weed. by miss m. e. braddon. no. . no thoroughfare. by charles dickens and wilkie collins. no. . the great hoggarty diamond. by w. m. thackeray. no. . the surgeon's daughter. by sir walter scott. no. . hilda, or, the false vow. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . grandfather's chair. by nathaniel hawthorne. no. . a trip to the moon. by jules verne. no. . the pioneer's daughter. by emerson bennett. no. . a little rebel. by "the duchess." no. . master rockafellar's voyage. by w. clark russell. no. . the heiress of hilldrop. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . hickory hall. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. no. . meeting her fate. by miss m. e. braddon. no. . in durance vile. by "the duchess." no. . danesbury house. by mrs. henry wood. no. . the twin lieutenants. by alexander dumas. no. . repented at leisure. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . the red hill tragedy. by mrs. emma d. e. n. southworth. no. . aunt diana. by rosa nouchette carey. no. . treasure island. by robert louis stevenson. no. . a rogue's life. by wilkie collins. no. . lady diana's pride. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . grace darnel. by miss m. e. braddon. no. . allan quatermain. by h. rider haggard. no. . king arthur. by miss mulock. no. . lady latimer's escape. by charlotte m. braeme, author of "dora thorne." no. . allan's wife. by h. rider haggard. no. . the sign of the four. by a. conan doyle. no. . pretty miss smith. by florence warden. no. . christie johnstone. by charles reade. no. . a dark night's work. by mrs. gaskell. any _one_ of the above books will be sent by mail post-paid upon receipt of =only ten cents=; any _four_ for =twenty-five cents=; any _ten_ for =fifty cents=. by buying ten books at a time you get them at half price. address: f. m. lupton, publisher, , and city hall place, new york. transcriber's note: numerous printer errors have been corrected. there were so many printer errors that these have been corrected without being documented. the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: "the lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(see page .)] a young hero; or, fighting to win. by edward s. ellis, _author of_ "adrift in the wilds," etc., etc. illustrated. [illustration: logo] new york: a. l. burt, publisher. copyright , by a. l. burt. a young hero. chapter i. the peacemaker. "a fight! a fight! form a ring!" a dozen or more excited boys shouted these words, and, rushing forward, hastily formed a ring around two playmates who stood in the middle of the road, their hats off, eyes glaring, fists clenched, while they panted with anger, and were on the point of flying at one another with the fury of young wildcats. they had been striking, kicking and biting a minute before over some trifling dispute, and they had now stopped to take breath and gather strength before attacking each other again with a fierceness which had become all the greater from the brief rest. "give it to him, sam! black his eyes for him! hit him under the ear! bloody his nose!" thus shouted the partisans of sammy mcclay, who had thrown down his school books, and pitched into his opponent, as though he meant to leave nothing of him. the friends of joe hunt were just as loud and urgent. "sail in, joe! you can whip him before he knows it! kick him! don't be a coward! you've got him!" a party of boys and girls were on their way home from the tottenville public school, laughing, romping and frolicking with each other, when, all at once, like a couple of bantam chickens, these two youngsters began fighting. the girls looked on in a horrified way, whispering to each other, and declaring that they meant to tell mr. mccurtis, the teacher, including also the respective mothers of the young pugilists. the other boys, as is nearly always the case, did their utmost to urge on the fight, and, closing about sam and joe, taunted them in loud voices, and appealed to them to resume hostilities at once. the fighters seemed to be equally matched, and, as they panted and glared, each waited for the other to renew the struggle by striking the first blow. "you just hit me if you dare! that's all i want!" exclaimed sammy mcclay, shaking his head so vigorously that he almost bumped his nose against that of joe hunt, who was just as ferocious, as he called back: "you touch me, sam mcclay, just touch me! i dare you! double, double dare you." matters were fast coming to the exploding point, but not fast enough to suit the audience. jimmy emery picked up a chip, and running forward, balanced it in a delicate position on the shoulder of sam mcclay, and, addressing his opponent said: "knock that off, joe!" "yes, knock it off!" shouted sam, "i dare you to knock it off!" "who's afraid?" demanded joe, looking at the chip, with an expression which showed he meant to flip it to the ground. "well, you just try it--that's all!" joe was in the very act of upsetting the bit of wood, when a boy about their own age, with a flapping straw hat, and with his trousers rolled far above his knees, ran in between the two, and used his arms with so much vigor that the contestants were thrown quite a distance apart. "what's the matter with you fellows?" demanded this boy, glancing from one to the other. "what do you want to make fools of yourselves for?" "he run against me," said sammy mcclay, "and knocked me over jim emery." "well, what of it?" asked the peacemaker. "will it make you feel any better to get your head cracked? what's the matter of _you_, joe hunt?" he added, turning his glance without changing his position, toward the other pugilist. "what did he punch me for, when i stubbed my toe and run agin him?" and joe showed a disposition just then to move around his questioner, so as to get at the offender. the other boys did not like this interference with their enjoyment, and called on the peacemaker to let them have it out; but he stood his ground, and shaking his right fist at sammy mcclay, and his left at joe hunt, he told them they must let each other alone, or he would whip them both. this created some laughter, for the lad was no older than they, and hardly as tall as either; but there is a great deal in the manner of a man or boy. if his flashing eye, his stern voice, and look of determination show that he means what he says, or is in dead earnest, his opponent generally yields. at the critical juncture, the girls added their voices in favor of peace, and their champion, stooping down, picked up the hats from the ground, and jammed them upon their owners' heads with a force that nearly threw them off their feet. "that's enough! now come on!" sam and joe walked along, rather sullenly at first. they glowered on each other, shook their heads, muttered and seemed on the point of renewing the contest more than once; but the passions of childhood are brief, and the storm soon blew over. before the boys and girls had reached the cross-roads, sam mcclay and joe hunt were playing with each other like the best of friends, as indeed they were. the name of the lad who had stopped the fight was fred sheldon, and he is the hero of this story. chapter ii. the call to school. fred sheldon, as i have said, is the hero of this story. he was twelve years of age, the picture of rosy health, good nature, bounding spirits and mental strength. he was bright and well advanced in his studies, and as is generally the case with such vigorous youngsters he was fond of fun, which too often, perhaps, passed the line of propriety and became mischief. on the monday morning after the fight, which fred sheldon interrupted, some ten or twelve boys stopped on their way to the tottenville public school to admire in open-mouthed wonder, the gorgeous pictures pasted on a huge framework of boards, put up for the sole purpose of making such a display. these flaming posters were devoted to setting forth the unparalleled attractions of bandman's great menagerie and circus, which was announced to appear in the well-known "hart's half-acre," near the village of tottenville. these scenes, in which elephants, tigers, leopards, camels, sacred cows, and indeed an almost endless array of animals were shown on a scale that indicated they were as high as a meeting-house, in which the serpents, it unwound from the trees where they were crushing men and beasts to death, would have stretched across "hart's half-acre" (which really contained several acres), those frightful encounters, in which a man, single-handed, was seen to be spreading death and destruction with a clubbed gun among the fierce denizens of the forest; all these had been displayed on the side of barns and covered bridges, at the cross-roads, and indeed in every possible available space for the past three weeks; and, as the date of the great show was the one succeeding that of which we are speaking, it can be understood that the little village of tottenville and the surrounding country were in a state of excitement such as had not been known since the advent of the preceding circus. regularly every day the school children had stopped in front of the huge bill-board and studied and admired and talked over the great show, while those who expected to go in the afternoon or evening looked down in pity on their less fortunate playmates. the interest seemed to intensify as the day approached, and, now that it was so close at hand, the little group found it hard to tear themselves away from the fascinating scenes before them. down in one corner of the board was the picture of a hyena desecrating a cemetery, as it is well known those animals are fond of doing. this bad creature, naturally enough, became very distasteful to the boys, who showed their ill-will in many ways. several almost ruined their new shoes by kicking him, while others had pelted him with stones, and still others, in face of the warning printed in big letters, had haggled him dreadfully with their jack-knives. it was a warm summer morning and most of the boys not only were bare-footed, but had their trousers rolled above their knees, and, generally, were without coat or vest. "to-morrow afternoon the show will be here," said sammy mcclay, smacking his lips and shaking his head as though he tasted a luscious morsel, "and i'm going." "how are you going," asked joe hunt, sarcastically, "when your father said he wouldn't give you the money?" "never you mind," was the answer, with another significant shake of the head. "i'm goin'--that's all." "goin' to try and crawl under the tent. i know. but you can't do it. you'll get a whack from the whip of the man that's watching that you'll feel for six weeks. don't i know--'cause, didn't i try it?" "i wouldn't be such a dunce as you; you got half way under the tent and then stuck fast, so you couldn't go backward or forward, and you begun to yell so you like to broke up the performance, and when the man come along why he had the best chance in the world to cowhide you, and he did it. i think i know a little better than that." at this moment, mr. abijah mccurtis, the school teacher in the little stone school-house a hundred yards away, solemnly lifted his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, and grasping the handle of his large cracked bell walked to the door and swayed it vigorously for a minute or so. this was the regular summons for the boys and girls to enter school, and he had sent forth the unmusical clangor, summer and winter, for a full two-score years. having called the pupils together, the pedagogue sat down, drew his spectacles back astride of his nose, and resumed setting copies in the books which had been laid on his desk the day before. in a minute or so the boys and girls came straggling in, but the experienced eye of the teacher saw that several were missing. looking through the open door he discovered where the four delinquent urchins were; they were still standing in front of the great showy placards, studying the enchanting pictures, as they had done so many times before. they were all talking earnestly, sammy mcclay, joe hunt, jimmy emery and fred sheldon, and they had failed for the first time in their lives to hear the cracked bell. most teachers, we are bound to believe, would have called the boys a second time or sent another lad to notify them, but the present chance was one of those which, unfortunately, the old-time pedagogue was glad to have, and mr. mccurtis seized it with pleasure. rising from his seat, he picked up from where it lay across his desk a long, thin switch, and started toward the four barefooted lads, who were admiring the circus pictures. nothing could have been more inviting, for, not only were they barefooted, but each had his trousers rolled to the knee, and fred sheldon had drawn and squeezed his so far that they could go no further. his plump, clean legs offered the most inviting temptation to the teacher, who was one of those sour old pedagogues, of the long ago, who delighted in seeing children tortured under the guise of so-called discipline. "i don't believe in wearing trousers in warm weather," said fred, when anybody looked wonderingly to see whether he really had such useful garments on, "and that's why i roll mine so high up. don't you see i'm ready to run into the water, and----" "how about going through the bushes and briars?" asked joe hunt. "i don't go through 'em," was the crushing answer. "i feel so supple and limber that i just jump right over the top. i tell you, boys, that you ought to see me jump----" fred's wish was gratified, for at that moment he gave such an exhibition of jumping as none of his companions had ever seen before. with a shout he sprang high in air, kicking out his bare legs in a frantic way, and ran with might and main for the school-house. the other three lads did pretty much the same, for the appearance of the teacher among them was made known by the whizzing hiss of his long, slender switch, which first landed on fred's legs, and was then quickly transferred to the lower limbs of the other boys, the little company immediately heading for the school house, with fred sheldon at the front. each one shouted, and made a high and frantic leap every few steps, believing that the teacher was close behind him with upraised stick, and looking for the chance to bring it down with effect. "i'll teach you not to stand gaping at those pictures," shouted mr. mccurtis, striding wrathfully after them. a man three-score years old cannot be expected to be as active as a boy with one-fifth as many years; but the teacher had the advantage of being very tall and quite attenuated, and for a short distance he could outrun any of his pupils. the plump, shapely legs of fred sheldon, twinkling and doubling under him as he ran, seemed to be irresistibly tempting to mr. mccurtis, who, with upraised switch, dashed for him like a thunder-gust, paying no attention to the others, who ducked aside as he passed. "it's your fault, you young scapegrace," called out the pursuer, as he rapidly overhauled him; "you haven't been thinking of anything else but circuses for the past month and i mean to whip it out of you--good gracious sakes!" fred sheldon had seen how rapidly the teacher was gaining, and finding there was no escape, resorted to the common trick among boys of suddenly falling flat on his face while running at full speed. the cruel-hearted teacher at that very moment made a savage stroke, intending to raise a ridge on the flesh of the lad, who escaped it by a hair's breadth, as may be said. the spiteful blow spent itself in vacancy, and the momentum spun mr. mccurtis around on one foot, so that he faced the other way. at that instant his heels struck the prostrate form of the crouching boy, and he went over, landing upon his back, his legs pointing upward, like a pair of huge dividers. there is nothing a boy perceives so quickly as a chance for fun, and before the teacher could rise, sammy mcclay also went tumbling over the grinning fred sheldon, with such violence, indeed, that he struck the bewildered instructor as he was trying to adjust his spectacles to see where he was. then came joe hunt and jimmy emery, and fred sheldon capped the climax by running at full speed and jumping on the struggling group, spreading out his arms and legs in the effort to bear them down to the earth. but the difficulty was that fred was not very heavy nor bony, so that his presence on top caused very little inconvenience, the teacher rising so hurriedly that fred fell from his shoulders, and landed on his head when he struck the earth. the latter was dented, but fred wasn't hurt at all, and he and his friends scrambled hastily into the school-house, where the other children were in an uproar, fairly dancing with delight at the exhibition, or rather "circus," as some of them called it, which took place before the school-house and without any expense to them. by the time the discomfited teacher had got upon his feet and shaken himself together, the four lads were in school, busily engaged in scratching their legs and studying their lessons. mr. mccurtis strode in a minute later switch in hand, and in such a grim mood that he could only quiet his nerves by walking around the room and whipping every boy in it. chapter iii. startling news. fred sheldon was the only child of a widow, who lived on a small place a mile beyond the village, and managed to eke out a living thereon, assisted by a small pension from the government, her husband having been killed during the late war. a half-mile beyond stood a large building, gray with age and surrounded with trees, flowers and climbing vines. the broad bricks of which it was composed were known to have been brought from holland long before the revolution, and about the time when george washington was hunting for the cherry-tree with his little hatchet. in this old structure lived the sisters perkinpine--annie and lizzie--who were nearly seventy years of age. they were twins, had never been married, were generally known to be wealthy, but preferred to live entirely by themselves, with no companion but three or four cats, and not even a watch-dog. their ancestors were among the earliest settlers of the section, and the holland bricks could show where they had been chipped and broken by the bullets of the indians who howled around the solid old structure, through the snowy night, as ravenous as so many wolves to reach the cowering women and children within. the property had descended to the sisters in regular succession, and there could be no doubt they were rich in valuable lands, if in nothing else. their retiring disposition repelled attention from their neighbors, but it was known there was much old and valuable silver, and most probably money itself, in the house. michael heyland was their hired man, but he lived in a small house some distance away, where he always spent his nights. young fred sheldon was once sent over to the residence of the misses perkinpine after a heavy snowstorm, to see whether he could do anything for the old ladies. he was then only ten years old, but his handsome, ruddy face, his respectful manner, and his cheerful eagerness to oblige them, thawed a great deal of their natural reserve, and they gradually came to like him. he visited the old brick house quite often, and frequently bore substantial presents to his mother, though, rather curiously, the old ladies never asked that she should pay them a visit. the misses perkinpine lived very well indeed, and fred sheldon was not long in discovering it. when he called there he never could get away without eating some of the vast hunks of gingerbread and enormous pieces of thick, luscious pie, of which fred, like all boys, was very fond. there was no denying that fred had established himself as a favorite in that peculiar household, as he well deserved to be. on the afternoon succeeding his switching at school he reached home and did his chores, whistling cheerily in the meanwhile, and thinking of little else than the great circus on the morrow, when he suddenly stopped in surprise upon seeing a carriage standing in front of the gate. just then his mother called him to the house and explained: "your uncle william is quite ill, fred, and has sent for me. you know he lives twelve miles away, and it will take us a good while to get there; if you are afraid to stay here alone you can go with us." fred was too quick to trip himself in that fashion. to-morrow was circus day, and if he went to his uncle will's, he might miss it. "miss annie asked me this morning to go over and see them again," he said, alluding to one of the misses perkinpine, "and they'll be mighty glad to have me there." "that will be much better, for you will be so near home that you can come over in the morning and see that everything is right, but i'm afraid you'll eat too much pie and cake and pudding and preserves." "i ain't afraid," laughed fred, who kissed his mother good-by and saw the carriage vanish down the road in the gloom of the gathering darkness. then he busied himself with the chores, locked up the house and put everything in shape preparatory to going away. he was still whistling, and was walking rapidly toward the gate, when he was surprised and a little startled by observing the figure of a man, standing on the outside, as motionless as a stone, and no doubt watching him. he appeared to be ill-dressed, and fred at once set him down as one of those pests of society known as a tramp, who had probably stopped to get something to eat. "what do you want?" asked the lad, with an air of bravery which he was far from feeling, as he halted within two or three rods of the unexpected guest, ready to retreat if it should become necessary. "i want you to keep a civil tongue in your head," was the answer, in a harsh rasping voice. "i didn't mean to be uncivil," was the truthful reply of fred, who believed in courtesy to every one. "who lives here, then?" asked the other in the same gruff voice. "my mother, mrs. mary sheldon, and myself, but my mother isn't at home." the stranger was silent a moment, and then looking around, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, asked in a lower voice: "can you tell me where the miss perkinpines live?" "right over yonder," was the response of the boy, pointing toward the house, which was invisible in the darkness, but a star-like twinkle of light showed where it was, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. fred came near adding that he was on his way there, and would show him the road, but a sudden impulse restrained him. the tramp-like individual peered through the gloom in the direction indicated, and then inquired: "how fur is it?" "about half a mile." the stranger waited another minute or so, as if debating with himself whether he should ask some other questions that were in his mind; but, without another word, he moved away and speedily disappeared from the road. although he walked for several paces on the rough gravel in front of the gate, the lad did not hear the slightest sound. he must have been barefooted, or more likely, wore rubber shoes. fred sheldon could not help feeling very uncomfortable over the incident itself. the question about the old ladies, and the man's looks and manner impressed him that he meant ill toward his good friends, and fred stood a long time asking himself what he ought to do. he thought of going down to the village and telling archie jackson, the bustling little constable, what he feared, or of appealing to some of the neighbors; and pity it is he did not do so, but he was restrained by the peculiar disposition of the misses perkinpine, who might be very much displeased with him. as he himself was about the only visitor they received, and as they had lived so long by themselves, they would not thank him, to say the least--that is, viewing the matter from his standpoint. "i'll tell the ladies about it," he finally concluded, "and we'll lock the doors and sit up all night. i wish they had three or four dogs and a whole lot of guns; or if i had a lasso," he added, recalling one of the circus pictures, "and the tramp tried to get in, i'd throw it over his head and pull him half way to the top of the house and let him hang there until he promised to behave himself." fred's head had been slightly turned by the circus posters, and it can hardly be said that he was the best guard the ladies could have in case there were any sinister designs on the part of the tramp. but the boy was sure he was never more needed at the old brick house than he was on that night, and hushing his whistle, he started up the road in the direction taken by the stranger. it was a trying ordeal for the little fellow, whose chief fear was that he would overtake the repulsive individual and suffer for interfering with his plans. there was a faint moon in the sky, but its light now and then was obscured by the clouds which floated over its face. here and there, too, were trees, beneath whose shadows the boy stepped lightly, listening and looking about him, and imagining more than once he saw the figure dreaded so much. but he observed nothing of him, nor did he meet any of his neighbors, either in wagons or on foot, and his heart beat tumultuously when he drew near the grove of trees, some distance back from the road, in the midst of which stood the old holland brick mansion. to reach it it was necessary to walk through a short lane, lined on either hand by a row of stately poplars, whose shade gave a cool twilight gloom to the intervening space at mid-day. "maybe he isn't here, after all," said fred to himself, as he passed through the gate of the picket fence surrounding the house, "and i guess----" just then the slightest possible rustling caught his ear, and he stepped back behind the trunk of a large weeping willow. he was not mistaken; some one was moving through the shrubbery at the corner of the house, and the next minute the frightened boy saw the tramp come stealthily to view, and stepping close to the window of the dining-room, peer into it. as the curtain was down it was hard to see how he could discover anything of the inmates, but he may have been able to detect something of the interior by looking through at the side of the curtain, or possibly he was only listening. at any rate he stood thus but a short time, when he withdrew and slowly passed from view around the corner. the instant he was gone fred moved forward and knocked softly on the door, so softly indeed, that he had to repeat it before some one approached from the inside and asked who was there. when his voice was recognized the bolt was withdrawn and he was most cordially welcomed by the old ladies, who were just about to take up their knitting and sewing, having finished their tea. when fred told them he had come to stay all night and hadn't had any supper, they were more pleased than ever, and insisted that he should go out and finish a large amount of gingerbread, custard and pie, for the latter delicacy was always at command. "i'll eat some," replied fred, "but i don't feel very hungry." "why, what's the matter?" asked miss annie, peering over her spectacles in alarm; "are you sick? if you are we've got lots of castor oil and rhubarb and jalap and boneset; shall i mix you up some?" "o my gracious! no--don't mention 'em again; i ain't sick that way--i mean i'm scared." "scared at what? afraid there isn't enough supper for you?" asked miss lizzie, looking smilingly down upon the handsome boy. "i tell you," said fred, glancing from one to the other, "i think there's a robber going to try and break into your house to-night and steal everything you've got, and then he'll kill you both, and after that i'm sure he means to burn down the house, and that'll be the last all of you and your cats." when the young visitor made such a prodigious declaration, he supposed the ladies would scream and probably faint away. but the very hugeness of the boy's warning caused emotions the reverse of what he anticipated. they looked kindly at him a minute or so and then quietly smiled. "what a little coward you are, fred," said miss annie; "surely there is nobody who would harm two old creatures like us." "but they want your money," persisted fred, still standing in the middle of the floor. both ladies were too truthful to deny that they had any, even to such a child, and lizzie said: "we haven't enough to tempt anybody to do such a great wrong." "you can't tell about that, then i 'spose some of those silver dishes must be worth a great deal." "yes, so they are," said annie, "and we prize them the most because our great, great, great-grandfather brought them over the sea a good many years ago, and they have always been in our family." "but," interposed lizzie, "we lock them up every night." "what in?" "a great big strong chest." "anybody could break it open, though." "yes, but it's locked; and you know it's against the law to break a lock." "well," said fred, with a great sigh, "i hope there won't anybody disturb you, but i hope you will fasten all the windows and doors to-night." "we always do; and then," added the benign old lady, raising her head so as to look under her spectacles in the face of the lad, "you know we have you to take care of us." "have you got a gun in the house?" "mercy, yes; there's one over the fire-place, where father put it forty years ago." "is there anything the matter with it?" "nothing, only the lock is broke off, and i think father said the barrel was bursted." fred laughed in spite of himself. "what under the sun is such an old thing good for?" "it has done us just as much good as if it were a new cannon--but come out to your supper." the cheerful manner of the old ladies had done much to relieve fred's mind of his fears, and a great deal of his natural appetite came back to him. he walked into the kitchen, where he seated himself at a table on which was spread enough food for several grown persons, and telling him he must not leave any of it to be wasted, the ladies withdrew, closing the door behind them, so that he might not be embarrassed by their presence. "i wonder whether there's any use of being scared," said fred to himself, as he first sunk his big, sound teeth into a huge slice of buttered short-cake, on which some peach jam had been spread! "if i hadn't seen that tramp looking in at the window i wouldn't feel so bad, and i declare," he added in dismay, "when they questioned me, i never thought to tell 'em that. never mind, i'll give 'em the whole story when i finish five or six slices of this short-cake and some ginger-cake, and three or four pieces of pie, and then, i think, they'll believe i'm right." for several minutes the boy devoted himself entirely to his meal, and had the good ladies peeped through the door while he was thus employed they would have been highly pleased to see how well he was getting along. "i wish i was an old maid and hadn't anything to do but to cook nice food like this and play with the cats--my gracious!" just then the door creaked, and, looking up, fred sheldon saw to his consternation the very tramp of whom he had been thinking walk into the room and approach the table. his clothing was ragged and unclean, a cord being drawn around his waist to keep his coat together, while the collar was up so high about his neck that nothing of the shirt was visible. his hair was frowsy and uncombed, as were his huge yellow whiskers, which seemed to grow up almost to his eyes, and stuck out like the quills on a porcupine. as the intruder looked at the boy and shuffled toward him, in his soft rubber shoes, he indulged in a broad grin, which caused his teeth to shine through his scraggly beard. he held his hat, which resembled a dishcloth, as much as anything, in his hand, and was all suavity. his voice sounded as though he had a bad cold, with now and then an odd squeak. as he bowed he said: "good evening, young man; i hope i don't intrude." as he approached the table and helped himself to a chair, the ladies came along behind him, miss lizzie saying: "this poor man, frederick, has had nothing to eat for three days, and is trying to get home to his family. i'm sure you will be glad to have him sit at the table with you." "yes, i'm awful glad," replied the boy, almost choking with the fib. "i was beginning to feel kind of lonely, but i'm through and he can have the table to himself." "you said you were a shipwrecked sailor, i believe?" was the inquiring remark of miss lizzie, as the two sisters stood in the door, beaming kindly on the tramp, who began to play havoc with the eatables before him. "yes, mum; we was shipwrecked on the jarsey coast; i was second mate and all was drowned but me. i hung to the rigging for three days and nights in the awfullest snow storm you ever heard of." "mercy goodness," gasped annie; "when was that?" "last week," was the response, as the tramp wrenched the leg of a chicken apart with hands and teeth. "do they have snow storms down there in summer time?" asked fred, as he moved away from the table. the tramp, with his mouth full of meat, and with his two hands grasping the chicken-bone between his teeth, stopped work and glared at the impudent youngster, as if he would look him through and through for daring to ask the question. "young man," said he, as he solemnly resumed operations, "of course, they have snow storms down there in summer time; i'm ashamed of your ignorance; you're rather small to put in when grown-up folks are talking, and i'd advise you to listen arter this." fred concluded he would do so, using his eyes meanwhile. "yes, mum," continued the tramp; "i was in the rigging for three days and nights, and then was washed off by the breakers and carried ashore, where i was robbed of all my clothing, money and jewels." "deary, deary me!" exclaimed the sisters in concert. "how dreadful." "you are right, ladies, and i've been tramping ever since." "how far away is your home?" "only a hundred miles, or so." "you have a family, have you?" "a wife and four babies--if they only knowed what their poor father had passed through--excuse these tears, mum." the tramp just then gave a sniff and drew his sleeve across his forehead, but fred sheldon, who was watching him closely, did not detect anything like a tear. but he noted something else, which had escaped the eyes of the kind-hearted ladies. the movement of the arm before the face seemed to displace the luxuriant yellow beard. instead of sitting on the countenance as it did at first, even in its ugliness, it was slewed to one side. only for a moment, however, for by a quick flirt of the hand, as though he were scratching his chin, he replaced it. and just then fred sheldon noticed another fact. the hand with which this was done was as small, white and fair as that of a woman--altogether the opposite of that which would have been seen had the tramp's calling been what he claimed. the ladies, after a few more thoughtful questions, withdrew, so that their guest might not feel any delicacy in eating all he wished--an altogether unnecessary step on their part. fred went out with them, but after he had been gone a few minutes he slyly peeped through the crack of the door, without the ladies observing the impolite proceeding. the guest was still doing his best in the way of satisfying his appetite, but he was looking around the room, at the ceiling, the floor, the doors, windows and fire-place, and indeed at everything, as though he was greatly interested in them, as was doubtless the case. all at once he stopped and listened, glancing furtively at the door, as if he feared some one was about to enter the room. then he quietly rose, stepped quickly and noiselessly to one of the windows, took out the large nail which was always inserted over the sash at night to keep it fastened, put it in his pocket, and, with a half chuckle and grin, seated himself again at the table. at the rate of eating which was displayed, he soon finished, and, wiping his greasy hands on his hair, he gave a great sigh of relief, picked up his slouchy hat, and moved toward the door leading to the room in which the ladies sat. "i'm very much obleeged to you," said he, bowing very low, as he shuffled toward the outer door, "and i shall ever remember you in my prayers; sorry i can't pay you better, mums." the sisters protested they were more than repaid in the gratitude he showed, and they begged him, if he ever came that way, to call again. he promised that he would be glad to do so, and departed. "you may laugh all you're a mind to," said fred, when he had gone, "but that's the man i saw peeping in the window, and he means to come back here to-night and rob you." the boy told all that he knew, and the ladies, while not sharing his fright, agreed that it was best to take extra precautions in locking up. chapter iv. on guard. the sisters perkinpine always retired early, and, candle in hand, they made the round of the windows and doors on the first floor. when they came to the window from which the nail had been removed, fred told them he had seen the tramp take it out, and he was sure he would try and enter there. this served to add to the uneasiness of the sisters, but they had great confidence in the security of the house, which had never been disturbed by burglars, so far as they knew, in all its long history. "the chest where we keep the silver and what little money we have," said lizzie, "is up-stairs, next to the spare bed-room." "leave the door open and let me sleep there," said fred, stoutly. "gracious alive, what can you do if they should come?" was the amazed inquiry. "i don't know as i can do anything, but i can try; i want that old musket that's over the fire-place, too." "why, it will go off and kill you." fred insisted so strongly, however, that he was allowed to climb upon a chair and take down the antiquated weapon, covered with rust and dust. when he came to examine it he found that the description he had heard was correct--the ancient flintlock was good for nothing, and the barrel, when last discharged, must have exploded at the breach, for it was twisted and split open, so that a load of powder could only injure the one who might fire it, were such a feat possible. the sisters showed as much fear of it when it was taken down as though it were in good order, primed and cocked, and they begged the lad to restore it to its place as quickly as possible. but he seemed to think he had charge of the business for the evening, and, bidding them good-night, he took his candle and went to his room, which he had occupied once or twice before. it may well be asked what young fred sheldon expected to do with such a useless musket, should emergency arise demanding a weapon. indeed, the boy would have found it hard to tell himself, excepting that he hoped to scare the man or men away by the pretence of a power which he did not possess. now that the young hero was finally left alone, he felt that he had a most serious duty to perform. the spare bedroom which was placed at his disposal was a large, old-fashioned apartment, with two windows front and rear, with a door opening into the next room, somewhat smaller in size, both being carpeted, while the smaller contained nothing but a few chairs and a large chest, in which were silver and money worth several thousand dollars. "i'll set the candle in there on the chest," concluded fred, "and i'll stay in here with the gun. if he comes up-stairs and gets into the room i'll try and make him believe i've got a loaded rifle to shoot him with." the door opening outward from each apartment had nothing but the old-style iron latch, large and strong, and fastened in place by turning down a small iron tongue. it would take much effort to force such a door, but fred had no doubt any burglar could do it, even though it were ten times as strong. he piled chairs against both, and then made an examination of the windows. to his consternation, the covered porch extending along the front of the house, passed beneath every window, and was so low that it would be a very easy thing to step from the hypostyle to the entrance. the room occupied by the ladies was in another part of the building, and much more inaccessible. young as fred sheldon was, he could not help wondering how it was that where everything was so inviting to burglars they had not visited these credulous and trusting sisters before. "if that tramp, that i don't believe is a tramp, tries to get into the house he'll do it by one of the windows, for that one is fastened down stairs, and all he has to do is to climb up the portico and crawl in here." the night was so warm that fred thought he would smother when he had fastened all the windows down, and he finally compromised by raising one of those at the back of the house, where he was sure there was the least danger of any one entering. this being done, he sat down in a chair, with the rusty musket in his hand, and began his watch. from his position he could see the broad, flat candlestick standing on the chest, with the dip already burned so low that it was doubtful whether it could last an hour longer. "what's the use of that burning, anyway?" he asked himself; "that fellow isn't afraid to come in, and the candle will only serve to show him the way." acting under the impulse, he walked softly through the door to where the yellow light was burning, and with one puff extinguished it. the wick glowed several minutes longer, sending out a strong odor, which pervaded both rooms. fred watched it until all became darkness, and then he was not sure he had done a wise thing after all. the trees on both sides of the house were so dense that their leaves shut out nearly all the moonlight which otherwise would have entered the room. only a few rays came through the window of the other apartment, and these, striking the large, square chest showed its dim outlines, with the phantom-like candlestick on top. where fred himself sat it was dark and gloomy, and his situation, we are sure all will admit, was enough to try the nerves of the strongest man, even if furnished with a good weapon of offence and defence. "i hope the ladies will sleep," was the unselfish thought of the little hero, "for there isn't any use of their being disturbed when they can't do anything but scream, and a robber don't care for that." one of the hardest things is to keep awake when exhausted by some unusual effort of the bodily or mental powers, and we all know under how many conditions it is utterly impossible. the sentinel on the outpost or the watch on deck fights off his drowsiness by steadily pacing back and forth. if he sits down for a few minutes he is sure to succumb. when fremont, the pathfinder, was lost with his command in the rocky mountains, and was subjected to such arctic rigors in the dead of winter as befell the crew of the jeannette in the ice-resounding oceans of the far north the professor, who accompanied the expedition for the purpose of making scientific investigations, warned all that their greatest peril lay in yielding to the drowsiness which the extreme cold would be sure to bring upon them. he begged them to resist it with all the energy of their natures, for in no other way could they escape with their lives. and yet this same professor was the first one of the party to give up and to lie down for his last long sleep, from which it was all fremont could do to arouse him. fred sheldon felt that everything depended on him, and with the exaggerated fears that come to a youngster at such a time he was sure that if he fell asleep the evil man would enter the room, take all the money and plate and then sacrifice him. "i could keep awake a week," he muttered, as he tipped his chair back against the wall, so as to rest easier, while he leaned the musket along side of him, in such position that it could be seized at a moment's warning. the night remained solemn and still. far in the distance he could hear the flow of the river, and from the forest, less than a mile away, seemed to come a murmur, like the "voice of silence" itself. now and then the crowing of a cock was answered by another a long distance off, and occasionally the soft night wind stirred the vegetation surrounding the house. but among them all was no sound which the excited imagination could torture into such as would be made by a stealthy entrance into the house. in short, everything was of the nature to induce sleep, and it was not yet ten o'clock when fred began to wink, very slowly and solemnly, his grasp on the ruined weapon relaxed, his head bobbed forward several times and at last he was asleep. as his mind had been so intensely occupied by thoughts of burglars and their evil doings, his dreams were naturally of the same unpleasant personages. in his fancy he was sitting on the treasure-chest, unable to move, while an ogre-like creature climbed into the window, slowly raised an immense club and then brought it down on the head of the boy with a terrific crash. with an exclamation of terror fred awoke, and found that he had fallen forward on his face, sprawling on the floor at full length, while the jar tipped the musket over so that it fell across him. in his dream it had seemed that the burglar was a full hour climbing upon the roof and through the window, and yet the whole vision began and ended during the second or two occupied in falling from his chair. in the confusion of the moment fred was sure the man he dreaded was in the room, but when he had got back into the chair he was gratified beyond measure to find his mistake. "i'm a pretty fellow to keep watch," he muttered, rubbing his eyes; "i don't suppose that i was awake more than a half hour. it must be past midnight, so i've had enough sleep to last me without any more of it before to-morrow night." he resumed his seat, never more wide awake in all his life. it was not as late as he supposed, but the hour had come when it was all-important that he should keep his senses about him. hearing nothing unusual he rose to his feet and walked to the rear window and looked out. it was somewhat cooler and a gentle breeze felt very pleasant on his fevered face. the same stillness held reign, and he moved to the front, where he took a similar view. so far as could be told, everything was right and he resumed his seat. but at this juncture fred was startled by a sound, the meaning of which he well knew. some one was trying hard to raise the dining-room window--the rattling being such that there was no mistake about it. "it's that tramp!" exclaimed the boy, all excitement, stepping softly into the next room and listening at the head of the stairs, "and he's trying the window that he took the nail out of." the noise continued several minutes--long after the time, indeed, when the tramp must have learned that his trick had been discovered--and then all became still. this window was the front, and fred, in the hope of scaring the fellow away, raised the sash, and, leaning out, peered into the darkness and called out: "halloo, down there! what do you want?" as may be supposed, there was no answer, and after waiting a minute or two, fred concluded to give a warning. "if i hear anything more of you, i'll try and shoot; i've got a gun here and we're ready for you!" this threat ought to have frightened an ordinary person away, and the boy was not without a strong hope that it had served that purpose with the tramp whom he dreaded so much. he thought he could discern his dark figure among the trees, but it was probably fancy, for the gloom was too great for his eyes to be of any use in that respect. fred listened a considerable while longer, and then, drawing his head within, said: "i shouldn't wonder if i had scared him off----" just then a soft step roused him, and turning his head, he saw that the very tramp of whom he was thinking and of whom he believed he was happily rid, had entered the room, and was standing within a few feet of him. chapter v. brave work. when fred sheldon turned on his heel and saw the outlines of the tramp in the room behind him he gave a start and exclamation of fear, as the bravest man might have done under the circumstances. the intruder chuckled and said in his rasping, creaking voice: "don't be skeert, young man; if you keep quiet you won't get hurt, but if you go to yelping or making any sort of noise i'll wring your head as if you was a chicken i wanted for dinner." fred made no answer to this, when the tramp added, in the same husky undertone, as he stepped forward in a threatening way: "do you hear what i said?" "yes, sir; i hear you." "well, just step back through that door in t'other room and watch me while i look through this chest for a gold ring i lost last week." poor fred was in a terrible state of mind, and, passing softly through the door opening into his bed-room, he paused by the chair where he had sat so long, and then faced toward the tramp, who said, by way of amendment: "i forgot to say that if you try to climb out of the winder onto the porto rico or to sneak out any way i'll give you a touch of that." as he spoke he suddenly held up a bull's-eye lantern, which poured a strong stream of light toward the boy. it looked as if he must have lighted it inside the house, and had come into the room with it under his coat. while he carried this lantern in one hand he held a pistol, shining with polished silver, in the other, and behind the two objects the bearded face loomed up like that of some ogre of darkness. the scamp did not seem to think this remark required anything in the way of response, and, kneeling before the huge oaken chest, he began his evil work. for a few moments fred was so interested that he ceased to reproach himself for having failed to do his duty. the tramp set the lantern on the floor beside him, so that it threw its beams directly into the room where the boy stood. the marauder, it must be said, did not act like a professional. one of the burglars who infest society to-day would have made short work with the lock, though it was of the massive and powerful kind, in use many years ago; but this person fumbled and worked a good while without getting it open. he muttered impatiently to himself several times, and then caught up the bull's-eye, and, bending his head over, carefully examined it, to learn why it resisted his vigorous efforts. the action of the man seemed to rouse fred, who, without a moment's thought, stepped backward toward the open window at the rear, the one which had been raised all the time to afford ventilation. he thought if the dreadful man should object, he could make excuse on account of the warmth of the night. but the lad moved so softly, or the wicked fellow was so interested in his own work that he did not notice him, for he said nothing, and though fred could see him no longer he could hear him toiling, with occasional mutterings of anger at his failure to open the chest, which was believed to contain so much valuable silverware and money. the diverging rays from the dark-lantern still shot through the open door into the bed-room. they made a well-defined path along the floor, quite narrow and not very high, and which, striking the white wall at the opposite side, terminated in one splash of yellow, in which the specks of the whitewash could be plainly seen. it was as if a great wedge of golden light lay on the floor, with the head against the wall and the tapering point passing through the door and ending at the chest in the other room. while fred sheldon was looking at the curious sight he noticed something in the illuminated path. it would be thought that, in the natural fear of a boy in his situation, he would have felt no interest in it, but, led on by a curiosity which none but a lad feels, he stepped softly forward on tip-toe. before he stooped over to pick it up he saw that it was a handsome pocket-knife. "he has dropped it," was the thought of fred, who wondered how he came to do it; "anyway i'll hold on to it for awhile." he quietly shoved it down into his pocket, where his old barlow knife, his jewsharp, eleven marbles, two slate pencils, a couple of large coppers, some cake crumbs and other trifles nestled, and then, having succeeded so well, he again went softly to the open window at the rear. just as he reached it he heard an unusual noise in the smaller apartment where the man was at work, and he was sure the burglar had discovered what he was doing, and was about to punish him. but the sound was not repeated, and the boy believed the tramp had got the chest open. if such were the fact, he was not likely to think of the youngster in the next room for several minutes more. fred was plucky, and the thought instantly came to him that he had a chance to leave the room and give an alarm; but to go to the front and climb out on the roof of the porch would bring him so close to the tramp that discovery would be certain. at the rear there was nothing by which he could descend to the ground. it was a straight wall, invisible in the darkness and too high for any one to leap. he might hang down from the sill by his hands and then let go, but he was too unfamiliar with the surroundings to make such an attempt. "maybe there's a tub of water down there," he said to himself, trying to peer into the gloom; "and i might turn over and strike on my head into it, or it might be the swill barrel, and i wouldn't want to get my head and shoulders wedged into that----" at that instant something as soft as a feather touched his cheek. the gentle night wind had moved the rustling limbs, so that one of them in swaying only a few inches had reached out, as it were, and kissed the chubby face of the brave little boy. "why didn't i think of that?" he asked himself, as he caught hold of the friendly limb. "i can hold on and swing to the ground." it looked, indeed, as if such a movement was easy. by reaching his hand forward he could follow the limb until it was fully an inch in diameter. that was plenty strong enough to hold his weight. glancing around, he saw the same wedge of golden light streaming into the room, and the sounds were such that he was sure the burglar had opened the chest and was helping himself to the riches within. the next minute fred bent forward, and, griping the limb with both hands, swung out of the window. all was darkness, and he shut his eyes and held his breath with that peculiar dizzy feeling which comes over one when he cowers before an expected blow on the head. the sensation was that of rushing into the leaves and undergrowth, and then, feeling himself stopping rather suddenly, he let go. he alighted upon his feet, the distance being so short that he was scarcely jarred, and he drew a sigh of relief when he realized that his venture had ended so well. "there," he said to himself, as he adjusted his clothing, "i ain't afraid of him now, i can outrun him if i only have a fair chance, and there's plenty of places where a fellow can hide." looking up to the house it was all dark; not a ray from the lantern could be seen, and the sisters were no doubt sleeping as sweetly as they had slept nearly every night for the past three-score years and more. but fred understood the value of time too well to stay in the vicinity while the tramp was engaged with his nefarious work above. if the law-breaker was to be caught, it must be done speedily. but there were no houses near at hand, and it would take fully an hour to bring archie jackson, the constable, to the spot. "the nearest house is mike heyland's, the hired man, and i'll go for him." filled with this thought, fred moved softly around to the front, passed through the gate, entered the short lane, and began walking between the rows of trees in the direction of the highway. an active boy of his age finds his most natural gait to be a trot, and fred took up that pace. "it's so dark here under these trees that if there's anything in the road i'll tumble over it, for i never miss----" "halloo there, you boy!" as these startling words fell upon young sheldon's ear, the figure of a man suddenly stepped out from the denser shadows and halted in front of the affrighted boy, who stopped short, wondering what it meant. there was nothing in the voice and manner of the stranger, however, which gave confidence to fred, who quickly rallied, and stepping closer, caught his hand with the confiding faith of childhood. "o, i'm so glad to see you! i was afraid i'd have to run clear to tottenville to find somebody." "what's the matter, my little man?" "why, there's a robber in the house back there; he's stealing all the silver and money that belongs to the misses perkinpine, and they're sound asleep--just think of it--and he's got a lantern up there and is at work at the chest now, and said he would shoot me if i made any noise or tried to get away, but i catched hold of a limb and swung out the window, and here i am!" exclaimed fred, stopping short and panting. "well now, that's lucky, for i happen to have a good, loaded pistol with me. i'm visiting mr. spriggins in tottenville, and went out fishing this afternoon, but stayed longer than i intended, and was going home across lots when i struck the lane here without knowing exactly where i was; but i'm glad i met you." "so'm i," exclaimed the gratified fred; "will you help me catch that tramp?" "indeed i will; come on, my little man." the stranger stepped off briskly, fred close behind him, and passed through the gate at the front of the old brick house, which looked as dark and still as though no living person had been in it for years. "don't make any noise," whispered the elder, turning part way round and raising his finger. "you needn't be afraid of my doing so," replied the boy, who was sure the caution was unnecessary. fred did not notice the fact at the time that the man who had come along so opportunely seemed to be quite familiar with the place, but he walked straight to a rear window, which, despite the care with which it had been fastened down, was found to be raised. "there's where he went in," whispered fred's friend, "and there's where we're going after him." "all right," said fred, who did not hesitate, although he could not see much prospect of his doing anything. "i'll follow." the man reached up and catching hold of the sash placed his feet on the sill and stepped softly into the room. then turning so his figure could be seen plainly in the moonlight, he said in the same guarded voice: "he may hear me coming, do you, therefore, go round to the front and if he tries to climb down by way of the porch, run round here and let me know. we'll make it hot for him." this seemed a prudent arrangement, for it may be said, it guarded all points. the man who had just entered would, prevent the thieving tramp from retreating by the path he used in entering, while the sharp eyes of the boy would be quick to discover him the moment he sought to use the front window. "i guess we've got him," thought fred, as he took his station by the front porch and looked steadily upward, like one who is studying the appearance of a new comet or some constellation in the heavens; "that man going after him ain't afraid of anything, and he looks strong and big enough to take him by the collar and shake him, just as mr. mccurtis shakes us boys when he wants to exercise himself." for several minutes the vigilant fred was in a flutter of excitement, expecting to hear the report of firearms and the sound of struggling on the floor above. "i wonder if miss annie and lizzie will wake up when the shooting begins," thought fred; "i don't suppose they will, for they are so used to sleeping all night that nothing less than a big thunder-storm will start them--but it seems to me it's time that something took place." young sheldon had the natural impatience of youth, and when ten minutes passed without stirring up matters, he thought his friend was too slow in his movements. besides, his neck began to ache from looking so steadily upward, so he walked back in the yard some distance, and leaning against a tree, shoved his hands down in his pockets and continued the scrutiny. this made it more pleasant for a short time only, when he finally struck the happy expedient of lying down on his side and then placing his head upon his hand in such an easy position that the ache vanished at once. fifteen more minutes went by, and fred began to wonder what it all meant. it seemed to him that fully an hour had gone since stationing himself as a watcher, and not the slightest sound had come back to tell him that any living person was in the house. "there's something wrong about this," he finally exclaimed, springing to his feet; "maybe the tramp got away before i came back; but then, if that's so, why didn't the other fellow find it out long ago?" loth to leave his post, fred moved cautiously among the trees a while longer, and still failing to detect anything that would throw light on the mystery, he suddenly formed a determination, which was a rare one, indeed, for a lad of his years. "i'll go in and find out for myself!" boy-like, having made the resolve, he acted upon it without stopping to think what the cost might be. he was in his bare feet, and it was an easy matter for a little fellow like him to climb through an open window on the first floor without making a noise. when he got into the room, however, where it was as dark as the darkest midnight he ever saw, things began to appear different, that is so far as anything can be said to appear where it is invisible. he could see nothing at all, and reaching out his hands, he began shuffling along in that doubting manner which we all use under such circumstances. he knew that he was in the dining-room, from which it was necessary to pass through a door into the broad hall, and up the stairs to the spare room, where it was expected he would sleep whenever he favored the twin maiden sisters with a visit. he could find his way there in the dark, but he was afraid of the obstructions in his path. "i 'spose all the chairs have been set out of the way, 'cause miss annie and lizzie are very particular, and they wouldn't----" just then fred's knee came against a chair, and before he could stop himself, he fell over it with a racket which he was sure would awaken the ladies themselves. "that must have jarred every window in the house," he gasped, rubbing his knees. he listened for a minute or two before starting on again, but the same profound stillness reigned. it followed, as a matter of course, that the men up-stairs had heard the tumult, but fred consoled himself with the belief that it was such a tremendous noise that they would mistake its meaning altogether. "any way, i don't mean to fall over any more chairs," muttered the lad, shuffling along with more care, and holding his hands down, so as to detect such an obstruction. it is hardly necessary to tell what followed. let any one undertake to make his way across a dark room, without crossing his hands in front and the edge of a door is sure to get between them. fred sheldon received a bump which made him see stars, but after rubbing his forehead for a moment he moved out into the broad hall, where there was no more danger of anything of the kind. the heavy oaken stairs were of such solid structure that when he placed his foot on the steps they gave back no sound, and he stepped quite briskly to the top without making any noise that could betray his approach. "i wonder what they thought when i tumbled over the chair," pondered fred, who began to feel more certain than before that something was amiss. reaching out his hands in the dark he found that the door of his own room was wide open, and he walked in without trouble. as he did so a faint light which entered by the rear window gave him a clear idea of the interior. with his heart beating very fast fred tip-toed toward the front until he could look through the open door into the small room where the large oaken chest stood. by this time the moon was so high that he could see the interior with more distinctness than before. all was still and deserted; both the men were gone. "that's queer," muttered the puzzled lad; "if the tramp slipped away, the other man that i met on the road ought to have found it out; but what's become of him?" running his hand deep down among the treasures in his trousers pocket, fred fished out a lucifer match, which he drew on the wall, and, as the tiny twist of flame expanded, he touched it to the wick of the candle that he held above his head. the sight which met his gaze was a curious one indeed, and held him almost breathless for the time. the lid of the huge chest was thrown back against the wall, and all that was within it were rumpled sheets of old brown paper, which had no doubt been used as wrappings for the pieces of the silver tea-service. on the floor beside the chest was a large pocket-book, wrong side out. this, doubtless, had once held the money belonging to the old ladies, but it held it no longer. money and silverware were gone! "the tramp got away while we were down the lane," said fred, as he stood looking at the signs of ruin about him; "but why didn't my friend let me know about it, and where is he?" fred sheldon stopped in dismay, for just then the whole truth came upon him like a flash. these two men were partners, and the man in the lane was on the watch to see that no strangers approached without the alarm being given to the one inside the house. "why didn't i think of that?" mentally exclaimed the boy, so overcome that he dropped into a chair, helpless and weak, holding the candle in hand. it is easy to see how natural it was for a lad of his age to be deceived as was fred sheldon, who never in all his life had been placed in such a trying position. he sat for several minutes looking at the open chest, which seemed to speak so eloquently of the wrong it had suffered, and then he reproached himself for having failed so completely in doing his duty. "i can't see anything i've done," he thought, "which could have been of any good, while there was plenty of chances to make some use of myself if i had any sense about me." indeed there did appear to be some justice in the self-reproach of the lad, who added in the same vein: "i knew, the minute he stopped to ask questions at our front gate, that he meant to come here and rob the house, and i ought to have started right off for constable jackson, without running to tell the folks. then they laughed at me and i thought i was mistaken, even after i had seen him peeping through the window. when he was eating his supper i was sure of it, and then i should have slipped away and got somebody else here to help watch, but we didn't have anything to shoot with, and when i tried to keep guard i fell asleep, and when i woke up i was simple enough to think there was only one way of his coming into the house, and, while i had my eye on that, he walked right in behind me." then, as fred recalled his meeting with the second party in the lane, he heaved a great sigh. "well, i'm the biggest blockhead in the country--that's all--and i hope i won't have to tell anybody the whole story. halloo!" just then he happened to think of the pocket-knife he had picked up on the floor, and he drew it out of his pocket. boy-like, his eyes sparkled with pleasure when they rested on the implement so indispensable to every youngster, and which was much the finest one he had ever had in his hand. the handle was pearl and the two blades were of the finest steel and almost as keen as a razor. fred set the candle on a chair, and leaning over, carefully examined the knife, which seemed to grow in beauty the more he handled it. "the man that dropped that is the one who stole all the silverware and money, and there's the letters of his name," added the boy. true enough. on the little piece of brass on the side of the handle were roughly cut the letters, "n. h. h." chapter vi. on the outside. when fred sheldon had spent some minutes examining the knife he had picked up from the floor, he opened and closed the blades several times, and finally dropped it into his pocket, running his hand to the bottom to make sure there was no hole through which the precious implement might be lost. "i think that knife is worth about a thousand dollars," he said, with a great sigh; "and if aunt lizzie and annie don't get their silverware and money back, why they can hold on to the jack-knife." at this juncture it struck the lad as a very strange thing that the two ladies should sleep in one part of the house and leave their valuables in another. it would have been more consistent if they had kept the chest in their own sleeping apartment, but they were very peculiar in some respects, and there was no accounting for many things they did. "maybe they went in there!" suddenly exclaimed fred, referring to the tramp and his friend. "they must have thought it likely there was something in their bed-room worth hunting for. i'll see." he felt faint at heart at the thought that the good ladies had been molested while they lay unconscious in bed, but he pushed his way through the house, candle in hand, with the real bravery which was a part of his nature. his heart was throbbing rapidly when he reached the door of their apartment and softly raised the latch. but it was fastened from within, and when he listened he distinctly heard the low, gentle breathing of the good souls who had slumbered so quietly all through these exciting scenes. "i am so thankful they haven't been disturbed," said fred, making his way back to his own room, where he blew out his light, said his prayers and jumped into bed. despite the stirring experiences through which he had passed, and the chagrin he felt over his stupidity, fred soon dropped into a sound slumber, which lasted until the sun shone through the window. even then it was broken by the gentle voice of aunt lizzie, as she was sometimes called, sounding from the foot of the stairs. fred was dressed and down in a twinkling, and in the rushing, headlong, helter-skelter fashion of youngsters of his age, he told the story of the robbery that had been committed during the night. the old ladies listened quietly, but the news was exciting, indeed, and when aunt lizzie, the mildest soul that ever lived, said: "i hope you are mistaken, fred; after breakfast we'll go up-stairs and see for ourselves." "i shall see now," said her sister annie, starting up the steps, followed by fred and the other. there they quickly learned the whole truth. eight hundred and odd dollars were in the pocketbook, and the intrinsic worth of the silver tea service amounted to fully three times as much, while ten times that sum would not have persuaded the ladies to part with it. they were thrown into dismay by the loss, which grew upon them as they reflected over it. "why didn't you call us?" asked the white-faced aunt lizzie. "why, what would you have done if i had called you?" asked fred, in turn. "we would have talked with them and shown them what a wicked thing they were doing, and reminded them how unlawful and wrong it is to pick a lock and steal things." "gracious alive! if i had undertaken to call you that first man would have shot me, and it was lucky he didn't see me when i swung out the back window; but they left something behind them which i'd rather have than all your silver," said fred. "what's that?" he drew out the pocket-knife and showed it, looking so wistfully that they did not even take it from his hand, but told the gleeful lad to keep it for himself. "you may be sure i will," was his comment as he stowed it away once more; "a boy don't get a chance at a knife like that more than once in a lifetime." the old ladies, mild and sweet-tempered as they were, became so faint and weak as they fully realized their loss, that they could eat no breakfast at all, and only swallowed a cup of coffee. fred was affected in the same manner, but not to so great an extent. however, he was anxious to do all he could for the good ladies, and spending only a few minutes at the table he donned his hat and said he would go for constable archie jackson. the hired man, michael heyland, had arrived, and was at work out-doors, so there was no call for the boy to remain longer. as fred hastened down the lane, he was surprised to hear sounds of martial music, but when he caught sight of a gorgeous band and a number of square, box-like wagons with yellow animals painted on the outside, he recalled that this was the day of the circus, and his heart gave a great bound of delight. "i wish miss annie and lizzie hadn't lost their money and silver," he said, "for maybe i could have persuaded them to go to the circus with me, and i'm sure they would have enjoyed themselves." running forward, fred perched himself on the fence until the last wagon rattled by, when he slipped to the ground and trotted behind it, feeling that delight which comes to all lads in looking upon the place where wild animals are known to be housed. at every dwelling they passed the inmates hastened out, and the musicians increased the volume of their music until the air seemed to throb and pulsate with the stirring strains. when the town of tottenville was reached, the whole place was topsy-turvy. the men and wagons, with the tents and poles, had been on the ground several hours, hard at work, and crowds had been watching them from the moment of their arrival. as the rest of the vehicles gathered in a circle, which was to be enclosed by the canvas, the interest was of such an intense character that literally nothing else was seen or thought of by the countrymen and villagers. there was no one who gaped with more open-mouthed wonder than fred sheldon, who forgot for the time the real business which had brought him to tottenville. as usual, he had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and with his hands deep in his pockets, walked about with his straw hat flapping in the slight breeze, staring at everything relating to the menagerie and circus, and tasting beforehand the delights that awaited him in the afternoon, when he would be permitted to gaze until tired, if such a thing were possible. "that's the cage that has the great african lion," said fred to jimmy emery and joe hunt, who stood beside him; "just look at that picture where he's got a man in his jaws, running off with him, and not caring a cent for the hunters firing at him." "them's tottenhots," said joe hunt, who was glad of a chance of airing his knowledge of natural history; "they live in the upper part of africa, on the hang ho river, close to london." "my gracious," said fred, with a laugh; "you've got europe, asia and africa all mixed up, and the people are the hottentots; there isn't anybody in the world with such a name as tottenhots." "yes, there is, too; ain't we folks that live in tottenville tottenhots, smarty?" "let's ask that big boy there about them; he belongs to the show." the young man to whom they alluded stood a short distance off, with a long whip in his hand, watching the operations of those who were erecting the canvas. he was quite red in the face, had a bushy head of hair almost of the same hue, and was anything but attractive in appearance. his trousers were tucked in his boot-tops; he wore a blue shirt, sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a strong briar-wood pipe, occasionally indulging in some remark in which there was a shocking amount of profanity. the boys started toward him, and had nearly reached him when jimmy emery said in an excited undertone: "why, don't you see who he is? he's bud heyland." "so he is. his father told me last spring he had gone off to join a circus, but i forgot all about it." bud heyland was the son of michael heyland, the man who did the work for the sisters perkinpine, and before he left was known as the bully of the neighborhood. he was a year or two older than the oldest in school, and he played the tyrant among the other youngsters, whose life sometimes became a burden to them when he was near. he generally punished two or three of the lads each day after school for some imaginary offense. if they told the teacher, he would scold and threaten bud, who would tell some outlandish falsehood, and then whip the boys again for telling tales. if they appealed to mr. mccurtis, the same programme was gone through as before; and as the original victims continued to be worsted, they finally gave it up as a losing business and bore their sorrows uncomplainingly. fred sheldon tried several times to get up a confederation against the bully, with a view of bringing him to justice, but the others were too timid, and nothing came from it. bud was especially ugly in his actions toward fred, who had no father to take the matter in hand, while mr. heyland himself simply smoked his pipe and grunted out that he couldn't do anything with bud and had given him up long ago. finally mr. mccurtis lost all patience, and summoning his energies he flogged the young scamp most thoroughly and then bundled him out of the door, forbidding him to come to school any more. this suited bud, who hurled several stones through the window, and then went home, stayed several days and finally went off with a circus, with one of whose drivers he had formed an acquaintance. the boys were a little backward when they recognized bud, but concluded he would be glad to see them, especially as they all intended to visit the menagerie during the afternoon. "halloo, bud!" called out fred, with a grin, as he and his two friends approached; "how are you?" the boy, who was sixteen years old, turned about and looked at them for a minute, and then asked: "is that you, younkers? what'er you doin' here?" "oh, looking around a little. we're all coming this afternoon." "you are, eh? do you expect to crawl under the tent?" "no, we're going to pay our way in; jim and joe didn't know whether they could come or not, but it's all fixed now." "i watch outside with this cart-whip for boys that try to crawl under, and it's fun when i bring the lash down on 'em. do you see?" as he spoke, bud gave a flourish with the whip, whirling the lash about his head and causing it to snap like a firecracker. chapter vii. "the lion is loose!" "i'll show you how it works," he called out, with a grin, and without a word of warning he whirled it about the legs and bodies of the boys, who jumped with pain and started to run. he followed them just as the teacher did before, delivering blows rapidly, every one of which fairly burned and blistered where it struck. bud laughed and enjoyed it, because he was inflicting suffering, and he would have caused serious injury had not one of the men shouted to him to stop. bud obeyed, catching the end of the lash in the hand which held the whipstock, and slouching back to his position, said: "they wanted me to give 'em free tickets, and 'cause i wouldn't they told me they were going to crawl under the tent; so i thought i would let 'em have a little taste beforehand." "you mustn't be quite so ready," said the man; "some time you will get into trouble." "it wan't be the first time," said bud, looking with a grin at the poor boys, all three of whom were crying with pain; "and i reckon i can get out ag'in, as i've done often enough." fred sheldon, after edging away from the other lads and his friends, all of whom were pitying him, recalled that he had come into the village of tottenville to see the constable, archie jackson, and to tell him about the robbery that had been committed at the residence of the misses perkinpine the preceding evening. archie, a short, bustling, somewhat pompous man, who turned in his toes when he walked, was found among the crowd that were admiring the circus and menagerie, and was soon made acquainted with the alarming occurrence. "just what might have been expected," he said, severely, when he had heard the particulars; "it was some of them circus people, you can make up your mind to that. there's always an ugly crowd going along with 'em, and sometimes a little ahead. it's been some of 'em, i'm sure; very well, very well, i'll go right out and investigate." he told fred it was necessary he should go along with him, and the boy did so, being informed that he would be permitted to attend the show in the afternoon. the fussy constable made the investigation, assisted by the sisters, who had become much calmer, and by fred, who, it will be understood, was an important witness. the officer went through and through the house, examining the floor and chairs and windows and furniture for marks that might help him in ferreting out the guilty parties. he looked very wise, and, when he was done, said he had his own theory, and he was more convinced than ever that the two burglars were attachés of bandman's menagerie and circus. "purely as a matter of business," said he, "i'll attend the performances this afternoon and evening; i don't believe in circuses, but an officer of the law must sometimes go where his inclination doesn't lead him. wouldn't you ladies like to attend the show?" the sisters were quite shocked at the invitation, and said that nothing could induce them to go to such an exhibition, when they never attended one in all their lives. "in the meantime," added the bustling officer, "i suggest that you offer a reward for the recovery of the goods." "the suggestion is a good one," said aunt annie, "for i do not believe we shall ever get back the silverware unless we make it an inducement for everybody to hunt for it." after some further words it was agreed that the constable should have a hundred posters printed, offering a reward for the recovery of the stolen property, nothing being said about the capture and conviction of the thieves. nor would the conscientious ladies consent to make any offer that could be accepted by the thieves themselves, by which they could claim protection against prosecution. they would rather bear their irreparable loss than consent to compound crime. "i know mr. carter, a very skillful detective in new york," said archie jackson, as he prepared to go, "and i will send for him. he's the sharpest man i ever saw, and if the property can be found, he's the one to do it." the confidence of the officer gave the ladies much hope, and they resumed their duties in their household, as they had done so many times for years past. as the afternoon approached, the crowds began streaming into tottenville, and the sight was a stirring one, with the band of music inside, the shouts of the peddlers on the outside, and the general confusion and expectancy on the part of all. the doors were open early, for, as is always the case, the multitude were ahead of time, and were clamoring for admission. as may be supposed, the boys were among the earliest, and the little fellows who had suffered at the hands of the cruel bud heyland forgot all their miseries in the delight of the entertainment. on this special occasion fred had rolled down his trousers and wore a pair of shoes, although most of his playmates preferred no covering at all for their brown, expanding feet. the "performance," as the circus portion was called, did not begin until two o'clock, so that more than an hour was at the disposal of the visitors in which to inspect the animals. these were found to be much less awe-inspiring than they were pictured on the flaming posters and on the sides of their cages. the hippopotamus, which was represented as crushing a large boat, containing several men, in his jaws, was taken for a small, queer-looking pig, as it was partly seen in the tank, while the grizzly bear, the "monarch of the western wilds," who had slain any number of men before capture, did not look any more formidable than a common dog. the chief interest of fred and two or three of his young friends centered around the cage containing the numidian lion. he was of pretty fair size, looked very fierce, and strode majestically back and forth in his narrow quarters, now and then giving vent to a cavernous growl, which, although not very pleasant to hear, was not so appalling by any means as some travelers declare it to be. most of the boys soon went to the cage of monkeys, whose funny antics kept them in a continual roar; but fred and joe hunt, who were about the same age, seemed never to tire of watching the king of beasts. "come, move on there; you've been gaping long enough, and it's time other folks had a chance." it was bud heyland, who had yielded his position on the outside for a few minutes to one of the men, and had come in to look around. he raised his whip in a threatening manner, but did not let it descend. "i'm not in anybody's way," replied the indignant fred, "and i'll stand here as long as i want to." "you will, eh? i'll show you!" this time the bully drew back his whip with the intention of striking, but before he could do so archie jackson, standing near, called out: "you touch him if you dare!" bud turned toward the constable, who stood at his elbow, with flashing eyes, and demanded: "what's the matter with you?" "that boy isn't doing any harm, and if you touch him i'll take you by the collar and lock you up where you'll stay a while after this miserable show has gone." bud knew the officer and held him in more fear than any one else in the community, but he growled: "this boy crawled under the tent, and he's no business in here." "that's a falsehood, for i saw him buy his ticket. come now, young man, i _know something about last night's nefarious proceedings_." it would be hard to describe the significance with which these words were spoken, but it may be said that no one could have made them more impressive than did the fiery constable, who said them over a second time, and then, shaking his head very knowingly, walked away. it may have been that bud heyland was such a bad boy that his conscience accused him at all times, but fred sheldon was certain he saw the red face grow more crimson under the words of the hot-tempered constable. "can it be bud knows anything about last night?" fred asked himself, attentively watching the movements of bud, who affected to be interested in something going on a rod or two distant. he walked rapidly thither, but was gone only a short while when he came back scowling at fred, who looked at him in an inquiring way. "what are you staring at me so for?" asked bud, half raising his hand as if he wanted to strike, but was afraid to do so. fred now did something which bordered on insolence, though the party of the other part deserved no consideration therefor. the little fellow looked steadily in the red, inflamed face, and with that peculiar grin that means so much in a boy, said in a low, confidential voice: "bud, how about last night?" young sheldon had no warrant to assume that bud heyland knew anything of the robbery, and he was only following up the hint given by archie jackson himself. this may have been the reason that fred fancied he could detect a resemblance--very slight though it was--between the voice of bud heyland and that of the tramp who sat at the table in the old brick house, and who, beyond question, had a false beard on. the young man with the whip in his hand simply looked back at the handsome countenance before him, and without any appearance of emotion, asked in turn: "what are you talking about?" fred continued to look and smile, until suddenly bud lost all self-command and whirled his whip over his head. as he did so, the lash flew through the bars of the cage and struck the numidian lion a sharp, stinging blow on the nose. he gave a growl of anger, and half-rearing on his hind feet, made a furious clawing and clutching with both paws. the end of the lash seemed to have hit him in the eye, for he was furious for a minute. bud heyland knew what the sounds behind him meant, and instead of striking the young lad whom he detested so much, he turned about in the hope of soothing the enraged lion. he spoke kindly to the beast, and failing to produce any effect, was about to call one of the men to bring some meat, but at that instant every one near at hand was startled by a crashing, grinding sound, and the cage was seen to sway as if on the point of turning over. then, before any one could comprehend fully what had occurred, a huge form was seen to bound through the air in front of the cage, landing directly among the terrified group, who stood spell-bound, scarcely realizing their fearful peril. "the lion is loose! the lion is loose!" was the next cry that rang through the enclosure. [illustration: "the lion sprang through the air among the terrified group." --(see page .)] chapter viii. a day of excitement in tottenville. if any of our readers were ever so unfortunate as to be in the neighborhood of a menagerie of animals when one of the fiercest has broken loose he can form some idea of the confusion, terror and consternation caused by the escape of the lion from his cage. strong men rushed headlong over each other; parents caught up their children and struggled desperately to get as far as possible from the dreadful beast; the other animals uttered fierce growls and cries; women and children screamed and fainted; brave escorts deserted young ladies, leaving them to look out for themselves, while they joined in the frantic struggle for life; some crawled under the wagons; others clambered upon the top, and one man, original even in his panic, scrambled into the cage just vacated by the lion, intending to do his utmost to keep the rightful owner from getting back again. could any one have looked upon the exciting scene, and preserved his self-possession, he would have observed a burly boy climbing desperately up the center pole, never pausing until he reached the point where the heavy ropes of the canvas converged, when he stopped panting, and looked down on what was passing beneath him. the name of that young man was bud heyland. among the multitude that swarmed through the entrance to the tent, which was choked until strong men fought savagely to beat back the mad tide, were three boys who got outside safely on their feet, and, drawing in their breath, broke into a blind but very earnest run that was intended to take them as far as possible from the dangerous spot. they were jimmy emery, joe hunt and fred sheldon. the last-named saw the lion make a tremendous bound, which landed him almost at his feet, and fred was sure it was all over with him; but he did not stand still and be devoured, but plunged in among the struggling mass and reached the exterior of the tent without a scratch. high above the din and tumult rose the shout of the principal showman: "don't kill the lion! don't kill the lion!" it was hard to see the necessity for this cry, inasmuch as the danger seemed to be altogether the other way, but the one who uttered the useless words was evidently afraid some of the people would begin shooting at the beast, which was altogether too valuable to lose, if there was any way of avoiding it. it may be, too, that he believed a general fusillade, when the confusion was so great, would be more perilous to the people than to the lion. there is reason in the belief that, as some scientists claim, there is a sense of humor which sometimes comes to the surface in certain animals, and the action of the numidian lion when he broke out tended to confirm such a statement. he seemed to forget all about the sharp cut he had received across the nose and eyes the moment he was clear of his cage and to enjoy the hubbub he created. had he chosen he could have lacerated and killed a score of children within his reach, but instead of doing so he jumped at the terrified crowd, striking them pretty hard blows with his fore paws, then wheeling about and making for another group, who were literally driven out of their senses by the sight of the brute coming toward them. one young gentleman who was with a lady left her without a word, and, catching sight of a small ladder, placed it hastily against the center pole and ran rapidly up the rounds, but the ladder itself stood so nearly perpendicular that when he reached the top and looked around to see whether the king of beasts was following him, it tipped backward, and he fell directly upon the shoulders of the lion, rolling off and turning a back somersault, where he lay kicking with might and main, and shouting to everybody to come and take him away. the brute paid no attention to him except to act in a confused manner for a minute or two, when he darted straight across the ring to an open space in the wall of the tent, made by some men who had cut it with their knives. the next moment he was on the outside. the bewilderment and consternation seemed to increase every minute, and did not abate when the lion was seen to be galloping up the road toward a forest, in which he disappeared. a number of the show people ran after him, shouting and calling continually to others to keep out of his way and not to kill him. the beast had entered a track of dense woodland, covering fully a dozen acres, and abounding with undergrowth, where it was probable he could hide himself for days from his would-be captors. the incident broke up the exhibition for the afternoon, although it was announced that it would go on again as usual in the evening, when something like self-possession came back to the vast swarm of people scattered through the village and over the grounds, it was found that although a number had been severely bruised and trampled upon, no one was seriously injured, and what was the strangest fact of all, no one could be found who had suffered any hurt from the lion. this was unaccountable to nearly every one, though the explanation, or partial one, at least, appeared within the succeeding few days. had the lion been able to understand the peril into which he entered by this freak of his it may be safely said that he would not have left his cage, for no sooner had the community a chance to draw breath and realize the situation than they resolved that it would never do to allow such a ferocious animal to remain at large. "why, he can hide in the woods there and sally out and kill a half dozen at a time, just as they do in their native country," said archie jackson, discussing the matter in the village store. "yes," assented a neighbor; "the lion is the awfulest kind of a creature, which is why they call him the king of beasts. in brazil and italy, where they run wild, they're worse than--than--than a--that is--than a steam b'iler explosion." "we must organize," added the constable, compressing his thin lips; "self-protection demands it." "i think we had better call on the governor to bring out the military, and to keep up the hunt until he is exterminated." "no need of calling on the military, so long as the civil law is sufficient," insisted archie. "a half-dozen of us, well armed, will be able to smoke him out." "will you j'ine?" asked one of the neighbors. the constable cleared his throat before saying: "i've some important business on my hands that'll keep me pretty busy for a few days. if you will wait till that is over, it will give me pleasure--ahem!--to j'ine you." "by that time there won't be any of us left to j'ine," said the neighbor with a contemptuous sniff. "it looks very much, archie, as though you were trying to get out of it." the constable grew red in the face at the general smile this caused, and said, in his most impressive manner: "gentlemen, i'll go with you in search of the lion; more than that, gentlemen and fellow-citizens, i'll lead you." "that's business; you ain't such a big coward as people say you are." "who says i'm a coward--show him to me----" at this moment one of the young men attached to the menagerie and circus entered, and when all became still said: "gentlemen, my name is jacob kincade, and i'm the keeper of the lion which broke out to-day and is off somewhere in the woods. he is a very valuable animal to us, we having imported him directly from the bushman country, at a great expense. his being at large has created a great excitement, as was to be expected, but we don't want him killed." "of course not," said archie jackson, who echoed the sentiment of his neighbors, as he added, "you prefer that he should go raging 'round the country and chaw us all up instead. my friend, that little scheme won't work; we're just on the point of organizing an exploring expedition to shoot the lion. our duty to our wives and families demands that we should extirpate the scourge. yes, sir," added archie, rising from his chair and gesticulating like an orator, "as patriots we are bound to prevent any foreign monsters, especially them as are worshiped by the red-coats, to squat on our soil and murder our citizens. the glorious american eagle----" "one minute," interrupted mr. kincade, with a wave of his hand. "it isn't the eagle, but the lion we are considering. the menagerie, having made engagements so far ahead, must show in lumberton to-morrow evening, but two of us will stay behind to arrange for his recapture. bud heyland, whose home is in this vicinity, and myself would like to employ a dozen of you to assist. you will be well paid therefor, and whoever secures him, without harm, will receive a reward of a hundred dollars." while these important words were being uttered, archie jackson remained standing on the floor, facing the speaker, with his hand still raised, as if he intended resuming his patriotic speech at the point where it had been broken in upon. but when the showman stopped archie stood staring at him with mouth open, hand raised and silent tongue. "go on," suggested one at his elbow. but the constable let his arm fall against his side, and said: "i had a good thing about the emblem of british tyranny, but he put me out. will give a hundred dollars, eh? that's another matter altogether. but i say, mr. kincade, how shall we go to work to capture a lion? that sort of game ain't abundant in these parts, and i don't think there's any one here that's ever hunted 'em." old mr. scrapton, who was known to be the teller of the most amazing stories ever heard in the neighborhood, opened his mouth to relate how he had lassoed lions forty years before, when he was hunting on the plains of texas, but he restrained himself. he thought it best to wait till this particular beast had been disposed of and was out of the neighborhood. "i may say, gentlemen," added the showman, with a peculiar smile, "that this lion is not so savage and dangerous as most people think. you will call to mind, although he broke loose in the afternoon, when the tent was crowded with people, and when he had every opportunity he could wish, yet he did not hurt any one." "that is a very remarkable circumstance," said the constable, in a low voice, heard by all. "i am warranted, therefore," added mr. kincade, "in saying that there is no cause for such extreme fright on your part. you should fix some sort of cage and bait it with meat. then watch, and when he goes in spring the trap, and there he is." "yes, but will he stay there?" "if the trap is strong enough." "how would it do to lasso him?" "if you are skilled in throwing the lasso and can fling several nooses over his head simultaneously from different directions. by that i mean if three or four of you can lasso him at the same instant, from different directions, so he will be held fast, why the scheme will work splendidly." all eyes turned toward old mr. scrapton, who cleared his throat, threw one leg over the other and looked very wise. it was known that he had a long buffalo thong looped and hanging over his fire-place at home, with which, he had often told, he used to lasso wild horses in the southwest. when the old gentleman saw the general interest he had awakened, he nodded his head patronizingly and said: "yes, boys, i'll go with you and show you how the thing is done." the important conversation, of which we have given a part, took place in the principal store in tottenville late on the evening succeeding the escape of the lion and after the performance was over. mr. kincade, by virtue of his superior experience with wild animals, gave the men a great many good points and awakened such an ambition in them to capture the beast that he was quite hopeful of his being retaken in a short time. it was understood that if the lion was injured in any way not a penny's reward would be paid, and a careful observer of matters would have thought there was reason to fear the neighbors were placing themselves in great personal peril, through their anxiety to take the king of beasts alive and unharmed. on the morrow, when the children wended their way to the old stone school-house again, they stopped to look at archie jackson, who was busy tearing down the huge posters of the menagerie and circus, preparatory to tacking up some others which he had brought with him and held under his arm. the constable dipped into several professions. he sometimes dug wells and helped to move houses for his neighbors. beside this, he was known as the auctioneer of the neighborhood, and tacked up the announcement posters for himself. as soon as he had cleared a space, he posted the following, printed in large, black letters: one hundred dollars reward. the above reward will be paid for the capture of the lion which escaped from bandman's great menagerie and circus on tuesday the twenty-first instant. nothing will be paid if the animal is injured in any manner. the undersigned will be at the tottenville hotel for a few days, and will hand the reward named to any one who will secure the lion so that he can be returned to his cage. jacob kincade. directly beneath this paper was placed a second one, and it seemed a curious coincident that it also was the announcement of a reward. five hundred dollars reward. the above reward will be paid for the recovery of the silver tea-service stolen from the residence of the misses perkinpine on the night of the twentieth instant. a liberal price will be given for anything in the way of information which may lead to the recovery of the property or the detection of the thieves. attached to the last was a minute description of the various articles stolen, and the information that any one who wished further particulars could receive them by communicating with archibald jackson, constable, in tottenville. the menagerie and circus had departed, but the excitement which it left behind was probably greater and more intense than that which preceded its arrival. its coming was announced by a daring robbery, and when it went the most terrible animal in its "colossal and unparalleled collection" remained to prowl through the woods and feast upon the men, women, boys and girls of the neighborhood, to say nothing of the cows, oxen, sheep, lambs and pigs with which it was to be supposed the king of beasts would amuse himself when he desired a little recreation that should remind him of his native, far-away country. around these posters were gathered the same trio which we pictured on the opening of our story. "i tell you i'd like to catch that lion," said jimmy emery, smacking his lips over the prospect; "but i don't see how it can be done." "why couldn't we coax him into the school-house this afternoon after all the girls and boys are gone?" asked joe hunt; "it's so low and flat he would take it for his den, that is, if we kill a calf and lay it inside the door." "but mr. mccurtis stays an hour after school to set copies," said fred sheldon. joe hunt scratched his arms, which still felt the sting of the blows for his failure in his lessons, and said: "that's one reason why i am so anxious to get the lion in there." "well, younkers, i s'pose you're going to earn both of them rewards?" it was bud heyland who uttered these words, as he halted among the boys, who were rather shy of him. bud had his trousers tucked in the top of his boots, his sombrero and blue shirt on, his rank brier-wood pipe in his mouth, and the whip, whose lash looked like a long, coiling black snake, in his hand. his face was red as usual, with blotches on his nose and cheeks, such as must have been caused by dissipation. he was ugly by nature, and had the neighborhood been given the choice between having him and the lion as a pest it may be safely said that bud would not have been the choice of all. "i don't think there's much chance for us," said fred sheldon, quietly edging away from the bully; "for i don't see how we are to catch and hold him." "it would not do for him to see you," said bud, taking his pipe from his mouth and grinning at fred. "why not?" "he's so fond of calves he'd be sure to go for you." "that's why he tried so hard to get at you, i s'pose, when you climbed the tent pole and was so scared you've been pale ever since." bud was angered by this remark, which caused a general laugh, and he raised his whip, but just then he saw the teacher, mr. mccurtis, close at hand, and he refrained. although large and strong, like all bullies, he was a coward, and could not forget the severe drubbing received from this severe pedagogue, "all of ye olden times." he walked sullenly away, resolved to punish the impudent fred sheldon before he left the neighborhood, while the ringing of the cracked bell a minute or two later drew the boys and girls to the building and the studies of the day were begun. young fred sheldon was the brightest and best boy in school, and he got through his lessons with his usual facility, but it may be said that his thoughts were anywhere but in the school-room. indeed, there was plenty to rack his brain over, for during the few minutes when bud heyland stood talking to the boys before school fred was impressed more than ever with the fact that his voice resembled that of the tramp who had been entertained by the misses perkinpine a couple of nights before. "i s'pose he tried to make his voice sound different," thought fred, "but he didn't remember it all the time. bud's voice is coarser than it used to be, which i s'pose is because it's changing, but every once in awhile it sounded just like it did a few minutes ago. "then it seems to me," added our hero, pursuing the same train of perplexing thought, "that the voice of the other man--the one that come on to me in the lane--was like somebody i've heard, but i can't think who the person can be." fred took out his new knife and looked at it in a furtive way. when he had admired it a few minutes he fixed his eyes on the three letters cut in the brass piece. "they're 'n. h. h.,'" he said, "as sure as i live; but 'n. h. h.' don't stand for bud heyland, though the last name is the same. if that was bud who stole the silver then he must have dropped the knife on the floor, though i don't see how he could do it without knowing it. i s'pose he stole the knife from some one else." the boy had not shown his prize to any of his playmates, having thought it best to keep it out of sight. he could not help believing that bud heyland had something to do with the robbery, but it was difficult to think of any way by which the offense could be proven against him. "he'll deny it, of course, and even aunt annie and lizzie will declare that it wasn't him that sat at the table the other night and eat enough for a half-dozen men, or as much as i wanted, anyway. he's such a mean, ugly boy that i wish i could prove it on him--that is, if he did it." that day fred received word from his mother that she would not return for several days, and he was directed to look after the house, while he was permitted to sleep at the old brick mansion if he chose. accordingly fred saw that all his chores were properly done after he reached home that afternoon, when he started for the home of the maiden ladies, where he was more than welcome. the boy followed the same course he took two nights before, and his thoughts were so occupied that he went along at times almost instinctively, as may be said. "gracious," he muttered, "but if i could find that silver for them--she don't say anything about the money that was taken--that would be an awful big reward. five hundred dollars! it would more than pay the mortgage on our place. then that one hundred dollars for the lion--gracious alive!" gasped fred, stopping short and looking around in dismay. "i wonder where that lion is. he's been loose twenty-four hours, and i should like to know how many people he has killed. i heard he was seen up among the hills this morning, and eat a whole family and a team of horses, but i think maybe there's some mistake about it. "i wonder why he didn't kill somebody yesterday when he had such a good chance. he jumped right down in front of me, and i just gave up, and wished i was a better boy before i should go and leave mother alone; but he didn't pay any attention to me, nor anybody else, but he's a terrible creature, for all that." now that fred's thoughts were turned toward the beast that was prowling somewhere in the neighborhood, he could think of nothing else. there was the fact that this peril was a present one, which drove all thoughts of bud heyland and the robbery from the mind of the boy. the rustling wind, the murmur of the woods, and the soft, hollow roar of the distant river were all suggestive of the dreaded lion, and fred found himself walking on tip-toe and peering forward in the gloom, often stopping and looking behind and around, and fancying he caught an outline of the crouching beast. but at last he reached the short lane and began moving with a rapid and confident step. the moon was shining a little more brightly than when he went over the ground before, and here and there the rays found their way between the poplars and served to light the road in front. "i guess he is asleep in the woods and will keep out of sight till he's found----" the heart of fred sheldon rose in his throat, and, as he stopped short, it seemed that his hair rose on end. and well it might, for there, directly in the road before him, where the moon's rays shot through the branches, the unmistakable figure of the dreaded lion suddenly appeared. chapter ix. several mishaps. on this same eventful evening, archie jackson, the constable of tottenville, started from the residence of the misses perkinpine for his own house in the village. he had been out to make some inquiries of the ladies, for it will be remembered that he had two very important matters on hand--the detection of the robbers who had taken the property of the sisters and the leadership of the party who were to recapture the lion. at the close of the day, as he moved off toward the village, some time before the arrival of fred sheldon, he could not console himself with the knowledge that anything like real progress had been made in either case. "i've sent for that new york detective, carter, to come down at once, and he ought to be here, but i haven't seen anything of him. like enough he's off somewhere and won't be heard from for a week. i don't know as i care, for i begin to feel as though i can work out this nefarious proceeding myself. "then the lion. well, i can't say that i desire to go hunting for that sort of game, for i never studied their habits much, but as this cretur' doesn't seem to be very ferocious we ought to be able to run him in. i've organized the company, and scrapton says he'll bring out his lasso and show two or three of us how to fling the thing, so we can all neck him at the same time. "if i can work up this matter and the other," continued the constable, who was "counting his chickens before they were hatched," "i shall make a nice little fee. i'm sure the lion will stay in the woods till he's pretty hungry. all the wild reports we've heard to-day have nothing in them. nobody has seen him since he took to the forest yesterday afternoon, and what's more, nobody will----" and just then came the greatest shock of archie jackson's life. he was walking along the road toward tottenville, and had reached a place where a row of trees overhung the path. he had taken a different route home from that pursued by fred sheldon, and was in quite a comfortable frame of mind, as the remarks quoted will show, when he gave a gasp of fright, for there, at the side of the path, he was sure he saw the lion himself sitting on his haunches and waiting for him to come within reach of his frightful claws and teeth. the constable did not observe him until he was within arm's length, as may be said, and then the poor fellow was transfixed. he stood a minute or so, doing nothing but breathe and staring at the monster. the lion seemed to comprehend that he was master of the situation, for he quietly remained sitting on his haunches, no doubt waiting for his victim to prepare for his inevitable fate. finally, archie began to experience something like a reaction, and he asked himself whether he was to perish thus miserably, or was there not some hope, no matter how desperate, for him. of course he had no gun, but he generally carried a loaded revolver, for his profession often demanded the display of such a weapon; but to his dismay, when he softly reached his right hand back to his hip to draw it, he recalled that he had cleaned it that afternoon, and left it lying on his stand at home. the situation was enough to make one despair, and for an instant after the discovery the officer felt such a weakness in the knees that it was all he could do to keep from sinking to the ground in a perfect collapse; but he speedily rallied, and determined on one great effort for life. "i will strike him with my fist--that will knock him over--and then run for a tree." this was his resolve. archie could deliver a powerful blow, and, believing the lion would not wait any longer, he drew back his clenched hand and aimed for the forehead directly between the eyes. he measured the distance correctly, but the instant the blow landed he felt he had made a mistake; it was not the runaway lion which he had struck, but the stump of an old tree. it is hardly necessary to say that the constable suffered more than did the stump, and for a minute or two he was sure he had fractured the bones of his hand, so great was the pain. he danced about on one foot, shaking the bruised member and bewailing the stupidity that led him to make such a grievous error. "that beats anything i ever knowed in all my life," he exclaimed, "and how glad i am that nobody else knows it; if the folks ever hear of it, they will plague me forever and----" "halloo, archie, what's the matter?" the cold chills ran down the officer's back as he heard this hail, and suppressing all expression of pain, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked quickly around. in the dim moonlight he saw old man scrapton and two neighbors, vincent and emery, fathers respectively of two playmates of fred sheldon. each carried a coil of long, strong rope in his right hand and seemed to be considerably excited over something. "we're after the lion," said mr. scrapton; "have you seen him?" "no, i don't think he's anywhere around here." "i've had vincent and emery out in the meadow nearly all day, practicing throwing the lasso, and they've got the hang of it exactly. emery can fling the noose over the horns of a cow a dozen yards away and never miss, while vincent, by way of experiment, dropped the noose over the shoulders of his wife at a greater distance." "yes," said mr. vincent, "but i don't regard that as much of a success. mrs. vincent objected, and before i could let go of my end of the lasso, she drawed me to her and--well, i'd prefer to talk of something else." the constable laughed and said: "it's a good thing to practice a little beforehand, when you are going into such a dangerous business as this." "i suppose that's the reason you've been hammering that white oak stump," suggested mr. scrapton, with a chuckle. archie jackson saw he was caught, and begged his friends to say nothing about it, as he had already suffered as much in spirit as body. "but do you expect to find the lion to-night?" he asked, with unaffected interest. "yes, we know just where to look for him," said mr. scrapton; "he stayed in the woods all day, but just as the sun was setting i catched sight of him along the edge of the fence, and he isn't far from there this very minute." "do you want me to go with you?" "certainly." "but i have no weapon." "all the better; i made each leave his gun and pistols at home, for they'd be so scared at the first sight of the cretur' they'd fire before they knowed it and spoil everything. like the boys at ticonderoga, if their guns ain't loaded, they can't shoot 'em." "but i don't see what help i can give you, as i haven't got a rope; and even if i had, i wouldn't know how to use it." "come along, any way; we'll feel safer if we have another with us." it cannot be said that the constable was very enthusiastic, for there was something in the idea of hunting the king of beasts without firearms which was as terrifying as it was grotesque. however, he could not refuse, and the four started down the road and across the field, in the direction of the large tract of forest in which it was known the lion had taken refuge when he broke from his cage the day before. a walk of something like a third of a mile took the party to the edge of the wood, where they stopped and held a consultation in whispers. none of them were so brave as they seemed a short time before, and all secretly wished they were safe at home. "i don't see how you can expect to find him by hunting in the night time, when you have made no preparation," said archie jackson, strongly impressed with the absurdity of the whole business. "but i have made preparation," answered scrapton, in the same guarded undertone. "how?" "i killed a pig and threw him over the fence yonder by that pile of rocks--good heavens!" at the moment of pointing his finger to indicate the spot, all heard a low cavernous growl, which sent a shiver of affright from head to foot. they were about to break into a run, when the constable said: "if you start, he will be after us; let's stand our ground." "certainly," assented mr. vincent, through his chattering teeth. "certainly, certainly," added his neighbor, in the same quaking voice. toning down their extreme terror as best they could, the four frightened friends strained their eyes to catch a sight of the animal. "he's there," said scrapton, fingering his lasso in a way which showed he was very eager to hurl it. "where?" "right behind the fence; i see him; he's crouching down and eating the carcass of the pig." "when he gets through with that he will come for us." "like enough--but that will be all right," said the old gentleman, who really showed more self-possession than any of the others; "for it will give us just the chance we want." "how so?" "when he comes over the fence we'll sort of scatter and throw our lassoes together; then each will pull with all his might and main." "but," said mr. vincent, "s'posing we pull his head off, we won't get any of the reward." "we can't pull hard enough to do that, but if we hold on we'll keep him fast, so he can't move any way at all, and bime-by he'll get so tired that he'll give up, and we'll have him, certain sure." "that is, if he don't happen to have us," said mr. jackson. "as i haven't got any rope, s'pose i climb over the fence and scare him up so he will come toward you." the idea seemed to be a good one, as the others looked at it, but when the constable moved off to carry out his proposition they thought he was making altogether too extended a circuit, and that it would be a long while before he would succeed in his undertaking. archie finally vanished in the gloom, and climbing over the fence into the woods moved a short distance toward the spot where the animal lay, when he paused. "the man who goes to hunt a wild lion with nothing but a jack-knife with both blades broke out is a natural-born idiot, which his name isn't archie jackson. i've business elsewhere." and thereupon he deliberately turned about and started homeward by a circuitous route. meanwhile old mr. scrapton and vincent and emery stood trembling and waiting for the appearance of the lion, which, judging from the sounds that reached their ears, was busy crunching the bones of the young porker that had been slain for his special benefit. they didn't know whether to stay where they were or to break into a run. the danger seemed great, but the reward was so tempting that they held their ground. "he may start to run away," weakly suggested mr. vincent. "i don't think so, now that he's tasted blood, but if he does," said the leader of the party, "we must foller." "but he can run faster than we----" "there he comes!" in the darkness they saw the faintly-outlined figure of an animal clambering over the fence, with growls and mutterings, and hardly conscious of what they were doing, the three men immediately separated several yards from each other and nervously clutched their ropes, ready to fling them the instant the opportunity presented itself. "there he comes!" called out mr. scrapton again; "throw your lassoes!" at the same instant the three coils of rope whizzed through the air as a dark figure was seen moving in a direction which promised to bring him to a point equidistant from all. mr. vincent was too enthusiastic in throwing his noose, for it went beyond the animal and settled around the neck of the astonished mr. emery, who thought the lion had caught him in his embrace, thrown as he was off his feet and pulled fiercely over the ground by the thrower. mr. emery missed his mark altogether, although mr. scrapton had to dodge his head to escape the encircling coil. the old gentleman would have lassoed the animal had he not discovered at the very instant the noose left his hand that it was his own mastiff, towser, that they were seeking to capture instead of a runaway lion. chapter x. a brave act. meanwhile fred sheldon had become involved in anything but a pleasant experience. there might be mistakes ludicrous and otherwise in the case of others, but when he saw the animal in the lane before him, as revealed by the rays of the moon, there was no error. it was the identical lion that had escaped from the menagerie the day previous, and the beast must have noted the presence of the terrified lad, who stopped such a short distance from him. master fred was so transfixed that he did not stir for a few seconds, and then it seemed to him that the best thing he could do was to turn about and run, and yell with might and main, just as he did some weeks before when he stepped into a yellow-jackets' nest. it is hard to understand how the yelling helps a boy when caught in such a dilemma, but we know from experience that it is easier to screech at the top of one's voice, as you strike at the insects that settle about your head, than it is to concentrate all your powers in the single act of running. almost unconsciously, fred began stepping backward, keeping his gaze fixed upon the lion as he did so. if the latter was aware of the stratagem, which is sometimes used with advantage by the african hunter, he did not immediately seek to thwart it, but continued facing him, and occasionally swaying his tail, accompanied by low, thunderous growls. the boys of the school had learned a great deal of natural history within the last day or two, and fred had read about the king of beasts. he knew that a lion could crouch on his belly, and, with one prodigious bound, pass over the intervening space. the lad was afraid the one before him meant to act according to the instincts of his nature, and he retreated more rapidly, until all at once he whirled about and ran for dear life, directly toward the highway. he did not shout, though, if he had seen any other person, he would have called for help; but, when he reached the road, he cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to feel the horrible claws at the same instant. the lion was invisible. fred could scarcely believe his eyes; but such was the fact. "i don't understand him," was the conclusion of the boy, who kept moving further away, scarcely daring to believe in his own escape even for a few brief minutes. fred had been too thoroughly scared to wish to meet the lion again, but he wanted to get back to the house that the misses perkinpine could be told of the new danger which threatened them. "i think they'll be more likely to believe me than night before last," said the lad to himself. but nothing could tempt him to venture along the lane again after such an experience. it was easy enough to reach the house by a long detour, but the half belief that the lion was lurking in the vicinity made the effort anything but assuring. however, fred sheldon thought it his duty to let his good friends know the new peril to which they were subject, in the event of venturing out of doors. so slow and stealthy was his next approach to the building that nearly an hour passed before he found himself in the small yard surrounding the house; but, when once there, he hastened to the front door and gave such a resounding knock with the old-fashioned brass knocker that it could have been heard a long distance away, on the still summer night. it seemed a good while to fred before the bolt was withdrawn, and aunt annie appeared in her cap and spectacles. "oh, it's you, fred, is it?" she exclaimed with pleasure, when she recognized the young man who was so welcome at all times. "you are so late that we had given you up, and were going to retire." "i started early enough, but it seems to me as if every sort of awful thing is after us," replied fred, as he hastily followed the lady into the dining-room, where the sisters began preparing the meal for which the visitor, like all urchins of his age, was ready at any time. "what's the matter now, freddy?" asked aunt lizzie. "why, you had a tramp after you night before last, and now you've got a big, roaring lion." "a what?" asked the two in amazement, for they had not heard a syllable of the exciting incident of the day before. "why, there's a lion that broke out of the menagerie yesterday, and they haven't been able to catch him yet." "land sakes alive!" gasped aunt annie, sinking into a chair and raising her hands, "what is the world coming to?" aunt lizzie sat down more deliberately, but her pale face and amazed look showed she was no less agitated. fred helped himself to some more of the luscious shortcake and golden butter and preserves, and feeling the importance of his position told the story with which our readers are familiar, though it must be confessed the lad exaggerated somewhat, as perhaps was slightly excusable under the circumstances. still it was not right for him to describe the lion as of the size of an ordinary elephant, unless he referred to the baby elephant, which had never been seen in this country at that time. nor should he have pictured his run down the lane, with the beast behind him all the way, snapping at his head, while fred only saved himself by his dexterity in dodging him. there was scarcely any excuse for such hyperbole, though the narrative was implicitly believed by the ladies, who felt they were in greater danger than if a score of burglarious tramps were planning to rob them. "they've offered one hundred dollars to any one who catches the lion without hurting him," added fred, as well as he could speak with his mouth filled with spongy gingerbread. "a hundred dollars!" exclaimed aunt lizzie; "why, he'll kill anybody who goes near him. if i were a man i wouldn't try to capture him for a million dollars." "i'm going to try to catch him," said fred, in his off-hand fashion, as though it was a small matter, and then, swallowing enough of the sweet food to allow him to speak more plainly, he added: "lions ain't of much account when you get used to 'em; i'm beginning to feel as though i'm going to make that hundred dollars." but the good ladies could not accept this statement as an earnest one, and they chided their youthful visitor for talking so at random. fred thought it best not to insist, and finished his meal without any further declarations of what he intended to do. "they've left two persons behind to look after the lion," he said; "one is named kincade and the other is bud heyland, you know him--the son of michael, your hired man." "yes; he called here to-day." "he did. what for?" "oh, nothing in particular; he said he heard we had had our silverware stolen, and he wanted to tell us how sorry he felt and to ask whether we had any suspicion of who took it." "he did, eh?" said fred, half to himself, with a belief that he understood the real cause of that call. "i think bud is getting to be a much better boy than he used to be," added aunt annie; "he was real sorry for us, and talked real nice. he said he expected to be at home for two or three days, though he didn't tell us what for, and he would drop in to see us." master sheldon made no answer to this, but he "had his thoughts," and he kept them to himself. the hour was quite advanced, for the days were long, so that the fastenings of the house were looked to with great care, and fred went to the same room he had occupied two nights before, the one immediately preceding having been spent at home, as he partly expected the return of his mother. after saying his prayers and extinguishing the light, he walked to the rear window and looked out on the solemn scene. everything was still, but he had stood thus only for a minute or two, when in the quiet, he detected a peculiar sound, which puzzled him at first; but as he listened, he learned that it came from the smoke-house, a small structure near the wood-house. like the residence, it was built of old-fashioned holland brick, and was as strong as a modern prison cell. "somebody is in there stealing meat," was the conclusion of fred; "i wonder who it can be." he listened a moment longer, and then heard the same kind of growl he had noticed the day before when standing in front of the lion's cage. beyond a doubt the king of beasts was helping himself to such food as suited him. in a twinkling fred sheldon hurried softly down stairs, cautiously opened the kitchen door, and looked out and listened. yes, he was in there; he could hear him growling and crunching bones, and evidently enjoying the greatest feast of his life. "now, if he don't hear me coming, i'll have him sure," fred said to himself, as he began stealing toward the door through which the lion had passed. chapter xi. a reward well earned. the smoke-house attached to the perkinpine mansion, as we have already said, was made of bricks, and was a strong, massive structure. although originally used for a building in which meat was cured, it had been adapted to the purposes of a milk store-house. a stream of water ran through one side and the milk and fresh meats were kept there so long as it was possible during the summer weather. a supply of mutton and lamb had been placed in it the evening before by michael, the hired man, a portion for the use of the ladies and a portion for himself, when he should come to take it away in the morning. there had never been an ice-house on the property, that luxury having been much less known a half a century ago than it is to-day. the lion, in snuffing around the premises, had scented this store-house of meat, and was feasting himself upon it when detected by fred sheldon, who, with very little hesitation, covered the couple of rods necessary to reach it. it is difficult to comprehend the trying nature of such a venture, but the reward was a gigantic one in the eyes of fred, who was very hopeful also of the chance being favorable for capturing the animal. having started he did not dare to turn back, but hastened forward on tip-toe, and with a firm hand caught the latch of the door. the instant he did so the latter was closed and fastened. he expected the lion would make a plunge against it, and break out. having done all he could to secure him, fred scurried back through the kitchen door, which he nervously closed after him, and then scampered in such haste to his room that he feared he had awakened the two ladies in the other part of the house. hurrying to the window, the lad looked anxiously out and down upon the smoke-house as it was called. to his delight he saw nothing different in its appearance from what it was when he left it a few moments before. it followed, therefore, that the lion was within, as indeed was proven by the sounds which reached the ears of the listening lad. but was the little structure strong enough to hold him? when he broke through his own cage with such ease, would he find any difficulty in making his way out of this place? these were the questions our hero asked himself, and which he could not answer as he wished. while the walls of the little building were strong and secure, yet the door was an ordinary one of wood, fastened by a common iron latch and catch, supplemented by a padlock whenever michael heyland chose to take the trouble; but the door was as secure against the animal within with the simple latch in place as it was with the addition of the lock, for it was not to be expected that he would attempt to force his way out in any manner other than by flinging himself against the door itself whenever he should become tired of his restraint. after a while all became still within the smoke-house, and it must have been that the unconscious captive, having gorged himself, had lain down for a good sleep. fred sheldon was all excitement and hope, for he felt that if the creature could be kept well supplied with food, he was likely to remain content with his quarters for a considerable time. tired and worn out, the boy finally lay down on his bed and slept till morning. the moment his eyes were open, he arose and looked out. the smoke-house showed no signs of disturbance, the door remaining latched as it was the night before. "he's there yet," exclaimed the delighted boy, hurriedly donning his clothes and going down the stairs in three jumps. he was right in his guess, for when he cautiously peeped through the slats of the window he saw the monster stretched out upon the floor in a sound slumber. when fred told the misses perkinpine that the lion was fastened in the smoke-house their alarm passed all bounds. they instantly withdrew to the uppermost room, where they declared they would stay until the neighbors should come and kill the creature. fred tried to persuade them out of their fears, but it was useless, and gathering what meat he could in the house he shoved it through the small window, and then hurried off toward tottenville. "the lion has got plenty of food, and there is the little stream of water running through the smoke-house, so he ought to be content to stay there for the day." jacob kincade sat on the porch of the tottenville hotel, smoking a cigar and talking with a number of the villagers, who were gathered around him. bud heyland stayed with his folks up the road, and he had not come down to the village yet. the talk, as a matter of course was about the lion, which was believed to be ranging through the country, and playing havoc with the live stock of the farmers. among the listeners were several boys, with open mouths and eyes, and when fred joined them no one paid any attention to him. "as i was saying," observed mr. kincade, flinging one of his legs over the other, and flirting the ashes from his cigar, "the lion is one of the most valuable in the country. he has a wonderful history, having killed a number of people before he was captured in africa. colonel bandman has been offered a large price for him, which explains why he is so anxious to secure him unhurt." "what is the reward?" asked one of the bystanders. "it was originally a hundred dollars, but i've just received a letter from colonel bandman, in which he instructs me to make the reward two hundred, provided the animal is not injured at all." "what does that offer imply?" asked another of the deeply interested group. "the only feasible plan, in my judgment, is to construct a large cage and to lure the lion into that. i have a couple of carpenters hard at work, but the trouble is the animal has such a good chance now of getting all the meat he wants that it will be difficult to get him inside of anything that looks like a cage." "if he could be got into a place where he could be held secure until you brought up his own cage, that would be all you would ask?" continued the speaker, who evidently was forming some plan of operations in his own mind. "that is all, sir." "_i've got your lion for you!_" this rather weighty assertion was made by fred sheldon, from his position in the group. an instant hush fell upon all, who looked wonderingly at the lad, as if uncertain whether they had heard aright. before any comment was made our hero, somewhat flushed in the face, as he summoned up his courage, added: "i've got the lion fast, and if you will go with me i will show you where he is." mr. kincade laughed, as did one or two others. taking a puff or two of his cigar, the showman added: "run home, sonny, and don't bother us any more." but in that little party were a number who knew fred sheldon to be an honest and truthful boy. they made inquiries of him, and when his straightforward answers had been given they told the showman he could rely on what had been said. mr. kincade thereupon instantly made preparations, the group swelling to large proportions, as the news spread that the wild beast had been captured. the cage of the lion, which had been strongly repaired, was driven to the front of the hotel; jake kincade mounted, took the lines in hand and started toward the home of the misses perkinpine, the villagers following close beside and after him. just as they turned into the short lane leading to the place, whom should they meet but bud heyland in a state of great excitement. he was seen running and cracking his whip over his head, and shouting---- "i've got him! i've got him! i've got the lion!" the wagon and company halted for him to explain. "i've got him up here in the old maids' smoke-house. i put some meat in there last night, for i seen tracks that showed me he had been prowling around, and this morning when me and the old man went over to look there he was! i'll take that reward, jacob, if you please." and the boy grinned and ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice, while the others turned inquiringly toward fred sheldon, whose cheeks burned with indignation. "he tells a falsehood," said fred. "he never knew a thing about it till this morning." "i didn't, eh?" shouted bud. "i'll show you!" thereupon he raised his whip, but mr. emery stepped in front and said, calmly: "bud, it won't be well for you to strike that boy." "well, i don't want anybody telling me i don't tell the truth, for i'm square in everything i do, and i won't be insulted." mr. kincade was on the point of taking the word of bud heyland that the reward had been earned by him, when he saw from the disposition of the crowd that it would not permit any such injustice as that. "if you've got the animal secure i'm satisfied," called out the showman from his seat, as he assumed an easy, lolling attitude. "you two chaps and the crowd can settle the question of who's entitled to the reward between you, and i only ask that you don't be too long about it, for the critter may get hungry and eat his way out." mr. emery, at the suggestion of several, took charge of the investigation. turning to fred he said: "the people here have heard your story, and bud can now tell his." "why, i hain't got much to tell," said the big boy, in his swaggering manner. "as i said awhile ago, i seen signs around the place last night which showed the lion was sneaking about the premises. he likes to eat good little boys, and i s'pose he was looking for freddy there," said young heyland, with a grinning leer at our hero, which brought a smile to several faces. "so i didn't say anything to the old man but just flung a lot of meat in the smoke-house and went home to sleep. this morning the old man awoke afore i did, which ain't often the case, and going over to his work found the trap had been sprung and the game was there. "the old man (bud seemed to be proud of calling his father by that disrespectful name) came running home and pitched through the door as white as a ghost, and it was a minute or two before he could tell his story. when he had let it out and the old woman begun to shiver, why i laughed, and told 'em how i'd set the trap and earned the reward. with that the old man cooled down, and i got him back with me to look at the beast, which is still asleep, and then i started to tell you about it, jake, when i meets this crowd and hears with pain and surprise the awful whopper this good little boy tells. i believe he slept in the house there last night, and when he woke up and went out in the smoke-house to steal a drink of milk and seen the lion, he was so scared that he nearly broke his neck running down to the village to tell about it." this fiction was told so well that several looked at fred to see what he had to say. the lad, still flushed in the face, stepped forward and said: "i'd like to ask bud a question or two." as he spoke, fred addressed mr. emery, and then turned toward the grinning bully, who said: "go ahead with all you're a mind to." "you say you put the meat in there on purpose to catch the lion last night?" "that's just what i done, freddy, my boy." "where did you get the meat?" "at home of the old woman." "after you put it in the smoke-house, you didn't go back until this morning?" "no, sir; my little sunday school lad." "who, then, shut and fastened the door, after the lion walked in the smoke-house to eat the meat?" bud heyland's face flushed still redder, and he coughed, swallowed and stuttered---- "who shut the door? why--that is--yes--why what's the use of asking such infarnal questions?" demanded bud in desperation, as the listeners broke into laughter. mr. emery quietly turned to kincade, who was leaning back on his elevated seat and said: "the reward of two hundred dollars belongs to master fred here," and the decision was received with shouts of approbation. bud heyland's eyes flashed with indignation, and he muttered to himself; but, in the face of such a number, he dared not protest, and he followed them as they pushed on toward the little structure where the escaped beast was restrained of his liberty. a reconnoissance showed that he was still there, and the arrangements for his transfer were speedily made and carried out with much less difficulty than would have been supposed. the cage was placed in front of the door of the smoke-house, communication being opened, after an inclined plane was so arranged that the beast could not walk out without going directly into his old quarters. several pounds of raw, bleeding meat were placed in the cage, and then the animal was stirred up with a long pole. he growled several times, got on his feet, looked about as if a little confused, and then seemed to be pleased at the familiar sight of his old home, for he walked deliberately up the inclined plane into the cage, and lay down as if to complete his nap, so rudely broken a few minutes before. the door was quickly closed and fastened, and the escaped lion was recaptured! when all saw how easily it was done, and recalled the fact that the king of beasts, so far as was known, had injured no person at all, there was a great deal of inquiry for the explanation. why was it that, with such opportunities for destroying human life, he had failed to rend any one to fragments? jacob kincade, after some laughter, stated that the lion, although once an animal of tiger-like ferocity and strength, was now so old that he was comparatively harmless. his teeth were poor, as was shown by the little progress he had made with the bony meat in the smoke-house. if driven into a corner he might make a fight, but if he had been loose for a month it was hardly likely he would have killed anybody. the blow which he received in the eye from bud heyland's whip incited him to fury for the moment, but by the time he got fairly outside he was comparatively harmless, and the hurried climbing of the center-pole by bud heyland was altogether a piece of superfluity. as fred sheldon had fairly earned the two hundred dollars, he was told to call at the hotel in tottenville that afternoon and it would be paid him. it is not necessary to say that he was there punctually, for the sum was a fortune in his eyes. as he came to the porch a number of loungers were there as usual, and fred found himself quite a hero among his playmates and fellows. not only was jake kincade present, with his cigar alternately between his finger and lips, but bud heyland and a stranger were sitting on the bench which ran along the porch, their legs crossed, one smoking his briar-wood and the other a cigar. despite fred's agitation over his own prospects, he could not help noticing this stranger whom, he believed, he had never seen before. his dress and appearance were much like those of a cattle drover. he wore a large, gray sombrero, a blue flannel shirt, had no suspenders, coarse corduroy trousers, though the weather was warm, with the legs tucked in the tops of his huge cowhide boots, the front of which reached far above his knees, like those of a cavalryman. he had frowsy, abundant hair, a smoothly-shaven face--that is, the stubby beard was no more than two or three days old--and he seemed to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age. looking at his rather regular features, it would be hard to tell whether he was a good or evil man, but it was very evident that he and bud heyland had struck up a strong intimacy, which was growing. they sat close together, chatted and laughed, and indulged in jokes at the expense of those around them, careless alike of the feelings that were hurt or the resentment engendered. as fred approached he saw bud turn his head and speak to the stranger, who instantly centered his gaze on the boy, so there could be no doubt that his attention was called to him. fred was moving rather timidly toward kincade, when the stranger raised his hand and crooked his finger toward him. wondering what he could want, fred sheldon diverged toward him and took off his hat. "i wouldn't stand bareheaded, freddy, dear," said bud, with his old grin; "you might catch cold in your brains." neither of the others noticed this course remark, and the stranger, scrutinizing the boy with great interest, said: "what is your name, please?" "frederick sheldon." "and you are the boy who locked the lion in the smoke-house last night when you heard the poor fellow trying to use his aged teeth on some bones?" "yes, sir." "well, you deserve credit; for you thought, like everybody else, that he was as fierce as he was a dozen years ago. well, all i want to say, fred, is that i'm cyrus sutton, stopping here at the hotel, and i'm somewhat interested in cattle. bud, here, doesn't feel very well, and he's got leave of absence for two or three days and is going to stay at home. bud and i are strong friends, and i've formed a rather good opinion of you and i congratulate you on having earned such a respectable pile of money. mr. kincade is ready and glad to pay you." squire jones, a plain, honest, old man, who had been justice of the peace for fully two score years, went into the inner room with fred sheldon and jacob kincade to see that everything was in proper shape; for as the boy was a minor his rights needed careful protection. all was done deliberately and carefully, and the entire amount of money, in good, crisp greenbacks, was placed in the trembling hands of fred sheldon, who felt just then as though he would buy up the entire village of tottenville, and present it to his poor friends. "come over to my office with me," said the squire, when the transaction was finished. the lad willingly walked across the street and into the dingy quarters of the old man, who closed the door and said: "i am real glad, frederick, that you have earned such a sum of money, for your mother needs it, and i know you to be a truthful and honest boy; but let me ask you what you mean to do with it?" "save it." "i know, but how and where? it will not be safe in your house nor at the misses perkinpines', as the events of the other night prove. it ought to be placed somewhere where it will be safe." "tell me where to put it." "there is the lynton bank ten miles away, but you couldn't drive there before it would be closed. i have a good, strong, burglar-proof safe, in which i have many valuable papers. if you wish it, i will seal the money in a large envelope, write your name on the back and lock it up for you. then, whenever you want it, i will turn it over to you." fred replied that he would be glad to have him do as proposed, and the old squire, with solemn deliberation, went through the ceremony of placing the two hundred dollars safely among his other papers and swinging the ponderous safe-door upon them. fred would have liked to keep the money to look at and admire and show to his playmates, but he saw how much wiser the course of the squire was, and it was a great relief to the boy to have the custody of such riches in other hands. when he came out on the street again he looked across to the hotel and noticed that bud heyland and cyrus sutton were no longer visible. he supposed they were inside visiting the bar, and without giving them any further thought, fred started for his home to complete his chores before going over to stay with the misses perkinpine. after reaching a certain point up the road a short cut was almost always used by fred, who followed quite a well-beaten path through a long stretch of woods. the boy was in high spirits, for he could not feel otherwise after the wonderful success which had attended his efforts to capture the astray lion. "if i could only get on the track of the men that stole the silverware and money, why, i would retire wealthy," he said to himself, with a smile; "but i don't see where there is much chance----" "halloo, there, freddy dear!" it was bud heyland who hailed the startled youngster in this fashion, and when our hero stopped and looked up, he saw the bully standing before him, whip in hand and waiting for him to approach. chapter xii. a business transaction. when fred sheldon saw bud heyland standing before him in the path, his impulse was to whirl about and run, for he knew too well what to expect from the bully; but the latter, reading his thoughts called out: "hold on, freddy, i won't hurt you, though you deserve a good horsewhipping on account of the mean way you cheated me out of the reward for capturing the lion; but i have a little business with you." wondering what all this could mean fred stood still while the red-faced young man approached, though our hero wished as fervently that he was somewhere else as he did when he found himself face to face with the lion in the lane. "jake sent me," added bud in his most persuasive manner, and with a strong effort to win the confidence of the boy, who was somewhat reassured by the last words. "what does mr. kincade want?" asked fred. "why, he told me to hurry after you and say that he had made a mistake in paying you that money." "i guess he didn't make any mistake," replied the surprised boy. "yes, he did; it's twenty dollars short." "no, it isn't, for squire jones and i counted it over twice." "that don't make any difference; i tell you there was a mistake and he sent me to correct it." "why didn't you come over to squire jones' office, then, and fix it?" "i didn't know you was there." fred knew this was untrue, for bud sat on the porch and watched him as he walked across the street with the squire. "well, if you are so sure of it, then you can give me the twenty dollars and it will be all right." "i want you to take out the money and count it here before me." "i sha'n't do it." "i guess you will; you've got to." "but i can't." "what's the reason you can't?" "i haven't got the money with me." "you haven't!" exclaimed bud, in dismay. "where is it?" "locked up in squire jones' safe." the bully was thunderstruck, and gave expression to some exclamations too forcible to be recorded. it was evident that he was unprepared for such news, and he seemed to be eager to apply his cruel whip to the little fellow toward whom he felt such unreasonable hatred. "i've got a settlement to make with you, any way," he said, advancing threateningly toward him. "what have i done," asked fred, backing away from him, "that you should take every chance you can get, bud, to hurt me?" "what have you done?" repeated the bully, "you've done a good deal, as you know well enough." but at this juncture, when poor fred thought there was no escape for him, bud heyland, very curiously, changed his mind. "i'll let you off this time," said he, "but it won't do for you to try any more of your tricks. when i come to think, it was ten dollars that the money was short. here is a twenty-dollar bill. i want you to get it changed and give me the ten dollars to-morrow." fred sheldon was bewildered by this unexpected turn to the interview, but he took the bill mechanically, and promised to do as he was told. "there's another thing i want to say to you," added bud, stopping as he was on the point of moving away: "you must not answer any questions that may be asked you about the bill." the wondering expression of the lad showed that he failed to take in the full meaning of this warning, and bud added, impatiently. "don't tell anybody i gave it to you. say you found it in the road if they want to know where you got it; that's all. do you understand?" fred began to comprehend, and he resolved on the instant that he would not tell a falsehood to save himself from a score of whippings at the hands of this evil boy, who would not have given the caution had he not possessed good reasons for doing so. bud heyland repeated the last warning, word for word, as first uttered, and then, striding by the affrighted fred, continued in the direction of tottenville, while the younger boy was glad enough to go homeward. the sun had not set yet when he reached the house where he was born, and he hurried through with his work and set out for the old brick dwelling, which had been the scene of so many stirring incidents within the last few days. he was anxious to see his mother, who had been away several days. he felt that she ought to know of his great good fortune, that she might rejoice with him. "if she doesn't get there by to-morrow or next day i'll have to go after her," he said to himself, "for i'll burst if i have to hold this news much longer. and won't she be glad? it's hard work for us to get along on our pension, and i can see she has to deny herself a good many things so that i can go to school. i thought i would be happy when i got the money, and so i am, but it is more on her account than on my own--halloo!" it seemed as if the lane leading to the old brick mansion was destined to play a very important part in the history of the lad, for he had reached the very spot where he met the lion the night before, when a man suddenly stepped out from behind one of the trees and stood for a moment, with the setting sun shining full on his back, his figure looking as if it were stamped in ink against the flaming horizon beyond. as fred stared at him, he held up his right hand and crooked his finger for him to approach, just as he did when sitting on the porch of the village hotel, for it was cyrus sutton. the boy was not pleased, by any means, to meet him in such a place, for he had felt suspicious of him ever since he saw him sitting in such familiar converse with bud heyland and jacob kincade. nevertheless, our hero walked boldly toward him, and with a faint "good-evening, sir," waited to hear what he had to say. "your name is frederick sheldon, i believe?" fred nodded to signify that he was correct in his surmise. "you met bud heyland in the woods over yonder, didn't you?" "yes, sir; how could you know it?" "i saw him going in that direction, and i saw you come out the path; what more natural than that i should conclude you had met? he gave you a twenty-dollar bill to get changed, didn't he?" "he did, sir," was the answer of the amazed boy, who wondered how it was this person could have learned so much, unless he got the news from bud heyland himself. "let me see the money." fred did not like this peremptory way of being addressed by a person whom he had never seen until that afternoon, but he drew the bill from his pocket. as he did so he brought several other articles with it, among them his new knife, which dropped to the ground. he quickly picked them up, and shoved them hurriedly out of sight. mr. sutton did not seem to notice this trifling mishap, but his eyes were bent on the crumpled bill which was handed to him. as soon as he got it in his hands he turned his back toward the setting sun, and placing himself in the line of some of the horizontal rays which found their way between the trees he carefully studied the paper. he stood full a minute without moving, and then merely said, "ahem!" as though he were clearing his throat. then he carefully doubled up the piece of national currency, and opening his pocket-book placed it in it. "are you going to keep that?" asked fred. "it isn't yours." "he wanted you to get it changed, didn't he?" "yes, sir; but he didn't want me to give it away." "of course not, of course not; excuse me, but i only wanted to change the bill for you. here you are." thereupon he handed four five-dollar bills to fred, who accepted them gladly enough, though still wondering at the peculiar actions of the man. "one word," he added. "bud told you not to answer any questions when you got the bill changed. i haven't asked you any, but he will have some to ask himself, which he will be very anxious you should answer. take my advice, and don't let him know a single thing." "i won't," said fred, giving his promise before he thought. "very well, don't forget it; he will be on the lookout for you to-morrow, and when you see him, hand him his ten dollars and keep the rest for yourself, and then end the interview. good evening, my son." "good evening," and fred was moving on, when mr. cyrus sutton said: "hold on a minute," at the same time crooking his forefinger in a way peculiar to himself; "i understand you were in the house there the other night, when it was robbed by a tramp." "i was, sir; the whole village knows that." "you were lucky enough to get away while it was going on, though you were deceived by the man whom you met here in the lane." the lad assured him he was correct, as he seemed to be in every supposition which he made. "do you think you would know either of those men if you met them again?" the question was a startling one, not from the words themselves, but from the peculiar manner in which it was asked. cyrus sutton bent forward, thrusting his face almost in that of the boy and dropping his voice to a deep guttural bass as he fixed his eyes on those of fred. the latter looked up and said: "the voice of the man i met in the lane sounded just like yours. are you the man?" it surely was a stranger question than that to which the lad had made answer, and sutton, throwing back his head, laughed as if he would sink to the earth from excess of mirth. "well, that's the greatest joke of the season. am i the other tramp that led you on such a wild-goose chase? well, i should say not." nevertheless fred sheldon felt absolutely sure that this was the man he accused him of being. mr. sutton, with a few jesting remarks, bade the boy good-evening, and the latter hastened on to the brick mansion, where he busied himself for a half hour in doing up a few chores that michael, the hired man, had left for him. when these were finished, he went into the house, with a good appetite for his supper, which was awaiting him. the old ladies were greatly pleased to learn he had been paid such a large sum for capturing the lion, and they did not regret the fright they had suffered, since it resulted in such substantial good for their favorite. "now, if you could only find our silverware," said aunt annie, "what a nice sum you would earn!" "wouldn't i? i'd just roll in wealth, and i'd make mother so happy she'd feel miserable." "but i'm afraid we shall never see the silver again," observed miss lizzie, with a deep sigh. "wasn't there some money taken, too?" "yes; several hundred dollars. but we don't mind that, for we can get along without it; but the silverware, you know, has been in the family for more than two centuries." "you haven't owned it all that time, have you?" "my goodness! how old do you suppose we are?" asked the amused old lady. "i never thought, but it would be a good thing to get the money, too, wouldn't it? has archie jackson been here to-day?" "yes. he says that the officer he sent for doesn't come, and so he's going to be a detective himself." "a detective," repeated fred to himself. "that's a man, i believe, that goes prying around after thieves and bad people, and is pretty smart in making himself look like other folks." "yes," said aunt lizzie, "he went all over the house again, and climbed out on top of the porch, and was crawling around there, 'looking for signs,' as he called them. i don't know how he made out, but he must have been careless, for he slipped off and came down on his head and shoulders, and when we ran out to help him up, said some awful bad words, and went limping down the lane." "he don't know how to climb," said fred, as he disposed of his usual supply of gingerbread; "it takes a boy like me to climb, a man is always sure to get in trouble." "archibald seems to be very unfortunate," said aunt annie mildly, and with a meek smile on her face, "for just before he fell off the roof of the porch, he came bumping all the way down-stairs and said the bad man had put oil on them, so as to make him slip to the bottom. i am quite anxious about him, but i hope no bones were broken." "i saw that his hand was swelled up too," said the sister, "and when i inquired about it he said he caught it in the crack of the door, playing with his little boy, though i don't see how that could make such a hurt as his was. but there has been some one else here." "who was that?" asked fred, excitedly. "a very nice, gentlemanly person, though he wasn't dressed in very fine clothes. his name was--let me see, circus-circum--no----" "cyrus sutton?" "that's it--yes, that's his name." "what was he after?" demanded fred, indignantly. "he said he was staying in the village a little while, and, having heard about our loss, he came out to make inquiries." "i would like to know what business he had to do that," said the boy, who was sure the old ladies were altogether too credulous and kind to strangers who presented themselves at their doors. "why, frederick, it was a great favor for him to show such an interest in our affairs." "yes; so it was in them other two chaps, i s'pose; this ain't the first time mr. cyrus sutton has been in your house." "what do you mean, frederick?" "i mean this," answered fred, wheeling his chair about and slapping his hand several times upon the table, by way of emphasis, "that mr. cyrus sutton, as he calls himself, is the man i met in the lane the other night, and who climbed into the window and helped the other fellow carry off your plate and money; there!" the ladies raised their hands in protesting amazement. "impossible! you must be mistaken!" "i know it, and i told him so, too!" "you did! didn't he kill you?" "not that i know of," laughed fred. "i don't feel very dead, anyway; but though he had on whiskers the other night as the other one did, i knew his voice." young sheldon did not think it best to say anything about the suspicion he had formed against bud heyland, for that was coming so near home that it would doubtless cause immediate trouble. nor did he tell how he was sure, only a short time before, that jacob kincade was the partner of bud in the theft, but that the latter, who handed him the two hundred dollars, was relieved from all suspicion, at least so far as the lad himself was concerned. "have you told archibald of this?" asked aunt lizzie, when fred had repeated his declaration several times. "what's the use of telling him? he would start in such a hurry to arrest him that he would tumble over something and break his neck. then, he'd get the reward, too, and i wouldn't have any of it." "we will see that you have justice," said miss lizzie, assuringly; "you deserve it for what you have already done." "i don't want it, and i won't have it until i can earn it, that's certain. i must go to school to-morrow, and i brought over two of my books to study my lessons. i had mother's permission to stay home to go to the circus, but i was out to-day, and i s'pose mr. mccurtis will give me a good whipping for it to-morrow. anyway, i'll wear my trousers down, instead of rolling 'em up, till i learn how the land lies." this seemed a prudent conclusion, and as the ladies were anxious that their favorite should keep up with his classes they busied themselves with their household duties while the lad applied himself with might and main to his mental work. at the end of half an hour he had mastered it, and asked the ladies if there was anything he could do for them. "i forgot to tell michael," said aunt annie, "before he went home, that we want some groceries from the store, and i would like him to give the order before coming here in the morning." "i'll take the order to him if you will write it out." thanking him for his courtesy, the order was prepared, and, tucking it in his pocket, fred sheldon started down the road on a trot to the home of michael heyland, the hired man. "i wonder whether bud is there?" he said to himself, as he approached the humble house. "i don't s'pose he'll bother me, but he'll want to know about that money as soon as he sees me." without any hesitation the lad knocked at the door and was bidden to enter. as he did so he saw that mrs. heyland was the only one at home. "michael has gone to the village," said the lady of the house, in explanation; "but i'm expecting him home in the course of an hour or so, and perhaps you had better wait." "i guess there isn't any need of it. aunt annie wants him to take an order to the store to-morrow morning before he comes up to the house, and i can leave it with you." "is it writ out?" "yes; here it is," said fred, laying the piece of folded paper on the stand beside the bible and a copy of the tottenville _weekly illuminator_. the lad had no particular excuse for staying longer, but he was anxious to ask several questions before going back, and he was in doubt as to how he should go about it. but when he was invited to sit down he did so, and asked, in the most natural manner: "where is bud?" "he's down to the village, too." "when will he be home?" "that's a hard question to answer, and i don't think bud himself could tell you if he tried. you know he's been traveling so long with the circus and has so many friends in the village that they are all glad to see him and won't let him come home. bud was always a good boy, and i don't wonder that everybody thinks so much of him." fred sheldon indulged in a little smile for his own amusement, but he took care that the doting mother did not notice it. "michael was always hard on bud, but he sees how great his mistake was, and when he rode by on the big wagon, cracking his whip, he felt as proud of him as i did." "is bud going to be home long?" "he got leave of absence for a few days, because the boy isn't feeling very well. they've worked him too hard altogether. you observed how pale-looking he is?" fred could not say that he had noticed any alarming paleness about the young man, but he did not deny the assertion of the mother. "does bud like it with the circus?" "oh, yes, and they just dote on him. bud tells me that colonel bandman, the owner of the circus and menagerie, has told him that if he keeps on doing so well he's going to take him in as partner next year." "mrs. heyland, why do you call him bud?" "he was such a sweet baby that we nick-named him 'birdy,' and it has stuck by him since. when he went to school he was called budman, that being a cunning fancy of the darling boy, but his right name is nathaniel higgens, though most people don't know it." fred sheldon had got the information he was seeking. chapter xiii. the eavesdropper. fred sheldon had learned one most important fact. beyond all doubt the letters "n. h. h." stood for the name nathaniel higgens heyland, who for some months past had been attached as an employee to colonel bandman's menagerie and circus. by some means, hard to understand, this young man had dropped his pocket-knife, bearing these initials, on the floor of the upper room of the brick mansion, at the time he entered it disguised as an ordinary tramp, and with the sole purpose of robbery. it was proven, therefore, that bud had committed that great offense against the laws of his country, as well as against those of his maker, and he was deserving of severe punishment. but young, as bright, honest fred sheldon was, he knew that the hardest work of all remained before him. how was the silver plate to be recovered, for the task would be less than half performed should the owners fail to secure that? how could the guilt of bud heyland be brought home to him, and who was his partner? although fred was sure that the stranger who called himself cyrus sutton was the other criminal, yet he saw no way in which that fact could be established, nor could he believe that the proof which he held of bud's criminality would convince others. bud was such an evil lad that he would not hesitate to tell any number of falsehoods, and he was so skilled in wrong talking, as well as wrong doing, that he might deceive every one else. fred sheldon felt that he needed now the counsel of one person above all others. the one man to whom his thoughts first turned was archie jackson, the constable, and he was afraid to trust him, for the temptation of obtaining the large reward offered was likely to lead him to do injustice to the boy. the one person whom he longed to see above all others was his mother--that noble, brave woman whose love and wisdom had guided him so well along his journey of life, short though it had been. it was she who had awakened in him the desire to become a good and learned man, who had cheered him in his studies, who had entertained him with stories culled from history and calculated to arouse an honorable ambition in his heart. the memory of his father was dim and misty, but there was a halo of glory that would ever envelop that sacred name. fred could just remember the bright spring morning when the patriot, clad in his uniform of a private, had taken his wee baby boy in his arms, tossed him in the air, and, as he came down, kissed him over and over again, and told him that he was the son of a soldier who intended to fight for his country; and commending him to god and his wife, had resigned him to the weeping mother, who was pressed to his heart, and then, catching up his musket he had hurried out the little gate and walked rapidly down the road. held in the mother's arms, fred had strained his baby eyes until the loved form of his father faded out in the distance, and then the heavy-hearted wife took up the burden of life once more. but, though she shaded her weary eyes and looked down the road many a time, the husband never came back again. somewhere, many long miles away, he found his last resting place, there to sleep until the last trump shall wake the dead, and those who have been separated in this life shall be reunited, never to part again. fred's memories of those sad days, we say, were dim and shadowy, but he saw how bravely his mother fought her own battle, more sorrowful than that in which the noble husband went down, and fred, young though he was, had been all that the fondest mother could wish. "let him be spared to me, oh, heavenly father," she plead, and henceforth she lived only for him. it was she who taught him to kneel at her knee and to murmur his prayers morning and evening; who told him of the gracious father who will reward every good deed and punish every evil one not repented of; it was she who taught him to be manly and truthful and honest and brave for the right, and whose counsel and guidance were more precious than those of any earthly friend ever could be. fred had no secret from her, and now that so much had taken place in the last few days he felt that he could not stand it much longer without her to counsel and direct him. "i sha'n't tell anybody a word of what i've found out," he said to himself, as he walked thoughtfully along the road, in the direction of the old brick mansion, where he expected to spend the night; "the misses perkinpine are such simple souls that they can't help a big boy like me, and though they might give me something, i don't want it unless i earn it. i'll bet mother can give me a lift." and holding this very high and not exaggerated opinion of his parent's wisdom, he continued onward, fervently hoping that she would return on the morrow. "we've never been apart so long since i can remember," he added, "and i'm beginning to feel homesick." the night was clear and starlight, the moon had not yet risen, but he could see very distinctly for a short distance in the highway. he was thinking of nothing in the way of further incident to him, but, as it sometimes happens in this world, the current of one's life, after flowing smoothly and calmly for a long time, suddenly comes upon shoals and breakers and everything is stormy for a while. fred, in accordance with his favorite custom, had his trousers rolled high above his knees, and was barefooted. in the dust of the road he walked without noise, and as the night was very still he could hear the least sound. though involved in deep thought he was of such a wide-awake nature that he could never be insensible to what was going on around him. he heard again the soft murmur of the wind in the forest, the faint, distant moan of the river, the cock crowing fully a mile away, answered by a similar signal of a chanticleer still further off, and then all at once he distinctly caught the subdued sound of voices. he at once stopped in the road and looked and listened. he could see nothing, but his keen ears told him the faint noise came from a point directly ahead, and was either in or at the side of the road. his intimate knowledge of the highway, even to the rocks and fences and piles of rails, that here and there lined it, enabled him to recall that there was a broad, flat rock, perhaps a hundred rods ahead, on the right side of the path, and that it was the one on which many a tired traveler sat down to rest. no doubt the persons whose voices reached him were sitting there, holding some sort of conference, and fred asked himself how he should pass them without discovery, for, like almost every one, he was timid of meeting strangers on a lonely road after dark. his recourse suggested itself the next minute--he had only to climb the fence and move around them. at this point there was a meadow on each side of the highway, without any trees near the road, so that great care was needed to avoid observation, but in the starlight night fred had little doubt of being able to get by without detection. very carefully he climbed the fence, and, dropping gently upon the grass on the other side, he walked off across the field, peering through the gloom in the direction of the rock by the roadside, whence came the murmur of voices. the boy was so far away that, as yet, he had not caught a glimpse of the others, but when he stopped at the point where he thought it safe to begin to approach the road again, one of the parties gave utterance to an exclamation in a louder voice than usual. fred instantly recognized it as that of cyrus sutton, the cattle drover, who had formed such a strong friendship for bud heyland. "i'll bet that bud is there, too," muttered fred, moving stealthily in the direction of the rock; "they are always--halloo!" in imitation of the loud voice of sutton, the other did the same, and in the still night there could be no mistaking it; the only son of michael heyland was sitting at the roadside, in conversation with cyrus sutton. it was natural that young sheldon should conclude they were discussing the subject of the robbery, and he was at once seized with the desire to learn what it was they were saying, for, more than likely, it would throw some light on the matter. fred had been taught by his mother that it was mean to tell tales of, or to play the eavesdropper upon, another, but in this case he felt warranted in breaking the rule for the sake of the good that it might do. accordingly, he crept through the grass toward the highway until he caught the outlines of the two figures between the fence rails and thrown against the sky beyond. at the same time the rank odor of tobacco came stealing through the summer air, as it floated from the strong briar-wood pipe of bud heyland. it was not to be supposed that two persons, engaged in an unlawful business, would sit down beside a public highway and hold a conversation in such a loud voice that any one in the neighborhood would be able to learn all their secrets. fred sheldon got quite close, but though the murmur was continued with more distinctness than before, he could not distinguish many words nor keep the run of the conversation. there may have been something in the fact that the faces of the two, as a rule, were turned away from the listener, but now and then in speaking one of them would look at the other and raise his voice slightly. this indicated that he was more in earnest just then, and fred caught a word or two without difficulty, the fragments, as they reached him, making a queer jumble. bud heyland's voice was first identified in the jumble and murmur. "big thing--clean two thousand--got it down fine, sutton." the reply of the companion was not audible, but bud continued staring at him and smoking so furiously that the boy, crouching behind them, plainly saw the vapor as it curled upward and tainted the clear summer air above their heads. in a moment, however, fred caught the profile of cyrus sutton against the starlight background, while that of young heyland and his briar-wood looked as if drawn in ink against the sky. both were looking at each other, and the words reached him more distinctly. "must be careful--dangerous business--been there myself, bud, don't be in a hurry." this, of course, was spoken by the cattle drover, and it was plain that it must refer to the robbery. bud was laboring under some impatience and was quick to make answer. "can't play this sick bus'ness much longer--must join the circus at belgrade in a few days--must make a move pretty soon." "won't keep you waiting long--but the best jobs in--country--spoiled by haste. take it easy till you can be sure how the land lies." "that may all be--but----" just then bud heyland turned his head so that only the back portion was toward the listener, and his voice dropped so low that it was some time before another word could be distinguished. fred sheldon was deeply interested, for a new and strong suspicion was beginning to take possession of him. it seemed to him on the sudden that the two worthies were not discussing the past so much as they were the future. that is, instead of talking about the despoiling of the perkinpine mansion, a few nights before, they were laying plans for the commission of some new offense. "that sutton is a regular burglar," thought fred, "and he has come down here to join bud, and they're going to rob all the houses in the neighborhood. i wonder whom they're thinking about now." the anxiety of the eavesdropper to hear more of what passed between the conspirators was so great that he grew less guarded in his movements than he should have been. his situation was such already that had the suspicion of the two been directed behind them they would have been almost sure to discover the listener; but, although they should have been careful themselves, it was hardly to be expected that they would be looking for spies in such a place and at such a time. fred caught several words, which roused his curiosity to such a point that he determined to hear more, though the risk should be ten times as great. as silently, therefore, as possible, he crept forward until he was within a dozen feet of the rock on which heyland and sutton sat. the fact that the two had their faces turned away from him, still interfered with the audibility of the words spoken in a lower tone than the others, but the listener heard enough to fill him not only with greater anxiety than ever, but with a new fear altogether. without giving all the fragments his ear caught, he picked up enough to convince him that bud heyland and cyrus sutton were discussing their past deeds and laying plans for the commission of some new act of evil. it was the latter fact which so excited the boy that he almost forgot the duty of using care against being discovered, and gradually crept up near enough to keep the run of the conversation. but, when he had secured such a position, he was annoyed beyond bearing by the silence, occasionally broken, of the two. it looked, indeed, as if they had got through the preliminaries of some evil scheme, and were now speaking in a desultory way of anything which came in their heads, while one smoked his pipe and the other his cigar. cyrus sutton held a jack-knife in his hand, which he now and then rubbed against a portion of the rock, as if to sharpen the blade, while he puffed the smoke first on the one side of his head and then on the other. bud was equally attentive to his pipe, the strong odor of which at times almost sickened young sheldon. bud had not his whip with him, and he swung his legs and knocked his heels against the rock and seemed as well satisfied with himself as such worthless fellows generally are. "it's a pretty big thing and it will take a good deal of care and skill to work it through." this remark was made by sutton, after a minute's pause on the part of both, and was instantly commented upon by bud in his off-hand style. "of course it does, but don't you s'pose we know all that? haven't we done it in more than one other place than tottenville?" "yes," said sutton, "and i've run as close to the wind as i want to, and closer than i mean to again, if i can help it." "well, then," said bud, "we'll fix it to-morrow night." "all right," said the drover, "but remember you can't be too careful, bud, for this is a dangerous business." "i reckon i'm as careful as you or any one else," retorted the youth, "and ain't in any need of advice." these words disclosed one important fact to fred sheldon; they showed that the unlawful deed contemplated was fixed for the succeeding night. "they're going to break into another house," he mentally said, "and to-morrow is the time. now, if i can only learn whose house it is, i will tell archie jackson." this caused his heart to beat faster, and again the lad thought of nothing else than to listen and catch the words of the conspirators. "do you think we can manage it alone?" asked sutton, turning his head so that the words were unmistakably distinct. "what's to hinder? halloo! what's that?" bud heyland straightened himself and looked up and down the road. the affrighted fred sheldon saw his head and shoulders rise to view as he glanced about him, while his companion seemed occupied also in looking and listening. what was it they had heard? the lad was not aware that he had made the slightest noise, but the next guarded remark of heyland startled him. "i heard something move, as if in the grass." "it would be a pretty thing if some one overheard our plans," said cyrus sutton, turning squarely about, so that his face was toward the crouching lad; "we ought to have looked out for that. where did it seem to come from?" "maybe i was mistaken; it was very faint, and i couldn't think of the right course; it may have been across the road or behind us." fred sheldon began to think it was time for him to withdraw, for his situation was becoming a dangerous one, indeed. "i guess you were mistaken," said sutton, off-hand; "this is a slow neighborhood and the people don't know enough to play such a game as that." "you was saying a minute ago that you couldn't be too careful; i'll take a look across the road and up and down, while you can see how things are over the fence there." the last clause referred to the hiding place of fred sheldon, who wondered how it was he had not already been seen, when he could distinguish both forms so plainly, now that they stood up on their feet. it looked as if detection was certain, even without the two men shifting their positions in the least. the lad was lying flat on the ground and so motionless that he might have hoped to escape if special attention were not called to him. but he felt that if the cattle-drover came over the fence it would be useless to wait a second. as bud heyland spoke he started across the highway, while cyrus sutton called out: "all right!" as he did so he placed his hand on the top rail of the fence and with one bound leaped over, dropping upon his feet within a few steps of poor fred sheldon, who, with every reason for believing he had been seen, sprang to his feet and ran for dear life. chapter xiv. fred's best friend. fred sheldon sprang up from his hiding-place in the grass, almost before the drover vaulted over the fence, and ran across the meadow in the manner he did when he believed the wandering lion was at his heels. cyrus sutton seemed to be confused for the minute, as though he had scared up some strange sort of animal, and he stared until the dark figure began to grow dim in the distance. even then he might not have said or done anything had not bud heyland heard the noise and come clambering over the fence after him. "why don't you shoot him?" demanded bud; "he's a spy that has been listening! let's capture him! come on! it will never do for him to get away! if we can't overhaul him, we can shoot him on the fly!" the impetuous bud struck across the lot much the same as a frightened ox would have done when galloping. he was in dead earnest, for he and sutton had been discussing some important schemes, which it would not do for outsiders to learn anything about. he held his pistol in hand, and was resolved that the spy should not escape him. the skurrying figure was dimly visible in the moonlight, but in his haste and excitement bud probably did not observe that the object of the chase was of very short stature. sutton kept close beside bud, occasionally falling a little behind, as though it was hard work. "he's running as fast as we," said sutton; "you had better hail him." bud heyland did so on the instant. "hold on there! stop! surrender and you will be spared! if you don't stop i'll shoot!" master frederick sheldon believed he was running for life, and, finding he was not overtaken, he redoubled his exertions, his chubby legs carrying him along with a speed which astonished even himself. the terrible hail of his pursuer instead of "bringing him to," therefore, only spurred him to greater exertions. "i give you warning," called out bud, beginning to pant from the severity of his exertion, "that i'll shoot, and when i take aim i'm always sure to hit something." "that's what makes me so afraid," said sutton, dropping a little behind, "for i think i'm in more danger than the one ahead." bud heyland now raised his revolver and sighted as well as he could at the shadowy figure, which was beginning to edge off to the left. a person on a full run is not certain to make a good shot, and when the weapon was discharged, the bullet missed the fugitive by at least a dozen feet if not more. bud lowered the pistol and looked to see the daring intruder fall to the ground, but he did not do so, and continued on at the same surprising gait. "that bullet grazed him," said bud, bringing up his pistol again; "just see how i'll make him drop this time; fix your eye on him, and when i pull the trigger he'll give a yell and jump right up in the air." to make his aim sure, beyond all possibility of failure, the panting pursuer came to a halt for a moment, and resting the barrel on his left arm, as though he were a duelist, he took "dead aim" at the lad and again pulled the trigger. but there is no reason to believe that he came any nearer the mark than in the former instance; and when sutton said with a laugh: "i don't see him jump and yell, bud," the marksman, retorted: "you'd better shoot yourself, then." "no; i was afraid you would shoot me instead of him. i think you came nearer me than you did him. hark! did you hear the man laugh then. he don't mind us so long as we keep shooting at him." "did he laugh?" demanded bud, savagely. "if he laughed at me he shall die!" hurriedly replacing his useless pistol in his pocket he resumed his pursuit with fierce energy, for he was resolved on overhauling the man who had dared to listen to what had been said. had bud been alone he would have left the pursuit to some one else, but with the muscular cyrus sutton at his back he was running over with courage and vengeance. although the halt had been a brief one, yet it could not fail to prove of advantage to the fugitive, who was speeding with might and main across the meadow, and had begun to work off to the left, because he was anxious to reach the shelter of some woods, where he was hopeful of dodging his pursuers. it would seem that bud heyland and cyrus sutton could easily outspeed such a small boy as fred sheldon, but they were so bulky that it was much harder work for them to run, and they could not last so long. hitherto they had lumbered along pretty heavily, but now they settled down to work with all the vigor they possessed, realizing that it was useless to expect to capture the fugitive in any other way. meanwhile fred sheldon was doing his "level best;" active and quick in his movements he could run rapidly for one of his years, and could keep it up much longer than those behind him, though for a short distance their speed was the greater. dreading, as he did, to fall into the hands of bud heyland and his lawless companion, he put forth all the power at his command, and glancing over his shoulder now and then he kept up his flight with an energy that taxed his strength and endurance to the utmost. when he found that they were not gaining on him he was encouraged, but greatly frightened by the pistol-shots. he was sure that one of the bullets went through his hat and the other grazed his ear, but so long as they didn't disable him he meant to keep going. he was nearly across the meadow when he recalled that he was speeding directly toward a worm-fence which separated it from the adjoining field. it would take a few precious seconds to surmount that, and he turned diagonally toward the left, as has been stated, because by taking such a course, he could reach the edge of a small stretch of woods, in whose shadows he hoped to secure shelter from his would-be captors. this change in the line of flight could not fail to operate to the disadvantage of the fugitive, for a time at least, for, being understood by bud and cyrus, they swerved still more, and sped along with increased speed, so that they rapidly recovered the ground lost a short time before. they were aiming to cut off fred, who saw his danger at once, and changed his course to what might be called "straight away" again, throwing his pursuers directly behind him. this checked the scheme for the time, but it deprived fred of his great hope of going over the fence directly into the darkness of the woods. as it was, he was now speeding toward the high worm-fence which separated the field he was in from the one adjoining. already he could see the long, crooked line of rails, as they stretched out to the right and left in front of him, disappearing in the gloom and looking like mingling lines of india ink against the sky beyond. even in such stirring moments odd thoughts come to us, and fred, while on the dead run, compared in his mind the fence rails to the crooked and erratic lines he had drawn with his pen on a sheet of white paper. although he could leap higher in the air and further on the level than any lad of his age, he knew better than to try and vault such a fence. as he approached it, therefore, he slackened his gait slightly, and springing upward with one foot on the middle rail, he placed the other instantly after on the topmost one and went over like a greyhound, with scarcely any hesitation, continuing his flight, and once more swerving to the left toward the woods on which he now fixed his hopes. possibly bud heyland thought that the fact of his being attached to colonel bandman's great menagerie and circus called upon him to perform greater athletic feats; for instead of imitating the more prudent course of the fugitive, he made a tremendous effort to clear the fence with one bound. he would have succeeded but for the top three rails. as it was his rather large feet struck them, and he went over with a crash, his hat flying off and his head ploughing quite a furrow in the ground. [illustration: bud heyland fell headlong over the fence in pursuit of fred. --(see page .)] he rolled over several times, and as he picked himself up it seemed as if most of his bones were broken and he never had been so jarred in all his life. "did you fall?" asked cyrus sutton, unable to suppress his laughter, as he climbed hastily after him. "i tripped a little," was the angry reply, "and i don't see anything to laugh at; come on! we'll have him yet!" to the astonishment of the cattle dealer, bud caught up his hat and resumed the pursuit with only a moment's delay, and limping only slightly from his severe shaking up. fred sheldon was dimly visible making for the woods, and the two followed, sutton just a little behind his friend. "you might as well give it up," said the elder; "he's got too much of a start and is making for cover." "i'm bound to have him before he can reach it, and i'll pay him for all this." no more than one hundred feet separated the parties, when fred, beginning to feel the effects of his severe exertion, darted in among the shadows of the wood, and, hardly knowing what was the best to do, threw himself flat on the ground, behind the trunk of a large tree, where he lay panting and afraid the loud throbbing of his heart would betray him to his pursuers, who were so close behind him. had he been given a single minute more he would have made a sharp turn in his course, and thus could have thrown them off the track without difficulty; but, as it was--we shall see. bud heyland rushed by within a few feet, and halted a couple of yards beyond, while sutton stopped within a third of that distance, where fred lay flat on the ground. "do you hear him?" asked bud. "hear him? no; he's given us the slip, and it's all time thrown away to hunt further for him." bud uttered an angry exclamation and stood a few minutes listening for some sound that would tell where the eavesdropper was. but nothing was heard, and sutton moved forward, passing so close to fred that the latter could have reached out his hand and touched him. "how could he help seeing me?" the boy asked himself, as the man joined bud heyland, and the two turned off and moved in the direction of the highway. some distance away bud heyland and sutton stopped and talked together in such low tones that fred sheldon could only hear the murmur of their voices, as he did when he first learned of their presence beside the road. but it is, perhaps, needless to say that he was content to let them hold their conference in peace, without any effort on his part to overhear any more of it. he was only too glad to let them alone, and to indulge a hope that they would be equally considerate toward him. bud would have continued the search much longer and with a strong probability of success had not sutton persuaded him that it was only a waste of time to do so. accordingly they resumed their walk, with many expressions of impatience over their failure to capture the individual who dared to discover their secrets in such an underhanded way. "he looked to me like a very small man," said bud, as he walked slowly along, dusting the dirt from his clothing and rubbing the many bruised portions of his body. "of course he was," replied sutton, "or he wouldn't have gone into that kind of business." "i don't mean that; he seemed like a short man." "yes, so he was, but there are plenty of full-grown men in this world who are no taller than he." "it's too bad, i broke my pipe all to pieces when i fell over the fence, and jammed the stem half way down my throat." "i thought you had broken your neck," said sutton, "and you ought to be thankful that you did not." bud muttered an ill-natured reply, and the two soon after debouched into the highway, along which they continued until the house of the younger was reached, where they stopped a minute or so for a few more words, when they separated for the night. fred sheldon waited until they were far beyond sight and hearing, when he cautiously rose to his feet and stood for a short time to make sure he could leave the spot without detection. "i guess i've had enough for one night," he said with a sigh, as he turned off across the meadow until he reached the border of the lane, along which he walked until he knocked at the door of the misses perkinpine, where he was admitted with the same cordiality that was always shown him. they seemed to think he had stayed at the hired man's house for a chat with bud, and made no inquiries, while the boy himself did not deem it best to tell what had befallen him. his recent experience had been so severe upon him that he felt hungry enough to eat another supper, and he would not have required a second invitation to do so, but, as the first was not given, he concluded to deny himself for the once. fred expected to lie awake a long time after going to bed, trying to solve the meaning of the few significant words he had overheard, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and did not wake until called by aunt lizzie. this was friday, the last school-day of the week, and he made sure of being on hand in time. as he had been absent by the permission of his mother, made known through a note sent before she went to see her brother, mr. mccurtis could not take him to task for his failure to attend school, but a number of lads who had been tempted away by the circus and the excitement over the escaped lion were punished severely. however, they absented themselves with a full knowledge of what would follow, and took the bitter dregs with the sweet, content to have the pain if they might first have the pleasure. "i have excused several of you," said the teacher, peering very keenly through his glasses at fred, "for absence, but i have not been asked to excuse any failure in lessons, and i do not intend to do so. those who have been loitering and wasting their time will soon make it appear when called on to recite, and they must be prepared for the consequences." this remark was intended especially for fred, who was thankful that he found out what the lessons of the day were, for he had prepared himself perfectly. and it was well he did so, for the teacher seemed determined to puzzle him. fred was asked every sort of question the lesson could suggest. it had always been said by mrs. sheldon that fred never knew a lesson so long as he failed to see clear through it, and could answer any question germane to it. he felt the wisdom of such instruction on this occasion, when the teacher at the end of the examination allowed him to take his seat and remarked, half angrily: "there's a boy who knows his lessons, which is more than i can say of a good many of you. i think it will be a good thing for him to go out and hunt a few more lions." this was intended as a witticism on the part of the teacher, and, like the urchins of goldsmith's "deserted village," they all laughed with "counterfeit glee," some of the boys roaring as if they would fall off the benches from the excess of their mirth. mr. mccurtis smiled grimly, and felt it was another proof that when he became a school teacher the world lost one of its greatest comedians and wits. at recess and noon fred was quite a hero among the scholars. they gathered about him and he had to tell the story over and over again, as well as the dreadful feelings that must have been his when he woke up in the night and found that a real, live burglar was in his room. like most boys of his age, fred unconsciously exaggerated in telling the narratives so often, but he certainly deserved credit, not only for his genuine bravery, but for the self-restraint that enabled him to keep back some other things he might have related which would have raised him still more in the admiration of his young friends. "i'm going to tell them to mother first of all," was his conclusion, "and i will take her advice as to what i should do." he brought the lunch the misses perkinpine had put up for him, and stayed in the neighborhood of the school-house all noon, with a number of others, who lived some distance away. as the weather was quite warm, the boys sat under a tree, talking over the stirring incidents of the preceding few days. fred was answering a question for the twentieth time, when he was alarmed by the sudden appearance of bud heyland, with his trousers tucked in his boots, his briar-wood pipe--that is, a new one--in his mouth, and his blacksnake-whip in hand. as he walked along he looked at the school-house very narrowly, almost coming to a full stop, and acting as though he was searching for some one. he did not observe that half a dozen boys were stretched out in the shadow of the big tree across the road. "keep still!" said fred, in a whisper, "and maybe he won't see us." but young heyland was not to be misled so easily. observing that the school was dismissed, he looked all around him, and quickly espied the little fellows lolling in the shade, when he immediately walked over toward them. fred sheldon's heart was in his mouth on the instant, for he was sure bud was looking for him. "he must have known me last night," he thought, "and as he couldn't catch me then he has come to pay me off now." but it would have been a confession of guilt to start and run, and bud would be certain to overtake him before he could go far, so the boy did not stir from the ground on which he was reclining. "halloo, bud," called out several, as he approached. "how are you getting along?" "none of your business," was the characteristic answer; "is fred sheldon there?" "i'm here," said fred, rising to the sitting position. "what do you want of me?" bud heyland acted curiously. he looked sharply at the boy, and then said: "i don't want anything of you just now, but i'll see you later," and without anything further he moved on, leaving our hero wondering why he had not asked for the ten dollars due him. fred expected he would return, and was greatly relieved when the teacher appeared and school was called. fearful that the bully would wait for him on the road, fred went to the old brick mansion first, where he stayed till dark, when he decided to run over to his own home, look after matters there, and then return by a new route to the old ladies who were so kind to him. he kept a sharp lookout on the road, but saw nothing of either bud or cyrus sutton. "it seems to me," said fred to himself, as he approached the old familiar spot, "that i ought to hear something from mother by this time. there isn't any school to-morrow, and i'll walk over to uncle will's and find out when she's coming home, and then i'll tell her all i've got to tell, which is so much, with what i want to ask, that it'll take me a week to get through--halloo! what does that mean?" he stopped short in the road, for through the closed blinds of the lower story he caught the twinkling rays of a light that some one had started within. "i wonder whether it is our house they're going to rob to-night," exclaimed fred, adding the next moment, with a grim humor: "if it is, they will be more disappointed than they ever were in their lives." a minute's thought satisfied him that no one with a view to robbery was there, for the good reason that there was nothing to steal, as anyone would be quick to learn. "it must be some tramp prowling around in the hope of getting something to eat. anyway, i will soon find out----" just then the window was raised, the shutters thrown wide open by some person, who leaned part way out the window in full view. one glance was enough for fred sheldon to recognize that face and form, the dearest on earth, as seen in the starlight, with the yellow rays of the lamp behind them. "halloo, mother! ain't i glad to see you? how are you? bless your dear soul! what made you stay away so long?" "fred, my own boy!" and leaning out the window she threw both arms about the neck of the lad, who in turn threw his about her, just as the two always did when they met after a brief separation. the fact of it was, fred sheldon was in love with his mother and always had been, and that sort of boy is sure to make his mark in this world. a few minutes later the happy boy had entered the house and was sitting at the tea table, eating very little and talking very much. the mother told him that his uncle had been dangerously ill, but had begun to mend that day, and was now believed to have passed the crisis of his fever, and would soon get well. she therefore expected to stay with her boy all the time. and then the delighted little fellow began his story, or rather series of stories, while the kind eyes of the handsome and proud parent were fixed on the boy with an interest which could not have been stronger. her face paled when, in his own graphic way, he pictured his lonely watch in the old brick mansion, and the dreadful discovery that the wicked tramp had entered the building stealthily behind him. she shuddered to think that her loved one had been so imperiled, and was thankful indeed that providence had protected him. then the story of the lion, of its unexpected breaking out from the cage, the panic of the audience, his encounter with it in the lane, its entry into the smoke-house, his shutting the door, and finally how he earned and received the reward. all this was told with a childish simplicity and truthfulness which would have thrilled any one who had a less personal interest than the boy's mother. as i have said, there were no secrets that the son kept from his parent. he told how he saw that the tramp wore false whiskers and how he dropped a knife on the floor, which he got and showed to his mother, explaining to her at the same time that the letters were the initials of the young man known through the neighborhood as "bud" heyland. "that may all be," said she, smilingly, "and yet bud may be as innocent as you or i." "how is that?" asked fred, wonderingly. "he may have traded or lost the knife, or some one may have stolen it and left it there on purpose to turn suspicion toward bud. such things have been done many a time, and it is odd that anyone could drop a knife in such a place without knowing it." fred opened his eyes. "then bud is innocent, you think?" "no, i believe he is guilty, for you say you were pretty sure of his voice, but it won't do to be too certain. as to the other man, who misled you when you met him in the lane, it is a hard thing to say who he is." "why, mother, i'm surer of him than i am of bud, and i'm dead sure of him, you know." "what are your reasons?" fred gave them as they are already known to the reader. the wise little woman listened attentively, and said when he had finished: "i don't wonder that you think as you do, but you once was as sure, as i understand, of mr. kincade, the one who paid you the reward." "that is so," assented fred, "but i hadn't had so much time to think over the whole matter." "very probably you are right, for they are intimate, and they are staying in the neighborhood for no good. tell me just what you heard them say last night, when they sat on the rock by the roadside. be careful not to put in any words of your own, but give only precisely what you know were spoken by the two." the boy did as requested, the mother now and then asking a question and keeping him down close to the task of telling only the plain, simple truth, concerning which there was so much of interest to both. when he was through she said the words of the two showed that some wicked scheme was in contemplation, though nothing had been heard to indicate its precise nature. the matter having been fully told the question remained--and it was the great one which underlay all others--what could fred do to earn the large reward offered by the two ladies who had lost their property? "remember," said his mother, thoughtfully, "you are only a small boy fourteen years old, and it is not reasonable to think you can out-general two bad persons who have learned to be cunning in all they do." "nor was it reasonable to think i would out-general a big lion," said fred, with a laugh, as he leaned on his mother's lap and looked up in her eyes. "no; but that lion was old and harmless; he might have spent the remainder of his days in this neighborhood without any one being in danger." "but we didn't know that." "but you know that bud heyland and this mr. sutton are much older than you and are experienced in evil doing." "so was the lion," ventured fred, slyly, quite hopeful of earning the prize on which he had set his heart. "i have been thinking that maybe i ought to tell mr. jackson, the constable, about the knife, with bud's name on it." "no," said the mother. "it isn't best to tell him anything, for he has little discretion. he boasts too much about what he is going to do; the wise and skilful man never does that." mrs. sheldon had "gauged" the fussy little constable accurately when she thus described him. "fred," suddenly said his mother, "do not the misses perkinpine expect you to stay at their house to-night?" "yes, i told them i would be back, and they will be greatly surprised, for i didn't say anything about your coming home, because i thought uncle will was so sick you wouldn't be able to leave him." "then you had better run over and explain why it is you cannot stay with them to-night." the affectionate boy disliked to leave his mother when they were holding such a pleasant conversation, but he could please her only by doing so, and donning his broad-brimmed straw hat, and bidding her good-night, passed out the door, promising soon to return. fred was so anxious to spend the evening at home that he broke into a trot the instant he passed out the gate, and kept it up along the highway until he reached the short lane, which was so familiar to him. the same eagerness to return caused him to forget one fact that had hitherto impressed him, which was that the conspiracy of bud heyland and cyrus sutton was intended to be carried out this same evening. the boy had gone almost the length of the lane when he was surprised to observe a point of light moving about in the shadow of the trees, the night being darker than the previous one. "what under the sun can that be?" he asked, stopping short and scrutinizing it with an interest that may be imagined. viewed from where he stood, it looked like a jack-o'-lantern, or a candle which some one held in his hand while moving about. it had that swaying, up-and-down motion, such as a person makes when walking rapidly, while now and then it shot up a little higher, as though the bearer had raised it over his head to get a better view of his surroundings. "well, that beats everything i ever heard of," muttered fred, resuming his walk toward the house; "it must be some kind of a lantern, and maybe it's one of them dark ones which robbers use, and they are taking a look at the outside to see which is the best way of getting inside, though i don't think there is anything left for them." the distance to the house was so short that fred soon reached the yard. on his way thither the strange light vanished several times, only to reappear again, its occasional eclipse, no doubt, being due to the intervening vegetation. when the boy came closer he saw that the lantern was held in the hand of aunt lizzie, who was walking slowly around the yard, with her sister by her side, while they peered here and there with great deliberation and care. "why, aunt lizzie!" called out fred, as he came up, "what are you looking for?" the good ladies turned toward him with a faint gasp of fright, and then gave utterance to an expression of thankfulness. "why, frederick, we are looking for you," was the reply, and then, complimenting his truthfulness, she added, "you promised to come back, and we knew you wouldn't tell a story, and sister and i thought maybe you were hungry and sick somewhere around the yard, and if so we were going to get you into the house and give you some supper." "why, aunties, i've had supper," laughed fred, amused beyond measure at the simplicity of the good ladies. "we didn't suppose that made any difference," was the kind remark of the good ladies, who showed by the observation that they had a pretty accurate knowledge after all of this particular specimen of boyhood. chapter xv. the meeting in the wood. fred sheldon told his good friends that inasmuch as his mother had returned, he would stay at home hereafter, though he promised to drop in upon them quite often and "take dinner or supper." the lantern was blown out and the sisters went inside, where, for the present, we must bid them good-night, and the lad started homeward. he had not quite reached the main highway, when, in the stillness of the night, he caught the rattle of carriage or wagon wheels. there was nothing unusual in this, for it was the place and time to look for vehicles, many of which went along the road at all hours of the day and night. but so many strange things had happened to fred during the week now drawing to a close that he stopped on reaching the outlet of the lane, and, standing close to the shaded trunk of a large tree, waited until the wagon should go by. as it came nearer he saw that it was what is known in some parts of the country as a "spring-wagon," being light running, with a straight body and without any cover, so that the driver, sitting on the front seat, was the most conspicuous object about it. as it came directly opposite fred could see that the driver wore a large sombrero-like hat, and was smoking a pipe. at the same moment, too, he gave a peculiar sound, caused by an old habit of clearing his throat, which identified him at once as bud heyland. "that's odd," thought fred, stepping out from his place of concealment and following after him; "when bud goes out at night with a strange wagon or alone, or with cyrus sutton, there's something wrong on foot." not knowing what was best for him to do, fred walked behind the wagon a short distance, for the horse was going so slow that this was an easy matter. but all at once bud struck the animal a sharp blow, which sent him spinning forward at such a rate that he speedily vanished in the darkness. young sheldon continued walking toward home, his thoughts busy until he reached the stretch of woods, where the courage of any boy would have been tried in passing it after nightfall. brave as he undoubtedly was, fred felt a little shiver, when fairly among the dense shadows, for there were some dismal legends connected with it, and these had grown with the passage of years. but fred had never turned back for anything of the kind, and he was now so cheered by the prospect of being soon again with his mother that he stepped off briskly, and would have struck up one of his characteristic whistling tunes had he not heard the rattle of the same wagon which bud heyland drove by a short while before. "that's strange," thought the lad; "he couldn't have gone very far, or he wouldn't have come back so soon." the darkness was so profound over the stretch of road leading through the wood that fred had no fear of being seen as he stepped a little to one side and waited for the vehicle to pass. fortunately for night travel, the portion of the highway which led through the forest was not long, for, without the aid of a lantern, no one could see whither he was going, and everything had to be left to the instinct of the horse himself. the beast approached at a slow walk, while bud no doubt was perched on the high front seat, using his eyes for all they were worth, which was nothing at all where the gloom was so impenetrable. he must have refilled his pipe a short time before, for he was smoking so vigorously that the ember-like glow of the top of the tobacco could be seen, and the crimson reflection even revealed the end of bud's nose and the faintest possible glimpse of his downy mustache and pimply cheeks, as they glided through the darkness. the light from this pipe was so marked that fred moved back a step or two, afraid it might reveal him to his enemy. his withdrawal was not entirely satisfactory to himself, as he could not observe where to place his feet, and striking his heels against a fallen limb, he went over backward with quite a bump. "who's that?" demanded bud heyland, checking his horse and glaring about in the gloom; "is that you, sutton?" fred thought it wiser to make no response, and he silently got upon his feet again. bud repeated his question in a husky undertone, and receiving no reply muttered some profanity and started the horse forward at the same slow, deliberate pace. wondering what it could all mean, young sheldon stood in the middle of the road, looking in the direction of the vanishing wagon, of which, as a matter of course, he could not catch the slightest glimpse, and asking himself whether it would be wise to investigate further. "there's some mischief going on, and it may be that i can--halloo!" once more bud heyland drew his horse to a halt, and the same solemn stillness held reign as before. but it was only for a minute or two, when bud gave utterance to a low whistle, which sounded like the tremolo notes of a flute, on the still air. fred sheldon recalled that the bully used to indulge in that peculiar signal when he attended school, merely because he fancied it, and when there could be no significance at all attached to it. it was now repeated several times, with such intervals as to show that bud was expecting a reply, though none could be heard by the lad, who was listening for a response. all at once, yielding to a mischievous impulse, fred sheldon replied, imitating bud's call with astonishing accuracy. instantly the bully seized upon it, and the signal was exchanged several times, when bud sprang out of his wagon and came toward the spot where the other stood. fred was frightened when he found there was likely to be a meeting between him and the one he dreaded so much, and he became as silent as the tomb. bud advanced through the gloom, continually whistling and giving utterance to angry expressions because he was not answered, while fred carefully picked his way a few paces further to the rear to escape discovery. "why don't you speak?" called out bud; "if you can whistle you can use your voice, can't you?" although this question could have been easily answered, fred sheldon thought it best to hold his peace. "if you ain't the biggest fool that ever undertook to play the gentleman!" added the disgusted bully, groping cautiously among the trees; "everything is ready for----" just then an outstretching limb passed under the chin of bud heyland, and, though walking slowly, he thought it would lift his head off his shoulders before he could stop himself. when he did so he was in anything but an amiable mood, and fred, laughing, yet scared, was glad he had the friendly darkness in which to find shelter from the ugliness of the fellow. bud had hardly regained anything like his self-possession when he caught a similar signal to those which had been going on for some minutes between fred sheldon and himself. it came from some point beyond fred, but evidently in the highway. the angry heyland called out: "what's the matter with you? why don't you come on, you fool?" the person thus addressed hurried over the short distance until he was close to where bud stood rubbing his chin and muttering all sorts of bad words at the delay and pain to which he had been subjected. "halloo, bud, where are you?" guarded as the voice was, fred immediately recognized it as belonging to cyrus sutton, the cattle drover. "i'm here; where would i be?" growled the angry bully. "tumbling over a fence, or cracking your head against a tree, i suppose," said sutton, with a laugh; "when i whistled to you, why didn't you whistle back again, as we agreed to do?" it is easy to picture the scowling glare which bud heyland turned upon sutton as he answered: "you're a purty one to talk about signals, ain't you? after answering me half a dozen times, and i got close to you, you must shut up your mouth, and while i went groping about, i came near sawing my head off with a knotty limb. when you heard me, why did you stop?" "heard you? what are you talking about?" "didn't you whistle to me a while ago, and didn't you keep it up till i got here, and then you stopped? what are you talking about, indeed!" "i was a little late," said sutton, who began to suspect the truth, "and have just come into the wood; i whistled to you, and then you called to me in a rather more personal style than i think is good taste, and i came forward and here i am, and that's all there is about it." "wasn't that you that answered my whistling a little while ago?" asked bud heyland in an undertone, that fairly trembled with dread. "no, sir; as i have explained to you, i signaled to find where you were only a minute since, and i heard nothing of the kind from you." "then we're betrayed!" words would fail to depict the tragic manner in which bud heyland gave utterance to this strange remark. his voice was in that peculiar condition, known as "changing," and at times was a deep bass, sometimes breaking into a thin squeak. he sank it to its profoundest depths as he slowly repeated the terrifying expression, and the effect would have been very impressive, even to cyrus sutton, but for the fact that on the last word his voice broke and terminated with a sound like that made by a domestic fowl when the farmer seizes it by the head with the intention of wringing its neck. but cyrus sutton seemed to think that it was anything else than a laughing matter, and he asked the particulars of bud, who gave them in a stealthily modulated voice, every word of which was plainly heard by fred sheldon, who began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. "you remember the man that was behind us listening when we sat on the rock last night?" asked bud. "of course i do." "well, he's watching us still, and ain't far off this very minute. i wish i had a chance to draw a bead on him." "you drew several beads last night," said sutton. "see here," snarled bud, "that's enough of that. i'll give you a little advice for your own good--let it drop." "well, bud," said the other, in an anxious voice, "it won't do to try it on now if some one is watching us. so drive back to tottenville, put the horse away and we'll take a look around to-morrow night. if the coast is clear we'll wind the business up." "it's got to be wound up then," said the bully, earnestly; "it won't do for me to wait any longer; i've got to j'ine the circus on monday, and i must start on sunday to make it." "very well; then we'll take a look around to-morrow and fix things at night." "agreed," said bud, "for you can see that if some officer is watching us--halloo!" this exclamation was caused by the sudden sound of wagon wheels, and man and boy knew at once that bud's horse, probably tired of standing still, had started homeward with the enthusiasm of a steed who believes that a good supper is awaiting him. chapter xvi. bud's mishaps. when a horse takes it into his head to go home, with a view of having a good meal, the attraction seems to become stronger from the moment he makes the first move. bud heyland's animal began with a very moderate pace, but he increased it so rapidly that by the time the angry driver was on the run, the quadruped was going almost equally as fast. in the hope of scaring the brute into stopping bud shouted: "whoa! whoa! stop, or i'll kill you!" if the horse understood the command, he did not appreciate the threat, and, therefore, it served rather as a spur to his exertion, for he went faster than ever. it is well known, also, that under such circumstances the sagacious animal is only intent on reaching home with the least delay, and he does not care a pin whether his flight injures the vehicle behind him or not. in fact, he seems to be better pleased if it does suffer some disarrangement. when, therefore, the animal debouched from the wood into the faint light under the stars he was on a gallop, and the wagon was bounding along from side to side in an alarming way. bud was not far behind it, and shouting in his fiercest manner, he soon saw that he was only wasting his strength. he then ceased his outcries and devoted all his energies to overtaking the runaway horse. "it'll be just like him to smash the wagon all to flinders," growled bud, "and i'll have to pay for the damages." as nearly as could be determined, horse and lad were going at the same pace, the boy slightly gaining, perhaps, and growing more furious each minute, for this piece of treachery on the part of the horse. some twenty yards separated the pursuer from the team, when a heavy, lumbering wagon loomed to view ahead. "get out of the road!" called bud, excitedly. "this hoss is running away, and he'll smash you if you don't!" at such times a farmer is slow to grasp the situation, and the old gentleman, who was half asleep, could not understand what all the rumpus was about, until the galloping horse was upon him. then he wrenched his lines, hoping to pull his team aside in time, but his honest nags were as slow as their owner, and all they did was to get themselves out of the way, so as to allow the light vehicle to crash into that to which they were attached. it is the frailer vessel which generally goes to the wall at such times, though bud's was armed with a good deal of momentum. as it was the front wheel was twisted off, and the frightened horse continued at a swifter gait than ever toward his home, while bud, seeing how useless it was to try to overtake him, turned upon the old farmer, who was carefully climbing out of his wagon to see whether his property had suffered any damage. "why didn't you get out the way when i hollered to you?" demanded the panting bud, advancing threateningly upon him. "why didn't you holler sooner, my young friend?" asked the old gentleman, in a soft voice. "i yelled to you soon enough, and you're a big fool that you didn't pull aside as i told you. i hope your old rattle-trap has been hurt so it can't be fixed up." "i can't diskiver that it's been hurt at all, and i'm very thankful," remarked the farmer, stooping down and feeling the spokes and axletree with his hands; "but don't you know it is very disrespectful for a boy like you to call an old man a fool?" bud snarled: "i generally say just what i mean, and what are you going to do about it, old hay seed?" the gentleman thus alluded to showed what he meant to do about it, for he reached quietly upward and lifted his whip from its socket in the front of the wagon. "i say again," added bud, not noticing the movement, and swaggering about, "that any man who acts like you is a natural born fool, and the best thing you can do is to go home----" just then something cracked like a pistol shot and the whip of the old farmer whizzed about the legs of the astounded scapegrace, who, with a howl similar to that which fred sheldon uttered under similar treatment, bounded high in air and started on a run in the direction of his flying vehicle. at the second step the whip descended again, and it was repeated several times before the terrified bud could get beyond reach of the indignant gentleman, who certainly showed more vigor than any one not knowing him would have looked for. "some boys is very disrespectful, and should be teached manners," he muttered, turning calmly about and going back to his team, which stood sleepily in the road awaiting him. "what's getting into folks?" growled bud heyland, trying to rub his smarting legs in half a dozen places at once; "that's the sassiest old curmudgeon i ever seen. if i'd knowed he was so sensitive i wouldn't have argued the matter so strong. jingo! but he knows how to swing a whip. when he brought down the lash on to me, i orter just jumped right into him and knocked him down, and i'd done it, too, if i hadn't been afraid of one thing, which was that he'd knocked me down first. plague on him! i'll get even with him yet. i wish----" bud stopped short in inexpressible disgust, for just then he recalled that he had his loaded revolver with him, and he ought to have used it to defend himself. the assault of the old gentleman was so sudden that his victim had no time to think of anything but to place himself beyond reach of his strong and active arm. "i don't know what makes me so blamed slow in thinking of things," added bud, resuming the rubbing of his legs and his walk toward tottenville, "but i must learn to wake up sooner. i'm sure i got in some good work to-day, and i'll finish it up in style to-morrow night, or my name ain't nathaniel higgins heyland, and then i'm going to skip out of this slow place in a hurry and have a good time with the boys. what's that?" he discerned the dim outlines of some peculiar looking object in the road, and going to it, suddenly saw what it was. "yes, i might have knowed it!" he muttered, with another forcible expression; "it's a wagon wheel; the second one off that good-for-nothing one i hired of grimsby, and i'll have a pretty bill to pay when i get there. i 'spose i'll find the rest of the wagon strewed all along the road; yes----" bud was not far wrong in his supposition, for a little further on he came upon a third wheel, which was leaning against the fence, as though it were "tired," and near by was the fourth. after that the fragments of the ruined vehicle were met with continually, until the angered young man wondered how it was there could be so much material in such an ordinary structure. "it's about time i begun to find something of the horse," he added, with a grim sense of the grotesque humor of the idea; "i wouldn't care if i came across his head and legs scattered along the road, for i'm mad enough agin him to blow him up, but i won't get the chance, for old grimsby won't let me have him agin when i go out to take a ride to-morrow night." things could not have been in a worse condition than when bud, tired and angry, walked up on the porch of the hotel and dropped wearily into one of the chairs that were always there. old mr. grimsby was awaiting him, and said the animal was badly bruised, and as for the wagon, the only portion he could find any trace of was the shafts, which came bounding into the village behind the flying horse. mr. grimsby's principal grief seemed to be that bud himself had not shared the fate of the wagon, and he did not hesitate to so express himself. "the damages won't be a cent less than a hundred dollars," added the angry keeper of the livery stable. "will you call it square for that?" asked bud, looking at the man, who was leaning against the post in front of him. "yes, of course i will?" "very well; write out a receipt in full and sign it and i'll pay it." mr. grimsby scanned him curiously for a minute, and then said: "if you're in earnest come over to my office." bud got up and followed him into his little dingy office, where he kept a record of his humble livery business, and after considerable fumbling with his oil-lamp, found pen and paper and the receipt was written and signed. while he was thus employed bud heyland had counted one hundred dollars in ten-dollar bills, which he passed over to mr. grimsby, who, as was his custom, counted them over several times. as he did so he noticed that they were crisp, new bills, and looked as if they were in circulation for the first time. he carefully folded them up and put them away in his wallet with a grim smile, such as is apt to be shown by a man of that character when he thinks he has got the better of a friend in a bargain or trade. and as bud heyland walked out he smiled, too, in a very meaning way. chapter xvii. two unexpected visitors. fred sheldon did not give much attention to bud heyland after he started in pursuit of his runaway horse, but, turning in the opposite direction, he moved carefully through the wood toward his mother's house. he did not forget that cyrus sutton was somewhere near him, and the boy dreaded a meeting with the cattle drover almost as much as he did with bud heyland himself; but he managed to get out of the piece of wood without seeing or being seen by him, and then he made all haste to his own home, where he found his mother beginning to wonder over his long absence. fred told the whole story, anxious to hear what she had to say about a matter on which he had made up his own mind. "it looks as though bud heyland and this mr. sutton, that you have told me about, are partners in some evil doing." "of course they are; it can't be anything else, but what were they doing in the woods with the wagon?" "perhaps they expected to meet some one else." "i don't think so, from what they said; it would have been better if i hadn't whistled to bud, wouldn't it?" "perhaps not," replied the mother, "for it looks as if by doing so you prevented their perpetrating some wrong for which they had laid their plans, and were frightened by finding some one else was near them." "i'm going to take a look through that wood to-morrow and keep watch; i think i will find out something worth knowing." "you cannot be too careful, fred, for it is a wonder to me that you have kept out of trouble so long----" both were startled at this moment by the closing of the gate, followed by a rapid footstep along the short walk, and then came a sharp knocking on the door. fred sprang up from his seat beside his mother and quickly opened the door. the fussy little constable, archie jackson, stood before them. "good evening, frederick; good evening, mrs. sheldon," he said, looking across the room to the lady and taking off his hat to her, as he stepped within. the handsome little lady arose, bowed and invited him to a seat, which he accepted, bowing his thanks again. it was easy to see from the manner of archie that he was full of the most important kind of business. he was in danger of tipping his chair over, from the prodigious extent to which he threw out his breast, as he carefully deposited his hat on the floor beside him and cleared his throat, with a vigor which could have been heard by any one passing outside. "a pleasant night," he remarked, looking benignantly upon mrs. sheldon, who nodded her head to signify that she agreed with him in his opinion of the weather. after this preliminary he came to the point--that is, in his own peculiar way. "mrs. sheldon, you have a very fine boy there," he said, nodding toward fred, who turned quite red in the face. "i am glad to hear you have such a good opinion of him," was the modest manner in which the mother acknowledged the compliment to her only child. "i understand that he is the brightest scholar in school, and has the reputation of being truthful and honest, and i know him to be as full of pluck and courage as a--a--spring lamb," added the constable, clearing his throat again, to help him out of his search for a metaphor. mrs. sheldon simply bowed and smiled, while archie looked at his right hand, which was still swollen and tender from its violent contact with the stump that he mistook for the lion some nights before. he remarked something about hurting it in the crack of the door when playing with his children, and added: "fred has become quite famous from the shrewd manner in which he captured the lion." "i don't see as he deserves any special credit for that," observed the mother, "for i understand the animal was such an old one that he was almost harmless, and then he was kind enough to walk into the smoke-house and give fred just the chance he needed. i regard it rather as a piece of good fortune than a display of courage." "you are altogether too modest, mrs. sheldon--altogether too modest. think of his stealing up to the open door of the smoke or milk-house when the creatur' was crunching bones inside! i tell you, mrs. sheldon, it took a great deal more courage than you will find in most men to do that." the lady was compelled to admit that it was a severe test of the bravery of a boy, but she insisted that fred had been favored by providence, or good fortune, as some called it. "what i want to come at," added archie, clearing his throat again and spitting in his hat, mistaking it for the cuspidor on the other side, "is that i would be pleased if he could secure the reward which the misses perkinpine have offered for the recovery of their silverware, to say nothing of the money that was taken." "it would be too unreasonable to hope that he could succeed in such a task as that." "i'm not so sure, when you recollect that he saw the two parties who were engaged in the burglarious transaction. i thought maybe he might have some clew which would enable the officers of the law to lay their fingers on the guilty parties." fred was half tempted to say that he had such a clew in his pocket that very minute, but he was wise enough to hold his peace. once more the constable cleared his throat. "but such is not the fact--ah, excuse me--i thought that was the spittoon, instead of my hat--how stupid!--and to relieve his mind of the anxiety which i know he must feel, i have called to make a statement." having said this much the visitor waited until he thought his auditors were fully impressed, when he added: "when this robbery was made known to me i sent to new york city at once for one of the most famous detectives, giving him full particulars and urging him to come without delay; but for some reason, which i cannot understand, mr. carter has neither come nor written--a very discourteous proceeding on his part, to say the least; so i undertook the whole business alone--that is, without asking the help of anyone." "i hope you have met with success," was the truthful wish expressed by mrs. sheldon. "i have, i am glad to inform you. i have found out who the man was that, in the disguise of a tramp, eat a meal at the house of the misses perkinpine on monday evening, and who afterward entered the building stealthily, and with the assistance of a confederate carried off all their valuable silverware and a considerable amount of money." "you've fastened it on bud, eh?" asked fred, greatly interested. the constable looked impressively at the lad, and said: "there's where you make a great mistake; in fact, nothing in this world is easier than to make an error. i was sure it was bud from what you told me, and you will remember i hinted as much to him on the day of the circus." "yes, and he turned red in the face and was scared." "his face couldn't turn much redder than it is, and blushing under such circumstances can't always be taken as a proof of guilt; but i set to work and i found the guilty man." "and it wasn't bud?" "he hadn't anything to do with it." "but there were two of them, for i saw them." "of course; and i know the other man also." this was important news indeed, and mother and son could only stare at their visitor in amazement. the constable, with all the pomposity of which he was master, picked up his hat from the floor and arose to his feet. "of course a detective doesn't go round the country boasting of what he has done and is going to do. those who know me, know that i am one of the most modest of men and rarely speak of my many exploits. but i may tell you that you can prepare yourselves for one of the greatest surprises of your life." "when is it going to come?" asked fred. "very soon; in a day or two; maybe to-morrow; at any rate by monday at the latest." mrs. sheldon saw that the fussy officer was anxious to tell more and needed but the excuse of a question or two from her. but she did not ask him anything, for with the intuition of her sex she had read his nature the first time she talked with him, and she had little faith in his high-sounding declaration of success. still, she knew that it was not unlikely he had stumbled upon the truth, while groping about; but she could form no idea, of who the suspected parties were, and she allowed her visitor to bid her good evening without gaining any further knowledge of them. archie was heard walking down the path and out the gate, still clearing his throat, and doubtless with his shoulders thrown to the rear so far that he was in danger of falling over backwards. mrs. sheldon smiled in her quiet way after his departure, and said: "i can't feel much faith in him, but it may be he has found who the guilty ones are." "i don't believe it," replied fred, stoutly; "for, when he declares that bud had nothing to do with it, i know he is wrong. suppose i had taken out this knife and told him all about it, what would he have said?" "it wouldn't have changed his opinion, for he is one of those men whose opinions are set and very difficult to change. he is confident he is right, and we shall know what it all means in a short time." "perhaps i will find out something to-morrow." "more than likely you will fail altogether----" to the surprise of both, they heard the gate open and shut again, another series of hastening steps sounded upon the gravel, and in a moment a quick, nervous rap came upon the door. "archie has come back to tell us the rest of his story," said fred, springing up to answer the summons; "i thought he couldn't go away without letting us know----" but the lad was mistaken, for, when he opened the door, who should he see standing before him but cyrus sutton, the cattle drover, and the intimate friend of bud heyland? he smiled pleasantly, doffed his hat, bowed and apologized for his intrusion, adding: "i am sure you hardly expected me, and i only came because it was necessary that i should meet you both. ah!" mrs. sheldon had risen and advanced a couple of steps to greet her visitor, but, while the words were in her mouth she stopped short and looked wonderingly at him. and cyrus sutton did the same respecting her; fred, beholding the interesting spectacle of the two, whom he had believed to be utter strangers, staring at each other, with a fixidity of gaze, followed the next moment by an expression of looks and words which showed that this was not the first time they had met. fred's first emotion was that of resentment that such a worthless and evil-disposed man should presume to smile, extend his hand and say, as he advanced: "this is a surprise, indeed! i had no idea that mrs. sheldon was you." "and when i heard of mr. cyrus sutton i never dreamed that it could be you," she answered. she was about to add something more when he motioned her not to speak the words that he had reason to believe were on her tongue, and fred knew not whether to be still angrier or more amazed. mr. cyrus sutton took the chair to which he was invited and began talking about unimportant matters which it was plain were of no interest to either and were introductory to something that was to follow. this continued several minutes, and then mrs. sheldon asked her visitor to excuse her for a minute or two while she accompanied her son to bed. "my dear boy," she said, after they were alone in his little room, and he was about to kneel to say his prayers, "you must not be displeased at what you saw to-night. i know mr. cyrus sutton very well and he has called on some business which he wishes to discuss with me alone." "but he's a thief and robber," said fred, "and i don't like to have him in the house unless i'm awake to take care of you." "you need have no fears about me," replied the mother, stroking back his hair and kissing the forehead of the manly fellow. "i would be willing to talk before you, but i saw that he preferred not to do so, and as the matter is all in my interest, which you know is yours, it is proper that i should show that much deference to him." "well, it's all right if you say so," was the hearty response of fred, who now knelt down and went through his prayers as usual. his mother kissed him good-night and descended the stairs, and in a few minutes the murmur of voices reached the ears of the lad, who could have crept part way down-stairs and heard everything said. but nothing in the world would have induced him to do such a dishonorable thing, and he finally sank to slumber, with the dim words sounding to him, as they do to us in dreams. in the morning his mother laughingly told him he would have to restrain his curiosity for a day or two, but she would tell him all as soon as mr. sutton gave his permission. fred felt all the eagerness natural to one of his years to know the meaning of the strange visit, but he was content to wait his mother's own good time, when she could make known the strange story which he realized she would soon have to tell him. this day was saturday, and fred sheldon determined to use it to the utmost, for he knew the singular incidents in which he had become involved were likely to press forward to some conclusion. after breakfast and his morning chores, he started down the road in the direction of the village, it being his intention to pass through or rather into the wood where sutton and bud heyland had held their meeting of the night before. he had not reached the stretch of forest when he caught sight of bud himself coming toward him on foot. the sombrero-like hat, the briar-wood pipe and the big boots, with the trousers tucked in the top, could be recognized as far as visible. the bully had not his whip with him, both hands being shoved low down in his trousers pockets. he slouched along until close to fred, when he stopped, and, leaning on the fence, waited for the boy to come up. fred would have been glad to avoid him, but there was no good way of doing so. he walked forward, whistling a tune, and made a move as if to go by, nodding his head and saying: "halloo, bud." "hold on; don't be in a hurry," said the other, "i want to see you." "well, what is it?" asked fred, stopping before him. "you want to play the thief, do you?" "i don't know what you mean," replied fred, a half-dozen misgivings stirring his fears. "how about that twenty dollars i gave you to get changed?" "i declare i forgot all about it," replied fred, greatly relieved that it was no worse. "did you get it changed?" "yes, and here are your ten dollars." bud took the bills and scanned them narrowly, and fred started on again. "hold on!" commanded the other; "don't be in such a hurry; don't start ahead agin till i tell you to. did they ask you any questions when you got it changed?" "nothing very particular, but changed it very gladly." "who was it that done it for you?" "i told him the one who gave me the bill didn't wish me to answer any questions, and then this gentleman said it was all right, and just for the fun of the thing i mustn't tell anything about him." bud heyland looked at the fellow standing a few feet away as if he hardly understood what this meant. finally he asked, in his gruff, dictatorial way: "who was he?" "i cannot tell you." "you cannot? you've got to." "but i can't break my promise, bud; i wouldn't tell a story to save my life." "bah, that's some of your mother's stuff; i'll soon take it out of you," said the bully, advancing threateningly toward him. "if you don't tell me all about him i'll break every bone in your body." "you can do it then, for you won't find out." believing that he would have to fight for his very life, as the bully could catch him before he could get away, fred drew his knife from his pocket, intending to use it as a weapon of defense. while in the act of opening it, bud heyland caught sight of it, and with an exclamation of surprise, he demanded: "where did you get that?" "i found it," replied fred, who saw how he had forgotten himself in his fear; "is it yours?" "let me look at it," said bud, reaching out his hand for it. fred hardly knew whether he ought to surrender such a weapon or not, but, as the interest of the bully seemed to center entirely in it, he thought it best to do so. bud heyland examined the jack-knife with great interest. one glance was enough for him to recognize it as his own. he opened the blades and shut them two or three times, and then dropped it into his pocket with the remark: "i'll take charge of that, i reckon." "is it yours?" "i rather think it is, now," answered bud, with an impudent grin! "where did you find it?" "down yonder," answered fred, pointing in a loose kind of way toward the old brick mansion. "it was stole from me two weeks ago by a tramp, and it's funny that he lost it in this neighborhood. you can go now; i'll let you off this time, 'cause i'm so glad to get my old knife agin that was give to me two years ago." and to the surprise and delight of fred sheldon, he was allowed to pass on without further questioning. "i wonder whether i was wrong," said fred, recalling the words of the bully; "he said he had it stolen from him two weeks ago by a tramp, and mother says that it isn't any proof that bud is guilty because his knife was found there. some one might have put it on the floor on purpose, and she says that just such things have been done before by persons who didn't want to be suspected." "that agrees with what the constable says, too," added the boy, still following the same line of thought, "he is sure he has got the right man and it isn't bud or cyrus sutton. bud is bad enough to do anything of the kind, but maybe i was mistaken." the lad was sorely puzzled, for matters were taking a shape which would have puzzled an older head than his. everything he had seen and heard for the last few days confirmed his theory that heyland and sutton were the guilty ones, and now the theory was being upset in a singular fashion. fred was in this mental muddle when he awoke to the fact that he had passed the boundary of the wood and would soon be beyond the place where he had intended to make some observations that day. "i don't know whether there's any use in my trying to do anything," he said, still bewildered over what he had seen and heard within the last few hours. nevertheless, he did try hard, and we may say, succeeded, too. he first looked hastily about him, and seeing no one, turned around and ran back into the wood. he did not remain in the highway itself, but entered the undergrowth, where it would be difficult for any one in the road to detect him. "i noticed that when i spoke about coming here this morning, mother encouraged me, and told me to be careful, and so i will." he now began picking his way through the dense wood with the care of a veritable american indian stealing upon the camp of an enemy. chapter xviii. eureka! this was the wood where bud heyland and cyrus sutton held their stolen interview the night before. the former was now in the immediate neighborhood, so that fred sheldon had reason to think something would be done in the same place before the close of day, or at most, before the rising of to-morrow's sun. no one could have been more familiar with this small stretch of forest than was our young hero, who did not take a great while to reach a point close to the other side. he was near the road which wound its way through it, but was on the watch to escape being seen by any one passing by. having reached this point, fred stood several minutes, uncertain what he ought to do. evidently there was nothing to be gained by advancing further, nor by turning back, so he waited. "i wonder where bud has gone. there is something in the wood which he is interested in----" the thought was not expressed when the rustling of leaves was heard, and fred knew some one was near him. afraid of being discovered, he shrank close to the trunk of a large tree, behind which he could hide himself the moment it became necessary. no doubt the person moving through the wood was using some care, but he did not know how to prevent the rustling of the leaves, and it is not likely he made much effort. at any rate the advantage was on the side of fred, who, a minute later, caught sight of a slouchy sombrero and briarwood pipe moving along at a height of five feet or so above the ground, while now and then the motion of the huge boots was seen beneath. "it's bud, and he's looking for something," was the conclusion of fred, fairly trembling with excitement; "and it won't do for him to see me watching him." the trouble was that it was now broad daylight, and it is no easy matter for one to shadow a person without being observed; but fred had the advantage of the shelter in the dense growth of shrubbery which prevailed in most parts of the wood. however, he was in mortal dread of discovery by bud, for he believed the ugly fellow would kill him should he find him watching his movements. it was this fear which caused the lad to wait a minute or two after bud heyland had disappeared, and until the rustling of the leaves could no longer be heard. then, with the utmost care, he began picking his way through the undergrowth, stopping suddenly when he caught the sound again. the wood was not extensive enough to permit a very extended hunt, and when fred paused a second time he was sure the end was at hand. he was alarmed when he found, from the stillness, that bud heyland was not moving. fred waited quietly, and then began slowly rising until he stood at his full height, and looked carefully around him. nothing could be seen of the bully, though the watcher was confident he was not far off, and it would not do to venture any further just then. "if it was only the night time," thought fred, "i wouldn't be so scared, for he might take me for a man; but it would never do for him to find me here." the sudden ceasing of the rustling, which had betrayed the passage of bud heyland a few minutes previous could not be anything else but proof that he was near by. "maybe he suspects something, and is waiting to find whether he is seen by any one. strange that in looking round he does not look up," whispered fred to himself, recalling an anecdote which he had once heard told in sunday-school: "bud looks everywhere but above, where there is that eye which never sleeps, watching his wrong-doing." a boy has not the patience of a man accustomed to watching and waiting, and when several minutes had passed without any new developments, fred began to get fidgety. "he has gone on further, and i have lost him; he has done this to lead me off, and i won't see anything more of him." but the boy was in error, and very speedily saw a good deal more of bud heyland than he wished. the rustling of the leaves, such as is heard when one is kicking them up as he walks along, aroused the watcher the next minute, and fred stealthily arose, and scanned his surroundings. as he did so, he caught sight of bud heyland walking in such a direction that he was certain to pass close to him. luckily the bully was looking another way at that moment, or he would have seen the scared face as is presented itself to view. as fred dropped out of sight and hastily crept behind the large tree-trunk he felt that he would willingly give the two hundred dollars that he received in the way of a reward could he but be in any place half a mile or more away. it would never do to break into a run as he felt like doing, for then he would be sure to be discovered and captured, while there was a slight probability of not being seen if he should remain where he was. shortly after fred caught sight of a pair of huge boots stalking through the undergrowth, and he knew only too well what they contained. he shrank into as close quarters as possible, and prayed that he might not be noticed. the prayer was granted, although it will always remain a mystery to fred sheldon how it was bud heyland passed so very close to him and yet never turned his eyes from staring straight ahead. but bud went on, vanished from sight, and in a few minutes the rattling of the dry leaves ceased and all was quiet. the sound of wagon wheels, as a vehicle moved over the road, was heard, and then all became still again. not until sure the fellow was out of sight did fred rise to his feet and move away from his hiding place. then, instead of following bud, he walked in the opposite direction. "he has been out here to hunt for something and didn't find it." looking down to the ground the bright-eyed lad was able to see where bud had stirred the leaves, as he carelessly walked along, no doubt oblivious of the fact that his own thoughtlessness might be used against him. "he's the only one who has been here lately, and i think i can track him through the wood. if he had been as careful as i, he wouldn't have left such tell-tale footprints." the work of trailing bud, as it may be called, was not such an easy matter as fred had supposed, for he soon found places where it was hard to tell whether or not the leaves had been disturbed by the boots of a person or the hoofs of some quadruped. but fred persevered, and at the end of half an hour, by attentively studying the ground, he reached a point a little over two hundred yards from where he himself had been hiding, and where he was certain bud heyland had been. "here's where he stopped, and after a while turned about and went back again," was the conclusion of fred; "though i can't see what he did it for." it was no longer worth while to examine the ground, for there was nothing to be learned there, and fred began studying the appearance of things above the earth. there were a number of varieties of trees growing about him--oak, maple, birch, chestnut and others, such as fred had looked on many a time before, and nothing struck him as particularly worthy of notice. but, hold! only a short ways off was an oak, or rather the remains of one, for it had evidently been struck by lightning and shattered. it had never worn a comely appearance, for its trunk was covered with black, scraggy excrescences, like the warts which sometimes disfigure the human skin. furthermore, the lower portion of the trunk was hollow, the width of the cavity being fully a foot at the base. the bolt from heaven had scattered the splinters, limbs and fragments in all directions, and no one could view this proof of the terrific power of that comparatively unknown force in nature without a shudder. fred sheldon stood looking around him until his eye rested on this interesting sight, when he viewed it some minutes more, with open eyes and mouth. then, with a strange feeling, he walked slowly toward the remains of the trunk, and stepping upon one of the broken pieces, drew himself up and peered down into the hollow, rotten cavity. he had been standing in the sunshine but a short time before, and it takes the pupil of the eye some time to become adapted to such a sudden change. at first all was blank darkness, but shortly fred saw something gleaming in the bottom of the opening. he thought it was that peculiar fungus growth known as "fox-fire," but his vision rapidly grew more distinct, and drawing himself further up, he reached down and touched the curious objects with his hand. eureka! there was all the silver plate which had been stolen from the old brick mansion a few nights before. not a piece was missing! fred sheldon had discovered it at last, and as he dropped back again on his feet, he threw his cap into the air and gave a shout, for just about that time he felt he was the happiest youngster in the united states of america! [illustration: on finding the stolen silver, fred threw his cap in the air and gave a shout.] chapter xix. a slight mistake. when archibald jackson, constable of tottenville and the surrounding country, strode forth from the home of widow sheldon on the night of the call which we have described, he felt like "shaking hands with himself," for he was confident he had made one of the greatest strikes that ever came in the way of any one in his profession--a strike that would render him famous throughout the country, and even in the city of new york. "a man has to be born a detective," he said, as he fell over a wheelbarrow at the side of the road; "for without great natural gifts he cannot attain to preeminence, as it were, in his profession. i was born a detective, and would have beaten any of those fellows from irish yard or welsh yard or scotland yard, or whatever they call it. "queer i never thought of it before, but that was always the trouble with me; i've been too modest," he added, as he climbed over the fence to pick up his hat, which a limb had knocked off; "but when this robbery at the misses perkinpine's occurred, instead of relying on my own brains i must send for mr. carter, and was worried half to death because he didn't come. "i s'pose he found the task was too gigantic for him, so he wouldn't run the risk of failure. then for the first time i sot down and begun to use my brains. it didn't take me long to work the thing out; it came to me like a flash, as it always does to men of genius--confound that root; it's ripped the toe of my shoe off." but archie was so elevated in the region of conceit and self-satisfaction that he could not be disturbed by the petty annoyances of earth; he strode along the road with his chest thrust forward and his head so high in air that it was no wonder his feet tripped and bothered him now and then. "i don't see any use of delaying the blow," he added, as he approached his home; "it will make a sensation to-morrow when the exposure is made. the new york papers will be full of it and they will send their reporters to interview me. they'll print a sketch of my life and nominate me for governor, and the illustrated papers will have my picture, and my wife betsey will find what a man of genius her husband--ah! oh! i forgot about that post!" he was recalled to himself by a violent collision with the hitching-post in front of his own house, and picking up his hat and waiting until he could gain full command of his breath, he entered the bosom of his family fully resolved to "strike the blow" on the morrow, which should make him famous throughout the country. with the rising of the sun he found himself feeling more important than ever. swallowing his breakfast hastily and looking at his bruised knuckles, he bade his family good-by, telling his wife if anybody came after him they should be told that the constable had gone away on imperative business. with this farewell archie went to the depot, boarded the cars and started for the country town of walsingham, fifty miles distant. he bought a copy of a leading daily, and after viewing the scenery for several miles, pretended to read, while he gave free rein to his imagination and drew a gorgeous picture of the near future. "to-morrow the papers will be full of it," he said, not noticing that several were smiling because he held the journal upside down, "and they'll want to put me on the force in new york. they've got to pay me a good salary if they get me--that's sartin." some time after he drew forth a couple of legal documents, which he read with care, as he had read them a score of times. they were correctly-drawn papers calling for the arrest of two certain parties. "the warrants are all right," mused the officer, as he replaced them carefully in the inside pocket of his coat, "and the two gentlemen--and especially one of them--will open his eyes when i place my hand on his shoulder and tell him he is wanted." a couple of hours later, the constable left the cars at the town of walsingham, which was in the extreme corner of the county that also held tottenville, and walked in his pompous fashion toward that portion where colonel bandman's menagerie and circus were making ready for the usual display. it was near the hour of noon, and the regular street parade had taken place, and the hundreds of people from the country were tramping back and forth, crunching peanuts, eating lunch and making themselves ill on the diluted stuff sold under the name of lemonade. the constable paid scarcely any heed to these, but wended his way to the hotel, where he inquired for colonel bandman, the proprietor of the establishment which was creating such an excitement through the country. archie was told that he had just sat down to dinner, whereupon he said he would wait until the gentleman was through, as he did not wish to be too severe upon him. then the officer occupied a chair by the window on the inside, and feeling in his pockets, to make sure the warrants were there, he kept an eye on the dining-room, to be certain the proprietor did not take the alarm and get away. after a long time colonel bandman, a tall, well-dressed gentleman, came forth, hat in hand, and looked about him, as if he expected to meet some one. "are you the gentleman who was inquiring for me?" he asked, advancing toward the constable, who rose to his feet, and with all the impressiveness of manner which he could assume, said, as he placed his hand on his shoulder: "colonel james bandman, you are my prisoner!" the other donned his hat, looked somewhat surprised, as was natural, and with his eyes fixed on the face of the constable, asked: "on what charge am i arrested?" "burglary." "let me see the warrant." "oh, that's all right," said mr. jackson, drawing forth a document from his pocket and opening it before him; "read it for yourself." the colonel glanced at it for a moment, and said with a half smile: "my name is not mentioned there; that calls upon you to arrest thomas gibby, who is my ticket agent." "oh, ah--that's the wrong paper; here's the right one." with which he gave colonel james bandman the pleasure of reading the document, which, in due and legal form, commanded archibald jackson to take the gentleman into custody. "i presume the offense is bailable?" asked the colonel, with an odd smile. "certainly, certainly, sir; i will accompany you before a magistrate who will fix your bail. where can i find mr. gibby?" "i will bring him, if you will excuse me for a minute." colonel bandman started to enter the hotel again, but the vigilant constable caught his arm: "no you don't; i'll stay with you, please; we'll go together; i don't intend you shall slip through my fingers." the colonel was evidently good-natured, for he only laughed and then, allowing the officer to take his arm, started for the dining-room, but unexpectedly met the individual whom they wanted in the hall. when gibby had been made acquainted with the business of the severe-looking official he was disposed to get angry, but a word and a suggestive look from colonel bandman quieted him, and the two walked with the officer in the direction of a magistrate. "i've got this thing down fine on you," ventured mr. jackson, by way of helping them to a feeling of resignation, "the proofs of the nefarious transaction in which you were engaged being beyond question." colonel bandman made no answer, though his companion muttered something which their custodian did not catch. as they walked through the street they attracted some attention, but it was only a short distance to the magistrate's office, where the official listened attentively to the complaints. when made aware of its character he turned smilingly toward the chief prisoner and said: "well, colonel, what have you to say to this?" "i should like to ask mr. jackson on what grounds he bases his charge of burglary against me." "the house of the misses perkinpine, near tottenville, in this county, was robbed of a lot of valuable silver plate and several hundred dollars in money on monday night last. it was the night before the circus showed in that town. fortunately for the cause of justice the two parties were seen and identified, especially the one who did the actual robbing. a bright young boy, who is very truthful, saw the robber at his work, identified him as the ungrateful wretch who was given his supper by the two excellent ladies, whom he basely robbed afterward. the description of the pretended tramp corresponds exactly with that of colonel bandman--so closely, indeed, that there can be no mistake about him. the account of his confederate is not so full, but it is sufficient to identify him as mr. gibby, there. when i was assured beyond all mistake that they were the two wretches i took out them warrants in proper form, as you will find, and i now ask that they may be held to await the action of the grand jury." having delivered himself of this rather grandiloquent speech, mr. jackson bowed to the court and stepped back to allow the accused to speak. colonel bandman, instead of doing so, turned to the magistrate and nodded for him to say something. that official, addressing himself to the constable, asked: "you are certain this offense was committed on last monday evening?" "there can be no possible mistake about it." "and it was done by these two?" "that is equally sartin." "if one is guilty both are; if one is innocent so is the other?" "yes, sir; if you choose to put it that way." "it becomes my duty to inform you then, mr. jackson, that colonel bandman has not been out of the town of walsingham for the past six weeks; he is an old schoolmate of mine, and on last monday night he stayed in my house with his wife and daughter. this complaint is dismissed, and the best thing you can do is to hasten home by the next train. good day, sir." archie wanted to say something, but he could think of nothing appropriate, and, catching up his hat, he made haste to the station where he boarded the cars without a ticket. he was never known to refer to his great mistake afterward unless some one else mentioned it, and even then the constable always seemed anxious to turn the subject to something else. chapter xx. all in good time. between nine and ten o'clock on the saturday evening succeeding the incidents i have described, a wagon similar to the one wrecked the night before, drove out of tottenville with two persons on the front seat. the driver was jacob kincade, who, having safely passed the recaptured lion over to colonel bandman, secured a couple of days' leave of absence and hurried back to tottenville, where he engaged the team, and, accompanied by bud heyland, drove out in the direction of the wood where matters went so unsatisfactorily when bud assumed charge. "i was awful 'fraid you wouldn't come to time," said bud, when they were fairly beyond the village, "which is why i tried to run the machine myself and got things mixed. sutton insisted on waiting till you arriv', but when he seen how sot i was he give in and 'greed to meet me at the place." "that was all well enough," observed mr. kincade; "but there's some things you tell me which i don't like. you said some one was listening behind the fence the other night when you and sutton was talking about this business." "that's so; but sutton showed me afterwards that the man, who was short and stumpy, couldn't have heard anything that would let him know what he was driving at. we have a way of talking that anybody else might hear every word and yet he wouldn't understand it. that's an idee of mine." "but you said some one--and i've no doubt it's the same chap--was whistling round the wood last night and scared you, so you made up your mind to wait till to-night." "that rather got me, but sut says that no man that 'spected anything wrong would go whistling round the woods in that style. that ain't the way detectives do." "maybe not, but are you sure there ain't any of them detectives about?" "me and sut have been on the watch, and there hasn't been a stranger in the village that we don't know all about. that's the biggest joke i ever heard of," laughed bud, "that 'ere jackson going out to walsingham and arresting the colonel and gibby." "yes," laughed kincade, "it took place just as i was coming away. i wish they'd locked up the colonel for awhile, just for the fun of the thing. but he and gibby were discharged at once. i came on in the same train with jackson, though i didn't talk with him about it, for i saw he felt pretty cheap. "however," added kincade, "that's got nothing to do with this business, which i feel a little nervous over. it was a mighty big load for us to get out in the wood last monday night, and i felt as though my back was broke when we put the last piece in the tree. s'pose somebody has found it!" "no danger of that," said bud. "i was out there to-day and seen that it was all right." "sure nobody was watching you?" "i took good care of that. we'll find it there just as we left it, and after we get it into the wagon we'll drive over to tom carmen's and he'll dispose of it for us." tom carmen lived at the "four corners," as the place was called, and had the reputation of being engaged in more than one kind of unlawful business. it was about ten miles off, and the thieves intended to drive there and place their plunder in his hands, he agreeing to melt it up and give them full value, less a small commission for his services. the arrangement with carmen had not been made until after the robbery, which accounts for the hiding of the spoils for several days. it did not take long, however, to come to an understanding with him, and the plunder would have been taken away the preceding night by bud heyland and cyrus sutton but for the mishaps already mentioned. "you're sure sutton will be there?" asked kincade, as they approached the wood. "you can depend on him every time," was the confident response; "he was to go out after dark to make sure that no one else is prowling around. he's one of the best fellows i ever met," added bud, who was enthusiastic over his new acquaintance; "we've fixed up half a dozen schemes that we're going into as soon as we get this off our hands." "am i in?" "of course," said bud; "the gang is to be us three, and each goes in on the ground floor. we're going to make a bigger pile than colonel bandman himself, even with all his menagerie and circus." "i liked sutton--what little i seen of him," said kincade. "oh, he's true blue--well, here we are." both ceased talking as they entered the shadow of the wood, for, bad as they were, they could not help feeling somewhat nervous over the prospect. the weather had been clear and pleasant all the week, and the stars were shining in an unclouded sky, in which there was no moon. a few minutes after they met a farmer's wagon, which was avoided with some difficulty, as it was hard to see each other, but the two passed in safety, and reached the spot they had in mind. here bud heyland took the reins, because he knew the place so well, and drew the horse aside until he and the vehicle would clear any team that might come along. to prevent any such accident as that of the preceding night the animal was secured, and the man and big boy stepped carefully a little further into the wood, bud uttering the same signal as before. it was instantly answered from a point near at hand, and the next minute cyrus sutton came forward, faintly visible as he stepped close to them and spoke: "i've been waiting more than two hours, and thought i heard you coming a half dozen times." he shook hands with kincade and bud, the latter asking: "is everything all right?" "yes, i've had my eyes open, you may depend." "will there be any risk in leaving the horse here?" asked kincade. "none at all--no one will disturb him." "then we had better go on, for there's a pretty good load to carry." "i guess i can find the way best," said bud, taking the lead. "i've been over the route so often i can follow it with my eyes shut." sutton was also familiar with it, and though it cost some trouble and not a little care, they advanced without much difficulty. bud regretted that he had not brought his bull's eye lantern with him, and beyond question it would have been of service, but sutton said it might attract attention, and it was better to get along without it if possible. the distance was considerable, and all of half an hour was taken in making their way through the wood, the darkness being such in many places that they had to hold their hands in front of them to escape collision with limbs and trunks of trees. "here we are!" it was bud heyland who spoke, and in the dim light his companions saw that he was right. there was a small, natural clearing, which enabled them to observe the blasted oak without difficulty. the little party stood close by the hiding-place of the plunder that had been taken from the old brick mansion several nights before. "you can reach down to it, can't you?" asked sutton, addressing bud heyland. "yes; it's only a little ways down." "hand it out, then," added kincade; "i shan't feel right till we have all this loot safely stowed away with tom carmen at the 'four corners.'" "all right," responded bud, who immediately thrust his head and shoulders into the cavity. he remained in this bent position less than a minute, when he jerked out his head as though some serpent had struck at him with his fangs, and exclaimed: "it's all gone!" "what?" gasped jake kincade. "somebody has taken everything away----" in the dim light, bud heyland at that juncture observed something which amazed him still more. instead of two men there were three, and two of them were struggling fiercely together. these were cyrus sutton and jacob kincade, but the struggle was short. in a twinkling the showman was thrown on his back, and the nippers placed on his wrists. "it's no use," said sutton, as he had called himself, in a low voice; "the game is up, jacob." before bud heyland could understand that he and kincade were entrapped, the third man sprang forward and manipulated the handcuffs so dexterously that bud quickly realized he was a helpless captive. this third man was archie jackson, the constable, who could not avoid declaring in a louder voice than was necessary. "we've got you both, and you may as well take it like men. this gentleman whom you two took for cyrus sutton, a cattle drover, is my old friend james carter, the detective, from new york." and such was the truth indeed. chapter xxi. how it was done. as was intimated at the close of the preceding chapter, the individual who has figured thus far as cyrus sutton, interested in the cattle business, was in reality james carter, the well-known detective of the metropolis. when he received word from archie jackson of the robbery that had been committed near tottenville, he went out at once to the little town to investigate. mr. carter was a shrewd man, who understood his business, and he took the precaution to go in such a disguise that the fussy little constable never once suspected his identity. the detective wished to find out whether it would do to trust the officer, and he was quick to see that if jackson was taken into his confidence, he would be likely to spoil everything, from his inability to keep a secret. so the real detective went to work in his own fashion, following up the clews with care, and allowing jackson to disport himself as seemed best. he was not slow to fix his suspicions on the right parties, and he then devoted himself to winning the confidence of bud heyland. it would have been an easy matter to fasten the guilt on this bad boy, but the keen-witted officer was quick to perceive that he had struck another and more important trail, which could not be followed to a successful conclusion without the full confidence of young heyland. he learned that bud was being used as a tool by other parties, who were circulating counterfeit money, and jacob kincade was one of the leaders, with the other two who composed the company in new york. the detectives in that city were put to work and captured the knaves almost at the same time that bud and kincade were taken. it required a little time for mr. carter to satisfy himself beyond all mistake that the two named were the ones who were engaged in the dangerous pursuit of "shoving" spurious money, and he resolved that when he moved he would have the proof established beyond a shadow of doubt. he easily drew the most important facts from bud, and thus it will be seen the recovery of the stolen silverware became secondary to the detection of the dealers in counterfeit money. the officer was annoyed by the failure of kincade to appear on the night he agreed, and was fearful lest he suspected something and would keep out of the way. he could have taken him at the time fred sheldon was paid his reward, for he knew the showman at that time had a lot of bad money in his possession, though he paid good bills to fred, who, it will be remembered, placed them in the hands of squire jones. bud was determined to exchange bad currency for this, and waylaid fred for that purpose, but failed, for the reason already given. he, however, gave fred twenty dollars to change, which it will also be remembered fell into the hands of the detective a few minutes later, and was one of the several links in the chain of evidence that was forged about the unsuspecting youth and his employer. then bud, like many beginners in actual transgression, became careless, and worked off a great deal of the counterfeit money in the village where he was staying, among the lot being the one hundred dollars which he paid the liveryman for wrecking his wagon. when fred sheldon came into the village to claim his reward for securing the estray lion, cyrus sutton, as he was known, who was sitting on the hotel porch, became interested in him. he scrutinized him sharply, but avoided asking him any questions. it was natural, however, that he should feel some curiosity, and he learned that what he suspected was true; the boy was the child of mary sheldon, who was the widow of george sheldon, killed some years before on the battle-field. george sheldon and james carter had been comrades from the beginning of the war until the former fell while fighting for his country. the two had "drank from the same canteen," and were as closely bound together as if brothers. carter held the head of sheldon when he lay dying, and sent the last message to his wife, who had also been a schoolmate of carter's. an aptitude which the latter showed in tracing crime and wrong-doers led him into the detective business, and he lost sight of the widow of his old friend and their baby boy, until drawn to tottenville in the pursuit of his profession. he reproached himself that he did not discover the truth sooner, but when he found that mrs. sheldon was absent he could only wait until she returned, and as we have shown, he took the first occasion to call upon her and renew the acquaintance of former years. but the moment carter identified the brave little fellow who had earned his reward for capturing the wild beast he made up his mind to do a generous thing for him and his mother; he was determined that if it could possibly be brought about fred should receive the five hundred dollars reward offered for the recovery of the silver plate stolen from the misses perkinpine. circumstances already had done a good deal to help him in his laudable purpose, for, as we have shown, fred had witnessed the robbery, and, in fact, had been brought in contact with both of the guilty parties. mr. carter was afraid to take fred into his entire confidence, on account of his tender years; and though he was an unusually bright and courageous lad, the detective was reluctant to bring him into any more intimate association with crime than was necessary from the service he intended to do him. as he was too prudent to trust the constable, archie jackson, it will be seen that he worked entirely alone until the night that mrs. sheldon returned home. then he called upon her and told her his whole plans, for he knew that fred inherited a good deal of his bravery from her, and though it was contrary to his rule to make a confidant of any one, he did not hesitate to tell her all. she was deeply grateful for the kindness he contemplated, though she was not assured that it was for the best to involve fred as was proposed. the detective, however, succeeded in overcoming her scruples, and they agreed upon the plan of action. the boy was encouraged to make his hunt in the wood, for carter had already learned from bud heyland that the plunder was hidden somewhere in it, and he had agreed to assist in bringing it forth, though bud would not agree to show him precisely where it was, until the time should come for taking it away. when fred found the hiding place he was so overjoyed that for awhile he did not know what to do; finally he concluded, as a matter of safety, to remove and hide it somewhere else. accordingly he tugged and lifted the heavy pieces out one by one, and then carried them all some distance, placed them on the ground at the foot of a large beech tree and covered them up as best he could with leaves. this took him until nearly noon, when he ran home to tell his mother what he had done. within the next hour james carter knew it and he laughed with satisfaction. "it was the wisest thing that could have been done." "why so?" asked the widow. "don't you see he has already earned the reward, and, what is more, he shall have it, too. he has recovered the plate without the slightest assistance from any one." "but the thieves have not been caught." "that is my work; i will attend to that." "and what shall fred do?" "keep him home to-night, give him a good supper and put him to bed early, and tell him it will be all right in the morning." mrs. sheldon did not feel exactly clear that it was "all right," but the good-hearted carter had a way of carrying his point, and he would not listen to any argument from her. so she performed her part of the programme in spirit and letter, and when fred sheldon closed his eyes in slumber that saturday evening it was in the belief that everything would come out as his mother promised, even though he believed that one of the guiltiest of the criminals was the man known as cyrus sutton. mrs. sheldon wanted to tell the little fellow the whole story that night, but the detective would not consent until the "case was closed." when archie jackson was called upon late in the afternoon by james carter and informed how matters stood, he was dumfounded for several minutes. it seemed like doubting his own senses, to believe that the cattle drover was no other than the famous new york detective, but he was convinced at last, and entered with great ardor into the scheme for the capture of the criminals. mr. carter impressed upon the constable the fact that the offered reward had already been earned by master fred sheldon. archie was disposed to demur, but finally, with some show of grace, he gave in and said he would be pleased to extend his congratulations to the young gentleman. a little judicious flattery on the part of the detective convinced archie that a point had been reached in the proceedings, where his services were indispensable, and that, if the two law breakers were to be captured, it must be through the help of the brave tottenville constable, who would receive liberal compensation for his assistance. accordingly, archie was stationed near the spot where it was certain bud heyland and jacob kincade would appear, later in the evening. at a preconcerted signal, he sprang from his concealment, and the reader has learned that he performed his part in really creditable style. chapter xxii. an attempted rescue. now since the reader knows how it happened that archie jackson and he who had masqueraded under the name of cyrus sutton chanced to be at this particular spot in the woods when the thieves would have removed their booty, and also why the silver could not be found by these worthies, it is necessary to return to the place where the arrest was made. bud heyland did not take kindly to the idea of being a prisoner. none knew better than himself the proofs which could be brought against him, and, after the first surprise passed away, his only thought was of how he might escape. while the valiant archie stood over him in an attitude of triumph, the detective was holding a short but very concise conversation with the second captive. "i'll make you smart for this," bud heard kincade say. "things have come to a pretty pass when a man who is invited by a friend to stop on the road a minute in order to look for a whip that was lost while we were hunting for the lion, gets treated in this manner by a couple of drunken fools." taking his cue from the speech, bud added in an injured tone: "that's a fact. i was on my way to join the show; but thought it might be possible to find the whip, for it belongs to colonel bandman, an' he kicked because i left it." "after the plans we have laid, heyland, do you think it is well to try such a story on me," carter asked sternly. "i don't know what you're talkin' about. jake has told how we happened to come here." "he didn't explain why you wanted fred sheldon to change a twenty-dollar bill for you, nor how it happened that you had an hundred dollars to pay for the wagon which was smashed." "i've got nothing to do with any counterfeit money that has been passed, and i defy you to prove it," kincade cried, energetically. "who said anything about counterfeits?" the detective asked, sternly. "it will be well for you to keep your mouth shut, unless you want to get deeper in the mire than you are already. it so chances, however, that i have ample proof of your connection with the robbery, aside from what bud may have let drop, and, in addition, will show how long you have been engaged in the business of passing worthless money, so there is no need of any further talk. will you walk to the road, or shall we be forced to carry you?" this question was asked because bud had seated himself as if intending to remain for some time; but he sprung to his feet immediately, so thoroughly cowed, that he would have attempted to obey any command, however unreasonable, in the hope of finding favor in the sight of his captors. "we've got to do what you say, for awhile, anyhow," kincade replied, sulkily; "but somebody will suffer because of this outrage." "i'll take the chances," carter replied, laughingly. "step out lively, for i intend to get some sleep to-night." "hold on a minute," the fussy little constable cried, as he ran to the side of the detective and whispered: "i think we should take the silver with us. there may be more of this gang who will come after it when they find we have nabbed these two." "i fancy it's safe," was the careless reply, "and whether it is or not, we must wait until we see fred again, for i haven't the slightest idea where he hid it." "but, you see----" "now, don't fret, my friend," the detective interrupted, determined that fred should take the silver himself to the maiden ladies. "you have conducted the case so admirably thus far that it would be a shame to run the risk of spoiling the job by loitering here where there may be an attempt at a rescue." this bit of flattery, coupled with the intimation that there might be a fight, caused archie to remain silent. he was eager to be in town where he could relate his wonderful skill in trapping the thieves, as well as his fear lest there should be a hand-to-hand encounter with desperate men, and these desires caused him to make every effort to land the prisoners in jail. he even lost sight of the reward, for the time being, through the anxiety to sing his own praises, and in his sternest tones, which were not very dreadful, by the way, he urged bud forward. "if you make the slightest show of trying to run away, i'll put a dozen bullets in your body," he said, and then, as he reached for his weapon to further intimidate the prisoner, he discovered, to his chagrin, that, as on a previous occasion, his revolver was at home; but in its place, put there while he labored under great excitement, was the tack-hammer, symbol of his trade as bill-poster. the two men went toward the road very meekly, evidently concluding that submission was the best policy, and for once carter made a mistake. having worked up the case to such a satisfactory conclusion, and believing these were the only two attachés of the circus in the vicinity, he allowed archie jackson to manage matters from this point. the valiant constable, thinking only of the glory with which he would cover himself as soon as he was at the hotel amid a throng of his acquaintances, simply paid attention to the fact that the prisoners were marching properly in front of him, heeding not the rumble of distant wheels on the road beyond. kincade heard them, however, and he whispered softly to bud: "there's just a chance that some of our people are coming. i heard colonel bandman say he should send albers and towsey back to look up some harness that was left to be repaired, and this is about the time they ought to be here." "much good it will do us with that fool of a jackson ready to shoot, the first move we make," bud replied petulantly. "go on without so much talk," archie cried fiercely, from the rear. "you can't play any games on me." "from what i've heard, you know pretty well how a man can shoot in the dark, an' i'll take my chances of gettin' a bullet in the back rather than go to jail for ten years or so. when i give the word, run the best you know how." bud promised to obey; but from the tone of his voice it could be told that he had much rather shoot at a person than act as target himself, and archie ordered the prisoners to quicken their speed. carter was several paces in the rear, remaining in the background in order, for the better carrying out of his own plans in regard to fred, it should appear as if the constable was the commanding officer, and when the party arrived at the edge of the road where bud had fastened the horse, the rumble of the approaching team could be heard very distinctly. "now's our time! run for your life!" kincade whispered, staring up the road at the same instant, and as bud followed at full speed both shouted for help at the utmost strength of their lungs. it was as if this daring attempt at escape deprived archie of all power of motion. he lost several valuable seconds staring after his vanishing prisoners in speechless surprise, and followed this officer-like proceeding by attempting to shoot the fugitives with the tack-hammer. carter, although not anticipating anything of the kind, had his wits about him, and, rushing past the bewildered constable, darted up the road in silence. he was well armed; but did not care to run the risk of killing one of the thieves, more especially since he felt positive of overtaking both in a short time, owing to the fact that the manacles upon their wrists would prevent them from any extraordinary speed. neither bud nor kincade ceased to call for help, and almost before carter was well in pursuit a voice from the oncoming team could be heard saying: "that's some of our crowd. i'm sure nobody but jake could yell so loud." "it _is_ me!" kincade shouted. "hold hard, for there are a couple of officers close behind!" by the sounds which followed, carter understood that the new-comers were turning their wagon, preparatory to carrying the arrested parties in the opposite direction, and he cried to the valiant archie, who as yet had not collected his scattered senses sufficiently to join in the pursuit: "bring that team on here, and be quick about it!" now, to discharge a weapon would be to imperil the lives of the new actors on the scene, and this was not to be thought of for a moment. carter strained every muscle to overtake his prisoners before they could clamber into the wagon; but in vain. even in the gloom he could see the dark forms of the men as they leaped into the rear of the vehicle, and in another instant the horse was off at a full gallop in the direction from which he had just come. for the detective to go on afoot would have been folly, and once more he cried for archie to bring the team, which had been left by the roadside when kincade and bud arrived. the little constable had by this time managed to understand at least a portion of what was going on around him, and, in a very bungling fashion, was trying to unfasten the hitching-rein; but he made such a poor job of it that carter was forced to return and do the work himself. "get in quickly," the detective said, sharply, as he led the horse into the road, and following archie, the two were soon riding at a mad pace in pursuit, regardless alike of possible vehicles to be met, or the danger of being overturned. "why didn't you shoot 'em when you had the chance?" archie asked, as soon as he realized the startling change in the condition of affairs. "because that should be done only when a man is actually in fear of his life, or believes a dangerous prisoner cannot be halted in any other way." "but that was the only chance of stoppin' them fellers." "i'll have them before morning," was the quiet reply, as the driver urged the horse to still greater exertions. "those men have been traveling a long distance, while our animal is fresh, therefore it's only a question of time; but how does it happen that you didn't shoot? i left the fellows in your charge." "i was out putting up some bills this afternoon, and had my hammer with me, of course. when we got ready for this trip, i felt on the outside of my hip pocket, and made sure it was my revolver that formed such a bunch." "another time i should advise you to be certain which of your many offices you intend to represent," carter said, quietly. "i'm not positive, however, that we haven't cause to be thankful, for somebody might have been hurt." "there's no question about it, if i had been armed," was the reply, in a blood-thirsty tone, for archie was rapidly recovering his alleged courage. "and i, being in the rear, stood as good a chance of receiving the bullet as did the men." "you have never seen me shoot," the little constable said, proudly. "fortunately, i never did," carter replied, and then the conversation ceased, as they were at the forks of a road where it was necessary to come to a halt in order to learn in which direction the fugitives had gone. this was soon ascertained, and as the detective applied the whip vigorously, he said, warningly: "now keep your wits about you, for we are where they will try to give us the slip, and it is more than possible heyland and kincade may jump out of the wagon, leaving us to follow the team, while they make good their escape." archie tried very hard to do as he was commanded; he stared into darkness, able now and then to distinguish the outlines of the vehicle in advance, and at the same time was forced to exert all his strength to prevent being thrown from his seat, so recklessly was carter driving. "we'll be upset," he finally said, in a mild tone of protest. "the road seems to be very rough, and there must be considerable danger in going at such a pace." "no more for us than for them. i'll take a good many chances rather than go back to tottenville and admit that we allowed two prisoners to escape after we had them ironed." the little constable had nothing more to say. he also thought it would be awkward to explain to his particular friends how, after such a marvelous piece of detective work, the criminals had got free. this, coupled with the story of his bruised hand, would give the fun-loving inhabitants of the village an opportunity to make his life miserable with pointless jokes and alleged witticisms, therefore he shut his teeth firmly, resolved not to make any further protest even though convinced that his life was actually in danger. during half an hour the chase continued, and for at least twenty minutes of this time the pursuers were so near the pursued that it would have been impossible for either occupant of the wagon to leap out unnoticed. now the foremost horse was beginning to show signs of fatigue, owing to previous travel and the unusual load. both whip and voice was used to urge him on; but in vain, and carter said, in a low tone to archie: "the chase is nearly ended! be ready to leap out the instant we stop." then, drawing his revolver, he cried, "there's no chance of your giving us the slip. pull up, or i shall fire! if the prisoners are delivered to me at once there will be nothing said regarding the effort to aid them in escaping; but a delay of five minutes will result in imprisonment for the whole party." kincade's friends evidently recognized the folly of prolonging the struggle, and, to save themselves from possible penalties of the law, the driver shouted: "i'll pull up. look out that you don't run into us!" it required no great effort to bring both the panting steeds to a stand-still, and in a twinkling carter was standing at one side of the vehicle with his revolver in hand, while archie, with a boldness that surprised him afterward, stationed himself directly opposite, holding the tack-hammer as if on the point of shooting the culprits. kincade realized that it was best to submit to the inevitable with a good grace, and he descended from the wagon, saying to the little constable as he did so: "don't shoot! i'll agree to go peacefully." "then see that you behave yourself, or i'll blow the whole top of your head off," archie replied, in a blood-thirsty tone; but at the same time he took very good care to keep the hammer out of sight. bud heyland resisted even now when those who had tried to aid were ready to give him up. "i won't go back!" he cried, kicking vigorously as the detective attempted to pull him from the wagon. "i've done nothing for which i can be arrested, and you shan't take me." the long chase had exhausted all of carter's patience, and he was not disposed to spend many seconds in expostulating. seizing the kicking youth by one foot he dragged him with no gentle force to the ground, and an instant later the men in the wagon drove off, evidently preferring flight to the chances that the detective would keep his promise. "bundle them into the carriage, and tie their legs," carter said to the constable, and in a very short space of time the thieves were lying in the bottom of the vehicle unable to move hand or foot. now that there was not the slightest possibility the culprits could escape, archie kept vigilant watch over them. the least movement on the part of either, as carter drove the tired horse back to the village, was the signal for him to use his hammer on any portion of their bodies which was most convenient, and this repeated punishment must have caused bud to remember how often he had ill-treated those who were quite as unable to "strike back" as he now was. not until the prisoners were safely lodged in the little building which served as jail did archie feel perfectly safe, and then all his old pompous manner returned. but for the detective he would have hurried away to tell the news, late in the night though it was, for in his own opinion at least, this night's work had shown him to be not only a true hero, but an able detective. "it is considerably past midnight," carter said, as they left the jail, "and we have a great deal to do before this job is finished." "what do you mean?" "are we to leave the silver and money?" "of course not; but you said we'd have to wait until we saw fred." "exactly so; but what is to prevent our doing that now? when the property has been delivered to its rightful owners you and i can take our ease; until then we are bound to keep moving." archie was disappointed at not being able to establish, without loss of time, his claim to being a great man; but he had no idea of allowing anything to be done in the matter when he was not present, if it could be avoided, and he clambered into the wagon once more. the two drove directly to the sheldon home, and fred was dreaming that burglars were trying to get into the house, when he suddenly became conscious that some one was pounding vigorously on the front door. leaping from the bed and looking out of the window he was surprised at seeing the man whom he knew as cyrus sutton, and at the same moment he heard his mother ask: "what is the matter, mr. carter?" "nothing, except that we want fred. the case is closed, and to save time we'd better get the property at once. have you any objection to his going with me?" "not the slightest. i will awaken him." "i'll be down in a minute," fred cried, as he began to make a hurried toilet, wondering meanwhile why bud heyland's friend should be trusted so implicitly by his mother. as a matter of course it was necessary for mrs. sheldon to explain to her son who cyrus sutton really was and fred was still in a maze of bewilderment when his mother admitted the detective. "why didn't you tell me," he cried reproachfully. "no good could have come of it," the gentleman replied laughingly, "and, besides, i can't see how you failed to discover the secret, either when you ran away after listening behind the rock on the road-side, or when i passed so near while supposed to be hunting for you." "did you see me then?" "certainly, and but for such slight obstructions as i placed in bud's way, he might have overtaken you." "where is archie?" "out in the wagon waiting for you. kincade and bud are in the lock-up where we just left them, and now it is proposed to get the silver in order to deliver it early in the morning." "did mother tell you i found it?" "she did, and i am heartily glad, since now the reward will be yours, and with it you can clear your home from debt." fred did not wait to ask any further questions. in a very few moments he was ready for the journey, and, with the promise to "come home as soon as the work was done," he went out to where archie greeted him in the most effusive manner. "we have covered ourselves with glory," the little constable cried. "this is a case which will be told throughout the country, and the fact that we arrested the culprits and recovered the property when there was absolutely no clew on which to work, is something unparalleled in the annals of detective history." fred was neither prepared to agree to, nor dispute this statement. the only fact which remained distinct in his mind was that the reward would be his, and if there was any glory attached he felt perfectly willing archie should take it all. "get into the wagon, fred," carter said impatiently. "it will take us until daylight to get the stuff, and we don't want to shock the good people of tottenville by doing too much driving after sunrise." fred obeyed without delay, and during the ride archie gave him all the particulars concerning the capture of the thieves, save in regard to his own stupidity which permitted the temporary escape. knowing the woods in the vicinity of his home as well as fred did, it was not difficult for him to go directly to the place where he had hidden the silver, even in the night, and half an hour later the stolen service was in the carriage. "it is nearly daylight," carter said, when they were driving in the direction of the village again, "and the best thing we can do will be to go to fred's home, where he and i can keep guard over the treasure until it is a proper time to return it to its owners." "in that case i may as well go home awhile," archie said reflectively. "doubtless my wife will be wondering what has kept me, and there is no need of three to watch the silver." "very well, we shall not leave there until about nine o'clock," and carter reined in the horse as they were in front of the fussy little constable's house, for him to alight. chapter xxiii. the silverware returned. the sabbath morning dawned cool, breezy and delightful, and the maiden twin sisters, misses annie and lizzie perkinpine, made their preparations for driving to the village church, just as they had been in the habit of doing for many years. it required a storm of unusual violence to keep them from the sunday service, which was more edifying to the good souls than any worldly entertainment could have been. they were not among those whose health permits them to attend secular amusements, but who invariably feel "indisposed" when their spiritual duties are involved. "i was afraid, sister," said annie, "that when our silver was stolen, the loss would weigh so heavily upon me that i would not be able to enjoy the church service as much as usual, but i am thankful that it made no difference with me; how was it with _you_?" "i could not help feeling disturbed for some days," was the reply, "for it _was_ a loss indeed, but, when we have so much to be grateful for, how wrong it is to repine----" "what's that?" interrupted the other, hastening to the window as she heard the rattle of carriage wheels; "some one is coming here as sure as i live." "the folks must have forgot that it is the sabbath," was the grieved remark of the other. "but this is something out of the common. heigho!" this exclamation was caused by the sight of cyrus sutton, as he leaped lightly out of the wagon and tied his horse, while fred sheldon seemed to be tugging at something on the floor of the vehicle, which resisted his efforts. mr. sutton, having fastened the horse, went to the help of the youngster, and the next moment the two approached the house bearing a considerable burden. "my gracious!" exclaimed aunt lizzie, throwing up her hands, and ready to sink to the floor in her astonishment; "they have got our silverware." "you are right," added her sister, "they have the whole six pieces, slop-jar, sugar bowl, cream pitcher--not one of the six missing. they have them _all_; _now_ we can go to church and enjoy the sermon more than ever." the massive service of solid silver quaintly fashioned and carved by the puffy craftsmen of amsterdam, who wrought and toiled when sturdy old von tromp was pounding the british tars off goodwin sands, more than two centuries ago, was carried into the house with considerable effort and set on the dining-room table, while for a minute or two the owners could do nothing but clasp and unclasp their hands and utter exclamations of wonder and thankfulness that the invaluable heirlooms had at last come back to them. the detective and lad looked smilingly at the ladies, hardly less pleased than they. "where did you find them?" asked aunt lizzie, addressing herself directly to mr. carter, as was natural for her to do. the detective pointed to the boy and said: "ask him." "why, what can fred know about it?" inquired the lady, beaming kindly upon the blushing lad. "he knows everything, for it was not i, but he, who found them." "why, fred, how can that be?" "i found them in an old tree in the woods," replied the little fellow, blushing to his ears. "this gentleman helped me to bring them here, for i never could have lugged them alone." "of course you couldn't, but since you have earned the reward, you shall have it. to-day is the holy sabbath, and it would be wrong, therefore, to engage in any business, but come around early to-morrow morning and we will be ready." "and i want to say," said aunt annie, pinching the chubby cheek of the happy youngster, "that there isn't any one in the whole world that we would rather give the reward to than you." "and there is none that it will please me more to see receive it," was the cordial remark of mr. carter, who, respecting the scruples of the good ladies, was about to bid them good-morning, when aunt lizzie, walking to the window, said: "i wonder what is keeping michael." "i am afraid he will not be here to-day," said the officer. "why not?" asked the sisters together in astonishment. "well, to tell you the truth, he is in trouble." "why, what has michael done." "nothing himself, but do you remember the tramp who came here last monday night, and, after eating at your table, stole, or rather helped to steal, your silver service?" "of course we remember him." "well, that tramp was michael's son bud, who had put on false whiskers and disguised himself so that you never suspected who he was. bud is a bad boy and is now in jail." "what is the world coming to?" gasped aunt lizzie, sinking into a chair with clasped hands, while her sister was no less shocked. in their kindness of heart they would have been glad to lose a large part of the precious silverware could it have been the means of restoring the boy to honesty and innocence. but that was impossible, and the sisters could only grieve over the depravity of one whom they had trusted. they asked nothing about the money that was taken with the silver, but mr. carter handed more than one-half of the sum to them. "bud had spent considerable, but he gave me this; kincade declared that he hadn't a penny left, but i don't believe him; this will considerably decrease your loss." at this moment, there was a resounding knock on the door, and in response to the summons to enter, archie jackson appeared, very red in the face and puffing hard. bowing hastily to the ladies, he said impatiently to the officer: "it seems to me you're deef." "why so?" "i've been chasing and yelling after you for half a mile, but you either pretended you didn't hear me or maybe you didn't." "i assure you, archie, that i would have stopped on the first call, if i had heard you, for you know how glad i am always to have your company, and how little we could have done without your help." the detective knew how to mollify the fussy constable, whose face flushed a still brighter red, under the compliments of his employer, as he may be termed. "i knowed you was coming here," explained archie, "and so i come along, so as to vouch to these ladies for you." "you are very kind, but they seem to be satisfied with master fred's indorsement, for he has the reputation of being a truthful lad." "i'm glad to hear it; how far, may i ask," he continued, clearing his throat, "have you progressed in the settlement of the various questions and complications arising from the nefarious transaction on monday evening last?" "the plate has been returned to the ladies, as your eyes must have told you; but, since this is the first day of the week, the reward will not be handed over to fred until to-morrow morning. "accept my congratulations, sir, accept my congratulations," said the constable, stepping ardently toward the boy and effusively extending his hand. the ladies declined to accept the money which the detective offered, insisting that it belonged to him. he complied with their wishes, and, since it was evident that archie had hastened over solely to make sure he was not forgotten in the general distribution of wages, the detective handed him one hundred dollars, which was received with delight, since it was far more than the constable had ever earned in such a short time in all his life before. "before i leave," said mr. carter, addressing the ladies, "i must impress one important truth upon you." "you mean about the sin of stealing," said aunt annie; "oh, we have thought a good deal about _that_." the officer smiled in spite of himself, but quickly became serious again. "you mistake me. i refer to your practice of keeping such valuable plate as loosely as you have been in the habit of doing for so many years. the fact of the robbery will cause it to be generally known that your silver can be had by any one who chooses to enter your house and take it, and you may rest assured, that if you leave it exposed it won't be long before it will vanish again, beyond the reach of all the fred sheldons and detectives in the united states." "your words are wise," said aunt annie, "and i have made up my mind that we must purchase two or three more locks and put them on the chest." "i think i know a better plan than _that_," aunt lizzie hastened to say. "what's that?" inquired the visitor. "we'll get michael to bring some real heavy stones to the house and place them on the lid of the chest, so as to hold it down." "neither of your plans will work," said mr. carter solemnly; "you must either place your silver in the bank, where you can get it whenever you wish, or you must buy a burglar-proof safe and lock it up in that every night." "i have heard of such things," said aunt lizzie, "and i think we will procure a safe, for it is more pleasant to know that the silver is in the house than it is to have it in the bank, miles off, where it will be so hard to take and bring it. what do you think, sister?" "the same as you do." "then we will buy the safe." "and until you do so, the silver must be deposited in the bank; though, as this is sunday, you will have to keep it in the house until the morrow." "i shall not feel afraid to do that," was the serene response of sister lizzie, "because no man, even if he is wicked enough to be a robber, would be so abandoned as to commit the crime on _sunday_." the beautiful faith of the good soul was not shocked by any violent results of her trust. though the silver remained in her house during the rest of that day and the following night, it was not disturbed, and on the morrow was safely delivered to the bank, where it stayed until the huge safe was set up in the old mansion, in which the precious stuff was deposited, and where at this writing it still remains, undisturbed by any wicked law-breakers. you may not know it, but it is a fact that there are circuses traveling over the country to-day whose ticket-sellers receive no wages at all, because they rely upon the short change and the bad money which they can work off on their patrons. not only that, but i know of a case where a man paid twenty dollars monthly for the privilege of selling tickets for a circus. from this statement, i must except any and all enterprises with which my old friend, p. t. barnum, has any connection. nothing could induce him to countenance such dishonesty. trained in this pernicious school, jacob kincade did not hesitate to launch out more boldly, and finally he formed a partnership with two other knaves, for the purpose of circulating counterfeit money, engaging now and then in the side speculation of burglary, as was the case at tottenville, where he arrived a few hours in advance of the show itself. he and his two companions were deserving of no sympathy, and each was sentenced to ten years in the state prison. the youth of bud heyland, his honest repentance and the grief of his father and mother aroused great sympathy for him. it could not be denied that he was a bad boy, who had started wrong, and was traveling fast along the downward path. in truth, he had already gone so far that it may be said the goal was in sight when he was brought up with such a round turn. a fact greatly in his favor was apparent to all--he had been used as a cat's paw by others. he was ignorant of counterfeit money, though easily persuaded to engage in the scheme of passing it upon others. true, the proposition to rob the perkinpine sisters came from him, but in that sad affair also he was put forward as the chief agent, while his partner took good care to keep in the background. bud saw the fearful precipice on whose margin he stood. his parents were almost heart-broken, and there could be no doubt of his anxiety to atone, so far as possible, for the evil he had done. fortunately, the judge was not only just but merciful, and, anxious to save the youth, he discharged him under a "suspended sentence," as it was called, a most unusual proceeding under the circumstances, but which proved most beneficent, since the lad never gave any evidence of a desire to return to his evil ways. as for master fred sheldon, i almost feel as though it is unnecessary to tell you anything more about him, for, with such a mother, with such natural inclinations, and with such training, happiness, success and prosperity are as sure to follow as the morning is to succeed the darkness of night. i tell you, boys, you may feel inclined to slight the old saying that honesty is the best policy, but no truer words were ever written, and you should carry them graven on your hearts to the last hours of your life. fred grew into a strong, sturdy boy, who held the respect and esteem of the neighborhood. the sisters perkinpine, as well as many others, took a deep interest in him and gave him help in many ways, and often when the boy was embarrassed by receiving it. the time at last came, when our "young hero" bade good-by to his loved mother, and went to the great city of new york to carve his fortune. there he was exposed to manifold more temptations than ever could be the case in his simple country home, but he was encased in the impenetrable armor of truthfulness, honesty, industry and right principles, and from this armor all the darts of the great adversary "rolled off like rustling rain." fred is now a man engaged in a prosperous business in the metropolis of our country, married to a loving and helpful wife, who seems to hold the sweetest and tenderest place in his affection, surpassed by that of no one else, but equalled by her who has been his guardian angel from infancy--his mother. the walnut rod. by r. f. colwell. my father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. we played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of march. at the time of which i speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. harry, carl and francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. i, royal by name, a junior in a well-known new england college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds. we packed our bags, took our rods--for trout fishing was often good, even in early april, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture--and boarded the train. at the station the hired man met us with a pair of morgan horses than which i do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with aunt celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. she was a widow, having lost her husband in the mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern new york. she was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling aunt celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought. we had a cozy tea. the special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. this was saturday evening. the next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that i remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "henry's boys take after him for their good voices." father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school. the next morning we took our rods and went off for a long tramp. we fished some, and between us brought home enough for next morning's breakfast. the next day we climbed the favorite hills and gathered four large bunches of that spring beauty _epigæa repens_, arbutus, or may flowers, whose pink cups and delicious woody fragrance we entrusted to damp moss, and sent the box with our cards to mother, for we knew how she loved the flowers she had picked from these same hills. their scent comes back to me now, though it is many years since i have picked one. carl and francis were just at the age when feats of daring were a delight to them. harry was of a naturally timid nature, modest, and lacking sometimes in confidence, and so was often urged on by the other two, when he shrank from attempting anything, by such expressions as "don't be a coward, harry!" "a girl could do that!" which, by such a sensitive spirit, were felt more than blows of the lash would be. when i was by, the boys would not indulge in these trials of strength or endurance, but in my absence i knew they hurt his tender feelings by their taunts, though really they did not intend to. a boy looks for what he calls courage in his playmate, and, if he does not see what apparently corresponds to his own, he thinks him a coward, while the braver of the two may really be the more diffident and shrinking one. it was saturday afternoon; we were to leave monday morning, and i had gone to the post-office to mail a letter to our father, telling him to expect us monday noon. behind the barn was a large oak tree from whose trunk a long branch ran horizontally toward the shed roof, though at a considerable distance above it. the boys had been pitching quoits near the tree, and, having finished the game, looked about for some more exciting sport. francis thought he saw it, so he climbed the tree, crept out on the limb, hung by the arms a moment and then dropped, with something of a jar, to be sure, but safely, on the roof, where he sat with a satisfied look. he called to carl to follow him. carl, though unwilling to try it, was still more unwilling to acknowledge any superiority of his older brother in that line, so he, too, climbed up, crept out, and, when he had found what he thought was a good place, and had called out two or three times, "fran, shall i strike all right?" dropped and was happy. then they both called to harry, "come on, hal," but he, overcome by the fear he had felt that they would fall while attempting it, refused to make the trial. when they began to speak about what "a girl could do," grandfather came out of the back door, where he had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, patted harry on the shoulder, assuring him that he'd more good sense than carl and francis together, and bade the climbers come down at once. grandfather was a man of few words, and they obeyed. nothing more was said. i returned soon after. we had tea as usual and adjourned to the library, where a genial fire of hickory logs warmed and lighted the room. grandmother and grandfather sat in their armchairs on each side of the broad hearth. i occupied an antique chair i had found in the attic, and which i was to carry home for my own room. carl and francis sat on old-fashioned crickets, while aunt celia had her low willow rocker in front of the fire, and harry leaned against her, with her arm around his neck. we remained silent for some moments, when grandfather said quietly, "celia, hadn't you better tell the boys the story of the walnut rod?" we looked up in swift surprise. the walnut rod spoken of was one that had rested, ever since we could remember, across a pair of broad antlers over the fireplace, with an old sword and two muskets that had seen service at bunker hill and yorktown. often had we, in boyish curiosity, asked what it was, and why it was kept there, tied by a piece of faded ribbon to one of the antlers, but had always been put off with "by-and-by," and "when you are older." now, when we saw a chance to know about it, we chorused, "oh, yes, aunt celia, do tell, please," and she quietly saying, "i suppose they can learn its lesson now," began: "i was, as you know, the only girl of the family, and also the youngest child, your father being two years older. there were few neighbors when we first came here to live; indeed, our nearest was fully a quarter of a mile away, so we saw few beside our own family. your uncles, john, william, and elijah, were several years older, and so were busy helping father in clearing the land and in its care. accordingly, henry and i were much together. we studied the same book at our mother's knee, played with the same toys, and were together so much that the older boys sometimes called us 'mother's two girls.' but your father, though tender and gentle in appearance, had a brave heart under his little jacket, and i knew better than they, that he was no coward. they called him so sometimes, thinking, because he seemed fearful about some things they counted trifles, that he really had no courage. i'm afraid boys have forgotten nowadays, that mere daring is no test of true courage." here francis and carl felt their faces grow hot, but aunt celia said no more and went on. "it was one day in april, very like to-day, that we all went upon the side hill to pick may flowers. henry was nearly twelve years old--his birthday, as you know, is next month--and i was ten. it had always been a habit, when people went out in the spring for flowers, to cut a stout stick, to be used partly as a walking-stick, and partly as a protection against snakes, which were often seen, but which usually escaped before they could be reached. old people told of rattlesnakes that used to be seen, but they were very scarce, even then, and none of us had ever seen one. "we all had sticks, cut from a bunch of hickory saplings that grew beside the path, and your uncle elijah said, as we were going along, 'i wonder what hen would do if he heard a rattlesnake; turn pale and faint away, i guess,' at which the others laughed loudly, but henry said nothing, though i saw his lips quiver at the taunt. "we found the flowers, thick and beautiful, just as you have this week. we picked all we wished, ate the lunch which mother had put up for us, and were sitting on a large, flat stone, talking of starting for home. i saw a bit of pretty moss under some twigs at the edge of the stone, and stepped down to get it, when suddenly a peculiar whir-r-r, that we never had heard before, struck our ears. all the boys started up, looking about eagerly. the bushes at my side parted slightly, and the flattened head of a large rattlesnake protruded, and again came that dreadful sound. then the boys jumped from the rock, each in a different direction, and screamed, rather than cried, 'jump, celia, it's a rattlesnake!' "i could not move. i must have been paralyzed by fear, for, though i was but a child, i could not misunderstand my danger. of course, what i am telling happened in a few seconds, but i remember hearing the swish that a stick makes when it cuts through the air, and the horrible head, with its forked, vibrating tongue, was severed from the writhing body, and fell at my feet. "harry had quietly stepped down by my side, and with his stick--the one you see on the antlers yonder--had saved me from a dreadful death. there he stood, pale and trembling to be sure, but with such a light in his blue eyes, that none of his older brothers dared ever call him coward, or girl, again. we walked quietly home, bringing the body with its horrible horny scales to show to father and mother. i shall never forget how they clasped us in their arms as they listened to the story, and how i wondered, as a child will, if everybody, when they were grown up, cried when they were very glad. "nothing was ever said to the older boys. they had learned what true bravery was, the scorn of self-protection when another needed help, and they have been better for it ever since. your father has never had the story told to you, thinking that some time it might also teach you the lesson that true courage from its root word, the latin _cor_, and down through the french _coeur_, is both below and above any outward manifestations, and belongs to the heart. "the snake must have come out into the sun from his den under the rock, and was not as active as in warmer weather, or the bite would have followed the first alarm. there has never since been seen another in this locality." we sat in silence for awhile, and then grandfather spoke, laying his hand on harry's curls: "i seem to see my boy henry again in his son, harry. i hope he will grow up into the same brave, though tender manhood of his father, and remember, boys," he said, turning toward francis and carl, "that recklessness and a desire to be thought bold and daring are not an index of true courage and often have no connection with it. if the walnut rod teaches you this lesson, its story will be of great value to you." how the hatchet was buried. by octavia carroll. a feud, as fierce as that between the montagues and capulets, had for several years raged between the boys of valleytown and the country lads living on the breezy hills just above the small village. originating in a feeling of jealousy, it waxed hotter and more bitter with every game of ball and every examination at the "academy" where they were forced to meet the rival factions, tauntingly dubbing each other "lilies of the valley" and "ground moles," while if a lily chanced to whip a mole in a fair fight all the town-bred youths immediately stood on their heads for joy, and if a mole went above a lily in class, the entire hill company crowed as loudly as the chanticleers of the barnyard. by general consent two boys had come to be considered the leaders of the respective factions; handsome, quick-witted roy hastings of the former, and stronger, bright carl duckworth of the latter; while it was an annoyance to each that their sisters had struck up a "bosom friendship" and stubbornly refused to share in their brothers' feud. "it is so absurd in roy," said helen hastings, "to want me not to visit maizie, whom i love so dearly, just because one of her family has beaten him at baseball and shot more pigeons this spring." "and helen shall come to tea as often as she likes to put up with our plain fare," declared little miss duckworth, "even if carl does look like a thunder-cloud all supper time and has hardly enough politeness to pass the butter." so matters stood when, one evening in early june, the commander of the heights' coterie summoned his followers to a meeting in the loft of an old barn on his father's estate, that was only used as a storehouse since a better one had been built. "hello, fellows, what is this pow-wow about?" asked agile mark tripp, as he sprang up a rickety ladder and popped his head through the square opening in the attic floor. "dun'no; some bee, duckworth, here, has buzzing round in his bonnet," replied lazy hugh blossom from the hay, where he reclined. "it takes the captain to have 'happy thoughts,'" while, playfully pulling a refractory lock of hair sticking out from carl's head, he gaily chanted: "and the duck with the feather curled over his back, he leads all the others, with his quack! quack! quack!" "good enough! all right, ducky, proceed with your quacking! let's know what's up! are the 'low-ly lil-is of the val-ly' once more on the war path? and to what do they challenge us--a spelling match or a swimming race?" "to neither. those very superior posies are about to seek glory in another way. i have learned from a most reliable source that they are now hoarding all their pocket money in order to astonish the natives. in fact, fellers, they intend to fresco valleytown a decided carmine on the 'glorious fourth,' and we have got to make the hills hum to quench 'em." "what form is their celebration to take?" asked little peter wheatly. "fireworks, principally. real stunners! not just a few roman candles and sky-rockets, but flower-pots throwing up colored balls that burst into stars, zigzagging serpents, and all sorts of things, such as have never been seen round here before. why, our big bonfire and giant crackers will be nowhere." "right you are there, cap," said hugh. "they will have all the country down on the green patting them on the back for their public spirit, while we occupy a back seat. it's a pretty bright move for the lilies, and i don't see how we can prevent it." "get up a counter-attraction. pyro--pyro--what do you call 'em will make a good deal finer show from round knob than down yonder in the dale." "sure. but where are your pyrotechnics to come from?" "from the city, of course. see here, i wrote to a firm there as soon as i learned the lilies' secret, and they sent me a price-list." young duckworth produced a very gay red and yellow circular, but the boys only looked at each other in blank amazement. the hillside farmers were nearly all land poor, gaining but a bare subsistence out of the rocky new england soil and seldom had a dime, much less dollars, to squander on mere amusement. "guess you think we are rothschilds or vanderbilts," snickered small peter. "pennies always burn a hole in my pocket and drop right out," said mark. "i might chip in a copper cent and a nickel with a dig in it," drawled hugh, and there was no one else who could do better. "well, i know you are an impecunious lot," continued carl, "but next week the strawberries will be dead ripe. if you fellows will only be patriotic and pitch in and pick for the cause we can put roy hastings and his top-lofty crowd to the blush by getting up a really respectable show with a 'piece' as a topper off. i don't believe the valleyites ever thought of a 'piece.'" "what sort of a piece?" asked bud perkins. "why, a fancy piece of fireworks, of course. just listen to what powder & co. offer!" and carl read aloud: "'realistic spectacle of mother goose, in peaked hat and scarlet cloak, with her gander by her side. the head of george washington, the father of his country, surrounded by thirteen stars. very fine. superb figure of christopher columbus landing from his spanish galleon upon the american shore. one of our most magnificent designs." "there, don't that sound prime? they're expensive, awfully expensive, but we can economize on the rockets and little things to come out strong, in a blaze of glory, at the end. i warrant a mother goose or, better yet, a washington would shut up the lilies' leaves in a jiffy." "or christopher columbus--i vote for old chris," shouted mark. "yes, yes, chris and his galleon," chorused the others. "it is the dearest of them all," remarked carl, somewhat dubiously. "no matter, 'chris or nothing,' say we." so it was decided, and before the boys parted they had all agreed, if they could win their parents' consent, to hire out for the berry-picking and to contribute every cent thus earned toward the fourth of july celebration. there is no spur like competition, and for the next three weeks the ambitious youths devoted themselves heart, and soul, and fingers to the cause; but the pickers had their reward, when, the berry harvest over, they found they could send a tolerably satisfactory order to powder & co., and when, on the third of july, a great box arrived by express, was unpacked, and its contents secretly, and under the cover of night, stored away in the lower part of farmer duckworth's discarded barn, their exuberant delight burst forth in sundry ecstatic somersaults and indian-like dances. it may be, however, that their exultation might have been tempered with caution had they been aware of two figures gliding stealthily through the darkness without, and known that the case, bearing the name of the city firm, when it was taken from the train, had not escaped the sharp eyes of roy hastings and his chum ed spafford. "how do you suppose they ever raised the money to buy all those fireworks?" asked one shadow of another shadow, as they flitted down the hill. "i don't know, confound 'em! but i do know their show is better than ours, and something has got to be done!" "yes, indeed, and surely, roy, there must be some way!" "there always is where there is a will, and--and--_matches_!" boom, boom, boom! old captain stone's ancient cannon announced the advent of another independence day shortly after midnight, and young america was quickly abroad with the chinese cracker and torpedo. helen hastings disliked the deafening racket of the village and, therefore, early beat a retreat to the hills, determined to enjoy the day in her own fashion with maizie, who welcomed her with open arms. "i am so glad you have come, nell, dear, for i was feeling as blue as your sash, if it is the fourth of july!" "why, darling, what is the matter?" "oh, i am so worried because pa is worried. he don't act a bit like his dear, jolly, old self, but goes round with a long face and can neither eat nor sleep. ma says it is because a mortgage or something is coming due, and the crops have been so bad for several years that he is afraid he may have to sell the farm and move out west. it would just break my heart to leave this place." "so it would mine. but there, maizie, it is foolish to be troubled about what may never happen. it is so warm let us find a nice cool spot and finish the book we commenced the other day." "there is a good current of air through the loft of the old barn. we will go there if you can scramble up the ladder." this, with some assistance, helen succeeded in doing, and the two girls were soon nestling in the sweet, new-mown hay. "eleven o'clock," announced helen, consulting her little chatelaine watch as they finally laid down the entertaining story they had been reading, "and i am both sleepy and thirsty." "well, my dear, lie back and take a nap and i will go and make lemonade for us both." "really? oh, that will be delicious!" and throwing herself back on the fragrant mow she closed her eyes as her blithe, hospitable friend skipped off toward the house. the twittering of the swallows in the eaves and the hum of the insects in the meadows without were curiously soothing, and the fair maid fell into a light doze from which, however, she was rudely awakened by a terrific explosion. she sprang to her feet in alarm to find the floor heaving like the deck of a ship at sea and feel the tumble-down building rocking as though shaken to its very foundation. "what has happened! is it an earthquake?" she gasped, rushing to the ladder-way; but she started back in affright at sight of a mass of flame and flying, fiery objects below. "oh, this is terrible!" was she, helen hastings--her father's pride, her brothers' pet--to meet a violent death here in this lonely spot? expecting every instant to have the boards give way beneath her, she flew to the window and, in her desperation, would have leaped out, regardless of a huge pile of stones beneath, had not the voice of maizie at that moment reached her ear calling: "don't jump, helen; don't jump! you will be killed! wait! courage! i am going for help." even as she faltered hesitatingly, her strength failed, her senses reeled and she fell fainting to the ground. across lots from round knob, where they had been preparing for the evening exhibition, came carl duckworth, hugh blossom and bud perkins. they were in high spirits, discussing with animation the anticipated fun, when bud suddenly stopped short, asking, "who are those fellows making tracks so fast down the road?" "looks like roy hastings and ed spafford," replied hugh. "though what brings them this way on such a day as this puzzles me." "i hope they haven't got wind of our plans and been up to some mischief," said carl, uneasily, instinctively quickening his footsteps. a moment later, as they entered the farm gate, the explosion that had awakened helen made them also start and gaze at each other in dismay. then a howl of mingled rage, grief and astonishment burst from the trio as through the open door of the old barn shot a confused medley of rockets, pin-wheels, snakes and grasshoppers, popping and fizzing madly in the garish sunlight; a howl that culminated in a shriek when whirling and spinning out whizzed the famous "piece," the landing of columbus, thrown by the concussion far upon the grass, where it went off in a highly erratic manner, poor christopher appearing perfectly demoralized as he stood on his head in the brilliant galleon, with his feet waving amid a galaxy of stars. "all our three weeks' labor and all our money gone up in smoke!" groaned bud, flinging himself down in an agony of despair. "and it is roy hastings' mean, dastardly work," growled hugh; while carl turned pale with wrath and shook his fist in a way that boded no good to his enemy. indeed, at that instant, he felt that revenge, swift and telling, would be the sweetest thing in life. truly, then, it seemed the very irony of fate, when, from amid the wreaths of smoke pouring from the upper loft window, emerged for a brief second a girlish, white-robed figure, with beseeching, outstretched hands, that paused, swayed, then fell back and disappeared, while maizie rushed toward them crying, "oh, carl, carl! the old barn is on fire, and helen is in there!" "what! roy hastings' sister?" and hugh actually laughed aloud. "serves the mean rascal right, too, if she was killed, for he would have no one but himself to blame," said bud perkins, whose bark was always worse than his bite, and who was really as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived. "oh, you bad, cruel boys!" exclaimed maizie; "but carl, i know, will not be so wicked," and she turned imploringly to her brother, in whose mind a fierce struggle was going on. in a flash, he saw his foe bowed and crushed with remorse, a "paying back" far beyond anything he could have dreamed of! besides, the risk was tremendous, and why should he endanger his life? but the next moment humanity triumphed, and shouting, "we can't stand idle and see a girl perish before our eyes! so here goes," he sped off toward the burning building, stripping off his jacket, as he ran, which he plunged into a barrel of water and then wrapped closely about his head. thus protected, he bravely dashed through the flames lapping at him with their fiery tongues. his breath came in short, quick pants, he was nearly suffocated, and falling rafters warned him that he had no time to spare. valiantly, however, he struggled to the already charred ladder and groped his way up it, until, gasping and exhausted, he reached the window with the unconscious girl in his arms, as the fire was eating through the floor at his feet. to the anxious watchers outside, it appeared an eternity before the lad reached the window and deftly caught the rope they had ready to toss to him. with trembling fingers he knotted this about helen's waist, gently let her down into the arms of bud and hugh and then prepared to descend himself, when a groan of horror from the onlookers rent the air; there was a quiver, a sudden giving way, a deafening crash and roar. the flooring had at length succumbed to the destroying element and gone down. mrs. duckworth sank on her knees sobbing. "oh, my boy! my boy!" and maizie hid her face. but, as the smoke cleared away, the groan changed to a joyous shout and all looked up to behold the youth clinging to the casement, which was still upheld by two feeble supports. hugh sprang forward. "carl, drop! let yourself drop," he called. "we will catch you," and carl, as a great darkness overwhelmed him, dropped like a dead weight and was borne, a begrimed and senseless burden, to his own little room in the cozy old homestead. summer was over ere a mere wraith of sturdy, lively carl duckworth was able to creep down stairs to sit on the veranda and gaze listlessly out upon the mountain landscape in its early autumn dress. but, after weary weeks of pain and anxiety, he was on the mend, and there was something of the old merriment in his laugh when he caught sight of a row of urchins, perched on the fence like a motley flock of birds, singing with hearty good will, "see, the conquering hero comes!" and he was surprised to recognize in the welcoming choristers many "lilies" of valleytown, as well as his own familiar friends. it was something of an astonishment, too, to have roy hastings hurry forward to offer his hand and say: "i can't tell you, duckworth, how glad i am to see you out again and only wish you would give me a good sound kicking;" while surely there were tears in his eyes and a curious break in his voice. it was a boy's way of begging pardon, but, being a boy, carl understood, while as he looked into the other's white worn face, so changed since he saw it last, he dimly comprehended that there might be "coals of fire" which burn more sharply even than the blisters and stings that had caused him such days and nights of agony. so the grasp he gave roy was warm and cordial as he said, "well, i'm not equal to much kicking yet, old fellow; but, for one, i am tired of this old feud and think it is time we buried the hatchet." "oh, i am so glad!" cried a merry voice in the doorway, and out danced helen with her hands full of flowers. "you dear, heroic carl. i have come to thank you, too, though i never, never can, for rescuing me on that dreadful day, and, as some small return, they have let me be the first to tell you of the silver lining hidden behind that cloud of smoke." "what do you mean?" asked carl, thoroughly mystified. "i mean that christopher columbus and his combustible companions did a pretty good turn after all. they plowed up the ground under the old barn so well that when the rubbish was cleared away there came to light what promises to be the finest paint mine in the whole country." "paint mine!" "yes, sir. non-inflammable, mineral paint that will not only save the farm, but, perhaps, make all our fortunes." "it's true, carl, every word true," laughed maizie, who had stolen softly up. "papa has had the ore analyzed, and is so happy he beams like a full moon. judge hastings, too, has been so kind, advancing funds, getting up a company and preparing to build a kiln. it has been quite the excitement of the summer in valleytown." "well, well! this is glorious news! hip, hip, hooray!" a feeble cheer that was echoed and re-echoed by the faction on the fence. "dear me, haven't you finished your revelations yet?" exclaimed mark tripp, suddenly tumbling up the steps. "for if you have the 'lilies of the valley' request the captain of the 'ground moles' and the young ladies to occupy the piazza chairs and witness a pyrotechnical display postponed from the fourth of july, but now given in honor of the recovery of our esteemed citizen, carl duckworth, and of our peace jubilee." all laughed at mark's pompous little speech and hastened to take their places. so at last in a shower of golden sparks they buried the hatchet and the feud between valleytown and hillside ended forever amid a generous display of fire-works. hanschen and the hares. from the german, by ellen t. sullivan. long ago, in a little house near a forest in germany lived a shoemaker and his wife. they were poor but contented and happy; for they were willing to work and they had their snug little house and food enough for themselves and their little hanschens. "oh! if hanschen would only grow like other boys, i should be the happiest woman in the land," the mother used to say. "he is six years old, yet he can stand on the palm of my hand." "well, if he is not so big as some of our neighbors' boys, he is brighter than many of them," the father used to answer. then the mother felt so glad she would dance around the room with hans and say, "yes, he is bright as a child can be and as spry too. when he runs around the room i can hardly catch him." one day she said to her husband, "i am going to the forest meadow to cut fodder for the goat. the grass there is so sweet and juicy that, if the goat eats it, we shall have the richest milk for hanschen. that will make him grow faster. i will take him with me; he can sit in the grass and play with the flowers." "very well," said the father; "take care that he does not stray away from you. give him some clover blossoms to suck. we are too poor to buy candy for him." out through the green forest went hanschen and his mother. the boy was so happy that his mother could hardly hold him, as he laughed and jumped and clapped his hands. he thought the blue sky was playing hide-and-seek with him through the treetops; that the birds were singing a welcome to him, and that the bees, the butterflies, and great dragon-flies were all glad to see him. when they came to the meadow his mother put him down and gave him some clover blossoms. then she began to cut the grass and soon she was quite a way from hanschen, who was entirely hidden by the tall grass. while the mother was working hanschen sat sucking his sweet clover blossoms. all at once he heard a rustling, and there, beside him were two little hares. he was not at all afraid. he nodded to them and said, "how do you do?" the little hares had never seen a child. they thought he was a hare, dressed up in a coat and having a different kind of face from their own. they stared at him a minute and then one said, "hop! hop!" and sprang over a grass stalk. "can you do that?" said they to hanschen. "yes, indeed!" said he, leaping quickly over a stalk, as he spoke. "now," said the hares, "we shall have a fine time playing together." and a fine time they did have, leaping and racing until the sun was low in the west, and the little hares began to think of supper and bed. "come home with us; our father and mother will be good to you;" they said to hanschen. so he leaped away with the little hares toward the green bushes where they lived. now there was another little hare, who had staid at home with his mother that day. his bright eyes were the first to see the three merry friends leaping toward the bushes. "oh, mammy! mammy!" he cried: "just look through the bushes. did you ever see such a queer-looking hare as that little chap with my brothers?" "bring me my spectacles, child," said mrs. hare. "it may be the poor thing has been hurt. that terrible hunter is around again. he chased your poor father yesterday. then that wicked old fox is prowling about, too. it may be that one of them hurt the poor little stranger so that he does not look natural. if so, i'll soon cure him by good nursing." that was what kind mrs. hare said to her little son. he brought her spectacles, which she wiped and put on. then she cried out, "why bless me! this is no hare! this is a human child! he is lost and his parents will be wild with grief for him. my children, i fear you led him astray. tell just where you found him and we will carry him back there in the morning. it is so late now he must stay with us to-night." "we thought he was a hare because he can spring and leap as well as we can. we found him in the forest meadow and we have had splendid fun together," said the little hares. then good mrs. hare gave hanschen some hares' bread for his supper, and soon after she tucked him snugly in bed with her sons. before putting him to bed she drew over him, a soft silky hare coat. it fitted him nicely from the two furry ears to the little stubby tail. the three little hares were delighted and said, "he's a hare now, isn't he, mammy?" "well, dears, he does look just like one of you; but you must all lie still now and go to sleep for we must get up with the sun, to-morrow," said mrs. hare. in the meantime hanschen's mother had finished cutting the grass, and she looked for hanschen and called him until it grew quite dark. then she went home, weeping bitterly, and told her husband that their child was lost. out ran the father then to look for his boy; but he could not find him. all that night the poor parents wept and moaned, while hanschen was sleeping peacefully with the little hares. the hare family got up at daylight, and all of them put on their sunday clothes, for mr. hare had said to his wife, "i want folks to see that their child has been with good company; so please put on your very best cap and brush all our children's coats until they shine. i'll wear a high collar and my tall silk hat, and you must tie my cravat in a nice bow." when all were dressed they ate a good breakfast, locked up their green gate and started for the meadow. they had scarcely reached the edge of the forest, when they heard hanschen's mother calling, "hanschen! hanschen! darling!" "here i am, mother;" cried he. "i hear him! i hear him! oh husband! don't you?" said the mother. "i do hear his voice but i can see nothing except a little brown hare." hanschen laughed in delight--sprang forward and pulled off his furry coat. how surprised his father and mother were! by this time the hare family had come up and mr. hare took off his hat and bowing very low, he said, "mr. man, this is my good wife and these youngsters are my three sons. their mother and i try to teach them to do right, and they really are pretty good children. two of them were playing around here yesterday, and invited your son to play with them, not knowing what sorrow and trouble they caused you by leading him astray. they brought him home with them last night. my good wife gave him plenty to eat; he slept with my sons and you see the fine suit of hare-clothes he has just taken off. i hope you will let him keep it to remember us by. it is a present from all of us. we are only hares but we have done by your child just what we should like you to do by one of our children if you should find one of them astray. and now, my dear sir, we will bid you farewell and go back to our home." "not yet! not yet!" cried hanschen's father and mother. "tell us, do you have sorrows or troubles? one good turn deserves another. we should be so glad to do something for you." "sorrows and troubles are plentiful in our lives," said mr. hare. "if you can stop that terrible hunter from chasing us; and if you can manage to trap that wicked mr. fox, will make us very happy. and good mrs. man, if you will just throw a few cabbage leaves out on the snow for us in the winter, when every green thing is dead or buried; then we shall not have to go to bed hungry." hanschen's father and mother gladly promised to do all they could for the good hare family; then the two happy families went home. one day soon after hanschen's visit to the hares, his father got up very early, for he had two pairs of shoes to finish that day. he had scarcely begun his work when a very loud knock was heard at the door. "who can it be so early as this?" thought the shoemaker. he opened the door and there stood--mr. fox! "good morning, shoemaker," said he; "i want you to make me a pair of shoes and do it right off, too, or i'll kill every one of your hens to-night. i'm hare hunting, to-day. i know where a whole family of hares live, down near the forest. i mean to bag them all before they leave their house this morning. they run so fast it is hard to catch them when they are out. but, see one of my shoes is torn, so i must have a new pair before i can walk so far." the shoemaker bowed and invited the fox to come in and sit down. then he said, "mr. fox, a great hunter like you ought to wear high boots; not low shoes like common folks." that pleased mr. fox, so he said, "well, make high boots; but make them of the finest, softest leather, and do not make them tight." the shoemaker took the hardest, heaviest, leather he could find and soon finished the boots. he put a piece of sticky wax into each boot. he said to himself, "mr. fox thinks he is very sly but we'll see whether he can catch our friends, the hares, when he puts on these boots." mr. fox proudly drew on his boots but he said: "they seem stiff and tight. i fear i cannot run very fast in them." "just wait till you have worn them a little while--new boots generally feel stiff," said the shoemaker. "well, i will hurry off now; but i'll soon come back and bring you the hares' skins to pay for the boots," said mr. fox. a little while after the fox had gone the shoemaker's wife jumped up in alarm from her chair. a hare had leaped in through the window behind her. it was one of their friends--the father of the hare family. "save me! the hunter is after me," he cried. "here, quick! jump into bed," said the shoemaker's wife. he did so, and she covered him up, then she dressed hanschen in the suit that the hares had given him. she had scarcely done so when the hunter came in and said, "give me the hare that i have been chasing. i saw him leap into your window. i must have him. there he is now, springing on your table." "there is my little hanschen," said the shoemaker. "no wonder you think he is a hare, for he can run as fast and leap as well as any hare." "yes," said hanschen's mother, "and he often goes out to play in this hare-suit--see how nicely it fits him. but, mr. hunter, you must not shoot my hanschen when you are out chasing hares." "well," said the hunter, "if that isn't wonderful. but say, good people, how in the world am i to know whether i am chasing hanschen or a hare?" "oh, easily enough," said the shoemaker. "you have only to wait a minute and call out, 'hanschen!' if the little creature sits up still and straight like a child, don't shoot, for that will be hanschen." "i will remember and call out," said the hunter. "well, then, to pay you for your kindness, i'll tell you that if you hurry toward the forest, now, you will be able to bag a fox that cannot be far away; for the rogue has on a pair of boots of my making, and he has hard work to move with them by this time, i'll be bound." "thank you, mr. shoemaker," said the hunter; "i'll soon finish him and bring you his hide to prove it. only last night he killed three of my hens." the hunter soon caught up with the fox, brought his hide to the shoemaker and went away. then hanschen's father told the hare to go home to his folks and tell them that the old fox would never trouble them again, and when they heard the hunter they were just to sit still and straight on their hind legs. mr. hare flew over the ground on his way home. his good news made him light-hearted and swift-footed. oh, how happy the hares were! to this day hares often sit up like a child. hanschen often spent a day with the hares, and learned to run so well, and spring forward so quickly, that all the people said when he grew up, "he is the best man to have for a postman for the villages around." so hanschen became postman. he never forgot his friends, the hares, but always carried some cabbage leaves for them when snow and ice covered up or killed the green leaves. 'tis said the hares used to watch for his coming, and sing this song when they caught sight of him: "our good friend, hans, is a brave young man; hip, hurrah! he springs as well as the best hare can; hip, hurrah! beneath his coat is a good, warm heart; hip, hurrah! we may be sure he will take our part; hip, hurrah! we need not starve though the world be white; hip, hurrah! our good friend, hans will give us a bite; hip, hurrah! this is his time he is drawing near; hip, hurrah! off with hats; now cheer upon cheer; hip, hip, hurrah!" the end. rivers of ice, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. the rover's return. on a certain summer morning, about the middle of the present century, a big bluff man, of seafaring aspect, found himself sauntering in a certain street near london bridge. he was a man of above fifty, but looked under forty in consequence of the healthful vigour of his frame, the freshness of his saltwater face, and the blackness of his shaggy hair. although his gait, pilot-cloth coat, and pocketed hands proclaimed him a sailor, there were one or two contradictory points about him. a huge beard and moustache savoured more of the diggings than the deep, and a brown wide-awake with a prodigiously broad brim suggested the backwoods. pausing at the head of one of those narrow lanes which--running down between warehouses, filthy little rag and bone shops, and low poverty-stricken dwellings--appear to terminate their career, not unwillingly, in the thames, the sailor gazed before him with nautical earnestness for a few seconds, then glanced at the corner house for a name; found no name; cast his eyes up to the strip of blue sky overhead, as if for inspiration; obtained none; planted his legs wide apart as if he had observed a squall coming, and expected the lane to lurch heavily--wrinkled his eyebrows, and pursed his lips. "lost yer bearin's, capp'n?" exclaimed a shrill pert voice at his side. the seaman looked down, and beheld a small boy with a head like a disorderly door-mat, and garments to match. he stood in what may be styled an imitative attitude, with his hands thrust into his ragged pockets, his little legs planted wide apart, his cap thrust well back on his head, and his eyebrows wrinkled. he also pursed his lips to such an extent that they resembled a rosebud in a dirty bush. "yes, imp," replied the seaman--he meant to have said "impudence," but stopped at the first syllable as being sufficiently appropriate--"yes, imp, i _have_ lost my bearings, and i'll give you a copper if you'll help me to find 'em." "wot sort o' copper?" demanded the urchin, "there's three sorts of 'em, you know, in this 'ere kingdom--which appears to be a queendom at present--there's a farding and a ha'penny and a penny. i mention it, capp'n," he added apologetically, "in case you don't know, for you look as if you'd come from furrin parts." the seaman's look of surprise melted into a broad grin of amusement while this speech was being fluently delivered. at its conclusion he pulled out a penny and held it up. "well, it ain't much," said the small boy, "and i ain't used to hire myself out so cheap. however, as you seem to be raither poorly off, i don't mind if i lend you a hand for that. only, please, don't mention it among your friends, as it would p'raps lower their opinion of you, d'you see? now then w'ot d'you want to know?" to this the "capp'n," still smiling at the small boy's precocious insolence, replied that he was in search of an old woman who dwelt in a small court styled grubb's court, so he was told, which lay somewhere in that salubrious neighbourhood, and asked if he, the imp, knew of such a place. "know's of it? i should think i does. w'y, i lives there. it's right down at the foot o' this 'ere lane, an' a wery sweet 'ristocratik spot it is--quite a perninsular, bein' land, leastwise mud, a'most surrounded by water, the air bein' 'ighly condoosive to the 'ealth of rats, likewise cats. as to old women, there's raither a broad sprinklin' of 'em in the court, rangin' from the ages of seventy to a hundred an twenty, more or less, an' you'll take some time to go over 'em all, capp'n, if you don't know your old woman's name." "her name is roby--," said the seaman. "o, roby? ah," returned the small boy, looking sedately at the ground, "let me see--yes, that's the name of the old 'ooman, i think, wot 'angs out in the cabin, right-'and stair, top floor, end of the passage, w'ere most wisiters flattens their noses, by consekince of there bein' no light, and a step close to the door which inwariably trips 'em up. most wisiters to that old 'ooman begins their acquaintance with her by knocking at her door with their noses instead of their knuckles. we calls her place the cabin, 'cause the windows is raither small, and over'angs the river." "well then, my lad," said the seaman, "clap a stopper on your tongue, if you can, and heave ahead." "all right, capp'n," returned the small boy, "foller me, an' don't be frightened. port your helm a bit here, there's a quicksand in the middle o' the track--so, steady!" avoiding a large pool of mud with which the head of the lane was garnished, and which might have been styled the bathing, not to say wallowing, quarters of the grubb's court juveniles, the small boy led the bluff seaman towards the river without further remark, diverging only once from the straight road for a few seconds, for the purpose of making a furious rush at a sleeping cat with a yell worthy of a cherokee savage, or a locomotive whistle; a slight pleasantry which had the double effect of shooting the cat through space in glaring convulsions, and filling the small boy's mind with the placidity which naturally follows a great success. the lane presented this peculiarity, that the warehouses on its left side became more and more solid and vast and tall as they neared the river, while the shops and dwellings on its right became poorer, meaner, and more diminutive in the same direction, as if there were some mysterious connection between them, which involved the adversity of the one in exact proportion to the prosperity of the other. children and cats appeared to be the chief day-population of the place, and these disported themselves among the wheels of enormous waggons, and the legs of elephantine horses with an impunity which could only have been the result of life-long experience. the seaman was evidently unaccustomed to such scenes, for more than once during the short period of his progress down the lane, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and sprang to the rescue of those large babies which are supposed to have grown sufficiently old to become nursing mothers to smaller babies--acts which were viewed with a look of pity by the small boy, and called from him the encouraging observations, "keep your mind easy, capp'n; _they're_ all right, bless you; the hosses knows 'em, and wouldn't 'urt 'em on no account." "this is grubb's court," said the boy, turning sharply to the right and passing through a low archway. "thank 'ee, lad," said the seaman, giving him a sixpence. the small boy opened his eyes very wide indeed, exclaiming, "hallo! i say, capp'n, wot's this?" at the same time, however, putting the coin in his pocket with an air which plainly said, "whether you've made a mistake or not, you needn't expect to get it back again." evidently the seaman entertained no such expectations, for he turned away and became absorbed in the scene around him. it was not cheering. though the summer sun was high and powerful, it failed to touch the broken pavement of grubb's court, or to dry up the moisture which oozed from it and crept up the walls of the surrounding houses. everything was very old, very rotten, very crooked, and very dirty. the doorways round the court were wide open--always open--in some cases, because of there being no doors; in other cases, because the tenements to which they led belonged to a variety of families, largely composed of children who could not, even on tiptoe, reach or manipulate door-handles. nursing mothers of two feet high were numerous, staggering about with nurslings of a foot and a half long. a few of the nurslings, temporarily abandoned by the premature mothers, lay sprawling--in some cases squalling--on the moist pavement, getting over the ground like large snails, and leaving slimy tracks behind them. little boys, of the "city arab" type, were sprinkled here and there, and one or two old women sat on door-steps contemplating the scene, or conversing with one or two younger women. some of the latter were busy washing garments so dirty, that the dirty water of old father thames seemed quite a suitable purifier. "gillie," cried one of the younger women referred to, wiping the soap-suds from her red arms, "come here, you bad, naughty boy. w'ere 'ave you bin? i want you to mind baby." "w'y, mother," cried the small boy--who answered to the name of gillie--"don't you see i'm engaged? i'm a-showin' this 'ere sea-capp'n the course he's got to steer for port. he wants to make the cabin of old mother roby." "w'y don't you do it quickly, then?" demanded gillie's mother, "you bad, naughty, wicked boy. beg your parding, sir," she added, to the seaman, "the boy 'an't got no sense, besides bein' wicked and naughty--'e ain't 'ad no train', sir, that's w'ere it is, all along of my 'avin' too much to do, an' a large family, sir, with no 'usband to speak of; right up the stair, sir, to the top, and along the passage-door straight before you at the hend of it. mind the step, sir, w'en you gits up. go up with the gentleman, you bad, wicked, naughty boy, and show--" the remainder of the sentence became confused in distance, as the boy and the seaman climbed the stair; but a continuous murmuring sound, as of a vocal torrent, conveyed the assurance that the mother of gillie was still holding forth. "'ere it is," said the young pilot, pausing at the top of the staircase, near the entrance to a very dark passage. "keep 'er 'ead as she goes, but i'd recommend you to shorten sail, mind your 'elm, an 'ave the anchor ready to let go." having thus accommodated his language to the supposed intelligence of the seaman, the elfin youth stood listening with intense eagerness and expectation as the other went into the passage, and, by sundry kicks and bumps against wooden walls, gave evidence that he found the channel intricate. presently a terrible kick occurred. this was the seaman's toe against the step, of which he had been warned, but which he had totally forgotten; then a softer, but much heavier blow, was heard, accompanied by a savage growl--that was the seaman's nose and forehead against old mrs roby's portal. at this, gillie's expectations were realised, and his joy consummated. with mischievous glee sparkling in his eyes, he hastened down to the court to exhibit his sixpence to his mother, and to announce to all whom it might concern, that "the sea-capp'n had run his jib-boom slap through the old 'ooman's cabin-door." chapter two. the seaman takes the "cabin" by surprise and storm. without having done precisely what gillie had asserted of him, our seaman had in truth made his way into the presence of the little old woman who inhabited "the cabin," and stood there gazing round him as if lost in wonder; and well he might be, for the woman and cabin, besides being extremely old, were exceedingly curious, quaint, and small. the former was wrinkled to such an extent, that you could not have found a patch of smooth skin large enough for a pea to rest on. her teeth were all gone, back and front, and her nose, which was straight and well-formed, made almost successful attempts to meet a chin which had once been dimpled, but was now turned up. the mouth between them wore a benignant and a slightly humorous expression; the eyes, which were bright, black, and twinkling, seemed to have defied the ravages of time. her body was much bent as she sat in her chair, and a pair of crutches leaning against the chimney-piece suggested the idea that it would not be much straighter if she stood up. she was wrapped in a large, warm shawl, and wore a high cap, which fitted so close round her little visage, that hair, if any, was undistinguishable. the room in which she sat resembled the cabin of a ship in more respects than one. it was particularly low in the root so low that the seaman's hair touched it as he stood there looking round him; and across this roof ran a great beam, from which hung a variety of curious ornaments, such as a chinese lantern, a turkish scimitar, a new zealand club, an eastern shield, and the model of a full-rigged ship. elsewhere on the walls were, an ornamented dagger, a worsted-work sampler, a framed sheet of the flags of all nations, a sou'-wester cap and oiled coat, a telescope, and a small staring portrait of a sea-captain in his "go-to-meeting" clothes, which looked very much out of keeping with his staring sunburnt face, and were a bad fit. it might have been a good likeness, and was certainly the work of one who might have raised himself to the rank of a royal academician if he had possessed sufficient talent and who might have painted well if he had understood the principles of drawing and colour. the windows of the apartment, of which there were two very small square ones, looked out upon the river, and, to some extent overhung it, so that a man of sanguine temperament might have enjoyed fishing from them, if he could have been content to catch live rats and dead cats. the prospect from these windows was, however, the best of them, being a wide reach of the noble river, crowded with its stately craft, and cut up by its ever-bustling steamers. but the most noteworthy part of this room, or "cabin," was the space between the two windows immediately over the chimney-piece, which the eccentric old woman had covered with a large, and, in some cases, inappropriate assortment of objects, by way of ornament, each article being cleaned and polished to the highest possible condition of which it was susceptible. a group of five photographs of children--three girls and two boys, looking amazed-- formed the centrepiece of the design; around these were five other photographs of three young ladies and two young gentlemen, looking conscious, but pleased. the spaces between these, and every available space around them, were occupied by pot-lids of various sizes, old and battered, but shining like little suns; small looking-glasses, also of various sizes, some square and others round; little strings of beads; heads of meerschaums that had been much used in former days; pin-cushions, shell-baskets, one or two horse-shoes, and iron-heels of boots; several flat irons belonging to doll's houses, with a couple of dolls, much the worse for wear, mounting guard over them; besides a host of other nick-nacks, for which it were impossible to find names or imagine uses. everything--from the old woman's cap to the uncarpeted floor, and the little grate in which a little fire was making feeble efforts to warm a little tea-kettle with a defiant spout--was scrupulously neat, and fresh, and clean, very much the reverse of what one might have expected to find in connection with a poverty-stricken population, a dirty lane, a filthy court, a rickety stair, and a dark passage. possibly the cause might have been found in a large and much-worn family bible, which lay on a small table in company with a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, at the old woman's elbow. on this scene the nautical man stood gazing, as we have said, with much interest; but he was too polite to gaze long. "your servant, missis," he said with a somewhat clumsy bow. "good morning, sir," said the little old woman, returning the bow with the air of one who had once seen better society than that of grubb's court. "your name is roby, i believe," continued the seaman, advancing, and looking so large in comparison with the little room that he seemed almost to fill it. the little old woman admitted that that was her name. "my name," said the seaman, "is wopper, tho' i'm oftener called skipper, also capp'n, by those who know me." mrs roby pointed to a chair and begged captain wopper to sit down, which he did after bestowing a somewhat pointed glance at the chair, as if to make sure that it could bear him. "you was a nuss once, i'm told," continued the seaman, looking steadily at mrs roby as he sat down. "i was," answered the old woman, glancing at the photographs over the chimney-piece, "in the same family for many years." "you'll excuse me, ma'am," continued the seaman, "if i appear something inquisitive, i want to make sure that i've boarded the right craft d'ee see--i mean, that you are the right 'ooman." a look of surprise, not unmingled with humour, beamed from mrs roby's twinkling black eyes as she gazed steadily in the seaman's face, but she made no other acknowledgment of his speech than a slight inclination of her head, which caused her tall cap to quiver. captain wopper, regarding this as a favourable sign, went on. "you was once, ma'am, i'm told, before bein' a nuss in the family of which you've made mention, a matron, or somethin' o' that sort, in a foundlin' hospital--in your young days, ma'am?" again mrs roby admitted the charge, and demanded to know, "what then?" "ah, jus' so--that's what i'm comin' to," said captain wopper, drawing his large hand over his beard. "you was present in that hospital, ma'am, was you not, one dark november morning, when a porter-cask was left at the door by some person unknown, who cut his cable and cleared off before the door was opened,--which cask, havin' on its head two x's, and bein' labelled, `this side up, with care,' contained two healthy little babby boys?" mrs roby, becoming suddenly grave and interested, again said, "i was." "jus' so," continued the captain, "you seem to be the right craft--'ooman, i mean--that i'm in search of. these two boys, who were supposed to be brothers, because of their each havin' a brown mole of exactly the same size and shape on their left arms, just below their elbows, were named `stout,' after the thing in which they was headed up, the one bein' christened james, the other willum?" "yes, yes," replied the little old woman eagerly, "and a sweet lovely pair they was when the head of that barrel was took off, lookin' out of the straw in which they was packed like two little cheruphims, though they did smell strong of the double x, and was a little elevated because of the fumes that 'ung about the wood. but how do you come to know all this, sir, and why do you ask?" "excuse me, ma'am," replied the sailor with a smile, which curled up his huge moustache expressively,--"you shall know presently, but i must make quite sure that i'm aboard of--that is to say, that you _are_ the right 'ooman. may i ask, ma'am, what became of these two cheruphims, as you've very properly named 'em?" "certainly," answered mrs roby, "the elder boy--we considered him the elder, because he was the first took out of the barrel--was a stoodious lad, and clever. he got into a railway company, i believe, and became a rich man--married a lady, i'm told,--and changed his name to stoutley, so 'tis said, not thinkin' his right name suitable to his circumstances, which, to say truth, it wasn't, because he was very thin. i've heard it said that his family was extravagant, and that he went to california to seek his brother, and look after some property, and died there, but i'm not rightly sure, for he was a close boy, and latterly i lost all knowledge of him and his family." "and the other cheruphim, willum," said the sailor, "what of him?" "ah!" exclaimed mrs roby, a flush suffusing her wrinkled countenance, while her black eyes twinkled more than usual, "he was a jewel, _he_ was. they said in the hospital that he was a wild good-for-nothing boy, but _i_ never thought him so. he was always fond of me--very fond of me, and i of him. it is true he could never settle to anythink, and at last ran away to sea, when about twelve year old; but he didn't remain long at that either, for when he got to california, he left his ship, and was not heard of for a long time after that. i thought he was dead or drowned, but at last i got a letter from him, enclosing money, an' saying he had been up at the noo gold-diggings, an' had been lucky, dear boy, and he wanted to share his luck with me, an would never, never, forget me; but he didn't need to send me money to prove that. he has continued to send me a little every year since then;--ah! it's many, many years now,--ay, ay, many years." she sighed, and looked wistfully at the spark of fire in the grate that was making ineffectual attempts to boil the little tea-kettle with the defiant spout; "but why," she continued, looking up suddenly, "why do you ask about him?" "because i knew him," replied captain wopper, searching for something which appeared to be lost in the depths of one of his capacious pockets. "willum stout was a chum of mine. we worked together at the californy gold-mines for many a year as partners, and, when at last we'd made what we thought enough, we gave it up an' came down to san francisco together, an' set up a hotel, under the name of the `jolly tars,' by stout and company. i was the company, ma'am; an', for the matter o' that i may say i was the stout too, for both of us answered to the stout or the company, accordin' as we was addressed, d'ee see? when company thought he'd made enough money to entitle him to a holiday, he came home, as you see; but before leavin', willum said to him, `company, my lad, w'en you get home, you'll go and see that old 'oom of the name of roby, whom i've often told you about. she lives in lunun, somewheres down by the river in a place called grubb's court. she was very good to me, that old 'oom was, when she was young, as i've told you before. you go an' give her my blessin'--willum's blessin'--and this here bag and that there letter.' `yes,' says i, `willum, i'll do it, my boy, as soon as ever i set futt on british soil.' i did set futt on british soil this morning, and there's the letter; also the bag; so, you see, old lady, i've kep' my promise." captain wopper concluded by placing a small but heavy canvas bag, and a much-soiled letter, in mrs roby's lap. to say that the little old woman seized the letter with eager delight, would convey but a faint idea of her feelings as she opened it with trembling hands, and read it with her bright black eyes. she read it half aloud, mingled with commentary, as she proceeded, and once or twice came to a pause over an illegible word, on which occasions her visitor helped her to the word without looking at the letter. this circumstance struck her at last as somewhat singular, for she looked up suddenly, and said, "you appear, sir, to be familiar with the contents of my letter." "that's true, ma'am," replied captain wopper, who had been regarding the old woman with a benignant smile; "willum read it to me before i left, a-purpose to enable me to translate the ill-made pot-hooks and hangers, because, d'ee see, we were more used to handlin' the pick and shovel out there than the pen, an' willum used to say he never was much of a dab at a letter. he never wrote you very long ones, ma'am, i believe?" mrs roby looked at the fire pensively, and said, in a low voice, as if to herself rather than her visitor, "no, they were not long--never very long--but always kind and sweet to me--very sweet--ay, ay, it's a long, long time now, a long time, since he came to me here and asked for a night's lodging." "did you give it him, ma'am?" asked the captain. "give it him!" exclaimed mrs roby, with sudden energy, "of course i did. the poor boy was nigh starving. how could i refuse him? it is true i had not much to give, for the family i was with as nuss had failed and left me in great distress, through my savings bein' in their hands; and that's what brought me to this little room long, long ago--ay, ay. but no blame to the family, sir, no blame at all. they couldn't help failin', an' the young ones, when they grew up, did not forget their old nuss, though they ain't rich, far from it; and it's what they give me that enables me to pay my rent and stay on here--god bless 'em." she looked affectionately at the daguerreotypes which hung, in the midst of the sheen and glory of pot-lids, beads, and looking-glasses, above the chimney-piece. "you gave him, meanin' willum, nothing else, i suppose?" asked the captain, with a knowing look; "such, for instance, as a noo suit of clothes, because of his bein' so uncommon ragged that he looked as if he had bin captured in a clumsy sort of net that it would not have been difficult to break through and escape from naked; also a few shillin's, bein' your last, to pay his way down to gravesend, where the ship was lyin', that you had, through interest with the owners, got him a berth aboard?" "ah!" returned mrs roby, shaking her head and smiling gently, "i see that william has told you all about it." "he has, ma'am," replied captain wopper, with a decisive nod. "you see, out in the gold-fields of californy, we had long nights together in our tent, with nothin' to do but smoke our pipes, eat our grub, and spin yarns, for we had no books nor papers, nothin' to read except a noo testament, and we wouldn't have had even that, ma'am, but for yourself. it was the testament you gave to willum at partin', an' very fond of it he was, bein' your gift. you see, at the time we went to californy, there warn't many of us as cared for the word of god. most of us was idolaters that had run away from home, our chief gods--for we had many of 'em--bein' named adventure, excitement and gold; though there was some noble exceptions, too. but, as i was saying, we had so much time on our hands that we recalled all our past adventures together over and over again, and, you may be sure, ma'am, that your name and kindness was not forgotten. there was another name," continued captain wopper, drawing his chair nearer the fire, crossing his legs and stroking his beard as he looked up at the dingy ceiling, "that willum often thought about and spoke of. it was the name of a gentleman, a clerk in the customs, i believe, who saved his life one day when he fell into the river just below the bridge." "mr lawrence," said the old woman, promptly. "ah! mr lawrence; yes, that's the name," continued the captain. "willum was very grateful to him, and bid me try to find him out and tell him so. is he alive?" "dead," said mrs roby, shaking her head sadly. the seaman appeared much concerned on hearing this. for some time he did not speak, and then said that he had been greatly interested in that gentleman through willum's account of him. "had he left any children?" "yes," mrs roby told him; "one son, who had been educated as a doctor, and had become a sort of a city missionary, and was as pleasant a young gentleman as she ever knew." "so, then, you know him?" said the captain. "know him! i should think so. why, this is the district where he visits, and a kind friend he is to the poor, though he _is_ bashful a bit, an' seems to shrink from pushin' himself where he's not wanted." "not the less a friend to the poor on that account," thought captain wopper; but he said nothing, and mrs roby went on:-- "you see, his father before him did a great deal for the poor in a quiet way here, as i have reason to know, this district lying near his office, and handy, as it were. long after the time when he saved willum's life, he married a sweet young creeter, who helped him in visitin' the poor, but she caught fever among 'em and died, when their only son george was about ten year old. george had been goin' about with his mother on her visits, and seemed very fond of her and of the people, dear child; and after she died, he used to continue coming with his father. then he went to school and college and became a young doctor, and only last year he came back to us, so changed for the better that none of us would have known him but for his kindly voice and fine manly-looking manner. his shyness, too, has stuck to him a little, but it does not seem to hinder him now as it once did. ah!" continued mrs roby, in a sympathetic tone, "it's a great misfortune to be shy." she looked pensively at the little fire and shook her tall cap at it, as if it or the defiant tea-kettle were answerable for something in reference to shyness. "yes, it's a great misfortune to be shy," she repeated. "were you ever troubled with that complaint, captain wopper?" the captain's moustache curled at the corners as he stroked his beard, and said that really, on consideration, he was free to confess that he never had been convicted of that sin. mrs roby bestowed on him a look of admiration, and continued, "well, as i have said--" she was interrupted at this point by the entrance of an active little girl, with the dirtiest face and sweetest expression imaginable, with garments excessively ragged, blue eyes that sparkled as they looked at you, a mouth that seemed made for kissing, if only it had been clean, and golden hair that would have fallen in clustering curls on her neck, if it had not been allowed to twist itself into something like a yellow door-mat which rendered a bonnet unnecessary. bestowing a glance of surprise on the seaman, but without uttering a word, she went smartly to a corner and drew into the middle of the room a round table with one leg and three feet, whose accommodating top having been previously flat against the wall, fell down horizontal and fixed itself with a snap. on this the earnest little woman, quickly and neatly, spread a fairish linen cloth, and proceeded to arrange thereon a small tea-pot and cup and saucer, with other materials, for an early tea. "two cups, netta, my dear," said mrs roby. "yes, grannie," replied netta, in a soft quick, little voice. "your grandchild?" asked the captain. "no; a neighbour's child, who is very kind to me. she calls me grannie, because i like it. but, as i was saying," continued mrs roby, "young dr lawrence came back last year and began to visit us in the old way, intending to continue, he said, until he got a situation of some sort in the colonies, i believe; but i do hope he'll not be obliged to leave us, for he has bin a great blessin' to this neighbourhood, only he gets little pay for his work, i fear, and appears to have little of his own to live on, poor young man.--now, captain wopper, you'll stop and have a cup of tea with me. i take it early, you see,--in truth, i make a sort of dinner of it,--and we can have a talk about william over it. i'm proud to have a friend of his at my table, sir, i do assure you, though it _is_ a poor one." captain wopper accepted the invitation heartily, and thought, though he said nothing, that it was indeed a poor table, seeing that the only food on it besides the very weak tea in the wonderfully small pot, consisted of one small loaf of bread. "netta," exclaimed mrs roby, with a look of surprise, "there's no butter! go, fetch it, dear." mrs roby was, or thought herself, a remarkably deep character. she spoke to netta openly, but, in secret, bestowed a meaning glance on her, and slipped a small coin into her hand. the dirty, sweet-faced damsel replied by a remarkably knowing wink--all of which by-play, with the reason for it, was as clear to captain wopper as if it had been elaborately explained to him. but the captain was a discreet man. he became deeply absorbed in daguerreotypes and sauce-pan lids above the fireplace, to the exclusion of all else. "you've forgotten the bag, ma'am," said the captain, drawing his chair nearer the table. "so i have; dear me, what is it?" cried mrs roby, taking it up. "it's heavy." "gold!" said the captain. "gold?" exclaimed the old nurse. "ay, nuggets," said the seaman, opening it and emptying its contents on the table. as the old nurse gazed on the yellow heap her black eyes glittered with pleasure, as though they had derived additional lustre from the precious metal, and she drew them towards her with a trembling, almost greedy, motion, at sight of which captain wopper's countenance became troubled. "and did willie send this to me, dear boy?" "he did, ma'am, hoping that it would be of use in the way of making your home more comfortable, and enabling you to keep a better table." he glanced uneasily round the poor room and at the small loaf as he spoke, and the old woman observed the glance. "it is very kind of him, very kind," continued mrs roby. "what may it be worth, now?" "forty pounds, more or less," answered the captain. again the old woman's eyes sparkled greedily, and again the seaman's countenance fell. "surely, ma'am," said the captain, gravely, "things must be uncommon dear in london, for you tell me that willum has sent you a deal of money in time past, but you don't seem to be much the better for it." "captain wopper," said mrs roby, putting her hand lightly on the captain's arm as it lay on the table, and looking earnestly into his face, "if you had not been an old and valued friend of my dear willie-- which i learn that you are from his letter--i would have said your remark was a rude one; but, being what you are, i don't mind telling you that i save up every penny i can scrape together for little netta white, the girl that has just gone out to fetch the butter. although she's not well cared for,--owing to her mother, who's a washerwoman, bein' overburdened with work and a drunken husband,--she's one of the dearest creeters i ever did see. bless you, sir, you'd be amazed if you knew all the kind and thoughtful things that untrained and uncared for child does, and never thinks she's doing anything more than other people. it's all along of her mother's spirit, which is as good as gold. some months ago little netta happened to be up here when i was at tea, and, seeing the difficulty i had to move about with my old rheumatic limbs, she said she'd come and set out my tea and breakfast for me; and she's done it, sir, from that time to this, expecting nothing fur it, and thinking i'm too poor to give her anything. but she's mistaken," continued mrs roby, with a triumphant twinkle in her black eyes, "she doesn't know that i've made a confidant of her brother gillie, and give him a sixpence now and then to give to his mother without telling where he got it, and she doesn't know that i'm saving up to be able to leave something to her when i'm called home--it can't be long, now; it can't be long." "old 'ooman," cried captain wopper, whose face had brightened wonderfully during this explanation, "give us your flip--your hand. i honour your heart, ma'am, and i've no respect whatever for your brain!" "i'm not sure that that's a compliment," said mrs roby, with a smile. captain wopper assured her with much solemnity that it might or might not be a compliment, but it was a fact. "why, look here," said he, "you go and starve yourself, and deny yourself all sorts of little comforts-- what then? why, you'll die long before your time, which is very like taking the law into your own hands, ma'am, and then you won't leave to netta nearly as much as you might if you had taken care of yourself and lived longer, and saved up after a reasonable fashion. it's sheer madness. why, ma'am, you're starving _now_, but i'll put a stop to that. don't you mind, now, whether i'm rude or not. you can't expect anything else from an old gold-digger, who has lived for years where there were no women except such as appeared to be made of mahogany, with nothing to cover 'em but a coating of dirt and a blue skirt. besides, willum told me at parting to look after you and see that you wanted for nothing, which i promised faithfully to do. you've some regard for willum's wishes, ma'am?--you wouldn't have me break my promises to willum, would you?" the captain said this with immense rapidity and vigour, and finished it with such a blow of his heavy fist on the little table that the cups and plates danced, and the lid of the little tea-pot leaped up as if its heart were about to come out of its mouth. mrs roby was so taken by surprise that she could not speak for a few seconds, and before she had recovered sufficiently to do so, little netta came in with the butter. "now, ma'am," resumed the captain, when the girl had retired, "here's where it is. with your leave i'll reveal my plans to you, and ask your advice. when i was about to leave californy, willum told me first of all to go and find _you_ out, and give you that letter and bag of nuggets, which i've done. `then,' says he, `wopper, you go and find out my brother jim's widow, and give 'em my love an' dooty, and this letter, and this bag of nuggets,'--said letter and bag, ma'am, bein' now in my chest aboard ship. `so,' says i, `willum, i will--trust me.' `i do,' says he; `and, wopper,' says he, `keep your weather eye open, my boy, w'en you go to see 'em, because i've my suspicions, from what my poor brother said on his deathbed, when he was wandering in his mind, that his widow is extravagant. i don't know,' willum goes on to say, `what the son may be, but there's that cousin, emma gray, that lives in the house with 'em, _she's_ all right. _she's_ corresponded with me, off an' on, since ever she could write, and my brother bein' something lazy, poor fellar, through havin' too much to do i fancy, got to throw all the letter-writin' on her shoulders. you take special note of _her_, wopper, and if it should seem to you that they don't treat her well, you let me know.' `willum,' says i, `i will--trust me.' `well, then,' says willum, `there's one other individooal i want you to ferret out, that's the gentleman--he must be an old gentleman now--that saved my life when i was a lad, mr lawrence by name. you try to find _him_ out and if you can do him a good turn, do it.' `willum,' says i, `i'll do it--trust me.' `i do,' says he, `and when may i expect you back in californy, wopper?' `willum,' says i, `that depends.' `true,' says he, `it does. give us you're flipper, old boy, we may never meet again in these terrestrial diggings. good luck to you. don't forget my last will an' testimony as now expressed.' `willum,' says i, `i won't.' so, ma'am, i left californy with a sacred trust, so to speak, crossed the sea, and here i am." at this point captain wopper, having warmed in his subject, took in at one bite as much of the small loaf as would have been rather a heavy dinner for mrs roby, and emptied at one gulp a full cup of her tea, after which he stroked his beard, smiled benignantly at his hostess, became suddenly earnest again, and went on--chewing as he spoke. "now, ma'am, i've three questions to ask: in the first place, as it's not possible now to do a good turn to old mr lawrence, i must do it to his son. can you tell me where he lives?" mrs roby told him that it was in a street not far from where they sat, in a rather poor lodging. "secondly, ma'am, can you tell me where willum's sister-in-law lives,-- mrs stout, _alias_ stoutley?" "no, captain wopper, but i daresay mr lawrence can. he knows 'most everythink, and has a london directory." "good. now, in the third place, where am i to find a lodging?" mrs roby replied that there were plenty to be found in london of all kinds. "you haven't a spare room here, have you?" said the captain, looking round. mrs roby shook her head and said that she had not; and, besides, that if she had, it would be impossible for her to keep a lodger, as she had no servant, and could not attend on him herself. "mrs roby," said the captain, "a gold-digging seaman don't want no servant, nor no attendance. what's up aloft?" by pointing to a small trap-door in the ceiling, he rendered the question intelligible. "it's a garret, i believe," replied mrs roby, smiling; "but having no ladder, i've never been up." "you've no objection to my taking a look, have you?" asked the captain. "none in the world," replied the old woman. without more ado the seaman rose, mounted on a chair, pushed open the trap-door, thrust his head and shoulders through, and looked round. apparently the inspection was not deemed sufficiently close, for, to the old woman's alarm and inexpressible surprise, he seized the edges of the hole with his strong hands, raised himself up, and finally disappeared in the regions above! the alarm of the old woman was somewhat increased by the sound of her visitor's heavy tread on the boards overhead as he stumbled about. presently his head appeared looking down through the trap. in any aspect, captain wopper's shaggy head was an impressive one; but viewed in an upside-down position, with the blood running into it, it was peculiarly striking. "i say, old lady," he shouted, as if his position recalled the action and induced the tones of a boatswain, "it'll do. a capital berth, with two portholes and a bunk." the captain's head disappeared, and immediately his legs took its place, suggesting the outrageous idea that he had thrown a somersault. next moment his huge body slid down, and he stood on the floor much flushed and covered with dust. "now, old girl, is it to be?" he said, sitting down at the table. "will you take me as a lodger, for better and for worse? i'll fit up the berth on the main-deck, and be my own servant as well as your's. say the word." "i can refuse nothing to willie's friend," said old mrs roby, "but really i--" "done, it's a bargain," interrupted the captain, rising abruptly. "now, i'll go visit young mr lawrence and mrs stoutley, and to-morrow i'll bring my kit, take possession of my berth, and you and i shall sail in company, i hope, and be messmates for some time to come." chapter three. difficulties among the social summits. in one of the many mansions of the "west end" of london, a lady reclined one morning on a sofa wishing that it were afternoon. she was a middle-aged, handsome, sickly lady. if it had been afternoon she would have wished that it were evening, and if it had been evening she would have wished for the morning; for mrs stoutley was one of those languid invalids whose enjoyment appears to be altogether in the future or the past, and who seem to have no particular duties connected with the present except sighing and wishing. it may be that this unfortunate condition of mind had something to do with mrs stoutley's feeble state of health. if she had been a little more thoughtful about others, and less mindful of herself, she might, perhaps, have sighed and wished less, and enjoyed herself more. at all events her doctor seemed to entertain some such opinion, for, sitting in an easy chair beside her, and looking earnestly at her handsome, worn-out countenance, he said, somewhat abruptly, being a blunt doctor. "you must go abroad, madam, and try to get your mind, as well as your body, well shaken up." "why, doctor," replied mrs stoutley, with a faint smile; "you talk of me as if i were a bottle of physic or flat ginger-beer." "you are little better, silly woman," thought the doctor, but his innate sense of propriety induced him only to say, with a smile, "well, there is at least this much resemblance between you and a bottle of flat ginger-beer, namely, that both require to be made to effervesce a little. it will never do to let your spirits down as you have been doing. we must brighten up, my dear madam--not brighton up, by the way, we've had enough of brighton and bath, and such places. we must get away to the continent this summer--to the pyrenees, or switzerland, where we can breathe the fresh mountain air, and ramble on glaciers, and have a thorough change." mrs stoutley looked gently, almost pitifully at the doctor while he spoke, as if she thought him a well-meaning and impulsive, but rather stupid maniac. "impossible, my dear doctor," she said; "you know i could not stand the fatigues of such a journey." "well, then," replied the doctor, abruptly, "you must stop at home and die." "oh! what a shocking naughty man you are to talk so." mrs stoutley said this, however, with an easy good-natured air, which showed plainly that she did not believe her illness likely to have such a serious termination. "i will be still more naughty and shocking," continued the doctor, resolutely, but with a twinkle in his eyes, "for i shall prescribe not only a dose of mountain air, but a dose of mountain exercise, to be taken--and the patient to be well shaken while taken--every morning throughout the summer and autumn. moreover, after you return to england, you must continue the exercise during the winter; and, in addition to that, must have an object at the end of your walks and drives--not shopping, observe, that is not a sufficiently out-of-door object; nor visiting your friends, which is open to the same objection." mrs stoutley smiled again at this, and said that really, if visiting and shopping were forbidden, there seemed to be nothing left but museums and picture-galleries. to this the doctor retorted that although she might do worse than visit museums and picture-galleries, he would prefer that she should visit the diamond and gold fields of the city. "did you ever hear of the diamond and gold fields of london, miss gray?" he said, turning to a plain yet pretty girl, who had been listening in silence to the foregoing conversation. "never," answered miss gray, with a look of surprise. now, miss gray's look of surprise induces us to state in passing that this young lady--niece, also poor relation and companion, to mrs stoutley--possessed three distinct aspects. when grave, she was plain,--not ugly, observe; a girl of nineteen, with a clear healthy complexion and nut-brown hair, cannot in any circumstances be ugly; no, she was merely plain when grave. when she smiled she was decidedly pretty, and when she laughed she was captivating--absolutely irresistible! she seldom laughed, occasionally smiled, and was generally grave. there was something quite incomprehensible about her, for she was not an unusually good girl, and by no means a dashing girl, neither was she an intensely modest girl--and yet, plain emma gray had perhaps driven more young men into a condition of drivelling imbecility than any acknowledged beauty of the metropolis. observe, we say "perhaps," because we lay claim to no superhuman knowledge in regard to such matters. "they are rather extensive fields," continued the doctor, "scattered here and there about the metropolis, but lying chiefly in the city and on the banks of the thames. they comprise many picture-galleries, too, and museums; the latter containing wonderful specimens of old bones and fossil remains, filth, and miscellaneous abominations, in which the gold and diamonds are imbedded--sometimes buried,--and the former being hung with subjects--chiefly interiors--incomparably superior, in respect of graphic power, to the works of hogarth." "oh! i know what you mean," said miss gray, with a little smile. "your wits are sharper than mine, emma," said mrs stoutley, with a sigh and a placid look. "what _do_ you refer to, doctor tough?" "i refer to those districts, madam, chiefly inhabited by the poor, where there are innumerable diamonds and gold nuggets, some of which are being polished, and a good many are glittering brightly, though not yet fixed in their proper setting, while by far the greater number of them are down in the earth, and useless in the meantime, and apt to be lost for want of adventurous diggers. they are splendid fields those of london, and digging is healthful occupation--though it might not seem so at first sight. did you ever visit the poor, mrs stoutley?" with a slight elevation of her eyebrows, and the application of a scent-bottle to her delicate nose, as if the question had suggested bad smells, the lady said that--well, yes, she had once visited a poor old gardener who had been a faithful creature in the family of a former friend, but that her recollection of that visit did not tend to induce a wish for its repetition. "h'm!" coughed the doctor, "well, the taste of physic is usually bad at first, but one soon gets used to it, and the after effects, as you know, are exceedingly beneficial. i hope that when you visit the london diggings you may find the truth of this; but it will be time enough to speak of that subject when you return from rambling on the glaciers of switzerland, where, by the way, the dirt, rubbish, and wrack, called moraines, which lie at the foot of the glaciers, will serve to remind you of the gold-fields to which i have referred, for much of what composes those moraines was once solid rock in a fixed position on the heights, or glittering ice which reflected the sun's dazzling rays on surrounding high life, though it lies low in the earth now. to a lady of your intelligence, madam, i need not expound my parable. there are many avalanches, great and small, in english society as well as among the swiss mountains; and, whether by gradual subsidence or a tremendous rush, we must all find our places in the moraine at last." "really, doctor," said mrs stoutley, with a light laugh, "you seem to have already wandered much among these moral moraines, and to have acquired some of their ruggedness. how _can_ you talk of such dismal things to a patient? but are you really in earnest about my going abroad?" "indeed i am," replied the doctor, firmly, "and i advise you to begin your preparations at once, for you must set out on your travels in less than a month. i lay the responsibility of seeing my orders carried into effect on your shoulders, miss gray." so saying, the doctor rose and took his leave. mrs stoutley and her niece immediately began to discuss the subject of switzerland--the one languidly, the other with animation. it was plain enough that, although the invalid protested to the doctor her inability to travel, she really had no objection, perhaps felt some desire, to go abroad, for when miss gray mentioned the fact that there was a difficulty in the shape of insufficient funds, she replied with more warmth than usual-- "now, emma, what is the use of always bringing up that ridiculous idea?" "no doubt, auntie," the maiden replied, "it is a little ridiculous to run short of ready money, considering the style in which we live; but it would be still more ridiculous, you know, to go to switzerland without the means of paying our expenses while there." "what's that you say about expenses, cousin?" exclaimed a tall handsome stripling who entered at the moment, and seated himself on the sofa at his mother's feet. "oh, bother the expense!" he exclaimed, when the difficulty had been explained to him, "it can't cost so much to spend a few months in switzerland,--besides, we can do it cheap, you know. didn't mr what's-his-name, our man of business, say that there was a considerable balance at the banker's, and that if the what-d'ee-call-'em mines paid a reasonable dividend, we should easily get over our difficulties?" "he said something of that sort, i believe," replied mrs stoutley, with a sigh. "i rather think, cousin lewis," said emma, endeavouring to repress a smile, "that he said there was an inconsiderable balance at the bankers, and that _unless_ the gorong mine paid a reasonable dividend, we shouldn't easily get over our difficulties." both lewis and his mother laughed at the quiet way in which this was said, but, while both admitted that emma's view of the matter might perhaps be correct, lewis held that there was no good reason for supposing there would be any difficulty in the meantime in obtaining from their "man-of-business" the paltry sum that was required for a short tour on the continent. indeed mrs stoutley regarded this man-of-business as a mere sponge, who required only to be squeezed in order to the production of what was desired, and the man-of-business himself found it no easy matter to convince her that she held erroneous views on this subject, and that at her present rate of progress, she would, to use the doctor's glacial simile, very soon topple from the pinnacle of fashion, on which she sat, and fall with the crash of a social avalanche into the moraine of ruin. "what a wise little woman you are, cousin emma," said lewis, gaily. "you ought to have been bred to the law, or trained an accountant. however, we won't be guided by your advice just now, first, because the doctor has _ordered_ mother abroad for her health, which is our chief consideration; and, second, because i wish of all things to see switzerland, and climb mont blanc. besides, we are not so poor as you think, and i hope to add a little to our general funds in a day or two. by the way, can you lend me ten pounds just now, mother?" "why do you want it?" asked mrs stoutley, sternly, as if she meant to refuse, but at the same time opening her purse. "don't ask me just now. i will repay you tomorrow, with interest and shall then explain." with an easy, languid smile, the carelessly amiable invalid handed her last ten-pound note to her hopeful son, who had just transferred it to his pocketbook, when a footman entered and presented a scrap of dirty paper, informing his lady that the person who sent up the "card" desired to see her. "what is this?" said mrs stoutley, holding the paper gingerly with the tips of her fingers, "wip--wap--wopper! what is wopper? is the person a man or a woman?" the footman, who, although well-bred, found it difficult to restrain a smile, intimated that the person was a man, and added, that he said he had come from california, and wanted to see mrs stoutley very particularly. on hearing this, the lady's manner changed at once, and, with more animation than she had yet exhibited, she desired that he should be shown in. with his large wide-awake in one hand, and a canvas bag in the other, captain wopper entered the drawing-room, and looked around him with a beaming and rather bashful smile. "mrs stoutley, i believe," he said, advancing, "and miss emma gray, i suppose," he added, turning with a beaming glance towards the young lady. mrs stoutley admitted that he was right, and expressed some surprise that he, a perfect stranger, should be so well acquainted with their names. "i am indeed a stranger personally, ma'am," said captain wopper, smoothing the hair down on his rugged brow, "but i may be said to know you pretty well, seeing that i have for many years been the friend and messmate of your late husband's brother in californy." "indeed!" exclaimed mrs stoutley, with increasing animation, as she rose and held out her hand; "any friend of my brother-in-law is heartily welcome. be seated, mr wopper, and let me hear about him. he was very kind to my dear husband during his last illness--very kind. i shall never forget him." "no doubt he was," said the captain, accepting the chair which emma gray handed to him, with looks of great interest. "thank 'ee, miss. willum stout--excuse my familiarity, ma'am, i always called him willum, because we was like brothers--more than brothers, i may say, an' very friendly. yes, willum stout _was_ kind to his brother in his last days. it would have bin shame to him if he hadn't for your husband, ma'am, was kind to willum, an' he often said to me, over the camp-fires in the bush, that he'd never forget _his_ kindness. but it's over now," continued the seaman in a sad tone, "an' poor willum is left alone." "is my uncle _very_ poor?" asked lewis, who had been paying more attention to the appearance of their rugged visitor than to what he had said. "ay, _very_ poor," replied the seaman, "as regards near relations, leastwise such as he has seen and known in former days, but he an't poor as regards gold. he's got lots of that. he and i worked not far from each other for years, an' he used to hit upon good claims somehow, and shovelled up the nuggets like stones." "indeed! i wish he'd send a few of them this way," exclaimed lewis, with a careless laugh. "no doubt he might do so, young man, if he knew you were in need of 'em, but your father gave him to understand that his family was rich." "rich!" exclaimed lewis, with a smile, in which there was a touch of contempt. "well, yes, we were rich enough once, but when my father was away these wretched mines became--" "lewie!" exclaimed his mother, hastily, "what nonsense you do talk! really, one would think from your account that we were paupers." "well, mother, so we are--paupers to this extent at least, that we can't afford to take a run to switzerland, though ordered to do so for your health, because we lack funds." lewis said this half petulantly, for he had been a "spoilt child," and might probably have been by that time a ruined young man, but for the mercy of his creator, who had blessed him with an amiable disposition. he was one of those youths, in short, of whom people say that they can't be spoiled, though fond and foolish parents do their best to spoil them. "you mis-state the case, naughty boy," said mrs stoutley, annoyed at being thus forced to touch on her private affairs before a stranger. "no doubt our ready cash is what our man-of-business calls `locked up,' but that, you know, is only a matter of temporary inconvenience, and cannot last long." as mrs stoutley paused and hesitated, their visitor placed on the table a canvas bag, which, up to this point he had rested on one knee. "this bag," he said, "of nuggets, is a gift from willum. he desired me to deliver it to you, miss gray, as a _small_ acknowledgment of your kindness in writin' so often to him. he'd have bought you a silk gown, or a noo bonnet, so he said, but wasn't sure as to your taste in such matters, and thought you'd accept the nuggets and buy it for yourself. leastwise, that's somethin' like the speech willum tried to tell me to deliver, but he warn't good at speech-makin' no more than i at remembrin', and hoped you'd take the will for the deed." with a flush of surprise and pleasure, emma gray accepted both the will and the deed, with many expressions of gratitude, and said, that as she did not require either a silk dress or a bonnet just then, she would invest her little fortune; she would lend it at high interest, to a lady under temporary inconvenience, who was ordered by her doctor to switzerland for the benefit of her health. to this mrs stoutley protested very earnestly that the lady in question would not accept the loan on any consideration; that it must not be diverted from its destined use, but be honestly expended on silk-dresses and new bonnets. to which emma replied, that the destiny of the gift, with interest (she was very particular on that head), should be fulfilled in good time, but that meanwhile it must be lent out. in the midst of a cross-fire of this kind the bag was opened, and its contents poured on the table, to the immense admiration of all the company, none of whom had, until that day, beheld gold in its native condition. "how much may it be worth, mr wopper?" asked lewis, weighing one of the largest lumps. "about two hundred pound, i should say, more or less," replied the seaman. "indeed!" exclaimed the youth in surprise--an exclamation which was echoed by his mother and cousin in modified tones. while they sat thus toying with the lumps of gold, the conversation reverted to the sender of it, and the captain told such entertaining anecdotes of bush life, in all of which "uncle willum" had been an actor, that the afternoon arrived before mrs stoutley had time to wish for it. they also talked of the last illness of the deceased father of the family; and when it came out that captain (they had found out by that time that their visitor had been a skipper, and, by courtesy, a captain), had assisted "willum" in nursing mr stoutley, and had followed him to the grave, mrs stoutley's gratitude was such that she insisted on her visitor staying to dinner. "thank 'ee, ma'am," he said, "i've dined. i always dines at one o'clock if i can manage it." "but we don't dine till eight," said the lady, "so it will just suit for your supper." "do come," said emma gray, "we shall be quite alone, and shall have a great spinning of yarns over uncle william and the gold-fields." "well, i don't mind if i do," said the captain, "but before supper i must go to the docks for my kit and settle my lodgings." "i am going to the strand, and shall be happy to give you a lift," said lewis. the captain accepted the offer, and as they drove along, he and his young friend became very intimate, insomuch that lewis, who was lighthearted, open, and reckless, let him into his confidence, and spoke quite freely about his mother's difficulties. it is only justice to add that the captain did not encourage him in this. when, however, the youth spoke of himself, he not only encouraged him, but drew him out. among other things, he drew out of him the fact that he was in the habit of gambling, and that he fully expected--if his usual luck attended him--to assist in adding to the fund which was to take the family abroad. the captain looked at the handsome stripling for a few seconds in silent surprise. "you don't mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that you gamble?" "indeed i do," replied lewis, with a bland smile, and something of a twinkle in his eye. "for money?" asked the captain. "for money," assented the youth; "what have you to say against it?" "why, i've to say that it's mean." "that's strong language," said lewis, flushing. "it an't strong enough by a long way," returned the captain, with indignation, "it's more than mean, it's contemptible; it's despicable." the flush on lewis's face deepened, and he looked at his companion with the air of one who meditates knocking another down. perhaps the massive size and strength of the captain induced him to change his mind. it may be that there occurred to him the difficulty--if not impossibility--of knocking down a man who was down already, and the want of space in a cab for such violent play of muscle. at all events he did nothing, but looked "daggers." "look 'ee here, my lad," continued the captain, laying his huge hand on his companion's knee, and gazing earnestly into his face, "i don't mean for to hurt your feelin's by sayin' that _you_ are mean, or contemptible, or despicable, for i don't suppose you've thought much about the matter at all, and are just following in the wake of older men who ought to know better; but i say that the _thing_--gambling for money--is the meanest thing a man can do, short of stealing. what does it amount to? simply this--i want another man's money, and the other man wants mine. we daren't try open robbery, we would be ashamed of that; we're both too lazy to labour for money, and labour doesn't bring it in fast enough, therefore we'll go _play_ for it. i'll ask him to submit to be robbed by me on condition that i submit to be robbed by him; and which is to be the robbed, and which the robber, shall depend on the accidental turn of a dice, or something equally trifling--" "but i don't gamble by means of dice," interrupted lewis, "i play, and bet, on billiards, which is a game of skill, requiring much practice, judgment, and thought." "that makes no odds, my lad," continued the captain. "there is no connection whatever between the rolling of a ball and the taking away of a man's money, any more than there is between the turning of a dice and the taking of a man's money. both are dishonourable subterfuges. they are mere blinds put up to cover the great and mean fact, which is, that i want to get possession of my neighbour's cash." "but, captain," retorted lewis, with a smile--for he had now entered into the spirit of the argument--"you ignore the fact that while i try to win from my friend, i am quite willing that my friend should try to win from me." "ignore it? no!" cried captain wopper. "putt it in this way. isn't it wrong for me to have a longing desire and itching fingers to lay hold of _your_ cash?" "well, put in that simple form," said lewis, with a laugh, "it certainly is." "and isn't it equally wrong for you to have a hungering and thirsting after _my_ cash?" "of course that follows," assented lewis. "well, then," pursued the captain, "can any agreement between you and me, as to the guessing of black or white or the turning of dice or anything else, make a right out of two wrongs?" "still," said lewis, a little puzzled, "there is fallacy somewhere in your argument. i cannot see that gambling is wrong." "mark me, my lad," returned the captain, impressively, "it is no sufficient reason for the doing of a thing that you _cannot see_ it to be wrong. you are not entitled to do anything unless you _see_ it to be right. but there are other questions connected with gambling which renders it doubly mean--the question, for instance, whether a man is entitled to risk the loss of money which he calls his own, but which belongs to his wife and children as much as to himself. the mean positions, too, in which a gambler places himself, are numerous. one of these is, when a rich man wins the hard-earned and much-needed gains of a poor one." "but one is not supposed to know anything about the affairs of those from whom one wins," objected lewis. "all the more reason," replied captain wopper, "why a man should never gamble, lest, unwittingly, he should become the cause of great suffering--it might be, of death." still lewis "could not see" the wrong of gambling, and the discussion was cut short by the sudden stopping of the cab at a door in the strand, over which hung a lamp, on which the captain observed the word "billiards." "well, ta-ta, old fellow," said lewis, gaily, as he parted from his new friend, "we'll finish the argument another day. meanwhile, don't forget the hour--eight, sharp." chapter four. shows how the captain came to an anchor, and conceived a deep design. when captain wopper parted from his young friend, he proceeded along the strand in an unusually grave mood, shaking his head to such a degree, as he reflected on the precocious wickedness of the rising generation, that a very ragged and pert specimen of that generation, observing his condition, gravely informed him that there was an hospital for incurables in london, which took in patients with palsy and st. wituses' dance werry cheap. this recalled him from the depths of sorrowful meditation, and induced him to hail a cab, in which he drove to the docks, claimed his chest--a solid, seamanlike structure, reminding one of the wooden walls of old england--and returned with it to the head of the lane leading to grubb's court. dismissing the cab, he looked round for a porter, but as no porter appeared, the captain, having been accustomed through life to help himself, and being, as we have said, remarkably strong, shouldered the nautical chest, and bore it to the top of mrs roby's staircase. here he encountered, and almost tumbled over, gillie white, who saluted him with-- "hallo! ship aho-o-oy! starboard hard! breakers ahead! why, capp'n, you've all but run into me!" "why don't you show a light then," retorted the captain, "or blow your steam-whistle, in such a dark hole? what's that you've got in your arms?" "the baby," replied gillie. "what baby?" demanded the captain. "_our_ baby, of course," returned the imp, in a tone that implied the non-existence of any other baby worth mentioning. "i brought it up to show it to the sick 'ooman next door but one to mrs roby's cabin. she's very sick, she is, an' took a great longing to see our baby, cos she thinks it's like what her son was w'en _he_ was a baby. if he ever was, he don't look much like one now, for he's six-feet nothin' in his socks, an' drinks like a fish, if he don't do nothin' wuss. good-night capp'n. baby'll ketch cold if i keep on jawin' here. mind your weather eye, and port your helm when you reach the landin'. if you'll take the advice of a young salt, you'll clew up your mainsail an' dowse some of your top-hamper--ah! i thought so!" this last remark, delivered with a broad grin of delight, had reference to the fact that the captain had run the corner of his chest against the low roof of the passage with a degree of violence that shook the whole tenement. holding his breath in hopeful anticipation, and reckless of the baby's "ketching cold," the small boy listened for more. nor was he disappointed. in his progress along the passage captain wopper, despite careful steering, ran violently foul of several angles and beams, each of which mishaps sent a quiver through the old house, and a thrill to the heart of gillie white. in his earnest desire to steer clear of the sick woman's door, the luckless captain came into collision with the opposite wall, and anxiety on this point causing him to forget the step on which he had "struck" once before, he struck it again, and was precipitated, chest and all, against mrs roby's door, which, fortunately for itself, burst open, and let the avalanche of chest and man descend upon mrs roby's floor. knowing that the climax was now reached, the imp descended the stair filled with a sort of serene ecstasy, while captain wopper gathered himself up and sat down on his nautical portmanteau. "i tell 'ee what it is, old 'ooman," said he, stroking his beard, "the channel into this port is about the wust i ever had the ill-luck to navigate. i hope i didn't frighten 'ee?" "oh, dear no!" replied mrs roby, with a smile. to say truth, the old woman seemed less alarmed than might have been expected. probably the noise of the captain's approach, and previous experience, had prepared her for some startling visitation, for she was quite calm, and a humorous twinkle in her eyes seemed to indicate the presence of a spirit somewhat resembling that which actuated gillie white. "well, that's all right," said the captain, rising and pushing up the trap-door that led to his private berth in the new lodging; "and now, old lady, havin' come to an anchor, i must get this chest sent aloft as fast as i can, seein' that i've to clean myself an' rig out for a dinner at eight o'clock at the west end." "dear me," said mrs roby, in surprise, "you must have got among people of quality." "it won't be easy to hoist it up," said the captain, ignoring the remark, and eyeing the chest and trap-door in the roof alternately. just then a heavy step was heard in the passage; and a young man of large and powerful frame, with a gentle as well as gentlemanly demeanour, appeared at the door. "come in--come in," said mrs roby, with a bright look, "this is only my new lodger, a friend of dear wil--" "why, bless you, old 'ooman," interrupted captain wopper, "_he_ knows me well enough. i went to him this morning and got mrs stoutley's address. come in, dr lawrence. i may claim to act the host here now in a small way, perhaps, and bid visitors welcome--eh! mrs roby?" "surely, surely," replied the old woman. "thank you both for the welcome," said the visitor with a pleasant smile, as he shook hands with mrs roby. "i thought i recognised your voice, captain wopper, as you passed mrs leven's door, and came out to see how you and my old friend here get on together." "is she any better to-night, sir?" asked mrs roby, anxiously. lawrence shook his head sadly and said she was no better, and that he feared she had little chance of getting better while her dissipated son dwelt under the same roof with her. "it is breaking her heart," he added, "and, besides that, the nature of her disease is such that recovery is impossible unless she is fed on the most generous diet. this of course she cannot have, because she has no means of her own. her son gambles away nearly all his small salary, and she refuses to go to an hospital lest her absence should be the removal of the last restraining link between him and destruction. it is a very sad case-- very." captain wopper was struck with this reference to gambling coming so soon after his recent conversation on that subject, and asked if there were no charitable societies or charitable people in london who would help in a case so miserable. yes, there were plenty of charitable institutions, lawrence told him, but he feared that this woman had no special claim on any of them, and her refusal to go to an hospital would tell against her. there were also, he said, plenty of charitable people, but all of those he happened to be acquainted with had been appealed to by him so often that he felt ashamed to try them again. he had already given away as much of his own slender means as he could well spare, so that he saw no way out of the difficulty; but he had faith in providential supervision of human affairs, and he believed that a way would yet be opened up. "you're right, sir--right," said captain wopper, with emphasis, while he looked earnestly into the face of the young doctor. "this world wasn't made to be kicked about like a foot-ball by chance, or circumstances, or anything of the sort. look 'ee here, sir; it has bin putt into my heart to feel charitable leanings, and a good bit o' cash has bin putt into my pocket, so that, bein' a lone sort o' man, i don't have much use for it. that's on the one hand. on the other hand, here are you, sir, the son of a friend o' my chum willum stout, with great need of aid from charitable people, an' here we two are met together--both ready for action. now, i call that a providential arrangement, so please putt me down as one of your charitable friends. it's little i can boast of in that way as yet but it's not too late to begin. i've long arrears to pull up, so i'll give you that to begin with. it'll help to relieve mrs leven in the meantime." as he spoke, the captain drew a black pocketbook from his breast pocket and, taking a piece of paper therefrom, placed it in the doctor's hands. "this is a fifty-pound note!" said lawrence, in surprise. "well, what then?" returned the captain. "you didn't expect a thousand-pound note, did you?" "not quite that," replied lawrence, laughing, "but i thought that perhaps you had made a mistake." "ah! you judged from appearances, young man. don't you git into the way of doin' that, else you'll be for ever sailin' on the wrong tack. take my advice, an' never look as if you thought a man gave you more than he could afford. nobody never does that." "far be it from me," returned lawrence, "to throw cold water on generous impulses. i accept your gift with thanks, and will gladly put you on my list. if you should find hereafter that i pump you rather hard, please to remember that you gave me encouragement to do so." "pump away, sir. when you've pumped dry, i'll tell you!" "well," said lawrence, rising, "i'll go at once and bring your liberality into play; and, since you have done me so good a turn, remember that you may command my services, if they can ever be of any use to you." the captain cast a glance at the trap-door and the chest. "well," said he, "i can scarcely ask you to do it professionally, but if you'd lend a hand to get this noah's ark o' mine on to the upper deck, i'd--" "come along," cried lawrence, jumping up with a laugh, and seizing one end of the "ark." captain wopper grasped the other end, and, between them, with much puffing, pushing, and squeezing, they thrust the box through the trap to the upper regions, whither the captain followed it by means of the same gymnastic feat that he performed on his first ascent. thrusting his head down, he invited the doctor to "come aloft," which the doctor did in the same undignified fashion, for his gentle manner and spirit had not debarred him from the practice and enjoyment of manly exercises. "it's a snug berth, you see," said the captain, stumbling among the dusty lumber, and knocking his head against the beams, "wants cleaning up, tho', and puttin' to rights a bit, but i'll soon manage that; and when i git the dirt and cobwebs cleared away, glass putt in the port-holes, and a whitewash on the roof and walls, it'll be a cabin fit for an admiral. see what a splendid view of the river! just suited to a seafarin' man." "capital!" cried lawrence, going down on his knees to obtain the view referred to. "rather low in the roof, however, don't you think?" "low? not at all!" exclaimed the captain. "it's nothin' to what i've been used to on the coastin' trade off californy. why, i've had to live in cabins so small that a tall man couldn't keep his back straight when he was sittin' on the lockers; but we didn't _sit_ much in 'em; we was chiefly used to go into 'em to lie down. this is a palace to such cabins." the doctor expressed satisfaction at finding that his new "charitable contributor" took such enlarged views of a pigeon-hole, and, promising to pay him another visit when the "cabin" should have been put to rights, said good-bye, and went to relieve the wants of the sick woman. as the captain accompanied him along the passage, they heard the voice and step of poor mrs leven's dissipated son, as he came stumbling and singing up the stair. he was a stout good-looking youth, and cast a half impudent half supercilious look at captain wopper on approaching. he also bestowed a nod of careless recognition on dr lawrence. thinking it better to be out of the way, the captain said good-bye again to his friend, and returned to the cabin, where he expressed to mrs roby the opinion that, "that young feller leven was goin' to the dogs at railway speed." thereafter he went "aloft," and, as he expressed it, "rigged himself out," in a spruce blue coat with brass buttons; blue vest and trousers to match; a white dicky with a collar attached and imitation carbuncle studs down the front. to these he added a black silk neckerchief tied in a true sailor's knot but with the ends separated and carefully tucked away under his vest to prevent their interfering with the effulgence of the carbuncle studs; a pair of light shoes with a superabundance of new tie; a green silk handkerchief, to be carried in his hat, for the purpose of mopping his forehead when warm, and a red silk ditto to be carried in his pocket for the benefit of his nose. in addition to the studs, captain wopper wore, as ornaments, a solid gold ring, the rude workmanship of which induced the belief that he must have made it himself, and a large gold watch, with a gold chain in the form of a cable, and a rough gold nugget attached to it in place of a seal or key. we class the watch among simple ornaments because, although it went-- very demonstratively too, with a loud self-asserting tick--its going was irregular and uncertain. sometimes it went too slow without apparent cause. at other times it went too fast without provocation. frequently it struck altogether, and only consented to resume work after a good deal of gentle and persuasive threatening to wind it the wrong way. it had chronic internal complaints, too, which produced sundry ominous clicks and sounds at certain periods of the day. these passed off, however, towards evening. occasionally such sounds rushed as it were into a sudden whirr and series of convulsions, ending in a dead stop, which was an unmistakeable intimation to the captain that something vital had given way; that the watch had gone into open mutiny, and nothing short of a visit to the watchmaker could restore it to life and duty. "i'm off now," said the captain, descending when he was fully "rigged." "what about the door-key, mother?--you've no objection to my calling you mother, have you?" "none whatever, captain," replied mrs roby, with a pleasant smile, "an old friend of william may call me whatever he pleases--short," she added after momentary pause, "of swearin'." "trust me, i'll stop short of that. you see, old lady, i never know'd a mother, and i should like to try to feel what it's like to have one. it's true i'm not just a lad, but you are old enough to be my mother for all that, so i'll make the experiment. but what about the key of the door, mother? i can't expect you to let me in, you know." "just lock it, and take the key away with you," said mrs roby. "but what if a fire should break out?" said the captain, with a look of indecision. "i'm not afraid of fire. we've got a splendid brigade and plenty of fire-escapes, and a good kick from a fireman would open my door without a key." "mother, you're a trump! i'll lock you in and leave you with an easy mind--" he stopped abruptly, and mrs roby asked what was the matter. "well, it's what i said about an easy mind that threw me all aback," replied the captain, "for to tell 'ee the truth, i haven't got an easy mind." "not done anything wicked, i hope?" said mrs roby, anxiously. "no, no; nothin' o' that sort; but there _is_ somethin' lyin' heavy on my mind, and i don't see why i shouldn't make a confidant o' you, bein' my mother, d'ee see; and, besides, it consarns willum." the old woman looked eagerly at her lodger as he knitted his brows in perplexity and smoothed down his forelock. "here's where it is," he continued, drawing his chair closer to that of mrs roby; "when willum made me his exikooter, so to speak, he said to me, `wopper,' says he, `i'm not one o' them fellers that holds on to his cash till he dies with it in his pocket. i've got neither wife nor chick, as you know, an' so, wot i means to do is to give the bulk of it to them that i love while i'm alive--d'ee see?' `i do, willum,' says i. `well then,' says he, `besides them little matters that i axed you to do for me, i want you to take partikler notice of two people. one is the man as saved my life w'en i was a youngster, or, if he's dead, take notice of his child'n. the other is that sweet young creeter, emma gray, who has done the correspondence with me so long for my poor brother. you keep a sharp look-out an' find out how these two are off for money. if emma's rich, of course it's no use to give her what she don't need, and i'll give the most of what i've had the good fortune to dig up here to old mr lawrence, or his family, for my brother's widow, bein' rich, don't need it. if both emma and lawrence are rich, why then, just let me know, and i'll try to hit on some other plan to make away with it, for you know well enough i couldn't use it all upon myself without going into wicked extravagance, and my dear old mrs roby wouldn't know what to do with so much cash if i sent it to her. now, you promise to do this for me?' says he. `willum,' says i, `i do.'" "now, mother," continued the captain, "what troubles me is this, that instead o' findin' miss emma rich, and mr lawrence poor, or _wice wersa_, or findin' 'em both rich, i finds 'em both poor. that's where my difficulty lies." mrs roby offered a prompt solution of this difficulty by suggesting that william should divide the money between them. "that would do all well enough," returned the captain, "if there were no under-currents drivin' the ship out of her true course. but you see, mother, i find that the late mr stoutley's family is also poor--at least in difficulties--although they live in great style, and _seem_ to be rich; and from what i heard the other day, i know that the son is given to gamblin', and the mother seems to be extravagant, and both of 'em are ready enough to sponge on miss emma, who is quite willin'--far too willin'--to be sponged upon, so that whatever willum gave to her would be just thrown away. now the question is," continued the captain, looking seriously at the kettle with the defiant spout, "what am i to advise willum to do?" "advise him," replied mrs roby, promptly, "to give _all_ the money to dr lawrence, and get dr lawrence to marry miss gray, and so they'll both get the whole of it." a beaming smile crossed the captain's visage. "not a bad notion, mother; but what if dr lawrence, after gettin' the money, didn't want to marry miss gray?" "get him to marry her first and give the money afterwards," returned mrs roby. "ay, that might do," replied the captain, nodding slowly, "only it may be that a man without means may hesitate about marryin' a girl without means, especially if he didn't want _her_, and she didn't want _him_. i don't quite see how to get over all these difficulties." "there's only one way of getting over them," said mrs roby, "and that is, by bringin' the young people together, and givin' 'em a chance to fall in love." "true, true, mother, but, so far as i know, dr lawrence don't know the family. we couldn't," said the captain, looking round the room, dubiously, "ask 'em to take a quiet cup of tea here with us--eh? you might ask dr lawrence, as your medical man, and i might ask miss emma, as an old friend of her uncle, quite in an off-hand way, you know, as if by chance. they'd never see through the dodge, and would fall in love at once, perhaps--eh?" captain wopper said all this in a dubious tone, looking at the defiant kettle the while, as if propitiating its favourable reception of the idea, but it continued defiant, and hissed uncompromisingly, while its mistress laughed outright. "you're not much of a match-maker, i see," she said, on recovering composure. "no, captain, it wouldn't do to ask 'em here to tea." "well, well," said the captain, rising, "we'll let match-makin' alone for the present. it's like tryin' to beat to wind'ard against a cyclone. the best way is to square the yards, furl the sails, and scud under bare poles till it's over. it's blowin' too hard just now for me to make headway, so i'll wear ship and scud." in pursuance of this resolve, captain wopper put on his wide-awake, locked up his mother, and went off to dine at the "west end." chapter five. in which several important matters are arranged, and gillie white undergoes some remarkable and hitherto unknown experiences. it is not necessary to inflict on the reader mrs stoutley's dinner in detail; suffice it to say, that captain wopper conducted himself, on the whole, much more creditably than his hostess had anticipated, and made himself so entertaining, especially to lewis, that that young gentleman invited him to accompany the family to switzerland, much to the amusement of his cousin emma and the horror of his mother, who, although she enjoyed a private visit of the captain, did not relish the thought of his becoming a travelling companion of the family. she pretended not to hear the invitation given, but when lewis, knowing full well the state of her mind, pressed the invitation, she shook her head at him covertly and frowned. this by-play her son pretended not to see, and continued his entreaties, the captain not having replied. "now, do come with us, captain wopper," he said; "it will be such fun, and we should all enjoy you _so_ much--wouldn't we, emma?" ("yes, indeed," from emma); "and it would just be suited to your tastes and habits, for the fine, fresh air of the mountains bears a wonderful resemblance to that of the sea. you've been accustomed no doubt to climb up the shrouds to the crosstrees; well, in switzerland, you may climb up the hills to any sort of trees you like, and get shrouded in mist, or tumble over a precipice and get put into your shroud altogether; and--" "really, lewie, you ought to be ashamed of making such bad puns," interrupted his mother. "doubtless it would be very agreeable to have captain wopper with us, but i am quite sure it would be anything but pleasant for him to travel through such a wild country with such a wild goose as you for a companion." "you have modestly forgotten yourself and emma," said lewis; "but come, let the captain answer for himself. you know, mother, it has been your wish, if not your intention, to get a companion for me on this trip--a fellow older than myself--a sort of travelling tutor, who could teach me something of the geology and botany of the country as we went along. well, the captain is older than me, i think, which is one of the requisites, and he could teach me astronomy, no doubt, and show me how to box the compass; in return for which, i could show him how to box an adversary's nose, as practised by the best authorities of the ring. as to geology and botany, i know a little of these sciences already, and could impart my knowledge to the captain, which would have the effect of fixing it more firmly in my own memory; and every one knows that it is of far greater importance to lay a good, solid groundwork of education, than to build a showy, superficial structure, on a bad foundation. come, then, captain, you see your advantages. this is the last time of asking. if you don't speak now, henceforth and for ever hold your tongue." "well, my lad," said the captain, with much gravity, "i've turned the thing over in my mind, and since mrs stoutley is so good as to say it would be agreeable to her, i think i'll accept your invitation!" "bravo! captain, you're a true blue; come, have another glass of wine on the strength of it." "no wine, thank 'ee," said the captain, placing his hand over his glass, "i've had my beer; and i make it a rule never to mix my liquor. excuse me, ma'am," he continued, addressing his hostess, "your son made mention of a tooter--a travellin' tooter; may i ask if you've provided yourself with one yet!" "not yet," answered mrs stoutley, feeling, but not looking, a little surprised at the question, "i have no young friend at present quite suited for the position, and at short notice it is not easy to find a youth of talent willing to go, and on whom one can depend. can you recommend one?" mrs stoutley accompanied the question with a smile, for she put it in jest. she was, therefore, not a little surprised when the captain said promptly that he could--that he knew a young man--a doctor--who was just the very ticket (these were his exact words), a regular clipper, with everything about him trim, taut, and ship-shape, who would suit every member of the family to a tee! a hearty laugh from every member of the family greeted the captain's enthusiastic recommendation, and emma exclaimed that he must be a most charming youth, while lewis pulled out pencil and note-book to take down his name and address. "you are a most valuable friend at this crisis in our affairs," said lewis, "i'll make mother write to him immediately." "but have a care," said the captain, "that you never mention who it was that recommended him. i'm not sure that he would regard it as a compliment. you must promise me that." "i promise," said lewis, "and whatever i promise mother will fulfil, so make your mind easy on that head. now, mother, i shouldn't wonder if captain wopper could provide you with that other little inexpensive luxury you mentioned this morning. d'you think you could recommend a page?" "what's a page, lad?" "what! have you never heard of a page--a page in buttons?" asked lewis in surprise. "never," replied the captain, shaking his head. "why, a page is a small boy, usually clad in blue tights, to make him look as like a spider as possible, with three rows of brass buttons up the front of his jacket--two of the rows being merely ornamental, and going over his shoulders. he usually wears a man's hat for the sake of congruity, and is invariably as full of mischief as an egg is of meat. can you find such an article?" "ha!" exclaimed the captain. "what is he used for?" "chiefly for ornament, doing messages, being in the way when not wanted, and out of the way when required." "yes," said the captain, meditatively, "i've got my eye--" "your weather eye?" asked lewis. "yes, my _weather_ eye, on a lad who'll fit you." "to a tee?" inquired emma, archly. "to a tee, miss," assented the captain, with a bland smile. lewis again pulled out his note-book to enter the name and address, but the captain assured him that he would manage this case himself; and it was finally settled--for lewis carried everything his own way, as a matter of course--that dr george lawrence was to be written to next day, and captain wopper was to provide a page. "and you'll have to get him and yourself ready as fast as possible," said the youth in conclusion, "for we shall set off as soon as my mother's trunks are packed." next morning, while captain wopper was seated conversing with his old landlady at the breakfast-table--the morning meal having been just concluded--he heard the voice of gillie white in the court. going to the end of the passage, he ordered that imp to "come aloft." gillie appeared in a few seconds, nodded patronisingly to old mrs roby, hoped she was salubrious, and demanded to know what was up. "my lad," said the captain--and as he spoke, the urchin assumed an awful look of mock solemnity. "i want to know if you think you could behave yourself if you was to try?" "ah!" said gillie, with the air of a cross-examining advocate, "the keewestion is not w'ether i could behave myself if i wos to try, but, w'ether i _think_ i could. well, ahem! that depends. i think i could, now, if there was offered a very strong indoocement." "just so, my lad," returned the captain, nodding, "that's exactly what i mean to offer. what d'ee say to a noo suit of blue tights, with three rows brass buttons; a situation in a respectable family; a fair wage; as much as you can eat and drink; and a trip to switzerland to begin with?" while the captain spoke, the small boy's eyes opened wider and wider, and his month followed suit, until he stood the very picture of astonishment. "you _don't_ mean it?" he exclaimed. "indeed i do, my lad." "then _i'm_ your man," returned the small boy emphatically, "putt me down for that sitooation; send for a lawyer, draw up the articles, _i'll_ sign 'em right _off_, and--" "gillie, my boy," interrupted the captain, "one o' the very first things you have to do in larnin' to behave yourself is to clap a stopper on your tongue--it's far too long." "all right, capp'n," answered the imp, "i'll go to guy's hospital d'rectly and 'ave three-fourths of it ampitated." "do," said the captain, somewhat sternly, "an' ask 'em to attach a brake to the bit that's left. "now, lad," he continued, "you've got a very dirty face." gillie nodded, with his lips tightly compressed to check utterance. "and a very ragged head of hair," he added. again gillie nodded. the captain pointed to a basin of water which stood on a chair in a corner of the room, beside which lay a lump of yellow soap, a comb, and a rough jack-towel. "there," said he, "go to work." gillie went to work with a will, and scrubbed himself to such an extent, that his skin must undoubtedly have been thinner after the operation. the washing, however, was easy compared with the combing. the boy's mop was such a tangled web, that the comb at first refused to pass through it; and when, encouraged by the captain, the urchin did at last succeed in rending its masses apart various inextricable bunches came away bodily, and sundry teeth of the comb were left behind. at last, however, it was reduced to something like order, to the immense satisfaction of mrs roby and the captain. "now," said the latter, "did you ever have a turkish bath?" "no--never." "well, then, come with me and have one. have you got a cap?" "hm--never mind, come along; you're not cleaned up yet by a long way; but we'll manage it in course of time." as the captain and his small _protege_ passed along the streets, the former took occasion to explain that a turkish bath was a species of mild torture, in which a man was stewed alive, and baked in an oven, and par-boiled, and scrubbed, and pinched, and thumped (sometimes black and blue), and lathered with soap till he couldn't see, and heated up to seven thousand and ten, fahrenheit and soused with half-boiling water, and shot at with cold water--or shot into it, as the case might be--and rolled in a sheet like a mummy, and stretched out a like corpse to cool. "most men," he said, "felt gaspy in turkish baths, and weak ones were alarmed lest they should get suffocated beyond recovery; but strong men rather enjoy themselves in 'em than otherwise." "hah!" exclaimed the imp, "may i wentur' to ax, capp'n, wot's the effect on _boys_?" to this the captain replied that he didn't exactly know, never having heard of boys taking turkish baths. whereupon gillie suggested, that if possible he might have himself cleaned in an ordinary bath. "impossible, my lad," said the captain, decidedly. "no or'nary bath would clean you under a week, unless black soap and scrubbin' brushes was used. "but don't be alarmed, gillie," he added, looking down with a twinkle in his eyes, "i'll go into the bath along with you. we'll sink or swim together, my boy, and i'll see that you're not overdone. i'm rather fond of them myself, d'ee see, so i can recommend 'em from experience." somewhat reassured by this, though still a little uneasy in his mind, the imp followed his patron to the baths. it would have been a sight worth seeing, the entrance of these two into the temple of soap-and-water. to see gillie's well-made, but very meagre and dirty little limbs unrobed; to see him decked out with the scrimpest possible little kilt, such as would, perhaps, have suited the fancy of a fiji islander; to see his gaze of undisguised admiration on beholding his companion's towering and massive frame in the same unwonted costume, if we may so style it; to see the intensifying of his astonishment when ushered into the _first_ room, at beholding six or seven naked, and apparently dead men, laid round the walls, as if ready for dissection; to see the monkey-like leap, accompanied by a squeal, with which he sprang from a hot stone-bench, having sat down thereon before it had been covered with a cloth for his reception; to see the rapid return of his self-possession in these unusual circumstances, and the ready manner in which he submitted himself to the various operations, as if he had been accustomed to turkish baths from a period long prior to infancy; to see his horror on being introduced to the hottest room, and his furtive glance at the door, as though he meditated a rush into the open air, but was restrained by a sense of personal dignity; to see the ruling passion strong as ever in this (he firmly believed) his nearest approach to death, when, observing that the man next to him (who, as it were, turned the corner from him) had raised himself for a moment to arrange his pillow, he (gillie) tipped up the corner of the man's sheet, which hung close to his face in such a manner that he (the man), on lying down again, placed his bare shoulder on the hot stone, and sprang up with a yell that startled into life the whole of the half-sleeping establishment with the exception of the youth on the opposite bench, who, having noticed the act, was thrown into convulsions of laughter, much to the alarm of gillie, who had thought he was asleep and feared that he might "tell;"--to see him laid down like a little pink-roll to be kneaded, and to hear him remark, in a calm voice, to the stalwart attendant that he might go in and win and needn't be afraid of hurting him; to observe his delight when put under the warm "douche," his gasping shriek when unexpectedly assailed with the "cold-shower," and his placid air of supreme felicity when wrapped up like a ghost in a white sheet, and left to dry in the cooling-room--to see and hear all this, we say, would have amply repaid a special journey to london from any reasonable distance. the event, however, being a thing of the past and language being unequal to the description, we are compelled to leave it all to the reader's imagination. chapter six. a lesson taught and learned. two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, rather late in the evening, dr george lawrence called at "the cabin" in grubb's court, and found the captain taking what he called a quiet pipe. "i have been visiting poor mrs leven," he said to mrs roby, sitting down beside her, "and i fear she is a good deal worse to-night. that kind little woman, netta white, has agreed to sit by her. i'm sorry that i shall be obliged to leave her at such a critical stage of her illness, but i am obliged to go abroad for some time." "goin' abroad, sir!" exclaimed mrs roby in surprise, for the captain had not yet told her that lawrence was to be of the party, although he had mentioned about himself and gillie white. "yes, i'm going with mrs stoutley's family for some weeks to switzerland." captain wopper felt that his share in the arrangements was in danger of being found out. he therefore boldly took the lead. "ah! _i_ know all about that, sir." "indeed?" said lawrence. "yes, i dined the other day with mrs stoutley; she asked _me_ also to be of the party, and i'm going." lawrence again exclaimed, "indeed!" with increasing surprise, and added, "well, now, that _is_ a strange coincidence." "well, d'ee know," said the captain, in an argumentative tone, "it don't seem to me much of a coincidence. you know she had to git some one to go with her son, and why not you, sir, as well as any of the other young sawbones in london? if she hadn't got you she'd have got another, and that would have been a coincidence to _him_, d'ee see? then, as to me, it wasn't unnatural that she should take a fancy to the man that nussed her dyin' husband, an' was chum to her brother-in-law; so, you see, that's how it came about and i'm very glad to find, sir, that we are to sail in company for a short time." lawrence returned this compliment heartily, and was about to make some further remark, when little netta white rushed into the room with a frightened look and pale cheeks, exclaiming, "oh, dr lawrence, sir, she's _very_ ill. i think she's dying." without waiting for a reply, the child ran out of the room followed by lawrence and mrs roby, who was assisted by the captain--for she walked with great difficulty even when aided by her crutches. in a few seconds they stood beside mrs leven's bed. it was a lowly bed, with scant and threadbare coverings, and she who lay on it was of a lowly spirit--one who for many years had laid her head on the bosom of jesus, and had found him, through a long course of poverty and mental distress, "a very present help in trouble." "i fear that i'm very ill," she said, faintly. "no doubt you feel rather low just now," said the doctor, "but that is very much owing to your having lived so long on insufficient diet. i will give you something, however, which will soon pull you up a bit. come, cheer up. don't let your spirits get so low." "yes," she murmured, "i _am_ brought very low, but the lord will lift me up. he is my strength and my redeemer." she clasped her hands with difficulty, and shut her eyes. a silence followed, during which captain wopper drew lawrence into the passage. "d'you think she is near her end, doctor?" "she looks very like it," replied the doctor. "there is a possibility that she might recover if the right medicine could be found, namely, ease of mind; but her dissipated son has robbed her of that, and is the only one who can give it back to her--if indeed he has the power left now. she is dying of what is unprofessionally styled a broken heart. it is unfortunate that her son is not with her at present." "does no one know where to find him?" asked the captain. "i fear not," replied the doctor. "please, sir, i think _i_ know," said a subdued voice behind them. it was that of gillie white, who had drawn near very silently, being overawed by the sad scene in the sick-room. "do you, my lad? then get along as fast as you can and show me the way," said the captain, buttoning up his pilot-coat. "i'll bring him here before long, doctor, if he's to be found." in a few minutes the captain and gillie were at the head of the lane, where the former hailed a passing cab, bade the boy jump in, and followed him. "now, my lad, give the address," said the captain. "the strand," said the boy, promptly. "what number, sir?" asked the cabman, looking at the captain. "right on till i stop you," said gillie, with the air of a commander-in-chief--whom in some faint manner he now resembled, for he was in livery, being clothed in blue tights and brass buttons. in a short time gillie gave the order to pull up, and they got out in front of a brilliantly-lighted and open door with a lamp above it, on which was written the word billiards. the captain observed that it was the same door as that at which he had parted from lewis stoutley some days before. dismissing the cab and entering, they quickly found themselves in a large and well-lighted billiard-room, which was crowded with men of all ages and aspects, some of whom played, others looked on and betted, a good many drank brandy and water, and nearly all smoked. it was a bright scene of dissipation, where many young men, deceiving themselves with the idea that they went merely to practise or to enjoy a noble game of skill, were taking their first steps on the road to ruin. the captain, closely attended by gillie, moved slowly through the room, looking anxiously for fred leven. for some time they failed to find him. at last a loud curse, uttered in the midst of a knot of on-lookers, attracted their attention. it was followed by a general laugh, as a young man, whose dishevelled hair and flushed face showed that he had been drinking hard, burst from among them and staggered towards the door. "never mind, fred," shouted a voice that seemed familiar to the captain, "you'll win it back from me next time." ere the youth had passed, the captain stepped forward and laid his hand on his arm. fred uttered a savage growl, and drew back his clenched hand as if to strike, but captain wopper's size and calm look of decision induced him to hold his hand. "what d'you mean by interrupting me?" he demanded, sternly. "my lad," said the captain, in a low, solemn voice, "your mother is dying, come with me. you've no time to lose." the youth's face turned ashy pale, and he passed his hand hastily across his brow. "what's wrong?" exclaimed lewis stoutley, who had recognised the captain, and come forward at the moment. "did he lose his money to _you_?" asked the captain, abruptly. "well, yes, he did," retorted lewis, with a look of offended dignity. "come along, then, my lad. i want _you_ too. it's a case of life an' death. ask no questions, but come along." the captain said this with such an air of authority, that lewis felt constrained to obey. fred leven seemed to follow like one in a dream. they all got into a cab, and were driven back to grubb's court. as they ascended the stair, the captain whispered to lewis, "keep in the background, my lad. do nothing but look and listen." another moment and they were in the passage, where lawrence stopped them. "you're almost too late, sir," he said to fred, sternly. "if you had fed and clothed your mother better in time past, she might have got over this. fortunately for her, poor soul, some people, who don't gamble away their own and their parents' means, have given her the help that you have refused. go in, sir, and try to speak words of comfort to her _now_." he went in, and fell on his knees beside the bed. "mother!" he said. fain would he have said more, but no word could he utter. his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. mrs leven opened her eyes on hearing the single word, and her cheek flushed slightly as she seized one of his hands, kissed it and held it to her breast. then she looked earnestly, and oh! so anxiously, into his face, and said in a low tone:-- "fred, dear, are you so--" she stopped abruptly. "yes, yes," cried her son, passionately; "yes, mother, i'm sober _now_! oh mother, dearest, darling mother, i am guilty, guilty; i have sinned. oh forgive, forgive me! listen, listen! i am in earnest now, my mother. think of me as i used to be long ago. don't shut your eyes. look at me, mother, look at fred." the poor woman looked at him with tears of gladness in her eyes. "god bless you, fred!" she murmured. "it is long, long, since you spoke like that. but i knew you would. i have always expected that you would. praise the lord!" fred tried to speak, and again found that he could not, but the fountain of his soul was opened. he laid his face on his mother's hand and sobbed bitterly. those who witnessed this scene stood as if spellbound. as far as sound or motion went these two might have been in the room alone. presently the sound of sobbing ceased, and fred, raising his head, began gently to stroke the hand he held in his. sometime in his wild career, he knew not when or where, he had heard it said that this slight action had often a wonderful power to soothe the sick. he continued it for some time. then the doctor advanced and gazed into the invalid's countenance. "she sleeps," he said, in a low tone. "may i stay beside her?" whispered fred. lawrence nodded assent, and then motioning to the others to withdraw, followed them into mrs roby's room, where he told them that her sleeping was a good sign, and that they must do their best to prevent her being disturbed. "it won't be necessary for any one to watch. her son will prove her best attendant just now; but it may be as well that some one should sit up in this room, and look in now and then to see that the candle doesn't burn out, and that all is right. i will go now, and will make this my first visit in the morning." "captain wopper," said lewis stoutley, in a subdued voice, when lawrence had left, "i won this ten-pound note to-night from fred. i--i robbed him of it. will you give it to him in the morning?" "yes, my lad, i will," said the captain. "and will you let me sit up and watch here tonight?" "no, my lad, i won't. i mean to do that myself." "but do let me stay an hour or so with you, in case anything is wanted," pleaded lewis. "well, you may." they sat down together by the fireside, mrs roby having lain down on her bed with her clothes on, but they spoke never a word; and as they sat there, the young man's busy brain arrayed before him many and many a scene of death, and sickness, and suffering, and sorrow, and madness, and despair, which, he knew well from hearsay (and he now believed it), had been the terrible result of gambling and drink. when the hour was past, the captain rose and said, "now, lewis, you'll go, and i'll take a look at the next room." he put off his shoes and went on tiptoe. lewis followed, and took a peep before parting. fred had drawn three chairs to the bedside and lain down on them, with his shoulders resting on the edge of the bed, so that he could continue to stroke his mother's hand without disturbing her. he had continued doing so until his head had slowly drooped upon the pillow; and there they now lay, the dissipated son and the humble christian mother, sleeping quietly together. chapter seven. the great white mountain. we are in switzerland now; in the "land of the mountain and the flood"-- the land also of perennial ice and snow. the solemn presence of the great white mountain is beginning to be felt. its pure summit was first seen from geneva; its shadow is now beginning to steal over us. we are on the road to chamouni, not yet over the frontier, in a carriage and four. mrs stoutley, being a lady of unbounded wealth, always travels post in a carriage and four when she can manage to do so, having an unconquerable antipathy to railroads and steamers. she could not well travel in any other fashion here, railways not having yet penetrated the mountain regions in this direction, and a mode of ascending roaring mountain torrents in steamboats not having yet been discovered. she might, however, travel with two horses, but she prefers four. captain wopper, who sits opposite emma gray, wonders in a quiet speculative way whether "the mines" will produce a dividend sufficient to pay the expenses of this journey. he is quite disinterested in the thought, it being understood that the captain pays his own expenses. but we wander from our text, which is--the great white mountain. we are driving now under its shadow with mrs stoutley's party, which, in addition to the captain and miss gray, already mentioned, includes young dr george lawrence and lewis, who are on horseback; also mrs stoutley's maid (mrs stoutley never travels without a maid), susan quick, who sits beside the captain; and gillie white, _alias_ the spider and the imp, who sits beside the driver, making earnest but futile efforts to draw him into a conversation in english, of which language the driver knows next to nothing. but to return: mrs stoutley and party are now in the very heart of scenery the most magnificent; they have penetrated to a great fountain-head of european waters; they are surrounded by the cliffs, the gorges, the moraines, and are not far from the snow-slopes and ice-fields, the couloirs, the seracs, the crevasses, and the ice-precipices and pinnacles of a great glacial world; but not one of the party betrays the smallest amount of interest, or expresses the faintest emotion of surprise, owing to the melancholy fact that all is shrouded in an impenetrable veil of mist through which a thick fine rain percolates as if the mountain monarch himself were bewailing their misfortunes. "isn't it provoking?" murmured mrs stoutley drawing her shawl closer. "very," replied emma. "disgusting!" exclaimed lewis, who rode at the side of the carriage next his cousin. "it might be worse," said lawrence, with a grim smile. "impossible," retorted lewis. "come, captain, have you no remark to make by way of inspiring a little hope?" asked mrs stoutley. "why, never havin' cruised in this region before," answered the captain, "my remarks can't be of much value. hows'ever, there _is_ one idea that may be said to afford consolation, namely, that this sort o' thing can't last. i've sailed pretty nigh in all parts of the globe, an' i've invariably found that bad weather has its limits--that after rain we may look for sunshine, and after storm, calm." "how cheering!" said lewis, as the rain trickled from the point of his prominent nose. at that moment gillie white, happening to cast his eyes upward, beheld a vision which drew from him an exclamation of wild surprise. they all looked quickly in the same direction, and there, through a rent in the watery veil, they beheld a little spot of blue sky, rising into which was a mountain-top so pure, so faint so high and inexpressibly far off, yet so brilliant in a glow of sunshine, that it seemed as if heaven had been opened, and one of the hills of paradise revealed. it was the first near view that the travellers had obtained of these mountains of everlasting ice. with the exception of the exclamations "wonderful!" "most glorious!" they found no words for a time to express their feelings, and seemed glad to escape the necessity of doing so by listening to the remarks of their driver, as he went into an elaborate explanation of the name and locality of the particular part of mont blanc that had been thus disclosed. the rent in the mist closed almost as quickly as it had opened, utterly concealing the beautiful vision; but the impression it had made, being a first and a very deep one, could never more be removed. the travellers lived now in the faith of what they had seen. scepticism was no longer possible, and in this improved frame of mind they dashed into the village of chamouni--one of the haunts of those whose war-cry is "excelsior!"--and drove to the best hotel. their arrival in the village was an unexpected point of interest to many would-be mountaineers, who lounged about the place with macintoshes and umbrellas, growling at the weather. any event out of the common forms a subject of interest to men who wait and have nothing to do. as the party passed them, growlers gazed and speculated as to who the new-comers might be. some thought miss gray pretty; some thought otherwise--to agree on any point on such a day being, of course, impossible. others "guessed" that the young fellows must be uncommonly fond of riding to "get on the outside of a horse" in such weather; some remarked that the "elderly female" seemed "used up," or "_blasee_," and all agreed--yes, they _did_ agree on this point--that the thing in blue tights and buttons beside the driver was the most impudent-looking monkey the world had ever produced! the natives of the place also had their opinions, and expressed them to each other; especially the bronzed, stalwart sedate-looking men who hung about in knots near the centre of the village, and seemed to estimate the probability of the stout young englishmen on horseback being likely to require their services often--for these, said the driver, were the celebrated guides of chamouni; men of bone and muscle, and endurance and courage; the leaders of those daring spirits who consider--and justly so--the ascent to the summit of mont blanc, or monte rosa, or the matterhorn, a feat; the men who perform this feat it may be, two or three times a week--as often as you choose to call them to it, in fact-- and think nothing of it; the men whose profession it is to risk their lives every summer from day to day for a few francs; who have become so inured to danger that they have grown quite familiar with it, insomuch that some of the reckless blades among them treat it now and then with contempt, and pay the penalty of such conduct with their lives. sinking into a couch in her private sitting-room, mrs stoutley resigned herself to susan's care, and, while she was having her boots taken off, said with a sigh:-- "well, here we are at last. what do you think of chamouni, susan?" "rather a wet place, ma'am; ain't it?" with a languid smile, mrs stoutley admitted that it was, but added, by way of encouragement that it was not always so. to which susan replied that she was glad to hear it, so she was, as nothink depressed her spirits so much as wet and clouds, and gloom. susan was a pretty girl of sixteen, tall, as well as very sedate and womanly, for her age. having been born in one of the midland counties, of poor, though remarkably honest, parents, who had received no education themselves, and therefore held it to be quite unnecessary to bestow anything so useless on their daughter, she was, until very recently, as ignorant of all beyond the circle of her father's homestead as the daughter of the man in the moon--supposing no compulsory education-act to be in operation in the orb of night. having passed through them, she now knew of the existence of france and switzerland, but she was quite in the dark as to the position of these two countries with respect to the rest of the world, and would probably have regarded them as one and the same if their boundary-line had not been somewhat deeply impressed upon her by the ungallant manner in which the customs officials examined the contents of her modest little portmanteau in search, as gillie gave her to understand, of tobacco. mrs stoutley had particularly small feet, a circumstance which might have induced her, more than other ladies, to wear easy boots; but owing to some unaccountable perversity of mental constitution, she deemed this a good reason for having her boots made unusually tight. the removal of these, therefore, afforded great relief, and the administration of a cup of tea produced a cheering reaction of spirits, under the influence of which she partially forgot herself, and resolved to devote a few minutes to the instruction of her interestingly ignorant maid. "yes," she said, arranging herself comfortably, and sipping her tea, while susan busied herself putting away her lady's "things," and otherwise tidying the room, "it does not always rain here; there is a little sunshine sometimes. by the way, where is miss gray?" "in the bedroom, ma'am, unpacking the trunks." "ah, well, as i was saying, they have a little sunshine sometimes, for you know, susan, people _must_ live, and grass or grain cannot grow without sunshine, so it has been arranged that there should be enough here for these purposes, but no more than enough, because switzerland has to maintain its character as one of the great refrigerators of europe." "one of the what, ma'am?" "refrigerators," explained mrs stoutley; "a refrigerator, susan, is a freezer; and it is the special mission of switzerland to freeze nearly all the water that falls on its mountains, and retain it there in the form of ice and snow until it is wanted for the use of man. isn't that a grand idea?" the lecturer's explanation had conveyed to susan's mind the idea of the switzers going with long strings of carts to the top of mont blanc for supplies of ice to meet the european demand, and she admitted that it _was_ a grand idea, and asked if the ice and snow lasted long into the summer. "long into it!" exclaimed her teacher. "why, you foolish thing, its lasts all through it." "oh indeed, ma'am!" said susan, who entertained strong doubts in her heart as to the correctness of mrs stoutley's information on this point. "yes," continued that lady, with more animation than she had experienced for many months past, so invigorating was the change of moral atmosphere induced by this little breeze of instruction; "yes, the ice and snow cover the hills and higher valleys for dozens and dozens of miles round here in all directions, not a few inches deep, such as we sometimes see in england, but with thousands and millions of tons of it, so that the ice in the valleys is hundreds of feet thick, and never melts away altogether, but remains there from year to year--has been there, i suppose, since the world began, and will continue, i fancy, until the world comes to an end." mrs stoutley warmed up here, to such an extent that she absolutely flushed, and susan, who had heretofore regarded her mistress merely as a weakish woman, now set her down, mentally, as a barefaced story-teller. "surely, ma'am," she said, with diffidence, "ice and snow like that doesn't fill _all_ the valleys, else we should see it, and find it difficult to travel through 'em; shouldn't we, ma'am?" "silly girl!" exclaimed her preceptress, "i did not say it filled _all_ the valleys, but the _higher_ valleys--valleys such as, in england and scotland, would be clothed with pasturage and waving grain, and dotted with cattle and sheep and smiling cottages." mrs stoutley had by this time risen to a heroic frame, and spoke poetically, which accounts for her ascribing risible powers to cottages. "and thus you see, susan," she continued, "switzerland is, as it were, a great ice-tank, or a series of ice-tanks, in which the ice of ages is accumulated and saved up, so that the melting of a little of it--the mere dribbling of it, so to speak--is sufficient to cause the continuous flow of innumerable streams and of great rivers, such as the rhone, and the rhine, and the var." the lecture received unexpected and appropriate illustration here by the sudden lifting of the mists, which had hitherto blotted out the landscape. "oh, aunt!" exclaimed emma, running in at the moment, "just look at the hills. how exquisite! how much grander than if we had seen them quite clear from the first!" emma was strictly correct, for it is well known that the grandeur of alpine scenery is greatly enhanced by the wild and weird movements of the gauze-like drapery with which it is almost always partially enshrouded. as the trio stood gazing in silent wonder and admiration from their window, which, they had been informed, commanded a view of the summit of mont blanc, the mist had risen like a curtain partially rolled up. all above the curtain-foot presented the dismal grey, to which they had been too long accustomed, but below, and, as it were, far behind this curtain, the mountain-world was seen rising upwards. so close were they to the foot of the great white monarch, that it seemed to tower like a giant-wall before them; but this wall was varied and beautiful as well as grand. already the curtain had risen high enough to disclose hoary cliffs and precipices, with steep grassy slopes between, and crowned with fringes of dark pines; which latter, although goodly trees, looked like mere shrubs in their vast setting. rills were seen running like snowy veins among the slopes, and losing themselves in the masses of _debris_ at the mountain-foot. as they gazed, the curtain rose higher, disclosing new and more rugged features, on which shone a strange, unearthly light--the result of shadow from the mist and sunshine behind it--while a gleam of stronger light tipped the curtain's under-edge in one direction. still higher it rose! susan exclaimed that the mountain was rising into heaven; and emma and mrs stoutley, whose reading had evidently failed to impress them with a just conception of mountain-scenery, stood with clasped hands in silent expectancy and admiration. the gleam of stronger light above referred to, widened, and susan almost shrieked with ecstasy when the curtain seemed to rend, and the gleam resolved itself into the great glacier des bossons, which, rolling over the mountain-brow like a very world of ice, thrust its mighty tongue down into the valley. from that moment susan's disbelief in her lady's knowledge changed into faith, and deepened into profound veneration. it was, however, only a slight glimpse that had been thus afforded of the ice-world by which they were surrounded. the great ice-fountain of those regions, commencing at the summit of mont blanc, flings its ample waves over mountain and vale in all directions, forming a throne on which perpetual winter reigns, and this glacier des bossons, which filled the breasts of our travellers with such feelings of awe, was but one of the numerous rivers which flow from the fountain down the gorges and higher valleys of the alps, until they reach those regions where summer heat asserts itself, and checks their further progress in the form of ice by melting them. "is it possible," said emma, as she gazed at the rugged and riven mass of solid ice before her, "that a glacier really _flows_?" "so learned men tell us, and so we must believe," said mrs stoutley. "flows, ma'am?" exclaimed susan, in surprise. "yes, so it is said," replied mrs stoutley, with a smile. "but we can see, ma'am, by lookin' at it, that it _don't_ flow; can't we, ma'am?" said susan. "true, susan, it does not seem to move; nevertheless scientific men tell us that it does, and sometimes we are bound to believe against the evidence of our senses." susan looked steadily at the glacier for some time; and then, although she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her esteem. while the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their maid, lewis, lawrence, and the captain, taking advantage of the improved state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinner--although, to say truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no freshening up. they walked smartly along the road which leads up the valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. gradually these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well defined against the clear sky. and then, for the first time, came a feeling of disappointment. "why, lawrence," said lewis, "didn't they tell us that we could see the top of mont blanc from chamouni?" "they certainly did," replied lawrence, "but i can't see it." "there are two or three splendid-looking peaks," said lewis, pointing up the valley, "but surely that's not the direction of the top we look for." "no, my lad, it ain't the right point o' the compass by a long way," said the captain; "but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, let's overhaul her." "heave a-head then, captain," said lewis, "and clap on stun's'ls and sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we don't look sharp." the "strange sail" was a woman. she soon turned into the cottage referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew near, that lawrence, being the best french scholar of the three (the captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her. she turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she explained, of one of the chamouni guides, named antoine grennon. her daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby the washerwomen of the alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds and patches in the shortest possible space of time. after some complimentary remarks, lawrence asked if it were possible to see the summit of mont blanc from where they stood. certainly it was; the guide's pretty wife could point it out and attempted to do so, but was for a long time unsuccessful, owing to the interference of preconceived notions--each of our travellers having set his heart upon beholding a majestic peak of rugged rock, mingled, perhaps, with ice-blocks and snow. "most extraordinary," exclaimed the puzzled captain, "i've squinted often enough at well-known peaks when on the look-out for landmarks from the sea, an' never failed to make 'em out. let me see," he added, getting behind the woman so as to look straight along her outstretched arm, "no, _i_ can't see it. my eyes must be giving way." "surely," said lawrence, "you don't mean that little piece of smooth snow rising just behind the crest of yonder mountain like a bit of rounded sugar?" "oui, monsieur"--that was precisely what she meant; _that_ was the summit of mont blanc. and so, our three travellers--like many hundreds of travellers who had gone before them, and like many, doubtless, who shall follow--were grievously disappointed with their first view of mont blanc! they lived, however to change their minds, to discover that the village of chamouni lies too close to the toe of the great white mountain to permit of his being seen to advantage. one may truly see a small scrap of the veritable top from chamouni, but one cannot obtain an idea of what it is that he sees. as well might a beetle walk close up to the heel of a man, and attempt from that position to form a correct estimate of his size; as well might one plant himself two inches distant from a large painting and expect to do it justice! no, in order to understand mont blanc, to "realise" it, to appreciate it adequately, it requires that we should stand well back, and get up on one of the surrounding heights, and make the discovery that as _we_ rise _he_ rises, and looks vaster and more tremendous the further off we go and the higher up we rise, until, with foot planted on the crest of one of the neighbouring giants, we still look up, as well as down, and learn--with a feeling of deeper reverence, it may be, for the maker of the "everlasting hills"--that the grand monarch with the hoary head does in reality tower supreme above them all. chapter eight. introduces the reader to various personages, and touches on glaciers. at this time our travellers, having only just been introduced to the mountain, had a great deal to hear and see before they understood him. they returned to the hotel with the feeling of disappointment still upon them, but with excellent appetites for dinner. in the _salle a manger_ they met with a miscellaneous assortment of tourists. these, of whom there were above thirty, varied not only as to size and feature, but as to country and experience. there were veteran alpine men--steady, quiet, bronzed-looking fellows, some of them--who looked as if they had often "attacked" and conquered the most dangerous summits, and meant to do so again. there were men, and women too, from england, america, germany, france, and russia. some had been at chamouni before, and wore the self-possessed air of knowledge; others had obviously never been there before, and were excited. many were full of interest and expectation, a few, chiefly very young men, wore a _blase_, half-pitiful, half-patronising air, as though to say, "that's right, good people, amuse yourselves with your day-dreams while you may. _we_ have tried a few weeks of this sort of thing, and have done a summit or two; in imagination we have also been up mont blanc and monte rosa, and the matterhorn, and a few of the hymalaya peaks, and most of the mountains in the moon, and several of the fixed stars, and--haw--are now rather boa-ord with it all than otherwise!" there were men who had done much and who said little, and men who had done little and who spoke much. there were "ice-men" who had a desire to impart their knowledge, and would-be ice-men who were glad to listen. easy-going men and women there were, who flung the cares of life behind them, and "went in," as they said, for enjoyment; and who, with abounding animal spirits, a dash of religious sentiment, much irrepressible humour and fun, were really pleasant objects to look at, and entertaining companions to travel with. earnest men and women there were, too, who gathered plants and insects, and made pencil-sketches and water-colour drawings during their rambles among mountains and valleys, and not a few of whom chronicled faithfully their experiences from day to day. there was a polish count, a tall, handsome, middle-aged, care-worn, anxious-looking man, who came there, apparently in search of health, and who was cared for and taken care of by a dark-eyed little daughter. this daughter was so beautiful, that it ought to have made the count well--so thought most of the young men-- simply to look at her! there was a youthful british lord, who had come to "do" mont blanc and a few other peaks. he was under charge of a young man of considerable experience in mountaineering, whose chief delight seemed to be the leading of his charge to well-known summits by any other and more difficult tracks than the obvious and right ones, insomuch that lewis stoutley, who had a tendency to imprudent remark, said in his hearing that he had heard of men who, in order to gain the roof of a house, preferred to go up by the waterspout rather than the staircase. there was an artist, whom lewis--being, as already observed, given to insolence--styled the mad artist because he was enthusiastic in his art, galvanic in his actions, and had large, wild eyes, with long hair, and a broad-brimmed conical hat. besides these, there was a russian professor, who had come there for purposes of scientific investigation, and a couple of german students, and a scotch man of letters, whose aim was general observation, and several others, whose end was simply seeing the world. in the arrangements of the table, captain wopper found himself between emma gray and the polish count, whose name was horetzki. directly opposite to him sat mrs stoutley, having her son lewis on her right, and dr lawrence on her left. beside the count sat his lovely little daughter nita, and just opposite to her was the mad artist. this arrangement was maintained throughout the sojourn of the various parties during their stay at chamouni. they did, indeed, shift their position as regarded the table, according to the arrival or departure of travellers, but not in regard to each other. now it is an interesting, but by no means surprising fact, that cupid planted himself in the midst of this party, and, with his fat little legs, in imminent danger of capsizing the dishes, began to draw his bow and let fly his arrows right and left. being an airy sprite, though fat, and not at any time particularly visible, a careless observer might have missed seeing him; but to any one with moderate powers of observation, he was there, straddling across a dish of salad as plain as the salt-cellar before captain wopper's nose. his deadly shafts, too, were visibly quivering in the breasts of lewis stoutley, george lawrence, and the mad artist. particularly obvious were these shafts in the case of the last, who was addicted to gazing somewhat presumptuously on "lovely woman" in general, from what he styled an artistic point of view--never from any other point of view; of course not. whether or not cupid had discharged his artillery at the young ladies, we cannot say, for they betrayed no evidence of having been wounded. in their case, he must either have missed his aim, or driven his shafts home with such vigour, that they were buried out of sight altogether in their tender hearts. it is probable that not one member of that miscellaneous company gave a thought at that time to the wounded men, except the wounded men themselves, so absorbing is the love of food! the wounded were, however, sharp-set in all respects. they at once descried each other's condition, and, instead of manifesting sympathy with each other, were, strange to say, filled with intense jealousy. this at least is true of the younger men. lawrence, being somewhat older, was more secretive and self-possessed. at first captain wopper, having declined a dish of cauliflower because it was presented _alone_, and having afterwards accepted a mutton chop _alone_, with feelings of poignant regret that he had let the cauliflower go by, was too busy to observe what the heathen-mythological youngster was doing. indeed, at most times, the said youngster might have discharged a whole quiver of arrows into the captain's eyes without his being aware of the attack; but, at the present time, the captain, as the reader is aware, was up to the eyes in a plot in which cupid's aid was necessary; he had, as it were, invoked the fat child's presence. when, therefore, he had got over the regrets about the cauliflower, and had swallowed the mutton-chop, he began to look about him--to note the converse that passed between the young men, and the frequent glances they cast at the young women. it was not the first time that the captain had, so to speak, kept his weather-eye open in regard to the affection which he had made up his mind must now have been awakened in the breasts of george lawrence and emma gray; but hitherto his hopes, although sanguine, had not received encouragement. though polite and respectful to each other, they were by no means tender; altogether, they acted quite differently from what the captain felt that he would have done in similar circumstances. a suspicion had even crossed the poor seaman's mind that emma was in love with her handsome and rattling cousin lewis; but anxiety on this head was somewhat allayed by other and conflicting circumstances, such as occasional remarks by lewis, to the effect that emma was a goose, or a pert little monkey, or that she knew nothing beyond house-keeping and crochet, and similar compliments. now, however, in a certain animated conversation between lawrence and emma, the designing seaman thought he saw the budding of his deep-laid plans, and fondly hoped ere long to behold the bud developed into the flower of matrimony. under this conviction he secretly hugged himself, but in the salon, that evening, he opened his arms and released himself on beholding the apparently fickle lawrence deeply engaged in converse with the count horetzki, to whose pretty daughter, however, he addressed the most of his remarks. the captain, being a blunt honest, straightforward man, could not understand this state of matters, and fell into a fit of abstracted perplexity on the sofa beside mrs stoutley, who listened listlessly to the russian professor as he attempted to explain to her and emma the nature of a glacier. "well, i don't understand it at all," said mrs stoutley, at the end of one of the professor's most lucid expositions. we may remark, in passing, that the professor, like many of his countrymen, was a good linguist and spoke english well. "not understand it!" he exclaimed, with a slight elevation of his eyebrows. "my dear madam, it is most plain, but i fear my want of good english does render me not quite intelligible." "your english is excellent," replied mrs stoutley, with a smile, "but i fear that my brain is not a sufficiently clear one on such matters, for i confess that i cannot understand it. can you, captain wopper?" "certainly not, ma'am," answered the captain, thinking of the fickle lawrence; "it takes the wind out of my sails entirely." "indeed!" said the professor. "well, do permit me to try again. you understand that all the mountain-tops and elevated plateaus, for many miles around here, are covered with ice and snow." "oh!" exclaimed the captain, awaking to the fact that his answer was not relevant; "may i ax what is the particular pint that puzzles you, ma'am?" emma laughed aloud at this, and coughed a little to conceal the fact. she was rather easily taken by surprise with passing touches of the ludicrous, and had not yet acquired the habit of effectually suppressing little explosions of undertoned mirth. "the thing that puzzles me," said mrs stoutley, "is, that glaciers should _flow_, as i am told they do, and yet that they should be as hard and brittle as glass." "ah, well, yes, just so, h'm!" said the captain, looking very wise; "that is exactly the pint that i want to know myself; for no man who looks at the great tongue of that glacier day bossung--" "des bossons," said the professor, with a bland smile. "day bossong," repeated the captain, "can deny that it is marked with all the lines, and waves, an eddies of a rollin' river, an' yet as little can they deny that it seems as hard-and-fast as the rock of gibraltar." the professor nodded approvingly. "you are right, captain whipper--" "wopper," said the captain, with a grave nod. "wopper," repeated the professor, "the glacier des bossons, like all the other glaciers, seems to remain immovable, though in reality it flows-- ever flows--downward; but its motion is so slow, that it is not perceptible to the naked eye. similarly, the hour-hand of a watch is to appearance motionless. do you want proof? mark it just now; look again in quarter of an hour, and you see that it has moved. you are convinced. it is so with the glacier. mark him to-day, go back to-morrow--the mark has changed. some glaciers flow at the rate of two and three feet in the twenty-four hours." "yes, but _how_ do they flow, being so brittle?" demanded mrs stoutley. "ay, that's the pint, professor," said the captain, nodding, "_how_ do they flow, bein' made of hard and brittle ice?" "why, by rolling higgledy-piggledy over itself of course," said lewis, flippantly, as he came up and sat down on the end of the sofa, being out of humour with himself and everybody in consequence of having utterly failed to gain the attention of nita horetzki, although he had made unusually earnest efforts to join in conversation with her father. owing to somewhat similar feelings, the artist had flung himself into a chair, and sat glaring at the black fireplace with a degree of concentration that ought to have lighted the firewood therein. "the cause of a glacier flowing," said the professor, "has long been a disputed point. some men of science have held that it is the pressure of ice and snow behind it which causes it to flow. they do not think that it flows like water, but say it is forced from behind, and crushed through gorges and down valleys, as it were, unwillingly. they say that, if left alone, as they now are, without additions, from this time forward, glaciers would no longer move; they would rest, and slowly melt away; that their motion is due to the fact that there are miles and miles of snow-fields, thousands of feet deep, on the mountain-tops and in the gorges, to which fresh snows are added every winter, so that the weight of what is behind, slipping off the slopes and falling from the cliffs, crushes down and forward that which is below; thus glaciers cannot choose but advance." "ay, ay," said the captain, "no doubt no doubt that may be so; but why is it that, bein' as brittle as glass, a glacier don't come rumblin' and clatterin' down the valleys in small hard bits, like ten thousand millions of smashed-up chandeliers?" "ay, there's the rub," exclaimed lewis; "what say you to that?" "ha!" exclaimed the professor, again smiling blandly, "there you have touched what once was, and, to some philosophers it seems, still is, the great difficulty. by some great men it has been held that glacier ice is always in a partially soft, viscid, or semi-fluid condition, somewhat like pitch, so that, although _apparently_ a solid, brittle, and rigid body, it flows sluggishly in reality. other philosophers have denied this theory, insisting that the ice of glaciers is _not_ like pitch, but like glass, and that it cannot be squeezed without being broken, nor drawn without being cracked. these philosophers have discovered that when ice is subjected to great pressure it melts, and that, when the pressure is removed, the part so melted immediately freezes again--hence the name regelation, or re-freezing, is given to the process. thus a glacier, they say, is in many places being continually melted and continually and instantaneously re-frozen, so that it is made to pass through narrow gorges, and to open out again when the enormous pressure has been removed. but this theory of regelation, although unquestionably true, and although it exercises _some_ influence on glacier motion, does not, in my opinion, alone account for it. the opinion which seems to be most in favour among learned men--and that which i myself hold firmly--is, the theory of the scottish professor forbes, namely, that a glacier is a semi-fluid body, it is largely impregnated throughout its extent with water, its particles move round and past each other--in other words, it flows in precisely the same manner as water, the only difference being that it is not quite so fluid; it is sluggish in its flow, but it certainly models itself to the ground over which it is forced by its own gravity, and it is only rent or broken into fragments when it is compelled to turn sharp angles, or to pass over steep convex slopes. forbes, by his careful measurements and investigations, proved incontestably that in some glaciers the central portion travelled down its valley at double or treble the rate of its sides, without the continuity of the mass being broken. in small masses, indeed, glacier-ice is to all appearance rigid, but on a large scale it is unquestionably ductile." "has the theory of regelation been put to the proof?" asked lewis, with a degree of interest in glaciers which he had never before felt. "it has," answered the professor. "an experimentalist once cut a bar of solid ice, like to a bar of soap in form and size, from a glacier. to this an iron weight of several pounds was suspended by means of a very fine wire, which was tied round the bar. the pressure of the wire melted the ice under it; as the water escaped it instantly re-froze above the wire; thus the wire went on cutting its way through the bar, and the water went on freezing, until at last the weight fell to the ground, and left the bar as solid and entire as if it had never been cut." "well, now," said captain wopper, bringing his hand down on his thigh with a slap that did more to arouse mrs stoutley out of her languor than the professor's lecture on glacier ice, "i've sailed round the world, i have, an' seen many a strange sight, and what i've got to say is that i'll believe that when i _see_ it." "you shall see it soon then, i hope," said the professor, more blandly than ever, "for i intend to verify this experiment along with several others. i go to the mer de glace, perhaps as far as the jardin, to-morrow. will you come?" "what may the jardang be?" asked the captain. "hallo! monkey, what's wrong?" said lewis to emma, referring to one of the undertoned safety-valves before mentioned. "nothing," replied emma, pursing her little lips till they resembled a cherry. "the jardin, or garden," said the professor, "is a little spot of exquisite beauty in the midst of the glaciers, where a knoll of green grass and flowers peeps up in the surrounding sterility. it is one of the regular excursions from chamouni." "can ladies go?" asked lewis. "young and active ladies can," said the professor, with his blandest possible smile, as he bowed to emma. "then, we'll all go together," cried lewis, with energy. "not all," said mrs stoutley, with a sigh, "i am neither young nor active." "nonsense, mother, you're quite young yet, you know, and as active as a kitten when you've a mind to be. come, we'll have a couple of porters and a chair to have you carried when you knock up." notwithstanding the glowing prospects of ease and felicity thus opened up to her, mrs stoutley resolutely refused to go on this excursion, but she generously allowed emma to go if so disposed. emma, being disposed, it was finally arranged that, on the following day, she, the captain, lewis, and lawrence, with gillie white as her page, should proceed up the sides of mont blanc with the man of science, and over the mer de glace to the jardin. chapter nine. a solid stream. there is a river of ice in switzerland, which, taking its rise on the hoary summit of mont blanc, flows through a sinuous mountain-channel, and terminates its grand career by liquefaction in the vale of chamouni. a mighty river it is in all respects, and a wonderful one--full of interest and mystery and apparent contradiction. it has a grand volume and sweep, varying from one to four miles in width, and is about twelve miles long, with a depth of many hundreds of feet. it is motionless to the eye, yet it descends into the plain continually. it is hard and unyielding in its nature, yet it flows as really and steadily, if not with as lithe a motion, as a liquid river. it is _not_ a half solid mass like mud, which might roll slowly down an incline; it is solid, clear, transparent, brittle ice, which refuses to bend, and cracks sharply under a strain; nevertheless, it has its waves and rapids, cross-currents, eddies, and cascades, which, seen from a moderate distance, display all the grace and beauty of flowing water--as if a grand river in all its varied parts, calm and turbulent, had been actually and suddenly arrested in its course and frozen to the bottom. it is being melted perpetually too. the fierce sun of summer sends millions of tiny streamlets down into its interior, which collect, augment, cut channels for themselves through the ice, and finally gush into the plain from its lower end in the form of a muddy river. even in winter this process goes on, yet the ice-river never melts entirely away, but holds on its cold, stately, solemn course from year to year-- has done so for unknown ages, and will probably do so to the end of time. it is picturesque in its surroundings, majestic in its motion, tremendous in its action, awful in its sterility, and, altogether, one of the most impressive and sublime works of god. this gigantic glacier, or stream of ice, springing, as it does, from the giant-mountain of europe, is appropriately hemmed in, and its mighty force restrained, by a group of titans, whose sharp aiguilles, or needle-like peaks, shoot upward to a height little short of their rounded and white-headed superior, and from whose wild gorges and riven sides tributary ice-rivers flow, and avalanches thunder incessantly. leaving its cradle on the top of mont blanc, the great river sweeps round the aiguille du geant; and, after receiving its first name of glacier du geant from that mighty obelisk of rock, which rises , feet above the sea, it passes onward to welcome two grand tributaries, the glacier de lechaud, from the rugged heights of the grandes jorasses, and the glacier du talefre from the breast of the aiguille du talefre and the surrounding heights. thus augmented, the river is named the mer de glace, or sea of ice, and continues its downward course; but here it encounters what may be styled "the narrows," between the crags at the base of the aiguille charmoz and aiguille du moine, through which it steadily forces its way, though compressed to much less than half its width by the process. in one place the glacier du geant is above eleven hundred yards wide; that of the lechaud is above eight hundred; that of talefre above six hundred--the total, when joined, two thousand five hundred yards; and this enormous mass of solid ice is forced through a narrow neck of the valley, which is, in round numbers, only _nine hundred_ yards wide! of course the ice-river must gain in depth what it loses in breadth in this gorge, through which it travels at the rate of twenty inches a day. thereafter, it tumbles ruggedly to its termination in the vale of chamouni, under the name of the glacier des bois. the explanation of the causes of the rise and flow of this ice-river we will leave to the genial and enthusiastic professor, who glories in dilating on such matters to captain wopper, who never tires of the dilations. huge, however, though this glacier of the mer de glace be, it is only one of a series of similar glaciers which constitute the outlets to that vast reservoir of ice formed by the wide range of mont blanc, where the snows of successive winters are stored, packed, solidified, and rendered, as it were, self-regulating in their supplies of water to the plains. and the mont blanc range itself is but a portion of the great glacial world of switzerland, the area occupied by which is computed at square miles. two-thirds of these send their waters to the sea through the channel of the rhine. the most extensive of these glaciers is the aletsch glacier, which is fifteen miles in length. it is said that above six hundred distinct glaciers have been reckoned in switzerland. this, good reader, is but a brief reference to the wonders of the glacial world. it is but a scratching of the surface. there is a very mine of interesting, curious, and astonishing facts below the surface. nature is prodigal of her information to those who question her closely, correctly, and perseveringly. even to those who observe her carelessly, she is not altogether dumb. she is generous; and the god of nature has caused it to be written for our instruction that, "his works are wonderful, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein." we may not, however, prolong our remarks on the subject of ice-rivers at this time. our travellers at chamouni are getting ready to start, and it is our duty at present to follow them. chapter ten. the first excursion. "a splendid morning!" exclaimed dr george lawrence, as he entered the _salle a manger_ with an obviously new alpenstock in his hand. "jolly!" replied lewis stoutley, who was stooping at the moment to button one of his gaiters. lewis was addicted to slang, not by any means an uncommon characteristic of youth! "the man," he said, with some bitterness, "who invented big buttons and little button-holes should have had his nose skewered with a button-hook. he was an ass!" in order to relieve his feelings and accomplish his ends, lewis summarily enlarged the holes with his penknife. "and _round_ buttons, too," he said, indignantly; "what on earth was the use of making round buttons when flat ones had been invented? a big hole and a flat button will hold against anything--even against scotch whins and heather. there, now, that abominable job is done." "you are fond of strong language, lewie," said lawrence, as he examined the spike at the end of his alpenstock. "i am. it relieves my feelings." "but don't you think it weakens your influence on occasions when nothing but strong language will serve? you rob yourself of the power, you know, to increase the force of it." "oh bother! don't moralise, man, but let's have your opinion of the weather, which is an all-important subject just now." "i have already given my opinion as to that," said lawrence, "but here comes one who will give us an opinion of value.--he is in capital time." "good morning, antoine." their guide for the day, antoine grennon, a fine stalwart specimen of his class, returned the salutation, and added that it was a very fine morning. "capital, isn't it?" cried lewis, cheerfully, for he had got over the irritation caused by the buttons. "couldn't be better; could it?" the guide did not admit that the weather could not be better. "you look doubtful, antoine," said lawrence. "don't you think the day will keep up?" "keep up!" exclaimed lewis; "why, the sky is perfectly clear. of course it will. i never saw a finer day, even in england. why do you doubt it, antoine?" the guide pointed to a small cloud that hung over the brow of one of the higher peaks. "appearances are sometimes deceitful in this country," he said. "i don't doubt the fineness of the day at present, but--" he was interrupted here by the sudden and noisy entrance of captain wopper and the professor, followed by the mad artist, whose name, by the way, was slingsby. "no, no," said the captain to the professor, with whom he had already become very intimate, "it won't do to part company. if the jardang is too far for the ladies, we will steer for the mairdyglass, an' cross over to the what's-'is-name--" "chapeau," said the professor. "ah! the shappo," continued the captain, "and so down by the glacier dez boys--" "the what?" asked lewis, with a half-suppressed smile. "the glacier dez boys, youngster," repeated the captain, stoutly. "oh, i see; you mean the glacier des bois?" said lewis, suppressing the smile no longer. "what i mean, young man," said the captain, sternly, "is best known to myself. you and other college-bred coxcombs may call it day bwa, if you like, but i have overhauled the chart, and there it's spelt d-e-s, which sounds dez, and b-o-i-s, which seafarin' men pronounce boys, so don't go for to cross my hawse again, but rather join me in tryin' to indooce the professor to putt off his trip to the jardang, an' sail in company with us for the day." "i will join you heartily in that," said lewis, turning to the man of science, who stood regarding the captain with an amiable smile, as a huge newfoundland dog might regard a large mastiff; "but why is our proposed excursion to the jardin to be altered?" "because," said the professor, "your amiable sister--i beg pardon, cousin--with that irresistible power of suasion which seems inherent in her nature, has prevailed on mademoiselle horetzki to join the party, and mademoiselle is too delicate--sylph-like--to endure the fatigues of so long an excursion over the ice. our worthy guide suggests that it would afford more pleasure to the ladies--and of course, therefore, to the gentlemen--if you were to make your first expedition only to the montanvert which is but a two hours' climb from chamouni, picnic there, cross the mer de glace, which is narrow at that point, and descend again to chamouni by the side of the glacier des bois, where you can behold the great moraines, and also the source of the river arveiron. this would be a pleasant and not too fatiguing round, and i, who might perhaps be an encumbrance to you, will prosecute my inquiries at the jardin alone." "impossible," exclaimed lewis, "the captain is right when he observes that we must not part company. as my mother says, we are a giddy crew, and will be the better of a little scientific ballast to keep us from capsizing into a crevasse. do come, my dear sir, if it were only out of charity, to keep us in order." to this entreaty lawrence and the artist added their persuasions, which were further backed by the eloquence of emma gray and nita horetzki, who entered at the moment radiant with the flush of life's dawning day, and irresistible in picturesque mountain attire, the chief characteristics of which consisted in an extensive looping up of drapery, and an ostentatious display of those staffs called alpenstocks, five feet long, tipped with chamois horn, which are an indispensable requisite in alpine work. "oh! you _muss_ go," said nita, in silvery tones and disjointed english. "if you go not, monsieur, _i_ go not!" "that of course decides the question, mademoiselle," said the gallant professor, with one of his blandest smiles, "i shall accompany you with pleasure. but i have one little request to make. my time at chamouni is short; will you permit me, on arriving at the mer de glace, to prosecute my inquiries? i am here to ask questions of nature, and must do so with perseverance and patience. will you allow me to devote more of my attention to _her_ than to yourself?" "h'm! well--what you say, mademoiselle gray?" demanded nita, with an arch look at her companion. "is the professor's request reasonable?" to this emma replied that as nature was, upon the whole, a more important lady than either of them, she thought it _was_ reasonable; whereupon the professor agreed to postpone his visit to the jardin, and devote his day to fixing stakes and making observations on the mer de glace, with a view to ascertaining the diurnal rate of speed at which the glacier flowed. "you spoke of putting certain questions to nature, professor," said lawrence, when the party were slowly toiling up the mountain-side. "have they not already been put to her, and satisfactorily answered some time ago?" "they have been put," replied the professor, "by such learned men as saussure, agassiz, rendu, charpentier, and by your own countryman forbes, and others, and undoubtedly their questions have received distinct answers, insomuch that our knowledge of the nature and action of glacial ice is now very considerable. but, my dear sir, learned men have not been agreed as to what nature's replies mean, nor have they exhausted the subject; besides, no true man of science is quite satisfied with merely hearing the reports of others, he is not content until he has met and conversed with nature face to face. i wish, therefore, to have a personal interview with her in these alps, or rather," continued the professor, in a more earnest tone, "i do wish to see the works of my maker with my own eyes, and to hear his voice with the ears of my own understanding." "your object, then, is to verify, not to discover?" said lawrence. "it is both. primarily to verify; but the man of science always goes forth with the happy consciousness that the mine in which he proposes to dig is rich in gems, and that, while seeking for one sort, he may light upon another unexpectedly." "when captain wopper turned up yonder gem, he lit on one which, if not of the purest water, is unquestionably a brilliant specimen of the class to which it belongs," said lewis, coming up at that moment, and pointing to a projection in the somewhat steep part of the path up which they were winding. the gem referred to was no other than our friend gillie white. that hilarious youth, although regenerated outwardly as regards blue cloth and buttons, had not by any means changed his spirit since fortune began to smile on him. finding that his mistress, being engaged with her dark-eyed friend, did not require his services, and observing that his patron, captain wopper, held intercourse with the guide--in broken english, because he, the guide, also spoke broken english--that lawrence and the professor seemed capable of entertaining each other, that lewis and the artist, although dreadfully jealous of each other, were fain to hold social intercourse, the ladies being inseparable, and that he, gillie, was therefore left to entertain himself he set about amusing himself to the best of his power by keeping well in rear of the party and scrambling up dangerous precipices, throwing stones at little birds, charging shrubs and stabbing the earth with emma's alpenstock, immolating snails, rolling rocks down precipitous parts of the hill, and otherwise exhibiting a tendency to sport with nature--all of which he did to music whistled by himself, and in happy forgetfulness of everything save the business in hand. he was engaged in some apparently difficult piece of fancy work, involving large boulders, when lewis drew attention to him. "what can the imp be up to?" he said. "most likely worrying some poor reptile to death," said the artist, removing his conical wideawake and fanning himself therewith. (mr slingsby was very warm, his slender frame not being equal to his indomitable spirit.) "i think he is trying to break your alpenstock, emma," observed lewis. there seemed to be truth in this, for gillie, having fixed the staff as a lever, was pulling at it with all his might. the projection of rock on which he stood, and which overhung the zigzag road, was partially concealed by bushes, so that the precise intention of his efforts could not be discovered. at that moment antoine, the guide, turned to see what detained the party, and instantly uttered a loud shout of alarm as he ran back to them. the warning or remonstrance came too late. gillie had loosened an enormous rock which had been on the point of falling, and with a throb of exultation, which found vent in a suppressed squeal, he hurled a mass, something about the size and weight of a cart of coals, down the precipice. but the current of gillie's feelings was rudely changed when a shriek from the ladies, and something between a roar and a yell from the gentlemen, told that they had observed a man with a mule, who, in ascending from the valley, had reached a spot which lay in the direct line of the miniature avalanche; and when the muleteer, also observing the missile, added a hideous howl to the chorus, the poor urchin shrank back appalled. the rock struck the track directly behind the mule with a force which, had it been expended only six inches more to the right, would have driven that creature's hind legs into the earth as if they had been tenpenny nails; it then bounded clear over the next turning of the track, crashed madly through several bushes, overturned five or six trees, knocked into atoms a sister rock which had taken the same leap some ages before, and finally, leaving behind it a grand tail of dust and _debris_, rolled to its rest upon the plain. at the first symptom of the danger, captain wopper had rushed towards the culprit. "rascal!" he growled between his teeth, as he seized gillie by the nape of the neck, lifted him almost off his legs, and shook him, "d'ee see what you've done?" he thrust the urchin partially over the precipice, and pointed to the man and the mule. "please, i _haven't_ done it," pleaded gillie. "but you did your best to--you--you small--there!" he finished off the sentence with an open-handed whack that aroused the echoes of mont blanc, and cast the culprit adrift. "now, look 'ee, lad," said the captain, with impressive solemnity, "if you ever go to chuck stones like that over the precipices of this here mountain again, i'll chuck you over after 'em. d'ee hear?" "yes, cappen," grumbled gillie, rubbing himself, "but if you do, it's murder. no jury of englishmen would think of recommendin' you to mercy in the succumstances. you'd be sure to swing--an' i--i could wish you a better fate." the captain did not wait to hear the boy's good wishes, but hastened to rejoin his friends, while gillie followed in rear, commenting audibly on the recent incident. "well, well," he said, thrusting both hands deep into bush trouser-pockets, according to custom when in a moralising frame of mind, "who'd a thought it, gillie white, that you'd 'ave bin brought all the way from london to the halps to make such a close shave o' committin' man-slaughter to say nothin' of mule-slaughter, and to git whacked by your best friend? oh! cappen, cappen, i couldn't 'ave believed it of you if i 'adn't felt it. but, i say, gillie, _wasn't_ it a big 'un? ha! ha! the cappen threatened to chuck me over the precipice, but i've chucked over a wopper that beats _him_ all to sticks. hallo! i say that's worthy of _punch_. p'r'aps i'll be a contributor to it w'en i gets back from zwizzerland, if i ever does get back, vich is by no means certain. susan, my girl, i'll 'ave summat to enliven you with this evenin'." we need scarcely say that this last remark had reference to mrs stoutley's maid, with whom the boy had become a great favourite. indeed the regard was mutual, though there was this difference about it, that susan, being two years older than gillie, and tall as well as womanly for her age, looked upon the boy as a precocious little oddity, whereas gillie, esteeming himself a man--"all but"--regarded susan with the powerful feelings of a first affection. from this, and what has been already said, it will be apparent to our fair readers that cupid had accompanied mrs stoutley's party to chamouni, with the intention apparently of amusing himself as well as interfering with captain wopper's matrimonial designs. the road to the montanvert is a broad and easy bridle-path, which, after leaving the valley, traverses a pine-forest in its ascent and becomes in places somewhat steep. here and there a zigzag is found necessary, and in several places there are tracks of avalanches. about half-way up there is a spring named the caillet which was shaded by trees in days of yore, but the avalanches have swept these away. beside the spring of pure water there was a spring of "fire-water," in a hut where so-called "refreshments" might also be obtained. as none of our party deemed it necessary to stimulate powers, which, at that time of the day, were fresh and vigorous, they passed this point of temptation without halting. other temptations, however, were not so easily resisted. the professor was stopped by rocky stratifications, the ladies were stopped by flowers and views, the younger gentlemen were of course stopped by the ladies, and the mad artist was stopped by everything. poor mr slingsby, who had been asked to join the party, in virtue of his being a friend of the count, and, therefore, of nita, was so torn by the conflict resulting from his desire to cultivate nita, and cut out lewis and lawrence, and his desire to prosecute his beloved art, that he became madder than usual. "splendid foregrounds" met him at every turn; "lovely middle-distances" chained him in everywhere; "enchanting backgrounds" beset him on all sides; gorgeous colours dazzled him above and below; and nita's black eyes pierced him continually through and through. it was terrible! he was constantly getting into positions of danger--going out on ledges to obtain particular views, rolling his large eyes, pulling off his hat and tossing back his long hair, so as to drink in more thoroughly the beauties around him, and clambering up precipices to fetch down bunches of wild flowers when nita chanced to express the most distant allusion to, or admiration of, them. "he will leave his bones in one crevasse!" growled antoine, on seeing him rush to a point of vantage, and, for the fiftieth time, squat down to make a rapid sketch of some "exquisite bit" that had taken his fancy. "'tis of no use," he said, on returning to his friends, "i cannot sketch. the beauties around me are too much for me." he glanced timidly at nita, who looked at him boldly, laughed, and advised him to shut his eyes, so as not to be distracted with such beauties. "impossible; i cannot choose but look. see," he said, pointing backward to their track, "see what a lovely effect of tender blue and yellow through yonder opening--" "d'you mean gillie?" asked lewis, with a quiet grin, as that reckless youth suddenly presented his blue coat and yellow buttons in the very opening referred to. the laugh called forth by this was checked by the voice of captain wopper, who was far in advance shouting to them to come on. a few minutes more, and the whole party stood on the montanvert beside the small inn which has been erected there for the use of summer tourists, and from which point the great glacier broke for the first time in all its grandeur, on their view. well might emma and nita stand entranced for some time, unable to find utterance to their feelings, save in the one word--wonderful! even slingsby's mercurial spirit was awed into silence, for, straight before them, the white and frozen billows of the mer de glace stretched for miles away up into the gorges of the giant hills until lost in and mingled with the clouds of heaven. chapter eleven. the pursuit of science under difficulties. after the first burst of enthusiasm and interest had abated, the attention of the party became engrossed in the proceedings of the professor, who, with his assistants, began at once to adjust his theodolite, and fix stakes in the ice. while he was thus engaged, captain wopper regarded the mer de glace with a gaze of fixedness so intense as to draw on him the attention and arouse the curiosity of his friends. "d'you see anything curious, captain?" asked emma, who chanced to stand beside him. "coorious--eh?" repeated the captain slowly, without altering his gaze or adding to his reply. "monsieur le capitaine is lost in consternation," said nita, with a smile. "i think, miss horetzki," said lewis, "that you probably mean _admiration_." "how you knows w'at i mean?" demanded nita, quickly. "ha! a very proper and pertinent question," observed slingsby, in an audible though under tone. "i nevair do put _pertinent_ questions, sir," said nita, turning her black eyes sharply, though with something of a twinkle in them, on the mad artist. poor slingsby began to explain, but nita cut him short by turning to lewis and again demanding, "how you knows w'at i mean?" "the uniform propriety of your thoughts, mademoiselle," replied lewis, with a continental bow, and an air of pretended respect, "induces me to suppose that your words misinterpret them." nita's knowledge of english was such that this remark gave her only a hazy idea of the youth's meaning; she accepted it, however, as an apologetic explanation, and ordered him to awaken the captain and find out from him what it was that so riveted his attention. "you hear my orders," said lewis, laying his hand with a slap on the captain's shoulder. "what are you staring at?" "move!" murmured the captain, returning as it were to consciousness with a long deep sigh, "it don't move an inch." "_what_ does not move?" said lawrence, who had been assisting to adjust the theodolite, and came forward at the moment. "the ice, to be sure," answered the captain. "i say, professor, do 'ee mean to tell me that the whole of that there mairdy-glass is movin'?" "i do," answered the professor, pausing for a minute in his arrangements, and looking over his spectacles at the captain with an amused expression. "then," returned the captain, with emphasis, "i think you'll find that you're mistaken." "ha! captain weeper--" "wopper," said the captain. "wopper," repeated the professor, "you are not the first who has expressed disbelief in what he cannot see, and you will assuredly not be the last; but if you will wait i will convince you." "very good," replied the captain, "i'm open to conviction." "which means," said lewis, "that you have nailed your colours to the mast, and mean to die rather than give in." "no doubt," said the captain, paying no attention to the last remark, "i see, _and_ believe, that at some time or other the ice here must have been in a flowin' state. i'm too well aware o' the shape of waves an' eddies, cross-currents and ripples, to doubt or deny that but any man with half an eye can see that it's anchored hard and fast _now_. i've looked at it without flinchin' for good ten minutes, and not the smallest sign of motion can i detect." "so might you say of the hour-hand of a watch," observed lawrence. "not at all," retorted the captain, becoming argumentative. "i look at the hour-hand of a watch for ten minutes and don't see it move, but i _do_ see that it has in reality passed over a very small but appreciable space in that time." "just so," said the professor, "i will ere long show you the same thing in regard to the ice." "i'll bet you ten thousand pounds you don't," returned the captain, with an assured nod. "colours nailed!" said lewis; "but i say, captain," he added, remonstratively, "i thought you were a sworn enemy to gambling. isn't betting gambling?" "it is, young man," answered the captain, "but i always bet ten thousand pounds sterling, which i never mean to pay if i lose, nor to accept if i win--and that is _not_ gambling. put that in your pipe and smoke it; and if you'll take my advice, you'll go look after your friend slingsby, who is gambolling up yonder in another fashion that will soon bring him to grief if he's not stopped." all eyes were turned towards the mad artist, who, finding that his advances to mademoiselle nita were not well received, had for the time forsaken her, and returned to his first (and professional) love. in wooing her, he had clambered to an almost inaccessible cliff from which he hoped to obtain a very sketchable view of the mer de glace, and, when captain wopper drew attention to him, was making frantic efforts to swing himself by the branch of a tree to a projecting rock, which was so slightly attached to its parent cliff that his weight would in all probability have hurled it and himself down the precipice. the remonstrative shouts of his friends, however, induced him to desist, and he sat down to work in a less perilous position. meanwhile the professor, having completed his preliminary preparations, ordered his assistants to go and "fix the stakes in the ice." it had been arranged that while the scientific experiments were in progress, the young ladies should ramble about the neighbourhood in search of flowers and plants, under the care of lewis, until two o'clock, at which hour all were to assemble at the montanvert hotel for luncheon, captain wopper and lawrence resolving to remain and assist, or at least observe, the professor. the former, indeed, bearing in mind his great and ruling wish even in the midst of scientific doubt and inquiries, had suggested that the latter should also accompany the ladies, the country being somewhat rugged, and the ladies--especially miss emma--not being very sure-footed; but lawrence, to his disappointment, had declined, saying that the ladies had a sufficient protector in the gallant lewis, and that miss emma was unquestionably the surest-footed of the whole party. lawrence therefore remained, and, at the professor's request, accompanied the party who were to fix the stakes on the ice. as this operation was attended with considerable difficulty and some danger, we will describe the process. finding that the spot which he had first chosen for his observations was not a very good one, the professor changed his position to a point farther down on the steep sloping rocks that form the left bank of the glacier des bois. here the theodolite was fixed. this instrument as even our young readers may probably know, is a small telescope attached to a stand with three long legs, and having spirit-levels, by means of which it can be fixed in a position, if we may say so, of exact flatness with reference to the centre of the earth. within the telescope are two crossed hairs of a spider's-web, so fine as to be scarcely visible to the naked eye, and so arranged that their crossing-point is exactly in the centre of the tube. by means of pivots and screws the telescope can be moved up or down, right or left, without in the smallest degree altering the flatness or position of its stand. on looking through the telescope the delicate threads can be distinctly seen, and the point where they cross can be brought to bear on any distant object. having fixed the instrument on the rocks quite clear of the ice, the professor determined the direction of a supposed line perpendicular to the axis of the glacier. he then sought for a conspicuous and well-defined object on the opposite side of the valley, as near as possible to that direction. in this he was greatly helped by captain wopper, who, having been long accustomed to look-out with precision at sea, found it not very difficult to apply his powers on land. "there's a good land-mark, professor," he said, pointing towards a sharply-cut rock, "as like the dook of wellington's nose as two peas." "i see it," said the professor, whose solid and masculine countenance was just the smallest possible degree flushed by the strong under-current of enthusiasm with which he prosecuted his experiments. "you couldn't have a better object than the pint o' that," observed the captain, whose enthusiasm was quite as great as, and his excitement much greater than, that of the professor. having carefully directed the telescope to the extreme point of the "dook's" nose, the professor now ordered one of his assistants to go on the glacier with a stake. lawrence descended with him, and thus planted his foot on glacier-ice for the first time, as lewis afterwards remarked, in the pursuit scientific knowledge. while they were clambering slowly down among the loose boulders and _debris_ which had been left by the glacier in previous years, the professor carefully sketched the duke of wellington's nose with the rocks, etcetera, immediately around it, in his notebook, so that it might be easily recognised again on returning to the spot on a future day. the assistant who had been sent out with the first stake proved to be rather stupid, so that it was fortunate he had been accompanied by lawrence, and by the guide, antoine grennon, who stirred up his perceptions. by rough signalling he was made to stand near the place where the first stake was to be driven in. the telescope was then lowered, and the man was made, by signals, to move about and plant his stake here and there in an upright position until the point of intersection of the spider's threads fell exactly on the bottom of the stake. a pre-arranged signal was then made, and at that point an auger hole was bored deep into the ice and the stake driven home. "so much for number one," said captain wopper, with a look of satisfaction. "they won't fix the other ones so easily," observed the professor, re-examining the stake through the telescope with great care. he was right in this. the first stake had been planted not far from the shore, but now lawrence and his party had to proceed in a straight line over the glacier, which, at this steep portion of its descent into the vale of chamouni, was rent, dislocated, and tortured, to such an extent that it was covered with huge blocks and pinnacles of ice, and seamed with yawning crevasses. to clamber over some of the ice-ridges was almost impossible, and, in order to avoid pinnacles and crevasses, which were quite impassable, frequent _detours_ had to be made. if the object of the ice-party had merely been to cross the glacier, the difficulties would not have been great; but the necessity of always returning to the straight line pointed out by the inexorable theodolite, led them into positions of considerable difficulty. to the inexperienced lawrence they also appeared to be positions of great danger, much to the amusement of antoine, who, accustomed as he was to the fearful ice-slopes and abysses of the higher regions, looked upon this work as mere child's play. "you'll come to have a different notion of crevasses, sir," he said, with a quiet smile, "after you've bin among the seracs of the grand mulet, and up some of the couloirs of monte rosa." "i doubt it not, antoine," said lawrence, gazing with feelings of awe into a terrible split in the ice, whose beautiful light-blue sides deepened into intense blackness as they were lost to vision in an abyss, out of which arose the deep-toned gurgling of sub-glacial streams; "but you must not forget that this is quite new to me, and my feet are not yet aware of the precise grip with which they must hold on to so slippery a foundation." it was in truth no discredit to lawrence that he felt a tendency to shrink from edges of chasms which appeared ready to break off, or walked with caution on ice-slopes which led to unfathomable holes, for the said slopes, although not steep, were undoubtedly slippery. after much clambering, a ridge was at length gained, on which the second stake was set up, and then the party proceeded onwards to fix the third; but now the difficulties proved to be greater than before. a huge block of ice was fixed upon as that which would suit their purpose, but it stood like a peninsula in the very midst of a crevasse, and connected with the main body of ice by a neck which looked as sharp as a knife on its upper edge, so that none but tight-rope or slack-wire dancers could have proceeded along it; and even such performers would have found the edge too brittle to sustain them. "you'll have to show, monsieur, some of your mountaineer skill here?" said the man who carried the stakes to antoine. he spoke in french, which lawrence understood perfectly. we render it as nearly as possible into the counterpart english. antoine at once stepped forward with his alpine axe, and, swinging it vigorously over his head, cut a deep notch on the sloping side of the neck of ice. beyond it he cut a second notch. no man--not even a monkey--could have stood on the glassy slope which descended into the abyss at their side; but antoine, putting one foot in the first notch, and the other in the second, stood as secure as if he had been on a flat rock. again he swung his axe, and planted his foot in a third notch, swinging his axe the instant it was fixed for the purpose of cutting the fourth. thus, cut by cut and step by step, he passed over to the block of ice aimed at. it was but a short neck. a few notches were sufficient, yet without an axe to cut these notches, the place had been absolutely impassable. it was by no means a "dangerous" place, according to the ideas of alpine mountaineers, nevertheless a slip, or the loss of balance, would have been followed by contain death. antoine knew this, and, like a wise guide, took proper precautions. "stay, sir," he said, as lawrence was screwing up his courage to follow him, "i will show you another piece of alpine practice." he returned as he spoke, and, unwinding a coil of rope which he carried, fastened one end thereof round his waist. allowing a few feet of interval, he then fastened the rope round lawrence's waist, and the assistants with the stakes--of whom there were two besides the man already referred to--also attached themselves to the rope in like manner. by this means they all passed over with comparative security, because if any one of them had chanced to slip, the others would have fixed the points of their axes and alpenstocks in the ice and held on until their overbalanced comrade should have been restored to his position. on gaining the block, however, it was found that the line communicating with the theodolite on the one hand, and the dook's nose on the other, just missed it. the professor's signals continued to indicate "more to the left," (_his_ left, that is) until the stake-driver stood on the extreme edge of the crevasse, and his comrades held on tight by the rope to prevent him from falling over. still the professor indicated "more to the left!" as "more to the left" implied the planting of the stake in atmospheric air, they were fain to search for a suitable spot farther on. this they found, after some scrambling, on a serrated ridge whose edge was just wide and strong enough to sustain them. here the exact line was marked, but while the hole was being bored, an ominous crack was heard ascending as if from the heart of the glacier. "what was that?" said lawrence, turning to the guide with a quick surprised look. "only a split in the ice somewhere. it's a common sound enough, as you might expect in a mass that is constantly moving," replied antoine, looking gravely round him, "but i can't help thinking that this lump of ice, with crevasses on each side, is not the best of all spots for fixing a stake. it isn't solid enough." as he spoke, another crash was heard, not quite so loud as the last and at the same moment the whole mass on which the party stood slid forward a few inches. it seemed as if it were about to tumble into the very jaws of the crevasse. with the natural instinct of self-preservation strong upon him, lawrence darted across the narrow ridge to the firm ice in rear, dispensing entirely with that extreme caution which had marked his first passage over it. indeed the tight-rope and slack-wire dancers formerly referred to could not have performed the feat with greater lightness, rapidity, and precision. the stake-drivers followed him with almost similar alacrity. even the guide retraced his steps without further delay than was necessary to permit of his picking up the stakes which their proper custodians had left behind in their alarm--for they were not guides, merely young and inexperienced porters. "for shame, lads," said antoine, laughing and shaking his head, "you'll be but bad specimens of the men of chamouni if you don't learn more coolness on the ice." one would have thought that coolness on the ice was an almost unavoidable consequence of the surrounding conditions, yet lawrence seemed to contradict the idea, for his face appeared unusually warm as he laughed and said:-- "the shame lies with me, antoine, for i set them the example, and all history goes to prove that even brave men are swept away under the influence of a panic which the act of one cowardly man may produce." as lawrence spoke in french, the porters understood and appreciated his defence of them, but antoine would by no means encourage the fallacy. "it is not cowardly, sir," he said, "to spring quickly out of a danger that one don't understand the nature of, but the young men of chamouni have, or ought to have, a good understanding of the nature of ice, and the danger should be great indeed that would necessitate the leaving of their tools behind them." a roar like that of a bull of bashan, or a boatswain, here interrupted the conversation. "don't plant your post the-r-r-re," shouted captain wopper from the banks of the ice-river, "the professor says the ice ain't firm enough. heave ahead--to where its ha-a-ard an' fa-a-ast." "ay, ay, sir," shouted lawrence, with nautical brevity, in reply. the next stake was accordingly fixed on a part of the ice which was obviously incapable of what might be called a local slip, and which must, if it moved at all, do so in accordance with the movements of the entire glacier. thus one by one the stakes were planted in a perfectly straight line, so that when captain wopper was requested by the professor to look through the telescope--which he did with a seaman's readiness and precision--he observed that all the stakes together appeared to form but one stake, the bottom of which was touched on one side of the mer de glace by the centre-point of the crossed threads, and, on the other, by the extreme point of the "dook" of wellington's nose. the last stake had been fixed not many yards distant from the opposite bank of the glacier. "now," said the professor, with a deep sigh of satisfaction when all this was accomplished and noted, "we will go have our luncheon and return hither to-morrow to observe the result of our experiments. but first we must fix the exact position of our theodolite, for unless it occupies to a hair's-breadth to-morrow the same position which it occupies to-day, the result will be quite inconclusive." so saying, the man of science took a little line and plummet from his pocket, which he hung under the theodolite, and the spot where the plummet touched the ground was carefully marked by a small stake driven quite down to its head. thereafter an attempt was made to gather together the scattered party, but this was difficult. owing to various causes several members of it had become oblivious of time. emma had forgotten time in the pursuit of wild-flowers, of which she was excessively fond, partly because she had learned to press and classify and write their proper names under them, but chiefly because they were intrinsically lovely, and usually grew in the midst of beautiful scenery. nita had forgotten it in the pursuit of emma, of whom she had become suddenly and passionately fond, partly because she possessed a loving nature, but chiefly because emma was her counterpart. lewis had forgotten it in pursuit of nita, of whom he had become extremely fond, partly because she was pretty and pert, but chiefly because he--he--well, we cannot say precisely why, seeing that he did not inform us, and did not himself appear clearly to know. slingsby had forgotten it in the ardent effort to reproduce on paper and with pencil, a scene so magnificent that a brush dipped in the rainbow and applied by claude or turner would have utterly failed to do it justice; and last, as well as least, gillie white had forgotten it in the pursuit of general knowledge, in which pursuit he had used his alpenstock effectively in opening up everything, stabbing, knocking down, uprooting, overturning, and generally shattering everything that was capable of being in any degree affected by the physical powers and forces at his command. there can be no doubt whatever that if gillie white had been big and strong enough, mont blanc itself would have succumbed that day to his inquiring mind, and the greatest ice-reservoir of europe would have been levelled with the plain. as it was, he merely levelled himself, after reaching the point of exhaustion, and went to sleep on the sunny side of a rock, where he was nearly roasted alive before being aroused by the shouts of captain wopper. at last, however, the party assembled at the montanvert, where, amid interjectional accounts of the various incidents and adventures of the forenoon, strength was recruited for the subsequent operations of the day. these, however, were only matters of amusement. the professor, remarking jocosely that he now cast science to the dogs and cats (which latter he pronounced cawts), sent his instruments back to chamouni, and, with the zest of a big boy let loose from school, crossed the mer de glace to the chapeau. this feat was by no means so difficult as that which had been accomplished by lawrence. it will be remembered that the spot selected for measurement had been at the steep and rugged part of the ice-river styled the glacier des bois, below the montanvert. the ordinary crossing-place lay considerably higher up, just opposite to the inn. the track had been marked out over the easiest and flattest part of the ice, and levelled here and there where necessary for the special benefit of tourists. still man--even when doing his worst in the way of making rough places plain, and robbing nature of some of her romance--could not do much to damage the grandeur of that impressive spot. his axe only chipped a little of the surface and made the footing secure. it could not mar the beauty of the picturesque surroundings, or dim the sun's glitter on the ice-pinnacles, or taint the purity of these delicate blue depths into which emma and nita gazed for the first time with admiration and surprise while they listened to the mysterious murmurings of sub-glacial waters with mingled feelings of curiosity and awe. full of interest they traversed the grand unfathomable river of ice,-- the product of the compressed snows of innumerable winters,--and, reaching the other side in less than an hour, descended the chapeau through the terminal moraine. those who have not seen it can form but a faint conception of the stupendous mass of _debris_ which is cut, torn, wrenched, carried, swept, hurled, rolled, crushed, and ground down by a glacier from the mountain-heights into the plain below. the terminal moraine of the mer de glace is a whole valley whose floor and sides are not only quite, but deeply, covered with rocks of every shape and size, from a pebble the size of a pea, to a boulder as large as a cottage, all strewn, piled, and heaped together in a wild confusion that is eminently suggestive of the mighty force which cast them there. "to me there do seem something dreadful as well as grand in it," said nita, as she sat down on a boulder beside emma, near the lower end of the chaotic valley. "it is, indeed, terrible," answered emma, "and fills me with wonder when i think that frozen water possesses power so stupendous." "and yet the same element," said the professor, "which, when frozen, thus rends the mountains with force irresistible, when melted flows through the land in gentle fertilising streams. in both forms its power is most wonderful." "like that of him who created it," said emma, in a low tone. the party stood on the margin of a little pond or lakelet that had collected in the midst of the _debris_, and which, by reflecting the clear sky and their figures, with several large boulders on its margin, gave point and a measure of softness to the otherwise confused and rugged scene. while they stood and sat rapt in silent contemplation of the tongue of the mer de glace, at whose tip was the blue ice-cave whence issued the arveiron, a lordly eagle rose from a neighbouring cliff and soared grandly over their heads, while a bright gleam of the sinking sun shot over the white shoulders of mont blanc and lit up the higher end of the valley, throwing the lower part into deeper shade by contrast. "there is a warning to us," said lewis, whose chief interest in the scene lay in the reflection of it that gleamed from nita horetzki's eyes. "which is the warning," asked slingsby, "the gleam of sunshine or the eagle?" "both, for while the sun is going to bed behind the snow, the eagle is doubtless going home to her eyrie, and antoine tells me that it is full three miles from this spot to our hotel in chamouni." it did not take them long to traverse that space, and ere long, like the eagle and the sun, the whole party had retired to rest--the younger members, doubtless, to dreamless slumber; the professor and the captain, probably, to visions of theodolites and ice. although, however, these worthies must needs await the coming day to have their scientific hopes realised, it would be cruel to keep our patient reader in suspense. we may therefore note here that when, on the following day, the theodolite was re-fixed, and the man of science and his amateur friend had applied their respective eyes to the telescope, they were assured beyond a doubt that the stakes _had moved_, some more and some less, while the "dook's nose," of course, remained hard and fast as the rock of which it was composed. the stakes had descended from about one to three feet during the twenty-four hours-- those near the edge having moved least and those near the centre of the ice-river's flow having moved farthest. of course there was a great deal of observing with the theodolite, and careful measuring as well as scrambling on the ice, similar to that of the previous day; but the end of the whole was that the glacier was ascertained to have flowed, definitely and observably down its channel, there could be no doubt whatever about that; the thing had been clearly proved, therefore the professor was triumphant and the captain, being a reasonable man, was convinced. chapter twelve. in which gillie is sagacious, an excursion is undertaken, wondrous sights are seen, and avalanches of more kinds than one are encountered. "susan," said gillie, one morning, entering the private apartment of mrs stoutley's maid with the confidence of a privileged friend, flinging himself languidly into a chair and stretching out his little legs with the air of a rather used-up, though by no means discontented, man, "susan, this is a coorious world--wery coorious--the most coorious i may say that i ever come across." "i won't speak a word to you, gillie," said susan, firmly, "unless you throw that cigar out of the window." "ah, susan, you would not rob me of my mornin' weed, would you?" remonstrated gillie, puffing a long cloud of smoke from his lips as he took from between them the end of a cigar that had been thrown away by some one the night before. "yes, i would, child, you are too young to smoke." "child!" repeated gillie, in a tone of reproach, "too young! why, susan, there's only two years between you an' me--that ain't much, you know, at _our_ time of life." "well, what then? _i_ don't smoke," said susan. "true," returned gillie, with an approving nod, "and, to say truth, i'm pleased to find that you don't. it's a nasty habit in women." "it's an equally nasty habit in boys. now, do as i bid you directly." "when a man is told by the girl he loves to do anythink, he is bound to do it--even if it wor the sheddin' of his blood. susan, your word is law." he turned and tossed the cigar-end out of the window. susan laughingly stooped, kissed the urchin's forehead, and called him a good boy. "now," said she, "what do you mean by sayin' that this is a curious world? do you refer to this part of it, or to the whole of it?" "well, for the matter of that," replied gillie, crossing his legs, and folding his hands over his knee, as he looked gravely up in susan's pretty face, "i means the whole of it, _this_ part included, and the people in it likewise. don't suppose that i go for to exclude myself. we're all coorious, every one on us." "what! me too?" "you? w'y, you are the cooriousest of us all, susan, seeing that you're only a lady's-maid when you're pretty enough to have been a lady--a dutchess, in fact, or somethin' o' that sort." "you are an impudent little thing," retorted susan, with a laugh; "but tell me, what do you find so curious about the people up-stairs?" "why, for one thing, they seem all to have falled in love." "that's not very curious is it?" said susan, quietly; "it's common enough, anyhow." "ah, some kinds of it, yes," returned gillie, with the air of a philosopher, "but at chamouni the disease appears to have become viroolent an' pecoolier. there's the capp'n, _he's_ falled in love wi' the professor, an' it seems to me that the attachment is mootooal. then mister lewis has falled in love with madmysell nita hooray-tskie (that's a sneezer, ain't it), an' the mad artist, as mister lewis call him, has falled in love with her too, poor feller, an' miss nita has falled in love with miss emma, an miss emma, besides reciprocatin' that passion, has falled in love with the flowers and the scenery--gone in for it wholesale, so to speak--and dr lawrence, _he_ seems to have falled in love with everybody all round; anyhow everybody has falled in love with _him_, for he's continually goin' about doin' little good turns wherever he gits the chance, without seemin' to intend it, or shovin' hisself to the front. in fact i do think he _don't_ intend it, but only can't help it; just the way he used to be to my old mother and the rest of us in grubb's court. and i say, susan," here gillie looked very mysterious, and dropped his voice to a whisper, "miss emma has falled in love with _him_." "nonsense, child! how is it possible that _you_ can tell that?" said susan. the boy nodded his head with a look of preternatural wisdom, and put his forefinger to the side of his nose. "ah," said he, "yes, i can't explain _how_ it is that i knows it, but i _do_ know it. bless you, susan, i can see through a four-inch plank in thick weather without the aid of a gimlet hole. you may believe it or not, but i know that miss emma has falled in love with dr lawrence, but whether dr lawrence has failed in love with miss emma is more than i can tell. that plank is at least a six-inch one, an' too much for my wision. but have a care, susan, don't mention wot i've said to a single soul--livin' or dead. miss emma is a modest young woman, she is, an' would rather eat her fingers off, rings and all, than let her feelin's be known. i see that 'cause she fights shy o' dr lawrence, rather too shy of 'im, i fear, for secrecy. why he doesn't make up to _her_ is a puzzle that _i_ don't understand, for she'd make a good wife, would miss emma, an' dr lawrence may live to repent of it, if he don't go in and win." susan looked with mingled surprise and indignation at the precocious little creature who sat before her giving vent to his opinions as coolly as if he were a middle-aged man. after contemplating him for a few moments in silence, she expressed her belief that he was a conceited little imp, to venture to speak of his young mistress in that way. "i wouldn't do it to any one but yourself, susan," he said, in no wise abashed, "an' i hope you appreciate my confidence." "don't talk such nonsense, child, but go on with what you were speaking about," rejoined susan, with a smile, to conceal which she bent down her head as she plied her needle briskly on one of emma's mountain-torn dresses. "well, where was i?" continued gillie, "ah, yes. then, lord what's-'is-name, _he's_ falled in love with the mountain-tops, an' is for ever tryin' to get at 'em, in which he would succeed, for he's a plucky young feller, if it worn't for that snob--who's got charge of 'im--mister lumbard--whose pecooliarity lies in preferrin' every wrong road to the right one. as i heard mr lewis say the other day, w'en i chanced to be passin' the keyhole of the sallymanjay, `he'd raither go up to the roof of a 'ouse by the waterspout than the staircase,' just for the sake of boastin' of it." "and is mr lumbard in love with any one?" asked susan. "of course he is," answered gillie, "he's in love with hisself. he's always talkin' of hisself, an' praisin' hisself, an' boastin' of hisself an' what he's done and agoin' to do. he's plucky enough, no doubt, and if there wor a lightnin'-conductor runnin' to top of mount blang, i do b'lieve he'd try to--to--lead his lordship up _that_; but he's too fond of talkin' an' swaggerin' about with his big axe, an' wearin' a coil of rope on his shoulder when he ain't goin' nowhere. bah! i don't like him. what do you think, susan, i met him on the road the other evenin' w'en takin' a stroll by myself down near the glassyer day bossong, an' i says to him, quite in a friendly way, `bong joor,' says i, which is french, you know, an' what the natives here says when they're in good humour an' want to say `good-day,' `all serene,' `how are you off for soap?' an' suchlike purlitenesses. well, would you believe it, he went past without takin' no notice of me whatsumdever." "how _very_ impolite," said susan, "and what did you do?" "do," cried gillie, drawing himself up, "why, i cocked my nose in the air and walked on without disdainin' to say another word--treated 'im with suvrin contempt. but enough of _him_--an' more than enough. well, to continue, then there's missis stoutley, she's falled in love too." "indeed?" "yes, with wittles. the count hur--what's-'is-name, who's always doin' the purlite when he's not mopin', says it's the mountain hair as is agreein' with her, but i think its the hair-soup. anyhow she's more friendly with her wittles here than she ever was in england. after comin' in from that excursion where them two stout fellers carried her up the mountains, an' all but capsized her and themselves, incloodin' the chair, down a precipice, while passin' a string o' mules on a track no broader than the brim of mister slingsby's wide-awake, she took to her wittles with a sort of lovin' awidity that an't describable. the way she shovelled in the soup, an' stowed away the mutton chops, an' pitched into the pease and taters, to say nothing of cauliflower and cutlets, was a caution to the billions. it made my mouth water to look at her, an' my eyes too--only that may have had somethin' to do with the keyhole, for them 'otels of chamouni are oncommon draughty. yes," continued gillie, slowly, as if he were musing, "she's failed in love with wittles, an' it's by no means a misplaced affection. it would be well for the count if he could fall in the same direction. did you ever look steadily at the count, susan?" "i can't say i ever did; at least not more so than at other people. why?" "because, if you ever do look at him steadily, you'll see care a-sittin' wery heavy on his long yeller face. there's somethin' the matter with that count, either in 'is head or 'is stummick, i ain't sure which; but, whichever it is, it has descended to his darter, for that gal's face is too anxious by half for such a young and pretty one. i have quite a sympathy, a sort o' feller-feelin', for that count. he seems to me the wictim of a secret sorrow." susan looked at her small admirer with surprise, and then burst into a hearty laugh. "you're a queer boy, gillie." to an unsophisticated country girl like susan quick, the london street-boy must indeed have seemed a remarkable being. he was not indeed an absolute "arab," being the son of an honest hardworking mother, but being also the son of a drunken, ill-doing father, he had, in the course of an extensive experience of bringing his paternal parent home from gin-palaces and low theatres, imbibed a good deal of the superficial part of the "waif" character, and, but for the powerful and benign influence of his mother, might have long ago entered the ranks of our criminal population. as it was, he had acquired a knowledge of "the world" of london--its thoughts, feelings, and manners--which rendered him in susan's eyes a perfect miracle of intelligence; and she listened to his drolleries and precocious wisdom with open-mouthed admiration. of course the urchin was quite aware of this, and plumed himself not a little on his powers of attraction. "yes," continued gillie, without remarking on susan's observation that he was a "queer boy," for he esteemed that a compliment "the count is the only man among 'em who hasn't falled in love with nothink or nobody. but tell me, susan, is _your_ fair buzzum free from the--the tender-- you know what?" "oh! yes," laughed the maid, "quite free." "ah!" said gillie, with a sigh of satisfaction, "then there's hope for _me_." "of course there is plenty of hope," said susan, laughing still more heartily as she looked at the thing in blue and buttons which thus addressed her. "but now, tell me, where are they talking of going to-day?" "to the jardang," replied gillie. "it was putt off to please the young ladies t'other day, and now it's putt on to please the professor. it seems to me that the professor has got well to wind'ard of 'em all--as the cappen would say; he can twirl the whole bilin' of 'em round his little finger with his outlandish talk, which i believe is more than half nonsense. hows'ever, he's goin' to take 'em all to the jardang, to lunch there, an' make some more obserwations and measurements of the ice. why he takes so much trouble about sitch a trifle, beats _my_ understandin'. if the ice is six feet, or six hundred feet thick, what then? if it moves, or if it don't move, wot's the odds, so long as yer 'appy? if it _won't_ move, w'y don't they send for a company of london bobbies and make 'em tell it to `move on,' it couldn't refuse, you know, for nothin' can resist that. hows'ever, they are all goin' to foller the lead of the professor again to-day--them that was with 'em last time--not the count though, for i heard him say (much to the distress apperiently of his darter) that he was goin' on business to marteeny, over the tait nwar, though what that is _i_ don't know--a mountain, i suppose. they're all keen for goin' _over_ things in this country, an' some of 'em goes _under_ altogether in the doin' of it. if i ain't mistaken, that pleasant fate awaits lord what's-'is-name an' mr lumbard, for i heard the cappen sayin', just afore i come to see you, that he was goin' to take his lordship to the main truck of mount blang by way of the signal halliards, in preference to the regular road." "are the young ladies going?" asked susan. "of course they are, from w'ich it follers that mr lewis an' the mad artist are goin' too." "and mrs stoutley?" asked susan. "_no_; it's much too far and difficult for her." "gillie, gillie!" shouted a stentorian voice at this point in the conversation. "ay, ay, cappen," yelled gillie, in reply. rising and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he sauntered leisurely from the room, recommending the captain, in an undertone, to save his wind for the mountainside. not long afterwards, the same parties that had accompanied the professor to the montanvert were toiling up the mer de glace, at a considerable distance above the scene of their former exploits, on their way to the jardin. the day was all that could be desired. there were a few clouds, but these were light and feathery; clear blue predominated all over the sky. over the masses of the jorasses and the peaks of the geant, the aiguille du dru, the slopes of mont mallet, the pinnacles of charmoz, and the rounded white summit of mont blanc--everywhere--the heavens were serene and beautiful. the jardin, towards which they ascended, lies like an island in the midst of the glacier du talefre. it is a favourite expedition of travellers, being a verdant gem on a field of white--a true oasis in the desert of ice and snow--and within a five hours' walk of chamouni. their route lay partly on the moraines and partly over the surface of the glacier. on their previous visit to the mer de glace, those of the party to whom the sight was new imagined that they had seen all the wonders of the glacier world. they were soon undeceived. while at the montanvert on their first excursion, they could turn their eyes from the sea of ice to the tree-clad slopes behind them, and at the chapeau could gaze on a splendid stretch of the vale of chamouni to refresh their eyes when wearied with the rugged cataract of the glacier des bois; but as they advanced slowly up into the icy solitudes, all traces of the softer world were lost to view. only ice and snow lay around them. ice under foot, ice on the cliffs, ice in the mountain valleys, ice in the higher gorges, and snow on the summits,--except where these latter were so sharp and steep that snow could not find a lodgment. there was nothing in all the field of vision to remind them of the vegetable world from which they had passed as if by magic. as lewis remarked, they seemed to have been suddenly transported to within the arctic circle, and got lost among the ice-mountains of spitzbergen or nova zembla. "it is magnificent!" exclaimed nita horetzki with enthusiasm, as she paused on the summit of an ice-ridge, up the slippery sides of which she had been assisted by antoine grennon, who still held her little hand in his. ah, thoughtless man! he little knew what daggers of envy were lacerating the heart of the mad artist who would have given all that he possessed-- colour-box and camp-stool included--to have been allowed to hold that little hand even for a few seconds! indeed he had, in a fit of desperation, offered to aid her by taking the other hand when half-way up that very slope, but had slipped at the moment of making the offer and rolled to the bottom. lewis, seeing the fate of his rival, wisely refrained from putting himself in a false position by offering any assistance, excusing his apparent want of gallantry by remarking that if he were doomed to slip into a crevasse he should prefer not to drag another along with him. antoine, therefore, had the little hand all to himself. the professor, being a somewhat experienced ice-man, assisted emma in all cases of difficulty. as for the captain, gillie, and lawrence, they had quite enough to do to look after themselves. "how different from what i had expected," said emma, resting a hand on the shoulder of nita; "it is a very landscape of ice." emma's simile was not far-fetched. they had reached a part of the glacier where the slope and the configuration of the valley had caused severe strains on the ice in various directions, so that there were not only transverse crevasses but longitudinal cracks, which unitedly had cut up the ice into blocks of all shapes and sizes. these, as their position shifted, had become isolated, more or less,--and being partially melted by the sun, had assumed all sorts of fantastic shapes. there were ice-bridges, ice-caves, and ice obelisks and spires, some of which latter towered to a height of fifty feet or more; there were also forms suggestive of cottages and trees, with here and there real rivulets rippling down their icy beds, or leaping over pale blue ledges, or gliding into blue-green lakes, or plunging into black-blue chasms. the sun-light playing among these silvery realms--glinting over edges and peaks, blazing on broad masses, shimmering through semi-transparent cliffs, and casting soft grey shadows everywhere--was inexpressibly beautiful, while the whole, looming through a thin golden haze, seemed to be of gigantic proportions. it seemed as if the region of ice around them must at one time have been in tremendous convulsions, but the professor assured them that this was not the case, that the formation of crevasses and those confused heaps of ice called _seracs_ was a slow and prolonged process. "doubtless," he said, "you have here and there the wild rush of avalanches, and suchlike convulsions, but the rupture of the great body of the ice is gradual. a crevasse is an almost invisible crack at first. it yawns slowly and takes a long time to open out to the dimensions and confusion which you see around." "what are those curious things?" asked nita, pointing to some forms before her. "they look like giant mushrooms," said captain wopper. "they are ice-tables," answered antoine. "blocks of stone on the top of cones of ice," said the professor. "come, we will go near and examine one." the object in question was well suited to cause surprise, for it was found to be an enormous flat mass of rock, many tons in weight, perched on a pillar of ice and bearing some resemblance to a table with a central leg. "now," said captain wopper emphatically, "that _is_ a puzzler. how did it ever get up there?" "i have read of such tables," said lawrence. "they are the result of the sun's action, i believe." "oh, it's all very well, lawrence," said lewis, with a touch of sarcasm, "to talk in a vague way about the sun's action, but it's quite plain, even to an unphilosophical mind like mine, that the sun can't lift a block of stone some tons in weight and clap it on the top of a pillar of ice about ten feet high." "nevertheless the sun has done it," returned lawrence. "am i not right professor?" the man of science, who had listened with a bland smile on his broad countenance, admitted that lawrence was right. "at first," he said, "that big stone fell from the cliffs higher up the valley, and it has now been carried down thus far by the ice. during its progress the sun has been shining day by day and melting the surface of the ice all round, with the exception of that part which was covered by the rock. thus the general level of the ice has been lowered and the protected portion left prominent with its protector on the top. the sides of the block of ice on which the rock has rested have also melted slowly, reducing it to the stalk or pillar which you now see. in time it will melt so much that the rock will slide off, fall on another part of the ice, which it will protect from the sun as before until another stem shall support it, and thus it will go on until it tumbles into a crevasse, reaches the under part of the glacier, perhaps there gets rolled and rounded into a boulder, and finally is discharged, many years hence, it may be, into the terminal moraine; or, perchance, it may get stranded on the sides of the valley among the _debris_ or rubbish which we call the lateral moraine." as the party advanced, new, and, if possible; still more striking objects met the eye, while mysterious sounds struck the ear. low grumbling noises and gurglings were heard underfoot, as if great boulders were dropping into buried lakes from the roofs of sub-glacial caverns, while, on the surface, the glacier was strewn here and there with _debris_ which had fallen from steep parts of the mountains that rose beside them into the clouds. sudden rushing sounds--as if of short-lived squalls, in the midst of which were crashes like the thunder of distant artillery--began now to attract attention, and a feeling of awe crept into the hearts of those of the party who were strangers to the ice-world. sounds of unseen avalanches, muffled more or less according to distance, were mingled with what may be called the shots of the boulders, which fell almost every five minutes from the aiguille verte and other mountains, and there was something deeply impressive in the solemn echoes that followed each deep-toned growl, and were repeated until they died out in soft murmurs. as the party crossed an ice-plain, whose surface was thickly strewn with the wreck of mountains, a sense of insecurity crept into the feelings of more than one member of it but not a word was said until a sudden and tremendous crash, followed by a continuous roar, was heard close at hand. "an avalanche!" shouted slingsby, pointing upwards, and turning back with the evident intention to fly. it did indeed seem the wisest thing that man or woman could do in the circumstances, for, high up among the wild cliffs, huge masses of rock, mingled with ice, dirt, water, and snow, were seen rushing down a "couloir," or steep gully, straight towards them. "rest tranquil where you are," said the guide, laying his hand on the artist's arm; "the couloir takes a bend, you see, near the bottom. there is no danger." thus assured, the whole of the party stood still and gazed upward. owing to the great height from which the descending mass was pouring, the inexperienced were deceived as to the dimensions of the avalanche. it seemed at first as if the boulders were too small to account for the sounds created, but in a few seconds their real proportions became more apparent, especially when the whole rush came straight towards the spot on which the travellers stood with such an aspect of being fraught with inevitable destruction, that all of them except the guide shrank involuntarily backwards. at this crisis the chaotic mass was driven with terrible violence against the cliffs to the left of the couloir, and bounding, we might almost say fiercely, to the right, rushed out upon the frozen plain about two hundred yards in advance of the spot on which they stood. "is there not danger in being so close to such places?" asked lewis, glancing uneasily at nita, whose flashing eyes and heightened colour told eloquently of the excitement which the sight had aroused in her breast. "not much," answered the professor, "no doubt we cannot be said to be in a place of absolute safety, nevertheless the danger is not great, because we can generally observe the avalanches in time to get out of the way of spent shots; and, besides, if we run under the lea of such boulders as _that_, we are quite safe, unless it were to be hit by one pretty nearly as large as itself." he pointed as he spoke to a mass of granite about the size of an omnibus, which lay just in front of them. "but i see," he added, laughing, "that antoine thinks this is not a suitable place for the delivery of lectures; we must hasten forward." soon they surmounted the steeps of the glacier du talefre, and reached the object of their desire, the jardin. it is well named. a wonderful spot of earth and rock which rises out of the midst of a great basin of half-formed ice, the lower part being covered with green sward and spangled with flowers, while the summit of the rock forms a splendid out-look from which to view the surrounding scene. here, seated on the soft grass--the green of which was absolutely delicious to the eyes after the long walk over the glaring ice--the jovial professor, with a sandwich in one hand and a flask of _vin ordinaire_ in the other, descanted on the world of ice. he had a willing audience, for they were all too busy with food to use their tongues in speech, except in making an occasional brief demand or comment. "glorious!" exclaimed the professor. "which, the view or the victuals?" asked lewis. "both," cried the professor, helping himself to another half-dozen sandwiches. "thank you--no more at present," said nita to the disappointed slingsby, who placed the rejected limb of a fowl on his own plate with a deep sigh. "professor," said nita, half-turning her back on the afflicted artist, "how, when, and where be all this ice formed?" "a comprehensive question!" cried the professor. "thank you--yes, a wing and a leg; also, if you can spare it, a piece of the--ah! so, you are right. the whole fowl is best. i can then help myself. miss gray, shall i assist you to a--no? well, as i was about to remark, in reply to your comprehensive question, mademoiselle, this basin, in which our jardin lies, may be styled a mighty collector of the material which forms that great tributary of the mer de glace, named the glacier du talefre. this material is called neve." "an' what's nevy?" asked captain wopper, as well as a full mouth would allow him. "neve," replied the professor, "is snow altered by partial melting, and freezing, and compression--snow in the process of being squeezed into ice. you must know that there is a line on all high mountains which is called the snow-line. above this line, the snow that falls each year _never_ disappears; below it the snow, and ice too, undergoes the melting process continually. the portion below the snow-line is always being diminished; that above it is always augmenting; thus the loss of the one is counterbalanced by the gain of the other; and thus the continuity of glaciers is maintained. that part of a glacier which lies above the snow-line is styled neve; it is the fountain-head and source of supply to the glacier proper, which is the part that lies below the snow-line. sometimes, for a series of years, perhaps, the supply from above is greater than the diminution below, the result being that the snout of a glacier advances into its valley, ploughs up the land, and sometimes overturns the cottages. [see note .] on the other hand the reverse process goes on, it may be for years, and a glacier recedes somewhat, leaving a whole valley of _debris_, or terminal moraine, which is sometimes, after centuries perhaps, clothed with vegetation and dotted with cottages." "this basin, or collector of neve, on whose beautiful oasis i have the felicity to lunch in such charming society (the jovial professor bowed to the ladies), is, according to your talented professor forbes (he bowed to lawrence), about four thousand two hundred yards wide, and all the ice it contains is, farther down, squeezed through a gorge not more than seven hundred yards wide, thus forming that grand ice-cascade of the talefre which you have seen on the way hither. it is a splendid, as well as interesting amphitheatre, for it is bounded, as you see, on one side by the grandes jorasses, on the other by mont mallet, while elsewhere you have the vast plateau whence the glacier du geant is fed; the aiguille du geant, the aiguille noire, the montagnes mandites, and mont blanc. another wing, if you please--ah, finished? no matter, pass the loaf. it will do as well." the professor devoted himself for some minutes in silence to the loaf, which was much shorn of its proportions on leaving his hand. like many great men, he was a great eater. the fires of intellect that burned within him seemed to require a more than ordinary supply of fuel. he slept, too, like an infant hercules, and, as a natural consequence, toiled like a giant when awake. little gillie white regarded him with feelings of undisguised awe, astonishment and delight, and was often sorely perplexed within himself as to whether he or captain wopper was the greater man. both were colossal in size and energetic in body, and both were free and easy in manners, as well as good-humoured. no doubt, as gillie argued with himself (and sometimes with susan), the professor was uncommon larned an' deep, but then the captain had a humorous vein, which fully counterbalanced that in gillie's estimation. the philosophic urchin was deeply engaged in debating this point with himself, and gazing open-mouthed at the professor, when there suddenly occurred an avalanche so peculiar and destructive that it threw the whole party into the utmost consternation. while removing a pile of plates, gillie, in his abstraction, tripped on a stone, tumbled over the artist, crushed that gentleman's head into nita's lap, and, descending head foremost, plates and all, into the midst of the feast, scattered very moraine of crockery and bottles all round. it was an appalling smash, and when the captain seized gillie by the back of his trousers with one hand and lifted him tenderly out of the midst of the _debris_, the limp way in which he hung suggested the idea that a broken bottle must have penetrated his vitals and finished him. it was not so, however. gillie's sagacity told him that he would probably be wounded if he were to move. he wisely, therefore, remained quite passive, and allowed himself to be lifted out of danger. "nobody hurt, i 'ope," he said, on being set on his legs; "it was a awk'ard plunge." "awk'ard? you blue spider," cried the captain; "you deserve to be keel-hauled, or pitched into a crevasse. look alive now, an' clear up the mess you've made." fortunately the feast was about concluded when this _contretemps_ occurred, so that no serious loss was sustained. some of the gentlemen lighted their pipes and cigars, to solace themselves before commencing the return journey. the ladies went off to saunter and to botanise, and slingsby attempted to sketch the scenery. and here again, as on the previous excursion, captain wopper received a chill in regard to his matrimonial hopes. when the ladies rose, lewis managed to engage nita in an interesting conversation on what he styled the flora of central europe, and led her away. emma was thus left without her companion. now, thought the captain, there's your chance, dr lawrence, go in and win! but lawrence did not avail himself of the chance. he suffered emma to follow her friend, and remained behind talking with the professor on the vexed subject of the cause of glacial motion. "most extraor'nary," thought the captain, somewhat nettled, as well as disappointed. "what can the youngster mean? she's as sweet a gal as a fellow would wish to see, an' yet he don't pay no more attention to her than if she was an old bumboat 'ooman. very odd. can't make it out nohow!" captain wopper was not the first, and will _certainly_ not be the last, to experience difficulty in accounting for the conduct of young men and maidens in this world of cross-currents and queer fancies. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . such is actually true at the present time of the gorner glacier, which has for a long time been advancing, and, during the last sixty years or so, has overturned between forty and fifty chalets. chapter thirteen. shows what dangers may be encountered in the pursuit of art and science. who has not experienced the almost unqualified pleasure of a walk, on a bright beautiful morning, before breakfast? how amply it repays one for the self-denying misery of getting up! we say misery advisedly, for it is an undoubted, though short-lived, agony, that of arousing one's inert, contented, and peaceful frame into a state of activity. there is a moment in the daily life of man--of some men, at least--when heroism of a very high stamp is displayed; that moment when, the appointed hour of morning having arrived, he thrusts one lethargic toe from under the warm bed-clothes into the relatively cold atmosphere of his chamber. if the toe is drawn back, the man is nobody. if it is thrust further out, and followed up by the unwilling body, the man is a hero! the agony, however, like that of tooth-drawing, is soon over, and the delightful commendations of an approving conscience are superadded to the pleasures of an early morning walk. such pleasures were enjoyed one morning by emma gray and nita horetzki and lewis stoutley, when, at an early hour, they issued from their hotel, and walked away briskly up the vale of chamouni. "i say, emma, isn't it a charming, delicious, and outrageously delightful day!" exclaimed lewis. although the young man addressed himself to his cousin, who walked on his left, he glanced at nita, who walked on his right, and thus, with a sense of justice peculiarly his own, divided his attentions equally between them. "you are unusually enthusiastic, cousin," said emma, with a laugh. "i thought you said last night that weather never affected you?" "true, but there is more than weather here, there is scenery, and--and sunshine." "sunshine?" repeated nita, lifting her large orbs to his face with a look of surprise, for although the sun may be said to have risen as regards the world at large, it had not yet surmounted the range of mont blanc, or risen to the inhabitants of chamouni. "i not see it; where is the sunshine?" "there!" exclaimed lewis, mentally, as he gazed straight down into her wondering orbs, and then added aloud, as he swept his arm aloft with a mock-heroic air, "behold it gleaming on the mountain-ridges." there is no doubt that the enthusiasm of lewis as to the weather, scenery, and sunshine would have been much reduced, perhaps quenched altogether, if nita had not been there, for the youth was steeped in that exquisite condition termed first love,--the very torments incident to which are moderated joys,--but it must not be supposed that he conducted himself with the maudlin sentimentality not unfrequently allied to that condition. although a mischievous and, we are bound to admit, a reckless youth, he was masculine in his temperament, and capable of being deeply, though not easily, stirred into enthusiasm. it was quite in accordance with this nature that his jesting tone and manner suddenly vanished as his gaze became riveted on the ridge to which he had carelessly directed attention. even nita was for a moment forgotten in the sight that met his eyes, for the trees and bushes which crowned the ridge were to all appearance composed of solid fire! "did you ever see anything like that before emma?" he asked, eagerly. "never; i have seen sunrises and sunsets in many parts of our own land, but nothing at all like that; what _can_ be the cause of it?" there was good reason for the wonder thus called forth, for the light was not on the trees but _behind_ them. the sun had not quite risen, but was very near the summit of the ridge, so that these trees and bushes were pictured, as it were, against the brightest part of the glowing sky. in such circumstances we are taught by ordinary experience that objects will be unusually dark, but these trees were incomparably brighter than the glowing sky itself. it was not that their mere edges were tipped with fire, but their entire substance, even to the central core of the pine-stems, was to all appearance made of pure light, as if each tree and shrub had been made of steel raised to a condition of intense white heat. no shining of the sun through or upon trees can convey the slightest idea of the sight. it was something absolutely new to our travellers, and roused their astonishment as well as wonder to the highest pitch. "oh!" exclaimed nita, clasping her hands with a force peculiar to her demonstrative nature, "how wonderful! how i do wish the professor was here to tell us how and what it be." that evening the professor, who had observed the phenomenon more than once, told them all he knew about it. there were differences of opinion, he said, as to the cause, for men of physical science, not less than doctors, were prone to differ. for himself, he had only noted the facts and knew not the cause. the luminous trees appeared only at that part of the ridge where the sun was _just going_ to rise--elsewhere the trees were projected as dark objects, in the usual way, against the bright sky. not only were the trees thus apparently self-luminous, but when birds chanced to be flying amongst them, they had the appearance of sparks of molten silver flitting to and fro. see note . "but you have not yet told me, ladies," said lewis, as they resumed their walk, "what has induced you to indulge in so early a ramble to-day?" "can you not imagine," said nita, "that it is the love of nature?" "undoubtedly i can; but as this is the first time since we came that you have chosen to display a love for nature before breakfast, i may be forgiven for supposing there is another and no doubt secondary cause." "you are right," said emma; "were you not present last night when we discussed our plans for to-day?" "no, he was in the verandah," interposed nita, with an arch smile, "indulging that savage and unintellectual taste you call smoking." "ah, mademoiselle, be not too severe. it may not, indeed, be styled an intellectual pursuit, but neither, surely, can it be called savage, seeing that it softens and ameliorates the rugged spirit of man." "it is savage," returned nita, "because you do not encourage ladies to join you in it." "pardon me, mademoiselle," cried lewis, pulling out his cigar-case, "nothing would gratify me more than your acceptance of--" "insult me not, monsieur," said nita, with a toss of her pretty little head, "but reply to your cousin's question." "ah, to be sure, well--let me see, what was it? was i present when the plans for the day were arranged? yes i was, but i missed the first part of the conversation, having been, as mademoiselle horetzki truly observes, occupied with that--a--" "savage habit," interposed nita. "savage habit," said lewis, "the savage element of which i am willing to do away with at a moment's notice when desired. i merely heard that the professor had fixed to go on the glacier for the purpose of measuring it, as though it were a badly clad giant, and he a scientific tailor who had undertaken to make a top-coat for it. i also heard that you two had decided on a walk before breakfast, and, not caring to do tailoring on the ice, i begged leave to join you--therefore i am here." "ah, you prefer woman's society and safety to manly exercise and danger!" said nita. although lewis was, as we have said, by no means an effeminate youth, he was at that age when the male creature shrinks from the slightest imputation of a lack of manliness. he coloured, therefore, as he laughingly replied that in his humble opinion his present walk involved the manly exercise of moral courage in withstanding shafts of sarcasm, which were far more dangerous in his eyes than hidden crevasses or flying boulders. "but you both forget," interposed emma, "that i have not yet explained the object of our morning walk." "true, cousin, let us have it." "well," continued emma, "when you were engages in your `savage' indulgence, a difficulty stood in the way of the professor's plans, inasmuch as our guide antoine had asked and obtained leave to absent himself a couple of days for the purpose of taking his wife and child over the country to pay a short visit to a relative in some valley, the name of which i forget. antoine had said that he would be quite willing to give up his leave of absence if a messenger were sent to inform his wife of his change of plan, and to ask a certain baptist le croix, who lives close beside her, to be her guide. as we two did not mean to join the ice-party, we at once offered to be the messengers. hence our present expedition at so early an hour. after seeing madame antoine grennon and having breakfast we mean to spend the day in sketching." "may i join you in this after-portion of the day's work?" asked lewis. "i may not, indeed, claim to use the pencil with the facility of our friend slingsby, but i am not altogether destitute of a little native talent in that way. i will promise to give you both as many cigars as you choose, and will submit my sketches to mademoiselle's criticism, which will be incurring extreme danger." "well, you may come," said nita, with a condescending nod, "but pray fulfil the first part of your promise, give me the cigars." lewis drew them out with alacrity, and laughingly asked, "how many?" "all of them; the case also." in some surprise the youth put the cigar-case into her hand, and she immediately flung it into a neighbouring pool. "ah, how cruel," said lewis, putting on a most forlorn look, while emma gave vent to one of her subdued little explosions of laughter. "what! is our society not enough for monsieur?" asked nita, in affected surprise. "_more_ than enough," replied lewis, with affected enthusiasm. "then you can be happy without your cigars," returned nita. "perfectly happy," replied lewis, taking a small case from his pocket, from which he extracted a neat little meerschaum pipe, and began to fill it with tobacco. again emma had occasion to open the safety-valve of another little explosive laugh; but before anything further could be said, they came in sight of antoine grennon's cottage. it was prettily situated beneath a clump of pines. a small stream, spanned by a rustic bridge, danced past it. under the shadow of the bridge they saw madame engaged in washing linen. she had a washing-tub, of course, but instead of putting the linen into this she put herself in it, after having made an island of it by placing it a few inches deep in the stream. thus she could kneel and get at the water conveniently without wetting her knees or skirts. on a sloping slab of wood she manipulated the linen with such instrumentality as cold water, soap, a wooden mallet and a hard brush. beside her, in a miniature tub, her little daughter conducted a miniature washing. the three travellers, looking over the bridge, could witness the operation without being themselves observed. "it is a lively process," remarked lewis, as madame seized a mass of linen with great vigour, and caused it to fall on the sloping plank with a sounding slap. madame was an exceedingly handsome and well-made woman, turned thirty, and much inclined to _embonpoint_. her daughter was turned three, and still more inclined to the same condition. their rounded, well-shaped, and muscular arms, acted very much in the same way, only madame's vigour was a good deal more intense and persistent--too much so, perhaps, for the fabrics with which she had to deal; but if the said fabrics possessed the smallest degree of consciousness, they could not have had the heart to complain of rough treatment from such neat though strong hands, while being smiled upon by such a pretty, though decisive countenance. "it is dreadfully rough treatment," said emma, whose domestic-economical spirit was rather shocked. "terrible!" exclaimed nita, as madame gripped another article of apparel and beat it with her mallet as though it had been the skull of her bitterest enemy, while soap-suds and water spurted from it as if they had been that enemy's brains. "and she washes, i believe, for our hotel," said emma, with a slightly troubled expression. perhaps a thought of her work-box and buttons flashed across her mind at the moment. "you are right," said lewis, with a pleased smile. "i heard antoine say to gillie, the other day, that his wife washed a large portion of the hotel linen. no doubt some of ours is amongst it. indeed i am sure of it," he added, with a look of quiet gravity, as madame grennon seized another article, swished it through the water, caused it to resound on the plank, and scrubbed it powerfully with soap; "that a what's-'is-name, belongs to me. i know it by the cut of its collar. formerly, i used to know it chiefly by its fair and fragile texture. i shall know it hereafter as an amazing illustration of the truth of the proverb, that no one knows what he can stand till he is tried. the blows which she is at present delivering to it with her mallet, are fast driving all preconceived notions in regard to linen out of my head. scrubbing it, as she does now, with a hard brush, against the asperities of the rough plank, and then twisting it up like a roly-poly prior to swishing it through the water a second time, would once have induced me to doubt the strength of delicate mother-of-pearl buttons and fine white thread. i shall doubt no longer." as he said so, madame grennon chanced to look up, and caught sight of the strangers. she rose at once, and, forsaking her tub, advanced to meet them, the curly-haired daughter following close at her heels, for, wherever her mother went she followed, and whatever her mother did she imitated. the object of the visit was soon explained, and the good woman led the visitors into her hut where baptist le croix chanced to be at the time. there was something very striking in the appearance of this man. he was a tall fine-looking fellow, a little past the prime of life, but with a frame whose great muscular power was in no degree abated. his face was grave, good-natured, and deeply sunburnt; but there was a peculiarly anxious look about the eyes, and a restless motion in them, as if he were constantly searching for something which he could not find. he willingly undertook to conduct his friend's wife and child to the residence of their relative. on leaving the hut to return to chamouni, madame grennon accompanied her visitors a short way, and nita took occasion, while expressing admiration of baptist's appearance, to comment on his curiously anxious look. "ah! mademoiselle," said madame, with a half sad look, "the poor man is taken up with a strange notion--some people call it a delusion--that gold is to be found somewhere here in the mountains." "gold?" cried nita, with such energy that her companions looked at her in surprise. "why, nita," exclaimed emma, "your looks are almost as troubled and anxious as those of le croix himself." "how strange!" said nita, musing and paying no attention to emma's remark. "why does he think so?" "indeed, mademoiselle, i cannot tell; but he seems quite sure of it, and spends nearly all his time in the mountains searching for gold, and hunting the chamois." they parted here, and for a time lewis tried to rally nita about what he styled her sympathy with the chamois-hunter, but nita did not retort with her wonted sprightliness; the flow of her spirits was obviously checked, and did not return during their walk back to the hotel. while this little incident was enacting in the valley, events of a far different nature were taking place among the mountains, into the solitudes of which the professor, accompanied by captain wopper, lawrence, slingsby, and gillie, and led by antoine, had penetrated for the purpose of ascertaining the motion of a huge precipice of ice. "you are not a nervous man, i think," said the professor to antoine as they plodded over the ice together. "no, monsieur, not very," answered the guide, with a smile and a sly glance out of the corners of his eyes. captain wopper laughed aloud at the question, and gillie grinned. gillie's countenance was frequently the residence of a broad grin. nature had furnished him with a keen sense of the ludicrous, and a remarkably open countenance. human beings are said to be blind to their own peculiarities. if gillie had been an exception to this rule and if he could have, by some magical power, been enabled to stand aside and look at his own spider-like little frame, as others saw it, clad in blue tights and buttons, it is highly probable that he would have expired in laughing at himself. "i ask the question," continued the professor, "because i mean to request your assistance in taking measurements in a somewhat dangerous place, namely, the ice-precipice of the tacul." "it is well, monsieur," returned the guide, with another smile, "i am a little used to dangerous places." gillie pulled his small hands out of the trouser-pockets in which he usually carried them, and rubbed them by way of expressing his gleeful feelings. had the sentiment which predominated in his little mind been audibly expressed, it would probably have found vent in some such phrase as, "won't there be fun, neither--oh dear no, not by no means." to him the height of happiness was the practice of mischief. danger in his estimation meant an extremely delicious form of mischief. "is the place picturesque as well as dangerous?" asked slingsby, with a wild look in his large eyes as he walked nearer to the professor. "it is; you will find many aspects of ice-formation well worthy of your pencil." it is due to the artist to say that his wildness that morning was not the result only of despair at the obvious indifference with which nita regarded him. it was the combination of that wretched condition with a heroic resolve to forsake the coy maiden and return to his first love-- his beloved art--that excited him; and the idea of renewing his devotion to her in dangerous circumstances was rather congenial to his savage state of mind. it may be here remarked that mr slingsby, besides being an enthusiastic painter, was an original genius in a variety of ways. among other qualities he possessed an inventive mind, and, besides having had an ice-axe made after a pattern of his own,--which was entirely new and nearly useless,--he had designed a new style of belt with a powerful rope having a hook attached to it, with which he proposed, and actually managed, to clamber up and down difficult places, and thus attain points of vantage for sketching. several times had he been rescued by guides from positions of extreme peril, but his daring and altogether unteachable spirit had thrown him again and again into new conditions of danger. he was armed with his formidable belt and rope on the present excursion, and his aspect was such that his friends felt rather uneasy about him, and would not have been surprised if he had put the belt round his neck instead of his waist, and attempted to hang himself. "do you expect to complete your measurements to-day?" asked lawrence, who accompanied the professor as his assistant. "oh no. that were impossible. i can merely fix my stakes to-day and leave them. to-morrow or next day i will return to observe the result." the eastern side of the glacier du geant, near the tacul, at which they soon arrived, showed an almost perpendicular precipice about feet high. as they collected in a group in front of that mighty pale-blue wall, the danger to which the professor had alluded became apparent, even to the most inexperienced eye among them. high on the summit of the precipice, where its edge cut sharply against the blue sky, could be seen the black boulders and _debris_ of the lateral moraine of the glacier. the day was unusually warm, and the ice melted so rapidly that parts of this moraine were being sent down in frequent avalanches. the rustle of _debris_ was almost incessant, and, ever and anon, the rustle rose into a roar as great boulders bounded over the edge, and, after dashing portions of the ice-cliffs into atoms, went smoking down into the chaos below. it was just beyond this chaos that the party stood. "now, antoine," said the professor, "i want you to go to the foot of that precipice and fix a stake in the ice there." "well, monsieur, it shall be done," returned the guide, divesting himself of his knapsack and shouldering his axe and a stake. "meanwhile," continued the professor, "i will watch the falling _debris_ to warn you of danger in time, and the direction in which you must run to avoid it. my friend lawrence, with the aid of captain wopper, will fix the theodolite on yonder rocky knoll to our left." "nothin' for you an' me to do," said gillie to the artist; "p'r'aps we'd better go and draw--eh?" slingsby looked at the blue spider before him with an amused smile, and agreed that his suggestion was not a bad one, so they went off together. while antoine was proceeding to the foot of the ice-cliffs on his dangerous mission, the professor observed that the first direction of a falling stone's bound was no sure index of its subsequent motion, as it was sent hither and thither by the obstructions with which it met. he therefore recalled the guide. "it won't do, antoine, the danger is too great." "but, monsieur, if it is necessary--" "but it is not necessary that _you_ should risk your life in the pursuit of knowledge. besides, i must have a stake fixed half-way up the face of that precipice." "ah, monsieur," said antoine, with an incredulous smile, "that is not possible!" to this the professor made no reply, but ordered his guide to make a detour and ascend to the upper edge of the ice-precipice for the purpose of dislodging the larger and more dangerous blocks of stone there, and, after that, to plant a stake on the summit. this operation was not quickly performed. antoine had to make a long detour to get on the glacier, and when he did reach the moraine on the top, he found that many of the most dangerous blocks lay beyond the reach of his axe. however, he sent the smaller _debris_ in copious showers down the precipice, and by cleverly rolling some comparatively small boulders down upon those larger ones which lay out of reach, he succeeded in dislodging many of them. this accomplished, he proceeded to fix the stake on the upper surface of the glacier. while he was thus occupied, the professor assisted lawrence in fixing the theodolite, and then, leaving him, went to a neighbouring heap of _debris_ followed by the captain, whom he stationed there. "i want you," he said, "to keep a good look-out and warn me as to which way i must run to avoid falling rocks. antoine has dislodged many of them, but some he cannot reach. these enemies must be watched." so saying, the professor placed a stake and an auger against his breast, buttoned his coat over them, and shouldered his axe. "you don't mean to say that you're agoing to go under that cliff?" exclaimed the captain, in great surprise, laying his hand on the professor's arm and detaining him. "my friend," returned the man of science, "do not detain me. time is precious just now. you have placed yourself under my orders for the day, and, being a seaman, must understand the value of prompt obedience. do as i bid you." he turned and went off at a swinging pace towards the foot of the ice-cliff, while the captain, in a state of anxiety, amounting almost to consternation, sat down on a boulder, took off his hat, wiped his heated brow, pronounced the professor as mad as a march hare, and prepared to discharge his duties as "the look-out." although cool as a cucumber in all circumstances at sea, where he knew every danger and how to meet or avoid it, the worthy captain now almost lost self-control and became intensely agitated and anxious, insomuch that he gave frequent and hurried false alarms, which he no less hurriedly attempted to correct, sometimes in nautical terms, much to the confusion of the professor. "hallo! hi! look out--starboard--sta-a-arboard!" he shouted wildly, on beholding a rock about the size of a chest of drawers spring from the heights above and rush downward, with a smoke of ice-dust and _debris_ following, "quick! there! no! _port_! port! i say it's--" before he could finish the sentence, the mass had fallen a long way to the right of the professor, and lay quiet on the ice not far from where the captain stood. in spite of the interruptions thus caused, the lower stake was fixed in a few minutes. the professor then swung his axe vigorously, and began to cut an oblique stair-case in the ice up the sheer face of the precipice. in some respects the danger to the bold adventurer was now not so great because, being, as it were, flat against the ice-cliffs, falling rocks were more likely, by striking some projection, to bound beyond him. still there was the danger of deflected shots, and when, by cutting a succession of notches in which to place one foot at a time, he had ascended to the height of an average three-storey house, the danger of losing his balance or slipping a foot became very great indeed. but the man of science persevered in doing what he conceived to be his duty with as much coolness as if he were the leader of a forlorn hope. following the example of experienced ice-men on steep places, he took good care to make the notches or steps slope a little inwards, never lifted his foot from one step until the next was ready, and never swung his axe until his balance was perfectly secured. having gained a height of about thirty feet, he pierced a hole with his auger, fastened a stake in it, and descended amid a heavy cannonade of boulders and a smart fire of smaller _debris_. during the whole proceeding lawrence directed his friend as to the placing of the stake, and watched with surprise as well as anxiety, while captain wopper kept on shouting unintelligible words of warning in a state of extreme agitation. the guide returned just in time to see this part of the work completed, and to remonstrate gravely with the professor on his reckless conduct. "`all's well that ends well,' antoine, as a great poet says," replied the professor, with one of his most genial smiles. "we must run some risk in the pursuit of scientific investigation. now then, lawrence, i hope you have got the three stakes in the same line--let me see." applying his eye to the theodolite, he found that the stakes were in an exactly perpendicular line, one above another. he then carefully marked the spot occupied by the instrument and thus completed his labours for that time. we may add here in passing that next day he returned to the same place, and found that in twenty-four hours the bottom stake had moved downwards a little more than two inches, the middle stake had descended a little more than three, and the upper stake exactly six inches. thus he was enabled to corroborate the fact which had been ascertained by other men of science before him, that glacier-motion is more rapid at the top than at the bottom, where the friction against its bed tends to hinder its advance, and that the rate of flow increases gradually from the bottom upwards. while these points of interest were being established, our artist was not less earnestly engaged in prosecuting his own peculiar work, to the intense interest of gillie, who, although he had seen and admired many a picture in the london shop-windows, had never before witnessed the actual process by which such things are created. wandering away on the glacier among some fantastically formed and towering blocks or obelisks of ice, mr slingsby expressed to gillie his admiration of their picturesque shapes and delicate blue colour, in language which his small companion did not clearly understand, but which he highly approved of notwithstanding. "i think this one is worth painting," cried slingsby, pausing and throwing himself into an observant attitude before a natural arch, from the roof of which depended some large icicles; "it is extremely picturesque." "i think," said gillie, with earnest gravity, "that yonder's one as is more picturesker." he had carefully watched the artist's various observant attitudes, and now threw himself into one of these as he pointed to a sloping obelisk, the size of an average church-steeple, which bore some resemblance to the leaning-tower of pisa. "you are right, boy; that is a better mass. come, let us go paint it." while walking towards it, gillie asked how such wild masses came to be made. "i am told by the professor," said slingsby, "that when the ice cracks across, and afterwards lengthwise, the square blocks thus formed get detached as they descend the valley, and assume these fantastic forms." "ah! jis so. they descends the walley, does they?" "so it is said." gillie made no reply, though he said in his heart, "you won't git me to swaller _that_, by no manner of means." his unbelief was, however, rebuked by the leaning-tower of pisa giving a terrible rend at that moment, and slowly bending forward. it was an alarming as well as grand sight, for they were pretty near to it. some smaller blocks of ice that lay below prevented the tower from being broken in its fall. these were crushed to powder by it, and then, as if they formed a convenient carriage for it, the mighty mass slid slowly down the slope for a few feet. it was checked for a moment by another block, which, however, gave way before the great pressure, fell aside and let it pass. the slope was slight at the spot so that the obelisk moved slowly, and once or twice seemed on the point of stopping, but as if it had become endowed with life, it made a sudden thrust, squeezed two or three obstacles flat, turned others aside, and thus wound its way among its fellows with a low groaning sound like some sluggish monster of the antediluvian world. reaching a steeper part of the glacier, on the ridge of which it hung for a moment, as if unwilling to exert itself, it seemed to awake to the reality of its position. making a lively rush, that seemed tremendously inconsistent with its weight, it shot over the edge of a yawning crevasse, burst with a thunderclap on the opposite ice-cliff, and went roaring into the dark bowels of the glacier, whence the echoes of its tumbling masses, subdued by distance, came up like the mutterings of evil spirits. gillie viewed this wondrous spectacle with an awe-stricken heart, and then vented his feelings in a prolonged yell of ecstasy. "ain't it splendid, sir?" he cried, turning his glowing eyes on slingsby. "majestic!" exclaimed the artist, whose enthusiasm was equal to that of his companion, though not quite so demonstrative. "raither spoiled your drawin', though, ain't it, sir?" "yonder is something quite as good, if not better," said slingsby. he pointed, as he spoke, to a part of the crevasse higher up on the glacier, where a projecting cave of snow overhung the abyss. from the under-surface of this a number of gigantic icicles hung, the lower points of the longer ones almost lost in the blue depths. a good position from which to sketch it, however, was not easily reached, and it was only by getting close to the edge of the crevasse that the persevering artist at length attained his object. here he sat down on his top-coat, folded several times to guard him from the cold ice, spread out his colour-box and sketching-block, and otherwise made himself comfortable, while gillie sat down beside him on his own cap, for want of a better protector. had these two enthusiasts known the nature of their position, they would have retired from it precipitately with horror, for, ignorant of almost everything connected with glaciers, they had walked right off the solid ice and seated themselves on a comparatively thin projecting ledge of snow which overhung the crevasse. thus they remained for some time enjoying themselves, with death, as it were, waiting for them underneath! what rendered their position more critical was the great heat of the day, which, whatever might be the strength of the sustaining ledge, was reducing its bulk continually. after having sketched for some time, the artist thought it advisable to see as far down into the crevasse as possible, in order to put in the point of the longest icicle. the better to do this, he unwound his rope from his waist and flung it on the ice by his side, while he lay down on his breast and looked over the edge. still he did not perceive the danger of his position, and went on sketching diligently in this awkward attitude. now it was a melancholy fact that master gillie's interest in art or science was short-lived, though keen. he soon tired of watching his companion, and began to look about him with a view to mischief. not seeing anything specially suggestive, he thought of aiding the operations of nature by expediting the descent of some neighbouring boulders from their positions on ice-blocks. he intimated his intention to slingsby, but the artist was too much engrossed to give heed to him. just as he was rising, gillie's eye fell on the rope, and a happy thought struck him. to carry striking thoughts into immediate execution was a marked feature of the boy's character. he observed that one end of the rope was attached to mr slingsby's belt. taking up the hook at the other end, he went with it towards a large boulder, drawing the rope after him with extreme care, for fear of arousing his companion by a tug. he found that, when fully stretched, it was just long enough to pass round the rock. quickly fastening it, therefore, by means of the hook, he walked quietly away. he did not exhibit much excitement while doing this. it was, after all, but a trifling jest in his esteem, as the only result to be hoped for would be the giving of a surprise by the little tug which might perhaps be experienced by the artist on rising. thereafter, gillie sent innumerable ice-blocks to premature destruction, and enjoyed the work immensely for a time, but, having exploratory tendencies, he soon wandered about among obelisks and caverns until he found himself underneath the ice-cliff on which his friend was seated. then, as he looked up at the overhanging ledge from which gigantic icicles were hanging, a shock of alarm thrilled his little breast. this was increased by the falling of one of the icicles, which went like a blue javelin into the crevasse beside him. gillie thought of shouting to warn mr slingsby of his danger, but before he could do so he was startled by an appalling yell. at the same moment part of the ice overhead gave way, and he beheld the artist descending. he was stopped with a sudden jerk, as the rope tightened, and remained suspended in the air, while his coat and colour-box accompanied icicles and snow-blocks into the abyss below. a second later and the struggling artist's head appeared to fall off, but it was only his hat. gillie had by this time recovered himself so far as to be able to add his piercing shrieks for help to the cries of the artist, and well was it that day for mr slingsby that gillie had, since the years of infancy, practised his lungs to some purpose in terrifying cats and defying "bobbies" in the streets of london. "oh, sir! sir!--i say--hi!" he cried, panting and glaring up. "eh? what? hah!" gasped slingsby, panting and glaring down. "don't kick like that sir; pray don't," cried gillie in agonised tones, "you'll start the boulder wot yer fast to, if you don't keep still." "oh!" groaned the artist and instantly hung limp and motionless, in which condition he remained while gillie ran towards the place where he had left the rest of the party, jumping and slipping and falling and yelling over the ice like a maniac in blue and buttons! "d'ee hear that?" exclaimed captain wopper with a startled look, as he and his companions busied themselves packing up their instruments. antoine grennon heard it but made no reply. he was familiar with cries of alarm. turning abruptly he dashed off at full speed in the direction whence the cries came. the captain and professor instantly followed; lawrence overtook and passed them. in a few minutes they met the terrified boy, who, instead of waiting for them and wasting time by telling what was wrong, turned sharp round, gave one wild wave of his hand, and ran straight back to the ledge from which poor slingsby hung. stout willing arms were soon pulling cautiously on the rope, and in a few minutes more the artist lay upon the safe ice, almost speechless from terror, and with a deadly pallor on his brow. strange to say the indomitable artist had held on tight to his sketch-book, possibly because it was almost as dear to him as life, but more probably because of that feeling which induces a drowning man to clutch at a straw. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . we ourselves had the satisfaction of witnessing this wonderful and beautiful phenomenon before having read or heard of it, while on a trip from chamouni to martigny over the tete noire. chapter fourteen. the grand ascent begun. mrs stoutley, reposing at full length on a sofa in the salon one evening, observed to the count horetzki that she really could not understand it at all; that it seemed to her a tempting of providence to risk one's life for nothing, and that upon the whole she thought these excursions on glaciers were very useless and foolish. the salon was full of people grouped in little knots, fighting the battles of the day o'er again, playing backgammon and chess, or poring over maps and guide-books. "it does indeed seem foolish," answered the count whose native politeness induced him always to agree with ladies when possible, "and as far as any practical purpose is served i should think it useless. nevertheless it seems to afford amusement to many people, and amusement, in some form or other, would appear to be almost necessary to our happy existence." "true," replied mrs stoutley, languidly, "but people ought to content themselves with quiet and safe amusements. how ridiculous it is to find pleasure in climbing ice-precipices, and leaping over crevasses, and sitting under shower-baths of boulder-stones. i'm sure that _i_ could not find pleasure in such pranks even if i were to make the effort. how much better to seek and find enjoyment in wandering with a book through shady forests and gathering wild-flowers! don't you agree with me, count?" the count's usually grave and anxious visage relaxed into a smile as he protested that he agreed with her entirely. "at the same time," he added, "there does appear to be some sort of aspiring tendency in the young and strong, to attempt the repression of which would seem to be useless, even if desirable. do you know, madame, while on a voyage some years ago i saw a boy who used to dive off the fore-yard-arm into the sea, and who went regularly every morning before breakfast to the main-mast-head and sat on that button-like piece of wood called the truck?" "how very reckless," said mrs stoutley, "and how shamefully regardless of the feelings of his mother, for of course if he had a mother, and if she were a woman of right feeling, she must have been horrified!" "i am afraid, madame, that you would have esteemed her a lady of wrong feeling, for she applauded her boy, and used to say that if he only took care to acquire as much moral as he had physical courage, so as to become as brave and bold a soldier of the cross as he was sure to be of the crown, he would resemble his own father, who was the best and bravest man that ever lived." "how strange!" murmured mrs stoutley, "such inconsistencies! but there does seem to be a considerable number of masculine women in the world, who encourage what we call muscular christianity." "yes, there are indeed strange inconsistencies around us," returned the count. "you have, however, mistaken the character of this particular mother, for she was the reverse of masculine, being delicate, and tender-hearted, and refined, and ladylike, while her boy was bold as a lion--yet obedient and gentle to her as a lamb. he afterwards became a soldier, and on the occasion of a wild storm on the east coast of england he swam off to a wreck with a rope, when no man in the place could be got to do it for love or money, and was the means of rescuing four women and six men, in accomplishing which, however, he lost his life." "oh, how shocking! how _very_ sad!" said mrs stoutley, startled into animation by the suddenness of the revelation, "and how different it might have been if the youth had been trained to gentler amusements. he might have been alive now." "yes," returned the count, "and the four women and six men might have been dead! but here come two friends who are better able to give an opinion on the point than i am." "what may the pint be?" asked captain wopper, with a genial smile, as if he were ready to tackle anything from a pint of beer to a "pint" of the compass. "only state your case, mrs stoutley, an' the professor here, he'll act the judge, an' i'll be the jury." "the jury is too small," said lewis, coming up at that moment. "small, young man!" repeated the captain, with feigned surprise, as he drew himself up to his full height and squared his broad shoulders. "not physically, but numerically," retorted lewis, with a laugh--"ho! emma, miss horetzki, lawrence, slingsby," he called to the quartette, who sat chatting in a bay window, "you are hereby summoned to act on a jury. come along and have yourselves impaled--i mean to say impannelled. a most important case, just going on for trial." "what is the nature of the case?" asked lawrence, as they all came forward and sat down in a semicircle before mrs stoutley. "it han't got no natur--it's unnateral altogether," said the captain, who had just heard it briefly stated by the count. "hallo! are you appointed public prosecutor?" demanded lewis. "yes, i am," retorted the captain, "i've appinted myself public persecuter, lord advocate, lord high commissioner to the woolsack, an' any other legal an' illegal character ye choose to name. so you clap a stopper on yer muzzle, youngster, while i state the case. here is mrs stoutley, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, who says that climbin', an' gaugin', and glaciers is foolish and useless. that's two counts which the count here (nothin' personal meant) says the prisoner was guilty of. we'll go in an' win on the last count, for if these things ain't useless, d'ee see, they can't be foolish. well, the question is, `guilty or not guilty?'" "guilty!" replied mrs stoutley, with an amused smile. "hear! hear!" from slingsby. "silence in the court!" from lewis. "i'm afraid," said the professor, "that our forms of legal procedure are somewhat irregular." "never mind that, professor," said the captain, "you go ahead an' prove the prisoner wrong. take the wind out of her sails if 'ee can." the professor smiled blandly, and began in jest; but his enthusiastic spirit and love of abstract truth soon made him argue in earnest. "oh, that's all very well," said mrs stoutley, interrupting him, "but what possible use can there be in knowing the rate of speed at which a glacier flows? what does it matter whether it flows six, or sixty, or six hundred feet in a day?" "matter!" cried lewis, before the professor could reply, "why, it matters very much indeed. i can prove it. our excellent guide antoine told me of a man who fell into a crevasse high up on the glacier des bossons, and was of course lost; but about forty years afterwards the part of the glacier into which he fell had descended into the valley, and the body of the man was found--at least portions of it were found here and there. this, as you are all aware, is a well-known fact. bear in mind, in connection with this, that all glaciers do not travel at the same rate, nor all parts of a glacier at an equal rate. now, suppose that you were to lose a gold watch or a diamond ring in a crevasse, the value of which might be incalculable in consequence of being a gift from some beloved one, would it not be a matter of the last importance to know exactly the rate at which the said crevasse travelled, so that you or your grandchildren might return at the precise time and claim the property?" "don't talk nonsense, lewie," said his mother. "no doubt," said the professor, laughing, "my young friend's illustration is to the point, and i fear that i cannot give you anything more definite to prove the value of glacial measurements and observations. i must rest my proof on the abstract truth that _all_ knowledge is desirable, and ought to be sought after for its own sake, as being the means whereby we shall come better to know the good and wise creator, `whom to know,' as his own word says, `is life eternal' but i can give you distinct proof, in a somewhat analogous case, of good resulting from knowledge which was eagerly pursued and acquired without the searcher having the slightest idea as to the use to which his knowledge would be ultimately put. you have doubtless heard of captain maury, of the united states navy?" "oh yes," replied mrs stoutley, "he who writes that charming book, the physical geography of the sea, or some such title. my son is a great admirer of that work. i tried to read it to please him, but i must confess that i could not go far into it. it seemed to me an endless and useless search after currents of wind and water." "i see you must have missed the very illustrations which i am about to cite, for they are given in his book--one of the most interesting i ever read, and not the less interesting that its author distinguishes a connection between the creator's word and his works. you know that captain maury's investigations of currents of wind and water were conducted wisely, and on a vast scale. nautical men of many nations sent in their `logs' to him, and he patiently collected and collated all the facts observed in all parts of the ocean." "yes, and quite useless knowledge, it appears to me," said mrs stoutley. "well, we shall see," returned the professor. "there was once a terrible storm on the atlantic, and a vessel with troops on board was so disabled as to be left at last a helpless log upon the sea. she was passed by other vessels, but these could render no assistance, owing to the raging storm. they, however, took note of the latitude and longitude of the wreck, and reported her on arriving at new york. a rescue-ship was at once ordered to search for her, but, before sailing, captain maury was applied to for instructions how they should proceed. the man of science was seated in his study, had probably scarce observed the storm, and knew nothing about the wreck save her position, as observed at a certain date. why, therefore, we might ask; apply to him? just because he sat at the fountain-head of such knowledge as was needed. he had long studied, and well knew, the currents of the ocean, their direction and their rate of progress at specified times and particular places. he prepared a chart and marked a spot at, or near which, the wreck, he said, would probably be found. the wreck _was_ found--not indeed by the rescue-ship, but by another vessel, _at the very spot indicated_--and the surviving crew and troops were saved. so, in like manner, the study of truth regarding currents of air has led us to knowledge which enables mariners to escape the atlantic sargasso-sea--" "ha! the doldrums," growled captain wopper, as if he had a special and bitter hatred of that sea. "yes, the doldrums, or sargasso-sea, where ships used to be detained by long, vexatious calms, and islands of floating sea-weed, but which now we escape, because studious men have pointed out, that by sailing to one side of that sea you can get into favourable breezes, avoid the calm regions, and thus save much time." "now, madame," said captain wopper, "are you convinced?" "not quite," replied mrs stoutley, with a baffled look; "but, i suppose, on the strength of this, and similar reasons, you intend to ascend mont blanc to-morrow?" "we do," said the professor. "i intend to go for the purpose of attempting to fix a thermometer on the summit, in order to ascertain, if possible, the winter temperature." "and pray, for what purpose?" said mrs stoutley with a touch of sarcasm, "does dr lawrence intend to go?" "for the purpose of seeing the magnificent view, and of testing the lungs and muscles, which are now, i think, sufficiently trained to enable me to make the ascent with ease," replied the doctor, promptly. "_i_ go to assist the professor," said captain wopper. "and i," said lewis, "intend to go for fun; so you see, mother, as our reasons are all good, you had better go to bed, for it's getting late." mrs stoutley accepted the suggestion, delivered a yawn into her pocket-handkerchief, and retired, as she remarked, to ascend mont blanc in dreams, and thus have all the pleasure without the bodily fatigue. we are on the sides of the mountain monarch now, slowly wending our way through the sable fringe of pines that ornaments the skirt of his white mantle. we tramp along very slowly, for antoine grennon is in front and won't allow us to go faster. to the impatient and youthful spirits of lawrence and lewis, the pace appears ridiculously slow, and the latter does not hesitate to make audible reference in his best french to the progress of snails, but antoine is deaf to such references. one might fancy that he did not understand bad french, but for the momentary twinkle in his earnest eyes. but nothing will induce him to mend his pace, for well does he know that the ascent of mont blanc is no trifle; that even trained lungs and muscles are pretty severely taxed before the fifteen thousand seven hundred and eighty feet of perpendicular height above the sea-level is placed below the soles of the feet. he knows, also, from long experience, that he who would climb a mountain well, and use his strength to advantage, must begin with a slow, leisurely pace, as if he were merely out for a saunter, yet must progress with steady, persevering regularity. he knows, too, that young blood is prone to breast a mountain with head erect and spanking action, and to descend with woeful countenance and limp limbs. it must be restrained, and antoine does his duty. the ascent of mont blanc cannot be accomplished in one day. it is therefore necessary to sleep at a place named the grands mulets, from which a fresh start is made for the summit at the earliest hours of morning on the second day. towards this resting-place our travellers now directed their steps. the party consisted of the professor, captain wopper, lewis, lawrence, and slingsby, headed by their trusty guide, besides three porters with knapsacks containing food, wine, etcetera. one of these latter was the chamois-hunter, baptist le croix. he brought up the rear of the party, and all proceeded in single file, each, like the north american indian, treading in his predecessor's footsteps. passing from the dark fringe of pines they emerged upon a more open country where the royal robe was wrought with larch and hazel, bilberry, and varied underwood, and speckled with rhododendrons and other flowers on a ground of rich brown, green, and grey. steadily upwards, over the glacier des bossons, they went, with airy cloudlets floating around them, with the summit at which they aimed, the dome du gouter, and the aiguille du gouter in front, luring them on, and other giant aiguilles around watching them. several hours of steady climbing brought them to the pierre l'echelle, where they were furnished with woollen leggings to protect their legs from the snow. here also they procured a ladder and began the tedious work of traversing the glaciers. hitherto their route had lain chiefly on solid ground--over grassy slopes and along rocky paths. it was now to be confined almost entirely to the ice, which they found to be cut up in all directions with fissures, so that great caution was needed in crossing crevasses and creeping round slippery ridges, and progress was for some time very slow. coming to one of the crevasses which was too wide to leap, the ladder was put in requisition. the iron spikes with which one end of it was shod were driven firmly into the ice at one side of the chasm and the other end rested on the opposite side. antoine crossed first and then held out his hand to the professor, who followed, but the man of science was an expert ice-man, and in another moment stood at the guide's side without having required assistance. not so captain wopper. "i'm not exactly a feather," he said, looking with a doubtful expression at the frail bridge. "it bore me well enough, captain," said the professor with a smile. "that's just what it didn't," replied the captain, "it seemed to me to bend too much under you; besides, although i'm bound to admit that you're a good lump of a man, professor, i suspect there's a couple of stones more on me than on you. if it was only a rope, now, such as i've bin used to, i'd go at it at once, but--" "it is quite strong enough," said the guide confidently. "well, here goes," returned the mariner, "but if it gives way, antoine, i'll have you hanged for murder." uttering this threat he crossed in safety, the others followed, and the party advanced over a part of the glacier which was rugged with mounds, towers, obelisks, and pyramids of ice. for some time nothing serious interrupted their progress until they came to another wide crevasse, when it was found, to the guide's indignation, that the ladder had been purposely left behind by the porter to whom it had been intrusted, he being under the impression that it would not be further required. "blockhead!" cried the professor, whose enthusiastic spirit was easily roused to indignation, "it was your duty to carry it till ordered to lay it down. you were hired to act, sir, not to think. obedience is the highest virtue of a servant! shall we send him back for it?" he said, turning to antoine with a flushed countenance. "not now, monsieur," answered the guide, "it would create needless delay. we shall try to work round the crevasse." this they did by following its edge until they found a part where crossing was possible, though attended with considerable danger in consequence of the wedge-like and crumbling nature of the ice. hoping that such a difficulty would not occur again they pushed on, but had not gone far when another, and still more impassable, fissure presented itself. "how provoking, couldn't we jump it?" said lewis, looking inquiringly into the dark-blue depths. "pr'aps _you_ might, youngster, with your half fledged spider-legs," said the captain, "but you'll not catch fourteen-stun-six goin' over _that_ with its own free will. what's to be done now, antoine?" the guide, after looking at the crevasse for a few minutes, said that the next thing to be done was to look for a snow-bridge, which he had no doubt would be found somewhere. in search of this he scattered the whole party, and in a few minutes a loud shout from the chamois-hunter told that he had been successful. the members of the party at once converged towards him, but found that the success was only partial. he had indeed found a part of the crevasse, which, during some of the wild storms so frequent on the mountain, had been bridged over by a snow-wreath, but the central part of the bridge had given way, and it was thus divided by a gap of about a foot wide. this would have been but a small and insignificant step to take had the substance been solid, but although the ice on one side was strong the opposite edge was comparatively soft snow, and not much more than a foot thick. the chamois-hunter, being the lightest of the party, was called to the front and ordered to test the strength of the frail bridge, if bridge it could be called. "why, he might as well try to step on a bit of sea-foam," said the captain in surprise. lawrence, lewis, and slingsby, having as yet had no experience of such places, expressed, or held a similar opinion, but the professor bade them wait and see. baptist, throwing off his pack, and fastening a rope round his waist, which his comrades held, advanced to the extreme edge of the ice, and with his long-handled axe, gently patted the snow on the opposite side. the surface yielded, and it seemed as if even that small weight would break the lump _off_, but the operation consolidated the mass in a few minutes, by reason of what the professor termed "regelation." he then stepped tenderly on it, crossed over, and drew the rope after him. antoine followed next, and in a few minutes the whole party was safe on the other side. "dr lawrence," said slingsby, in a low grave tone, as they walked along after this, "if we ever see chamouni again i shall be surprised." "indeed?" returned lawrence, with a short laugh, "i don't take quite so gloomy a view of our case. don't you think that the free and easy, quiet look of our guide and porters indicates that such work looks more dangerous than it really is?" "i don't know that," said the artist, shaking his head, "when men get thoroughly accustomed to danger they become foolhardy, and don't realise it. i think it sheer madness to cross such places." lewis, who overheard the conversation, could scarce refrain from a burst of laughter. "upon my word, slingsby," said he, "such observations come strangely from the lips of a man, who only a day or two ago was caught sketching on a snow-wreath over the edge of a crevasse." "ah, but i didn't know it," retorted the other, "and even if i _had_ known it, the ledge of snow was immensely stronger than that on which we have just stood." at this point the conversation was interrupted by the guide stopping and saying that it was now necessary to tie the party together. they had reached those higher parts of the glacier where snow frequently falls and covers, to some extent the narrower crevasses, thus, by concealing them, rendering them extremely dangerous traps. it therefore became necessary to attach the various members of the party together by means of a rope, which, passing round their waists, with a few feet between each, enabled them to rescue any one who should chance to break through. thus, in a string, they advanced, and had scarcely proceeded a hundred yards when a surprised "hallo!" from captain wopper arrested them. he had sunk up to the knees in snow. a "hallo!" of alarm instantly succeeded. he was waist deep. a stentorian yell followed: "ho! hallo! hi!--avast! hold on there abaft! my legs are waublin' in nothin'!" his great weight had indeed nearly plunged him into a hidden crevasse, over which those who preceded him had passed in safety. if the captain had stood alone that crevasse would certainly have been his grave, but his friends held him tight, and in a few seconds he was dragged out of danger. "well, well," he said, wiping some large drops of perspiration from his brow, as he stood on the other side of the chasm, "land-lubbers talk about seafarin' men havin' nothin' but a plank between them an' death, but to my thinkin' the rottenest plank that ever was launched is absolute safety compared to `a snow-wreath.'" "ah! captain," said the professor, laughing, "you think so just now because you're not used to it. in a few weeks you'll hold a different opinion." "may be so," replied the captain quietly, "but it don't feel so--heave ahead, my hearties!" thus encouraged the party proceeded with caution, the guide sounding the snow at each step with his long axe-handle as he moved in advance. slowly they mounted higher and higher, occasionally meeting with, but always overcoming, difficulties, until towards evening they reached the little log cabin on the grands mulets, not sorry to find in it a sufficient though humble resting-place for the night. here they proceeded to make themselves comfortable. some firewood had been carried up by the porters, with which a fire was kindled, wet garments were hung up to dry, and hot coffee was prepared, while the sun sank in a gorgeous world of amber and crimson fire. one by one the stars came out and gradually twinkled into brilliancy, until at last the glorious host of heaven shone in the deepening sky with an intensity of lustre that cannot be described, contrasting strangely with the pallid ghostly aspect of the surrounding snow-fields. these were the only trace of earth that now remained to greet the eyes of our travellers when they looked forth from the door of the little hut. besides being calm and beautiful, the night was intensely cold. there is this peculiarity, on alpine mountain tops, that when the sun's last rays desert them the temperature falls abruptly, there being little or nothing of earth or rock to conserve the heat poured out during the day. the mountaineers, therefore, soon after night closed in, found it necessary to shut the door of their cabin, where they roused up the fire, quaffed their steaming coffee, and smoked their pipes, in joyful anticipation of the coming day. chapter fifteen. the grand ascent continued and completed. need we say that the younger of our adventurers--for such they may truly be styled--felt a tendency to "spin yarns," as captain wopper expressed it, till a late hour that night, as they sat round the fire at the grands mulets? during this enjoyable period, lawrence and lewis made themselves better acquainted with baptist le croix, the chamois-hunter, whose quiet, gentle, and unobtrusive manner was very attractive to them. many an anecdote did he relate of adventures among the alpine peaks and passes while pursuing the chamois, or guiding travellers on their way, and it is probable that he might have roamed in spirit among his beloved haunts--eagerly followed in spirit by the young men--if he had not been called to order by the guide, who, remembering the hard work that lay before them on the morrow, suggested repose. the profound silence that soon reigned in the hut was broken only by an occasional long-drawn sigh. even captain wopper was quiet, having been so powerfully influenced by fresh mountain air and exercise as to have forgotten or foregone his ordinary and inveterate snore. there is something peculiarly disagreeable in being awakened, when one is very tired and sleepy, about two minutes after one has dropped into a profound refreshing slumber; and the annoyance is severely aggravated when it is caused by the wanton act of one of whom we had expected better things. so, in a hazy way, thought lewis stoutley when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and heard the voice of antoine grennon. "monsieur! monsieur!" said the guide. "g-t--long. d-n borer me," murmured lewis, in tones so sleepy that the dash of crossness was barely perceptible. "it is time to rise, sir," persisted antoine. "'mposs'ble--'v jus' b'n two min'ts sl-e--" a profound sigh formed an eloquent peroration to the sentence. a loud laugh from his companions, who were already up and getting ready, did more than the guide's powers of suasion to arouse the heavy sleeper. he started to a sitting posture, stared with imbecile surprise at the candle which dimly lighted the cabin, and yawned vociferously. "what a sleeper you are, lewie!" said lawrence, with a laugh, as, on his knees before the fire, he busied himself in preparing coffee for the party. "and such a growler, too, when any one touches you," observed slingsby, buttoning on his leggings. "sleeper! growler!" groaned lewis, "you've only given me five minutes in which to sleep or growl." "ah, the happy obliviousness of youth!" said the professor, assisting one of the porters to strap up the scientific instruments, "you have been asleep four hours at least. it is now past one. we must start in less than an hour, so bestir yourself--and pray, dr lawrence, make haste with that coffee." the doctor was by no means slow in his operations, but the difficulties in his way delayed him. at such a height, and in such a frozen region, the only mode of procuring water was to place a panful of snow on the fire; and, no matter how full the pan might be stuffed with it, this snow, when melted, was reduced to only a very small quantity of water; more snow had, therefore, to be added and melted, so that much time was spent before the boiling point was reached. patience, however, was at last rewarded with a steaming draught, which, with bread and ham, did more than fire towards warming their chill bodies. outside, the scene was still exquisitely calm and beautiful. the stars appeared to have gathered fresh brilliancy and to have increased in number during the night. those of them near the horizon, as the professor pointed out, twinkled energetically, as if they had just risen, and, like lewis, were sleepy, while those in the zenith shone with steady lustre, as if particularly wide awake to the doings of the presumptuous men who were climbing so much nearer than usual to their habitation in the sky. one star in particular gleamed with a sheen that was pre-eminently glorious--now it was ruby red, now metallic blue, anon emerald green. of course, no sunlight would tinge the horizon for several hours, but the bright moon, which had just risen, rolled floods of silver over the snowy wastes, rendering unnecessary the lantern which had been provided to illumine their upward path. the party, having been tied together with a rope as on the previous day, set forth in line over the snow, each following the other, and soon they were doing battle with the deep crevasses. the nature of the ice varied, of course, with the form of the mountain, sometimes presenting rugged and difficult places, in which, as the captain put it, they got among breakers and had to steer with caution, at other times presenting comparatively level plains of snow over which all was "plain sailing," but the movement was upwards--ever upwards--and, as the day advanced, felt so prolonged that, at last, as slingsby said, the climbing motion grew into a confirmed habit. meanwhile the old world sank steadily below them, and, seen from such an elevation in the pale moonlight, lost much of its familiar look. even sounds appeared gradually to die out of that mysterious region, for when they chanced to pause for a moment to recover breath, or to gaze downward, each appeared unwilling to break the excessive stillness, and all seemed to listen intently, as it were, to the soundlessness around-- hearing nought, however, save the beating of their own pulsations. in such a spot, if unaccompanied by guide or friend, one might perhaps realise, more than in other parts of earth, the significance of the phrase, "alone with god." as dawn approached, lewis, who had taken care to have himself placed next to baptist le croix, renewed his converse in reference to chamois-hunting, and made arrangements to accompany the hunter on one of his expeditions. "is that your sole occupation?" he asked, as the party entered upon a somewhat level snow-field. "that and assisting travellers," answered baptist. "by the way," said lewis, in a careless tone, "they tell me that gold is to be found in some parts of these mountains. is that true?" if the youth's back had not been towards the hunter, who walked behind him, he might have seen that this question was received with a startled look, and that a strange gleam shot from the man's eyes. the question was repeated before he answered it. "yes," said he, in a low voice, "they say it is to be found--but i have never found it." "have you sought much for it?" "i have sought for it." the answer was not given promptly, and lewis found, with some surprise, that the subject appeared to be distasteful to the hunter. he therefore dropped it and walked on in silence. walking at the time was comparatively easy, for a sharp frost had hardened the surface of the snow, and the gem-like lights of heaven enabled them to traverse valleys of ice, clamber up snow-slopes and cross crevasses without danger, except in one or two places, where the natural snow-bridges were frail and the chasms unusually wide. at one of these crevasses they were brought to a complete standstill. it was too wide to be leaped, and no bridge was to be found. the movements of a glacier cause the continual shifting of its parts, so that, although rugged or smooth spots are always sure to be found at the same parts of the glacier each year, there is, nevertheless, annual variety in minute detail. hence the most expert guides are sometimes puzzled as to routes. the crevasse in question was a new one, and it was antoine's first ascent of mont blanc for that year, so that he had to explore for a passage just as if he had never been there before. the party turned to the left and marched along the edge of the chasm some distance, but no bridge could be found. the ice became more broken up, smaller crevasses intersected the large one, and at last a place was reached where the chaos of dislocation rendered further advance impossible. "lost your bearin's, antoine?" asked captain wopper. "no; i have only got into difficulties," replied the guide, with a quiet smile. "just so--breakers ahead. well, i suppose you'll 'bout ship an' run along the coast till we find a channel." this was precisely what antoine meant to do, and did, but it was not until more than an hour had been lost that a safe bridge was found. when they had crossed, the configuration of the ice forced them to adopt a route which they would willingly have avoided. a steep incline of snow rose on their right, on the heights above which loose ice-grags were poised as if on the point of falling. indeed, two or three tracks were passed, down which, probably at no distant period, some of these avalanches had shot. it was nervous work passing under them. even antoine looked up at them with a grave, inquiring glance, and hastened his pace as much as was consistent with comfort and dignity. soon after this the sun began to rise, and the upper portions of the snow were irradiated with pink splendour, but to our travellers he had not yet risen, owing to the intervening peaks of the aiguille du midi. in the brightening light they emerged upon a plain named the petit plateau, which forms a reservoir for the avalanches of the dome du goute. above them rose the mountain-crest in three grand masses, divided from each other by rents, which exposed that peculiar stratified form of the glacier caused by the annual bedding of the snow. from the heights, innumerable avalanches had descended, strewing the spot where they stood with huge blocks of ice and masses of rock. threading their way through these impediments was a matter not only of time, but of difficulty, for in some parts the spaces between the boulders and blocks were hollow, and covered with thin crusts of snow, which gave way the instant a foot was set on them, plunging up to their waists the unfortunates who trod there, with a shock which usually called forth shouts of astonishment not unmingled with consternation. "here, then, we draw near to the grand summit," said the professor, pointing to the snow-cliffs on the right, "whence originates the ice-fountain that supplies such mighty ice-rivers as the glacier des bossons and the mer de glace." "oui, monsieur," replied antoine, smiling, "we _draw_ near, but we are not yet near." "we are nearer to the summit however, than we are to the plain," retorted the professor. "truly, yes," assented the guide. "i should think no one could doubt that," observed slingsby, looking upwards. "it looks quite near now," said lewis. "not so near, however, as you think, and as you shall find," rejoined the guide, as they resumed their upward march. this was indeed true. nothing is more deceptive to an inexperienced eye than the apparent distance of a high mountain-top. when you imagine that the plain below is miles and miles away, and the peak above close at hand, you find, perhaps, on consulting your watch, that the plain cannot be very far distant, and that the greater part of your work still lies before you. it requires no small amount of resolution to bear up against the depression of spirit caused by frequent mistakes in this matter. owing to the increasing height and power of the sun, the snow beyond the petit plateau soon became soft, and the steepness of the ascent increasing, their advance became slower, and their work much more laborious. a pleasant break was, however, at hand, for, on reaching the grand plateau, they were cheered by the sun's rays beaming directly on them, and by the information that they had at length reached their breakfast-point. it may not be a very romantic, but it is an interesting fact, that the joys connected with intellectual and material food are intimately blended. man, without intellectual food, becomes a "lower animal." what intellectual man is without material food, even for part of a day, let those testify who have had the misfortune to go on a pic-nic, and discover that an essential element of diet had been forgotten. it is not merely that food is necessary to maintain our strength; were that so, a five minutes' pause, or ten at the outside, would suffice, in captain wopper's phraseology, to take in cargo, or coal the human engine; but we "_rejoice_ in food," and we believe that none enjoy it so much as those whose intellectual appetite is strong. if any doubters of these truths had witnessed the professor and his friends at breakfast that morning on the grand plateau, they must have infallibly been convinced. "what a gourmand he is!" whispered lewis to the captain, in reference to the man of science, "and such a genial outflow of wit to correspond with his amazing indraught of wittles." the captain's teeth were at the moment fixed with almost tigerish ferocity in a chicken drumstick, but the humour and the amazing novelty--to say nothing of the truth--of lewis's remark made him remove the drumstick, and give vent to a roar of laughter that shook the very summit of mont blanc--at all events the professor said it did, and he was a man who weighed his words and considered well his sentiments. "do not imagine that i exaggerate," he said, as distinctly as was compatible with a very large mouthful of ham and bread, "sound is a motion of vibration, not of translation. that delightfully sonorous laugh emitted by captain wopper (pass the wine, slingsby--thanks) was an impulse or push delivered by his organs of respiration to the particles of air in immediate contact with his magnificent beard. the impulse thus given to the air was re-delivered or passed on, not as i pass the mutton to dr lawrence (whose plate is almost empty), but by each particle of air passing the impulse to its neighbour; thus creating an aerial wave, or multitude of waves, which rolled away into space. those of the waves which rolled in the direction of mont blanc communicated their vibrations to the more solid atoms of the mountain, these passed the motion on to each other, of course with slight--inconceivably slight--but actual force, and thus the tremor passed entirely through the mountain, out on the other side, greatly diminished in power no doubt, and right on throughout space.--hand me the bread, lewis, and don't sit grinning there like a cheshire cat with tic-douloureux in its tail." at this slingsby laughed and shook the mountain again, besides overturning a bottle of water, and upsetting the gravity of antoine grennon, who chanced to be looking at him; for the artist's mouth, being large, and also queerly shaped, appeared to the guide somewhat ludicrous. sympathy, like waves of sound, is easily transmitted. thus, on the captain making to antoine the very simple remark that the "mootong was mannyfeek," there was a general roar that ought to have brought mont blanc down about their ears. but it didn't--it only shook him. laughter and sympathy combined improve digestion and strengthen appetite. thus the professor's brilliant coruscations, and the appreciative condition of his audience, created an enjoyment of that morning's meal which was remembered with pleasure long after the event, and induced an excessive consumption of food, which called forth the remonstrances of the guide, who had to remind his uproarious flock that a portion must be reserved for the descent. to the propriety of this lewis not only assented, but said that he meant to continue the ascent, and rose for that purpose, whereupon the doctor said that he dissented entirely from the notion that bad puns increased the hilarity of a party, and the captain, giving an impulse to the atmosphere with his respiratory organs, produced the sound "avast!" and advised them to clap a stopper in their potato-traps. even at these sallies they all laughed--proving, among other things, that mountain air and exercise, combined with intellectual and physical food, are conducive to easy-going good humour. it is not impossible that the tremors to which mont blanc had been subjected that morning had put him a little out of humour, for our mountaineers had scarcely recommenced their upward toil when he shrouded his summit in a few fleecy clouds. the guide shook his head at this. "i fear the weather won't hold," he said. "won't hold!" exclaimed the captain, "why, it's holdin' now as hard as it can grip." "true," observed the professor; "but weather in these regions is apt to change its mood rather suddenly." "yet there seems to me no sign of an unfavourable change," said lawrence, looking up at the blue and almost cloudless sky. "fleecy clouds are fleeting at times," returned the professor, pointing to the summit which again showed its cap of clear dazzling white, "but at other times they are indicative of conditions that tend to storm. however, we must push on and hope for the best." they did push on accordingly, and all, except the guide, had no difficulty in "hoping." as they passed over the plateau the sun poured floods of light on the snow, from the little crystals of which it shone with prismatic colours, as though the place had been strewn with diamonds. the spirit of levity was put to flight by this splendid spectacle, and the feelings of the travellers were deepened to solemnity when the guide pointed to a yawning crevasse into which, he said, three guides were hurled by an avalanche in the year . he also related how, on one occasion, a party of eleven tourists perished, not far from where they then stood, during a terrible storm, and how an english lady and her guide were, at another time, lost in a neighbouring crevasse. by this time all except the chief among the surrounding heights were beginning to look insignificant by comparison, and the country assumed a sort of rugged flatness in consequence of being looked down upon from such an elevation. passing the grand plateau they reached a steep incline, which rose towards a tremendous ice-precipice. from the upper edge of this there hung gigantic icicles. up the incline they went slowly, for the crust of the snow broke down at every step, and the captain, being heavy, began to show symptoms of excessive heat and labouring breath, but he grew comparatively cool on coming to a snow-bridge which had to be passed in order to get over a crevasse. "it'll never bear my weight," he said, looking doubtfully at the frail bridge, and at the blue gulf, which appeared to be a bottomless pit. antoine, however, thought it might prove strong enough. he patted the snow gently, as on previous occasions of a similar kind, and advanced with caution, while his followers fixed their heels in the snow, and held tight to the rope to save him if he should break through. he passed in safety, and the others followed, but new difficulties awaited them on the other side. just beyond this bridge they came to a slope from which the snow had been completely swept, leaving the surface of hard ice exposed. it was so steep that walking on it was impossible. antoine, therefore, proceeded to cut steps along its face. two swings of his ponderous mountain-axe were sufficient to cut each step in the brittle ice, and in a few minutes the whole party were on the slope, every man having a coil of the rope round his waist, while, with the spike of his alpenstock driven firmly into the ice, he steadied himself before taking each successive step. there would have been no difficulty in crossing such a slope if its base had terminated in snow, but as it went straight down to the brow of an ice-precipice, and then abruptly terminated in a cornice, from which the giant icicles, before mentioned, hung down into an unfathomable abyss, each man knew that a false step, a slip, or the loss of balance, might result in the instant destruction of the whole party. they moved therefore very slowly, keeping their eyes steadily fixed on their feet. the mercurial temperament of mr slingsby was severely tried at this point. his desire to look up and revel in the beauties of nature around him proved too strong a temptation. while gazing with feelings of awe at the terrible edge or cornice below he became, for the first time, fully alive to his situation,--the smallness of the step of ice on which he stood, the exceeding steepness of the glassy slope below, the dread abyss beyond! he shut his eyes; a giddy feeling came over him--a rush of horror. "take care, monsieur!" was uttered in a quick, deep tone, behind him. it was the warning voice of le croix, who observed his condition. the warning came too late. slingsby wavered, threw up his arms, slipped, and fell with an appalling shriek. le croix, however, was prepared. in an instant he had fixed his staff and heels firmly, and had leaned well back to resist the pull. the porter in front was not less prompt; the stout rope stood the strain; and in another moment the artist was restored to his position, panting, pale, and humbled. a few minutes sufficed to restore his confidence sufficiently to admit of his proceeding, and, with many warnings to be more cautious, the advance was continued. up to this point the weather had favoured them, but now mont blanc seemed as if inclined to resent the free and easy way in which these men of mingled muscle and science had attacked his crown. he drew several ominous clouds around him, and shook out a flood of hoary locks from his white head, which, caught up by a blast, created apparently for the purpose, were whirled aloft in wild confusion, and swooped down upon the mountaineers with bitter emphasis, in the form of snow-drift, as if they had come direct from captain wopper's favourite place of reference,-- nova zembla. coats, which had hitherto been carried on the arm or thrown open, were put on and buttoned, and heads were bent to meet the blast and repel the snow-drift. little was said, save a murmured doubt by antoine as to the possibility of gaining the summit, even although they were now so near it, for the day was far spent by that time, and the rugged nature of the route over they had passed, precluded the possibility of a rapid return to the hut at the grands mulets. they pushed steadily on, however, for the professor was anxious to bury his thermometer in the snow at the top; the guide was anxious to maintain his credit for perseverance; and the others were anxious to be able to say they had reached the highest height in europe. in any weather the ascent of mont blanc requires somewhat more than the average share of physical vigour and perseverance; in bad weather it demands unusual strength and resolution. when, therefore, a severe storm of wind arose, most of the party began to show symptoms of distress. the labour of ascending, being coupled with that of forcing way against the blast, was very exhausting to the muscles, while the extreme cold reduced the physical energy and cooled the most sanguine spirit. antoine alone seemed to be proof against all influences, but the responsibility lying on him clouded his usually open countenance with a careworn expression. prudence counselled immediate return. ambition, as they were now so near the top, urged prolonged effort. the guide expressed his anxieties, but meeting with no response, followed the dictates of his feelings, and pushed on. like pillars of living snow they toiled patiently upwards. breath became too precious to waste in words. they advanced in silence. the wind howled around them, and the snow circled in mad evolutions, as if the demon of wintry storms dwelt there, and meant to defend his citadel to the "bitter end." there are two rocks near the summit, which crop through the ice like rugged jewels in the monarch's diadem. the lower is named the petits mulets, the upper the derniers roches. on reaching the latter of these they paused a few moments to rest. a feeling of certainty that the end would be gained now began to prevail, but the guide was a little alarmed, and the professor horrified, on looking at their companions' faces, to observe that they were pinched, haggard, and old-looking, as if they all had aged somewhat during the last few hours! captain wopper's rubicund visage was pale, and his nose blue; the face of lewis was white all over, and drawn, as if he were suffering pain; dr lawrence's countenance was yellow, and slingsby's was green. the professor himself was as bad as his comrades, and the porters were no better. "we shan't be beaten now," said the man of science, with a ghastly smile. "go 'head! nev'r s'die s'l'ng's th'r's shot 'n th' locker!" replied the captain, in the tone of a man who would rather avoid speaking, if possible. "what a face you've got, stoutley!" said the artist. "you're another!" replied lewis, with a horrible grin. "allons!" exclaimed the guide, bending once more against the storm. once, for a few minutes, the wind ceased and the clouds lifted. captain wopper uttered a cheer, and rushed forward in advance of the guide, took off his hat and threw it into the air. they had reached the round summit without being aware of it. they stood , feet above the sea-level! no envious peak rose above their heads. the whole world lay below them, bathed, too, in bright sunshine, for the storm, which had so suddenly swooped upon them, was confined, like an elemental body-guard, to the head of the mountain-king. but, clear though it was at the moment, they were too high in the air to see anything quite distinctly, yet this hazy aspect had a charm of its own, for it increased the feeling and idea of vastness in connection with surrounding space. around, and now beneath, stood the mountain nobility of the land, looking, however, somewhat reduced in size and majesty, as seen from the royal presence. scarcely had the mountaineers assembled and glanced at the wondrous panorama, when the envious clouds swooped down again and mingled with the snow-drift which once more rose to meet them. "we must be quick, monsieur," said antoine, taking a shovel from one of the porters, while le croix grasped another. "where shall we dig?" the professor fixed on a spot, and, while the grave of the thermometer was being dug, a plaid was set up on a couple of alpenstocks, in the shelter of which the others consumed the bread and wine that had been saved from breakfast. it did them little good, however; the cold was too intense. the captain's beard was already fringed with icicles, and the whiskers of those who had them were covered with hoar-frost, while the breath issued from their mouths like steam. before the thermometer was buried all had risen, and were endeavouring to recover heat by rubbing their hands, beating their arms across their breasts, and stamping violently. "come," said the professor, quickly, when the work was done, "we must start at once." "oui, monsieur," assented the guide, and, without more words, the whole party began to descend the mountain at a run. there was cause for haste. not only did the storm increase in violence, but evening drew on apace, and all of them were more or less exhausted by prolonged muscular exertion and exposure to severe cold. suddenly, having gone a considerable way down the mountain, they emerged from fog and snow-drift into blazing sunshine! the strife of elements was confined entirely to the summit. the inferior ice-slopes and the valleys far below were bathed in the golden glories of a magnificent sunset and, before they reached the huts at the grands mulets, they had passed from a condition of excessive cold to one of extreme heat, insomuch that the captain and professor were compelled to walk with their coats slung over their shoulders, while perspiration streamed from their bare brows. that night the party slept again at the grands mulets, and next day they reached chamouni, fagged, no doubt, and bearing marks of mountaineering in the shape of sun-burnt cheeks and peeled noses, but hearty, nevertheless, and not a little elated with their success in having scaled the mighty sides and the hoary summit of mont blanc. chapter sixteen. tells how lewis distinguished himself. seated one morning on an easy chair in susan quick's apartment and swinging his little blue legs to and fro in a careless, negligent manner, gillie white announced it as his opinion that mister lewis had gone, or was fast going, mad. "why do you think so?" asked susan, with a smile, looking up for a moment from some portion of lewis's nether integuments, which mont blanc had riven almost to shreds. "w'y do i think so?" repeated gillie; "w'y, cos he's not content with havin' busted his boots an' his clo'se, an' all but busted hisself, in goin' to the top o' mont blang an' monty rosa, an' all the other monty-thingumbobs about but he's agoin' off to day with that queer fish laycrwa to hunt some where up above the clouds--in among the stars, i fancy--for shamwas." "indeed!" said susan, with a neat little laugh. "yes, indeed. he's mountain-mad--mad as a swiss march hare, if not madder--by the way, susan, wot d'ee think o' the french?" gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher. "d'you mean french people?" "no; i means the french lingo, as my friend cappen wopper calls it." "well, i can't say that i have thought much about it yet. missis keeps me so busy that i haven't time." "ah!" said gillie, "you're wastin' of precious opportoonities, susan. i've bin a-studdyin' of that lingo myself, now, for three weeks--off and on." "indeed!" exclaimed susan, with an amused glance, "and what do _you_ think of it?" "think of it! i think it's the most outrageous stuff as ever was. the man who first inwented it must 'ave 'ad p'ralersis o' the brain, besides a bad cold in 'is 'ead, for most o' the enns an' gees come tumblin' through the nose, but only git half out after all, as if the speaker was afraid to let 'em go, lest he shouldn't git hold of 'em again. there's that there mountain, now. they can't call it mont blang, with a good strong out-an'-out bang, like a briton would do, but they catches hold o' the gee when it's got about as far as the bridge o' the nose, half throttles it and shoves it right back, so that you can scarce hear it at all. an' the best joke is, there ain't no gee in the word at all!" "no?" said susan, in surprise. "no," repeated gillie. "i've bin studdyin' the spellin' o' the words in shop-winders an' posters, an', would you b'lieve it, they end the word blang with a _c_." "you don't say so!" "yes i do; an' how d'ee think they spell the name o' that feller laycrwa?" "i'm sure i don't know," answered susan. "they spells it," returned gillie, with a solemn look, "l-e-c-r-o-i-x. now, if _i_ had spelt it that way, i'd have pronounced it laycroiks. wouldn't you?" "well, yes, i think i should," said susan. "it seems to me," continued gillie, "that they goes on the plan of spellin' one way an' purnouncin' another--always takin' care to choose the most difficult way, an' the most unnatt'ral, so that a feller has no chance to come near it except by corkin' up one nostril tight, an' borin' a small extra hole in the other about half-way up. if you was to mix a sneeze with what you said, an' paid little or no attention to the sense, p'raps it would be french--but i ain't sure. i only wish you heard cappen wopper hoistin' french out of hisself as if he was a wessel short-handed, an' every word was a heavy bale. he's werry shy about it, is the cappen, an' wouldn't for the world say a word if he thought any one was near; but when he thinks he's alone with antoine--that's our guide, you know--he sometimes lets fly a broadside o' french that well-nigh takes my breath away." the urchin broke into a laugh here at the memory of the captain's efforts to master what he styled a furrin' tongue, but susan checked him by saying slily, "how could you know, gillie, if the captain was _alone_ with antoine?" "oh, don't you know," replied gillie, trying to recover his gravity, "the cappen he's wery fond o' me, and i like to gratify his feelin's by keepin' near him. sometimes i keep so near--under the shadow of his huge calf d'ee see--that he don't observe me on lookin' round; an', thinkin' he's all alone, lets fly his french broadsides in a way that a'most sends antoine on his beam-ends. but antoine is tough, he is. he gin'rally says, `i not un'r'stan' english ver' well,' shakes his head an' grins, but the cappen never listens to his answers, bein' too busy loadin' and primin' for another broadside." the man to whom he referred cut short the conversation at this point by shouting down the stair:-- "hallo! gillie, you powder-monkey, where are my shoes?" "here they are, cappen, all ready; fit to do dooty as a lookin'-glass to shave yerself," cried the "powder-monkey," leaping up and leaving the room abruptly. gillie's opinion in regard to the madness of lewis was shared by several of his friends above stairs. doctor lawrence, especially, felt much anxiety about him, having overheard one or two conversations held by the guides on the subject of the young englishman's recklessness. "really, lewis," said the doctor, on one occasion, "you _must_ listen to a lecture from me, because you are in a measure under my charge." "i'm all attention, sir," said lewis meekly, as he sat down on the edge of his bed and folded his hands in his lap. "well then, to begin," said the doctor, with a half-serious smile, "i won't trouble you with my own opinion, to which you attach no weight--" "pardon me, lawrence, i attach great weight to it--or, rather, it has so much weight that i can scarcely bear it." "just so, and therefore you shan't have it. but you must admit that the opinion of a good guide is worth something. now, i heard antoine grennon the other day laying down some unquestionable principles to the professor--" "what! lecturing the professor?" interrupted lewis, "how very presumptuous." "he said," continued the doctor, "that the dangers connected with the ascent of these swiss mountains are _real_, and, unless properly provided against, may become terrible, if not fatal. he instanced your own tendency to go roving about among the glaciers _alone_. with a comrade or a guide attached to you by a rope there is no danger worth speaking of, but it must be as clear to you as it is to me that it when out on the mountains alone, you step on a snow-covered crevasse and break through, your instant death is inevitable." "yes, but," objected lewis, with that unwillingness to be convinced which is one of the chief characteristics of youth, "i always walk, when _alone_ on the glaciers, with the utmost caution, sounding the snow in front of me with the long handle of my axe at every step as i go." "if the guides do not find this always a sufficient protection for themselves, by what amazing power of self-sufficiency do you persuade yourself that it is sufficient for _you_?" demanded lawrence. "your question suffices, doctor," said lewis, laughing; "go on with your lecture, i'm all attention and, and humility." "not my lecture," retorted lawrence, "the guide's. he was very strong, i assure you, on the subject of men going on the high glaciers _without a rope_, or, which comes to the same thing, _alone_, and he was not less severe on those who are so foolhardy, or so ignorant, as to cross steep slopes of ice on new-fallen snow. nothing is easier, the new snow affording such good foothold, as you told us the other day when describing your adventures under the cliffs of monte rosa, and yet nothing is more dangerous, says antoine, for if the snow were to slip, as it is very apt to do, you would be smothered in it, or swept into a crevasse by it. lives are lost in the alps _every year_, i am told, owing to indifference to these two points. the guides say--and their opinions are corroborated by men of science and alpine experience--that it is dangerous to meddle with any slope exceeding degrees for several days after a heavy fall, and yet it is certain that slopes exceeding this angle are traversed annually by travellers who are ignorant, or reckless, or both. did you not say that the slope which you crossed the other day was a steeper angle than this, and the snow on it not more than twenty-four hours' old?" "guilty!" exclaimed lewis, with a sigh. "i condemn you, then," said lawrence, with a smile, "to a continuation of this lecture, and, be assured, the punishment is much lighter than you deserve. listen:--there are three unavoidable dangers in alpine climbing--" "please don't be long on each head," pleaded lewis, throwing himself back in his bed, while his friend placed the point of each finger of his right hand on a corresponding point of the left, and crossed his legs. "i won't. i shall be brief--brief as your life is likely to be if you don't attend to me. the three dangers are, as i have said, unavoidable; but two of them may be guarded against; the other cannot. first, there is danger from _falling rocks_. this danger may be styled positive. it hangs over the head like the sword of damocles. there is no avoiding it except by not climbing at all, for boulders and ice-blocks are perched here, and there, and everywhere, and no one can tell the moment when they shall fall. secondly, there is danger from crevasses--the danger of tumbling into one when crossing a bridge of snow, and the danger of breaking through a crust of snow which conceals one. this may be called a negative danger. it is reduced to almost nothing if you are tied to your comrade by a rope, and if the leader sounds with his staff as he walks along; but it changes from a negative to a positive danger to the man who is so mad as to go out _alone_. thirdly, there is danger from new snow on steep slopes, which is positive if you step on it when recently fallen, and when the slope is very steep; but is negative when you allow sufficient time for it to harden. while, however, it is certain that many deaths occur from these three dangers being neglected, it is equally true that the largest number of accidents which occur in the alps arise chiefly from momentary indiscretions, from false steps, the result of carelessness or self-confidence, and from men attempting to do what is beyond their powers. men who are too old for such fatigue, and men who, though young, are not sufficiently strong, usually come to grief. i close my lecture with a quotation from the writings of a celebrated mountaineer--`in all cases the man rather than the mountain is at fault.'" "there is truth in what you say," observed lewis, rising, with a yawn. "nay, but," returned his friend, seriously, "your mother, who is made very anxious by your reckless expeditions, begged me to impress these truths on you. will you promise me, like a good fellow, to consider them?" "i promise," said lewis, becoming serious in his turn, and taking his friend's hand; "but you must not expect sudden perfection to be exemplified in me.--come, let's go have a talk with le croix about his projected expedition after the chamois." up in the mountains now,--above some of the clouds undoubtedly, almost 'mong the stars, as gillie put it,--lewis wanders in company with baptist le croix, half-forgetful of his promise to lawrence. below them lies a world of hills and valleys; above towers a fairy-land of ice, cliff, and cloud. no human habitation is near. the only indications of man's existence are so faint, and so far off in the plains below, that houses are barely visible, and villages look like toys. a sea of cloud floats beneath them, and it is only through gaps in this sea that the terrestrial world is seen. piercing through it are the more prominent of the alpine peaks--the dark tremendous obelisk of the matterhorn towering in one direction, the not less tremendous and far grander head of mont blanc looming in another. the sun shines brightly over all, piercing and rendering semi-transparent some of the clouds, gilding the edges and deepening the shadows of others. "do you see anything, le croix?" asked lewis, as he reclined on a narrow ledge of rock recovering breath after a fatiguing climb, while his comrade peered intently through a telescope into the recesses of a dark mountain gorge that lay a little below them. for some moments the hunter made no reply. presently he closed the glass, and, with an air of satisfaction, said, "chamois!" "where?" asked lewis, rising eagerly and taking the glass. le croix carefully pointed out the spot but no effort on the part of the inexperienced youth could bring anything resembling the light and graceful form of a chamois into the field of vision. "never mind, le croix," he said, quickly returning the glass and picking up his rifle; "come along, let's have at them." "softly," returned the hunter; "we must get well to leeward of them before we can venture to approach." "lead where you will; you'll find me a quiet and unquestioning follower." the hunter at once turned, and, descending the mountain by a precipice which was so steep that they had in some places to drop from ledge to ledge, at last gained a position where the light air, that floated but scarce moved the clouds, came direct from the spot where the chamois lay. he then turned and made straight towards them. as they advanced the ground became more rugged and precipitous, so that their progress was unavoidably slow, and rendered more so by the necessity that lay on them of approaching their game without noise. when they had reached a spot where a sheer precipice appeared to render further progress impossible, the hunter stopped and said in a low tone, "look, they are too far off; a bullet could not reach them." lewis craned his neck over the cliff, and saw the chamois grazing quietly on a small patch of green that lay among brown rocks below. "what's to be done?" he asked anxiously. "couldn't we try a long shot?" "useless. your eyes are inexperienced. the distance is greater than you think." "what, then, shall we do?" le croix did not answer. he appeared to be revolving some plan in his mind. turning at last to his companion, he said-- "i counsel that you remain here. it is a place near to which they must pass if driven by some one from below. i will descend." "but how descend?" asked lewis. "i see no path by which even a goat could get down." "leave that to me," replied the hunter. "keep perfectly still till you see them within range. have your rifle ready; do not fire in haste; there will be time for a slow and sure aim. most bad hunters owe their ill-luck to haste." with this advice le croix crept quietly round a projecting rock, and, dropping apparently over the precipice, disappeared. solitude is suggestive. as long as his companion was with him, lewis felt careless and easy in mind, but now that he was left alone in one of the wildest and grandest scenes he had yet beheld, he became solemnised, and could not help feeling, that without his guide he would be very helpless in such a place. being alone in the mountains was not indeed new to him. as we have already said, he had acquired the character of being much too reckless in wandering about by himself; but there was a vast difference between going alone over ground which he had traversed several times with guides in the immediate neighbourhood of chamouni, and being left in a region to which he had been conducted by paths so intricate, tortuous, and difficult, that the mere effort to trace back in memory even the last few miles of the route confused him. there was a mysterious stillness, too, about everything around him; and the fogs, which floated in heavy masses above and below, gave a character of changeful wildness to the scenery. "what a place to get lost in and benighted!" he thought. then his mind, with that curious capacity for sudden flight, which is one of the chief characteristics of thought, leaped down the precipices, up which he had toiled so slowly, sped away over hill and dale, and landed him in chamouni at the feet of nita horetzki. once there, he had no desire to move. he kept looking steadily in her pretty face, speculated as to the nature of the charm that rendered it so sweet, wondered what was the cause of the lines of care that at times rippled her smooth white brow, longed to become the sharer of her grief, and her comforter, and pondered the improbability of his ever being in a position to call her nita--darling nita--sweetest nita--exquisite nita! he was still engaged in creating adjectives at chamouni when he was brought suddenly back to the alpine heights by the sound of a shot. it was repeated in a hundred echoes by the surrounding cliffs, as he seized his rifle and gazed over the precipice. a puff of smoke, hanging like a cloudlet, guided his eyes. not far in front of it he saw the fawn-like form of a chamois stretched in death upon the ground, while two others were seen bounding with amazing precision and elasticity over the rocks towards him. he turned at once to an opening among the rocks at his right, for, even to his unpractised eye, it was obviously impossible that anything without wings could approach him in front or at his left. coolness and promptitude were characteristics of the youth; so that he sat crouching with the rifle, resting in the palm of his left hand, over one knee, as motionless as if he had been chiselled from the rock against which he leaned; but his natural coolness of deportment could not prevent, though it concealed, a throbbing of anxiety lest the game should pass out of reach, or behind rocks, which would prevent his seeing it. for an instant he half-rose, intending to rush to some more commanding elevation, but remembering the parting advice of le croix, he sank down again and remained steady. scarcely had he done so when the clatter of bounding hoofs was heard. he knew well that the open space, across which he now felt sure the chamois must pass, was only broad enough to afford the briefest possible time for an aim. he raised the rifle more than half-way to the shoulder. another instant and a chamois appeared like an arrow shooting athwart the hill-side before him. he fired, and missed! the bullet, however, which had been destined for the heart of the first animal, was caught in the brain of that which followed. it sprang high into the air, and, rolling over several times, lay stretched at full length on the rocks. we need not pause to describe the rejoicing of the young sportsman over his first chamois, or to detail lecroix's complimentary observations thereon. having deposited their game in a place of safety, the hunter suggested that, as there was no chance of their seeing any more in that locality, it would be well to devote the remainder of the day to exploring the higher slopes of a neighbouring glacier, for, familiar as he was with all the grander features of the region, there were some of the minuter details, he said, with which he was unacquainted. lewis was a little surprised at the proposal, but, being quite satisfied with his success, and not unwilling to join in anything that smacked of exploration, he readily assented; and, ere long, the two aspiring spirits were high above the spot where the chamois had fallen, and struggling with the difficulties of couloir and crevasse. before quitting the lower ground, they had deposited their game and rifles in a cave well known to le croix, in which they intended to pass the night, and they now advanced armed only with their long-handled alpine hatchets, without which implements it is impossible to travel over glaciers. being both of them strong in wind and limb, they did not pause often to rest, though lewis occasionally called a momentary halt to enjoy the magnificent prospect. during one of these pauses a dark object was seen moving over the ice far below them. le croix pointed to it, and said that it approached them. "what is it--a crow?" asked lewis. "more like a man; but it is neither," returned the hunter, adjusting his telescope; "yes, it is, as i fancied, a chamois." "then it cannot have seen us," said lewis, "else it would not approach." "nay, it approaches because it has seen us. it mistakes us for relatives. let us sit down to deceive it a little." they crouched beside a piece of ice, and the chamois advanced, until its pretty form became recognisable by the naked eye. its motions, however, were irregular. it was evidently timid. sometimes it came on at full gallop, then paused to look, and uttered a loud piping sound, advancing a few paces with caution, and pausing to gaze again. le croix replied with an imitative whistle to its call. it immediately bounded forward with pleasure, but soon again hesitated, and stopped. at last it seemed to become aware of its mistake, for, turning at a tangent, it scoured away over the ice like wind swooping down from the mountain-summits, bounded over the crevasses like an india-rubber ball, and was quickly out of sight. while gazing with profound interest at this graceful creature, the explorers were not at first aware that a dark mass of inky cloud was rapidly bearing down on them, and that one of those wild storms which sweep frequently over the high alps seemed to be gathering. "we must make haste, if we would gain the shelter of our cave," said le croix, rising. as he spoke, a low rumbling sound was heard behind them. they turned just in time to see a small avalanche of rocks hopping down the cliffs towards them. it was so far off, and looked such an innocent rolling of pebbles, that lewis regarded it as an insignificant phenomenon. his companion formed a better estimate of its character, but being at least five hundred yards to one side of the couloir or snow-slope, down which it rushed, he judged that they were safe. he was mistaken. some of the largest stones flew past quite near them, several striking the glacier as they passed, and sending clouds of ice-dust over them, and one, as large as a hogshead, bounding, with awful force, straight over their heads. they turned instantly to hasten from so dangerous a spot, but were arrested by another and much louder rumbling sound. "quick, fly, monsieur!" exclaimed le croix, setting his young companion the example. truly there was cause for haste. a sub-glacial lake among the heights above had burst its icy barriers, and, down the same couloir from which the smaller avalanche had sprung, a very ocean of boulders, mud, ice, and _debris_ came crashing and roaring with a noise like the loudest thunder, with this difference, that there was no intermission of the roar for full quarter of an hour; only, at frequent intervals, a series of pre-eminent peals were heard, when boulders, from six to ten feet in diameter, met with obstacles, and dashed them aside, or broke themselves into atoms. our hunters fled for their lives, and barely gained the shelter of a giant boulder, when the skirts of the hideous torrent roared past leaped over an ice-cliff, and was swallowed up by the insatiable crevasses of the glacier below. for several minutes after they had reached, and stood panting in, a position of safety, they listened to the thunderous roar of alpine artillery, until it died slowly away--as if unwillingly-- in the light pattering of pebbles. gratitude to the almighty for deliverance from a great danger was the strongest feeling in the heart of the chamois-hunter. profound astonishment and joy at having witnessed such an amazing sight, quickened the pulse of lewis. "that was a narrow escape, le croix?" "it was. i never see such a sight without a shudder, because i lost a brother in such an avalanche. it was on the slopes of the jungfrau. he was literally broken to fragments by it." lewis expressed sympathy, and his feelings were somewhat solemnised by the graphic recital of the details of the sad incident with which the hunter entertained him, as they descended the mountain rapidly. in order to escape an impending storm, which was evidently brewing in the clouds above, lewis suggested that they should diverge from the route by which they had ascended, and attempt a short cut by a steeper part of the mountains. le croix looked round and pondered. "i don't like diverging into unknown parts when in a hurry, and with the day far spent," he said. "one never knows when a sheer precipice will shut up the way in places like this." the youth, however, was confident, and the man of experience was too amiable and yielding. there was also urgent reason for haste. it was therefore decided that the steeper slopes should be attempted. they began with a glissade. a very steep snow-slope happened to be close at hand. it stretched uninterruptedly down several hundred feet to one of the terraces, into which the precipitous mountainside at that place was cut. "will you try?" asked le croix, looking doubtfully at his companion. "of course i will," replied lewis, shortly. "where you choose to go i will follow." "have you ever done such work before?" "yes, often, though never on quite so steep or long a slope." le croix was apparently satisfied. he sat down on the summit of the slope, fixed the spiked end of his axe in the snow, resting heavily on the handle, in order to check his descent, and hitched himself forward. "keep steady and don't roll over," he cried, as he shot away. the snow rose and trailed like a white tail behind him. his speed increased almost to that of an avalanche, and in a few seconds he was at the bottom. lewis seated himself in precisely the same manner, but overbalanced himself when halfway down, swung round, lost self-command, let slip his axe, and finally went head over heels, with legs and arms flying wildly. le croix, half-expecting something of the kind, was prepared. he had re-ascended the slope a short way, and received the human avalanche on his right shoulder, was knocked down violently as a matter of course, and the two went spinning in a heap together to the bottom. "not hurt, i hope?" cried lewis, jumping up and looking at his comrade with some anxiety. "no, monsieur," replied le croix, quietly, as he shook the snow from his garments--"and you?" "oh! i'm all right. that was a splendid beginning. we shall get down to our cave in no time at this rate." the hunter shook his head. "it is not all glissading," he said, as they continued the descent by clambering down the face of a precipice. some thousands of feet below them lay the tortuous surface of a glacier, on which they hoped to be able to walk towards their intended night-bivouac, but the cliffs leading to this grew steeper as they proceeded. some hours' work was before them ere the glacier could be reached, and the day was already drawing towards its close. a feeling of anxiety kept them both silent as they pushed on with the utmost possible speed, save when it was necessary for one to direct the other as to his foothold. on gaining each successive ledge of the terraced hill-side, they walked along it in the hope of reaching better ground, or another snow-slope; but each ledge ended in a precipice, so that there was no resource left but to scramble down to the ledge below to find a similar disappointment. the slopes also increased, rather than decreased, in steepness, yet so gradually, that the mountaineers at last went dropping from point to point down the sheer cliffs without fully realising the danger of their position. at a certain point they came to the head of a slope so steep, that the snow had been unable to lie on it, and it was impossible to glissade on the pure ice. it was quite possible, however, to cut foot-holes down. le croix had with him a stout manilla rope of about three hundred feet in length. with this tied round his waist, and lewis, firmly planted, holding on to it, he commenced the staircase. two blows sufficed for each step, yet two hours were consumed before the work was finished. re-ascending, he tied the rope round lewis, and thus enabled him to descend with a degree of confidence which he could not have felt if unattached. le croix himself descended without this moral support, but, being as sure-footed as a chamois, it mattered little. pretty well exhausted by their exertions, they now found themselves at the summit of a precipice so perpendicular and unbroken, that a single glance sufficed to convince them of the utter impossibility of further descent in that quarter. the ledge on which they stood was not more than three feet broad. below them the glacier appeared in the fading light to be as far off as ever. above, the cliffs frowned like inaccessible battlements. they were indeed like flies clinging to a wall, and, to add to their difficulties, the storm which had threatened now began in earnest. a cloud as black as pitch hung in front of them. suddenly, from its heart, there gushed a blinding flash of lightning, followed, almost without interval, by a crash of thunder. the echoes took up the sounds, hurling them back and forward among the cliffs as if cyclopean mountain spirits were playing tennis with boulders. rain also descended in torrents, and for some time the whole scene became as dark as if overspread with the wing of night. crouching under a slight projection of rock, the explorers remained until the first fury of the squall was over. fortunately, it was as short-lived as violent, but its effects were disagreeable, for cataracts now poured on them as they hurried along the top of the precipice vainly looking for a way of escape. at last, on coming to one of those checks which had so often met them that day, le croix turned and said-- "there is no help for it, monsieur, we must spend the night here." "here!" exclaimed lewis, glancing at the cliffs above and the gulf below. "it is not a pleasant resting-place," replied the hunter, with a sad smile, "but we cannot go on. it will be quite dark in half an hour, when an effort to advance would insure our destruction. the little light that remains must be spent in seeking out a place to lie on." the two men, who were thrown thus together in such perilous circumstances, were possessed of more than average courage, yet it would be false to say that fear found no place in their breasts. on the contrary, each confessed to the other the following day that his heart had sunk within him as he thought of the tremendous cliffs against which they were stuck, with descent and ascent equally impossible, a narrow ledge on the precipice-edge for their bed, and a long, wild night before them. cowardice does not consist in simple fear. it consists in the fear of trifles; in unreasonable fear, and in such fear as incapacitates a man for action. the situation of our explorers was not one of slight danger. they had the best of reason for anxiety, because they knew not whether escape, even in daylight, were possible. as to incapacity for action, the best proof that fear had not brought them to that condition lay in the fact, that they set about preparations for spending the night with a degree of vigour amounting almost to cheerfulness. after the most careful survey, only one spot was found wider than the rest of the ledge, and it was not more than four feet wide, the difference being caused by a slight hollow under the rock, which thus might overhang them--one of them at least--and form a sensation of canopy. at its best, a bed only four feet wide is esteemed narrow enough for one, and quite inadequate for two, but when it is considered that the bed now selected was of hard granite, rather round-backed than flat, with a sheer precipice descending a thousand feet, more or less, on one side of it, and a slope in that direction, there will be no difficulty in conceiving something of the state of mind in which lewis stoutley and baptist le croix lay down to repose till morning in wet garments, with the thermometer somewhere between thirty-two and zero, fahrenheit. to prevent their rolling off the ledge when asleep, they built on the edge of the cliff a wall of the largest loose stones they could find. it was but an imaginary protection at best, for the slightest push sent some of the stones toppling over, and it necessarily curtailed the available space. no provisions, save one small piece of bread, had been brought, as they had intended returning to their cave to feast luxuriously. having eaten the bread, they prepared to lie down. it was agreed that only one at a time should sleep; the other was to remain awake, to prevent the sleeper from inadvertently moving. it was also arranged, that he whose turn it was to sleep should lie on the inner side. but here arose a difference. le croix insisted that lewis should have the first sleep. lewis, on the other hand, declared that he was not sleepy; that the attempt to sleep would only waste the time of both, and that therefore le croix should have the first. the contention was pretty sharp for a time, but the obstinacy of the englishman prevailed. the hunter gave in, and at once lay down straight out with his face to the cliff, and as close to it as he could squeeze. lewis immediately lay down outside of him, and, throwing one arm over his lecroix's broad chest gave him a half-jocular hug that a bear might have enjoyed, and told him to go to sleep. in doing this he dislodged a stone from the outer wall, which went clattering down into the dark gulf. almost immediately the deep, regular breathing of the wearied hunter told that he was already in the land of nod. it was a strange, romantic position; and lewis rejoiced, in the midst of his anxieties, as he lay there wakefully guarding the chamois-hunter while he slept. it appeared to lewis that his companion felt the need of a guardian, for he grasped with both hands the arm which he had thrown round him. how greatly he wished that his friends at chamouni could have even a faint conception of his position that night! what would lawrence have thought of it? and the captain,--how would _he_ have conducted himself in the circumstances? his mother, emma, the count, antoine, gillie, susan--every one had a share in his thoughts, as he lay wakeful and watching on the giddy ledge--and nita, as a great under-current like the sub-glacial rivers, kept flowing continually, and twining herself through all. mingled with these thoughts was the sound of avalanches, which ever and anon broke in upon the still night with a muttering like distant thunder, or with a startling roar as masses of ice tottered over the brinks of the cascades, or boulders loosened by the recent rain lost their hold and involved a host of smaller fry in their fall. twining and tying these thoughts together into a wild entanglement quite in keeping with the place, the youth never for one moment lost the sense of an ever present and imminent danger--he scarce knew what--and the necessity for watchfulness. this feeling culminated when he beheld nita horetzki suddenly appear standing close above him on a most dangerous-looking ledge of rock! uttering a loud cry of alarm he sought to start up, and in so doing sent three-quarters of the protecting wall down the precipice with an appalling rush and rumble. unquestionably he would have followed it if he had not been held by the wrist as if by a vice! "hallo! take care, monsieur," cried le croix, in a quick anxious tone, still holding tightly to his companion's arm. "why! what? le croix--i saw--i--i--saw--well, well--i do really believe i have been--i'm ashamed to say--" "yes, monsieur, you've been asleep," said the hunter, with a quiet laugh, gently letting go his hold of the arm as he became fully persuaded that lewis was by that time quite awake and able to take care of himself. "have you been asleep too?" asked lewis. "truly, no!" replied the hunter, rising with care, "but you have had full three hours of it, so it's my turn now." "you don't say so!" exclaimed lewis. "indeed i do; and now, please, get next the cliff and let me lie outside, so that i may rest with an easy mind." lewis opposed him no longer. he rose, and they both stood up to stamp their feet and belabour their chests for some time--the cold at such a height being intense, while their wet garments and want of covering rendered them peculiarly unfitted to withstand it. the effort was not very successful. the darkness of the night, the narrowness of their ledge, and the sleepiness of their spirits rendering extreme caution necessary. at last the languid blood began to flow; a moderate degree of warmth was restored, and, lying down again side by side in the new position, the hunter and the student sought and found repose. chapter seventeen. danger and death on the glacier. daylight--blessed daylight! how often longed for by the sick and weary! how imperfectly appreciated by those whose chief thoughts and experiences of night are fitly expressed by the couplet:-- "bed, bed, delicious bed, haven of rest for the weary head." daylight came at last, to the intense relief of poor lewis, who had become restless as the interminable night wore on, and the cold seemed to penetrate to his very marrow. although unable to sleep, however, he lay perfectly still, being anxious not to interrupt the rest of his companion. but le croix, like the other, did not sleep soundly; he awoke several times, and, towards morning, began to dream and mutter short sentences. at first lewis paid no attention to this, but at length, becoming weary of his own thoughts, he set himself with a half-amused feeling to listen. the amusement gave place to surprise and to a touch of sadness when he found that the word `gold' frequently dropped from the sleeper's lips. "can it be," he thought, "that this poor fellow is really what they say, a half-crazed gold-hunter? i hope not. it seems nonsensical. i never heard of there being gold in these mountains. yet it may be so, and too much longing after gold is said to turn people crazy. i shouldn't wonder if it did." thoughts are proverbial wanderers, and of a wayward spirit, and not easy of restraint. they are often very honest too, and refuse to flatter. as the youth lay on his back gazing dreamily from that giddy height on the first faint tinge of light that suffused the eastern sky, his thoughts rambled on in the same channel. "strange, that a chamois-hunter should become a gold-hunter. how much more respectable the former occupation, and yet how many gold-hunters there are in the world! gamblers are gold-hunters; and i was a gambler once! aha! mr lewis, the cap once fitted you! fitted, did i say? it fits still. have i not been playing billiards every night nearly since i came here, despite captain wopper's warnings and the lesson i got from poor leven? poor leven indeed! it's little gold that he has, and _i_ robbed him. however, i paid him back, that's one comfort, and my stakes now are mere trifles--just enough to give interest to the game. yet, shame on you, lewie; can't you take interest in a game for its own sake? the smallest coin staked involves the spirit of gambling. you shouldn't do it, my boy, you know that well enough, if you'd only let your conscience speak out. and nita seems not to like it too--ah, nita! she's as good as gold--as good! ten million times better than the finest gold. i wonder why that queer careworn look comes over her angel face when she hears me say that i've been having a game of billiards? i might whisper some flattering things to myself in reference to this, were it not that she seems just as much put out when any one else talks about it. ah, nita!" it is unnecessary to follow the youth's thoughts further, for, having got upon nita, they immediately ceased their wayward wandering practices and remained fixed on that theme. soon afterwards, the light being sufficient the mountaineers rose and continued their descent which was accomplished after much toil and trouble, and they proceeded at a quick pace over the glacier towards the place where the chamois had been left the previous day. "why are you so fond of gold, le croix?" said lewis, abruptly, and in a half-jesting tone, as they walked along. the hunter's countenance flushed deeply, and he turned with a look of severity towards his companion. "who said that i was fond of it?" "a very good friend of mine," replied lewis, with a light laugh. "he can be no friend of mine," returned the hunter, with contracted brows. "i'm not so sure of that," said the other; "at least if you count _yourself_ a friend. you whispered so much about gold in your dreams this morning that i came to the conclusion you were rather fond of it." the expression of the hunter changed completely. there seemed to be a struggle between indignation and sorrow in his breast as he stopped, and, facing his companion, said, with vehemence-- "monsieur, i do not count _myself_ a friend. i have ever found _self_ to be my greatest enemy. the good god knows how hard i have fought against self for years, and how often--oh, how often--i have been beaten down and overcome. god help me. it is a weary struggle." lecroix's countenance and tones changed as rapidly as the cloud-forms on his own mountain peaks. his last words were uttered with the deepest pathos, and his now pale face was turned upward, as if he sought for hope from a source higher than the "everlasting hills." lewis was amazed at the sudden burst of feeling in one who was unusually quiet and sedate, and stood looking at him in silence. "young man," resumed the hunter, in a calmer tone, laying his large brown hand impressively on the youth's shoulder, "you have heard aright. i have loved gold too much. if i had resisted the temptation at the first i might have escaped, but i _shall_ yet be saved, ay, despite of self, for there is a saviour! for years i have sought for gold among these mountains. they tell me it is to be found there, but i have never found it. to-day i intended to have visited yonder yellow cliffs high up on the shoulder of the pass. do you see them?" he pointed eagerly, and a strange gleam was in his blue eyes as he went on to say rapidly, and without waiting for an answer-- "i have not yet been up there. it looks a likely place--a very likely place--but your words have turned me from my purpose. the evil spirit is gone for to-day--perhaps for ever. come," he added, in a tone of firm determination, "we will cross this crevasse and hasten down to the cave." he wrenched himself round while he spoke, as if the hand of some invisible spirit had been holding him, and hurried quickly towards a wide crevasse which crossed their path at that place. "had we not better tie ourselves together before attempting it?" suggested lewis, hastening after him. le croix did not answer, but quickened his pace to a run. "not there!" exclaimed lewis, in sudden alarm. "it is almost too wide for a leap, and the snow on the other side overhangs. stop! for god's sake--not there!" he rushed forward, but was too late. le croix was already on the brink of the chasm; next moment, with a tremendous bound, he cleared it, and alighted on the snow beyond. his weight snapped off the mass, his arms were thrown wildly aloft, and, with a shout, rather than a cry, he fell headlong into the dark abyss! horror-stricken, unable to move or cry out lewis stood on the edge. from far down in the blue depths of the crevasse there arose a terrible sound, as if of a heavy blow. it was followed by the familiar rattling of masses of falling ice, which seemed to die away in the profound heart of the glacier. the "weary struggle" had come to an end at last. the chamois-hunter had found a tomb, like too many, alas! of his bold-hearted countrymen, among those great fields of ice, over which he had so often sped with sure foot and cool head in days gone by. lewis was as thoroughly convinced that his late comrade was dead, as if he had seen his mangled corpse before him, but with a sort of passionate unbelief he refused to admit the fact. he stood perfectly motionless, as if transfixed and frozen, in the act of bending over the crevasse. he listened intently and long for a sound which yet he knew could never come. an oppressive, sickening silence reigned around him, which he suddenly broke with a great and terrible cry, as, recovering from his stupor, he hurried wildly to and fro, seeking for some slope by which he might descend to the rescue of his friend. vainly he sought. both walls of the crevasse were sheer precipices of clear ice. at one spot, indeed, he found a short slope, and, madly seizing his axe, he cut foot-holds down it, descending, quite regardless of danger, until the slope became too perpendicular to admit of farther progress. struck then with alarm for himself, he returned cautiously to the top, while beads of cold perspiration stood on his pale brow. a few minutes more, and he became sufficiently calm to realise the fact that poor le croix was indeed beyond all hope. as the truth was forced into his heart he covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly. it was long ere the passionate burst of feeling subsided. lewis was very impressionable, and his young heart recoiled in agony from such a shock. although the hunter had been to him nothing but a pleasant guide, he now felt as if he had lost a friend. when his mind was capable of connected thought he dwelt on the unfortunate man's kindly, modest, and bold disposition, and especially on the incidents of the previous night, when they two had lain side by side like brothers on their hard couch. at last he rose, and, with a feeling of dead weight crushing his spirit began to think of continuing his descent. he felt that, although there was no hope of rescuing life, still no time should be lost in rousing the guides of chamouni and recovering, if possible, the remains. other thoughts now came upon him with a rush. he was still high up among the great cliffs, and alone! the vale of chamouni was still far distant, and he was bewildered as to his route, for, in whatever direction he turned, nothing met his eye save wildly-riven glaciers or jagged cliffs and peaks. he stood in the midst of a scene of savage grandeur, which corresponded somewhat with his feelings. his knowledge of ice-craft, if we may use the expression, was by that time considerable, but he felt that it was not sufficient for the work that lay before him; besides, what knowledge he possessed could not make up for the want of a companion and a rope, while, to add to his distress, weakness, resulting partly from hunger, began to tell on him. perhaps it was well that such thoughts interfered with those that unmanned him, for they served to rouse his spirit and nerve him to exertion. feeling that his life, under god, depended on the wisdom, vigour, and promptitude of his actions during the next few hours, he raised his eyes upward for a moment, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, asked help and guidance of his creator, with the feeling strong upon him that help and guidance were sorely needed. almost at the commencement of his descent an event occurred which taught him the necessity of extreme caution. this was the slipping of his axe. he had left the fatal crevasse only a few hundred yards behind him, when he came to a fracture in the ice that rendered it impossible to advance in that direction any longer; he therefore turned aside, but was met by a snow slope which terminated in another yawning crevasse. while standing on the top of this, endeavouring to make up his mind as to the best route to be followed, he chanced to swing his axe carelessly and let it fall. instantly it turned over the edge, and shot like an arrow down the slope. he was ice-man enough to know that the loss of his axe in such circumstances was equivalent to the signing of his death-warrant and his face flushed with the gush of feeling that resulted from the accident. fortunately, the head of the weapon caught on a lamp of ice just at the edge of the crevasse, and the handle hung over it. something akin to desperation now took possession of the youth. the slope _was_ far too steep to slide down. not having his axe, it was impossible to cut the necessary steps. in any case it was excessively dangerous, for, although the snow was not new, it lay on such an incline that the least weight on it might set it in motion, in which case inevitable death would have been the result. the case was too critical to admit of delay or thought. at all hazards the axe must be recovered. he therefore lay down with his face to the slope, and began to kick foot-holds with the toe of his boots. it was exceedingly slow and laborious work, for he dared not to kick with all his force, lest he should lose his balance, and, indeed, he only retained it by thrusting both arms firmly into the upper holes and fixing one foot deep in a lower hole, while with the other he cautiously kicked each new step in succession. at last, after toiling steadily thus for two hours, he regained his axe. the grip with which he seized the handle, and the tender feeling with which he afterwards laid it on his shoulder, created in him a new idea as to the strange affection with which man can be brought to regard inanimate objects, and the fervency with which he condemned his former flippancy, and vowed never more to go out on the high alps alone, formed a striking commentary on the adage, "experience teaches fools!" for some time after this lewis advanced with both speed and caution. at each point of vantage that he reached he made a rapid and careful survey of all the ground before him, decided on the exact route which he should take, as far as the eye could range, and then refused every temptation to deviate from it save when insurmountable obstacles presented themselves in the shape of unbridged crevasses or sheer ice-precipices. such obstacles were painfully numerous, but by indomitable perseverance, and sometimes by a desperate venture, he overcame them. once he got involved in a succession of crevasses which ran into each other, so that he found himself at last walking on the edge of a wedge of ice not a foot broad, with unfathomable abysses on either side. the wedge terminated at last in a thin edge with a deep crevasse beyond. he was about to retrace his steps--for the tenth time in that place--when it struck him that if he could only reach the other side of the crevasse on his right, he might gain a level patch of ice that appeared to communicate with the sounder part of the glacier beyond. he paused and drew his breath. it was not much of a leap. in ordinary circumstances he could have bounded over it like a chamois, but he was weak now from hunger and fatigue; besides which, the wedge on which he stood was rotten, and might yield to his bound, while the opposite edge seemed insecure and might fail him, like the mass that had proved fatal to le croix. he felt the venture to be desperate, but the way before him was yet very long, and the day was declining. screwing up his courage he sprang over, and a powerful shudder shook his frame when he alighted safe on the other side. farther down the glacier he came to a level stretch, and began to walk with greater speed, neglecting for a little the precaution of driving the end of his axe-handle into the snow in front at each step. the result was, that he stepped suddenly on the snow that concealed a narrow crevasse. it sank at once, sending something like a galvanic shock through his frame. the shock effected what his tired muscles might have failed to accomplish. it caused him to fling himself backward with cat-like agility, and thus he escaped narrowly. it is needless to say that thereafter he proceeded with a degree of care and caution that might have done credit even to a trained mountaineer. at last lewis found it necessary to quit the glacier and scale the mountains by way of a pass which led into the gorge from which he hoped to reach the vale of chamouni. he was in great perplexity here, for, the aspect of the country being unfamiliar to his eye, he feared that he must have lost his way. nothing but decision, however, and prompt action could serve him now. to have vacillated or retraced part of his steps, would have involved his spending a second night among the icy solitudes without shelter; and this he felt, fatigued and fasting as he was, would have been quite beyond his powers of endurance. he therefore crossed the bergschrund, or crevasse between the glacier and the cliffs, on a snow-bridge, faced the mountain-side once more, and, toiling upwards, reached the summit of the pass a little before sunset. fortunately the weather continued fine, and the country below appeared much less rugged than that over which he had passed, but he had not yet got clear of difficulties. just below him lay the longest ice-slope, or couloir, he had hitherto encountered. the snow had been completely swept off its surface, and it bore evidence of being the channel down which rushed the boulders and obelisks of ice that strewed the plain below. to reach that plain by any other route would have involved a circuit of unknown extent. the risk was great but the danger of delay was greater. he swung the heavy axe round his head, and began at once the tedious process of cutting steps. being an apt scholar, he had profited well from the lessons taught by le croix and others. quick, yet measured and firm, was each stroke. a forced calmness rested on his face, for, while the ice-blocks above, apparently nodding to their fall, warned him to make haste, the fear of slipping a foot, or losing balance, compelled him to be very cautious. in such a case, a rope round the waist and a friend above would have been of inestimable value. when about two-thirds of the way down, the exhausted youth was forced to stop for a few seconds to rest. just then several pieces of ice, the size of a man's head, rushed down the couloir and dashed close past him. they served to show the usual direction of an avalanche. fearing they were the prelude to something worse, he quickly cut his way to the side of the couloir. he was not a moment too soon. glancing up in alarm, he saw the foundations of one of the largest ice-masses give way. the top bent over slowly at first, then fell forward with a crash and broke into smaller fragments, which dashed like lightning down the slope, leaping from side to side, and carrying huge rocks and masses of _debris_ to the plain with horrible din. poor lewis felt his spirit and his body shrink. he had, however, chosen his position well. nothing save a cloud of dust and snow reached him, but the part of the slope down which he had passed was swept clean as with the besom of destruction. it was an awful ordeal for one so young and inexperienced, for the risk had to be encountered again. "the sooner the better," thought he, and immediately swayed aloft his axe again, lifting, as he did so, his heart to his maker for the second time that day. a few minutes more, and he stood at the foot of the couloir. without a moment's pause he hurried on, and finally reached the lower slopes of the mountains. here, to his inexpressible joy and thankfulness, he fell in with a sheep-track, and, following it up, was soon on the high-road of the valley. but it was not till far on in the night that he reached chamouni, scarce able to drag himself along. he went straight to the bureau of guides, where a profound sensation was created by the sad tidings which he brought. antoine grennon happened to be there, and to him lewis told his sad tale, at the same time eagerly suggesting that an immediate search should be made for the body, and offering to go back at once to guide them to the scene of the accident. antoine looked earnestly in the youth's face. "ah, monsieur," he said, shaking his head, "you are not fit to guide any one to-night. besides, i know the place well. if poor le croix has fallen into that crevasse, he is now past all human aid." "but why not start at once?" said lewis, anxiously, "if there is but the merest vestige of a chance--" "there is no chance, monsieur, if your description is correct; besides, no man could find the spot in a dark night. but rest assured that we will not fail to do our duty to our comrade. a party will start off within an hour, proceed as far as is possible during the night, and, at the first gleam of day, we will push up the mountains. we need no one to guide us, but you need rest. go, in the morning you may be able to follow us." we need scarcely say that the search was unavailing. the body of the unfortunate hunter was never recovered. in all probability it still lies entombed in the ice of the great glacier. chapter eighteen. a mystery cleared up. "is nita unwell, emma?" asked lewis early one morning, not long after the sad event narrated in the last chapter. "i think not. she is merely depressed, as we all are, by the melancholy death of poor le croix." "i can well believe it," returned lewis. "nevertheless, it seems to me that her careworn expression and deep despondency cannot be accounted for by that event." "you know that her father left last week very suddenly," said emma. "perhaps there may be domestic affairs that weigh heavily on her. i know not, for she never refers to her family or kindred. the only time i ventured to do so she appeared unhappy, and quickly changed the subject." the cousins were sauntering near their hotel and observed dr lawrence hurry from the front door. "hallo! lawrence," called out lewis. "ah! the very man i want," exclaimed the doctor, hastening to join them, "do you know that miss horetzki is ill?" "how strange that we should just this moment have referred to her looking ill! not seriously ill, i trust," said emma, with a troubled look in her sympathetic eyes. "i hope not, but her case puzzles me more than any that i have yet met with. i fancy it may be the result of an overstrained nervous system, but there appears no present cause for that. she evidently possesses a vigorous constitution, and every one here is kind to her--her father particularly so. even if she were in love, which she doesn't seem to be (a faint twinkle in the doctor's eye here), that would not account for her condition." "i can't help thinking," observed lewis, with a troubled look, "that her father is somehow the cause of her careworn looks. no doubt he is very kind to her in public, but may there not be a very different state of things behind the scenes?" "i think not. the count's temper is gentle, and his sentiments are good. if he were irascible there might be something behind the scenes, for when restraint is removed and temper gets headway, good principles may check but cannot always prevent unkindness. now, emma, i have sought you and lewis to ask for counsel. i do not say that nita is seriously ill, but she is ill enough to cause those who love her--as i know you do--some anxiety. it is very evident to me, from what she says, that she eagerly desires her father to be with her, and yet when i suggest that he should be sent for, she nervously declines to entertain the proposal. if this strange state of mind is allowed to go on, it will aggravate the feverish attack from which she now suffers. i wish, therefore, to send for the count without letting her know. do you think this a wise step?" "undoubtedly; but why ask such a question of me?" said emma, with a look of surprise. "first, because you are nita's friend--not perhaps, a friend of long standing, but, if i mistake not, a very loving one; and, secondly, as well as chiefly, because i want you to find out from her where her father is at present, and let me know." "there is something disagreeably underhand in such a proceeding," objected emma. "you know that a doctor is, or ought to be, considered a sort of pope," returned lawrence. "i absolve you from all guilt by assuring you that there is urgent need for pursuing the course i suggest." "well, i will at all events do what i can to help you," said emma. "shall i find her in her own room?" "yes, in bed, attended, with mrs stoutley's permission, by susan quick. get rid of the maid before entering on the subject." in a few minutes emma returned to the doctor, who still walked up and down in earnest conversation with lewis. she had succeeded, she said, in persuading nita to let her father be sent for, and the place to which he had gone for a few days was saxon, in the rhone valley. the count's address had also been obtained, but nita had stipulated that the messenger should on no account disturb her father by entering the house, but should send for him and wait outside. "strange prohibition!" exclaimed lawrence. "however, we must send off a messenger without delay." "stay," said lewis, detaining his friend; "there seems to be delicacy as well as mystery connected with this matter, you must therefore allow me to be the messenger." lawrence had no objection to the proposal, and in less than an hour lewis, guided by antoine grennon, was on the road to martigny by way of the celebrated pass of the tete-noire. the guide was one of nature's gentlemen. although low in the social scale, and trained in a rugged school, he possessed that innate refinement of sentiment and feeling--a gift of god sometimes transmitted through a gentle mother--which makes a true gentleman. among men of the upper ranks this refinement of soul may be counterfeited by the superficial polish of manners; among those who stand lower in the social scale it cannot be counterfeited at all, but still less can it be concealed. as broadcloth can neither make nor mar a true gentleman, so fustian cannot hide one. if antoine grennon had been bred "at court," and arrayed in sumptuous apparel, he could not have been more considerate than he was of the feelings and wishes of others, or more gentle, yet manly, in his demeanour. if, on an excursion, you wished to proceed in a certain direction, antoine never suggested that you should go in another, unless there were insurmountable difficulties in the way. if you chanced to grow weary, you could not have asked antoine to carry your top-coat, because he would have observed your condition and anticipated your wishes. if you had been inclined to talk he would have chatted away by the hour on every subject that came within the range of his knowledge, and if you had taken him beyond his depth, he would have listened by the hour with profound respect, obviously pleased, and attempting to understand you. yet he would not have "bored" you. he possessed great tact. he would have allowed you to lead the conversation, and when you ceased to do so he would have stopped. he never looked sulky or displeased. he never said unkind things, though he often said and did kind ones, and, with all that, was as independent in his opinions as the whistling wind among his native glaciers. in fact he was a prince among guides, and a pre-eminently unselfish man. heigho! if all the world--you and i, reader, included--bore a stronger resemblance to antoine grennon, we should have happy times of it. well, well, don't let us sigh despairingly because of our inability to come up to the mark. it is some comfort that there are not a few such men about us to look up to as exemplars. we know several such, both men and women, among our own friends. let's be thankful for them. it does us good to think of them! from what we have said, the reader will not be surprised to hear that, after the first words of morning salutation, lewis stoutley walked smartly along the high road leading up the valley of chamouni in perfect silence, with antoine trudging like a mute by his side. lewis was too busy with his thoughts to speak at first. nita's illness, and the mystery connected somehow with the count, afforded food not only for meditation, but anxiety, and it was not until the town lay far behind them that he looked at his guide, and said:-- "the route over the tete-noire is very grand, i am told?" "very grand, monsieur--magnificent!" "you are well acquainted with it, doubtless?" "yes; i have passed over it hundreds of times. does monsieur intend to make a divergence to the col de balme?" "no; i have urgent business on hand, and must push on to catch the railway. would the divergence you speak of take up much time? is the col de balme worth going out of one's way to see?" "it is well worthy of a visit," said the guide, replying to the last query first, "as you can there have a completely uninterrupted view--one of the very finest views of mont blanc, and all its surroundings. the time required for the divergence is little more than two hours; with monsieur's walking powers perhaps not so much; besides, there is plenty of time, as we shall reach martigny much too soon for the train." "in that case we shall make the detour," said lewis. "are the roads difficult?" "no; quite easy. it is well that monsieur dispensed with a mule, as we shall be more independent; and a mule is not so quick in its progress as an active man." while they chatted thus, walking at a quick pace up the valley, antoine, observing that his young charge was now in a conversational frame of mind, commented on the magnificent scenery, and drew attention to points of interest as they came into view. their route at first lay in the low ground by the banks of the river arve, which rushed along, wild and muddy, as if rejoicing in its escape from the superincumbent glaciers that gave it birth. the great peaks of the mont blanc range hemmed them in on the right, the slopes of the brevent on the left. passing the village of argentiere with rapid strides, and pausing but a few moments to look at the vast glacier of the same name which pours into the valley the ice-floods gendered among the heights around the aiguille verte and the aiguille du chardonnet, which rise respectively to a height of above , and , feet they reached the point where the tete-noire route diverged to the left at that time, in the form of a mere bridle-path, and pushed forward towards the col, or pass. on the way, antoine pointed out heaps of slabs of black slate. these, he said, were collected by the peasants, who, in spring, covered their snow-clad fields with them; the sun, heating the slabs, caused the snow beneath to melt rapidly; and thus, by a very simple touch of art, they managed to wrest from nature several weeks that would otherwise have been lost! as they rose into the higher grounds, heaps and rude pillars of stone were observed. these were the landmarks which guided travellers through that region when it was clad in its wintry robe of deep snow, and all paths obliterated. at last they stood on the col de balme. there was a solitary inn there, but antoine turned aside from it and led his companion a mile or so to one side, to a white stone, which marked the boundary between switzerland and france. it is vain to attempt in words a description of scenes of grandeur. ink, at the best, is impotent in such matters; even paint fails to give an adequate idea. we can do no more than run over a list of names. from this commanding point of view mont blanc is visible in all his majesty--vast, boundless, solemn, incomprehensible--with his aiguilles de tour, d'argentiere, verte, du dru, de charmoz, du midi, etcetera, around him; his white head in the clouds, his glacial drapery rolling into the vale of chamouni, his rocks and his pine-clad slopes toned down by distance into fine shadows. on the other side of the vale rise the steeps of the aiguilles rouges and the brevent. to the north towers the croix de fer, and to the north-east is seen the entire chain of the bernese alps, rising like a mighty white leviathan, with a bristling back of pinnacles. splendid though the view was, however, lewis did not for a moment forget his mission. allowing himself only a few minutes to drink it in, he hastened back to the tete-noire path, and soon found himself traversing a widely different scene. on the col he had, as it were, stood aloof, and looked abroad on a vast and glorious region; now, he was involved in its rocky, ridgy, woody details. here and there long vistas opened up to view, but, for the most part, his vision was circumscribed by towering cliffs and deep ravines. sometimes he was down in the bottom of mountain valleys, at other times walking on ledges so high on the precipice-faces, that cottages in the vales below seemed little bigger than sheep. now the country was wooded and soft; anon it was barren and rocky, but never tame or uninteresting. at one place, where the narrow gorge was strewn with huge boulders, antoine pointed out a spot where two swiss youths had been overwhelmed by an avalanche. it had come down from the red gorges of the aiguilles rouges, at a spot where the vale, or pass, was comparatively wide. perhaps its width had induced the hapless lads to believe themselves quite safe from anything descending on the other side of the valley. if so, they were mistaken; the dreadful rush of rock and wrack swept the entire plain, and buried them in the ruin. towards evening the travellers reached martigny in good time for the train, which speedily conveyed them to saxon. this town is the only one in switzerland--the only one, indeed, in europe with the exception of monaco--which possesses that great blight on civilisation, a public gambling-table. that the blight is an unusually terrible one may be assumed from the fact that every civilised european nation has found it absolutely necessary to put such places down with a strong hand. at the time lewis stoutley visited the town, however, it was not so singular in its infamy as it now is. he was ignorant of everything about the place save its name. going straight to the first hotel that presented itself, he inquired for the count horetzki. the count he was told, did not reside there; perhaps he was at the casino. to the casino lewis went at once. it was an elegant swiss building, the promenade of which was crowded with visitors. the strains of music fell sweetly on the youth's ear as he approached. leaving antoine outside, he entered, and repeated his inquiries for the count. they did not know the count, was the reply, but if monsieur would enter the rooms perhaps he might find him. lewis, remembering the expressed desire of nita, hesitated, but as no one seemed inclined to attend to his inquiries, beyond a civil reply that nothing was known about the count he entered, not a little surprised at the difficulty thrown in his way. the appearance of the salon into which he was ushered at once explained the difficulty, and at the same time sent a sudden gleam of light into his mind. crowds of ladies and gentlemen--some eager, some anxious, others flippant or dogged, and a good many quite calm and cool-- surrounded the brilliantly-lighted gaming tables. every one seemed to mind only his own business, and each man's business may be said to have been the fleecing of his neighbour to the utmost of his power--not by means of skill or wisdom, but by means of mere chance, and through the medium of professional gamblers and rouge-et-noir. with a strange fluttering at his heart, for he remembered his own weakness, lewis hurried forward and glanced quickly at the players. almost the first face he saw was that of the count. but what a changed countenance! instead of the usual placid smile, and good-humoured though sad expression about the eyes, there was a terrible look of intense fixed anxiety, with deep-knotted lines on his brow, and a horribly drawn look about the mouth. "make your play, gentlemen," said the presiding genius of the tables, as he spun round the board on the action of which so much depended. the count had already laid his stake on the table, and clutched his rake with such violence as almost to snap the handle. other players had also placed their stakes, some with cool calculating precision, a few with nervous uncertainty, many with apparent indifference. with the exception of the count and a lady near him, however, there was little of what might indicate very strong feeling on any countenance. one young and pretty girl, after placing her little pile of silver, stood awaiting the result with calm indifference-- possibly assumed. whatever might be the thoughts or feelings of the players, there was nothing but business-like gravity stamped on the countenances of the four men who presided over the revolving board, each with neatly-arranged rows of silver five-franc pieces in front of him, and a wooden rake lying ready to hand. each player also had a rake, with which he or she pushed the coins staked upon a certain space of the table, or on one of the dividing lines, which gave at least a varied, if not a better, chance. the process of play was short and sharp. for a few seconds the board spun, the players continuing to place, or increase, or modify the arrangement of the stakes up to nearly the last moment. as the board revolved more slowly a pea fell into a hole--red or black--and upon this the fate of each hung. a notable event, truly, on which untold millions of money have changed hands, innumerable lives have been sacrificed, and unspeakable misery and crime produced in days gone by! the decision of the pea--if we may so express it--was quietly stated, and to an ignorant spectator it seemed as if the guardians of the table raked all the stakes into their own maws. but here and there, like white rocks in a dark sea, several little piles were left untouched. to the owners of these a number of silver pieces were tossed--tossed so deftly that we might almost say it rained silver on those regions of the table. no wizard of legerdemain ever equalled the sleight of hand with which these men pitched, reckoned, manipulated, and raked in silver pieces! the count's pile remained untouched, and a bright flush suffused his hitherto pale cheeks while the silver rain was falling on his square, but to the surprise of lewis, he did not rake it towards him as did the others. he left the increased amount on exactly the same spot, merely drawing it gently together with his rake. as he did so the knotted haggard look returned to his once again bloodless brow and face. not less precise and silent were his companions. the board again spun round; the inexorable pea fell; the raking and raining were repeated, and again the count's stake lay glittering before him. his eyes glittered even more brightly than the silver. lewis concluded that he must have been brought down to desperate poverty, and meant to recover himself by desperate means, for he left the whole stake again on the same spot. this time the pea fell into black. the colour was symbolic of the count's feelings, for next moment the silver heap was raked from before him, along with other heaps, as if nothing unusual had happened; and, in truth, nothing had. wholesale ruin and robbery was the daily occupation there! for a few seconds the count gazed at the blank space before him with an expression of stony unbelief; then springing suddenly to his feet, he spurned his chair from him and rushed from the room. so quick was the movement, that he had reached the door and passed out before lewis could stop him. springing after him with a feeling of great alarm, the youth dashed across the entrance-hall, but turned in the wrong direction. being put right by a porter, he leaped through the doorway and looked for antoine, who, he knew, must have seen the count pass, but antoine was not there. as he quickly questioned one who stood near, he thought he saw a man running among the adjacent shrubbery. he could not be sure, the night being dark, but he promptly ran after him. on dashing round a turn in the gravel-walk, he found two men engaged in what appeared to be a deadly struggle. suddenly the place was illumined by a red flash, a loud report followed, and one of the two fell. "ah! monsieur," exclaimed antoine, as lewis came forward, "aid me here; he is not hurt, i think." "hurt! do you mean that he tried to shoot himself?" "he had not time to try, but i'm quite sure that he meant to," said antoine; "so i ran after him and caught his hand. the pistol exploded in the struggle." as the guide spoke, the count rose slowly. the star-light was faint, but it sufficed to show that the stony look of despair was gone, and that the gentle expression, natural to him, had returned. he was deadly pale, and bowed his head as one overwhelmed with shame. "oh pardon, monsieur!" exclaimed poor antoine, as he thought of the roughness with which he had been compelled to treat him. "i did not mean to throw you." "you did not throw me, friend. i tripped and fell," replied the count, in a low, husky voice. "mr stoutley," he added, turning to lewis, "by what mischance you came here i know not but i trust that you were not-- were not--present. i mean--do you know the cause of my conduct--this--" he stopped abruptly. "my dear sir," said lewis, in a low, kind voice, at the same time grasping the count's hand, and leading him aside, "i was in the rooms; i saw you there; but believe me when i assure you, that no feeling but that of sympathy can touch the heart of one who has been involved in the meshes of the same net." the count's manner changed instantly. he returned the grasp of the young man, and looked eagerly in his face, as he repeated-- "_has_ been involved! how, then, did you escape?" "i'm not sure that i _have_ escaped," answered lewis, sadly. "not sure! oh, young man, _make_ sure. give no rest to your soul till you are quite sure. it is a dreadful net--terrible! when once wrapped tightly round one there is no escape--no escape. in this it resembles its sister passion--the love of strong drink." the count spoke with such deep pathos, and in tones so utterly hopeless, that lewis's ready sympathies were touched, and he would have given anything to be able to comfort his friend, but never before having been called upon to act as a comforter, he felt sorely perplexed. "call it not a passion," he said. "the love of gaming, as of drink, is a disease; and a disease may be cured--has been cured, even when desperate." the count shook his head. "you speak in ignorance, mr stoutley. you know nothing of the struggles i have made. it is impossible." "with god _all_ things are possible," replied lewis, quoting, almost to his own surprise, a text of scripture. "but forgive my delay," he added; "i came here on purpose to look for you. your daughter nita is ill--not seriously ill, i believe," he said, on observing the count's startled look, "but ill enough to warrant your being sent for." "i know--i know," cried the count, with a troubled look, as he passed his hand across his brow. "i might have expected it. she cannot sustain the misery i have brought on her. oh! why was i prevented from freeing her from such a father. is she very ill? did she send for me? did she tell you what i am?" the excited manner and wild aspect of the gambler, more than the words, told of a mind almost, if not altogether, unhinged. observing this with some anxiety, lewis tried to soothe him. while leading him to an hotel, he explained the nature of nita's attack as well as he could, and said that she had not only refrained from saying anything about her father, but that she seemed excessively unwilling to reveal the name of the place to which he had gone, or to send for him. "no one knows anything unfavourable about count horetzki," said lewis, in a gentle tone, "save his fellow-sinner, who now assures him of his sincere regard. as for antoine grennon, he is a wise, and can be a silent, man. no brother could be more tender of the feelings of others than he. come, you will consent to be my guest to-night. you are unwell; i shall be your amateur physician. my treatment and a night of rest will put you all right, and to-morrow, by break of day, we will hie back to chamouni over the tete-noire." chapter nineteen. mountaineering in general. a week passed away, during which nita was confined to bed, and the count waited on her with the most tender solicitude. as their meals were sent to their rooms, it was not necessary for the latter to appear in the _salle-a-manger_ or the _salon_. he kept himself carefully out of sight, and intelligence of the invalid's progress was carried to their friends by susan quick, who was allowed to remain as sick-nurse, and who rejoiced in filling that office to one so amiable and uncomplaining as nita. of course, lewis was almost irresistibly tempted to talk with susan about her charge, but he felt the impropriety of such a proceeding, and refrained. not so gillie white. that sapient blue spider, sitting in his wonted chair, resplendent with brass buttons and brazen impudence, availed himself of every opportunity to perform an operation which he styled "pumping;" but susan, although ready enough to converse freely on things in general, was judicious in regard to things particular. whatever might have passed in the sick-room, the pumping only brought up such facts as that the count was a splendid nurse as well as a loving father, and that he and his daughter were tenderly attached to each other. "well, susan," observed gillie, with an approving nod, "i'm glad to hear wot you say, for it's my b'lief that tender attachments is the right sort o' thing. i've got one or two myself." "indeed!" said susan, "who for, i wonder?" "w'y, for one," replied the spider, "i've had a wery tender attachment to my mother ever since that blessed time w'en i was attached to her buzzum in the rampagin' hunger of infancy. then i've got another attachment--not quite so old, but wery strong, oh uncommon powerful--for a young lady named susan quick. d'you happen to know her?" "oh, gillie, you're a sad boy," said susan. "well, i make a pint never to contradict a 'ooman, believin' it to be dangerous," returned gillie, "but i can't say that i _feel_ sad. i'm raither jolly than otherwise." a summons from the sick-room cut short the conversation. during the week in question it had rained a good deal, compelling the visitors at chamouni to pass the time in-doors with books, billiards, draughts, and chess. towards the end of the week lewis met the count and discovered that he was absolutely destitute of funds--did not, in fact possess enough to defray the hotel expenses. "mother," said lewis, during a private audience in her bed-chamber the same evening, "i want twenty pounds from you." "certainly, my boy; but why do you come to me? you know that dr lawrence has charge of and manages my money. how i wish there were no such thing as money, and no need for it!" mrs stoutley finished her remark with her usual languid smile and pathetic sigh, but if her physician, dr tough, had been there, he would probably have noted that mountain-air had robbed the smile of half its languor, and the sigh of nearly all its pathos. there was something like seriousness, too, in the good lady's eye. she had been impressed more than she chose to admit by the sudden death of le croix, whom she had frequently seen, and whose stalwart frame and grave countenance she had greatly admired. besides this, one or two accidents had occurred since her arrival in the swiss valley; for there never passes a season without the occurrence of accidents more or less serious in the alps. on one occasion the news had been brought that a young lady, recently married, whose good looks had been the subject of remark more than once, was killed by falling rocks before her husband's eyes. on another occasion the spirits of the tourists were clouded by the report that a guide had fallen into a crevasse, and, though not killed, was much injured. mrs stoutley chanced to meet the rescue-party returning slowly to the village, with the poor shattered frame of the fine young fellow on a stretcher. it is one thing to read of such events in the newspapers. it is another and a very different thing to be near or to witness them--to be in the actual presence of physical and mental agony. antoine grennon, too, had made a favourable impression on mrs stoutley; and when, in passing one day his extremely humble cottage, she was invited by antoine's exceedingly pretty wife to enter and partake of bread and milk largely impregnated with cream, which was handed to her by antoine's excessively sweet blue-eyed daughter, the lady who had hitherto spent her life among the bright ice-pinnacles of society, was forced to admit to emma gray that dr tough was right when he said there were some beautiful and precious stones to be found among the moraines of social life. "i know that lawrence keeps the purse," said lewis, "but i want your special permission to take this money, because i intend to give it away." "twenty pounds is a pretty large gift, lewis," said his mother, raising her eyebrows. "who is it that has touched the springs of your liberality? not the family of poor le croix?" "no; le croix happily leaves no family. he was an unmarried man. i must not tell you, just yet, mother. trust me, it shall be well bestowed; besides, i ask it as a loan. it shall be refunded." "don't talk of refunding money to your mother, foolish boy. go; you may have it." lewis kissed his mother's cheek and thanked her. he quickly found the count, but experienced considerable difficulty in persuading him to accept the money. however, by delicacy of management and by assuming, as a matter of course, that it was a loan, to be repaid when convenient, he prevailed. the count made an entry of the loan in his notebook, with lewis's london address, and they parted with a kindly shake of the hand, little imagining that they had seen each other on earth for the last time. on the monday following, a superb day opened on the vale of chamouni, such a day as, through the medium of sight and scent, is calculated to gladden the heart of man and beast. that the beasts enjoyed it was manifest from the pleasant sounds that they sent, gushing, like a hymn of thanksgiving--and who shall say it was not!--into the bright blue sky. birds carolled on the shrubs and in the air; cats ventured abroad with hair erect and backs curved, to exchange greetings with each other in wary defiance of dogs; kittens sprawled in the sunshine, and made frantic efforts to achieve the impossible feat of catching their own shadows, varying the pastime with more successful, though arduous, attempts at their own tails; dogs bounded and danced, chiefly on their hind legs, round their loved companion man (including woman); juvenile dogs chased, tumbled over, barked at, and gnawed each other with amiable fury, wagging their various tails with a vigour that suggested a desire to shake them off; tourist men and boys moved about with a decision that indicated the having of particular business on hand; tourist women and girls were busily engaged with baskets and botanical boxes, or flitted hither and thither in climbing costume with obtrusive alpenstocks, as though a general attack on mont blanc and all his satellite aiguilles were meditated. among these were our friends the professor, captain wopper, emma gray, slingsby, lewis, and lawrence, under the guidance of antoine grennon. strange to say they were all a little dull, notwithstanding the beauty of the weather, and the pleasant anticipation of a day on the hills--not a hard, toilsome day, with some awful alpine summit as its aim, but what lewis termed a jolly day, a picnicky day, to be extended into night, and to include any place, or to be cut short or extended according to whim. the professor was dull, because, having to leave, this was to be his last excursion; captain wopper was dull, because his cherished matrimonial hopes were being gradually dissipated. he could not perceive that lawrence was falling in love with emma, or emma with lawrence. the utmost exertion of sly diplomacy of which he was capable, short of straightforward advice, had failed to accomplish anything towards the desirable end. emma was dull, because her friend nita, although recovering, was still far from well. slingsby was dull for the same reason, and also because he felt his passion to be hopeless. lewis was dull because he knew nita's circumstances to be so very sad; and lawrence was dull because--well, we are not quite sure why _he_ was dull. he was rather a self-contained fellow, and couldn't be easily understood. of the whole party, antoine alone was _not_ dull. nothing could put him in that condition, but, seeing that the others were so, he was grave, quiet attentive. some of the excursionists had left at a much earlier hour. four strapping youths, with guides, had set out for the summit of mont blanc; a mingled party of ladies, gentlemen, guides, and mules, were on the point of starting to visit the mer de glace; a delicate student, unable for long excursions, was preparing to visit with his sister, the glacier des bossons. others were going, or had gone, to the source of the arveiron, and to the brevent, while the british peer, having previously been conducted by a new and needlessly difficult path to the top of monte rosa, was led off by his persecutor to attempt, by an impossible route, to scale the matterhorn--to reach the main-truck, as captain wopper put it, by going down the stern-post along the keel, over the bobstay, up the flyin' jib, across the foretopmast-stay, and up the maintop-gallant halyards. this at least was lewis stoutley's report of the captain's remark. we cannot answer for its correctness. but nothing can withstand the sweet influences of fresh mountain-air and sunshine. in a short time "dull care" was put to flight and when our party--emma being on a mule--reached the neighbouring heights, past and future were largely forgotten in the enjoyment of the present. besides being sunny and bright, the day was rather cool, so that, after dismissing the mule, and taking to the glaciers and ice-slope, the air was found to be eminently suitable for walking. "it's a bad look-out," murmured captain wopper, when he observed that dr lawrence turned deliberately to converse with the professor, leaving lewis to assist emma to alight, even although he, the captain, had, by means of laboured contrivance and vast sagacity, brought the doctor and the mule into close juxtaposition at the right time. however, the captain's temperament was sanguine. he soon forgot his troubles in observing the curious position assumed by slingsby on the first steep slope of rocky ground they had to descend, for descents as well as ascents were frequent at first. the artist walked on all-fours, but with his back to the hill instead of his face, his feet thus being in advance. "what sort of an outside-in fashion is that, slingsby?" asked the captain, when they had reached the bottom. "it's a way i have of relieving my knees," said slingsby; "try it." "thank 'ee; no," returned the captain. "it don't suit my pecooliar build; it would throw too much of my weight amidships." "you've no idea," said slingsby, "what a comfort it is to a man whose knees suffer in descending. i'd rather go up twenty mountains than descend one. this plan answers only on steep places, and is but a temporary relief. still that is something at the end of a long day." the artist exemplified his plan at the next slope. the captain tried it, but, as he expressed it, broke in two at the waist and rolled down the slope, to the unspeakable delight of his friends. "i fear you will find this rather severe?" said the professor to emma, during a pause in a steep ascent. "oh no; i am remarkably strong," replied emma, smiling. "i was in switzerland two years ago, and am quite accustomed to mountaineering." "yes," remarked lawrence, "and miss gray on that occasion, i am told, ascended to the top of the dent du midi, which you know is between ten and eleven thousand feet high; and she also, during the same season, walked from champery to sixt which is a good day's journey, so we need have no anxiety on her account." although the doctor smiled as he spoke, he also glanced at emma with a look of admiration. captain wopper noted the glance and was comforted. at luncheon, however, the doctor seated himself so that the professor's bulky person came between him and emma. the captain noted that also, and was depressed. what between elation and depression, mingled with fatigue and victuals, the captain ultimately became recklessly jovial. "what are yonder curious things?" asked emma, pointing to so me gigantic objects which looked at a distance like rude pillars carved by man. "these," said the professor, "are nature's handiwork. you will observe that on each pillar rests a rugged capital. the capital is the cause of the pillar. it is a hard rock which originally rested on a softer bed of friable stone. the weather has worn away the soft bed, except where it has been protected by the hard stone, and thus a natural pillar has arisen--just like the ice-pillars, which are protected from the sun in the same way; only the latter are more evanescent." further on, the professor drew the attention of his friends to the beautiful blue colour of the holes which their alpenstocks made in the snow. "once," said he, "while walking on the heights of monte rosa, i observed this effect with great interest, and, while engaged in the investigation of the cause, got a surprise which was not altogether agreeable. some of the paths there are on very narrow ridges, and the snow on these ridges often overhangs them. i chanced to be walking in advance of my guide at the time to which i refer, and amused myself as i went along by driving my alpenstock deep into the snow, when suddenly, to my amazement i sent the end of the staff right through the snow, and, on withdrawing it, looked down into space! i had actually walked over the ridge altogether, and was standing above an abyss some thousands of feet deep!" "horrible!" exclaimed emma. "you jumped off pretty quickly, i dare say." "nay, i walked off with extreme caution; but i confess to having felt a sort of cold shudder with which my frame had not been acquainted previously." while they were thus conversing, a cloud passed overhead and sent down a slight shower of snow. to most of the party this was a matter of indifference, but the man of science soon changed their feelings by drawing attention to the form of the flakes. he carried a magnifying glass with him, which enabled him to show their wonders more distinctly. it was like a shower of frozen flowers of the most delicate and exquisite kind. each flake was a flower with six leaves. some of the leaves threw out lateral spines or points, like ferns, some were rounded, others arrowy, reticulated, and serrated; but, although varied in many respects, there was no variation in the number of leaves. "what amazin' beauty in a snowflake," exclaimed the captain, "many a one i've seen without knowin' how splendid it was." "the works of god are indeed wonderful," said the professor, "but they must be `sought out'--examined with care--to be fully understood and appreciated." "yet there are certain philosophers," observed lewis, "who hold that the evidence of design here and elsewhere does not at all prove the existence of god. they say that the crystals of these snow-flakes are drawn together and arrange themselves by means of natural forces." "they say truly," replied the professor, "but they seem to me to stop short in their reasoning. they appear to ignore the fact that this elemental original force of which they speak must have had a creator. however far they may go back into mysterious and incomprehensible elements, which they choose to call `blind forces,' they do not escape the fact that matter cannot have created itself; that behind their utmost conceptions there must still be one non-created, eternal, living being who created all, who upholds all, and whom we call god." descending again from the heights in order to cross a valley and gain the opposite mountain, our ramblers quitted the glacier, and, about noon, found themselves close to a lovely pine-clad knoll, the shaded slopes of which commanded an unusually fine view of rocky cliff and fringing wood, with a background of glacier and snow-flecked pinnacles. halting, accidentally in a row, before this spot they looked at it with interest. suddenly the professor stepped in front of the others, and, pointing to the knoll, said, with twinkling eyes-- "what does it suggest? come, dux (to slingsby, who happened to stand at the head of the line), tell me, sir, what does it suggest?" "_i_ know, sir!" exclaimed the captain, who stood at the dunce's extremity of the line, holding out his fist with true schoolboy eagerness. "it suggests," said the artist, rolling his eyes, "`a thing of beauty;' and--" "next!" interrupted the professor, pointing to lawrence. "_i_ know, sir," shouted the captain. "hold your tongue, sir!" "ay, ay, sir." "it is suggestive," said lawrence, "of an oasis in the desert." "very poor, sir," said the professor, severely. "next." "it suggests a cool shade on a hot day," said emma. "better, but not right. next." "please, sir, i'd rather not answer," said lewis, putting his forefinger in his mouth. "you must, sir." "_i_ know, sir," interrupted captain wopper, shaking his fist eagerly. "silence, you booby!--well, boy, what does it suggest to _you_?" "please, sir," answered lewis, "it suggests the mole on your professorial cheek." "sir," cried the professor, sternly, "remind me to give you a severe caning to-night." "yes, sir." "well, booby, what have _you_ got to say to it?" "wittles!" shouted the captain. "right," cried the professor, "only it would have been better expressed had you said--luncheon. go up, sir; put yourself at the head of the class, and lead it to a scene of glorious festivity." thus instructed, the captain put himself at the head of the line. "now, then, captain," said lewis, "let's have a true-blue nautical word of command--hoist yer main tops'l sky-scrapers abaft the cleat o' the spanker boom, heave the main deck overboard and let go the painter--or something o' that sort." "hold on to the painter, you mean," said slingsby. "you're both wrong," cried the captain, "my orders are those of the immortal nelson--`close action, my lads--england expects every man to'-- hooray!" with a wild cheer, and waving his hat, the seaman rushed up the side of the knoll, followed by his obedient and willing crew. in order to render the feast more complete, several members of the party had brought small private supplies to supplement the cold mutton, ham, bread, and light claret which antoine and two porters had carried in their knapsacks. captain wopper had brought a supply of variously coloured abominations known in england by the name of comfits, in scotland as sweeties. these, mixed with snow and water, he styled "iced-lemonade." emma tried the mixture and declared it excellent, which caused someone to remark that the expression of her face contradicted her tongue. lewis produced a small flask full of a rich dark port-winey liquid, which he said he had brought because it had formerly been one of the most delightful beverages of his childish years. it was tasted with interest and rejected with horror, being liquorice water! emma produced a bottle of milk, in the consumption of which she was ably assisted by the professor, who declared that his natural spirits required no artificial stimulants. the professor himself had not been forgetful of the general good. he had brought with him a complex copper implement, which his friends had supposed was a new species of theodolite, but which turned out to be a scientific coffee-pot, in the development of which and its purposes, as the man of science carefully explained, there was called into play some of the principles involved in the sciences of hydraulics and pneumatics, to which list lewis added, in an under-tone, those of aquatics, ecstatics, and rheumatics. the machine was perfect, but the professor's natural turn for practical mechanics not being equal to his knowledge of other branches of science, he failed properly to adjust a screw. this resulted in an explosion of the pot which blew its lid, as lewis expressed it, into the north of italy, and its contents into the fire. a second effort, using the remains of the scientific pot as an ordinary kettle, was more successful. "you see, my friends," said the professor, apologetically, "it is one of the prerogatives of science that her progress cannot be hindered. her resources and appliances are inexhaustible. when one style of experiment fails we turn at once to another and obtain our result, as i now prove to you by handing this cup of coffee to miss gray. you had better not sweeten it, mademoiselle. it is quite unnecessary to make the very trite observation that in your case no sugar is required. yes, the progress of science is slow, but it is sure. everything must fall before it in time." "ah, just so--`one down, another come on,'--that's your motto, ain't it?" said captain wopper, who invariably, during the meal, delivered his remarks from a cavern filled with a compound of mutton, bread, and ham. "but i say, professor, are you spliced?" "spliced?" echoed the man of science. "ay; married, i mean." "yes, i am wed," he replied, with enthusiasm. "i have a beautiful wife in russia, and she is good as beautiful." "in roosia--eh! well, it's a longish way off, but i'd advise you, as a friend, not to let her know that you pay such wallopin' compliments to young english ladies. it might disagree with her, d'ye see?" at this point the conversation and festivities were interrupted by slingsby, who, having gone off to sketch, had seated himself on a mound within sight of his friends, in a position so doubled up and ridiculous as to call forth the remark from lawrence, that few traits of character were more admirable and interesting than those which illustrated the utter disregard of personal appearance in true and enthusiastic devotees of art. to which captain wopper added that "he was a rum lot an' no mistake." the devotee was seen by the revellers to start once or twice and clap his hands to various pockets, as though he had forgotten his india-rubber or pen-knife. then he was observed to drop his sketching-book and hastily slap all his pockets, as if he had forgotten fifty pieces of india-rubber and innumerable pen-knives. finally, he sprang up and slapped himself all over wildly, yelling at the same time as if he had been a maniac. he had inadvertently selected an ant-hill as his seat, that was all; but that was sufficient to check his devotion to art, and necessitate his retirement to a rocky defile, where he devoted himself to the study of "the nude" in his own person, and whence he returned looking imbecile and hot. such _contretemps_, however, do not materially affect the health or spirits of the young and strong. ere long slingsby was following his companions with his wonted enthusiasm and devotee-like admiration of nature in all her varying aspects. his enthusiasm was, however, diverted from the study of vegetable and mineral, if we may so put it, to that of animal nature, for one of the porters, who had a tendency to go poking his staff into holes and crannies of the rocks, suddenly touched a marmot. he dropped his pack and began at once to dig up earth and stones as fast as possible, assisted by his comrades; but the little creature was too sagacious for them. they came to its bed at last, and found that, while they had been busy at one end of the hole, the marmot had quietly walked out at the other, and made off. having pushed over the valley, and once more ascended to the regions of perpetual ice, the ramblers determined to "attack"--as the phrase goes among alpine climbers--a neighbouring summit. it was not a very high one, and emma declared that she was not only quite able, but very anxious, to attempt it. the attempt was, therefore, made, and, after a couple of hours of pretty laborious work, accomplished. they found themselves on a pinnacle which overlooked a large portion of the ice-world around mont blanc. while standing there, one or two avalanches were observed, and the professor pointed out that avalanches were not all of one character. some, he said, were composed of rock, mud, and water; others entirely of ice; many of them were composed of these elements mixed, and others were entirely of snow. "true, monsieur," observed the guide, "and the last kind is sometimes very fatal. there was one from which my wife and child had a narrow escape. they were visiting at the time a near relation who dwelt in a village in a valley not far distant from this spot. behind the village there is a steep slope covered with pines; behind that the mountain rises still more steeply. the little forest stands between that village and destruction. but for it, avalanches would soon sweep the village away; but wood is not always a sure protector. sometimes, when frost renders the snow crisp and dry, the trees fail to check its descent. it was so on the last night of my wife's visit. a brother was about to set off with her from the door of our relative's house, when the snow began to descend through the trees like water. it was like dry flour. there was not much noise, merely a hissing sound, but it came down in a deluge, filled all the houses, and suffocated nearly all the people in them. my brother-in-law saw it in time. he put his horse to full speed, and brought my dear wife and child away in safety, but his own father, mother, and sister were lost. we tried to reach their house the next day, but could advance through the soft snow only by taking two planks with us, and placing one before the other as we went along." soon after the ramblers had begun their return journey, they came to a slope which they thought might be descended by sliding or "glissading." it was the first time that emma had seen such work, and she felt much inclined to try it, but was dissuaded by antoine, who led her round by an easier way. at the foot of the slope they came to a couloir, or sloping gorge, so steep that snow could not lie on it. its surface was, therefore, hard ice. although passable, antoine deemed it prudent not to cross, the more so that he observed some ominous obelisks of ice impending at the top of the slope. "why not cross and let emma see how we manage by cutting steps in the ice?" said lewis. he received a conclusive though unexpected answer from one of the obelisks above-mentioned, which fell at the moment, broke into fragments, and swept the couloir from top to bottom with incredible violence. it is wonderful what a deal of experience is required to make foolish people wise! winthin the next ten minutes this warning was forgotten, and lewis led his cousin into a danger which almost cost the lives of three of the party. chapter twenty. records a serious event. our ramblers had now reached a place where a great expanse of rock surface was exposed, and the temptation to dilate on the action of glaciers proved too strong for the professor. he therefore led those who were willing to follow to a suitable spot and pointed out the striations, flutings, and polishings of the granite, which showed that in former ages the glacier had passed there, although at that time it was far below in the valley. the polishings, he said, were caused by the ice slowly grinding over the surface of the rock, and the flutings and groovings were caused, not by the ice itself, but by stones which were embedded in its under surface, and which cut the solid granite as if with chisels. meanwhile, lewis and emma, having taken the opportunity to search for plants, had wandered on a little in advance, and had come to another steep slope, which was, however, covered with snow at its upper part. below, where it became steeper, there was no snow, only pure ice, which extended downwards to an immense distance, broken only here and there by a few rocks that cropped through its surface. it terminated in a rocky gorge, which was strewn thickly with _debris_ from above. "let us cross this," said emma, with a look of glee, for she possessed an adventurous spirit. "we'd better not," answered lewis. "the slope is very steep." "true, o cautious cousin," retorted emma, with a laugh, "but it is covered here with snow that is soft and probably knee-deep. go on it, sir, and try." thus commanded, lewis obeyed, and found that the snow was indeed knee-deep, and that there was no possibility of their either slipping or falling, unless one were unusually careless, and even in that case the soft snow would have checked anything like an involuntary glissade. "let me go first," said lewis. "nay, i will go first," returned emma, "you will follow and pick me up if i should fall." so saying, she stepped lightly into the snow and advanced, while her companion stood looking at her with a half-amused, half-anxious smile. she had not made six steps, and lewis was on the point of following, when he observed that there was a crack across the snow just above where he stood, and the whole mass began to slide. for a moment he was transfixed with horror. the next he had sprung to his cousin's side and seized her arm, shouting-- "emma! emma! come back. quick! it moves." but poor emma could not obey. she would as soon have expected the mountain itself to give way as the huge mass of snow on which she stood. at first its motion was slow, and lewis struggled wildly to extricate her, but in vain, for the snow avalanche gathered speed as it advanced, and in its motion not only sank them to their waists, but turned them helplessly round, thus placing lewis farthest from the firm land. he shouted now with all the power of his lungs for help, while emma screamed from terror. lawrence chanced to be nearest to them. he saw at a glance what had occurred, and dashed down the hill-side at headlong speed. a wave was driving in front of the couple, who were now embedded nearly to their armpits, while streams of snow were hissing all round them, and the mass was beginning to rush. one look sufficed to show lawrence that rescue from the side was impossible, but, with that swift power of perception which is aroused in some natures by the urgent call to act, he observed that some yards lower down--near the place where the ice-slope began-- there was a rock near to the side in the track of the avalanche, which it divided. leaping down to this, he sprang into the sliding flood a little above it, and, with a powerful effort, caught the rock and drew himself upon it. next moment emma was borne past out of reach of his hand. lawrence rushed deep into the snow and held out his alpenstock. emma caught it. he felt himself turned irresistibly round, and a sick feeling of despair chilled his life-blood. at the same moment a powerful hand grasped his collar. "hold on, monsieur," cried antoine, in a deep, yet encouraging voice, "i've got you safe." as he spoke, emma shrieked, "i cannot hold on!" no wonder! she had not only to resist the rushing snow, but to sustain the drag of lewis, who, as we have said, had been carried beyond his cousin, and whose only chance now lay in his retaining hold of her arm. ere the words had quite left her lips, lewis was seen deliberately to let go his hold and throw up his arm--it seemed as if waving it. next moment emma was dragged on the rock, where she and her companions stood gazing in horror as their companion was swept upon the ice-slope and carried down headlong. the snow was by this time whirled onward in a sort of mist or spray, in the midst of which lewis was seen to strike a rock with his shoulder and swing violently round, while parts of his clothing were plainly rent from his body, but the painful sight did not last long. a few seconds more and he was hurled, apparently a lifeless form, among the _debris_ and rocks far below. death, in such a case, might have been expected to be instantaneous, but the very element that caused the poor youth's fall, helped to save him. during the struggle for life while clinging to emma's arm, the check, brief though it was, sufficed to allow most of the snow to pass down before him, so that he finally fell on a comparatively soft bed; but it was clear that he had been terribly injured, and, what made matters worse, he had fallen into a deep gorge surrounded by precipices, which seemed to some of the party to render it quite impossible to reach him. "what is to be done?" exclaimed lawrence, with intense anxiety. "he must be got at immediately. delay of treatment in his case, even for a short time, may prove fatal." "i know it, monsieur," said antoine, who had been quietly but quickly uncoiling his rope. "one of the porters and i will descend by the precipices. they are too steep for any but well-accustomed hands and feet. you, monsieur, understand pretty well the use of the axe and rope. cut your way down the ice-slope with jacques. he is a steady man, and may be trusted. run, rollo (to the third porter), and fetch aid from gaspard's chalet. it is the nearest. i need not say make haste." these orders were delivered in a low, rapid voice. the men proceeded at once to obey them. at the same time antoine and his comrade swung themselves down the cliffs, and were instantly lost to view. the young porter, whom he had named rollo, was already going down the mountain at a smart run, and jacques was on the ice-slope wielding his axe with ceaseless energy and effect, while lawrence held the rope to which he was attached, and descended the rude and giddy staircase behind him. it was a terrible time for those who were left above in a state of inaction and deep anxiety, but there was no help for it. they had to content themselves with watching the rescue, and praying for success. it was not long before the guide and porter reached the spot where poor lewis lay. he was not insensible, but a deadly pallor overspread his scarred face, and the position in which he lay betokened utter helplessness. he could scarcely speak, but whispered that he fancied he was not so much hurt as might have been expected, and expressed wonder at their having been so long in reaching him. the guide spoke to him with the tenderness of a woman. he knew well how severely the poor youth was injured, and handled him very delicately while making such preliminary arrangements as were in his power. a few drops of brandy and water were administered, the poor limbs were arranged in a position of greater comfort, and the torn rags of clothing wrapped round him. soon they were joined by lawrence, who merely whispered a few kind words, and proceeded at once to examine him. his chief anxiety was as to the amount of skin that had been destroyed. the examination revealed a terrible and bloody spectacle; over which we will draw a veil; yet there was reason to believe that the amount of skin torn off and abraded was not sufficient to cause death. lawrence was comforted also by finding that no bones appeared to have been broken. nothing could be done in the way of attempting a removal until the return of rollo with a litter. fortunately this was not long of being brought, for the young porter was active and willing, and gaspard had promptly accompanied him with men and materials for the rescue. but it was a sad, slow, and painful process, to bear the poor youth's frame from that savage gorge, and convey him on a litter, carried by four men, over glaciers and down rugged mountain sides, even although done by tender hearts and strong hands. everything that ingenuity could contrive was done to relieve the sufferer, and when at last, after weary hours, they reached the high-road of the valley, a carriage was found waiting. a messenger had been sent in advance to fetch it, and mrs stoutley was in it. there was something quite touching in the quiet, firm air of self-restraint with which she met the procession, and afterwards tended her poor boy; it was so unlike her old character! the sun was setting in a field of golden glory when they carried lewis into the hotel at chamouni, and laid him on his bed--a mere wreck of his former self. chapter twenty one. down in the moraine at last. as the reader may suppose, the terrible accident to lewis stoutley put an end to further merry-making among our friends at chamouni. mrs stoutley would have left for england at once if that had been possible, but lewis could not be moved for several weeks. at first indeed, fears were entertained for his life, but his constitution being good, and not having been damaged by dissipation, he rallied sooner than might have been expected, although it was evident from the beginning that complete restoration could not be looked for until many months, perhaps years, had passed away. we need scarcely say, that the rapid improvement of his health was largely due to the tender watchful care of his mother. since visiting switzerland, that excellent lady's spirit had undergone a considerable change. without going minutely into particulars, we may say that the startling events which had occurred had been made the means of opening her spiritual eyes. it had occurred to her--she scarce knew how or why--that her creator had a claim on her for more consideration than she had been in the habit, heretofore, of testifying by a few formalities on sundays; that there must be some higher end and aim in life than the mere obtaining and maintaining of health, and the pursuit of pleasure; and that as there was a saviour, whom she professed on sundays to follow, there must be something real from which she had to be saved, as well as something real that had to be done. sin, she knew, of course, was the evil from which everybody had to be saved; but, being a good-natured and easy-going woman, she really did not feel much troubled by sin. little weaknesses she had, no doubt, but not half so many as other people she knew of. as to anything seriously worthy the name of sin, she did not believe she had any at all. it had never, until now, occurred to her that the treating of her best friend, during a lifetime, with cool and systematic indifference, or with mere protestations, on sundays, of adoration, was probably as great a sin as she could commit. her thoughts on these points she did not at first mention to any one, but she received great help and enlightenment, as well as comfort, from the quiet sensible talk of dr lawrence, as he sat day after day, and hour after hour, at the bedside of his friend, endeavouring to cheer his spirits as well as to relieve his physical pain--for lawrence was well fitted to do both. he was not by any means what is styled a sermoniser. he made no apparent effort to turn conversation into religious channels. indeed we believe that when men talk with the unrestrained freedom of true friendship, conversation needs no directing. it will naturally flow along all channels, and into all the zigzags and crevices of human thought--religion included. lewis was in great pain and serious danger. lawrence was a man full of the holy spirit and love to jesus. out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spoke when his friend appeared to desire such converse; but he never bored him with _any_ subject--for it is possible to be a profane, as well as a religious, bore! as soon as lewis could turn his mind to anything, after his being brought back to the hotel, he asked earnestly after nita horetzki. "she has left," said mrs stoutley. "left! d'you mean gone from chamouni, mother?" exclaimed lewis, with a start and a look of anxiety which he did not care to conceal. "yes, they went yesterday. nita had recovered sufficiently to travel, and the medical man who has been attending her urged her removal without delay. she and her father seemed both very sorry to leave us, and left kind messages for you. the count wanted much to see you, but we would not allow it." "kind messages for me," repeated lewis, in a tone of bitterness, "what sort of messages?" "well, really, i cannot exactly remember," returned mrs stoutley, with a slight smile, "the kind of messages that amiable people might be expected to leave in the circumstances, you know--regret that they should have to leave us in such a sad condition, and sincere hope that you might soon recover, etcetera. yes, by the way, nita also, just at parting, expressed a hope--an earnest hope--that we might meet again. poor dear thing, she is an extremely affectionate girl, and quite broke down when saying good-bye." "d'you know where they have gone to, mother?" "no. they mean to move about from place to place, i believe." "nita said nothing about writing to you, did she?" "did they leave any address--a _poste restante_--anywhere, or any clew whatever as to their whereabouts?" "none whatever." so then, during the weary days of suffering that he knew full well lay before him, poor lewis had no consolatory thought in regard to nita save in her expressed "earnest hope" that they might meet again. it was not much, but it was better than nothing. being an ingenious as well as daring architect, lewis built amazing structures on that slight foundation--structures which charmed his mental eyes to look upon, and which, we verily believe, tended to facilitate his recovery--so potent is the power of true love! "captain wopper," said mrs stoutley one morning, towards the end of their stay in switzerland, lewis having been pronounced sufficiently restored to travel homeward by easy stages, "i have sent for you to ask you to do me a favour--to give me your advice--your--" here, to the captain's amazement, not to say consternation, mrs stoutley's voice trembled, and she burst into tears. if she had suddenly caught him by the nose, pulled his rugged face down and kissed it, he could not have been more taken aback. "my dear madam," he stammered, sitting down inadvertently on mrs stoutley's bonnet--for it was to the good lady's private dressing-room that he had been summoned by gillie white--"hold on! don't now, please! what ever have i done to--" "you've done nothing, my dear captain," said mrs stoutley, endeavouring to check her tears. "there, i'm very foolish, but i can't help it. indeed i can't." in proof of the truth of this assertion she broke down again, and the captain, moving uneasily on his chair, ground the bonnet almost to powder--it was a straw one. "you have been a kind friend, captain wopper," said mrs stoutley, drying her eyes, "a very kind friend." "i'm glad you think so, ma'am; i've meant to be--anyhow." "you have, you have," cried mrs stoutley, earnestly, as she looked through her tears into the seaman's rugged countenance, "and that is my reason for venturing to ask you now to trouble yourself with--with--" there was an alarming symptom here of a recurrence of "squally weather," which caused the captain to give the bonnet an "extra turn," but she recovered herself and went on-- "with my affairs. i would not have thought of troubling you, but with poor lewie so ill, and dr lawrence being so young, and probably inexperienced in the ways of life, and emma so innocent and helpless, and--in short i'm--hee!--that is to say--ho dear! i _am_ so silly, but i can't--indeed i can't--hoo-o-o!" it blew a regular gale now, and a very rain of straw _debris_ fell through the cane-bottomed chair on which the captain sat, as he vainly essayed to sooth his friend by earnest, pathetic, and even tender adjurations to "clap a stopper upon that," to "hold hard," to "belay", to "shut down the dead-lights of her peepers," and such-like expressive phrases. at length, amid many sobs, the poor lady revealed the overwhelming fact that she was a beggar; that she had actually come down to her last franc; that her man of business had flatly declined to advance her another sovereign, informing her that the gorong mine had declared "no dividend;" that the wreck of her shattered fortune had been swallowed up by the expenses of their ill-advised trip to switzerland, and that she had not even funds enough to pay their travelling expenses home; in short that she was a miserable boulder, at the lowest level of the terminal moraine! to all this captain wopper listened in perfect silence, with a blank expression on his face that revealed nothing of the state of feeling within. "oh! captain wopper," exclaimed the poor lady anxiously, "surely-- surely _you_ won't forsake me! i know that i have no claim on you beyond friendship, but you have always given us to understand that you were well off, and i merely wish to _borrow_ a small sum. just enough, and no more. perhaps i may not be able to repay you just immediately, but i hope soon; and even if it came to the worst, there is the furniture in euston square, and the carriage and horses." poor mrs stoutley! she was not aware that her man of business had already had these resources appraised, and that they no more belonged to her at that moment than if they had been part of the personal estate of the celebrated man in the moon. still the captain gazed at her in stolid silence. "even my personal wardrobe," proceeded mrs stoutley, beginning again to weep, "i will gladly dis--" "avast! madam," cried the captain, suddenly, thrusting his right hand into his breeches-pocket, and endeavouring to drag something therefrom with a series of wrenches that would have been terribly trying to the bonnet, had its ruin not been already complete, "don't talk to me of repayment. ain't i your--your--husband's brother's buzzum friend-- willum's old chum an' messmate? see here." he jerked the chair (without rising) close to a table which stood at his elbow, and placed thereon a large canvas bag, much soiled, and tied round the neck with a piece of rope-yarn, which smelt of tar even at a distance. this was the captain's purse. he carried it always in his right trouser-pocket, and it contained his gold. as for such trifling metal as silver, he carried that loose, mixed with coppers, bits of tobacco, broken pipes, and a clasp-knife, in the other pocket. he was very fond of his purse. in california he had been wont to carry nuggets in it, that simple species of exchange being the chief currency of the country at the time he was there. some of the californian _debris_ had stuck to it when he had filled it, at a place of exchange in london, with napoleons. emptying its glittering contents upon the table, he spread it out. "there, madam," he said, with a hearty smile, "you're welcome to all i've got about me just at this moment, and you shall have more when that's done. don't say `not so much,' cause it ain't much, fifty pound, more or less, barrin' the nuggets, which i'll keep, as i dessay they would only worry you, and there's plenty more shot in the locker where that come from; an' don't talk about payin' back or thankin' me. you've no occasion to thank me. it's only a loan, an' i'll hold willum, your brother-in-law, responsible. you wouldn't decline to take it from willum, would you?" "indeed no; william stout has always been so kind to us--kinder than i have deserved." "well, then, i'll write to willum. i'll say to him, `willum, my boy, here's your brother's widdy bin caught in a squall, had her sails blown to ribbons, bin throw'd on her beam-ends, and every stick torn out of her. you've got more cash, willum, than you knows what to do with, so, hand over, send me a power of attorney (is that the thing?) or an affydavy--whatever lawyer's dockiments is required--an' i'll stand by and do the needful.' an' willum 'll write back, with that power an' brevity for which he is celebrated,--`wopper, my lad, all right; fire away. anything short o' ten thousand, more or less. do yer w'ust. yours to command, "`willum.'" there was no resisting such arguments. mrs stoutley smiled through her tears as she accepted the money. captain wopper rose, crammed the empty canvas bag into his pocket, and hastily retired, with portions of the bonnet attached to him. "susan," said mrs stoutley, on the maid answering her summons, "we shall start for london tomorrow, or the day after, so, pray, set about packing up without delay." "very well, ma'am," replied susan, whose eyes were riveted with an expression of surprised curiosity on the cane-bottomed chair. "it is my bonnet susan," said the lady, looking in the same direction with a sad smile. "captain wopper sat down on it by mistake. you had better remove it." to remove it was a feat which even susan, with all her ready wit and neatness of hand, could not have accomplished without the aid of brush and shovel. she, therefore, carried it off chair and all, to the regions below, where she and gillie went into convulsions over it. "oh! susan," exclaimed the blue spider, "wot would i not have given to have seed him a-doin' of it! only think! the ribbons, flowers, and straw in one uniwarsal mush! _wot_ a grindin' there must ave bin! i heer'd the purfesser the other day talkin' of wot he calls glacier-haction--how they flutes the rocks an' grinds in a most musical way over the boulders with crushin' wiolence; but wot's glacier haction to _that_?" susan admitted that it was nothing; and they both returned at intervals in the packing, during the remainder of that day, to have another look at the bonnet-debris, and enjoy a fresh explosion over it. chapter twenty two. mysterious proceedings of the captain and gillie. we are back again in london--in mrs roby's little cabin at the top of the old tenement in grubb's court. captain wopper is there, of course. so is mrs roby. gillie white is there also, and susan quick. the captain is at home. the two latter are on a visit--a social tea-party. little netta white, having deposited baby white in the mud at the lowest corner of the court for greater security, is waiting upon them--a temporary handmaiden, relieving, by means of variety, the cares of permanent nursehood. mrs white is up to the elbows in soap-suds, taking at least ocular and vocal charge of the babe in the mud, and her husband is--"drunk, as usual?" no--there is a change there. good of some kind has been somewhere at work. either knowingly or unwittingly some one has been "overcoming evil with good," for mrs white's husband is down at the docks toiling hard to earn a few pence wherewith to increase the family funds. and who can tell what a terrible yet hopeful war is going on within that care-worn, sin-worn man? to toil hard with shattered health is burden enough. what must it be when, along with the outward toil, there is a constant fight with a raging watchful devil within? but the man has given that devil some desperate falls of late. oh, how often and how long he has fought with him, and been overcome, cast down, and his armoury of resolutions scattered to the winds! but he has been to see some one, or some one has been to see him, who has advised him to try another kind of armour--not his own. he knows the power of a "new affection" now. despair was his portion not long ago. he is now animated by hope, for the long uncared-for name of jesus is now growing sweet to his ear. but the change has taken place recently, and he looks very weary as he toils and fights. "well, mother," said captain wopper, "now that i've given you a full, true, an' partikler account of switzerland, what d'ee think of it?" "it is a strange place--very, but i don't approve of people risking their lives and breaking their limbs for the mere pleasure of getting to the top of a mountain of ice." "but we can't do anything in life without riskin' our lives an' breakin' our limbs more or less," said the captain. "an' think o' the interests of science," said gillie, quoting the professor. mrs roby shook her tall cap and remained unconvinced. to have expected the old nurse to take an enlightened view on that point would have been as unreasonable as to have looked for just views in gillie white on the subject of conic sections. "why, mother, a man may break a leg or an arm in going down stairs," said the captain, pursuing the subject; "by the way, that reminds me to ask for fred leven. didn't i hear that _he_ broke his arm coming up his own stair? is it true?" "true enough," replied mrs roby. "was he the worse of liquor at the time?" "no. it was dark, and he was carrying a heavy box of something or other for his mother. fred is a reformed man. i think the sight of your poor father, gillie, has had something to do with it, and that night when his mother nearly died. at all events he never touches drink now, and he has got a good situation in one of the warehouses at the docks." "that's well," returned the captain, with satisfaction. "i had hopes of that young feller from the night you mention. now, mother, i'm off. gillie and i have some business to transact up the water. very particular business--eh, lad?" "oh! wery partickler," said gillie, responding to his patron's glance with a powerful wink. expressing a hope that susan would keep mrs roby company till he returned, the captain left the room with his usual heavy roll, and the spider followed with imitative swagger. captain wopper was fond of mystery. although he had, to some extent made a confidant of the boy for whom he had taken so strong a fancy, he nevertheless usually maintained a dignified distance of demeanour towards him, and a certain amount of reticence, which, as a stern disciplinarian, he deemed to be essential. this, however, did not prevent him from indulging in occasional, not to say frequent, unbendings of disposition, which he condescended to exhibit by way of encouragement to his small _protege_; but these unbendings and confidences were always more or less shrouded in mystery. many of them, indeed, consisted of nothing more intelligible than nods, grins, and winks. "that'll be rather a nice cottage when it's launched," said the captain, pointing to a building in process of erection, which stood so close to the edge of the thames that its being launched seemed as much a literal allusion as a metaphor. "raither bobbish," assented the spider. "clean run fore and aft with bluff bows, like a good sea-boat," said the captain. "come, let's have a look at it." asking permission to enter of a workman who granted the same with, what appeared to gillie, an unnecessarily broad grin, the captain led the way up a spiral staircase. it bore such a strong resemblance to the familiar one of grubb's court that gillie's eyes enlarged with surprise, and he looked involuntarily back for his soapy mother and the babe in the mud. there were, however, strong points of dissimilarity, inasmuch as there was no mud or filth of any kind near the new building except lime; and the stair, instead of leading like that of the tower of babel an interminable distance upwards, ended abruptly at the second floor. here, however, there was a passage exactly similar to the passage leading to mrs roby's cabin, save that it was well lighted, and at the end thereof was an almost exact counterpart of the cabin itself. there was the same low roof, the same little fireplace, with the space above for ornaments, and the same couple of little windows looking out upon a stretch of the noble river, from which you might have fished. there was the same colour of paint on the walls, which had been so managed as to represent the dinginess of antiquity. there was also, to all appearance, mrs roby's own identical bed, with its chintz curtains. here, however, resemblance ended, for there was none of the grubb's court dirt. the craft on the river were not so large or numerous, the reach being above the bridges. if you had fished you not have hooked rats or dead cats, and if you had put your head out and looked round, you would have encountered altogether a clean, airy, and respectable neighbourhood, populous enough to be quite cheery, with occasional gardens instead of mud-banks, and without interminable rows of tall chimney-pots excluding the light of heaven. gillie, not yet having been quite cured of his objectionable qualities, at once apostrophised his eye and elizabeth martin. "as like as two peas, barrin' the dirt!" the captain evidently enjoyed the lad's astonishment. "a ship-shape sort o' craft, ain't it? it wouldn't be a bad joke to buy it--eh?" gillie, who was rather perplexed, but too much a man of the world to disclose much of his state of mind, said that it wouldn't be a bad move for any feller who had got the blunt. "how much would it cost now?" "a thousand pounds, more or less," said the captain, with discreet allowance for latitude. "ha! a goodish lump, no doubt." "i've half a mind to buy it," continued the captain, looking round with a satisfied smile. "it would be an amoosin' sort o' thing, now, to bring old mrs roby here. the air would be fresher for her old lungs, wouldn't it?" gillie nodded, but was otherwise reticent. "the stair, too, wouldn't be too high to get her down now and again, and a boat could be handy to shove her into without much exertion. for the matter of that," said the captain, looking out, "we might have a slide made, like a swiss couloir, you know, and she could glissade comfortably into the boat out o' the winder. then, there's a beam to hang her ship an' chinee lanterns from, an' a place over the fireplace to stick her knick-knacks. what d'ee think, my lad?" gillie, who had begun to allow a ray of light to enter his mind, gave, as his answer, an emphatic nod and a broad grin. the captain replied with a nod and a wink, whereupon the other retired behind his patron, for the purpose of giving himself a quiet hug of delight, in which act, however, he was caught; the captain being one who always, according to his own showing, kept his weather-eye open. "w'y, what's the matter with you, boy?" "pains in the stummick is aggrawatin' sometimes," answered gillie. "you haven't got 'em, have you?" "well, i can't exactly go for to say as i has," answered gillie, with another grin. "now, look 'ee here, youngster," said the captain, suddenly seizing the spider by his collar and trousers, and swinging him as though about to hurl him through the window into the river, "if you go an' let your tongue wag in regard to this matter, out you go, right through the port-hole--d'ee see?" he set the spider quietly on his legs again, who replied, with unruffled coolness-- "mum's the word, cappen." gillie had been shorn of his blue tights and brass buttons, poor mrs stoutley having found it absolutely necessary, on her return home, to dismiss all her servants, dispose of all her belongings, and retire into the privacy of a poor lodging in a back street. thus the spider had come to be suddenly thrown on the world again, but captain wopper had retained him, he said, as a mixture of errand-boy, cabin-boy, and powder-monkey, in which capacity he dwelt with his mother during the night and revolved like a satellite round the captain during the day. a suit of much more appropriate pepper-and-salt had replaced the blue tights and buttons. altogether, his _tout-ensemble_ was what the captain styled "more ship-shape." we have said that mrs stoutley and her family had made a descent in life. as poor lewis remarked, with a sad smile, they had quitted the gay and glittering heights, and gone, like a magnificent avalanche, down into the moraine. social, not less than physical, avalanches multiply their parts and widen their course during descent. the stoutleys did not fall alone. a green-grocer, a shoemaker, and a baker, who had long been trembling, like human boulders, on the precipice of bankruptcy, went tumbling down along with them, and found rest in a lower part of the moraine than they had previously occupied. "it's a sad business," said lewis to dr lawrence one morning; "and if you continue to attend me, you must do so without the most distant prospect of a fee." "my dear fellow," returned lawrence, "have you no such thing as gratitude in your composition?" "not much, and, if i had ever so much, it would be poor pay." "poor, indeed, if regarded as one's only source of livelihood," rejoined lawrence, "but it is ample remuneration from a friend, whether rich or poor, and, happily, capable of being mixed with pounds, shillings and pence without deterioration. in the present case, i shall be more than rejoiced to take the fee unmixed, but, whether fee'd or not fee'd, i insist on continuing attendance on a case which i have a right to consider peculiarly my own." "it would have been a bad case, indeed, but for you," returned lewis, a flush for a moment suffusing his pale cheek as he took his friend's hand and squeezed it. "i am thoroughly convinced, lawrence, that god's blessing on your skill and unwearied care of me at the time of the accident is the cause of my being alive to thank you to-day. but sit down, my dear fellow, and pray postpone your professional inquiries for a little, as i have something on my mind which i wish to ask you about." lawrence shook his head. "business first, pleasure afterwards," he said; "professional duties must not be postponed." "now," said lewis when he had finished, "are you satisfied? do you admit that even an unprofessional man might have seen at a glance that i am much better, and that your present draft on my gratitude is a mere swindle?" "i admit nothing," retorted the other; "but now, what have you got to say to me?" "i am going to make a confidant of you. are you to be trusted?" "perhaps; i dare not say yes unconditionally, because i'm rather sociable and communicative, and apt to talk in my sleep." "that will do. your answer is sufficiently modest. i will venture. you know captain wopper, i mean, you are well acquainted with his character; well, that kind and eccentric man has made a proposal to my dear mother, which we do not like to accept, and which at the same time we do not quite see our way to refuse. my mother, when in great distress in switzerland, was forced to borrow a small sum of money from him, and thought it right to justify her doing so by letting him know-- what everybody, alas! may know now--that we were ruined. with that ready kindness which is his chief characteristic he at once complied. since our return home he has, with great delicacy but much determination, insisted that we shall accept from him a regular weekly allowance until we have had time to correspond with our uncle stout in california. `you mustn't starve,' he said to my mother--i give you his own words--`and you'd be sure to starve if you was to try to wegitate for six months or so on atmospheric air. it'll take that time before you could get a letter from willum, an' though your son lewis could an' would, work like a nigger to keep your pot bilin' if he was well an' hearty, it's as plain as the nose on your own face, ma'am, that he can't work while he's as thin as a fathom of pump-water an' as weak as a babby. now, you know-at least i can tell 'ee--that my old chum willum is as rich as a east injin nabob. you wouldn't believe, madam, what fortins some gold-diggers have made. w'y, i've seed men light their pipes with fi'-pun' notes for a mere brag out there. i've made a goodish lump o' money myself too,--a'most more than i know what to do with, an' as to willum, i may say he's actooally rollin' in gold. he's also chockfull of regard for you and yours, ma'am. that bein' so, he's sure to send you somethin' to tide you over yer difficulties, an' he's also sure to send somethin' to lewis to help him start fair when he gits well, and he's surest of all to send somethin' to miss emma for all the kind letters she's writ to him doorin' the last five or six years. well, then, i'm willum's buzzum friend, and, knowin' exactly what he'll say an' do in the circumstances, what more nat'ral an' proper than that willum's chum should anticipate willum's wishes, and advance the money-- some of it at least--say three thousand pounds to start with.' now, lawrence," continued lewis, "what should we do? should we accept this offer? the good fellow has evidently made a great deal of money at the gold-fields, and no doubt speaks truly when he says he can afford to advance that sum. and we know our uncle william's character well enough, though we have never seen him, to be quite sure that he will assist my dear mother until i am able to support her. what say you?" "accept the offer at once," said lawrence. "from what i have seen of the captain, i am convinced that he is a warm friend and a genuine man. no doubt he can well afford to do what he proposes, and his opinion of william stout's character is just, for, from what i know of him through mrs roby, who knew him when he was a lad, when his life was saved by my father, he must have a kind heart." "i have no doubt of it, lawrence, and a grateful heart too, if i may judge from a few words that fell from captain wopper about your father and yourself." "indeed! what did he say about us?" "i have no right to repeat observations dropped inadvertently," said lewis, with a laugh. "nor to raise curiosity which you don't mean to satisfy," retorted his friend; "however, my advice is, that you accept the captain's offer, and trust to your uncle's generosity." chapter twenty three. the captain surprises his friends in various ways, and is himself baffled. time and tide passed on--as they are proverbially said to do--without waiting for any one. some people in the great city, aware of this cavalier style of proceeding on the part of time and tide, took advantage of both, and scaled the pinnacled heights of society. others, neglecting their opportunities, or misusing them, produced a series of avalanches more or less noteworthy, and added a few more boulders to the vast accumulations in the great social moraine. several of the actors in this tale were among those who, having learnt a few sharp lessons in the avalanche school, began to note and avail themselves of time and tide--notably, mrs stoutley and her son and niece. a decided change had come over the spirit of mrs stoutley's dream of life. she had at last visited the great london moraine, especially that part of it called grubb's court, and had already dug up a few nuggets and diamonds, one of which latter she brought to her humble home in the back street, with the design of polishing it into a good servant-maid. its name was netta white. mrs stoutley had formerly been a spendthrift; now she was become covetous. she coveted the male diamond belonging to the same part of the moraine--once named the spider, _alias_ the imp--but captain wopper had dug up that one for himself and would not part with it. gradually the good lady conceived and carried out the idea of digging out and rescuing a number of diamonds, considerably lower in the scale than the netta type, training them for service, and taking pains to get them into good situations. it was hard work no doubt, but mrs stoutley persevered, and was well repaid--for the master of such labourers esteems them "worthy of their hire." emma assisted in the work most heartily. it was by no means new to her. she might have directed if she had chosen, but she preferred to follow. lewis recovered rapidly--so rapidly that he was soon able to resume his medical studies and prosecute them with vigour. no bad effects of the accident remained, yet he was an altered man--not altered in appearance or in character, but in spirit. he was still off-hand in manner, handsome in face and figure, hearty in society, but earnest and grave-- very grave--in private. he pored over his books, and strove, successfully too, to master the difficulties of the healing art; but do what he would, and fight against it as he might, he was constantly distracted by a pretty face with bright sparkling eyes and a strangely sad expression coming between him and the page. he made continual inquiries after the owner of the sparkling eyes in every direction without success, and at last got into the habit when walking, of looking earnestly at people as if he expected to meet with some one. "if i had got into this state," he sometimes said to himself, "because of being merely in love with a pretty face, i should consider myself a silly nincompoop; but it is such a terrible thing for so sweet and young a creature to be chained to a man who must in the nature of things, land her in beggary and break her heart." thus he deceived himself as to his main motive. poor lewis! one morning captain wopper got up a little earlier than usual, and began a series of performances which mrs roby had long ago styled "rampadgin" round his garret. the reader may have discovered by this time that the captain was no ordinary man. whatever he did in connection with himself was done with almost superhuman energy and noise. since the commencement of his residence in the garret he had unwittingly subjected the nerves of poor mrs roby to such a variety of shocks, that the mere fact of her reason remaining on its throne was an unquestionable proof of a more than usually powerful constitution. it could not well be otherwise. the captain's limbs resembled the limbs of oaks in regard to size and toughness. his spirits were far above "proof." his organs were cathedral organs compared with the mere barrel-organs of ordinary men. on the other hand, the "cabin" in grubb's court was but a flimsy tenement; its plank floorings were thin, and its beams and rafters slim and somewhat loose owing to age, so that when the captain snored, which he did regularly and continuously, it was as if a mastiff had got inside a double-bass and were growling hideously. but mrs roby had now got pretty well accustomed to her lodger's ways. her nerves had become strung to the ordeal, and she even came to like the galvanic battery in which she dwelt, because of its being worked by the intimate friend of her dear william; such is the power of love--we might almost say, in this case, of reflected love! the good old lady had even become so acute in her perceptions, that, without seeing the "rampadger," she knew precisely the part of his daily programme with which he happened to be engaged. of course the snoring told its own tale with brazen-tongued clamour, and the whole tenement trembled all night long from top to bottom. nothing but the regardless nature of the surrounding population prevented the captain from being indicted as a nuisance; but there were other sounds that were not so easily recognised. on the morning in question, mrs roby, lying placidly in her neat white little bed, and gazing with a sweet contented face through one of her cabin windows at the bright blue sky, heard a sound as though a compound animal--hog and whale--had aroused itself and rolled over on its other side. a low whistling followed. mrs roby knew that the captain was pleasantly engaged with his thoughts--planning out the proceedings of the day. suddenly the whistling ceased and was followed by a sonorous "how-ho!" terminating in a gasp worthy of an express locomotive. the captain had stretched himself and mrs roby smiled at her own thoughts, as well she might for they embraced the idea that a twentieth part of the force employed in that stretch would have rent in twain every tendon, muscle, sinew, and filament in her, mrs roby's, body. next, there descended on the floor overhead a sixteen-stone cannon ball, which caused--not the neighbours, but the boards and rafters to complain. the captain was up! and succeeding sounds proved that he had had another stretch, for there was a bump in the middle of it which showed that, forgetting his stature, the careless man had hit the ceiling with his head. that was evidently a matter of no consequence. from this point the boards and rafters continued to make unceasing complaint, now creaking uneasily as if under great provocation, anon groaning or yelling as though under insufferable torment. from the ceiling of mrs roby's room numerous small bits of plaster, unable to stand it longer, fell and powdered mrs roby's floor. the curtains of her little bed saved her face. there was a slushing and swishing and gasping and blowing now, which might have done credit to a school of porpoises. the captain was washing. something between the flapping of a main top-sail in a shifting squall and the currying of a hippopotamus indicated that the captain was drying himself. the process was interrupted by an unusual, though not quite unknown, crash and a howl; he had overturned the wash-hand basin, and a double thump, followed by heavy dabs, told that the captain was on his knees swabbing it up. next instant the captain's head, with beard and hair in a tremendously rubbed-up condition, appeared upside down at the hatchway. "hallo! old girl, has she sprung a leak anywhere?" "nowhere," replied mrs roby, with a quiet smile. she felt the question to be unnecessary. "she," that is, the roof above her, never did leak in such circumstances. if the thames had suddenly flooded the garret, the captain's energy was sufficient to have swabbed it up in time to prevent a drop reaching "the lower deck." soon after this catastrophe there was a prolonged silence. the captain was reading. mrs roby shut her eyes and joined him in spirit. thereafter the captain's feet appeared at the trap where his head had been, and he descended with a final and tremendous crash to the floor. "see here, mother," he cried, with a look of delight, holding up a very soiled and crumpled letter, "that's from willum." "from william," exclaimed the old woman, eagerly; "why, when did you get it? the postman can't have been here this morning." "of course he hasn't; i got it last night from the limb-o'-the-law that looks after my little matters. i came in late, and you were asleep, so i kep' it to whet yer appetite for breakfast. now listen, you must take it first; i'll get you breakfast afterwards." the captain had by this time got into the way of giving the old woman her breakfast in bed every morning. "go on," said the old woman, nodding. the captain spread out the letter on his knee with great care, and read aloud:-- "my dear wopper, got yer letter all right. "my blissin' to the poor widdy. help her? ov coorse i'll help her. you did right in advancin' the money, though you fell short, by a long way, when you advanced so little. hows'ever, no matter. i gave you my last will an' testimony w'en we parted. here's a noo un. inside o' this, if i don't forget it before i've done, you'll find a cheque for thirteen thousand pounds sterling. give three to the widdy, with my respects; give four to dear emma gray, with my best love and blissin'; give two to mister lewis, with my compliments; an' give four to young lawrence, with my benediction, for his father's sake. as for the old 'ooman roby, you don't need to give nothin' to her. she and i understand each other. _i'll_ look after her myself. i'll make her my residooary legatee, an' wotever else is needful; but, in the meantime, you may as well see that she's got all that she wants. build her a noo house too. i'm told that grubb's court ain't exactly aristocratic or clean; see to that. wotever you advance out o' yer own pocket, i'll pay back with interest. that's to begin with, tell 'em. there's more comin'. there--i'm used up wi' writin' such a long screed. i'd raither dig a twenty-futt hole in clay sile any day.-- yours to command, willum. "p.s.--you ain't comin' back soon--are you?" "now, mother, what d'ee think o' that?" said the captain, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket. "it's a good, kind letter--just like william," answered the old woman. "well, so i'm inclined to think," rejoined the captain, busying himself about breakfast while he spoke; "it provides for everybody in a sort o' way, and encourages 'em to go on hopeful like--don't it strike you so? then, you see, that's four to miss emma, and four to dr lawrence, which would be eight, equal to four hundred a year; and that, with the practice he's gettin' into, would make it six, or thereabouts--not bad to begin with, eh?" the captain followed his remark with a sigh. "what's the matter?" asked mrs roby. "why, you remember, mother, before goin' abroad i set my heart on these two gettin' spliced; but i fear it's no go. sometimes i think they looks fond o' one another, at other times i don't. it's a puzzler. they're both young an' good-lookin' an' good. what more would they have?" "perhaps they want money," suggested the old woman. "you say dr lawrence's income just now is about two hundred; well, gentlefolks find it summat difficult to keep house on that, though it's plenty for the likes of you an' me." "that's true. p'r'aps the doctor is sheerin' off for fear o' draggin' a young creeter into poverty. it never struck me in that light before." beaming under the influence of this hopeful view of the case, the captain proceeded to make another move in the complicated game which he had resolved to play out and win; but this move, which he had considered one of the easiest of all, proved to be the most unfortunate, or rather unmanageable. "now, mother," said he, "i mean to make a proposal to 'ee, before going out for the day, so that you may have time to think over it. this cabin o' yours ain't just the thing, you know,--raither dirty, and too high in the clouds by a long way, so i've bin an' seen a noo house on the river, not unlike this one, an' i wants you to shift your berth. what say 'ee--eh?" to the captain's surprise and dismay, the old woman shook her head decidedly, and no argument which he could bring to bear had the least effect on her. she had, in fact, got used to her humble old home, and attached to it, and could not bear the thought of leaving it. having exhausted his powers of suasion in vain, he left her to think over it, and sallied forth crestfallen. however, he consoled himself with the hope that time and consideration would bring her to a right state of mind. meanwhile he would go to the parties interested, and communicate the contents of willum's letter. he went first to doctor lawrence, who was delighted as well as pleased at what it contained. the captain at first read only the clauses which affected his friends the stoutleys, and said nothing about that which referred to the doctor himself. "so you see, doctor, i'm off to let the stoutleys know about this little matter, and just looked in on you in passing." "it was very kind of you, captain." "not at all, by no means," returned the captain, pulling out a large clasp-knife, with which he proceeded carefully to pare his left thumb nail. "by the way, doctor," he said carelessly, "were you ever in love?" lawrence flushed, and cast a quick glance at his interrogator, who, however, was deeply engaged with the thumb nail. "well, i suppose men at my time of life," he replied, with a laugh, "have had some--" "of course--of course," interrupted the other, "but i mean that i wonder a strapping young fellow like you, with such a good practice, don't get married." the doctor, who had recovered himself, laughed, and said that his good practice was chiefly among the poor, and that even if he wished to marry--or rather, if any one would have him--he would never attempt to win a girl while he had nothing better than two hundred a year and prospects to offer her. "then i suppose you _would_ marry if you had something better to offer," said the captain, finishing off the nail and shutting the clasp-knife with a snap. again the doctor laughed, wondered why the captain had touched on such a theme, and said that he couldn't exactly say what he might or might not do if circumstances were altered. the captain was baffled. however, he said that circumstances _were_ altered, and, after reading over the latter part of willum's letter, left lawrence to digest it at his leisure. we need not follow him on his mission. suffice it to say that he carried no small amount of relief to the minds of mrs stoutley and her household; and, thereafter, met gillie by appointment at charing cross, whence he went to kensington to see a villa, with a view to purchasing it. at night he again essayed to move mrs roby's resolution, and many a time afterwards attacked her, but always with the same result. although, as he said, he fought like a true-blue british seaman, and gave her broadside after broadside as fast as he could load and fire, he made no impression on her whatever. she had nailed her colours to the mast and would never give in. chapter twenty four. in which tremendous forces come to the captain's aid. it is probable that most people can recall occasions when "circumstances" have done for them that which they have utterly failed to effect for themselves. some time after the failure of captain wopper's little plots and plans in regard to mrs roby, "circumstances" favoured him--the wind shifted round, so to speak, and blew right astern. to continue our metaphor, it blew a tremendous gale, and the captain's ends were gained at last only by the sinking of the ship! this is how it happened. one afternoon the captain was walking rather disconsolately down the strand in company with his satellite--we might almost say, his confidant. the street was very crowded, insomuch that at one or two crossings they were obliged to stand a few minutes before venturing over,--not that the difficulty was great, many active men being seen to dodge among the carts, drays, vans, and busses with marvellous ease and safety, but the captain was cautious. he was wont to say that he warn't used to sail in such crowded waters--there warn't enough o' sea room for him--he'd rather lay-to, or stand--off-an'-on for half a day than risk being run down by them shore-goin' crafts. "everything in life seems to go wrong at times," muttered the captain, as he and the satellite lay-to at one of these crossings. "yes, it's coorious, ain't it, sir," said gillie, "an' at other times everything seems to go right--don't it, sir?" "true, my lad, that's a better view to take of it," returned the captain, cheerfully, "come, we'll heave ahead." as they were "heaving" along in silence, the rattle and noise around them being unsuited to conversation, they suddenly became aware that the ordinary din of the strand swelled into a furious roar. gillie was half way up a lamp-post in an instant! from which elevated position he looked down on the captain, and said-- "a ingine!" "what sort of a ingine, my lad?" "a fire! hooray!" shouted gillie, with glittering eyes and flushed countenance, "look out, cappen, keep close 'longside o' me, under the lee o' the lamp-post. it's not a bad buffer, though never quite a sure one, bein' carried clean away sometimes by the wheels w'en there's a bad driver." as he spoke, the most intense excitement was manifested in the crowded thoroughfare. whips were flourished, cabmen shouted, horses reared, vehicles of all kinds scattered right and left even although there had seemed almost a "block" two seconds before. timid foot passengers rushed into shops, bold ones mounted steps and kerb-stones, or stood on tip-toe, and the captain, towering over the crowd, saw the gleam of brass helmets as the charioteer clove his way through the swaying mass. there is something powerfully exciting to most minds in the sight of men rushing into violent action, especially when the action may possibly involve life and death. the natural excitement aroused in the captain's breast was increased by the deep bass nautical roar that met his ear. every man in the london fire-brigade is, or used to be, a picked man-of-war's-man, and the shouting necessary in such a thoroughfare to make people get out of the way was not only tremendous but unceasing. it was as though a dozen mad "bo's'ns," capped with brazen war-helmets, had been let loose on london society, through which they tore at full gallop behind three powerful horses on a hissing and smoking monster of brass and iron. a bomb shell from a twenty-five-ton gun could scarce have cut a lane more effectually. the captain took off his hat and cheered in sympathy. the satellite almost dropped from the lamp-post with excess of feeling. the crash and roar increased, culminated, rushed past and gone in a moment. gillie dropped to the ground as if he had been shot, seized the captain's hand, and attempted to drag him along. he might as well have tried to drag vesuvius from its base, but the captain was willing. a hansom-cab chanced to be in front of them as they dashed into the road, the driver smoking and cool as a cucumber, being used to such incidents. he held up a finger. "quick, in with you, cappen!" gillie got behind his patron, and in attempting to expedite his movements with a push, almost sent him out at the other side. "after the ingine--slap!" yelled gillie to the face which looked down through the conversation-hole in the roof, "double extra fare if you look sharp." the cabman was evidently a sympathetic soul. he followed in the wake of the fire-engine as well as he could; but it was a difficult process, for, while the world at large made way for _it_, nobody cared a straw for _him_! "ain't it fun?" said gillie, as he settled his panting little body on the cushion beside his friend and master. "not bad," responded the captain, who half laughed at the thought of being so led away by excitement and a small boy. "i'd give up all my bright prospects of advancement in life," continued gillie, "to be a fireman. there's no fun goin' equal to a fire." "p'r'aps it don't seem quite so funny to them as is bein' burnt out," suggested the captain. "of course it don't, but that can't be helped, you know--can it, sir? what can't be cured must be endoored, as the proverb says. get along, old fellow, don't spare his ribs--double fare, you know; we'll lose 'em if you don't." the latter part of the remark was shouted through the hole to the cabman, who however, pulled up instead of complying. "it's of no use, sir," he said, looking down at the captain, "i've lost sight of 'em." gillie was on the pavement in a moment. "never mind, cappen, give him five bob, an' decline the change; come along. _i_ see 'em go past the bridge, so ten to one it's down about the docks somewheres--the wust place in london for a fire w'ich, of course, means the best." the idea of its being so afforded such unalloyed pleasure to gillie, that he found it hard to restrain himself and accommodate his pace to that of his friend. it soon became very evident that the fire was in truth somewhere about the docks, for not only was a dense cloud of smoke seen rising in that direction, but fire-engines began to dash from side streets everywhere, and to rush towards the smoke as if they were sentient things impatient for the fray. the cause of such unusual vigour and accumulation of power was, that a fire anywhere about the docks is deemed pre-eminently dangerous, owing to the great and crowded warehouses being stuffed from cellars to roof-trees with combustibles. the docks, in regard to fire, form the citadel of london. if the enemy gets a footing there, he must be expelled at all hazards and at any cost. as the captain and his _protege_ hurried along, they were naturally led in the direction of their home. a vague undefined fear at the same instant took possession of both, for they glanced gravely at each other without speaking, and, as if by mutual consent, began to run. gillie had no need now to complain of his companion's pace. he had enough to do to keep up with it. there were many runners besides themselves now, for the fire was obviously near at hand, and the entire population of the streets seemed to be pressing towards it. a few steps more brought them in sight of the head of grubb's court. here several fire-engines were standing in full play surrounded by a swaying mass of human beings. still there was no sign of the precise locality of the fires for the tall houses hid everything from view save the dense cloud which overshadowed them all. even captain wopper's great strength would have been neutralised in such a crowd if it had not now been seconded by an excitement and anxiety that nothing could resist. he crushed his way through as if he had been one of the steam fire-engines, gillie holding tight to the stout tails of his monkey jacket. several powerful roughs came in his way, and sought to check him. the captain had hitherto merely used his shoulders and his weight. to the roughs he applied a fist--right and left--and two went down. a few seconds brought him to the cordon of policemen. they had seen him approaching, and one placed himself in front of the captain with the quiet air of a man who is accustomed _never_ to give way to physical force! "i live down grubb's court, my man," said the captain, with an eager respectful air, for he was of a law-abiding spirit. the constable stepped aside, and nodded gravely. the captain passed the line, but gillie was pounced upon as if he had been a mouse and the constable a cat. "_he_ belongs to me," cried the captain, turning back on hearing gillie's yell of despair. the boy was released, and both flew down the court, on the pavement of which the snake-like water-hose lay spirting at its seams. "it's in the cabin," said the captain, in a low deep voice, as he dashed into the court, where a crowd of firemen were toiling with cool, quiet, yet tremendous energy. no crowd interrupted them here, save the few frantic inhabitants of the court, who were screaming advice and doing nothing; but no attention whatever was paid to them. a foreman of the brigade stood looking calmly upwards engaged in low-toned conversation with a brother fireman, as if they were discussing theories of the picturesque and beautiful with special application to chimney-cans, clouds of smoke, and leaping tongues of fire. immense engine power had been brought to bear, and one of the gigantic floating-engines of the thames had got near enough to shower tons of water over the buildings, still it was a matter of uncertainty whether the fire could be confined to the court where it had originated. the result of the foreman's quiet talk was that the brother-fireman suddenly seized a nozzle from a comrade, and made a dash at the door leading up to "the cabin." flames and smoke drove him back instantly. it was at this moment that captain wopper came on the scene. without a moment's hesitation he rushed towards the same door. the foreman seized his arm. "it's of no use, sir, you can't do it." the captain shook him off and sprang in. a few seconds and he rushed out choking, scorched, and with his eyes starting almost out of their sockets. "it is of no use, sir," remonstrated the foreman, "besides, the people have all bin got out, i'm told." "no, they 'aven't," cried mrs white, coming up at the moment, frantically wringing the last article of linen on which she had been professionally engaged, "mrs roby's there yet." "all right, sir," said the foreman, with that quiet comforting intonation which is peculiar to men of power, resource, and self-reliance, "come to the back. the escape will be up immediately. it couldn't get down the court, owin' to some masonry that was piled there, and had to be sent round." quick to understand, the captain followed the fireman, and reached the back of the house, on the riverside, just as the towering head of the escape emerged from a flanking alley. "this way. the small window on the right at the top--so." the ladder was barely placed when the captain sprang upon it and ran up as, many a time before, he had run up the shrouds of his own vessel. a cheer from the crowd below greeted this display of activity, but it was changed into a laugh when the captain, finding the window shut and bolted, want into the room head first, carrying frame and glass along with him! divesting himself of the uncomfortable necklace, he looked hastily round. the smoke was pretty thick, but not sufficiently so to prevent his seeing poor mrs roby lying on the floor as if she had fallen down suffocated. "cheer up, old lass," he cried, kneeling and raising her head tenderly. "is that you, cappen?" said the old woman, in a weak voice. "come, we've no time to lose. let me lift you; the place is all alight. i thought you was choked." "choked! oh dear, no," replied the old woman, "but i've always heard that in a fire you should keep your face close to the ground for air-- ah! gently, cappen, dear!" while she was speaking, the captain was getting her tucked under his strong right arm. he could have whisked her on his shoulder in a moment, but was afraid of her poor old bones, and treated her as if she had been a fragile china tea-cup of great value. next moment he was out on the escape, and reached the ground amid ringing cheers. he carried her at once to the nearest place of safety, and, committing her to the care of mrs white, rushed back to the scene of conflagration just as they were about to remove the escape. "stop!" shouted the captain, springing on it. "there's nobody else up, is there?" cried a fireman, as the captain ran up. "no, nobody." "come down then, directly," roared the fireman, "the escape is wanted elsewhere. come down, i say, or we'll leave you." "you're welcome to leave me," roared the captain, as he stepped into the window, "only hold your noise, an' mind your own business." with a mingled feeling of amusement and indignation they hurried away with the escape. it had been urgently wanted to reach a commanding position whence to assail the fire. the order to send it was peremptory, so the captain was left in his uncomfortable situation, with the smoke increasing around him, and the fire roaring underneath. the actions of our seaman were now curious as well as prompt. taking a blanket from his old friend's bed, he spread it below the chimney-piece, and in a remarkably short time pulled down, without damaging, every object on the wall and threw it into the blanket. he then added to the heap the chinese lantern, the turkish scimitar, the new zealand club, the eastern shield, the ornamented dagger, the worsted work sampler, the sou'-wester, the oiled coat, the telescope, the framed sheet of the flags of all nations, and the small portrait of the sea-captain in his "go-to-meetin'" clothes; also the big bible and a very small box, which latter contained mrs roby's limited wardrobe. he tied all up in a tight bundle. a coil of rope hung on a peg on the wall. the bundle was fastened to the end of it and lowered to the ground, amid a fire of remarks from the crowd, which were rather caustic and humorous than complimentary. "gillie," shouted the captain, "cast off the rope, lad, and look well after the property." "ay, ay, cappen," replied the youth, taking up a thick cart-pin, or something of the sort, that lay near, and mounting guard. there was another laugh, from crowd and firemen, at the nautical brevity and promptitude of gillie. at every large fire in london there may be seen a few firemen standing about in what an ignorant spectator might imagine to be easy indifference and idleness, but these men are not idlers. they are resting. the men who first arrive at a fire go into action with the utmost vigour, and toil until their powers are nearly--sometimes quite-- exhausted. as time passes fresh men are continually arriving from the more distant stations. these go into action as they come up, thus relieving the others, who stand aloof for a time looking on, or doing easy work, and recruiting their energies. it was these men who watched the captain's proceedings with much amusement while their comrades were doing battle with the foe. presently the captain reappeared at the window and lowered a huge sea-chest. a third time he appeared with the model of a full-rigged ship in his hand. this time he let the end of the rope down, and then getting over the window, slid easily to the ground. "you're uncommon careful o' your property," exclaimed one of the onlookers, with a broad grin. "'taint all _my_ property, lad," replied the captain, with a good-humoured nod, "most of it is a poor old 'ooman's belongings." so saying, he got a man to carry his sea-chest, himself shouldered the bundle, gillie was intrusted with the full-rigged model, and thus laden they left the scene followed by another laugh and a hearty cheer. but our bluff seaman was not content with rescuing mrs roby and her property. he afterwards proceeded to lend his effective aid to all who desired his assistance, and did not cease his exertions until evening, by which time the fire was happily subdued. "she must not be moved to-night captain," said dr lawrence, for whom gillie had been sent; "the place where she lies is doubtless far from comfortable, but i have got her to sleep, and it would be a pity to awake her. to-morrow we shall get her into more comfortable quarters." "could she bear movin' to-morrow, a mile or so?" asked the captain. "certainly, but there is no occasion to go so far. lodgings are to be had--" "all right, doctor; i've got a lodging ready for her, and will ask you to come an' have pot-luck with us before long. gillie, my lad, you go hail a cab, and then come back to lend a hand wi' the cargo." in a few minutes the pair were whirling towards the west end of london, and were finally landed with their "cargo" on the banks of the thames above the bridges, near the new building which captain wopper had named, after its prototype, "the cabin." to fit this up after the fashion of the old place was a comparatively short and easy work for two such handy labourers. before they left that night it was so like its predecessor in all respects, except dirt, that both declared it to be the "identical same craft, in shape and rig, even to the little bed and curtains." next afternoon mrs roby was brought to it by captain wopper, in a specially easy carriage hired for the purpose. the poor old woman had received more of a shock than she was willing to admit, and did exactly as she was bid, with many a sigh, however, at the thought of having been burnt out of the old home. she was carried up the stair in a chair by two porters, and permitted the captain to draw a thick veil over her head to conceal, as he said, her blushes from the men. he also took particular care to draw the curtains of the bed close round her after she had been laid in it and then retired to allow her to be disrobed by netta, who had been obtained from mrs stoutley on loan expressly for the occasion. much of this care to prevent her seeing the place that day, however, was unnecessary. the poor old creature was too much wearied by the short journey to look at anything. after partaking of a little tea and toast she fell into a quiet sleep, which was not broken till late on the following morning. her first thought on waking was the fire. her second, the captain. he was in the room, she knew, because he was whistling in his usual low tone while moving about the fireplace preparing breakfast. she glanced at the curtains; her own curtains certainly,--and the bed too! much surprised, she quietly put out her thin hand and drew the curtain slightly aside. the captain in his shirt sleeves, as usual, preparing buttered toast, the fireplace, the old kettle with the defiant spout singing away as defiantly as ever, the various photographs, pot-lids, and other ornaments above the fireplace, the two little windows commanding an extensive prospect of the sky from the spot where she lay, the full-rigged ship, the chinese lantern hanging from the beam-- everything just as it should be! "well, well," thought mrs roby, with a sigh of relief; "the fire must have been a dream after all! but what a vivid one!" she coughed. the captain was at her side instantly. "slept well, old girl?" "very well, thank you. i've had such a queer dream, d'you know?" "have you? take your breakfast, mother, before tellin' it. it's all ready--there, fire away." "it _was_ such a vivid one," she resumed, when half through her third cup, "all about a fire, and you were in it too." here she proceeded to relate her dream with the most circumstantial care. the captain listened with patient attention till she had finished, and then said-- "it was no dream, mother. it's said that the great fire of london was a real blessin' to the city. the last fire in london will, i hope, be a blessin' to you an' me. it was real enough and terrible too, but through god's mercy you have been saved from it. i managed to save your little odds and ends too. this is the noo `cabin,' mother, that you wouldn't consent to come to. something like the old one, ain't it?" mrs roby spoke never a word, but looked round the room in bewilderment. taking the captain's hand she kissed it, and gazed at him and the room until she fell asleep. awaking again in half an hour, she finished her breakfast, asked for the old bible, and, declaring herself content, fell straightway into her old ways and habits. chapter twenty five. an unexpected gem found. although lewis stoutley found it extremely difficult to pursue his studies with the profusely illustrated edition of medical works at his command, he nevertheless persevered with a degree of calm, steady resolution which might be almost styled heroic. to tear out the illustrations was impossible, for nita's portrait was stamped on every page, compelling him to read the letterpress through it. success, however, attended his labours, for he not only carried out the regular course, but he attached himself to the poor district of the "moraine" which had been appropriated as their own by his mother and emma, who ministered to the bodies of the sick while they sought to bring their souls to the good physician. this professional work he did as a sort of amateur, being only a student under the guidance of his friend lawrence, whose extending practice included that district. it happened also to be the district in which mrs roby's new "cabin" was situated. these labourers, in what dr tough had styled the london gold fields, not only did good to the people, and to themselves in the prosecution of them, but resulted occasionally in their picking up a nugget, or a diamond, which was quite a prize. one such was found by lewis about this time, which, although sadly dim and soiled when first discovered, proved to be such a precious and sparkling gem that he resolved to wear it himself. he and emma one day paid a visit to the cabin, where they found old mrs roby alone, and had a long chat with her, chiefly about the peculiarities of the captain and his boy. "by the way," said mrs roby to lewis, when they rose to go, "a poor woman was here just before you came, askin' if i knew where she could find a doctor, for her father, she said, was very ill. the two have come to live in a room near the foot of this stair, it seems, and they appear to be very poor. i could not give her dr lawrence's new address, for i don't know it, so i advised her to apply to the nearest chemist. perhaps, mr lewis, you'll go yourself and see the poor man?" "willingly, and i shall myself call for lawrence on my way home and send him, if necessary. come, emma. perhaps this may be a case for the exercise of your philanthropy." they soon found the place, and knocked at a low door, which was slowly opened by a middle-aged woman, meanly clad and apparently very poor. "ah, sir, you're too late, he's dead," said the woman, in reply to lewis's inquiry. "o how sad!" broke from emma's sympathetic spirit, "i am _so_ sorry we are too late. did you find a doctor?" "no, ma'am, i didn't, but the chemist gave me the address of one, so i ran back to tell the poor young thing that i'd go fetch one as quick as i could, and i found him just dying in her arms." "in whose arms? are not you the daughter--" said emma. "me, miss! oh dear, no. i'm only a neighbour." "has she any friends?" asked lewis. "none as i knows of. they are strangers here--only just came to the room. there it is," she added, stepping back and pointing to an inner door. lewis advanced and knocked, but received no answer. he knocked again. still no answer. he therefore ventured to lift the latch and enter. it was a miserable, ill-lighted room, of small size and destitute of all furniture save a truckle bed, a heap of clean straw in a corner, on which lay a black shawl, a deal chair, and a small table. abject poverty was stamped on the whole place. on the bed lay the dead man, covered with a sheet. beside it kneeled, or rather lay, the figure of a woman. her dress was a soiled and rusty black. her hair, fallen from its fastenings, hung dishevelled on her shoulders. her arms clasped the dead form. "my poor woman," whispered emma, as she knelt beside her, and put a hand timidly on her shoulder. but the woman made no answer. "she has fainted, i think," exclaimed emma, rising quickly and trying to raise the woman's head. suddenly lewis uttered a great cry, lifted the woman in his arms, and gazed wildly into her face. "nita!" he cried, passionately clasping her to his heart and covering the poor faded face with kisses; but nita heard not. it seemed as if the silver chord had already snapped. becoming suddenly aware of the impropriety as well as selfishness of his behaviour, lewis hastily bore the inanimate form to the heap of straw, pillowed the small head on the old shawl, and began to chafe the hands while emma aided him to restore consciousness. they were soon successful. nita heaved a sigh. "now, emma," said lewis, rising, "this is _your_ place just now, i will go and fetch something to revive her." he stopped for one moment at the bed in passing, and lifted the sheet. there was no mistaking the handsome face of the count even in death. it was terribly thin, but the lines of sorrow and anxiety were gone at last from the marble brow, and a look of rest pervaded the whole countenance. on returning, lewis found that nita had thrown her arms round emma's neck and was sobbing violently. she looked up as he entered, and held out her hand. "god has sent you," she said, looking at emma, "to save my heart from breaking." lewis again knelt beside her and put her hand to his lips, but he had no power to utter a word. presently, as the poor girl's eye fell on the bed, there was a fresh outburst of grief. "oh, how he loved me!--and how nobly he fought!--and how gloriously he conquered!--god be praised for that!" she spoke, or rather sobbed, in broken sentences. to distract her mind, if possible, even for a little, from her bereavement, emma ventured to ask her how she came there, when her father became so ill, and similar questions. little by little, in brief sentences, and with many choking words and tears, the sad story came out. ever since the night when her father met with lewis at saxon, he had firmly resisted the temptation to gamble. god had opened his ear to listen to, and his heart to receive, the saviour. arriving in london with the money so generously lent to them by lewis, they took a small lodging and sought for work. god was faithful to his promises, she said; he had sent a measure of prosperity. her father taught music, she obtained needlework. all was going well when her father became suddenly ill. slowly but steadily he sank. the teaching had to be given up, the hours of labour with the needle increased. this, coupled with constant nursing, began to sap her own strength, but she had been enabled to hold out until her father became so ill that she dared not leave him even for a few minutes to visit the shops where she had obtained sewing-work. then, all source of livelihood being dried up, she had been compelled to sell one by one the few articles of clothing and furniture which they had begun to accumulate about them. "thus," she said, in conclusion, "we were nearly reduced to a state of destitution, but, before absolute want had been felt by us, god mercifully took my darling father home--and--and--i shall soon join him." "say not so, darling," said emma, twining her arms round the poor stricken girl. "it may be that he has much work for you to do for jesus _here_ before he takes you home. meanwhile, he has sent us to claim you as our very dear friend--as our sister. you must come and stay with mamma and me. we, too, have tasted something of that cup of adversity, which you have drained to the very dregs, my poor nita, but we are comparatively well off now. mamma will be so glad to have you. say you will come. won't you, dearest?" nita replied by lifting her eyes with a bewildered look to the bed, and again burst into a passion of uncontrollable sorrow. chapter twenty six. the denouement. being naturally a straightforward man, and not gifted with much power in the way of plotting and scheming, captain wopper began in time to discover that he had plunged his mental faculties into a disagreeable state of confusion. "gillie, my lad," he said, looking earnestly at his satellite while they walked one afternoon along the bayswater road in the direction of kensington, "it's a bad business altogether." gillie, not having the smallest idea what the captain referred to, admitted that it was "wery bad indeed," but suggested that "it might be wuss." "it's such a perplexin' state o' things," pursued the captain, "to be always bouncin' up an' down wi' hopes, an' fears, an' disappointments, like a mad barometer, not knowin' rightly what's what or who's who." "uncommon perplexin'," assented gillie. "if i was you, cappen, i'd heave the barometer overboard along wi' the main-deck, nail yer colours to the mast, cram the rudder into the lee-scuppers, kick up your flyin'-jib-boom into the new moon, an' go down stern foremost like a man!" "ha!" said the captain, with a twinkle in the corner of his "weather-eye," "not a bad notion." "now, my lad, i'm goin' out to my villa at kensington to dine. there's to be company, too, an' you're to be waiter--" "stooard, you mean?" "well, yes--stooard. now, stooard, you'll keep a good look-out, an' clap as tight a stopper on yer tongue as may be. i've got a little plot in hand, d'ee see, an' i want you to help me with it. keep your eye in a quiet way on dr lawrence and miss gray. i've taken a fancy that perhaps they may be in love with each other. you just let me have your opinion on that pint after dinner, but have a care that you don't show what you're up to, and, whatever you do, don't be cheeky." "all right," said the stooard, thrusting both hands into his trouser-pockets; "i'll do my best." while these two were slowly wending their way through kensington gardens, emma gray arrived at the captain's villa--california cottage, he called it--and rang the bell. the gate was opened by netta white, who, although not much bigger than when first introduced to the reader, was incomparably more beautiful and smart. mrs stoutley had reason to be proud of her. "i did not know that _you_ were to be here, netta?" said emma, in surprise, as she entered. "it was a very sudden call, miss," said netta, with a smile. "captain wopper wrote a note to me, begging me to ask mrs stoutley to be so good as lend me to him for a day to help at his house-warming. here is the letter, miss." emma laughed as she glanced carelessly at the epistle, but became suddenly grave, turned white, then red, and, snatching the letter from the girl's hand, gazed at it intently. "la! miss, is anything wrong?" "may i keep this?" asked emma. "certainly, miss, if you wish it." before she could say anything more, they were interrupted by the entrance of dr lawrence. with a surprised look and smile he said-- "i have been invited to dine with our friend captain wopper, but did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting miss gray here." emma explained that she also had been invited to dine with the captain, along with her mother and brother, but had supposed that that was all the party, as he, the captain, had mentioned no one else, and had been particular in begging her to come an hour before the time, for the purpose of going over his new villa with him, and giving him her private opinion of it. "i am punctual," she added, consulting her watch; "it is just four o'clock." "four! then what is the dinner hour?" "five," answered emma. "the captain's wits must have been wool-gathering," rejoined lawrence, with a laugh. "he told me to come punctually at four. however, i rejoice in the mistake, as it gives me the great pleasure of assisting you to form an unprejudiced opinion of the merits of the new villa. shall we begin with an exploration of the garden?" emma had no cause to blush at such an innocent proposal, nevertheless a richer colour than usual mantled on her modest little face as she fell in with the doctor's humour and stepped out into the small piece of ground behind the house. it was of very limited extent and, although not surrounded too closely by other villas, was nevertheless thoroughly overlooked by them, so that seclusion in that garden was impossible. recognising this fact, a former proprietor had erected at the lower end of the garden a bower so contrived that its interior was invisible from all points except one, and that was a side door to the garden which opened on a little passage by which coals, milk, meat, and similar substances were conveyed from the front to the rear of the house. dr lawrence and emma walked round and round the garden very slowly, conversing earnestly. strange to say, they quite forgot the object which had taken them there. their talk was solely of switzerland. as it continued, the doctor's voice deepened in tones and interest, and his fair companion's cheek deepened in colour. suddenly they turned into the bower. as they did so, gillie white chanced to appear at the garden door above referred to, which stood ajar. the spider's countenance was a speaking one. during the five minutes which it appeared in the doorway, it, and the body belonging to it, became powerfully eloquent. it might have conveyed to one's mind, as it were, a series of _tableaux vivants_. gillie's first look was as if he had been struck dumb with amazement (that was lawrence suddenly seizing one of emma's hands in both of his and looking intently into her face). then gillie's look of amazement gave place to one of intense, quite touching--we might almost say sympathetic--anxiety as he placed a hand on each knee and stooped (that was the doctor's right hand stealing round emma's waist, and emma shrinking from him with averted face). the urchin's visage suddenly lighted up with a blaze of triumph, and he seized his cap as if about to cheer (that was the doctor's superior strength prevailing, and emma's head, now turned the other way, laid on his shoulder). all at once gillie went into quiet convulsions, grinned from ear to ear, doubled himself up, slapped his thigh inaudibly--_a la_ captain wopper--and otherwise behaved like an outrageous, yet self-restrained, maniac (that was--well, we have no right to say what _that_ was). as a faithful chronicler, however, we must report that one-half minute later the stooard found captain wopper in the villa drawing-room, and there stated to him that it was "hall right; that he didn't need for to perplex hisself about doctor lawrence and miss hemma gray, for that they was as good as spliced already, having been seen by him, gillie, in the bower at the end of the garding a-blushin' and a--" here the spider stopped short and went into another fit of convulsions--this time unrestrained. is it necessary to say that captain wopper sat at the foot of his own table that day--mrs stoutley being at the head--with his rugged visage radiant and his powerful voice explosive; that he told innumerable sea-stories without point, and laughed at them without propriety; that, in the excess of his hilarity, he drank a mysterious toast to the success of all sorts of engagements, present and future; that he called mrs stoutley (in joke) sister, and emma and lewis (also in joke) niece and neffy; that he called doctor lawrence neffy, too, with a pointedness and a sense of its being the richest possible joke, that covered with confusion the affianced pair; and with surprise the rest of the company; that he kicked the stooard amicably out of the room for indulging in explosions of laughter behind his chair, and recommending him, the captain, to go it strong, and to clap on sail till he should tear the mast out of 'er, or git blowed on his beam-ends; that the stooard returned unabashed to repeat the offence unreproved; that towards the end, the captain began a long-winded graphic story which served to show how his good friend and chum willum stout in callyforny had commissioned him to buy and furnish a villa for the purpose of presenting it to a certain young lady in token of his gratitood to her for bein' such a good and faithful correspondent to him, willum, while he was in furrin' parts; also, how he was commissioned to buy and furnish another villa and present it to a certain doctor whose father had saved him from drownin' long long ago, he would not say _how_ long ago; and how that this villa, in which they was feedin', was one of the said villas, and that he found it quite unnecessary to spend any more of willum's hard-earned gains in the purchase of the other villa, owing to circumstances which had took place in a certain bower that very day! is it necessary, we again ask, to detail all this? we think not; therefore, we won't. when reference was made to the bower, emma could stand, or sit, it no longer. she rose hastily and ran blushing into the garden. captain wopper uttered a thunderous laugh, rose and ran after her. he found her in the bower with her face in her hands, and sat down beside her. "captain wopper," she suddenly exclaimed, looking up and drawing a note from her pocket, "do you know this?" "yes, duckie," (the captain was quite reckless now), "it's my last billy-doo to netta white. i never was good at pot-hooks and hangers." "and do you know _this_ letter?" said emma, holding up to the seaman's eyes her uncle william's last letter to herself. the captain looked surprised, then became suddenly red and confused. "w'y--ye-es, it's willum's, ain't it?" "the same pot-hooks and hangers _precisely_!" said emma, "are they not? oh!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round the captain's neck and kissing him, "uncle william, how _could_ you deceive us so?" the captain, to use his own expressions, was taken aback--fairly brought up all standin'. it had never occurred to his innocent mind that he should commit himself so simply. he felt an unconquerable objection to expressions of gratitude, and perceiving, with deep foresight that such were impending, his first impulse was to rise and fly, but emma's kiss made him change his mind. he returned it in kind but not in degree, for it caused the bower to resound as with a pistol shot. "oh! wot a cracker, ain't it just? you're a nice man, ain't you, to go poachin' on other fellers--" the captain seized his opportunity, he broke from emma and dashed wildly at the spider, who incontinently fled down the conduit for coals, cheering with the fury of a victorious ashantee chief! chapter twenty seven. the last. humbly confessing to emma gray that he had no talent whatever for plotting, captain wopper went off with a deprecatory expression of countenance to reveal himself to mrs roby. great was his anxiety. he entered her presence like a guilty thing. if, however, his anxiety was great, his surprise and consternation were greater when she received his revelation with tears, and for some time refused to be comforted! the workings of the human mind are wonderful. sometimes they are, as the captain said, bamboozling. if analysed it might have been discovered that, apart altogether from the shock of unexpectedness and the strain on her credulity, poor mrs roby suffered--without clearly understanding it--from a double loss. she had learned to love captain wopper for his own sake, and now captain wopper was lost to her in william stout! on the other hand william, her darling, her smooth-faced chubby boy, was lost to her for ever in the hairy savage captain wopper! it was perplexing as well as heart-rending. captain wopper was gone, because, properly, there was no such being in existence. william stout was gone because he would never write to her any more, and could never more return to her from california! it was of no use that the captain expressed the deepest contrition for the deception he had practised, urging that he had done it "for the best;" the old woman only wept the more; but when, in desperation, the captain hauled taut the sheets of his intellect, got well to wind'ard of the old 'ooman an' gave her a broadside of philosophy, he was more successful. "mother," he said, earnestly, "you don't feel easy under this breeze, 'cause why? you're entirely on the wrong tack. ready about now, an' see what a change it'll make. look 'ee here. you've _gained_ us both instead of lost us both. here am i, willum stout yours to command, a trifle stouter, it may be, and hairier than i once was, not to say older, but by a long chalk better able to love the old girl who took me in, an' befriended me when i was a reg'lar castaway, with dirty weather brewin', an' the rocks o' destitootion close under my lee; and who'll never forget your kindness, no never, so long as two timbers of the old hulk hold together. well then, that's the view over the starboard bulwarks. cast your eyes over to port now. here am i, captain wopper, also yours to command, strong as a horse, as fond o' you as if you was my own mother, an' resolved to stick by you through thick and thin to the last. so you see, you've got us both--willum an' me--me an' willum, both of us lovin' you like blazes an' lookin' arter you like dootiful sons. a double tide of affection, so to speak, flowin' like strong double-stout from the beer barrel out of which you originally drew me, if i may say so. ain't you convinced?" mrs roby _was_ convinced. she gave in, and lived for many years afterwards in the full enjoyment of the double blessing which had thus fallen to her lot in the evening of her days. and here, good reader, we might close our tale; but we cannot do so without a few parting words in reference to the various friends in whose company we have travelled so long. of course it is unnecessary to say, (especially to our lady readers, who were no doubt quite aware of it from the beginning), that lawrence and emma, lewis and nita, were, in the course of time, duly married. the love of their respective wives for each other induced the husbands not only to dwell in adjoining villas, but to enter into a medical co-partnery, in the prosecution of which they became professionally the deities, and, privately, the adored of a large population of invalids-- with their more or less healthy friends--in the salubrious neighbourhood of kensington. to go about "doing good" was the business, and became the second nature, of the young doctors. it was long a matter of great surprise to not a few of their friends that though lawrence and lewis neither smoked nor drank, they were uncommonly healthy and apparently happy! some caustic spirits asserted that they were sure budding wings were to be found on the shoulders of the two doctors, but we are warranted in asserting, on the best authority, that on a strict examination, nothing of the kind was discovered. need we say that emma and nita were pattern wives? of course not, therefore we won't say it. our reticence on this point will no doubt be acceptable to those who, being themselves naughty, don't believe in or admire "patterns," even though these be of "heavenly things." it is astonishing, though, what an effect their so-called "perfection" had in tightening the bonds of matrimony. furthermore, they had immense families of sons and daughters, insomuch that it became necessary to lengthen their cords and strengthen their stakes, and "calyforny villa" became a mere band-box compared to the mansions which they ultimately called "home." mrs stoutley having managed to get entirely out of _herself_--chiefly by means of the bible and the london gold-fields and moraines--became so amiable and so unlike her former self, and, withal, so healthy and cheery, that the two great families of stoutley and lawrence went to war for possession of her. the feud at last threatened to become chronic, and was usually carried to an excess of virulence about christmas and new year time. in order, therefore, to the establishment of peace, mrs stoutley agreed to live one-half of the year with lewis, and the other half with lawrence--lewis to have the larger half as a matter of course; but she retained her cottage in notting hill and her maid netta white, with the right to retire at any moment, when the exigencies of the gold-fields or the moraines demanded special attention; or when the excess of juvenile life in the mansions before mentioned became too much for her. on these occasions of retirement which, to say truth, were not very frequent, she was accompanied by netta white--for netta loved her mistress and clave to her as ruth to naomi. being a native of the "fields," she was an able and sympathetic guide and adviser at all times, and nothing pleased netta better than a visit to grubb's court, for there she saw the blessed fruit of diamond and gold digging illustrated in the person of her own reformed father and happy mother, who had removed from their former damp rooms on the ground floor to the more salubrious apartments among the chimney pots, which had been erected on the site of the "cabin" after "the fire." directly below them, in somewhat more pretentious apartments, shone another rescued diamond in the person of fred leven. he was now the support and comfort of his old mother as well as of a pretty little young woman who had loved him even while he was a drunkard, and who, had it been otherwise decreed, would have gone on loving him and mourning over him and praying for him till he was dead. in her case, however, the mourning had been turned into joy. in process of time gillie white, _alias_ the spider, became a sturdy, square-set, active little man, and was promoted to the position of coachman in the family of lewis stoutley. susan quick served in the same family in the capacity of nurse for many years, and, being naturally thrown much into the society of the young coachman, was finally induced to cement the friendship which had begun in switzerland by a wedding. this wedding, gillie often declared to susan, with much earnestness, was the "stunninest ewent that had ever occurred to him in his private capacity as a man." there is a proverb which asserts that "it never rains but it pours." this proverb was verified in the experience of the various personages of our tale, for soon after the tide of fortune had turned in their favour, the first showers of success swelled into absolute cataracts of prosperity. among other things, the gowrong mines suddenly went right. mrs stoutley's former man of business, mr temple, called one day, and informed her that her shares in that splendid undertaking had been purchased, on her behalf, by a friend who had faith in the ultimate success of the mines; that the friend forbade the mention of his name; and that he, mr temple, had called to pay her her dividends, and to congratulate her on her recovery of health and fortune. dr tough--who, when his services were no longer required, owing to the absence of illness, had continued his visits as a jovial friend--chanced to call at the same time with mr temple, and added his congratulations to those of the man of business, observing, with enthusiasm, that the air of the swiss mountains, mixed in equal parts with that of the london diamond-fields, would cure any disease under the sun. his former patient heartily agreed with him, but said that the medicine in question was not a mere mixture but a chemical compound, containing an element higher than the mountains and deeper than the diamond-fields, without which the cure would certainly not have been effected. need we say that captain wopper stuck to mrs roby and the "new cabin" to the last? many and powerful efforts were made to induce him to bring his "mother" to dwell in kensington, but mrs roby flatly refused to move again under any suasion less powerful than that of a fire. the eldest of lewis stoutley's boys therefore hit on a plan for frequent and easy inter-communication. he one day suggested the idea of a boating-club to his brothers and companions. the proposal was received with wild enthusiasm. the club was established, and a boathouse, with all its nautical appurtenances, was built under the very shadow of mrs roby's dwelling. a trusty "diamond" from grubb's court was made boat-cleaner and repairer and guardian of the keys, and captain wopper was created superintendent general director, chairman, honorary member, and perpetual grand master of the club, in which varied offices he continued to give unlimited satisfaction to the end of his days. as for slingsby, he became an aspirant to the honours of the royal academy, and even dreamt of the president's chair! not being a madman, he recovered from the disease of blighted hopes, and discovered that there were other beings as well as nita worth living for! he also became an intimate and welcome visitor at the two kensington mansions, the walls of which were largely decorated with his productions. whether he succeeded in life to the full extent of his hopes we cannot say, but we have good reason to believe that he did not entirely fail. from time to time lewis heard of his old guide antoine grennon from friends who at various periods paid a visit to the glaciers of switzerland, and more than once, in after years, he and his family were led by that prince of guides over the old romantic and familiar ground, where things were not so much given to change as in other regions; where the ice-rivers flowed with the same aspects, the same frozen currents, eddies, and cataracts as in days gone by; where the elderly guides were replaced by youthful guides of the same type and metal--ready to breast the mountain slopes and scale the highest peaks at a moment's notice; and where antoine's cottage stood unchanged, with a pretty and rather stout young woman usually kneeling in a tub, engaged in the destruction of linen, and a pretty little girl, who called her "mother," busy with a miniature washing of her own. the only difference being that the child called antoine "grandfather," and appeared to regard a strapping youth who dwelt there as her sire, and a remarkably stout but handsome middle-aged woman as her grandmother. last, but not least, the professor claims a parting word. little, however, is known as to the future career of the genial man of science, one of whose chief characteristics was his reverent recognition of god in conversing about his works. after returning to his home in the cold north he corresponded for some years with dr lawrence, and never failed to express his warmest regard for the friends with whom he had the good fortune to meet while in switzerland. he was particularly emphatic--we might almost say enthusiastic--in his expressions of regard for captain wopper, expressions and sentiments which the bold mariner heartily reciprocated, and he often stated to mrs roby, over an afternoon cup of tea, his conviction that that roosian professor was out o' sight one of the best fellows he had ever met with, and that the remembrance of him warmed his heart to furriners in general and roosians in particular. this remark usually had the effect of inducing mrs roby to ask some question about his, the captain's, intercourse with the professor, which question invariably opened the flood-gates of the captain's memory, and drew from him prolonged and innumerable "yarns" about his visit to the continent--yarns which are too long to be set down here, for the captain never tired of relating, and old mrs roby never wearied of listening, to his memorable rambles on the snow-capped mountains, and his strange adventures among the--rivers of ice. the end. available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/housewithsixtycl chil [illustration: the house with sixty closets by frank samuel child with illustrations by j. randolph brown] [illustration: the children take possession of the house. page .] the house with sixty closets a christmas story for young folks and old children by frank samuel child author of "an old new england town" "the colonial parson of new england" "a colonial witch" "a puritan wooing" etc. with illustrations by j. randolph brown boston lee and shepard publishers copyright, , by lee and shepard all rights reserved the house with sixty closets to frank and bess and arthur and theodora and grace and ruth and amy and the "little judge" and all their merry friends all about it a page house, people, things b the house that the judge built c the people who live in the house that the judge built d the things that happened to the people who live in the house that the judge built i portraits walk and talk ii closets talk and walk iii the procession of goat, dog, cat, bicycles, portraits, closets, ruth, and the "little judge" iv the party with supper for seventeen, and toasts with a toasting-fork v stockings filled with music, rainbows, sense, backbone, sunsets, impulses, gold spoon, ideals, sunshine, star, mantle, flowers,--and the like queer stuff e happy day list of illustrations. page the children taking possession of the house _frontispiece._ initial o mrs. "judge" planning the closets mrs. "judge's" living-room candlestick and bible initial i nailing flag to chimney the children taking a ride initial i ruth sees figures in the fire stepping out of the frames susie and little judge entering the clock initial t playing tag champaign complaining the closets talk and walk the judge sitting on the cog-wheel initial i billy eating funeral cloth and wreath the procession starts billy, satan, and turk taking a ride mrs. "judge" and man in moon returning from the church initial w the walk around there was the greatest confusion initial r ruth and satan the room was a blaze of glory the room studded with twinkling, radiant stars a house, people, things _i will first describe the house._ _then i will tell something about the people that live in it._ _after that i will speak of the very strange things which happened there the night before christmas._ b the house that the judge built b. the house that the judge built. once upon a time there lived a good judge in an old new england town. people said the reason that he was so good was because his father was a minister. but he may have gotten his goodness from his mother. i don't know. or he may have had it from his uncle who took him into his family and sent him to college. for the minister was poor, and like many of his brethren he had a big family; so his brother who was a rich lawyer and a statesman helped his nephew get his education. now, this son of a minister and nephew of a great man studied law and became a judge. he was liked by every one who knew him. people felt that he was an honest, noble man who had mastered all the law books, and showed more common sense than any other person in the state. so they made him judge. this man who started poor and had to make his own way in the world earned a great deal of money. people came to him from all parts of the country, and sought his advice. they put into his hands the most important law cases. only sometimes he would not have anything to do with the cases that he was asked to manage because he thought them wrong. as years went by he saved his money, and the time came when he was ready to build a house. the judge had become the most honored and the best known man in the state. he had many friends among the great people of the land. he enjoyed company, and was a famous host. so it seemed well to him and his wife that they build a house which should be large enough to hold their friends, and fine enough to satisfy the taste of the society in which they moved. the judge was not moved by pride or a wish to make a show. he wished to do the right thing. everybody said that he ought to have the largest and the finest house in town. he was not only a lawyer and rich, but he was deacon in the church and the leading man in society. he was likewise a great scholar; and many people said that he was the most eloquent speaker of his state. such a person must live in a generous way. so the judge built this house. now, when it came to drawing plans the wife had a good deal to say about it; for the house was to be her home just as much as his; and he always tried to do what he knew was for the pleasure of his wife. "i think," said she when they began to talk about building, "that it should have a great many closets." had you been a friend of mrs. "judge" you would have seen why she said this. she was not only a woman who liked to have all her friends come to visit her, but she was also very liberal and kind. she was always doing some nice thing for people, and always giving presents. she was able to do this because she had the things to give away. i know men and women who would make a great many presents if they had the money to buy them--at least they say that they would. such people like to tell how they would act if they had all the money that some neighbor has saved. they are great on giving away things that do not belong to them. now, the judge's wife was the best giver in town; and she gave to her friends, and the poor, and everybody that was in need, all sorts of things. but in order to do this she must buy the gifts that she scattered so freely; and when she bought things she wanted a place to keep them until the time came for her to give them away. this was why she spoke to the judge about the closets. [illustration] "well, my dear," said the judge (he was always kind and polite), "you may have just as many closets as you wish." so she began her plans of the house by drawing the closets. i don't know exactly how she managed to arrange it on paper. very likely she said to herself, "i shall want thirty closets." and then she would divide the number into four parts and say, "let me see, i suppose that four will be enough for the cellar. then i shall need ten on the first floor, and twelve on the second floor, and six in the attic. that makes--why, that makes thirty-two. dear me! i wonder if that will be enough?" and as she thinks over the various uses to which she will put her closets, and the many things she will store in them, she says, on the next day, "well, i believe that i must have five or six more closets." so she starts her drawing by marking down thirty-eight closets. after she has settled it that the main floor shall have thirteen of them, she puts upon the paper some dots showing the size of each little room; then she draws the other rooms about them, and so she gets one story arranged. but no sooner does she begin the plans for the next floor, than she thinks of one or two more closets which she needs for the first, and so goes back to her work of yesterday, and does it all over again, making several changes. and so very likely the weeks are spent in making paper closets, and drawing the halls and parlors and bedrooms and other rooms about them, until she puts her plans by the side of the judge's plans; then they get an architect; and then she asks for four more closets, which makes forty-four. after a time the men begin to build; and she sends for the builder, and tells him of course that she finds she will certainly need five more closets,--one in the cellar, two on the first story, and three on the second. he is a pleasant man; and the changes are made. but ere the house is half built other needs appear, and mrs. "judge" insists upon three new closets, which make fifty-two. and without doubt on the very week that the carpenters leave the handsome mansion, she asks them for several changes and three closets more. and will you believe it, they move into the new house, get nicely settled, and everything running in good order, when the generous housewife finds that the carpenter must come, for she still wishes five new closets, which added to the others make sixty. and so you have the house with sixty closets. it seems to me that i have made it clear how there came to be so many of these curious rooms and spaces in the judge's house. at least you know all that i know about it; and i do not believe that ever another house was built in such a way. but i must tell you how the house was divided. a plan of each story will be the best means of fixing this in the mind; and then you can turn back to it whenever you lose your way in the house, and wish to get what are called "your bearings." we must begin at the bottom and work toward the top. the cellar was really three cellars,--a big one, a fair-sized one, and the wine cellar. there was a small closet in this deep, dark place where they kept certain kinds of liquor. the main cellar was divided lengthwise through the middle, and there were two closets for provisions on each side. the main floor had twenty-seven closets. for my own part, i think that woman is a remarkable person who can invent and arrange such a number of little nooks and rooms. but if this is a mark of genius, what shall we say when it comes to keeping track of all the closets and their contents? why, i should be obliged to carry a plan of the whole house with me, and every few minutes i should pull it out and study it. the judge's wife was a most wonderful woman. she built her closets, and then she filled them, and then she remembered all about them and their contents. here is the plan of the first floor. a hall through the middle. on the left as you enter is the library. there was one closet connected with this room, and a door opened into it from the northeast corner. back of the library was the dining-room. it had three closets connected with it; doors leading to them from three corners of the room. to the left of the dining-room you passed into a side entry. three doors opened into three large closets. the kitchen adjoined the dining-room. there was one closet in it, and two closets out of it to the right, and these two latter had one closet and two closets respectively. [illustration] on the right of the hall was the parlor. it had one closet. a large window reaching to the floor gave entrance to this room near the northeast corner. back of the parlor was a long, dark closet which made a passage-way from the hall to the schoolroom. back of this closet was a first-floor chamber with three closets. the third of these closets opened into the chamber from the north. it was formerly mrs. "judge's" store-room. another large closet was connected with it, and these two large closets contained two small closets. to the east of this chamber was the schoolroom (formerly the judge's library). this room had two closets in it, and two closets out of it. the room to the north of the schoolroom was the annex to the judge's library, and it held his books bequeathed to the minister. it also held two closets. and now my first story is ended. the short hall on the second floor opens at the rear into a long, narrow hall. there are five chambers in this part of the house. the front room on the right as you look toward the street is the "study," and it has two closets, one on each side of the big chimney. the two chambers back and to the left as you face the chimney are without a single closet; but the lack is made up when you pass to the other side of the house. the front chamber has two closets, one on each side of the chimney. as you pass into the one on the right (you face the chimney, remember) a door opens to the right and leads you into another large closet with a window in it. going across this closet to the right another door opens into a big, dark closet; turning to the street and stepping back three paces you open a door into another closet; passing into this one (there is a small window in it) you open a door into the linen closet. withdrawing from this series of small rooms, you get into the betsey-bartram room, and there you find on the south side two doors leading into two large closets. north of this room is another bedroom. one closet lies in the southeast corner, and one opens to you from the west side of the room. the thirteenth closet on this floor is at the end of the back hall, and the fourteenth is by the side of the chimney in the room above the down-stairs chamber. the attic was one big room with five closets scattered around the chimneys. they hung hams in the larger one. it was a fine place to smoke meat. there was always a greasy, smothered flavor to the air in that place. now, if you have kept track of the closets you will see that we number only fifty-one. there had been three neat, retired little closets under the stairs in the first-floor hall. when the hall was enlarged these poor things were taken out. it was on this occasion that samuel said: "see how rich we are; for we have closets to burn." and still there are six closets missing. well, the closet with the skeleton in it is a mystery, and i do not like to speak of it. three closets were found one day carefully tucked away in a corner of the attic. the other two missing ones have simply grown up and become big rooms with windows in them. they put on a good deal of style, and look down upon the other closets. what a lovely time the judge's wife had in furnishing her new home. i have been reading the bills, yellow-stained and time-worn. she had a taste for handsome things. as the house was a colonial building, the grandest in that part of the country, she tried to get furniture that matched. there were mahogany chairs and tables, sofas and bedsteads, cabinets and stands. she paid $ in gold for her gilt-framed looking-glass, which stood between the front windows in the parlor, and $ for her grecian sofa with cushions. there were twelve fancy-chairs and two arm-chairs. her rocker cost $ . then she had another little work-table, for which they paid $ . . her parlor carpet was made in england. the judge had it made to order; so you may believe it was uncommonly fine. the curtains were yellow damask, lined with chintz. during the summer these curtains were stored away on long shelves in one of the closets, and lace curtains hung in their places. every large room in the house had a fireplace, and the supply of andirons was enormous. some of them cost $ and $ . then there were venetian blinds in the parlor; and on the centre table stood an astral bronzed lamp worth $ , and on the mantle, high silver candlesticks. a plated pair cost them $ , and the snuffers and tray $ more. there were the best brussels carpets, the most fashionable china and silver, the richest linen for the table,--a vast amount of things needed to make a house pleasant and comfortable. [illustration] c. the people who live in the house that the judge built. c. the people who live in the house that the judge built. it was on this wise that the present family came to live in the parsonage. the church had been without a pastor for several months, and the people were tired of hearing tom, dick, and harry in the pulpit. but what was to be done? they had found no man that suited them. one minister was too young, and another too old. the first candidate had a very long neck, a sort of crane neck, and it made some of the ladies nervous. the last candidate was fat, and everybody said he must be lazy. several were so anxious to come that the congregation turned against them. there was always some reason why each man was not liked. so it began to look as if they might never get another minister. the society finally asked the ladies their views upon the subject. it was one afternoon when the dorcas daughters were sewing for the poor. the president of the little band had been reading a missionary letter. "well," she said, "i have heard so much about filling the pulpit that i am sick of it. i think it's about time that we filled the parsonage. just see what kind of ministers we have had for the last thirty years. two bachelors, and one married man without a chick or a child. i say that it's time for us to call a man to fill the parsonage." "why, that's what i think!" remarked one of the mothers present. "it is a shame to have that great house given over to the rats and mice. and i know that not a minister has been in it for all these years that used more'n half or two-thirds of the room. but, dear me, it would take a pretty big family to fill the parsonage! let me see; there are twenty-seven rooms and sixty closets, aren't there?" "so they say," replied the president. "i never counted them. but that would just suit some folks." "where is that letter that you read us at the last meeting?" inquired one of the sisters. "how many children did that man say he had? i remember that we never sent another box like it to a home missionary in all the history of this church." "i've got the letter right here in my hand," said the president, "and i've had that man in mind for a week. he's got fifteen children,--eight of his own, and seven of his deceased sister. i shouldn't wonder if he was the very one we want." one of the younger women nodded. she was thinking of playmates for her boys and girls. "and then if they overflowed the house," continued the president, "there is the little building in the yard. they might start a cottage system. you know that is the way they do in schools these days. divide up the young folks, and set them in small companies. the minister might do it; and if the family expanded we might build two or three extra cottages." "now, mrs. president," said one of the ladies, "i fear you are making fun. but i think that letter from the missionary with fifteen children in the family was the best we ever had. a man that could write such a letter must be very much of a man." "he is," replied the president. "i have looked him up in the year book, and i have written to the secretary of the missionary society. he's a very good man. nobody has done better work in that frontier country." so the ladies said that they would ask the church to call this parson with the big family. when the meeting was held and everybody was talking, one gentleman arose, and told the people that the ladies had a candidate. his name being proposed, the president of the dorcas society explained how she felt, that they ought to have a man to fill the parsonage, and this man whom they named was the one to do it; therefore the meeting voted unanimously to call him. "i think we had better charter a train to bring them from the west," said one of the deacons. but it was finally decided to engage a car; so everything was arranged, and in four weeks they came. when the train stopped at the station, the church committee was on hand with three carryalls. it reminded one of an orphanage, or a company of fresh-air children. but a hearty welcome was given; they were hurried into the carriages, and soon the whole family was in the parsonage. a nice dinner had been prepared by the ladies of the parish. after the travellers had washed and made some slight changes, they all sat down to the feast. it was a happy thing that the church and the judge furnished the parsonage. this poor, large-hearted missionary brought nothing with him but books and children; his library was really a very fine one, and it had filled the small house in the west. his own family of children had been increased by the seven orphans left when his sister and her husband died. there was nothing for him to do but adopt them; so they had been packed into the little home until one was reminded of a box of sardines. but this sort of kindness was like the good man. he was ready to share the last crust with any one who needed it. "why, what a big house it is!" exclaimed grace. "just see; i guess we could put the whole of our western house right here in the parlor." and i think they could if they had only brought it along with them. when dinner was over the children scattered all through the mansion and the grounds. what a delightful sense of freedom and importance they had. could it be possible that all these things belonged to them? were the ten acres of lawn, garden, orchard, field, and pasture really for their use and pleasure? as parents and children wandered through the big rooms, and peered into the sixty closets, and looked out of the numerous windows, it seemed to them like a dream. and yet the dreamy sensation soon passed; for the parson and his wife, happening to look out of a front window, were struck with the expression of alarm, amusement, or interest shown by several people going along the street. it was caused by the way in which the family was showing its presence and possession. there were three children on the front piazza standing in a row gazing at the sea; four of the younger ones were climbing in and out of the windows on the second floor, running along the tin roof of the piazza; two boys had already climbed a tree looking for birds' nests; three children had hurried through the attic to the roof, and leaned against the big chimneys that towered over the house. with curious interest they were taking a general survey of the town and country, quite unconscious that their rashness attracted any attention. the other youngsters were having a frolic in the yard, walking along the top of the picket-fence, jumping from one gate-post to another, shouting with healthful lungs, and making the very welkin ring. had a pack of wild indians swooped down upon the house, they could not have made themselves more evident, or excited any greater concern in town. it was clear that the minister who was called to fill the parsonage answered the purpose. he filled it; and the contents were overflowing from doors and windows on to piazzas and roofs, or into yard and trees and street. what a waking up for the rats and mice it was! the mere racket and clatter were enough to drive them out of their holes. but what a shaking up for the old town! the house stood on the main street. it was an object of historic veneration. everybody knew all about it, and had a sort of watch-care over it. anything that went on in that house belonged to the whole neighborhood. so that it was not long before all the people were talking about the new arrivals. men, women, and children felt an impulse to walk or ride by the parsonage on that eventful day. and it was a startling sight; for the minister's family seemed to think that the house really belonged to them, and they were to enjoy it just the way they pleased. this running all through the many rooms, and popping out of the many windows upon the piazza, and climbing up to the roof, and playing tag in the yard, and hunting for birds' nests, and walking on the tops of the pickets along the fence, was their way of enjoying the place. [illustration] "let's nail the flag to the chimney," shouted harry, the third boy. they had carried the flag in hand all through their journey from the west. "yes," shouted the other boys, who were wildly patriotic. "come on! come on!" so they all came on except the youngest; and she finally came in the arms of her father, who followed the mother, who followed the children, to see what was doing in the attic or on the roof. and just at this time the most important man in the church and town drove by with his family. do you wonder that this important man and his family gazed with surprise and alarm at the sight? there on the roof of the house was the whole family. henry was nailing the flag to the tallest chimney. but when the children saw this kind man pass along the street (he was one of the committee that met them at the station, and it was his horses that had carried them to the parsonage), they waved their hands, and shook their handkerchiefs, and shouted "hurrah! hurrah!" with such spirit that the gentleman must needs take off his hat, smile and bow, and turn to his family with some pleasing remark. there was no doubt in his mind or in the mind of the passer-by that the town was captured. the west had made a sudden onset; and the standard of victory now floated from the chimney of the judge's mansion. the only thing for the natives to do was to submit and make the best of the situation. as i said, the good people of the parish furnished the parsonage. the carpets were down, and the chairs, tables, sofas, bedsteads, stands, book-cases, and other things, were put in their places. all the minister's wife had to do was to unpack her trunks, and divide up their contents among the closets. all the minister had to do was to unpack his boxes, and arrange his books in the study. so they were settled in a trice. here is the picture of the children. you must know them in order to understand what happened in the house. elizabeth was the oldest. she must have been seventeen or eighteen. she was ready for college. it was hard for the mother to get along without her, since she had brought up all the younger ones, and given her mother a chance to go round with her father in his work. elizabeth was very mature, but she had all the frankness and cordiality of a typical westerner. she seemed almost too free and easy in her manners for the slow east. but you couldn't help liking her. a little western gush does good in the town. [illustration] samuel came next. he knew everything. he was ready for college too. he was slow, and not always just as agreeable as one would like to have him. it has been said that somebody stepped on his toes when he was a very little child, and that he still has spells of being angry about it. samuel was a mechanic. he kept things in order,--machines, carts, clocks, and like objects,--when he hadn't any girls to tease; for he was an awful tease, and so was liked in a general way by all of them. his manner toward the younger members of the family was rather severe and overbearing. but what would you expect from a big boy who knows so much, and has such a host of children to live with? helen was the third one. she was literary, and gave a great deal of time to books. she hated to darn stockings above all things, and would often read a story to the children, or write one for them, if she could get somebody to do her darning for her. i think she will make an author. the family hadn't been in the house one day before she said that the closets must be named. her mother or the children would never be able to keep track of them, unless they were reduced to a system, and properly numbered like rooms in a hotel, or labelled like drugs in a store. henry and miriam were twins. they were just about as unlike as you could make them,--one light and the other dark; the first lean and the second fat; he quick and she slow. and so we might go through a long list of things, and find that one was opposite to the other. for this reason they got along well together and were very happy. then came cousin george, who was fond of music and could sing like a lark; and theodora, who was born to be a lady, and always took the part of mrs. rothschild or mrs. astor in their plays; and cousin herbert, who will be a doctor, and who was so ingenious about getting into mischief that i think he will be able to invent enough bad doses to cure the very worst sicknesses; and cousin ethel, the pink of propriety, who never got a spot on her dress, and always said, "will you please give me this or that?" or "thank you," when she took anything; and cousin grace, the demure and quiet puss who had a wonderful faculty for stirring up the whole family, and yet freeing herself from trouble; and cousin susie, who is always sweet and good-tempered, and loves everybody; and cousin william, the precocious (i mean very smart), who will be president of the united states; and cousin nathaniel, who was said by his brothers and sisters and cousins to be "just too cute for anything," flying hither and thither like a humming-bird, never two minutes in one place except when his aunt got him into his nest at night. how many does that make? let me count them up. have i mentioned them all but ruth? ruth was seven years old. she could ask more questions in five minutes than any lawyer in cross-examining witnesses. and when she was tired of asking questions she would tease for more things in a second five minutes than any twenty children rolled into one. and not only would she ask the same question seventeen times at once, or tease for the same thing thirteen times without stopping, but she did it in just the same unvarying, shrill tone of voice; so that it was like the monotonous rasping of a saw, and had a tendency to drive a sensitive person out of his head. how many times did the older members of the family run from her as though she had a contagious disease, so that they might get relief from that endless asking and teasing? and yet she had many good traits, and was certainly very bright. if there had been some comfortable way of putting a muzzle upon talkative and tedious children, her parents would probably have done it; but they simply used all the powers of restraint that they had and let it go at that. ruth was evidently cut out for a poet or a woman's rights speaker; for she was all the time getting up rhymes, or talking in a high key and impulsive way to such members of the family as would listen to her. when the baby came everybody said that he must be called "the little judge," in honor of the good man who gave the house to the church for the minister. no sooner was the family really settled than the children began to ask about this famous judge. they had never lived in an old, historic house before, and they were interested. they knew how the judge and his wife looked, for their portraits hung in the east parlor. what fine old people they must have been! if those oil paintings did them justice they were about as nice-looking as anybody that you see preserved in oil in the great galleries of the world. whenever the children stood before the pictures, they asked questions: who was the judge? what did he do? how much of a family did he have? did he like children? when did he die? who attended the funeral? where was he buried? what became of his things? and a hundred other questions. so the minister began to read about the judge and his work. and the more he read, the more he admired and loved. the enthusiasm which the minister showed in his attempts to learn all he could about the generous giver of the parsonage excited the curiosity of the children to such an extent that they begged their father and uncle to write a book about him. helen herself talked about doing something of the kind. "i've found out more things in the life of the judge," the minister would say; and then all the children gathered around him just after supper, as the fire burned gayly on the hearth in his study, and he would tell them some fresh incident, and add a few lines to his pen portrait of the man. so the months chased each other; and the judge and his wife made not only the most common topic of conversation, but they became as real to the young people in the parsonage as the boys and girls they met on the street. i suppose it was because they thought and talked so much about them that the strange things which i am to relate happened (or didn't happen) in the house. they had not lived many weeks in the house before they got into all sorts of trouble about the closets. they kept losing something, or losing themselves, or losing the closets. "we'll number them," suggested herbert. "no; let's name them," cried william. they had all met to talk the matter over; so it was decided to do both. when names run out they would fall back on numbers. "i feel like adam when he named all the cattle and the fowls and the beasts," exclaimed helen. "we'll hang a plan of the house on each floor, and then we can refer to it without running up-and down-stairs." this was samuel's remark. he was always for saving steps. so names were suggested, plans were drawn, every closet was given its dues, and the atmosphere was thick with champagne, darkest africa, turpentine, leghorn, daisy, pansy, violet, rose, panama, china, greece, dublin, clementine, serpentine, argentine, morocco, and other appropriate names. d. the things that happened to the people who live in the house that the judge built. i. portraits walk and talk. i. portraits walk and talk. it was christmas eve. excitement had reached fever heat. the children knew nothing about christmas in the east; and their western festivals had always been simple, for there was little money to use in buying gifts. but this year friends had remembered them, and they had also earned several dollars by various kinds of work; so that they were sure of many nice things. had they not been buying presents for each other these ten days? and was not every closet in the house made the hiding-place for some treasure? the nervous strain on the parents was great. such confusion and anxiety passed words. was it possible ever to get the house and the family settled down to plain, every-day living again? it happened that the children had all met in the east parlor. this was the room where the pictures of the judge and his wife adorned the wall. the two portraits hung on the right of the fireplace, you remember, just over the piano. a lamp was giving a faint light on the marble centre-table, and a cheerful wood fire was burning on the hearth. in front of the piano was the music stool. the children were all talking. the hum and buzz of their many voices filled the room. one said, "i wonder if santa claus will bring me a doll;" and another said, "there is no such person as santa claus;" and a third said, "i want a new sled;" and a fourth said, "father promised me a book about birds;" and so the talk continued. but ruth for once kept still. she was worn out with excitement. as she flung herself into a big arm-chair, she turned her head towards the fire, and began to see all sorts of funny creatures dancing in and out among the coals. ruth was a poet, you remember, gifted with a wonderful imagination; and she could see more strange things, and tell more wild stories, than any other child in the family; and that is saying a great deal, for they all had a way of telling about things which they had heard and seen that constantly reminded their neighbors of western largeness and exaggeration. [illustration] as ruth watched the queer creatures playing in the fire her eyes grew heavy; and then she turned her head away for a moment, and her eyes became fixed upon the pictures of the judge and his wife. did her head droop to one side, and did it fall softly upon the cushion against the arm, or did her eyes suddenly open wide with surprise, and did she gaze with startled look upon a strange scene before her? for both the judge and his wife seemed to be moving; and they looked so natural and pleasant when they smiled and bowed, that ruth said to herself, "why, they must be alive." and the judge reached out his hand from the canvas which held him, and took the hand of his wife, who had responded to his motion, and said, "my dear, wouldn't you like to step down and out for a little while?" [illustration] "yes, thank you," she replied; "i think it would rest me." and then he laid down the pen, which he holds in the picture, and stepped lightly upon the piano, still keeping her hand in his; and then he helped her down upon the piano, and then he stepped down to the music stool, and finally on the floor, and she followed. this was all done with the grace and dignity that marked the usual movements both of the judge and his wife. and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for them to step down and out. ruth sprang toward them on the instant that they stood upon the floor. she rubbed her eyes to make sure that she was not dreaming; and then as she saw them really before her, looking for all the world like natural folks, she greeted them with delight. "why, how do you do?" she exclaimed. "i always thought you looked as if you would like to talk. that, i suppose, is why people say that your pictures are a 'speaking likeness.' but i never thought you'd get out of the pictures. how did you do it?" but the judge and his wife were too much absorbed in the scene before them to reply immediately. the old room had changed since their day; they were noting the changes. and then this roomful of children took them by surprise. "my dear," said the judge to his wife, "this is delightful." "yes," continued ruth, "they all belong to us. i heard the president of the dorcas society say that when the church called this minister they expected him to fill the parsonage just as much as the pulpit. and we did it." "yes, this is delightful," repeated the judge. "how many are there?" he said this to his wife, but ruth answered. "oh! there are only fifteen of us when we are by ourselves. there are a good many more when the neighbors' children come in; and then don't we have grand times!" "it almost takes my breath away." mrs. "judge" was speaking to her husband. "my dear, have you my fan in your pocket?" and the judge felt in his pocket, but he didn't find any fan. "why, it's christmas! you don't want a fan," said ruth, who was bound to take part in the conversation, and play the hostess on this wonderful occasion. and then the judge and his wife stood stock-still, and gazed with increasing pleasure and interest upon the scene. their descent from the picture had been so noiseless and unexpected that ruth was the only one to observe it. but when this keen, talkative sister began to question the guests, the other children turned their heads, and they beheld the curious sight. there stood the judge and his wife exactly as they appeared in the portraits. only they had their legs on them, and the pictures didn't. but the children noticed even the smallest details of dress, and they were the very originals of the portraits. suddenly the whole company stood up. "why, it's just like a reception or a wedding," said ruth. "i think they're all waiting to be introduced." and the children advanced one after another, or ruth led the judge and his wife to different parts of the room, and each brother and sister and cousin was properly presented. "how did you get out?" inquired ruth a second time. everybody in the room was now standing, and all eyes were looking for the next move in this strange parlor drama. "we just stepped out," replied the judge, who seemed prepared at length to talk with ruth or the other children. "but where did you keep your legs all the time?" when ethel asked this question mrs. "judge" blushed. elizabeth, the eldest daughter, pushed her way forward, and said, "s-s-s-s-h!" and samuel said, with a nudge of the arm, "keep still, can't you?" but you might as well tell the steaming teakettle to stop boiling as it sits upon a lively fire. "we are very glad to see you," interrupted helen. she was a most hospitable girl, and she had read a great deal of history; although henry knew more history than she did, and he had read everything about the judge that he could lay his hands on. "we are very glad to see you, and should like to ask about the 'hartford convention,'" said henry. "he's been talking about it for a month," continued ruth. "i wish you'd tell him all about it, and then maybe he'd keep still. i don't care anything about it, neither do the other children. but henry thinks he's very smart in such things ever since he got a prize in history." "did you say these were all the children?" it was mrs. "judge" that now spoke. and as she made the inquiry susie ran out of the parlor, and disappeared in the gloom of the hall. "why, we forgot all about the baby!" exclaimed ruth. "he's up-stairs asleep, i guess. dear me, you must see the baby. he's the cutest little thing you ever saw." "yes, we should like to see him, of course. we both like babies, good babies." [illustration] "babies that don't cry i suppose you mean," said ruth. "well, he doesn't cry much,--only when he's hungry, or a pin sticks into him, or he gets mad, or somebody lets him fall, or hits his head against the door or a chair." here ruth paused for breath. then she exclaimed, "why, of course, you must see the baby! why, he is named for you!" this was said to the judge with greatest excitement. and just as ruth was saying it everybody turned toward the door, and there stood little susie hugging the baby to her breast, his nightdress dragging on the floor, her short arms barely reaching around his plump body; both baby and susie having their faces wreathed in smiles. staggering under the burden this youngest sister pressed through the company with her precious armful; and as the judge saw her approach he stepped forward, bent down above her, and took the little fellow into his arms, where he settled with a most contented and happy expression. it was a very pretty sight,--this stately old gentleman holding a beautiful baby on one arm, and reaching over to the lovely, dignified wife by his side with the other arm; for she had taken hold of his hand again after he had fixed the baby comfortably on his arm, and ruth had stationed herself close by the judge's wife on the other side, and taken possession of the lady's free hand. "and this is the baby, is it?" inquired mrs. "judge." "what a dear little boy he is! and what did you say you called him?" for the lady was either deaf or absorbed so that she did not hear all that ruth had said about the baby's name. "why, we call him after your husband. didn't you hear me say so? he is the "little judge." just see how he clings to his namesake. is he the judge's namesake or the judge his namesake? i don't know which is which, only it's something about namesake, and he's named for the judge." this latter talk on the part of ruth was quite as much to herself as to the visitors. and all the time the judge was gazing down into the infant's face with earnest, wistful look, seeming almost to forget that he was once more standing in the old east parlor. yes, for a moment he had really forgotten where he did stand; for he was thinking of the many years ago when two other baby boys had been placed in his arms, and with what hope and tenderness he had handled the small, helpless pieces of humanity. "don't you like the name?" interrupted ruth. "we thought it would please you. what makes you look so solemn? oh, i know!" now, ruth did not intend to be cruel. she was simply thoughtless like many other children. "you had a baby boy once, didn't you? two of 'em, didn't you?" and then she saw that mrs. "judge" seemed to feel bad too, and that she let go the judge's hand for a moment, and dashed away some tears from her eyes. "i'm sorry if i've hurt your feelings," said ruth. "i didn't mean to. i was just thinking about your two baby boys. they would have been awful old if they had lived till now, wouldn't they? and we never should have lived in this house if they had lived, would we?" a hush had fallen on the company. neither the judge nor his wife made any reply. they were lost in thought, while the children watched them with breathless interest. "we didn't dare give him your full name," continued ruth. "that's what dr. blank did to one of his baby boys, and it died. mother was afraid if we called our baby after you, with the three long names, that it might kill him, so she said; so we dropped the middle one, and i think it much better, don't you?" "dear little boy," said the judge affectionately, as he looked down into his face again. "dear little boy." and then the judge bent down and kissed him, and the baby beamed with delight. it was almost like a baptism in church. "i thought maybe you were going to pray over him. that's the way father does, you know." but the judge didn't seem to hear. "my dear," he said, turning to his wife and holding the baby toward her. she knew what he meant, for she likewise bent down over the little fellow and printed another kiss upon his sweet, upturned, dimpled face, and then another, and a third, while the judge stood looking on with happy indulgence; and all the children noted every motion in this singular drama. "what did your boys die of?" asked ruth, who did not wish to lose any time, since she had so many questions to ask, and she feared that her visitors might not stay as long as she wished them. "ruth!" exclaimed samuel, who had drawn near the young inquisitor, and felt it was time to stop her; "aren't you ashamed of yourself?" he said this in a low tone, thinking that the judge and his wife might not hear. they were watching the baby with such eagerness that they had almost forgotten the rest of the company. "i think," remarked mrs. "judge," as she lifted her head from the baby and glanced around the room, "that it is very pleasant in the old house." "oh, yes; we think so too." it was ruth again speaking. the other members of the family had little chance to say anything. "can't get in a word edgewise," whispered henry to helen. "what a perfect nuisance ruth is!" "wouldn't you like to go over the house?" of course it was ruth who asked the question. she was always taking people over the house. it might be monday morning when everything was in dire confusion, and all the younger children still in bed, or it might be early evening after the baby and susie had been playing in crib and bed, and things were assuming their wonted appearance of disorder. if the notion took her she was always ready to seize a caller by the hand, and lead him from cellar to garret. "i think i would like to look around a little," replied the lady. "i am wondering how many closets you have now in the house." "oh, there is an awful lot!" exclaimed ruth. "we have sixty," observed elizabeth, who liked to be precise. "that's right, that's right," continued mrs. "judge." "i had that number put in. i was afraid you might have given away some of them." when she said this the children looked rather queer. who ever heard of giving away closets? one might think they were flowers, or eggs, or peaches. "you used to give away a great deal, didn't you?" exclaimed ruth. "but i don't see how you could give away closets." and now the whole company started on a tour of sight-seeing in the old house. samuel and elizabeth naturally took the lead, being the oldest and quite the lady and gentleman. the judge with the baby on one arm and his wife leaning on the other followed. ruth still clung to the right hand of mrs. "judge." then the remaining children came in a dense crowd just behind them. "the parlor looks much as it did when we left it, except the furniture," said the lady. "now let us see if they have kept the other rooms as well." they passed next into the hall. "dear me! what is this?" exclaimed the judge. "where are we?" for it was not the old hall at all. that had been rather short and small. this was long, reaching through the house. "why, what has become of my bedroom?" inquired the lady. "they have made it into this hall. and where are all the nice little closets under the stairs? you certainly have given them away. oh, dear! oh, dear! i'm so sorry." "i guess you're tired," said ruth. "it makes you nervous to walk much, doesn't it? why, yes, i know, because they say you never went up-stairs for ever so many years. oh, i know what we'll do! you can ride." all this time mrs. "judge" was looking about her in a dazed way, quite at sea in respect to her surroundings. for the hall had been completely changed until it appeared about as different as different could be. and the good lady was really shocked. "do you see those things under the stairs? they are our bicycles." and the judge and his wife gazed with perplexed faces in the direction indicated. there was a whole row of them. seven, altogether,--full-grown, half-grown, or any size you might wish. it was like a carriage shop. "i think you might ride one all through the house down-stairs," said ruth to the lady guest. "then you wouldn't have to walk." and as the suggestion was made, ruth's eyes flashed, and her cheeks grew flushed with excitement. what fun it would be to push the good woman on a bicycle from room to room, and show her the present arrangements of the beloved house. but mrs. "judge" was horrified. she clung very closely to her husband, as if she thought that she might have to perch upon one of the machines whether she wished it or not. her breath came fast and short. her cheeks grew hectic. "you don't mean to say that people ride those things!" she finally exclaimed when her first flurry of agitation was past. "yes," replied ruth delightedly; "we all ride 'em." "not your father and mother,--the minister and the minister's wife?" "why, yes, and the episcopal minister too, and his wife." "are you sure, judge, that you didn't bring a fan with you?" the good woman seemed very faint, and she looked beseechingly toward her husband. "here's one," shouted susie, who ran to the cabinet and found a lovely piece of feather work, which scattered very fine feathers over your clothes and through the room on every motion you made with it. and as the judge's wife waved it back and forth the feathers began to fly. "it looks like a snow-storm," whispered herbert to theodora. and soon the feather flakes adorned their garments and floated through the air, so that one was really reminded of a fresh fall of snow. it took the good lady a long time to get her breath. the hall closets were all gone; and in their places stood seven things called bicycles, upon which the minister, his wife, and the children were said to ride. it was awful. and ruth was urging her to try one. alas! the hall was too much for her self-possession. "let us go into the west room," she said faintly. so they all came into what is now the family sitting-room and library. here everything was strange. the door into the kitchen was covered with a high book-case filled with literature. the small cubby-hole through which dishes and food had been passed from dining-room to kitchen was now made into a door. but there was one familiar object before them. in the far corner stood the clock, grave and stalwart sentinel for the house. "my dear, do you see the clock?" it was the judge speaking to his wife. he knew there must be many changes in the house. he accepted them very quietly; but he was glad to see this old familiar friend. he had expected to find it in the hall where it had always stood during his day; but he was just as glad to see it here in the old dining-room. that clock had been present on all the great occasions of life. it had marked the hours for every event connected with the history of the house. when the long line of famous men and women entertained by the judge and his wife came to mind, it was to be recollected that the clock had seen them all, and winked and blinked at them morning, noon, and night, and sounded his warning notes in their ears, when it was time to rise or retire, or to eat, or to go to court, or to drive to town, or to start for church. it was like meeting a tried and beloved friend. both the judge and his wife were overjoyed. it might have been that some indifferent family had lived in the house, and thrown the clock out of doors or stored it in the attic. there are people so dull and unimaginative, people with so little sentiment, that they never care for keepsakes or heirlooms. they want everything fresh and new about them. antiques are a perfect bore or nuisance. happily the minister's family was not one of this kind. they all had a great deal of what is called historic sense. they liked old things; and the clock was their most sacred possession. how much they had talked about it, and dreamed about the scenes which had passed before it! while ruth had invented more wild stories in connection with that one object than could be told in many a day. the other things in the room attracted little attention. the visitors made their slow and stately way across to the corner where the clock stood. as they looked up into its serene face, the object of their interest looked down upon them with a very knowing expression, seeming to recognize them on the instant, extending them a very hearty welcome; for the tick, tick was louder than ever before, the very frame of the huge thing began to tremble with suppressed excitement, and then eight long, loud strokes sounded through the entire house, as much as to say, "they've come," "how'd do?" "glad t'see you," and other kind greetings. the children had all followed the judge and his wife, and they were eagerly watching for the next movement on the part of the visitors. [illustration] it made quite a striking picture,--the tall, solemn clock in the far corner of the room, the judge and the baby on his arm, and the wife holding ruth by the hand, standing in front of it; then the throng of alert and wondering children bringing up in the rear, for they all felt that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. in fact, the whole visit of these former inhabitants of the house was rather unusual, so that the children would naturally expect fresh marvels at any moment. it was clear that mrs. "judge" was getting tired; nobody had offered her a chair, and she had refused to get on a bicycle. suddenly the door of the clock swung open. "i think you had better rest, my dear," said the judge; "we'll step in here." and as he made the remark he put his foot into the clock and gave a lively spring, filling the small doorway. "oh, please don't take the baby away!" screamed ruth, as she saw them both disappearing. "who'll nurse him? and mamma'll feel so bad." but it was all done so quickly that ruth never finished her speech, for the judge still held his wife's hand and helped her into the clock; then as ruth held all the faster to the lady's hand, she was caught up too, they all went into the clock and the door shut upon them. the other children were struck dumb with amazement. "i always thought it looked like a coffin," exclaimed samuel; "but i never expected to see four people buried alive in it." "i've wanted to hide in it a hundred times," said helen, "but i never supposed"-- "ten thousand times are hid in it," interrupted henry. "times out of mind," whispered herbert. "time, time," cried samuel; and soon they indeed had a "time." ii. closets talk and walk. ii. closets talk and walk. the first thing that the children who were left behind did was to examine the clock. they all made a rush for it, and pulled open the door. "tick, tock, tick, tock," went the huge machine. they saw the pendulum swing back and forth. and that was all they did see. the judge, his wife, ruth, and the baby had disappeared. "i believe this house is bewitched, or we are!" exclaimed helen. she had read about the strange things said and done in the old town more than two centuries ago, when witches rode through the air on broomsticks, and very lively times stirred up the people. "it was on this very spot, i've heard father say, that one of the witches lived." "oh, pshaw!" cried samuel, who knew everything; "there isn't any such thing as witchcraft. they've just stepped out for a moment, and they'll come back soon." "i think they've stepped in," replied henry, who stood close to the clock when their visitors disappeared with ruth and the baby. "let's play 'tag' while we're waiting for them to come back." this was a good way to work off their nervousness; for they were all more or less nervous, either because they really thought that the witches might be upon them, or because they would have to answer to their parents for the absence of ruth and the baby. [illustration] "we'll start from the piano," said samuel. it was christmas eve, you remember, and everything seemed rather uncommon and surprising. so they all jumped upon the piano,--thirteen of them altogether,--and it made the old instrument shiver and rattle, and try to shake them off. then they started on the game of "tag." samuel sprang from the piano to the cabinet, from the cabinet to the mantle, and from the mantle to the glass book-case in the corner; and they all jumped after him and each other. then he swung himself over to the hall door, for his arms and his legs were simply prodigious. from the top of the door he leaped to the big picture frame between the front windows. how it swayed and creaked and screamed! so he dropped down upon a low book-case beneath, and balanced himself on the edges of a crystal loving-cup. but henry and herbert had started in the other direction from the piano, and they came face to face with samuel on the loving-cup. then this elder brother sprang over to the marble centre-table, and then across to the piano again, and upon the high set of book-shelves in the southwest corner of the room. here he began to grab the books, and throw them at the other children as they came near him. then they threw books back at him. and what a commotion there was! children were passing and repassing with the speed of the wind. they were leaping from picture to picture, and mantle to table, and piano to book-case, and table to chairs, and cabinet to door; books were flying in every direction, the piano was groaning and shaking and scolding, and there was the din of many voices, shoutings, laughter, cries, boys' clothes and girls' clothes woven into a perfect mass of changing colors and shapes, the bang and rattle of moving furniture, and whatever you may be pleased to imagine. all this time the judge, his wife, ruth, and the baby sat composedly behind the face of the clock, and looked down delightedly upon the hilarious scene. there was a hole in the clock's face which served them for a window. ruth had often observed it; and she had told her mother more than a few times that she was perfectly sure there must be a big room up there, and lots of people in it, for she had seen the flash of their eyes when they peeped down into the room and watched (wouldn't it be more proper to say clocked) the people. ruth, of course, was right; for wasn't there a big room in the top of the clock? and didn't the judge and his wife know all about it? it was there that they had gone to rest. the first thing they did was to put mrs. "judge" to bed. this they did with her shoes on. the next thing was to get the baby to sleep. so the judge sat down in a rocking-chair, and began to sing to his little namesake; and when he got tired of singing the judge whistled. the baby was just as good as he could be. he laughed, and cooed, and hit the old gentleman on the cheek with a tiny hand, and tried to pick his eyes out one by one, count all his teeth, and pull off his eyebrows, dig into his ears, and find what he did with his nose, and how he kept his cravat on. meanwhile ruth was looking down upon the children, and reporting their doings to her visitors. "i think it will do them good to have a little frolic," said the judge. "yes, let them play," replied mrs. "judge." "it makes me feel as if we were once more back in the old home, and had children to fill it and bring us joy." "but you wouldn't let your children play like that," said ruth. "why, i think they're going to break every thing to pieces. and what will the church committee say? they have charge of the house, you know." "let's see what they are doing!" exclaimed the judge. so he put the baby down by his wife while he looked through the eye of the clock. just at that moment the children had all jumped upon the centre-table; and it was crowded with thirteen of them, and the lamp in the middle. there was a brief struggle, then the lamp went out, and the noise of a great fall and crash sounded through the room, after which darkness and silence prevailed. something had evidently happened. "don't you think we might visit the closets now?" inquired ruth. the judge turned to his wife to see what she answered. "i am too tired to go through them," she said. "but i should like to have them come to me." now, this was quite an original idea; but it pleased ruth. "why, yes, i think they would like to come." ruth was speaking with great animation. "we've named them, you know; and i think if i should call them by their names they'd all be glad to see you. can you sit here by this hole in the clock?" "oh, yes!" replied mrs. "judge." "that would be very nice. and the closets can all pass in front of us, and i can have a little talk with them." so ruth looked down again into the room where the children had been playing, and saw that it was quite light and the children were all gone. at once she called the closets. "i've got a list of their names in my pocket," she explained to mrs. "judge." "we can't remember as you can. even as it is, mother's all the time losing something in some of the closets, and she tries so hard to think where she puts things. she ought to carry a blank-book with her, and set everything down." the judge's wife was rested now, so that she sat up and took her place before the hole in the clock. the baby was back again in the arms of his namesake. then ruth shouted out the names of the closets. "champagne," she cried. this was the name of the wine-closet. it was a big black hole in the main cellar, just under the parlor. very soon there was a heavy tread in the west parlor where the clock stood, and in swung champagne. although such a great closet he looked very thin and dismal. [illustration] "good-evening," said the judge's wife. "how do you do?" replied champagne; and there was a great deal of pain in his voice. "you don't seem happy," said mrs. "judge." "i'm thirsty;" and the closet's voice sounded as if a fever had parched it. "poor folks live here now. they haven't put a bottle of wine into me in forty years. i'm drying up. i shall cave in one of these days." "that would be dreadful, wouldn't it?" exclaimed ruth. "would the house go down if the wine-cellar caved in?" "hope so," answered champagne testily. "don't even keep wine for sick folk. somebody did put a couple of bottles of something into me when the children had the measles, but somebody else came and stole it out of me. i thought i'd help bring the measles out, but they didn't give me a chance." "poor fellow!" exclaimed mrs. "judge." "i'm sorry for you. but these are days of total abstinence, you know. you mustn't expect much wine. don't they keep butter in you?" "no, they don't make any. and when they get some in the house it goes as fast as it comes. this family eats an awful sight of butter." "well, i'll see what i can do for you, champagne." "we can fill him up with water," whispered ruth. "for the cistern leaks now, and father says the overflow all goes into the wine-cellar. i'll call 'greece' next." champagne stepped one side, and stood by the front door. "greece, greece." the name was spoken with shrill, positive tones; and greece came hurrying down-stairs. this closet was in the attic. they smoked the hams in him, and they sometimes put bacon and dried beef up there. "how do you get along?" inquired mrs. "judge," as the closet shambled into the west room. "how'd' do, ma'am?" there was a strong smell of ham when greece made his appearance. "i've mostly given up smoking these days. i'm a poor, ham-sick fellow. they are trying to starve me to death. i haven't had anything in me for months. they won't let me say anything. they shut me up all the time." "i think greece smells bad, don't you?" said ruth as she turned to her guest. and then ruth put her thumb and forefinger up to her nose to keep out the bad odors that seemed to come up from poor greece. "i'm going to call 'china.'" so greece stepped one side without one kind word. "china, china, china." there was a very loud rattling of dishes, jingling of glasses, and much music, as the long closet between the kitchen and the dining-room stepped briskly before them. "i'm glad to see you," said the judge's wife by way of greeting. she was a lover of fine ware, and the house had been filled with it. "i'm very glad to see you," replied china. "i am living a wretched life." "dear me, don't talk like that!" exclaimed the good lady, much annoyed at all this mourning and fault-finding. "i guess you'd talk worse than that if you had been cut down, torn to pieces, burnt up, and boxed as i have been. don't you see that there is hardly anything left of me? as likely as not to-morrow they'll set to work and do something else to me,--make me smaller yet, or drive me out of the house. i can't tell what a day will bring forth. and just look at the dishes. did you ever see such a lot of nicked, broken, mismatched, cracked, blackened, ugly old ware as they keep on my shelves? it makes me sick. i wish you'd come back." all this time china had been talking in a most despondent tone, giving a fresh shake of discontent to the curious assortment of ware displayed on the shelves. it made the judge's wife nervous. she didn't like it. neither did ruth. it was not what they expected. such talk was hardly in keeping with christmas eve. "china, you just go right out-doors and wait in the cold," said ruth. "i'm going to call 'panama.' that, you know, is the closet that connects father's study right over this room with the bedroom behind it. come, panama," she cried. there was a great rustling of papers, and dust filled the room as panama entered. "what does this mean?" inquired mrs. "judge," who began to sneeze and feel very thirsty. "why, this is the closet where father keeps his sermons. i think they must rustle and make so much noise because they are dry." "good-evening," said the lady in the clock as she bowed. "good-evening," replied panama. "it's a long time since we've seen you, madam. have you come back to stay?" and one could detect anxiety in the manner and speech. "oh, no! we are here just for the evening. we thought it would be pleasant to step down and out for a little while. we were in the portraits on the east parlor wall, you remember. when the wind gets in the east we shall be obliged to go back." then panama began to cry; and as fast as he cried he drank up his tears. "i don't see what's got into the closets to make them talk so and act so!" exclaimed ruth. "they just seem bent on being disagreeable to-night. and i thought we'd have such a nice time with them. they're a discontented and complaining lot. i'm going to call 'leghorn.'" during this little talk the judge's wife was lost in thought. her chin had dropped down upon her breast, and a far-away look appeared in her eyes. "leghorn, leghorn, come here!" shouted ruth. the children had given this name to the east-corner closet in mrs. "judge's" bedroom. she used to keep her bonnets there. one of them was a white, beautiful leghorn, which cost more than twenty-five dollars. this closet was full of shelves, and it proved very useful to the minister's family. "good-evening," said the lady. leghorn looked up with surprise. he recognized her voice. "how do you do? when did you come? what's the news?" leghorn spoke in a very familiar way; for he had always stayed close to the head of the bed in the room, and overheard all the conversation between the judge and his wife. there was no better informed closet in the house than leghorn. "you look quite cheerful," said the lady. "yes'm," he replied; "i keep very busy, and have really more than i can 'tend to. you know, we have a perfect crowd of girls here in the house, and their hats just fill me up to the brim. hear 'em fuss as i shake 'em." and as the folks in the clock listened they heard such a racket of straw and such a shrill chirping that they were quite startled. "dear me, what is that queer noise?" inquired mrs. "judge." "have you a flock of birds inside of you?" "oh! i know what that is," explained ruth. "i can hear it above the rustling of the straw. it's all the birds we have had on our hats. they are feeling so good. for we have joined the audubon society, and we can't wear any more birds. how they flutter and sing, don't they?" "you don't mean that you really wear whole birds on a hat or a bonnet, do you?" one could tell from the way she spoke that the visitor was horrified. "why, yes; and you ought to see folks come to church with them. i've counted seventeen kinds of feathers and nine pieces of birds on the girls and ladies while father was preaching his sermon. we've had a bird-class here, you know, and i can tell a great deal about 'em. there was a blackbird and there was a bluebird; and one lady had a hawk's wing, and another a rooster's tail, and elizabeth had the breast and beak of a scarlet tanager, and helen wore heron's feathers, and mother had ostrich plumes; and you ought to see the beautiful plumage we took from a wild turkey sent us from the west; and we put it on susie's hat, and it was just too lovely for anything. but we've all joined the audubon society now, and can't kill any more birds or wear many feathers." "i'd like to join too," interrupted leghorn. "i'm sick of birds in me. they make such a noise, and keep me stirred up all the time, so i don't get good sleep. i'm very nervous, but i'm quite happy." "there, we've found one happy closet anyway," said ruth. "you just sit down here and make yourself comfortable." "darkest africa next," shouted ruth. this was another of the closets connected with the down-stairs bedroom. he came stumbling and grumbling along. "what do you want?" he said in a grumpy, disagreeable way. "you've kept me in the dark so long, i've lost the use of my windows." "well, you needn't be so cross about it," answered ruth. "don't you see it's mrs. 'judge' that's come back to see you?" "what? what?" cried darkest africa, rubbing his eyes and speaking in his natural voice. "where is she?" "why, up here in the clock, of course. haven't you any sense?" [illustration] "oh, such a life as we're living!" he said, turning toward the visitor. "you remember how you used to keep all your groceries in me, and how my shelves were heavy with every good thing,--tea, coffee, spices, fruits, and a thousand things. well, now they've shut the blinds, and covered the windows, and turned me into a photograph-room. it's very nasty. bad smells hang all about me. stove-pipe, pans of dirty water, chemicals, and i don't know what, make me very unhappy. and the children run through your bedroom just as if it were a public street. such goings on you never did see. i want to leave this world." "i'm ashamed of you to talk that way, darkest africa. you go out on the piazza, and wait in the cold, too, until i call you. such talk makes mrs. 'judge' feel real bad." and this closet withdrew, still mumbling about his troubles. "i'm going to call three together now," said ruth; "for the baby'll wake up before we get through, if i don't hurry." the judge had really sung and whistled the baby to sleep; and there the good man sat on the edge of a cog-wheel, holding the little fellow in his arms. [illustration] "come, 'pride,' 'vanity,' and 'ophir,'" screamed ruth. one of these closets held the clothes of the older girls--that was pride; vanity was filled with the many dresses of the younger girls; and ophir was the closet where the present family kept their small stock of valuables, like jewelry, silverware, and family heirlooms. these three closets came prancing down together, and they certainly felt good. it was christmas eve, and they knew it, for they were running over with all sorts of packages; their shelves were filled; their hooks were burdened with garments; the very floors were piled high with stuff. mrs. "judge" did not know them so well by night, for she hadn't visited them for many years before her going away. she bowed to them, and they bowed to her; but they kept their hands in their pockets. "why don't you say something?" it was ruth's remark to them as they stood in a row before the clock. "we're waiting for you to say something first," was the reply. "how do you feel?" this was by way of starting the conversation. "we feel jolly. don't you?" mrs. "judge" smiled. this was pleasant to hear, and she was very cheerful. she could see thirty-seven or fifty dresses. there were all sizes, colors, materials, and patterns. their brightness and variety fascinated her. "look here, my dear," she said, turning to her husband. "i can't. i should wake the baby," and he smiled in a very happy, dignified way. "i'll call 'morocco,' too," said ruth. "there's plenty of room, and i like to see them together." "morocco, morocco." and then there was such clattering and pattering of shoes that it seemed as if the baby must wake up; for morocco was the shoe closet, and there were so many pairs of old shoes in the place that it reminded one of a cobbler's shop. there were little shoes and big, slippers and rubber-boots, patent leathers and copper toes, high-heeled shoes and no-heeled shoes; there were blacking and brushes and shoe-strings and button-hooks and dirt. and as morocco walked in, every shoe and boot and slipper and brush was in a most frolicsome mood, jumping hither and thither, knocking the sides of the closet, and raising a great dust. the judge's wife looked from pride to vanity, then from ophir to morocco. as the clothes shook and rustled, as the silver and the old-fashioned jewelry jingled, as the foot-gear banged and rattled, ruth began to sing and dance, and the lady nodded her head to keep time; and then the judge caught the movement and beat time with his foot, and whistled an old tune; and then the baby woke up, clapped his hands, and cooed with delight. but time was passing very quickly, and there was a great deal to do before midnight came or the east wind arose. so ruth hurried the closets along in their march before the guests. "'valentine,' 'argentine,' 'serpentine,' 'clementine,' and 'turpentine,' come along with you," she shouted urgently. these were the five closets which belonged to the judge's library. valentine had nothing but broken furniture in him; argentine was loaded down with old and useless silver (plated ware) and like stuff; serpentine contained aged newspapers and magazines; clementine was pretty well filled with a variety of dolls, and they played merrily as the closet came into the room, and stood first on one foot and then on the other; turpentine brought a good deal of dust with him. he used to hold the judge's private papers. they were dry as dust. the judge was so interested in the baby that he paid no attention to the closets. "i'm going to call the closet with the skeleton in it," whispered ruth. "we named him the 'wandering jew;' we've never seen him, you know. somebody told us that the key was lost, and then the keyhole, and finally the closet itself, and it must be so; for where that closet was in your day there isn't anything now." during this remark mrs. "judge" looked very restless and sorrowful. "i just want to see what a skeleton in the closet is like. i've heard that every family has got one, but they keep them out of sight. wandering jew, wandering jew," whispered ruth with suppressed excitement; and almost on the instant the lost closet walked into the room from nowhere. he was quite small; as he walked something rattled in him. the child shivered. was it the skeleton? and would she see it? then she remembered that the key and the keyhole were both lost. "what's in it?" whispered ruth. and then she noticed for the first time that the lady was weeping. there was a strange silence. mrs. "judge" put her hands upon ruth's head, and looking down pathetically into her eager eyes said gently, "i would rather not put any questions to the wandering jew, or try to make him say anything. let him pass along out of my sight." and ruth, who was quite awed by the grief of mrs. "judge," told the closet to hurry out of sight as soon as possible. so she never knew whether it was blasted hopes or withered love, or the ghost of a chance or the dry bones of scholarship, or something else that was locked in that strange little haunted room. and now the closets were hurried along as fast as ruth could name them. but mrs. "judge" seemed to have lost her interest. the closet with a skeleton in it had thrown her off her balance. she had little or nothing to say to any of the others; and ruth herself grew tired, so that she was very glad when they had all made their bows and said their short say, and something else might be done for the entertainment of her company. iii. the procession of goat, dog, cat, bicycles, portraits, ruth, and the "little judge." iii. the procession of goat, dog, cat, bicycles, closets, portraits, ruth, and the "little judge." "[illustration: i] think it would be real nice for us to take a little ride about the town, don't you?" ruth was speaking to the judge and his wife. "yes, i think i am rested enough to go a short way," was the lady's reply. "but what shall we do with the judge and the baby?" "why, take them along with us!" ruth was always ingenious, and she had plans for every occasion. "i think we might take a ride in the closets." "what!" exclaimed mrs. "judge." "i am going to hitch up the closets and have a procession," exclaimed ruth. "you leave it to me and it'll come out all right. i'll call the cat and the goat and 'turk,' and tell them to get out the bicycles and fasten them to the closets, all in a row, and then they shall take us to ride." on any other occasion or under other circumstances this would have appeared a curious arrangement, but to-night it was quite in keeping with all that had happened. [illustration] "here billy, billy, billy, turk, turk, come kitty, come kitty," cried ruth; and the goat appeared on the minute, and with him satan the black cat and with him "turk," the bird-dog. "you must hitch up the bicycles, and hitch on the closets, and take us a-riding," ordered ruth. now, billy was an obliging goat, although his taste was not of the best; for when one of the neighbors died, and crape and flowers were hung on the front door, he went over and climbed up to the interesting objects, and ate both the cloth and the wreath. he lacked taste, but he did enjoy running up and down the street. satan, the black cat, was very fond of ruth, and would do anything she told him when he didn't want to do anything else, and he knew what she was talking about. turk was always on hand ready for a frolic. so billy, satan, and turk got the bicycles fastened together; and then ruth called out the names of the closets, beginning with the very smallest in the house. the goat and the cat took a spool of red cotton-thread, and tied all the closets in a row or a tow (just as you see boats in a row and a tow when a tug pulls them up the river). when all was ready, billy and satan and turk took their places at the head of the procession, and stood waiting for their passengers. "i think we had better put the baby in the first closet," said ruth. "that is the smallest, you know, and he will fit in like a bug in a rug." "what have you got to put around him?" inquired the lady. there had been a slight fall of snow in the evening, and then it had turned cold. "i'm afraid he will get chilly, you know." "oh! i'll wrap him up in an envelope. paper is very warm, i've heard. i'll just put him into the envelope, and then cut two holes for his eyes, and then seal him up like a letter." so the "little judge" was fixed. but it occurred to mr. judge at this point that his wife was not prepared for winter. she was a delicate person, and she wore the same clothes that she had on when her portrait was painted. the cap with frilled border was very pretty, but it was not warm. "my dear," said the judge to his wife, "you are not properly clad for a ride." "i've got plenty of clothes and things in my pocket," said ruth. "now, here is a nice postage-stamp with a picture of the queen upon it. that will do for a bonnet. i'll stick it on tight." and she did. "here is a lot of red crinkly paper that we use to make lamp-shades. i'll do her up like a bundle from the store. there, doesn't she look well?" and the child wound the bright paper all about the matronly form of mrs. "judge," and fastening it under her chin with a big safety pin, stood off and admired the brilliant result. "there won't any cold creep in through that red stuff," exclaimed ruth. "isn't she pretty?" but the judge only smiled and looked interested. "now you must be fixed," and ruth turned toward the judge. "i'll tie this handkerchief over your head, and use a piece of red thread for a muffler. and here is a nice white canton-flannel bag in my pocket that herbert has used for his marbles. you jump into that, and i'll tie you up." "but how shall we get down into the closets?" the judge seemed perplexed. "fall down, of course," exclaimed the child. "and i'm going to wear mother's feather-bed. then, if it 'thunders and lightens' i won't be afraid." so at length everything was ready, and they stood on the weight of the clock, and went down to the door which swung open into the west parlor; and then they tumbled out into the room, and made their way to the front piazza like boys engaged in a bag-race. and there before the house stood the procession of the closets. "what's become of the old portico?" asked the lady. "you must have made it into this long sitting-place." she glanced up and down the roomy piazza. "what color do you call this?" she asked, referring to the brown paint upon the house. "we always had it white." "this color doesn't show the dirt," said ruth. "all the dust of the town flies this way, mother says." at that moment there was a rumbling, hissing, and flashing in the distance. the house shook and the sky brightened. was it an earthquake, or what? "my dear," whispered mrs. "judge," "i feel a little timid. i think it's because i've been in the picture so long. i'm shaking all over. it seems to me as if something dreadful was going to happen. what is that awful noise; and i see strange flames of pale blue light shoot into the sky." "oh, don't be scared!" said ruth; "that's nothing but the trolley. see, there it comes!" down the street towards them swept a thing of light, shaking the very earth beneath, and speeding past into the night like some meteor. it was several seconds before the lady was able to speak. "child, what did you say it was?" and she trembled with fright. "why, it's the trolley-car. we ride on it. it runs by electricity, the same as lightning." and ruth popped her head in and out of the feather-bed as she replied, the feathers sticking to her hair and fluttering about her face in a most comical way. "i think we'd better start before another car comes, for billy and satan might run away. sometimes they're afraid." "yes, let us get right into our places," said the judge, who was sorry to see his wife distressed. so the baby rolled into the little closet next to the seven bicycles, and ruth jumped into the next one, and the judge and his wife shuffled into the third. "i think we must make a real funny show," exclaimed ruth, as she lifted her head out of the feathers again, and gave orders to billy and satan and turk. [illustration] "get up there, boys!" she said to this remarkable team. and then they were all in motion,--the billy-goat and the black cat and the dog, the seven bicycles, the little closet with the baby in the blue envelope, the second closet with ruth in a feather-bed, the third closet with the judge in a white flannel-bag and a handkerchief over his head, and mrs. "judge," done up in red paper, wearing a postage stamp for a bonnet, followed by fifty-seven closets of all shapes, sizes, patterns, conditions. there was a banging of wood, a slamming of doors, a creaking of windows, a dancing of shoes, a rattling of dishes, a rustling of clothes (starched clothes), a fluttering of sermons, a pounding of pots and kettles and pans, a rolling about of fruit glasses and jelly jars and canned food, a falling of hams, and a rising of flour, and a decline in vegetables simply frightful. "this is a very fine road," observed the judge. "it's just as smooth as a floor. what an improvement over the roads in our day!" "yes," answered ruth as she peered out from her feathers, "we are very proud of our roads. they are--what is it you call them? adam, cadam, oh! i've got it now, macadam roads. they cost thousands of dollars. but we've some very good men in town, just the kind you are, i suppose, and they've given us miles and miles of it. you ought to see how we skim along the road now on a bicycle. it would fairly make your head swim." "my head does swim," whispered mrs. "judge." "it's so long since i took a ride in the fresh air, and i've staid such a time in the picture and become so stiff, that the motion makes me dizzy. i think we'd better stop for a few minutes." "what is this?" exclaimed the judge. they had gone only to the corner of the green. there was a very thin covering of fluffy snow on the ground. suddenly the clouds broke away, and the moon flooded the scene with light. and there, standing distinct and stately against the black background, glistening and shimmering in the mild radiance, was the church. "where is the old meeting-house?" and the judge rubbed his eyes, and got the handkerchief loose upon his head; and mrs. "judge" in her agitation dislocated the postage-stamp that served for a bonnet so that she felt a cold draught in her left ear. "why, judge, we aren't here, are we? we must be somewhere else." then ruth uncovered her head, and let a few feathers fly back in the face of her guest and laughed merrily. "that's the new church. our new stone church. isn't it lovely? did you ever see anything like it? whoa, billy and satan and turk! wait a minute! we want to take a look at things." "you don't mean to say you have another meeting-house, do you? what's become of the old one?" "oh! that was set on fire. you ought to've seen it burn. father said it was the saddest, beautifulest sight he ever saw. it was like a church built of fire; and it blazed away,--walls, roof, floor, all glorious without and within, and then it was caught up into heaven, so father says. it made us think of elijah going up in his flaming chariot. and then we built this stone church. don't you like it? why, of course you do; why, i heard father say that you wanted a stone church, and gave something for one." "like it, child, of course we like it! and we did want a stone church, and we tried to get the folks to build one, but they thought they weren't rich enough. like it! why this is one of the happiest moments of my life. what a striking building it is!" "yes; and there is some of your money in it, for i've heard father say so. they got pay for the old church when it burned, and that went right into the new. and it was an english company that had to pay the insurance; and folks said it was no more than right that the english should pay it, for they burned down the one in when they burnt up the town, you know." "you know a great deal about history and things, don't you?" it was mrs. "judge" that made the pleasing remark. "yes, i know many things. it's because i ask so many questions, i suppose. but mother says i lack 'capacity.' i don't know what she means; it's something dreadful, i suppose. perhaps i'll make it up when i get big. wouldn't you like to stop at the church and go inside? i've got a key right here in my pocket. samuel and i carry keys to about everything." "i think we might take a little rest here," said the judge. "do you think the team will stand?" and his eyes twinkled curiously as he looked out upon billy and satan and turk. [illustration] "oh, yes! they'll be all right. if they get tired of waiting they can take a short run on the bicycles. go up there to the front door. 'whoa!'" this was said to the team. when they came to a stop ruth tumbled out first, then the judge and his lady followed, scuffing along as best they could. they unlocked the door; and ruth rolled back to the first closet, picked up the envelope with the baby in it, tucked him into the feather-bed by her side, and returned to the vestibule. they observed that the church was all lighted and warm. so ruth slipped off the feather-bed, although a thousand feathers stuck to her, making the child appear like a new kind of overgrown fowl. the judge took the baby on his arm, for he had also slipped out of herbert's marble bag, and then ruth led them through the building. every part was explained,--the windows, the organ, the gaslights, the carved pillars, the glass screen, the chapel, the piano, the library, the parlor, the furnaces; everything was noted. "why, how lovely it is to be warm in meeting," said mrs. "judge." "you know we used to have foot-stoves, or hot baked potatoes, or a piece of stone. that was all." "you don't mean to say that they gave you hot baked potatoes with butter in meeting, and that was the way you kept warm?" "oh, we didn't eat them!" interrupted mrs. "judge." "we held them in our hands, or put them to our feet. but the little stoves were better. and then finally we had stoves, big stoves, in the meeting-house. i thought i should faint dead away when they first used them. it seemed to me so hot and stuffy in the room. and then i remember that my husband laughed at me when i drove home (i always had to ride, child; i wasn't able to walk so far for many years); for he said there hadn't been any fires kindled yet in the new stoves. but i got used to them after a time, and they were real comfortable. but i should certainly faint away to see the heat coming right up out of the floor, and think that underneath me was a raging fire." "why that's the way we warm the parsonage," said ruth. "didn't you see the registers?" "have you got one of those fires in the cellar?" asked mrs. "judge." "dear me, judge, i shall never feel safe again so long as we hang on the east parlor wall. why, we shall be liable to burn up any moment. think of having one of those awful things, full of fire, right under your feet. i'm so sorry that i know anything about it." "oh, you'll get used to it! you have got used to it, haven't you? there has been a furnace in the parsonage ever so many years." they were all seated in the minister's pew in church at this time. the judge was bowed in thought. "he looks as if he was going to pray," whispered ruth, somewhat awe-struck by his expression and the stillness of the place as well as the solemnity of the occasion. but it was hard for her to keep from asking questions. "did you see the man in the moon as we came into church?" she turned to mrs. "judge." "the man in the moon!" exclaimed the lady; "he's the very person that i want to speak to. i think it's years since i've seen him." "well, he's out to-night in great style. it must be because it's christmas eve. did you hang up your stocking when you were a little girl?" "do what?" inquired the lady. "hang up your stocking, to be sure, for santa claus to fill it with presents." the judge's wife looked with astonishment upon the child by her side. it was impossible for her to imagine what was meant. "i never heard of such a thing," she replied. then ruth enlightened her. "you know that jesus was born on the twenty-fifth of december?" "yes, my child." "and you know god gave him to the world?" "yes." "well, don't you think it's nice for us to give things to each other on that day? and don't you believe that santa claus comes down the chimney and brings us lots of presents?" "why, i never thought of it." and the dear old lady began to think a good deal about it. "we keep it right here in church too. we have a christmas-tree, and sing carols, and all the children get presents and candy, and ever so many nice things; and everybody is just as happy as can be. don't you think that is a nice way to remember the coming of jesus and god's gift to all of us?" "well! well! well! and so to-night is the very night, is it? judge, did you know that our folks now keep christmas in their churches and their homes? do you think there is any sin in it?" he was startled out of his reverie by the question, and ruth was obliged to explain to him what she had said to his wife. then he thought upon it for a little time, and replied to mrs. "judge." it pleased him. he wished to see what it was like. "why, i think, my dear, that it might be made a very happy, helpful festival. why couldn't we have one over at the house to-night?" "we are going to have one there in the morning," exclaimed ruth. "we all get up bright and early, and our stockings are filled, and there is a little tree, and candles, and oranges, and shiny balls, and beautiful things; and we dance around, and sing, and have oh! such a happy, happy time. i wish you would stay and see it." "my dear," the judge was now speaking to his wife, "don't you think you could get up a little party for the children to-night? we can't stay until morning, you know. we must go back into the pictures. and the east wind may rise at any hour." [illustration] "judge, i'll step out a moment and speak with the man in the moon. he's out to-night, ruth says, and perhaps we can arrange something. i'll be back very soon." so she walked down the aisle, and passed into the vestibule with all the liveliness of a young dame. "i think this must be the very spot where i used to sit in the meeting." the judge was talking to himself as much as to ruth. "i wonder what they did with the old box pew that belonged to me? how times have changed! but this is very rich and dignified, and satisfies me." as this was said he surveyed the chaste and elegant interior with approving eye. "i am glad to see it. but i wish it had been in my day. there are some ideas that i should like to have embodied in stone on this spot. strange world this." and then he bowed his head in thought again. "i'm going to meet mrs. 'judge,'" said ruth, "unless you will stand up and make a speech to me. do you think you are as good and wise and great as people say? i've heard father tell how you could speak better'n any minister or lawyer in new england. could you? because i'd like to hear you if you could." the judge blushed to hear such praise. "i'm out of practice," he replied. "i believe my voice has lost itself. it's very trying on the vocal organs to hang in a picture for a hundred years or so. but i will say a few words." then the judge walked up into the pulpit, made a very graceful bow, and began to recite psalms. his voice was remarkably rich and sympathetic. he put so much soul into the words that ruth sat perfectly still, a thing she had never been known to do before in all her life. had it not been for the floating about of feathers as she breathed, and drove them hither and thither, she would have appeared like one dead. when the judge finished he came down from the pulpit, and ruth was so overcome that she didn't say one word for as much as a minute and one half. then the spell was broken. mrs. "judge" came hastily in, saying that she was ready to go, and the team had just returned from their run on the bicycles; then they all came out of church, and the organ played, and the bell rang, and the gas fixtures jingled, and when the company was fixed in their closets they continued on the ride. "did you see the man in the moon?" inquired ruth. "oh, yes!" replied mrs. "judge"; "i've made all the arrangements; and when we get back the house will be ready, and we'll wake up the children, and it will be our first real christmas party. i am going to invite only the closets and the children. i want to get the closets all filled up again for once; and then i want to see every one of you children so full of happiness that you'll run over and make other people happy too." [illustration] as they were passing the town hall the judge was again reminded of old times; for that was the very place where he had argued many of his cases, and won some of his greatest victories. "my dear," he said, "i could almost imagine we were set back to the war of , and i was going over to the court house to express my views to our citizens." "it looks as though they'd done something to the building," remarked the lady. "how they change everything these days!" and then they swung down beach lane, and came to the old cemetery. "look at that!" exclaimed ruth. "isn't it fine?" she referred to the thick, solid, stone wall enclosing the grounds, and the beautiful lich-gate that stood over the entrance. "we're right up to the times here," continued the child. "the daughters of the american revolution and some of our ladies did that. we can sit on those stone seats hot summer days, and it's just as cool as cool can be. and it's such a nice place to play 'hide-and-seek' behind the grave-stones and the wall among the trees." "now, this is what i love to see," observed the judge. "this shows the true spirit of reverence. i am proud of these good daughters. what did you say they were called? daughters of the american revolution? why, they must all be dead by this time." "oh, no!" explained ruth; "these are their daughter's daughters, you know. and they have such good times. why, mother is going to their meetings a good deal of the time. they talk about the revolution and things, and wear flags and pins, and have refreshments and papers, and elect officers, and get up plays, and go to washington, and keep inviting each other somewhere, and all the while say ever so much about washington's birthday and the fourth of july and the battle of lexington. why, we children know so much about history that it seems sometimes as if we'd lived all through the whole fight, and seen the town burned, and helped drive the british away. don't you think we're smart?" "i shall have to be very careful how i talk about these things, or you will catch me in some mistake, i suppose." the judge looked serious, but there was that funny twinkle in his eyes. "suppose we now drive around the new cemetery, and see if everything is as trim and neat there. we'd like to look at our own graves, and see how things are." "well, i think that's a very unpleasant way to spend christmas eve; and i'm sure that billy and satan and turk will be afraid to go into that place, and so shall i; and you can't see much from the road; so let's drive up to round hill, and watch for santa claus." "oh! just as you please," continued the judge. "this is your circus, not mine." and he smiled indulgently upon ruth. so they turned about on the beach road, and slipped up to round hill. while they were viewing the scenery, the man in the moon winked at mrs. "judge," as much as to say that the house was all ready, and it was time for the party to return. iv. the party with supper for seventeen, and toasts with a toasting-fork. iv. the party with supper for seventeen, and toasts with a toasting-fork. when they returned to the parsonage, billy unhitched himself and opened the front door. the judge and his wife with ruth and the baby hastened into the warm rooms as fast as the feather-bed, the white flannel bag, the blue envelope, and the red paper would permit them. "why, what a change there is here!" exclaimed ruth. "it must be exactly as you used to have it." "yes," replied mrs. "judge"; "i told the man in the moon to make things look natural. this seems really like coming home. i feel very much as i did whenever i drove down to new york, and came back to the dear house. it is so nice to see these beautiful carpets again, and the same chairs and tables and sofas; the very damask curtains i made; my little sewing-stand; the clock right there in its place near my bedroom door; and there is the refrigerator. i always had it stand in my bedroom, you know. that made it very convenient. and i kept all the stores in"-- "me," groaned darkest africa, who still remained in front of the house awaiting the orders of ruth. "yes, in you," continued mrs. "judge"; "and i expect to see you very happy again to-night. i never kept christmas. we didn't approve of such things when i was a child." she was now talking to ruth. "but if they have a christmas-tree in the meeting-house, and the minister thinks it's all right, it must be so. i am really quite glad to get up a party to-night. i shall have it to think about when i go back into the picture. and that reminds me, child, that i want you to come into the parlor very often and speak to me. it's very very lonely staying there day and night, summer and winter, year in and year out. why don't you ask the judge and me to play church with you and the rest of the children some of the times when you come into the parlor?" "why, i never thought of that!" exclaimed ruth. "i'll do it the very next time (which will be sunday, i suppose) that we have church again." by this time they had taken their wraps off and put them up. that is to say, ruth got out of the feather-bed, and had turk carry it up-stairs, while she took the handkerchief and the marble-bag off from the judge, and the postage-stamp and the red crinkly paper off from mrs. "judge," and put these things in her pocket. then they all went into the lady's chamber, and took the baby out of the envelope, laying him on the bed, and covering him with a soap-dish and a hair-brush to keep him warm, for he had gone to sleep. "now we must get ready for the party," said ruth, "and then i'll call the children and dress them. but, dear me! what will you and the judge wear? we've got tired of seeing you in the same clothes all the time. oh, i'll tell you! let's play dress up just as we children do, and then i can fix you out in fine style." "just as you say, child. it's your party, and you can do much as you please. and the truth is that i am pretty tired of wearing the same clothes all these many years. i don't think it makes so much difference to a man. but we women like to have something new once in a while, say once in fifty or seventy-five years." "oh! won't it be fun?" cried ruth. "we'll have 'providence' come in here and show us what he's got in him. you know providence is the big closet in the corner of the betsey-bartram room. come here, providence." this closet ambled into the bedroom, and mrs. "judge" took a silver candlestick with a wax candle in her hand, and stepped into the closet followed by the judge and ruth. what a medley of stuff they found! there were silks and satins of all colors and kinds. there was velvet and calico, lawn and broadcloth, furs and flowers, laces and linens, swallow-tail coats and fancy vests, a waterproof, a riding-habit, bicycle suits, pajamas, flags and bunting, forming an infinite assortment or mixture of everything under the sun in the shape of dry goods. "you don't keep an old-clothes exchange, do you, child?" asked the astonished visitor. "oh, no! these are mother's treasures (that's what she calls them). we get 'em when her ship comes in. it always seems to come in the night. we children have watched for it ever since we lived west and could remember. but the first we know is that mother tells us some day how the ship has come in, and another cargo has been unloaded in providence. then we all make a rush and overhaul the cargo; one thing fits one child, and another thing fits another child, and what doesn't fit we make over, and then we appear in our new outfits. you ought to see us go into church a week or two after a fresh cargo of treasures has been distributed. it's great fun." during this talk ruth was rummaging about in the trunks or on the shelves in search of something becoming to her guests. "i think the judge ought to have something solemn on, don't you?" she said, addressing his wife. "now, this long, black waterproof is the thing. and he can wear samuel's bicycle stockings and shoes. then, here's a broad purple ribbon for a necktie; and i'll put this ermine boa around his neck, for don't judges sometimes wear ermine? doesn't he look cute?" she had helped him on with the things while mrs. "judge" stood by smiling her approval. "i think this green velvet waist and this red silk skirt will look well on you." ruth was speaking to the lady. "then i'll do your hair up with this white lace and these yellow flowers. it's so cold i think you had better wear mittens. i think you ought to have a train to your dress. i'll take some safety-pins, and fasten a few yards of this white satin on behind. doesn't it look elegant? you must have a corsage bouquet." and she twisted up some dry grasses and pink roses, and pinned them to her belt. "and this white gauze veil will add to the effect." so it was spread over the lady's head, and fell in scant folds across her brow. "i shall get into this pink crape," ruth continued, "slip these muffs up my ankles, and take this black fur cape and that lovely, lovely lavender bonnet. i'm going to wear white kid gloves, and have a train of that yellow satin. will you, please, tie this bow of nile-green velvet about my neck? and i must have a veil too. this one with little red spots like the measles all over it will suit me, i guess. there, now, don't i look just too nice for anything?" both the judge and his wife bowed and smiled. "i'll put this black lace one side for the baby when he wakes up. we'll dress him up with that and some tissue paper i've got in my pocket. and now let's go and take a look at the house again." but their talking roused the baby; so they dressed him as ruth had planned, winding the paper and lace about his body as though he were a mummy; and then they started for the parlor, the judge carrying his namesake on one arm and supporting his wife on the other, with ruth dragging on behind, clinging to the right hand of mrs. "judge." at the foot of the stairs ruth proposed that she go and call all the children. for at this late hour they had gone to bed. but the visitors thought it better to wait. "we must ask a few questions and find out what the children want for christmas," said mrs. "judge." so they passed into the parlor, and sat down on the grecian sofa. a soft, gentle light fell from the astral lamp and the wax candles on the mantle-piece. the wood fire on the hearth, the heavy damask curtains at the windows, the rich mahogany furniture scattered about through the room, the handsome pictures upon the walls, gave the place a very inviting appearance. "now, ruth, we're going to put something in each child's stocking." mrs. "judge" was speaking. "it seems to me a foolish custom, but now that you all do it we will follow suit. tell us what to get." "father says there's a difference between what we want and what we need. we want a great many things, but we need only a few." "that's sound talk," observed the judge. "your father must be quite a man." "oh!" was the reply, "he weighs almost a hundred and ninety pounds. i heard mother tell the teacher the other day that she thought i lacked capacity. i don't get along in school at all. there are so many things to do besides study that it takes all my time. i think mother would be pleased if you gave me something of the kind. that's what i need i suppose. but what i want is to know about everything. that's why i ask so many questions and tease to go all the time. i'm trying to find out things for myself. how should i learn how old a girl or a lady is if i didn't ask? and what's my tongue for if it isn't to use in talking?" "to be sure," replied mrs. "judge." "but i used my tongue for eating too, until i got into the picture. i think it's almost a hundred years since i had anything to eat." "mercy! aren't you hungry?" exclaimed ruth. "but you don't look thin, and you certainly don't grow old. i've heard folks say so when they looked at your picture. 'why, how nice and fresh and lifelike they seem.' that's what our visitors say when we take them into the parlor to see the portraits. but, dear me, we shall never get through the list if i keep on talking. i can't help talking. i seem made for it. i've heard father say that several of his family were deaf, but none of 'em were ever dumb." the judge and his wife appeared quite interested in this lively flow of speech on the part of the child, so they nodded their heads with encouragement, and ruth continued. "now, there's helen, she's always talking about writing a book. i think she wants to write a book above all things. you might give her the book she is going to write. but what she really needs is curls. that straight black hair makes her look horrid. i wish you'd bring her a whole lot of curls. isn't it queer that we can't have a baby with curls? we've had a regular cry over it more than once. not a single curl in all the fifteen. every hair of our heads as straight as a string. don't you think you'd better write the things down as i tell them to you? but then you've got such an awful memory i suppose you can remember everything. now, there's samuel. you tell him two things and father says he's sure to forget three. mother says if his memory was as good as his forgetery, he'd make something remarkable." "i think if you will lend me a piece of paper,--that red crinkly stuff that the baby has on,--and a stick of candy or a poker, i will write down the articles you mention." it was the judge speaking. "why don't you take the quill and the paper that you hold in the portrait, and use them?" inquired ruth. "to be sure!" exclaimed the judge. "what a bright girl you are!" "father doesn't think so. i don't know how many times he's said to me when i've done something queer, 'ruth, you don't seem to have any sense.' susie said one day, 'well, i'll give her my two cents.' and she did, and i spent it for candy. father would be so pleased if you gave me some sense for a christmas present, i know." the visitors smiled as the child prattled, and let her continue without interruption. "i know what samuel wants. i know a lot of things he wants. mother says he always wants to go home with the girls. but you couldn't call that a present, could you? oh! i know one thing he wants very much. whenever he tries to race with any of the boys, and he comes out a long way behind, he says he wants wind. just put that down, please. but i think the thing he needs most of anything is courtesy. at least father keeps talking to him about it. if you would bring a big lot of it i'm sure we'd all be pleased. it must be something very nice, for father says something about it every day of his life." the judge nodded his head, and wrote with his quill upon the sheet of paper. "theodora is always wanting clothes. she's never had enough. i don't know how many times we've heard her say she had nothing to wear. and then father says she'd better go to bed. i wonder if she'll have all the clothes she wants in heaven?" neither the judge nor his lady ventured to answer. "what theodora really needs, i think, is a gold spoon. mother says she was certainly born with a gold spoon in her mouth; but the spoon has been lost, for i've never seen it, and it would be such a nice thing to give her one in its place. or, maybe, you could bring her the very one she had when she was born. i should like to see what kind of a spoon it was." so the judge put that down. "it's easy enough to tell what ethel wants. she's always talking about it. she wants some _new_ clothes. she says she's sick to death of second-hand stuff. mother's always having something made over for her or some of the younger girls. we've never seen anything real fresh and new. father says we ought to be thankful to have clothes at all. i suppose we had. what ethel needs is application. her teacher says so, and so does everybody else. she doesn't stick to a thing." "poor child," said the judge. "she'll have a hard time, i fear. i'll see what we can do for her." "now, miriam hasn't any gumption, father says. i wonder what that is? i think that must be the thing she needs the most. she's such a chicken-hearted girl samuel says. and that makes me think what it is miriam always wants. she tells mother, i don't know how many times a day, that she wishes she'd have some spring chicken. you don't know how fond she is of 'em. but they're very high here, you know. and spring chickens enough to go around in such a family as ours would soon ruin us, mother says. but ethel is so fond of them. how she wants 'em! do you think you could fill her up for once?" "why, spring chickens are not in my line of treasures, my child; but i might find something that would take the place of such fowls." "henry says elizabeth's a regular old goose. and samuel calls susie 'duckie.' i wonder if you couldn't help grace. she needs balance, everybody says. i think she's smart enough, but she's a high-flyer. you never can tell what will happen next when she's around. please bring some balance for a present. but what she wants is frederick. he's the boy in the next block. i don't think it's right to think so much of boys unless they're your brothers. elizabeth says her brothers are her bothers. and i think so too." ruth looked very severe. the judge simply continued his writing. "do you think you could bring all of us a very great deal of sweetness of disposition? i've heard so much about that thing that i'm real tired of it; but i know it would please both father and mother, for they have talked about it ever since i can remember. i know a little baby girl down south who is so sweet they call her 'sugar.' samuel says if we named our children as they ought to be named, some of them would be called 'vinegar.' but he's 'funning,' i guess. mother says his bark is always worse than his bite. "now, george needs heart. samuel says george will never die of heart disease, because he hasn't any heart. he has a gun, and elizabeth calls him nimrod. he wants to go to war. but we're afraid he might get shot in the back. but he's a real good boy after all. i should hate to see him going around with a hole in his back." just at this point the judge coughed and looked queer. "henry is crazy about music. he wants a violin, but mother says he needs an ear for music. i should like to know what he'd do with a third ear. would you put it on the top of his head? and he wants to sing; but, dear me, father says he needs a voice. he has voice enough, _i_ think. you can hear him all over town. did you write it down?" ruth looked keenly at the judge as his pen flew with the speed of a snail over the paper. "yes, here it is in white and black." "now, william is an awfully forward boy. he's so forward father says that he's growing round-shouldered. he wants to be president. that's ever since he went to the white house with mother. it was a very cold day, the day he went; and william had his mittens on, and mother couldn't get to him to take 'em off when he shook hands with the president. neighbors say that what he needs is training. but they don't train now as they used to. father says they used to train out here on the green several times a year. i know the best thing you could bring william is a training. and susie, she wants something she hasn't got. i don't think it makes any difference what it is. mother says if she hasn't got it she wants it. and then she snivels when she doesn't get it. i heard some one say the other day that what she needed was a spanking. but i don't think that would be a very nice present, do you?" "well, not for christmas, anyway," whispered mrs. "judge." "there's nathaniel, he always wants to go somewhere. father says that if we lived in beersheba nathaniel would want to move into dan, and when he got into dan he'd be sure to start the next day for beersheba. he needs a good deal of watching, mother says. samuel, elizabeth, helen, henry, and miriam have all got watches; but you see we can't all have them at once. "now, just look at elizabeth. you'd think we all belonged to her, wouldn't you? she wants to _run_ everything. and then she runs so much that mother says she runs down. but father says she needs experience, and then everything will come out all right. if you could bring her that ripe experience that i've heard folks talk about, i think it would make father and mother feel real pleased. "herbert needs backbone. i felt of his back the other day, and i didn't see but that he had just as much bone in it as the rest of the children, but father says not. mother says you can twist him around your little finger. that would be a queer sight, wouldn't it? herbert is always talking about a good time. that's the thing he wants. could you bring something of that sort to him?" "well, my child," answered the judge, "i am thinking about bringing a good time to every one of you. it's such a pleasure to see the old house full of children that i should like to do anything in the world possible to make them happy." when this was said mrs. "judge" beamed an approval, and seemed very happy herself. "but you haven't told us what to give the baby." "dear me, why that's the best of all! but everybody knows what the baby ought to have. i've been a-looking to see if you've brought it along with you. when folks come to see the baby they smile and trot him on the knee and kiss him, and then say, 'i'm so glad you named him for the judge. he was a good, great man. may his mantle fall upon his namesake.' and then they kiss him again and go away. it's your mantle that we expect you to give the baby. but you didn't bring it with you, and i'm so sorry. and it isn't in the picture either. for i've looked there a great many times. i thought maybe it was left in the house, but we never hear anything about it. now you're right here with the baby i thought if you only had it you might give it to him at once. could you send it to him? it must be something very fine. even father talks about it." a tear stole down the cheek of the judge. it was chased by another and a third. he seemed deeply moved. for the judge was human like the rest of folks, even if he did stay a hundred years in a picture. and who does not like to be remembered with such loving words and beautiful praises? can one help feeling kindly and grateful? the judge's voice choked with emotion as he replied to the noble sentiments of the child. it was very hard for him to express himself. "my little ruth," he stooped and looked down into her face with wondrous and pathetic tenderness, "you have done me more good than all that i can do for you. these very words that you have just spoken are more precious to me than all the money in the world." "why, you don't mean it, do you?" interrupted the child. "i was saying what everybody says. i don't know how many times i've heard father say that your memory was a--a--a benediction, that's the word. a very big word for such a little girl as i am; but, dear me! i've heard folks use it so many times about you that i can speak it all right. it must be something very good. why, of course, that's what they call the end of church service. i think it's the very best part of going to meeting. i always feel so happy when they come to the benediction. i think everybody else does too. and now about the mantle. will you send it to the baby?" "why, ruth, i think it must be pretty nearly worn out. only what you say about it, and what you say others say, makes me think that perhaps it might be worth saving, so that i could give it to the baby if folks think best. i'll look it up and talk with my wife, and perhaps i'll give it to the dear little fellow. i wish it were a better mantle, however. i'd like to see him wear one more worthy than mine." "don't you think it's time to call the children?" said ruth. "send turk," replied the judge, with that same funny twinkle in his eye. so ruth took the dog, and ran up-stairs and down-stairs and in the lady's chamber, and wakened the children, telling them to hurry right down to the party. [illustration] they didn't have time to dress much. the boys all put on their trousers and stockings and slippers, and then they wrapped around them whatever was most handy. samuel wore his father's loud, red, double gown. henry pulled on a canvas shooting-jacket. herbert did himself up in a rose blanket. george had on an afghan. nathaniel brought with him a crazy-quilt. william got into his mother's golf-cape. the girls were a little more particular. they put on all their clothes except dresses. then they wound sheets about themselves, and tied their heads up in pillow-cases. when the boys tumbled down-stairs they looked like a lot of escaped lunatics. when the girls came pushing into the parlor they made one think of ghosts. the first thing was a walk around headed by turk and the black cat. you couldn't fancy a more startling procession. then they played games, and sang songs, and told riddles, and looked for a needle in a haystack, and turned the house upside down and inside out. the great event of the party was the supper. mrs. "judge" had told the man in the moon what she wished for the occasion, and while the children were rollicking in the east parlor the clock sounded out the alarm for the feast. the judge carried his namesake on the left arm, while his wife leaned upon his right. ruth still kept hold of the lady's hand. the rest of the company followed in a good deal of disorder, for they were all curious to see what sort of a supper would be given them. when they came into the west parlor or dining-room they saw a long table, but there was nothing on it. the children looked at each other and at the judge and his wife in blank amazement. they expected to sit down to a table laden with all the goodies of the land. but there wasn't even a table-cloth before them. the judge took the head of the table, and his wife sat at the foot with ruth. the baby was put in a clothes-basket, and sat on my lady's work-table by the side of the judge. the other children took the places that were most convenient to them. "where's the feed?" exclaimed ruth. "the what?" replied mrs. "judge" curiously. "why, the things you were going to give us to eat." just then "dublin," the linen closet, came meandering into the room, made a bow, and emptied out a long, white, snowdrop tablecloth. "why, it must be that we're to set the table ourselves," cried ruth, as she started to undo the cloth and shove it along. "here you give that to me, will you?" said samuel, with a tone of authority any commanding officer in the army or navy might envy. then he took one end of it, and elizabeth the other, and they spread it carefully over the table. just then china came rattling into the room with the dishes. it was easy enough for him to get into the room; but it was quite another thing for him to move gracefully about the table, for china, you remember, was thin, long, and rather narrow. but he managed to get to the judge, and drop a plate before him and the baby; and then he twisted around like a snake, and got down to the end of the table, and dropped a plate before mrs. "judge." then he went from one child to another, and banged down a plate before each one of them. after this was done, china stepped back and stood by the side of dublin, near the wall. el dorado came next. he brought the silver, and there was a fine display of it. beautiful knives and forks and spoons for every person in the room, and ever so many little furnishings that helped to brighten the table. how these things rattled and jumped and rang as they were tumbled hither and thither into their rightful places. the children didn't have to move a hand or a finger to put them in order. every knife, fork, spoon, salt-cellar, or other article seemed to know where to go, and got there in less time than one could say "jack robinson." then the silver candlesticks from the mantle jumped over to the table, and took their places with a good deal of brightness and sprightliness. at this point the antique sideboard stepped close up to the table, and rolled seventeen very thin cut-glass goblets upon the board. they made a right merry sound as they jingled out their christmas greetings. "don't let the baby have a goblet!" shouted ruth. "he'd bite a piece right out of it. that's what elizabeth did when she was a baby, mother says. isn't it a wonder she didn't die?" but everybody was watching this extraordinary way of setting the table, so that the child's remark fell unnoticed. there was a most lively and musical ringing of bells at this stage of the table setting. turpentine came dancing into the room. turpentine was the closet in the judge's study that had been used to store the church-bells in. when the last wooden meeting-house had burned they took the old bell, which rang for the last time the sad alarm of fire on the memorable night, and they sent it away to be melted up and made into five hundred little bells. there were dinner-bells and tea-bells and call-bells and sleigh-bells and play-horse bells on lines, and i don't know how many other kinds. nearly all of these had been sold, but thirty or forty remained in the closet. turpentine came into the room playing with these, and rolled one down in front of each person at the table. "how would you like to have the dinner served, ruth?" inquired mrs. "judge." "oh, served of course," she replied. "bells first course," shouted samuel. the older children all snickered. "i think you ought to call turpentine 'bells-ze-bub!'" samuel whispered to helen. "see?" for by this time the children had all come to a familiar footing with their visitors, and they were expressing themselves with a good deal of freedom and having a right good time. the refrigerator entered the room now, and tramping heavily over to mrs. "judge," swung open his door, and flung gracefully upon the table a big dish of half-shells. no sooner were they placed where they belonged than they began to roll about to the different plates, like a lot of marbles, only they seemed to know how to divide themselves up so that every one had a proper share. then the refrigerator dumped out another large dish of something fresh and green; and this stuff sailed along the table, as one sees seaweed float back and forth on the tide. "i know what it is. they grow down by the brook. caresses. aren't they nice and fresh?" "third course, caresses," shouted samuel. and then he bent over and kissed the girl next to his side; the judge kissed the baby, ruth kissed mrs. "judge," and the rest of the children kissed each other. "awful sweet course!" exclaimed henry. "very much of it makes a fellow sick." this was followed by the entrance of the kitchen closet number one. a fine brass kettle popped out upon the table. there was a great rattling and clashing. everybody tried to look into the bottom of it. "that's a pretty kettle of fish," said samuel, who was the first to get a glance at the contents. and sure enough it was; for there were seventeen tin fishes, such as you see floating around after a magnet on some basin of water at christmas time. "look out for bones," cried herbert. "what next?" and then vanity came down-stairs, giggling and simpering, and passed something around. "crimps," said ruth, "hot and steaming, straight from the irons." a very strong odor of scorched hair pervaded the room. "goodness me, what a treat!" exclaimed henry. "give 'em to the girls. they are fond of 'em." kitchen closet number two came hurrying into the room. china rushed forward with bowls which he had borrowed from the bowling-alley; and each bowl was filled with bean porridge hot, bean porridge cold, bean porridge in the pot nine days old. "here comes the spring chicken!" exclaimed herbert, as the refrigerator distributed one spring with chicken attached. "do-nots for old-fashioned boys and girls," wheezed out darkest africa, as he pushed his way into the room. the company was getting pretty large, for all the closets had come. one stood behind each person at the table, and the other forty-three were pressing against each other, trying to see the table and hear the conversation, or do any little waiting upon the merry party. they were all busy eating, talking, drinking, having the best time in all the world. there was an abundance of everything. i don't know what all. but as the courses were brought on the judge and his wife became a little restless. they felt that the east wind was rising. and when the clock struck twelve it was necessary for them to be back in the pictures, whether there was any east wind or not. so there was some confusion, considerable crowding, and a good deal of haste during the latter part of the feast. "i'm afraid the children will get dyspepsia, judge," observed the cautious lady. "the children are eating too fast. the closets are bringing on too many things at a time." "time and tide wait for no man," replied the judge, who had caught the hilarity of the company, and was enjoying every moment of the fun. "i wish to see this board cleared up before we clear out." now, mrs. "judge" was the least bit shocked at such undignified speech on the part of her husband. but she knew he didn't mean any harm. he was only entering into the spirit of the frolic. yet she felt that he ought to set an example of sober conversation, so that they would remember him with the highest respect. the judge, however, had a sense of humor that could not be held altogether in check. "i think we ought to have some toasts," said samuel. "all in favor of the nomination say, 'dickery, dickery dock, the mouse ran up the clock, the clock ran down, the mouse came down, dickery, dickery dock;' and samuel rose to propose the first toast. kitchen closet number three came forward, and put into his hand a nice, big toasting-fork. flourishing this about his head, and hitting henry on the right ear with it, samuel lifted a goblet filled with hot air to his lips, and proposed the health of the judge and his wife. the applause was overwhelming. the children clapped their hands, and lifted their voices on high. the dishes jumped like mad. the bells rang so that you couldn't hear yourself think. the closets creaked and groaned, and slammed their doors, and shook their shelves, until it seemed that they must fall in pieces. the judge gathered his waterproof about him, pulled on his necktie for a moment, cleared his throat, and then responded. "children and closets," he said. the children all rose and bowed, the closets all turned around twice and stood on one corner. "this is in some respects the greatest day of my life." "you mean night, don't you, judge?" interrupted samuel. "oh! i beg pardon, night of my life. correct, my son." he bowed good-naturedly to the critic. "we haven't stayed in those portraits on the east parlor wall for nothing all these years. we've been waiting for such a time as this. i think the east wind is rising, and soon we shall have to go back to our pictures; but i am glad to say that this is the sort of family that i always had in mind when i built this house. it's lonesome to live without children. this is a strange world. i have observed generally that the people who want children don't have them. and the people who have them don't always want them. and the people who know the most about bringing them up are the people who never had any, and never lived in a family of children when they were young. but i really believe that one never gets much out of this world except it comes to him through children. and now i hope that you will be such children that when you grow to be men and women we shall not be ashamed of you. my wife and i expect to stay in the portraits. we shall always be on the watch for you and sometimes in the clock. there isn't anything in the world that would give us such pleasure as to see you children grow and become the best men and women in all the nation. i suppose you have enough boys to make a foot-ball team, and enough girls to drain a common pocket-book and spread it all over your backs; but you are going to make something better than idlers and spendthrifts. some of you will take to one thing, and some to another, but you will all take to the right. i expect to see you filling up the house with nice friends, going off to college, and bringing back good company and great honors. by and by you will all settle in life, and have homes of your own; but we shall keep at home here on the wall, and look for your frequent visits. ruth has made me very happy. i'll tell you how. she has said some of the things to me that people have said to her about me,--kind things, sweet praises, words of happy remembrance. now, i hope that you will live and love in such a true way that when you get into a picture and stay a hundred years, and then step down and out for a little while, people will say just as noble things about you. 'tis sweet to be remembered. and i feel very anxious to do something for all you children. this is the first time we ever kept christmas. we're going to make you some christmas presents. but they shall be put in your stockings." "i'll hang up my hip boots," interrupted samuel. "i'll hang up my golf stockings," exclaimed henry. "i'll hang my trousers; and you, elizabeth, can hang your bicycle bloomers." the judge smiled, and waited a moment, and then continued. "these presents are different from the ordinary gifts you receive. you'll have plenty of candy and dolls and such things. we shall give you things that you can always keep and carry with you. and they will be worth more than money, in case you use them according to directions. and remember that we give them because we have learned to love you, even if we do live in pictures, and that we expect you will honor the house, the people, and the state." the judge swallowed a tear. "we never had boys and girls to go out into the world to make their mark. our two boys," and here the judge's voice was feeble and trembling, and he stopped for a moment and wiped away two or three tears, "our boys were sick, and after quite a good many years they went away forever. children, i want you to fill their places, and more. i expect that you will go out into the world, and do so much good, and serve your country with such zeal and wisdom, that people will by and by come here to see the house, and say, 'this is where samuel and henry, george or herbert, william, nathaniel, or the "little judge" lived, and were brought up.' or 'this was the childhood home of elizabeth, helen, miriam, theodora, grace, ruth, ethel, or susie. i wonder who slept in that room, and if this was the favorite window, and which one of the family planted this shrub or vine or tree, and what was the best-loved play nook,' and all sorts of questions. don't you think it will be nice? and then my wife and i will say, or try to say, or make them understand in some way, that you belonged to us next to belonging to your parents, and that we guarded the house day and night, for you know that in the picture we are always awake; come into the east parlor at any hour of the twenty-four and we always have our eyes open, and we know everything that is going on. we'll make them understand that a part of the love and thanks they feel belongs to us, and we shall be so happy, and when we meet again we shall have so many things to tell each other. now ruth will see to the presents, for we are not educated up to a belief in santa claus. ruth will"--just at this point the clock began to strike twelve. now, the judge and his wife were the most polite, really the best-mannered people in all the world. but that striking of the clock seemed to knock all the manners out of them. the judge sprang from the table quick as a flash, and in his haste turned the clothes-basket with the "little judge" in it bottom side up. mrs. "judge" jumped up as spry as a girl, and ran toward the judge, who grabbed her by the hand, and pushed her hard against the closets in the way, and struggled to get into the hall. [illustration] there was the greatest confusion imaginable in the house. the children were all hitting the dishes, scattering the silver, overturning the goblets, tumbling over the chairs. the closets all made a rush for the door, and jammed themselves so close together that samuel and henry had to raise the front windows, and jump out on the piazza, and climb in at the parlor windows, and the other children followed them pell-mell. there was the greatest noise you ever heard in a house. the clock sounded with terrific strikes. the front door-bell, the dinner-bell, and all the other bells rang an alarm. things in the closets seemed breaking themselves to pieces or going into fits. the piano roared and shrieked like a hurricane. every board and brick and nail and bit of glass, metal, or wood squeaked or rattled. the very carpets shook with dust and fear. and then, as the children caught a glimpse of the judge and his wife back again in the portraits, the clock struck the twelfth stroke, the lights all went out, the children were back in bed, and silence reigned throughout the old mansion. v. stockings filled with music, rainbows, sense, backbone, sunsets, impulses, gold spoon, ideals, sunshine, star, mantle, flowers,--and the like queer stuff. v. stockings filled with music, rainbows, sense, backbone, sunsets, impulses, gold spoon, ideals, sunshine, star, mantle, flowers,--and the like queer stuff. ruth was the only one left awake in the house. and it was very lonesome for her. but she had promised to distribute the presents. mrs. "judge" told her that the man in the moon would bring them at twelve o'clock, and that he would put them in turpentine. ruth didn't like to go into the judge's old study, but that was where she would find turpentine; so she ran and got the baby, who had red hair, and served the purpose of a light, and then she bravely went into the far away part of the parsonage. she took satan, the cat, because his eyes were like coals of fire, and helped to drive away the darkness; and she had turk for company's sake. the baby was soon astride his back, crowing like a good fellow. [illustration] [illustration] when they got into the old study the light shone right through the door that led into turpentine. it frightened ruth. she thought the house might be on fire. but the door swung open of itself; and she and the baby, satan and turk, all entered. the little room was a blaze of glory. she had to put her hands up to her eyes and shade them, because the light was so strong. it all came from a row of packages arranged on the shelves. and such a wonderful, mysterious, lovely sight you never saw. the packages were various shapes and sizes. they were all done up in nothing with greatest care, and each was tied with a narrow piece of something or other. several packages had strings of blue sky around them, ending in curious bows. three packages were tied with real little rainbows. they were beautiful objects. the rest of them had sunsets twisted about them, gorgeous colors streaming from them in all directions. do you wonder that ruth's eyes were dazzled? a singular thing about the packages was, that being done up in nothing, and bound with such tenuous and transparent stuff as blue sky, sunsets, and rainbows, one could see straight through these coverings and fastenings, and gaze upon the beautiful things within. each present had a label of light above it. for instance, there were the shining letters, s,a,m,u,e,l, worked upon the background of darkness over the present for samuel. the letters seemed to hover above the package just as you see light hover above children's heads in some pictures of the old masters. so it was very easy for ruth to pick out the different gifts, and put them where they belonged. there were seventeen of them. one for each child, one for the minister, and one for his wife. "how nice to remember father and mother!" said ruth to the dog, the cat, and the baby. "i never thought of that. now, how shall i carry them?" for she felt that she would like to show them to the judge and his wife. so she raised the window that connected this closet with the parlor, and taking each gift, carried it to the piano, and arranged the whole show where mr. and mrs. "judge" might see it from the pictures. the baby, turk, and satan watched her while she made the change. the parlor was warm; and just as soon as she brought the marvellous presents into the room, every nook and cranny was a perfect splendor of brightness. "dear me!" exclaimed the child, "i must go up-stairs and get some colored glasses or i shall lose my eyesight." she was gone and back again in one minute and thirteen seconds. the green goggles gave her a wise and aged appearance, and she seemed to feel the importance of the occasion. "here are the presents, judge." she was now addressing the pictures. "they are just too sweet for anything. how nice it is that i don't have to undo any of them, but can look right straight through their covers, and see what's in every package!" the judge and his wife were both wide awake, taking in every word that ruth spoke. "now, what is this for samuel? a flower, i do believe. he can wear it in his buttonhole. oh, how sweet and beautiful it is! the house seems full of its sweetness. i love it." ruth bent over to kiss the airy, fragile thing. "why, here's a name under it, and a sentence. did you write it judge?" and the picture seemed to nod as much as to say "yes." "courtesy." "to be worn all one's waking hours. it will make the wearer welcome." the next package was shaped round like a ball. the bow on it was blue sky. "it looks to me like a--what is it you call it, when you look into a mirror? oh! i've got it. it's a reflection. now, that must be for helen. yes, i see her name in fine letters of flame above. h,e,l,e,n. you didn't send the curls, did you?" ruth looked anxiously at mrs. "judge." "i suppose you thought that as helen was going to write a book she needed reflection more than the curls." the third package was long. the thing within was long, and it looked like nothing that one had ever seen. "what can it be?" said ruth to herself. as she took it and felt of it, she found that it was sensitive, yet quite firm. the object was pure white, not a spot or wrinkle on it. the floating label above the package spelled out the letters h,e,r,b,e,r,t. ruth read the name. "that can't be backbone. it's too light for that. and yet how strong it is. how in the world can he ever get that inside of him where it belongs?" the fourth package was about seven inches in length, rather narrow, and larger at one end than the other. "i do believe it's a spoon," shouted ruth. "it must be for theodora. they've found her gold spoon, and sent it to her. and yet it doesn't look like gold. how funny! when i feel of it i don't feel of anything. it isn't so pretty as i thought it would be. it has a kind of dull look. but how much better one feels to hold it." ruth had taken the curious object in her hand, and was putting it up to her lips, and going through various motions with it. "here is some writing. the spoon is marked. what big letters they are! theodora hasn't all those initials. c,o,n,t,e,n,t,m,e,n,t. well, that beats me. but i suppose she'll know what it means." the child now picked up her own present. they all seemed so bright and wonderful that she had forgotten to choose her own first. ruth's package had a great many sides to it. every color imaginable appeared on the surface. it was tied with several little rainbows, and there were ever so many streamers and rosettes upon it. she saw her name above; and she saw some letters printed into the leaves of the flower, for it was a lovely, shining little blossom that was contained within her package. it seemed to her that all the colors of all the rainbows in the sky had been woven into this matchless posey. there were nine leaves to it, and each leaf was made up of half a dozen shades of one or another color. and then on each leaf there was distinctly seen a letter done in diamond embroidery; so that the light which shot forth from such delicate tracery was almost as bright as the sun. one leaf had s, a second e, a third n, a fourth t, a fifth i, a sixth m, a seventh e, an eighth n, and the ninth and last t. ruth spelled it out carefully. s,e,n,t,--here she paused and thought a moment. "why, to be sure!" she exclaimed; "it has a very sweet scent. i think it smells quite as good as samuel's. but i told you, you remember" (she was now addressing the pictures), "that father said i needed sense. i'm afraid he'll say that one 'sent' isn't enough." then she continued her spelling. "i, ment. well, now, isn't that queer? 'i meant.'" she repeated it several times. "i meant cent. were you trying to correct me, judge? when i said sense did i mean (what is it they call it), oh, singular, not plural? everybody says i've got a great deal of imagination, but i lack (father says sense but that isn't what i mean now)--i lack."... and then ruth looked at the flower again; and spelled the word, and spoke it aloud. "'sentiment,' that's it. sentiment. i know what it is. i shall certainly be a poet. they all say so. thank you, dear judge and mrs. 'judge.' i'm going to begin to-morrow and write poetry. i feel as if i could write some now. but i must go through the presents and put them in the children's stockings first." so ruth put down her package of "sentiment," and examined the other gifts. she took the one marked h,e,n,r,y into her hands, and the room was filled with the most heavenly music. the package was the shape of a cylinder. it had a transparent cylinder within it. and this cylinder was written all over with strange characters, exactly as you see or feel on the cylinder of a graphophone. only it didn't seem to be made of anything, and when ruth took the object into her hands it was like holding a pinch of air. it appeared to run of its own accord. ruth was enchanted with the melodies. they made her think of everything good "in the heavens above, and in the earth beneath, and in the waters under the earth." she was so happy that she cried. every tear that she dropped went into the machine, and made the music all the sweeter. then she read the words under the package. "music in the soul;" and she felt as if it were really stealing into her, and as if it were impossible to keep it there, and she must let this music in the soul go in every direction. "isn't this lovely!" she exclaimed. "i never dreamed music in the soul was so sweet. why henry'll be the happiest boy in all the world." ruth then took into her hands a heart-shaped package. it was tied up with a sunset that was gorgeous with a great many shades of red. "i know what's inside that package without looking," she said. although of course she had looked, and seen the form of the present, and noted the colors used in tying it up. "that's a heart; and it's for george. isn't it cunning? why, what a little thing it is? and it's soft. will this make george soft-hearted and tender-hearted and good-hearted? i hope so. it's real nice of you to send it." the next present was for elizabeth. it was circular shape, like a small hoop; some parts of it were light and some dark, some very beautiful and some almost ugly. yet the darkest, ugliest spots upon it were illuminated and glorified by brilliant flashes of what looked like lightning playing around the hoop. when ruth held the object this singular brightness would flame up into her face. it didn't hurt. it fascinated her. she felt like sitting down and watching every change. the words underneath the circle read, "experience is the best teacher." she spelled it out, then her eyes beamed with delight. "it's the very thing that elizabeth needs. i was afraid you couldn't give it to her. i have heard it was hard to pass on experience to other people. now elizabeth can run the house and mother can travel. that will be real jolly." "here is something for susie," cried ruth, as she put down elizabeth's package, and took up the next one. "it's a cup made of--of--of--why, isn't that queer?--made of wishes. this is the first time i ever really saw a wish. now, susie always teases for the wish-bone. and here's a cup made, not of wish-bones, but of wishes. i wonder if she can drink out of it. she's always telling how 'thursday' she is. we're sometimes afraid she'll drink the well dry. why, the cup is full of something. it sparkles. 'a draught of bliss.' that's what it says under the cup. i know what that means. it means to feel as good as one can feel. well, i'm glad she's going to have it. if the cup spills over we'll catch some of the drops. and if she feels good we'll all feel better." thus wisely remarked the child to the pictures. the next package had a dream wrapped up in it. you never saw anything more curious. it was as light as a feather, as bright as a button, as sweet as a rose, as gay as a lark, as true as steel, as deep as the sea, as high as heaven, as wise as an owl, as you like it. it had all the hues of the rainbow. it was as odd as dick's hatband. it went floating against the blue sky. it dipped down into several sunsets as you see swallows dip down or fly up when a storm is coming. it seemed well suited to nathaniel, the humming-bird sort of a boy. and there were the letters in shotted light over against the gloom, n,a,t,h,a,n,i,e,l. "dear little nathaniel," said ruth, as she handled the dream carefully, putting it back in its wrappings of nothing, and tying it up again with blue sky, sunsets, and rainbows all mixed together. "won't he be surprised to see a real dream, and carry it all around town to show folks. and it's a good dream, a nice dream, i know. i can tell by touching it and feeling of it all over." the next package was a large one; and it was for grace, although she was not one of the largest girls. it was shaped like a triangle, and when you took hold of it the thing seemed to stretch bigger and bigger. "what can it be, i wonder," mused ruth. and then looking keenly through the nothing that covered it, she discovered that there were a great many little, charming, luminous objects packed into the package. they were different shapes and colors and sizes. but every one of them was pleasant to the touch, alluring to the eye, and melodious to the ear. whether each one contained a music-box or not, it was impossible to say, but strains of angelic songs kept escaping. it reminded ruth of henry's "music in the soul." underneath the triangular box she read these words: "a fine assortment of generous impulses. warranted pure." the big words she skipped, except the two, generous impulses. she knew them at once, for she had heard her father say a great deal on that subject. "judge, it's very good of you to send these dear, blessed things to grace. i'm perfectly sure she'll divide up and give every one of us as many as we like. i should think there might be a hundred in the box. i'm a-going to climb right up here on the piano and kiss both of you." and she did; and she carried the generous impulses with her when she did it. when ruth jumped down on the floor again she examined miriam's package. it held a star, a real star. the man in the moon brought it down from the sky. "isn't this wonderful beyond anything!" exclaimed the child. "how many times we've said 'twinkle, twinkle little star, how i wonder what you are,' and now here you are." the little, shrewd, cunning fellow sparkled and glistened so that ruth's eyes ached in spite of her green goggles. he seemed a very intelligent creature. he could almost talk. "i heard father say something about plucking the stars from heaven the other day, and then he repeated something about the stars growing cold. this star isn't cold, i know. and there's his name down at the bottom. 'a star of hope.' hope so. now miriam will be proud enough. we shall see her going around with her star. i've heard about babies being born under some star or other. i see now how they could get under. judge, will miriam be a star herself now? do you think she will star it? 'star of hope.' this beats me." ethel's present was next. the package was so bright that it was impossible to tell the shape of it. from every direction the light rayed forth in dazzling brilliancy. "i'm sure it is a box of glory," cried ruth. the writing underneath the shining, beautiful thing said "sunshine." "haven't we been singing 'rise, shine?' how lovely it will be to have ethel go about the house scattering sunshine! what strange stuff it is!" as she said this ruth took a handful of it out of the package and examined it very closely. "it keeps slipping out of the hands and dropping down to the floor or rising up to the wall. dear me! how shall i get it back?" she chased it in ten ways at the same time. "but i can't catch it," she continued; "and see, there is quite as much of it left as there was in my hands and the box before it floated away. oh! won't this be nice on rainy days? we can have the house filled with sunshine, even if it does rain, and the sky is black with clouds. i do think i never saw such elegant, wonderful presents in all my life, and i don't believe any other children in all this world ever got such things as we have for our christmas." the next present was for william. as ruth looked at it she seemed lost in thought. she was studying it out. there wasn't any shape to the thing. the package itself didn't have any shape. it was a beautiful mass of light. yet the longer you looked at it, the more lovely, attractive, and real it appeared. finally it did take a shape; and when you made up your mind that it was round or square or octagonal or irregular or something else, the shapeliness of the thing vanished. "i wonder if it's a thought?" the child said to herself. "i've often thought i'd like to see what a thought looks like. i hear so much about thought and thoughts, that i'm real curious. father told mother the other day that i was a very thoughtful child. if i'm thought_ful_, seems to me i ought to see a good many or feel 'em." then she looked down under the package, and read, "a bundle of i,d,e,a,l,s." "why, i don't see any bundle," she exclaimed. but that moment the mass of light changed into strands of willowy brightness, and she could see there was a neat little bundle of these shining threads. she took the bundle into her hands and pulled out one. this first strand was straight as an arrow, and there suddenly showed itself at the bottom of it a chain of letters. the strand of splendor, in fact, appeared to grow out of these letters. they were m,a,n,l,i,n,e,s,s. the letters were made in quaint forms, and they were indescribably beautiful. ruth pulled out another strand from the bundle. this seemed larger and more solid than the first, and quite as precious. letters soon formed into a chain at the lower end, and these were w,o,r,t,h. she pulled out the third strand. it seemed almost alive, being in constant motion. the chain of letters beneath it was as follows: s,e,r,v,i,c,e. a fourth strand had the letters h,o,n,o,r entwined about one end. and there were many other similar strands. ruth had on her thinking-cap (made of nothing particular, and trimmed with everything in general) all the time that she was examining them. of a sudden the word "ideals" struck her. "i know now what these bright, lovely things are," she cried. "i've heard father preach about them, and he has told us children i think hundreds of times. he says we must all have them, and have the best too. why didn't you think of it before? judge, you're just as good as you can be." ruth was talking to the pictures. "father and mother will be very thankful that you have brought all these into the family. i know what an ideal is. it's what you want to be, and try to be. haven't i heard samuel and elizabeth and the older ones talk about high ideals?" as she spoke she shook the radiant little bundle, and saw all sorts of great, noble men and fine, lovely women spring right out of the brightness, taking form before her face and eyes. "i do declare that looks like william." she was gazing at one of the tiny, luminous faces that appeared against the shadows. "we shall all pop into the light like that, i expect. that must be what father calls attaining one's ideal. isn't it grand? yes, there come the other children. one springs out of one ideal, and another out of another. it's just like a fairy tale. but i never dreamed what curious things ideals were. how rich we shall be?" then ruth gathered the ideals together, and put them back where she found them. the next present was for her mother. it was resting on an air-cushion in a casket of love. it seemed to ruth that the sun and moon and a good many stars had got into that package. it took more rainbows than you can shake a stick at to tie up the package securely, so that nothing could get to it. the present was a crown, and underneath were the words "a mother's jewels." there were fifteen of them, no two alike. the crown was a cloud with a silver lining. ruth took it in her hands, and putting it on her head, felt the light running all down her head and over her face. it wasn't the least bit uncomfortable. but the top of the crown was the most wonderful. all the fifteen jewels studded it, so that, as one wore it, anybody standing by would almost think that the brightest lights in the heavens had been borrowed, and wrought into this head-dress. and each jewel had a name all about it, the letters being made of the very smallest stars that you can find out of doors. the child was too astonished and delighted to talk as she examined this gift. she put it back in its casket without one word. it took her breath away, so that she couldn't say anything. by the side of this package was one for her father. she was glad to turn to it, for it was not so splendid and marvellous that it dumfounded her. his package had a bottle in it. "i believe it's made of forget-me-nots," said ruth. she took it into her hands, and found it was woven like basket work, a sort of wicker bottle. only the stems of the plants were so intertwisted that the blossoms all came to the outside. but both stems and blossoms were perfectly transparent, so you could see straight through into the inside. "e,s,s,e,n,c,e of c,h,e,e,r,f,u,l,n,e,s,s. to be taken eternally." this was written beneath, and ruth spelled the two big words slowly. "i know what that means," she continued. "the judge is going to give father some more sense. for essence, of course, is only another kind of sense. oh! i forgot the essence man. he brings us peppermint and vanilla and cologne. we season things, and make ourselves smell good. now, that's what you've sent to father, isn't it? essence of cheerfulness. you want him to season things with cheerfulness, don't you, and make himself and all the rest of us fragrant? and he'll do it. he's always saying that we ought to be cheerful. but what kind of stuff is it?" and ruth tipped up the bottle to taste of its contents. she smacked her lips and beamed with delight. "i do believe it's a spirit. father says, you can't see spirit but you can feel it. i can't see anything but light in that bottle, but i can feel something all through me. i must dance a little, i feel so good. oh, dear me! that's the way people sometimes act when they've drunk from bad bottles. but i can't help it." she caught her skirts in each hand, and airily waltzed up and down the room. "i must see if the mantle is here," she suddenly exclaimed. "how strange that i've just thought of it!" and then she stopped to look at the baby's present. "it can't be that the judge's mantle would go into such a little package as that." so ruth remarked as she took the tiny thing in hand. it was tied with the most brilliant sunset that eyes ever saw. the streamers attached to the bow were much bigger than the package itself. when ruth undid it, and held the singular object before her eyes, it seemed to grow large and long. it was truly the judge's mantle. as she shook it out, and let its folds drop down to the floor, the pictures fairly beamed with glory. "silver threads among the gold," exclaimed the child, as the beauteous garment flashed its splendors into her eyes. for the warp was the pure gold of character, while the woof was the fine silver of influence. and they were woven into a fabric of surpassing richness. then this matchless weaving was covered with fairest embroidery. every color that imagination ever conceived appeared upon the garment. there was the white light of truth, the red of sacrifice, the purple of royalty, the greens of fresh life, the pink of propriety, the red that you see in a green blackberry, the blue of a minister's monday, and true blue, auburn from a child's head, hazel from a child's eyes, black as thunder cloud, pale as death, the lemon of lemon ice, orange from orangeade, and a great many others. and these colors were worked into words, flowers of rhetoric, scenes indeed, pictures of love, kindness, wisdom, and peace. it was also adorned with quite a number of gems of poetry, and it had a pearl of great price to fasten it at the throat. the first thing which ruth did was to try it on, but it dragged on the floor. it occurred to her that the baby must wait until he was grown up before it fitted him. still, she tried it on the baby. no sooner did she wrap it around him than it seemed to shrink to his size. "why, we can use it for a winter coat," she said. and the "little judge," who had fallen asleep before the fire, where he had crawled with turk and the cat, cooed and laughed when the mantle was wrapped about him, seeming to feel that it was the very thing that would make him happy and comfortable. all the time that ruth was handling the magic thing, it continued to throw off little points of light and countless mites of color, and these settled down on the furniture and carpet and the curtains and the walls and the ceiling, until the room was like a palace studded with twinkling, shifting, radiant stars; and every present on the piano was shining and scattering light, the air being filled with music, and ruth was wild with delight and excitement. [illustration] the next thing was to carry the gifts to the stockings where they belonged. wherever she went, there was the brightness of noonday, so she never had a fear. even the closet with the skeleton in it did not make her tremble. beginning with father and mother, she visited every stocking, and put each gift in its proper place; then she carried the baby to bed, and left turk and satan snuggled up together in front of the fire; and then it seemed to her that she floated away in a sea of light; and then mounting upon the wings of the wind, she suddenly met the sand man who pushed her into the land of nod. the last that she remembered was blue sky, gems of poetry, rainbows, shooting stars, flowers of rhetoric, strains of music, sunsets, closets, stockings, christmas cheer, sunshine, and a great many other things, all standing around the type-writer in her father's study, telling the machine what to say, and begging that everything might be set down in a book and live forever. e. happy day. e. happy day. now, when it grew toward morning ruth awakened first, and what did she do but jump out of bed and feel of her stocking; the thing which she found was a book, and she knew without looking into it that the book told all about the judge and the pictures, the house and the children, and the strange things that had happened on this eventful night. later there was the sound of many voices, scores of "i wish you a merry christmas," went flying through the air, carols burst upon the ear, and a whole host of happy, loving children shifted from one room to another, and finally gathered beneath the pictures of the judge and his lady. did the good man lift his hands in benediction? did he beam with the joy of the christ-life? the light was rather dim in the parlor, for it was early in the morning. but the children were constantly turning their eyes to the portraits. it seemed to them that new life throbbed within their souls, that grand purposes had been awakened, that charity and tenderness, the love of god and the love of one another, were moving to all kinds of well-doing. they felt as never before that they were living in the home of this great, good man, and that they must go forth into the world as his manly and womanly representatives. peace not only filled the house, but it rested upon them. it was the most joyful day of all the years. never a quarrel darkened a heart. never a harsh word fell from any lips. never a mean thought rose in their breasts. it was real christmas cheer. and i believe that every child of them was made richer by the blessed presence (presents) of the judge and his lady. * * * * * transcriber's note: repeated chapter titles were retained as some were laid out differently than at the chapter itself. page , "clause" changed to "claus" (as santa claus) page , "to" changed to "too" (think so too) page , "bookcase" changed to "book-case" to match rest of usage in text (a low book-case beneath) page , extraneous quotation mark removed before (i'll call 'greece') page , "surpressed" changed to "suppressed" (with suppressed excitement) page , "everthing" changed to "everything" (everything under the sun) page , single closing quotation mark changed to double (and use them?") page , closing quotation mark added (it means.") page , closing quotation mark added (is!" as she said this)